Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [187]
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