by K L Conger
The man grunted. “I suppose. But the amount I told you was not enough. It’s twice that.”
“Of course, of course,” the woman sounded impatient, and the jangling of coins accompanied her words. A few minutes later, the sound of heavy boots crunched away from Inga in the snow.
The woman picked her up, putting Inga over her shoulder as she would a babe after feeding. The ends of shattered ribs ground together, and Inga tried to scream but didn’t have the energy or inclination to force it past her raw throat. She rested her face on the woman's shoulder and opened her eyes, watching the alley grow smaller and smaller.
In the snow outside the tavern door, surrounding the shape of Inga’s curled-up little body, a ring of bright red blood marred the snow. The story her father always told her about her birth rang out in her head like the peal of a bell on a silent morning. Blood. In the snow. Around you. Her father’s words haunted her. She'd been born surrounded by blood, and she left some part of herself in that alley.
SHE AWOKE SOMETIME later in a plain, well-kept room. She lay on a hard mattress covered with warm, scratchy blankets. Her wounds had been bandaged. When she tried to sit up, pain shot through her, and a warm hand pushed her back down.
“Do not try to move, child. It will be days before you can get up.”
The voice belonged to the woman who had rescued her in the alley. Inga looked up into a wide, kindly face with sad blue eyes. A scarf covered the woman's hair, though some peeked out near her forehead. It was straw-colored.
“I am called Yehvah. What is your name, little one?”
“I-Inga.”
“Inga, you must rest until you are healed. I’ve brought you inside the Kremlin Wall to be trained as a maid. You’re going to be all right, but you must rest.”
“Where’s Papa?” Inga’s voice was thick with tears.
Yehvah heaved a sigh. “I do not know, Child. You will not likely see him again. You’re going to live with me, now.”
Inga’s tears flowed in earnest and Yehvah knelt beside her bed, stroking her hair and brushing the tears away with gentle fingers. “There, there, Inga. It will all be all right. Try to sleep, now.” Yehvah pulled the blanket up and tucked it under Inga’s chin.
Inga fell into a fitful sleep, taking comfort in the fact that Yehvah had done what father never had.
She awakened briefly to the sound of another woman’s voice, speaking quietly with Yehvah.
“Where did she come from?” the unfamiliar voice asked.
“I found her being beaten by a tavern master in an alley. Her father abandoned her and didn’t pay his bill.”
“Poor dear,” the second voice said with concern.
“Will you sit with her, Anne?” Yehvah asked. “The grand princess is close to the birthing hour. I’m needed. The child is terribly frightened and in pain. I don’t want her to awaken alone.”
“Of course, Yehvah. I’ll stay the night.”
Inga fell back into a troubled sleep, wondering what would become of her.
Chapter 2
ALEKSY TARASOV STARED out the window. A storm brewed, and it was a night for worrying. The grand princess even now groaned in her birth travail. By morning, Grand Prince Vasiliy might have an heir to his throne, or he might be a widower. Lightning lanced across the sky, illuminating the room far more than any number of candles or sconces did. It drew closer with each strike. Despite the vague anxiety it caused, Aleksy couldn’t tear himself from the window. The events of this night, this birth, might be vitally significant in his future.
Another lightning strike lit up the room, and a deafening crack, like breaking stone, shook the floor beneath Aleksy’s feet at the same moment. The entire palace seemed to shudder, and Aleksy’s knees almost gave way. He kept his feet, but staggered back from the window, pushing his dark hair away from his chiseled, angular face.
Since when did lightning make a noise like that?
Running forward again, he gazed out at the sleeping city and the dull stones that made up the Wall. He immediately understood what the noise had been: lightning struck the Kremlin Wall. Huge chunks of it were missing, others tumbling to the ground as he watched. Many of the stones glowed red hot and spread fire where they touched grass or wooden structures below.
Aleksy watched, safe from the cold and the fires, as a knot of servants and soldiers gathered outside. Soon a group of men—soldiers, merchants, and peasants—worked together. They stamped out flames, poured water onto hissing rocks, and glanced nervously at the heavens.
Aleksy’s family had been close to the throne for decades. His father, one of the grand prince’s advisors, summoned him to the palace the moment word spread that the grand princess’s pains had begun.
Aleksy had a little wife who loved the grandeur of court and a strapping eleven-year-old son. He still stood relatively low on the chain, but he possessed a talent for intrigue. He was already doing favors for the right people, planting seeds of rumor with the best gossipers, and finding pathways to those with the greatest influence at court. He intended to get to the grand prince's side sooner rather than later.
“Young Tarasov,” a voice called behind him.
Aleksy turned to see the grand prince’s chief physician in the doorway.
“Where is your father?” the doctor asked.
Aleksy nodded toward the massive oak door leading to the library. He wondered if there were any way the doctor had not heard commotion from the lightning.
The doctor followed Aleksy’s gaze to the door, then nodded.
“I’ll let you tell them all. The grand prince sends word to his loyal boyars. The grand princess is well, and she has a son. Ivan IV, heir to the Russian throne.”
With that, he turned and disappeared back into the royal bedchamber.
Aleksy gazed out the window again. He would tell his family, who waited for word, along with several other powerful families in the library, but he wanted to see where the lightning had struck, first.
The fire had been brought under control, but a large portion of the Kremlin Wall had been destroyed. It needed to be repaired—the grand prince would see to that. The people saw it as too sacred a symbol to be marred in such a way.
This would breed talk, and not the good kind. At the instant the new grand prince's birth, lightning from heaven struck the Kremlin Wall. Did it portend a good omen, or an evil one? Was God saying this child would be a great leader, or that he would bring destruction to his country?
No matter what the future held, Aleksy was determined to be part of it. Mother Russia was his country, and he would see to it that she remained strong.
Squaring his shoulders, he spun on his toe and walked to the library door.
Chapter 3
MOSCOW, AUGUST 1532
"Inga! Wake up!” The harsh voice pulled eight-year-old Inga from the comforting darkness of sleep.
“Yes, Yehvah. I will rise.” She pushed herself upright. The sting of cold air touched her back, and she shivered. Suppressing a sigh, she dressed in the warm, albeit frumpy, dress of the kitchen maids. It was only the second week in August, but the cold came early this year. Yehvah said it might only be a cold spell, but this “spell” had gone on for two weeks already and didn’t seem to be going away.
Inga had been six years old when Yehvah rescued her from the tavern owner, or so Yehvah guessed. As no one, including Inga, knew the day of her birth, it was impossible to say for sure. After two years, Inga knew better than to stay in bed for a few extra minutes of warmth. Yehvah could be kind, but she was a hard taskmistress.
Hurrying out from behind her curtain—the thin material that portioned off her sleeping area from the rest of the beds in the sparse room—Inga ran straight into Natalya.
“Ooh, sorry,” Inga whispered. The girls learned quickly the prudence of speaking softly in the morning.
Natalya shook her head. “Not to worry. Help me tie my platok?”
Inga nodded and Natalya turned her back. Inga tied the
headscarf over Natalya’s raven-black hair. Natalya had the most beautiful hair Inga had ever seen. Natalya said she preferred Inga’s fair locks, but Inga knew Natalya was aware of her beauty. Without the platok, Natalya’s hair hung in dark cascades over her shoulders like a haunting waterfall.
After Natalya returned the favor of securing Inga’s headscarf, they hurried to their respective washstands and splashed water on their faces. The water, unpleasantly cold, sent her blood hammering through her veins. The nights weren’t cold enough to freeze the water in the basins, but close. Inga paused to catch her breath.
There were many servants’ rooms in the palace. This one held only six beds: those of Yehvah, Inga, Natalya, a mousy young woman named Anne, and two other girls several years older than Inga. Three beds lined each side of the room. Beside each sat a dingy washbasin and chipped pitcher. Curtains of sackcloth hung around the beds for privacy, and hooks on the walls above the beds held extra clothes. Most servants owned only two changes of clothing altogether, and sometimes not even that.
“Inga, come!” Natalya’s voice brought her back to the present, and she quickened her step. Buttoning her frock and slipping her feet into the warm slippers the servants wore, she met Natalya in the hallway. Together they hurried toward the kitchen. They were too young to tell time, but they instinctively knew they were running late. They’d lingered in the servants’ rooms too long since Yehvah awakened them.
The girls arrived on silent feet—one of a servant’s first lessons was to move throughout the palace unnoticed—and found Yehvah speaking to the chief cook, Bogdan.
“I don’t know,” the cook was saying. Bogdan, tall as a horse with huge shoulders and thick arms, had a gruff, impatient air about him. He'd always been kind to Inga.
“Well, I don’t know either,” Yehvah retorted. “All I am saying is her belly is quite round now, and it won’t be much longer until he comes.”
“You are quite sure it is a he?” A smile played at the corners of Bogdan’s mouth.
“We must have faith that God will send what Russia needs.” Yehvah’s face showed a tapestry of calm. “Just because you have never been able to plant the seed of a man in your wife—”
Bogdan noticed the girls and cleared his throat loudly. Yehvah pushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. Yehvah’s hair was so fair, one almost could not see the silver beginning to streak it. It, too, mostly hid under a colorless scarf.
Yehvah turned her head toward the girls. “Begin by cleaning the rooms in the east wing.”
“We do not work in the kitchens today?” Natalya asked.
Yehvah gave them a look that dared them to ask another obvious question, and the two girls curtsied hastily and hurried off. They did not speak until they'd reached the east wing.
The Kremlin included a number of palaces and cathedrals. Eventually, Inga would help clean them all, though she was still learning. As she worked, Inga enjoyed examining the architecture in the main palace—its usual Russian techniques replaced with Italian influences. The rest of the buildings looked no different than those in Novgorod and Vladmir.
Everything remained cold and silent at this hour. A nearly constant draft wafted through, bringing the smells of winter with it. Most people still slept. Bogdan had only just begun the morning meal, after all.
Inga’s heart soared. It promised to be a good day. She found her days brighter and more enjoyable when she and Natalya worked together. Usually, they worked in the kitchens as runners and helpers, but Yehvah trained them in a variety of chores, so they would always be useful.
Today, not only could they work together, but they were to clean the extra rooms in the east wing, which only received dusting once a month. These rooms were less opulent than others in the palace, so they were only used as a last resort.
Inga and Natalya would be the only ones around for most of the day, which meant they could talk and be relaxed as they worked. It would be a welcome respite from their normal, regimented routine.
The grand princess was with child again, and close to giving birth. Inga knew that's what Yehvah and Bogdan were discussing in the kitchen. This would be the second child to join the royal family. Two years had passed since Ivan's birth. With the birth-time so close, everyone—especially Yehvah—was on edge. Inga wished the child would be born already so everyone could relax. She’d voiced her thoughts to Yehvah and gotten a lecture for it.
“That’s blasphemy, Inga,” Yehvah snapped. “This child, should anything happen to his elder brother, God forbid, may be the next leader of Russia. He will be the mouthpiece of God for our country. Only God can decide when he is to be born.” Inga did not complain again, at least not where any of the grown-ups could hear her.
“Inga,” Natalya said as they began their list of chores. “Did you know Anja, Bogdan’s daughter, has taken up with the groom’s son?” She giggled.
Inga giggled too. “What does ‘taken up’ mean?”
“I don’t know,” Natalya conceded, “but I heard Bogdan’s wife found them ‘rolling around’ in the stable. Maybe they were being idle with games rather than seeing to their work.”
Inga wanted to hear more. Bogdan’s wife was known to be a mean sort. “What did Yana do when she found them?”
“Beat the feathers out of them, of course.” Natalya leaned forward to whisper, though they were alone. “The word is neither of them will sit for a week.”
Inga shook her head.
“I suppose it will teach them never to make that ‘rolling around’ mistake again,” she said wisely. “They must learn not to shirk their tasks.” Yehvah said this to them often, and Natalya nodded in solemn agreement.
The morning continued, the two girls bantering and talking as they worked. They often passed their days this way, with questions, advice, made-up stories, riddles, and gossip neither of them truly understood. Inga would never admit that to Natalya; she did not want Natalya to think her a simpleton, though she suspected Natalya did not understand half of it either. By unspoken consent, they pretended to be like the older maids in the palace—whispering and weighing in on what happened around them.
When they'd been at the work for some time, they started playing games. They each took a room, and raced to see who could clean the fastest. Even so, cleaning was serious business. Yehvah would be around later to check their work, and she always demanded perfection. Their perfection the first time was better than punishment or asking forgiveness. They raced through a myriad of chores in each room, doing everything as quickly as possible, but with great attention to detail, lest Yehvah be displeased. They each won this game a few times. Inga thought she only won because Natalya let her. Natalya always worked faster at such things. Then they decided to make the game bigger.
They went to the next corridor and each took one side. Inga would take the rooms on the right, Natalya the ones on the left. Rather than go room-by-room, they would see who would get their side done first. Natalya bet her good wool socks that she would finish first. Inga agreed, but only because Natalya did not ask Inga to bet anything of her own. They both knew Natalya would win. Inga enjoyed the competition anyway. It made the day breeze by, despite the frigid air.
Inga raced through her tasks. Her side of the corridor contained several sitting rooms, each with an adjacent bedroom. The beds were large and bare. Each room contained a fireplace, and one corner was tiled so a tub could be dragged in for bathing. Inga’s chores consisted of pulling the covers off the furniture and shaking them out; wiping dust from window sills, fireplace mantels, and anything else not covered; getting rid of cobwebs; and, finally, sweeping the accumulated dust and detritus up off the floor, including anything passing rodents might have left behind.
As she made her way doggedly down the corridor, Inga did not stop to check Natalya's progress—that would take too much time—but they crossed paths more than once. Natalya moved slightly ahead. Inga quickened her pace, hoping to beat Natalya this once. When she reached the second-to-last room on
her side, she noticed Natalya getting to the same room on her side. They were neck and neck!
Inga raced through the room, completing it faster than she’d ever done before but still making sure to leave no speck of dust behind. As she headed for the final room, she saw no sign of Natalya; no way to tell whether she cleaned ahead of or behind Inga. Inga threw open the door and practically dove into her final room.
She skidded to a halt.
A young man sat on the sill of the wide window that looked out from the sitting room, reading a book by the bleak light of an overcast sky. His head came up in surprise when she burst in. She met his eyes for an instant without meaning to, then fell into a practiced curtsy, dropping her gaze to the floor. He wasn't a man, for he had no beard. Inga claimed eight winters. He had to be at least six years her senior. And he was a boyar. His fine clothes and the fact that he sat reading a book in the middle of the morning attested to it.
Even had that attestation been lacking, Inga recognized him. His father advised the grand prince. His name was Taras, if she remembered right.
“Forgive me, my lord,” she stammered, “I did not mean to disturb you.”
He said nothing. Utter silence reigned and she did not dare look at him, for that could be death. After a moment, not knowing what else to do, she turned to go.
“Wait.” His voice stopped her in her tracks, as though he’d hooked her around the middle and pulled hard. She could be in great trouble for this; the kind Yehvah’s intervention could not save her from. Taking a deep breath and nearly choking on it, she turned slowly back to him, careful to keep her eyes down this time.
He got up from his perch at the window. He stood much taller than her.
“Am I not supposed to be here?” he asked.
The sudden, deep peal of his voice made her jump. She studied the eastern rug midway between them and tried to think of a safe answer. To not answer could be considered impertinence, but what kind of question was that from a man to a child-maid?
