by Ann Swinfen
I would have to follow him, whether he was dead or alive.
Chapter Ten
My meditations were interrupted by hurried footsteps in the corridor outside and a knock on the door.
‘Come.’ I said.
It was one of the menservants, breathless and alarmed.
‘It is a summons from the Kremlin, Dr Alvarez,’ he said. ‘You are to go immediately. Konyushy Godunov has sent for you.’
I felt sick. The man was all powerful in Muscovy. Surely he could not also read my thoughts?
‘Konyushy?’ I said. ‘What does that mean? I have not heard the word before.’
‘It’s a title newly given him,’ the servant said. ‘Last year. After he saw off a raiding army of Tatars. I don’t rightly know what it means myself, but it’s better than “boyar”. Next best after “tsar”, I’d say.’
‘He wants me now? But it is dark. Do you know why?’
‘The palace messenger didn’t say, doctor. And we don’t ask questions. If Godunov says, “Jump!” we jump. Don’t matter if it’s dark. Wouldn’t matter if ’twas midnight, you’d still have to go.’
‘He probably wants my services as a physician,’ I said, trying to sound calm, to reassure myself as much as him. ‘Can you tell Master Aubery? I shall need an interpreter.’
He nodded and scuttled off.
Of course I was merely needed as a physician, wasn’t I? If the royal child who required medical care was indeed his daughter, it was not strange that Godunov himself should be the one to send for me. He clearly treasured his daughter. He had brought her to stand beside the Tsar and the Patriarch at the blessing of the river.
I began to check through my satchel of medicines, relieved that I had persuaded Pyotr to take me to the best apothecary in Moscow to replenish my supplies. I hoped I had everything I needed.
When I set off about a quarter of an hour later, I was accompanied not only by Pyotr and the messenger from the palace, but a Company servant with a flambeau and four armed guards. Master Foulkes would not allow us to walk unescorted through the dark streets to the palace.
‘You and Pyotr must leave your weapons behind,’ he told us. ‘If you try to carry a concealed weapon into the Kremlin, you will be strung up by your heels.’
So Pyotr and I both handed over our swords and daggers to him.
‘But what of my surgical knives?’ I said. ‘I may need them. I have not been told why I am summoned.’
Austin Foulkes turned to the messenger and spoke to him rapidly in Russian. He had told me he could not read the language, except for the terms used repeatedly in business contracts, but he was remarkably fluent in the spoken tongue.
‘I have explained to the messenger that you must take your medical equipment with you,’ he said. ‘He says that he will carry your satchel for you, and make clear the need for it to the guards at the gates.’
I had understood the messenger’s reply, so with great reluctance I handed over my satchel. In normal circumstances I never let anyone else touch it, but these were hardly normal circumstances. I would watch the man every step of the way, and if it looked as though he was going to make off with it, or damage it in any way, I would snatch it back and face the consequences.
Our walk through the frozen streets of Moscow was an eerie experience. It was very dark indeed. Even the stars and moon were hidden by heavy cloud, threatening more snow. In London, the better houses and merchants’ premises place lanterns or torches at their doors during the hours of darkness, so that, if you keep to the main streets, there is always a little light. Here, no light was set to help the passerby. From time to time we glimpsed a thread of light showing between closed and barred shutters, but the people of Moscow turned their backs on the world at night. I suspected that there was a curfew, rigorously enforced. In London there is a nominal curfew, but honest citizens going openly and briskly about their business are at no risk from the parish constables, who take more interest in those up to no good skulking about the dark alleyways.
On our way to the Kremlin the only living souls we encountered were a few mangy dogs and cats, scavenging in the gutters, and a band of heavily armed soldiers, whom I took to be the Muscovite equivalent of our humble constables. Seeing the royal insignia on the messenger’s robe, they bowed and withdrew to the side of the street to let us pass.
As we reached the great wall about the Kremlin, we passed the most beautiful building in Moscow, the church of St Basil, built not long since by the last Tsar. I thought that Ivan Vasilyevich must have been a man compounded of many contradictory elements. His reputation for violence, cruelty, and unpredictable rages was certainly deserved, yet he had a love of music and art, and he had commissioned the building of this church. To my eyes, accustomed to the classical symmetry of the churches of Europe, it was an astonishing jumble of styles and colours, like something a child might make from bits of coloured glass and broken pottery. Yet in spite of this, it was awe-inspiring, especially now, lit up against the night sky with lanterns and torches, whose flames flickered in the wind, awakening ever-moving reflections in the gold which adorned much of the church. From within, came chanting. Like the monks of old, now banished from England, it seemed the priests of the Orthodox church also kept the ecclesiastical hours even during the night.
At the great gate just beyond the church, the messenger spoke to the guards and handed over my satchel. I watched anxiously as they pawed through it, fearful that they would steal or break something. Pyotr stepped forward, ready to intervene, but he was pushed roughly away.
‘What is this?’ One of the guards held up a pot of wound balm.
I answered in English, and Pyotr translated.
‘And this? And this?’
It seemed I was going to be required to account for every pot and phial. In exasperation, I spoke slowly in my careful Russian.
‘The Konyushy Godunov has sent for me,’ I said clearly. ‘Do you wish to keep him waiting until dawn?’
They looked at each other in alarm, then bundled everything back into my satchel and thrust it at me.
Our own guards were required to remain in the gatehouse, so Pyotr and I went on alone with the messenger.
There was no time to linger, however, for the messenger was hurrying us along a narrow street which opened into a sort of square – except that it was not square – enclosed by several important buildings. Pyotr had confided in me before we set out that he had never been inside the Kremlin, but he understood that there were several royal palaces, together with private homes for the most distinguished courtiers. As we were led across the square to the largest house, I guessed that this must be the home of Boris Godunov and his family.
We were shown in at once and hurried up a staircase to the first floor. A door opened and a large man emerged, the man I had seen walking behind the Tsar on Twelfth Day. He was not quite so grandly dressed now, but the value of his garments would have fed a respectable English burgher’s family for a lifetime.
I took my cue from Pyotr. We did not prostrate ourselves. This man was not Tsar. Yet. Whatever his ambitions. Instead we removed our caps and bowed low, as we would have done for one of the great courtiers at home. It seemed that this was acceptable, for he gave us a quick nod of acknowledgement, then spoke rapidly in Russian to Pyotr.
‘The Konyushy Godunov says that his daughter is in great pain,’ Pyotr translated into English, although I had understood what had been said. ‘She suffers from a serious rash which none of the resident doctors have been able to cure.’ Pyotr was speaking quickly. We could both see that the man was in a hurry.
‘He begs that you do what you can for his little flower, to relieve her distress. Unfortunately he has been summoned by the Tsar, but he has left instructions that whatever you need shall be provided.’
There was a further hasty exchange of bows, then the Konyushy was hurrying, almost running, toward the staircase. Interesting, I thought. Everyone says he is the most powerful man in Russia, but even
he fears that bent little manikin. I suppose the Tsar is so fickle he could even turn against the man who holds this vast, unwieldy country together. Have him executed, even. It happens, it happens. Did not our Queen’s father destroy the man who held England together? His chief minister, Cromwell? And regretted it all his life after. Heaven spare me from the company of the world’s tyrants. My present position was far too close for comfort.
We entered the room Godunov had just left, while the messenger waited outside. It was extremely hot, so hot that I began to sweat inside my heavy outdoor clothes. It was a large room, overly ornate in the same style as the royal rooms at Uglich. Clearly Godunov did not see the need to be any less ostentatious than the Tsar’s family.
I could not see the child at first.
An elegantly dressed lady stood near the stove which was heating the room. Another vast stove tiled in the Dutch manner, like the ones I had seen at Uglich.
‘Is that the mother?’ I whispered to Pyotr, trying not to move my lips.
A barely perceptible shake of the head. ‘Lady-in-waiting.’
The other woman, elderly, and neatly but plainly dressed, would be a body servant. Probably a former nurse, like the one who attended Dmitri. Both children were too old for a nurse, but perhaps they clung to them as a comforting presence in the turbulent waters of their intertwined families.
Then I realised that the crown of pale gold hair I could just see above the back of a low chair must be the child’s. They had placed her very close to the stove. I walked toward the little group of three. The lady-in-waiting spoke to Pyotr in Russian, and he answered.
‘She asks which of us is the physician,’ he murmured to me, maintaining the pretence that I could not understand. ‘I have explained. She says I am to stand behind that screen to translate for you. The lady is not to be seen naked by any but the physician.’
I nodded. It was not unreasonable. I walked round to the front of the chair as Pyotr stepped behind the screen, placed to protect the child from drafts which might slip through the doorway, though given the heat in the room they might have been welcome.
Nature had given the child great beauty, but it was marred now. Her face was fiery red, her eyes were swollen with weeping, and tears continue to roll down her cheeks, although she made no sound. Like Maria Nagaya, this was another who had learned stoicism. Only her hands gave her away, clenched in her lap. As I laid aside my heavy cloak, fur hat, and wolf skin mittens, she fixed on me eyes that were full of pleading, but she did not speak. I addressed her quietly in careful Russian.
‘I am sorry to hear that you are ill, my lady.’
I was unsure what mode of address to use, whether I should address her as ‘Majesty’, though clearly she was not. It seemed, however, that ‘my lady’ was appropriate.
‘I thank you for coming, doctor.’ She spoke hesitantly, as if she was not sure whether I would understand her, but we would manage very well, without needing Pyotr to interpret, which was much more satisfactory.
I laid my hand, still cold from the walk through the dark streets, on her forehead. It was burning, but whether from the heat of the stove or from fever, I was not yet sure.
‘That feels good.’ She made a brave attempt at a smile. ‘They make me sit by the stove, but I am so hot!. They say it will make me better, but it just makes me worse.’
It was unsurprising that she was hot. In this stuffy, claustrophobic room she was dressed in layers of wool, velvet, and stiff cloth of gold, with a tight, high collar, even fine woollen gloves on her hands.
‘Tell me how you are ill,’ I said, pulling out a stool and sitting on it uninvited, thus obliging the lady-in-waiting to move further away. I raised my voice and spoke to Pyotr in English.
‘Order the women to wait at the far side of the room. I need privacy with my patient.’
The women went, slowly and grumbling, but they went.
‘It is an old trouble,’ the child said, in answer to my question. ‘I think I have had it all my life. I have this rash, and it itches! And it hurts! Oh, doctor, it itches so much I can hardly bear it.’
‘Where does it itch? Show me.’
She pointed to her elbows and wrists, and behind her knees.
‘And here,’ she said, tugging frantically at the tight collar.
‘Ask them,’ I called to Pyotr in English, ‘why she is so heavily, so tightly dressed.’
There was a brief exchange with the waiting woman.
‘They say that it is to keep the miasma of the bad air away from the child’s skin. The woman says they have done their best. The child is thoroughly washed and scrubbed every morning before she is dressed.’
‘Tell them she must be undressed, so that I can examine her.’
The nurse came and began removing the layers of clothing. There were even more than I had expected. I would have liked to move Xenia away from the fierce heat of the stove, but feared the shock of the drop in temperature.
Finally she stood before me in nothing but her fine woollen shift, her eyes cast down in shame. At the sight of her, I nearly rounded on the women in fury, but managed to bite back the words I would have liked to shout at them. The little girl’s arms and legs were tightly bandaged. Another bandage was wrapped round her neck, but from below the edge of it an angry rash was creeping down to her chest.
‘Remove the bandages,’ I said.
The nurse looked from me across the room to the waiting woman, who shrugged, and then nodded. As the nurse began to unwind one of the leg bandages, Xenia closed her eyes and bit down on her lips.
‘Wait!’ I said, in English. Then, ‘Nyet!’ I laid my hand on the nurse’s arm to stop her. ‘Bring water,’ I said in Russian.
For I had seen that blood and pus had soaked through the bandages and hardened to a crust. Unwinding the bandages would rip the scabbing off the raw flesh underneath.
‘What have they been doing to you, my poor pet?’ I muttered to myself, but in English.
It took a long time, soaking each bandage until it was wet enough to remove with as little pain to Xenia as possible, but she must have suffered terribly. All the while, she endured almost in silence, with just an occasional involuntary gasp. Like Dmitri, she too was a valiant soul. Did she endure this every morning? And they scrubbed her? The skin below the bandages was covered with a familiar rash, but one I had never seen in such a terrible state, so raw and bleeding.
I sent the nurse away again.
‘The priests say I am afflicted because I am sinful,’ she whispered. ‘God has caused this so that I may suffer and my soul will be cleansed.’
‘I think the priests should keep to their own affairs, in church,’ I whispered back, which brought a wan smile. ‘This is an affair for a doctor. Now, I am going to wash away all the unpleasant matter. There are threads of cloth stuck to you, and something brown and nasty.’
‘That was something Herr Doktor Friedmann gave them, to put on my rash. But it only made it hurt more.’ She paused. ‘You will not scrub, will you?’
‘I promise. I will not scrub.’ I stood up. ‘Pyotr,’ I called, ‘go with the nurse and make her bring me a bucket of boiled water. See to it that she does boil it. I want nothing dirty to touch this skin.’
I heard them leave the room, but I did not look up. Instead I sat down on the stool again, and Xenia took the chair.
‘It already feels better, without the bandages,’ she said.
‘There will be no more bandages.’
‘You do not think it is because I am sinful?’
‘Not at all. It is not unusual, this rash. It is called eczema. Lots of children have it, and it will go away, but not if you are treated like this. It can be caused by different things. Some children cannot wear wool, which means they must always wear a linen undershift. Sometimes your body does not like something you eat, it unbalances your humours and forces the ill matter out through your skin. Many things can cause it.’
When Pyotr and the nurse returned with t
he bucket of water, he assured me that he had seen it boiled. The nurse rolled up her sleeves and knelt down beside Xenia’s chair, clearly expecting to undertake the washing herself. The waiting woman returned from the corner where she had been sitting ever since Xenia’s clothes had been removed. She held something out to the nurse, a hard grey lump, but I intercepted it.
‘What is this?’ I asked Xenia.
She looked puzzled. ‘It is soap.’
But what kind of soap? I wondered. It was rough to the touch. I held it close to a lamp and saw that sand had been incorporated into the mixture when it was made. No doubt excellent for scrubbing a filthy floor, but not for use on any child’s skin, certainly not one in this state. The soap was harsh, as though there was a high proportion of lye in it. In irritation I flung the thing across the room, where it skidded to a halt at the feet of the waiting woman.
‘Have you been using this on the child’s skin?’ I rounded on her. ‘You would be better employed in a torture chamber than in a little’s girl’s care.’
She glared at me, and I realised I should have been more tactful, but I was very angry. I jerked my head to send the nurse away.
‘See now,’ I said to Xenia. I had dropped the ‘my lady’, for it seemed we were now allies against her tormenters. I reached into my satchel and searched until I found a tied bunch of a dried herb and drew a few sprigs from it.
‘This is a herb called soapwort. Country people use it. Smell. It is dry now, but there is some scent left.’
She leaned forward and sniffed. ‘It smells sweet.’
‘It does. Watch.’
I dropped the herb into the water which was warm now, not too hot, and swished it about with my hand. A soapy froth formed on the surface.
‘Now, this is what we will use to wash your rash, and you shall help me. Then you can stop if it hurts.’
She was fascinated. I do not suppose she had ever washed herself before. Between us we gradually washed first her legs, then her arms, and finally I sponged very gently round her neck. As each section was finished, I dried it gently with a linen towel.