by K L Conger
And why not? The sun shone above, the air felt brisk, and only this morning he received a formal commission from Sigismund II Augustus. Kurbsky would lead the Polish-Lithuanian army against Ivan Grozny’s forces. He couldn’t think of anything better. Any more fitting way to mete out revenge on his old rival.
Of course, during the campaign of Kazan, he’d led Ivan’s armies for him. That time had passed. Things changed.
Ivan took his repressions too far after Anastasia died. His oprichniki ravaged his own country, doing despicable, depraved, downright unimaginable things to Ivan’s own countrymen. It became too much for Kurbsky to stomach. Besides which, Ivan refused to renew Kurbsky’s commission. So, he’d come to Lithuania.
The honorable king of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth already promised Kurbsky a town to preside over and defend as reward for his military exploits. Kurbsky looked forward to it with enthusiasm. He could live out his life in peace and satisfaction with a reward such as that.
He'd left Russia with his blood boiling over disputes with Ivan. The Tsar wrote him a letter stating how much Kurbsky’s betrayal hurt him. How he’d loved Andrey as a brother.
Perhaps Ivan’s words came from a place of sincerity. Kurbsky felt too angry to hear it at the time. He’d sent the letter back with all the Latin grammar in it corrected, which he knew would enrage the Tsar. That had been the point.
Even as he did it, he figured his anger with Ivan would cool with time and he’d regret his actions in the heat of anger. So far though, it hadn’t happened. Ivan grew steadily worse over the years, and now Kurbsky would face him on the battlefield.
Andrey Kurbsky would enjoy it immensely.
Chapter 1
May 1550, Moscow
The cold wind blew through the streets of Moscow as Inga stood beside Yehvah, waiting for the Tsar’s procession. It whipped tendrils of her hair that had come loose from the platok around her face and bit through her winter clothing.
Spring came weeks ago, melting the snow from Moscow’s cobblestone streets and wooden structures. In truth, summer was well on its way, but the remnants of a storm clung to the city, and the air felt colder than it should have.
Then again, perhaps Inga simply perceived it that way. She’d felt cold ever since Taras left. No matter what she did, she couldn’t find warmth, or anything to smile about.
Stories of Ivan's exploits preceded him, of course. Taras and Nikolai brought them back, but so did countless others. The stories rampaged across the country like wildfires, striking fear into the heart of every Russian. Some hope could be found in the fact that Ivan showed mercy to the people of Pskov when they prostrated themselves before him. The entire country took the example to heart and began regularly declaring unswerving loyalty to the Tsar and his oprichniki.
Ivan’s army now stood outside of Moscow, waiting to enter. People lined the streets, ready to welcome their god and king home. They trembled with anticipation. Like Inga, the masses of Moscow considered Ivan a God, and one that could bring his wrath down on them with a twitch of his wrist.
"How much longer?" Inga asked quietly. She felt impatient and meant to convey that. Even to her own ears her voice sounded far away and listless.
Yehvah, standing beside her, cast Inga a sidelong glance. As usual, Yehvah concealed her once-blonde hair—long since turned silver with age—beneath her headscarf.
Inga’s platok mirrored Yehvah’s exactly. It covered her hair from the middle of her forehead on back, knotting at the nape of her neck so her voluminous blond hair hung concealed in a small sack.
"One must not rush the supreme Tsar of Russia, Inga,” Yehvah said patiently. “He will come when he comes, and we will be here to greet him when he does."
Yehvah was right, of course. Inga didn’t have urgent tasks to complete in the palace—she’d feel as impatient there as she did here—but standing in any place for too long allowed Inga’s mind to wander, which always brought thoughts of Taras.
A bone-deep sadness inevitably followed, weighing Inga down so heavily, she fought to breathe. She missed him terribly, yet she could not forsake her home to live with him in Siberia. She knew he didn’t understand why. Inga barely understood herself. For reasons she couldn’t have put into words, she simply couldn’t leave her home in the Kremlin. It was all she knew. She couldn’t venture into the wilds of Siberia as Taras could. Staying here, even while feeling lonely for him, felt like the safer choice.
She wanted to be busy doing something. Anything to keep her mind off the loneliness she knew would creep up on her when day faded to night and she could do nothing but lay still in her bed, unable to distract herself from tender thoughts of Taras. Love didn’t go away with distance, and Inga missed him terribly. So much, thoughts of him made her chest hurt.
A cheer rose from the crowd. Inga and Yehvah stretched their necks out, trying to see. Inga didn’t feel any particular excitement at seeing Ivan after all these years of serving him in the palace, but the spectacle of the Supreme Tsar of Russia was hard to turn away from.
In the distance, a horse plodded down the wide, cobblestone street toward them. Not the Tsar, though. Not a magnificent stallion carrying the supreme leader of Russia. Rather, a small pack pony trudged slowly down the street. On it sat one of Ivan's well-known fools. Dressed in Motley, the Fool juggled colorful wooden pins while the horse plodded slowly forward.
Guiding the horse with his knees didn’t turn out to be enough. The beast wandered lazily from one side of the street to another, close enough to the let the crowd pet him. Then he stopped completely in the middle of the road. The small-statured fool made a great show of trying to get the pony going again, and the crowd laughed raucously at the joke.
Inga couldn’t fathom how everyone could be so happy when she felt so miserable. She could no longer remember what brought such happiness. It seemed like years since she’d felt it herself.
As the fool got the pony moving again and neared Inga, he leaned forward in the saddle, putting his weight on his hands. Slowly raising his legs, he brought them first up to his waist, and then up above his head, fashioning his body into a straight, spear-like shape. He stood perfectly upside-down on his hands atop a moving horse.
The tricks and entertainment continued as he passed , with the crowd cheering and screaming, happy for the lighthearted spectacle.
Only after the fool on his pack pony disappeared into the distance did Ivan himself appear. He turned onto the street in the distance, and a reverent hush fell over the crowd. Even from so far away, no one could have mistaken the Tsar’s form. Though he’d always cut an imposing figure, he looked more sinister than ever today.
Riding at the head of his oprichniki, Ivan wore their signature black robes. His horse, an enormous, sleek, black stallion, threw its head majestically. Around its neck hung a cord with a dried-out, severed dog’s head attached. The mummified head bounced as the animal pranced across the cobblestones. It felt as if Ivan wanted his people to know with absolute clarity that he led the oprichniki and was one of them.
The fear from the crowd grew palpable and the people drew in on themselves. Most kept their eyes down, as though hoping Ivan wouldn’t notice them. As entertained as they had been by the fool, they were equally cowed by Ivan’s passing.
The rest of the army followed, as always. They rode with heads held high and smirks on their faces. Behind the men came wagons of riches. Treasure looted from across the Russian countryside.
Inga felt a cold stab of resentment and folded her arms tightly against it. They marched in like war heroes, returning from a great battle against an enemy. In truth, the only battle they’d conducted had been against their own unarmed countrymen. Ivan slaughtered his people without impunity and then confiscated their worldly goods. His coffers would be full, his tables heavily laden, while his subjects starved and scratched out a living from the dirt beneath their fingernails.
Inga frowned. Strange. She’d never allowed herself to think such sedit
ious thoughts about the Tsar before. Another symptom of the darkness that had overtaken her when Taras left.
Taras. Normally, he and Nikolai would be in the army somewhere. This would be a joyous homecoming. Inga had always been able to put aside worry of anything Ivan did, because Taras stood beside her and they would figure out any problems together. He no longer stood there. Inga felt not only lonely, but naked. She didn't think she’d ever feel warm or safe again.
HOURS LATER, WHEN IVAN had made it safely into the Terem Palace, Inga returned to her work, along with all the other maids. She kept busy dusting one of the Tsar's trophy rooms when the quick patter of footsteps in the corridor reached her ears. She turned in time to see Anne come around the corner, looking worried.
"What is it?" Inga asked.
Anne’s dark hair had begun to turn gray, like Yehvah’s, but she still looked mousy, which matched her timid temperament. "The Head Clerk calls for you. Yehvah sent me to fetch you."
Inga frowned. "What does the Head Clerk want?"
Fear came into Anne's eyes and the lines of her face deepened. "I don't know, specifically. Inga, I know he's been tasked by the Tsar with looking into Sergei’s murder."
Inga’s stomach twisted into knots. Truly, she didn't feel fear. The knots were a grieved reaction to Taras having killed Sergei to keep her safe. It made her want to cry and scream and fall on the floor. Fear of the Head Clerk? That, Inga didn't feel.
She hadn't killed Sergei or had anything to do with his death. No one could prove otherwise. Of course, everyone at court knew she and Taras were lovers. She couldn’t escape association with him but didn’t want to. She would claim that association with her head held high.
Without another word, she followed Anne through the corridors. They eventually arrived at one of the larger banquet rooms. The Tsar and his boyars often feasted in this room, using it for informal meals. He used the fancier rooms for feasts and visiting dignitaries, but this room would do on any other night. The heavy doors were pulled open and Inga entered.
The Tsar did not occupy the room today. A long table had been set up along one side. The Head Clerk’s gray, wiry hair had been combed neatly over his ears, leaving the top of his bald head bare and shining in the firelight. Sitting in the only chair behind the table, his round belly pressed against the wooden surface, but it didn’t seem to inhibit him.
He scanned a sheet of parchment intently while scratching away at it with a feather quill.
Yehvah stood beside the Clerk’s table, her eyes wrinkled with worry. They’d followed Inga and Anne’s progress as they made their way across the room.
A full three minutes must have passed with Inga and Anne standing before the clerk before he finished writing and glanced up.
"Ah," he set the parchment aside for the ink to dry. "You there," he addressed Anne. "Go stand over there." He jerked his head in Yehvah’s direction. Anne scurried to obey.
Inga stood alone before the Head Clerk.
"You," he spared Inga the briefest of glances before looking down at an unrolled parchment on the table. "Were you or were you not Taras Demidov’s mistress?"
Inga wanted to scream at him that she’d been more than that. He’d been the love of her life, and treated her as an equal. Yet she couldn’t tell the Head Clerk that. Best to down-play her relationship to Taras. She rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin slightly. "I was."
"When did you see him last?"
Yehvah and Inga had already discussed her answer. They knew questions about Inga’s involvement would come and had already worked out what she would be truthful about and what she wouldn’t.
"More than two months ago, my Lord. He returned from Novgorod and stayed only a few days before leaving."
The clerk’s eyebrow rose as she spoke. He looked shocked at her answer. Perhaps at how willingly she’d given the information. "Where did he go?"
"He told me he could no longer stay in Moscow." Inga felt a fresh wave of tears coming on. She squashed them savagely and steeled her voice. "He took his horse and rode into Siberia, my lord. Other than the general northerly direction, I do not know which way he went."
That part, of course, was misleading. She knew he’d gone to the little valley his family owned, Anechka. He’d shown her a way to get there if she wanted to follow. But she couldn’t tell the Head Clerk that. Between the snowstorm that night and the fact that Taras must have returned at some point to kill Sergei, she truly didn’t know if he’d taken a direct or roundabout route to the valley.
"Did he give any reason for his departure?" The Head Clerk asked. "Did he say why he couldn't stay in Moscow any longer?"
Inga hesitated. Here too, she needed to lie for her own safety. If she told them the truth of Taras's reasons, she could be labeled a traitor simply for knowing his mind and not reporting him. "He merely said Moscow didn't agree with his lifestyle anymore. He no longer wished to remain in Russia. He wanted to see the world and then return to his homeland of England."
The Head Clerk glared at her. "Your lover was a soldier in the Tsar's Imperial Army. It is treason to leave it without discharge."
Inga dropped her gaze, hoping it looked humble. "He told me he'd been discharged, my Lord. He said he’d obtained the Tsar's blessing."
The Head Clerk’s face contorted in shock. "He told you that?"
Inga nodded vigorously.
"Do you know what he told you was a lie?"
Inga nodded again, meekly, keeping her eyes downcast and hoping she looked convincingly frightened. "I have been told since, my Lord. I had no reason not to believe him at the time."
The Head Clerk sighed. He rose to his feet and came around the long table to stand in front of Inga. "Do you also know, Maid," he lifted her chin with an index finger to force her to look into his face. "That Master Demidov murdered one of the Tsar's most loyal men before he abandoned you?"
Inga shook her head. "I've heard it whispered, my Lord. But Taras could not have killed Lord Sergei. He left early in the evening that night in January. Lord Sergei’s servants did not discover him until the morning."
The Head Clerk’s open-palmed slap came so suddenly, Inga didn't even see his hand move. The blow landed on her jaw with a crack that made her head spin. Though she stayed on her feet, the impact jerked her head and shoulders violently to one side.
"Stupid girl," the Head Clerk spat. "Lord Sergei’s body was not found until the morning because everyone assumed him to be asleep, and Lord Sergei did not like to be disturbed. Your lover obviously told you he was leaving but circled back around to kill Sergei. He's a traitor and a murderer. Our noble Tsar has tasked me with finding him."
The clerk straightened his spine arrogantly and walked slowly back around the table to sit down. Inga used the time to compose herself. She could see Yehvah and Anne staring at her in her peripheral vision. She didn’t dare look directly at them, or her emotions might have begun spilling out.
At length, the Head Clerk spoke again. "You say you don't know where he went?"
"No, my Lord." Inga said calmly.
"Well," the clerk passed a hand wearily over his eyes. "You may be telling the truth. You may also be lying to save yourself. We must be certain. You will be taken by my men and questioned to be sure you've told us all you know."
Yehvah stepped away from the wall. "No, my Lord Clerk! Please. She’s told you everything. I myself can vouch for the fact that Lord Taras left early in the evening and she didn't see him again."
"Keep your place, woman!" The Head Clerk snapped. "Only speak when spoken to!" He sighed. "Perhaps you can vouch for when he left, but did you hear your maid’s last conversation with her lover? Can you be absolutely certain he never told her where he intended to go?"
Yehvah hesitated only an instant. It was enough for the clerk. "Exactly." He gave a self-assured nod. "Then she will be questioned."
Inga didn't fight as two guards came forward, gripped her upper arms, and dragged her backward from the room. Sh
e didn’t see the point. She’d felt only numbness for weeks now, Nothing about her coming ordeal changed that.
Yehvah’s eyes looked wide with terror and tears as Inga left her behind. Inga felt a faraway pang of sympathy for Yehvah, but not for herself. Inga built walls around her heart long ago. Taras had gotten through them, such as they were. She reinforced them now. Whatever happened to her, she no doubt deserved. It was the will of Almighty God. Inga’s walls would help her endure whatever He wanted her to.
Questioning meant she’d be taken to the dungeons and tortured for information. Her next few days would be hellish.
Before Taras left, such a thing would have struck terror in Inga’s chest. Now, she felt only resignation. No fear. No regret. Well, perhaps she felt one thing: determination. Inga would not break. The only legacies Taras left her stemmed from his strength and love. She refused to waste them now.
Let them do what they would. She would not give up the man she loved.
Chapter 2
May 1551, Siberia
Something felt wrong even before Taras completely awakened. He felt it because of the sounds that woke him. In his light slumber, the kind a man floats in between true sleep and wakefulness, he registered the sounds of Jasper nickering.
Dawn had to be close, but Taras didn't pay Jasper’s nervous noises much mind. Until the horse began stamping his hooves directly outside where Taras slept, and his whinnies became shrill.
Taras’s eyes flew open half a second before the wall at the head of his bed shuddered inward. Jasper must have kicked the outside of the cabin wall with his hind legs.
Taras shot up out of bed, grabbing his saber on the way. Lunging through the doorway of the now mostly built cabin in the Anechka valley, he prepared to defend Jasper against what he felt sure would be Siberian wolves. He hadn't seen any in weeks, but they’d appeared at the edge of the bowl-shaped valley once or twice when Taras first arrived.