Russka

by Edward Rutherfurd

  ‘My loyal servant, Boris Davidov Bobrov: where is he?’ he quietly enquired.

  ‘Up at Russka,’ someone said, and then shut his mouth as though he had not spoken.

  Ivan looked neither to right nor left.

  ‘Fetch him,’ he intoned.

  One of the Oprichniki vanished through the door. Several long moments of silence followed. Then the piercing eyes fell upon the abbot.

  ‘You were sent an oxhide. Where is it?’

  If the old abbot looked terrified, his fear was no worse than that which now came over Daniel. Suddenly, in this new and awful light, face to face with the Tsar, the plan which once had seemed so daring now appeared pitiful. It was also impertinent. His legs suddenly felt cold. He wished he were hidden at the back of the room.

  ‘Brother Daniel was put in charge of it,’ he heard the abbot say. ‘He can explain to you what he has done.’

  Now he felt the Tsar’s eyes upon him.

  ‘Where is my oxhide, Brother Daniel?’

  There was nothing else for it.

  ‘As you said we might, Gosudar, we used it to mark out a patch of ground, which, if Your Majesty is so gracious, might be granted to your loyal monastery.’

  Ivan stared at him.

  ‘You ask for no more?’

  ‘No, great lord, it is enough.’

  The Tsar rose. He seemed to tower over them all.

  ‘Show me.’

  The idea had been nothing if not ingenious. After all, the Tsar’s message had been quite explicit: they were to use the oxhide to enclose the land. Why not, then, cut it into strips? Better yet, why not subdivide the strips? Or even better still …

  It had been at the end of the summer that Daniel had set the monks to work. Using sharpened combs and knives they had proceeded, day after day, to take the oxhide apart, making from it not just fine strips of leather but a thread. With care and ingenuity this thread, now wound carefully round a block of wood, could be unravelled to enclose no less than a hundred acres. The area had been staked out by Daniel on St Nicholas’s Day.

  Now, with the spindle of thread in his hand, he trudged across the snow, followed by Ivan, the abbot and the Oprichniki, to the place where the stakes began. He had just begun to unwind the thread when he heard Ivan’s voice.

  ‘Enough. Come here.’

  This was it then. Death, he supposed. He went and stood before the Tsar.

  Ivan reached forward his long hand and took Daniel by the beard.

  ‘A cunning monk,’ he said softly. ‘Yes, a cunning monk.’ He looked bleakly at the abbot. ‘The Tsar keeps his word. You shall have your land.’

  The two monks bowed low, both praying fervently.

  ‘I shall remain here tonight,’ Ivan went on. He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And before I depart, you shall learn to know me better.’

  He turned; and now he smiled. For hurrying across the snow came a figure in black.

  ‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘here he comes, a loyal servant. Boris Davidov,’ he called, ‘you shall help these cunning monks to know me better.’ Then, gazing down at the abbot, he announced: ‘Come, it is almost time for Vespers.’

  It was already dark outside when, amidst the bright glow from all the candles they could muster, the trembling monks sang the service of Vespers.

  Facing them, having donned the golden robes used on the highest feast days, Tsar Ivan stood and, with a strange, grim smile, conducted them with his staff. Once, a terrified young monk sang a wrong note and Ivan, his eyes suddenly boring into the malefactor, brought down the iron tip of his staff with a crash upon the stone floor and made them start the hymn again.

  So the service continued. Twice, as though suddenly attacked by a spasm, Ivan turned away, let his staff fall with a crash to the ground, and prostrated himself, beating his head upon the stone and crying out: ‘Gospodi Pomily: Lord have mercy.’

  But a moment later he would rise, pick up his staff and, with the same grim half-smile as before, conduct the singing as though nothing had happened.

  At last the service ended. The shaken monks dispersed to their cells, and Ivan returned to the refectory where he ordered food and drink to be brought for himself, Boris, and the other Oprichniki.

  He also sent for the abbot, and for Daniel, who, when they arrived, were told to stand just inside the door.

  There was something strange about the Tsar, Daniel noticed, as Ivan sat down to eat. It was as if the service had excited him in some way. His eyes were a little bloodshot, yet seemed to be slightly vacant, as though he had entered another realm while his body, almost derisively, went through the motions of its existence in this world.

  They had given him their best wine, and whatever food they could find. For a few minutes he ate and drank thoughtfully, the Oprichniki beside him carefully tasting everything first, to make sure it was not poisoned. The other black-shirts ate silently, including Boris, whom Ivan had seated opposite him.

  After a time the Tsar looked up.

  ‘So, abbot, you have cheated me out of a hundred acres of good land,’ he remarked calmly.

  ‘Not cheated, Gosudar,’ the abbot began tremulously.

  ‘You and this hairy-faced dog beside you,’ Ivan continued. ‘You shall learn now that the Tsar raises up and casts down; he giveth and he taketh away.’ He looked at them with contempt. ‘On my way here, I was hungry,’ he intoned. ‘Yet in the forests I found no deer. Why not?’

  The abbot looked baffled for a moment.

  ‘The deer have been scarce this last winter. People are hungry …’

  ‘You are fined a hundred roubles,’ Ivan said quietly.

  He turned to Boris.

  ‘Is there no entertainment here, Boris Davidov?’

  ‘I had a fellow who could play and sing well, lord, but he died last spring.’ Boris paused. ‘There’s a fellow with a performing bear,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but he’s not very good.’

  ‘A bear?’ Ivan suddenly brightened. ‘That’s better. Take a sled and bring them, good Boris Davidov. Bring them now.’

  Boris rose and went to the door. He had just reached it when Ivan, having taken a draught of wine, suddenly called out: ‘Stop!’ He looked round for a moment to observe the reaction of the others in the room. ‘Take two sleds, Boris Davidov. Take mine and the second. Put the bear in the first. Dress him up in my furs. Let him wear the cap of the Tsar.’ And taking off his high hat he threw it to Boris. ‘Let the Tsar of all the bears come to visit the Tsar of all the Russias.’

  At this he roared with laughter and the Oprichniki, following suit, banged their plates upon the table.

  ‘And now,’ he said, turning to the abbot – and Daniel saw with amazement that every trace of mirth, in a split second, had completely vanished from his face – ‘tell that hairy-faced rogue beside you to bring me a jar of fleas.’

  ‘Fleas, lord?’ the abbot mumbled. ‘We have no fleas.’

  ‘A pot of fleas, I said!’ Ivan suddenly rose and strode over to them, his staff held in his hand at a rakish angle, tapping upon the floor.

  He stood, towering over them both. Daniel noticed, in his terror, that the Tsar was a little stouter than he had thought. It only made him more frightening.

  ‘Fleas!’ he roared. ‘When your Tsar commands, it is treachery to disobey. Fleas!’ He struck his staff a tremendous downward blow on the floor in front of the abbot. ‘Fleas! Seven thousand. Not one less!’

  It was a favourite trick of his to demand the impossible. Though the abbot did not know it, Ivan had used this demand for fleas before. The old man quaked and Daniel thought that, perhaps, he was about to have a heart attack and die.

  ‘We do not possess them, lord,’ Daniel said. He tried to keep his voice steady but it came out as a hoarse whisper.

  Ivan turned to him.

  ‘Then you are fined a hundred roubles, Brother Daniel,’ he remarked calmly.

  For a second, just for an instant, Daniel opened his mouth to protest. But then he rememb
ered that recently the Tsar had tied a monk, like himself, astride a small keg of gunpowder before lighting it, and he fell silent, praying that his impulse had not been noticed.

  Tsar Ivan returned to his table, indicating to the two monks that they were to remain where they were.

  Now, ignoring them completely, he began to talk and laugh with the black-robed Oprichniki. He made some reference to another monastery, something – Daniel could not hear what – he had done to a monk there, which made them all roar with laughter, and sent a chill down Daniel’s spine.

  Half an hour passed. Tsar Ivan drank steadily, but was obviously in control of himself. Each time his hand raised the goblet to his lips, Daniel noticed the dull flash of the big jewelled rings on his fingers. His eyes, every few minutes, darted suspiciously round the big room, piercing the shadows.

  ‘Bring more candles,’ he commanded. ‘Let there be light.’ He did not seem to trust the darkness.

  So they brought candle stands from the church and set them up in the corners.

  It was just as they were doing so, that there was a commotion at the door and one of the Oprichniki announced that the bear was arriving. Led by the Tsar, they all went to the entrance to watch.

  It was a grotesque sight. Preceded by four men with burning torches, the sled came into the courtyard. The terrified monks peeped out of windows and doorways.

  In it sat the bear. His gaunt frame had been hung with a magnificent sable coat. On his head was the Tsar’s conical hat. Around his neck Boris had hung a golden crucifix he had taken from the chapel.

  With a baffled Mikhail guiding him, the bear was coaxed to walk on its hind legs from the sled into the refectory.

  ‘Bow!’ Ivan cried in a loud voice to the monks in the doorways. ‘Bow to the Tsar of all the bears!’

  He himself conducted the bear to his own chair on which it was persuaded to sit. Then, with mock ceremony, the Tsar made them all, including the abbot, bow low to the bear, before they removed the hat and coat.

  ‘Come then, peasant,’ the Tsar said sharply to Mikhail. ‘Show us your tricks.’

  It was not much of a performance. While the Tsar and his men sat, Mikhail led the animal through its routine. It stood up, danced ponderously, clapped its paws together. The creature was a sad sight, its skin hanging loosely for want of food. After a little time Ivan grew bored and banished Mikhail and the animal to a corner.

  Outside, the night grew deeper. The cloud cover broke so that, here and there, a few stars could be glimpsed. Within, Ivan sat, apparently brooding, telling Boris to fill his goblet, and his own, with wine from time to time.

  ‘They say,’ he murmured softly, ‘that I may retire and become a monk. Have you heard that?’

  ‘Yes, lord. Your enemies say that.’

  Ivan nodded slowly. In the early days of the Oprichnina many of the boyars had suggested this solution.

  ‘And yet,’ he went on quietly, ‘it is true. Those whom God chooses to rule over men are given not freedom, but a terrible burden; not a palace, but a prison.’ He paused. ‘No ruler is safe, Boris Davidov. Even I, chosen by God to rule over men according to my will – even I must watch the shadows on the wall: for any one of them may possess a knife.’ He drank thoughtfully. ‘Better, perhaps, the life of a monk.’

  Boris, too, as he sat with Tsar Ivan, felt the oppressive silence of the shadows. He had drunk deeply, but his head was still clear; instead of confusion, he felt within him a slowly rising melancholy as he entered into the twilight world of this ruler he revered. He, too, in his small way, knew what it was to be troubled by the treacheries and phantasmagoria of the night. He, too, knew that a terrible phantom may, in the cold light of dawn, turn out to be real.

  They will kill him, he thought, if he does not first kill them.

  And here he was, sitting opposite this great and troubled man, his Tsar, who was taking him once again into his most intimate confidence. How he longed to share the life of this mighty figure, so close yet so all-powerful, so terrible yet so deeply wise, who saw into the dark hearts of men.

  They drank in silence.

  ‘Tell me, Boris Davidov, what shall we do with this rascal priest who has stolen land from the Tsar?’ Ivan asked at last.

  Boris thought. He was honoured to be asked. He had no love for Daniel, but he must make a wise answer.

  ‘He is useful,’ he said at last. ‘He loves money.’

  Ivan looked at him thoughtfully. His eyes were more bloodshot, but still piercing. He reached out his long hand and touched Boris’s arm. Boris felt a thrill of excitement.

  ‘Well answered.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Let us beat some money out of him.’ He signalled to two of the other Oprichniki, and whispered instructions. They went over to where the monks were still standing and quietly conducted Daniel out.

  Boris knew what they would do. They would tie him up, probably upside down, and beat him until he told them where all the monastery’s money was hidden. Priests and monks always had money and usually disgorged it fairly soon. Boris did not feel sorry for him. It was the smallest of all Ivan’s chastisements. The fellow probably deserved worse.

  But now the Tsar’s long evening had begun.

  It was by a little sign, an involuntary winking of Ivan’s left eye, that Boris understood what was to come. He had heard of it from other Oprichniki and he knew that it frequently followed a church service. The sign meant that Ivan was in a mood to punish.

  ‘Tell me, Boris Davidov,’ he now said in a quiet voice, ‘who is there here who is not to be trusted?’

  Boris paused.

  ‘Remember your oath,’ Ivan murmured gently. ‘You have sworn to tell your Tsar all that you know.’

  It was true. He had no reason to hesitate.

  ‘I am told there is one,’ he said, ‘who is guilty of heresy.’

  It took Stephen quite by surprise when the four strange men came to search his cell.

  They were thorough. Systematically, with the skill of long practice, they ransacked the box that contained the few possessions he had brought from his former home; they investigated the bench on which he slept, his few clothes, they examined the walls and would have torn up the floor had not one of them, in the gap between the thick logs of the wall, discovered what he was looking for: the little pamphlet.

  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 thi
s?’ 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.