Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [104]
‘Damned peasants’ food,’ he said in disgust. ‘You hardly grow any peas here.’
‘No, lord.’
‘I want more peas, and lentils too. Hemp as well. Grow it with the peas. Hemp seeds are full of oil. They keep you warm in winter.’
‘Yes, lord.’ What on earth could the boyar want with all this? Could it be that he not only wanted to build the place up but actually live here himself? ‘Will this be for yourself, lord?’ he rashly inquired.
‘Mind your own business and do as you’re told,’ the boyar replied sharply, and the steward immediately bowed.
So that’s what he’s up to, if I know him, he thought happily.
Milei was pleased with the flax.
‘But I want more,’ he announced.
This was the basic fibre product of northern Russian agriculture and it was one commodity that could be profitably transported to market. The north-western city of Pskov was even exporting flax abroad.
When he inspected the livestock, the boyar did not complain. The sheep were not bad: they were small, hornless animals with rather long bodies that he had introduced himself. The pigs did well. But the cattle made him shake his head sadly. They stood less than three and a half feet high at the shoulder; at winter’s end, a single man could carry them out of their stalls to pasture.
Milei said nothing, and passed on.
It was afternoon before the boyar finally returned.
He ate, then slept. And then, in the early evening, he made a tour of the village huts and inspected the peasants.
He was not pleased.
‘A dirty, miserable collection of people,’ he remarked with irritation to the steward. ‘And don’t bother to remind me I sent most of them here,’ he added with a grim smile.
But his temper visibly improved when, last of all, he came to the house of the father and daughter he had sent the previous year.
‘At last,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘A clean izba’
It was better than that. There were fresh herbs hanging from a little straw rope over the stove. The place smelled sweet. Everything was beautifully cared for: the loving cup on the table, in the shape of a duck, was a little work of art. In the red corner, a candle burned before the icon; in the corner opposite, three beautiful embroidered cloths hung.
This was what Yanka, in eight months of the blackest inner torment, had achieved.
And in front of him, it appeared to the boyar, stood a model father and his child. Though he had been working in the field all day, the peasant’s thin brown beard was neatly combed. He had put a fresh blouse on in the boyar’s honour; and he smiled respectfully, but manfully, like a fellow with a clear conscience.
The girl was a pearl. Neat, clean, and he was bound to say, good-looking. For once, even the cynical Milei’s heart was touched.
‘A good man deserves such a daughter to look after him,’ he said with a pleasant smile for them both.
How the girl had improved since he had last seen her. She was still slim, but her body and face had filled out a little in this first season of her womanhood. Her skin was wonderfully clear, yet a little pale.
He looked at her carefully. Was there a trace of worry in her eyes?
Then, thinking of his own daughters, he reminded himself that all girls worry about something at that age.
‘A pretty virgin to pluck,’ he could not help murmuring to himself once they were outside again.
He went to Dirty Place the next day, then announced that he was departing but would return shortly.
‘So be ready for me every day,’ he shouted to the steward as he left.
He did not come back for a month.
When he returned, in late September, he was followed by four boats which his men were pulling up the stream with ropes.
In the first was a family of slaves.
‘Mordvinians, I’m afraid,’ he said to the steward, ‘but you’ll make them work.’
In the others there was livestock: Milei had brought young calves from the Riazan region.
‘They grow them bigger in those Oka meadows,’ he said. ‘Give two of them to that new man with the daughter to look after for the winter. He’ll take good care of them.’
He settled into his house and announced that he would remain there