The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [141]
Lymond had left the Tsar’s side to ride after Blacklock. He rode flat out, balancing the horse against the uneven, slippery snow and they saw him halt, far across the square, where Blacklock was yelling, held struggling in a swaying crowd of angry men. They heard the Voevoda’s voice ring out, sharp and clear, and saw the men loosen their grip and drop back, reluctantly, from Adam Blacklock who stood, his cracked voice raised, saying something over and over.
Lymond raised his whip and cast it, with a whistling snap, full across the other man’s face.
Adam stopped shouting. Cut in two by the red seam, his face stiffened, white as the ice. Lymond spoke, sharply and clearly. The scourger and his officials stirred, and a moment later, began to cut down the remaining two flogged men. Another command, and, slowly, Adam Blacklock moved to his horse and put his foot in the stirrup. The Chief Secretary Viscovatu, bent over the Tsar in earnest conversation, sraightened and moved round the royal sleigh, clearly to follow the Voevoda across to the tribune. At the same moment, the Tsar gave a sharp order and the Streltsi, with Danny Hislop riding with them, deployed and began to file on foot after the Chief Secretary’s horse.
They met face to face within earshot: Viscovatu with Hislop and the Streltsi just behind him and the Voevoda, with Blacklock’s reins in his grip. Lymond’s face showed almost nothing: a mask of stone, Chancellor thought, to make worshippers tremble. And Blacklock, sitting unmoving beside him, with the blood coursing unchecked from that disfiguring wound, might have been dead already. Viscovatu said, ‘Your officer is the prisoner of the Church, and you are to hand him into the Church’s custody. It is the command of the Tsar.’
They saw Danny Hislop’s horse stamp as his gloved hand crushed tight on the reins. But on Lymond’s face there was no change; and Blacklock himself might not have heard. Lymond said, ‘The Tsar’s virtues are the salvation of his country; his wishes are my own; his commands are only to be obeyed. May I know the grounds for the complaint of the Church against Blacklock?’
‘Is it unknown to the Voevoda?’ said the Chief Secretary in surprise. ‘He has corrupted the hearts of the faithful, and has caused them to flout the edicts of the Stoglav. The three he seduced to the path of the Devil are punished. The holy Russian church will decide what judgement his evil counsel deserves.’
For a moment, Lymond studied him without speaking. Then lifting his glove, he flung the reins of Blacklock’s horse to the other man. Again, Hislop’s horse moved, but neither Hislop nor the Streltsi said anything. ‘It was unknown to me,’ Lymond said. ‘And I grieve for it. He is yours to punish as you think fit. Will the Tsar, who has heard the words of his secretary, hear the humble apologies of the Voevoda Bolshoia?’
He had raised his voice. ‘Approach,’ said the Tsar. He did not look at the Metropolitan, seated below him. But Lymond’s hard blue gaze, approaching, was on the mitred, grey-bearded face of Makary before it moved to the stiff, beaked profile of his master.
Lymond said, ‘Like your Tartar allies, this man is useful as well as a carrier of heresies. On men such as him, the success of your spring campaign in the Crimea might well rest. If the Church wishes to take his life, I bow to the Church’s decision. If not, I ask that he be made to suffer today, not tomorrow or next week or next month, when the season is turning, and his skill and knowledge will be most needed. The hurt he has caused you, vile though it is, would