were trimmed with uncut gems and pearls. Several hundred men sat around the room, all of them looking at the straight- backed, fierce old man who occupied the center of the rear of the hall, who was more magnificent than any of the rest. In silence the small Polish party approached the tall, white-haired figure in the fur-trimmed crown.
Without Vasilli Shuisky to tell them, Rakoczy had to guess how close the Polish embassy could come to Czar Ivan without causing offense. As they drew within two arm’s lengths of him, Rakoczy stopped and went down on his knee, removing his black velvet hat as he did. “Most exalted Prince Ivan, Czar of all the Russians,” he began in a voice that carried throughout the hall before all the priests had dropped to their knees as well. “We come in the name of Istvan Bathory of Poland, who greets you in the brotherhood of Princes and prays that it will be possible for you and he to set aside your former arguments in order to preserve the Christian world from the Ottomites.”
Ivan cocked his head to the side, looking narrowly at Rakoczy. “You are no Pole,” he said at last.
“No, I am not. I come from Transylvania, of ancient blood, as does King Istvan. Until my lands were conquered I held the title of Prince. Now I am a Count, and an exile. I am here at King Istvan’s personal behest.” Rakoczy said it clearly, and saw Ivan’s expression vacillate between fury and sorrow. What about his answer had caused the Czar such distress, he wondered. And how would he avoid such errors again.
“The priests are Polish,” Ivan accused them.
Father Pogner answered in Polish, which Rakoczy translated. “We are from the Church as much as King Istvan. Father Krabbe is Bohemian. Father Komel is Prussian. I am Galician. Each of us owes worldly fealty to King Istvan as we owe the faith of our souls to the Church.”
“That was a fair translation,” said Ivan when Rakoczy was finished. “It pleases me that you did not change what the priest has said. Those who change the words of priests are damned.” He looked around, his eyes lingering on his moon-faced son Feodor before sweeping over the Court.
A dark-eyed, handsome courtier whose features had an angular, Asiatic cast, a man of some privilege from his demeanor, approached Ivan and whispered something to him. Rakoczy watched the courtier with interest, noticing how skillfully he dealt with the unpredictable Czar.
“Godunov is right,” announced Ivan when his daughter-in- law’s brother moved away. “They are deserving. It is an honorable greeting they bring. The ritual must be done or there will be disgrace for the Court.” He sighed deeply. “And I have so much to answer for.” Reluctantly he stepped forward and placed Ra- koczy’s hands between his own. “God protect you in Holy Russia.”
Rakoczy ducked his head and murmured “Amen” before looking up at Czar Ivan. He said nothing, but he stared directly into Ivan’s large, troubled eyes, where madness flickered.
Ivan repeated this gesture and phrase with each of the priests, and then stepped back with apparent relief. He clapped his hands and two guards carried a large basin of water to him, holding it while he washed his hands. Another servant brought him a towel. When he had finished drying, he gave the towel back to the servants and held his clean hands up for the Court to see.
Czaieivich Feodor whooped once, but otherwise the Court was silent.
Then Ivan did something unexpected, and the men gathered in the reception hall of the Granovitaya watched in appalled fascination as the Czar turned back and approached Rakoczy again, moving as if propelled by forces beyond resistance, reaching out to touch the silver-winged pectoral he wore.
“Czar?” Rakoczy asked, aware that this was a break with custom and ritual.
Ivan touched the cabochon stone that served as the heart of the eclipse. He stared as his fingertips caressed the polished gem; his middle and first finger
Without Vasilli Shuisky to tell them, Rakoczy had to guess how close the Polish embassy could come to Czar Ivan without causing offense. As they drew within two arm’s lengths of him, Rakoczy stopped and went down on his knee, removing his black velvet hat as he did. “Most exalted Prince Ivan, Czar of all the Russians,” he began in a voice that carried throughout the hall before all the priests had dropped to their knees as well. “We come in the name of Istvan Bathory of Poland, who greets you in the brotherhood of Princes and prays that it will be possible for you and he to set aside your former arguments in order to preserve the Christian world from the Ottomites.”
Ivan cocked his head to the side, looking narrowly at Rakoczy. “You are no Pole,” he said at last.
“No, I am not. I come from Transylvania, of ancient blood, as does King Istvan. Until my lands were conquered I held the title of Prince. Now I am a Count, and an exile. I am here at King Istvan’s personal behest.” Rakoczy said it clearly, and saw Ivan’s expression vacillate between fury and sorrow. What about his answer had caused the Czar such distress, he wondered. And how would he avoid such errors again.
“The priests are Polish,” Ivan accused them.
Father Pogner answered in Polish, which Rakoczy translated. “We are from the Church as much as King Istvan. Father Krabbe is Bohemian. Father Komel is Prussian. I am Galician. Each of us owes worldly fealty to King Istvan as we owe the faith of our souls to the Church.”
“That was a fair translation,” said Ivan when Rakoczy was finished. “It pleases me that you did not change what the priest has said. Those who change the words of priests are damned.” He looked around, his eyes lingering on his moon-faced son Feodor before sweeping over the Court.
A dark-eyed, handsome courtier whose features had an angular, Asiatic cast, a man of some privilege from his demeanor, approached Ivan and whispered something to him. Rakoczy watched the courtier with interest, noticing how skillfully he dealt with the unpredictable Czar.
“Godunov is right,” announced Ivan when his daughter-in- law’s brother moved away. “They are deserving. It is an honorable greeting they bring. The ritual must be done or there will be disgrace for the Court.” He sighed deeply. “And I have so much to answer for.” Reluctantly he stepped forward and placed Ra- koczy’s hands between his own. “God protect you in Holy Russia.”
Rakoczy ducked his head and murmured “Amen” before looking up at Czar Ivan. He said nothing, but he stared directly into Ivan’s large, troubled eyes, where madness flickered.
Ivan repeated this gesture and phrase with each of the priests, and then stepped back with apparent relief. He clapped his hands and two guards carried a large basin of water to him, holding it while he washed his hands. Another servant brought him a towel. When he had finished drying, he gave the towel back to the servants and held his clean hands up for the Court to see.
Czaieivich Feodor whooped once, but otherwise the Court was silent.
Then Ivan did something unexpected, and the men gathered in the reception hall of the Granovitaya watched in appalled fascination as the Czar turned back and approached Rakoczy again, moving as if propelled by forces beyond resistance, reaching out to touch the silver-winged pectoral he wore.
“Czar?” Rakoczy asked, aware that this was a break with custom and ritual.
Ivan touched the cabochon stone that served as the heart of the eclipse. He stared as his fingertips caressed the polished gem; his middle and first finger
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