The murder knife lay on the ground next to the curled fingers of the dead prince, as if the Dmitrii was reaching for it to play one more game. His blood stained the blade with a myriad of shades of red.
Uncle Vasilii ignored the knife. He traced the prince's clothes on the painting with his thumb. "Was this how blood spattered on Dmitrii's chest?"
"Yes," Besson said.
"This dark stuff..." Uncle Vasilii's nail dug into a maroon pool under the body, then followed the splatter pattern through the grass. "That's also his blood?"
"Yes."
Uncle Vasilii's attention remained on the canvas, not his woozy nephew. He kept digging with his nails whenever he wanted to study a detail.
Besson fixated on the paint lodging underneath his uncle's nails. It was the color of dry blood. The last hints of pink drained from his cheeks, leaving him ashen.
Oblivious, Uncle Vasilii nearly scratched a hole in one corner of the painted courtyard. "What's this?"
"A ladder, Uncle. Sire. The repairs are being made to the kremlin's wall."
"On whose orders? Do you know?"
"I don't know, Uncle."
Because I am a wretched fool! His stomach churned with guilt and frustration over a long list of his imaginary shortcomings. It nearly swept me under—my dad made me feel useless all the time.
It's absurd! You are not some foreman. You're... whatever you are. Hello! Earth to Besson!
Uncle Vasilii's next clipped question was far more successful in snapping Besson out of it than me. "What's this?"
Besson leaned over to see what his uncle was picking at.
The prince's cap rolled away, exiting the shadow of the wall. Sunlight shone upon it, creating a burst of fabric color, fur trim and jewels. Fresh paint, ground from costly minerals, glowed, sparkled, popped off the canvas. What's not to love?
"This is sunlight, Uncle. It reflects off the grass and... and..." The color returned to Besson's cheeks in a flush, as well as overtaking his ears and neck. He was his uncle's nephew in that regard.
The interplay of light and color made me think of Monet's airy landscapes. Way ahead of your time, dude. But, high five for trying! Monet must have bled to Besson via our bond and made an impression, because his mouth hung open.
"Close your mouth, you walking misfortune." Uncle Vasilii heaved a sigh. He didn't look to check if Besson snapped his jaws as commanded, but kept squinting. The sausages of his fingers with dirty nails moved the painting farther and farther away from his eyes, as if he were nearsighted.
"Sunlight, he says... reflections... Hmm."
That's what he is, nearsighted, I thought vindictively on Besson's behalf.
"Hmm. Hmm. Something is there, but it's too smudged to make out the shape of it. The icons and manuscript illustrations show things in finer detail."
"This is what I saw," Besson mumbled.
Louder! For those in the back! You tell them!
My timid sixteenth century friend didn't perk up, let alone raise his voice. "Nobody had properly instructed me in the craft, uncle."
If I still had my head, I'd bang it on the wall, but Besson cleared his throat like it wasn't just grovelling.
"However, there is an icon painting shop here at the monastery."
Did I detect an attempt at persuasion?
"If your wish, Sire, I can—"
"Shush, boy." The spot on the painting concerned Uncle Vasilii far too much to fall a victim to Besson's scheming. "If this is sunlight, as you say, what is it reflecting from? More of the prince's possessions? A ring, perhaps?"
"It's just a smudge, Vasilii." Father Nikifor also cleared his throat. "Besson could be a great asset to our community here, so perhaps... ahem. Besson?"
"Beg your pardon, Holy Father, but this isn't a smudge." Besson lifted his gaze from the floor. Progress!
Think, Besson. The electrical current of premonition coursed between us. What did you see in the grass by the hat?
Blood. The stink of urine that I couldn't paint. I couldn't put things right. His eyes were so innocent... so many shades of blue... and he was dead.
Besson's dread choked me up, but he kept pouring his soul out to me.
I... I spent hours mixing the pigments for Dmitrii's eyes. Innocent, reflecting the sky, and so surprised.
You got them right.
He chuckled while his fingers knitted together. Joints snapped. Even the master of the workshop stopped chiding me for wasting the materials on a profane subject when he saw the eyes. Those eyes beheld Our Lord... that's what he said.
Your master knows what he's talking about. In my timeline, I had precious few buddies, let alone friends. By law of nature, Besson was long dead, and maybe I was too, but I felt like I had found a friend at last. Dude, we have to focus on the glint of the reflection before your uncle loses it.
I saw—
Don't tell me, for I'll see when you see it. Tell them.
"It was a shiny bit of metal, shaped like a holy cross of a foreign design," Besson said, creasing his brows. "Not a Latin one. Different. It had two arms and they are of equal length, crossed perpendicular."
It was basically a plus sign, but Besson did a great job.
Uncle Vasilii exchanged a glance with the priest. "A Greek one?"
"Unlikely, but nothing else fits."
Uncle Vasilii's eyes fastened on his nephew's face. My incorporeal soul squirmed, trying to get out of the way. The birch floor-board rocked under Besson's feet. He touched the sun-warmed wall for support and it soothed both of us.
"Was a Greek cross found on the prince? Brought in with the body?" Uncle Vasilii asked Father Nikifor after scrutinizing Besson to his satisfaction.
The monk hummed for a bit, considering. "If so, I wasn't told."
"Could you arrange for me to speak with the monks who prepared the body for burial, Holy Father?"
"It will be done."
"Were there many foreigners in Uglich on May 15th, the day the boy-prince died?"
"More than usual," Father Nikifor replied. "A score of merchants from Albion attended their warehouses. Then there was this Latin man, either a pharmacist or an astrologer."
"What became of them?"
"The rioters tore the Latin to pieces before I could intervene." Father Nikifor crossed himself in memory of a Christian soul. "May the Almighty absolve the ignorant of their sins."
The thought of dying in a foreign land from the natives' wrath chilled me to the bone, but it didn't seem to affect Uncle Vasilii in the slightest. He just nodded along with the monk's words. "And the English merchants? I trust they survived?"
"Aye, beaten savagely, yet survived. Once it's safe to travel, they'll make their way to Moscow to plead with our gracious Tsar Fedor for compensation. Someone set flames to their store."
"The English like nothing more than to whine for trade concessions," Uncle Vasilii grumbled. "Are there any Greek monks at the Resurrection monastery?"
"None." Father Nikifor looked above my head, focusing on something outside the cozy room and our company. "This Greek cross reminds me of a manuscript, however. I copied it a few years ago for our treasury and I think there was a mention... Allow me to search the library, and I might have something for you."
"I shall be grateful beyond measure," Uncle Vasilii said. "Besson?"
My poor friend relaxed, but his arms snapped to his sides as soon as he was called upon. "Yes, Sire?"
"You know your letters? How to read or write?" Uncle Vasilii asked.
"Aye."
By the expression on Uncle Vasilii's face, it was hard to say if this admission annoyed or pleased him. My dad used to look like that at the drawings when mom pinned them to the walls.
Mother... Besson's sigh wafted to me along the bond. Mother!
My heart squeezed in response to a pulse of pain. My mom pixelated before my eyes, and I didn't know what happened to her afterwards. I wish I did, even if it confirmed my worst fears. He knew what happened to his mother, and he wished he were unsure.
"With your permission, I would like to talk to my nephew in private, Father Nikifor," Uncle Vasilii said, while Besson and I ached in unison.
"Fare thee well."
The priest blessed everyone in the room before exiting the guesthouse. Once he was gone, Uncle Vasilii rummaged through the smallest of his travel chests, producing writing implements.
All the while, he grumbled. "Teaching a Shuiskii to stain his fingers with ink and paint like a lowly scribe! A prince! On whose orders would they do such a thing, I ask you?"
"On your orders." Besson probably meant it for me, but it came out loud. He choked up and stared in horror. "You... you ordered me schooled in reading on the advice of your bosom friend, the Regent Boris Godunov. Writing, I learned of my volition, as it was far more irresistible to me."
Same here. Anything that involved soiling a blank sheet of paper tempted me.
"If you know how to write, then stop talking already and write!"
Besson slumped on the bench, then set out the inkwell and paper next to him.
Uncle Vasilii folded his arms behind his back and paced the guesthouse as he dictated.
Written on May 19, on the feast day of Hieromartyr Patrick, Year of our Lord 1591.
The following matters are to be looked into urgently.
Question the monks of the Resurrection Monastery about the possessions and the state of the body of the child Dmitrii, Prince of Uglich. To pay particular attention if a cross of Greek design is on the prince.
Question foreign traders from Albion. Search the possessions of the said traders for any poisons or other suspicious items, including the cross of Greek design.
Question Maria Nagaya, the consort of Tsar Ivan the Terrible and the mother of the deceased prince.
Arrange for interviews and put to question the citizens of Uglich who bear witness to Dmitrii's death, as well as the related deaths of Osip Volokhov, Mikhail Bitiagovskii and fifteen others in the City of Uglich.
Besson was barely breathing while he wrote, terrified of smudging the ink with his trembling fingers.
Stop fretting, I told him. Or your hands will tremble.
Tears welled up in his eyes—and mine stung in response immediately.
I didn't see Dmitrii die, he confessed, but I saw Osip go down, proclaiming his innocence until the end. He wasn't the brightest fellow, but he wasn't a cutthroat. None of the prince's playmates could have done it. Osip, Mikhail... they're innocent.
Oh. Sorry. I'm sorry. But... How can you be sure of that?
The floorboards screeched under Uncle Vasilii's heavy footfalls.
Besson startled, dabbed a tear covertly on his sleeve and went on with his task. Before he could sand the paper properly, his uncle peeked over his shoulder, muttered good enough and swiped the memo away. Apparently, the man only hated smudges on the paintings.
"Run, find me Nikola, Besson. Tell him to arrange an escort and bring him back here. Then we'll go see the Harlot-Tsarina."
Uncle Vasilii winced when he spoke of the harlot.
Besson winced when hearing Nikola's name.
Harlots didn't scare him one bit, even if she was Maria Nagaya, the mothers of the dead prince. But Nikola... Nikola was the weapon master who had terrified him for forever and a day. Nicknamed Telega—the Wagon—he lifted wagons when the wheelwrights needed to do repairs. Some said he performed this feat with the horses still hitched. Besson found this last rumor easy to credit. Nikola was about brutal strength, not the finer details.
Nikola, on Uncle Vasilii's orders, took charge of the musketeers sent from Moscow to keep Uglich calm. Deadly calm, if need be.
I could understand Besson's hesitation about the reunion. The guy and my former gym teacher sounded like twins. Maybe I wasn't the only one with a sixteenth century alter-ego?
"Why are you still here?" Uncle Vasilii asked Besson. "Run. I need to pray and speak to the holy monks."
Besson dashed for the doors. The question he dreaded didn't come up again, but it hung over his head like a storm cloud. Why did you leave Dmitrii's side, Besson?