After a brief life of suffering, the Russian dampness finally delivered him to peace. He lingered those last months in bed with pneumonia. The seriousness of his illness finally drew Mavra to visit her son. She had only seen him twice in the two years he had graced the planet.
She was cold-hearted and cruel - even refusing to caress the child as he lay dying. The unrelenting fever shook his body with chills as his lungs filled with fluid. The air slowly choked from his tender body. And all she managed was a "good-bye, Stefan" as she walked from the room. That was the last she saw him alive, and somehow, her soul found peace with this.
Viktor had shed a tear for the child and nothing more. He wept for the insignificant trivialities that escaped everyone else. Viktor wept for the mischief the boy would never make at court, for the girls the child would never kiss, and for the hearts he would never have the chance to break.
All this while Viktor’s uncle donned mourning clothes and refused sustenance for three nights before fainting on the palace steps. He and Mavra had continued their affair during the child's illness, visiting in secret. However, after Stefan's death, the two spoke not more than three words to each other. The tsar refused to look at her. She, in turn, barely acknowledged his presence. Not a single person at court failed to take notice of the peculiar behavior.
Through it all, I remained at Viktor’s side. I came at night, each night, and slipped away before dawn approached.
I was a rumor around the castle: a shadow that played against the walls. Sometimes the servants would spy me lingering, slipping in and out of the darkness. Yet when they came looking for me, I would have already disappeared.
There were whispered conspiracies; Mavra’s ramped up attempts to strike Viktor down, ending the charade that was their marriage. Nightly, I concealed myself, creeping in and out of dusty, forgotten corridors to listen, as Viktor could not. Mavra was devious and promiscuous, but predictable. She always arranged her liaison’s in the same fashion: sending a coin to the Master of the Horse, who then sends an able bodied – and pleasing – servant to her chambers. Discretely, of course.
Her assassination attempts, likewise, were just as predictable. Constantly, Mavra fetched a skilled man – well worth their weight in gold, she thought. These attacks, though, were distant, and never coming to fruition. They blundered— killing the wrong man, or missing completely – their arrows catching the wind as they ran.
Then on a humid night a few months after Stefan's death, as the stink of sweat permeated the castle, I heard a malicious murmur: Mavra’s siren song seducing its way into another assassination attempt.
Following the acidic sound, I found her in a passageway leading to the dungeon. Dust clung to the stone and thick Belgium tapestries, and one's footprints, if not careful, were traceable. She was there, leaning against a heavy gold and cranberry tapestry. Knights dueled in front of a forest of muted ivory trees – muted by centuries of dust. A thick smudge of thick grey remained on her ebony gown as she edged closer to the cloaked figure at her side.
The person's identity concealed, their face cleverly shrouded by a grey cloak; and what they did not conceal in this fashion they skillfully hid with the surrounding shadows. I watched as the stout and twisted being reached into its cloak and handed her a round, sapphire bottle, which she held to the candle light in her hand and then, quickly tuck it away in her cloak pocket. She left in one direction, and the figure in the other.
I followed her toward the kitchen, where she instructed the cook add the contents of the bottle to Viktor’s stew. She then slipped out, casually and carelessly.
From the shadows, I emerged, startling the somber cook from her mid-day lull in duties and retrieved the bottle from her hand.
"What is in there?" she snorted.
Her attentions remained on the stew, as she quickened her pace stirring the ingredients in the pot. The brew of fresh meats and vegetables bubbled in the heated cast iron, the flames reaching the pots lip.
"A tonic to cure the prince's insomnia," I answered her.
"Blessed be," she sighed. She reached around me and gathered a pile of root vegetables from the counter, tossing them into the steaming brew. "Talk says he has not slept well since the lad sailed on to Heaven, my Lady. But, pray forgive me; it’s not my place to speak of such things."
"Sleep is only refreshing if you wake up," I whispered to myself.
I flung the bottle into my cloak and exited through the staff entrance, the odor of onions and garlic pursuing me like an eager bloodhound.
This would not be the last attempt on Viktor’s life. What had started after Stefan's birth only increased with the child's death. Mavra now hired spies to catch us at night, to murder us while we were together. However, these spies, quiet as they attempted to be, never made it past the stone staircase to his chambers. I would come upon them, drain them into confusion, then discard the bodies in the courtyard. They would awake the next morning with a crashing headache, wandering aimlessly in a dazed wonderland.
This left Mavra befuddled. How could her cream of the crop, richly paid group of assassin fail so miserably in their attempts? Her contempt grew, and with it her despair to be rid of Viktor. To be rid of me, as well.
Over the next two years, most of which coursed on in an endless blur of monotony and assassination attempts, Mavra became pregnant twice. The first breathed nothing more than her first breath before turning a grim shade of blue and shaking violently. Mercifully, its soul flew northward. The body, Mavra rushed away, entombed before anyone could see it. Excuses were made.
Viktor had not been the father. This honor went to a young soldier whose regiment was re-stationed three months prior to the birth.
The second child was more fortunate than her sister had been. She survived six days and was a beautiful dewy pink. She cooed when you stroked her cheek, wiggled her toes when you tickled her feet, and opened her eyelids and gazed at you with bold, hazel eyes. But, she was a girl and could not inherit the crown. Therefore, as the babe slept in the cold, crisp dawn-light, when life was waking to face a new day, Mavra smothered her. As angelic as the girl had been, she, too, had not been Viktor’s.
It was August when this second child perished. The balmy August air wreaked a foul, poisonous odor that lingered from the sewers and rose up through the streets and into the homes, reaching into the highest tower. That stench permeated the highest rooms, the most perfumed halls; and percolated as it brewed in the city's underbelly. No one could escape it. That child – that gorgeous infantile angel – had been cursed to live to breathe such air. Perhaps it would have been better if she had been born blue.
I had gone to him the night she passed.
It was near the end of August; the smells were almost unbearable and he kept the balcony door closed. When I opened the doors, he was lying on the bed covered in a thick blanket of sweat. His bed covering were neat beneath him and the drapes tied back at their posts. He laid there, defeated, his legs bent and his feet resting along the edge in their stockings; his hands fixed behind his head. His eyes were closed, relaxed, but a seething cauldron of turmoil bubbled beneath his chiseled face. The sweat dripped down his weary cheeks soiling his white collar, soiling the lush bedding underneath.
"I heard Yalena died," I said, approaching the bed. "I came as soon as I fed."
I cradled his pallid head in my hands; his sweat was salty and tasted of blood on my lips as I kissed his wrinkled brow. He was aging right before me. His forehead wore the brunt of his worries; lines grew from his eyes; and his hair was streaking with grey. While time was being unkind to him, worry and grief was a burden his body could not hide.
"Did she kill her?" It was more of a demand than a question. I tried to quiet him, but he insisted. "I know you can hear her thoughts. Tell me."
"Do you really want to know?" I asked him. "The truth may be hard to live with, knowing your wife is a murder." He nodded. "Yes, Viktor, she killed Yalena. And right now, she is planning your demise, m
y love. Her vile thoughts were so loud I heard four blocks away.”
I ran my fingers through his thinning hair. He sat up and stared wildly.
"She is downstairs in her room mixing arsenic into your wine. She is going to bring it to you herself this time because she will no longer stand for failures, Viktor. She is insistent that this time, you will die."
"She is planning to do it herself?" His eyes were vacant orbs staring into the fire behind me. His hands quaked as they reached for mine. "I am going to kill her first, Bree."
"You will do no such thing," I scowled. He glared at me, his eyes piercing with his hatred for her. "Let me handle her."
I watched as the man I loved, a defeated and terrified hulk of flesh, traversed the room and fell with the full weight of his being into a chair. He was broken. She had broken him.
His mind and body were weary from constantly being on guard. Everything had to be checked – his food, his clothing, even his bath. There was not a single moment, not a scrap of precious time, when Viktor was not susceptible to her assassination attempts. Despite what had transpired between them, his uncle refused to throw Mavra in the tower. Worse, even, convict her to death.
I stayed with Viktor every night, watching him sleep. The nightmares plagued him: the fits tangled his legs and the sweat clung to his weathered brow. Before dawn, when I had to leave, I would wake him with kisses and reassurances that I would see him at nightfall and that he had again survived.
But, that hell in which he lived would cease tonight, I told myself as I waited for her. He had had his last nightmare.
I could hear her footsteps in the hallway. Viktor concealed himself on a corner settee. Her scent wafted heavily now; she was not far. I urged him to remain absolutely quiet and hidden. Then she was there, just on the other side, and I could hear her heartbeat pulsating through the wood and nails as she knocked upon the oak.
"Enter," I said.
Several seconds passed before the door creaked to life, a ruby slipper poking itself from around the corner. Her petite face peeked in afterwards and curiously peered around as she hugged the door, slightly ajar now, to her chest.
"Come in, Mavra," I demanded.
"Where is Viktor?" she asked as she entered. She remained close to the door.
"You just missed him."
"I will return later, then." She fingered a gold goblet in her right hand and turned toward the door, preparing to leave hastily.
"Drink it," I demanded.
"Excuse me?" She turned toward me, startled. "The goblet, drink it."
"This was not intended for me," she stammered. "It was for Viktor."
"He will not mind if you take a sip, Mavra."
"Oh, I could never do that," she replied. She shuffled awkwardly, shrinking closer to the door. “It is for my beloved.”
"Drink it!"
"No," she said. "You cannot make me, harlot! I will have you thrown from this castle."
Quickly, and without warning, I glided to her side and grasped the hand that held the goblet tightly in my own. My other hand encircled her throat. At first, she struggled against me. She attempted to jerk her hand away, or drop the goblet, but I held a crushing grasp on both. When she tried to retaliate, I dug a sharp nail into her neck.
"What are you?" she whispered.
"Keep fighting me and I will show you.” I released her and she nearly spilled the wine onto her velvet bodice. I caught her arm as she steadied herself.
"Now drink it!" I commanded.
My hand steadied her lifeless arm and lifted the goblet to her quivering lips. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes and began to fall the closer the liquid traveled north. Yet, she did not resist.
She closed her eyes, but when the cool metal hit her lips, a hurricane of tears poured forth and she refused to open her mouth. Instead, she dropped to her knees, my hand still grasping her own with the goblet attached.
"Please," she begged. "It is poisoned; do not make me drink from it! Please, show me mercy."
"Why should I have mercy on you, Mavra?"
"Please," she begged.
"You have disgraced yourself. You have disgraced Viktor. You have disgraced your position. Do you deny these accusations?"
"No," she sobbed. I took the poisonous goblet from her grasp as her arm slumped to the floor. She remained on her knees, her eyes consumed with tears.
"You have tried poisoning Viktor, having him murdered and even maimed. Do you deny this?"
"No," she whispered.
"I should kill you as you would have him be slain." I told her. She looked up at me, her dewy eyes red and glassy. "Will you cease this senselessness, Mavra? Do you see now that it is pointless?"
"Yes," she answered. "He is safe from me. Just, please, spare my life."
"I will spare your life if you promise to do one thing for me," I told her.
"What?" interjected Viktor, emerging from the shadow.
Mavra bounced to her feet, glancing between the two of us. I reached out with an open palm and she remained near the door, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Mavra, Viktor needs an heir."
"Give me the poison," she said as she stared at him. "I would rather end my life."
"I would rather kill her than bed with her!" He yelled as he approached us.
"Viktor, you will do as I say," I told him. "Mavra, you do this or I will kill you. We both know you lack the courage to take your own life. You did not possess the strength to do so when you were raped at twelve." "How did you know?" She inched closer to the door; her eyes suspiciously fixed on me.
"She can see everything, Mavra," he told her, his hand gracing her shoulder, steadying her. "She can see inside yourself, to your soul."
"You want power, Mavra. Revenge. Your craving for them has consumed you; blinded you from the ability to love, to feel." I reached for her. "But wait, there is a glimmer of hope, in your mind, I can sense it. It is reaching for me from within the darkness that eats it. It is singing to me, asking me to feed it, to free it. Can you feel it there?"
"There is no such thing, I can assure you," she whispered. A tear rolled from the corner of her eye, and I watched as it slowly descended from its watery birthplace to its death as it slivered its way onto her lip, where she licked it away. "Not anymore."
"Just kill her, Bree. The sight of her is making me ill," he said as he walked to the bed and sat dejectedly on the edge.
"I provided my liege the required marital duties already this month, if you must know! And that is only because his mother demands it," she spat. "Until next month, he will not touch me. I would rather kill myself than have his hands near my body!"
"Just kill her!" His fist struck a bedside table, knocking a vase over. “Be done with it, Bree. I cannot stand her harpy shrill.”
"The glimmer," I whispered. Swiftly, I glided to her side and clutched her to me. She gasped, her eyes filling with dread as they stared back into mine.
"You will not remember this," I told her, and then, gently flexing her head back so I could see the veins in her neck popping in the dim candlelight, I bent forward sinking my teeth into her moist flesh.
Her blood was thick on my tongue; thick and hot and haunted by nightmarish images. Images of beatings as a child, royal prostitution to guarantee her mother's position; the foolish purchase of pardons, incest; everything foul that could haunt the mind and corrupt a person had happened to her. Then I found the glimmer I had seen, and realized why Mavra could not see it for herself.
"She is pregnant," I told him as I withdrew carrying her body to the bed.
"Is she dead?"
"No, just asleep, but pregnant, Viktor." "Pregnant?" he asked. "Is it mine?"
"Yes, they are yours. Two glorious miracles struggling to shine through a soul drenched in torment and hatred."
"Twins," he remarked as he sat and moved next to her on the bed, placing his hand over her thriving womb. "And I would have killed them."
"Because t
hat is what humans do; they fight hatred with hatred, murder with murder. For once, try forgiveness. She is the mother of your children. They are yet to be born, but they will be spectacular. I can feel it. That light… it is blinding. It called to me as your heartbeat called to me, Viktor. It is that strong."
"I could never forgive her. The hatred she has bred, the death, deceit. I just cannot."
"Some have not lived splendid lives, Viktor. Some do not enjoy pleasant and joyous childhoods, as you have been fortunate to have. Not even in royal circles. She was raped, Viktor. Can you not see? Our pasts, they determine who we are more than we care to believe. Her own mother…"
"Her past," he stated as he withdrew his hand, "is of no consequence to me."
The next morning Viktor moved Mavra into the tower, despite his uncle’s orders. Her every move and morsel was carefully guarded. She was allowed no visitors except for Viktor and me, and soon her name became but a whisper at court.
Rumors spread of insanity, of her "madness," and the need for her removal for her own safety. No one beside the tsar questioned this. Slowly, as the months crawled past and Mavra's stomach grew with life, the people of Tver forgot about the mysterious but strikingly beautiful princess and replaced her with tales of a frightening, shell of a woman haunting the tower. Rumors were she was with child, and people were already mourning for the babe. They knew all too well her checkered past.
For nine months, the gentle sparks grew in the darkness of her womb. For nine months, she struggled against them. Starvation only met with forced feedings. Suicide attempts resulted in her spending days and nights locked in dank dungeon cells. In the beginning, she fought relentlessly until one night the fighting ceased, her spirit broken.
I went to her then. She remembered nothing of when I tasted her blood, but I remembered every vivid image. They softened me toward her. Viktor saw her only to reassure himself that she was alive and that her stomach grew with the passing weeks. But, I went to visit, to comfort, to know the mother of Viktor’s children.
Descent Into Madness Page 12
