Kremlins Boxset
Page 55
“The man used his sword to injure the horses so it appeared the sledge might have done it. He turned over the cart and placed your mother’s body just so, to look like the scene of an accident. Then he went. I didn’t see his face, my lord. Only his boots and the back of his head. His dark hair brushed his shoulders. That’s all I can tell you.
“I knew if my mother were there, she would tell me to go on my way. To go to town and not get involved, but your mother’s eyes, begging me when they met mine, compelled me. When the man left, I went to her, to see if she might still live. I didn't think it possible, but something made me check. She still breathed. Barely. I didn’t know how to help her. So much blood covered her. I feared if I touched her, she truly would die.
“I knew my mother had acquaintances at the palace, but I didn’t know the way. I ran to my mother and convinced her to go for help. Liliya rounded up some stable hands and my mother brought them to this place. I remained hidden, afraid by the time we all returned, your mother would have frozen to death. She hadn’t. They carried her back, and I followed in secret, watching from a distance. That’s when I saw you and your father come.
“When she died a few hours later, sadness overwhelmed me. I cried all night. My mother stroked my hair and told me life worked out this way sometimes. It would hurt me if I wasn’t cautious.”
Tatyana walked toward where Taras still squatted, until she stood directly in front of him. He didn’t look up at her. The old woman fell ungracefully to her knees in front of Taras and wiped his cheeks with her hand. “My lord,” her voice sounded thick with emotion, “I am so sorry for your loss.”
At that moment, Taras and Tatyana understood one another. The death of Taras’s mother caused them both to suffer—Taras because he lost his mother; Tatyana because she learned fear. Nearly twenty years later they both still suffered the ruin of that day.
Taras cleared his throat several times before he could speak. “What changed your mind, Tatyana? Why do you tell me this?”
Tatyana gave him a sad smile before looking down at her hands. “Three days past, my lord, I began coughing up blood.”
Taras wouldn't have thought his heart could sink any lower. Now it did. He cleared his throat again. “Let me take you to the palace, my lady. I’ll pay the physician’s fees so they can help you.”
She shook her head as he spoke. “Thank you, my lord. No. I wouldn’t know what to do with a palace or a healer. When I saw the blood, I felt terrified. Since I can do nothing to stop it, I am ready to be finished. Finished with life; finished with the cold; finished with the fear. I couldn’t be finished without telling you what I know, little though it may be.”
“And why today?” Taras asked.
“Merely strong feeling, my Lord. It needed to be today.” She gazed up into his eyes and smiled—a smile of both melancholy and relief. Then she got painfully to her feet. With her head high and her shoulders back, she walked calmly back toward the city. Neither of the men attempted to follow her. She'd said her piece.
Taras squatted in the clearing for hours. The sun disappeared and darkness draped the countryside like dark curtains. The temperature dropped rapidly and the moon hid itself. They ought to return to the palace, but Taras felt rooted to the spot.
Nikolai loitered nearby with the horses in companionable silence. He didn’t approach Taras or suggest they leave. He simply squatted, watching Taras and waiting.
After a while, Taras’s legs grew numb. He fell onto his backside, not caring when the snow soaked through the seat of his trousers. After a time, he cleared the wet snow in the road from the frozen ground and pressed his ear it, as though the earth itself could bring him truth, or comfort.
An accident would have meant she'd been caught by surprise. Her last thoughts would have been of the day’s tasks, or other mundane matters. Though Taras never believed her death accidental, it never occurred to him to wonder what her last thoughts were. Now he knew they were of him. The loneliness of the fact consumed him.
His body shook, but whether with sadness or anger or only cold, he didn’t know anymore.
“Peace can be elusive in Russia,” he'd told Tatyana. He, of all people, could testify to that. The only peace he'd found in his life had been with Inga.
Inga! He wanted to see her. Needed to see her. He got calmly to his feet and walked to his horse. Nikolai handed him the reins without a word. The two men mounted and rode in silence back to the palace.
When they arrived at the stables, Nikolai took Jasper’s reins, saying he would care for the horses. Taras murmured his thanks and turned toward the palace, walking rapidly.
When Taras burst through the door to his rooms, he found Inga pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. She looked far better than she had the previous night. Taras hardly noticed.
When she saw him, her expression mingled anger and relief. “Taras, where have you been? I’ve been so worried I—”
He crossed the room in two strides and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder.
“Taras, what’s wrong? What happened?” She tried to push him back, to look into his face, but he held on to her desperately, as though she were his lifeline. In many ways, she was. She stopped trying to push him back and embraced him, her hands stroking his neck and back. “It’s all right," she whispered. "It’s all right.”
Taras wished that were true.
Chapter 24
THREE DAYS LATER, TARAS still felt turmoil over what he'd learned in the clearing. Then came the news that the Oprichniki struck another outlying estate. It hadn’t been any different than the Andreevs. The entire household murdered, most raped and tortured; the riches, looted; the animals slaughtered, and the structures burnt to the ground. This time, Ivan himself participated. No one in the Kremlin reacted with shock this time. They simply shrugged, and endeavored to serve more quietly and efficiently so the Tsar’s eye didn’t fall on them.
Ivan appeared smugly satisfied when his Oprichniki struck, as if all became right in the world when they meted out “justice.”
On the heels of news of the second attack came something more personal. Anja sent a message to Nikolai by way of Sacha. Tatyana died the same night she took them to the clearing. After leaving them, she simply went to her bed and passed peacefully in the night. Taras didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse, but it brought a fresh wave of tears he couldn’t hold back. He’d sat in front of the fire for hours, crying silently. Inga eventually missed his presence and awakened. She sat beside him all night, a comforting presence.
After the night they spoke with Tatyana, Taras asked Nikolai about the sigil of the orange hawk. Nikolai claimed he didn't know what it meant.
“Then why were you shocked? Why ask Tatyana to be certain?”
“Because I didn’t recognize it. I wanted her to be certain she remembered correctly.” Nikolai shrugged. “None of the boyar families today use it. Perhaps it belonged a secret society of some kind. I’m making inquiries.”
Taras had no choice except to be satisfied with the answer. Nikolai was his best friend. He wouldn’t lie. Not about something this important.
Taras felt like he was suffocating. He needed church. Taras chose the Uspensky Cathedral at random, or so he thought. When he pushed through the door, he realized he'd probably come to this cathedral because the metropolitan resided in it. Taras had been raised a Catholic, so he bowed lower to the pope than he did to the metropolitan, but Philipp was a decent, God-fearing man.
The Uspensky Cathedral, or Cathedral of the Assumption, was an awe-inspiring sight. Pillars so thick, three men could join hands around them, held up the ceiling. Massive chandeliers full of glittering candles hung down between them. Biblical frescoes covered every wall and pillar. Thin, arrow-slit windows situated high on the walls let in enough muted light to lend a reverent feel to the atmosphere. At the front of the room, the famous five-tiered iconostasis separated the cathedral’s sanctuary from the main area, covere
d with icons symbolizing different parts of Russian Christianity. The fresco beneath the cathedral’s five cupolas showed Jesus Pantocrater. The five cupolas were supposed to symbolize Christ surrounded by four evangelists. Taras glanced around, taking in the beautiful sights. They brought him little comfort today.
Walking between the pews, he made his way to the far side of the main room. He wanted to light a candle for those who'd passed on. But which ones? He hardly knew anymore. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Tatyana? His parents? The men who'd died under his command, honorably in battle? The hundreds who’d been senselessly slaughtered at Ivan’s hand in the last two years?
He lit a single candle for all of them, or none of them. Perhaps he did it more for himself than anything else. After lighting the wick, he knelt on the stones of the cathedral floor to pray.
He stayed on his knees for a long time. Later he wouldn’t remember what he prayed for. Only that it had been a desperate, pleading entreaty. As his legs went numb and his feet cramped in his boots, he heard the whisper of footsteps approach from behind him. He should leave. He knelt directly in front of the table of candles. Others might want to light candles as well.
Bringing his head up, he crossed himself, remembering to do it the Russian Orthodox way rather than the Catholic way, and stood. A hand on his shoulder stopped him from getting any farther.
“Do not rush your prayer on my account, my son.”
It was not the metropolitan but another priest who resided in the cathedral.
“Excuse me, Father. I thought I might be in someone’s way.”
“Not at all. I sensed you were deeply troubled, and came to lend my support.”
Taras raised his eyes to the priest’s. A middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, liberally seasoned with gray, he had a natural bald spot at the apex of his head. The hair of a friar. He stood a head shorter than Taras, and deep lines around his eyes made them look kind.
“Thank you, Father.”
“What’s troubling you, my son?”
Taras blew the air out of his mouth, running his hand through his hair. It seemed ridiculous question to him.
The priest chuckled softly. “I see my question ought to be ‘what isn’t troubling you, my son?’”
“Isn’t the Tsar’s behavior troublesome to everyone?” He walked to one of the pews and sat, resting his face into his hands. The priest followed, taking the pew behind Taras. He didn’t answer the question. They sat at the extreme side of the room, halfway back from the altar, which stood at front and center. After a moment, Taras straightened.
“Where is God in all this, Father?”
“He is near, my son. He sees everything. He knows everything.”
“Yet he does nothing about it.”
“We must have faith, my son.”
Taras’s head fell back, his jaw tightening. He willed himself not to give a flippant retort to a man of God. He didn’t want to be rebellious—he'd come seeking comfort and advice, after all—but he was having trouble keeping faith in much of anything right now.
“You are frustrated, young man. If I can see it, so can God. He understands. He knows your heart. Your frustrations and sorrows, your pains, will not be discounted, overlooked, or treated lightly in the end.”
Strangely, these words calmed Taras, but they didn’t bring the answers he wanted.
“And what are we supposed to do until the end comes?”
He felt the priest lean forward. “To what specifically are you referring?”
Taras turned in the pew to face the priest. “To the Tsar, of course.” There was his mother, too, but he didn’t want to talk to the priest about that. “His rampages spread in ever-widening circles. If unchecked, they will engulf all of Russia. No one will escape. Rich and poor, man and woman, slave and boyar, heathen and Christian. Everyone will fall under Ivan’s unprejudiced knife.” He sighed, raising his hand to rub his forehead. “And no one is doing anything about it.”
The priest stayed quiet for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice sounded low. “What have you done, my son?”
“Nothing!” The priest’s eyes widened and Taras lowered his voice apologetically. “That’s my point, Father. What can a single man do, if his countrymen will not stand by him? If they came together, they could incite—” Taras had been about to say revolution, but when he glanced up, the priest looked alarmed and motioned with his hands for Taras to keep his voice down. “Change,” he finished lamely.
“My son, it is...unbecoming to speak of such things.”
Taras turned his back on the priest. “And by that you mean it’s not safe. It’s treason to want to live in a place where you don’t get blood on your boots by merely walking into the street.”
The priest leaned forward, resting his forearms on the back of Taras’s pew. “You expect too much, my son. People are afraid.”
Taras turned his head toward the priest without looking at him. “Of course. That’s to be expected. Can it be worse than living in this...shroud of blood?”
The priest put his hand on Taras’s shoulder. “Are you married, my son?”
Taras did look at the priest, then, surprised by the sudden turn in the conversation. “Not married, no. There is a woman...”
The priest nodded his understanding. “Any children?”
Taras shook his head. He’d never thought much about children. He couldn’t imagine bringing a child into this place.
“Try to understand, my son, that others have more to lose than you. Perhaps they will die anyway, but if they still live, and their children still live, and they can muck out an existence, they will do everything they can to keep it that way. At least it’s something. Try not to judge others, especially the commoners, for being afraid to act. Even if they have no loved ones to lose, their lives are of great value to them. Your clothes name you a soldier. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must also understand that you see the world differently than most people. You are used to risking your life on the battlefield. You constantly weigh what is worth fighting for against what is not. Others do not have the courage, belief, or ability to do as you suggest, especially if it means their lives or those of their families.”
“And what of our souls, father? Will we lose them for letting Ivan murder our countrymen?”
The priest remained silent for several long moments. “I don’t know, my son.”
Taras’s eyes widened. Tiny puddles glistened at the corners of the old man’s eyes, and his jaw quivered ever so slightly as he whispered. So, Taras was not the only man in Russia struggling with this after all.
“All I know for sure is that God is good. He is a just judge. He knows the heart of each man on earth. We must all do what we think is right, knowing we must answer to Him in the end for our actions. The fact that you are sitting here in the Lord’s house, worrying about your soul, is a good sign.”
The front doors of the cathedral banged open. Taras and the priest got to their feet as one, turning toward the sound.
Ivan strode down the center of the Cathedral, between the pews. Dressed in the black robes of the Oprichniki, with four similarly black-clad men behind him, Ivan held a staff of iron that came to a point at the bottom, like a sinister spear. The stories said when he took it on raids with the Oprichniki, it came back caked with blood and gore. Taras shivered. He was surprised Ivan had the gall to wear such a blatant symbol of evil into a cathedral.
The four men behind him wore their pointed back hoods when they walked in. They pushed them up to their hairlines revealing their faces, but left the hoods atop their heads. Taras shook his head at the disrespect. Not surprisingly, Sergei stood among them.
Sergei hadn’t tried to do anything more to Inga since he’d become a part of the Oprichniki. Taras rarely saw him at all. He and his father remained deeply entrenched in the order. And no wonder: Sergei—and from what Taras heard, his father as well—had savagery bred into him from the cradle.
Taras shivered. Somewhere out there an estate full of men and their families readied themselves for sleep. They didn’t know they’d be dead by morning. Or that their deaths would be long and ghastly.
Taras felt like an eavesdropper, and wondered if he should leave. He didn’t think he could sneak out without being seen, though, and didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He stepped discreetly back into the shadows, hoping to go unobserved until the Tsar left. The priest stepped into the shadows beside him. To provide companionship? Or because he, too, wanted to go unnoticed?
Ivan knelt, waiting for the metropolitan, and long minutes passed. Either the metropolitan was unaware of Ivan’s presence, or purposely ignored him. A handful of other boyars who'd prayed in the church before the Tsar entered looked fearfully between the Tsar and the metropolitan. When a full five minutes passed, and Philipp still had not turned, one of the parishioners ran forward.
“Holy Father, the Tsar is here! Give him your blessing.”
The metropolitan turned slowly to face Ivan. When he spoke, his voice rang out in the cathedral, his words unmistakable.
“I do not recognize the Orthodox Tsar in this strange dress and I do not recognize the actions of his government.” Philipp did turn, then, his eyes like pits of coal, his face perfectly tranquil. “Fear the judgment of God, O Tsar. We are now offering up the bloodless sacrifice to the Lord, while the blood of innocent Christians is being spilt beyond the altar! Since the day the first sun shown in the heavens, no one has seen or heard of a God-fearing Tsar persecuting his own countrymen so ferociously. Even the heathen Tatars know law and justice and compassion. But not here! You sit on your high throne, but God judges us all. How will you stand before His judgment seat, stained with the blood of the innocent, and deafened by their screams under torture! The very stones of Red Square cry out for vengeance!”