Igor had put the questions, while his wife watched in silence.
Once, Sviatopolk had murmured: ‘Can such a son love his family?’ But the rest of the interrogation had gone on without his aid. And now, at last, the stern nobleman summed up.
‘You have lied to me, and to us all. You have thrown away your inheritance, which I gave you. You have even stolen. By no word did you tell us whether you were alive or dead, breaking your mother’s heart. And now, having stolen yet again, you give the money to a stranger and try to depart from the very place where your parents are living.’
It seemed to Sviatopolk that no indictment could be more complete. He watched, contented, while no one spoke.
Then Igor forgave his son.
The great Russian winter, terrible in its mighty cold, is also a time of joy. For Ivanushka, it was a time of healing.
At first, during the autumn months after his homecoming, his body and spirit seemed to collapse. The end of his long ordeal, as so often happens, caused a surrender in his system. He fell prey to a cold that soon turned into an illness that made his throat swell up, his limbs ache and his head throb so violently that he blinked with the pain. ‘It feels like an anvil,’ he muttered, ‘upon which two demons are hammering.’
It was his mother who saved him. Perhaps because only she understood. For when his father had wanted to send for one of the Armenian or Syrian doctors of the prince’s court, men skilled in the medicine of the classical world, Olga had refused. ‘We have folk remedies better than the medicine of the Greeks and Romans,’ she said firmly. ‘But send to the monastery if you wish, and ask the monks for their prayers.’ Then she had locked the door of the room where her son lay, and allowed no one else in.
While he tossed and turned, she would remain in the room, a gentle, quiet presence, bathing his brow from time to time, saying little. Sitting by the window she seemed quite contented to stare out at the sky, or read her book of Psalms, or half doze while he lay still. She would speak if he wanted to talk, but she never addressed him, or even looked at him. She was there, yet not there, calm and unmoving.
Outside, the rains of autumn fell, the countryside became a morass of rich, black mud, and all nature seemed like a wet and wilted bird. The skies were grey and heavy, the horizon blank. Somewhere, behind the long grey-black skyline, a huge, white cold was preparing to advance from the east.
Then came the snow. The first day it came over the steppe, in an endless orange glow, and fell upon the damp streets in soft grey flurries. As Ivanushka stared past his mother’s quiet, pale face, he had the impression that outside, nature was closing a door, shutting out the light from the sky. But alone in his room with her, he did not mind. On the second day came a blizzard. Now the snow storm howled, as though the endless steppe had conjured up and sent an infinite army of tiny, grey demons who intended to hurl themselves furiously upon the citadel and overpower it. But on the third day, a change occurred. The snow fell softly. For a time, in the middle of the day, the sky even cleared enough for a few shafts of sunlight to shine through the clouds. The snowflakes that fell, morning and evening, were large and soft as feathers. And it was after this that he began to recover.
The Russian winter is not, in truth, so terrible. Even the smallest hut, with its huge stove, is piping hot inside.
A week after the snows fell, on a bright sunlit day, Ivanushka, wrapped in furs, was carried to the high walls of Pereiaslav.
How the land sparkled. The golden domes of the churches in the city flashed in the sun under the crystal blue sky. Below, the river was flowing past a gleaming white bank, and in the distance the woods on the other side were a dark, glistening line. To the east and south, over patches of wood laden with fresh snow, the beginning of the mighty steppe could be seen: a huge, white carpet, stretching endlessly, shining softly.
Thus, through the Russian winter, the thick blanket of snow protects the earth.
And through that winter, as the land by the snow, Ivanushka was protected by his mother.
At times it was as though he were a child again. They would sit by the fire, or by the window, and read the fairy stories or recite the byliny that he had known as a boy.
The firebird, the tales of snow maidens, of bears in the forest, the stories of princes in search of wealth or love: why was it that these childish tales, now that he was older, seemed so full of wisdom? Their very language, with its subtle sense of movement, wry humour and gentle irony, seemed to him now to be trembling with life and colour, like the endless forest itself.
Death came once to the family that winter, when Sviatopolk’s wife suddenly sickened and died. Though he had hardly known her, Ivanushka would gladly have gone to comfort his brother but Sviatopolk did not seem to wish it, and so Ivanushka had said no more.
Slowly, the long winter passed and Ivanushka, in this little womb prepared for him, recovered his life and emerged, in early spring, while the snow was still upon the ground, ready to join the world again.
His brow was clear, his eyes bright, and although he was a little subdued and often thoughtful, he felt cheerful, whole and strong. ‘Thanks to you,’ he told his mother, ‘I have been reborn.’
The world of Pereiaslav into which he emerged was a busy one.
While the princes had fought over golden Kiev, cautious Prince Vsevolod had kept his grip on Pereiaslav, the hub of the southern frontier forts, and raised the city to new importance. Compared to Kiev, of course, it had only a few fine churches, and most of its buildings were of wood. But the stout, square fortress town represented a force to be reckoned with. Above all, the church there was so powerful and so loyal to the Patriarch in Constantinople that the Metropolitan of Pereiaslav was sometimes more favoured in the imperial city than that of Kiev.
As he walked through the broad main square and gazed at the stout little Church of the Virgin by the prince’s palace, or the chapel they were building over the gate, Ivanushka felt a sense of well-being. He would visit the glass makers and lovingly handle the brightly coloured pieces bound for a church or nobleman’s house. He even found a workshop which made bronze clasps for books, and bought one for his mother. They were pleasant days.
And yet, strangely enough, he was no sooner recovered than he began to experience a vague sense of unease. He could not put his finger on it: the sense was only a vague intuition. But as the days passed he began to get the distinct feeling that there had been some intrigue concerning him – as though, while the snow covered the earth, someone had been burrowing dangerous channels underground. What the devil could it be?
At first, however, he had put the suspicion out of his mind. For the news his father shortly brought him was wonderful indeed.
‘I’ve done it,’ the boyar proudly told his wife. ‘Prince Vsevolod is so much my friend I can even beg a place for Ivanushka!’ And to his son he had joyfully declared: ‘You are to join young Prince Vladimir after all. Sviatopolk is in his druzhina and has done well. Now’s your chance to prove yourself too.’ And Ivanushka had beamed with delight.
It had been just two days later that his father had casually remarked: ‘By the way, while you were ill, your brother and I paid off all your creditors, you know. Your name’s quite clear now.’
Supposing this to be a reference to Zhydovyn and one or two others, Ivanushka had thanked his father and thought little more of it. It was only when, the next day, his mother made a reluctant reference to his debts that he had thought of asking to see the list.
And now he saw what had been going on. For the list was staggering.
At the top, of course, came the debt to Zhydovyn. But after that came a list that took his breath away. People that he had never seen, in places he had scarcely visited, had claimed either that he had robbed them or that they had lent him money. In all but two cases, he knew that their claims were false. ‘Who found these creditors?’ he demanded.