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The next day, Inga stood in the street beside Yehvah, Anne, and the other servants. Bundled in a cloak, her arm still hung in a sling and her eyes felt raw from weeping. The bells of the cathedrals had tolled mournfully all morning, and the frigid wind blew bitterly. Even the sun hid its face from the tragedy.
The Tsar’s wailing lasted for hours. When he finally quieted, the entire palace held its breath, walking on tip-toe and whispering even where no one else could hear. Taras and Inga huddled close when night fell, though neither slept much, knowing today would bring more heartache.
The funeral had been put off for a day so nobles from outlying provinces had time to travel for it. Thousands upon thousands of people lined the streets of Moscow to watch the funeral procession. The entire Terem Palace shut down so the servants could watch the coffin go by.
“Here they come!” Someone in the crowd called, and a thousand heads swiveled as one.
The stately procession included an army escort, all dressed elegantly to show their love and respect for the fallen Tsarina. Taras and Nikolai rode in the ranks somewhere and soldiers by the hundreds lined the route from palace to monastery.
Fine, dark wood casketed Anastasia, sanded and polished until it shone. A thick, crimson drape covered most of it. Ivan’s seal—a man attempting to slay a dragon—had been stitched on the drape in fine golden thread. Tassels and fringe of the same material fluttered around the edges, and tiny pearls and diamonds winked at the crowd as it passed.
Ivan walked directly behind the coffin. His hair had grayed overnight. His skin became sallow and stretched across the bones of his face. Dull, swollen blue eyes looked utterly vacant. Ivan stumbled, rather than walked, jerking his legs in an infantile fashion. His cousin Vladimir Andreyevich and his simple-minded brother Yuri held his arms to keep him upright.
Little Ivan, the tsarevich, toddled behind his father, each of his hands held by one of his weeping nurses. The tiny child’s eyes wandered with curiosity and awe over the sea of mourners lining the streets. As innocent as Yuri, little Ivan couldn't fathom what this day meant for him. Inga’s heart ached for him. True, his father remained, but she wondered what the loss of his mother would mean for his life. Would he follow in his father’s brutal footsteps? She couldn’t help but notice a pattern of little tsareviches losing their mothers at a young age, and what it did to them.
As the casket passed in front of Inga and Yehvah, Ivan suddenly wrenched his arms free and threw himself onto the ground, knees splashing in half-frozen puddles. He threw his forehead toward the paving stones three times before Yuri and Vladimir got a hold of him and wrenched him back to his feet.
Pressing one’s head to the ground was a common religious practice, but Ivan’s grief was so violent, he'd slammed his face into the paving stones of Red Square. Inga cringed at the sound his head made against the stone. When he was securely on his feet again, the procession continued.
Inga became aware of a chorus of sniffles surrounding her. Not much farther on—Inga could still see clearly—Ivan escaped his supporters again and lunged aggressively onto the paving stones. This time, when they pulled him back to his feet, he turned briefly and Inga caught a glimpse of his face. He’d broken skin this time and a trail of blood ran across his nose and one cheek, sliding down toward his jaw.
Inga caught sight of Taras, then. He sat his horse some way behind the Tsar with a straight spine and relaxed shoulders, looking every inch the Russian soldier, clad in ceremonial robes. He watched Ivan’s keening with worried eyes, his face a picture of sadness. He did not notice Inga.
The Russian subjects pressed in quietly behind the procession as it passed. Inga joined them, along with the rest of the palace servants, following their Tsar to the burial of his beloved. Walking with her face toward the ground, she noticed stones marked with fresh blood disappearing beneath her shoes. Evidence of Ivan’s passing.
From so far back, Inga couldn't observe the details of the funeral service or any further reactions from Ivan and the boyars. Whispers passed back through the crowd said that, by the time Ivan got to the altar, his face was a blood-streaked ruin. Even outside the cathedral, his wails drowned out the voice of the priest performing the funeral rites. They echoed through the streets of Moscow, reverberating in the chests of all who bore witness.
Inga shivered.
