by K L Conger
They’d disagreed severely about it two nights past. Ivan's son had the gall to reproach him for proceeding so timidly and asked to be entrusted with troops to liberate Pskov.
He! Ivan the fourth, whom the people called Grozny. Timid? The boy overstepped his bounds. Ivan loved his son and enjoyed his company, especially in their more barbaric exploits. They understood one another so well!
But for him to presume Ivan could not lead his own country?
They argued heatedly and the Tsarevich left Alexandrovskaya Sloboda to hunt for a day or two. Just as well. Let him cool down and get his head on straight. Ivan fully expected an apology when his son returned. The Tsarevich said he planned to return this morning, but Ivan had yet to see his face. Perhaps he’d returned and now dallied with his pregnant wife, rather than paying his respects to his father. Let him do so. He would come crawling with an apology sooner or later.
This morning, a delegation of boyars had asked for an audience. Ivan felt certain this had something to do with Stephen of Bathory. He waited impatiently for the delegation to present itself.
The doors at the back of his reception hall opened and the delegation entered. Seven boyars, all well dressed, and all men Ivan recognized. They possessed money, estates and influence around Moscow. Their leader, Prince Sergei Kubensky took a few steps out from the rest of the group and prostrated himself before Ivan.
"Rise," Ivan said magnanimously.
Prince Kubensky obeyed, keeping his head slightly bowed and his eyes down, even as he spread his hands and addressed Ivan. "Great Tsar," he said. "The armies of Stephen of Bathory have invaded our country. We are all prepared to shed our blood to save Russia. We must oppose the adversary now or perish. We entreat you to send troops against our great Polish enemy. Perhaps your son, Tsarevich Ivan, can lead them in your stead."
Ivan had been prepared give a magnanimous reply about how he would of course send troops to defend Mother Russia. At the mention of his son, rage instantly filled his chest. Especially after the Tsarevich’s words two nights before, Ivan grew convinced there must be some sort of conspiracy in his court to usurp his throne in favor of his son.
Barely controlling his rage, Ivan balled his hands into fists. His entire body quaked with anger. "How dare you speak to us this way? All you’ve ever wanted was to have another master than the one whom God hath given you, and now you would see our son on the throne in our place!"
The mouths of every member of the delegation dropped open at Ivan's words. Prince Kubensky shook his head. "P-please, Supreme Tsar. We want nothing of the kind. We only thought to make a suggestion."
"Get out!" Ivan said.
"You are our Supreme Tsar," Kubensky continued. "We worship you. We look to you for leadership—"
“Get out!" Ivan screamed.
With more protests, and even tears, the delegation backed away from Ivan's dais, bowing and scraping continually as they went.
When they’d gone, Ivan paced in front of his dais. He needed to speak with his son. Immediately. The Tsarevich promised he’d be back today. Why did he not come to see his father?
Very well. Ivan would go to him.
He stormed through the castle, knocking servants, guards, and anyone else in his path out of it. Most saw him coming and scurried away before he came close. When he reached his son’s quarters, he burst through the doors without knocking.
"Ivan! My son, come to me now!" The apartments felt warm due to the fire popping in the hearth, but quiet.
What was he doing? Making love to his pregnant wife? Ivan stormed through the inner room and used his staff to knock the bedroom doors wide open. Elena Sheremeteva leapt to her feet from where she sat in front of her glass. Two attendants stood behind her, fingers plaiting her long, thick hair.
"Where is my son?" Ivan thundered.
"H-he," the Princess stammered, looking frightened. “He has yet to return from his hunting exploits, Majesty."
"He said he would return this morning," Ivan snarled.
Elena bobbed her head in a trembling sort of way. "He did, my Lord. I do not know what keeps him. I have not seen him yet this morning."
Ivan took a deep cleansing breath. His son would most definitely hear the rough side of Ivan’s tongue when he returned. Ivan turned to leave the room, when something about the princess caught his eye. He’d been so intent on his purpose, he didn’t register it right away. Only one dress stretched over Elena’s body and slightly rounded belly, rather than three, one on top of the other, as was appropriate for an imperial princess.
Ivan turned more fully to her. "What do you wear in my presence, woman?"
The color drained from Elena's face. "Your Grace?"
"You stand here half naked. This is hardly appropriate for the next Tsarina of Russia." His anger grew with each word, filling his chest as wine fills a goblet. Ivan embraced it.
"For-forgive me, Your Grace," Elena stammered. "My confinement makes wearing layers uncomfortable, and as I lounge here in my own rooms, where no one else can see—”
Ivan stepped forward, raised his right hand up to his left ear and swung, backhanding her with his closed fist. The blow fell so heavily, Elena spun completely around and landed on her belly.
Her two attendants gasped in horror but did not move to help her. Hands up by their mouths, they watch Ivan warily.
Angrier than he'd been at any point today, Ivan stormed from the room.
AFTER SUPPER, IVAN sat in his room, seething over the day’s events. An hour ago, a message came from the royal physicians, saying Elena had miscarried her child. No doubt due to blow he'd given her. Ivan couldn't care less.
His son already sent two wives to the convent. He could send a third. Or get another child on her if he wished. The Tsarevich remained a young man. He still had plenty of time to produce children. If he planned to take Ivan's throne from him, he deserved to have lost his chance at a male heir.
A knock came at the door, and a guard leaned his head in. His eyes fell on Ivan and he bowed at the neck. “My lord Tsar, you wanted to be informed when the Tsarevich returned to the castle. I am told he is back.”
Ivan nodded. So, the boy finally returned. Ivan determined to keep his temper in the face of his son’s sure anger. Ivan had not been in the wrong, and so would maintain his calm exterior.
Even as he thought it, a series of thumps reached Ivan's ears. They started as dull, far away noises from some other part of the palace. They grew louder and soon sounded like crashes. Things being knocked over in hallways and doors being thrown open and slamming into walls. Quick, angry footsteps thumped outside Ivan’s door just before it exploded inward.
His son stood there, shaking with fury. How dare you strike my wife!" He screamed. "How dare you take my son from me!"
Ivan rolled his eyes. "You do not know it was a son,“ he said calmly, but firmly. ”It might've been a useless daughter. Your wife dressed inappropriately in the presence of her father-in-law and the Tsar of Russia."
"You had no right to go into her personal chamber." The Tsarevich stalked forward until he stood over Ivan’s chair, glaring down at him in unadulterated wrath. "Do you always dress with full propriety when in the privacy of your bedchamber, father?"
The anger Ivan determined to keep at bay rose sharply in his chest. Forgetting Elena, he leapt to his feet and screamed in his son’s face. "You poor fool! How dare you foment rebellion against me?"
The anger left his son’s face briefly in exchange for mild confusion. "A rebellion? Father, I've never fomented any such thing."
"Did you not send a delegation of boyars this morning to suggest you as a leader of the troops against the Polish invasion, to liberate the Pskov?"
The Tsarevich’s frown deepened. "I know nothing about any visit from a delegation. Though I do think it necessary to raise an army to liberate Pskov."
So, he admitted it! Filled with rage, Ivan lunged to his feet, snatched up his spear and struck his son with the flat of it. Using
the shaft, he drubbed the Tsarevich on the shoulders, in the gut, on the head.
"Your Grace! Your Grace!" Boris Godunov sprinted into the room, waving his arms desperately. "Please Your Grace, this must stop! Your son! The two of you merely disagree. Surely you can—"
Godenov cut off when Ivan hit him in the mouth with the flat of his spear as well. The man crumpled to the floor.
Ivan returned to his son, battering him on the legs, the lower back, anywhere he could reach. The Tsarevich put up his hands and kicked his legs weakly in defense. He'd obviously been so shocked by the turn of events—Ivan had never raised a hand or spear against his son before—he couldn't get his bearings.
Good. Let him see he was not immune to Ivan's wrath. Let him see what happened to anyone who attempted to take Ivan's throne. He continued raining blows down on his son.
Godenov scooted away on his backside before struggling to his feet. "Please, my Lord Tsar. Whatever the Tsarevich has done can be forgiven.”
Godenov’s words angered Ivan further. Forgiven? The boy was trying to steal his throne!
"Forgiveness!" Ivan screamed. “There is no forgiveness for treason!"
In one swift movement, he tossed his spear upward and grasped it further down, pointed the sharp end toward his son, and slammed the tip of his scepter into his son’s right temple.
The Tsarevich froze, then crumpled to the ground. His face slowly dropped and went slack. His eyes fluttered shut.
The room became utterly still and silent. Ivan stared down at his son. He waited for the Tsarevich to rise and yell. For the arguments and treason to continue.
Blood dripped from the bottom of Ivan’s staff. Thick, violet blood fell in heavy drops on the floor. A small pain, like a tiny sliver of fire, started in Ivan's chest. It expanded to fill his entire being in the space of an instant, filling his ears with the roaring sound of flames.
With a scream, Ivan threw down his staff and lunged forward, gathering his son into his arms. He covered the pale, lifeless face in kisses and tried to stem the flow of blood from the staff-sized hole in the boy's head.
Somewhere on the outskirts of his senses, Godenov muttered something about getting help.
Then Ivan knelt alone in the room. Truly alone, for his son no longer lay there with him. Not really.
Still clutching his son against his chest, Ivan threw his head back and screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until his throat grew raw. "Wretch that I am, I have killed my son! I have killed my son!”
FOUR DAYS LATER, IVAN knelt in front of the icons, his back to the door, praying to God for a miracle. His son, as it turned out, did not die right away. The doctors all shook their heads, assuring Ivan little hope remained, but hours after the blow Ivan dealt him, the Tsarevich regained consciousness briefly. He kissed Ivan's hands, murmuring, “I die your devoted son and most submissive subject."
In the four days since, he’d not reawakened.
Ivan hadn't slept. By turns, he roamed the palace, groaning and yanking hair from his beard, or lay in his room, staring at the flickering candle lights, or knelt in front of the icons to pray.
Yesterday, he’d caught sight of himself in the glass hanging in the antechamber of his room. His head no longer held any red hair. Only white. His skin appeared sallow and spotted. His eyes were sunken. He couldn’t even straighten his spine these past days. Sorrow and age no longer allowed him to stand tall.
Over the past half hour, servants kept trying to bring him messages. Ivan refused to hear them. He feared their news.
Another knock came at the door. Ivan didn't answer or bid the knocker enter. The door opened anyway.
"My Lord Tsar?" Ivan recognized Godenov’s voice at his back. "I do not wish to hear any messages, Godenov. Go away," Ivan said dully. Even the passion of anger refused to fill his voice.
Godenov hesitated an instant before speaking. "I know you do not wish to hear bad news, my Lord Tsar, and I am sorry to be the one to bring it to you. I prefer you hear it from a friend and loyal subject before the bells tell you."
Ivan turned his head a quarter of an inch. "Bells?"
"Yes, Your Grace. We've just sent the order to ring them throughout the country. The Tsarevich is dead.”
Ivan slumped forward onto his belly, body wracked with sobs and shaking with spasms. After all his years avoiding assassins and making sure his son avoided them too, he became his son's own assassin. The heir to his throne, lost and gone. By destroying him in a fit of anger, Ivan offended both God and Russia.
Chapter 36
The white light of morning awakened Taras, as it always did. After lying in bed a few minutes, he pushed himself into a sitting position. His back creaked with stiffness. He'd grown used to it. After another moment, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Then he stood to dress and prepare for the day.
He peered briefly into the small glass hanging on his wall. The same one he gazed into after the bear first left its mark on his face. The scars remained, just as the scars on his leg from the tiger still made him limp. In truth, Taras spared himself only a glance. He knew what he looked like. His hair turned white as his hands became gnarled. He glanced down at them as he dressed, wondering for the millionth time why God still hesitated to bring him home.
He quickly lit a small fire to warm some water for tea. He didn’t feel like breakfast, but hot tea always shook away the sleepiness of night.
Taras decided to walk in the woods today. He’d already gathered enough food for winter. Few days remained before the snows came and kept him in the cabin for months. After dressing, he tidied the cabin. He'd been drying out some pelts the night before and left his tools out. The skins still stretched across their wooden frames. Now he put the tools away and moved the frames to one side of the room so the cabin looked clean.
As he stowed his tools next to the hearth, he glanced at the black bag sitting there. The strange man, or spirit, Karl, said a woman named Maggie would come for the black bag with the rock in it. She never did. It still sat there, where Taras placed it before Nikolai left him. In a way, he’d come to think of the black bag as a companion. It, like him, waited on a woman who would most likely never appear.
Putting the bag from his mind, he let his thoughts linger on Nikolai. Thoughts of his son made Taras smile. A week past, he received a letter from Nikolai. He still felt shock that the boy found a way to get one to him. It came via a peddler traveling south toward Moscow to sell his wares. He said he came from Poland and Nikolai paid him well to give Taras the letter.
Nikolai’s letter reported that he’d put down roots in Poland and even found himself a wife. He begged Taras to come to him and live out his days with them. He even said he hoped by the time Taras came, he might have a grandchild. The thought did bring Taras joy, and for the first time, over the last week he truly thought he might go to Poland.
Strange. After all these years, why did he now feel capable of tearing himself away from Anechka? Taras figured it must be one of two things. He didn't think he would live much longer, one way or the other. Perhaps death drew close and some unconscious sense of it made him less attached to his little valley.
Or, perhaps Inga died.
Taras often thought perhaps the reason he felt so tied to this valley was because she still lived. She’d be an old woman by now. If she’d passed away, he had no way of knowing, but he'd always suspected he’d feel it in his heart. He didn’t feel any great moving sense that she’d died. Nothing significant changed for him in recent months. And yet, he suddenly felt as though he might want to leave Siberia and go to Nikolai. Perhaps it was God's way of telling him Inga had passed.
Taras concluded the winter would make the choice for him. It was too late in the season to attempt a journey to Poland. He would have to wait until spring. If he died before winter’s end, the choice to leave or stay would disappear with his breath. If he still lived when spring came again, he determined to make the journey
to Poland.
The water boiled in the small cauldron he’d set above the flames. Taras poured it over a cup of herbs and moved to the cabin door. Sipping his tea, he walked out onto the porch. The early morning air already held the feel of winter, and a cold wind blew down from the Siberian mountains and across his little valley. He breathed it in, finding its frigidness both refreshing and somewhat unpleasant. Perhaps the valley air would not warm at all today.
Something caught his eye. A slow-moving figure appeared on the horizon. Strange to have a visitor so late in the season. From this distance, it looked like a woman.
INGA CRESTED A SMALL rise and gazed down upon a small, bowl -shaped valley. It appeared the right shape and location for what Taras described. Even if not for the physical look of the valley, Inga knew she’d found the right place. A little cabin and a barn stood in its center, not far from a stream running through it.
Inga felt relief at finding the right place, though she still cautioned herself not to get her hopes up. Just because the house stood didn’t mean Taras still lived here. Though she did note a whiff of smoke coming from the chimney.
Even so, it looked like a well-kept house. Taras might have left years ago and someone else, some Siberian native, moved in.
Her trip from Moscow proved largely uneventful. Because Inga traveled on foot, plenty of other travelers from Moscow who rode horses or on wagons passed her. Some gave her rides for a time before turning in directions other than the one she wanted to go. They brought disturbing news from the city.
Ivan, it seemed, had killed his son. As mad as Ivan was before, the travelers Inga spoke with claimed it had become infinitely worse now. He often woke in the middle of the night and roamed the palace, arms held out in front of him like some demon sleepwalker, calling for his lost son. In the morning, the servants often found him collapsed on the floor in some obscure part of the palace. Sometimes he screamed and thrashed for hours at a time. Nothing comforted him.