The two monks bowed low, both praying fervently.
‘I shall remain here tonight,’ Ivan went on. He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And before I depart, you shall learn to know me better.’
He turned; and now he smiled. For hurrying across the snow came a figure in black.
‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘here he comes, a loyal servant. Boris Davidov,’ he called, ‘you shall help these cunning monks to know me better.’ Then, gazing down at the abbot, he announced: ‘Come, it is almost time for Vespers.’
It was already dark outside when, amidst the bright glow from all the candles they could muster, the trembling monks sang the service of Vespers.
Facing them, having donned the golden robes used on the highest feast days, Tsar Ivan stood and, with a strange, grim smile, conducted them with his staff. Once, a terrified young monk sang a wrong note and Ivan, his eyes suddenly boring into the malefactor, brought down the iron tip of his staff with a crash upon the stone floor and made them start the hymn again.
So the service continued. Twice, as though suddenly attacked by a spasm, Ivan turned away, let his staff fall with a crash to the ground, and prostrated himself, beating his head upon the stone and crying out: ‘Gospodi Pomily: Lord have mercy.’
But a moment later he would rise, pick up his staff and, with the same grim half-smile as before, conduct the singing as though nothing had happened.
At last the service ended. The shaken monks dispersed to their cells, and Ivan returned to the refectory where he ordered food and drink to be brought for himself, Boris, and the other Oprichniki.
He also sent for the abbot, and for Daniel, who, when they arrived, were told to stand just inside the door.
There was something strange about the Tsar, Daniel noticed, as Ivan sat down to eat. It was as if the service had excited him in some way. His eyes were a little bloodshot, yet seemed to be slightly vacant, as though he had entered another realm while his body, almost derisively, went through the motions of its existence in this world.
They had given him their best wine, and whatever food they could find. For a few minutes he ate and drank thoughtfully, the Oprichniki beside him carefully tasting everything first, to make sure it was not poisoned. The other black-shirts ate silently, including Boris, whom Ivan had seated opposite him.
After a time the Tsar looked up.
‘So, abbot, you have cheated me out of a hundred acres of good land,’ he remarked calmly.
‘Not cheated, Gosudar,’ the abbot began tremulously.
‘You and this hairy-faced dog beside you,’ Ivan continued. ‘You shall learn now that the Tsar raises up and casts down; he giveth and he taketh away.’ He looked at them with contempt. ‘On my way here, I was hungry,’ he intoned. ‘Yet in the forests I found no deer. Why not?’
The abbot looked baffled for a moment.
‘The deer have been scarce this last winter. People are hungry…’
‘You are fined a hundred roubles,’ Ivan said quietly.
He turned to Boris.
‘Is there no entertainment here, Boris Davidov?’
‘I had a fellow who could play and sing well, lord, but he died last spring.’ Boris paused. ‘There’s a fellow with a performing bear,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but he’s not very good.’
‘A bear?’ Ivan suddenly brightened. ‘That’s better. Take a sled and bring them, good Boris Davidov. Bring them now.’
Boris rose and went to the door. He had just reached it when Ivan, having taken a draught of wine, suddenly called out: ‘Stop!’ He looked round for a moment to observe the reaction of the others in the room. ‘Take two sleds, Boris Davidov. Take mine and the second. Put the bear in the first. Dress him up in my furs. Let him wear the cap of the Tsar.’ And taking off his high hat he threw it to Boris. ‘Let the Tsar of all the bears come to visit the Tsar of all the Russias.’
At this he roared with laughter and the Oprichniki, following suit, banged their plates upon the table.
‘And now,’ he said, turning to the abbot – and Daniel saw with amazement that every trace of mirth, in a split second, had completely vanished from his face – ‘tell that hairy-faced rogue beside you to bring me a jar of fleas.’
‘Fleas, lord?’ the abbot mumbled. ‘We have no fleas.’
‘A pot of fleas, I said!’ Ivan suddenly rose and strode over to them, his staff held in his hand at a rakish angle, tapping upon the floor.
He stood, towering over them both. Daniel noticed, in his terror, that the Tsar was a little stouter than he had thought. It only made him more frightening.
‘Fleas!’ he roared. ‘When your Tsar commands, it is treachery to disobey. Fleas!’ He struck his staff a tremendous downward blow on the floor in front of the abbot. ‘Fleas! Seven thousand. Not one less!’
It was a favourite trick of his to demand the impossible. Though the abbot did not know it, Ivan had used this demand for fleas before. The old man quaked and Daniel thought that, perhaps, he was about to have a heart attack and die.
‘We do not possess them, lord,’ Daniel said. He tried to keep his voice steady but it came out as a hoarse whisper.
Ivan turned to him.
‘Then you are fined a hundred roubles, Brother Daniel,’ he remarked calmly.
For a second, just for an instant, Daniel opened his mouth to protest. But then he remembered that recently the Tsar had tied a monk, like himself, astride a small keg of gunpowder before lighting it, and he fell silent, praying that his impulse had not been noticed.
Tsar Ivan returned to his table, indicating to the two monks that they were to remain where they were.
Now, ignoring them completely, he began to talk and laugh with the black-robed Oprichniki. He made some reference to another monastery, something – Daniel could not hear what – he had done to a monk there, which made them all roar with laughter, and sent a chill down Daniel’s spine.
Half an hour passed. Tsar Ivan drank steadily, but was obviously in control of himself. Each time his hand raised the goblet to his lips, Daniel noticed the dull flash of the big jewelled rings on his fingers. His eyes, every few minutes, darted suspiciously round the big room, piercing the shadows.
‘Bring more candles,’ he commanded. ‘Let there be light.’ He did not seem to trust the darkness.
So they brought candle stands from the church and set them up in the corners.
It was just as they were doing so, that there was a commotion at the door and one of the Oprichniki announced that the bear was arriving. Led by the Tsar, they all went to the entrance to watch.
It was a grotesque sight. Preceded by four men with burning torches, the sled came into the courtyard. The terrified monks peeped out of windows and doorways.
In it sat the bear. His gaunt frame had been hung with a magnificent sable coat. On his head was the Tsar’s conical hat. Around his neck Boris had hung a golden crucifix he had taken from the chapel.
With a baffled Mikhail guiding him, the bear was coaxed to walk on its hind legs from the sled into the refectory.
‘Bow!’ Ivan cried in a loud voice to the monks in the doorways. ‘Bow to the Tsar of all the bears!’
He himself conducted the bear to his own chair on which it was persuaded to sit. Then, with mock ceremony, the Tsar made them all, including the abbot, bow low to the bear, before they removed the hat and coat.
‘Come then, peasant,’ the Tsar said sharply to Mikhail. ‘Show us your tricks.’
It was not much of a performance. While the Tsar and his men sat, Mikhail led the animal through its routine. It stood up, danced ponderously, clapped its paws together. The creature was a sad sight, its skin hanging loosely for want of food. After a little time Ivan grew bored and banished Mikhail and the animal to a corner.