ovens, and for those who thought soup was too thin without something floating in it, dishes of dumplings and buckwheat noodles. Ivan drank his own soup thoughtfully, not really appreciating its splendid flavour, for once again his attention was elsewhere. He was watching the doings at the farthest table, where Pavel and Nikolai had already started flicking little pellets of bread at one another, and he wasn’t alone in noticing them.
“Was this why you wanted them invited, Vanya?” said his mother in her soft voice. Ludmyla Ivanovna was known for her wisdom as well as for her beauty, and if she had gone to the trouble of making a comment, Ivan didn’t dare to even think of making an excuse.
“No, Mother,” he replied, just as quietly. “They were invited because I wasn’t thinking.”
The Tsaritsa smiled, and glanced at the unruly guests again. “I suspected as much when Dmitriy Vasil’yevich arrived with his idea for a new list of suitors. He gave you full credit, of course. Another of his little jokes: I’m sure he’s fully aware of the way your friends behave. It’s his business to know such things.”
Ivan stared at his soup-bowl, tapping it with his spoon while he debated whether to laugh or be angry. Anger would be justified, of course – he detested being made fun of – but at the same time there was a certain elegance about the way the High Steward had sprung his trap. Even while disliking the man just as much as ever, Ivan could appreciate the neatness of the trick. Strel’tsin knew perfectly well that Ivan’s friends would never make good suitors on the best day of their lives, but at the same time their behaviour would reflect badly on the Tsarevich and so pay him out nicely for a great many sharp words and barely-veiled insults. All of which he’d achieved without once leaving himself in a position to be blamed for anything. Ivan shook his head slowly, shrugged, laughed, finished up his soup – then noticed just how very good it was, and called for a second helping.
The Hall was a sea of colour, for it wasn’t merely Ivan’s friends who had dressed in their best. All of the Rus wore long kaftans, brocaded, jewelled or richly embroidered, and the tall furred hats that were the fashion in the deeps of winter – though many had taken them off to prevent them falling in the soup – and even Manguyu Temir had made an effort, which was a high compliment indeed.
The stocky, deep-chested Tatar wore his hair in the usual four-tailed tonsure of his people, but had gone to the trouble of washing both it and himself in the recent past. There was still a faint aroma of grease and horses hanging around him, but at least the most recent layer of grease had been one containing perfume. The robe that covered his two coats was rare and beautiful watered silk, in a Persian style and pattern most likely not acquired by honest trading. Only good manners – also widely separated tables and the presence of Tsar Aleksandr’s guards – prevented several of the princely guests and their attendant boyaryy from saying so and provoking a regrettable scene.
With the soup cleared away, the feasting progressed to more solid fare: poultry, fishes and game of all sorts, sausages with thyme and costly pepper, buckwheat kasha , pickled cucumbers, stuffed cabbage, succulent small pasties, and great joints of beef with sour cream and horseradish.
With the first edge of their appetites blunted by the good soups that began the meal, everyone in the hall soon found time to talk as well as eat. Ivan finished the food on his plate, wiped his eating-knife and spoon before putting them back in their case on his belt, then made his excuses and pushed back from the table. Many others had already done the same, moving from their own places to more easily hold conversations with friends or acquaintances elsewhere, but thus far none of the suitors had screwed up enough courage to approach any of the Tsarevnas. Ivan filled his
“Was this why you wanted them invited, Vanya?” said his mother in her soft voice. Ludmyla Ivanovna was known for her wisdom as well as for her beauty, and if she had gone to the trouble of making a comment, Ivan didn’t dare to even think of making an excuse.
“No, Mother,” he replied, just as quietly. “They were invited because I wasn’t thinking.”
The Tsaritsa smiled, and glanced at the unruly guests again. “I suspected as much when Dmitriy Vasil’yevich arrived with his idea for a new list of suitors. He gave you full credit, of course. Another of his little jokes: I’m sure he’s fully aware of the way your friends behave. It’s his business to know such things.”
Ivan stared at his soup-bowl, tapping it with his spoon while he debated whether to laugh or be angry. Anger would be justified, of course – he detested being made fun of – but at the same time there was a certain elegance about the way the High Steward had sprung his trap. Even while disliking the man just as much as ever, Ivan could appreciate the neatness of the trick. Strel’tsin knew perfectly well that Ivan’s friends would never make good suitors on the best day of their lives, but at the same time their behaviour would reflect badly on the Tsarevich and so pay him out nicely for a great many sharp words and barely-veiled insults. All of which he’d achieved without once leaving himself in a position to be blamed for anything. Ivan shook his head slowly, shrugged, laughed, finished up his soup – then noticed just how very good it was, and called for a second helping.
The Hall was a sea of colour, for it wasn’t merely Ivan’s friends who had dressed in their best. All of the Rus wore long kaftans, brocaded, jewelled or richly embroidered, and the tall furred hats that were the fashion in the deeps of winter – though many had taken them off to prevent them falling in the soup – and even Manguyu Temir had made an effort, which was a high compliment indeed.
The stocky, deep-chested Tatar wore his hair in the usual four-tailed tonsure of his people, but had gone to the trouble of washing both it and himself in the recent past. There was still a faint aroma of grease and horses hanging around him, but at least the most recent layer of grease had been one containing perfume. The robe that covered his two coats was rare and beautiful watered silk, in a Persian style and pattern most likely not acquired by honest trading. Only good manners – also widely separated tables and the presence of Tsar Aleksandr’s guards – prevented several of the princely guests and their attendant boyaryy from saying so and provoking a regrettable scene.
With the soup cleared away, the feasting progressed to more solid fare: poultry, fishes and game of all sorts, sausages with thyme and costly pepper, buckwheat kasha , pickled cucumbers, stuffed cabbage, succulent small pasties, and great joints of beef with sour cream and horseradish.
With the first edge of their appetites blunted by the good soups that began the meal, everyone in the hall soon found time to talk as well as eat. Ivan finished the food on his plate, wiped his eating-knife and spoon before putting them back in their case on his belt, then made his excuses and pushed back from the table. Many others had already done the same, moving from their own places to more easily hold conversations with friends or acquaintances elsewhere, but thus far none of the suitors had screwed up enough courage to approach any of the Tsarevnas. Ivan filled his
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