Kremlins Boxset

by K L Conger

  The child opened its mouth and sucked eagerly at the skin. At least Taras wouldn't have a hard time getting the boy to take the milk.

  He drank a very small amount, and Taras worried whether it would be enough to sustain life. Yet, afterward, the baby breathed more deeply and seemed heartier than at any time since its birth.

  Two hours later, the child began to wail. Only the second time Taras had heard it cry since its birth. He fed the baby small amounts of milk every two to three hours until sunup.

  In the morning, he went out to the barn and found five small flat boards. He roped them together with vines, jamming smaller boards up against the insides to keep them from collapsing inward. He lined the box with skins and placed the baby inside.

  He still didn’t want to keep the boy. Didn’t want to name him, as it felt too permanent to do so. But he had to take care of the child until he figured out another solution. At the very least, Taras determined to keep the boy alive.

  The question was what to do with a baby boy in the middle of Siberia.

  Chapter 8

  November 1552, Moscow

  Inga righted a small table with a piece of earthenware pottery on it, painted to show the Tsar’s victory at Kazan. She couldn’t help but notice the way the lines of paint flowed into one another, making the images both concrete and abstract at the same time.

  She hadn’t noticed such things for most of her life, though she’d grown up dusting and straightening expensive artwork.

  Taras had been an artist. The now-familiar pang of cold lanced through her stomach at the thought of him. He drew with charcoal on parchment in his spare time. She supposed she’d always assumed it took a particular kind of person to create such works of art. In the same way it took a particular kind of person—a person different than her—to be a boyar. Taras taught her to appreciate artistry. And that one didn’t need to be an artist by profession to create beauty. Before Taras, the concept had been completely foreign to Inga.

  Quiet blanketed the corridor, and she hoped to have a few more quiet minutes to tidy the rest of the passage. Even as she thought it, the sound of voices floated toward her.

  Inga clicked her tongue in annoyance. With so many people traipsing through the palace these past weeks, vases and tapestries were constantly getting dirty or being pushed askew. The voices must belong to boyars, which meant she’d have to finish the corridor later. More than ever these days, maids were expected to be invisible in the palace. Inga preferred that anyway, so she didn't have to deal with abuse. It made getting her work done more difficult.

  Not that all boyars were abusive, of course. Most weren’t. Most simply looked right through her. The abusive ones made invisibility more than worthwhile, though.

  A gaggle of boisterous men, all dressed in boyar finery, came around the corner. From the looks of it, they’d been hunting. Their wheezing laughs suggested drink had also been involved. Inga ducked her head and walked in the opposite direction. When she came to an intersecting corridor, she hurried around the corner and collided with Anne.

  “Oh!” Anne cried.

  "Sorry." Inga rubbed her shoulder, shrugging it until it popped. The old injuries from her time in the dungeons still acted up every so often. Bodily slamming into other people certainly didn’t help them. She looped her arm through Anne’s and turned her around. "Boyars coming. Can't you hear them?"

  Anne swallowed. "I can now. I suppose I was too focused on my task."

  "Where were you going?" Inga asked.

  The voices grew loud as they passed the intersection where Inga had turned. Holding a finger to her lips to keep Anne from answering yet, Inga prayed the group of boyar men would keep going and not realize she and Anne stood there.

  A moment later, the voices faded as the group moved down the corridor. When they’d moved far enough away, Inga raised an eyebrow at Anne.

  "To find you,” came Anne’s delayed answer. “Yehvah asked me to bring her these herbs.” She held up a sackcloth bag. The earthy scent of the Tsar’s herb garden wafted from it.

  Inga frowned. "Then why were you looking for me?"

  “Several of the younger maids are in some sort of dispute in the courtyard.” Anne sighed.

  Inga froze. “Ekaterina?” Inga had grown close to the girl and saw much of herself in Ekaterina. She felt protective of her. If any danger threatened her Dear One...

  Anne shook her head. "She’s helping on the grounds. Not involved in this. Bogdan sent one of his boys to fetch me. He sounded frantic, so I need to get down there. Yehvah needs these herbs urgently too."

  Inga nodded. "Give them to me. I’ll take them. Where is Yehvah?"

  “In the Tsarina's chambers."

  Inga froze. She met Anne's eyes, who stared back grimly. "The Tsarina? She’s still not doing well?" Inga dropped her voice, though no one stood close enough to hear them.

  "Yehvah does not confide the Tsarina's condition to me but,” Anne shook her head. “I think not. Yehvah has been in her chambers constantly lately. The herbs she told me to pick," she nodded down at the sackcloth bag. "I think they’re for a draught against the spirits. I’m sure Yehvah hopes it will help bring the Tsarina out of her illness.”

  Inga rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, trying to project an image of confidence. "Yehvah knows best. I’d better get this to her." She snatched the bag from Anne's hands, spun on her toe, and hurried down the corridor.

  When she reached the end of it and turned left, she glanced back over her shoulder. Anne still stood there, looking after her with worry.

  Inga squared her shoulders again, this time as a way of strengthening herself for the task of going into the Tsarina's chambers. Ivan had married for the third time on the twenty-eighth day of October. As he did with Anastasia, he’d held an event for all eligible boyar women. He’d begun with twenty-four choices, then wheedled them down to twelve. He put them through every test imaginable, spent time with all of them, and had the doctors examine them to be sure their virtue remained intact. He’d settled on Martha Sobakina, the beautiful daughter of a Novgorodian merchant.

  Then Martha took ill. Not during the choosing, but right before the nuptials. She'd been deathly sick ever since. No one could decipher what ailed her. The Tsar’s best doctors had been with her for days. Nothing they did made her feel better.

  Inga prayed the Tsar’s new bride would recover. She didn’t imagine Ivan would react to her death the same way he did to Anastasia's—he’d loved Anastasia more than life itself—but everyone hoped a new bride would calm Ivan, as his marriage to Anastasia had. If Martha didn't recover, especially so soon after their marriage...

  Inga hurried into the antechamber. The great wooden doors to the Tsarina's rooms stood closed. Two guards stood outside them. The men straightened threateningly when they saw her.

  “Yehvah sent for some herbs," Inga held up the bag as evidence. "She wants these as quickly as possible. For the Tsarina."

  The guards might send her in. They might also simply take the herbs and give them to Yehvah themselves, if the order had been given that no one else enter the Tsarina's rooms.

  In truth, Inga preferred not to enter. She had plenty of work to be about in the palace and she'd been in the room when Anastasia died. She didn't fancy another memory of that nature.

  "One moment," the stocky guard on the right said. He opened the door and stuck his head in. Inga heard a murmur of voices. The taller, lankier guard on the left eyed Inga up and down, then cut his eyes away with disinterest.

  The stocky guard turned back around. Grasping the door with one hand, he pulled it wider. "You may enter."

  Swallowing, Inga willed the butterflies in her stomach to settle as she walked into the Tsarina's room.

  The great bed against one wall drew her eye. Four thick wooden posts at each corner reached toward the vaulted ceiling. The curtains hanging from the canopy had been pushed aside so the doctors could lean close to the Tsarina.

  Martha re
posed against the pillows, skin the color of the driven snow and a sheen of sweat covering her entire body. Her raven hair clung to the sides of her head and, based on the heap of linens at the foot of the bed, they’d changed her clothes often today. She’d probably sweated through them.

  A woman Inga didn’t know sat on the edge of the Tsarina’s bed, dabbing Martha’s forehead with a damp cloth. The middle-aged woman possessed a plain but severe face. Medium brown hair streaked with gray pulled back in a fancy twist. Not a doctor, by her clothes. Inga wondered who she was.

  Yehvah raised an arm, and Inga crossed to her. She stood by the fireplace, a hot, popping fire at her back. Inga handed her the sackcloth bag. The mantle in the Tsarina's chambers stood nearly twice as large as the one in Taras's room. Only the best for the Tsar’s new bride.

  She pushed the bag of herbs into Yehvah’s hands.

  "I thought Anne was bringing these," Yehvah whispered.

  "She was," Inga answered. "There's some problem in the courtyard. Bogdan wanted her to come. I offered to bring them."

  Yehvah gave her a worried look. About whatever was happening in the courtyard, no doubt.

  "I can go make sure everything's okay," Inga offered. She wanted nothing more than to be out of this room.

  Yehvah shook her head. "Stay a while. I may need your help. None of the doctors’ treatments are working. Martha Sobakina’s mother has asked me to prepare an herbal concoction to give her daughter some strength. Help me make the tea."

  Already the fire’s flames licked a gray cauldron hanging suspended from a swingarm. Yehvah ladled out a cup of steaming water and whispered instructions to Inga for measuring out the herbs. Inga wasn’t familiar with the combination of herbs, but the Tsarina’s mother was an educated woman. It wasn’t Inga’s place to question her.

  After letting the concoction steep for ten minutes, Yehvah wrapped a thin skin around the cup to keep the heat from burning her hand and gave it to Martha's mother.

  Yehvah returned to stand by Inga near the fireplace. The two of them watched as the Tsarina’s mother administered the tea. It took Martha a good half an hour to finish it because she could only manage small sips.

  With little do aside from wait and watch, Inga observed the Tsarina and did her best not to shift her weight from foot to foot.

  When at last only the sodden herbs remained at the bottom of the cup, the mother passed it back to Yehvah.

  Inga stayed for another half an hour, watching the goings on and ready to help if anyone should need anything. They didn't.

  Finally, Yehvah turned to her. "You may go, Inga. Check on Anne and make sure everyone's work is getting done.

  Inga nodded eagerly. She kept her eyes down, hoping to hide her relief. "Yes, Yehvah."

  She moved calmly from the room and through the antechamber. When she reached the corridor, she sighed with relief. She prayed Martha would recover. But if she didn't, Inga didn’t want to be present for the aftermath.

  Chapter 9

  Serpukhov, December 1552

  Sitting on a throne-like chair in the Great Hall, Ivan glared at his advisors. He always affected that same look when they said things he didn't like.

  Kiril didn't mind the look. He didn't fear it as much as some of Ivan's other expressions, but he’d learned to be wary of it. It meant Ivan felt displeased and teetered on the edge of a knife. He might be calmed, or he might fly into a rage. Everyone held their breath to see which.

  This hall—this palace, in fact—stood much less grand than the Terem palace in Moscow. It fit Ivan’s needs, however, and Kiril found it a nice change for a few weeks. Small or not, it was grander than anything Kiril could have imagined while working in his father’s cobbling shop as a youth.

  Ivan's oprichniki stood in a semi-circle in front of his dais, watching his reaction and awaiting his orders. They all stood with an air of calmness. His anger rarely rained down on them, so they remained fairly relaxed around the Tsar. Their eyes always remained vigilant, however. One and all, they jumped to please Ivan. While they were in less danger than most, the Tsar could still turn his ire on them at a moment’s notice.

  Kiril and a dozen others stood around the edges of the hall. Each wore similar livery, yet with minor differences. The style of their garb named them first servants to the oprichniki. More important than mere grooms, stable hands, or palace maids, but still servants. Each man's livery carried the sigil of the guard he served. In that, and their coloring, the liveries differed.

  Kiril looked down at his own—black and crimson, to reflect Evgen's sigil. After all this time, Kiril preferred those colors. He supposed that was always the way of things. One preferred what one felt most familiar with.

  "So, what is the verdict?" Ivan demanded.

  Kiril’s head snapped up to listen.

  Evgen answered. “Magnus has been soundly defeated, Your Grace. If My Lord Tsar wishes to continue the Lithuanian conquests, it will be a long and difficult war.”

  Ivan pressed his lips into a thin line. "It makes no difference. I must have Poland and Lithuania. I am Tsar of unified Russia. They are my birthright."

  Though Kiril made no outward sound—that could be death—he scoffed inwardly. Kings and queens always fought over territory, yet how could Ivan justify Poland and Lithuania as being part of his birthright? They were countries separate from Russia and had been for a long time.

  "There's another matter of worry, Highness," Evgen said. "Selim might take advantage of the skirmishes in the west and attack us here in the south."

  Ivan rolled his eyes. "What does the Sultan of Turkey want with us now?"

  "The same as he's been saying for a year now,” Evgen’s voice sounded firm but he kept his eyes respectfully downcast. “He wants Astrakhan and Kazan to be returned to him, along with an annual tribute."

  Ivan blinked skeptically at Evgen.

  "It truly is a worry, Your Highness,” Kiril’s master insisted. “We cannot fight a war on two fronts. With your armies in Livonia, we would be exposed if they attacked us here or in the capital."

  Kiril already knew all this. In the months since Evgen had taken him on, he’d learned much of Russia’s politics. Evgen often explained them to him and asked Kiril’s opinions. Kiril didn’t think his opinions truly mattered much in the grand scheme. Evgen just needed another man to talk to and run ideas past. Kiril often felt as though Evgen used Kiril to justify his own opinions and build his own confidence before speaking with the Tsar.

  "Yes, yes," Ivan waved his hand dismissively. "We will make broad peace overtures with Turkey. We are not worried. Vorotynsky and my other generals have taken up positions along the Oka. We have a presence and it will be enough to deter the Sultan for the time being."

  “Forgive me, my Lord Tsar,” Evgen bowed more deeply. “But Your Grace’s presence on the Oka River represents only a thin curtain of protection for Moscow—”

  “Selim will not attack our great capital,” Ivan snapped. “The Heathens have not the courage for it!”

  “As you say, my Lord Tsar,” Evgen bowed more deeply and stepped back, Kiril didn’t blame him. Everyone knew not to push the Tsar when that dangerous tone entered his voice.

  Kiril's mind drifted as the political talk moved to other subjects. After months of listening to conversations in court, he understood the goings-on of countries much better than he ever could have imagined while living in Novgorod. He found it all fascinating and soaked up everything he learned, tucking it away for the future. Even so, some aspects of economics bored him, and he found himself going to other places in his mind.

  He marveled, as he often did in quiet moments, at how much his life changed in past months. He’d gone from being a lowly cobbler in Novgorod to walking the imperial palaces of Russia, in a subservient role, of course. Even so, his steps often brushed the carpets not so far behind Tsar Ivan himself, who the people had begun to call Grozny, which meant ‘great and terrible’ or ‘awe-inspiring.’

  BOOM!r />
  The doors of the Great Hall burst inward. One of the Tsar’s generals, a man Kiril recognized, but whose name he didn't know, hurried into the room, waving around a crumpled piece of parchment. The man looked much older than Ivan, with blond hair and typical flat, Russian features.

  Ivan's face contorted in anger and turned vaguely purple when the doors burst inward—no doubt livid at the intrusion—but settled into a calm, wary expression when the man put a fist to his chest and dropped to one knee in front of Ivan’s dais.

  "What is it, Nikolai?" Ivan said. "I trust the news you bring is imperative?"

  The man called Nikolai looked up from where he knelt and nodded, holding up the crumpled piece of parchment as evidence. "It is, my lord Tsar. One hundred thousand Tatars invade Mother Russia as we speak. They march toward Serpukhov even now.“

  Ivan lunged to his feet. "What!"

  Kiril cringed. This was the look he’d come to fear. The Tsar's brows drew down, his eyes bulging from their sockets. Tiny red lines of anger slashed through the mostly yellow whites of his eyes. He’d become the very picture of violent wrath.

  "How on earth have they managed that?" Ivan thundered.

  Nikolai, though his voice sounded urgent and his face looked grim, remained calm in the face of Ivan’s anger. Kiril respected him for that.

  "They have bypassed the troops on the Oka, Your Grace," Nikolai said. “Devlet-Guirey has challenged you, Your Grace, to single combat. He sends a message that he wants to cut off your ears and send them to the Sultan of Turkey.”

  Kiril swallowed. Evgen had been correct. While Ivan dallied in Livonia, both Turkey and Crimea would attack him at home. This Tsar was a fool. Kiril surprised himself with the thought. Such thoughts were beyond treasonous. Who was he to think them?

  Ivan leapt from the dais and began pacing the length of the Great Hall. Everyone in the room took an unconscious step backward. Kiril would've done the same if his back hadn’t already been against the wall. When Ivan paced, whipping his staff around each time he turned, anyone in his path could be clubbed or stabbed without provocation.