Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  “M-my Lord can do whatever he wishes.”

  He startled her again by chuckling.

  “Yes, but what I meant. . .” She could see him looking her up and down out of the corner of her eye. “You look like one of the maids in training,” he said. “Are you here to clean this room?”

  “I was, my lord.”

  He nodded.

  “Say no more,” he said. “I will get out of your way.”

  He headed for the door. Inga had not had face-to-face encounters with many boyars, but from what she knew of their behavior, this young man was acting strangely. Most boyars practically kicked palace servants out of the way as they walked the corridors. Why was this boy being so . . . kind?

  As he came level to where she stood, she plucked up her courage and spoke once more.

  “My lord does not have to leave on my account. The room can be tidied later.”

  He stopped, and she knew she’d made a mistake. Would he kill her for daring to speak to him again? He stood there silently for a few seconds, looking down at her—it felt like hours to Inga.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his hand come up, and she was certain he would hit her. It would not be the first time she’d been struck for insubordination.

  With the tip of his finger he turned her head and lifted it up toward him. She had to tilt her head all the way back to look up into his face. From so close she saw he did have a beard, the thin and wispy growth of a youth. As fair as the hair on his head, it was hard to see against his pale skin. The slightest smattering of freckles danced across his nose and cheeks, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  Though he touched her chin, his face didn't come close enough to make her uncomfortable, and his eyes reminded her of kindness.

  “I would not want to get you into trouble.” He winked at her, and then sauntered from the room.

  Trembling from head to toe, Inga willed her heart to slow down. She listened to his fading footsteps, feeling worse and worse. Where was he going? Everything meant something in the Imperial Court of Russia. They had not been in public, but maybe that was worse. Yehvah often talked about things happening behind closed doors having greater consequences than those that happened in public. Inga didn't know what Yehvah meant when she said it, but what if this boy got her into trouble?

  After his footsteps faded, she counted to one hundred, the highest number she knew. Then she stepped cautiously from the room. Natalya leaned against the opposite wall. Her eyes were wide as saucers. She looked as terrified as Inga felt. Inga poked her head out into the corridor and looked both ways. She feared he might be waiting to pounce on her as soon as she came close. At least it would make more sense than what just happened.

  “Is he gone?” she mouthed silently to Natalya.

  “Yes,” Natalya said aloud. “I heard the dividing door close.”

  Relief filled her chest and her knees gave way. She slid down against the doorframe.

  Natalya lunged to her side. “Are you well? Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” Inga answered when she could get her breath. She relayed all that happened in the room, watching Natalya’s eyebrows rise closer and closer to her hairline as the story continued.

  “That is not . . . normal behavior for a boyar,” Natalya mused when Inga finished, “is it?”

  “I would not have thought so, but I have never spoken to a boyar before.” She darted a gaze up and down the hall to be certain they were still alone.

  “Spoken! Before? Inga! We’re servants. Boyars do not speak to us at all!”

  “I know.” Inga made a calming gesture with her hands. “I mean . . . I don’t know. Maybe it was a trick. Do you think he’ll get me into trouble for disturbing him? Do you think he’ll tell Yehvah?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Both girls sprang to their feet. Yehvah had approached from a side hall, coming around the corner, and neither girl heard her steps. Yehvah had perfected moving on silent feet. She looked equal parts angry and concerned, and Inga fought to suppress a sigh, wondering how much Yehvah heard. Her second sigh today, and it was not yet midday. Not only had both she and Natalya been caught sitting on the floor, but now she was going to have to tell Yehvah “what.”

  And she’d thought it would be such a great day.

  Chapter 4

  A few weeks later, Inga and Natalya stood side by side in one of the palace corridors, fidgeting. The tension in the palace felt palpable, which made it hard to sit still, though Inga knew she must. Natalya looked perfectly serene. She gave Inga a reassuring smile.

  Yehvah appeared farther down the corridor. Both girls jumped up eagerly, hoping they could be of some service. Yehvah did not acknowledge them; instead, she hurried by, two older girls in tow. They swept past, and silence covered the corridor again.

  Yehvah had been more irritable than usual, no doubt because of the added pressure of preparing for the new baby’s arrival. Besides her work, which always kept her busy, she had to help the doctors, and things were not slowing down.

  The grand princess’s pains had begun only hours before. The child—the second heir to the Russian throne—was coming. The grand prince put away his first wife because she could not produce an heir. After he married Elena, months passed and the people despaired, saying the wrath of God rested on the couple because the grand prince cloistered his first wife. People whispered that he'd asked the Church about his decision, and been told if he put away his wife, any child born by his second wife would be evil.

  He did it anyway.

  Finally, Elena’s belly began to swell. Ivan came. Now, a second child would arrive any moment.

  Everyone’s face Inga looked into showed worry. Much could go wrong in a birth, especially a winter birth. Inga would know. Around the city, people flocked to churches, praying that both mother and child would survive. They prayed for a male child. Many children did not survive into adulthood. Two sons would ensure the continuance of the royal line.

  Inga wanted so much to help but knew she couldn’t. She was too small to do most of the tasks that needed doing; and if she bothered Yehvah for a job, she would only be in the way.

  “What do you think?” she asked Natalya for the hundredth time.

  Natalya smiled. “I think it will be fine, Inga. You’ll see. Try to relax; take a deep breath.”

  Inga scowled at the floor. She breathed in. It helped a little, until she breathed out again.

  “Girls!” Yehvah’s voice cracked like a whip through the corridor. Both girls instantly jumped to their feet. “I need your help. Natalya, we need more sheets. Go and get an armload from the supply closet near our chambers—as many as you can carry.”

  Natalya’s “Yes, Yehvah” was lost as Yehvah turned to give Inga her instructions.

  “Inga, I need ice.”

  “Ice?”

  “Yes. Go to the kitchen and get a bucket from Bogdan. Use the biggest one you can carry and go to the icehouse. It’s far out on the grounds. Can you make it?”

  “Yes, Yehvah.”

  “Good. Get as much as you can and hurry back. Bring everything to the anteroom,” she included Natalya in the statement. Then she strode from the room. Without stopping, she barked over her shoulder, “Run girls!”

  With a glance at Natalya’s wide eyes, Inga spun on her toe and bolted for the kitchens. No wonder Natalya looked shocked. Inga was sure her own face mirrored the expression. The anteroom? It lay directly outside the grand prince’s private chambers. Maids, especially those as young as Inga, were never let anywhere near there. It frightened Inga.

  She ran as fast as her short legs could take her. She pushed her legs so hard that, when she finally reached the kitchen, she couldn’t stop. The usual layer of beeswax Bogdan used to grease the spits and metal swing-arms covered the floor. The roaring fire made it glossy and ice-slick. Inga slid right past Bogdan. He didn’t notice.

  “Bogdan,” she called as she slid out the opposite door. She grabbed the doorfr
ame and slid back in.

  “Yuri, keep that spit turning! The grand prince doesn’t like his boar too well done! Yes, what is it, Inga?” Bogdan’s hands never stopped moving as he spoke. He spun in a constant dance of work. Once the new prince arrived, if everything went as well as the country prayed it did, there would be much to celebrate. Russians could not celebrate without food.

  “Yehvah sent me to get ice. Do you have a bucket I can borrow?”

  Bogdan’s hands didn’t stop. He stared at her, eyebrows knitted down. “She sent you? To the ice house?”

  “Yes. I think it’s for the grand princess. She said to be quick.”

  “Well,” Bogdan looked around, “perhaps I could send . . .” But all his kitchen helpers were busy.

  “Oh, please, Bogdan,” Inga pleaded, “let me do it. I’m going crazy with nothing to do. I know I’m little, but I can handle one of the smaller buckets. I’ll be fine.”

  Bogdan looked perplexed. After a moment, he nodded and retrieved a small bucket from a cupboard in a far corner of the kitchen. The size of a large mixing bowl, it was made of wood. Inga swiped it from Bogdan and bounded for the door.

  She went to the servants’ entrance near their quarters. From a short hook, she took a thick, wolf-skin wrap and slipped her softly shod feet into outdoor clogs. Then she hurried out the door and across the courtyard toward the icehouse.

  TARAS DEMIDOV SIGHED heavily and retraced his footsteps yet again. The short, three-pace line he’d been walking for the last hour had worn through the snow and turned into a brown streak through the grass. He ought to stop. The grounds keeper had a short-temper when it came to his gardens, especially with the children. Not that Taras considered himself a child, but most did not think him old enough to be called a man yet.

  Taras claimed fourteen winters. His father was Russian, a close advisor of the grand prince. His mother had English blood. His parents met when his father traveled to London as the grand prince’s envoy to King Henry. They met, married, and now owned estates in both Russia and the England. Taras spent most of his life in England. He missed his family's country estate there terribly.

  Surprisingly, his mother's wishes had brought them back to Russia, only six months before. She’d told Taras there was trouble, because the King of England had taken a mistress. Taras did not know the details of the scandal. Only that his parents opposed the match, and then suddenly fled to Russia. Seeing his confusion, his mother had smiled and patted his arm.

  “You’ll understand better when you’re older, my son.”

  Taras thought his parents truly left for his sake, though they never said it. Often, they would sit discussing events in England, and would become quiet and look at him in a strange way. When he told Mother he wanted to go home, she said they did not know when it would be safe to return to England, so he ought to get used to it here. Taras sighed and began pacing the small course again.

  None of the children here were his age. Some came close, but enough years divided them to make him lonely. Those younger were young enough that he considered them children, and the older ones thought him a child, so he spent his afternoons in solitude. Now, with the royal baby on the way, people ran around like madmen before a coming storm, and they paid even less attention to him than usual.

  Voices came to him from around the corner. Three boys played nearby, hitting rocks with sticks. He recognized them; they were three years his junior, the sons of boyars. They often invited him to play, but their games couldn’t hold his interest for long. He stepped behind the massive trunk of a nearby tree until they passed.

  A movement off to his right caught his attention, and he turned toward it. A little servant girl scurried across the courtyard. She carried a small bucket in her hands. He recognized her as the girl he’d met in the east wing a few weeks back.

  She trudged away from the closer buildings—a strange thing for a young maid to do. He tried to remember what lay out the way she was headed. The tannery, the icehouse, a few outlying sheds and horse-shelters only used in summer, and acres of land. He shrugged, already bored with thinking of her. No doubt she was on some all-important errand for the grand prince.

  Taras sat down, resting his back against the tree trunk. Five men holding hands would not have been able to reach around its girth. He picked at his shirt, his solid winter boots. Then he picked up a stick and idly drew figures in the frozen dirt.

  He was so bored.

  “Taras!” a voice shouted.

  Taras flinched at the sound of his name. Two young men, four or five years older than he, approached.

  “Taras, we’re going to play a trick. Want to come?” The speaker was Yuri. A decent boy, he'd been kind to Taras since his arrival in the Kremlin. Taras liked him. Yuri’s companion was a different matter.

  Taras could not abide Sergei. Where Yuri had light hair and blue eyes, Sergei was dark haired and brown eyed, his face perpetually screwed up into a sneer. He had a nasty temperament, and a flare for causing pain, especially to younger children and small animals. Yuri was good-natured for the most part, but Sergei always picked fights. Yuri had been welcoming to Taras, but Sergei bullied him.

  “I don’t know. Who are you playing the trick on?”

  “The younger boys,” Yuri waved his hands excitedly as he explained. “There is a little maid girl carrying ice up to the kitchen. We want to throw snowballs at her, but she is younger than we are. We’d get in trouble. We’re going to tell the younger boys she’s a wild fox. They’ll throw the snowballs, and we can stand by and watch.”

  Taras frowned. “How old is this girl?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe seven or eight.”

  Sergei snickered. Taras smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know. If she doesn’t know it’s coming, she could get hurt. The snow is slick near the kitchen.”

  “Oh, come now, Taras,” Sergei cut in. “Enough of your English nobility. A few snowballs never hurt anyone.”

  Taras didn’t answer.

  “Look, you don’t have to come if you don’t want. We saw you sitting here and thought we’d invite you to have some fun with us. If you’d rather be alone than have some harmless laughs, suit yourself.” He swung his hips pompously as he turned and strutted away.

  Yuri looked disappointed, but after a moment he followed Sergei toward the kitchen.

  Taras sighed. His father would be cross if he found out Taras was involved in this, but the way Yuri told it, no one would find out. The three of them would be hidden. Besides, Sergei was right. What harm could a few snowballs do anyway?

  “Wait,” Taras jumped to his feet. “I’m coming.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Taras, Yuri, and Sergei had secreted themselves behind the south wall of the stables. They’d told the younger boys that a hungry fox was headed toward the smells of the kitchen, and if they pelted it with snowballs, it would chase its tail in circles and fall down. The younger boys had laughed heartily and began packing snowballs as fast as they could.

  Sergei scaled a nearby tree and shielded his eyes as he scanned the ground for the servant girl. After a moment, he shimmied back down.

  “She’s coming!” His whisper was hoarse with excitement. The three of them took positions in the snow, and Sergei signaled the younger boys with one hand.

  Taras grinned in anticipation. He thought of the little girl falling down, laughing, throwing snowballs back at them. She might get upset and run and tell Yehvah, which would mean all the boys would have to scatter. Taras had only been in the palace a few weeks, but Yehvah’s temper and her protectiveness were notorious.

  As soon as Taras spotted the little girl coming around the bend, his fantasy of playful fun dissolved. This was a mistake. The girl wore outdoor clogs, but only a simple wrap covered her arms. She had not dressed for outdoor play as the boys had. Behind her, she dragged a small bucket full of ice. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and it looked as though it took every ounce of her strength to pull it along through the snow. She
was still far from the kitchens, and every slow, painful step brought her mere inches closer.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Taras got to his feet to yell at the younger boys to let her pass. Before he could speak, a crushing weight landed on his back. One moment he could see the girl in front of him; the next, he found himself face down in the snow.

  “Don’t spoil the fun, Taras,” Sergei whispered from atop his back.

  “Yeah, what’s wrong?” Yuri chimed in.

  “We. . .we shouldn’t.” Taras struggled to get out from under Sergei’s bulk. He was already too late. The sound of taunting shouts and triumphant voices announced the ambush had been sprung. Taras craned his neck to see, as Yuri and Sergei laughed.

  The snowballs came in a barrage that hit the girl full in the face, chest, arms, legs, back of the head, and every other part of her body. She dropped the bucket of ice and it spilled into the snow. Her wrap fell from her arms, and she collapsed off the man-made path and into a patch of deep, undisturbed powder. The snow stood so deep that she disappeared completely, and the pelting stopped momentarily.

  Taras pushed Sergei off him, but did not move to stop it. What could he do now? He felt only disgust and wanted no more to do with this. He wanted to see her sit up before he left, to make sure she was all right.

  After a moment, her head popped up from the hole her body had left in the snow. She held her hand to her forehead, looking dazed. Taras’s eyes narrowed. What oozed out from between her fingers? She tried to stand, but the pelting started again and she sat down hard.

  Before Taras could think what to do, a powerful hand grabbed the back of his collar, choking him, and swung him violently around in the opposite direction. He found himself face-to-face with Nikolai Petrov. Taras’s breath caught. Nikolai was a formidable man, having proved himself many times in battle. Not tall, but strong, his piercing, deep-set blue eyes blazed with anger.

  A dark-haired man Taras didn’t recognize held both Yuri and Sergei by their collars up against the barn.