Sometimes, in front of the icons in the churches he visited, he would pray for better things; he would pray that he might love his wife always, and she him, forgiving each other's faults. But in his heart, he did not really mean it.

It was on one of these occasions, as he was standing before a favourite icon in a small local church, that he happened to fall into conversation with the young priest named Philip. He was about the same age as Boris, but very lean, with red hair and a hard, intense face that seemed always to be bobbing forwards as though, like a chicken looking for food, he could seize the subject under discussion with a few quick dabs beyond his beard. When Boris had expressed an interest in icons, and told him that his own family had given a work by the great Rublev to the monastery at Russka, Philip had become wildly enthusiastic.

'My dear lord, I make a particular study of icons. So, there is a Rublev at Russka? I did not know it. I must go there, to be sure. Perhaps you would allow me to journey with you one day? You would? You are very kind. Yes, indeed.'

And before he knew it he had acquired, it seemed, a friend for life. Philip never failed after that to meet him, at least once every two weeks. Boris thought him harmless enough.

Elena did not tell him she was pregnant until July. She expected the baby at the end of the year.

He was excited, of course. He must be. Her family all congratulated him. It seemed that this news must make all the women busier than ever.

And when he thought of his father, and realized that this might be the son who would continue their noble line, he felt another rush of emotion; a determination that, at all costs, he must succeed, hand the estate on in good condition, and more.

Yet as he sat beside Elena he would look across, see her smiling at him as though to say: 'Surely now he must be pleased,' and think: She is smiling at me; yet it is also her treasure that she guards in there. This child just completes her family: it will be theirs more than mine. And, anyway, what if it's a girl? That will be no good to me, yet I shall have to pay for it. In this way, often, the joy they told him he must feel turned to secret resentment.

He did not make love to Elena once he knew she was pregnant. He could not. The womb suddenly seemed to him mysterious, sacred both vulnerable, and for that reason, rather frightening. Like a pea in the pod: sometimes, that was how he saw it; and who but a monster would break open that pod, disturb the little life inside, or destroy it? At other times, it made him think of something darker, subterranean, like a seed in the earth that must be left in the warm, sacred darkness before, at its season, emerging into the light.

In any case, Elena was often away these days. Her father had an estate just outside the city. She often went there, in the weeks of late summer, to rest with her family.

As Boris gazed over the city now, on this warm September afternoon, he told himself that he must accept what fate had in store. Elena was due back the following morning with her mother. He would be kind to her. The afternoon was wearing on. There was a heaviness in the golden haze; yet at the same time, in the blue sky, a slight hint of the autumn chill ahead. At last he sighed.

What the devil did Stephen the priest want with him, though? It was time to go and find out.

The tall young priest was polite, even respectful.

He had come to Moscow to visit a distant relation, a learned monk, and before leaving the city he had requested a brief audience, as he rather elaborately put it, with the young lord.

The matter was very confidential. It concerned the peasant Mikhail.

Boris was slightly surprised, but told him to go on.

'Might I ask, Boris Davidov, that you will not mention this conversation to anyone at the monastery?' the priest asked.

'I suppose so.' What was the fellow up to?

Then, very simply, Stephen outlined poor Mikhail's dilemma. He did not tell Boris that the peasant had actually been encouraged to sabotage the work on the estate, but he did explain: 'The monastery may well be tempted to take him from you. They would gain a good worker, and you would lose your best peasant which in turn would make it harder for you to keep up the estate.'

'He can't leave,' Boris snapped. 'I know very well he can't afford the fees.'

Under the law, a tenant wishing to depart upon St George's Day not only had to clear any debts he had to his landlord, but had also to pay an exit fee from the house he had occupied. The rates for this were stiff more than half a rouble that was more than the value of Mikhail's entire yearly crop, and Boris was quite right in thinking he could not pay it.

'He can't afford it, but the monastery can,' Stephen quietly reminded him.

So that was it. An underhand way of stealing another man's peasants was to pay their exit fees for them. Would Daniel the monk do such a thing to him, a Bobrov? Probably.

'So what are you suggesting, that I should remit some of my peasant's service?'

'A little, Boris Davidov. Just enough to help Mikhail make ends meet. He's a good peasant, and I can tell you, he has no wish to leave you.'

'And why are you telling me this?' Boris demanded.

Stephen paused. What could he say? Could he tell the young man that, like many churchmen, he disapproved of the monastery's growing wealth? Could he tell Boris that he felt sorry for him and his rather helpless young wife? Could he tell him that, as things were, he was worried that Mikhail's sons, if they did not eat enough, might be tempted towards a life of crime when they were older, or towards some foolish act? He could not.

'I am only a priest, an onlooker,' he said with a wry smile. 'Let us say it is my good deed for the day.'

'I shall bear what you have said in mind,' Boris answered non-committally, 'and I thank you for your concern and the trouble you have taken.'

With this they parted, the priest believing that he had done both the peasant and his lord a Christian service.

After he had gone, Boris paced about the room, going over the conversation carefully until he was sure he had got it straight in his mind.

What kind of fool did they think he was? Did that tall priest think he had not noticed the little smile of cunning on his lips? On the face of it, he had come to help, but Boris had learned better than to believe that. He thought of Tsar Ivan, betrayed by all. He thought of the four cousins, standing together on the day he had arrived with Elena at Russka. He thought of his wife, too, who sometimes shrank from him in bed. No, they were none of them to be trusted, none. 'I must stand alone,' he murmured, 'and I must be cleverer, more ruthlessly cunning, even than they.'

What was the priest up to then? Why, he was baiting a trap: an obvious trap too, damn him. For if he reduced Mikhail's service, who would benefit? The peasant, of course Stephen's cousin. And what would be the effect? To leave him, Boris, short of money: so that he would have to borrow more and bring himself a step closer to losing the estate to the monastery.

'They just want to ruin me,' he muttered.

The cunning priest. Only one thing he had said might be true. It was possible that the monastery, if it couldn't get the estate yet, might try to steal Mikhail.

How, he wondered, could he prevent that?

All that month he considered the matter; yet surprisingly, of all people, it was the curious priest Philip, with his bobbing head and his passion for icons, who gave him his answer. It lay in a palace intrigue.

The strange business began in the Kremlin in the dark recesses of the Tsar's innermost court. It had been festering there for a long time, and it concerned the Church, and the fact that one of Ivan's advisers hated another.

For with the increasing need for pomestie pomestie estates for Ivan's loyal followers, some of his closest counsellers wanted him to support the Non-Possessors and take the Church's lands. The Metropolitan was looking for a way to head them off. And that year he found it. estates for Ivan's loyal followers, some of his closest counsellers wanted him to support the Non-Possessors and take the Church's lands. The Metropolitan was looking for a way to head them off. And that year he found it.

The fellow who was leading this campaign, a priest named Sylvester, was foolish enough to be friends with a man who could be accused of heresy. From this small beginning, the Metropolitan saw, a huge intrigue could be put together. Other, worse heretics were found: the accusers constructed a chain showing that if one man knew a second, the second a third, the third a fourth, then, to be sure, the first man and the fourth were plotting together. Better yet, a link between some of these conspirators and the family of Prince Vladimir, Ivan's cousin and possible successor, could be discovered.

The Metropolitan was delighted. The dangerous Sylvester could now be shown to be the friend of heretics and of Ivan's enemies. A show trial could be called as a warning, a shot across Sylvester's bows.

Admittedly, some of the evidence was a little weak. While two defendants were clearly heretics, a third could only be accused of going to a meeting to argue the case for Orthodoxy against some Roman Catholic. Even that was enough, though.

'For if this man had to argue about the matter,' the prosecution pointed out, 'if he did not know know the answer, then how can he be of the true faith?' the answer, then how can he be of the true faith?'

A trial was called for late October. All Moscow was buzzing with speculation. The Metropolitan, the Tsar, the high dignitaries of the Church and court would all be there. Already the party of Sylvester and his friends were badly frightened. The talk of Church land reform had subsided into a nervous silence.

And this show trial might have been enough for the Metropolitan, but it was not enough for Sylvester's rival in the council. Suddenly, now, a second case was brought this time directly against Sylvester himself. The subject of the charge was: icons.

They were in the great Cathedral of the Annunciation, in the very heart of the Kremlin; they had been recently executed under Sylvester's authority and, the charge said, they were heretical.

Even though Boris did not understand the details of the charge, like everyone else in Moscow, he knew how serious it might be. To speak heresy was dangerous, but a work of art that was heretical ... that was something permanent, a matter of record: it was like erecting a totem, a statue of a pagan god from olden times in front of the Holy of Holies itself.

It was some days before the show trial was due to start that Philip the priest offered to take Boris into the Kremlin to look at the icons in question. He accepted eagerly.

The day was heavy, grey and sombre. The clouds were as thick and as solid as the ramparts of the city as the two men made their way across the emptiness of Red Square. They passed through the tall, grim gateway, under the watchful eyes of the streltsy streltsy guards, and made their way between barracks, armouries and other thick-walled buildings until they came finally to the central square of the Kremlin. It was a medium-sized stone square, on each side of which loomed the high, thickset, grey-white presences of the cathedrals and palaces. The Cathedrals of the Assumption, the Archangel Michael, the Annunciation; the Italianate Palace of Facets; the Church of the Deposition of the Robe; the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great: here they all were, with their massive walls and high, gleaming domes in this innermost heart of the vast empire of the Eurasian plain. guards, and made their way between barracks, armouries and other thick-walled buildings until they came finally to the central square of the Kremlin. It was a medium-sized stone square, on each side of which loomed the high, thickset, grey-white presences of the cathedrals and palaces. The Cathedrals of the Assumption, the Archangel Michael, the Annunciation; the Italianate Palace of Facets; the Church of the Deposition of the Robe; the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great: here they all were, with their massive walls and high, gleaming domes in this innermost heart of the vast empire of the Eurasian plain.

'Come, I will show you the throne first,' Philip said, as he turned towards the simplest and most stately of the buildings, the Cathedral of the Assumption.

It was amazing how he seemed to be able to gain admittance everywhere. He spoke a few words to the priest at the door, and a moment later they were ushered in.

It was a splendid building, made for the Tsar's grandfather by an Italian architect, but modelled on the splendid old cathedral at Vladimir a simple, pale stone Byzantine cathedral with five domes. Here, Boris knew, the Metropolitans were buried; with awe he looked around at the huge, high bare walls and round columns with their layers of enormous frescoes staring out into the airy spaces they owned. In this cathedral was housed the most sacred of all Russian icons, the Virgin of Vladimir, Our Lady of Sorrows, which had given the men of Moscow their great victory over the Tatars at Kulikovo, back in the time of the great St Sergius.

But to Boris even this great icon seemed less important than the narrow, canopied golden throne that stood to one side.

'So this,' he murmured reverently, 'is where my Tsar was crowned.'

And he stayed there, staring at it for several minutes, until at last Philip had to drag him away.

They crossed to the Cathedral of the Annunciation.

The icons in question, which had caused such fear and trembling, did not look so unusual to Boris. Indeed, until Philip started to speak, he could not see anything wrong with them at all. But the intense young priest soon disabused him.

'Look at that: did you ever see such a thing?'

Boris looked. Before him was a figure of Christ, with wings, and with his palms closed.

'It's perhaps unusual,' he ventured uncertainly.

'Unusual? It's outrageous! Idolatry. Don't you see, the artist has invented that? Invented it for himself for himself? There is no authority for depicting Our Lord in such a way. Unless,' he added darkly, 'it comes from the Catholics in the west.'

Boris looked carefully. It was true. There was something markedly individual about the thing if one considered it. He was still doing so when he heard a gasp of outrage from Philip.

'See here.' He was in front of another icon. 'Our Lord depicted as David, dressed like a Tsar. And over there ' he had glanced across at another 'the Holy Spirit depicted as a dove. Never! Never in Orthodoxy.'

He turned to Boris confidentially.

'There are frescoes in the palace, they say, that are even worse. Heretics! Cunning fiends!' His head bobbed so violently it was as if he feared contamination. 'I tell you,' he said, with his eyes, it seemed, focused angrily upon the tip of his beard, 'I tell you, young Lord Boris, those accursed Catholics in the west may be rascals, but they have one good idea, and that is the Inquisition. That's what we need in Russia. Root them out.'

They left quietly, but all the way back to the Kremlin Gate and beyond the priest would mutter, every few paces: 'Root them out. Root and branch.'

And just as they came out into Red Square, Boris had his idea.

'I think,' he said quietly, 'that they make icons like that in Russka.'

On an overcast day in early November, the two visitors appeared in Russka. There was a cold, wet wind biting into their faces that threatened to bring heavy rain, or possibly snow at any time; and if Boris had not been anxious to make the journey at once, Philip the priest would have preferred to wait until a better travelling season.

They went straight to Boris's house and the young lord of Dirty Place soon sent a friendly message to Stephen the priest asking him to call. Meanwhile Boris had sent his servant scurrying to summon a pair of plump chickens from his steward, a bottle of wine, and anything else he could think of for their comfort.

Despite the fact that they were both rather chilled, Boris was elated in a nervous way.

Within two hours, they were dining, and while Philip was still eating, which he did with the same, emphatic bobbing motion that he used for everything else, Stephen arrived.

He was glad to see Boris, and wondered if this visit could signal something good for the unfortunate Mikhail. Boris's slightly nervous gaiety suggested to him that the young man might have been through some kind of minor crisis in his thinking recently; since he had brought a priest with him, Stephen hoped it had been of a religious nature.

Under the influence of the wine, apparently, both men were very affable. Boris informed him that his friend had kindly agreed to spend a few days with him while he attended to his business in the country and he ventured to hope that Stephen would show him the village and the monastery. 'For if he has to stay with me at Dirty Place all the time, I'm afraid he'll be awfully bored,' Boris explained with a boyish grin. 'He's a learned fellow, like you,' he added amiably.

During this conversation, Philip said little, concentrating on his eating. But now he began to talk a little. He asked Stephen a few ordinary enough questions about the little town, said a few words about his own humdrum life, and spoke with veneration, but very little understanding, about the icons in his own church.

A pleasant, rather simple-minded fellow, Stephen thought, of no great education. He promised to show him round the next day.

Two days, and the trap was set. Boris sent for Daniel the monk. And when their conversation was over, the young lord reflected that, including even the best moments of his brief marriage, these were the most exhilarating and most satisfying minutes he had ever passed in his life.

'I find myself,' he began, with perfect insincerity, 'in a most difficult position.'

He was sure, yes he was sure, that the monk did not know what was coming. Above the thick beard he saw Daniel's eyes gleaming with their burning light.

'It might not matter,' Boris went on, 'but for recent events in Moscow.' He paused. It seemed that the monk's face was frowning in puzzlement. 'I am referring, of course, to the heresy trials,' he said sweetly.

The first trials had taken place on 25 October, and they had been a triumph for the Metropolitan. The evidence, such as it was, had been enough to secure for all the accused torture and life imprisonment; and now all Moscow was terrified.

As a staunch supporter of the Metropolitan's line, Daniel was delighted. But what could these trials have to do with this young landlord and himself at Russka? He looked up at Boris enquiringly.

'It seems,' Boris said, with apparent concern, 'that we have heresy in our midst right here.' And he tapped the table reprovingly. Daniel stared at him.

It had been so easy though he had been astonished at how neatly and cleverly the priest Philip had played his part. Bobbing his head, asking rather simple-minded questions, the devious fellow had gone round Russka all day with the obliging Stephen. Never once had he asked the local priest's opinion on any but the most trivial matters. He had been shown the icons for sale in the market, had visited the monastery and walked round the big fields near the monastery walls. Now and then, it appeared, he had been struck with disapproval by something he had seen, and then tried to hide it. Only towards sunset, as they stood by the gate of the town and gazed down at the rich monastery below, did he seem to forget himself and burst out bitterly: 'A rich little monastery.'

'You find it too rich?' Stephen enquired curiously.

At once Philip became guarded and looked at him nervously.

Stephen had smiled, then taken his arm gently.

'I understand.'

Philip looked relieved.

'One must be careful nowadays, my friend,' he said softly.

'Of course. You are a Non-Possessor then?'

The priest from Moscow bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

'And you?' he asked Stephen.

'I too,' the simple-minded Russka priest confessed.

They had walked quietly back together to Boris's home where they had embraced before Stephen returned to his home.

The next day Philip had inspected the icons in the market and at the monastery carefully. Then he had given Boris his opinions.

'The priest is a Non-Possessor. At present it's not clear whether he's a heretic, but he reads too much and he's a fool. There's no knowing what heresy he might easily tumble into. As for the icons, I find four designs that are a disgrace.'

'Heretical?'

'Absolutely. As bad as anything I've seen from Novgorod.'