Kremlins Boxset Page 18

  “As you say, Your Highness, it has only been a few days. But everything has been more than satisfactory so far.”

  “Wonderful. And what do you ask of us today?”

  “My Gracious Lord, my eye has fallen on a woman.”

  The tsar nodded vigorously. “Of course it has. Why shouldn’t it? Tell us, who is she? The daughter of one of these fine courtly families?” He swept his arm out to include all the boyars sitting on their respective benches. Taras felt them all lean forward, eager to see whom he would name.

  “No, Your Highness. I have neither wealth nor position to offer any of these fine families. Yet. No, she is a serving maid. She works in the royal kitchens. I was unsure of the etiquette in such a situation, so I thought I ought to ask you first.”

  Ivan nodded his approval. “With a mere servant, you can approach the lady. If she is willing, you have my blessing. If not, we can decree an order for her to be brought to you.”

  “I see, my Lord.”

  “We are glad to see you erring on the side of prudence, young Taras. We will give the order in case she refuses. Then, if she is willing, we need not enforce it.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.”

  Ivan leaned over to the clerk at his side. “See that—what did you say her name was?”

  “Inga, my Lord.”

  The tsar leaned over to the clerk again. Before he could speak, a cry of outrage came from Taras’s left. Sergei sat near the tsar’s dais with his father. He jumped to his feet upon hearing Inga’s name and shouted, “But Your Grace!”

  The tsar's eyebrows rose in surprise. Taras hadn't thought to look for Sergei in the hall. He wondered if Sergei already made his request. If he had, surely the tsar would have started upon hearing Inga’s name.

  “You have something to say, Sergei?”

  “My lord,” Sergei sputtered, “My eye has also fallen on this woman. I came to ask for her myself today.”

  The tsar arched an eyebrow, looking between the two men. “She must be some woman, to capture both of you in the same day.” Taras held his breath, hoping the tsar did not see guilt or conspiracy in his countenance.

  It was not a swift decision. The tsar considered for long minutes. What if Inga was wrong and he gave her to Sergei instead of Taras? What would she do then?

  The tsar smiled at Sergei. Taras hoped his dismay did not show on his face.

  “Sergei, Lord Taras is one of our newest friends, and we want to make him as comfortable as possible. Your bed has never wanted for women, and the lack of this one now will not change that. Find another.”

  Taras suppressed a sigh of relief, and barely kept a straight face when the tsar turned to him and said, “She is yours, Lord Taras.”

  Taras bowed from the waist. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “Has the Master of the Horse ranked you in my army, yet?”

  “No, Your Grace. I am on my way to meet him now.”

  “Then don’t let us keep you.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Taras bowed again and backed away. As he neared the back of the room, he risked a glance at Sergei, who glared at him as he retreated. Taras hated feeling like he was the one retreating, so he affected a small victory smile after checking to make sure Ivan wasn’t looking. Sergei glared harder, and Taras swept gracefully out the door.

  THAT EVENING, INGA gathered what little she owned to take with her to Taras’s rooms. She'd suggested leaving her clothes here, and returning to the servant’s quarters in the morning to change, but Yehvah said it would look suspicious—most mistresses practically lived in their lover’s rooms—and it would raise questions to have Inga padding around the palace in her nightclothes every morning.

  Inga fervently wished this night were over. Even if he did force her, at least after that she would know what to expect. At least after tonight, the unknown would no longer frighten her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Yehvah turned to her. “Inga. I know what he said, and I hope for your sake he was being truthful, but he may not have been.”

  “I know.”

  “Even if he was sincere, he may change his mind. If he does, there will be nothing you can do about it.”

  Inga had considered all these possibilities, but she nodded patiently. “I know Yehvah.”

  Yehvah’s deeply furrowed brow made her look older. Inga wanted to comfort her.

  “I’ll be all right, Yehvah. I think he was sincere. There’s something . . . different about him. I trust him.”

  “That worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you think he’s different. Because you think you can trust him. Inga, I’ve known a lot of boyars. I’ve even been hurt by a few. Don’t trust him. The instant you do, he’ll hurt you.”

  Inga didn’t agree, but she wanted to calm Yehvah. “Then I won’t get my hopes up. If he’s as good a man as he claims to be, wonderful. If not, at least I won’t be disappointed. At least it’s not Sergei.”

  Yehvah nodded, looking far from comforted. She hugged Inga. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Inga nodded, then left the room. She shut the door behind her, feeling a sudden nostalgia. Cold and bleak though the servant’s quarters were, she'd slept in this room every night since she was six winters old. Leaving it now—along with Anne, Yehvah, and all her other friends—felt lonely.

  She trudged through the hallways to Taras’s rooms. Inga didn't know whether she should knock. She couldn’t bring herself to go in unannounced, so she rapped softly on the wood.

  Taras opened the door only wide enough to look out, as he had the night before. His eyes widened when he saw her. “Inga. Come in.”

  She stepped inside timidly. As before, his roaring fire made the room much warmer than the corridor, and much warmer than the servants’ quarters as well.

  “You’ll have to forgive me,” he said. “I completely forgot.”

  “Forgot?”

  “Yes.” He chuckled at his own foolishness. “I’m so exhausted. The Master of the Horse had me running drills all day. I’m so tired, I feared I might pass out before I reached my room. It completely slipped my mind that you’d be coming tonight.”

  The way he said “you’d be coming” made her stomach lurch.

  “Uh, here, let me . . .” He cleared some of his own clothes off the bed so she could sit down.

  “What’s that?” He nodded toward her bundle.

  “My working clothes. I’ll have to change into them in the morning.”

  “You’ll need somewhere to put them.” He glanced around, then crossed the room to the upright bureau set against the wall. He opened one door and pulled out a deep drawer. “I don’t use this one, so you can have it. You can fit several changes of clothes into it.”

  “I only have the one.”

  “Oh.”

  She went to the bureau and deposited her clothes inside. When she turned, he'd spread thick pelts beside the fire. He retrieved one of the down pillows from the bed and sat down on the skins, pulling one over him.

  “I don’t feel right, Taras, commandeering the bed . . . I mean I could be the one to . . .”

  He shook his head. “I insist you take the bed. I couldn't sleep up there and make you take the floor. I don’t mind. Truly.”

  It occurred to her that they could both sleep on the bed—it was certainly big enough—but it would be too provocative a suggestion, so she said nothing.

  Unsure what to do, Inga stood watching him, trying not to shiver.

  He looked up at her. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to turn in. I’m exhausted.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. Hesitantly crossing the room, she climbed into the large bed alone. It felt softer and warmer than any bed she’d ever slept in.

  As she nestled down under the skins, she heard Taras grunt. She pressed the thick pelts down so she could see him over them. He attempted to remove his shirt, but for some reason couldn’t move his arms very well. When he peeled it off, a black we
lt glared from beneath his right shoulder blade.

  “You’re hurt.”

  He glanced back at her. “As I said, I’ve been drilling all day.”

  “Drills . . . with a sword?”

  He nodded. “Most were physical drills. Some mental—seeing what my grasp of military strategy is, that sort of thing.”

  “Did you pass?”

  He laughed his quiet laugh. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me. I’m to meet with the Master of the Horse first thing tomorrow. He’ll give me his decision then.”

  “I’m sure you did fine.”

  “I suppose I’ll find out.”

  He laid down, and she followed suit. She didn’t sleep much that night. Every time he rustled his covers or turned over or groaned, she tensed, fearing the worst.

  When the first light of dawn came through the windows and Inga’s body told her to rise, he still slept by the fire, snoring softly. Inga tiptoed across the room to get her clothes, then into the spare room to change.

  When she left his room, closing the door softly behind her, she sighed with relief, a massive weight lifting from her chest. Perhaps he was a good man after all.

  Chapter 21

  APRIL 1547

  Taras navigated the corridors of the palace as rapidly as he could manage. He had little time to see the old woman. He did not want to be late. The Master of the Horse was an unforgiving man, at best, but this woman might be his first real lead in finding the truth about his mother’s death.

  In the month since he'd arrived in Moscow, Taras had settled into his new life with surprising ease. Though the tsar made it clear he valued Taras for political reasons, he'd not yet seen fit to use Taras in that capacity. His days were spent in military drills and on-guard duty around the Kremlin, or else training the growing number of men under his command.

  Taras told no one of his and Inga’s arrangement. Not even Nikolai, who was proving to be Taras’s closest friend. He always saw Inga in the evenings. She came in late, but he waited up for her, and she left before Anatoly woke him in the morning.

  That first night, he’d forgotten about Anatoly. Taras awakened to the old man’s footsteps in his room and sat up quickly in the makeshift bed on the floor. He turned to discover Inga already gone. Anatoly raised one white-tufted eyebrow, but said nothing. When Taras rose, he put the blankets back onto the bed. He never asked any questions. Every morning he followed the same routine without blinking.

  Taras was grateful. Anatoly could speak to someone about the situation at any time, but who would believe an old man gossiping about his master anyway? Even as the thoughts flashed through Taras’s mind, he knew Anatoly to be loyal. Taras felt he could trust his servant.

  The first several nights with Inga were unavoidably awkward. As days went by and they became more comfortable with one another, she opened up to him. They often talked in the evening when she didn’t come in too late—much as they did on their walk back from the cemetery the day of the feast.

  Inga intrigued Taras. She was well educated for a maid, though he kept forgetting to ask her about it. She had the sweetness and humility of a servant, coupled with the charm and education of an aristocrat. He found it a seductive combination, and thought about her more than he ought.

  “Taras?” Nikolai’s voice brought him out of his thoughts and he changed direction to meet his friend, who stood a few feet away, holding open a door.

  “Where were you going?”

  “Sorry. I was lost in thought.”

  “She’s in here.” The two of them passed into a much narrower corridor, lined with thin wooden doors every six feet or so. Taras thought these apartments must be tiny to have the doors so close together.

  “How did you find her? I’ve gotten nothing for a month.”

  Nikolai did not stop walking. The two men were each wide enough that they could not walk abreast. Nikolai led the way and turned his head slightly so Taras could hear him.

  “Doesn’t matter how. Only that I did.”

  “Maybe it does matter. Whatever questions you asked, you should teach me.”

  Nikolai shook his head again.

  “It wasn’t strategy, but mere luck. I stumbled onto the right question with the right person. She slipped and told me this woman used to be your mother’s lady in waiting. She’s quite old now, but back then she still served. I can’t be sure she knows anything. She’s agreed to speak to you.”

  Abruptly, Nikolai stopped in front of one of the doors. Taras wondered if Nikolai had counted because the door looked no different than any of the others.

  Nikolai rapped sharply with a closed fist. A muffled reply came from the other side. Nikolai took it as an invitation and entered. He ushered Taras in ahead of him and followed, then stood with his hands clasped in front of him like a watchdog.

  The tiny box of a room held a skinny bed, which took up one entire wall. The other side held a fireplace, complete with purring flames, and a stool upon which an elderly woman sat knitting.

  Nikolai hadn’t been joking. The woman looked so old, Taras thought she might die at any moment. Deep wrinkles creased her face, and her teeth had long since rotted away. Where her cheeks might have once been plump, they were now shriveled and gaunt. Her body looked so emaciated she could have passed for a child. It had the effect of making her head look too large for her body.

  Then she smiled.

  The smile accentuated the creases and revealed toothless gums. It also looked genuine and made her look years younger. Taras bowed his head, and her smile deepened.

  “Well, well.” Her voice belonged to a much younger woman. “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?”

  Taras smiled, feeling his cheeks heat.

  “It’s been years—no, decades!—since a dashing young man came to see me!”

  Taras looked around at Nikolai, who smirked. The old woman held out her hand. Taras stepped forward and kissed it. Her skin felt as though it might tear like paper at the slightest pressure.

  “My lady. Thank you for speaking with me.”

  “Of course. Nikolai asked me to see a visitor. I’d have said yes much more quickly if I’d known that visitor would look like you.”

  Taras chuckled sheepishly. He stood so close, the woman had to crane her neck up to look at him. He fell into a crouch beside her stool so they were eye level.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  He took a breath. “My mother was named Mary—an English woman married to Nicholas Demidov. I understand you were her lady in waiting?”

  The woman remained still for so long, Taras wondered if she’d fallen asleep. When she spoke, her voice held soft surprise.

  “You’re Mary’s son.”

  It wasn’t a question, but a statement of understanding that dawned in her eyes as she spoke it.

  Taras nodded. “Yes.”

  The woman smiled again, a nostalgic smile this time. “You look nothing like her, you know. I see your father in you, now I’m looking. Both your parents were exceptionally decent people.”

  “I know that.” He smiled.

  The woman shook her head, clearing the mist of memories that had settled there. “What’s this about?”

  “I wondered if you could give me the details of my mother’s death.”

  She pursed her lips. “Are there details to give? She died in a sledge accident.”

  Taras debated whether to tell this woman his true suspicions. She'd been close to his mother, but he wasn’t certain he could trust her.

  “I find a simple decree of ‘accident’ does not satisfy me. If I knew the details that led up to it—where she went, who she saw—I might be able to finally lay my mother to rest.”

  The old woman gazed at him for a long time, weighing him with her eyes. He forced himself to meet her probing stare.

  “You suspect murder.”

  Again, not a question, but a quiet comprehension. It didn’t matter whether he told her the truth or not; ultimately, her knowing was no
t up to him. His surprise at her perception must have shown on his face because she chuckled.

  “Young man, I have seen three times as many winters as you. Do you think I don’t know a lie when I hear one—especially in the eyes of a man?”

  A choking sound came from the door. When Taras turned around, Nikolai studiously cleared his throat, studying his boots. Taras turned back to the old woman. She knew this much; he might as well tell her the rest.

  “I have always thought there was more to her death than a mere sledge accident, but I don’t know for certain. I have talked to dozens of people who knew her and were her friends. They all say they don’t know anything about that day. I suspect some of them are lying, but I can hardly go making unfounded accusations, now, can I?”

  “No, I suppose not.” She stared into the fire for a few moments, before smiling sadly at him again. “I am so sorry, my lord. I wish I could help you. Truly I do. The day your mother died, I was called away from the palace to the bedside of a servant woman in birth travail. I practiced a great deal of midwifery in my day, you see. I was not in the palace when it happened.”

  Taras sighed. A dead end.

  “I came from the bedside of a new life, to the deathbed of my mistress. She never woke up. I remember you, barely more than a boy, weeping for your mother. One of the saddest sights I ever beheld.” Her eyes searched the space in front of her. “When I went to deliver the child, another woman took charge of my duties until I returned. She has fewer years than I, and may remember where your mother went that morning.”

  Taras immediately brightened. “What is her name?”

  The woman’s brow furrowed in concentration. After a few seconds, she smiled at him apologetically. “An old woman’s memory is not what it used to be.” She put a hand on his arm. “My daughter visits me once a week from the Nikitin estate. She served in the palace at the time. I am certain she will be able to tell me this other woman’s name.”

  “When will your daughter come?”

  “The day after tomorrow. Visit me again, my lord, the day after that, at this same time. I will ask my daughter about the woman. I will also ask if she knows how to find her, though I make no promises on that count. Either way, I should have some information for you when you come again.”