Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [58]
And yet – here was the irony – given time he could have paid off the debt and been free again. Even in a mere ten years.
It was the honey from the beehives in the forest that was his secret. Ever since his discovery of this hidden treasure, he had been discreetly making use of it – selling a honeycomb or two to any passing merchant, or even taking some into Pereiaslav. He had to be very careful, for he had no right to those trees. But by selling a little at a time he had already been able to put by the sum of two silver grivnas.
He had even made more hollows for the bees. The hidden wood had become a treasure house; and although he could not profit directly from this extra labour, his secret seemed to give him a purpose in life. It became almost an obsession. He felt himself to be the guardian of the place. And he had kept his secret well. From time to time he had fostered rumours: that he had seen a witch along the path that led there, or snakes. The reputation of the wood remained evil and no one went there.
So it was with irony that he had been brooding: I lived beside great riches. Yet they lie useless and I am poor. He supposed it must be fate.
And now here was that curious young nobleman, walking slowly towards him. ‘I am Shchek,’ he cried. ‘Remember me?’
How poor Ivanushka looked, and how sickly. Despite his own miserable condition, the peasant felt sorry for him. And for want of anything better to do, while the strange young man stood vacantly in front of him, Shchek told him his story.
When he had finished, Ivanushka stared at the ground for a moment. ‘How strange,’ he murmured. ‘I too have nothing.’
‘Well, good luck to you anyway,’ Shchek said with a grin. For some reason he felt affectionate towards this nobleman in tatters. ‘Remember Shchek in your prayers.’
‘Ah, my prayers.’ The young fellow seemed lost in thought.
‘Tell me again,’ he said at last, ‘how much you owe.’
‘Today, I owe the prince seven silver grivnas.’
‘And that would make you free?’
‘Of course.’
Slowly Ivanushka removed the leather bag that hung from his belt, and attached it to Shchek’s.
‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’s eight grivnas. And I have no use for it.’
And before the astonished peasant could say a word, he moved away. After all, Ivanushka thought, this peasant may as well have it, since I am about to depart this world.
The decurion in charge of the slaves was not a bad fellow, and when he returned a few moments later from the booth where he was drinking, he was genuinely delighted by Shchek’s good fortune. He knew Shchek was a zakup and had felt sorry for the man’s bad luck.
‘The Mother of God herself must be watching over you,’ he cried, as he cut Shchek’s bonds and embraced him warmly. ‘What devil’s luck you have, my boy,’ he added. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. We’ll have to tell the prince’s steward in the market.’ He glanced up. ‘And here he comes.’
Shchek had never seen the tall, dark young nobleman who now stalked down on to the jetty; but he noticed that he looked irritable. When the decurion told this nobleman the story, he only glowered at the peasant, then turned coldly to the decurion.
‘Obviously, he stole this money,’ he snapped.
‘The other slaves saw it,’ the decurion suggested.
The noble looked at the slaves with disgust. ‘Their word is worthless.’
‘How could I steal, lord, with my hands tied?’ Shchek asked. The noble glared at him. It was all one to him whether this indebted peasant lived or died, but he had just informed a merchant that there were twenty slaves for sale, and this would leave him one short. He did not like to be inconvenienced.
‘The fellow who you say gave you this money – where is he?’
Shchek looked around. Ivanushka had vanished.
‘Take his purse,’ the noble ordered the decurion. But before he could do so, there was a cry.
‘Look!’ It was one of the slaves. He was pointing excitedly to the river bank below the city.