by K L Conger
Her gaze left his, but wandered, rather than dropping again. She blinked several times, flustered. “N-no, my lord. I . . . would be glad of your company.”
He grinned. “Well then, shall we?”
She gave him the first genuine smile he’d seen from her.
ON THE WALK BACK, HE asked her about her childhood. Inga told him about how Yehvah had taken her in as a young child.
“The work can be difficult,” she said, “but I have a much better life than I would have had on the street.”
“What happened to your parents?”
She hesitated. “I’m not entirely sure.”
Sensing she did not want to talk it, he did not press her.
As they neared the palace, Inga stopped beside the stables and bent to finger some colorful wildflowers that had sprung up near the door.
“The first flowers of spring.”
He crouched down beside her to look at them.
“Natalya would have loved these. She always waited for the first wildflowers to show.”
“Who’s Natalya?”
“She’s my best friend. Another maid.”
“Which one?”
Inga shook her head. “You haven’t met her. We grew up here under Yehvah’s care. Natalya recently married and moved to a Boyar estate to live with her husband.”
“Do you miss her?”
She nodded. “Terribly, at times. But she’s happy.”
He smiled at her. They both straightened and walked toward the kitchens again.
“What about you, my lord? Where did your family go after you left Moscow?”
“France, for a while. Eventually, back to England where my mother’s family is. I was raised in the English countryside.”
“And what is the English countryside like?” They'd reached the kitchens. She turned to ask the question thirty feet from the door.
“It’s beautiful. It’s . . . warmer than here. Less bleak, I think.”
Inga nodded. “Yes, Russia can be a bleak place in winter, but it can be beautiful as well. Especially in the spring, when the warmth and the green return. Have you seen Siberia?”
He arched an eyebrow, surprised at the sudden change of subject. “I came down from the north to get here, through Siberia.”
“And did you not think it beautiful?”
He stared at her, wondering if she spoke from experience.
“Have you been to Siberia, Inga?”
She studied her feet, looking abashed. “No, I have never left Moscow. I have heard stories and seen drawings.”
He thought about how to answer her question. “Yes. Siberia is beautiful in its way. It’s a raw, barbaric beauty. I suppose it is beauty, for that.”
“Everything has its own kind of beauty, my lord Taras, if one knows how to look.”
“I . . . drew some pictures. Would you like to see them sometime?”
“Inga!” Yehvah’s voice cracked Inga’s name out like a whip. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her eyes narrowed to thin slits. Inga jumped. “Why are you dallying? Supper is waiting for those herbs.”
“Yes, Yehvah.” Inga gave Taras an apologetic look and hurried toward Yehvah, disappearing through the door to the kitchens. Yehvah gazed at Taras with worried eyes before giving him a scant curtsy and disappearing herself.
Taras turned, surveying his surroundings and thinking about what Inga had said about Russian beauty.
THE NEXT MORNING, ANATOLY woke Taras early to dress. He would be presented to the tsar and must look his best. Anatoly turned out to be a squat, middle-aged man with thinning white hair and eyes that looked perpetually tired. Soft spoken but with a friendly smile, he gave off an air of wisdom and sagacity. Anatoly was everything a manservant should be, and Taras liked him.
At dinner the previous night, he’d supped with a handful of boyars, none of whom he knew. He'd been largely ignored—which he was grateful for—and the night had been uneventful.
He found it strange to sleep in Russia. The night had been long, cold, and lonesome, to say the least. He lay awake into the early hours of the morning, wondering for the thousandth time if his decision to come to Russia had been a good one. His future here hinged on the impression he would make on the tsar in the morning. By all accounts, Ivan was brutal at worst and unpredictable at best.
Taras tossed and turned. He could make no decisions until after he’d been presented to the court. Besides, new places always took some getting used to.
Now Anatoly helped him don his new clothes from the palace tailors: a shirt of rich, black cloth, brocaded with golden ivy leaves, and breeches made of a soft, velvety material he couldn’t identify. Warm, sturdy boots, lined with fox fur, came up to his thighs. He was also given a thick cloak lined with wolf fur, fastened by a rope of braided, gold silk that stretched across his chest. He felt halfway between a king and a fool. Anatoly proclaimed Taras magnificent, and Taras smiled gratefully at him.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted the silence of the cold morning. Taras did nothing, assuming Anatoly would answer it. He fiddled with the strings of his belt, trying to tighten them more. The knock came again.
Taras raised a questioning eyebrow at Anatoly, who stood between Taras and the door. When Anatoly noticed Taras’s questioning look, he widened his eyes in a significant gesture.
“Oh, uh, please answer the door, Anatoly.”
Anatoly smiled. “As you wish, my lord, but you may also say ‘enter.’”
Taras nodded, putting his hand up when Anatoly moved toward the door.
“Enter,” he called loudly. The door opened, and a man stepped in. Taras recognized him instantly
Nikolai bowed from the shoulder. “My lord Taras, good morning. Do you remember me?”
“Of course. Come in, Nikolai.” Taras crossed the room, and the two men clasped forearms. Nikolai stood a full head shorter than Taras, but looked thicker in the arms and through the chest. “I am surprised you remember me. I was only a boy the last time we met.”
Nikolai smiled broadly. “Even if I could forget you, Taras, you have so much the look of your father about you, my memory would instantly return. Besides, how could I forget a boy who stole an entire bear leg from the kitchens without being caught, only to have Yehvah stumble upon him in the barn?”
Taras laughed, letting the memory sweep over him. It was much more humorous now than it had been then. “I suppose years breed wisdom as well as age. How did you know about that?”
Nikolai waved the question away. “Word gets around. Especially when Yehvah is cross.” The two men chuckled, and Anatoly smiled appreciatively.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Nikolai. I am still re-learning the etiquette of the Russian court. Anatoly has been indispensable to me, but I am still rusty. Would you like some vodka?”
“I am glad to see you making good use of your servants, but no. There is no time for that now. I have been sent to bring you to the tsar. I will escort you to the throne room, and then, as I knew your father well, I will be presenting you.”
“What does your knowing my father have to do with it?”
“Your tie to the court is through him. Since he and I were good friends, I am the most appropriate choice to present you to the tsar.”
Taras nodded. “Very well, then. Let’s be off.” His voice sounded more confident than he felt.
“Have you been educated,” Nikolai glance toward Anatoly, “in what to do?”
“Yes. Though, I would appreciate any advice.”
Nikolai smiled at him. “You’ll do fine. Come.”
Anatoly bowed from the waist as the two men left the room. Taras glanced back and Anatoly gave him a reassuring smile.
The walk through the vast corridors of the Terem palace was all too brief. Taras’s stomach writhed like a pile of worms.
“Once we get there, we will wait in the back,” Nikolai explained. “Though we are expected to be there at a certain time, it will be at least half an hour before you
are presented. In the meantime, it might do you good to notice the seating arrangements. The boyars will all be seated on benches around the tsar’s dais. They are seated in order of importance, with the most prominent being near the tsar and the least being in the back. Figuring out court politics may ensure your survival here.”
Taras nodded, but he’d never be able to pay attention to who sat where. His nerves were too frayed. If he stayed in Russia in the tsar’s favor, he could worry about courtly social standing later.
Finally, they reached the throne room. The massive wooden doors were thrown back, beckoning outsiders to enter. The seal of the tsar—a man on horseback trampling a dragon—was carved into each door.
Nikolai passed through the doorway, which looked wide enough for four horses to pass abreast, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Taras had never seen such splendor. The English court in all its finery did not rival this.
The massive, oblong room had an enormous fireplace that roared with flames at each end. They kept the chamber comfortably warm, though the morning was frigid. As Nikolai explained, an array of benches, draped with velvet cushions and plump pillows with tassels, populated the room. Dozens of men filled the benches, all dressed in finery such as Taras wore.
Two-thirds of the way across the room stood a dais covered in animal pelts. On them rested a gilded throne, the likes of which Taras had never seen before. It must have been seven feet tall at the back and weighed more than a horse. When Taras and Nikolai entered, the tsar sat on the throne, but he got up, walking to the edge of the dais to converse with the men in front of him.
Ivan was a striking sight to behold. He wore finer garments than Taras could have imagined: a shiny gold robe, covered with pearls and silver embroidery. It was fastened with what must have been gold buttons, but looked like large gold nuggets. His leather boots came to a point, and were studded with tiny silver nails. From his shoulders hung a thick sable cloak, and the golden crown on his head shone with glistening jewels.
Ivan had a long face with deep-set eyes and a hawkish nose. Reddish brown hair and beard surrounded it. A slender neck and well-defined jaw topped a lean stature. He had decent height for a man, but his limbs looked wiry, as though he hadn’t quite grown into them.
Of course, the tsar only claimed seventeen winters.
Ivan held himself like a true autocrat. His graceful magnificence bordered on arrogance; shoulders back, chest out, and chin held high. He carried a gilded silver staff that came to a sharp point at the bottom, which he used like a glorified walking stick, or to point at whomever he wished to speak.
He looked like a gaudy shepherd of Israel. Taras shivered at the thought.
As Nikolai predicted, they stood waiting in the back of the room for more than half an hour. Taras was grateful, though; it gave him a chance to observe others in their behavior toward the tsar and mentally review his own instructions.
Everyone, from foreign ambassadors to minor nobles from the outlying parts of Moscow, were presented. Some petitioned the tsar for something, others offered their services. The clerk at Ivan’s side lifted his plump hand and motioned to Nikolai with the tiniest flick of the wrist.
Nikolai gave Taras a significant look but said nothing; many of the Boyars stared in their direction. He walked down the center of the room toward the dais with brisk, measured steps. Taras followed ten feet behind. He tried to appear graceful as he walked, and hoped he looked more comfortable than he felt.
When he stood directly in front of the dais, Nikolai went to one knee, resting a fist on the ground and clapping his other fist to his shoulder. “Your Grace, tsar, and master of all Russia.” Reverence filled Nikolai’s voice.
“Rise, Nikolai,” the tsar said cheerily from the great throne, “and tell us who you’ve brought.” His voice, though not especially deep, boomed in the large hall.
Nikolai stood slowly and moved several feet to the side. He turned so he faced inward, toward where Taras would be standing in a few moments.
Taras came slowly forward and went to one knee, adopting the same pose Nikolai used.
“Your Highness,” Nikolai raised his voice so it resonated throughout the room. “May I present Taras Nicholaevich Demidov.”
The tsar’s eyes widened when Nikolai spoke the middle name. It threw Taras as well. He’d forgotten the custom of using the father’s name coupled with the “-evich” ending for the son’s middle name. The name Nikolai had given identified Taras as the son of Nicholas Demidov. It struck Taras what power such an absolute identification could have. He held his breath, wondering whether it would be for good or ill here.
The tsar stood slowly.
“Please rise, Taras.”
Taras did so and raised his chin, keeping his eyes down; he could see the tsar plainly. Ivan looked him up and down.
“Well,” he said at last. “The son has inherited many qualities of the father.”
From the corner of his eyes, Taras could see many of the boyars nodding. He wished he could look at them directly. If they saw a resemblance, then they must have known his parents. These people could help him puzzle out what happened the day his mother died. He did not dare look away from the imperial tsar, whose gaze held him like an iron shackle.
“Tell us, Master Taras, what happened to your family after my honored father banished them from this realm?”
Taras wanted to clear his throat. He resisted the urge. When he spoke, he willed his voice to be steady and confident. “As you know, your grace, my mother died here. My father and I traveled to England, where my mother’s family resides. My father lived out his days there.”
“And what has brought you back to your father’s homeland?”
“I was living on the purse of a beloved aunt in England. She suddenly became ill and passed away.”
Ivan smiled sympathetically at Taras. “Our most heartfelt condolences.”
Taras ducked his head. “Thank you, your grace.” He went on. “Before my aunt died, she heard that you, my gracious lord, had rendered null and void all your father’s judgments, and invited exiles back to Russia. You see, your grace, between paying the doctors and the unruly behavior of other relatives, I no longer had any allowance to live on. My aunt thought I might make a life for myself here.”
The tsar straightened exuberantly. “And why not? Is Russia not the ideal place to create a life for one’s self?” The room came alive with noise. Boyars pounded the tables and shouted their agreement. This made the tsar’s smile widen. He let the clamor go on for several seconds before raising his hand for silence.
“Master Taras, what is it you do? Are you merely a courtly gentleman or do you have a profession?”
Taras chose his words carefully. He wanted to be absolutely clear on this point. “My lord, I do not believe I am cut out for the . . . eloquence of court.”
“You sound eloquent enough to me,” the tsar said, leaning forward in a conspiratorial manor.
“Your Highness, I am a soldier at heart. I served some time in the king’s army and an English lord’s personal guard, but retired when my aunt grew ill. I did not think they would take me back upon my aunt’s passing. I would be honored to serve in the tsar’s imperial army, if Your Grace will have me.”
The instant Taras mentioned his time in the king’s army, the tsar’s eyes took on a different look—one Taras did not like. At once far away, calculating, and triumphantly sinister. Several seconds of silence elapsed after Taras finished before Ivan realized he had stopped speaking.
“You spent time in the king’s army, you say?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“How long?”
“Several years, my lord.”
“And did you rise in the ranks much during these years?”
“I was a captain when I left, my lord.”
“Not a general?”
“No, my lord.”
The tsar nodded. He sat down on his throne, but leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You
truly are your father’s son. Your father was quite the military man himself. He advised my honored father on military matters. Did you know?”
“I knew my father advised your father, the grand prince, but I have never been made aware of the specifics.”
“Yes, your father was a great battle lord. You will be too, I think.” He sat back. “Master Taras Demidov, I would be happy to accept you into my imperial army. Russia will be better for it, I have no doubt.”
Taras’s chest swelled with relief. He bowed from the waist. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
“However—”
Taras’s stomach constricted again,
“—there is another way in which you could be of service to me. Your Russian is nearly immaculate, Master Taras, except you speak it with an English lilt. Do you know many people of the English court?”
Taras suppressed a sigh. He’d been afraid of this. “More people there know my family than my face, your grace, but I know a few.”
The tsar nodded as if he’d expected as much. “It has long been the desire of Russia to forge an alliance with the great isle of England. I think you might be helpful in this undertaking. You shall be given permanent rooms in the Kremlin and anything else you need. I will authorize your conscription into the army. The Master of the Horse will evaluate your skills and put you wherever he judges best. I simply reserve the right to call you to my side for diplomatic reasons, should I have need of you. Is that sufficient?”
It was a question, but Taras knew he had only one answer. He bowed again. “It is most magnanimous of you, my Lord Tsar. Thank you.”
Eyes still on Taras, Ivan leaned his upper body over the arm of the throne toward the clerk who stood to the side of the dais. “See that Master Taras is assigned rooms and a permanent servant, and has everything he needs to make him comfortable. Give him an audience with Glinsky, with my blessing.” The clerk scribbled notes on his parchment, nodding all the while.
The tsar then looked up at Taras expectantly. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”