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 not 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.”
Taras smiled at the woman, feeling relief swell in his chest. “Thank you, my lady. Anything you could give me, anything at all, would be greatly appreciated.”
“Anything for Mary’s son.”
Taras stood slowly. “I guess we’ll see you in two days."
“My lord? You are being . . . discreet when you ask your questions, are you not?”
Taras arched an eyebrow at her.
“Questions of this nature are often followed by trouble," she said quietly.
“We’re being careful,” he assured her. “I’ll see you later in the week.”
“I look forward to it, my lord.” Her mischievous smile returned. Taras headed for the door before she could see the color in his cheeks.
As soon as they reached the corridor, Nikolai let his guffaw out.
Taras punched him in the shoulder.