The Prince and the Pretender

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

(or skip to Part 1)

Boyar: A member of the highest ranked officials in feudal Muscovy alongside princes. While boyars could also be princes, princes could not always be boyars. To become a boyar required a combination of favor from the tsar, family history, and noble blood. Boyars were close to the tsar and partook in boyar councils (Boyar Duma) affecting all the tsardom. Before Ivan the Terrible, the power of some boyars rivaled that of the tsar’s. During and after Ivan the Terrible, boyars owed military service to the tsar and were imposed with many more limitations.

Compline: An evening church service before bed, held at 9pm

Duma: An assembly of representatives. In the case of the Boyar Duma, it was a gathering of boyars. An average of thirty or so boyars probably assembled at a time.

Dvoryanin/dvorianstvo: The general nobility, or gentry class. Also might be called pomeshchiki. Here is where one finds the thousands of princes that existed in the Tsardom of Rus. This was more of a social category than a title.

The dvorianstvo often belonged to some noble clan or family, but could fall anywhere within a wide range of status. They often served as cavalrymen in battle. Most held lands and had peasants to serve them. The members of the gentry who served well might also rise to serve the tsar himself and make administrative decisions in the bureaucracy. Their power could even rival that of a boyar’s, but they were rarely awarded such a title.

Dvornik (pl. dvoretskii): A supervisor of the court secretaries functioning within the treasury, like a Court Marshal. They sometimes administered court lands or handled gifts to and from the tsar. They were comparable to the Tatar vizier. Though they conducted much of the business of the state, they rarely acquired high rank or served in the duma. This rank held higher status in Poland than in Russia.

Harquebus: a muzzle-loaded firearm. They weighed about 22 pounds and usually would have been rested on a stand for firing. They were the typical weapon of the streltsy soldiers. In battle, the streltsy would stand in rows and alternate firing, because harquebuses took a long time to reload. They could only be effectively aimed within 54 yards, but had a range of some 330 yards. Sometimes, a wall of logs called a guliai gorod would be positioned in front of the streltsy for protection, with holes to fire through.

Matins: A church service held hours before the dawn, at approximately 3am

Mestnichestvo: a feudal hierarchical system in which rank and status depended on a combination of family history and personal service to the tsar. If a man’s origins were more ancient and his personal services to the tsar more valuable, he could attempt to claim a higher state post. But this could sometimes be difficult to prove, and there were also more complicated stipulations. For example, a person could not be made boyar unless someone else in his family had recently held a boyar/okolnichy rank. Mestnichestvo was a form of entitlement that led to constant squabbling in court, even over who would sit where at the tsar’s table. It was abolished in 1682.

Approximation of significant ranks after that of boyar, from highest to lowest:

Okolnichy (arranged the tsar’s accommodations)

Stolniki (served the royal table)

Postelnichi / Spalniki (served in the tsar’s bedchamber)

Striapchii (upheld various household duties)

Diaki (clerks who could read and write)

Dvoretskii (court marshals)

Muzhiki: The common-man, peasant. Generally a derogatory term

Muzhiki-sevriuki: Townsmen and peasants practiced at arms

Nocturns: Midnight church service

None: An afternoon church service held at the ninth hour, or 3pm

Okolnichy: was a high rank in the tsar’s court meaning close or near to the tsar. It was second highest rank next to boyar. Their duties included arranging travel and housing for the tsar or foreign ambassadors. The okolnichy could also act as an ambassador, himself, and a member of the state duma. The okolnichy was the highest rank that a non-noble could acquire and the gateway to becoming a boyar for nobles. Even a noble could not become a boyar if he was the first of his family to rise to the rank of okolnichy but, presumably, his sons could.

Oprichnik (pl. Oprichniki): a member of the tsar’s personal guard and secret police during the time of Ivan the Terrible’s Oprichnina. Comparable to modern death squads, these men tortured and murdered the internal enemies of the Tsar. They dressed in black, rode on black horses, and bore a special symbol: a severed dog’s head (indicative of hunting down the tsar’s enemies) and a broom (to sweep them away). Some called them the Tsar’s Dogs.

Patriarch: The supreme leader of the Russian Orthodox Church. Due to the grave importance of religion in Russia, this position held tremendous power.

Pomeshchik (pl. pomeshchiki): feudal landlords in Russia (see devorianstvo). Pomeshchiki were members of the gentry class that held land. The area of lands they ruled was a pomest’e, or fief. After Ivan the Terrible, they only held lands at the tsar’s allowance, and thus owed him military service in return for it.

Postelnik (pl. postelnichi): a high rank similar to that of a chamberlain. The postelnichi served the tsar in his bedchamber and even had their own bed within his chamber to look after him while he slept (postel means bed). Tsaritsas had their own postelnichi, and these women would bear arms and protect her on the rare occasions she wandered far from the palace.

Prime: The sunrise service, or first hour, held approximately 6am

Rod: a clan, lineage, group to which one claims heritage (such as Romanov or Rurikid)

Rynda: the tsar’s personal bodyguards. Usually they were young noblemen who were not given official status or paid for their service.

Sext: A church service held at the sixth hour, or noon

Sotnik: Centurion; a Cossack military rank

Spalnik (pl. spalniki): this rank was subordinate to postelnichi but the spalniki also attended the Sovereign in his bedroom. They dressed and undressed him and accompanied him on journeys. Spalniki were usually young men of noble birth.

Stolnik: A court office in Poland and Muscovy, responsible for serving the royal table.

Streltsy: The tsar’s best infantrymen. They wore bright red uniforms and rarely engaged in hand-to-hand but wielded large harquebus rifles. Streltsy soldiers were something of a social class in themselves, serving pomeshchiki and the tsar in all things military.

Streltsy Golova: Colonel

Striapchii: one of the tsar’s officials who handled household matters, such as the grain yards or stables. He might also be the tsar’s garment-bearer, as Pozharsky was. Striapat means to fulfill a duty. In royal ceremonies, the striapchii held up the tsar’s train, bore his scepter, and looked after his arms. In the range of mestnichestvo status this was an inferior rank, but not the lowest.

Terce: A morning church service, held at the third hour, or 9am

Vespers: An evening church service, or evening prayers, held at 6pm

Voevoda: A high-ranking military commander, war-leader

Zemsky Sobor: A large gathering of representatives, roughly meaning assembly of the land. It could be summoned by the Sovereign, the Patriarch, or the Boyar Duma. Boyars, clergy, and representatives of the townspeople all came together for this assembly. The zemsky sobor was the first Russian parliament of the feudal estates

PART 1:

The Brazen Monk

"The mistress of the household should absolutely never commit any evil deeds. Unless she is ill, she should never be found idle, for the servants must habitually look to her as an example. If her husband invites guests or friends, they should always find her sitting over her embroidery. Thus she will earn honor and glory, and her husband praise. The servant should never wake the mistress; the mistress should wake the servant. She should fall asleep over her embroidery (after she has first said her prayers)."

—The Domostroi (pg. 126-127)

Rules for Russian Households in the Time of Ivan the Terrible

Edited and Translated by Carolyn Johnston Pouncy

1599

CHAPTER

1

The faded brown streets of Moscow sparkled with a sudden glint of gold. The stuffy air—usually choked with the stink of wood, leather, smoke, and unwashed peasants—lightened suddenly with a perfumed breeze. The clamor of arguing muzhiki quieted in response to the sound of marching hooves and rolling wheels. Everyone paused and turned to see what strange visitor graced the back streets of the Eastern Quarter.

The sight before them, however, only raised more questions. Other than a few gilded spokes, the carriage rolling down the streets looked relatively plain. Shutters and curtains covered the small windows and hid its passenger from view. But armored guards surrounded the carriage on every side, and they were anything but ordinary. They glittered with fine chainmail, rode horses of elegant stock, and gripped spears with small but sturdy hands. The onlookers who dared peer past the warriors’ helms discovered that the postelnichi were female. And that could mean only one thing, for only one such entourage existed in the Tsardom of Rus.

The few peasants who had this revelation shook their heads until the thought dissipated, for they must surely be mistaken. Tsar Boris Godunov would never allow such a thing to happen.

The young tsarevna of Russia, Xenia Borisovna Godunova, had ventured beyond the safe walls of the Moscow Kremlin.

*

Stop! yelled Xenia. Stop here!

Immediately after giving the command she shrank back into the carriage, letting the window curtains swish back into place. Now, at last, she had reached her destination. She dared glimpse its shape through the slats of her window shutters. A palace loomed on the other side of the street, thick with columns and domes. This palace was what she had come all the way to see. She was finally here. But now what?

She still found it difficult to believe she had made it here at all. Arranging this private excursion had taken a great deal of wit and wile. When she first asked her father if she might travel privately beyond the Kremlin walls, she tried to make it sound like a recreational venture. Tsar Boris refused her outright.

As the unmarried daughter of the tsar, Xenia’s privacy could not be compromised. Kremlin guards and other nobles closely monitored the Golden Palace in which she lived. She spent most of her days praying, sewing, or reading; she sometimes loitered with other noble women, but mingled as little as possible with men. All women posed a dangerous distraction to men of the royal court, but Xenia posed the most danger of all due to her exceptional beauty. Habitually, she covered her pale white skin with heavy layers of powder to shield it from men’s eyes; she dabbed beet juice, though it was unnecessary, over her rosy cheeks. She traced her lashes and lids with black paint to distract from the gravitational pools of her large, dark irises. She plaited her midnight hair around her head and bound it tight with a venet of silver metal and golden thread, so that her black locks could never fall loose and emit an evil influence over men. Despite all these precautions, she was not to see men often, lest she make any attachments detrimental to a future marriage.

In truth, her concern for her future marriage had prompted this entire venture. But she was not supposed to concern herself with such matters. She was not supposed to do anything but speak her vows to the man her father chose and leave the rest up to God.

But what if Boris had made a mistake? And what if the only way to make him aware of it was for Xenia to find the proof, herself?

When Boris refused to let Xenia leave, she feigned a slight illness. Then she convinced the doctor that she needed fresh air near the countryside to make her feel better; God had revealed this solution to her after a great deal of praying, she claimed. Only then did her father yield, though Xenia also had to convince him that a small carriage and minimal escort would be best, so that she might feel more of a breeze and draw less attention to herself.

Xenia had expended all of this effort and deception just so that she could enter the Eastern Quarter and carry out her mission, and here she was at last. She still needed God’s good grace, or perhaps some pure luck, in order for her efforts to yield results. She needed to witness something here, at this palace, that might confirm or disprove her worst suspicions. And she needed to do it soon.

She heard the thunder of approaching hoofbeats, then the sound of muffled voices through the walls of the carriage. A man was speaking to her postelnichi. Surely they would make him go away. But she heard the thump of boots hitting the roadway; the visitor’s shape cast a shadow as he approached her carriage. How could her chambermaids allow this?

The man peered through her shuttered window, blinking big brown eyes. Tsarevna?

Oh! she cried, for she recognized him. His name was Pozharsky, and he was but a humble prince who worked in the tsar’s palace as a striapchii. But what was the clothes-servant doing here? Leave me alone, she snapped. No one should know that this modest chariot carried the tsar’s daughter.

Pozharsky’s eyes blinked back at her with confusion. The young prince glowed with such innocence—and handsomeness—that she nearly apologized to him. His work as a striapchii normally involved tending the tsar’s wardrobe, stables, or grain yards. In his early twenties, he probably wished to work his way up to a higher rank someday such as stolnik or okolnichy. Perhaps he even dreamt of claiming a boyar title for the struggling status of his clan. After all, in his veins ran the blood of the Viking Prince Rurik, and if Xenia’s own father could become tsar, anything seemed possible.

She probably should not have recognized a prince of such low status. But ever since Prince Pozharsky helped elect her father as tsar and earned his place among the royal servants, Xenia had grown acutely aware of his presence. Perhaps it was the way his sturdy shoulders filled his cloak of sable fur. Perhaps it was his solid chin, accented by a sharp but cute button nose. Perhaps it was the curve of his sword against his thigh, or the elegance of his wheel-lock pistol against his silver kaftan jacket. Or perhaps it was his maple-colored eyes, eyes that often stared back at her with as much attention as—if not more than—what she gave him.

Whatever made him so attractive to Xenia, the striapchii carried himself with both humility and dignity at all times, a balance which was not easily achieved. He was a man of few words, but his gaze often spoke for him. His gaze said that he would never break his principles, but those principles included serving the tsarevna with all his body and soul. She had not missed the admiration with which he always stared at her, and she hoped not to lose it now.

Tsarevna, he said uncertainly, I am here under your father’s orders.

Why? My postelnichi are looking after me.

He wanted me to make sure you didn’t get lost.

I am not lost.

"Then why on earth are you … here?"

Her stomach fluttered with fear. It was an unusual sensation. It made her blood warm and her heart race. It made her feel alive. She almost liked it, for a moment. Then she realized that if Pozharsky knew the importance of this location as well as she did, then he posed a tremendous threat to her mission. Because the air is sweet here, she lied, and I would like to breathe it awhile.

Lying left a bitter taste in her mouth, like metal. But after a few days of practice, the taste had grown familiar. And she refused to turn back now.

Do you know where ‘here’ is, tsarevna?

She knew all too well, but she wished that he did not. It is a street with clean air, she quipped, and I gave you a command. Go away! Her heart beat rapidly despite her display of confidence. How long could she keep up this ploy? What if she sat here all day, watching this building, and saw nothing of consequence? How would she explain why she lingered here? If her father knew where she’d chosen to tarry, he would explode with fury. Perhaps he would punish her postelnichi and Pozharsky for letting her get away with it, which would be unfortunate. But her need to come here and discover the truth overwhelmed her fear of the consequences.

He now had his hands on his hips and glared at her through the shutters with more audacity than before. If you can’t figure it out yourself, he said, then I feel it is my duty to tell you. This is the residence of your betrothed!

She gasped, but this was a performance like all the rest. For she knew the truth all too well.

The large edifice across the street housed Prince Gustav Eriksson Vasa of Sweden. And Prince Gustav was her fiance.

At first, she had accepted her engagement willingly. She knew how important it was for her father to ally with a European prince. But that was several months ago, when Prince Gustav had first entered Moscow and taken residence in the finest building of the Eastern Quarter. Since then, he had hardly wandered from it at all. Over that time period, Xenia’s willingness to enter the marriage had waned. For as long as she could, she’d endured the ugly rumors: that Prince Gustav grew fat and lazy within his miniature palace, sipping milk and wrapping himself in furs, accepting gifts from Tsar Boris and every hopeful courtier, and never making an attempt to return such favors.

Xenia had found it in her heart to forgive all those things—at first. Prince Gustav had lived a life of turmoil until now. He fled from Sweden many years ago to escape King John the Third, and thenceforth endured an impoverished existence in Poland. Why not give him some time to readjust to a life of wealth and luxury?

And yet the Swedish prince made no other attempt to adjust to Russian life, so far as she understood. He remained an unabashed Catholic, insulting the Orthodox faith of her family and nation. He struggled with the Russian language and—if rumors could be trusted—made no attempt to master it. Worst of all, he made no preparations for marriage.

She heard that the only time Prince Gustav left his mansion was to take a ride in the beautiful carriage her father had provided him as a wedding present—the very same carriage now looming outside his doorstep. The prince’s servants currently readied the horses and filled the innards with refreshment. The luxurious transport glittered in the afternoon sunlight, for its polished wood was inlaid with silver and gold, and bright red paint splashed the door and wheel spokes. This carriage had been intended for her, the tsarevna, and entrusted to Prince Gustav only so that he might lead his wife through the streets of Moscow in the manner befitting a queen. Instead, the tsarevna sat in the plainest carriage available from the Kremlin, and the lingering cold of winter seeped through the flimsy curtains.

Tsarevna! insisted Pozharsky, for despite his announcement, she had not budged at all. The force of his voice sent a frosty white cloud into the sky. You cannot linger here. It is most inappropriate!

You shall not scold me, she said, filling her voice with as much authority as she could muster. But Pozharsky crossed his arms over his thick chest, and for a moment she wondered how much strength lay dormant in the bunching forearms. Quickly she pushed such imaginings from her mind, leaning every which way to look past him—to no avail. Move aside!

Tsarevna, he said, you must not see Prince Gustav in these conditions.

And you must not tell me what to do. Move aside or I will see you flogged for your insubordination.

But … but … His face turned pale with fear. His arms dropped down again. And yet still he did not move. But how can you justify your own behavior? He thrust his chin up a little, reminding her what a good chin it was: boxy yet curved, clean-shaven. It had looked cute one moment ago. Now it looked quite imposing. For letting you linger here I might be flogged anyway. It is better that I put an end to this behavior while I can.

She realized with a sinking heart that she had misjudged him. She thought he might continue to melt into a puddle at her feet, as the way he looked at her portended. But he proved to be slightly more stubborn than she anticipated.

Without any further ado, she opened the door of the carriage.

Tsarevna, you must not—!

She swung the door so hard that it struck Pozharsky in the chest and knocked him back several steps. He let out a sound of surprise and indignation that became warbled against the swinging wood, then he flailed to recover his balance, but not quickly enough to block her passage.

This disturbance confused her postelnichi in a manner that worked in her favor. When Xenia flung the door on Pozharsky, her guards assumed he was attacking her. They turned their spears on him and readied their swords, not even noticing that their princess escaped.

Xenia had made up her mind to cast caution aside and march to Prince Gustav’s doorstep—to either confront him as her true self, or else hide in her headdress and pretend to be someone else. She did not get far, however, for as soon as the path forward lay clear again, she stopped in her tracks and gasped.

Prince Gustav had exited the door of his mansion; he now approached the carriage, a languid smile on his plump face, his cheeks rosy from rest and drunkenness, his body swaying side to side as if he was in the mood to dance or simply could not see straight. Whatever the explanation, he looked like an utter fool, and disgust washed through Xenia’s veins like broiling mud.

Her fiance’s demeanor did not conclude Xenia’s humiliation, for what happened next was far, far worse. A beautiful woman trailed in Gustav’s wake. She wore silks and blue linens and a headdress that boldly revealed her ears, glittering with glass bead earrings. She, too, swayed upon her feet, and gave a ridiculous laugh as Prince Gustav glanced back at her, batting his yellow lashes. They laughed together as if at a joke known only to them, then the Swedish prince grabbed the lady’s hand and kissed it—a sloppy kiss that ended with a lap of his tongue against her wrist, and sent her into another fit of giggles.

By now Pozharsky had recovered from Xenia’s blow. The postelnichi must have realized their tsarevna was missing, for they released Pozharsky to start looking for her. A few fortunately placed muzhiki hid Xenia from their sight. But Pozharsky himself went straight towards her; he only stopped because he, like Xenia, became transfixed by the lurid display before him.

Xenia’s fury eventually overcame her shock. Her feet swept the ground with startling speed, despite the weight of her silk shift and dushegria jacket. Brocaded hems and jingling jewelry flapped heavily against her body. She had tried to dress lightly for the occasion, but such a thing was nearly impossible given the selections of her wardrobe. Her clothes billowed behind her, pulling upon her progress, and her bright red scarf fluttered against her face and obscured her vision. She ignored all these things and continued to storm forwards, for now she looked upon her despicable fiance as if through a tunnel, and nothing in the world existed anymore but him.

When she reached him, the look upon his face was something she might have laughed at in better circumstances. He probably did not recognize her, for the last person in the world he would expect to approach him now was the tsarevna to which he was engaged. Nonetheless he looked at her with shock and confusion, and so he made an easy target when she pulled back her hand, gathered her strength, and then slapped him across the face.

A streltsy soldier attending Prince Gustav moved to apprehend her, reaching for his harquebus rifle. Pozharsky intervened first, holding out his arms and stepping in front of the tsarevna. Pozharsky put a firm hand round the barrel of the harquebus, staying its ascent, but said nothing; he seemed to be speechless. Fortunately, the streltsy could see by Pozharsky’s elegant outfit and fine buttons that he was a man of superior status, and thus made no further move against him.

Prince Gustav recovered from Xenia’s slap and began to ramble in his own tongue; meanwhile, his mistress screamed at the top of her lungs. The scream was loud enough to draw the attention of soldiers up and down the streets of Moscow.

Calm down! cried Pozharsky. Everyone be still!

But Pozharsky’s shouting only seemed to worsen matters. Now that Prince Gustav had recovered from his shock, he fixed Pozharsky with a furious scowl and lifted his voice to a shrieking pitch. Swedish words left his mouth so vehemently that spittle flew with them.

Pozharsky’s face turned dark red as he stared Gustav down. The Russian prince possessed a stronger stature than the prince of Sweden, despite the fact he spent his days as a humble garment-bearer. He endured as much of the degradation as he could, then said, Stop speaking to me like that. Stop!

But Prince Gustav kept yelling and spitting.

Oh? said Pozharsky, even though he probably understood nothing. His breath now pumped heavily in and out of his chest. "Oh? You’re the one who has broken trust with the tsar. Do you take your mistress through Moscow in the tsarevna’s carriage?"

Prince Gustav stopped blabbering and went very pale. He must have understood Pozharsky clearly enough. In broken Russian, Gustav finally burst, Worry for your own bitch, slapping a prince! Then he reached out and shoved Xenia to the ground.

As she fell in a swirl of fabric, what happened after that looked like a blur. But even on the ground, her mind reeling, Xenia could not mistake what Pozharsky did next: he punched Gustav in the nose.

Xenia watched with both dismay and satisfaction as blood spewed from the Swedish prince’s nostrils; Pozharsky pulled back his fist and shook it, as if shocked by what it had done. It was too late to go back now. Yells and chaos reverberated down the street; soldiers and streltsy ran towards Pozharsky to seize him, and Xenia even heard the soft thunder of horse hooves.

Panic filled Pozharsky’s eyes. Xenia did not have to wonder what went through his mind. He knew that all of this could be solved if he revealed that the woman standing next to him was none other than Tsarevna Xenia herself. And yet if he did that, everyone would know what foolishness she had committed today, and that she had dragged Pozharsky into it.

Making up her mind, Xenia hurried to her feet, even though her hastiness caused her skirts to get muddied. She cared little for that now. She grabbed Pozharsky’s sleeve and tugged it. He scrambled for balance as she pulled him back to the carriage. Then he recovered and aided her cause, opening the carriage door and helping her inside. Confused, the postelnichi hastened to their own places, eager to follow.

Xenia heard a sharp burst of gunfire nearby and shouts of panic; the carriage jolted as the horses lunged forward. She clung to the silky cushions underneath her, her heart in her throat, as the carriage rattled over the stony streets. Through the roar of her blood she could hardly hear anything else, but she dared to hope that the sounds of chaos were receding, and thus they had escaped.

Even this brought her little hope, however. Far more intimidating than a streltsy’s gun or the prince of Sweden was the wrath of her own father. She had deceived him to achieve her purposes today, but now she needed to tell him the truth of what she had witnessed—and that was the scariest prospect yet.

CHAPTER

2

To most people, the Kremlin was a place of intrigue and mystery, wealth and power, justice and—occasionally—tyranny. Within the heart of Moscow, its tall limestone walls loomed over a glistening blue moat. The streltsy soldiers armed with with long, heavy harquebuses stood guard along the walls and gates. Nearly twenty Kremlin towers shot high into the milky white sky. The domed roofs of churches and palaces filled the space underneath with gleaming gold and bright royal colors. Xenia sometimes tried to imagine how it must feel for outsiders to enter the home of the tsar, to walk the battleground of all his boyars, princes, and courtiers. Surely they felt awe and wonder, and perhaps a little fear.

But she could not truly imagine how the Kremlin must feel to everyone else. To Xenia, it was simply her home—as well as her prison.

She raced into the royal palace without a second thought. Soldiers stood alert and then bowed to her; nobles and boyars murmured to each other at the sudden sight of the tsarevna, then averted their eyes from her disheveled form. Usually, Xenia was on her best behavior around such men; she tried at all times to keep up an appearance of meekness, humility, chastity, and submission. But today was not such a day. She ignored everyone, and her feet carried her diligently towards her father’s chamber.

Tsarevna!

The desperate cry of Prince Pozharsky finally broke her bubble of concentration; upon the stone steps she stopped, her heart in her throat, and turned to see the soldier hurrying after her. His voice echoed against the sturdy walls of the edifice and sent a tremble through her bones as everyone turned towards the sound.

He stopped a few steps below her, equally horrified by his predicament. His skin turned as pale as snow; his lips quivered as his mouth fell open. Now that he had her attention, he did not know what to say.

Xenia considered berating him in some fashion for the sake of appearances; it was most strange that a striapchii would follow her in this manner, and then call after her. But then, the entire day was most strange, and none of that was Pozharsky’s fault. Xenia thought it was in the prince’s best interest to depart then forget his part in any of the day’s events, but she could see that he was too invested to leave now. Her heart fluttered as she remembered his fist flying into Prince Gustav’s nose. Well then, escort, she said sharply, keep up or begone.

Surprise flitted across his golden gaze, then hope. Her simple command seemed to stabilize matters, and caused all of their spectators to lose interest.

Xenia lowered her voice. Do not worry, she said. We shall be fine. I’ll make sure of it.

Pozharsky rested his hand on his wheel-lock pistol and followed her the rest of the way up the steps.

So soon after experiencing a leisurely ride through Moscow, the secluded nature of the royal palace struck Xenia with unusual pungency. Walking higher into the great edifice, she felt the stuffiness of its fires, candles, and incense more strongly than usual. Though the palace was anything but small, the extent to which people, furniture, ornaments, and frescoes stuffed the interior made it seem so. The walls were so intricately decorated with red and gold paint that they resembled the embroidery of fine fabric. Sometimes Xenia would stare happily upon such walls, feeling almost as if she looked into a night sky of colorful stars; but today, the grandiosity of the tsar’s palace struck Xenia with a headache. How hugely it differed from the squat, wooden homes throughout the rest of Moscow, so simple and free!

She could not let such revelations distract her, however, so she continued down the halls and into the Golden Room, where nobles and boyars from throughout the land waited to meet with the tsar. They sat upon padded benches of silk, or stood holding golden chalices heavy with drink, and most of them huddled close to each other, murmuring and plotting. The noise of the room fell to silence, however, as she entered; the rustle of her silks and the jingling of her jewelry became the only sound in the thick, perfumed air.

Make way for Tsarevna Xenia! called Pozharsky, though it was quite unnecessary, for everyone recognized her.

She strolled to the doors of the inner chamber and made to open them, though the rynda guards watched her with expressions of horror. The rynda were not what stopped her from entering, however; rather, it was the sound of Pozharsky grunting behind her.

She turned to see a boyar holding Pozharsky at bay, and Xenia’s heart sank when she recognized the boyar’s ugly face. Prince Basil Shuisky was a man who claimed descent from the Viking Prince Rurik, like her own humble escort, Prince Pozharsky. Unlike Pozharsky’s clan, which had fallen to low status, Prince Shuisky was one of the most prestigious boyars in the tsar’s court. He was an ugly man: short, pudgy, and balding, who tried to distract from such features by wearing a dizzying array of jewelry and ornaments. But nothing about Shuisky was so striking as his extreme intelligence, the gleaming knowledge in his beady gaze, and his ability to juggle a dozen courtly schemes at any given time. Throughout Xenia’s lifetime, Shuisky had rivaled against her own father, craving the tsardom for himself. Even after his various defeats, he always managed to scramble back to power,