Voyage to Muscovy (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 6)

by Ann Swinfen

  Including Spain, I thought. I hoped we might not encounter any Spanish sailors.

  Suddenly Pyotr, who was riding beside me, reached out an grabbed my arm. ‘Do you hear that?’

  But before I could ask what he meant, Gregory stood up in his stirrups and pointed ahead. ‘There is the border,’ he said. ‘They have put a barricade over the road, but I can only see a few men guarding it.’

  I looked where he pointed. It was about a quarter of a mile ahead.

  ‘Listen!’ Pyotr yelled, shaking my arm. ‘Behind us!’

  We all twisted round. I could hear it now, the sound of many drumming hooves. We could see them too. A band of mounted troopers, about as far behind us as the border was in front, coming toward us at full gallop. Without a word we kicked our horses to the gallop and headed down the causeway at breakneck speed.

  Like us, the troopers were forced to ride no more than two abreast, and could only move as fast as the two in front. They could not circle round us into the marsh. If we could outrun them, and if the Swedish soldiers would allow us through the barrier, we could escape them, but our horses were tired. It might be too much for them.

  I risked a glance over my shoulder. They were nearer. But the leading riders seemed to have slowed. Then I saw why. They carried crossbows.

  ‘Crossbows!’ I shouted.

  The troopers had no need to catch us. A crossbow shaft could cover the distance easily.

  Desperately we urged our tired horses on. Something whistled past my ear and buried itself in the mud of the causeway. We thundered past it, but not before I saw it was a crossbow quarrel, still vibrating from its flight. That man would not be able to rewind his weapon quickly, not on horseback. The crossbow is a deadly weapon, but it is the longbow that can send a shower of arrows almost without pause.

  ‘He’s aiming for you!’ Pyotr shouted. He was behind me now, his horse tiring. Then it stumbled.

  I checked my horse, and nearly found myself flying over his head. If Pyotr’s mount had floundered . . . I yanked my horse round.

  ‘Go on! I’m all right!’ He had his horse under control now.

  But I saw what he was doing. He was putting himself between me and the pursuers.

  ‘Pyotr!’

  There was thump and a grunt, then Pyotr had slumped forward on his horse’s neck, a crossbow quarrel protruding from his back.

  Behind us the troopers had stopped and were changing position. They must be moving armed men to the front. I grabbed Pyotr’s reins and urged both horses into a canter. Thomas and Gregory were too far ahead to realise what had happened.

  Pyotr made a feeble grab at his horse’s mane to stop himself sliding off. I spared a quick glance at his back. There was very little blood, but that meant nothing if the shaft had penetrated some vital internal organ. We were closing with the other two now, but the troopers were galloping on. There would be two fresh crossbows at the front.

  Thomas and Gregory had reached the barrier and Gregory was speaking to the Swedish soldiers, gesturing back toward us. Thomas turned round and must have seen enough, for he tugged at Gregory’s elbow.

  ‘Not far now, Pyotr,’ I gasped. My right arm was being nearly wrenched from my shoulder as I tried to control his frightened horse.

  Another shaft flew between us, ripping the shoulder of my doublet. The troopers were having difficulty aiming while riding at speed.

  The Lord be praised! The Swedish soldiers were removing the barrier. Thomas and Gregory were through. I spurred a last effort from my horse and we thundered after them, as the guards stumbled out of our way.

  Then they were replacing the barrier and I slowed the two sweating horses to a halt. Pyotr had slipped sideways and would have fallen if Thomas had not grabbed him and eased him to the ground.

  ‘Dear God,’ Thomas said. ‘He’s hit.’

  ‘Lay him on his front,’ I said, sliding to the ground and scrabbling to unfasten my satchel from the saddle. I knelt in the dust of the road beside Pyotr.

  ‘I’m done for,’ he whispered. Thomas had laid him down carefully, his face turned to the side.

  ‘Nay,’ I said fiercely. ‘Lie still.’

  ‘Can’t do much else.’ He tried to smile.

  I could hear the Swedish soldiers shouting. I thought they were shouting at us, but when I gave them a glance, I saw that they were shouting at the Muscovite soldiers who had ridden up to the barrier, just yards away. They were threatening to break it down. Suddenly there were more Swedish soldiers than we had realised, emerging from a hut beside the road. They were carrying muskets. The troopers began to back their horses. Crossbows were no match for muskets. I could spare them no more attention. I had my satchel open now.

  I was thinking frantically. If the quarrel was not barbed, it would be possible to draw it out, but the damage would certainly be extensive. The shaft had gone deep. It might have punctured his left lung. It had missed his heart, or he would be dead by now. If the head of the bolt was barbed, I would do even more damage by trying to draw it out, for it would rip a wider gash.

  My hands were shaking as I fumbled in my satchel. Extract of willow bark would ease the pain, though it would take time. And Pyotr had no time. Poppy juice would be better.

  ‘Kit.’ His voice was a whisper. His hand slid through the dust toward me and I dropped the poppy juice back into my satchel so that I could take it in both of mine.

  ‘Pyotr, I’ll do what I can.’

  He tried to shake his head, but it was pressed to the ground and he could not lift it.

  ‘Got to Sweden, didn’t we?’

  ‘We did. Just a few more miles to Narva.’

  ‘Nearly made it.’ He gave a weak cough and a thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth and sank into the ground.

  ‘Let me give you something to ease the pain,’ I said wretchedly.

  ‘No point.’ His voice was growing weaker, so that I had to lean closer to hear him. ‘We did for them, didn’t we? Found that fellow Rocksley. Pity about the boy.’

  His breathing was so laboured I could feel the pain of it in my own chest.

  ‘We were good comr–’

  ‘Aye,’ I said quietly. ‘We were good comrades.’

  I got to my feet. Thomas and Gregory were watching me. The horses had wandered along the road and two of the Swedish soldiers had gone to bring them back.

  I shook my head.

  We carried Pyotr to the church in the next village. He had never told me what his faith was. As a child he must have been brought up in the Orthodox church, but he had lived for almost as long with a Protestant father. He had not spoken of religion, so I hoped he would have been content with burial in a Protestant Swedish graveyard. We spent the night in the village. The following morning the pastor held a simple funeral service, attended by the three of us who remained and two of the Swedish guards who had witnessed it all. Everyone was very kind to us.

  By midday we were on our way, riding the last few miles to Narva, leading Pyotr’s horse with us. His belongings were still strapped to the saddle. When we reached London, I would take them to the office of the Muscovy Company and enquire for his father’s address. Someone must carry the news to his family. I supposed I had better do it.

  All three of us were silent. It had happened so suddenly, so close to safety, that I think we could hardly believe that Pyotr was gone. Gregory and I were the intended targets, not Pyotr. If he had not interposed himself at the last moment, I would be the one lying in that cold Swedish graveyard. I thought of it as cold, deep under snow all through the winter months. Even in the summer sunshine, I shivered.

  Over and over in my head I apologised to Pyotr. I am sorry I ever doubted you. I am sorry I condemned you as a mere interpreter. You were a friend, and a courageous one. I am sorry. I am sorry.

  It was early evening when we reached Narva. Despite the lingering light of the sun, cheerful candlelight shone from the house Gregory led us to. A prosperous, sturdily built house of t
hree storeys. The former Company man, William Waldren, it seemed, had done well for himself. I was suddenly so tired that I could hardly think and the next few hours are no more than a blur in my mind. Everyone was speaking English. Gregory was explaining, recounting briefly our last few weeks, but making no mention of his imprisonment. Thomas added a few words here and there. I left it to them.

  I paid sufficient attention to gather that a small merchant ship, in which our host had a part share, would be leaving for London in two days’ time. There would be room for us. Did we wish to take the horses? Probably, with a little contrivance, they could be accommodated.

  ‘What do you think, Kit?’ Gregory turned to me.

  It was a problem I had not thought to confront before. The horses were Company property. They could not easily be returned to Muscovy.

  ‘I suppose we had better take them with us,’ I said, rousing myself. ‘We can hand them over to the London office. Master Marler can decide what to do with them.’

  I was glad, in a way, that we would not be abandoning them. They had given us faithful service on a long and gruelling journey. They deserved better than that.

  ‘Good,’ Master Waldren said. ‘I will make the arrangements. You should all rest. My wife will be glad to feed you well.’

  Mistress Waldren smiled. ‘Indeed I shall. You look in need of a good meal.’

  It was all so ordinary. So banal. My mind was filled with Dmitri and Pyotr. I had nothing to say.

  Master Waldren’s ship, which he owned jointly with another Englishman and a Welshman, all former Company men, was a round-bellied elderly merchant ship of practical design called the Elizabeth Fortuna. She was not beautiful, but I suppose to us she looked as beautiful as any fine modern vessel belonging to the Muscovy Company. She signified our escape, our means to reach home.

  The port of Narva was prosperous and bustling. As Gregory had told us, ships from every nation of Europe traded here, though I was relieved to learn that the latest Spanish vessel had departed the previous week. Nevertheless, there were ships from England, Scotland, France, Denmark, Spanish Flanders, the United Provinces, Norway, even an Italian merchant ship all the way from Venice. And since this was now a Swedish possession, there were Swedish ships, though I did not think the Swedes carried out much long-distance trade.

  An hour or two before the Elizabeth Fortuna was due to set sail on the ebb tide, we went aboard. Two of Master Waldren’s grooms led our horses, one at a time, over a solid gangplank and stabled them in a makeshift canvas shelter which had been erected on the deck. Remembering difficulties I had experienced in the past, leading terrified horses across rippling gangplanks, I was happy to leave the task to someone else.

  We had said our farewells and thanks to Mistress Waldren before leaving the house, but her husband accompanied us to the ship. By now he had heard our full story, including Gregory’s experiences since he had last been in Narva – or as much of them as he was willing to tell anyone. He remained silent about his imprisonment. Master Waldren was clearly distressed, and could not do enough for us. The best of the cabins had been provided for our use, the ship’s officers being required to double up as a result. I felt some guilt at this, but only a little. The voyage would take but a week or a little more, then the cabins could be reclaimed by their rightful owners.

  Now that we were on the point of departure, I could hardly bear any further delay. Master Waldren’s effusive remarks and his anxiety to see to our comfort became almost unendurable. At last he went ashore. The ship’s pinnace threw across a tow rope, and the sailors aboard it bent to their oars. It was a difficult manoeuvre, towing a large ship out through the moored and anchored vessels, but at last we were clear. The pinnace was cast off and rowed round to the stern of the Elizabeth Fortuna, where she in turn was tied up to be towed, and the sailors scrambled up a rope ladder to join us on board.

  The wind was light but favourable as we made our way out into the Baltic. We would head eventually for the east shore of Denmark, then follow it north to its northernmost cape. Once past the cape, we would be in the German ocean. I remembered the rough weather we had experienced at this season last year, but the weather now seemed set fair. Perhaps we would have a quiet crossing.

  I turned to go to my cabin. We had sat up late the previous night, for after one of Mistress Waldren’s enormous meals William Waldren had plied us with more questions about our time in Muscovy. I had had very little sleep. Then I noticed that one of the sailors who had rowed the pinnace was trying to catch my eye. He looked somehow familiar, but I could not place him.

  He gave me a shy grin. ‘Good day to you, Dr Alvarez,’ he said.

  ‘I know you,’ I said, ‘but I can’t think where.’

  ‘Aboard the Bona Esperanza,’ he said. ‘You picked a capful of metal shards out of me, what the b’yer lady pirates shot at us.’

  ‘Of course!’ I said, smiling at him. ‘Jos, that’s your name. Jos Needler.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I thought you worked for the Muscovy Company.’

  ‘Nay – one voyage a year? You couldn’t live on that. They own some ships and hire some ships, but mostly they hire in crews. This year I’m doing the Baltic run.’ He winked. ‘Not so much risk of pirates here. And no ice.’

  ‘And how do you fare, Jos? Are you quite recovered?’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’m grand.’ The sailor dragged up his rough tunic, exposing a criss-cross pattern of thin white lines on his side where the splinters of iron had lodged.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Quite healed.’

  He winked again, pulling down his tunic. ‘Works a treat with the wenches,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t credit what a hero I was, fighting them pirates. Speared three at once on my sword when they boarded us. It gets a bit better every time I tell it.’

  I laughed. ‘Well, good luck to you then, Jos.’

  The meeting with Jos had cheered me, driving away a little of the cloud that hung over me. As the trumpet sounded for full canvas to be unfurled, Jos ran to the mainmast, gripped it with hands and bare feet, and began climbing it like a monkey. I headed to my cabin. I had myself been given the captain’s cabin, a nod to my status as a London licensed physician, while Thomas and Gregory were to share the chief officer’s rather smaller one.

  I sat on the bunk and drew Gregory’s bundle of paper containing his report from the breast of my tunic. I ought to read it, so that I could summarise the salient points for Thomas Phelippes, but I could not bring myself to make the effort. Not yet.

  There was something else stowed here.

  Xenia’s small packet, unaddressed, lay in the palm of my hand. I remembered her words. If you cannot give it to Dmitri, I would like you to keep it for yourself. As a remembrance.

  The packet was sealed with what looked like candle wax. She would not yet have a personal seal, and there would be no sealing wax in her apartments. She had made use, resourcefully, of what she had to hand.

  I inserted my thumbnail under the edge of the wax and levered it off. Inside the outer sheet, blank and grubby from its long travels, was another, covered with round, childish writing in Cyrillic script, which I could not read. At the bottom Xenia had drawn a dog. Dmitri had drawn a picture of Volk for her, quite skilfully, which she had showed to me after she opened his packet. This drawing was not as good. The legs were too short and the head a little too large.

  Did she know yet that both were dead? They would tell her that Dmitri had killed both the dog and himself. I prayed she would not believe them. Yet would it be any better if she knew that it was her father who had ordered their deaths?

  Inside the letter was a small hard object, wrapped in a bit of cloth, which I recognised as the material used by those fiends to bind her limbs. I unwrapped it. It was a ring. Small but heavy. Solid gold. Set with a very large irregular turquoise. I had heard that these treasured gems were sometimes sent from Persia to Muscovy. The ring looked old. Perhaps it had belonged to an ancestor. A grandmothe
r. The letter might say. Pyotr could have read it for me. It was a child’s ring, but I slipped it on to the smallest finger of my right hand. Aye, I thought, I will wear it, as a remembrance of you both.

  We crossed a wide stretch of the Baltic until we were in sight of the main southeast coast of Sweden, which we followed down to its southern cape, then headed up through the narrows between Sweden and Denmark. A ship flying the Danish king’s flag intercepted us. We hove to while our captain lowered the toll money in a bag on the end of a long pole. The Danish captain counted the coins, signalled to us that we might continue, and we steered north.

  ‘Easy money,’ Thomas said.

  Like me, he was watching this transaction from the railing.

  ‘Aye. I wonder the Swedish king does not demand his share.’

  ‘Too busy fighting the Muscovites, I expect.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘I miss that Russe, Pyotr,’ he said.

  ‘So do I.’

  Having travelled west, then south, then west, we now sailed north along the coast of Denmark. It seemed a very zigzag course, this route through the Baltic. However, the weather held, the wind continued light but favourable. At last we reached the northern tip of Denmark and could head out into the wide expanse of the German Ocean.

  In this part of the sea we were well north of London, probably, by my reckoning, about on the same latitude as northern Scotland, so we headed southwest, and now the winds blew less to our advantage, coming almost directly from the south. It brought warm weather, but made for difficult sailing. We were already more than a week out from Narva and it seemed that the final leg of the voyage would prove the slowest, tantalising us with the nearness of home.

  Finally the coast of England came in sight. We were somewhere off the fen country.

  ‘Now, if we had one of Thomas Harriot’s perspective trunks,’ I said, ‘we should be able to see the fenlanders poling their boats among the reeds.’

  Thomas and Gregory looked at me blankly.