by K L Conger
But what could she do? She wanted him to go to Russia, and it sounded like he would. It wouldn’t solve the mystery, but his life was entirely his own now. If she was sending him to Russia, she might as well prepare him.
“All right, I’ll tell you what I remember. It’s not much. I truly don’t know what happened to your mother. Your father never spoke of her, even on his deathbed. I think he found it too painful. Perhaps there was something more than a sledge accident to Mary’s death, but I can’t be sure.”
He nodded. His mouth had tightened when she mentioned his father’s pain. A new list of worries formed in Margaret’s mind. How could she have so overestimated Taras’s ability to adapt? All at once she understood that he hadn’t adapted at all. Underneath his playful exterior, he still held on to the memories of his parents in that desolate place so many years ago.
As she began her explanation, Margaret prayed she was doing the right thing.
Chapter 12
MOSCOW, 1547
Inga skidded to a stop in the kitchen, finding it empty. Seeing the open door nearby, Inga hurried through it. The coronation ceremony would soon begin. When it ended, the feasting would begin, and the kitchens must be ready.
The air outside felt chilly. Spring had arrived, but winter’s icy fingers still clung to the mornings. Bodgan and his staff stood on the lawn outside the kitchens, waiting for the festivities to begin.
“Bogdan!” she called.
Bogdan turned his head to see who called him. When he recognized Inga, he turned the rest of his body and strode toward her. He’d been working in the kitchens since Inga was six. Seventeen winters later, his hair and well-groomed beard were laced with gray, and fine wrinkles adorned the corners of his eyes and mouth. Food perpetually stained his clothes, and he had a habit of wiping his hands on his smock, even when they didn’t need to be cleaned.
“Yehveh says that after the ceremony, the grand prince—I mean the tsar—will walk around to all the cathedrals,” Inga said. “He wants the people to see him kiss the icons. If you come back right after the coronation, you should have two hours to prepare the feast before the tsar’s return. You shouldn’t have to leave the ceremony early.
Bogdan nodded. “Good. I don’t want to miss any part of it. It will be something to see.”
“Will you get into the cathedral?”
“Only the most important will make it into the cathedral, but people will look through windows and pass news to the masses. We should have a fair idea of what is happening.”
One of the under-cooks called Bogdan, then, motioning frantically. Bogdan shrugged, winked at Inga, and strode away.
Inga allowed herself a deep breath. She’d been running like a mad woman all day in preparation for the coronation. Finally, she had no more errands. Perhaps she ought to hide before someone gave her something else to do.
“Psst! Inga!”
Inga searched for the voice. Natalya crouched around the corner from the kitchen. She motioned for Inga to join her.
When she got to Natalya, Inga smiled. Natalya’s stance reminded her of when they were children and Natalya had some great secret she didn't want Yehvah discovering.
“What is it?”
“Inga, I thought of a way we can see the coronation.”
“We won’t be able to see it. We can’t get through the cathedral door.”
Natalya smiled conspiratorially. “Maybe we won’t have to.” Still grinning, she took Inga’s hand and darted away. Inga allowed herself to be pulled along by her friend. She would miss Natalya.
Fifteen minutes later, they approached the Cathedral of Dormition. The front entrance, through which the grand prince—soon to be the tsar—would enter, was choked with spectators. Inga and Natalya skirted the crowd until they reached the side of the Cathedral, which were almost completely clear. The windows sat too high to see anything here, so people crowded around the entrances instead. Natalya led Inga to the back of the massive cathedral.
The back courtyard had been partitioned off for repairs. Many years and harsh Russian winters caused the outermost stones near the roof to crumble. Stonemasons had been called in, but they weren’t working today—not on the day of the historical coronation.
Tall wooden scaffolds, built to hold the stonemasons while they worked, leaned against the structure. Ladders ran up the sides and reached to the roof. Without pause, Natalya climbed onto one of them. Inga grabbed her arm.
“What are you doing?”
Natalya giggled. “Do you remember when we were little and Yehvah brought us to mass here? We would escape and explore that tiny attic upstairs?”
“I remember.”
“And do you also remember a window that looked down into this courtyard?” Natalya pointed upward.
Below the roofline were carved long, thin windows. From the ground, they looked too skinny to fit a person through. In truth, a grown man could easily fit through one.
Natalya did not point to one of those, however. Below one of the skinny windows sat another, octagonal one. Inga recognized it immediately.
“How did you remember that? I haven’t thought about that room in years.”
Natalya beamed proudly. “Came to me this morning. What do you say we climb up there and peek at the coronation?”
Inga tried not to smile but failed miserably. “Don’t you think we’re too old for girlish games?”
Natalya’s smile broadened. “Inga, I’m getting married next week, and I want one more magical afternoon to be a little girl with my best friend. Come on.” Without a backward glance, Natalya scrambled up the wooden ladder.
Inga glanced around, her sense of responsibility warring with her sense of adventure. The two of them could get in trouble for this. She grinned and followed Natalya up.
Nothing more than a glorified storage space, the attic held trunks of papers and scrolls no one in the cathedral had seen in years. Cobwebs and dust occupied any space where two or more surfaces came together. Both women made it easily through the small window. Even with all the boxes and trunks, they could have fit a dozen people into the attic.
Natalya peeked out through the curtains. She motioned Inga to come forward. The thick curtain that partitioned off the ugly storage area from the rest of the cathedral was faded and dusty on this side. On the other side, a balcony ran the length of the room. If they scooted forward to the railing, they could look down into the main area, where the coronation would take place.
“We’d better wait to go out until the ceremony starts,” Inga whispered, keeping her voice low “Otherwise someone might expel us.” Natalya nodded in agreement.
Everything about the cathedral smacked of a decadence Inga could hardly imagine. In the center of the room, a plus purple cloth draped a high dais. Two thrones sat on top of it. They were covered with sparkling gold material. A nearby table held several vestments which would be presented to the new tsar, including a jewel-encrusted crown, an ornamented crucifix, a staff, and a rich stole to lay across his shoulders. Thousands of candles lit the room and monstrous chandeliers hung from the ceilings.
A scratching at the window made Inga and Natalya catch their breath. Someone else was climbing up. Inga searched for a place to hide. Trunks lined the walls, but were packed in closely with no open space between them. All were padlocked. Hiding inside would not be an option. Natalya jumped to her feet and walked to the window. Inga gaped at her friend. She wondered if she’d ever have Natalya’s nerve for confrontation.
“Yehvah?” Natalya barked a laugh of relief and reached out to help the older woman in.
Yehvah made it with minimal grumbling, then stood up directly into a thick cobweb. She mumbled something about the place needing a good dusting.
“Yehvah, how did you know where we'd gone?” Inga asked.
“I saw you sneaking away in the shadow of the wall. You two aren’t particularly subtle, you know.”
Natalya laughed, clapping her hands together. “Did you know about thi
s place, Yehvah, or did you think we'd actually sneak into the coronation room?”
“Of course I knew. Did the two of you think when you used to sneak off during mass that I didn’t know where you were? I always kept a watchful eye on you, even when you didn’t know it.”
Inga laughed in disbelief. It amazed her how much Yehvah knew that Inga thought she’d kept hidden. Now Yehvah scowled from Inga to Natalya and back again. She glanced casually at the curtain. A forced kind of casual.
“Is the view any good?”
Inga smiled broadly. “It’s excellent.”
Yehvah pretended to look at the high corners of the room as an excuse to turn her nose up. Trying to look disgruntled, she finally said, “Well, make room for me.”
A FEW MINUTES LATER, an announcement spread through the cathedral that the grand prince was on his way. He’d left the palace and was walking the mapped-out route to the cathedral. Ivan’s subjects and guards lined the route, which had been carpeted in red velvet.
After what felt like hours, the doors were thrown open. Ivan entered the cathedral following his confessor, who held a cross aloft and chanted in Latin, sprinkling holy water on those present. An invisible choir sang as he entered. Inga caught phrases like, May he live for many years.
Ivan walked proudly, head held high and chest thrust out. He claimed seventeen winters, and there was already talk of him taking a wife. Reddish hair topped his lean frame. Even the high contours of his face and proud set of his jaw spoke of royalty. He was not the most dashing man in court, but alluring enough. His confidence and majesty named him a true Prince of Muscovy. The finest robes Inga could have imagined garbed him, a colorful mixture of sable, purple, scarlet, and gold brocade.
Behind him marched Yuri, followed by the highest court officials, including the Chosen Council.
“Yehvah,” Natalya whispered, “why are no instruments being played?”
“Makarii, the Metropolitan, wanted this modeled on the Eastern Roman example. There are never any instruments used in orthodox ceremonies. The Metropolitan went to great lengths to go strictly by precedent.”
“Why?”
“So no one can ever claim Ivan’s throne does not belong to him.”
The procession walked steadily toward the Metropolitan and other clergymen waiting at the center of the room, all adorned in their finest attire. When Ivan reached the dais, he climbed twelve steps to where the two thrones awaited. Makarii sat in one of the two thrones, while Ivan stood before him. The dazzling, jewel encrusted crown was placed on Ivan’s head.
“Does the crown have significance?” Inga asked.
“It is the crown of Monomakh, presented by the Emperor Constantine Monomakh to his son, who was grand prince of Kiev. It represents ultimate power in old Russia—in Kieven Rus, from whence we came.”
Not for the first time, Inga wondered how Yehvah knew such things; how she'd come by such a wealth of knowledge, having worked in the palace kitchens her entire life.
Next, the Metropolitan hung the heavy, gilded cross around Ivan’s neck. The jeweled stole was placed cross his shoulders, and the mighty scepter in his hands.
“I now pronounce you,” Makarii intoned, “Ivan Vasilievich IV, Grand Duke of Vladimir, Novgorod, and Moscow, and Tsar over all of unified Russia!”
Inga did not need to ask about the last title. It had existed since the time of Caesar Augustus. Today, Ivan would take the title of tsar—Caesar—and be called by that rather than the less prestigious “Grand Prince." No one before Ivan had been crowned tsar by the church. A new era in Russian history had begun.
The Metropolitan began a long speech, detailing the duties of a tsar to his subjects.
“The tsar is the voice of God on earth,” the Metropolitan intoned. “He has been divinely appointed to rule with the scepter of God in this world, but he also holds the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. A tsar must always be worthy of his absolute power. The sins of the tsar affect not only his immortal soul, but those of all his subjects—yea, even that of his very kingdom. He must, therefore, guard himself against the carnal instincts of the flesh and remain always pious and penitent.”
Inga soon grew bored and allowed her gaze to roam. She didn’t think she’d ever seen so many Boyars dressed up so lavishly in one place before. It was a sea of rainbow silk. Except it didn’t move like the sea. Everyone sat at rapt attention, listening to Makarii’s speech.
Inga recognized Sergei and his father. Sergei could be his father, except twenty years younger. They were identical in looks—other than gray hair—temperament, and ethics, or lack thereof.
She also recognized Nikolai. He’d been part of the court for as long as she could remember. He walked in the procession with the tsar, not far behind Yuri.
“Yehvah, what does Nikolai do? What is his importance?”
Yehvah’s head came around. Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I was only wondering.”
Yehvah stared at Inga, as though trying to decide whether she was being truthful. Eventually, her eyes returned to their normal width.
“He is first assistant to the Master of the Horse.”
“Oh.”
Master of the Horse was one of the most important positions at court. Mikhail Glinsky, who currently held the post, oversaw the tsar’s stables, and looked after the Boyars’ horses. If Nikolai was his first assistant, he held more importance than Inga previously realized.
“Nikolai is around your age, isn’t he, Yehvah?”
Yehvah peered at her with guarded eyes. “I suppose so.”
“Were the two of you children together in the palace?”
Yehvah’s face looked pinched. “We did not play together, if that’s what you mean. He is a boyar, I a maid.”
Inga quieted her questions. Yehvah’s face did that when Inga came close to crossing a line. She’d learned over the years not to push Yehvah past the point where she made that face; it was dangerous.
“Why this sudden interest in Nikolai, Inga?”
Inga glanced at Yehvah. The pinched look had disappeared. Inga shrugged. “Only curious.”
Yehvah turned back to the coronation, looking troubled, and Inga wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She didn’t know why talk of Nikolai would trouble Yehvah, but worry was the last thing she wanted to cause the older woman.
When the Metropolitan’s speech ended, Ivan rose, as tsar now, to greet his subjects. The room erupted in cheers. The gold vestments worn by most of the assembly danced and glittered in the candlelight. Tsar Ivan IV walked down the red velvet carpet, beginning his first procession as Russia’s first autocrat.
Inga thought he looked a little taller.
The three women watched until he went through the cathedral door, followed by hundreds of boyars. Then they descended toward their own reality, and the duties of the palace maids.
Chapter 13
SIBERIA, SPRING 1548
Jasper was jumpy. Taras patted the side of his horse’s neck. Two months before, it would have been understandable, but by now the horse should have been used to the raw solitude of the Russian countryside. Taras’s horse wasn't the only one, though. The horses belonging to his companions were also friskier than usual.
It had been a year since Taras left England. Margaret passed away six months after she told him of her illness. Taras stayed in England to bury her, see to her financial affairs, and fulfill her dying wish: that the servants find secure places of work. Most had found new placements by the time of her death. Only Taras and a small coterie waited on her in her last days. When she passed, Taras made sure they were each safe and well cared for.
He had some money saved from his military career, which he used to buy supplies and his place on a ship crossing the Channel into Europe. From there, he rode on horseback over the open countryside. More than once, he stopped and worked for a few weeks to earn money for supplies before he could move on. As he passed through central Europe and the Middle East, he
saw things he vaguely remembered from traveling with his parents as a boy. It amazed him to realize how sheltered he'd been then—how much he had not understood as a young man.
As he neared Russia, he went north, entering through Siberia. After his mother died, Taras’s father took him to a secluded valley in the heart of the Siberian wilderness. Their Russian family had owned the land for generations. He said it belonged to Taras now, and if he ever needed a place to go, this was it. Nicholas called the valley Anechka, which meant Grace of God.
Taras was not reduced to farming—not yet—but he wanted to see the place again before heading into Moscow; to know he had a safety net if life in Muscovy turned out to be less than desirable. He doubted he would need it, but the valley represented the last memory he had of his father in Russia.
Siberia was a vast place. The northernmost parts were nothing but frozen tundra. Almost nothing could survive out there. South of the permafrost the taiga, a huge forest that went on for hundreds of miles, grew. No one had ever charted it. The Siberian tiger inhabited these regions. It was an exotic place, or so Taras heard. There were stories of vast gold reserves, if one knew where to look.
South of the taiga lay the mixed forest, containing both pine and leafy trees. The soil was not agriculturally sound, though. Taras knew it to be ashy and incapable of producing a decent crop. South of the mixed forest, the land of Siberia became livable. The steppe, often called the breadbasket of Russia, held some of the darkest soil in the world. Its fertility made it the agricultural center of the country.
Anechka straddled on the border between the steppe and the mixed forest. The valley, shaped like a bowl, had the black soil of the steppe, and a large stream running through it. If one stood on the northern crest of the valley, all one could see for miles were trees. Far enough north to be dreadfully cold, and too far from civilization for anyone else to lay claim to it, it was solitude at its most complete.