by Ann Swinfen
It was a small windowless room, with shelves on three sides. Bitterly cold, so I judged that any food kept here would be fairly well preserved, even after a week or so. The Tsarina turned and said something sharply in Russian. I did not catch the words, but the meaning was clear. Everyone else was to wait outside. The armed guard objected, as I suppose it was his duty to do, for I might have been an armed assassin. I had left my sword in the bed chamber, but I still had my dagger in my boot. It was surprising that I had not been searched.
Maria Nagaya waved him away impatiently and closed the door in his face. Then locked it.
‘The food is here.’ She pointed.
I hardly needed to be told, for there was nothing else in the room.
‘We may set aside the sugar confection,’ I said, moving it to a different shelf, ‘since another servant tasted it and was unharmed.’
Three dishes remained. The soup, pale green, with congealed cream risen to the surface. The beef stew with its vegetables, chestnuts, and plums, now with a greasy layer of fat from the meat, also risen to the top. The fruit comfiture, looking clean and healthy beside them. Dried peaches which had been poached in a honey syrup, scattered with flakes of almonds. It would be difficult to conceal anything there, particularly the poison source I suspected. I set the comfiture beside the sugar confection, which had drawn moisture from the air and drooped sadly. It had once been spun in the likeness of a horse, now missing its tail, presumably the portion which had been eaten by the second servant.
‘I think we must look for the culprit either in the soup or in the beef dish,’ I said.
I took one of the surgical knives out of my satchel and stirred the sluggish soup with it, breaking up the layer of soured cream on top. With the point of my knife I fished out some small pieces of leek, clearly identifiable. There was nothing else. I set the bowl of soup aside, absent-mindedly noticing how heavy all the dishes were. They were made of solid gold. Something twisted inside me, as an image rose before my mind’s eye of Matthew’s little group of beggar children I had befriended. I remembered how they had devoured every crumb of the stale bread trenchers, on which the cook of the Golden Keys had doled out leftovers beside his kitchen door the previous winter. This unseen little boy might eat from dishes of gold, but he was as vulnerable as they, more vulnerable.
The Tsarina was watching me closely. ‘I too suspect the beef,’ she said.
I nodded. I wiped the knife on a scrap of bandage cloth and drew the dish of beef toward me. There were many ingredients here, as I poked about with the tip of my knife. Pieces of meat, unmistakable. Softened chestnuts. Dried plums which had plumped up in the cooking. Half rings of union. Some dull reddish grey lumps which were almost certainly the beetroot. All swimming about in a thick brown gravy. The caps of ordinary field mushrooms. No sign of the ingredient I suspected.
At last I found what I was looking for. It had been roughly chopped, but not very fine. I was able to spear a sizeable chunk with the point of my knife and lay it on the shelf, where the gravy drained away, leaving it exposed.
The Tsarina leaned forward for a closer look. ‘Is that it? What is it?’
‘It is a type of mushroom, no doubt mixed in with the other, harmless mushrooms, although you can see that it is very different.’
‘It is hideous, like a ball of worms, knotted together.’
That was a good description of the fungus, though when I had seen it in my father’s book, which pictured and described the plants and herbs of Europe, I had thought it most resembled one of the illustrations in his precious volume on anatomy by the Italian Vesalius. It looked like the packed and coiled matter which make up the human brain. I agreed with the Tsarina. It was hideous.
‘What is it?’ she asked again, impatiently.
‘Some people call it the false morel. It is certainly false, and I cannot see how anyone could confuse it with a true morel.’ I cut the lump in half with my knife. ‘Its correct name is gyromitra esculenta. Anyone who ingests it will suffer stomach pains and vomiting, followed by delirium, cramps, loss of muscle coordination, uncontrollable shaking and seizure. Very similar to an epileptic fit. If consumed in more than a tiny quantity, it is invariably fatal.’ I paused. ‘It grows in the pine forests of northern countries.’
We looked at each other steadily.
‘So I was right,’ she said.
‘Aye, you were right. Your son was extremely lucky. The previous amounts must have been very small.’
She raised her hand to her throat, as if she found it difficult to breathe.
‘I will have every cook, scullion, and kitchen maid torn apart and fed to the wolves!’ She said with sudden, passionate venom.
‘Wait!’ I reached out my hand to stop her, but remembered in time that I must not touch the sacred person of royalty.
‘If you do so, you will only alert your enemies to the fact that you know exactly what they have done. Probably most of the people who work in your kitchen knew nothing of this. Someone, perhaps just one person, added that fungus to the dish of beef. It might even have been the maidservant who died. You said she was reluctant to taste it.’
She stopped, but she gripped her hands tightly together, so that the joints showed white under the smooth skin.
‘You seem very knowledgeable about such matters, for a physician.’
I hesitated, then decided to be honest with her. ‘I used to work for the secret service of the late Sir Francis Walsingham, our Queen Elizabeth’s chief secretary. I do have some knowledge of these dark and wicked matters.’ I paused. ‘If you will take my advice . . . do not show that you know what was intended for your son. Continue with your practice of requiring all your son’s food to be tasted, but tell no one that you have discovered the false morels. Once it is clear that all the prince’s food is tasted, I doubt whether they will try to poison him again. If there is anyone you can trust, he should try to find out, discreetly, who delivered the fungus to the palace kitchen. If you can be sure of that, he is your culprit, along with the maidservant, as I should guess.’
She gave a sharp nod.
‘Of course,’ I added, ‘whoever gathered the fungus and brought it here is unlikely to be your real enemy, but merely a hireling.’
‘Never fear,’ she said grimly. ‘I know who is my real enemy.’
‘Now, this food should be destroyed,’ I said. ‘Thoroughly destroyed, not left where any dogs or other domestic animals may find it and eat it. It will be equally fatal to them.’
She smiled suddenly, looking younger and less strained. ‘My Dmitri has an English wolfhound, which is his dearest playmate. I would never let any harm come to him.’
‘They are fine dogs.’ I smiled back at her. ‘I know an elderly wolfhound who is the companion of a friend of mine. A friend who is caring for my own dog, while I am from home.’
‘You must talk to Dmitri of your dog. He will like that.’
‘I think I should see your son now, and examine him, in case the previous attempts at poisoning have done him any harm.’
She frowned. ‘I have not noticed anything, apart from the seizures at the time. And he bruised himself with the thrashing about. The servants were helpless. But it is late now. His nurse will have put him to bed. We must leave your examination until the morning. I shall be glad of it, for you English physicians are well known for your skill. I do not trust the man who came from the court.’
‘He is Russian?’
‘German.’
‘Their doctors are well trained.’
‘Perhaps. It is not his training I distrust, but his honesty.’
She heaved a sudden involuntary sigh. ‘Come, we have done enough for tonight.’
‘The food,’ I said, gesturing toward it as she unlocked the door. ‘It should be thrown on the fire. Except the soup, of course. That may be tipped down a privy.’
‘One of my women will do it, and I shall stand over her myself, to see that she destroys every scrap.’
Pyotr and I were escorted back to our quarters by the majordomo, who had appeared while the Tsarina and I had been examining the food.
‘A meal will be brought to your rooms here,’ he said austerely, leaving us at our door.
Once he was gone and the door closed, Pyotr said softly, ‘Well?’
‘Poison in the beef,’ I murmured. ‘A deadly mushroom. It could not have been added by accident. Too distinctive.’
He looked worried, glancing toward the door. ‘Do you think the food they give us will be safe?’ he whispered. ‘I have brought what was left of our food from the sleigh.’
I shook my head. ‘The Tsarina is anxious for me to examine the child tomorrow. I am sure we will be safe tonight at least.’
‘When can we leave? Tomorrow?’
‘Perhaps. I have promised to examine the child. There were certainly several attempts to poison him with the same mushroom, but fortunately the quantity was not enough to kill him. It may have done him some damage.’
‘If it has, can you cure him?’
‘Probably not. The fact that he has always been in good health before must have been in his favour.’
I removed my physician’s gown and cap and sat in my doublet and breeches, relieved to be still and quiet for a while. I was exhausted after my long discussion in Russian with the Tsarina. At least I could not have made many mistakes, for she had understood me well enough. The rooms were warm, with large stoves well stocked with firewood, which had been lit while we were with the Tsarina. They reminded me a little of the pretty tiled stoves I had seen in the Low Countries, though these Muscovy stoves, furnishing the rooms in a palace, were huge, filling half a wall in each of the rooms, compared with those found in a simple Amsterdam inn.
Pyotr, however, could not relax, but prowled about our rooms. I was not sure whether he was looking for spy holes, or whether he was simply restless. He had had little to do since we had arrived, after it proved the Tsarina and I could speak together without needing his help.
When our meal arrived, carried in on trays by two menservants, he regarded it with suspicion. I think he was not reassured by my belief that we were in no danger for the moment. Finally he sat down opposite me at the table provided and glowered at the dishes. I poured us both a glass of wine. It made a pleasant change after the endless mead, which I found a little too sweet for my taste. The bottle was still sealed when it arrived, so Pyotr must have decided it was safe to drink.
‘Your health,’ I said.
‘And yours,’ he responded, but gloomily. ‘I am truly hungry, but I am not sure whether I want to eat any of this.’
‘Well, as you have said, there is some of the food from Yaroslavl left. Dried meat. Salted fish. I think there was some bread, but it may be stale by now. Perhaps not. It was only baked yesterday morning. It seems much longer ago than that.’
‘It feels like a lifetime. I do not like this place.’
I laid my finger to my lips, but he merely shrugged.
There was a collection of lidded dishes on the trays. I began lifting the lids so that tantalising aromas escaped.
‘There’s a pair of roasted game birds here,’ I said. ‘Some kind of partridge, I would say. Also a piece of roasted meat.’ I sniffed. ‘Mutton. No dangerous sauce.’
I lifted another lid. ‘Fish. A fillet taken from a very large fish. In a sauce with parsley and what could be tarragon. I don’t know what the fish is.’
Unable to resist any longer, he drew the knife from his belt and poked at it.
‘Sturgeon. We are honoured. Only served to the nobility. I wonder . . .’
He found a small pot tucked behind a basket of warm flatbread and beamed.
‘As I hoped. Caviar.’
I looked at a mess of small black balls, like large garden seeds, glistening with oil, and wrinkled my nose.
‘What is it?’
‘The eggs of the sturgeon. A special delicacy. We are greatly honoured indeed.’
At that he seized one of the rounds of flatbread, heaped it with the black stuff, using a small mother-of-pearl spoon, and took an enormous bite.
‘Try it,’ he said, with his mouth full. ‘Food of the gods.’
Somewhat doubtfully, I spooned some of the fish eggs on to flatbread and took a small bite. I was quite pleasant. Very fishy. But not more exceptional than the fresh-caught sardines we used to eat in Portugal. Still, I was glad Pyotr had lost his fears of the meal, for I was reluctant to eat on my own. We made a good supper, finishing with some kind of sticky cake, sweetened – over sweetened – of course, with honey.
Soon after that, I retired to the bed in the inner chamber, but removed nothing but my boots. And I slept with my dagger under the bolster and my sword lying beside me on the fur covering. I had told Pyotr I was sure we would be safe until I had seen the Tsarevich, but I was taking no chances.
Food was brought for us in the morning, to break our fast, some sort of porridge, but made with wheat rather than oats, and served with a kind of partially soured and thickened milk. I was not very hungry after our large supper the previous evening, and besides I was feeling somewhat sick with apprehension. My encounter with the Tsarina had been courteous enough, but I had detected a woman of steel and unrelenting will beneath the beauty and the cloth of gold. She would be as fierce as any she-bear in protecting her cub, so I could only hope that the reports claiming that the Tsarevich was cruel, violent, and unpredictable, like his father, were no more than malicious rumours spread to discredit the boy.
It had not been explained to me what I was to do this morning, whether I should go in search of the Tsarina or her son, or whether I should wait to be summoned, but I donned my cap and gown in readiness. Nervously I checked my satchel again. I am not sure what I expected to find there. Certainly not a cure for the falling sickness, if my diagnosis of the poisoning had been wrong. I did have extract of willow bark, if he suffered any pain. And poppy syrup, which could be used in a very small dose to calm him, should he prove to be violent. I prefer not to give it to children, but the son of Ivan the Terrible might indeed be a monster. I found it a little strange that I had still seen nothing of the boy. I suppose, being a royal child, he must have his own suite of rooms and his own army of attendant servants.
When I had finally reached the point where I thought I should wait no longer, but go in search of someone – while Pyotr was urging me to keep to our quarters until I was sent for – there came a rap on the door with a heavy object and the majordomo entered, without waiting for a response. As before he carried his rod of office. I realised, from the weight of it when he knocked, that it was very nearly a club. I wondered whether he struck out with it, at the heads of careless or impertinent servants. Not that I could imagine any servant being impertinent in this man’s presence.
He jerked his head. ‘You are to come with me to the Tsarevich’s quarters.’
Without waiting to see whether we followed, he strode away along the corridor toward the main staircase.
He moved swiftly, so that we almost needed to trot to keep pace with him. I did not like his manner. We were invited guests of the Tsarina and should have been treated with more respect. I wondered how he behaved toward her, and toward the Tsarevich. It was difficult to believe he could have been personally chosen by her. Perhaps he was an official wished on her by her stepson, or by Godunov. Could he have been implicated in the poisoning? I thought not. He was too arrogant, thought too well of himself, to take part in some plot that involved grubbing about in the forest, searching for those hideous mushrooms.
Once more we descended one flight to the main floor which held the royal apartments and were led further back towards the end of the building, beyond the servants’ stair. As we passed it, two maidservants carrying brooms flattened themselves against the wall as if they wished they could disappear into it, and remained motionless, eyes cast down, until we were out of sight. I was not sure whether they feared us, the foreign strangers, or the majordomo. I
suspected that it was the latter.
When we reached an ornate door, the man tapped on it, subserviently this time, and with his knuckles, not his staff. A voice called from within, and we were shown into the apartments of the little boy who might some day – if he lived – become the Tsar of all the Russias.
At first I could not see him and my impression was that this was no place for a young boy. In every respect it was as extravagant and flamboyant as the room where we had been taken the previous day to meet the Tsarina. Tapestries, priceless rugs, too much furniture, too much Oriental porcelain and too many gold vessels. Somehow it resembled an aristocratic pawn shop, everything jumbled together. And quite unsuitable for a boy of an age to kick a ball about or play rough games with other children. I had been shocked by the stories of the attempted poisonings, but now I pitied him for the surroundings of his normal life.
‘Majesty,’ the majordomo said in a reproving tone, ‘you have visitors.’
Where was the child?
Then there was a disturbance at the far end of the large room, as a rug was pushed forward, and a tousled head appeared from under a large cupboard on legs. A boy crawled out, followed by the lean, lithe form of a wolfhound, which licked his master’s face in a reassuring way.
The boy stood up, looking defiantly at the majordomo, though I thought there was a trace of fear there too. Then his glance fell on us. I felt Pyotr tug at my sleeve and realised that we were expected to prostrate ourselves. While I was at floor level, I saw that the maids had not been very thorough in their sweeping of this room, however ostentatious it was at normal eye height. There were balls of fluff and a layer of dust under the grand furniture. There was also fluff clinging to the child’s clothes when I raised my eyes slightly.
‘You may rise.’ The voice was young, but dignified. He spoke slowly, perhaps forewarned by his mother.
We rose to our feet, and I took good care not to trip this time. I had no wish to make a fool of myself before my young patient.
