announce your coming to them.”
“The foreigners should wait while we give thanks to God,” said Ivan lucidly enough. “It would be more fitting if they were to worship with us.”
“The Jesuits are not allowed to do that,” Boris reminded him. “It would be against their religious teaching.”
Ivan glared at him, his face darkening. “Then their religion is at fault. We would allow anyone to come into our churches and sing the praises of God. If they are not allowed to do this, then their religion is not true religion.”
“Very possibly, Little Father,” said Boris quickly to forestall another outburst of temper. “But let them find their own way to God. You have said yourself that it is the only way any man can worship.”
“Ah.” Ivan considered this and nodded. They were approaching the Granovitaya now, its splendid Renaissance Italian front still catching the eye. The Palace of Facets had been the creation of Marco RufFo and Antonio Solario not quite a century before and was still reckoned to be one of the most impressive buildings within the Kremlin walls.
“These foreigners are not sent in war but in peace,” Boris went on, watching Ivan covertly but very closely. “They are men of the Church and they do not want our soldiers to fall in battle.”
“Still, they have fallen many times, all because those Jesuits were eager to bring their false Christianity to Russia.” Ivan reached up and squared the crown on his head. “I will listen to what they have to say, and I will do what I decide is best with them.”
“Your wisdom is always excellent,” said Boris as they entered the Palace of Facets. “And we will all be glad to learn of you.” He bowed deeply again; being a noble he did not have to prostrate himself completely.
Another escort of soldiers framed Czar Ivan at the entrance to the cavernous reception hall while the Court of nobles in their golden kaftans took their places in their appointed seats.
“In which room are they being kept?” asked Ivan of the nearest guard.
“The Red Chamber,” said the nearest guard.
“A great honor,” muttered Ivan, who often denied his own nobility access to this waiting room because it was too beautiful for most visitors to see.
“To show the Pope of Rome there is no insult given,” said the guard. “It was the suggestion of Vasilli and Anastasi Shuisky.” “Shuisky!” said Ivan with a mixture of contempt and approval. “Those cousins show the foreigners too much respect.”
“The Patriarch himself said it would be wise,” one of the other guards pointed out very softly. “Because the Pope of Rome is a Christian Prince.”
“Ah.” This was reasoning Ivan was more willing to accept. He nodded, fingering his beard, and watched carefully as his nobles took their places in the huge hall. The elaborate pattern of the floor held his attention briefly, and then he watched his nobles more closely. “Where is the basin and cloth?”
“The servants will bring them,” said the nearest guard. “They wanted to be certain that Czareivich Feodor Ivanovich was in his place before they brought the cloth and basin.”
Ivan looked away, his nostrils pinched as if he had suddenly smelled fresh urine. “I hadn’t thought... of course.” Only the year before Feodor had disgraced his father by playing with the water in the basin at another such reception of foreigners. At the time everyone had done their best to make light of the dreadful gaffe, as if Feodor were performing an entertainment like the skomorokhi who sang and put on puppet shows on market day. But such a lapse could not be tolerated again.
“Once the Czareivich is in his place, we will be ready.” The guard’s voice came from somewhere behind Ivan but he felt as if it came from overhead, from the elaborate patterns of the ceiling and perhaps from God’s sky above.
There was a sudden flurry of activity in the reception hall signaling the arrival of the gende, foolish
“The foreigners should wait while we give thanks to God,” said Ivan lucidly enough. “It would be more fitting if they were to worship with us.”
“The Jesuits are not allowed to do that,” Boris reminded him. “It would be against their religious teaching.”
Ivan glared at him, his face darkening. “Then their religion is at fault. We would allow anyone to come into our churches and sing the praises of God. If they are not allowed to do this, then their religion is not true religion.”
“Very possibly, Little Father,” said Boris quickly to forestall another outburst of temper. “But let them find their own way to God. You have said yourself that it is the only way any man can worship.”
“Ah.” Ivan considered this and nodded. They were approaching the Granovitaya now, its splendid Renaissance Italian front still catching the eye. The Palace of Facets had been the creation of Marco RufFo and Antonio Solario not quite a century before and was still reckoned to be one of the most impressive buildings within the Kremlin walls.
“These foreigners are not sent in war but in peace,” Boris went on, watching Ivan covertly but very closely. “They are men of the Church and they do not want our soldiers to fall in battle.”
“Still, they have fallen many times, all because those Jesuits were eager to bring their false Christianity to Russia.” Ivan reached up and squared the crown on his head. “I will listen to what they have to say, and I will do what I decide is best with them.”
“Your wisdom is always excellent,” said Boris as they entered the Palace of Facets. “And we will all be glad to learn of you.” He bowed deeply again; being a noble he did not have to prostrate himself completely.
Another escort of soldiers framed Czar Ivan at the entrance to the cavernous reception hall while the Court of nobles in their golden kaftans took their places in their appointed seats.
“In which room are they being kept?” asked Ivan of the nearest guard.
“The Red Chamber,” said the nearest guard.
“A great honor,” muttered Ivan, who often denied his own nobility access to this waiting room because it was too beautiful for most visitors to see.
“To show the Pope of Rome there is no insult given,” said the guard. “It was the suggestion of Vasilli and Anastasi Shuisky.” “Shuisky!” said Ivan with a mixture of contempt and approval. “Those cousins show the foreigners too much respect.”
“The Patriarch himself said it would be wise,” one of the other guards pointed out very softly. “Because the Pope of Rome is a Christian Prince.”
“Ah.” This was reasoning Ivan was more willing to accept. He nodded, fingering his beard, and watched carefully as his nobles took their places in the huge hall. The elaborate pattern of the floor held his attention briefly, and then he watched his nobles more closely. “Where is the basin and cloth?”
“The servants will bring them,” said the nearest guard. “They wanted to be certain that Czareivich Feodor Ivanovich was in his place before they brought the cloth and basin.”
Ivan looked away, his nostrils pinched as if he had suddenly smelled fresh urine. “I hadn’t thought... of course.” Only the year before Feodor had disgraced his father by playing with the water in the basin at another such reception of foreigners. At the time everyone had done their best to make light of the dreadful gaffe, as if Feodor were performing an entertainment like the skomorokhi who sang and put on puppet shows on market day. But such a lapse could not be tolerated again.
“Once the Czareivich is in his place, we will be ready.” The guard’s voice came from somewhere behind Ivan but he felt as if it came from overhead, from the elaborate patterns of the ceiling and perhaps from God’s sky above.
There was a sudden flurry of activity in the reception hall signaling the arrival of the gende, foolish
Similar Books
