by K L Conger
“Out of the way!” Inga shouted.
The crowd might have parted for her if she’d given it time. She didn’t. Even as she shouted, she shoved her way through the sea of people and into the main room of the kitchens.
A fire burned warmly in the hearth, making the bees wax covering the floor melt slightly. Inga slid right through the kitchens plenty of times growing up. The usual bustle and rush of the kitchens proved absent, though. All Bogdan’s kitchen boys stood around, still and silent, looking down at their master.
Bogdan, always a large man with the height of an intimidating streltsi guard and shoulders belonging on a blacksmith, lay in the middle of the floor, directly next to the wooden table he’d worked behind every day for more than thirty years.
His familiar, food-soiled smock covered his slightly protruding belly. His eyelids, looking distinctly purple against his white skin, lay closed. Despite the amount of white that wandered into his hair in recent years, pushing out the black almost completely, Bogdan still looked distinguished. More like a visiting dignitary than a palace cook.
Inga slid down by his side and took one of his hands in both of hers. His chest rose and fell, but too quickly and shallowly to be natural, as if he couldn’t breathe deeply.
The servants' doctor knelt across from Inga on Bogdan’s other side.
“What happened?” Inga demanded.
“They say he merely clutched his chest and fell, my lady,” the elderly doctor said. “I think it must be his heart.”
“Can it be treated?” Inga asked.
“Alas, my lady. No. He is an old man. I can do naught but make him comfortable.”
Inga gazed down at Bogdan, tears blurring her vision. He’d already worked in the kitchens the first day Yehvah brought her to the Kremlin. He always treated Inga like a kindly grandfather. Despite his size, she’d never feared him, even as a small girl. When Yehvah died, he’d cried with Inga, sitting with her all night.
How could the kitchens, or the palace at large, go on without him? He, like Yehvah, was a pillar of this place. And yet, it went on without Yehvah.
Bogdan’s eyes flitted open. They looked faraway and unfocused. Inga leaned down close to his face.
“Bogdan? Can you hear me?”
It occurred to her that his might be the most merciful death the Kremlin had seen in years. Dying in one’s sleep would be preferable, of course. At least he’d gone due to the nature of age, doing what he loved, rather than at the tip of some executioner’s ax, or worse.
Bogdan reached out with one hand and brushed Inga’s face with an index finger. She didn’t think he truly saw her. His hand dropped to his side, his eyes closed, and his chest went still.
Inga bowed her head, letting the tears come. Was she doomed to lose every person she loved? Bogdan represented one of the few good vestiges remaining in her life. And yet, something about it felt like the last loose end of a life already slipping from her grasp.
Chapter 33
Inga leaned forward and peeked into the small, private dining room. A large, ornately gilded table stood in the center, surrounded by polished wooden chairs decorated with exquisite scroll work. The cushions on them would keep royal bottoms exquisitely comfortable.
Ivan ordered a private dinner with his new wife, Maria Nagaya, the Tsarevich Ivan, and Ivan’s wife, Elena. Inga and Ekaterina were tasked with serving. The only other people occupying the room were two pages assigned to wait on the Tsar's every whim, in case he developed any needs other than the food while the dinner progressed.
Inga recognize both pages. The younger one, named Boris, had proven dedicated to his work. The other, Kiril, served a former member of Ivan’s oprichniki. Kiril held a great deal of intelligence. He knew how to make himself important and find work. It kept a roof—the palace roof, no less—over his head and food in his belly. Inga admired him for it.
The door on the far side of the room opened and the Tsarevich entered first, holding the door for his wife, his father's wife, and finally his father. A fifth man Inga didn’t expect entered as well: Boris Godunov. While they hadn't counted on him for supper, it wasn't a total surprise. He’d become one of Ivan's favorites and often supped with the Tsar.
Kiril immediately moved to bring another chair to the table for Godenov, and Inga went herself to fetch an extra plate and goblet.
Ekaterina filled the goblets with wine, as was her job. The party stood behind their chairs, politely waiting for Godenov’s chair so they could sit together.
Ivan and his son argued calmly about the state of the papal legate and Stephen of Bathory’s latest, most shocking behavior.
Inga ignored it and closely watched Ekaterina pouring the wine. The girl was a natural. She knew how to move on silent feet, so as to not catch the wrong people's attention. Yet she served flawlessly, anticipating the needs of the royals before they recognized those needs themselves.
At length, Kiril brought in the extra chair and set it at Ivan's left hand. A somewhat odd choice. Inga supposed Kiril knew better than she where Godenov should sit. On Ivan's right hand sat the Tsarevich. Godenov sitting on his left meant the three men could talk politics. The Tsarina and the Princess sat further down the table together.
Kiril set the fifth chair down directly behind where Tsar Ivan stood as Ekaterina moved up behind him to fill Godenov’s goblet. Ivan stood, body mostly facing Kiril, but head craned around to look at his son while they conversed.
As Inga watched in horror, Kiril set the chair down and reached down toward his own waist. He yanked a wickedly-tipped dagger from his belt and raised it high above his head. Without hesitation, he plunged it down toward Ivan’s chest.
The Tsarevich, facing Kiril, observed what Ivan didn’t. He grabbed his father’s arm and yanked him away from Kiril’s oncoming assault. At the same instant, one of the streltsi guards by the door also saw Kiril’s actions and lunged at the page. Taken together, the knife aimed at Ivan's heart stabbed him in the arm instead.
The entire room flew into a chaotic panic.
Everyone pushed, shoved, yelled. Maria and Elena began screaming. Inga lunged into the room, intending to grab the back of Ekaterina’s dress and pull her out of the way.
The streltsi guards grabbed Kiril by the arms and yanked him out, away from the table and the Tsar.
In the fray, Ivan took his place, facing his son with his back to Ekaterina while Kiril struggled to get away, kicking and punching at the guards and everyone around him. He still held his dagger in one hand, which the guards attempted to take away. They held his elbows to his sides, so his reach remained limited. Kiril still slashed in every direction with the knife, trying desperately to reach Ivan.
Inga grabbed for Ekaterina. Kiril, still flailing, kicked Inga’s leg out from under her. She crumpled to the ground, falling onto her shoulder. Pain lanced through her joints and she cried out. Her platok caught on the belt of one of the guards struggling with Kiril. When he lunged to one side, he took her platok with him, revealing Inga’s voluminous hair.
Ekaterina’s eyes darted around in panic, obviously trying to understand what was happening. She flailed her arms in obvious panic, trying to move away. In doing so, she shoved Ivan in the back. He nearly lost his balance, falling forward toward Kiril. Kiril's knife met his upper arm once again. It re-emerged as soon as Ivan straightened his spine, not having gone in terribly deep this time. A small bloom of blood appeared where the knife touched him.
Ivan stepped back, his face holding controlled fury and determination. His eyes focused on Kiril. He picked up his staff, raised it above his head, and slammed the pointy end through Kiril's chest.
The young man crumpled to the ground, eyes open and glassy.
Ivan rounded on Ekaterina. "You nearly killed me, maid!" He practically screamed.
Ekaterina backed away, eyes wide with fear and shaking her head. "N-no, my Lord Tsar. Please. It was an accident. I merely attempted to get out of the way."
Boris Godunov
stepped forward, raising a hesitant hand. "Uh, my Lord Tsar? I can confirm the young lady’s story. She looked confused and fearful, just trying to stay away from the young assassin’s knife. Truly, she didn't mean to push you."
Inga, still on the ground where Kiril’s kick had deposited her, wanted to kiss Godunov for intervening. If anyone could prevail upon Ivan for mercy, it would be Godunov.
Ivan glanced at Godunov, then back at Ekaterina. Inga recognized hesitation in his face as he weighed his options.
“It doesn’t matter,” the Tsarevich burst out. “She still nearly killed my father, the Supreme Tsar of Russia. She must die for it.”
“No,” Inga whispered, shaking her head in disbelief, though no one in the room looked at her. Her heart sunk when Ivan’s eyes darkened at his son’s words. He raised his scepter above his head again, sharp end pointed down toward Ekaterina's chest.
"No," Ekaterina murmured faintly. She backed away and tripped on one of the chairs, falling onto her backside. Ivan stepped forward to stand over her, wrapping both hands around the staff above his head, preparing to plunge it downward. He was going to kill Ekaterina!
Dozens of images flashed through Inga’s head. Taras standing in the snow with a hand reached out to her. Anne, always cleaning and smiling in the years before being taken by the Tatars. Nikolai, lying beneath a bolder on a Livonian battlefield. Yehvah, gasping in an icy river.
Inga felt a sensation she’d never experienced before. Perhaps it was desperation. Perhaps something more transcendent. Somewhere deep inside, the final section of her wall crumbled completely.
Inga leapt to her feet and threw herself between Ekaterina and the point of Ivan’s spear, hands out defensively in front of her.
An audible gasp came from the people around the table. Inga ignored them entirely. She kept her eyes on Ivan's angry face, which for a moment showed a flash of surprise.
"Please, Sire. Have mercy.”
Ivan froze. His eyes shifted from Inga's face to one side. It took her a few seconds to realize he stared at her uncovered hair. Ivan slowly lowered his spear, taking it in one hand and dropping it slowly until the point rested upon the ground.
He reached toward Inga with one hand and she shuddered. He merely took some of her golden hair in his fingers and studied it, as though fascinated by it. His eyes shifted back to her face and she saw the light of recognition and remembrance in them.
Inga pulled her platok off to tie the doors shut, her long blond hair falling forward into her face and down her back...
“No, please. Don’t leave.” His tiny fingers grasped her forearm, scratching.
“Ivan, it’s not safe—”
“Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me.”
“Ivan,” she tried to look into his face, but the darkness hooded his eyes below the red-tinged hairline. “You must be brave. You must be brave for Yuri. To protect him.” She hoped her voice sounded both kind and stern. To her, it sounded scared. “We all must do our duty, right?”
Ivan sniffed. The scant light coming in through the doors let her see him wipe his nose with his fist. “Right.” It came with conviction, but his voice sounded small and frightened.
Her heart hurt for him, for the situation he'd been born into. Could he possibly survive into adulthood with things the way they were? What kind of Grand Prince would he become?
"Supreme Tsar," Inga said quietly, feeling utterly calm. "I once saved you and Yuri from an assassin's blade. We were both children, innocents in the darkness. I saved Yuri, whom you tried to protect. Now show mercy to the innocent I've always protected. I beg you.”
Ivan stared at Inga for several moments longer. A spectrum of emotions danced across his face. In them, she saw the frightened boy hiding from assassins in closets; the sadistic adolescent who tossed puppies from the palace rooftops and cut open the bellies of cats; the man who once genuinely loved his wife and did anything and everything for her; and the broken shell he became after Anastasia died. She saw the ruthless tyrant he became in the years following, when he let his brokenness consume him, using it as an excuse for violence, and slid into madness.
All that still lived within the evil tyrant who ruled Russia with his pointed staff.
Ivan blinked and disappeared beneath his exterior again. He became the tyrant once more. He frowned down at her, slid his eyes around her to where Ekaterina still lay on the floor, shivering with fear.
Ivan stepped back. "Guards, take me to my chambers. Throw this assassin," he nodded disdainfully toward Kiril's body, "to the dogs. Triple my bodyguard!"
He turned and strode from the room, his streltsi guards quickly falling in beside him. The Tsarevich, Maria, and Elena immediately followed.
Boris Godunov followed as well. He stopped at the door and turned to give Inga a considering look. She thought he looked vaguely apologetic. Even if she perceived correctly, Godunov wouldn’t speak it aloud. He disappeared through the door, leaving Inga trembling with the strange sort of triumph, which mingled with sadness in her chest. Did she truly protect someone? Stand up to a monster? She couldn’t comprehend it.
Ekaterina still sat on the ground.
Inga looked down at Kiril’s body. She wondered how long he’d planned the assassination. Inga didn’t know why he wanted Ivan dead, but he probably had as much reason as anyone in Russia. Ivan had caused enough heartache to make many enemies. This boy would simply be one more life snuffed out under Ivan’s boot that history would forget.
Inga, who’d once saved Ivan from an assassin’s blade, stood between the corpse of a boy who tried to assassinate the Tsar, and the quivering figure of the girl Ivan tried to assassinate. Inga had changed her world.
Chapter 34
LIFE IS A MYSTICAL and tragic thing. Vorotynsky told me that. And for his trouble, Ivan tortured and killed him. I never learned what happened to his wife. She disappeared into the ether of Russia’s fate.
The little tsar finally remembered the maid with the golden mane. When he did, it saved Ekaterina's life, and set my soul free.
Amidst the blood of Ivan’s wars and executions, the tears of losing Anne, Nikolai, Yehvah, and Bogdan, and the heartache of being so long without Taras, I at last became who I needed to be. My walls crumbled to dust, and I felt free.
Free to leave, free to wander, free to to do as I pleased, and free to love.
My life draws to an end, and I do not know if my history will ever mean anything to anyone other than myself. But this is my story. The story of a maid who loved a soldier, and challenged a Tsar. Do what you wish with my story, Dear One. Learn from me, or don't. I needed to write the words as much for myself as for you.
My tiny life in the Kremlin will not be recorded by history. Perhaps it will live in your heart. For me, I go to seek whatever comes next. Know you have my heart. And my love. I wish you every happiness life in Russia can bring you.
Inga Russovna, Daughter of Russia.
AUGUST 1568, MOSCOW
Inga finished the end of her story with a flourish. She shuffled the small stack of parchments and put a final piece on top, writing Ekaterina's name on it. She'd personally taught the girl to read and, while Ekaterina still struggled somewhat, Inga felt confident she'd be able to read Inga’s autobiographical history.
It took months to collect enough parchment—the stack she'd written comprised many different sizes and grains—and ink to write everything down, but she'd done it.
The night she’d saved Ekaterina from Ivan’s scepter, she'd lain awake all night, thinking. About her life's choices. About her identity and what she deserved. Things she'd never thought of before entered her mind. She did deserve more than to be under Ivan’s boot. She simply never realized it before.
As dawn stole across the sky, she made the decision to leave the Kremlin for good, knowing it would take weeks of preparation.
About the same time, Ekaterina met Vaslav, a young groom who lived and worked on an outlying boyar estate. They met when he accompanie
d his master to the Terem Palace for a dinner Ivan held. Since then, Ekaterina and Vaslav saw one another regularly.
Inga had already prepared to leave, planning to take Ekaterina with her. She soon came to realize the girl would want to stay with her man. Just as Inga would go look for Taras, Ekaterina would marry Vaslav and perhaps have children of her own.
On one hand, it frightened Inga. Natalya married a good man who worked on a boyar estate, and Ivan’s oprichniki slaughtered them all. But the oprichniki were disbanded, and Ivan had become an old man. Life always presented new dangers. Ekaterina would have to fend for herself now. It took weeks for Inga to force herself to make peace with the notion. The day she realized she finally had, Ekaterina announced her engagement to Vaslav.
A fast engagement? Yes, but Inga fell for Taras quickly too. Ekaterina seemed happy and Inga determined not to interfere in the girl’s choices. Besides, she’d gotten to know Vaslav somewhat. He remained young, but a good man she felt certain would treat Ekaterina well.
Inga wanted to write down her life story and give it to the girl as a wedding present, hoping perhaps she could take something from it into her new life. The wedding loomed three days away. Inga would attend it, wish Ekaterina well, give her the cluster of parchments, and then leave the Kremlin for good.
Inga didn’t dream of leaving before finishing her story or before Ekaterina's wedding, yet already the season grew late. She might not make it to Anechka before winter hit. If that proved true, she wouldn't survive the snows of the wilds. She also couldn't stomach another year in the palace, without anyone she loved around her. And so, she would go, and leave her fate in God's hands.
Chapter 35
Ivan stewed angrily, sitting on his throne in the Great Hall at Alexandrovskaya Sloboda. Negotiations with Poland did not proceed the way he wanted. Ivan's eldest son, the Tsarevich, followed the progress of the negotiations closely, as was fitting because one day he would follow Ivan on the throne and ought to be involved in such things.