‘And what is the alternative? The princes of Rus? The Grand Dukes who never lifted a finger to help Riazan or Murom when the Tatars came?
‘The Tatars are strong and they love the profits of trade. Therefore I will cooperate with them.’
Yanka was white.
Before her, at that moment, rose up the vision of her mother, falling before her eyes. Then the Tatar with the missing ear. Then her brother, disappearing across the darkening steppe.
So he was for the Tatars.
She had not known. How could she, a poor Slav peasant from a little village? She had not understood that, for more than a thousand years, Sarmatian, Khazar, Viking and Turk, the men of steppes, of rivers and of seas, the powerful wanderers on the earth, had seen the land and the people of Russia only as objects for their use, to be ruled for profit.
Several of the older men were nodding wisely.
It was fortunate that, standing quietly in a corner, virtually forgotten, she was too shocked even to speak.
But at that moment, she felt more utterly defiled by the nights she had spent with Milei than she ever had, even in the depths of her despair, by those spent with her father.
It was a week later that she first suspected she might be pregnant.
She did not tell him. She said nothing to anyone. In any case, there was no one to talk to. But what should she do? At first, she did not know. She walked around Novgorod each day, trying to make up her mind.
Looking for quiet places, away from the noisy bustle of the narrow streets, she visited the outlying monasteries, and the prince’s hunting grounds to the north of the city. She came to know the place quite well.
Yet the better she came to know Great Novgorod, the less she liked it. Even in the nearby Yuriev Monastery, where she had expected to discover a peaceful haven, she found a huge, square cathedral that was so high and harsh that it seemed almost cruel.
Similarly, when she entered the church of those gentlest of saints, Boris and Gleb, what she saw was a big, rich building, housing pompous oak coffins of the nobility at one end. An old woman told her: ‘This place was built by Sadko – the merchant in the song.’ And as she gazed round at the impressive interior the old woman added approvingly, ‘Yes, he was rich.’
Day by day, Yanka was discovering that this was all that mattered in Novgorod – how much money one had.
Not only when she went to the market, but at the inn or in the streets, whoever she talked to seemed to speak of their neighbours and to value them only by their wealth. To them, she realized, I am not a person. I am only a sum of money. And as the time passed, this harsh, unyielding world began to repel her. I don’t belong here, she confessed to herself. I have no wish to remain.
It was not easy, being obliged to make love to the boyar at nights, and going out into this harsh, mercantile world by day. The image of herself that she had once conceived – as a silver birch tree, withstanding wind and snow – no longer helped her. If she closed her eyes and thought of it at nights, it seemed puny and far away. By day she became depressed and listless; at night, full of self-loathing. There was no sanctuary.
Sometimes she would visit the lesser churches. There were many of these, in wood and stone. The smaller stone churches were especially beautiful to look at. The Novgorod architects not only favoured the placing of Greek crosses over the domes, as was often done in Russia now, but they liked to alter the shape of the old Byzantine dome. Instead of the broad old cupola, like an upturned saucer, they sometimes squeezed the top up into a point, so that it resembled a helmet. And more elaborate still, they might even give the sides of this helmet dome a slight bulge so that it looked like a large, shining onion.
They were miniature versions of the cathedrals, with a main chamber above and a smaller cellar below where services could be held when it was cold. Yet though they were of stone, many of these churches had been built by boyars and merchants just like those who had visited Milei that terrible evening. Instead of the high galleries where princes could look down upon the people, they contained on their upper floors little corner chapels where the family of the founding merchant could worship and where, often as not, the merchant’s dark bearded image stared out severely, yet smugly, from a fresco on the wall.
Perhaps it was her mood, but these places, too, soon filled her with repulsion.
And still she was pregnant with the boyar’s child. What was she to do?
She had no doubt he would provide for the child. But what would become of her? Where would she live? And would she ever get a husband? Though the married women in Slav villages might take part in the careless sex that sometimes followed the end of a drunken feast night, it was shame to any man to find his young wife not a virgin. If his neighbours knew, they would probably paint his door posts as a sign of contempt. An unmarried woman with a child stood few chances.
In any case, she hated Milei now, and the child was his.
To her own surprise, she found that often she had no feeling for it. The little life inside her belonged to him and to this big city. She was carrying this burden against her will. She wanted to be rid of it, turn her back on Novgorod, and flee to another world.
‘I do not want it,’ she often murmured. ‘I am not ready for this. And it ties me to him.’
Yet while she was full of this resentment, a part of her yearned to give life; and her instincts told her that the further she went into her pregnancy, the more terrible it would seem to lose the child.
Sometimes she did not know what she wanted. She either walked about listlessly, or sat alone, staring into space.
Milei, sensing her discomfiture with him, yet not troubling to find out the cause, sent for her less.
In January she finally decided: I will get rid of it.
But how? She knew that girls sometimes ended unwanted pregnancies by jumping off a gate. Somehow she had no wish to try that. So what to do? For two days she wandered around thinking that perhaps she would, thanks to some divine intervention, slip and fall on an icy street and have a miscarriage. She went and prayed before Novgorod’s most sacred icon – Our Lord of the Sign. But though the icon had once preserved the city against the men of Suzdal, it did nothing for her. At last, in despair, she began to search around the market place. Surely there must be someone there who would know how to do such things.
She found her one afternoon, in mid-January: a hard-faced old woman with a wart on one hand, who sold dried herbs at a little stall near the river.
When she explained what she needed the old woman seemed neither surprised nor shocked, but her small, brown eyes gave her a careful, cold look.
‘How many months?’
Yanka told her.
‘Very well. But it will cost you money.’
‘How much?’
The old woman was silent for a minute.
‘Two grivnas.’
She gasped. A small fortune.
The old woman looked at her, but showed no sign of giving anything away.
‘Well?’
‘Can you be sure …?’
‘You won’t have the child.’
‘And I …’
‘You’ll come to no harm.’
That afternoon, Yanka took the bale of silk that Milei had given her and sold it for two grivnas.
‘Come back this evening, at dusk,’ the old woman told her.
As the sun fell over the frozen marshes late that afternoon, she followed as the old woman shuffled along a path that led by the southern outskirts of the city. On their left were huts; on their right, the frozen river. The sun in the west was sinking, a distant red disk going down into the snows like a sigh; downstream the palisades across the river, caught in icy shadow, looked black as a raven before the red sky.
She led Yanka to a small izba at the end of a little lane. Beside the izba was a little outhouse. She opened the door of this, and motioned Yanka in. It contained various sacks, a table covered with little pots of strange-smelling herbs, and a single benc
h. It was cold.
‘Sit there and wait,’ the old woman said, then vanished.
When she reappeared, she was carrying a small tub which she placed in front of Yanka. Then she went away again.
Some time passed before she came back. This time she had a large pail of hot water which she poured into the tub. A cloud of steam arose. She brought two more pails, until the tub was half full.
Then, from the table, she took several of the wooden pots and began to pour their contents into the water, stirring with a long wooden spoon. A sharp, almost acrid smell began to fill the room. Yanka had never smelled such a thing before, and it made her eyes water.
‘What is it?’
‘Never mind. Now take off your boots, pull up your shift and put your feet in the tub,’ the old woman ordered.
Yanka did so, and immediately cried out in pain. The water was scalding.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ the woman said, and pushed her feet down again. ‘Now stand up.’
As she did so, she almost toppled over. The pain in her feet was terrible.
The old woman caught her, steadied her, then pulled her shift right up, exposing her stomach.
Suddenly she felt helpless just like a little girl again, as if her father were making her lie down on the bench. The sharp fumes from the tub were almost choking her. She looked down and saw that not only her feet, but her legs were turning bright red.
‘You’re boiling me,’ she moaned.
‘More or less,’ the old woman said, and poured in some more hot water.
The minutes passed. The pain in her legs had turned to an ache, then almost to numbness. She had grown used to the smell, though her eyes were still streaming. When she thought she would fall, or faint, the old woman gave her a staff to hold. And still, from time to time, she poured in more hot water and added more of the pungent herbs, whatever they were.
A whole hour passed. Then Yanka fainted.
When she came to, she found the old woman rubbing her bright red feet and legs with a paste of some kind.
‘They’ll hurt for a while. They’ll feel scalded, but they aren’t,’ she said calmly.
‘And the baby …?’
‘Come and see me in the market, the day after tomorrow, at sundown.’
Yanka slept late the next morning.
The day after, as instructed, she walked by the little stall. The old woman glanced up at her, her hard eyes giving nothing away.
‘Well?’
Yanka nodded.
‘It worked. It’s all right.’
‘As I told you,’ the old woman said and turned away, as if she were of no further interest.
There was nothing left for her now. There was nothing in Novgorod. She tried to avoid Milei for fear that he might make her pregnant again. But what was she to do next?
Soon, while the snows were still on the ground, she knew that the boyar meant to take the road back to the east. But where should she go? She was determined not to stay in Novgorod.
Strangely, despite all that had happened, she missed her father’s familiar face. She had no wish to return to live with him, yet she would like to see him again. Without him, she was still utterly alone.
Yet on what possible terms should she return? Had the boyar some plans for her? Or did he intend to leave her at some town or roadside inn and pass on into the distance? She had no idea; and being completely unsure what she wanted herself, she did not care just then to ask him.
It was at this time that she found one place of sanctuary. She discovered it three days after her abortion.
It was a church, but not a stone one. It lay in the Potters end, on the St Sophia side of the city, and it was constructed entirely of wood. It was dedicated to St Blaise.
This saint was a typical example of how, at the level of the simple people, the Christian Church had wisely adapted itself to the customs and affections of the Slavs and Finns it converted. St Blaise was a saint who protected animals. To all intents, the saint was identical to the old Slav god Veles, protector of cattle, god of well-being and wealth.
Something about the atmosphere of the dark wooden building with its tall sloping roof made her feel at home. From the outside, it was more like a high barn, yet inside, with its low ceiling and its dark little icons and gleaming candles, it had the warmth and intimacy of an izba. True, the logs it was made of were huge. It was as solid as a fortress. But the priests, the old men trying to look busy, the stout women patiently sweeping or polishing the candlesticks that stood everywhere, all seemed friendly. As she stood, sometimes for an hour or more, in front of the icon of St Blaise, she felt that, perhaps, even in her own miserable and useless existence, there might be hope.
‘Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy,’ she would sometimes whisper to herself.
Once, as she turned from the icon, she saw a tall, dark-bearded priest who looked at her kindly and said: ‘Our Father loves all His children. Above all He loves those who have fallen and who repent.’ And Yanka, knowing that he had seen into her heart, felt tears crowd into her eyes as, with head bowed, she quickly left the church.
It was a few days later that she met a young man.
There was, at first glance, nothing exceptional about him. He was about twenty-two or three, she supposed, a little above average height, with a brown beard. His cheeks were rather high, his eyes almond-shaped and brown. She noticed his hands. They were workman’s hands, and calloused, yet there was something fine, strong yet sensitive in the well-shaped, tapering fingers. Unusually for a workman, his nails were carefully pared. He had a serious, studious look.
When she first saw him, he was standing quietly, in reverence, before an icon, but as she moved towards the door, he immediately left off his prayers, so that she smiled to herself.
He let her leave just in front of him and then caught up and fell into step beside her.
‘You seem to think you are going my way.’ She smiled a little mischievously.
‘Only to protect you. Which way do you go?’
‘Towards the Leatherworkers end.’
‘I too. My master lives there.’
There seemed no harm in him.
He was a slave, she discovered, a Mordvinian who had been taken captive after a raid when he was twelve. His name was Purgas. His master since he was fifteen had been a rich merchant here in Novgorod, who had had him taught carpentry.
They parted near the inn, but not before he had learned that she liked to visit the wooden church each afternoon.
She half expected, therefore, to see him there the next day, but she was surprised when he produced a little piece of carving he had done. It was a tiny riverboat, no bigger than his hand, carved out of birchwood, with oarsmen and a little sail.
It was so perfectly done that, for a moment, she caught her breath; for it reminded her of the carvings her brother used to do.
‘It’s for you,’ he said. And he insisted that she take it.
He walked her home again that day.
They often met after that. He was always friendly, rather quiet and, she soon observed, there was a kind of shyness about him, a reserve, that she liked. When they walked through the streets, he would pause from time to time, to point out some feature of a house that she would otherwise never have noticed: a little carving, some latticework by a window, or simply the way that the heavy logs were joined at the corners.
There were dozens of ways of joining logs, she discovered. They could be cut round or square, they could be laid this way or that, notched or slotted one into another. What to her had seemed an endless collection of stout, rather brutal wooden houses was to him a mass of elaborate puzzles to be solved and enjoyed as he passed.
‘There are more ways of building a simple izba than you would dream of,’ he told her. ‘And the master carpenters of Novgorod know them all.’
Yet though he appreciated the city and knew every building in it, she soon discovered that he missed the native forests of his childhood.
> ‘We lived in the woods, out by the Volga,’ he told her. And he would enumerate for her all the trees and plants of the region. When he spoke of buildings, it was with a keen professional appreciation; but when he spoke of the forests, a dreamy, faraway look came into his eyes, and she felt for him.
But the greatest surprise came the fourth day they met. She had stopped in the church in front of an icon depicting Christ holding an open book on which some words were written.
‘“Judge not according to the appearance, but judge righteous judgement,”’ Purgas said, reading the text.
She stared at him in amusement.
‘You can read too?’
‘Yes. I learned here in Novgorod.’
A Mordvinian, a mere Finn from the forests, who could read.
It was at this moment that Yanka made up her mind.
That very evening, she went to Milei the boyar and told him what she wanted.
‘Well,’ she asked, when she had finished, ‘you had what you wanted from me. Will you help me now?’
To her surprise, he smiled kindly. He even gave her some useful advice.
‘Now tell me again the name of this merchant and where he lives,’ he said. And then: ‘You don’t actually know if this young man wants …?’
She shook her head.
‘But I think he will,’ she replied.
The very next morning, Milei arranged the matter.
‘It will cost me a pretty penny though,’ he remarked with a wry smile. ‘However, the priests will approve.’ The church encouraged the liberation of slaves.
He could be kindly, Yanka realized; for the ability to be generous is a pleasant exercise for powerful men.
And so, that afternoon, she turned to Purgas outside the church and asked: ‘Would you like to marry me? My master will buy your freedom if you want.’
He looked thunderstruck.
‘I wanted to ask,’ he confessed. ‘But as a slave, I was afraid …’
‘There are conditions,’ she went on. She had thought very carefully about this; and it was Milei who had coached her, rather reluctantly, in what to do. ‘We shall leave the city and live near my village – but not as a boyar’s peasants,’ she added quickly. That was one thing she knew she did not want. ‘We shall be free. We’ll live on the Black Lands and pay rent only to the prince himself.’
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