Chapter 7
Moscow, 1536
Inga scurried down the corridor, looking over her shoulder every few seconds. To say things had gotten worse since the grand prince’s death was an understatement. They'd been in a continuous downward spiral over the past three hellish years. Everything Yehvah predicted happened and more. A constant struggle for power went on in the Kremlin. Grand Princess Elena successfully fended off attempts on both her life and Ivan's.
Inga pitied the poor boy. She'd begun to realize her childhood had not been so bad. The young prince, Ivan, fought daily to stay alive. It seemed almost everyone wanted to kill him. Because of the constant flux of power, people he loved were taken from him all too often. He would begin to rely on someone, and they would be executed. He would make a friend, and it happened again.
Inga did not know how a child could survive that kind of life. It would be akin to Yehvah suddenly being ripped out of Inga’s life as a child, just when she’d gotten used to being cared for by the head maid. Inga did not think she could have dealt with it, and she wondered how a six-year old boy did.
She could not think on it, though. The Kremlin had become more dangerous for everyone. There were no laws anymore. The servants were abused, and no one cared. Inga, Natalya, and the others worked to be ever more silent, ever more vigilant. Not because it was their duty to serve silently, but because if they didn’t, they might become convenient victims for a passing boyar’s rage or frustration.
Today, one of the boyars requested some spare silver. Yehvah sent Inga to find it in a storeroom in the vacant east wing.
Inga shivered, looking over her shoulder again. Gone were the happy days when she and Natalya could clean this wing and have fun. No amusement lived in the Kremlin anymore—no laughing, no gossip, no security.
The east wing used to be cleaned once a month, but it had been at least a year since anyone bothered. Everyone kept busy trying to stay alive. Now she walked through the dim, muted light of the corridors, quivering as icy drafts wafted through. She wanted to find the silver quickly and get back to where Natalya still washed clothes. Inga didn’t like being alone.
Arriving at the storeroom, Inga rooted around under shelves, looking for old trunks. The spare silver was where Yehvah said it would be. Counting out what she needed and depositing it in a sack Yehvah gave her, Inga hurried back into the corridor. Putting her head down, she walked as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a run. She willed the dread silence of this place behind her.
Halfway through the wing, Inga approached a large intersection. As she neared it, a strange sound reached her ears, like whispering. At first, she thought the wind simply breathed through the vacant corridors, but this sound was too . . . ordered, too distinct. Inga slowed, her heart racing. Hiding in the natural shadows of the hallway, she inched toward the intersection. She held the bag close to her body so the silver would not clank and give her away, and peeked around the corner.
At first, she saw nothing. Only an empty hallway. It was so dark, even shadows couldn’t be seen. Then, movement. A door opened. A silhouette walked out. It had to be a man, by the size and shape of the figure. Inga shrank back, wondering who could be skulking around in the dark.
She glanced back the way she'd come. Any alternate route would still lead her across this hallway. She could try to go outside and around, but going into the courtyard alone meant danger too. Besides, all the doors in the vacant wing were sure to be locked.
She peeked cautiously around the corner again. The dark figure still moved slowly toward her. He pushed open doors, peering into rooms as he came, looking for something.
Inga inched silently backward. What would he do if he found her? Her hand, sliding gently against the wall for support, found an indentation. A doorway. Praying it wasn’t locked, she pushed gently. The door swung open on silent hinges.
“Where are you, my little one?”
Inga’s heart slammed to a halt, and then beat faster than it had before. Surely he would hear it. His voice came from just around the corner. Shutting the door as silently as possible she turned into the room. The sheet-covered furniture loomed more ominously than the shadows of the hallway. Inga forced herself to think logically.
She'd seen the man coming out of a room. He checked some of them thoroughly, but not all. He’d passed many of them, only looking in from the doorway. She would have to hide under the sheets and pray he passed this room by.
His voice sounded right outside the door. Opting for the bed, she ran to the far side and threw the sheet up, ready to dive under. Falling to her knees, she found herself nose to nose with two bright, blue, frightened eyes.
She barely kept from screaming, inhaling sharply instead.
The eyes retreated from her at first. Seeing her fright, they approached again. A tiny freckled hand came out and settled on her knee. She took the tiny forearm and pulled it toward her. It belonged to a small boy—one she recognized immediately.
Ivan, heir to the Russian throne.
Understanding dawned, sharp and horrifying. The man wasn't looking for her; he didn’t know of her presence at all. He was searching for Ivan. Inga had stumbled upon an assassination attempt in progress.
Suddenly she knew under the bed would not be safe. She looked around. A large bureau stood against the wall. Running to it, she lifted the sheet and tried the door. It swung open. Peeking in, she saw more than enough room for both of them. She could use her platok to tie the door shut so the man couldn’t get in, even if he tried.
Returning to the bed, she grabbed Ivan’s wrist and heaved. He was half her age, but not half her size. She put all her weight into pulling him out, but something pulled back. She realized he held onto something. As his hand came free of the bed, she saw what it was: another hand! There were two children under the bed.
“Come out, little one.” The man’s voice, a low, grating hum, sounded like it was in the room with them. She must not have shut the door all the way. He had to be facing it to sound so close.
Letting go of Ivan’s wrist, she grabbed the wrist of the second child and pulled. It was Yuri, Ivan’s brother. Two years younger and slow of mind, Yuri would never be fit to rule. He did not have the capacity. No one took any notice of him. Except Ivan, who took obsessive care of his little brother.
Lifting the sheet, she shoved both boys into the bureau. They went willingly. Once inside, she crushed them against the opposite wall, pushing her body into the closet with them. The sheet fell noisily. The assassin must have heard something because the door smacked against the wall, and his footsteps advanced rapidly into the room.
“Are you in here, boy? Don’t be afraid.” The ring of steel on scabbard followed.
Inga pulled her platok off to tie the doors shut, her long blond hair falling forward into her face and down her back. No handles adorned the inside, but the rungs from the outer handles came through the wood and made perfect hooks to loop the scarf around. She tied it tightly, confident the man wouldn’t be able to open the doors from the outside.
Inga prayed to God that he would hide them and give her the strength to keep Ivan safe. Yehvah told her God would grant her any righteous prayer. Ivan was the future ruler of Russia; he would be God’s mouthpiece in a few years. Surely her prayer would not be in vain.
Outside the bureau, the sheet flew up and a degree of light entered through the tiny slit between the doors. Ivan and Yuri cuddled closer to her back. One of them put a cold hand on her arm, and she felt an inescapable compulsion to protect them. A slight pressure was put on the doors as the man attempted to swing them outward. Inga held her breath. The pressure increased, only a little at first, and then more. He yanked the doors in a quick succession, out and in, out and in. The platok held fast. A shadow threw its weight against the door. Inga and the boys squatted down further. Craning her head back, she could see far above her at the top of the bureau, an eyeball squinting through the slit, searching.
Couldn’t he
hear her heart pounding? Couldn’t he hear the boys’ ragged breathing, feel them trembling against her? After endless seconds the shadow abruptly withdrew. Footsteps moved toward the door. They paused there, waited another minute. Inga could imagine him listening for any sound. She held her breath.
Finally, his footsteps retreated. The door bumped against its frame. Inga exhaled. The two boys must have felt her tension release—they relaxed against her, though their tiny hands still rubbed at her arms, silently begging her to help them. Turning, she wrapped an arm around each of them. They snuggled against her.
“Ivan?” She spoke softly. It sounded loud in the silence.
“Yes.” His tiny voice peeped up from her right. So, the one to her left was Yuri.
“Where is your mother?”
“Meeting with the Council.”
“Does she know where you are?”
“Yuri and I were playing in the gardens, but we started exploring, and then that dark man chased us. And, and . . .” His voice broke.
She stroked his arm. “It’s all right. He’s gone now. But Ivan, I don’t want the three of us walking alone through the corridors. He might find us again. I’m going to have to leave and get help. I’ll get the guards to come escort us back.”
“No, please. Don’t leave.” His tiny fingers grasped her forearm, scratching.
“Ivan, it’s not safe—”
“Don’t leave us. Don’t leave me.”
“Ivan,” she tried to look into his face, but the darkness hooded his eyes below the red-tinged hairline. “You must be brave. You must be brave for Yuri. To protect him.” She hoped her voice sounded both kind and stern. To her, it sounded scared. “We all must do our duty, right?”
Ivan sniffed. The scant light coming in through the doors let her see him wipe his nose with his fist. “Right.” It came with conviction, but his voice sounded small and frightened.
Her heart hurt for him, for the situation he'd been born into. Could he possibly survive into adulthood with things the way they were? What kind of grand prince would he become?
“Good boy, Ivan. I’m going to go get help. It will take a few minutes, but I’ll be right back. I promise.”
“What if the assassin comes back?”
A lump rose in Inga’s throat, and she paused to swallow it, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. What sort of world was this, that a child of six knew the term for assassin, and understood how it applied to him?
“He won’t come back, Ivan. He’s already checked this room. He wouldn’t check it again.” This was a huge risk. The man must have sensed their presence. He might have gone to get something to pry the doors open. If he saw her in the corridor, he might surmise that she'd hidden the boys. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She untied the platok and shut the door quietly behind her. Before leaving, she whispered through the door, “Keep Yuri here, and be quiet. I’ll return soon.”
“I will.”
Inga marveled as she turned toward the door. What a brave child. She thought about telling him to tie the scarf again when she’d gone, but decided against it. They were only children. She prayed she could return before the assassin did.
Slipping into the hallway, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light, and searched for movement. Nothing. She sprinted across the large intersection where she first saw the assassin and kept running.