Russka (55 page)

How strange. Stephen had almost forgotten the existence of the English tract. He had not even looked at it for months, and only
kept it in order to remind himself, from time to time, of what might be said about rich monks by those who were free to do so.

He might even have pretended he did not know what it was, but for one thing: the very day that Wilson had given it to him, while it was fresh in his mind, he had written down the Englishman’s translation in the margin.

When they had dragged him to the refectory, it was this that they showed to the Tsar.

Ivan read it slowly; he read it aloud. From time to time he would stop, and, in a deep voice, point out to Stephen the precise nature of the disgraceful heresies written down in his own hand.

For though some Protestants, like the English merchants, were tolerated because they were foreigners – and better at least than Catholics – Ivan was deeply affronted by the tone of their writings. How could he, the Orthodox Tsar, condone the insolent, anti-authoritarian arguments they used? Only months ago, the previous summer, he had allowed one of these fellows, a Hussite from Poland, to expound his views before him and all his court. His reply had been magnificent. It had been written out on parchment pages and delivered to the ignorant foreigner in a jewelled box. In rolling phrases the Orthodox Tsar had crushed the impertinent heretic for ever.

‘We shall pray to Our Lord Jesus Christ,’ he had ended, ‘to preserve the Russian people from the darkness of your evil doctrines.’

And now here was this tall, solemn monk, hiding such filth in a monastery.

When he had finished reading the pamphlet he glowered at Stephen.

‘What have you to say to this?’ he intoned. ‘Do you believe these things?’

Stephen looked at him sadly. What could he say?

‘They are the views of foreigners,’ he said at last.

‘Yet you keep them in your cell?’

‘As a curiosity.’ It was true, or near enough.

‘A curiosity.’ The Tsar repeated the word with slow, deliberate contempt. ‘We shall see, monk, what other curiosity we can find for you.’

He glanced at the abbot.

‘You keep strange monks in your monastery,’ he remarked.

‘I knew nothing of this, lord,’ the old man miserably answered.

‘Yet my faithful Boris Davidov did. What am I to think of such negligence?’ He paused for a moment. ‘I need no church court to deal with this,’ he remarked. ‘Isn’t that so, abbot?’

The old man looked at him helplessly.

‘You did well, Boris,’ Ivan sighed, ‘to expose this monster.’

And indeed, even Boris had been astounded by the pamphlet Ivan had read out.

‘How shall we punish him then?’ the Tsar wondered aloud, his eyes moving round the room.

Then, when he saw what he wanted, he rose from his chair.

‘Come, Boris,’ he said, ‘come help me mete out justice.’

It took some time, yet even so, Boris did not feel pity. In that terrible night, heavy with wine, swept up in the Tsar’s hypnotic power, what they did seemed to him a final, fitting vengeance for the wrongs that he had suffered.

Let the priest die, he thought. Let the viper – a heretic too – die a thousand deaths.

He had seen many worse deaths than this. But the particular method seemed to amuse the Tsar that night.

Softly, almost gently, he had crossed the floor to where Mikhail was standing and taken out of his hand the chain by which the bear was led.

‘Come, Misha,’ he had said softly to the bear. ‘Come, Misha, Tsar of all the bears; the Tsar of Russia has something for you to do.’ And he led him over to the priest.

He had nodded to Boris, and Boris had quickly attached the other end of the chain to Stephen’s belt, so that now bear and man were linked together with just two paces between them.

Putting his long arm round Boris’s shoulder, the Tsar led him back to the table; then he called to the other
Oprichniki:
‘Now let the good Tsar of the bears deal with this heretic!’

At first they had had some difficulty. Stephen, saying nothing, had gone down on his knees, touched his head to the ground and then, crossing himself as he rose, stood quite still before the bear with his head bowed in prayer. The wretched animal, starved and miserable though it was, had merely looked from side to side in confusion.

‘Take my staff,’ Ivan had commanded, and the black-shirts had
circled the pair, prodding first one and then the other, pushing the priest at the bear from behind, jabbing at the animal with the sharp iron tip of Ivan’s staff.

‘Hoyda! Hoyda!’ Ivan cried. It was the cry of the Tatar drivers to their horses – his favourite encouragement. ‘Hoyda!’

They struck beast and man; they goaded the bear until, at last, confused, enraged, stung by the pain, it began to strike out at the man chained to it, since there was no other object within reach. And Stephen, bleeding from the blows from the mighty claws, could not help trying to ward them off.

‘Hoyda!’ cried the Tsar. ‘Hoyda!’

But still the bear did not finish the business in hand and, in the end, Ivan signalled his men to drag Stephen out and complete the execution in the yard.

Yet still the night was not over. Tsar Ivan had not done.

‘More wine,’ he commanded Boris. ‘Sit close by me, my friend.’

It seemed as if, for a time, the Tsar had forgotten the others in the room, put out of his mind, perhaps, even the priest he had just killed. He gazed moodily at the rings on his fingers.

‘See, here is a sapphire,’ he said. ‘Sapphires protect me. Here is a ruby.’ He pointed to a huge stone set in the ring on his middle finger. ‘A ruby cleanses the blood.’

‘You have no diamonds,
Gosudar
,’ Boris remarked.

Ivan reached out and took his hand gently, giving him a smile of surprising intimacy and frankness.

‘Do you know, they say that diamonds keep a man from rage and voluptuousness, but I have never liked them. Perhaps I should.’

Boris almost needed to pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming – that it was really the Tsar sitting here, side by side with him, talking to him like a brother; as intimately, as sweetly as a lover?

‘Here.’ Ivan took a ring off another finger. ‘Hold it in your hand, my Boris. Let us see. Ah, yes.’ He took the ring back after a few moments. ‘All is well. That is a turquoise. If it loses colour in your hand, it means your death. See,’ he smiled, ‘the colour is still there.’

He said nothing for a minute or so. Boris did not interrupt his thoughts.

Then suddenly Ivan turned to him.

‘So,’ he asked, ‘why did you hate that priest?’

Boris caught his breath. It was not said unkindly, rather the reverse.

‘How did you know, lord?’

‘I saw it in your face, my friend, when they brought him in.’ He smiled again. ‘He really was a heretic, you know. He deserved to die. But I would have killed him for you anyway.’

Boris stared down. Hearing such words from the Tsar he felt a welling of emotion. The Tsar, terrible though he was, was his friend. He could scarcely believe it. Tears started to his eyes. He himself had no real understanding of how lonely he had been all these years.

Suddenly he had a great urge to share his unhappy secrets with the Tsar who cared for him. Whom else should he tell, if not God’s representative upon the earth, the protector of the one true Church?

‘You have a son,
Gosudar
, to continue your royal line,’ he began. ‘I have no son.’

Ivan frowned.

‘You have time to beget sons, my friend, if it is God’s will,’ he murmured. ‘Have you then no son?’ he asked, surprised.

Boris shook his head slowly.

‘I hardly know. I have a son. Yet I think I have not a son.’

Ivan looked at him carefully.

‘You mean … the priest?’

He nodded.

‘I think so.’

Ivan said nothing for a little while, raising the goblet of wine to his lips.

‘You could get other sons,’ he said, and looked at Boris meaningfully. ‘I have had two wives. Both gave me sons. Always remember that.’

Boris pursed his lips. Emotion closed his throat. He nodded.

Ivan’s eyes travelled round the room slowly. They were a little glazed. His mind seemed far away.

After a little time he rose. Boris hastened to rise also, but Ivan motioned him, with a single, royal gesture, to prostrate himself before him on the ground. Then he gently lifted the hem of his long robe and cast it over Boris’s head, just as a bridegroom covers his bride at the marriage service.

‘The Tsar is your only father,’ he quietly intoned. Then, turning to the other
Oprichniki
, he called out: ‘Bring us our cloaks, and then await us here,’ And having put on his sable coat and his tall fur pointed hat, he said to Boris in a low voice: ‘Come, follow me.’

There were more stars now, in the depth of the night. Grey, ragged clouds passed slowly over the monastery as Tsar Ivan, his staff tapping on the frozen snow, made his way like a ship with unfurled sails across the empty yard and out through the gate towards the River Rus. Boris followed just behind.

Solemnly the high Tsar strode, down the path, over the river’s thick ice, and up the track to the little town above.

How silent it was. The high tower, with its sharp, pointed tent roof, stood out boldly against the patches of starry sky behind.

Still speaking no word, Ivan led him up the path from the river to the gateway. The little gate at the side, manned by a single night watchman, was still open. Ivan passed through, into the starlit market square. And now he turned.

‘Where is your house?’

Boris pointed and was about to lead the way, but already the Tsar had faced round again and was striding on, across the open space, his long staff’s tap, tap, the only sound in the town except for the faint rustle of his long robes.

Boris wondered what he intended.

The Tsar did not pause as he came level with the little church whose dome shone softly in the starlight; he continued down the street until Boris ran to open the door of his house. Here, before the door, Ivan halted.

‘Call down your wife. Let her come without delay,’ he ordered in a deep voice.

Not knowing what was to follow, Boris ran up the staircase and opened the door.

A single lamp was burning in one corner. Elena lay dozing, with the baby boy in her arms. She started to see Boris’s pale face, in such a state of nervousness, suddenly at the door. But before either of them could utter, they both heard Tsar Ivan’s deep voice below: ‘Let her come down at once. The Tsar is waiting.’

‘Come,’ Boris whispered.

Still not fully awake, utterly mystified, Elena got up. She was dressed only in a long woollen shift and felt slippers. Holding the
sleeping infant in her arms, she came out to the top of the staircase, scarcely understanding what was going on.

As she came out, she stared at Boris and, glancing down at his hands, her eyes suddenly opened wide in horror. He, too, looked down.

He had not noticed before; it must have happened when he was goading the bear.

‘Your hands are covered in blood,’ she cried.

‘I stabbed your dogs; they barked too loud at a late guest,’ came the deep voice from below. It was an old, bitter Russian jest. ‘Come down,’ the voice went on.

She turned to Boris.

‘Who is this?’

‘Do as you are told,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Hurry.’

Uncertainly, she descended the stairs.

‘Now come to me,’ the Tsar’s voice softly commanded.

She felt the icy night air on her face and tried to cover the child. She walked over the frozen snow to where the tall figure stood, not knowing, in her confusion, how she should salute him.

‘Let me see the child,’ Ivan said. ‘Put him in my arms.’ And, letting his staff rest against his shoulder, he stretched out his long hands.

Hesitantly, she passed over the child. He took it gently. It stirred, but did not wake. Nervously, under a dark stare from his eyes, she stepped back a pace or two.

‘So, Elena Dimitrieva,’ Ivan said solemnly, ‘did you, too, know that the priest Stephen was a heretic?’

He saw her start violently. There was, at that moment, a large gap in the clouds and the whole of the sky above Russka was clear. A quarter moon, now visible over the gateway, sent a pale light along the street. He could see her face clearly. Boris was standing to his left.

‘The heretic priest is dead,’ he said. ‘Even the bears could not abide him.’

There was no mistaking it. He saw her face. It was not just the horror which some weak women felt at hearing of a death, even a grisly one. It seemed as if she had received a body blow. There was no doubt: she had loved him.

‘Are you not pleased to hear that an enemy of the Tsar is dead?’

She could not answer.

He transferred his gaze to the child. It was a small, fair infant, not yet a year old. Miraculously, it was still sleeping. He looked at it carefully in the moonlight. It was hard to tell anything by its features.

‘What is the child’s name?’ he murmured.

‘Feodor,’ she whispered back.

‘Feodor.’ He nodded slowly. ‘And who is the father of this child?’

She frowned. What was he talking about?

‘Was it my faithful servant, or was it a heretic priest?’ he gently enquired.

‘A priest? Who should the father be if not my husband?’

‘Who indeed?’

She looked innocent, but she was probably lying. Many women were deceitful. Her father, he remembered, was a traitor.

‘The Tsar is not to be deceived,’ he intoned. ‘I ask you again: did you not love Stephen, the heretic priest I have rightly killed?’

She opened her mouth to protest; yet, because she had loved him, because this tall figure terrified her, found herself unable to speak.

‘Let Boris Davidov decide,’ he said, and looking towards Boris asked: ‘Well, my friend, what is your judgement?’

Boris was silent.

Now, standing between them both, and with this child, half a stranger to him, in the freezing night, an extraordinary mixture of ideas and emotions crowded into his brain. Was Ivan offering him a means of escape, a divorce? No doubt the Tsar could arrange such a thing: the abbot, to be sure, would do whatever the Tsar said.