That night, when they were lying together, she tried to give herself. Yet he, like an animal that has tasted blood, wanted no other diet. How could she abandon herself to the simple, wild passion, the exercise, as she saw it, of a cat in the night, when it was just this animal in him that she feared? And how could he, seeking escape, seeking a companion who could match her strength to his, how could he find solace in her love which came with a prayer?
He slept fitfully. She, having given herself but knowing instinctively that it was not enough, pretended to sleep.
He moved about. At dawn she saw him gazing through the parchment that covered the window, at the grey light of dawn.
He turned and, seeing her awake, knowing her to have been long awake, remarked: ‘I go back to Moscow tomorrow.’
Should she beg him to stay? She did not know. Besides, a feeling of failure, of lassitude, began to overtake her.
‘Stephen the priest’s wife is sick,’ she remarked dully. ‘I forgot to tell you.’
Whenever Mikhail the peasant surveyed his family, he knew that his plan was right. His eldest son was married now, and living at the other end of the village: he was not worried about him.
He also had another son and a daughter living, both under ten.
And then there was Karp: there was the problem.
‘Turning twenty and not yet married,’ he would comment ruefully. ‘What am I to do with him?’
‘More to the point, what are half the husbands in the region going to do to him?’ the old steward had remarked.
He was undeniably attractive to women. Slim, dark-haired, athletic, it was not only that he moved with such ease and grace, that he rode a plough horse and made it seem like a charger; it was not even his bold, rather smoky brown eyes that scanned any crowd for a pretty face. It was something inside him, something wild and free that did not belong in the confines of the village. Many women experienced a little frisson when they saw him. A few girls in Russka had allowed themselves to be seduced. Several more of the married women had secretly made themselves available. It delighted him first to conquer, then to search out, which he did neatly and deftly, what would give pleasure.
In a way, worried as he was, Mikhail was not sorry to have Karp in the house, for he was certainly a help. Despite the difficult conditions and the extra labour he had had to give Boris, the peasant and his son had managed to produce good profits from their grain.
There was also one other, quite unexpected source of income which had come their way.
It had come three years before when Mikhail had found, in the forest nearby, a little bear cub whose mother had been killed by some hunters. Seeing the poor creature, only a few weeks old, he had not the heart to leave it or kill it, and to the amusement of the village had brought it home. His wife had been furious. ‘Am I supposed to feed it?’ she cried.
But to his surprise, Karp had been delighted. He had an extraordinary way with animals; by the time the bear was eighteen months old, Karp had taught it to do a little dance and to perform several tricks. He would happily unchain the animal to let it perform better.
Often he could earn a few coins for the bear’s performances in the little Russka market. Twice, already, he had gone up the river all the way to Vladimir and returned with several dengi.
‘He won’t make our fortune,’ Karp had remarked, ‘but he pays for his keep, with a tidy profit besides.’
By this and other means, very secretly so as not to arouse jealousy or suspicion, Mikhail had been putting by money. His aim was simple.
‘I’ll make enough to buy myself out from the lord Boris. And I’ll leave some over so that Ivanko can follow us in a year or two if he wants,’ he told his family.
For things in Russka were going to get worse. His cousin Lev, who collected the taxes locally, admitted as much to him. ‘The Tsar would like to tax the rest of Muscovy and let the Oprichnina lands off,’ the merchant said. ‘But the fact is, he needs money desperately. It’s going to be hard.’ No doubt Boris would squeeze him further too. It was time to leave.
‘And where will we go?’ Karp had asked.
That was easy.
‘East,’ his father had replied, ‘into the new lands where people are free.’
It made sense. In the new settlements far out in the northern forests, authority was still far away and people lived under fewer restrictions.
‘As you like,’ Karp had obligingly replied.
In the spring of 1567, the wife of Stephen the priest died.
Under the rules of the Orthodox Church, he was not allowed to marry for a second time but had, instead, to join the order of monks.
This he did, giving up the little house he had occupied in Russka and taking up quarters in the Peter and Paul Monastery across the river. He continued, however, to officiate at the little stone church in Russka where he was greatly respected. As for his views on Church lands, whatever Stephen might think, he certainly was not so foolish, nor so impolite, as to say anything about them when he entered the monastery, though for some weeks Daniel kept his ears open, in case his cousin should say anything objectionable.
Elena missed her friend, who had so often kept her company, and felt sorry for the priest, now monk.
By that September, it was clear that a new campaign in the Baltic was imminent, and Boris was looking forward to it.
During the summer he had made numerous visits to Russka and even spent some calmer, happier times with Elena. Perhaps, yet, there might be a son.
He had also paid a visit to the Tsar at Alexandrovskaya Sloboda.
It was a strange place, about fifty miles north of Moscow, just east of the road up to ancient Rostov; not far away lay the great monastery of Trinity St Sergius. And, indeed, the Tsar’s headquarters was run rather like a monastery itself.
His first evening inside the heavily guarded enclosure, he was shown to a small hut where two other Oprichniki were sleeping and offered a hard bench.
‘We shall be up early,’ they told him with a grin.
But even so, he had not expected to be awoken long before dawn, by the harsh clanging of a bell.
‘To prayer,’ they muttered, and then, with more urgency, ‘you’d better hurry.’
In the blackness of the large courtyard he could see only his two companions, one on each side of him, and a distant square of light which he took to be an open church door. But as they crossed he heard from somewhere high above a harsh, ringing voice accompany the clanging of the bell.
‘To prayer, dogs,’ it cried out. ‘To prayer, my sinful children.’
‘What foolish old monk is that?’ he whispered.
But he had hardly got the words out before he felt a hand clapped over his mouth and his companion breathe in his ear: ‘Shut up, you fool. Didn’t you realize? That’s the Tsar himself!’
‘Pray for your souls,’ the voice cried and, though he had been party to executions himself, and had cut down traitors without a second thought, there was something eerie in the cry from the tall, invisible figure in the darkness above that sent a chill of fear down Boris’s back.