Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  That didn't worry Inga as much as other things. When she herself served in a similar capacity the first night Taras arrived in the Kremlin, she’d been noticed by Sergei, a brutal, sadistic man. She feared Ekaterina, who’s dark-haired beauty reminded Inga of Natalya, falling under the eye of a similar person. Yet, the feast had needed more servers and Ekaterina hadn’t been given a choice.

  Inga saw so much of herself in the girl. Every day she woke up vowing to protect Ekaterina, as Yehvah always protected her. She watched her charge like a hawk this evening. She watched the boyars—especially the men—even more closely, looking for danger. As yet, there had been none.

  Inga sighed. It had been a long day. Yet hours remained before she would be able to drop into bed. She glanced toward the dais. Ivan sat there with the Tsarevich, his eldest son, beside him. Ivan V now claimed ten winters, and he frightened Inga. Always at Ivan’s shoulder, even for the most brutal of exploits, he already acted a little too much like his father, and sometimes worse. Already the court buzzed with whom the boy would marry in a few years.

  And so the dance of the Russian Imperial court continued.

  As the feast drew to a close, Ivan stood and held his hands up for silence. The room instantly quieted for him. “Our wonderful boyars, many thanks for your loyalty and praise,” Ivan called out, his voice echoing through the halls.

  The boisterous boyars pounded tables with their fists and hooted in response. Ivan’s smile widened. Inga would never understand why the country seemed so bent on giving Ivan credit for the victory over the Tatars. Vorotynsky fought the battle while Ivan ran. Yet, credit him they did. Inga heard it on every tongue in the city: talk of the Tsar’s great victory over the heathen.

  “We must raise thanks to God for our victory this day and know we truly rely on his arm for our strength and protections. He has justified us in our faith and devotion over and over again, while the heathens find their gods still and silent.”

  The boyars bowed their heads in respectful acquiescence this time.

  “We have another announcement to share this joyous eve,” Ivan continued. The entire room leaned forward in anticipation. “We have decided to dissolve the oprichnina.” A collective gasp went up around the room. “And with it, my loyal oprichniki.” Another, louder gasp.

  Inga didn’t dare breathe. The familiar cold in the pit of her stomach flared violently. Ivan’s black-robed favorites, with their severed dog heads and ominous brooms, had covered the Russian countryside in terror for seven years, now. Countless, torturous deaths lay at their feet, including that of Natalya, Inga’s closest girlhood friend, and her husband and child.

  Now, just like that, Ivan disbanded them.

  “While they have always been loyal to our inspired commands,” Ivan intoned, “we believe they have enforced our royal will long enough. Our people, along with those of our sister nations, have received the message my oprichniki have endeavored to send adequately. Now, it is time they rested.”

  Inga willed herself to focus on the food atop the tables, if only to keep from scowling seditiously at the Tsar. Only last night, Nikolai explained that Ivan’s eye had fallen on the throne of Poland, which needed a ruler.

  When Yehvah asked if Ivan would likely obtain it, Nikolai said the Poles didn’t care so much about Ivan’s personal brutality as they did about the far-ranging violence of his black-robed elite. The deeds of the oprichniki bothered foreigners immensely. Ivan’s ambition for Poland was, no doubt, the true reason for his actions today. It seemed obvious to Inga. So why did the boyars all nod thoughtfully, as though Ivan spoke good sense or infinite wisdom?

  “The loyal members of this disbanded troop,” Ivan said, “will resume their positions at court. Now,” Ivan clapped his hands together jubilantly. “Feast on! The night is young.”

  The boyars cried out boisterously again, raising goblets to the Tsar’s magnanimity. Inga, her arms now full of dishes, headed for the kitchens. As she went, her eyes fell upon a young man she’d become used to seeing at such gatherings as these. She thought his name was Kiril. He served as a personal servant to one of the oprichniki, so he often stood at the perimeter of the room during feasts, in case his master should have need of him.

  He stood there now, frowning toward Ivan. He looked worried and frightened and angry all at once. Hmm. Inga wouldn’t have thought much about the men who served the oprichniki, but perhaps the young man feared the future of his position with the group now disbanded. Inga didn’t know if his worry was justified. Still, she wished she could warn him not to frown that way at the Tsar. Someone might mistake it for a treasonous look.

  Even as she thought it, the young man looked over at her. The instant he saw her staring, he schooled his face to tranquility.

  Inga gave him a quick nod before passing from the hall to the kitchens. Everyone, it seemed, warred with their emotions in the halls of the Kremlin.

  WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, Inga sat in front of the fire beside Yehvah and across from Nikolai, who’d invited her into his quarters for a drink. It had become a ritual the three of them observed several times a week.

  “I don’t understand why,” Yehvah muttered. “He’s always defended the oprichniki. Why disband them? And why now?”

  “The court gossip believes,” Nikolai answered, staring into his tumbler, “it comes from Godunov’s influence.”

  “Who is he?” Inga asked. “He seemed to walk out of thin air today, and no one seems to know where he’s come from.”

  Nikolai nodded. “The woman Feodor recently took to wife?”

  Inga and Yehvah nodded. The Tsar’s cousin had recently remarried.

  “Godunov’s sister.”

  “Ah,” Yehvah murmured.

  Nikolai nodded. “The two of them crossed paths at the ceremony and instantly got along. Godunov is an intelligent man. He appeals to Ivan’s deepest beliefs and his pride. Because he is, first and foremost, Ivan’s friend, the Tsar listens to him.” Nikolai threw back the entire tumbler of vodka with barely a wince. “And Ivan doesn’t listen to anyone.”

  “Indeed,” Yehvah said. “No one’s been able to get Ivan to listen so well since Anastasia died.”

  Nikolai nodded. “Agreed. Incidentally, Godunov is a far-removed cousin of Anastasia’s. He and Ivan are family by marriage.”

  Yehvah raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that’s why he listens? Something about Godunov reminds him of Anastasia?”

  Nikolai shrugged. “Might be part of it. That alone wouldn’t make a difference. Anastasia has had plenty of other relatives pass through court, and Ivan never paid them much heed. I think Godunov’s influence is mostly due to how he approaches Ivan and interacts with him. But the Romanov connection can’t hurt.”

  A brief silence fell, and Inga considered Nikolai’s words.

  “Does he still love her, do you think?” she asked. “Anastasia, I mean.”

  Nikolai gave her a sad smile. “A love like that,” his eyes slid briefly toward Yehvah and then away, “doesn’t dissipate with death.”

  Inga found herself thinking of Taras. He’d left years ago now, and at times, she wondered if she’d imagined him entirely. She knew she hadn’t, of course, but her life—her happiness—with him seemed so far away.

  At times like these, she found herself wondering what he’d become. Did he still live in Siberia, in his family’s little valley, as he’d said he would? Surely not. When she didn’t come to him after a season or two, he’d no doubt left to make a life for himself. Perhaps he found love again. Married. Had a slew of children.

  The thought of Taras with children made her smile. Thinking of him with another woman made her chest ache vaguely. Watching Yehvah and Nikolai together, contemplating the change in Ivan’s character after Anastasia’s death, made her wish she’d have found the courage back then to go with Taras.

  It took her years to regret her decision, but with each passing year she regretted it a little more.

  “Where do your thoughts stray
, Inga?” Yehvah asked. Inga glanced up to find them both looking at her inquiringly.

  She shrugged. “I wish God allowed us a greater capacity to change our lives and circumstances.”

  Yehvah gave her a sympathetic look.

  Nikolai, though, stared into his empty tumbler. When he spoke, his voice was soft and even. “I think we always have the capacity to change our situations, Inga,” he said gently. “It’s just a matter of whether we’re willing to, whether we’re ready, and whether the consequences outweigh the risks.”

  He did look up at her then, but she couldn't read his expression.

  “I’ve come to believe there is a season for everything,” he said.

  Inga wondered if he spoke of himself and Yehvah. Or if he understood her thoughts were with Taras. She could have asked, but didn't think it mattered. His words applied equally to both situations.

  Perhaps Nikolai was correct. Perhaps she could change her circumstances. She simply didn’t know how. Even as she thought it, she felt a sensation of crumbling in her chest.

  Wondering what had become of Taras, Inga sipped her vodka. Nothing to be done now about a decision she made years ago. Nothing except miss Taras, regret her past, and wish him well.

  Chapter 23

  Spring 1559, Moscow

  Kiril watched Tsar Ivan with growing disdain. Each time he thought he couldn’t hate the man any more than he already did, Ivan proved him wrong.

  Tonight, Ivan held a lavish dinner for his loyal boyars, his now twelve-year-old son at his side. As usual, Kiril stood at the perimeter of the Great Hall, along with many other servants, ready to jump if their masters should have need of them. Plenty of Ivan’s advisors, including several of his favorite priests, also stood around the perimeter, looking bored. They obviously didn’t relish their attendance, yet didn’t dare miss the dinner, for fear of upsetting Ivan.

  The meal had already been served and cleared, and now Ivan’s fool, dressed in motley, stood at the center of the room entertaining. He’d exhibited highly skilled juggling before walking about the room on his hands for a time. Now he talked, telling stories and jokes that had the boyars holding their full bellies and laughing raucously.

  “Our beloved Tsar is supreme king of the Eastern world,” the fool cried in a high, nasally voice. “Except when he gets drunk and falls on his ass.” The fool mimicked a staggering drunk who tripped over his own feet and fell onto his backside.

  Kiril registered half a second of hesitation before the room burst into laughter. The hesitation came from watching Ivan’s reaction. This had become the nightly ritual. If the Tsar laughed, the room laughed. And this time, he had.

  Ivan threw his head back and cackled boisterously before slurping another swig of wine from his golden goblet. The boyars followed suite, laughing and drinking, some slapping the table as though their amusement simply couldn’t be contained.

  “Or!” The fool leapt to his feet. The room quieted as the patrons leaned forward in anticipation of the next punch line. “When Stephen of Bathory comes knocking.”

  The smile slid instantly from Ivan’s face. His scowl turned downright murderous and the boyars immediately dropped their gazes to stare into their goblets.

  The fool danced back a few steps from Ivan’s dais—far enough away to be out of range of Ivan’s deadly, pointed scepter—and changed tactics. He pulled his colorfully painted wooden balls from a knitted bag and began juggling again. “Supreme is Ivan, Leader of the Realm, chosen of God on earth. He has defeated the heathen Tatars and will soon make all lands of the East his!”

  He continued literally singing Ivan’s praises for several minutes. Ivan’s face soon relaxed into a more tranquil expression. The Fool had escaped with his life this night, it seemed.

  The entertainment continued and Kiril felt bored.

  At length, a courier entered the Great Hall through a corner entrance and approached one of Ivan’s Head Clerks. The courier whispered in the clerk’s ear and the clerk’s face turned a sickly shade of green. He quickly scratched something on a piece of parchment and the courier exited.

  Kiril watched with interest. He didn’t think anyone else noticed the exchange and wondered what would come of it. A moment later, the Head Clerk gave the note he’d written to one of Ivan’s guards, who passed it to Ivan.

  Eyes still on the Fool, who’d once again moved closer to Ivan’s dais so the Tsar had a clear view of his juggling, Ivan idly took the letter. Another three seconds passed before he pulled his eyes from the Fool to read the note.

  Ivan’s face darkened instantly. His spine straightened almost violently, and he leapt to his feet. A wordless yell of rage left his throat, echoing through the room, and all other noise ceased.

  “He’s dead!” Ivan finally sputtered.

  One of the priests stepped forward hesitantly. “M-my lord Tsar?”

  “Maliuta-Skuratov has been killed. My beloved Grigory is dead!”

  A hush fell over the room. Maliuta-Skuratov. One of Ivan’s favorites. As depraved in his exploits as the Tsar had always been, Girgory and Ivan had bonded over their mutual blood lust. If Maliuta-Skuratov had died, Moscow might pay heavily for it.

  “M-might I ask how, my Lord Tsar?” the priest asked slowly. Even he stepped carefully here, though Ivan generally would not attack a clergyman in plain view of the court.

  “That damned rascal Magnus,” Ivan spat. “He still has not secured Livonia for me after all these months, and now he gets my favorite killed.”

  With another wordless snarl, Ivan jumped down from his dais and slammed the pointed bottom of his staff through the Fool’s chest.

  Kiril’s stomach bottomed out, as it always did when Ivan’s anger reared its violent face. Ivan’s language proved bad enough—one generally didn’t hear phrases such as ‘damned rascal’ except on the city’s roughest docks—but in truth, Magnus had done well in Estonia. Town after town fell to his troops under Ivan’s banner. They pillaged the countryside, striking fear into Livonia’s people. True, he hadn’t conquered all the territory Ivan had set forth yet, but he’d hardly been unsuccessful.

  For the next ten minutes, Ivan paced in front of his dais. Those closest to him danced backward, not wanting to share the Fool’s fate. The entire room held its breath, watching Ivan’s every move.

  Finally, he stopped. “Guards! Gather the German and Swedish prisoners from the dungeons. Construct a pyre. They will burn for Grigory’s death.”

  As Ivan thundered the last line, Boris Godunov swept into the room. He’d been present earlier at dinner, excusing himself directly after, as the Fool got started. Ivan had merely inclined his head at Godunov, so the man had probably been about the Tsar’s business. Someone must have run to tell him the news.

  Now he walked straight across the room, stopping only feet from Ivan and took a knee, bowing his head. “Magnanimous Tsar, I’ve been told of your loss. Deepest condolences on the death of your friend. A man of much honor, he will be deeply missed.”

  As much as Kiril hated Ivan, he still respected Godunov. He knew how to play on Ivan’s ego and preferences. While he couldn’t always sway Ivan toward common decency, his methods proved more intelligent than others’, and so prevailed more often.

  Ivan focused on Godunov, looking a bare degree calmer when Godunov expressed his condolences. The anger didn’t leave Ivan’s face, though.

  “Thank you, Boris. You also heard my decree, then?”

  “I did, my lord Tsar,” Godunov nodded and stood, keeping his face slightly downturned in deference. “Might I urge caution, my Lord Tsar? As always, your every decision is divinely inspired, but might not the prisoners be better used as leverage against the rulers of their countries?”

  Ivan shook his head. “No, Boris. Not this time. Their screams and the smell of their burning flesh will bring me some consolation for Maliuta-Skuratov’s death. Nothing else will. Prepare the fire.”

  HOURS LATER, AS THE sun began to set, Kiril stood in the crowd,
waiting for the executions to begin.

  The prisoners of war, who’d spent months in Russia’s dungeons, were tied, back to back, to wooden poles in the centers of half a dozen pyres. They stood atop bound bundles of dry sticks, which would burn quickly and thoroughly.

  A scaffold had also been constructed for Ivan to sit atop and witness the deaths. An ornate wooden chair had been hoisted onto it and Ivan sat upon it, wrapped in thick furs and a bejeweled stole. He looked vaguely pleased. Perhaps basking in his own power over life and death. Kiril’s insides churned with anger.

  He seethed as the fires roared to life. Soon enough, the screams of the bound prisoners and the smell of roasting flesh filled Red Square.

  Kiril trembled. He couldn’t keep his mind from flashing back to the horrors of Novgorod. The screams of his family and countrymen. He didn’t want to remember it. When forced to witness such things, he also had little choice. His limbs trembled with anger and horror.

  The two men standing shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Kiril began a quiet conversation. He wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t stood so close. He hadn’t recognized the back of either head, but when they whispered together, he recognized the voices and realized he knew them.

  The minister of the Duke of Kurland had only been in Moscow a short time. He did some business with Kiril’s master, so the two had met on several occasions. The man he whispered to, Ambassador Sukorsky, often dealt with other countries on Ivan’s behalf.

  “Forgive me, Ambassador,” the minister whispered. “How do you put up with this tyrant? I find your Tsar’s behavior inexcusable. The rest of the world moves toward enlightenment. They don’t put up with curs such as this anymore.”

  Kiril’s insides seized with fear for the minister. Being so new to Moscow, he couldn’t know his words constituted treason. Being a visiting dignitary, Ivan might not execute him for such words, but he might be unceremoniously booted from Moscow.