Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [33]
For at Kiev, although the right bank of the river was high and topped with palisades, the left bank was low; and here, as at countless other places in the Dniepr’s vast system, the river had flooded its banks. It lay, glistening over the fields, which received its water and its rich silt. Each spring, through this wonderful immersion, all things were made anew.
As the city came closer, the boy fidgeted. Recently he had been having growing pains in his knees. But above all, he could hardly contain his excitement.
For just the week before Igor had told him: ‘It’s time to decide what we shall do with you. I shall take you to see Father Luke.’
It was a tremendous honour. Father Luke was his father’s spiritual counsellor and Igor never took a major decision without going to see him. When he spoke of the old monk, he would lower his voice in respect, for ‘The old monk knows all things,’ he would declare. And he always went to see him alone. Even Ivanushka’s two elder brothers had never been taken to see him. No wonder then that Ivanushka had blushed, and then gone pale when his father had told him.
Again and again, he had already pictured the scene. The kindly old man – tall, with a richly flowing white beard, a broad, seraphic face, eyes like suns – would see at once he had before him a young hero; would rest his hands in a blessing upon his head and declare: ‘It is God’s will, Ivan, that you shall be a noble warrior.’ This was how it would be. He gazed first at his father, then towards the rampart, with happy trust.
And Igor looked at his son. Was he doing right? It seemed to him that he was, and yet he was going to betray him.
How handsome his family was. It gave him a thrill of happiness just to look at them. They were in the main room of the big wooden house. Light was streaming in through the windows which were made not of glass but of the translucent silicate, found in local rocks, called mica. The light also caught the yellow clay tiles on the floor, so that the room seemed flooded with light.
On the table lay the remains of breakfast. By one wall was a large stove; in the corner opposite hung a little icon of St Nicholas with a small clay lamp hanging from three silver chains in front of it. On a chest on the right side of the room stood two large copper candlesticks, gleaming dully. The wax candles in them were, for the present, unlit. In the centre of the room, in the heavy carved oak chair that had been waxed and polished until it shone like ebony, sat his mother.
‘Well, Ivanushka, are you ready?’ He was ready. He gazed at her joyfully.
A rich, deep pink brocade gown fell to her ankles. Her girdle was sewn with gold. The sleeves of her gown were wide, and the slender arms that emerged from them were encased in white silk. On one wrist she wore a bracelet of silver, set with stones – green amethysts from Asia, warm amber from the Baltic north. Her pendant earrings were set with pearls. From her slim neck hung a golden crescent on a chain. Thus did the noblewomen of Rus dress themselves, like the Grecian ladies of imperial Constantinople.
How pale her broad brow was; how elegantly her hand rested on the carved lion on the arm of the chair, her long fingers with their golden rings gracefully pointing downwards. How sweet her face was, how kind. Yet, as she gazed at him, it seemed somehow sad. Why was she sad?
His two brothers were there as well. They were both dressed in gowns, with rich belts and handsome sable collars: Sviatopolk, with his pale and lovely Polish bride, and Boris. He tried to love them equally; but though he admired them both, he could not help being a little afraid of Sviatopolk. People said Sviatopolk was the image of his father: yet was he? For while Igor often had a distant and reserved look in his