by K L Conger
“And what of the incident with the Swedish and German prisoners?” Nowak suddenly asked.
The room fell silent, the jovial mood evaporating.
“From the way we heard it,” Nowak intoned. “Someone close to Your Grace died during your conquest of Livonia. So, you put all of your prisoners of war to death. Can you explain your actions to us, Mighty Tsar?”
Ivan’s face contorted in anger. “We taught the king of Sweden a lesson,” he spat. “The righteous always triumph. Tell me, whose son is his father? What is the name of his grandfather? We are persuaded he descends from common stock, and he proves it through his actions. He wrote back to us, not denying a single one of our claims. So you see, he gives us the upper hand.”
“Ah,” Nowak raised an eyebrow. “Did you truly have it? Shortly after the incident, as we understand it, these outnumbered, low-bred Swedish troops defeated you soundly at Lode. Did you not slacken your war against the Swedes, and send an army to the Volga? Did you not bring your puppet king back, and treat him ill?”
“We did not treat Magnus ill!” Ivan snapped. The entire room held its breath.
Most everyone Kiril talked to believed Ivan had mistreated Magnus, but no one voiced such thoughts where they might reach the Tsar’s ears.
Ivan had brought Magnus back in great pomp, acting as though the man would be richly rewarded for his Livonian exploits on Ivan’s behalf. Despite not winning all the territories Ivan wanted, Magnus still did a great service to his country and his Tsar. He’d spent years in Livonia, doing his best to win the desired territories. Magnus couldn’t be blamed for Ivan never sending him enough men or supplies to accomplish the task. The Swedes simply held a greater foothold in the area than Russia did.
As part of the charade, Ivan offered Magnus a new bride. Euphemia, the woman Magnus married before leaving for his first conquest, died some time ago of the fever. No one at court noticed. When the Swedes proved victorious, Ivan offered Magnus a second wife, Euphemia’s thirteen-year-old sister, which Magnus gladly accepted. He obviously believed Ivan would give him all the Russian-occupied Livonian territories, subject to Ivan, of course.
Ivan rewarded Magnus’s service by ceding him estates small even by minor nobles’ standards and a trunk of dresses for his new bride.
“You promised him barrels of gold,” Nowak continued with a raised eyebrow. “Did you neglect the payment intentionally, my Lord Tsar? Did you mean to treat your general with such hostility? It is said he lives in poverty in the small domain you granted him, feeding his child-wife delicacies, amusing her with toys and causing her to dress like a German.”
Ivan waved a hand dismissively. “I merely forgot to pay the reward. It can still be paid.”
Nowak exchanged significant glances with his fellow dignitaries.
Kiril fought to keep from shaking his head. Did Ivan not understand how they scrutinized him? Looking for not only strength and determination, but integrity and fairness in their new ruler? Ivan didn’t exactly endear himself to these men, who held a much more progressive view of the world than the one most Russian nobles still espoused.
No. Kiril shouldn’t underestimate the Tsar. Ivan knew what these Polish nobles wanted, as well as how he came across. He merely deluded himself that he represented exactly what the Poles looked for in a leader.
“Supreme Tsar of Russia,” Nowak raised his voice, as if giving a proclamation. All the whispered conversations in the room ceased as everyone’s rapt attention fell on Nowak and the Tsar. “As you know, we seek to put another man on the throne of Poland. Someone who can rule with confidence and keep our country moving forward.”
Ivan straightened his spine, sitting up arrogantly on his throne and waiting patiently for Nowak to continue.
“We have yet to decide who it will be.”
Ivan’s shoulders visibly slumped.
“Several of our nobles,” Nowak continued, “have suggested an alliance with Russia would not be without advantage to our country.” Nowak glanced around, looking vaguely nervous for the first time Kiril noticed, and cleared his throat. “Some have suggested the noble Tsar’s second son Feodor, might meet all our needs.”
Whatever Ivan expected to hear, it was not that. His mouth fell open, his eyes widening as his composure completely evaporated.
“My two sons are like my two eyes! Would you make me half-blind?”
Nowak blinked warily at Ivan, but didn’t seem cowed in the least.
Though he wouldn’t have expected Nowak to suggest Feodor, it still didn’t surprise Kiril. Feodor only claimed fourteen winters, but for the nobles, that constituted marriageable age. Ivan, at seventeen winters, had already taken a bride. More to the point, Feodor had a sweet temperament and a simple mind. Which meant he couldn’t rule on his own. No wonder the Poles wanted him. If he sat on their throne, the nobles and clergy, rather than the ruler, would possess the real power.
Ivan heaved a deep breath, obviously attempting to regain his composure. Then he stepped up to Nowak, every inch a proud sovereign.
“Many of your countrymen believe we are inhuman. It is true that we are cruel and irascible, but only to those who behave badly toward us. The good ones? Ah, we would not hesitate to give them our gold chain and the coat off our back.”
“And yet,” Nowak intoned. “They say when the Tatars attacked your city, you fled, leaving your people in your enemies’ wake.”
“It was not the enemy we feared,” Ivan thundered, composure disappearing once more. “We feared betrayal by our own people. They let Moscow burn when it could have been defended with a thousand men. But when great men don’t want to fight, how can the humble do so?”
Nowak and the other Polish dignitaries watched Ivan calmly. Their faces betrayed skepticism, and Ivan saw it.
“Who can be blackening us in the eyes of your compatriots? Our enemies! Traitors! Kurbsky?
“You want to know if we are good or evil? Send your children to serve us faithfully. Loaded with favors, they will be able to judge the truth. If, by the will of the Almighty, we are called upon to reign over you, we promise to observe your laws, respect your freedoms and privileges, and even extend them if need be.”
The room remained quiet when Ivan finished. With a shrug, Nowak returned to the rest of his fellow dignitaries, where they conferred together in whispers.
After so many years of watching Ivan, Kiril ought not to be surprised by anything. And yet Ivan’s arrogance made him more of a monster in Kiril’s eyes every day. Sometimes, a ridiculous monster. Other times, a downright frightening one. But hardly a man. Hardly a ruler. Kiril couldn’t fathom why so many people fell at his feet when he walked the streets.
Nowak turned back to Ivan, who took his throne again. The questioning continued.
Chapter 26
April 1563, Moscow
Kiril watched Simeon on the throne, feeling disgusted. In the past year, Russia became a farce in the eyes of other nations. And still, Ivan felt the need to carry on this charade.
Nearly a year ago, Ivan abruptly proclaimed Simeon Bekbulatovich, a Tatar prince living at court, to be the new Tsar. Everyone expected a cruel joke—much like seven years before when Ivan gave his crown and robe to Prince Feodorov before running him through—but it didn’t prove true this time. To the shock of both the dull-witted Tatar prince and the rest of the court, the good-natured prince soon found himself receiving petitions, giving audiences, and doing a slew of other things Ivan typically reserved for himself.
Obviously a strange whim of Ivan’s, the gossip said it resulted from his frustration at not obtaining the throne of Poland, as he’d so long hoped. After being questioned by the Polish dignitaries, Ivan truly believed he would be crowned leader of the Poles. He became livid when they chose another. In truth, Kiril never understood why Ivan wanted Poland so much. Ivan practiced absolute power over his subjects. The Poles, on the other hand, held a Senate, composed of magnates, and a Diet, elected every two years by the lesser nob
ility. Why would a ruler such as Ivan be content with such limited power?
He wouldn’t be. Chances were, he intended to change everything and bring Poland under his absolute power. The progressive Poles would never put up with such a thing. Most likely the reason they didn’t choose him.
Whatever Ivan’s reason for the charade with Simeon, it lasted nearly a full year. The Tsar had done bizarre things like this before, but no one expected it to go on for long.
The Doltish Simeon sat on the throne, using eloquent words—or what he believed to be such—and flourishing movements. He looked like nothing so much as a little boy at play. In truth, that’s exactly what he was.
From the north end of the hall, a servant entered and hurriedly bowed before Simeon. Though he addressed the puppet prince, he made sure to speak loudly enough for Ivan, sitting twenty feet away, to hear him clearly. Though the people bowed low before Simeon, because they were instructed to, they still trembled only before Ivan.
“Most Supreme Tsar,” the messenger said in Simeon’s general direction, eyes sliding toward Ivan every few seconds. “News has come from Poland. The Duc d’Anjou has fled to France. Charles IX is dead, and d’Anjou will take his rightful place on the French throne.”
An audible gasp went up from the crowd.
Ivan leapt up from where he sat, looking equal parts angry, determined and triumphant. The entire room stared at him, waiting to see what he would do next.
“Guards!” Ivan screamed. He jabbed an index finger in Simeon’s direction. “Sieze him! We are Tsar once more. Throw him into the dungeon!”
Everyone understood what this meant, Kiril included. A year ago, the Poles chose the Duc d’Anjou to rule them. Issues arose immediately and had continued ever since. Charles IX was the Duc’s cousin, and sat on the throne of France up until now. His death left the French throne vacant. If d’Anjou fled back to France, he’d essentially given up the throne of Poland in favor of his homeland.
The guards obediently seized Simeon, whose expression turned crestfallen and fearful. They dragged him from the room. He went without complaint. Ivan took his place on the throne. “Gather my advisors. This time Poland will be mine!”
Kiril wondered vaguely if Ivan realized he’d forgotten to use the royal ‘we’ with that last sentence.
“There is more, Sire,” the messenger said.
Ivan motioned impatiently for him to continue.
“Unable to choose between candidates, the Diet has already elected two kings.”
“What?” Ivan practically shrieked. The court shuddered in unison. No one felt safe when Ivan’s voice sounded that way. “Two kings? How can there be two? Who are they?”
“Emperor Maximilian and Prince Stephen of Bathory.”
“A Hungarian?” Ivan thundered. He paced in front of his dais. “Maximillian is sickly. He can’t rule in his state of health.”
The messenger nodded his agreement. “Indeed, my Lord Tsar. They say Stephen went to Cracow. He’s impressed the electors with energetic speeches, and plans to marry Sigismund Augustus’s sister, Anna.
“Damn him!” Ivan shook his fist at no one in particular. Then he stopped, his entire body going still. “No matter,” he said calmly. “We shall simply have to find a way to defeat him. We will expand Russia’s reach in our day. God wants it. We deserve it. Mark our words. Stephen of Bathory will not hold the throne of Poland for long.”
Kiril sighed. This could only mean one thing: another war.
JUNE 1563, LIVONIA
Inga hurried through the Tsar’s war camp, carrying her message. The camp lay in the shadow of Wendon, a large Livonian town Ivan intended to soon occupy. Wendon was nowhere near as large as Moscow, or even Pskov, yet it stood large enough to be formidable, with a solid wall encompassing it. A huge, ancient castle dominated the city. Even standing at the base of the walls, if one gazed upward, the spires of the castle were visible.
Inga didn’t have time to consider the setting or the state of Ivan’s army, though. She most often worked in the hospital and it needed her full attention. The hospital rations had grown frighteningly low, and she needed someone with authority to order more brought from what little the camp stocked. She searched for Yehvah, but in truth needed Nikolai. She suspected they worked together somewhere. She simply needed to find them.
The last year proved hellish. Ivan traipsed the warpath once more, quite literally, and things weren’t going especially well.
Ivan hoped to discredit Stephen Bathory quickly. As usual, things didn’t go his way. Stephen possessed character, piety, courage, and extensive military prowess. He developed a reputation for justice and made peace for his people with several old enemies. His people loved and fought for him.
Russia’s armistice with Poland still stood, which kept Ivan from attacking Stephen directly. Apparently the Tsar figured war would become inevitable when the armistice expired. In the meantime, Ivan—livid at the entire situation—decided to renew his conquests in Livonia. The same ones Magnus failed to gain some years before. As such, Inga, Yehvah, and Nikolai found themselves on the war trail once again.
Inga’s thoughts dwelled endlessly on Taras. The last time she’d accompanied the army on the war trail, it had been with Taras in Kazan. That was the first time they’d been together. Who would have thought nostalgia would be such a huge problem during a war campaign?
Livonia showed a great deal of determined resistance to Ivan’s forces so far. Nikolai believed it came, at least in part, from their fear of Ivan. Stories of Ivan’s brutality reached across many lands, and the Livonians didn’t relish a ruler of his barbaric reputation.
Inga’s eyes fell on Nikolai and Yehvah across the camp. As she’d suspected, they stood together, not far from the Tsar’s command tent. Nikolai being one of the Tsar’s senior generals—a veteran of Khazan and therefore well-trusted not only by Ivan but among the soldiers of the Tsar’s army in general—he could always be found either on the battlefield or else advising the Tsar on war strategies.
Inga threaded her way through filthy soldiers, around tents and past cook fires to reach them. The camp spiraled outward from the central spot where the Tsar’s sprawling, five-room tent stood.
“Yehvah! Nikolai!” Though she stood only a cook fire away from them when she called their names, they didn’t hear her. The din of the camp simply proved too raucous. Men conversing, metal pans hitting rocks as soldiers attempted to cook meager meals, the typical pounding of work done on saddles, boots, harnesses and dozens of other things typically heard in a war camp.
Inga crossed the remaining space and put a hand on each of Nikolai and Yehvah’s arms. They swiveled toward her together, eyebrows raised in surprise. Immediately Yehvah looked concerned.
“Inga? What is it? Are you okay?”
“I need your help,” she addressed Nikolai. “The hospital rations have gone down to nearly nothing. We have nothing to feed the sick and injured, almost no water left. Even bandages run low.”
Yehvah gave Nikolai an expectant look.
He nodded. “I will see that more supplies are sent.”
“How are you, otherwise?” Yehvah asked.
“Only exhausted,” she said truthfully. She’d been up since before dawn and hadn’t sat down all day. It surely showed on her face.
Yehvah gave her a sympathetic look.
A thundering of hooves announced a large contingent of men on horseback riding into the camp. Inga immediately recognized Magnus at their head. Fear clutched her heart as the familiar cold filled her belly. Magnus had betrayed Ivan. He might not last the week. Perhaps not the night.
When Magnas found out Ivan once again made war on Livonia, he wrote to the Tsar to ask for the chance to redeem his reputation and do war on Ivan’s behalf again. Ivan agreed. But Magnus lied. Though he’d conducted conquests in Livonia and obtained great success, he’d done them for his own purposes, to retain the lands in his own name.
He’d done so well, he even sent
Ivan a smug letter several weeks past, bragging about all the towns he’d taken. Ivan became irate, screaming and stabbing servants with his scepter for good measure. He sent a courier to Magnus, demanding the disloyal king come to him and beg forgiveness.
Up until now, Magnus stayed away. He most likely appeared now because Ivan had retaken most of the towns Magnus took for himself. Wendon was the last town to hold out and continue to fly Magnus’s flag.
Now Magnus rode into camp with twenty-five Germans for an entourage.
Ivan and a retinue of streltsi guards walked out of the command tent and came to stand expectantly before the twenty-six horsemen who’d halted directly in front of it.
Magnus, practically quaking in his armor, jumped down from his horse and walked forward to stand a few feet in front of Ivan. Falling to his knees, he prostrated himself on the ground in front of the Tsar.
Ivan’s face instantly contorted, going from calm Tsar to rage-filled judge. “You Fool!” he screamed. “Why would you think we’d make you King of Livonia?”
The camp grew utterly silent as everyone turned to gape at the scene.
“You’re a vagabond, a beggar,” Ivan continued, making angry motions throughout. “One we took into our family, married to our beloved niece, whom we’ve clothed and shod, and given riches and cities. Still, you betray us! Us! Your sovereign, your father, your benefactor.”
Ivan sounded downright unhinged, and Inga held her breathe.
“Answer us if you dare!” Ivan thundered on. “How many times have we heard talk of your hateful plans? We did not wish to believe them. Now, all is revealed. You work by intrigue and cunning to become a servant of my enemies in Poland. Almighty God has saved us and delivered you into our hands. You’ve become a victim of your own disloyalty. Return what belongs to me and crawl back into obscurity. Guards, seize him!”
The streltsi guards obediently grabbed Magnus by the arms and dragged him away. Inga watched as they heaved him toward a straw hut set up on the edge of the camp and threw him inside. Inga knew they used the hut as a prison cell.
