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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Oh, we have. However, the Tsar still exercises his right to control the movement of every foreign citizen in his vast domain.’

  ‘But, as you say, it is vast. Would he even know if we were moving about?’

  ‘He would know,’ Holme said flatly. ‘Or at any rate, Godunov’s spies would soon find out. You may be accustomed to the secret services of England and Spain, Dr Alvarez, but I assure you they are but as children’s games compared with the hold the Tsar has over the people of Muscovy.’

  ‘It would take a vast army–’ I began.

  He shook his head. ‘He rules by fear. The people are kept down by terror. Where a populace is so cowed, you do not need a vast army. Every man will betray his neighbour to save his own skin. He will not hesitate a moment to betray a foreigner. My advice is: Trust no one.’

  ‘I understand that the country was in such a state under the last Tsar. He was not known as Ivan the Terrible for nothing, but is not his son a much less dangerous man?’

  Holme exchanged a look with William Holbeche and shrugged. The St Nicholas agent replied.

  ‘He is weak, and useless as a leader, but he is also spiteful, arrogant and dangerous. It is his brother-in-law who rules the country, though he lets Tsar Fyodor believe he himself is emperor, just because he wears the great crown and sits on the throne. Godunov is every bit as dangerous as Ivan Vasilyevich. He merely disguises it under a smiling exterior. Master Holme is right. Trust no one.’

  ‘Not even Pyotr Aubery?’

  They exchanged another glance.

  ‘He has been a reliable Company man for some years,’ Holme said, ‘but remember, he is half Russian. He still has family here. Trust him, but cautiously.’

  This warning troubled me. At first I would be able to travel in company with Christopher Holme, when I reckoned I would be reasonably safe, but eventually we must part company, for he would not be going beyond Moscow, while I must follow wherever the trail led. Gregory Rocksley had been heading for Astrakhan when last seen. I might have to go even as far as that. It must surely be a thousand miles or more to the south. And I would be travelling with Pyotr Aubery. He seemed harmless enough, but Holme was right. He was half Russian and if he had family here, threats might be made to them, to force him to betray me and my mission.

  William Holbeche showed me my room on the first floor and the two men walked on down the corridor. It was a pleasant room – large and airy, with white-washed walls and a large window looking over the Company compound to the sea. I threw it open and leaned out. Beyond the narrow stretch of water I could see the dome of the St Nicholas monastery rising above the huddle of poor huts. The wind was blowing from that direction, bringing with it the sound of the monks’ chanting. Carried thus softly over the water, it had an almost magical quality. I longed to remain here while the ships were loaded with the Russian goods, then board again and travel home.

  I sat down on the bed and wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly shaking with fear. The mission I had been cajoled or tricked into back in London had seemed unpleasant, but possible, but now I found myself here in this terrible, alien land, alone. Trust no one, Holme said. How could I hope to travel across a country which was largely unknown even to the experienced Company men, speaking very little of the language, trusting no one? I must work hard to improve my Russian, so that I would feel less helpless. And what of my mission itself? Find Gregory Rocksley and bring him back. If you cannot, find out what he discovered about the treason afoot amongst English merchants, believed to be passing secret information to the Spanish. It was absurd. It was impossible. I could not succeed. It was madness ever to have embarked on such an enterprise.

  That night I slept badly. In truth, I hardly slept at all, but spent much of the night staring at the patterns of moonlight playing on the ceiling from the uncurtained window, during the short hours of darkness. I tried to tell myself that it was the change from the constant movement of a ship at sea to this land-locked bed that kept me awake, but I knew it was because my mind refused to let go of the worries that had plagued me by day. Could I return with the fleet and tell Rowland Heyward and the others that it was impossible even to embark on the task they had set me? One part of my mind argued that it was the only sensible course of action. But then a small voice whispered to me, ‘But what of Gregory Rocksley? What if he is in danger or in need of help, and you abandon him to the cruelties of this most cruel land?’ For, to be honest with myself, I did not care much for discovering the traitors who were passing information to the Spanish. If dangerous intelligence was channelled through Narva (as it seemed to be from the evidence), then let them – Lord Burghley, or whoever now managed these affairs – let them send someone to Narva. The only thing which could persuade me to continue here was the man in trouble, as I might one day be in trouble and in need of help. When morning came, my mind was still divided.

  The Company men, both on the ships and here at Rose Island, worked efficiently and fast. By the end of two days they had unloaded all the cargo from the ships. By far the largest part of the cargo was fine woollen cloth, for it seemed that the Muscovites loved the quality of our worsteds. We had brought says and kerseys, Bristol friezes, bright red frizadoes, and rashes – all the finest of our great variety of English cloth, which is the best in the world. There was a parcel of delicate knitted silk garters, and all manner of extravagant hats. I was to learn how much the Muscovites adored extraordinary headgear.

  There were other goods too, some of them not produced in England, but imported by our merchants and then carried to Muscovy, the main ones being large quantities of sugar, and smaller shipments of spices and gems. Merchants like Dr Nuñez imported exotic goods through their trade with Venice and Constantinople, and made a considerable profit in selling on to the Muscovites. Although it would have been a much shorter route for the Muscovites to bring such goods into their country overland from the southeast, all those lands were full of hostile Tatars or warring Khanates. No merchant could safely pass through their territories. So the jewels I had seen on the monks’ crosses and the spices used in the imperial kitchens had made their way along many, many thousands of miles and passed through many hands before they were unloaded at Rose Island.

  I had been shown the Russian goods waiting in the warehouses to be exported to England. There were rich and costly furs, including sables, which only royalty and the greatest nobles were permitted to wear, but there were also many mundane goods, far more than I had expected. There was the wax Jos had talked about, and barrels of train oil culled from seals and whales. There were vast coils of rope, made in the Company’s own factory at Kolmogory, together with bales of ship’s canvas.

  However, I was not to see these goods loaded aboard the Bona Esperanza and the other ships of the fleet. As we were breaking our fast on the third day of our stay on Rose Island, Christopher Holme smiled across the table as he passed me a basket of fresh rolls baked that morning in the Company’s bakehouse.

  ‘You will be glad to hear, Dr Alvarez, that I have secured transport for the first part of our journey. The barges carrying the goods we have landed will be heading up river toward Kolmogory. One has been made suitable for carrying passengers, so that we will be able to leave with them first thing tomorrow morning – the two of us, together with Pyotr Aubery, and two of the stipendiaries from here. One is being transferred to Yaroslavl and one is coming to serve on my staff in Moscow. So you will not need to kick your heels here much longer. As Company men, we may travel to the first Company house along the Dvina while we wait for permission to travel further.’

  I nodded and did my best to smile. It seemed I had left it too late to retreat now.

  ‘We shall also visit Yaroslavl as we move onwards,’ he said. ‘I understand that the Tsarevich Dmitri is now living at Uglich, which is not far from Yaroslavl. At least not far in Russian terms, perhaps sixty miles. Is he not one of your intended patients?’

  ‘That is the Tsar’s younger brother? Aye. I have
been told that his mother has worries about his health, but not exactly what they are. Does he not live in Moscow?’

  William Holbeche leaned toward me. ‘There are rumours that he has fits and falls on the floor, foaming at the mouth. Would that be petit mal?’

  I was startled. I had no idea that it might be something so serious. Yet his father’s behaviour had been very strange. Perhaps this child had been cursed with an inherited madness or disease. It was beyond the range of my skills and I felt a sinking in my stomach. If I was expected to cure a permanent condition like petit mal, the falling sickness, I was doomed from the outset.

  The next morning we bade farewell to William Holbeche and our other hosts, and walked down to the quays. A flock of river boats was moored there, wide flat-bottomed vessels, more barge than boat. Each had a single stumpy mast fitted with a clumsy square sail, to take advantage of the wind when it was favourable, and they were also equipped with oars. They reminded me a little of the river barges I had seen in the Low Countries, but these were much more crude. Amongst the barges there were even some rafts, nothing more than floating platforms of rough pine logs lashed together. I hoped that none of our valuable goods would be entrusted to such primitive transport.

  One of the largest boats was fitted with a cabin where the cargo would normally be loaded. It was more like one of the fishermen’s huts than a ship’s cabin, and it was clear that this was our intended accommodation. It was made, like them, of undressed logs, with a roof of birch bark shingles and moss stuffed between the cracks to keep out the worst of the wind. We climbed aboard and inspected our quarters. The cabin was divided into two rooms, one (I supposed) for living and one for sleeping, although they were identical. Narrow benches lined the walls, apparently intended for either sitting or sleeping, and there was a pile of coarse blankets and undressed furs for warmth. A barrel of mead stood in one corner, with a collection of dirty pewter cups on top, for your Muscovite takes his drinking more seriously than eating. Mead is a cheap and popular drink, for there is an abundance of bees in the country. Bees which also provide that all-important wax for the Queen’s candles. I saw no sign of food.

  We deposited our luggage in the cabin. Pyotr and I carried very little, but Christopher Holme and the two stipendiaries were heavily laden, for I supposed their homes would be in Muscovy for the present. Christopher wrinkled his nose as he looked around.

  ‘I had forgotten how primitive these boats are. They do not seem to have improved in the last fifteen years. And it is not very clean.’

  ‘Are we not supposed to eat on the journey?’ I said. ‘Only drink?’

  ‘We will tie up to the bank and eat on shore,’ Pyotr said. ‘The boatmen will light a fire and cook over that. They do not carry a firebox onboard. These boats made of raw pine are full of sap, which can burst into flames from a single careless spark.’

  ‘Turpentine,’ I said absently. ‘I suppose that shows sense.’

  We all made our way out on to the small deck of rough boards. Our boatmen, of whom there were six oarsmen and a steersman, had hoisted the sail, a poor patched thing, but we were being towed across to the river Dvina by one of the pinnaces from the fleet, so it was hardly needed. I had not noticed before just how many mouths there were to the river Dvina, which spilt into a maze of waterways before flowing into the White Sea. The pinnace headed for the largest of these and as the tow rope tightened our barge bumped along behind, followed by the cargo barges, each given a tow by a pinnace. Once we were fairly in the river, the tow rope was cast off, our pinnace drew away to the left-hand bank, and we crawled past, propelled by that inadequate little sail.

  I sat down on the deck out of the way of the boatmen, as there was nowhere else, and wrapped my arms about my knees. Pyotr and the stipendiaries joined me, but Master Holme declined, saying at his age his joints were growing too stiff. I put him at about his middle to late forties, and he did not look overly stiff too me, but perhaps he valued his dignity. One of the stipendiaries jumped up at once, and fetched one of the luggage chests from the cabin. Seated on this, Holme lost no dignity and also gained a better view of our progress than the rest of us.

  The wind and sail proving useless, the boatmen took in the sail by the simple expedient of tying it to the yard, which was no more than arm’s length above their heads. They ran out the oars and began to row. We were passing through a featureless country, a patchwork of pine and birch forests, interspersed with bog. Hardly a human habitation was to be seen, save for an occasional woodcutter’s cottage, and in one spot four cottages where women sat outside, weaving baskets from osiers, while men fished from the river bank and barefoot children poked about in the mud.

  The river current was strong, so that the oarsmen could make only slow headway against it. And as the river twisted and turned, we sometimes found the wind in our faces, so that both current and wind were against us. The steersman headed the barge toward the right bank and my hopes rose that they were planning to cook a meal, for it was past midday and my stomach was aching for food.

  ‘Are we stopping to cook? I asked generally.

  ‘Nay, I do not think so.’ It was Christopher Holme who replied. ‘We are driven to our last mode of propulsion.’

  I frowned, not understanding him. Three of the boatmen, but not the steersman, were donning some kind of harness, which was strapped around their chests, with an additional leather strap across the forehead. Once they were satisfied that all was in place, they climbed out of the barge on to the rough grass of the bank. I saw now that long ropes trailed from their harnesses to the bow of the barge. There was a kind of path along the bank, where the grass had been trodden down, which I had not noticed before.

  The steersman shouted something I did not understand, the three men leaned forward, then began to walk, The ropes tightened and the barge jerked. The men stopped, still leaning forward, then heaved again. This time the barge began to move. The steersman put the tiller over to starboard, so that the barge moved away from the bank, though it tended to keep heading back toward the towing men, causing an unpleasant zigzag motion.

  I could see that, proceeding thus, we were going to make very slow progress. I knelt up and looked over the side of the barge. Although judging by our movement through the fast flowing river, we seemed to be making reasonable headway, our movement relative to the bank was painfully slow, as the men placed one foot in front of the other, slowly, slowly.

  Sitting down again and leaning my back against the side of the barge, I squinted up at Christopher Holme.

  ‘How far is it from St Nicholas to Kolmogory?’ I said.

  ‘Overland?’ he said. ‘About a hundred English miles.’

  ‘And by river?’

  He paused, then shrugged. ‘About six hundred.’

  Chapter Six

  It sounded impossible and at first I thought Christopher Holme was teasing me. How could a journey that was a hundred miles by land possibly stretch to six hundred miles by river? And if it was true, surely it would be better to travel by land? Even if wheeled vehicles did become bogged down in the mud from time to time, it could not multiply the journey time by six. As it was, it seemed that for most of the river journey we would be proceeding at the very slow pace of the men hauling the barge. I was not so unfeeling as to expect them to go faster, but could the Muscovites not have devised some better way to move about their country? Six hundred miles! I did not know for sure, but I thought that must be about the same distance as travelling from the south coast of England all the way to the north of Scotland. And this journey was merely to reach the nearest town to St Nicholas.

  Christopher Holme must have seen the doubt in my expression.

  ‘It is quite true,’ he said. ‘When we are in Muscovy we must resign ourselves to the way the Russians live, and travel, and do business. Their sense of time is very different from ours. Thomas Randolph, when he came as ambassador back in ’68, took all of five weeks to travel up the Dvina from St Nicholas.’


  I groaned, and bowed my head to my drawn up knees. It was at that moment, I think, that I first began to get a real sense of the sheer impossible size of Muscovy. I felt as if I were drowning in some vast ocean of land, which could engulf pitiful small humans as easily as the sea.

  ‘Why do they not use horses to drag the barges?’ I said crossly. ‘They would be stronger than men and would move faster.’

  Robert Farindon, the stipendiary who was travelling all the way to Moscow with Christopher Holme, pointed to the river bank.

  ‘That was what I thought when I first came to this country. But look. What horse could navigate that?’

  I looked where he pointed, and realised he was right. The bank here was broken by a treacherous tumble of rock, over which our human draught beasts scrambled with great difficulty, stopping from time to time to jerk free the tow ropes when they caught on rough outcrops.

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ I conceded. ‘But could they not construct a path suitable for horses?’

  ‘For six hundred miles? In this desolate area? Even with the forced labour of peasants? Nay, the Tsar would never think it worth his while. The merchants are not in a hurry. No one is in a hurry in this country, except when the army goes to war, and that is never in this district. It is either in the west, against Sweden or Livonia, or in the south against the Tatars.’

  His reasoning was irrefutable. I sighed. I would just have to resign myself to days and days of boredom.

  ‘After Kolmogory,’ I said, ‘do we go on by river?’

  ‘That will depend on the weather,’ Robert said. ‘The main towns, and hence the Company’s trading stations, tend to be built along the rivers, as they provide the best means of travel. If the Dvina is still not frozen, we follow it to the junction with the river Sukhona. That will take us up river to Vologda, the next Company factory that Master Holme wishes to visit.

  ‘Up river again?’ I asked. ‘With these poor men still struggling to tow the barge against the current?’