As for Eudokia, she stared with furious disgust.

'When his mother died, and he would not even stay at her bedside, I said he was unnatural,' she remarked. 'Now I have seen the face of evil itself.'

Yet even this horror had been as nothing to what was happening now.

For in 1698, Peter had, once more, done something that no ruler of Russia had ever done.

He had travelled abroad. And he had taken Procopy with him.

While they were away, Eudokia had scarcely even visited Moscow. The place had become hateful to her. Instead she had spent most of her time alone, down at Russka, where she continued to pass long hours in the company of the priest Silas, and Daniel and his family.

But now Peter and her son were back. And in Moscow, all hell had broken loose.

Daniel approached the capital with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

Could the rumours he had heard since Tsar Peter's sudden return from abroad really be true? It was many years since he had been to the capital, but when he received the summons from that godly woman Eudokia Mikhailovna, he had not hesitated but had come, bringing with him his wife and little daughter.

For and it often puzzled Daniel that God should have granted such a gift in these evil days he and Arina, after nearly fifteen years, and long after they had given up hope, had unexpectedly been blessed with a daughter. She had been born in 1693 when Arina was thirty-nine and he was in his sixties. And now here he was, aged seventy, with a wife and a six-year-old girl.

At first, when he and Arina had gazed at the little baby who had so wondrously appeared, they had been astonished by one thing: she did not in the least seem to resemble either of them.

It was old Elena who, with a smile of delight, solved the mystery.

'To think that, in my last days, I should have been granted such a thing,' she muttered. 'The child is my Maryushka, to the life.'

So that was what they called her: Maryushka. And old Elena, in the last three years of her life, would sit with the child every day with as much pride as if it had been her own.

Yet if little Maryushka had come into their lives like a ray of sunshine, what dark years they were into which she had been born. All over Russia, but especially in the north, the government had continued to persecute the Raskolniki Raskolniki. Some sought martyrdom by challenging the authorities. Others continued to worship in secret.

The early years, after the terrible edict, had been especially difficult. No one had been sure what to do. But Silas and Daniel had consulted the friends of Avvakum and with them had reached a wise conclusion.

'There is no merit in challenging the government and calling down its wrath,' Daniel would tell his little family. 'The edict is wrong, but perhaps in future it will be changed. We shall continue to pray, in secret, as we have been taught. We shall not seek trouble, but if persecution comes, we must suffer it as best we may, secure in God's protection.' It was a course that hundreds, even thousands of little congregations had followed in that vast land. No one, neither the government nor the congregations themselves, knew how many.

Daniel was cautious as he approached Moscow, it was understandable. The capital was not only the seat of persecution. It had also become a place of danger. For that very summer, while the strange young Tsar had still been abroad, the streltsy streltsy had revolted again. had revolted again.

Had Sophia, still in furious exile in her convent, put them up to it? No one knew. Fortunately for Peter, his counsellors had managed to smash the rebellion very quickly. But the Tsar had hurried home anyway and now, a month after his arrival, all Russia was waiting to see what their young ruler would do.

As Daniel entered the suburbs, however, the huge city seemed to be quiet. His little cart made its way slowly towards the city's outer wall, passed through and came eventually to the kitaygorod kitaygorod where the Bobrovs had their substantial house. And there at last, with the late afternoon sun pleasantly on his back, he led his wife and daughter into the large, dusty courtyard. where the Bobrovs had their substantial house. And there at last, with the late afternoon sun pleasantly on his back, he led his wife and daughter into the large, dusty courtyard.

It was a big, wooden house on two floors, with a massive outside staircase. Around the courtyard were a number of lesser buildings, in which he would be given lodgings.

He placed his hand on his heart and bowed low as the grey-bearded figure of Nikita himself appeared and gave him a courteous greeting. A moment later, from the upper floor, Eudokia came out, smiling; before her walked a serving girl, with a pleasant face, carrying bread and salt in welcome.

'Welcome, faithful Patriarch,' she said.

How the old man's heart warmed. His face, usually rather solemn, creased into a smile. That little word 'faithful' meant so much to them both. It meant that, despite their different stations in life, they were friends. It meant that she relied upon him for emotional support. He knew it. And lastly it meant something else, which was never spoken of before her husband.

'My Lady Eudokia Mikhailovna,' he said fervently, bowing low in greeting. He had only seen her in Russka before, never in Moscow. In Russka she dressed simply. But here in the capital she was magnificently attired in rich red brocade and a headdress studded with pearls. Though he despised all the trappings of worldly wealth, old Daniel could not help thinking that she looked very well in her finery.

Though they were in the heart of Moscow, the afternoon seemed to be completely silent. Hardly anyone was passing in the street outside. In the courtyard, a single mulberry tree gave shade in one corner which shade was scarcely needed on such a pleasant autumn day. The horse in the shafts, sensing that he was at journey's end, had dropped his head and was twitching his lips thoughtfully, while the flies settled on him.

And so, like old friends, the rich landlord and these poor artisans talked gently together in low tones, exchanging a little news. For even Nikita, now that he was getting old, found the presence of these simple people from the country strangely comforting.

It was while they were conversing like this, and just as Daniel was thinking it was time to unharness the horse from the little cart, that he suddenly saw Eudokia stiffen and a curious look of awkwardness pass over Nikita's face.

At that moment, he also became aware that someone was coming through the gateway behind him; and at the same time he heard Nikita Bobrov say, in a voice whose heartiness was not quite natural: 'Ah! Here is my son Procopy.'

And then, as Daniel turned to look, his mouth fell open in horror.

Procopy was charming, Peter had always found him so, and intelligent.

The young Tsar's friends at the village of Preobrazhenskoe had included all kinds of people. There were men of the old princely and boyar families; there were sons of the nobility, like Procopy; there were lesser gentry, and there were even lowborn men like his favourite Menshikov who was said to have sold pastries in the street as a boy.

One thing united them all: they were devoted to Peter.

And then, of course, there were the foreigners in the German quarter.

Procopy was lucky that, with his ready wit, he was included by Peter not only in the military company he kept at the village, but in the frequent parties in the German quarter. Not only did it bring him closer to the boy-Tsar, but it had also opened up for him another world.

For the German quarter was utterly unlike the rest of Moscow. Its broad streets were neatly laid out; its houses were frequently of Dutch brick or stone with pleasant little formal gardens. Its little Protestant churches seemed light and open compared to the dark Muscovite churches that glimmered with gold. In short, it was a small oasis of Europe, of bourgeois order and culture, cleanliness and discipline, fenced off in its compound across the fields from the huge, untidy and exotic, Asiatic jumble of Moscow.

Some of the several thousand merchants and soldiers who lived there were second or third generation immigrants. But to the Russians unless they had converted to Orthodoxy and made the effort to Russianize themselves entirely they were contemptible: dumb foreigners. In the slang of the day, the German suburb was often called the kokuy kokuy which was the name of the brothel quarter in the city proper. which was the name of the brothel quarter in the city proper.

Yet here lived Englishmen who understood the weaponry and tactics of modern war; here could be found Germans who, far from being 'dumb', as their Russian name implied, spoke many languages. Here were Dutchmen who understood how to build sea-going ships and how to navigate.

These were wonders about which the Russians were not only ignorant, they were not even curious. Procopy himself had been present when one day a faithful general, thinking to please the boy-Tsar, proudly brought back an astrolabe from abroad, by which means, he explained, the cunning foreigners could navigate by the sun and stars. Peter had been delighted. No one had ever seen such a thing before. 'How does it work?' he had asked. 'How?' The general was nonplussed. 'I never thought of asking,' he replied.

That the astrolabe had at that time been in use for nearly two thousand years they did not know.

But nothing had impressed Procopy more than the way that the young Tsar had found not only a Dutchman who could explain it to him but had sat down with an exercise book day after day, week after week, until he had slowly mastered the unfamiliar mathematics of the thing.

'I tell you,' he explained to his father, 'I admire him as a Tsar, for behind his wildness is something formidable. But I love him as a man. It's not just his curiosity, which is past anything I've ever seen. But he struggles so hard! I watched him with his mathematics. It didn't come easily to him at all, but he wouldn't give up. That's what I like. He makes mistakes, but he just won't give up.'

Procopy had got to know the German suburb very well; and though he had not the driving passion for knowledge that Peter had, he began to have some understanding of the wealth that it represented. Indeed, he even began to think of himself as rather advanced, a man ahead of his time.

Until he went on the great embassy abroad.

The great embassy of Peter of Russia to western Europe has become such a part of the folklore of world history that its true nature is often forgotten.

The folklore is that Peter, thirsty for western civilization, visited Europe and then returned to civilize his own country and make it as much like the rest of Europe as he could.

This is not true.

Firstly, as to Peter's reason for going, the latter must certainly leave no shadow of doubt. It was to prepare for war as a start, against Turkey. Diplomatically, the embassy was to persuade western countries to join an anti-Turkish alliance. The practical side of the tour of Europe was to learn shipbuilding so that Russia could build a proper, sea-going fleet.

Already in 1696, soon after his victory at Azov, Peter had sent fifty horrified Russians, without their families, to western Europe to learn navigation and shipbuilding. Amongst them, amazingly, was the fifty-two-year-old Tolstoy who had somehow, despite his close links to Peter's Miloslavsky enemies, managed to get into Peter's favour.

His own embassy, therefore, followed soon after.

But why did Peter himself go; and why did he go incognito incognito officially only as a junior member of the party led by his ambassadors? officially only as a junior member of the party led by his ambassadors?

We do not know for certain. But it was probably to give himself more freedom to roam unofficially in the dockyards of the west. Certainly he spent months working as a ship's carpenter and learning the whole business very thoroughly.

It also perhaps gave this devotee of the Mock Synod and the Jolly Company more opportunity to play the fool. This he and his friends also did. In London, they were installed, near the docks, in the house of the distinguished diarist John Evelyn, and so effectively wrecked both house and garden that the great Sir Christopher Wren, who inspected the place afterwards, estimated the damage at the then astounding sum of three hundred and fifty pounds. Amongst other items, the floor had to be renewed; the tiles from the Dutch stoves had been pulled off; the brass door locks broken; the feather beds ripped open; all the lawns and a four-hundred-foot-long, nine-foot-high holly hedge one of the horticultural prizes of London completely destroyed.

In this manner, in 16978, Tsar Peter came to learn about the civilization of Europe.

The Baltic; the port of Riga; the German states of Brandenburg and Hanover; Holland; England; Hapsburg Vienna; Poland.

It was not, Procopy would say in later years, that he had entered other lands. He had entered another century.

He never really understood how great the difference was. This was not lack of intelligence on his part. The huge, two-thousand-year-old tradition of philosophical enquiry, from Socrates to Descartes; the splendours of the Renaissance; the beginnings of modern science; and, most of all, the complex and flexible western societies with their ancient institutions, professions, legal and moral codes and brilliant culture all these things, despite some imported books and furniture at the Tsar's court, were simply not comprehended by more than a handful of Russians. None of Peter's entourage really understood what they were seeing. Peter himself certainly did not, nor could he have.

But if Procopy did not understand what he saw, it still made a profound impression on him, and he intuited much that he did not fully comprehend.

With Peter, he had been impressed by the ships and the huge ports. The cannon he had seen on board the ships had hugely excited him and, with Peter, too, he had been delighted to discover that one could obtain greatly superior gunpowder in the west.

But when his father had questioned him upon his return and asked him which country he admired most, he replied: 'I think it was Holland.'

'Why?' Nikita enquired. 'Is it their ships, their trade?'

Procopy shook his head.

'No. It is ...' he searched for a word ' ... it is their order.' And seeing Nikita look puzzled, he went on: 'They have even tamed the sea. I saw great walls not like our wooden walls across the steppe to keep out the Tatars, but huge walls of stone to keep out the sea itself. They call them dykes. They have taken land back from the sea and laid out fields thousands of them, all so neatly arranged in squares and rectangles, within their dykes. You can scarcely credit that men could accomplish such a thing. And they have canals, straight as arrows, that stretch to the horizon.'

Nikita looked unimpressed.

'We do not need such things in Russia. We have land without end.'

'I know. But don't you see,' Procopy went on excitedly, 'that's not the point.' It was something he had been brooding about ever since he first saw these wonders. 'The point, Father, is that they have conquered nature. They have imposed a pattern, an order, on the land, even the sea itself.' He paused and then added with a sudden flash of insight, 'It's as if, in their own hearts and minds, they ordered themselves.'

Nikita laughed.

'I can't see us Russians ordering ourselves. Can you?'

Procopy agreed.

'No, I can't. But we can impose order from above. That's the only way to do it, as the Tsar himself has said to me many times.'

Nikita sighed.

'So do you mean that you and the Tsar have come back meaning to impose your will upon Mother Nature?' he asked with a wry smile. 'My poor Procopy, nature in Russia is mightier than any Tsar. You cannot impose anything upon her. The land,' he suggested, 'is endless.'

But now it was Procopy's turn to smile.

'Wait until you've seen Tsar Peter try,' he remarked drily.

If these comments depressed Nikita, because he thought them impractical, it was nothing to the effect they had on Eudokia.

'God made nature,' she warned him, 'and if you seek to impose your order upon nature too, then I say that this is nothing but pride. You and your Tsar are evil.'

And to Procopy's great sorrow, he found his mother estranged from him.

Strangely enough, all three parties to this argument were profoundly and equally Russian: Eudokia in her religious conservatism; Nikita in his fatalism; and perhaps most of all young Procopy in his optimism. For, having seen the outside world and its order, even if remaining unaware of its complex underpinnings, Procopy had assumed that, just as the villagers in Russia can build a house in a day, so with a strong leader and a titanic effort, a new order can be imposed from above. This belief is the perennial tragedy of Russia.

What, then, had the embassy really accomplished?

In fact, a great deal. Peter had wanted to study shipbuilding: he and others had done so quite thoroughly. He wanted new armaments, gunpowder that did not continually misfire, and knowledge of modern fighting methods, especially at sea. He obtained all of these. He also opened up new avenues for trade.

The Russians' diplomacy failed. No one wanted to fight the Sultan of Turkey at that time. But if his drive to the warm seas of the south might be stalled, Peter had discovered in his travels that there could be other alliances he could make that would get him access to the other trade route he needed: the Baltic Sea in the north.

Above all, it was the long-term consequences of the embassy which were the most important. Men like cunning old Peter Tolstoy might not have learned a great deal about shipbuilding, as they had been told to do, but they came back with a wealth of observations, a knowledge of foreign languages, and some insight, at least, into European education and culture. These were the early Europeanized Russians, the group of which Sophia's counsellor Golitsyn had been the forerunner. These were the men who, in the long run, would open Russia's windows on the west.

Was Procopy Bobrov such a man? Not quite. But though he lacked the desire to educate himself profoundly, he had still taken in enough to see that his homeland was centuries out of date.

This had one sad consequence. For while her sense of religious propriety had separated Eudokia and her son, Procopy now found a subtler barrier between himself and his father. Nor could he help it.

For to Nikita, his son had become a stranger. It was not his western style of dress, nor his travels as such. But Nikita could sense, in that faint but unmistakable reserve in Procopy's manner, by the distant look in his eye, that his son no longer warmed to the same things; he knew something his own people did not. Nikita had seen German and English officers look at their Russian troops that way.

He's not really a Russian any more, he thought. And, hardest of all to bear for a man who had always thought himself more educated than his fellow nobles: He secretly despises me.

This, then, was the young man who had just walked into the courtyard, and at whom Daniel was staring in disbelief.

For Procopy was wearing a smart green uniform, close-fitting, with buttons down the front in the German manner. His legs were encased in breeches and stockings. And apart from a neat moustache, he was cleanshaven.

Of course, in the old Cossack days in the Ukraine, when men still called him Ox, Daniel had been used to cleanshaven men. But here in the north that the son of Nikita Bobrov should do such a thing! he could only stare in wonder.

Nikita, following his gaze, smiled a little apologetically.

'The Tsar's friends came back from their journey cleanshaven,' he remarked.

'The Tsar himself has shaved the beards of the boyars at court,' Procopy reminded him. 'He says he won't tolerate people at his court looking so primitive. He told me so today.'

Primitive! Daniel winced at the word. He saw Eudokia start as if she had been slapped, and then look away from them. It was a calculated insult.

Yet Nikita Bobrov appeared to ignore this rudeness. It seemed he had something else on his mind. He turned to his son with a look of enquiry.

'You came from Preobrazhenskoe?'

Procopy nodded.

'Well?' Nikita asked.

'It's decided. We have some confessions. We begin the executions tomorrow.' He took his father by the arm. 'Come,' he said, 'I'll tell you about it.' And he led him into the house.

Only now did Eudokia turn to face Daniel and his little family again. He saw there were tears in her eyes.

'Thank God,' she cried softly. 'Thank God that you have come.'