finest garments. It was fairly certain that neither the visiting Princes nor any of the Tatar delegation were at risk of being chosen as husbands by any of his sisters, though if Manguyu Temir found himself married to Yekaterina it would assure peace in all the Russias for years to come. Not even an Ilkhan of the Sky-Blue Wolves could survive that experience for long without being thoroughly domesticated.
Those most at risk – and the risk was entirely his own thanks to too much mead and not enough thought – were the sort of people that Tsarevich Ivan wouldn’t let near his horses, never mind his sisters.
The feast was held in the great Hall of Audience and began in its usual fashion, with the principal guests being guided to the places deemed proper to their greater or lesser dignity. From those places they could be amused by the scuffling as everyone else endeavoured to find seating that suggested higher rank than they actually possessed.
Only Ivan didn’t laugh; he merely smiled thinly and watched with narrowed eyes because most of those doing the scuffling were his own splendidly attired companions. For all their fine clothing, and for all that every one of them was plainly hoping to catch the eye of one or other of the Tsarevnas, he could see that whenever their concentration slipped they still behaved at table as they’d always done. That was a relief: it made what he had been saying about them all the more easily believed.
Except for its function, this banquet was like all others during Maslenitsa , a celebration of the end of winter and a preparation for the Great Fast that followed. In his younger day Archbishop Levon had tried to insist that no meat should be served, and no alcohol drunk. He’d finally given up the task, saying that he might as well keep winter at bay by collecting each snowflake with tweezers. Old Tsar Andrey had been a man who enjoyed all the pleasures God sent, and hadn’t been about to give up a single one of them. He had agreed to the Lent fast only on the grounds that it would give larders depleted by Butter Week a chance to be restocked in time for another feast at Easter. Tsar Aleksandr was his father’s son in that respect, as well as in so many others, and the quality of his table was famous.
Before the eating began, the Archbishop read a grace and choristers from the cathedral sang an anthem. Then a figure was brought into the hall and set upright in the only hearth that had no fire in it. The figure was made of straw, but it had been left out of doors for long enough that it was crusted with snow, wore a long beard and hair of icicles. The Tsar rose to his feet and took a copper cup from the table in front of him.
The cup was filled with a mixture of lamp-oil and distilled spirit, and everyone present watched as it was emptied over the straw man, then set alight – not by sorcery, for this one ritual, but with a burning brand. Despite its covering of snow the figure’s straw was dry, and it burned fast and fiercely until nothing remained in the hearth but a mound of black and grey ash with small flames dancing around it. The smell of the burning was sweet, since scent and incense had been mixed with both the straw and the oil. Tsar Aleksandr lifted another cup, this one filled with vodka, and held it high in salute to the fire. “Winter is dead!” he said, then drank the vodka down in one gulp and flung the cup into the fireplace, where it shattered and the remains of the vodka burned blue.
“Winter is dead!” cried everyone, even the foreigners – at least, once the ceremony had been explained to them. It was as good an excuse as any to lay hands on the first drink of the evening. A shower of cups crashed into whichever of the great hearths was closest, and then the serious business of the feast began with the arrival of the first tureens of soup.
There was shchi and borshch , salty rassolnik and solyanka with mushrooms, great platters of black bread hot from the
Those most at risk – and the risk was entirely his own thanks to too much mead and not enough thought – were the sort of people that Tsarevich Ivan wouldn’t let near his horses, never mind his sisters.
The feast was held in the great Hall of Audience and began in its usual fashion, with the principal guests being guided to the places deemed proper to their greater or lesser dignity. From those places they could be amused by the scuffling as everyone else endeavoured to find seating that suggested higher rank than they actually possessed.
Only Ivan didn’t laugh; he merely smiled thinly and watched with narrowed eyes because most of those doing the scuffling were his own splendidly attired companions. For all their fine clothing, and for all that every one of them was plainly hoping to catch the eye of one or other of the Tsarevnas, he could see that whenever their concentration slipped they still behaved at table as they’d always done. That was a relief: it made what he had been saying about them all the more easily believed.
Except for its function, this banquet was like all others during Maslenitsa , a celebration of the end of winter and a preparation for the Great Fast that followed. In his younger day Archbishop Levon had tried to insist that no meat should be served, and no alcohol drunk. He’d finally given up the task, saying that he might as well keep winter at bay by collecting each snowflake with tweezers. Old Tsar Andrey had been a man who enjoyed all the pleasures God sent, and hadn’t been about to give up a single one of them. He had agreed to the Lent fast only on the grounds that it would give larders depleted by Butter Week a chance to be restocked in time for another feast at Easter. Tsar Aleksandr was his father’s son in that respect, as well as in so many others, and the quality of his table was famous.
Before the eating began, the Archbishop read a grace and choristers from the cathedral sang an anthem. Then a figure was brought into the hall and set upright in the only hearth that had no fire in it. The figure was made of straw, but it had been left out of doors for long enough that it was crusted with snow, wore a long beard and hair of icicles. The Tsar rose to his feet and took a copper cup from the table in front of him.
The cup was filled with a mixture of lamp-oil and distilled spirit, and everyone present watched as it was emptied over the straw man, then set alight – not by sorcery, for this one ritual, but with a burning brand. Despite its covering of snow the figure’s straw was dry, and it burned fast and fiercely until nothing remained in the hearth but a mound of black and grey ash with small flames dancing around it. The smell of the burning was sweet, since scent and incense had been mixed with both the straw and the oil. Tsar Aleksandr lifted another cup, this one filled with vodka, and held it high in salute to the fire. “Winter is dead!” he said, then drank the vodka down in one gulp and flung the cup into the fireplace, where it shattered and the remains of the vodka burned blue.
“Winter is dead!” cried everyone, even the foreigners – at least, once the ceremony had been explained to them. It was as good an excuse as any to lay hands on the first drink of the evening. A shower of cups crashed into whichever of the great hearths was closest, and then the serious business of the feast began with the arrival of the first tureens of soup.
There was shchi and borshch , salty rassolnik and solyanka with mushrooms, great platters of black bread hot from the
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