Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

Ivan Grozny

  Lightning strikes the Kremlin Wall

  A baby wails at birth.

  Learns survival, climbs through intrigue, hides in deceit

  The infant cries

  Village-pillage; innocent-ravage

  Young animals on spikes

  The child laughs

  Love. Matrimony.

  Tranquility is almost skin deep.

  Loss is rage, rage is frenzied brutality.

  The building blocks of Red Square bleed.

  Games of torture—play in Novgorod

  Bodies swim through red water

  The Volkhov clogs.

  Oiled frying pans and human skewers

  Blood and steam and death and heat

  The man laughs...

  In the year of our Lord, 1548, the armies of unified Russia, under the command of its first Tsar, Ivan called Grozny, which is to say, Terrible, won a great war against their enemy, the Khanate of Kazan. The empire of Kazan would never again return to its former glory, and the victory solidified Ivan as the greatest ruler of the East in his day.

  I was there, on the sidelines, watching the history of Mother Russia unfold.. After spending my entire life as a lowly maid in the Kremlin palace, I’d come to believe loneliness to be simply part of the human condition. I’d never dreamed a person could feel anything else. That all changed when an English soldier named Taras came to the gates of the Kremlin.

  With Taras as a companion, and the war won, Ivan in good spirits, an heir to the throne newly born, and all of Russia rejoicing, I knew the greatest happiness of my life. I’d never dreamed I could feel so safe. So content.

  It would not last. A crossroads I could not see loomed before me. It included a choice I did not know how to make in a world I barely understood. It came at me too fast to affect any kind of change. As Russia plunged headlong toward her destiny, it dragged all its citizens—high and low—with it. We all thought we could control the events and momentum of our lives, at least to some extent.

  We were wrong. So very wrong.

  Prologue

  Moscow, January 1549

  Aleksy Tarasov gazed out the window, as he often did on troubling nights like these. He’d done much the same thing the night the Tsar, Ivan IV, came into the world. Something about watching the sky while waiting for news that might change the future of Russia, calmed Aleksy.

  Another such night loomed before him. The Tsar had fallen terribly ill. The doctors were not sure he would last until morning.

  Midnight came and went long ago. Most of the Kremlin still sat or lay awake, waiting for a declaration from the doctors. The guttering sconces and chandeliers threw light onto the windows, while outside the sky loomed, blacker than pitch, boasting no moon or stars. Aleksy could see the barest image of his reflection in the stained glass. The years had thinned his dark hair and left streaks of gray in it. The lines of his face had deepened considerably over the past decade, but he didn’t mind. People at court respected him for his age.

  Movement behind him brought him around from the window. The Tsar’s antechamber was filled to bursting. Boyars traveled from outlying estates when they heard of Ivan’s illness. Attendants, priests, ambassadors, and other servants joined them. Now they mulled around, whispering among themselves and wondering what dawn would bring.

  The door of the Tsar’s bedchamber opened and a line of young men—none older than thirty-five—filed out. Delicate whimpering sounds, which could only have come from the Tsarina Anastasia’s lips, wafted out with them. She'd been weeping since sun up.

  The line of young men were all members of the Chosen Council. Ivan called for them more than an hour before. Aleksy, along with all the others waiting in the anteroom, scrutinized each man’s expression as he exited. Their faces looked troubled.

  Aleksy itched to be part of the Council. Ivan insisted on keeping young men around him to help make the difficult, sweeping decisions. Oh, Ivan consulted older men like Aleksy and his favorite priest Sylvester, weighing their counsel with fairness, but the important decisions, he left to younger men. That fact stung Aleksy when he thought on it, but he couldn’t change the Tsar’s mind. Instead, he pretended to support it whole-heartedly. Besides, Aleksy knew all the men on the Chosen Council. Even if he didn’t have all of them securely in the pocket of his robes, he understood where their loyalties lay well enough to predict their behavior and plan for it.

  Among the men still filing out of the Tsar’s chamber, Prince Kurbsky, one of Ivan’s favorites, appeared looking downright distraught. Then Taras Demidov.

  If he weren't standing shoulder to shoulder with other boyars, Aleksy would have cursed. The young Englishman came into power at court much more quickly than Aleksy felt comfortable with. He persisted in asking questions about the wrong things. Aleksy had hoped when young Taras didn’t find his answers after a few months, he would either leave or simply accept that he wouldn’t get the answers and go on with his life in the Kremlin. That hadn’t happened. Taras continued to make inquiries, bothering everyone from the most influential boyars to their lowest servants.

  Now his gaze swept the room, hawkish and perceptive. Those pale blue eyes and his white-blond hair came directly from his father, while his soft features and the smattering of freckles on his face and arms were the result of his dark-haired whore of an English mother.

  Aleksy twisted his mouth in distaste, remembering the repugnance of the match. Why Nicholas Demidov ever thought marrying an English woman and bringing her to court would be acceptable. Now Taras wanted to know what went wrong? Aleksy scoffed inwardly. The answer stared the boy in the face daily, every time he passed a cathedral. He'd proven too idealistic to see it.

  Nikolai Petrov emerged behind Taras. Another anomaly. Nikolai had been part of the court longer than Aleksy. He’d never pushed against the palace walls before. Why he’d befriended Taras and now helped him, Aleksy couldn’t understand. The two of them were entirely too tenacious for their own good. So much had happened in the months since the Tsar’s campaign against Kazan, Aleksy hadn’t been as vigilant in watching the two of them as he should have been. They kept disappearing from the palace, sometimes for days at a time, digging into the holy-saints-only-knew-what past events they shouldn’t. Aleksy often didn’t realize until Sergei reported their absence days later.

  Demidov and Petrov walked out of the anteroom, side by side. Now that Aleksy watched, most of the members of the Chosen Council stopped to speak briefly to others in the anteroom, but then swiftly made their way out. The Tsar must have set tasks for the Council.

  Sergei emerged last. So much like Aleksy in every way. Having his son on the Council was the next-best thing to Aleksy himself being on it. Sergei’s shrewd eyes followed Demidov out of the room.

  Everyone knew Taras and Sergei were enemies. Sergei had told Aleksy about seeing Taras in the palace at Kazan, and what transpired. The Demidov boy’s English upbringing had weakened him, filling him to the brim with honor and ideals. People like him saw Sergei’s actions in Kazan as brutal. In truth, Sergei had simply been caught up in battle. Men couldn’t be held accountable for their actions in such a fever. At such times, a man felt most alive. Aleksy remembered all too well. Demidov acted as though Sergei was some demon come from hell. In many ways, it surprised Aleksy the Englishman had lasted this long at court. Men unwilling to make harsh decisions did not survive for long in Russia.

  Scowling, Sergei scanned the room until his eyes fell on his father. A slight widening told Aleksy his son wanted to speak with him, but not here. Then Sergei stalked from the room.

  Aleksy waited five minutes and then excused himself. If anyone asked, he would say he needed a quick trip to the privy. No one asked, though. People had come and gone all evening. No one cared unless someone had news to share.

  Aleksy made his way to a small, vacant guest room in a part of the Kremlin currently not in use. He pushed silently through the door and immediately identified the dark figure of his son stan
ding at the window. Had there been any moon, it wouldn’t have been difficult to see Sergei, but the celestial sphere seemed to have folded in on itself tonight.

  Sergei turned toward him, unconcerned, as he approached.

  “What happened?” Aleksy asked without ado.

  “The Tsar demanded the Chosen Council and all of the boyars swear fealty to the tsarevich.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. Most have already arrived, but Ivan insisted the Chosen Council ride out and bring any stragglers. He wants them all to swear to his son as ruler before dawn.”

  “He is dying then?”

  “Ivan seems to believe so,” Sergei shrugged. “He didn’t recognize Anastasia when she came close. Stupid wench.”

  Aleksy gave his son a side-long glance. Sergei’s tactfulness needed work. No one stood close enough to hear, so Aleksy didn’t berate him. He didn’t wholly disagree with Sergei’s assessment of the Tsarina. Why they let her sit by Ivan’s side and make a mournful ruckus was beyond Aleksy. It didn’t help anything, and his annoyance with the situation grew steadily throughout the day. “Is the Tsar’s mind so far gone already?” he asked.

  Sergei shrugged. “He recognized her the next moment, but it changes from one moment to the next. The doctors maintain he won’t make it through the night.”

  Aleksy nodded thoughtfully. The tsarevich, also named Ivan, was only a babe. Anastasia must rule as regent until the child came of age. If she can survive that long, he thought. Ivan’s mother, Elena, certainly hadn’t.

  This did change things. If the Tsar died and Anastasia took the throne, everyone would vie for her favor. Aleksy was one of Ivan’s favorites, but only mild politeness had ever passed between him and the Tsarina. Others closer to Anastasia were sure to make power plays the instant Ivan shuddered his final breath.

  Not everyone wanted to swear to the tsarevich. Many would see an opportunity to grasp the throne for themselves.

  “And if they don’t swear?” he asked.

  “Ivan has decreed they will be thrown from the palace and their names recorded, so Anastasia and all of the court will know exactly who is loyal and who isn’t.”

  Aleksy chuckled without mirth. Ivan remained a shrewd man, even on his death bed. The threat would move most families to swear. It would draw too much negative attention to not do so under pain of those consequences.

  “Did the Chosen Council swear?” he asked.

  “Most but not all,” Sergei shook his head. “Andrei Kurbsky swore first, of course. Everyone in attendance did likewise. Neither Prince Dmitry Kurliatev nor Nikita Funikov presented themselves. They are both ill. Apparently.”

  Aleksy rolled his eyes. If he knew those two—and he did—they did not attend for this exact purpose: so they wouldn’t have to make promises to Ivan on his deathbed.

  “They’ve been sent for,” Sergei continued. “They’ll be made to swear.”

  “And what exactly are you all swearing to?” Aleksy asked.

  “On a gilded, bejeweled cross, each man said, ‘I swear my love and fealty to Ivan, the Tsarevich, and I will support his right to reign supreme, should God see fit to take his father home this night.’”

  Aleksy nodded. Not much wiggle room in that oath, but it hardly mattered. If it came to it, he could win the Tsarina over with words. “Who is with the Tsar now?”

  “The Tsarina and her attendants remain. As do the priests Sylvester and Mackary. And the doctors, of course. I must be on my way. I have assignments to bring certain boyars to the Tsar’s bedside.”

  “Which ones?”

  Sergei told him. They were minor families. The best thing Sergei could do was bring them with haste, demonstrating his loyalty to Ivan that way. Aleksy instructed his son on what to say when he re-entered the Tsar’s chamber, and to try to remain at the Tsar’s bedside if possible.

  Sergei nodded, taking the information in stride. When Aleksy dismissed him, though, he didn’t go immediately. “I thought,” Sergei ventured. “I thought perhaps when this all ends—it will end, one way or the other, by dawn—perhaps I could go...hunting outside the city.”

  Irritation slammed into Aleksy’s gut like a brick. He glared at his son, but in the near-dark, Sergei couldn’t see it. Instead, Aleksy stayed silent so long, Sergei began to fidget. “You want to go hunting,” Aleksy said quietly. “Now of all times?”

  He felt his son shrug in the darkness. “The Tsar will most likely be dead by morning and—”

  “And what if he’s not?” Aleksy snapped. “Our work will not end with Ivan’s death. If he lives, we must work harder still to be sure we have favor with the right people. If our family falls out of power, who do you think will fund your little hunting excursions then?”

  Sergei heaved a sigh. It sounded annoyed. “Very well."

  Aleksy cuffed him hard on the ear, and Sergei winced, grunting.

  “Damned rascal. You will rein in your passions until I give you leave to do otherwise. Is that understood?"

  Sergei’s voice sounded tight in the darkness, as though it came through clenched teeth. “Yes, Father.”

  “Good. Now go. And remember what I’ve told you.”

  After Sergei left, Aleksy stared out the window for a time. It wouldn’t do to see them walking the halls together on this night, after all. Only the doctors, the priests, and the Tsarina remained beside Ivan. That was as good as a declaration of his imminent death.

  So much to do. So many threads to grasp hold of to weave the tapestry of his family’s power. Aleksy held Sergei’s future in his hands.

  It occurred to him he might not be able to watch the Demidov boy as closely over the next few weeks as he'd planned. Normally he might use Sergei to monitor something so minor, but Sergei was still young, and ruled strongly by his passions. Aleksy had allowed the behavior far too long, assuming Sergei would eventually rise above it on his own.

  That hadn’t yet proven to be the case. He’d taken his son more firmly in hand since the war with Kazan, and Sergei showed real prowess for intrigue, which pleased Aleksy. If only the boy could bridle his depravity long enough to see any plan through to fruition without Aleksy holding his hand or cleaning up his messes.

  For some reason Aleksy couldn’t fathom, Sergei lusted after the Englishman’s mistress—a simple kitchen maid of all things! While Aleksy understood the rampant lust young men could develop for things they were told they couldn’t have—he’d experienced plenty of it himself at Sergei’s age—the situation might cause more trouble than it was worth.

  Wondering what the next few months would bring, and making plans for every possible contingency, Aleksy stared out into the darkness for nearly an hour, before making his way back to the Tsar’s antechamber.

  Chapter 1

  MOSCOW, MARCH 1549

  Inga hurried through the stone halls of the palace with a profound sense of déjà vu. She came upon two boyars who stood back to back, close enough together that she made herself small, sucking her stomach in, to squeeze between them. As she did, one of them stepped back, pushing her into the other. The man she bumped into turned around.

  “Watch where you are going, girl.” The lavishly dressed noble punctuated the words with a slap. It sounded like a short whip crack, echoing through the corridor. It didn’t hurt as much as it might have, but it jarred Inga’s jaw and made her heart stop, then beat much faster. Though the corridor was full of people, no one else noticed or cared what happened to a palace maid.

  “Forgive me, my lord. I must learn to watch my step.” She said it hurriedly, hoping to avoid any further punishment. Thicker through the chest than Taras was from shoulder to shoulder, the boyar had a full head of fiery red hair and a beard of the same color. Unlike Taras, however, this was not the muscle of a soldier, but the well-fed bulk of a rich man. A round, protruding gut, jowls rather than cheeks, and meat hooks rather than fists made the man intimidating. Inga had discovered one way to keep from getting further punishment when she accidental
ly angered a noble was to repeat their reprimand back to them, proving she’d learned her lesson.

  It worked. The boyar man looked from her downcast eyes to her clothes in a sneering way. Then he sniffed and delicately turned his back on her, eyebrows drawn up and together in a long-suffering grimace.

  As soon as he turned his back, Inga went on her way, pushing loose strands of hair up under her platok. The headscarf covered her shimmery yellow hair, letting it peek out at her forehead, but holding the bulk of it in a sack at the nape of her neck.

  Hurrying through the corridors and trying not to bump into anyone else, Inga felt the thick sense of expectation hanging in the air around the palace. Things might change again, and soon. There were those who saw opportunity in the change. Inga only saw terror. Where was Taras?

  Spring also hung in the air, but the thick carpets—placed for warmth during the long winters—still hadn’t been removed from the corridors. Most of the winter tapestries had been switched out for spring ones. These decorated the walls with scenes of summer, tournaments, baby animals, and warmer colors. Many of the ornate pots and gilded statues were missing as well. Yehvah had the entire staff working on spring cleaning, so many things sat in disarray. Not for long if Yehvah has anything to say about it, Inga thought, quickening her step.

  Her déjà vu was two-fold. She'd been here, in the palace, when the last Tsar, Ivan’s father, died. Vasily left an unbalanced regency that fought like a cornered bear to survive. When Elena, Ivan’s mother, died, chaos for the throne broke out, and Ivan had been kicked under the rug. Inga knew Ivan still carried wounds from his childhood. She doubted he remembered her hand in helping him escape an assassin in a vacant room of the palace anymore, but he still remembered the loneliness of being a hunted child.

  “Inga, any news?”

  She shook her head at the two pages trying to flag her down and waved them off. “The Tsarina’s health remains the same.” The two young men looked disappointed, but didn’t press her.

  Things improved immeasurably when Ivan married Anastasia. He seemed to truly love her, and she had a humanizing effect on him. If the boyars wanted something from Ivan, they needed to win over Anastasia, for the Tsar would do absolutely anything for his Tsarina. Anastasia, from what Inga could tell, was such a kind, sweet, graceful queen, that to speak with her was always a pleasure. Not that Inga ever spoke with the Tsarina. She’d seen her from afar, though, and heard innumerable tales of her kindness and magnanimity.