by L.K. Hill
Chapter 19
The next morning, Inga walked through the corridors with considerably less spring in her step than usual. She felt like her hands were dragging on the ground and kept looking down to see if they were. Yehvah promised not to make her work all day, but she would have to work at least through the morning.
The feasting lasted until sun-up, and the palace lay in shambles. It all had to be pristine before the boyars woke up. Luckily, most of them would sleep until afternoon, which gave the palace servants more time to set things right.
The entire experience had been unusual for Inga. She’d been taught her entire life that God divinely appointed each person in society to their place. It was as blasphemous for a servant to dress above her station as it would be for a boyar to dress as a beggar. Boyars could fall from their prestige, but that, too, would be God’s will. In such a case, it would be only right for them to dress and act differently than before. Inga, on the other hand, was simply “filling in.”
From the moment she entered the Great Hall, she felt as out of place as a bath tub in a cathedral. Like the entire world's eyes were on her. It wasn't so, but she felt downright blasphemous. She had no right to be there.
Then she came face to face with Taras. He smiled at her, and warmth filled her. After that, things felt less awkward. Even pleasant. Until she caught Sergei looking at her from across the room. He unnerved her.
She realized she’d been moving around only a small corner of the room. Perhaps he stared at something else in this direction and not at her at all. She circled far enough that she would not be in his line of sight. His eyes followed her. When she stopped so a boyar woman could take a drink from her tray, he took the opportunity to turn his body, adjusting his position so he could watch her more easily.
Her heart skipped a beat. He wore a predatory look. Her hands began to shake and she'd hurried into the adjoining staging room, where drinks were loaded onto trays and empty goblets cleared away. The man in charge, whose name Inga didn’t know, frowned at her still half-full tray quizzically. She shoved it into his hands and leaned against the nearest wall for support.
He set the tray down and came over to rest a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right dear? Something ailing you?”
What could she say? Someone looked at her and she got scared? “I... felt faint.”
The man nodded. “The air in the room is close, and I understand you don’t usually serve among the boyars.”
She nodded.
“Then I am unsurprised. You did well to come out rather than risk a fainting spell while in there. Take a few deep breaths and then you’ll need to go back in.”
Inga did as he told her and re-entered the room. Sergei continued to stare at her for most of the night. She could only ignore him and keep her distance.
Even after the bear baiting, the carousing lasted a long time. The boyars got their hunting weapons and bludgeoned the bear to death. It was to be roasted for tonight’s supper. After that, they'd roamed the palace in their drunken stupor, playing all sorts of sordid games and vandalizing everything in their path. Taras and Nikolai staggered with the best of them. As dawn approached, they fell where they stood and slept where they fell. The servants picked them up as best they could and lugged them to more appropriate sleeping chambers.
Inga changed out of the gaudy serving attire back into her normal clothes and was helping clear dishes from the Great Hall when she saw Anatoly staggering down the corridor. The old man had one of Taras’s arms slung around his shoulders. Taras’s feet dragged on the floor as Anatoly struggled beneath the dead weight.
Inga put down her pile of dishes and hurried over. Wedging herself beneath Taras’s other arm, she took some of his weight from Anatoly’s ancient shoulders, and they made their way to Taras’s rooms. They dropped him on the bed none too gently, but he was out cold and didn’t wake. Instead he groaned, rolled onto his side and lay still.
“Thank you, Inga,” Anatoly, panted. Large drops of sweat speckled his broad, wrinkled forehead, and his white hair looked damp.
Inga nodded. “Is there anything else you need?”
The older man shook his head. “I can manage from here. I will undress him so he is more comfortable.”
Inga nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Then she went back to the Great Hall, picked up the pile of dishes, and kept going.
Hours later, the effects of being up all night threatened to topple her. Though not all the servants stayed up for the entire feast, she was not the only one who had, so she could not expect special privileges.
Late afternoon dwindled, and Bogdan would be preparing dinner soon, but the palace remained quiet. Its occupants had slept the day away. They only now began to stir. Servants could not wake their masters, unless instructed beforehand, but they must be ready in case their masters awoke and needed anything. As such, breakfast had to be prepared as usual--even if no one was awake to eat it--and all the palace chores had to be done.
“Inga.”
The voice sounded far away. Inga turned toward it, feeling like she moved in slow motion. Yehvah approached, looking Inga up and down.
“You look terrible, child.”
“I feel terrible.” Her voice sounded garbled.
“What?”
Inga repeated what she’d said.
“Stop mumbling, child.”
Inga sighed. She carried a sack of silver knives. The bag was not large or heavy, but Inga let it drop with relief.
Yehvah glanced around. They stood alone in the corridor. She pursed her lips as she did when trying to make a decision.
“Where are you taking that?”
“To the east wing storage rooms. Extra silver.”
Yehvah nodded. “Let me do it. I need you to go to the Mistress of the Laundresses. Tell her I need her and her girls to do a collection. Everyone is waking up and finding their garments stained with food, blood, and heaven-only-knows what else. Tell her to leave her tubs immediately. On my orders.”
“Where is she?”
“She has set up extra wash tubs on the other side of the courtyard, in the corner of the south and east walls. I know it’s a long walk. Do this one thing, then you can go back to your room and sleep.”
Inga’s head came up slowly. As comprehension dawned, a ridiculous warmth spread through her. “I can go to sleep?” She smiled stupidly.
“Not for long,” Yehvah cautioned, though Inga could swear the older woman fought to keep the corners of her mouth down. “I’ll need you at dinner, so you’ll only get a few hours. You’ll have to come when I wake you. But if you don’t sleep soon you’ll be walking into walls.”
Inga nodded, handing the silver to Yehvah. She’d already walked into more than one wall today, but she didn’t tell Yehvah that.
The new resolve to finish her task so she could find her pillow returned some of the spring to her step. It didn’t last long. It was a long way to the Kremlin Wall, and her feet felt heavier with each step. Several times she considered lying down to sleep in the corridor.
After what seemed like hours, she arrived. The laundresses were hard at work exactly wehre Yehvah said they would be. They’d dragged five extra tubs, each the size of a small pond, into the shadow of the Kremlin Wall. Each tub brimmed with steaming, soapy water, and a dozen young women surrounded it. They stood up to their elbows in suds, sweating the steam away, and grating clothing against their wooden washboards. Heaps of soiled clothing were piled behind them.
Yana, a rotund woman, did not walk between her girls, keeping a sharp eye on their work, as usual. Rather she worked beside them, washing as fast as her thick arms could go and calling out encouragements to the others. Each woman would finish washing one article, wring it out, and run across the courtyard to where dozens of lines had been strung. The clothing would be draped over the next available spot on the line and the washerwoman would dash back, taking another article from the pile on her way to the tub. It looked e
xhausting.
“Yana.”
Yana looked up sharply at Inga as she approached. “Yes, what is it?”
“Yehvah wants you and your girls to do a collection.” A collective moan sounded from the women.
Yana pursed her lips angrily. “Doesn’t Yehvah know we have more clothes now than we can hope to wash before midnight? How many things can they have dirtied in one night?”
Inga winced at the woman’s reprieve. “They’re all waking up now and have more.” When Yana didn’t move, Inga added, “Yehvah’s orders.”
Yana took a deep, slow breath. Without looking at them, she motioned to her women with one hand. “Come girls, let’s be quick.”
In moments, Inga stood alone in the courtyard.
Inga wanted her bed badly, but seeing the steaming, soapy water made her want a hot bath almost as much. Knowing she wouldn’t get one today, she turned to go back to the palace. After a few steps, she changed directions, realizing that going the other way, through the lines of drying laundry, would be the faster route to her room.
Ducking between lines of damp garments, Inga headed toward the servants’ entrance at the corner of the courtyard. It would take her to a corridor leading directly to the servants’ rooms—without passing through any of the busiest parts of the palace. When she cleared the clotheslines, her eyes stayed on the cobblestones in front of her. She prayed she would make it to her room before passing out.
A shadow loomed over her. She slowly raised her eyes, then danced back several steps, inhaling sharply.
Sergei stepped out in front of her, and when she stepped back, he followed her. He advanced nonchalantly until her back came up against something solid. It felt like wood, but she didn’t take her eyes from Sergei to see.
Sergei advanced until he stood directly in front of her. Lifting one thick hand, he grazed her jaw, then ran his fingers back through her hair, pushing her headscarf off. She stood paralyzed, trembling under his fingers, remembering with terrible clarity what he’d done to Natalya. If she screamed, no one would hear her. Yana and her girls had gone, and no one else was close by.
Sergei leaned forward, his nose by her jaw. His breath reeked of onion and garlic. She could do nothing, and if she didn’t struggle, it might hurt less. His powerful body closed in against her. His teeth grazed her ear. They brought her out of her trance.
Jerking to the side, she tried to worm out of his arms. He caught her wrist easily and she brought her other hand up, hitting him hard across the face. The slap startled him enough that he loosened his grip. She turned to run. He grabbed her around the waist, digging his fingers into the flesh of her belly. She cried out and elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted, and she lunged from his grip, only to feel his hand lock around her wrist like an iron vice.
Fighting off the rising torrent of panic, she turned and kicked at his crotch with all her might. She landed the kick, but he turned to the side at the last moment, and the kick missed its mark by a hand’s breadth. He still gripped her wrist, and used it to jerk her toward him, then savagely backhanded her across the face.
One minute she watched his hand swing toward her, knowing she’d never get out of the way in time. The next, she lay on her back staring up at the darkening sky. She sat up on her elbows, unsure if she’d lost consciousness. He stood a few feet from her, chest heaving, holding one hand in front of his groin and glaring like she was an insect he wanted to squash.
She backed away, crawling on her elbows before flipping onto her stomach and trying to get up. She felt him come up behind her. He seized a handful of her hair, swung her around, and slammed her into the palace wall. All the air left her lungs. She fought to breathe.
“You will give me what I want,” he grated.
Reaching out, she searched for anything to use as a weapon. Her fingers found a cold, solid object. She hefted its heavy weight into her palm. His hand on her shoulder immobilized her arm, so she used her other hand to distract him. His hand left her shoulder to deal with the other one, and she swung her free arm around, connecting solidly with the side of his face. The object turned out to be a brick.
He staggered backward, blood pouring from a cut under his eye. He shook his head, as though trying to clear it. She ought to run, but her breath still hadn't returned, and she shook so hard, she’d fall if she attempted to walk. He stood up straight and stared down at her.
“Not going to submit, are you?” He wiped blood from his face with his thumb. “You’re a spirited one.” He took hold of her jaw, smearing his blood onto her face and into her mouth. “I’ve gotten into trouble for forcing women before, even worthless kitchen maids. I’ll go to the tsar. Tomorrow he sits for presentations.” He pushed his face close to hers. "You will submit to me.”
He let go of her roughly and disappeared amidst the gently swaying clotheslines.
Inga’s knees gave out. She sunk to the ground, shaking violently. She tried to wipe his blood from her face, but succeeded only in spreading it around. Gathering her platok from the ground, she attempted to retie it. Her hands trembled too violently. She settled for resting her face in her hands and dry sobbing.
What was she going to do now?
