The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [181]
‘Happy archer,’ said Adam; and shut his lips, and went off.
*
As once before, the Chosen stood in support round Ivan Vasilievich when he received in audience his Voevoda Bolshoia, and the white-robed guard with their silver axes lined the coloured walls of the anteroom and did not salute him, since Supreme Commander to Ivan Vasilievich was as Ivan Vasilievich to Christ, our most merciful Tsar. And in the Golden Chamber, adorned with Sylvester’s disputed frescoes: The Baptism of Vladimir, The Destruction of the Idols, The Deeds of Vladimir Monomach, stood all the familiar faces: Adashev and Kurbsky and Sheremetev, Palestsky and Kurlyatev, Vyazemsky and Pronsky-Shemyakin. And the small group of priests, including Sylvester himself and the Metropolitan Makary, his two fingers upraised in blessing as the Voevoda saluted the ikon and the Tsar.
So these two men, so close in age, so far apart in birth and training and temperament confronted one another. Against the black gowns of his churchmen the Tsar’s robes of brocatelle and cloth of gold and raised velvet knotted with silk glowed like enamel: the brooched alkaben over the ferris, the caftan over the shepon, and the shepon over the shirt with its collar, four fingers deep, of jewels and pearls. On his head, a deep kolpak concealed his short auburn hair, and his feet were in soft velvet shoes, the toes curled and jewelled.
Cap in hand the Tsar’s favourite knelt, in caftan and tunic, while Ivan Mikhailovich Viscovatu smiled and intoned. ‘Great master, and King of all the Russians, the Voevoda Bolshoia strikes his forehead before thee, for thy great favour in receiving a gift.’
Behind Lymond were two of the changing band of Russians who travelled with him and served him. Each of them held a box wrapped in silk, and each box was passed in turn to the Chief Secretary Viscovatu, who handed them in his turn to the Tsar. Ivan Vasilievich, without looking at his Supreme Commander, opened them.
The first held an ikon, dressed with an embossed silver mounting which hid nearly all but the calm tempera face with its arched brows and pouched, close-set eyes and long, reeded nose above the thin, drooping moustache. In the second box was a gold gospel cover, with its figures threaded and outlined with uneven pearls, and blue sapphires and crimson almandines set high in the filigree. For a long time the Tsar studied them, then, giving them to other hands, he looked at last at Lymond.
Lymond said, ‘Wrested by the Tartar from a Christian altar, and now to be restored there by Christ’s friend, the Tsar of all Russia.’
‘Give me your hand,’ Ivan said. And receiving it, held it, while Lymond stood by his footstool. ‘Hast thou travelled well?’
‘Through the mercy of God and your grace, very well,’ Lymond said. ‘God give your grace good health.’
Releasing him slowly, the Tsar laid his powerful hand again on the shaft of the sceptre of crystal and gold in his lap. ‘They say,’ he said, ‘you bring me a victory.’
‘They say kindly,’ Lymond said. ‘We have burned twelve Tartar settlements and raided Devlet Girey’s town of Ochakov, killing many and releasing many Christian souls, with almost no loss and no harm to your servants. I bring you an army high in heart to defend you against all your enemies. I bring you the allegiance of Prince Dmitri Ivanovich Vishnevetsky, at present in Cherkassy, who is to build a fort below the cataracts of the Dnieper against the Perecop Horde, and who will join us, when we are prepared, to remove Devlet Girey and his host as your Highness removed the Khan of Kazan. The way to the Crimea is known to us, and its strength. In one year, if you will trust me, it shall be yours.’
He spoke, as he always spoke, in the clear, unequivocal cadences of the Slavonic tongue. And he listened, as he always listened, to the rumour, the voiceless burden of thought in the room.
An ear less finely tuned than his would have told that something was wrong. The silence when he had spoken confirmed it. Then the Tsar said,