‘That’s why they’ll have orders to kill,’ said Aleksei. That, and other, more personal reasons.
‘If only we could do more,’ said Wylie.
‘You can do the most important thing of all,’ insisted Aleksei. ‘You must both make sure that His Majesty eats and drinks nothing in the hours leading up to his death – otherwise everything else we do will be a waste of time.’
Aleksei walked away from them briskly and strode back towards the house. He had seen that Volkonsky was beckoning to him.
The tsaritsa was more desperate than the starets had ever seen her. She had heard from Father Fyodotov – and other gossips in the royal household – how grave her husband’s condition was. Fyodotov seemed to know more, but his lips were closed by the seal of confession. The starets wondered how much Aleksandr had told him.
She had come to the monastery again to speak to him – at his summons, though he felt certain she would have sought him out anyway.
‘He is dying, Father,’ she said after they had recited the Prayer of the Heart.
‘Has he made his confession?’ It was better for the starets not to reveal the conversations he had had with Fyodotov.
‘Yes. And then it seemed he had got better, but it was only a passing rally. He might die within hours, the doctors say.’
The starets leaned forward. This was surprising news. ‘As soon as that?’ he asked.
‘I should be with him, Father. But you are my only hope.’
‘Jesus Christ is the hope of the world,’ said the starets. ‘I am merely His representative on Earth.’
‘Please, Father – there is so little time. Do you have the remedy you promised me?’
The starets might have taken time to lecture the tsaritsa on the virtue of patience, but from what she had said, he knew that time was now pressing. For the tsar to die now would be intolerable. He slipped his hand into his robe and brought out a small vial. He handed it to the tsaritsa. She took it from him and grasped it to her chest. A flood of hope ran across her face, and yet still she doubted.
‘So little?’ she said.
‘So little your faith?’ he replied. ‘That is all that is needed.’
She nodded and looked down at the thick, dark liquid that clung to the glass sides of the bottle.
‘Should I mix it with his food?’ she asked.
‘With food, or with drink – but only after the food has been cooked. Or it can be given to him directly, if he will take it.’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘His doctors will try to prevent you giving it to him, and in his state, he may be swayed by them. You must be determined.’
‘I will be.’
She remained kneeling, staring at the floor of the stone cell in the monastery, awaiting her dismissal. He did not delay her.
‘Go now, my child,’ he said. ‘I will pray for you both.’
The tsaritsa thanked him, then rose to her feet and left quickly. The starets stood and went to the doorless archway that formed the entrance to his cell. He watched her as she left, clearly battling against her own ill health simply to make it to this appointment, which she believed would save her husband.
She was mistaken; Iuda knew that full well as he pulled the starets’ robe off over his head. He had more work to do that night, and beneath the habit he was almost dressed for his next task. The other monks might remark on his disappearance, but they had always seen him as a nomad – a starets who occasionally used their home as a place of quiet contemplation. There were many like him.
The military were by nature far more suspicious. To have passed himself off as a soldier for any length of time would have required forged papers and – to get close to the tsar – at least one personal recommendation. But the acquisition of the lieutenant’s uniform whose tunic he was now buttoning up had been a much simpler affair – taken from a drunken soldier whose half-hearted resistance had provided little entertainment. The others might miss him, but they would not find his body for another few days, at the very least.
Iuda straightened his new collar and noticed that his fingers felt wet. He looked at them and saw blood still damp on the uniform. It did not matter – his plans would be carried out before anyone had the chance to inspect him.
He took one final glance around the cell. Stone walls, of one kind or another, had become quite familiar to him over the last few years, but no more. He hurried out into the night.
CHAPTER XXVII
IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT. WEDNESDAY WOULD SOON BE THURSDAY, and Thursday, 19 November 1825 was the day that Tsar Aleksandr I would die. Aleksei had not discussed with Wylie or Tarasov the exact hour, but all agreed it would be before noon. Aleksei felt happier not to know.
Volkonsky had been content to place the guard under Aleksei’s orders – a mixture of regular troops close to the palace and Colonel Nikolayev’s Cossacks covering a wider perimeter. Volkonsky himself wanted to stay by Aleksandr’s side, along with the tsaritsa, Wylie, Tarasov, Diebich and several others. Aleksei would spend most of the night at the tsar’s door, much as he would have loved to ride once again with the Kazaki. But that was where Iuda would be heading, whatever direction he might come from, and so Aleksei would be in the best place to intercept him. He considered standing guard inside the bedchamber itself, but it would be an insult to the tsaritsa – and all those who loved Aleksandr – to see Iuda exterminated over the very bed upon which the object of their love lay dying. More than that, Aleksei felt uncharacteristically disinclined to be present at the death of a man whom he held in such esteem.
He had made one tour of the palace grounds already. He wished he had known the men better – he did not recognize many of their faces, let alone know their names. But Volkonsky vouched for them, and they vouched for each other. There was one concern; a Lieutenant Morev had not reported for duty. The view of most of his comrades was that he was a drunk and they were better off without him, but it was still a cause for apprehension. He asked to be informed the moment the man was seen.
It was distasteful even to attempt to think in the way that Iuda did, but Aleksei knew that his foe rarely did anything without forethought, and so it was a necessary unpleasantness. Though they might remark on the absence of a lieutenant, there would be less note taken of his return. Who was to say that in the meantime he might not have been recruited to Iuda’s cause? Recruited by induction, to use Iuda’s own word. He would have to be willing, but a young drunken soldier might easily be persuaded. Iuda would also need the assistance of a voordalak to carry out such a plan. But – who knew? – Zmyeevich himself might be nearby, awaiting his henchman’s success. And then there was always the beautiful Raisa Styepanovna. If she were assisting Iuda, then the processes of persuading the young lieutenant to accept his rebirth as a vampire might have been very simple indeed. But if the soldier did return, Aleksei would be waiting, and if he was no longer human, Aleksei would know.
He leaned against the wall, beside the door to the tsar’s room, and listened. He heard no sound from within. He tried to picture the scene inside, but he remained glad that he was not a part of it. It would be a long night for him, standing guard outside, but for those who sat in tears beside Aleksandr’s bed, it would be an eternity.
Aleksandr looked at the figures around him and smiled. So many of those he loved were here. Most important of all was Yelizaveta. She would be devastated by his death – but how much more would she suffer to learn of the alternative? He knew that if Cain and Zmyeevich succeeded in their plan to make him a voordalak, then he would have no vestige of the affection he had once held for his wife. She would not know it, but she would be happier for him to die.
His greatest regret was that he would never see his brothers again – his sisters too, though none of those living had remained in Russia still. But he would have dearly loved to say goodbye to Konstantin, Nikolai and Mihail. He and Konstantin had grown up side by side – there was only two years between them – but he still sometimes looked upon Nikolai and Mihail as children. He had been eighteen when Nikolai was born. All three of them were fine men. He might have preferred to have had children of his own, but Aleksandr had no qualms about the succession passing to his brother.