One thing was sure: he would never see Russka again.
Under Russian law, Shchek should not have been there. A zakup working off his debt could not be sold like an ordinary slave. But the rules were often broken, and the authorities had long since turned a blind eye.
In his own case, he should have seen it coming. For two months now, it had been clear that the elder at the prince’s nearby village had taken a liking to Shchek’s wife, and she to him. Yet the treachery had been done so suddenly that it had caught him offguard.
Just a week ago, early in the morning, the elder had appeared with some merchants and literally dragged him from his bed. ‘Here’s a zakup,’ the elder had told them roughly. ‘You can have him.’ And before he could do anything about it, Shchek had found himself skimming down the river towards Pereiaslav. There was nothing he could do: five of the other slaves on the jetty were debtors like himself.
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. About a quarter of a mile away, a single figure had just emerged from a clump of trees.
‘That’s him.’
‘Fetch him,’ the noble ordered.
And so a few minutes later, to his utter astonishment, Sviatopolk found himself staring at his brother Ivanushka; while Ivanushka, his eyes glazed and his mind apparently far away, looked back at him dully and said not a word.
‘Let the peasant go, he has paid his debt,’ Sviatopolk said calmly. ‘As for this vagrant,’ he gestured to Ivanushka, ‘throw him in prison.’
His mind was working quickly.
The candles were lit. The icon in the corner glowed softly as the Mother of God gazed out from her golden world into the dark spaces of the large room. On the table, the remains of the meal were being cleared away by the slaves.
Igor was sitting in a heavy oak chair. His long head, all grey now, was inclined forward, his chin resting upon his chest. His eyes were open, watchful, his face still but grim. His wife sat on a chair beside him. One might have guessed that, an hour or two before, she had been weeping; but now her face was pale, drawn, and upon her husband’s orders, impassive.
Sviatopolk was scowling with barely contained fury.
What unlucky curse, he wondered, had caused his father to walk out to the city wall just as they were leading the silent Ivanushka to the little jail where he would have been out of the way? He would have been drowned by now, Sviatopolk thought. For his intention – not knowing that Ivanushka was going to drown himself anyway – had been to take him down to the river that night and hold him under himself. Better for him. Better even for my parents, he had told himself. They’ll find the body, suppose he took his life, and end all this agony over a useless son. Besides, the fool would only ask for money.
But fate had intervened. True, his father had been grim-faced about it from the moment he had encountered him. He had marched his youngest son back to their house almost like a prisoner. And now, over the evening meal, the young man had been forced to explain himself.
It had scarcely been necessary for Sviatopolk to accuse him. He had, in his stumbling way, accused himself. Indeed, Sviatopolk had thought it wisest to say nothing against him but to suggest: ‘My brother has lost his way. I think he has almost lost his soul. Perhaps he may regain it as a monk.’ Monks usually died young.