The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 7. The Slight Witch Potential

Upon hearing his name called, Besson nearly choked on the heel of bread he swiped from the table and was covertly sending crumb by crumb down the wailing pit of his stomach. He stared at Matvei wide-eyed. How can he smile at me, feed me kvas while waiting to point an accusing finger in front of Uncle Vasilii?

Look, I'm on your side, but not going to lie, I also want to know how you survived when other guys didn't. Why don't you just explain the whole thing?

Besson only wailed internally. Uncle Vasilii—surprise, surprise!—bailed him out of his misery.

"There'll be time to investigate Besson's mysterious disappearance, for he had the acumen to stay alive, Matvei," he said. "Three other lads lay dead, as well as Prince Dimitrii. We must focus all our efforts on questioning the citizens of Uglich, not my household."

Matvei bowed, flexible at the waist like a snake. "Yes, My Lord Prince."

Of course, he bows low. He's a Muscovite, Besson responded to my observation.

So are you, or at least your uncle thinks so.

He didn't protest.

"Run and fetch the nanny, the one who was with the boys that morning, for I want to speak to her above all else," Prince Vasilii ordered Matvei, who bowed even lower, despite his clever eyes flickering to Besson. "Naturally, I have to visit Harlot-Tsarina first, to see if her ramblings are anything besides womanly airs and hysterics. Besson, you're with me to scribe."

What was left of the bread, tumbled out of Besson's hands to the floor. He threw himself after the crumbs, onto his knees, groping for uncle Vasilii's hand. "Thank you, my benefactor, my Sire... thank you for your trust!"

The Prince yanked his hand out of Besson's grip. "Since you have such a penchant for menial labor, I was about to add!"

Matvei sniggered at the old man's dig, but Besson didn't care. He was too giddy with relief: uncle Vasilii placed him under his protection.

I didn't see it, but if he was sure, good for him! Sixteenth was his century, after all.

I tagged along, as all three men stepped outside.

The monastery's bell-tower threw a long, blue shadow. Purple tinged its edges, charcoal shot through the middle. The bells were ringing again, in a stately fashion, either marking the hour or calling to prayer. Prince Vasilii frowned at the westering sun.

"Where did the day go? The ninth hour prayer draws near. Lord willing, things will proceed swiftly."

Initially, they did. Prince Vasilii's group ferried across the Volga with extreme haste, thanks to the enlarged escort of musketeers looming on the other bank. Nikola's doing, no doubt.

Matvei scurried off in search of the nanny and uncle Vasilii said to Besson, "I wish to take a gander at the courtyard while the Harlot-Tsarina is getting ready for us. Lead the way."

Besson measured his steps to his uncle's dignified gait. The musketeers shadowed the two Shuiskiis—uncle and nephew—at a discreet distance. One man ran to the only brick building in the kremlin—the Prince's Palace—to announce Shuiskii's arrival. The rest of the escort parked in a shady corner, out of the earshot.

Someone had already pounded a cross into the ground to mark the exact spot where Dmitrii's body lay on the morning of May 15th 1591.

Besson walked around it twice, but there was no need. It was a crude construct of wooden planks hastily nailed together. Without a doubt, it was a typical Russian design with three arms: a long, vertical one; a shorter crosspiece; and the last, the shortest, lower on the staff, at an angle. It signified the spear used to pierce Christ's liver.