The time of troubles

  THE TIME OF TROUBLES

**Konstantin Sandalov**

  THE HEAVY CROWN (TRILOGY)

  BOOK TWO. THE TIME OF TROUBLES

**(Historical Novel)**

  PART ONE. MASKS AND ASHES

  Chapter 1. The Map

*Moscow. The Kremlin. April 16, 1605.*

The silence in the Kremlin was not prayerful, but cotton-like. It pressed on the ears, clogging the nose with the smell of incense and wax not yet cooled from thousands of memorial candles.
Boris had been buried yesterday.
His huge, heavy body was lowered into the tomb of the Archangel Cathedral, sealed with a heavy slab, and Moscow exhaled. Exhaled not with relief, but with a hidden, animal fear: "What now?"

Fyodor Borisovich Godunov, the new Tsar of All Rus', sat in his cabinet.
He was sixteen years old.
He possessed that rare, thoroughbred beauty found in the last scions of degenerating dynasties: pale skin, a high forehead, large, moist, dark eyes framed by long lashes. He did not have his father's bull-like strength. He had the fragility of porcelain.

Before him on a huge oak table lay the Map.
It was his pride. He had drawn it himself for three years. He collected information from explorers, merchants, and ambassadors.
Russia on this map looked huge, mighty, stretching from the Baltic to the Siberian rivers.
Fyodor ran his finger along the curve of the Volga. The ink still smelled.
"My country," he whispered. "How big you are... And how heavy."

The door creaked.
Maria entered the cabinet. Widow. Mother.
She had aged ten years in these few days. Black circles lay under her eyes, her lips were compressed into a thin, hard line. She wore a black widow's dress, making her look like a warrior nun.
She carried the spirit of Malyuta Skuratov—that core which held the family together when Boris grew weak.

"You sit," she said sharply, without greeting. "And in the Duma, the boyars are waiting. Shuisky whispers with Mstislavsky. Golitsyn smirks into his mustache."

"I am studying reports, Mother," Fyodor raised tired eyes to her. "Basmanov writes that the troops stand firm near Kromy."

"Paper will endure anything," Maria walked to the table and slapped her palm onto the map. "Drop your drawings, Fedya! This is paper! And out there, beyond the walls, are live wolves. They smell blood. Father is gone. They think we are prey."

She grabbed her son by the shoulders, forced him to stand.
"Look at me. You are the Tsar. You are a Godunov. Forget that you are sixteen. You must go out to them and look in such a way that they lower their eyes. If you blink—they will tear you apart."

"I am not afraid," Fyodor said quietly. But his voice trembled treacherously. "I just don't understand... Why do they hate us? Father gave them everything."

"Because we are not them. To them, we are upstarts. Horde descendants. Executioners."

A steward appeared in the doorway.
"Sovereign, Voivode Pyotr Fyodorovich Basmanov asks permission to enter. He is departing for the army."

Maria tensed.
"Basmanov..." she whispered. "Father's favorite. Handsome. A hero. If he is loyal—we are saved. If not..."

"Call him!" said Fyodor loudly.

Pyotr Basmanov entered the cabinet.
He was magnificent. Tall, stately, in gleaming armor, over which a scarlet cloak was thrown. His face, young, daring, with an aquiline nose and burning eyes, radiated strength. This was a god of war.
He approached the table and dropped to one knee. The crash of armor sounded like a shot.

"Sovereign!" his voice rang with sincerity. "Allow me to depart to the regiments! I swear by the cross and honor: I will bring you the Thief in chains! Or I will bring his head in a sack!"

Fyodor looked at him with hope. Basmanov was his idol. A friend. The older brother he never had.
"Stand up, Pyotr Fyodorovich." Fyodor walked up to the voivode and, breaking etiquette, embraced him. "You are our only hope. The boyars here in Moscow weave intrigues. And you are the sword. My faithful sword."

Basmanov stood up. He looked into the eyes of the young Tsar.
At that moment, something flickered in the voivode's eyes. A shadow? Pity? Or calculation?
"While I live, Sovereign, not a single hair shall fall from your head. The army loves the Godunovs. We will crush this Polish filth."

Maria stood aside, arms crossed over her chest. She drilled Basmanov with her gaze. She looked for lies.
But Basmanov was clean. Now, in this second, he believed in his words. He wanted to be a hero.

"Go," said Maria coldly. "And remember, voivode: Tsar Boris raised you from the mud. You owe everything to this house. Betrayal is a sin that cannot be washed away."

Basmanov bowed to the Tsaritsa.
"I remember, Sovereign Lady. The honor of the Basmanovs is not for sale."

He turned, flaring his scarlet cloak, and left. His steps died away in the corridor.

Fyodor sat back down at the map.
"See, Mother?" he smiled, and his face brightened. "We have Basmanov. We have the army. We will manage. I will finish building the university. I will change this country."

Maria walked to the window.
Below, on Cathedral Square, the wind chased dust. The sky was gray, low.
"God grant," she whispered. "God grant. But why did his eyes dart, Fedya?"

Fyodor didn't hear. He took a quill and dipped it into the inkwell.
He wanted to finish drawing the border in the south, where the town of Kromy stood.
A drop of ink fell from the quill.
It fell onto the map. Right on the spot where the Tsar's regiments stood.
A black, greasy blot began to spread across the paper, devouring cities and roads.

Fyodor tried to blot it with his sleeve, but only made it worse. The black spot grew, turning into an ugly shadow.
"Ruined..." he said upset.

Maria turned around. She saw this blot.
And it seemed to her that it was not ink.
It was darkness crawling from the south. Darkness that could not be stopped by maps, nor oaths, nor the walls of the Kremlin.

"Get ready," she said suddenly. "Let's go to the cathedral. To pray. We have nothing else left."

  Chapter 2. Judas's Kiss

*The Tsar's army camp near Kromy. May 7, 1605.*

War did not smell of gunpowder. It smelled of shit, sour cabbage, and wet footwraps.
The huge Tsar's army—fifty thousand men!—had been standing in the swamps by the Kroma River for half a year already. This was not an army. It was a herd driven into the mud.
They were supposed to storm the wooden fortress of Kromy, where the Impostor's Cossacks had holed up. Just five hundred Don Cossacks. Laughable! The Tsar Cannon could have blown these walls away with one sneeze.

But the cannons were silent.
The voivodes squabbled. Soldiers drank and deserted by the hundreds.

Pyotr Basmanov walked through the camp. His boots squelched in the greasy spring mud. His scarlet cloak, of which he was so proud in the Kremlin, was now splattered with clay and looked brown, like dried blood.
He walked without guards. He wanted to hear.
And he heard terrible things.

By the fires, where thin stew was boiling, soldiers were not cleaning their muskets. They were reading "seductive letters." Leaflets that the Impostor's people threw over the walls on arrows.

"Listen, brothers," wheezed a pockmarked strelets, smoothing out a dirty piece of paper. "Tsarevich Dmitry writes: 'I do not want Russian blood! I come to the father's throne not to punish, but to grant favor. And the Godunovs are thieves and usurpers.'"
"And that's the truth!" agreed another. "Seen how the Cossacks live fat in Kromy? They have bread, they have wine. And we eat goosefoot here for Godunov's puppy."
"Is he real, the Tsarevich?" asked a young recruit.
"Of course!" the pockmarked one spat. "If he weren't real, would the Polish King give him an army? Would God allow him to reach here? It's a sign, lads. Godunov died—means God rejected him. And we are going against God."

Basmanov walked past. He could have ordered the mutineers seized. Hanged. Flogged.
A month ago, he would have done just that.
But today he passed silently, gripping the hilt of his saber so hard his fingers cramped.
He understood: if he shouted "Arrest them!" now, these people by the fire wouldn't run to obey. They would lift him onto pitchforks.

He entered the commander-in-chief's tent.
It was warm and stuffy there. The Princes Golitsyn—Vasily and Ivan—sat at a table covered with goblets. They were playing dice.
Vasily Golitsyn, heavy-set, with cunning Tatar eyes, raised his head.
"Ah, Pyotr Fyodorovich... Our hero. Well, had enough walking in the mud? How is the spirit of the troops?"

"There are no troops," Basmanov threw his cloak onto a bench. "There is rabble. Tomorrow they will cut our throats and go to kiss the cross to the Thief."

"Well, why so rude..." Golitsyn lazily threw the dice. Sixes came up. "They won't cut them. If we lead them ourselves."

Basmanov froze.
"What are you talking about, Prince?"

Golitsyn poured wine, drank slowly.
"About the fact, Petya, that the Godunovs are—done. Finita. Boris was a boulder, but Boris rotted. And Fyodor..." he chuckled. "A boy drawing pictures. Do you think Moscow will obey a puppy and the woman Maria?"

"I swore allegiance to Fyodor!" shouted Basmanov. "I kissed the cross! A week ago!"

"And I kissed it," nodded Golitsyn. "Everyone kissed it. But there is politics, Pyotr. Higher mathematics. If we go on the attack against the Impostor now, we will lay down the regiments. And then the Impostor will take Moscow anyway, because the people *want* him. And what then? You and I on the stake? And Fyodor will be strangled anyway."

Golitsyn stood up, walked up closely to Basmanov. He smelled of expensive wine and cynicism.

"You are the best commander, Basmanov. The soldiers listen to you. If you say 'Forward, for Godunov!'—they might go. But reluctantly. But if you say 'Dmitry is the true Tsar!'..."
Golitsyn paused.
"You will become the first man under the new sovereign. The Savior of the Fatherland. You will stop the fratricidal war. Is that not noble?"

Basmanov recoiled.
Fyodor's face surfaced in his mind. Pale, with huge eyes. The embrace. *You are my sword, Pyotr.*
And then Maria's face surfaced. *Betrayal is a sin that cannot be washed away.*

But then he remembered something else.
The cry of the crowd. The looks of the soldiers. The feeling of animal terror when you stand alone against an avalanche.
He wanted to live. He was young, ambitious, he loved glory, women, tasty wine. He didn't want to die for a doomed boy.

"And what if he is... a Thief?" asked Basmanov quietly. "If it is Grishka Otrepyev?"

Golitsyn shrugged.
"What difference does it make? Victors are not judged. And they aren't asked for documents. The main thing is that now he is—Power. And one must be friends with Power."

Noise was heard outside the tent. Tramping of hooves. Shouts: "Ambassadors! Ambassadors from Dmitry Ivanovich!"
Basmanov rushed out.

Horsemen were riding into the camp openly. Without weapons, with a white flag. In front—nobleman Pushkin and Cossack Ataman Korela.
They rode proudly, like masters. Soldiers parted before them, took off their caps.
"Bread and salt to you, servicemen!" shouted Pushkin. "Tsarevich Dmitry Ivanovich is healthy and merciful to you! Who is with us—reward to him! Who is against—a noose!"

The crowd buzzed. Thousands of eyes turned to Basmanov.
They waited.
Would he order to shoot? Or...

Basmanov looked at Pushkin. At the smiling ataman. At the soldiers who were already ready to throw their caps in the air.
He realized: this is the end.
If he says "Fire" now, his own men will kill him.
The only way to survive and keep power is to lead the betrayal.

Slowly, as if in a dream, he raised his hand.
The silence became ringing.

"Orthodox Christians!" shouted Basmanov. His voice broke, but he forced himself to continue. "How long shall we spill blood for the Godunovs?! God has shown us a miracle! Tsarevich Dmitry is saved!"

The crowd gasped. For a second, it digested this. Basmanov himself! Boris's favorite! He acknowledged it!
It means—it's true!

"Long live Tsar Dmitry Ivanovich!" yelled Basmanov, drawing his saber and saluting the enemy's ambassadors.

And the camp exploded.
"Hurrah!"
"Glory to Dmitry!"
"Down with the Godunovs!"

Soldiers rushed to hug the Cossacks. Fraternization began. Someone was already dragging barrels of wine. Someone was tearing down banners with the double-headed eagle and trampling them in the mud.
Golitsyn came out of the tent, smiling. He walked up to Basmanov and patted him on the shoulder.
"Well done, Petya. The right choice. Judas, they say, ended badly, but you are not Judas. You are a politician."

Basmanov stood pale, with shaking hands. He looked at the trampled banner.
He had just killed Fyodor.
Not with a knife. With a word.
The knife would come later.

"To Moscow!" roared the crowd. "To the capital! To kiss the cross to Father!"

Basmanov sheathed his saber. The metal clinked coldly and dead.
"To Moscow," he repeated. "To finish off the puppy."

He jumped onto his horse.
There was no way back. Now he had to be the new Tsar's most faithful dog. The cruelest one. To drown out the voice of conscience screaming somewhere deep inside: *You are cursed, Pyotr. You are cursed.*

  Chapter 3. The Riot

*Moscow. Red Square. June 1, 1605.*

Moscow was melting. The heat was such that the domes of the cathedrals seemed to flow like golden fat onto the cobblestones. The air was thick, dusty, and anxious.
The city waited.
Everyone knew: the army near Kromy had sworn allegiance to the Impostor. Basmanov betrayed. The road to the capital was open.
In the Kremlin, Tsar Fyodor tried to give orders, but these orders died in the corridors. Clerks scattered, voivodes claimed illness. Power leaked from the hands of the Godunovs like water from a leaky bucket.

At noon, two horsemen rode onto the Lobnoye Mesto (Place of Skulls).
They didn't hide. They rode at a walk, proudly, possessively.
These were messengers from "Tsar Dmitry"—noblemen Gavrila Pushkin and Naum Pleshcheyev.
A crowd instantly began to gather around them. First dozens, then hundreds. People ran from the markets, abandoned their shops.

Gavrila Pushkin, a man with the face of a bird of prey, dismounted, ran up the steps of the Lobnoye Mesto, and unrolled a scroll.
"Orthodox Christians!" he yelled so loud that pigeons soared from the roof of St. Basil's. "Listen to the truth!"

The square froze. Thousands of heads turned to him as one organism.
"The God-saved Tsarevich Dmitry Ivanovich is alive! He comes to you with love and mercy! But the Godunovs are thieves, poisoners, and sorcerers! They stole your bread, they stole your will!"

Pushkin caught his breath and threw the main trump card into the crowd:
"Our army, and Voivode Basmanov, and the Princes Golitsyn—all kissed the cross to the true Sovereign! And what are you waiting for? Who do you stand for? For the puppy Fyodor and the she-wolf of Malyuta?"

The crowd buzzed. This hum was like the cracking of breaking ice.
From the Kremlin, through the Spassky Gates, came the boyars. Vasily Shuisky, Mstislavsky, Belsky. They were supposed to arrest the mutineers. They had guards.
The people parted, giving them way.
"Prince Vasily!" shouted someone from the crowd. "Say a word! Is Tsarevich Dmitry real or not? You were in Uglich, you led the investigation!"

Shuisky stopped. His fox eyes ran over the faces of the people. He saw their rage, their hope, their readiness to kill. And he saw Pushkin, confident in his impunity.
Shuisky slowly took off his hat and crossed himself.
"True," he said loudly. "I was sinful, Russian people. Boris forced me to lie. The Tsarevich was saved. The Lord saved him."

It was a spark in a powder keg.
If Shuisky himself admitted it—then everything is true! Then the Godunovs are fiends of hell!

"Tie up the thieves!" shrieked some woman.
"To the Kremlin!" picked up a man with an axe in his belt.
"Beat the Godunovs!"

The avalanche moved.
Thousands of people, crazed by the permission for violence, rushed to the Spassky Gates. The streltsy standing guard did not shoot. They dropped their bardiches and mingled with the crowd.
The gates collapsed under the pressure of bodies.

The people burst into the Kremlin.
It was not an assault. It was a flood. People climbed into palace windows, kicked down doors.
First of all, they rushed not to the Tsar, but to the wine cellars.
Doors were smashed. Huge barrels of mead, overseas wines, vodka were rolled out into the yard. Someone knocked out the bottom with an axe. Wine gushed in a red river right over the cobblestones.
People fell to their knees and lapped right from the puddles, mixing royal wine with mud and manure.
"Drink, Orthodox Christians! Party! Father Dmitry treats us!"

The drunken, growling mass flowed toward the Tsar's chambers.
Inside the palace, the sound of breaking glass and tearing brocade was heard. They looted everything. Tore tapestries from walls, broke mirrors, dragged candlesticks.
One peasant, covered in soot, put a boyar hat on backward and danced on a table, kicking golden dishes with his feet.

Gavrila Pushkin watched this from the Lobnoye Mesto and smiled.
He had done his job. He had opened the gates of Hell.

Deep in the Kremlin, in his chambers, Fyodor Godunov heard this roar.
He stood by an icon, gripping his mother's hand.
"They are coming," said Maria. Her voice was calm with that terrible emptiness that comes before death. "Do you hear, Fedya? These are not people. These are beasts."

The door to their chambers shuddered from a blow.
"Open up, bitch's tribe!" roared a voice behind the door. "Come out before we burn you!"

Fyodor looked at his map lying on the table. The blot he made a month ago now seemed like a prophecy. Darkness covered not only the map. It covered everything.
He walked to the door and slid back the bolt.

  Chapter 4. In the Trap

*Moscow. The Kremlin. The Godunov House. June 3, 1605.*

The door flew open, but the crowd didn't rush inside. The beast stopped on the threshold, breathing heavily with fumes and hatred.
Men in expensive kaftans stepped forward. Familiar faces. Those who just yesterday bowed from the waist. Those who drank to the health of Sovereign Fyodor Borisovich.
Prince Vasily Golitsyn and Prince Vasily Mosalsky.

Golitsyn squeamishly stepped over an overturned chair. He didn't look Fyodor in the eyes. He looked through him.
"Fyodor Borisovich," the Prince's voice was dry as an autumn leaf. "Maria Grigoryevna. Ksenia."

"Did you come to kill us?" asked Fyodor quietly. He stood straight, shielding his mother and sister. In his hand, he gripped a small dagger—the only thing he managed to grab from the table.

Golitsyn sneered.
"Why kill? We are not murderers. We are saving you from the people's wrath. The people want blood, and we... we simply ask you to vacate the chambers. They are needed for the lawful Sovereign Dmitry Ivanovich."

"I am the lawful Sovereign!" Fyodor's voice broke into a scream. "You kissed the cross to me! You, Golitsyn! And you, Mosalsky! Oath-breakers!"

Mosalsky, a man with a butcher's face, stepped forward and easily, as from a child, knocked the dagger from the Tsar's hand.
"We kissed the cross out of stupidity," he wheezed. "And now we have seen the light. Take off the necklace, boy. And take off the cap. Not according to rank."

He reached out and tore the gold chain with the cross from Fyodor's neck. Roughly, scratching the skin.
Maria twitched as if she had been struck.
"Don't dare!" she hissed. The blood of Malyuta woke up in her. "Serfs! Dogs! I will grind you into powder!"

"Your time is up, Malyuta's bitch," said Mosalsky calmly. "Pack your things. Only personal items. Leave the gold and treasury."

They were led out into the yard.
It was the most terrible journey of their lives. From the Tsar's chambers to the old boyar house of the Godunovs was only two hundred steps. But these were two hundred steps through the gauntlet.
The courtyard was packed with drunken rabble.
Seeing the deposed Tsar, the crowd howled.

"Look! Boris's spawn!"
"And the Tsarevna, the Tsarevna! Look how white she is! Nothing, soon she'll be black!"
"Beat them!"

A stone flew at Fyodor. It hit him in the shoulder. Fyodor swayed but stood firm. Ksenia cried, hiding behind her mother's back. Maria walked with her head held high, looking over the heads, as if she were still the Tsaritsa walking to the altar.
The guards surrounding them lazily pushed away particularly zealous peasants with the shafts of bardiches.
"Don't touch!" shouted Golitsyn lazily. "Ordered to take them alive. Alive they are more useful to the Impostor."

They were pushed into the old house.
Here it smelled of dust and desolation. This house had stood empty since Boris moved into the royal chambers. The windows were closed with heavy shutters, thin, dagger-like rays of light broke through the cracks, in which dust danced.

The door slammed shut behind them. The bolt clanged.
Outside remained screams, laughter, the sound of breaking crockery. And here silence fell.
The silence of a crypt.

Maria collapsed onto a bench. There was no strength left. The mask of the iron lady fell off, and before the children sat a tired, crushed old woman.
"This is the end," she whispered. "Father warned... He knew they wouldn't spare us."

Ksenia sank to the floor at her feet, laying her head on her knees.
"Mama, what will happen to us? Will they tonsure us as nuns? Like Tsaritsa Solomonia?"

Fyodor walked around the room. From corner to corner. Like a wolf cub in a cage.
He rubbed the shoulder bruised by the stone.
"A monastery is mercy, Ksyusha," he said hollowly. "Shuisky won't leave us alive. While I breathe—I am a threat. I am a living reproach to their betrayal."

He stopped by the boarded-up window and pressed his eye to a crack.
There, on the square, a bonfire burned. People burned portraits, burned books, burned some papers.
"They are burning my kingdom," said Fyodor. "They are burning my maps. My university. Everything I wanted to do..."

"They are not humans," Maria stroked her daughter's hair, but looked at her son. "Remember, Fedya. If they come to kill—do not beg for mercy. Do not humiliate yourself. Die like a Tsar."

Fyodor turned around. In the twilight, his eyes gleamed with a strange, adult shine.
"I won't beg, Mama. But I don't pity myself. I pity them. They think they changed the 'bad' Godunov for the 'good' Dmitry. They don't understand that they opened the gates to the plague."

A rifle butt hit the door.
"Hey, inmates!" came the drunken voice of a guard. "Don't ask for water, we won't give food. Pray while there is time. Guests will be here soon. From Tula itself, from the new Sovereign."

Fyodor moved away from the window and sat at the empty, dusty table.
He ran a finger along the tabletop, drawing an invisible line.
"We are in a mousetrap," he said. "And the cheese is already eaten."

  Chapter 5. The Boa Constrictor

*Moscow. The Godunov House. June 10, 1605.*

Death came not at night, as they expected, but on a sunny, ringing afternoon.
There was no knock at the door. The bolt simply slid aside with a squeal, and the oak panel hit the wall.

Five men entered the room.
First—Diak Mikhail Molchanov. Smiling, sleek, with oily little eyes. He held a silk cord in his hands, playing with it like prayer beads.
Behind him—Andrei Sherefedinov. A dry, wiry old man with a face resembling a skull covered in yellow parchment. He didn't smile. He was a professional. Under Ivan the Terrible, he strangled Metropolitan Philip. Now he came for Malyuta's grandchildren.
Behind them—three burly streltsy with bull necks. They reeked of rotgut and sweat.

Fyodor jumped up from the table. He was pale, but calm.
"Who do you want?" he asked, though he knew the answer.

Molchanov bowed, scraping his foot mockingly.
"Sovereign Lady Maria Grigoryevna... Tsarevich Fyodor... Tsarevna Ksenia..." he listed them like a shopping list. "Sovereign Dmitry Ivanovich ordered to cleanse the land of filth."

"Filth is you!" Maria stepped forward, shielding the children. A heavy silver icon she had taken from the wall flashed in her hand. "In the name of God, I conjure you—begone! I am Skuratov's daughter! I..."

"You are carrion," interrupted Sherefedinov. His voice creaked like an ungreased cart. "Take the woman."

The streltsy stepped forward.
"Don't touch her!" screamed Fyodor.

Furious strength woke up in him. He, a sixteen-year-old boy who loved books more than swords, suddenly turned into a snow leopard. He grabbed a heavy oak chair and brought it down with a swing on the head of the first strelets. The man grunted and slumped.
Fyodor rushed at the second. A punch to the Adam's apple. The strelets wheezed, clutching his throat.

Hell began in the room.
Ksenia screamed, pressing into the corner. Maria with the icon rushed at Sherefedinov, aiming for the temple, but the old executioner deftly intercepted her arm, twisted her wrist until it crunched, and pushed the woman to the floor.
"Tie the puppy!" squealed Molchanov, hiding behind the killers' backs. "He's mad!"

Fyodor fought desperately. He understood he was dying and wanted to take at least someone with him. He sank his teeth into the arm of the third strelets, jerked so that blood spurted.
"For Father!" he wheezed. "For Russia!"

But there were more of them.
Sherefedinov, seeing that the streltsy couldn't cope, slipped like a shadow behind Fyodor's back. He didn't strike. He knew the techniques of torture masters.
He sharply, professionally struck with his knee in the groin, and then grabbed the youth by the place where a man keeps his life, and squeezed. Squeezed terribly, to a crunch, twisting the flesh.

Fyodor screamed. This scream was inhuman. It was a scream that bursts blood vessels in the eyes. Pain blinded him, paralyzed his muscles, knocked the air out of his lungs.
He collapsed on the floor, gasping for air like a fish on the shore.
"Hold the legs!" commanded Sherefedinov.

Four men piled onto the Tsar. Pinned down his arms, legs, head.
Molchanov, stopped smiling, walked up to Maria. She tried to crawl to her son, whispering a prayer with smashed lips.
"Quiet, old woman, quiet..." he hissed and threw that very silk cord around her neck.
A jerk.
A wheeze.
The Tsaritsa's body twitched once, twice. Heels drummed on the floor. And went quiet. Malyuta's daughter died looking with glazing eyes at her son's torment.

Now it was Fyodor's turn.
He was still alive. He saw his mother's death. Tears flowed down his cheeks, mixing with blood from a broken nose.
Sherefedinov leaned over him. There was no malice in his eyes. Only work.
"Don't twitch, Tsar," he whispered. "It will end faster."

He took a thick rope twisted into a noose. Threw it around the neck.
The streltsy pulled in different directions.
Fyodor arched. His face turned purple, veins on his forehead bulged like ropes. He looked at the ceiling, where a sunbeam broke through the cracks of the boards. Dust motes danced in this beam. Like stars on his map.
The map... He never finished drawing the rivers...

The crunch of vertebrae sounded like the shot of a dry branch.
Fyodor's body went limp. His head turned unnaturally to the side.
Russia's smartest youth, the hope of the dynasty, turned into a heap of meat on a dirty floor.

In the corner, Ksenia whined quietly, thinly.
She saw everything.
Molchanov wiped sweat from his forehead with a lace handkerchief. Walked to the bodies. Kicked Fyodor with the toe of his boot.
"Strong puppy. Barely managed."

Sherefedinov straightened up, stretching his stiff back. Looked at Ksenia.
She was beautiful even in horror. Her black braid was disheveled, huge eyes were full of madness, her dress torn at the chest where she tore the collar in despair.
One of the streltsy, breathing heavily, smirked and stepped toward her, unbuttoning his pants.
"And what about this one? Also expendable? Or shall we have some fun?"

"Halt!" barked Molchanov. "Are you a fool? This is the Sovereign's booty! He ordered to guard her like the apple of his eye. They say he is hungry for a maiden's body, especially a royal one."

He walked up to Ksenia, took her by the chin, and roughly lifted her face.
"Well, Tsarevna... You are lucky. You will live. You will now please the new Tsar. Get ready. Tonight we take you to him."

Ksenia didn't answer. She looked at her brother's dead face. Her mind mercifully clouded over, shielding her from reality with a gray fog.

"Let's go," tossed Sherefedinov. "Need to announce to the people that the Godunovs drank poison out of grief."

They left, stepping over the corpses. The door closed again.
In the room remained a dead mother, a dead son, and a live doll. And a sunbeam, in which golden dust danced just as serenely.

  Chapter 6. A White Lie

*Moscow. Lobnoye Mesto. Evening of June 10, 1605.*

Moscow knew the truth.
Rumors in the city spread faster than the plague. As soon as the cart with bodies left the Godunov courtyard, a whisper ran through the trading quarters, taverns, church porches: "Strangled... Strangled like chickens..."
But Moscow didn't need the truth. Moscow needed an excuse.

Thick, sticky silence stood on Red Square. Thousands of people waited for the resolution. They felt like accomplices. After all, it was they who shouted "Tie them!" yesterday, they let the killers in. And now, if it turns out the Tsar was killed villainously, this blood falls on everyone.
They needed a miracle. Or a beautiful lie.

Vasily Shuisky climbed onto the platform of the Lobnoye Mesto.
He was pale, but collected. His sparse beard trembled, but his eyes were cold as icicles. He knew: now he was the chief director of this play.
Next to him stood a clerk, holding a scroll with trembling hands.

"Orthodox Christians!" Shuisky's voice was quiet, but in the silence, it thundered like an alarm bell. "God's judgment has come to pass!"

The crowd leaned forward.
"Sovereign Lady Maria Grigoryevna and her son Fyodor..." Shuisky paused, sweeping his gaze over the sea of heads. "Having realized their grave sins and fearing the people's wrath... laid hands on themselves!"

A sigh swept through the square.
*Themselves...*
*Poisoned!*
*With snake venom!*

"Drank deadly potion!" picked up Shuisky, crossing himself broadly and earnestly. "In order to avoid earthly judgment, they surrendered their souls to Heavenly judgment. Tsarevna Ksenia is alive, but in unconsciousness from grief."

Someone in the crowd chuckled distrustfully.
"Poisoned, look at that... But how they screamed! Heard it all the way to Varvarka!"
"Hush!" his neighbor hissed at him. "Said poisoned, means poisoned. Easier for you, fool. No sin on us. They are suicides. Their road is to hell."

Shuisky waved his hand.
The gates of the Spassky Tower opened. A cart drove out. On it, covered with matting, lay two bodies.
The cart was rolled out to the middle of the square and stopped. Guards pulled off the matting.

The people gasped and recoiled.
Fyodor and Maria lay side by side. Their faces were dark, swollen. On their necks—wide crimson stripes which the killers didn't even bother to hide, simply pulling the collars higher. A dried trickle of blood stretched from the corner of Fyodor's mouth. Eyes were open and looked at the sky with mute reproach.

It was a terrible sight. Anyone who had ever seen a strangled person would understand everything immediately.
But the crowd *did not want* to see.
People looked at the blue faces and whispered:
"Look how the poison twisted them... All turned black."
"Must have been strong poison."
"Lord, save and have mercy..."

Shuisky watched this collective self-deception from the height of the Lobnoye Mesto. He saw fear turn into relief. People believed the lie because it was saving. If the Godunovs are suicides, then the people are not guilty. It means one can meet the new Tsar with a clear conscience.

"Take them away!" Shuisky tossed briefly.

The bodies were covered again with dirty matting. The cart creaked and rolled away, towards the Varsonofyevsky Monastery, where tramps and criminals were buried without funeral rites.
The last Tsar of the Godunov dynasty was leaving into oblivion like garbage.

When the cart disappeared, the tension on the square snapped.
"Well, that's it!" shouted someone cheerfully. "Boris's kingdom is over!"
"Make way for Sovereign Dmitry!"
"Bread and wine!"

Moscow, stepping over corpses, began to prepare for the holiday.
People dragged branches to decorate streets. Pulled best kaftans out of chests. Cleaned icons.
Tomorrow the Savior was supposed to enter the city. The Sun. The True Tsar.

Shuisky descended from the platform. Diak Molchanov, the very one who held the rope an hour ago, jumped up to him.
"Prince Vasily Ivanovich," he whispered, looking ingratiatingly into his eyes. "Everything went smoothly. The people believed. You are smart, Prince."

Shuisky recoiled squeamishly, as if Molchanov smelled of dead flesh.
"The people believe what is profitable for them to believe," he said dryly. "And we... we simply removed stones from the road."

He looked at the setting sun. It was red, like an inflamed eye.
"Prepare the meeting, Diak. Let them ring all the bells. Let the Antichrist enter the Kremlin on a red carpet. The higher he flies, the harder he will fall."

"And Ksenia?" asked Molchanov. "The Sovereign ordered to guard her."

"Guard her," nodded Shuisky. "Let him amuse himself. For now. A woman—she is just a woman. Let Dmitry enjoy the victory. His time is until the first rooster. And my time... my time is just beginning."

He got into a carriage and drew the curtains.
Twilight thickened over Moscow. The city hummed, anticipating a feast, not knowing it was a feast during the plague.
In the dust by the Spassky Gates lay a small, hand-drawn map of Russia, trampled by someone. The wind chased it along the cobblestones, and the black blot on it now seemed a huge hole that swallowed everything.

---

  THE TIME OF TROUBLES

**(Historical Novel)**

  PART TWO. THE CARNIVAL OF THE ANTICHRIST

  Chapter 7. The Victor's Entry

*Moscow. June 20, 1605.*

On this day Moscow went deaf.
Forty soroks (districts) of churches struck their bells at once. Thousands of tongues—copper, bronze, silver—screamed one message: "He has come!".
The air over the city trembled like over a hot frying pan. But not from heat, but from shouting. Hundreds of thousands of throats roared: "Hosanna!", "Glory!", "Father!".
People hung on roofs, clung to trees, crushed each other in alleyways. Those who ten days ago silently swallowed the lie about the "poisoning" of the Godunovs, today sincerely cried with happiness. It seemed to them that along with this youth, Paradise itself was entering the city.

But he entered not as a Russian Tsar. He entered as a Roman victor.
Dmitry Ivanovich (or the one who bore this name) sat on a white steed covered with golden caparison cloth.
He was young, short, but held himself in the saddle as if cast in bronze. His face was open, but strange to the Russian eye: no bushy boyar beard, only a thin, dandyish mustache. On one cheek—a large wart, which he did not hide, but wore as a mark of distinction.

Prancing around him were not sullen streltsy in long-skirted kaftans, but Winged Hussars.
Poles.
Their steel cuirasses blinded the eyes. Behind their backs, eagle wings rustled in the wind. Feathers, velvet, leopard skins, precious stones on sabers—this retinue resembled a flock of exotic, predatory birds that flew into a chicken coop.

"Vivat!" shouted the Poles, throwing handfuls of silver coins into the crowd.
The people threw themselves into the dust, fought for pennies, kissed the hooves of Polish horses.

Dmitry smiled. He believed.
In this second, he was not Grishka Otrepyev, the runaway monk. He was not King Sigismund's tool. He was the Tsarevich. He felt this love with his skin.
*I will make you happy,* he thought, looking at the grimy faces wet with tears. *I will give you freedom. I will open the world to you. You will not be slaves, you will be citizens of Europe.*

Suddenly a wind blew up. A sharp, gusty whirlwind raised clouds of dust from the ground and tore the hat off Boyar Mstislavsky, who rode in the retinue.
Dmitry's horse stumbled on level ground. The Tsar swayed but held the reins.
Someone in the crowd gasped superstitiously:
"Stumbled... Not a good omen..."

But Dmitry merely laughed and spurred his horse.
He entered the Kremlin through the Spassky Gates. The very ones through which corpses were recently taken out. But now the gates were entwined with flowers and spruce branches.
At the Archangel Cathedral, he dismounted.
Here lay the Tsars. Here lay Ivan the Terrible—his "father."
Dmitry entered the cool of the cathedral. Approached the tomb of the Terrible. Fell to his knees and cried.
He cried so sincerely, hugging the cold stone, that even Vasily Shuisky, standing behind, doubted for a second: "Maybe it is true? Can a thief sob like this over a stranger's grave?"

Dmitry stood up. His eyes burned with fanatic fire.
"My father," he said loudly so the boyars could hear. "Your throne has returned to the lawful heir. I will cleanse it of filth."

He stepped out onto the porch.
Before him lay Moscow, prostrate.
Basmanov approached him—now the First Voivode, in a new kaftan embroidered with gold.
"Sovereign," he whispered. "The people await a word. And await... Mother."

Dmitry's face froze for a moment. This was the only moment he feared.
The meeting with Maria Nagaya. Nun Martha.
The real mother of the real Tsarevich.
She waited for him in a tent pitched near the village of Tayninskoye, but tomorrow she was supposed to enter the Kremlin.
If she says "No"—they will tear him to pieces right here, on the church porch.
If she says "Yes"—he will become a god.

"Prepare the meeting," tossed Dmitry, pulling on gloves. "And tell her... Let her remember who pulled her out of the monastery prison."

---

*Вот перевод второй части:*

  Chapter 8. The Collusion

*Village of Tayninskoye. Tent of the Tsaritsa-Nun. July 18, 1605.*

The tent smelled of wax and old age.
Nun Martha (in the world Maria Nagaya) sat on a high chair. She was dry, black, and motionless as charred wood.
Her son, the real Dmitry, died in Uglich fourteen years ago. She saw his cut throat. She washed his body with tears herself.
She knew he was dead.

The tent flap was thrown back.
He entered.
The Impostor.

Dmitry stopped at the entrance. He was alone. The retinue remained outside.
They looked at each other for a minute. The silence was so dense it seemed one could hear candles burning.
He examined her: an old woman broken by grief, whom Godunov let rot in exile.
She examined him: reddish, snub-nosed, with a wart. Nothing in common with her handsome husband Ivan. And nothing in common with her son.

Dmitry took a step forward and fell to his knees.
He didn't play a comedy. Here, without witnesses, he decided to speak the truth. Or almost the truth.
"Stand up," said Martha. Her voice was creaky. "Why did you come, man?"

"I came to return your life, Mother," he said without rising. "Boris killed your son. Boris took away your honor. Boris locked you in a cell."

"My son is dead," she cut him off. "I saw the blood."

"Blood can be washed away," Dmitry raised his head. "And power can be returned. Look at me. I am your sword. I am your revenge. Acknowledge me—and you will become Tsaritsa again. You will return to the Kremlin. You will live in gold. And the Godunov clan will be exterminated to the seventh generation."

The old woman's eyes flashed. The word "revenge" hit the mark. Hatred for Godunov was the fuel that sustained her life all these years.
"And if I tell the people that you are a thief?" she asked quietly.

"Then they will kill me," answered Dmitry simply. "But they won't spare you either. Shuisky will exile you again to the wilderness, on bread and water. And you will die in oblivion, knowing that your son's killers won."

Martha was silent. She looked at this insolent, confident boy. He was a stranger. But in his eyes burned the same mad thirst for life as the late Terrible had.
*Maybe Ivan's spirit moved into him?* she thought. *What difference whose blood is in him, if he has the Tsar's will?*

She slowly extended a dry hand.
"Come closer."

Dmitry rose from his knees and approached.
"Hug me," she ordered.

He hugged her. Her black clothes smelled of incense and decay. His velvet kaftan smelled of French perfume and horse sweat.
"Hello, son," she said loudly, so it could be heard outside.

Dmitry exhaled.
He walked out of the tent, leading her by the arm.
A crowd waited outside. Boyars, streltsy, people.
Seeing them together, people froze.
Martha stopped. She raised her hand and crossed Dmitry.
"Here he is!" she shouted with a cracked voice. "Here is flesh of my flesh! The Lord preserved him!"

The crowd roared with delight. Women sobbed. Men threw caps in the air.
It was a great lie. A lie sealed by the embrace of a mother and a killer.
But at that moment neither Martha nor Dmitry felt shame. They both got what they wanted. He—a crown. She—revenge.

  Chapter 9. The Concubine

*Moscow. The Kremlin. The Tsarevna's Chambers. August 1605.*

Ksenia didn't cry. Tears ran out back in that terrible house where her strangled mother lay on the floor.
Now inside her was a scorched desert.
They settled her in the Kremlin, in luxurious chambers overlooking the Moscow River. They returned trunks with dresses. They assigned maids.
But she knew: this is not a palace. This is a golden cage.

The door opened without a knock.
Ksenia flinched but didn't turn around. She knew these steps. Fast, light, almost dancing.
Dmitry.
Killer of her family. And her jailer.

"Miss me, turtledove?" his voice was soft, insinuating.

He walked closer. He smelled of musk and expensive wine. He wore a sky-blue Polish *zupan* embroidered with pearls. He looked like a prince from a fairy tale, if you didn't look into his eyes—of different colors, darting, eternally searching for something.

Ksenia turned. She was in black. Mourning made her beauty frightening, marble-like.
"Why are you here, Sovereign?" she asked. The voice was dead. "Is my torment not enough for you? Send me to a monastery. To the graves of my kin."

Dmitry laughed, but the laugh came out nervous. He sat in an armchair, crossing his legs—boldly, European-style.
"A monastery? Boredom. It's damp there, Ksyusha. It smells of cabbage and old age. And you are young. You are beautiful. Why hide such a rose under a black cassock?"

He stood up and walked up to her closely. Ran a finger along her cheek. Ksenia recoiled as if from a burn.
"Don't touch me... My brother's blood is on your hands."

Dmitry sharply removed his hand. His face distorted with a grimace of offense. He sincerely believed in his innocence.
"Lies!" he shouted. "I didn't order it! It was the boyars! It was the dogs—Sherefedinov and Molchanov! They wanted to earn favor! I cried, Ksenia, I swear to God, I cried when I found out! I wanted to save their lives!"

He lied. Or believed in his lie. It happened to him often.
"I saved you," he continued quieter, again changing tone to gentle. "Shuisky wanted to kill you too. So no seed of the Godunovs remained. But I didn't let him. I took you under my wing. Is this not mercy?"

"Mercy of an executioner," whispered Ksenia.

Dmitry grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers were strong, hard.
"You don't understand... I am lonely, Ksenia. Around me are actors. Poles want money. Boyars want power. The people want bread. And I... I want to be loved. Just loved."
He looked into her eyes with frightening, childish hope.
"You are of royal blood. You are my equal. The Pole Marina—she is an ice doll, she is far away. But you are here. You are Russian. You understand my longing."

"I hate you," she exhaled into his face.

Dmitry sneered. An evil light flashed in his eyes.
"Hatred is also a feeling, Ksenia. It's better than emptiness."
He jerked her toward him.
"No!" she shouted, trying to break free.

But he was stronger. He crushed her resistance like breaking a dry branch.
"You will be mine," he whispered, kissing her neck, inhaling the smell of her hair. "You will forget the Godunovs. You will forget the monastery. I will give you everything. Silks, diamonds, music. We will rule this circus together until my 'lawful' wife arrives. And maybe even after..."

He threw her onto the wide, downy bed—the very one her father might have slept on.
Ksenia stopped fighting.
She realized: this is the reckoning.
Father walked to power over corpses. And now these corpses came for her.
She closed her eyes and imagined she was dead. That she lay in the cold earth next to Fedya and Mama.
And what this red-haired impostor was doing to her body now—was not happening to her. It was happening to a doll.

When it was over, Dmitry lay beside her, arms spread, looking at the painted ceiling.
"See?" he said in a satisfied voice, as if nothing terrible had happened. "You are alive. And you are beautiful. Tomorrow I will order a necklace of rubies for you. They will suit your dark eyes."

Ksenia lay silently, turned to the wall.
A single tear ran down her cheek.
She knew: a monastery would have been salvation. But this is Hell. And in this Hell she had to live, smile at the killer, and warm his bed for long, endless nights.

Dmitry stood up, adjusted his zupan, whistling a cheerful Italian melody.
"Sleep, my Tsarevna. Tomorrow there will be a ball. You will dance with me."

The door closed.
Ksenia remained alone. In a golden cage. Defiled, alive, and infinitely lonely.

  Chapter 10. The Reformer

*Moscow. Palace of Facets. September 1605.*

It was hot as a bathhouse in the Duma.
Boyars sat on benches, wrapped in sable coats and high fur hats. Sweat ran down their red, steamed faces, stuck in thick beards.
They were used to the Tsar's council being a long, decorous, and sleepy affair. You sit, doze, nod, sometimes say "Truly so." And after dinner—mandatory sleep. It is the law. It is a spiritual bond.
But the new Tsar broke all bonds over his knee.

Dmitry didn't sit on the throne. He ran.
He paced the chamber, clicking the heels of fashionable Polish boots. He wore a light camisole, a sword at his side jingled with every turn.
"You are asleep!" he shouted, stopping in front of Prince Mstislavsky. "Russia sleeps, gentlemen boyars! And Europe has already gone ahead by a hundred years! While you scratch your beards, in Paris and London they build ships, print books, discover new lands!"

Mstislavsky, the oldest of the boyars, blinked fearfully.
"Well... Sovereign... We lived like this for ages. He who goes slower goes further."

"Goes where?!" Dmitry laughed. "Into a swamp? I want to make Moscow a second Rome! A second Paris! We will open a University!"

The boyars exchanged glances. The word "University" sounded like a curse to them.
"Why do we need Latin heresy?" grumbled someone from the back rows. "From sciences comes only turmoil in minds."

Dmitry jumped to the table.
"Turmoil comes from ignorance! We will send noble children to study abroad. Let them see the world. Let them learn languages. Enough sitting in terems!"
He grabbed an apple from the table, tossed it up, and caught it on the fly.
"And these beards... Shave them! You look like wood goblins."

Shuisky sat in the corner, eyes lowered. He listened attentively. Every word of the Tsar was a gift. Every mockery of antiquity—a nail in the Impostor's coffin.
*Come on, come on,* thought the Fox. *Anger them. Scare them. The faster you become a stranger to them, the easier it will be for me to swat you.*

Dinner time came.
Servants brought in dishes. Roasted swans, caviar, sturgeon. And—veal.
A murmur ran through the hall. In Rus', eating veal was not accepted, considered a sin. But this one—ate.
But the most terrible thing happened later.

Dmitry sat at the table. Next to his plate lay a strange object. Silver, with two sharp prongs.
A fork.
Boyars ate with hands, sometimes helping with a spoon. Taking a piece of meat with iron was considered devilry.
Dmitry carelessly grabbed the "pitchfork," pricked a piece of roast, and sent it into his mouth.

"Why are you staring?" he asked with a full mouth. "It's convenient. Hands are clean. In Poland, even children eat like this."

Mstislavsky crossed himself under the table.
"Devilish fork..." he whispered to his neighbor. "Truly the Antichrist. Who pierces food? Food is God's gift, must be taken with palm, with reverence."

Dmitry wiped his lips with a napkin (another savagery—not with a sleeve!).
"No sleep after dinner!" he commanded. "We go to the Cannon Yard. I will fire a mortar myself. And then—to the bathhouse. But not to steam, but with wenches... that is, with musicians."

He jumped up and ran out of the chamber, shouting on the go:
"And prepare the regiments! In spring we march on the Turks! We'll take Azov! All Europe will gasp!"

The door slammed. Silence hung in the hall.
Boyars sat stunned by this whirlwind.
"On the Turks..." grunted Golitsyn. "We should deal with hunger, and he—on the Turks..."
"To the bathhouse with wenches..." shook his head the diak. "And eats meat during Lent."
"Pokes with a fork," added Mstislavsky with horror. "Pokes right into the Orthodox soul."

Vasily Shuisky rose slowly.
He looked at the remains of the feast. At the Tsar's plate, where lay an uneaten piece of "filthy" veal and glistened the forgotten fork.
"Do not grieve, boyars," he said quietly. "Not long left. He plans to build universities... But the foundation is rotten."

He took the fork from the table. Twirled it in his fingers. Sharp prongs flashed coldly.
"One can take food with a sharp thing," he said thoughtfully. "Or one can pick out a Tsar. If one knows how."

He stuck the fork forcefully into the wooden table. It went deep and vibrated like an arrow.
"Let's go sleep, boyars. A Russian man needs sleep after dinner more than Azov. And when we wake up—we will think how to press this Polish louse with a fingernail."

  Chapter 11. The Witch

*Moscow. May 1606.*

She entered Moscow not as a bride, but as a conqueror.
Marina Mniszech, daughter of the Sandomierz Voivode, sat in a red carriage upholstered in velvet and gold. The windows were open, and she looked at the city lying at her feet.
She saw wooden huts, black with time. Saw leaning fences. Saw bearded peasants in dirty coats falling prone in the dust at the sight of her cortege.

She brought a perfumed handkerchief to her nose.
"God, what a stench," she said in Polish to her maid. "And this is the capital? This is a pigsty, Basia. A huge, snowy pigsty."

"But you are now its queen, Pani," timidly answered the maid.

"Tsaritsa," corrected Marina. In her cold blue eyes there was neither joy nor love. Only steel calculation. "I came here not to live. I came to rule. I will force these barbarians to learn Latin and pray to our God. Or I will burn this city to the ground."

The carriage entered the Kremlin.
Dmitry met her on the porch of the Palace of Facets. He shone. He was in love—not so much with Marina as with the very fact that a *Polish aristocrat* became the wife of a runaway monk. This was the pinnacle of his triumph.

The wedding was set for Friday. On the eve of the feast of St. Nicholas.
For Moscow, this was sacrilege. To hold a wedding on a fast day, and before a big holiday—a sin.
But Dmitry laughed at calendars.
"I am the Tsar!" he shouted, trying on a Polish *kontusz*. "My will is God's law!"

The ceremony in the Assumption Cathedral turned into a farce.
Marina entered the temple in a Polish dress, with bare shoulders, which made old praying women cross themselves in horror. She didn't kiss the icons. She stood proudly, chin up, while Patriarch Ignatius (a Greek whom Dmitry put in place of old Job) hurriedly mumbled prayers.
When the crown was placed on her head, she didn't even bow. She only adjusted a curl.

And then there was the feast.
The Palace of Facets hummed. Two thousand Poles drank, yelled, and banged goblets.
They felt like masters.
A drunken nobleman, staggering, walked up to the icon of Nicholas the Wonderworker and poked it with a saber:
"Hey, Russian god! Drink with us! Or do you not respect the lords?"

The boyars sat, heads pulled into shoulders. They saw this blasphemy. They heard Poles call them "cattle."
Shuisky sat at the far end of the table. He didn't drink. He watched.
He saw Marina squeamishly push away a cup of Russian mead and demand Hungarian wine.
He saw Dmitry, drunk with happiness, try to hug his wife, and her coldly pulling away.

"Witch," whispered Shuisky with just his lips. "Cold, haughty witch. You are our best ally, Marina. You enrage the people even better than your husband."

At night, when the feast quieted, Dmitry entered the bedroom.
He had waited for this night for a year.
Marina sat before the mirror, combing long hair.
"Well finally," exhaled the Tsar, approaching her from behind. "Now we are alone. You are mine."

Marina turned sharply. A hairpin flashed in her hand.
"Don't dare," she said in an icy tone. "You are drunk, Dmitry. You reek of onions and this barbaric mead."

"I am your husband!" he was taken aback. "I gave you a kingdom!"

"You gave me a crown," she corrected. "And you will give yourself to me when you become a real king, not a clown."
She stood up. She was half a head taller than him.
"Remove your drunken friends from the palace. Make these bearded savages respect me. Build me a Catholic church in the Kremlin. And then... maybe... I will let you into my bed."

Dmitry stood stunned.
He could execute anyone. He could order the army to march to the end of the world.
But before this woman, he was powerless.
He was just Grishka Otrepyev, a serf who stole a throne but never became an aristocrat.

"Sleep," she tossed, blowing out the candle. "On the floor. Or go to your wenches. I am tired."

Dmitry left the bedroom.
It was dark in the corridor. Somewhere in the distance drunken Poles bawled songs.
He pressed his forehead against the cold wall.
He was on top of the world. He had a crown, power, a young wife.
And he was absolutely, deadly lonely.
Somewhere deep in the palace, in a cell, cried Ksenia Godunova, whom he traded for this ice statue.
*What have I done?* flashed in his drunken head. *I sold my soul to the devil, and the devil cheated me.*

And outside the window, in the darkness of Moscow streets, knives were already being sharpened.
The carnival was coming to an end.
The morning of ashes was coming.

---

  THE TIME OF TROUBLES

**(Historical Novel)**

  PART THREE. ASHES

  Chapter 12. The Fox in Ambush

*Moscow. Basement of the Shuisky House. Night of May 14, 1606.*

The conspiracy was born not in magnificent halls, but in a damp dungeon.
Vasily Shuisky sat at the head of a long table lit only by a stub of a tallow candle. Shadows on the walls danced a bizarre dance, turning boyar hats into horned helmets of demons.

Around sat those who just yesterday smiled at Tsar Dmitry: Prince Golitsyn, nobleman Tatishchev, okolnichy Ignatius.
They were all scared. They all understood: if they are exposed—tomorrow their heads will be sticking on stakes at the Spassky Gates.

"There is no time," said Shuisky quietly. His voice rustled like dry foliage. "Grishka collects regiments. In a week he will lead the army to Azov. If we let him leave—he will return a victor. And then you won't pick him off the throne."

"His guard is strong," grumbled Tatishchev, nervously gripping the knife handle. "A hundred Germans with halberds. And these cursed Poles. They sleep hugging sabers."

Shuisky sneered. In this sneer there was nothing human.
"Strength is not in halberds," he said. "Strength is in fear."

He leaned closer to the candle.
"We will not storm the palace head-on. We will be smarter. We will set a dog on the wolf."
"What dog?" Golitsyn didn't understand.
"The people," answered Shuisky. "The rabble. They are angry now. The Poles got to them. Yesterday a nobleman raped a merchant's daughter on Arbat. Day before yesterday hussars shot at icons. Moscow boils. We only need to bring a match."

He swept a heavy gaze over the conspirators.
"Here is the plan. On Saturday, at dawn, we ring the alarm. But we won't shout 'Down with the Tsar!'. We will shout: 'Lithuania beats boyars! Poles want to kill the Sovereign!'."

Tatishchev opened his mouth in amazement.
"Defend the Sovereign? But we want to kill him!"

"Fool," said Shuisky affectionately. "The people are stupid. If you tell them 'Let's go kill the Tsar,' they will be scared. The Tsar for them is a sacred figure. But if you say 'Saving the Tsar from Poles!'—they will take axes and go cut up the Poles. Chaos will begin. Guards will mix with the crowd. Poles will be killed. And under the noise..." Shuisky paused and expressively ran a finger across his throat. "We will enter the palace and do what is needed."

"And Basmanov?" asked Golitsyn. "He sleeps at the Tsar's door. He is a faithful dog."

"Basmanov is a traitor," cut off Shuisky. "He betrayed Godunov. Will betray this one too. And if not... Means, he will lie next to the master. Two dogs—one pit."

He blew out the candle. The basement plunged into darkness.
"Prepare people. Sharpen knives. On Saturday, as soon as the bell on Ilyinka strikes, the hunt begins. And remember: a wounded beast cannot be left. Finish him off."

  Chapter 13. St. Bartholomew's Night - Russian Style

*Moscow. May 17, 1606. 4 a.m.*

The city slept a heavy, predawn sleep.
Silence was torn by a bell strike.
One. Second. Third.
Heavy, hollow ringing from the Church of Elijah the Prophet hit the nerves of sleeping Moscow. The alarm from Red Square answered it. Then the bells of Zamoskvorechye joined in.

Moscow jumped up. People ran out into streets in just shirts, grabbing whatever came to hand—axes, boar spears, simply logs.
"What happened?! Fire?!"
Shuisky's horsemen were already rushing through streets.
"Orthodox Christians!" they yelled, tearing their throats. "Trouble! Lithuania beats boyars! Poles want to kill the Tsar and desecrate the faith! Save the Sovereign! Beat the Latins!"

The crowd roared. Hatred for arrogant lords accumulated over a year burst out.
"Beat the Poles!"
"Death to the filthy ones!"

Massacre began.
Poles quartered in Moscow houses didn't understand what was happening in their sleep. They were killed right in beds. Thrown out of windows. Those who tried to resist were lifted on pitchforks.
Blood flowed along pavements, mixing with morning dew. Women screamed, bells rang incessantly, turning the morning into a cacophony of hell.

At this time in the Kremlin, Dmitry woke up from noise.
He jumped out of bed, threw on a robe. Marina stirred nearby.
"What is it?" she asked sleepily. "Your peasants got drunk again?"

"This is an alarm," Dmitry turned pale. "This is a riot."

Basmanov burst into the door. He was already in a cuirass, with a drawn saber. His face was gray.
"Sovereign, trouble! Shuisky raised the people! They shout that Poles are killing you, but break into the palace themselves!"

"Where is the guard?!" shouted Dmitry, rushing about the room looking for a sword. "Where are the Germans?!"

"Germans hold the stairs, but there are few of them!" shouted Basmanov. "Leave, Sovereign! Through the back exit! I will hold them!"

Boot stamping and clank of iron was already heard in the corridor. The door cracked under blows.
Dmitry grabbed a halberd from one of the frightened guards.
"I am not a coward!" he shouted. "I am the Tsar! I will talk to them myself!"

He rushed into the corridor.
Battle boiled on the stairs. German mercenaries, faithful to their contract, fought with boyars and streltsy.
"I am here!" shouted Dmitry. "I am alive! Don't believe Shuisky!"

But no one listened to him.
"Here he is, the Thief!" yelled Tatishchev, seeing the Tsar. "Shoot him!"

A shot rang out. A bullet clicked against the stone wall next to Dmitry's head.
He realized: there will be no talk. This is murder.
He dropped the halberd and ran back, to the chambers.

Basmanov stood in the doorway like a rock. He understood this was his last fight.
He betrayed Fyodor Godunov to survive. Now he died for False Dmitry because there was nowhere to run.
"Back, dogs!" he roared, cutting the shoulder of the first attacker. "I am the Tsar's voivode!"

Tatishchev jumped up to him and point-blank, without honor, stabbed him in the stomach with a knife.
Basmanov gasped, dropped the saber, and slumped to the floor.
Boyars stepped over his body without looking.
"Where is Grishka?! Find the Thief!"

Marina Mniszech, hearing shots, acted as survival instinct dictated. She didn't look for her husband. She slipped under the fluffy skirts of her lady-in-waiting, huddling in the darkest corner.

Dmitry remained alone.
He locked the door to the chamber. Heard his guard being finished off behind the wall.
He ran to the window.
Below, in the yard, a sea of heads raged.
"There he is!" they saw him from below. "In the window!"
"Catch him!"

The door behind his back cracked. An axe broke the panel.
Dmitry looked down. Height—three sazhens. Below—stone yard.
But there—a chance. And here—death.
He crossed himself (for the first time in a long time sincerely) and climbed onto the cornice.

  Chapter 14. The Jump

*Moscow. The Kremlin. Morning of May 17, 1606.*

He stood on the cornice, pressing his back to the rough wall. Below, fifteen meters under him, the sea boiled. It was a sea of kaftans, beards, axes, and faces distorted with rage.
"There he is!" yelled someone from below. "Thief on the wall!"

The door to the chamber behind his back collapsed. Boyars appeared in the opening. Tatishchev, all in someone else's blood, swung a saber.
Dmitry looked at them. Then down.
"Lord," he whispered. "If You exist... save me. I wanted good after all."

He pushed off and jumped.
The flight lasted a moment, but it seemed an eternity to him. He saw the sky—clean, blue, indifferent. Saw the crosses of cathedrals.
The impact with the ground was terrible.
The crunch of bone drowned out the roar of the crowd. Dmitry rolled on the stones, howling from pain. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. His chest burned with fire.

Streltsy ran up to him immediately. Simple servitors who didn't know about the conspiracy.
They saw the Tsar—in a torn shirt, dirty, broken, crying. And pity, primordial Russian pity for the wretched, squeezed their hearts.
"Father..." one of the streltsy, an old man with a mustache, lowered his bardiche. "Alive?"
"Water..." moaned Dmitry. "I am your Tsar... Save me..."

The streltsy lifted him. Gently, like a child. Laid him on the stone foundation of an unfinished chamber. Someone brought a ladle of water.
"Don't fear, Sovereign," they hummed. "We won't let you be hurt. We'll call a healer now. We'll sort it out."

But then the crowd parted.
Vasily Shuisky approached the circle of streltsy. Behind him—Tatishchev and Prince Golitsyn.
Shuisky didn't run. He walked calmly, like a master who came out to check the work of farmhands.
"Who do you pity?" he asked quietly, but so that streltsy backed away. "Do you pity the Thief? The Heretic?"

"He is the Tsar, Prince Vasily," said the mustached one uncertainly. "You kissed the cross yourself."

Shuisky took a paper from his sleeve.
"I kissed the cross to the Terrible's son. And this—is Grishka Otrepyev. Defrocked monk. Warlock. His mother, Nun Martha, just confessed. Sent a letter: 'He is not my son, but a thief who crawled into the soul by deceit'."

It was a lie. Martha sat under lock and key and wrote nothing. But who will go verify now?
Dmitry tried to raise himself on an elbow.
"You lie, dog!" he shouted, spitting blood. "I am Dmitry! I..."

Tatishchev didn't let him finish.
He pulled out a pistol—heavy, with a wheellock.
"Enough of your barking, Grishka," he said. "Enough confusing the people."

A point-blank shot blew apart Dmitry's chest.
The body jerked and went quiet.
The head fell back, hitting the stone. Eyes, full of pain and surprise, glazed over.

The crowd froze.
And then, as if a dam burst, flooded forward.
Sanctity disappeared along with life. Now it was not a Tsar. It was carrion.
"Rope!" yelled men. "Drag him to the square!"

The corpse was grabbed by the legs. The rope was looped right on the neck.
He was dragged along the Kremlin cobblestones. The head beat against stones, leaving a bloody trail. The expensive shirt turned into rags.
Red Square met the procession with a roar.
The body was thrown onto the Lobnoye Mesto. To where a year ago Gavrila Pushkin read the charter of his accession.
Someone from the crowd, a buffoon in a torn kaftan, jumped up to the corpse and pulled a terrible, horned mask onto it.
"Here is a crown for you, Tsar!" he laughed, shoving a pipe into the dead hand. "Play for us! You loved fun!"

Laughter stood over the square. Terrible, hysterical laughter of people who just killed God and now tried to convince themselves they killed the Devil.

Shuisky watched this from the porch.
He didn't laugh. He crossed himself.
"It is finished," he said. "Clean up the trash."

  Epilogue. The Shot

*Moscow. Outpost at Serpukhov Gates. End of May 1606.*

They didn't want to accept him even dead.
First, he was buried in a cemetery for tramps. But frosts struck in May, beat the crops.
"It is Grishka taking revenge!" whispered the people. "The earth does not accept him! He is a warlock!"

The corpse was dug up.
He was burned in a bathhouse. The smoke was black and greasy, it lay low on the ground, and dogs howled all over Moscow.
A pile of ash remained. Gray, dirty ash, in which bones, meat, and dreams of a great Russia mixed.

A cannon—a huge mortar with a wide muzzle—was rolled out to the Serpukhov Gates.
A clerk, crossing himself, poured gunpowder into the muzzle.
Then an executioner approached with a bucket. He poured the ash over the gunpowder. Rammed it with wadding.
"Where to fire, Voivode?" asked the gunner.

Shuisky, sitting on a horse, pointed with a whip to the west.
To where the sun set. To where Poland was. To where this strange, red-haired, unhappy man came from.
"There," said Vasily Ivanovich. "Where it came from, let it return there."

The gunner brought the fuse.
It banged so that leaves fell from trees.
Clubs of smoke burst from the barrel. The wind picked up the gray cloud and carried it away from Moscow.
The Impostor's ash dispersed in the air, becoming part of the dust the country breathed.

Shuisky lowered his hand.
"The deed is done," he said to the boyars. "Now we will live the old way. Quietly. God-fearing."

He turned his horse toward the Kremlin.
He rode to be crowned for the tsardom.
He thought he put a full stop.
He didn't know that this shot was not the finale. It was the starting signal.
In forests, "Tsar Dmitry's Voivode" Bolotnikov was already wandering. In Starodub, a new False Dmitry was already trying on a crown. Poles were already sharpening sabers to avenge the massacre.

The ash they shot into the sky didn't disappear. It would settle on Russian fields, and new dragon's teeth would grow from it.
The Time of Troubles was just beginning.

But that... that is a completely different story.

**END OF THE SECOND NOVEL OF THE TRILOGY "THE HEAVY CROWN"**

© Copyright: Konstantin Sandalov, 2026