***
A few minutes later, an announcement spread through the cathedral that the grand prince was on his way. He’d left the palace and was walking the mapped-out route to the cathedral. Ivan’s subjects and guards lined the route, which had been carpeted in red velvet.
After what felt like hours, the doors were thrown open. Ivan entered the cathedral following his confessor, who held a cross aloft and chanted in Latin, sprinkling holy water on those present. An invisible choir sang as he entered. Inga caught phrases like, May he live for many years.
Ivan walked proudly, head held high and chest thrust out. He claimed seventeen winters, and there was already talk of him taking a wife. Reddish hair topped his lean frame. Even the high contours of his face and proud set of his jaw spoke of royalty. He was not the most dashing man in court, but alluring enough. His confidence and majesty named him a true Prince of Muscovy. The finest robes Inga could have imagined garbed him, a colorful mixture of sable, purple, scarlet, and gold brocade.
Behind him marched Yuri, followed by the highest court officials, including the Chosen Council.
“Yehvah,” Natalya whispered, “why are no instruments being played?”
“Makarii, the Metropolitan, wanted this modeled on the Eastern Roman example. There are never any instruments used in orthodox ceremonies. The Metropolitan went to great lengths to go strictly by precedent.”
“Why?”
“So no one can ever claim Ivan’s throne does not belong to him.”
The procession walked steadily toward the Metropolitan and other clergymen waiting at the center of the room, all adorned in their finest attire. When Ivan reached the dais, he climbed twelve steps to where the two thrones awaited. Makarii sat in one of the two thrones, while Ivan stood before him. The dazzling, jewel encrusted crown was placed on Ivan’s head.
“Does the crown have significance?” Inga asked.
“It is the crown of Monomakh, presented by the Emperor Constantine Monomakh to his son, who was grand prince of Kiev. It represents ultimate power in old Russia—in Kieven Rus, from whence we came.”
Not for the first time, Inga wondered how Yehvah knew such things; how she'd come by such a wealth of knowledge, having worked in the palace kitchens her entire life.
Next, the Metropolitan hung the heavy, gilded cross around Ivan’s neck. The jeweled stole was placed cross his shoulders, and the mighty scepter in his hands.
“I now pronounce you,” Makarii intoned, “Ivan Vasilievich IV, Grand Duke of Vladimir, Novgorod, and Moscow, and Tsar over all of unified Russia!”
Inga did not need to ask about the last title. It had existed since the time of Caesar Augustus. Today, Ivan would take the title of tsar—Caesar—and be called by that rather than the less prestigious “Grand Prince." No one before Ivan had been crowned tsar by the church. A new era in Russian history had begun.
The Metropolitan began a long speech, detailing the duties of a tsar to his subjects.
“The tsar is the voice of God on earth,” the Metropolitan intoned. “He has been divinely appointed to rule with the scepter of God in this world, but he also holds the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. A tsar must always be worthy of his absolute power. The sins of the tsar affect not only his immortal soul, but those of all his subjects—yea, even that of his very kingdom. He must, therefore, guard himself against the carnal instincts of the flesh and remain always pious and penitent.”
Inga soon grew bored and allowed her gaze to roam. She didn’t think she’d ever seen so many Boyars dressed up so lavishly in one place before. It was a sea of rainbow silk. Except it didn’t move like the sea. Everyone sat at rapt attention, listening to Makarii’s speech.
Inga recognized Sergei and his father. Sergei could be his father, except twenty years younger. They were identical in looks—other than gray hair—temperament, and ethics, or lack thereof.
She also recognized Nikolai. He’d been part of the court for as long as she could remember. He walked in the procession with the tsar, not far behind Yuri.
“Yehvah, what does Nikolai do? What is his importance?”
Yehvah’s head came around. Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I was only wondering.”
Yehvah stared at Inga, as though trying to decide whether she was being truthful. Eventually, her eyes returned to their normal width.
“He is first assistant to the Master of the Horse.”
“Oh.”
Master of the Horse was one of the most important positions at court. Mikhail Glinsky, who currently held the post, oversaw the tsar’s stables, and looked after the Boyars’ horses. If Nikolai was his first assistant, he held more importance than Inga previously realized.
“Nikolai is around your age, isn’t he, Yehvah?”
Yehvah peered at her with guarded eyes. “I suppose so.”
“Were the two of you children together in the palace?”
Yehvah’s face looked pinched. “We did not play together, if that’s what you mean. He is a boyar, I a maid.”
Inga quieted her questions. Yehvah’s face did that when Inga came close to crossing a line. She’d learned over the years not to push Yehvah past the point where she made that face; it was dangerous.
“Why this sudden interest in Nikolai, Inga?”
Inga glanced at Yehvah. The pinched look had disappeared. Inga shrugged. “Only curious.”
Yehvah turned back to the coronation, looking troubled, and Inga wished she'd kept her mouth shut. She didn’t know why talk of Nikolai would trouble Yehvah, but worry was the last thing she wanted to cause the older woman.
When the Metropolitan’s speech ended, Ivan rose, as tsar now, to greet his subjects. The room erupted in cheers. The gold vestments worn by most of the assembly danced and glittered in the candlelight. Tsar Ivan IV walked down the red velvet carpet, beginning his first procession as Russia’s first autocrat.
Inga thought he looked a little taller.
The three women watched until he went through the cathedral door, followed by hundreds of boyars. Then they descended toward their own reality, and the duties of the palace maids.