Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [175]
And so it was. She had even made two visits to Moscow that autumn to see her mother; she had gone back the second time because she had sensed her mother was worried about something – though what, she would not say. At one point her mother had suddenly asked: ‘Your Boris, is he still our friend?’ And when she had hesitated, because she did not know herself, her mother had quickly said: ‘No matter. It’s of no consequence.’ And then a moment later: ‘Do not tell him I asked you.’
‘Would you like me to stay here for a while?’ she had asked. Little as she now liked Moscow, it seemed to her that her mother needed company at present.
But her mother had put her off. ‘In the spring, perhaps,’ she had said absently.
Elena was lonely, and concerned. How, therefore, could she help smiling with pleasure to hear that the priest had arrived to see her?
It was not long before there existed between them a friendly intimacy that could safely last as long as neither allowed it to be established, by any word or gesture, that they were half, perhaps more than half, in love.
The tall, dark-bearded priest, in his late thirties, was showing the first streak of grey hair in his beard which if anything, in her eyes, added to his attractiveness. She admired him: indeed, he was to be admired, for he was a fine man. And they experienced the passion of those who have first come to terms with suffering, which is more measured and therefore potentially more powerful than the instantaneous passion of the young.
He would read the service to her. She would pray. At other times they would talk, though never of personal matters.
And this, had it been possible, would have been the courtship of two serious people, amidst the gathering storm of events which their own decency prevented them from fully anticipating.
What extraordinary good fortune it was, Daniel thought, that God had given him the gift of observing two things at once.
Had it not been so, he might have missed one or other of the highly significant though small events that took place in the market place on an early October afternoon that year.
The first concerned the English merchant, Wilson, who had arrived the evening before with Boris. After spending time with Lev the merchant, the two men had ridden off to Dirty Place, and the monk had not seen either of them again until he had chanced, when he was taking the little ferry across the river to the monastery, to see the Englishman coming along the path deep in conversation with Stephen.
He had waited, and then taken the ferry back again, so that he could follow them. What might they be up to?
In fact, they had met by chance – Wilson returning ahead of Boris to Russka, and Stephen going for a walk. The priest, curious to meet an Englishman, had plied him with questions and Wilson, who was a good judge of character, soon decided that this literate fellow was safe to talk to and told him what he wanted to hear.
It was not long before the subject turned to religion. Here Wilson was cautious, but the priest reassured him.
‘I know about you Protestants. There are people like the Trans Volga Elders who are a little like you in Russia. Our own Church needs reform too, though it’s unwise to say so at present.’
And it was after quite a long talk on the subject that Wilson had finally shown the priest one of his printed pamphlets.
Stephen was delighted.
‘Tell me what it says,’ he begged. And so, to the delight of the normally solemn priest, Wilson translated it as best he could.
The little tract was vituperative. It called the Catholic monks vipers, leeches, robbers. It said their monasteries were rich and vain, their ceremonies idolatrous, and much else besides.
‘It’s against the Catholics, of course,’ Wilson assured him, but the priest only laughed.
‘It applies to us, too,’ he said, and he made Wilson go over the sheet with him once again, memorizing it.
Before they reached the town, Wilson had wisely secreted it under his cloak again, but it was as they reached