The Ringed Castle - Dorothy Dunnett [91]
And Francis Crawford of Lymond, undisturbed, replied. ‘For failing to trace you before you reached the Troitsa Monastery, Sergei will be whipped with a flail, whatever misfortune later overtakes other parts of his anatomy. The Tsar is unlikely to offer me violence, and would never dream of inflicting it on the orators of his cousin. You have a choice. You may conform, or go back to England.’
Diccon Chancellor looked at him without humility. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I believed I was suggesting a sensible compromise.’
‘In Russia,’ said Lymond gently, ‘there is no such thing as a sensible compromise. Besides, they have to clean all the silver.… Do mysteries appeal to you? They say there is a copper cauldron at the Troitsa, full of herbs and cooked food, which never empties.’
He was holding the new horse’s stirrup. Chancellor hesitated one moment more; then, grasping the saddle, swung himself into place. ‘I seem to have heard it,’ he said. ‘I hear the tomb of St Sergius can work miracles, and make barren wives pregnant.’
They were all changing horses. Lymond, mounting, paced up to Chancellor’s side. ‘The Troitsa Monastery,’ he said, ‘has an income of one hundred thousand roubles a year. They are the wealthiest merchants in Russia; and as their wealth increases, so the Tsar is able to borrow from them. The miracle of St Sergius and Russia,’ Lymond said, ‘is that they never need a sensible compromise. But don’t tell Nepeja I told you.’
Christopher saw the monastery first, white and gold against the grey sky of evening. Then they crossed the dip of a stream and rode up under the tiered, undercut walls with their string-courses of pigeons, and below the canopied arch of its entrance, its painted walls whiskered with blunt, flying angels, their haloes like spinneys of sunflowers.
Beyond, in the mild autumn air, stretched the towers, the churches, the cells of the lavra, lamps beginning already to glow under the trees, green and russet and bronze, of its gardens; and the blackrobed figures of some of its seven hundred monks moving, long-bearded and noiseless as shadows beneath. High above, fired like brands by the sunset, blazed the Dukhovskaya and Troitsa cupolas.
Dismounted, they walked between ranks of armed soldiers to the group of dark figures awaiting them. ‘The monastery,’ said Lymond agreeably, ‘is likewise a garrison. It is also a centre of the Russian Orthodox faith, which holds that the Roman Catholic is a deserter from the Primitive Church. Anyone knowingly eating with a Roman must be purified thereafter with prayer. A Metropolitan has been known to take issue on the whole matter indeed with the Archbishop of Rome himself, accusing his church of abuses, and himself of luring men to him by gluttony.… I take it that, as on the previous occasion, you are all dutiful subjects of the late King Edward and his father King Henry? The Tsar is an admirer of Henry of England.’
‘We are,’ said Diccon blandly.
‘Then you will come to no harm if you conduct yourselves soberly. You may not, for example, introduce or play on a harp. You will observe the Archimandrite whose mitre is black and round, and who wears a black pallium with three ribbons waving in front, signifying that from his mouth and heart flow streams of the doctrine of faith and good works. Your compliments should be addressed to him: perhaps Master Grigorjeff would interpret.’
Christopher looked at his father and grinned. If Master Nepeja had been able to master six words of English in the entire month of their journey, it was still six more than Grigorjeff. But his father, far from sharing the joke, was giving Lymond all his attention. Then he glanced at Master Grigorjeff and smiled.——’But——’
He broke off, still smiling. Lymond said quickly, ‘Ah. Forgive me. I see Master Grigorjeff does not speak English. Then if you will permit me, I shall act as translator. Unless you prefer to trust your own Russian? I am sure it is perfectly fluent.’
‘But rusty,’ said Diccon, still smiling. ‘Please. There are subtleties,