Buch lesen: «Peter The Great, of Orange. Usurper on the Throne»

Schriftart:

ISBN 978-5-0064-8678-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

“Believe me, they know how to kill in Russia, and if someone is sent to the next world at court, he will never be resurrected”
King Frederick II the Great

PROLOGUE. The Last Case of Pirate Peter

Peter van Mush stood on the forecastle, at the helm of the ship. His brig “Red Tulip” was sailing in a strong wind, listing slightly to port. Yes, too many sails were raised, but the desperate captain was not afraid. His navigator saw a Spanish ship on the horizon, and he did not want to lose the prey. Money was needed, and a lot of it, to patch up his beloved ship, and please the crew with the ringing of silver and gold coins.

– Joachim! Load the guns at the sides with grapeshot, and the two bow ones with cannonballs!

– Got it, Peter! Hey, guys, get to work quickly! – shouted gunner Joachim Lang.

And although the gunner was already fifty-four years old, he was very dexterous and quick, and had a sure eye. And what is important, Joachim got used to the brig’s carronades, and they to him. Every landlubber thinks that it is so easy to fire a ship’s cannon. No, it is easy to fire, but not easy to hit. But the sea is not land… And any ship rocks on the waves. There is pitching and rolling, and the cannon sometimes rises up, as if aiming at the moon. Sometimes it dives down together with the deck flooring, as if it wants to shoot a whale or a dolphin! But Herr Lang had become accustomed to firing from a cannon over the years of service on the brig, and with a broadside of six cannons, even with strong rolling, he managed to hit the enemy at a distance of a mile with one cannonball. From the bow he hit with one cannonball out of three fired! Peter appreciated and loved the gunner, and he loved his cast-iron carronades. Yes, these guns came from distant Russia, the land of cheap bread and caviar. Many cast iron products came from there. After all, there were plenty of forests in the distant kingdom.

Herr van Musch once tried black caviar, no, he really liked it, although, of course, it was no better than lobsters, as it seemed to him…

The ships continued to approach each other, and good Joachim hit the stern rig with the second shot. The first cannonball raised a high column of water in the sea near the enemy’s side

Peter heard the carronade shot, but he did not hear the screams and breaking boards on the Spaniard’s deck, and did not want to hear it. The only thing spinning in his head was how many thalers these three shots cost him… Cast iron cannonballs, half a thaler, and gunpowder, a thaler per lare, and that’s four and a half thalers! They fired at them twice from the merchant’s stern, but the cannonballs missed. But then the Spanish flag began to crawl down, and was replaced not by a white one, but by the Union Jack, the flag of Britain.

– It can’t be, Peter, they’re lying! – Jaan Michels, the ship’s navigator, cried out in despair, – order them to stop!

On the mast of the brig “Red Tulip” the flags began to crawl, ordering them to stop. On the former Spaniard, now British, a flag was raised, indicating agreement. And indeed, the sails were lowered.

– I don’t care who it is, but they’ll pay the ransom! We’ve been chasing them all day! A thousand thalers, nothing less! – the simply enraged pirate captain whispered under his breath.

– Peter, they’re signaling that they want to send a boat to us! – the navigator shouted, looking through the telescope at the signals.

– Answer that we will accept the parliamentarians! Boatswain! Lower the gangway!

– We will do it! – and Anton Priest whistled his pipe.

The crew quickly began to carry out the boatswain’s commands, and the rope, but not the ceremonial, ladder appeared at the side of the brig. Well, Peter van Musch deigned to put on his ceremonial doublet. But he also hid a pair of double-barreled pistols on his belt. The captain lived by the principle: “You should not trust anyone.” And he was never wrong about this.

But from behind the side of the merchant ship, “The Seagull”, as van Musch finally saw, came out a rowboat, with eight oars. Two officers stood on the bow, one of them holding a white flag. Here, two parliamentarians came aboard the brig.

– Jacob Cooper, the ship’s captain, and Gabriel Twice, the navigator, – both introduced themselves, – and you, the notorious Peter van Musch, a Dutch privateer?

– That’s right, – the pirate grinned, adjusting his cat’s whiskers, – let’s go to my cabin, have some coffee and rum?

Van Mush noticed that his boatswain had persuaded the sailors from the launch to get up as well. And he had already passed them all clay mugs of rum. Herr Priest was a smart and efficient guy, which the captain of the Red Tulip always liked.

Cooper and Twice calmly entered the Dutchman’s cabin, and Vert Peter had to bend over hard so as not to crack his head. He was seven feet tall, after all, no less.

– Sit down, gentlemen, he’ll bring us some coffee and rum now… – the hospitable host suggested.

– And yet, Sir Peter, will we be forced to file a complaint against you with the Admiralty if you, shall we say, don’t give us a hundred sovereigns for the inconvenience?

– And that’s all… – Van Mush whispered.

And these were the last words the English heard. Peter instantly fired two pistols at the English gentlemen. He was slowly searching his waistcoat when the cook entered the cabin.

– See, my friend, how it all turned out? Put away the extra utensils, but leave the rum and coffee.

Peter looked at the bodies, freed from their outerwear and shoes. He drank his coffee slowly and smoked tobacco from his favorite pipe. There was no need to hurry, he just had to wait until evening.

***

– Anton, you are the captain today! – and he threw Jacob Cooper’s waistcoat and trousers to him.

– Peter, a hole? – and the navigator stuck two fingers into the hole.

– Well, forgive me.. I didn’t watch closely enough. Jaan, you are the assistant!

The navigator just shrugged and began to put on Gabriel Twice’s clothes. The bodies of the dead sailors from the Seagull lay at the side, also naked. An axe and a block lay nearby. Peter grinned, trying out the grippy handle of the axe.

And his pirates began to carry the bodies to the deck, where Herr van Musch quickly decapitated the dead. Peter looked at his work, rinsed his hands.

– Everything overboard, so that the “Chaika” wouldn’t see anything. And my axe in the boat!

Van Musch had difficulty dressing in a sailor’s outfit, and rowed with everyone else, and Jaan Michels and Anton Priest stood at the bow of the boat. Each had four pistols. And, as often happens in these latitudes, it was getting dark quickly, so a lantern was burning at the stern of the boat. They moved slowly, measuredly, and the “Chaika” crew did not notice the catch.

The pirates immediately scattered throughout the ship, sowing death and horror everywhere. But the English did not think about resistance, the poor things did not understand what was going on. Peter dragged the five survivors to the upper deck: the cook, the boatswain, the navigator, the owner of the cargo, and the junior officer. They were all sitting tied up near the captain’s cabin. Michels and Twice took all the navigation instruments and maps, and the box with money.

“The Red Tulip” moored alongside the English merchant, and the pirates busily lifted the cargo from the hold with a crane beam and lowered it onto their deck. Work was in full swing.

– It’s time to leave, Peter, – Michels reminded in a dull, hoarse voice.

– Don’t interfere, Jaan. I won’t miss what’s mine, – Peter answered angrily, grabbing his axe, – Well, where did you hide the rest? Where is the eloto? – Van Mush began the interrogation.

– You don’t know that, robber! – the merchant answered proudly.

– Well, all right… and Peter smiled wickedly, and his whiskers stood on end, like those of an angry cat.

He grabbed the boatswain by the hair, threw him to his knees, and chopped off his head. And he did it all in such a way that a stream of blood from the unfortunate man’s body drenched the rest of the Englishmen. They tried to jump up, frightened and stunned. But they fell on the deck, under the blows of the pirate’s terrible fists.

– You wouldn’t dare!

– Yes, I would!

Then the next to lose his head was the junior officer of the “Seagull”. And Peter threw his head overboard in a rage. He stood in front of the three unfortunates, and the blood from the blade of the axe continued to drip onto the deck.

– I’ll tell you everything if you let me go? – the cook cried out in despair, – will you really let me go? – the unfortunate man repeated again.

Peter could promise anything now. This was not the first time this had happened.

– Yes, I will let you go… – I saw where the gold is, I’ll show you the secret place. I spied it when the captain was having dinner. There’s a lot there, enough for you…

– Well, let’s go, you’ll show me, – Peter answered kindly, and stuck the axe into the deck at the feet of the tied Englishmen.

The cook, with his hands still tied, entered the cabin and pointed to the picture on the wall. Having broken a couple of souls there, Peter actually took possession of the heavy chest lying there, bound with iron. The key he had found on the captain Jacob Cooper, whom he had killed, came in handy here. He opened it and was simply stunned. It looked like no less than ten thousand Venetian ducats! Van Mush, in excitement, wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his bloody palm and smiled, showing his white, strong teeth.

– Will you let me go? – the cook asked hopefully.

– Of course I will, my friend. Right now.

The captain locked the chest with a key, which he hung around his neck, and led the now happy Englishman to the side of the ship. It was noticeable how he cheered up, counting on a quick release. But then Peter grabbed him in his arms and threw him into the sea. All that was heard was the sea splashing under the weight of the unfortunate man’s body. Peter van Mush also dragged the remaining ones to the side.

– Help! After all, we discovered where the gold is hidden! – the frightened merchant shouted.

– What is it, captain? What gold? – one of the pirates, the sailor Heike Blum, immediately ran up.

– They are lying, Heike, – and Peter gave the merchant a farewell slap, and threw him overboard.

– No, Heike. It is your captain who is lying! – the English navigator laughed, – he has made a mountain of gold here!

Here Peter threw both prisoners into the sea. He looked around, and there was no one nearby.

– Heike, let’s go, I’ll show you. Maybe we’ll find gold there! – and the captain led the sailor into the cabin, – Here, look, – and pointed to the chest.

Heike Blum smiled, tried to lift him up, nodded his head. But, to his misfortune, he turned his back to the captain, and the latter instantly drove his dagger under Blum’s left shoulder blade. The body began to sag, Peter looked almost affectionately into the pirate’s still living eyes, and almost tenderly said:

– There’s not much here. This is just mine…

***

Peter woke up with difficulty, the rum he had drunk in the evening was making itself felt. He moved away from the woman, the best lady of this tavern in Curacao, Mademoiselle Madeleine. She charged a ducat a night, but she was worth it, as Peter appreciated yesterday and today.

And then, he dreamed that the cannons began to speak. The heavy carronals thundered, so much so that his brig shook from the volleys. He ran to the deck, to the gunner, but he only pushed him away and he fell.

– Well, Peter van Mush! You will not be hanged here, but in Amsterdam! – the pirate heard a scream, and grabbed the key on his neck.

In an instant he woke up in horror, and opened his eyes wide. In front of his bed stood the Herr Governor himself with his guards, and behind them peered the face of Christopher Plumel, his sailor. – Where is my chest, where is my chest! – the desperate pirate kept shouting, with his hands in shackles but no pants, – I am not guilty of anything!

– You robbed the English ship “Seagull” and sent it to the bottom, killed the entire crew. You knew, you idiot, that you can’t hurt seagulls?

And Christopher Plumel stood hugging Madeleine, and next to them was Peter’s treasured chest. They both looked happy.

– Just let’s not ask in Amsterdam, my dear, – the woman whispered, – everyone there knows that I’m a whore. Now the New World is open to people like us. And we’ll go there with this gold.

– It’s better to take a bill of exchange, my dear. There is a smart Jewish banker here, and his brother lives in New Amsterdam. We’ll do everything cleanly and safely.

– You are so smart…

***

A prison cell is not a very good place for a nobleman, even a pirate, as Van Mush thought, lying on a mattress stuffed with grass. A small window covered with thick iron bars let in a little light, and the shackles on his hands and feet contributed to the philosophical mood of the mind.

– In the end, – the pirate said to himself, – every person is in prison. Of his own limitations, fears. I, however, was deprived of such moods. And, therefore, even in prison I am absolutely free! – he had already shouted.

Which was good, he was the only one bristling in the cell, and there was no need to try to communicate with some stranger, probably absolutely unpleasant. But then, interrupting such thoughts, the iron door opened, and two very richly dressed men entered the cell.

– Oh, gentlemen? Are you really put in this prison? – asked the pirate.

– No, Peter van Mush. We are here of our own free will.

– Oh, really? I don’t really understand such a lofty speech, I’ve forgotten everything… This is not an orchard with apple trees, but a prison.

– It’s wonderful that you haven’t lost your sense of humor here. Do you know that you will be executed in a week? And not here, but in England, as a robber? Quartered, I think? Am I right? – asked one of them of the other.

– Exactly so, – continued the other, – or, you will agree to difficult work and will be richly rewarded. And the matter is not very difficult. By the way, do you like the theater? – and for some reason the stranger laughed.

– Return ten thousand Venetian ducats, they were stolen from me, – the captain recalled, – for starters. And then we’ll talk.

– You’ll get it. And much more… You’ll have to play the Tsar of Muscovy at the shipyard for six months. It’s not an easy task, but the reward will be amazing. Well, actually, you have nothing more to lose, and you can gain a lot. In addition, you are an obvious adventurer, and if your talents are not overestimated, you can become the equal of Kar the Great.

– What? – Van Mush laughed, – gentlemen, is this a carnival? And I participate in it as Pierrot? Or, perhaps, Harlequin? It’s good that it’s not Malvina!

– Damn, damn witty, – the other agreed, and dabbed his eyes with a cambric handkerchief.

Both guests laughed, or perhaps not the guest, but the true owner of this prison. One of them, in a fit of laughter, even slapped the other on the shoulder. But then he quickly adjusted the lace of his cuffs. Lovingly and attentively.

– The main thing, Peter, is not to become poor Yorick from the play, – one of the guests interjected his thought, – it is stupid, indeed, to become an exhibit of the Kunstkamera. Otherwise, your head will be immersed in a jar of alcohol, and will be shown to various simpletons for a couple of coppers.

The condemned man sat down, and seemed to be completely dumbfounded by what he heard. What seemed like some kind of joke turned out to be simply a terrible reality. A nice ending to his life’s tenacity – a jar of alcohol for his very smart head! He looked at these gentlemen with dull eyes, and resigned himself to the fate prepared for him.

– Let the blacksmith unforge him, – muttered the first of the guests, – and the executioner will chop off his head, since he does not agree. The secret must be hidden… Van Mush, I think you have about ten minutes to live,

And the aristocrat looked at his pocket watch, then took out a gold snuffbox, and stuck a pinch of the aromatic mixture into his nose. A couple of seconds later he sneezed, and with an elegant movement wiped his nose with a cambric handkerchief. And such a fashionable gentleman took a gray cloth from a chair on which hung a rich waistcoat, a shirt of fine linen, trousers, stockings, shoes and a hat, and in addition – a sword…

Peter van Mush simply devoured the beautiful clothes with his eyes. Previously, only in his dreams could he see or touch such things. And now:..

The pirate looked at both aristocrats, and it was not noticeable that they were joking. Actually, Peter had long ago learned to distinguish such people. Capable of keeping their word. These gentlemen knew how to be, and not seem…

– True, you should be taught etiquette. Peter…And wean yourself off smoking in salons and austeries. Tsar Peter did not smoke tobacco… And carpentry is not foreign to you, it seems?

– Gentlemen, I didn’t say no…

– Gentlemen, I won’t tell

PART ONE. Find a Substitute

The Death of Peter Alexeevich

The cold of the street even here penetrated the clothes of those gathered, because it was still sultry February outside. Either winter would not let go, or the fear of the honorable men in the room was worse than the frost. The doors of the chambers of the royal palace were locked, the sovereign’s relatives stood guard with weapons in their hands.

There was no one superfluous here, in this bedroom, striking in its luxury. All the close boyars were at a loss, something terrible was happening…

The young tsar was dying in his bed. His legs were terribly swollen, the unfortunate man could barely breathe. Something incredible was happening – his father, Alexei Mikhailovich, died of a similar disease, Fyodor Alexeevich left after him, and now Peter Alexeevich was preparing to leave this world.

And a year ago Ivan Alekseevich, Peter’s brother, had died, and he was only twenty-nine years old. Everything was bad, disturbing and dreary.

As if a family curse was wiping out the new line of Russian tsars! Or, an incomprehensible and undisclosed betrayal was exterminating the rulers of ancient Rus’.

Wax candles in silver candlesticks illuminated the room. And indeed, during the day it was light and bright here, the sun’s rays played on the multi-colored glass in the forged window frames. But now those gathered had no time for that. They were captives of fear and mistrust, even towards each other.

The closest boyars had gathered, sitting on benches. Only seven people, no more and no less. And the patriarch was not invited here, even priest Bitka was not invited.

– What shall we do, boyars? – asked Prince Boris Alekseevich Golitsyn, – the tsar is dying, the Time of Troubles is knocking at our gates again…And now, soon a new Stenka Rain will appear!

– Thank God, the Tsar has an heir, Alexei Petrovich, – whispered Lev Naryshkin, – we will not remain orphans, and we have a future Tsar with us…

The boyar said this, took off his hat and crossed himself three times in front of the icons. He sighed heavily, and lowered his eyes, and leaned on his staff.

– Something bad is happening, boyars… Something bad… And who can we blame? Is Prince Fyodor Romodanovsky involved? – Andrei Ivanovich Golitsyn, the palace governor, looked at the others.

– And a year ago, Tsar Ivan Alexeevich passed away, leaving a widow and daughters… – Romodanovsky began, – apparently, the Miloslavskys and their relatives were able to reach Peter Alexeevich. And we did not keep an eye on it.

– So, Ivan was ill, wasn’t he? – Lev Naryshkin butted in again.

– No sicker than you, Prince-father! – Boyar Buturlin got really angry, – that’s true, he ate some mushrooms and died…

– Enough for you! – Naryshkin got angry again, – who will be with seven-year-old Alexei Petrovich? He will guard the throne for the Tsar-father, with all loyalty…

– What are you hinting at, Prince-father! – and Fyodor Romanovich cursed his interlocutor very badly, – so we, the Romodanovskys, serve the sovereigns honestly…

– Don’t hide behind the glory of Grigory Grigorievich…

– Calm down, my most wise and intelligent men! We are not sitting in a tavern, but in the sovereign’s palace! – Ivan Buturlin intervened, – we need to think about it. Morozov was a boyar, but he couldn’t, he was in exile… And who, I think, was in charge of everything in the Russian state? Whose orders are these people sitting under?

– Yes, I was! – Romodanovsky jumped up again.

– So don’t scare us, Fyodor Yuryevich! The Stroganovs and Vorontsovs and Velyaminovs are not behind you! You are sowing discord in Rus’ again, you have stolen little of everything! And the Cossacks won’t follow you, you know that yourself! And the Streltsy won’t either!

– Stop stirring up trouble for no reason! What are we going to do? – Buturlin tried to cool the heat of speech, – We argue and argue, but it’s bad with Pyotr Alexeevich…

– Under the minor tsar, Romodanovsky will rise again, – Golitsyn began alone, Andrei

– And what then? Underage Alexei Petrovich as tsar? – Lev Naryshkin intervened in the conversation, – this is not right…

– And under Alexei Petrovich, Avdotya, our tsarina… Will keep an eye on… – Fyodor Lopukhin suddenly spoke.

Everyone fell silent, and six pairs of angry eyes, without looking away, looked at the tsarevich’s relative in law. Then they all understood what Fyodor Abramovich Lopukhin was thirsting for… He himself will stand under the tsarina, and will appoint his brothers by orders, and the others will not breathe or groan… Even those who barely tolerated each other, like Boris Golitsyn and Fyodor Romodanovsky, nodded to each other. And Fyodor Yuryevich spoke cautiously, looking around, glancing at Golitsyn.

– We’ll do something smarter… We’ll announce, they say, that Pyotr Alekseevich is leaving… Right? We’ll be able to hide for two months that the Tsar has died…

Boris Alekseevich nodded, understanding where Romodanovsky was heading. But Andrei Ivanovich smiled unpleasantly, and looked at the Tsar’s bed. But Boris grabbed Andrey by the hand and whispered in his ear:

– When Alexey Petrovich comes into power, everything will happen to him… And we will marry him to a princess of good blood!

Romodanovsky looked calmly and firmly. Indeed, it is good that the Stroganovs are not in Moscow… And thank God. And what if they wanted to do more stubbornly and furiously… And it could turn out like the Cossacks wanted to do when liberating Moscow from the Poles in 1612 – to cut out the boyar families so that they would not sow discord.

– With a great embassy, to Holland… – he began to speak, – And we will send a messenger first. That they say, we need a double of the sovereign. The foreigner will be obedient to us. Whoever poisoned the tsar will get scared and, look, he will appear. But for now, for twenty years we need this…

– Pretender! – and Buturlin slapped his palm on the table, – we ourselves will put the Pretender on the throne!

– So why the Pretender? We will put him on the throne, and then take him down:. Quietly like that… – Fyodor Yuryevich continued, – no one will understand…

– If one of us was able to poison the legitimate tsar, then we will put the mummer down… When Alexei Petrovich turns twenty-one, then we will do it… – Lopukhin intervened, – and let everyone kiss the cross on that… Here. mine, soaped, family… The Patriarch of Antioch himself blessed it… Also of Greek workmanship…

And he placed the cross, decorated with enamels and stones, on the table in front of the other boyars. It was a rich thing, no words, although Lopukhin fibbed a little about the Greek workmanship.

Some boyars looked at the shrine with piety, while Romodanovsky and Buturlin looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake. But no one said a word against it. Lev Naryshkin was the first to kiss it, followed by Ivan Buturlin, then both Golitsyns, Fyodor and Mikhail Romodanovsky, and last of all, Lopukhin himself. – And one more thing… Avdotya will have to go to a monastery… – Golitsyn noted, – it is not right for the Russian queen to be a Dutchman’s wife. And we will not let a foreigner take a good wife… And his descendants, moreover, will not live… In the meantime, we are sending a messenger to Amsterdam. So that they can find someone like Pyotr Alekseevich!

The Secret of the Archangel Cathedral. The Tsar’s Hidden Tomb

Pyotr Alekseevich died at night, and only Father Bitka held a memorial service for him. He served right in the bedchamber.

– So, it all started, – Romodanovsky grumbled. – I kept the stone coffin for myself. but I will give it to the sovereign.: and crossed himself, – Mikhail. Take three carts on runners. of my mute servants and go to Moscow. Here is a letter for the rector of the Archangel Cathedral… There is a place there. in a distant dungeon… There he will bury Pyotr Alekseevich. And you will look after everything.

Mikhail Grigorievich, the son of the famous commander, Grigory Nikolaevich himself, went on campaigns more than once or twice. He also took part in the terrible battles for Chigirin, with all the force of the Turkish sultan. But now, they did such things that took your breath away… And they, the Romodanovskys, from the Starodub princes, from the Chernigov Rurikovichs, and here, to hide such things…

– Only for you. Fyodor Yuryevich… – Mikhail Romodanovsky muttered, and wiped his suddenly sweaty face with a Dutch handkerchief. – We are doing it, and what happens next, that makes it even more terrible:.

– And we will have to do even worse things… That’s it, go and hurry! Do it wisely! – and he hugged his brother, – understand, we are doing this not for ourselves, but for the Russian Kingdom. What discord, and they blame me for the death of Peter Alekseevich.

– But you are not guilty, are you? – Mikhail exclaimed hotly.

– No one knows how Tsar Fyodor was poisoned… The Miloslavskys curse the Naryshkins. The Miloslavskys could have paid back for the death of Ivan Alekseevich… They do such things… How Shuisky left Tsarevich Dmitry, and dug under Godunov himself… And he dug such a hole that everything fell into it, all of Mother Rus’. Go, Mikhail, don’t delay, I pray to Christ and God…And Fyodor Yuryevich took Mikhail Grigorievich’s hands in his own. He looked into his relative’s eyes for a long time. The courtier could not trust such a thing to anyone except his relative and loyal commander. The experienced warrior finally nodded his head. Fyodor quietly said:

– Here is the charter with my seal. Everything will work out for you. Do not doubt, and do everything firmly…

***

Ahead rode six fighting serfs, loyal and tested in heavy battles, then three carts moved. Behind rode ten more horsemen, Mikhail Grigorievich himself also galloped nearby, on his favorite argamak of Persian blood, worth a hundred rubles. Here were Fyodor’s mute servants, taken for protection, they were with the carts. Time dragged on, as if it had frozen. And the road seemed unbearably endless for Prince Romodanovsky. – Father Prince, we will soon arrive in Moscow! – said the eldest, Ivashka Prokudin.

Prokudin was good in battle, loyal, and Romodanovsky always distinguished this fighting serf. And Ivashka was dressed well, a hat of good cloth, with a marten trim, a caftan of Persian damask, a sabre in a rich morocco scabbard with silver plates on the side, and two pistols by the saddle. And Prokudin’s horse was good, frisky, bay.

– Thank you, Ivan, – said the prince, – be ready… Fight to the last, do not give up the carts!

– We will do everything, not for the first time!

So they rode up to the outpost near Zemlyanoy Gorod, where the Moscow Streltsy stood guard. And they were well dressed, and they had noble arquebuses with them. Romodanovsky knew that these warriors were good in any battle and would not flee from the field. He rode up to the senior guard and showed a letter with a seal from Andrei Ivanovich Golitsyn, the palace governor. – Everything is in order, go ahead, Mikhail Grigorievich! Remove the barriers! – the Streltsy foreman ordered his men.

The burly bearded warriors cleared the way, and Mikhail Romodanovsky’s caravan entered the city limits.

– It is not clear what is in the carts? – one Streltsy asked another, – it does not look like a boyar’s baggage.

– You, Senka, look less under the mats on the carts, it is not your business! – his comrade laughed.

Romodanovsky saw and heard such conversations, but he did not show that he was excited. Mikhail rode ahead, to Ivan Prokudin.

– Here is the letter, Ivan. Give it to the rector of the Arangel Cathedral in the Kremlin, Father Savvaty. Do you understand?

– How can I not understand? I will do everything!

And the intelligent and experienced warrior, having hidden the letter in his hat, urged his horse at a fast trot. Their caravan slowly moved along the narrow Moscow streets.

The bells rang for mass at the stone church. And to stand for the service, listen to the sermon and dine, as Mikhail Grigorievich thought with longing, but there was a difficult and terrible matter awaiting them. They rode up to the squat walls of Kitai-gorod, with its walls bristling with cannons. And they love to tell tall tales in Rus’ about foreign lands, about various fables, but they do not remember their own, about the terrible year 1617, how they repelled the attack of the troops of the Polish king Sigismund. And he reached the walls of Kitai-gorod, but did not defeat the Russian defense.

Prince Romodanovsky noticed Prokudin waiting for him at the Pokrovsky Gate. It was obvious that his horse was lathered and breathing heavily. The service man was in a hurry. A battle serf approached the boyar, holding his horse by the bridle.

– I have done everything, father. Here is his answer, – and he held out a sealed letter, – and verbally added that he was waiting for you at the Vozdvizhenskaya Tower of the Kremlin.