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  The two guards locked eyes. Then they went to Shuisky and each took one of his arms. Ivan smiled, looking up through his eyelashes at the doomed Regent.

  It felt like coming up from under water: the room exploded in noise and movement. Shuisky thrashed and shouted and swore, but the guards held him tightly.

  “You can’t do this. Unhand me at once. He is a child. He is not yet fifteen—he has no authority—”

  The other boyars talked and shouted at one another, but none moved to help Shuisky. Rather, they moved out of the guards’ way. Some of them eyed Ivan with a new respect that he very much enjoyed.

  The guards wrestled Shuisky half-way to the door before Ivan stopped them, deciding to implement the second part of his plan. He could not have done it before knowing how they would react, but this had been easier than he could have hoped.

  “Wait, bring him back.” The guards obeyed, forcing Shuisky into a kneeling position in front of Ivan’s dais. “Those who are arrested are usually sent to the dungeons. I have a special punishment in mind for you.”

  Shuisky continued to struggle against the guards as Ivan spoke, and the rest of the boyars leaned forward to hear Ivan's next words. He basked in his new power.

  “You must suffer the punishment for all the evils that have been done to me and my brother.” He leaned forward so his face hovered inches from Shuisky’s and dropped his voice to a whisper. “And they were great.”

  Shuisky licked his lips, looking nervously from side to side. He broke free of the guards’ clutches and prostrated himself on the ground before Ivan.

  “Your Highness, I have only ever tried to rule honorably in your name. I have never—”

  “Honorably?” Ivan thundered. “Very recently you fell upon my favorite, Vorontov, and beat him mercilessly. You did this because you knew he was my favorite. You were jealous that I loved him because I hate your family for all they have done to me. That day I vowed before God the same vow I now make before all of Russia—that it would be the last indignity I would suffer. That it would be the last indignity you, Shuisky, would inflict upon the world.”

  Ivan raised his gaze. “Throw him to the dogs.”

  The guards dragged Shuisky out of the hall screaming for mercy. When the screams faded, Ivan demanded fealty from every person present.

  They gave it without question.

  Ivan achieved everything he wanted. Leaving the boyars, he went out to watch the execution.

  The dog boys in the yard clubbed Shuisky until he was too weak to get up. Then they unleashed the dogs.

  The lusty hounds tore Shuisky limb from limb. His screams filled the courtyard. Ivan watched with fascination as the ground soaked up the blood, and the hounds chewed sinew and bone with equal heartiness.

  He leaned against the cold stones of the palace wall and let a gloating smile form on his lips. He could feel the power in the palms of his hands.

  And it had all been so easy.

  Chapter 11

  ENGLAND, 1546

  Taras bounded into the kitchen. He’d been riding all day. His shirt released motes of dust as he moved, and mud covered his calves. His stomach rumbled, but he felt content with the day’s work.

  “Good afternoon, Master Taras,” Charlotte said as he entered. She stirred a boiling pot on the stove, her gray hair visible beneath her bonnet. “I see you’ve been up to your usual—is that mud?” She brandished her wooden spoon at him. “What do you mean tracking mud into my kitchen? You call yourself a gentleman?”

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Now, Charlotte, I didn’t do it on purpose. Consider: I can’t track through the house—it would stain the carpets. I’ve no choice but to come through the kitchen.”

  “That’s always your excuse. Off with you. And dress well. Your aunt says you have important issues to discuss over dinner.”

  “She does?”

  “She does. Now go. Be quick.” Her eyes were stern, but the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth turned upward as she waved him toward the hallway with her spoon. He ducked to avoid a swat and hurried around the corner. There he waited until she’d gone back to stirring the pot. Then he peeked around the corner.

  “Ahem. What’s for dinner?”

  Charlotte exhaled in exasperation and her wooden spoon clattered to the counter. She did not turn to look at him right away, and he would have wagered she hid a smile. When she did face him, her expression looked entirely . . . controlled.

  “Venison.”

  “My favorite. Charlotte, you shouldn’t have.” He swept around the corner, squelching mud, and kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes flew open wide, and the two younger maids doing dishes in the corner burst into laughter. Charlotte blushed and patted her hair under the bonnet.

  “Oh, Taras, you . . . you are getting mud all over my clean floor. Go get cleaned up.” She shooed him with her spoon again, smiling openly now.

  Taras obeyed this time, hurrying toward his rooms. As he left, Charlotte told the younger maids she intended to marry him off soon.

  “A wife would do him a world of good.”

  Taras chuckled as he went. When he reached carpet, he took his boots off, walking the rest of the way in his stocking feet so as not to make more of a mess.

  Charlotte liked to play matchmaker, trying to couple him with village girls and farmer’s daughters. The women she presented were pleasant enough, and most of them remarkably beautiful, but he had not taken a particular liking to any of them thus far.

  Surprisingly, his aunt Margaret was the only one who hadn’t pressed the issue of marriage yet. She possessed a quiet dignity Taras admired. He supposed it explained why the two of them were so close; she allowed him to be himself.

  “Good afternoon, Master Taras.” The voice came from a teenage girl walking toward him. Elizabeth was the daughter of one of Margaret’s closest friends and staying with them while her father attended to business in the east. She wore a low-cut satin dress. Two attendants, both her age walked behind her.

  “My lady,” Taras greeted her respectfully. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but he ducked his head to her. “You look lovely today.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice sounded as delicate as she looked. He passed her and rounded a corner. Once he did, all three girls burst into giggles. It made him smile. Elizabeth was exactly the kind of girl Charlotte wanted him to marry.

  When Taras reached his rooms, he peeled off his shirt and poured water from the pitcher on the stand into the washbasin. He scrubbed his face and neck, wondering what Margaret wanted to speak with him about.

  MARGARET WATCHED HER nephew eat with a smile. He'd been out all day again, and that always gave him a voracious appetite. Something about watching a hungry man eat made a woman smile. It was a relief. Not much made her smile these days.

  Taras looked nothing like his mother. Where Mary had been dark of hair and eye, he'd inherited his father’s white-blond hair and stark blue eyes. His English blood softened his features though, making his face less sharp than most Russian faces. His smattering of freckles also hinted at his English heritage.

  Margaret buried two husbands in her time and never bore a child of her own to ease the pain of either loss. After her sister, Mary, died in Russia, she assumed the responsibility of raising Taras. Though it had been a challenge, it continually delighted her.

  Taras had turned into a remarkable man: intelligent, kind, playful, and discerning. He had a talent for discerning the truth of any situation, not what others wanted him to believe. She loved that quality in him; it meant he would never be taken for a fool.

  Margaret sighed. She'd finally come up with a solution to the problem she’d been facing since his return, but it would be far from ideal. He wouldn’t like her plan. She’d meant to speak to him over dinner. Now that the time had arrived, she found her resolve wavering. This would not be easy.

  Cleaning his plate, Taras sat back in his chair, looking at her for the first time. She gave him a smile, and he returned it.
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  “Finished?”

  “I am. My compliments to the kitchen.” He smiled at Charlotte as she took his dish, then peered pointedly down at Margaret’s. “You haven’t eaten much.”

  She shook her head, motioning Charlotte to take hers as well. “I’m finished.”

  He frowned. “You don’t eat much of anything lately.” When she didn’t explain, he changed the subject. “Charlotte said you had something to discuss with me.”

  “I do. Let’s move into the parlor. Charlotte, will you bring tea?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Margaret reclined in a soft armchair before the large fireplace in their cozy library. Taras stood before the flames, resting his forearm on the mantel. They both sipped tea from bronze goblets.

  She knew Taras would not begin. He would wait for her.

  “Taras.” He turned from the fire, giving her his full attention. “Why did you leave the army?”

  He smiled ruefully. “I told you, Aunt. I needed a break.”

  “Why? Every letter said you loved serving as the Lord’s guard. Lord Thomas values your talents enough to keep you on his service, even when you aren’t actively needed. Why stop and come back here?” She’d asked him dozens of times since his return, and he always gave her the same practiced answer. “Did something happen that you aren’t telling me about?”

  He studied his tea, his smile becoming conspiratorial. “No, nothing like that. I simply wanted to come back.”

  She waited until he met her eyes again. “Did you somehow hear I'd fallen ill, and come back to take care of me?” The smile slid from his face, and he looked away. Margaret sighed. She’d suspected as much. “Taras, you threw away a promising career, and for what? You didn't know for certain if I was sick.”

  “Aren’t you? You think I don’t notice things, Aunt. You think I don’t see the doctors coming and going; the maids helping you take your medicine; the way you move more slowly every day,” he threw an arm out toward the dining room, “the way you don’t eat. But I do.”

  Margaret didn’t speak. A lump rose in her throat, preventing her from answering.

  “Is that what this is about? Your health?”

  She cleared her throat, blinking the tears away. “It’s one of the things.”

  He nodded, as though he'd expected as much. “So, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “They think it is a cancer.”

  Taras frowned at the floor, considering.

  “Taras, they’ve only given me a few months to live.”

  For a full minute, Taras stared at her, horror written on his face.

  “What?” he finally sputtered. Margaret reached out her hand and he took it, crouching by her chair. “There must be something—"

  “There’s not.”

  “Margaret—”

  “Taras. I’ve seen more doctors than you’ve noticed; I guarantee it. There’s nothing they can do for me. Frankly, the fact that this has come on so violently this last year . . . I think God wants me with him.”

  Taras’s shoulders slumped. “But—”

  “Taras. I have accepted this. You should reconcile yourself to it, too. Besides,” she straightened her shoulders, trying to shake off the intense mood, “I don’t want to talk about me tonight. I’ve been worried about you.”

  His smile looked tortured. “It’s just like you to worry for everyone else when you’re dying.”

  Margaret sighed. If only it were that simple. “Would the army take you back, if you wanted to go?”

  He shook his head. “Not easily. I left against orders. The only way they would accept me now is if they were desperate, as in a time of war. Or if I reenlisted under a different name, but I think I’m too well known.”

  Margaret nodded. Exactly as she’d thought. “I’ve been worrying, Taras, because when I’m gone there will be nothing for you here.”

  Taras stared into the fire. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll find something to occupy me.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  He turned to look at her and arched an eyebrow.

  “Taras, there is no money. I wish I could leave you something to live on. Between paying the doctors, the family’s debts, and your father’s money troubles . . . Taras, I’m ruined.”

  Taras’s back straightened, and his eyes moved across the carpet, thinking. He did not speak, so she went on.

  “When I’m gone, your only living relative will be my sister. Her husband does well enough to support them, but his small fortune must be divided between their children, and they don’t have any extra.”

  Taras put his hand up. “Please, don’t concern yourself with me. I’m. . . surprised. Why haven’t you told me of this sooner?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you. Truth be told, I did not realize the extent of it myself until this past year. When I am gone, the bank will retake this house. All the help must find other positions. I am going to try to assist them in that. I want to be certain they are all taken care of.” He stayed silent, staring at the carpet. “I am so sorry, Taras.”

  He took her hands, shaking his head. “No, don’t be. I’ll find some way to support myself. I know enough agriculture to feed myself. I could become a farmer.” He grinned in an endearing way and she smiled through her tears.

  “I didn’t want that for you, Taras. You have so much education. I’d hate to see you reduced to manual labor. Besides, to farm you need land, and that is not easy to come by.” She took a breath. “Which is why I have a solution to propose.”

  “A solution? You have no money. How can you solve a money problem?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing like that. It’s a solution for you. It’s not glamorous, and perhaps you will not be interested, but I think it would be good for you.” She could see she'd piqued his interest now. “What do you remember from your time in Russia?”

  His eyebrows jumped. Frowning, he took the chair opposite her and leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the seat. “I haven’t been there for almost fifteen years. Why do you ask?”

  “Ivan IV is going to be coronated. He’s proclaimed himself tsar of all unified Russia. It is history in the making.”

  Taras blinked, waiting for her to go on.

  “He has decided he needs as many political alliances as possible, so he is absolving his father’s old prejudices and inviting all those who were banished to come back to Russia.”

  Taras frowned. “Was my father banished?”

  Now Margaret raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You didn’t know that?”

  He shook his head. “Aunt, are you suggesting I go to Russia?”

  “I know it’s not ideal. Your mother called Moscow a strange, barbaric place, but you’ve lived there before, so you have some idea what to expect.”

  “That was a long time ago, Margaret.”

  “Please consider it, Taras.”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head, his eyes far away, lost in memory.

  “Taras—”

  His eyes focused on her.

  “—think about it. You will be a visiting dignitary, and the tsar will want to find some way to use you for his benefit.”

  “But I have no political connections.”

  “He doesn’t know that. He knows your father was important in the English court, and will think you are, too. He will treat you as visiting aristocracy to gain your loyalty, and will probably grant you anything you wish.”

  He shook his head. “It sounds deceptive to me. I don’t like it.”

  “It’s not deceit. You are not going under any false pretenses or claiming to be anything except what you are. I’m only telling you how the minds of courtiers work.”

  “I’ve never had any interest in life at court, and that is exactly what Moscow would be: conspiracies, agendas, gossip.”

  “Then don’t stay at court. Taras, by all counts you are a brilliant military officer. I am certain the tsar would be delighted to have you in his army. You could make a life for yourself there. It wo
uld almost certainly be better than plowing fields here. You have nothing—no wife, no close relatives, no profession. You might as well go.”

  Taras stood and went to the fire, resting his forearm on the mantle and staring down into the flames. Margaret wished she had a magic window into his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

  “Aunt Margaret, what do you know of my mother’s death?”

  She hadn't expected this question, and she wasn't sure how to answer. He turned to her, his eyes narrowed, and she felt something she'd never felt before in his presence: intimidation. “I know . . . what your father told me.”

  He shook his head, his stance unchanged. “You know more than that.” His straightforward, confident tone unnerved her.

  “What makes you think so?”

  He sighed. “Two summers after Mother died, Father became ill. He had a high fever, and the doctors were not sure he would survive. You remember?”

  Margaret's eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “You only let me see him when he was coherent, but sometimes I sneaked in and listened around corners while you and Aunt Jane talked. You said he had fever dreams, talking of things that happened in Russia—my mother’s death. Margaret, I have never pressed you. Now I need to know.”

  Margaret was speechless. She’d never dreamed he knew about that. How had he kept silent for so long?

  “Taras, I don’t remember—”

  He threw up his hands and turned away from her.

  “Taras, listen. What I mean is I don’t remember exactly what he said. I can tell you what I gathered, but it will only be my interpretation of things I didn’t understand, so you must keep that in mind.”

  He turned toward her now, looking expectant.

  “I don’t want your mother’s death to be the reason you go to Russia. Those sorts of questions can get you into trouble.”

  “Margaret, I have no other interest in going. My entire life I have wondered what truly happened that day. If I have the grand prince’s ear—"

  "Tsar," she corrected quietly.

  "This will be the best opportunity for me to finally find out.”

  Margaret sat pondering for several minutes. She hadn’t realized Taras obsessed about his mother’s death this way. She studied him, considering the possibility that she didn't know him as well as she thought.