Prince Ivan by Peter Morwood

Put their names down on the next list, by my authority.”
    “Thank you, highness.”
    “Don’t thank me until you’re finished. Carry on.”
    “Then you should realize, highness, that I have long believed your father’s promise, though kindly meant, was impolitic. Such good fortune as befell the Tsar in his own marriage is – forgive me, highness – unlikely to occur twice. Most certainly not four times in a row. One would need to journey far to find it again.”
    Ivan looked at Strel’tsin very sharply, wondering what lay beneath that simple statement, knowing from long experience of the High Steward’s pedantic speech that he wasn’t given to making obscure references without good reason. And yet there was nothing to suggest he had made more than a comment. Certainly he hadn’t stopped talking for an instant.
    “Also your father had no need to consider the ambitions of the Great Prince of Kiev. You have. All of his children must marry so as to bind strong allies to Khorlov, otherwise one day Yuriy Vladimirovich will simply reach out and close his fist and there will be no more Khorlov. Only another vassal.”
    “One of these fine days the Great Prince of Kiev will reach out too far, and pull back a bloody stump,” said Ivan quietly. He had been expecting Strel’tsin’s lecture to bore or anger him, the way all the other litanies of policy and duty had done in the past. Instead, and to his private surprise, he’d found Dmitriy Vasil’yevich to be as passionate on this one subject – in his own dry and inimitable fashion – as his sister Katya had become on more personal matters.
    “Very well, First Minister.” Ivan used the High Steward’s second title deliberately, to emphasize that he understood the political significance of what had been said. “I understand your reasoning. Now you should understand mine.” He reached out to refill Strel’tsin’s cup, for during the course of the discussion the grey man had emptied it not once but three times.
    “Lords of lesser rank might make lesser allies, but at the same time they would also command lesser dowries.” Ivan smiled wryly, knowing he was beginning to sound like a merchant at the barter table. “More to the point, the sons and daughters of the lower nobility live in and around Khorlov, much closer than the estates of the great lords. They’ve been the friends of our youth and childhood. Including their names in your list might enable both the needs of the Tsardom and the Tsar’s promise to his children to be honoured.”
    Strel’tsin bowed again, getting to his feet this time. He raised the replenished mead-cup in a salute, then drained it and began gathering his papers together. “You reason well, highness. I shall put this proposal to the Tsar’s majesty at once.”
    Ivan watched him go, leaving the room in a curious gait that fell somewhere between his usual controlled, reptilian elegance and the bustle of a man eager to restore himself to something like good grace. The door closed behind him, leaving Ivan Aleksandrovich alone with the empty table and the half-empty mead jug. It occurred to him that he should have asked the names of Strel’tsin’s mysterious acquaintances… And then, without the High Steward’s beady eye on him, Ivan realized just what he’d done. It had nothing to do with Fellows in the Art, or anything so outlandish. He groaned softly, closing his eyes for several seconds like a man with a headache.
    Several headaches, and he knew them all by name.
    Not that he’d given any specific names to High Steward Strel’tsin, oh no. But Ivan knew in the instant it was too late to recall the words of his so-wise advice that when he suggested the inclusion of those sprigs of the lesser nobility who were his friends, he hadn’t given enough thought to all the implications. They were good fellows all, amused and amusing, fine companions for a day spent hunting in the great dark forests of birch and pine, or an evening