by L.K. Hill
***
Inga waited until midnight to venture out. It wouldn’t be proper for a maid to be knocking on a boyar’s door without reason, so she waited until there would be fewer people awake to see her. She still took an armful of linens as an excuse, in case anyone stopped her.
She passed two people on the way to Taras’s rooms, both servants who were tasked with keeping the sconces lit at night. Both—first an older man, then a woman about Anne’s age—frowned at her suspiciously, but glanced at her linens and decided not to bother her.
When she arrived at his rooms, no one else walked the corridor. She set her pile of linens on a nearby table and approached the door. Lifting her hand to knock, she hesitated, then stepped back, clutching her fist to her chest.
What was she doing? Crossing to the other side of the corridor, she leaned her head against the icy stones of the palace wall. The image of Sergei wiping blood from his face passed through her head, and her resolve returned. As much as she hated this, she hated Sergei more.
Taking a deep breath, she turned, crossed the corridor, and knocked. The noise echoed loudly in the silence of the night, and she fought the urge to run and hide.
Taras opened the door wide enough to look out. The warm light of a well-stoked fire blazed behind him, and she could feel the clash of temperatures at the doorway. His eyebrows went up when he recognized her.
“Inga.”
“My lord, I apologize for the late hour. Did I wake you?”
He opened the door wider, shaking his head.
“I slept most of the day,” he said ruefully, “so I’ve had a hard time falling asleep tonight.”
An awkward silence descended, filled only by their silent stares. He kept shifting his eyes away from hers, as though staring at her ear. She realized he'd noticed the bruises covering her cheek, but he asked no questions. She would have to speak first. The thought unnerved her as much as what she was about to ask.
Taking a deep breath, Inga leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, though no one stood nearby to hear it. “I need to speak to you.”
“Of course,” he said, seeming to realize where they were. “I’m sorry. Please come in.”
He opened the door wide enough to admit her. A wool shirt, unlaced in front, hung loosely over wrinkled britches he'd probably slept in. His feet were bootless, covered by thick stockings. She pretended not to notice his casual dress. She had more humiliating things on her mind tonight.
“Thank you.”
The room felt much warmer than the corridor, but Inga shuddered with cold. Her stomach did flips, and her knees felt weak.
“Please, have a seat.” He motioned to a well-padded chair in front of the fire. Inga didn’t dare sit in it. Instead, she opted for the low, wide hearth of the massive fireplace, her back directly to the fire. “Would you like a drink?”
She shook her head. “No. Thank you, my lord. I rarely drink. The drink the boyars keep . . . well, it would probably do me in for several days.”
He chuckled softly, setting the bottle down.
“Please, my lord. Don’t stop on my account.”
He shook his head, coming to sit by her on the hearth. “I had plenty to drink last night,” he said. “Believe me.”
She studied her hands, clenched in her lap. She supposed he didn’t remember she helped bring him here this morning.
The silence stretched for several seconds.
Inga cleared her throat, then hesitated. Once she began, there would be no turning back. She forced herself to think of Sergei, so she wouldn’t lose her nerve.
“You said yesterday that if I ever needed anything . . . if there was anything you could ever do . . . I had but to ask.”
He nodded, resting his thick forearms on his knees and looking at her intently. “The offer still stands,” he assured her.
She looked away, unsure how to proceed. She tried to think of a good starting point, but with him staring at her like that, her thoughts turned to liquid beeswax, all running together.
He took her hand, and she jumped. “Inga, tell me. What is it? What can I do?”
His calm, gentle tone reassured her, but her heartbeat quickened again as she went on.
“Do you know who Sergei is?”
Taras barked a laugh. “I think everyone knows who Sergei is. The stones of the Kremlin Wall know who Sergei is.”
Inga smiled. She supposed it had been a foolish question.
“What about him?”
“He is going to . . . ask for me.”
Taras cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean? In what capacity?”
“He wants me to be his mistress.”
“Oh.” Taras sat up straighter and dropped her hand. Inga put it back in her lap.
She couldn’t look at him. Tears of shame and humiliation formed. She forced them down.
“I’m not sure I see the problem," he said softly
She sighed. He was not making this easy on her. “The problem is . . . I don’t want to.”
“Oh.” Did she imagine it, or did he sound relieved?
“Still,” he leaned forward again, “what is the problem, then?”
She turned her body to face him. She would have to say it all at once. If the conversation went on like this all night, she’d be insane by morning.
“Sergei . . . asked . . . me to be his mistress. I refused, so he said he would go to the tsar. If the tsar agrees—and Sergei is one of his most loyal followers, so he surely will—then I will have to go.”
Taras’s frown deepened with each word. “You mean they can force you . . .”
“To submit. Yes.”
He dropped his head into his hand, then ran the hand back through his hair. “Am I the only one who sees a contradiction there?”
He said it under his breath, and Inga didn't think he'd meant her to hear, so she said nothing. When he turned to her again, she looked away.
“Inga.” He went to one knee on the ground in front of her and took her hands in his. “I’ll do anything I can to help, but I’m not certain what you want me to do.”
She shrugged, aware of how close he hovered. “Please understand, Lord Taras. I am not doing this because I think you owe me something. You don’t.”
“Inga, we’ve been through this.”
“I know,” she sighed, unsure how to communicate this to him. “I’m…afraid of Sergei.” He continued to gaze at her, waiting for her to go on. “Do you remember when I told you about my friend, Natalya, who recently married?”
He nodded.
“When we were teenagers, he attacked her.”
Taras’s eyebrows jumped up to his hairline.
“She nearly died,” Inga’s voice cracked and she had to swallow several times. “He hurts women, especially those he takes to his bed.”
Taras’s eyes left her face. He stared down at the floor, pondering what she’d said.
“I’m only asking you this because I’m desperate.”
“Asking me what, exactly?”
Inga leaned away from him, her courage deserting her once more.
“Inga, how will you know my answer if you do not ask me?”
“It’s such a terrible favor to ask. Especially of someone you’ve only just met.”
“We met when we were children,” he grinned mischievously.
She tried not to return it, but his smile proved contagious.
“Tell me,” he prodded.
“You’re allowed to say no.”
“Inga,” he laughed, clearly frustrated with her.
She leaned forward again. “The only way the tsar might refuse Sergei’s request is if . . . I already belonged to someone else.”
“So . . .”
“Would you consider going to the tsar, and asking for me yourself?”
His eyebrows jumped higher than they did the first time, and he sat back on his haunches, staring at her intently.
She could not bear to meet his eyes. Silence s
tretched between them. She could tell he was thinking about it, turning it over in his head. Every second of silence felt agonizing. Her face burned hotter than the fire at her back, and her breathing sounded like a howling wind in her ears.
“Inga, if I ask for you, and Sergei asks for you . . . you said Sergei is one of the tsar’s most loyal followers, so why would the tsar give you to me and not him?”
Inga risked a glance at him. He did not look disgusted or lustful, or any other way she might have feared.
“Exactly," said meekly. "Ivan knows Sergei is loyal—no matter what. You, on the other hand, have only just arrived. The tsar wants to impress you, to gain your loyalty, because he thinks you may be able to help him forge an alliance with England.”
Taras laughed in astonishment. “How do you know all of that?”
She smiled, her face warming. “We maids can gossip with the best of them.”
His smile deepened, then faded as he stared into the fire. She waited for him to decide, certain he could hear her heart pounding. Finally, he nodded. Slowly at first, then more confidently.
“Yes. I’ll do it.”
Relief flooded into Inga’s chest and she couldn’t hide the breath that whooshed out of her chest. He stood, towering above her.
“You’ll have to talk me through what I’m to say when I see the tsar. He glanced around the room. "We’ll have to make a good show of it. You’ll have to stay here most nights.”
Inga frowned. What was he talking about? Of course she would stay here.
“I’m a soldier,” he continued thoughtfully, still surveying the room. “I’m used to sleeping on the ground. When you are here, you can have the bed, and I’ll sleep in front of the fire.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, as though asking her what she thought.
“I . . . don’t want to deprive you of your own bed, my lord.”
He shook his head. “You’re not. There is another bedroom, but it’s unfurnished. I suppose we’d arouse suspicion if we moved in another bed, so this will have to do.”
“I . . . suppose.” Inga didn’t want to sound insubordinate, but she didn't understand.
Hearing her tone, he looked down at her. “Is that all right with you?”
“Lord Taras, I will be your mistress. I will do whatever you want me to do.”
He’d begun to turn away, but froze mid-circle and slowly turned back. He stared down, face unreadable, until she dropped her gaze. Falling into a crouch in front of her, he rested a hand on her knee.
“Inga, look at me.”
She did.
“I will do this—I will help you—because I don’t want Sergei to hurt you. And because I believe I have something to atone for. I would never force you to . . .” He looked down at her hands. She thought he struggled for words. “I would never ask you to repay me, especially in a way you aren't comfortable with, for keeping you from him.”
Inga studied his face, trying to comprehend him. “Lord Taras—”
“You’d better drop the ‘lord.’”
“What?”
“If we are going to be living together, you might as well call me Taras.”
“Taras.” The word sounded strange in her mouth. “Don’t you understand? You are asking the tsar to give me to you as your mistress. Once he does, you can do whatever you want with me. I could not . . . stop you—”
“Inga.” His voice was stern. “I don’t want a woman who doesn’t want me. Not at all. I wish you didn’t think you had no choice in this.”
She looked down at her lap, feeling vulnerable.
“I don’t,” she whispered. He gave her a don’t-be-foolish look, and she hurried on. “Sergei is going to the tsar tomorrow morning. My ‘choice’ was to be with him, or to see if you would consider . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. “At least you’ve been kind to me. What kinds of choices are those?”
“Inga,” he stood, “I’m giving you back your choice.”
She gazed at him in bewilderment.
“I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
He glanced toward the door. Echoes of footfalls could be heard beyond it. “Come, tell me what I must say when I go to the tsar tomorrow. Then you’d better get back to your rooms.”
