‘Sviatopolk,’ his father told him.
So this was the dark labyrinth that had been burrowed in the ground all winter.
His brother had been thorough. It seemed he had been to every town in the land of Rus. The amounts were not large. Sviatopolk had been clever. But their number was astonishing. ‘You owe your brother a debt of thanks,’ Igor told him sternly. ‘He insisted on paying half of these himself.’
‘He feels responsible for you, too,’ his mother added.
Ivanushka understood. His experiences had made him a little wiser. ‘I fear a great many of these folk have cheated my brother,’ he remarked sadly. But seeing they did not believe him, he said no more. The incident was closed.
It was the next day that, at last, his father took him to meet the young prince whom, on account of his royal Greek mother, men called Vladimir Monomakh.
The meeting was in the hall of the prince’s palace. The windows were small and set high in the thick walls, so that the place had the feeling of a church.
The young prince was standing at the far end as Ivanushka entered with his father. There were half a dozen nobles standing respectfully on either side of him. Vladimir was wearing a long cloak trimmed with sable. It reached almost to his feet and was encrusted with gems so that, even in the dimness, it shone softly. Upon his head was a cap trimmed with ermine. His hands were at his sides.
From his Greek mother, no doubt, came the handsome face with its long, straight nose and large, dark eyes, which stared before him calmly. He awaited their approach like a priest before an altar, motionless, as if his dignity came not from himself but from an authority securely lodged in the other world.
Father and son bowed low before him, advanced a few paces, bowed again. He is like a painting in a church, thought Ivanushka, as he stole a glance up at the motionless black eyes. When he reached him, Ivanushka went down upon his knees and kissed the jewelled shoes.
‘Welcome, Ivan Igorevich,’ the young prince said solemnly.
The courts in the land of Rus were not like those of western Europe. The Russian princes did not seek, like the rulers of Bohemia and Poland, to join the elaborate feudal network of Europe; nor were they interested in its manners or the new ideas of knightly chivalry. Their models, rather, came from the orient. For had not all the rulers of these vast lands come from the east?
From the ancient Scythians and Alans who could still be found in their druzhina, from the once vanished Avars and Huns, from the mighty Khazars, the rulers of the borderlands had always been godlike despots from far away. And what power in that quarter of the world was more ancient and civilized than the Christian empire of the Greeks in Constantinople?
So it was that Russian princes were learning oriental luxury, and to copy the jewelled, hieratic formality of the eastern imperial court. Monomakh knew how to do so from birth.
But now, to Ivanushka’s surprise, the prince smiled pleasantly.
‘I hear that you have travelled widely.’ At this there was a laugh from the courtiers and Igor blushed. They had all heard of this foolish Ivanushka’s wanderings.
‘Do not laugh,’ Vladimir corrected them. ‘If he has observed well in his travels, our friend may know more about the land of Rus than I do.’ By this simple sentence, the prince secured the eternal loyalty of his man; and Ivanushka witnessed the grace that made Monomakh loved as well as feared.
With that, Monomakh waved Igor and the other nobles away and drew Ivanushka to one side. Sensing Ivanushka’s nervousness he began to talk to him quietly and easily until the young man was ready to speak for himself. Vladimir asked him about his travels, and Ivanushka answered very honestly so that, though Vladimir once or twice looked at him in astonishment, he seemed well pleased.
And strangely, the young prince reminded Ivanushka of his own father. There was a stern self-discipline about him that was impressive. It soon became clear that he spent long hours in prayer, four or five times a day, and this he spoke of with a calm grimness very like Igor’s. But when he mentioned one subject, his whole face changed and he became quite boyish.
‘Do you like to hunt?’
Ivanushka told him he did.
‘That is good.’ He grinned. ‘Before I die I mean to hunt every wood in the whole land of Rus. Tomorrow,’ he added happily, ‘you shall come and see my hawks.’
Before their conversation ended, however, the prince became serious once again. ‘You are new here,’ he said quietly, ‘and there are others who have been here before you.’ He paused. ‘Including your brother.’ It was a warning. But though Ivanushka looked at him carefully, Monomakh’s expression was quite impassive, giving nothing away. ‘Go about your business quietly therefore,’ he instructed. ‘I shall judge you by your deeds alone.’
The interview was over. Ivanushka bowed gratefully. Vladimir turned back to his courtiers.
It was at this moment that Ivanushka saw her.
She came in directly behind her mistress. She was no longer a girl, but a young woman; both she and her mistress were so fair they seemed almost unearthly, and he remembered at once how he had seen them before, two years ago, riding through the forest with his father and the court while he hid behind a tree.
‘Who are they?’ he asked the nobleman beside him.
‘Don’t you know? The elder is Monomakh’s wife. The other is her maidservant.’
‘Where do they come from?’
‘Why, from England. Gytha is the daughter of the Saxon king, Harold, whom the Normans killed at Hastings ten years ago. The girl’s called Emma. She’s an orphaned nobleman’s daughter the princess brought with her.’
Ivanushka knew that there had been many exiles from England after it was conquered by William of Normandy in the terrible year of the red star. Some Saxon warriors had travelled all the way to Constantinople and joined the elite guard of norsemen who served the Emperor. Others had wandered eastern Europe. And this princess and her companion, with their ethereal looks, had somehow arrived in Kiev and thereby joined the blood of the Saxon King of England to that of the ruling house of Rus.
Ivanushka stared.
The noble smiled. ‘Of Gytha we say: “She came from a crystal pool and her father was the sunlight!”’
Ivanushka nodded slowly.
‘And of the girl?’
‘The same. She is not yet betrothed,’ the man added casually.
It was on a bright morning five days later that, having finished his prayers, Igor summoned his sons to him at breakfast.
They found him alone. He looked cheerful, yet Ivanushka could see from a certain faintly troubled look in his eyes that he had been deep in thought.
‘I have decided,’ he announced, ‘that it is time you each received the income fitting to a nobleman.’ Some of the greatest boyars of Kiev even kept small courts of their own. The honour of the family dictated that the sons of Igor should live, at least, in comfortable style.
‘As you know,’ Igor went on, ‘the Prince of Pereiaslav has rewarded my services well. I am by no means poor.’ He paused. ‘But when I left the service of the Prince of Kiev, I suffered several financial reverses. As a result, we are not as rich as I might have hoped, and the cost of maintaining one’s state seems to increase with every year.
‘Sviatopolk, you already have your household. Ivanushka, soon you will no doubt marry and require a household too.’ He paused gravely. ‘With this in mind, I am making the following disposition.’