Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [189]
Ivan reached out and took his hand gently, giving him a smile of surprising intimacy and frankness.
‘Do you know, they say that diamonds keep a man from rage and voluptuousness, but I have never liked them. Perhaps I should.’
Boris almost needed to pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming – that it was really the Tsar sitting here, side by side with him, talking to him like a brother; as intimately, as sweetly as a lover?
‘Here.’ Ivan took a ring off another finger. ‘Hold it in your hand, my Boris. Let us see. Ah, yes.’ He took the ring back after a few moments. ‘All is well. That is a turquoise. If it loses colour in your hand, it means your death. See,’ he smiled, ‘the colour is still there.’
He said nothing for a minute or so. Boris did not interrupt his thoughts.
Then suddenly Ivan turned to him.
‘So,’ he asked, ‘why did you hate that priest?’
Boris caught his breath. It was not said unkindly, rather the reverse.
‘How did you know, lord?’
‘I saw it in your face, my friend, when they brought him in.’ He smiled again. ‘He really was a heretic, you know. He deserved to die. But I would have killed him for you anyway.’
Boris stared down. Hearing such words from the Tsar he felt a welling of emotion. The Tsar, terrible though he was, was his friend. He could scarcely believe it. Tears started to his eyes. He himself had no real understanding of how lonely he had been all these years.
Suddenly he had a great urge to share his unhappy secrets with the Tsar who cared for him. Whom else should he tell, if not God’s representative upon the earth, the protector of the one true Church?
‘You have a son, Gosudar, to continue your royal line,’ he began. ‘I have no son.’
Ivan frowned.
‘You have time to beget sons, my friend, if it is God’s will,’ he murmured. ‘Have you then no son?’ he asked, surprised.
Boris shook his head slowly.
‘I hardly know. I have a son. Yet I think I have not a son.’
Ivan looked at him carefully.
‘You mean … the priest?’
He nodded.
‘I think so.’
Ivan said nothing for a little while, raising the goblet of wine to his lips.
‘You could get other sons,’ he said, and looked at Boris meaningfully. ‘I have had two wives. Both gave me sons. Always remember that.’
Boris pursed his lips. Emotion closed his throat. He nodded.
Ivan’s eyes travelled round the room slowly. They were a little glazed. His mind seemed far away.
After a little time he rose. Boris hastened to rise also, but Ivan motioned him, with a single, royal gesture, to prostrate himself before him on the ground. Then he gently lifted the hem of his long robe and cast it over Boris’s head, just as a bridegroom covers his bride at the marriage service.
‘The Tsar is your only father,’ he quietly intoned. Then, turning to the other Oprichniki, he called out: ‘Bring us our cloaks, and then await us here,’ And having put on his sable coat and his tall fur pointed hat, he said to Boris in a low voice: ‘Come, follow me.’
There were more stars now, in the depth of the night. Grey, ragged clouds passed slowly over the monastery as Tsar Ivan, his staff tapping on the frozen snow, made his way like a ship with unfurled sails across the empty yard and out through the gate towards the River Rus. Boris followed just behind.
Solemnly the high Tsar strode, down the path, over the river’s thick ice, and up the track to the little town above.
How silent it was. The high tower, with its sharp, pointed tent roof, stood out boldly against the patches of starry sky behind.
Still speaking no word, Ivan led him up the path from the river to the gateway. The little gate at the side, manned by a single night watchman, was still open. Ivan passed through, into the starlit market square. And now he turned.
‘Where is your house?’
Boris pointed and was about to lead the way, but already the Tsar had faced round again and was striding on, across the open space, his long staff’s tap, tap, the only sound in the town except for the faint rustle of his long robes.
Boris wondered what he intended.
The Tsar did not pause as he came level with