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The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series

R >> Rafael Sabatini >> The Historical Nights Entertainment, Second Series




"And is that all?" quoth the boy, in a voice dangerously quiet.

"No." Fearless in his sense of right, the legate towered before
him. "It is demanded of you further that you instantly release
the lady, your mother, from the unjust confinement in which you
hold her."

"That confinement is not unjust, as all here can witness," the
Infante answered. "Rome may believe it, because lies have been
carried to Rome. Dona Theresa's life was a scandal, her regency
an injustice to my people. She and the infamous Lord of Trava
lighted the torch of civil war in these dominions. Learn here the
truth, and carry it to Rome. Thus shall you do worthy service."

But the prelate was obstinate and proud.

"That is not the answer that our Holy Father awaits."

"It is the answer that I send."

"Rash, rebellious youth, beware!" The cardinal's anger flamed up,
and his voice swelled. "I come armed with spiritual weapons of
destruction. Do not abuse the patience of Mother Church, or you
shall feel the full weight of her wrath released against you."

Exasperated, Affonso Henriques bounded to his feet, his face
livid now with passion, his eyes ablaze.

"Out! Away!" he cried. "Go, my lord, and go quickly, or as God
watches us I will add here and now yet another sacrilege to those
of which you accuse me."

The prelate gathered his ample robes about him. If pale, he was
entirely calm once more. With stern dignity, he bowed to the
angry youth, and so departed, but with such outward impassivity
that it would have been difficult to say with whom lay the
victory. If Affonso Henriques thought that night that he had
conquered, morning was to shatter the illusion.

He was awakened early by a chamberlain at the urgent instances of
Emigio Moniz, who was demanding immediate audience. Affonso
Henriques sat up in bed, and bade him to be admitted.

The elderly knight and faithful counsellor came in, treading
heavily. His swarthy face was overcast, his mouth set in stern
lines under its grizzled beard.

"God keep you, lord," was his greeting, so lugubriously delivered
as to sound like a pious, but rather hopeless, wish.

"And you, Emigio," answered him the Infante. "You are early
astir. What is the cause?"

"III tidings, lord." He crossed the room, unlatched and flung
wide a window. "Listen," he bade the prince.

On the still morning air arose a sound like the drone of some
gigantic hive, or of the sea when the tide is making. Affonso
Henriques recognized it for the murmur of the multitude.

"What does it mean?" he asked, and thrust a sinewy leg from the
bed.

"It means that the Papal Legate has done all that he threatened,
and something more. He has placed your city of Coimbra under a
ban of excommunication. The churches are closed, and until the
ban is lifted no priest Will be found to baptize, marry, shrive
or perform any other Sacrament of Holy Church. The people are
stricken with terror, knowing that they share the curse with you.
They are massing below at the gates of the alcazar, demanding to
see you that they may implore you to lift from them the horror of
this excommunication."

Affonso Henriques had come to his feet by now, and he stood there
staring at the old knight, his face blenched, his stout heart
clutched by fear of these impalpable, blasting weapons that were
being used against him.

"My God!" he groaned, and asked: "What must I do?"

Moniz was preternaturally grave. "It is of the first importance
that the people should be pacified."

"But how?"

"There is one way only--by a promise that you will submit to the
will of the Holy Father, and by penance seek absolution for
yourself and your city."

A red flush swept into the young cheeks that had been so pale.

"What?" he cried, his voice a roar. "Release my mother, depose
Zuleyman, recall that fugitive recreant who cursed me, and humble
myself to seek pardon at the hands of this insolent Italian
cleric? May my bones rot, may I roast for ever in hell-fire if I
show myself such a craven! And do you counsel it, Emigio--do you
really counsel that?" He was in a towering rage.

"Listen to that voice," Emigio answered him, and waved a hand to
the open window. "How else will you silence it?"

Affonso Henriques sat down on the edge of the bed, and took his
head in his hands. He was checkmated--and yet....

He rose and beat his hands together, summoning chamberlain and
pages to help him dress and arm.

"Where is the legate lodged?" he asked Moniz.

"He is gone," the knight answered him. "He left at cock-crow,
taking the road to Spain along the Mondego--so I learnt from the
watch at the River Gate."

"How came they to open for him?"

"His office, lord, is a key that opens all doors at any hour of
day or night. They dared not detain or delay him."

"Ha!" grunted the Infante. "We will go after him, then." And he
made haste to complete his dressing. Then he buckled on his great
sword, and they departed.

In the courtyard of the alcazar, he summoned Sancho Nunes and a
half-dozen men-at-arms to attend him, mounted a charger and with
Emigio Moniz at his side and the others following, he rode out
across the draw-bridge into the open space that was thronged with
the clamant inhabitants of the stricken city.

A great cry went up when he showed himself--a mighty appeal to
him for mercy and the remission of the curse. Then silence fell,
a silence that invited him to answer and give comfort.

He reined in his horse, and standing in his stirrups very tall
and virile, he addressed them.

"People of Coimbra," he announced, "I go to obtain this city's
absolution from the ban that has been laid upon it. I shall
return before sunset. Till then do you keep the peace."

The voice of the multitude was raised again, this time to hail
him as the father and protector of the Portuguese, and to invoke
the blessing of Heaven upon his handsome head.

Riding between Moniz and Nunes, and followed by his glittering
men-at-arms, he crossed the city and took the road along the
river by which it was known that the legate had departed. All
that morning they rode briskly amain, the Infante fasting, as he
had risen, yet unconscious of hunger and of all else but the
purpose that was consuming him. He rode in utter silence, his
face set, his brows stern; and Moniz, watching him furtively the
while, wondered what thoughts were stirring in that rash,
impetuous young brain, and was afraid.

Towards noon at last they overtook the legate's party. They
espied his mule-litter at the door of an inn in a little village
some ten miles beyond the foothills of the Bussaco range. The
Infante reined up sharply, a hoarse, fierce cry escaping him,
akin to that of some creature of the wild when it espies its
prey.

Moniz put forth a hand to seize his arm.

"My lord, my lord," he cried, fearfully. "What is your purpose?"

The prince looked him between the eyes, and his lips curled in a
smile that was not altogether sweet.

"I am going to beg Cardinal Corrado to have compassion on me," he
answered, subtly mocking, and on that he swung down from his
horse, and tossed the reins to a man-at-arms.

Into the inn he clanked, Moniz and Nunes following closely. He
thrust aside the vinter who, not knowing him, would have hindered
him, great lord though he seemed, from disturbing the holy guest
who was honouring the house. He strode on, and into the room
where the Cardinal with his noble nephews sat at dinner.

At sight of him, fearing violence, Giannino and Pierluigi came
instantly to their feet, their hands upon their daggers. But
Cardinal da Corrado sat unmoved. He looked up, a smile of
ineffable gentleness upon his ascetic face.

"I had hoped that you would come after me, my son," he said. "If
you come a penitent, then has my prayer been heard."

"A penitent!" cried Affonso Henriques. He laughed wickedly, and
plucked his dagger from its sheath.

Sancho Nunes, in terror, set a detaining hand upon his prince's
arm.

"My lord," he cried in a voice that shook, "you will not strike
the Lord's anointed--that were to destroy yourself for ever."

"A curse," said Affonso Henriques, "perishes with him that
uttered it." He could reason loosely, you see, this hot-blooded,
impetuous young cutter of Gordian knots. "And it imports above
all else that the curse should be lifted from my city of
Coimbra."

"It shall be, my son, as soon as you show penitence and a
Christian submission to the Holy Father's will," said the
undaunted Cardinal.

"God give me patience with you," Affonso Henriques answered him.
"Listen to me now, lord Cardinal." And he leaned forward on his
dagger, burying the point of it some inches into the deal table.
"That you should punish me with the weapons of the Faith for the
sins that you allege against me I can understand and suffer.
There is reason in that, perhaps. But will you tell me what
reasons there can be in punishing a whole city for an offence
which, if it exists at all, is mine alone?--and in punishing it
by a curse so terrible that all the consolations of religion are
denied those true children of Mother Church, that no priestly
office may be performed within the city, that men and women may
not approach the altars of the Faith, that they must die
unshriven with their sins upon them, and so be damned through all
eternity? Where is the reason that urges this?"

The cardinal's smile had changed from one of benignity to one of
guile.

"Why, I will answer you. Out of their terror they will be moved
to revolt against you, unless you relieve them of the ban. Thus,
Lord Prince, I hold you in check. You make submission or else you
are destroyed."

Affonso Henriques considered him a moment. "You answer me
indeed," said he, and then his voice swelled up in denunciation.
"But this is statecraft, not religion. And when a prince has no
statecraft to match that which is opposed to him, do you know
what follows? He has recourse to force, Lord Cardinal. You compel
me to it; upon your own head the consequences."

The legate almost sneered. "What is the force of your poor lethal
weapons compared with the spiritual power I wield? Do you
threaten me with death? Do you think I fear it?" He rose in a
surge of sudden wrath, and tore open his scarlet robe. "Strike
here with your poniard. I wear no mail. Strike if you dare, and
by the sacrilegious blow destroy yourself in this world and the
next."

The Infante considered him. Slowly he sheathed his dagger, smiling
a little. Then he beat his hands together. His men-at-arms came
in.

"Seize me those two Roman whelps," he commanded, and pointed to
Giannino and Pierlulgi. "Seize them, and make them fast. About
it!"

"Lord Prince!" cried the legate in a voice of appeal, wherein
fear and anger trembled.

It was the note of fear that heartened Affonso Henriques. "About
it!" he cried again, though needlessly, for already his
men-at-arms were at grips with the Cardinal's nephews. In a trice
the kicking, biting, swearing pair were overpowered, deprived of
arms, and pinioned. The men looked to their prince for further
orders. In the background Moniz and Nunes witnessed all with
troubled countenances, whilst the Cardinal, beyond the table,
white to the lips, demanded in a quavering voice to know what
violence was intended, implored the Infante to consider, and in
the same breath threatened him with dread consequences of this
affront.

Affonso Henriques, unmoved, pointed through the window to a
stalwart oak that stood before the inn.

"Take them out there, and hang them unshriven," he commanded.

The Cardinal swayed, and almost fell forward. He clutched the
table, speechless with terror for those lads who were as the very
apple of his eye, he who so fearlessly had bared his own breast
to the steel.

The two comely Italian youths were dragged out writhing in their
captors' hands.

At last the half-swooning legate found his voice. "Lord Prince,"
he gasped. "Lord Prince . . . you cannot do this infamy! You
cannot! I warn you that . . . that. . ." The threat perished
unuttered, slain by mounting terror. "Mercy! Have mercy, lord! as
you hope for mercy!"

"What mercy do you practice, you who preach a gospe of mercy in
the world, and cry for mercy now?" the Infante asked him.

"But this is an infamy! What harm have those poor children done?
What concern is it of theirs that I have offended you in
performing my sacred duty?"

Swift into that opening flashed the home-thrust of the Infante's
answer.

"What harm have my people of Coimbra done? What concern is it of
theirs that I have offended you? Yet to master me you did not
hesitate to strike at them with the spiritual weapons that are
yours. To master you I do not hesitate to strike at your nephews
with the lethal weapons that are mine. When you shall have seen
them hang you will understand the things that argument could not
make clear to you. In the vileness of my act you will see a
reflection of the vileness of your own, and perhaps your heart
will be touched, your monstrous pride abated."

Outside, under the tree, the figures of the men-at-arms were
moving. Expeditiously, and with indifference, they went about the
preparations for the task entrusted to them.

The Cardinal writhed, and fought for breath. "Lord Prince, this
must not be!" He stretched forth supplicating hands. "Lord
Prince, you must release my nephews."

"Lord Cardinal, you must absolve my people."

"If . . . if you will first make submission. My duty . . . to the
Holy See . . . Oh God! Will nothing move you?"

"When they have been hanged you will understand, and out of your
own affliction learn compassion." The Infante's voice was so
cold, his mien so resolute that the legate despaired of
conquering his purpose. Abruptly he capitulated, even as the
halters went about the necks of his two cherished lads.

"Stop!" he screamed. "Bid them stop! The curse shall be lifted."

Affonso Henriques opened the window with a leisureliness which to
the legate seemed to belong to the realm of nightmare.

"Wait yet a moment," the Infante called to those outside, about
whom by now a little knot of awe-stricken villagers had gathered.
Then he turned again to Cardinal Corrado, who had sunk to his
chair like a man exhausted, and sat now panting, his elbows on
the table, his head in his hands. "Here," said the prince, "are
the terms upon which you may have their lives: Complete
absolution, and Apostolic benediction for my people and myself
this very night, I on my side making submission to the Holy
Father's will to the extent of releasing my mother from duress,
with the condition that she leaves Portugal at once and does not
return. As for the banished bishop and his successor, matters
must remain as they are; but you can satisfy your conscience on
that score by yourself confirming the appointment of Don
Zuleyman. Come, my lord, I am being generous, I think. In the
enlargement of my mother I afford you the means of satisfying
Rome. If you have learnt your lesson from what I here proposed,
your conscience should satisfy you of the rest."

"Be it so," the Cardinal answered hoarsely. "I will return with
you to Coimbra and do your will."

Thereupon, without any tinge of mockery, but in completest
sincerity in token that the feud between them was now completely
healed, Affonso Henriques went down upon his knees, like the true
and humble son of Holy Church he accounted himself, to ask a
blessing at the Cardinal's hands.





II. THE FALSE DEMETRIUS

Boris Godunov and the Pretended Son of Ivan the Terrible



The news of it first reached him whilst he sat at supper in the
great hall of his palace in the Kremlin. It came at a time when
already there was enough to distract his mind; for although the
table before him was spread and equipped as became an emperor's,
the gaunt spectre of famine stalked outside in the streets of
Moscow, and men and women were so reduced by it that cannibalism
was alleged to be breaking out amongst them.

Alone, save for the ministering pages, sat Boris Godunov under
the iron lamps that made of the table, with its white napery and
vessels of gold and silver plate, an island of light in the gloom
of that vast apartment. The air was fragrant with the scent of
burning pine, for although the time of year was May, the nights
were chill, and a great log-fire was blazing on the distant
hearth. To him, as he sat there, came his trusted Basmanov with
those tidings which startled him at first, seeming to herald that
at last the sword of Nemesis was swung above his sinful head.

Basmanov, a flush tinting the prominent cheek-bones of his sallow
face, an excited glitter in his long eyes, began by ordering the
pages out of earshot, then leaning forward quickly muttered forth
his news.

At the first words of it, the Tsar's knife clashed into his
golden platter, and his short, powerful hands clutched the carved
arms of his great gilded chair. Quickly he controlled himself,
and then as he continued to listen he was moved to scorn, and a
faint smile began to stir under his grizzled beard.

A man had appeared in Poland--such was the burden of Basmanov's
story--coming none knew exactly whence, who claimed to be
Demetrius, the son of Ivan Vassielivitch, and lawful Tsar of
Russia--Demetrius, who was believed to have died at Uglich ten
years ago, and whose remains lay buried in Moscow, in the Church
of St. Michael. This man had found shelter in Lithuania, in the
house of Prince Wisniowiecki, and thither the nobles of Poland
were now flocking to do him homage, acknowledging him the son of
Ivan the Terrible. He was said to be the living image of the dead
Tsar, save that he was swarthy and black-haired, like the dowager
Tsarina, and there were two warts on his face, such as it was
remembered had disfigured the countenance of the boy Demetrius.

Thus Basmanov, adding that he had dispatched a messenger into
Lithuania to obtain more precise confirmation of the story. That
messenger--chosen in consequence of something else that Basmanov
had been told--was Smirnoy Otrepiev.

The Tsar Boris sat back in his chair, his eyes on the gem
encrusted goblet, the stem of which his fingers were mechanically
turning. There was now no vestige of the smile on his round white
face. It had grown set and thoughtful.

"Find Prince Shuiski," he said presently, "and send him to me
here."

Upon the tale the boyar had brought him he offered now no
comment.

"We will talk of this again, Basmanov," was all he said in
acknowledgment that he had heard, and in dismissal.

But when the boyar had gone, Boris Godunov heaved himself to his
feet, and strode over to the fire, his great head sunk between
his massive shoulders. He was a short, thick-set, bow-legged man,
inclining to corpulence. He set a foot, shod in red leather
reversed with ermine, upon an andiron, and, leaning an elbow on
the carved overmantel, rested his brow against his hand. His eyes
stared into the very heart of the fire, as if they beheld there
the pageant of the past, upon which his mind was bent.

Nineteen years were sped since Ivan the Terrible had passed away,
leaving two sons, Feodor Ivanovitch, who had succeeded him, and
the infant Demetrius. Feodor, a weakling who was almost imbecile,
had married Irene, the daughter of Boris Godunov, whereby it had
fallen out that Boris became the real ruler of Russia, the power
behind the throne. But his insatiable ambition coveted still
more. He must wear the crown as well as wield the sceptre; and
this could not be until the Ruric dynasty which had ruled Russia
for nearly seven centuries should be stamped out. Between himself
and the throne stood his daughter's husband and their child, and
the boy Demetrius, who had been dispatched with his mother, the
dowager Tsarina, to Uglich. The three must be removed.

Boris began with the last, and sought at first to drive him out
of the succession without bloodshed. He attempted to have him
pronounced illegitimate, on the ground that he was the son of
Ivan's seventh wife (the orthodox Church recognizing no wife as
legitimate beyond the third). But in this he failed. The memory
of the terrible Tsar, the fear of him, was still alive in
superstitious Russia, and none dared to dishonour his son. So
Boris had recourse to other and surer means. He dispatched his
agents to Uglich, and presently there came thence a story that
the boy, whilst playing with a knife, had been taken with a fit
of epilepsy, and had fallen, running the blade into his throat.
But it was not a story that could carry conviction to the
Muscovites, since with it came the news that the town of Uglich
had risen against the emissaries of Boris, charging them with the
murder of the boy, and killing them out of hand.

Terrible had been the vengeance which Boris had exacted. Of the
luckless inhabitants of the town two hundred were put to death by
his orders, and the rest sent into banishment beyond the Ural
Mountains, whilst the Tsarina Maria, Demetrius's mother, for
having said that her boy was murdered at the instigation of
Boris, was packed off to a convent, and had remained there ever
since in close confinement.

That had been in 1591. The next to go was Feodor's infant son,
and lastly--in 1598--Feodor himself, succumbing to a mysterious
illness, and leaving Boris a clear path to the throne. But he
ascended it under the burden of his daughter's curse. Feodor's
widow had boldly faced her father, boldly accused him of
poisoning her husband to gratify his remorseless ambitions, and
on a passionate appeal to God to let it be done by him as he had
done by others she had departed to a convent, swearing never to
set eyes upon him again.

The thought of her was with him now, as he stood there looking
into the heart of the fire; and perhaps it was the memory of her
curse that turned his stout heart to water, and made him afraid
where there could surely be no cause for fear. For five years now
had he been Tsar of Russia, and in these five years he had taken
such a grip of power as was not lightly to be loosened.

Long he stood there, and there he was found by the magnificent
Prince Shuiski, whom he had bidden Basmanov to summon.

"You went to Uglich when the Tsarevitch Demetrius was slain,"
said Boris. His voice and mien were calm and normal. "Yourself
you saw the body. There is no possibility that you could have
been mistaken in it?"

"Mistaken?" The boyar was taken aback by the question. He was a
tall man, considerably younger than Boris, who was in his
fiftieth year. His face was lean and saturnine, and there was
something sinister in the dark, close-set eyes under a single,
heavy line of eyebrow.

Boris explained his question, telling him what he had learnt from
Basmanov. Basil Shuiski laughed. The story was an absurd one.
Demetrius was dead. Himself he had held the body in his arms, and
no mistake was possible.

Despite himself, a sigh of relief fluttered from the lips of
Boris. Shuiski was right. It was an absurd story, this. There was
nothing to fear. He had been a fool to have trembled for a
moment.

Nevertheless, in the weeks that followed, he brooded more and
more over all that Basmanov had said. It was in the thought that
the nobility of Poland was flocking to the house of Wisniowiecki
to do honour to this false son of Ivan the Terrible, that Boris
found the chief cause of uneasiness. There was famine in Moscow,
and empty bellies do not make for loyalty. Then, too, the
Muscovite nobles did not love him. He had ruled too sternly, and
had curbed their power. There were men like Basil Shuiski who
knew too much--greedy, ambitious men, who might turn their
knowledge to evil account. The moment might be propitious to the
pretender, however false his claim. Therefore Boris dispatched a
messenger to Wisniowiecki with the offer of a heavy bribe if he
would yield up the person of this false Demetrius.

But that messenger returned empty-handed. He had reached Bragin
too late. The pretender had already left the place, and was
safely lodged in the castle of George Mniszek, the Palatine of
Sandomir, to whose daughter Maryna he was betrothed. If these
were ill tidings for Boris, there were worse to follow soon.
Within a few months he learned from Sandomir that Demetrius
had removed to Cracow, and that there he had been publicly
acknowledged by Sigismund III. of Poland as the son of Ivan
Vassielivitch, the rightful heir to the crown of Russia. He
heard, too, the story upon which this belief was founded.
Demetrius had declared that one of the agents employed by Boris
Godunov to procure his murder at Uglich had bribed his physician
Simon to perform the deed. Simon had pretended to agree as the
only means of saving him. He had dressed the son of a serf, who
slightly resembled Demetrius, in garments similar to those worn
by the young prince, and thereafter cut the lad's throat, leaving
those who had found the body to presume it to be the prince's.
Meanwhile, Demetrius himself had been concealed by the physician,
and very shortly thereafter carried away from Uglich, to be
placed in safety in a monastery, where he had been educated.

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