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

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Can this be right?’ I said. ‘Should we not turn more to the south?’

  None of us had been this way before, but Pyotr had received directions from Alexander Wingrave before we left.

  ‘Aye, this is the way,’ Pyotr said. ‘According to Wingrave, we carry on along this road for about a day’s ride, then we come to a fork in the road at a large village. That was where he and Rocksley parted company, Wingrave continuing along this road, while Rocksley with his interpreter took the southern branch.’

  The directions appeared to be correct, for we reached the village about nightfall and decided to spend the night at the post station, which had a room with benches where we could sleep. The village was not much of a place, but clearly the flow of travellers provided a good living for the post station.

  Before we set off the next morning, Thomas Edgewick asked if he might have a word with me. Considering that he hardly ever opened his mouth, this was unusual. Pyotr had gone to see about horses for the next stage, and Thomas beckoned me outside, with one of his huge fingers. Mystified, I picked up my knapsack and satchel and followed him.

  We strolled along the mean street, where the snow was already turning to filthy slush, until we were well away from the post station.

  ‘We’m being followed,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘What?’ I was so startled I forgot all my training and nearly looked round, but he grabbed me by the elbow and propelled me further along the street.

  ‘Not now,’ he muttered in irritation. ‘Ever since we crossed the river.’

  ‘Are you sure? There must be plenty of travellers along these roads, especially now that it isn’t so cold.’ I was ashamed that I had noticed nothing. What would Nick Berden have thought of me? I must be growing careless.

  ‘Aye, I’m sure,’ he said flatly. It was his very lack of emotion that convinced me. He was, after all, an experienced soldier and knew this country and its people tolerably well, for he had served here for five years.

  ‘What are they like?’

  ‘Two men I seen so far. Big men, carrying weapons. Swords and crossbows. Not footpads or outlaws. These lads are soldiers, they know how to track and keep out of sight, but some of this last way has been open and flat. Nowhere for them to dodge, see? That’s when I seen ’em clear. Could be, they bin following us since Moscow.’

  Involuntarily, I shivered.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I a’nt asked any questions, master, but this fellow Rocksley you’re trying to find, was he in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. He may have been. He may have discovered something. Something someone was trying to hide.’

  ‘Like someone from the Court?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Like maybe that fellow Godunov?’

  There was clearly more to Thomas than I had allowed for.

  ‘It’s a possibility,’ I admitted. I might as well be honest with the man. I might need to depend on him. ‘Rocksley was investigating the leaking of secret information about England through Narva, but he came back from Narva and hurried off this way, possibly suspecting information was now being channelled through Astrakhan and the Caspian Sea. Somewhere along this road, he seems to have disappeared. He was last seen in this village, when he and his interpreter parted from Master Wingrave.’

  Thomas sucked his breath in. ‘Sounds like a nasty business. How do you think you can do anything about it?’

  I had to admit what had been in my mind from the start.

  ‘I think it’s likely Rocksley is dead. If so, I want to confirm it. Also, if I can, I want to discover what he had found out, but that is not hopeful, if he is dead. On the other hand, there is a very slim chance that he is alive.’

  ‘If he’s alive,’ Thomas said reasonably, ‘why a’nt he turned up?’

  ‘Because he can’t,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Because he’s in prison somewhere.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well,’ he said briskly, ‘those lads following us think we know something, or they wouldn’t be troubling us. If the man is dead, why would they bother?’

  It was a good point.

  ‘You think he’s alive, and they believe we know where he is?’ I said.

  ‘Stands to reason.’

  Suddenly, I felt a mixture of hope and fear. Thomas was right. Why would they bother? If they had been sent after us, they thought we knew where to find Rocksley and would try to stop us. It seemed more and more likely that he was alive. Why they would keep him alive, I was not sure, but time to think about that later.

  ‘I wonder whether Godunov is behind this,’ I said.

  ‘Sly piece of work, he is, but more use than that freak of a Tsar. Still,’ he looked at me thoughtfully, ‘just cured his daughter, haven’t you?’

  ‘Aye.’ I smiled grimly. ‘I think that counts for little with a man like Godunov. He would use my skills, pay me off, then move on to the next thing. If the next thing means eliminating me, I do not think he would hesitate.’

  ‘That’s great men for you.’

  ‘Aye. I’m sorry you have been caught up in this, Thomas.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, master. There’s only two on them, and we’re three.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ I said with a sigh of exasperation, ‘I don’t know where Rocksley went beyond this point. I am searching blind.’

  ‘There’s Pyotr waving at us,’ he said. ‘Must have the horses.’

  In silence we walked back to the post station.

  Once we were away from the village and riding three abreast, Pyotr demanded to know what was afoot. He had guessed from our manner that things had changed, so we explained what Thomas had observed, and what we had deduced from it.

  ‘If they, whoever they are, had wanted to get rid of you – us – then why not do it in Moscow?’ he said.

  ‘Too difficult,’ I said. ‘Most of the time I was inside the Company House, except when I went to the Kremlin, well escorted. Besides, if it is Godunov who is behind it, he wanted his daughter cured first. Pat me on the back, issue a passport, send us on the way. Then when we are well away from the capital, in some remote area–’

  I broke off. We were riding through a remote area now. When I glanced over my shoulder, I could not see our pursuers, but I knew by the prickling of my scalp that they were there. It was a relief to see a merchant’s pack train approaching us from the south. As long as they were in sight of us, before or behind, I reckoned we were safe from attack.

  ‘If we were to gallop ahead now,’ I suggested, ‘pass the pack train, get it between us and those men, it might impede them a little.’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Good plan. It won’t shake them off, for this seems to be the only road hereabouts, but it might give us some breathing space.’

  Without more to-do, he kicked up his horse and galloped ahead. We followed.

  The pack ponies were startled to see us bearing down on them and began to mill about in distress, but we circled round them and rode past.

  ‘Good,’ Thomas said. ‘That should slow ’un down.’

  We rode fast for a few miles, then eased off again to rest the horses. We were nearing another village, not a post station, so we rode through without stopping.

  To our surprise, our simple ruse must have caused our pursuers more trouble than we had expected. For the next two days we saw nothing of them. Instead, every time we stopped for food or to change horses, we made enquiries for Gregory Rocksley, or at any rate Pyotr did. No one here spoke anything but Russian or occasionally one of the Tatar languages. Pyotr described Rocksley, as far as I could give him details. A man in his mid thirties, about Pyotr’s height, light brown hair, slim – above all, an Englishman. Travelling with him, a Russian interpreter. Predictably, no one in the Company had really noticed the man, Ivan Petrovich. As if in England you spoke of John Smith. A shadowy, anonymous figure.

  The people who lived along this road saw the occasional Englishman from the Company, but far fewer in recent
years. Lately, little Company trade flowed this way, for the southern areas beyond and to the east of the Caspian were hotbeds of war. Safer, if more expensive, to fetch eastern goods from Venice or Constantinople, as Dr Nuñez did, sail them from the Mediterranean to London, and then ship some onwards to Muscovy.

  So I reasoned that an Englishman seen in recent months – or last year – might have been noticed. For the next day and a half, nothing. By now we had left the snow behind and bit by bit we were shedding our heavy winter clothing, tying it in bundles behind our saddles. We stopped in a small village, hardly more than a hamlet, to let the horses drink from a stream where three women were washing clothes, beating them against stones in the shallows, while they stood knee deep in the water with their skirts tucked up.

  Pyotr asked his usual questions, leaning down from his saddle to speak to the women. Thomas had dismounted and was pouring water over his head and neck from his cupped hands. Indeed, it was beginning to grow quite hot. I was considering doing the same when I noticed the women exchanging looks and muttering to each other. The usual response to Pyotr’s questions was a blank look and a shake of the head. This was different. The women were talking fast and Pyotr was asking more questions. I caught my breath. Was it something at last? One woman was pointing over to the east, beyond the stream, where a narrow path to the left led off the road we had been following.

  Thomas mounted again, his eyes on the women. Pyotr was smiling, thanking them, then he leaned down to give the oldest a coin. We splashed over the stream and did not query it when Pyotr led the way on to the path. Once we were out of earshot of the women and amongst a clump of trees, he reined in.

  ‘They were here,’ he said. His voice rose excitedly. ‘Last summer. It must have been about the time we were leaving London. An Englishman and a Muscovite. They were arguing a little, the women said. Not seriously, but disputing which way to go. The village women were doing the washing then, just like today. Then a party of Muscovites rode up. Four of them. Or maybe five. Northerns, they said. They were arguing about how many it was, but I told them it didn’t matter. They persuaded the other two men, our two, to go with them up this track, and off they all went.’

  ‘Was that all they said? Were they certain it was Gregory Rocksley?’ I held my breath, waiting for the answer.

  ‘It certainly sounded like him. And the Russian he was with was called Ivan, but that means nothing.’

  ‘So they all disappeared up this track?’

  ‘Not quite. The following day, the man called Ivan rode back through the village, by himself. He did not stop, but headed north.’

  Thomas had said nothing until now. ‘Sounds to me as though this Ivan was a traitor, or a paid informer. This country is crawling with them, like lice,’ he growled.

  Rule by fear, I thought, and this is what you breed. Men who will betray anyone for money. Or out of fear, to save their own skin. Ivan Petrovich was probably alive and well, living comfortably somewhere under a different name. A name like Pyotr Ivanovich. Stop! I told myself. That is folly.

  I turned to Pyotr. My horse was shifting uneasily under me, for there were flies clustering here under the trees. In irritation, I brushed away some which were trying to land on my face.

  ‘Did the women tell you what lies along this track?’ I asked.

  Pyotr was avoiding my eyes. ‘They did. It is a country estate belonging to “the big man in Moscow”, they said. “What big man?” I asked. “Him they call the Konyushy Godunov,” they said.’

  I sat very still in the saddle, looking up the track to where it bent through the trees. For the first time I realised there was a bird singing. A common thrush. It might have been a wood in England. There were early spring flowers starring the grass at the foot of the trees.

  Dead or alive, we had found Gregory Rocksley.

  Chapter Eleven

  I do not know whether I had spoken the words aloud, but I could see the same thought passing through their minds. Dead or alive. We had come this far. We could not turn back now. Those men urging Rocksley down this track to a house owned by a man he suspected of treachery. The interpreter riding away, surely having betrayed him. I felt sick. He must be dead. Yet we had to know for sure. Pyotr and Thomas were looking at me, waiting.

  ‘We need to make sure,’ I said, and turned my horse to ride up the track.

  Without a word, they followed me. At that moment I felt a rush of gratitude toward them. This search had been wished upon them and I was leading them toward danger and possible death, yet they had not questioned my decision.

  The trees grew more dense as we rode on, the lovely delicate birches which are found everywhere in this country. It was a natural wood, untended. Fallen trunks lay haphazard on the ground, sinking into decay amongst undergrowth and brambles. I could hear the sound of running water, but could not see it, because of the tightly packed trees. It must be the continuation of the stream where we had watered the horses.

  This place was very different from a country manor in England. There, the woodland would be as meticulously cared for as the formal gardens around the house, undergrowth cleared away, fallen trees not left to rot. The English landowner cared for his woods and kept them clear for hunting. He also knew the financial value of his timber. In this country timber was so abundant it must be almost worthless, certainly not worth the landowner’s attention, though I knew the Muscovites enjoyed the hunt as much as any man. Perhaps they were indifferent to trees that could trip you or brain you when you pursued wolf or bear or boar.

  It was a long track, and winding, and the longer it went on, the more apprehensive I grew. At last through the trees we caught our first glimpse of the building. Thomas put out his hand to stop me, but I was already reining in my horse. I moved a little to one side, so that I could get a better view of the house. It was not what I expected.

  This was no fortified manor. There was no protective wall, no battlements. It was as open and accessible as a farmhouse, and not much bigger, although it was well built of brick, with a shingle roof and modest pillared portico. It was surrounded by a rather ragged lawn, which led down a slight slope to the stream, but there appeared to be no formal garden. Beyond the house I could just glimpse some lower buildings that might be stables.

  ‘What is this place?’ I asked Pyotr. ‘It does not look like a house belonging to a boyar like Godunov.’

  He was regarding the building with interest and did not turn round.

  ‘It is a dacha. I had not realised there were any this far south.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A dacha. From time to time the Tsar will award a favourite or someone who has done him a service with a property in the country. It’s a gift. That’s what dacha means, a “gift house”. I expect the last Tsar gave this to Godunov. He thought highly of him, raised him to be a boyar. After all, he married his son to Godunov’s sister.’

  ‘You mean Godunov lives here some of the time?’

  ‘Possibly. Not often, I should think. He would not want to be away from the Court and the government, in case his enemies plotted behind his back. Not everyone is happy that he controls the Tsar. Besides, we are nearing the troubled part of the country here.’

  ‘Place looks deserted to me,’ Thomas said.

  He was right. Most of the shutters were closed. There was no one to be seen, not even a guard dog. The house slumbered, peaceful and innocent under the spring sunshine. We must have been misled. Or else whatever had happened to Gregory Rocksley had happened months ago.

  ‘I’ll take a look.’ Thomas slid off his horse, threw me the reins and was gone before I could stop him. For a big man he move remarkably silently. Nick Berden would have approved. In moment he had disappeared amongst the trees, circling round to the back of the house.

  Pyotr and I waited. If Rocksley had been brought here, he might have been killed at once. On the other hand, they might have wanted to know just how much he had discovered, and would have questioned him. That probably mea
nt they had waited for Godunov himself to come. With this remote and convenient place of concealment, they would not have risked carrying him back to Moscow. And Godunov could not often absent himself from Moscow, as Pyotr had pointed out. We had no way of knowing whether he had been away at all during the intervening months. I felt a faint flicker of hope. Rocksley might still be alive.

  Thomas was back.

  ‘Just an ordinary house,’ he said. ‘I saw one kitchen maid carrying a pail of milk in the door at the back, no one else. Shutters are open on that side of the house. Mebbe there’s nothing but household servants here, main rooms shut up. Still think he might be here, doctor?’

  ‘He might.’ I was unsure what to do.

  ‘Better decide soon,’ Thomas said. ‘Those buggers who’re after us will be here before long.’

  The shock set my heart pounding. Stupid, stupid! Thinking about what lay ahead, I had forgotten the men behind us. We would be trapped here, at the end of the track. It went no further. The woods were thick beyond the house.

  ‘If they followed us here,’ I said breathlessly, ‘there must be something to find.’

  ‘That’s what I reckon,’ Thomas said.

  Pyotr nodded agreement.

  ‘Do you think we can get into the house?’ he said.

  ‘Easy. But there may be more’n servants there. Wouldn’t they leave a guard?’

  ‘Probably.’

  We looked at each other. Thomas was a fighting man. I could wield a blade, but I was no match for a skilled swordsman. Pyotr carried a sword, but I suspected it was mostly for show. I would not have put him down as a fighter.

  ‘I think we should try to get in.’ I said it without much conviction, but Thomas took it as a decision.

  ‘Right. Got to secure our line of retreat first. There’s a path on t’other side o’ yon stream. Not much, but we could ride it single file. Take us back toward that village. Don’t want to meet those bastards head on, going back by the main track. Leave the horses down by the stream, while we take a look.’