It was three in the morning; the service of matins lasted until dawn. He realized that the Tsar was there amongst them, watching him perhaps, yet did not dare turn round to look. After a time, however, there was a rustling sound, and the tall, dark figure moved quietly past him to the front. Looking neither to right nor left he walked to the head of the men at prayer and stood there silently, occasionally stroking his long reddish beard that was streaked with black.
Then, at a certain moment, he slowly prostrated himself on the floor and knocked his forehead firmly on the ground.
Never, since that dawn on the Volga, had Boris been so close to the Tsar. It filled him with awe.
But that was nothing to his feelings when, later that day, after mass and the mid-morning meal, he was summoned into the presence of the Tsar, all alone.
Ivan was dressed in a simple kaftan, black in colour but lightly embroidered in gold and trimmed with fur. His tall, lean figure and long aquiline face were as Boris remembered from the days of Kazan; but how much older he looked. It was not just that his hair had grown thin so that the upper part of his face had a bony, almost skull-like appearance. It also seemed to Boris that, under his long, drooping moustaches, Ivan’s mouth had assumed the shape of a thin crescent moon, downturned, strangely animal. Half Russian prince, half Tatar Khan and… something else: Boris was not sure what.
And yet, within moments, it was as though he were with the young Tsar again; once more Boris felt that same melancholy charm, that inner passion that belonged to another, mystical world. When he smiled at Boris, rather sadly, there even seemed to be kindness in the Tsar’s dark eyes.
‘So, Boris Davidov, it is many years since we met, you and I, on the bank of the Volga.’
‘It is, Gosudar.’
‘And do you remember what we said to each other then?’
‘Every word, lord.’ He could even hear it now, that quiet, mournful, thrilling voice and the faint lapping sound of the water.
‘I, too,’ the Tsar confessed. He paused.
Boris felt himself tremble, and a wave of almost choking emotion ran from his gorge down to his chest. Tsar Ivan remembered their words. Once more, he and the sovereign were sharing the religious destiny of mighty Russia.
‘And tell me, Boris Davidov,’ the Tsar went on quietly, ‘do you still believe now what you said then, about our destiny?’
‘Oh, yes, lord.’
Yes, for all the terrible times of recent years, for all the treachery, the violence – he passionately desired to believe it. Without that holy destiny, then what was he? An empty husk, dressed in black.
Ivan gazed at him thoughtfully, sadly it seemed, as though perhaps in Boris he was remembering something in himself.
‘The path to Russia’s destiny is hard,’ he murmured. ‘The straight and narrow way is hemmed in by thorns. Sharp thorns. We who travel that noble path, Boris, must suffer. There must be shedding of blood. We must not shrink from it. Is it not so?’
Boris nodded.
‘The duties of the Oprichniki are often stern.’ He looked at Boris carefully. ‘Your wife does not like my Oprichniki,’ he remarked softly.
It was said as a statement, yet clearly, since Ivan was now silent and watchful, Boris was being given an opportunity to deny it. He had an instant urge to do so and yet, at the same moment, a little warning voice told him to say nothing.
Ivan waited in silence. Could it be that, far from being a friendly conversation, this meeting had been arranged so that the Tsar could make his accusation in person: was this the end? Boris waited.
Then Ivan gave him a slight nod.
‘Good. Never lie to me, Boris Davidov,’ he said quietly. He turned, went to gaze at the icon in the corner and, without turning round, went on in a deep, melancholy tone: ‘She is right. Do you think, Boris Davidov, that the Tsar is unaware of what kind of servants he has? Some of these men are dogs.’ Now he turned back. ‘But dogs can catch and kill a wolf. And there are many wolves to be destroyed.’
Boris nodded again. He understood.
‘It is not for the servants of the Tsar to think, Boris Davidov,’ Ivan reminded him quietly. ‘It is not for them to say – “I wish this”, or “I will not”. It is for them to obey. Do not forget,’ he concluded, ‘that the Tsar is set to rule over you by the grace of God, not by the changeable will of men.’
Since Ivan said no more, it seemed that the interview was at an end. His eyes were wandering back towards the icon. Boris realized he should go.
But before he left, there was one thing he wanted to ask.
‘May I stay here, Gosudar?’ he enquired. ‘Until the next campaign?’
To be here, with the Tsar, and at such a time, was what he wanted more than anything.
Ivan looked back at him once more. The interview being at an end his eyes had begun to glaze over as he entered some other world of his own. How quickly, Boris thought, the great man could bring down a curtain that separated him from the rest of the world. It was something which, in another man, he might have taken for caution or awkwardness: as though there were things he did not wish Boris to see.
‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘things are quiet here today but… this is not the place for you.’
A little sadly, Boris withdrew.
That afternoon the Tsar went riding. In the evening there were more prayers. Then, the next morning, the same summons to church before dawn. By mid-morning, some prisoners were brought into the fort and led quickly away to a stout building at the far end of the enclosure. Soon after this, Boris left.
As he had made his way back to Moscow he had experienced a wonderful lifting of the spirits, as if his whole being and his commitment to the cause had been renewed.
It was in Moscow, on a clear September day, that Boris came upon the Englishman. They met near the Kremlin wall.
He was a thin fellow, with narrow-set eyes, and when Boris saw him, he was standing by the Neglinaia River gazing curiously across it.
The sight that greeted George Wilson’s eye was a recent addition to Moscow, specially constructed for the increased safety of the Tsar. It was the Oprichnina Palace.
It lay opposite the Kremlin, only a gunshot away – a fearsome fort with twenty-foot walls massively built of red brick and stone. The gate opposite them was sheathed in iron; above it a lion statue raised its paw angrily at the outside world. On the battlements they could see some of the several hundred archers who guarded the place.
As Wilson gazed at this sight wonderingly, Boris in turn looked at him with curiosity. He had heard a lot about these English merchants who were now to be found in several northern cities. They were a troublesome collection, but the Tsar apparently thought they could be useful to him. This fellow was so thin he might be a poor monk.
In fact, at that moment, Wilson was thinking of breaking the law.
Life had treated him well. He had married the German girl. Her plump young body had delighted him; her placid round face, he had soon discovered, could turn to a lecherous hardness that made him laugh for pleasure. They had two children now and he had become rather contented.
He was still a militant Protestant. He always carried some printed tracts inside his cloak as a sort of talisman against the all-pervading presence of the Orthodox churchmen with their incense and icons. Occasionally he would be stopped, usually by a black-shirt, who would demand to know what these sheets of paper were. They especially did not like the fact that they were printed. He knew that when Ivan had introduced a modest printing press a few years before to promulgate his laws, an angry mob led by the scribes had broken it up. The simple barbarism of these people amused him. When challenged about the tracts, however, he would always solemnly reply that they were his prayers, a penance for his wickedness, and this usually satisfied them.