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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘It is the way the people here are apt to view the world,’ he said. ‘For men like the steersman and the others, like the peasants you will see in the villages, we are almost a different species. They are so cowed into submission, so forced into a condition almost of slavery, that it would simply never cross their minds to ask for help from us. They would not believe they had the right to ask.’

  ‘That is a sad state of affairs.’

  ‘It is. There is another thing.’ He paused, and glanced toward the sleeping cabin. ‘In this country, all foreigners are viewed with the deepest suspicion. We will not be allowed to move beyond Kolmogory until written permission arrives from Moscow. Should we try to do so, we would be stopped, by local officials of the government, and possibly thrown into prison. Moreover, we are constantly watched. Never allowed to move about the country without some “guide” or “interpreter” to aid us – but really to report back on everything we do.’

  ‘But there is no one like that here,’ I objected.

  ‘Do not be too sure. I have kept an eye on the steersman. I suspect he is not merely a bargeman, but is also here to keep a watch on us. Or possibly . . .’

  He broke off, but I saw his eyes flicker briefly again towards the sleeping cabin.

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. ‘You spoke of interpreters. Do you think Pyotr . . .?’

  He shrugged. ‘I cannot tell where his loyalties lie. Although he works for the Company, do not forget that the Company refused to recognise his parents’ marriage. That must have left a legacy of bitterness. All I can do is warn you to be cautious.’

  I shivered, but nodded my agreement.

  ‘Now go and get some rest, Dr Alvarez,’ he said.

  I turned aside, but paused at the door to the inner cabin. ‘My friends call me Kit.’

  He smiled. ‘And I am Christopher.’

  In the morning, Sergei was a little stronger and we tried to dry his clothes by the cooking fire onshore. A great deal of steam rose from them into the cold morning air, but they remained thoroughly sodden. In some ways this was a boon, for it meant he could not possibly be forced to resume his place amongst the towers. For the most part, he slept.

  From the time we went ashore to break our fast, I noticed that the bargemen seemed wary of me, giving me furtive looks from the corners of their eyes and taking care to stay well away from me. I had thought they might have been grateful that I had saved their companion’s life, but instead they seemed afraid of me, or even hostile. I commented on this once we were back in the boat and on our way again, along a river more thickly scattered with ice floes than before.

  ‘There is little knowledge of medicine in Muscovy,’ Pyotr said, ‘at any rate amongst the common people. We have no locally trained physicians. The only physicians in this country are foreigners, mostly from Germany, a few from Italy and England. They practise in the court and amongst the nobles.’

  ‘Someone must treat the common people,’ I protested. ‘They cannot be totally ignorant. Simple cures – the kind of knowledge every mother of a family possesses.’

  He shrugged. ‘There are wise women who practise herbal cures, though it involves a good deal of superstition and magic too. The sort of women who would be suspected of being witches in England. Here, well, they are regarded as a kind of witch too. A dangerous kind. The sort that the whole village will turn against, when things go wrong.’

  ‘They surely do not think me a witch!’ I laughed, but without much conviction. Here was more danger. If my sex was discovered, I was aptly suited to the role of witch.

  ‘I have heard them muttering amongst themselves,’ Pyotr said. ‘They believed Sergei was dead when we hauled him out of the river. Therefore they believe you raised him from the dead. Consequently, you must be a saint, a witch, or a devil.’

  ‘It is absurd,’ I said briskly. ‘He was not dead, you all saw that. I would take it kindly if you make that quite clear to them, Pyotr.’

  This uncomfortable atmosphere persisted. I do not know whether Pyotr said anything to the men. If he did, it seemed to make no difference, so I was relieved when, two days later, he pointed out how the endless pine forest was giving way ahead of us to cultivated fields, though there was little to see at this time of year but frosted stubble. No beasts were visible, but I could make out some buildings crouched at the edges of the fields, which might have been cottages, or barns, or served as accommodation for both animals and men.

  ‘Those are the farms that lie around Kolmogory,’ he said. ‘We will reach the town tomorrow.’

  ‘At last!’ I said. ‘And we seem to have beaten the ice, just in time.’

  That very morning it had been almost impossible for the men to break the barge free from the encroaching ice. Now, alerted by the bargemen shouting to the peasants on shore, Sergei threw off the furs and insisted on donning his clothes, although they were still damp. There was nothing I could do to prevent it, although I feared the effect of damp clothing on his still weakened state. Perhaps once in Kolmogory he would be able to get warm and dry in some tavern. I was sure every Muscovite town would be well provided with drinking spots.

  Our first sight of Kolmogory was the imposing fort, rearing up round a bend in the river. It was timber built, like almost every structure in a country which was almost entirely covered by forests, but it was large and intimidating. The vast perimeter walls were three times the height of a man, studded at regular intervals with watchtowers. Within the ramparts we could glimpse a number of large buildings, including a tower as high as an English castle keep, which would provide extensive views of the surrounding countryside. It was clearly placed here to protect access to the interior of the country along the Dvina, a secure defence against foreigners, whom the Muscovites seemed to fear so obsessively. I commented on this to Christopher.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘they do fear us, the English. Even Company men who have worked here for years. But they also fear the Sami and the Samoyeds from the north, the Swedes from the west.’

  ‘Surely Sweden is a long way from here.’

  ‘Not as a Muscovite thinks of distance. And the country is yet again at war with Sweden, which is a modern country with a well organised and disciplined army. The Muscovites will never defeat the Swedes. All they can hope is to keep them at bay. And the Poles. And the Livonians. And especially the Tatars.’

  He sat down on one of the chests which held the belongings of the Company men.

  ‘I first came here just over twenty years ago, with the ’69 fleet. Three years later, I was sent with two senior men to Moscow. It was only the year after the destruction of the city in ’71and I shall never forget the sight of the burnt-out houses.’

  ‘There had been a fire?’ I said. ‘I can imagine, a careless spark, where everything is built of wood–’

  ‘It was no accident. Tatars from the Crimea had invaded again, and that time they reached Moscow. Murder, rape, and pillage. Then they deliberately burned the city to the ground. The walls of the Company’s house were badly damaged, but that was the least of it. Twenty-five men, women and children had taken refuge in our cellar, and they all perished. I went with the others to make arrangements for the repairing of the Company House. It was terrible. The smell! Still in the air. Not only the smell of burnt timber, but burnt bodies. They were still being found, as the ruins were cleared. You cannot imagine.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can,’ I said. I did not speak my thoughts aloud, but if you have witnessed an auto-da-fé, you live with the memory of the smell for ever.

  ‘So you can see why the Muscovite government is nervous,’ he said. ‘They were nervous before, constantly under attack from the Golden Horde, from the Tatars, and from Europe, but after the Tatars managed to reach Moscow, all the way from the Crimea, their fear of foreigners has grown all the stronger. Whatever one may say about Ivan Vasilyevich, he was a strong leader. Now they have a ruler who is all but simple-minded, and they have his chief adviser, his brother-in-law, who is intellige
nt, capable, and ruthless, but who has no right to rule the people. It is a situation of great delicacy and danger, which is why I continue to warn you to be careful.’

  ‘I did not choose to come,’ I said, growing ever more alarmed at his words. ‘It seems hardly surprising that Gregory Rocksley should disappear in such a place at such a time. It is clear that I have been set an impossible task. I cannot believe that the Company shareholders, sitting safe in London, have any idea of what they have asked me to do.’

  ‘I did warn them,’ he said, ‘before we left. But they brushed my objections aside.’

  ‘No one told me of that. You have not mentioned it.’

  ‘There seemed little point. Here you are. However,’ he smiled suddenly, ‘it may be that you will not be granted permission to travel any further than Kolmogory. You will be safe here. The town is virtually controlled by the Company.’

  ‘And wait here until next year’s fleet arrives?’

  ‘That would be wisest. Of course, there are other ways out of the country. Not through Sweden, certainly, at the moment. Perhaps through Poland.’

  Our discussion was brought to an abrupt end as the barge nosed in towards the quays – sturdy and newly built, clearly Company property. For this final approach to the town, the bargemen had abandoned their harnesses and run out the oars, which they had scarcely used since we had left St Nicholas, for we made better progress when towed. However, they clearly favoured oars within the confines of the town harbour.

  ‘Later,’ I said hastily to Christopher, ‘you must tell me of these other ways out of Muscovy.’

  He rose to his feet and regarded me gravely. ‘They are all dangerous. The Tsar is as unwilling to allow foreigners to leave his country as to enter it. More so. They believe that every foreigner is here to spy on them and steal their secrets. What secrets I am not sure. Perhaps something that might help the King of Sweden overrun their western lands. I was not seriously recommending that you make your own way home. If it should happen that you are refused permission to voyage further into Muscovy, then stay secure within one of our Company houses and travel home with our fleet. While you are under the Company aegis, you are reasonably safe.’

  ‘I am sure I shall have no need to wander unlawfully about the country,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I should be lost in a few hours in one of these great pine forests.’

  Still, I intended to find out more. I had no wish to be trapped in this dreadful place at the whim of a half-mad Tsar. It might have wide skies, broad rivers, and vast forests, but nonetheless it reminded me powerfully of the Inquisition prison.

  Kolmogory proved to be a pleasant little town, and after the interminable voyage by barge, cold and comfortless, it seemed a haven. Warmth, food, a bed of English design. The Company factory lay within the outer defences of the fort, for security, but had its own compound within the greater one. It was of some considerable size, for the rope factory had been established here, close to a good source of hemp, grown on the surrounding farms. The Muscovite knowledge of rope making had initially been poor, but labour was cheap, so instead of importing raw hemp to be spun into naval cordage at home, the Company had sent out skilled English rope-makers to teach the Muscovite labourers.

  The result was highly successful – an abundant source of inexpensively produced rope of every dimension needed by our ships. The whole enterprise was so thriving that English merchants were now able to export the surplus to other nations at a healthy profit, for the Company’s rope was recognised as the best in the world. The first merchants had invested in the Muscovy Company expecting to import luxury goods – furs, above all, and rare items from Persia and the Orient. Yet now, a generation later, their real profits lay in rope, canvas, wax, tallow, and oil. Mundane, but a sound investment.

  The Company house in Kolmogory was timber built, but unlike the local houses, even those of the merchant classes, it was constructed of properly dressed timbers, and the roof was of neatly trimmed shingles, not the turf or bark which served the Muscovites. I had seen no window glass in any house, for I suppose this was too costly in such a remote country. Instead, the windows were glazed with thin sheets of horn, like ancient cottages of rural paupers at home in England. They let in a diffuse yellowish light, which was an improvement on nothing but wooden shutters, but the view through them was poor. Heavy shutters were also provided, for I could imagine that they were needed to keep out the severe cold of winter.

  To my relief, I had a room to myself, and indeed I was always treated with great courtesy by the men who worked for the Company. It seemed that word had gone ahead that I was in the country on a special mission for their governor. I hoped it would not inhibit their answers when I began to ask questions about Gregory Rocksley, for he had travelled this way before me. It was the accepted route to Moscow – St Nicholas, Kolmogory, Vologda, Yaroslavl, Moscow.

  Not that I expected to learn anything of importance here, I thought, as I unpacked my few possessions. Gregory’s movements as far as Moscow were clearly known. He had then travelled west toward Narva, but the war with Sweden had broken out. Either that, or some other reason, had caused him to change course and head southeast. He had passed through Moscow again and was last seen with his interpreter in a small town some eighty or a hundred miles south of the capital, where he had apparently told a fellow traveller quite openly that he was heading for Astrakhan. That was the last time he was seen.

  It had always seem strange to me that he should have headed for Astrakhan. If the intelligence leak was through Narva, and if the way to Narva was closed to him, why had he not rejoined the Company in Moscow? He could then have been waiting in St Nicholas when our fleet arrived this summer and returned with it to England. The expected despatches explaining his actions had never been received. Or so the Company believed, though it was possible something might have been amongst the papers stolen from Walsingham’s office.

  However, now I had some experience of Muscovy myself, it was not surprising that letters from Rocksley had not arrived. It was always difficult for Walsingham’s agents to send reports from hostile or even neutral countries. Many were lost or intercepted. Even if he had attempted to send something, I thought the chances of its going astray were very high indeed in this remote, dangerous, and vast country.

  After my various conversations with Christopher Holme, I was beginning to see the matter of Gregory Rocksley in a different light. His despatches might not have been lost, but rather stolen, quite possibly on the orders of the government. And although the purpose of his mission had been to catch a spy, this suspicious regime might have taken him for a spy himself. For all we knew, the Muscovite government might have been behind the passing of secret information about England to Spain. Muscovy sent ambassadors regularly to England and would have seen much of our ports, castles, and navy, all of which would be of interest to our enemies. As far as I knew, Spain was no friend of Muscovy, but Godunov might be involved in some covert diplomacy with that country.

  If everyone who travelled here was constantly watched by government spies, they must gather many fragments of knowledge about England, which an intelligent man like Godunov could piece together, along with the information brought back by ambassadors. He probably ran a network similar to Walsingham’s, but even more widespread within his own country, and set to entrap every unwary foreigner.

  I paused in shaking out my physician’s gown, which was sorely crumpled after weeks rolled up in my knapsack.

  ‘So, that may have been why he was heading for Astrakhan!’

  I spoke the words aloud, then looked around anxiously, hoping that my voice could not be heard outside my room.

  Perhaps when Rocksley returned to Moscow after trying to reach Narva something happened. Something to put him on his guard. Could he have been heading south in order to escape a ruthless Muscovite government? Christopher had said that the Tsar was usually reluctant to allow foreigners to leave the country. For whatever reason, that might have happened to Rock
sley.

  I closed my eyes and tried to envisage the map I had been shown of Muscovy back in London. Astrakhan was a town on the Caspian sea. From there one could take a boat – but to where? I was vague about the geography in that part of the world, and the map had been sketchy at best, the lands beyond the Caspian falling off the edge of the paper. Persia was somewhere there, and various khanates, conquered by Ivan the Terrible, but now restless under the weak rule of his son. The Crimea was down there as well, somewhere to the south and inhabited by the Tatars who had wreaked such destruction on Moscow less than twenty years ago. Would Rocksley really have tried to escape through those territories? Perhaps he had no choice. To travel east would have been pointless. The way north was held in an iron grip by the Tsar, any peasant might betray him. To the west there was a war. South would seem the only way. Eventually one would reach the Mediterranean and civilisation. It would be easy to take ship for home in Venice or Constantinople.

  I shook my head in annoyance. I was inventing a story for Rocksley based on pure speculation. It was equally probable that he was following some lead connected with his original investigation of treasonous information being passed by a former Company employee. I knew that the Company traded through Astrakhan from time to time. And it was more than likely that he had simply perished of exposure or illness during the winter weather.

  Or he might be languishing in one of the Tsar’s prisons. Or dead after being tortured. I had heard the tales of what happened here.

  I went down to join the others for the evening meal, determined to push such speculation to the back of my mind.

  It was a good meal – English food cooked in the English fashion by an English cook employed by the Company. It was a relief to eat something other than porridge and fish. However, I was tired and excused myself soon afterwards and retired to bed. Here was luxury indeed, after weeks of sleeping on what passed for a bed in this country, nothing more than a narrow wooden shelf. A tester bed with heavy woollen curtains. An English bedstead – or if it was made here, it was made to an English design – strung with ropes, with a flock and a feather mattress. There were even sheets of good quality linen, surely brought from England, topped with blankets, a further feather bed and some clean, well dressed furs. I would not perish of the cold here.