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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘We wait, now,’ Christopher said, after we had eaten that first evening. ‘When it suits the court to send for me, I shall go to the Kremlin and present my credentials as the incoming chief agent for the Company. Austin will introduce me.’

  Master Foulkes nodded. He was an older man than Christopher, and I thought he showed the strain of his years in Muscovy. Difficult years, during which it had been impossible to know which way the political wind would blow. As I understood it, Tsar Fyodor was more interested in praying than ruling, in church building than overseeing foreign policy, but when he did take an interest in trade, he was fickle, sometimes playing one country off against the other, withdrawing the Company’s long established rights and granting them to others, then changing his mind again. Godunov, on the other hand, had originally favoured England, but had been offended by a previous arrogant English ambassador. It had taken great patience and skill on the part of senior Company men to soothe his angry pride. No wonder Master Foulkes was glad to be going home.

  ‘And you, Dr Alvarez,’ Foulkes inclined his head toward me as we sat over supper that first evening, ‘I understand you have been in Uglich, to attend the Tsarevich. Now your skills are required at Court. It seems they are dissatisfied with their German physicians. That is why they have been constantly requesting Englishmen, though I think, by your name, you are not English.’

  Before I could answer, Christopher spoke.

  ‘Dr Alvarez has lived in England since the age of twelve, and is the son of a distinguished professor of medicine at the University of Coimbra.’

  Foulkes smiled. ‘I have heard of that medical school. It is said to be one of the best in the world.’

  ‘He has practised at both St Bartholomew’s and St Thomas’s, is licensed by the Royal College of Physicians, and is highly valued by Lord Burghley himself. As indeed he was by the late Sir Francis Walsingham, God rest his soul.’

  I felt that Christopher exaggerated somewhat. I had met Lord Burghley, but I was not sure that he valued me highly. Still, this praise would do me no harm, if I was to penetrate the inner sanctum of the Court and deliver Dmitri’s package to his cousin Xenia.

  At the same time, what concerned me was the fear that the Court might demand my services for many patients, preventing me from continuing to Astrakhan. I had been warned repeatedly that the Tsars of Muscovy were reluctant to allow foreigners, once admitted to the country, to leave again. I had already had experience of their tight control over travel within the realm. Besides, I had no wish to fall out with their resident German physicians. A professional quarrel would mean nothing but trouble. And if I were required to treat a patient and failed? I feared what the consequences might be. I tried to play down Christopher’s praise.

  ‘It would be better if I could confine myself to the one patient I was asked to see,’ I said. ‘There was a child in the royal household with a skin rash no one could cure. If I am called upon for other work, I shall never be able to get away.’

  They considered this.

  ‘You are right,’ Master Foulkes said. ‘I will make some cautious enquiries.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Christopher said, ‘it is nearly Christmas.’

  ‘Aye. We celebrate here, with all our English staff. Afterwards, we will be expected to attend the blessing of the river, on Twelfth Day.’

  At the time, I took little note of this, but I was to learn more later.

  A few days after our arrival, Christopher and Austin were summoned to attend the Tsar in the Kremlin. I had understood that ‘kremlin’ meant any town citadel, as it might be the castle in an English town, but when people spoke of The Kremlin in a particular tone of voice, they meant the whole of that walled inner city and everything that went on within those massive fortifications, including all of the government and the Court. Even far away at St Nicholas, washed by its icy northern seas, the people of Muscovy trembled at the mention of this Moscow Kremlin.

  It was clear that the two chief agents of the Company were not immune to this same fear. They dressed with great care and had their hair cut by a Russian barber. Austin already sported a full beard; Christopher had left England with the neat pointed beard fashionable at that time, but ever since he had allowed it to grow. It was not as impressive as Austin’s, but had changed his appearance.

  ‘The Muscovites honour and respect a man with a full beard,’ Christopher explained. ‘One of our earliest explorers here possessed a beard down to his knees. Or so it is said. He was greatly honoured. I am afraid I do not offer any competition.’

  Involuntarily, I ran my hand over my own, smooth, chin. Not for the first time, I wished that I was not marked out by my lack of facial hair. For the moment I could still be accepted as too young, but how much longer?

  The two men set off for the Kremlin in their finery, attended by Company servants in ceremonial livery. Christopher’s documents had been placed in an ornate gilded box and were carried on a red velvet cushion by Austin’s senior stipendiary. Fortunately, it was not snowing.

  We did not see them again until halfway through the following day. On leaving us, they had been unsure whether they would be entertained to dinner by the Tsar after their reception. It seemed this would depend on the whim of the moment. On this occasion he had apparently been in a jovial mood, although he normally shunned company.

  ‘It is difficult to say which would be worse,’ Christopher said, flinging himself into a chair on his return and clutching his head in his hands. ‘To be dismissed abruptly is an insult. To endure a Court feast is a test of endurance. Have you any cure for a hangover, doctor?’

  I looked at him with some sympathy. I had heard tales of Muscovite drinking bouts. The Russian men seemed to have an almost inexhaustible capacity for strong drink, and if the English guests had failed to keep pace, their position in the country would be seriously undermined.

  ‘Could you not have used subterfuge? I asked. ‘Tipped some of the drink away? Pretended to drink when you did not?’

  He shook his head, then regretted it and groaned.

  ‘Impossible. You are watched, hawk like, all the time. To fail to drink to the innumerable toasts would be counted an insult.’

  I took pity on him and went to the kitchens to oversee the straining and boiling of water. When I returned, carrying a large jug, he had been joined by Austin, and both looked really ill.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘You must drink as much of this clean water as you can. And only very simple food for the rest of the day and tomorrow. Bread is good. Eat plenty of it. I do not want to lose the two of you to alcohol poisoning.’

  Austin paused in gulping down his first mug of water to look at me in surprise. ‘Can alcohol truly poison you?’

  ‘It can,’ I said austerely. Despite their assurances, I did not quite believe that it would have been impossible for them to drink less.

  We celebrated Christmas quietly in the Company house, with a simple Christian service and an excellent meal, centred on roast goose and ending with plum duff and nuts. Afterwards, we all gathered in one of the large trading rooms to sing carols. The apprentices, servants, and younger stipendiaries got up a few games like Snapdragon and Hoodman Blind, but compared to Christmases I had known in London, it was a subdued affair. The fact that we were not only outside the Orthodox faith, but belonged to the heretical Protestant sect, meant that we needed to be careful not to draw attention to ourselves. As we kept withindoors, we saw nothing of the Muscovites’ Christmas services, though snatches of music were carried on the wind to us from the many churches. I was beginning to find it very beautiful, now that my ear was attuned to their curious scales and harmonies. Certain musical phrases reminded me of the Jewish music of my early childhood, before the Spanish had invaded Portugal and put an end to it. I suppose both traditions had their roots in the east.

  The celebrations of Twelfth Day would be open to all, I was assured. Even foreigners might attend the blessing of the river.

  ‘Curious,’ I said
to Christopher, as we broke our fast together very early that morning with bread and honey, washed down with small beer. I was glad to see he had lost the pallor brought on by the Tsar’s feast.

  ‘Curious?’

  ‘Blessing the river. It does not sound to me like a Christian ceremony.’

  ‘It is believed to be very holy,’ Austin said. ‘Could you pass the basket of bread, Master Farindon? Afterwards, the water is believed to possess almost magical powers.’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean,’ I said. ‘I believe, if you could trace its beginnings, it would be seen to have started as a pagan ritual. A sort of appeasement of the local river deity. And the fact that it is held close to the winter solstice – perhaps it is somehow meant to persuade the river to abandon the dark and cold of winter, give up its frozen state and return to life and movement.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ Christopher said, ‘but take care not to voice such thoughts in public. You would certainly be branded a heretic. Or worse. The ceremony is taken very, very seriously. You will see.’

  We left the house before dawn on Twelfth Day, well wrapped up, for it felt colder than ever. I reflected that today was my twenty-first birthday, but I had decided not to speak of it to anyone. Their minds were on other things. Besides, it hardly seemed to have any meaning for me, here in this alien land. As we walked along the street, the steam of our breath froze in the air, and icicles formed in the men’s beards, tinkling together like sad bells. Everyone in Moscow, it appeared, was heading for the river, so we simply followed the crowd, which was making for the frozen river immediately below the walls of the Kremlin.

  The people standing about on the ice were silent, or speaking only in reverent whispers, and had gathered around a vast square hole in the ice, each side about the length of three tall men. It must have taken immense effort to cut through the ice, which was at least four feet thick. Wooden boards had been laid along each side, while centrally placed on one side was a raised dais on which stood an elaborate gilded throne.

  ‘Is that for the Tsar?’ I murmured to Austin.

  ‘Nay, for the Patriarch. In religious matters, he takes precedence even over the Tsar. Job of Staritsa is an ally and protégé of Boris Godunov. He was Metropolitan of Moscow until recently, but he owes his elevation to Godunov.’

  This did not surprise me. So this Russian churchman was indebted to the man who held the reins of secular power. ‘Is a Metropolitan akin to a bishop?’

  ‘More like an archbishop, but this former Metropolitan has become much more. He is the first Russian to be made a Patriarch. Just two years ago, under persuasion from Godunov, Patriarch Jeremias of Constantinople raised Job to the Patriarchy – that is something akin to a Pope. And considering that Constantinople is now ruled by Islam, Job’s position is virtually that of ruler of the Orthodox Church. Quiet now, they are coming.’

  I raised my eyes to the walls of the Kremlin on the slope above us and saw that one of the massive gates had been opened, armed guards standing on either side. First to emerge and start down the slope to the frozen Moskva was a young man with an elaborate lantern, followed by more young men, two and two, each carrying aloft a great lighted candle, such as those you may see in Paul’s or Westminster Abbey.

  It was still dark, although a thin strip of pale grey showed in the eastern sky above the roofs of the town. The lantern and the candles were so bright that they seemed to banish the intrusion of the sun. Immediately behind the candles walked a monk carrying an enormous cross, whose jewels glittered in the light from the flames. It must have been immensely heavy, for it was solid gold, and although the monk who carried it had clearly been chosen for his size and strength, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, despite the freezing air. Behind the cross, more sweating monks, carrying between them litters on which stood holy images. First, the Virgin, unmistakable with the Christ Child in her arms, dressed in cloth of gold studded with gems. The next saint I recognised as St Nicholas, dearly beloved by the Muscovites, then, one after the other, saints I could not name.

  The images were followed by a solemn procession of Orthodox priests, strange to western eyes with their long beards, black or grey, and their odd black tubular hats. The last of the priests was the Patriarch of all the Russias, walking alone. He was an impressive figure, a large man made larger by the wide sweep of his rich robes. Hung from his neck, a jewel-studded pectoral cross of gold almost as long as my forearm. In his hand an ornate staff. Unlike the priests, he wore a white headdress embroidered with gold thread, which hung to his shoulders, somewhat like a lawyer’s coif. By his very walk he conveyed power, unlike the shambling figure behind him, a disjointed manikin ill at ease in its stiff bejewelled robes.

  I realised with a shock that this must be the Tsar, whose weak neck could barely sustain the weight of the pointed Monomakh's Cap of gold and jewels, the sacred crown of Russia. Behind him walked another, a much more impressive figure, only slightly less gorgeously clad. That, I was sure, must be Boris Godunov. The rest of the procession was made up of men, women, and children as brightly coloured as exotic birds. The Court.

  The people of Moscow prostrated themselves there on the frozen river, and to avoid discourtesy, we were obliged to do likewise. When I regained my feet, I saw that the Patriarch was seated on the throne, the Tsar standing on one side, Godunov on the other, while the priests and the Court had arranged themselves on the wooden boards, leaving clear a path for a dozen priests who moved slowly around the hole in the ice, swinging censors and chanting psalms in their ancient form of Russian. The smoke from the censors rose in clouds, scenting the clear, cold air with the unmistakable perfume of burning frankincense. On the far edge of the opening in the ice, facing the Patriarch, the great cross and the litters holding the images had been arranged, surrounded by the candles, growing dim now as the sun crept slowly up the sky.

  The Patriarch rose from his throne, stretched out his arms to the river and began to chant. I was too far away to hear the words, but it was clear that he was blessing the Moskva. When he had finished, he stepped down from the dais, leaned forward, and scooped a little of the now holy water in his cupped left hand. With the fingers of his right hand, he flicked a little of it over the Tsar, who had removed the Monomakh's Cap and stood bare headed. Even at this distance I could see that he was shivering, and he flinched as the water fell on him.

  There was not enough of this precious water for the Patriarch to sprinkle many. Godunov was blessed, and one or two other grandly dressed men of the Court, and a woman I took to be the Tsarina Irina, sister of Godunov. To my surprise, I saw Godunov lead a little girl to the front, a child perhaps eight or nine years old, and exceptionally beautiful. The Patriarch sprinkled her with the last of the water in his hand. Then lesser priests moved amongst the rest of the Court, those outside the privileged inner circle, sprinkling them with the holy water.

  This, it seemed, was the end of the ceremony. The procession formed up once again and made its solemn way back up the snowy bank of the river and disappeared inside the walled Kremlin. The last of the procession had barely passed out of sight when there was a surge of the crowd toward the hole in the ice. Everyone, it seemed, had come with a vessel of some sort which they dipped in the river, so that they might carry home some of this precious holy water, from elegant silver and gold buckets on chains, lowered by portly merchants and their wives, to battered wooden cups which the poor knelt to fill.

  To my astonishment, I saw a woman stripping the clothes off a child, until he was stark naked. Then she stepped up to the hole in the ice, holding the naked child under the armpits. Naked, in a cold that would freeze water as it was poured from a jug. A little boy, about five years old. Then she dropped him through the hole into the freezing river.

  I lunged forward in horror, but felt both my elbows grabbed from behind.

  ‘Nay!’ Pyotr hissed in my ear. ‘Do not interfere.’

  I tried to shake him off, but he held me fast.


  ‘The child will die!’ I spat at him.

  ‘Look, they have him out already.’

  He was right. A man, perhaps the child’s father, had fished him out of that death trap. The child, too shocked at first to do more than gasp, was wrapped in a blanket and only then began to wail. The parents walked off with him, back towards the bank of the river.

  ‘What are they thinking of? Are they mad?’ I was so shocked myself I could hardly speak.

  ‘The waters of the Moskva are holy,’ Austin said, ‘now that they have been blessed by the Patriarch. Every devout Muscovite believes that they will cure disease, promote health, and prolong life. See?’

  He gestured toward the hole in the ice. In my agitation I had turned my back on it. Now I saw that other small children were being thrown into the water, while older children, men, and women were stripping naked and leaping into the water of their own free will. They climbed out quickly, their skin flushed with the sudden cold, their teeth chattering, and wrapped themselves in blankets and furs. One or two invalids were carefully lowered into the river and lifted out again. Down from the Kremlin a procession of grooms led horses from the royal stables to the river, bringing them forward to drink from the hole.

  ‘Even the Tatars recognise the power of holy Moskva,’ Pyotr said, pointing.

  In front of the dais where the Patriarch’s throne stood, a group of priests led naked men to the edge of the ice. The men lowered themselves into the water, and then were pushed down below the surface and held there for a few moments by one of the priests. When they emerged, another priest spoke words I could not hear, before making the sign of the cross over each man’s head. Then a cloak was thrown round the shuddering victim’s shoulders before the next man plunged in. I could only think of them as victims.