Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [45]
‘But they have not defended us!’ the merchant roared. ‘They have failed! The Cumans lay waste our countryside and the prince and his generals do nothing!’
‘What shall we do then?’ shouted several voices.
‘Find a new general,’ cried another.
‘Find a new prince,’ bellowed a third.
Ivanushka gasped. They were speaking of the Prince of Kiev! But the idea seemed to please the crowd.
‘Who then?’ a chorus demanded.
And now the big merchant on the platform hammered his staff again. ‘These troubles were begun by treachery,’ he roared. ‘By treachery, when the sons of Yaroslav broke their word and put the Prince of Polotsk in jail.’ He gestured towards the citadel. ‘An innocent prince lies in prison up there.’
He did not need to go on. It was clear even to Ivanushka that many in the square had been carefully prepared for this moment. ‘Polotsk!’ the crowd roared. ‘Give us the Prince of Polotsk.’
Ivanushka could never say, afterwards, exactly what followed. All he knew was that a minute later the crowd, as though it had a will of its own, was surging into the citadel; and he was being carried with it. In front of St Sophia’s cathedral, the river of people split into two streams. One half turned off to the left towards a stout brick building near the cathedral where the strange prince with the caul over his eye was being held. The rest flowed across the narrow bridge towards the palace.
It was time to get back to his family. He must warn them of the danger. He tried to get ahead of the crowd as it surged across the narrow bridge into the old citadel, but soon realized that he was too late.
What had not occurred to him, however, was that he would be unable to get back in. But minutes later, as he found himself in the square before the tall, thick-walled block of the prince’s palace, he realized his predicament. On the left side there was a high wall; on the right, a broad flight of stone steps led to a large oak doorway that was barred. The line of windows here was twenty feet high, well out of reach. Before him, the brick palace consisted of a series of towers and slit windows, set irregularly and high above the crowd. The two doors at the base were locked and bolted. Even if he could work his way through the crowd, he was closed out.
The crowd was hurling abuse.
‘Traitors! Cowards! We’ll feed you to the Cumans!’
But the high, red wall of the palace seemed to stare back at them with blank indifference.
Minutes passed. Nearby, a bell began to ring, summoning monks to prayer. Ivanushka glanced across to his left where the golden domes of the old Church of the Tithes were gleaming. But the crowd paused in its shouting only for a moment.
It was then that Ivanushka saw, high above, in a small window of the palace, a large red face staring down at the crowd – a face he recognized at once as belonging to Izyaslav, the Prince of Kiev himself. The crowd caught sight of him too. There was a roar of rage, a surge forward. Then the face disappeared.
It suddenly occurred to Ivanushka that if the crowd realized who he was – the son of one of Izyaslav’s boyars – he might be in danger himself. I must get inside, he thought. There was only one other way in to the palace: through a courtyard that lay behind it. This would mean working his way round the complex of buildings, along a side street, and thence to the gate. He turned and began to push his way towards the back. But it was difficult. The thick crowd seemed to sway from side to side, almost knocking him off his feet each time he tried to press through and after several minutes he had only moved a few yards.
And he was still far from the exits to the square when a murmur began somewhere in the crowd that gathered into a general hubbub, and which finally turned into a roar. ‘They’ve gone! They’ve run away!’
He looked on in astonishment as a man, climbing on the backs of others, managed to reach one of the windows and then vanished from sight. Three minutes later