The Romanov Bride

один

Russia, 1547

The snow flew up into the air, leaving a trail of dancing powder in the wake of the horses' hooves. The clouds of breath that escaped from the beasts' flaring nostrils dissipated like smoke into the wind.

The boyar's daughter rocked back and forth in the layers of fur as the sleigh sped towards Moscow. Her mother had long since disappeared into the rich, warm furs to sleep, and only the tip of her blue headdress could be seen rising above the blankets. Her brother was gazing off in to the distance, refusing to look at her.

"Nikita, do not worry."

The girl's brother continued stared stolidly at bright hangings that attempted to keep winter out of the sleigh, but spoke. "How cannot I not, Anastasia? If you are chosen to wed the Grand Prince, I do not-" He sighed. "Stasya, you know what a dangerous position you would be in."

Anastasia smiled. "What are the chances of that happening? How many girls did Mama say were being summoned to Moscow for the bride choosing? Five hundred? A thousand? A thousand and five hundred?"

"Stasya-"

"And how many of them will be prettier than me? More pious? Better connected? Nikita, do not worry. I will not be chosen to wed the Grand Prince."

The girl reached out, one wheat colored braid falling over her shoulder, and gently pulled her brother's hands into her own. Her brown eyes shone like the well-polished wood of the sleigh.

"Just think of this as chance to visit relatives, Nikita."

Nikita turned away again. "I am not looking forward to spending an ungodly amount of time with Uncle Ivan."

...

Uncle Ivan greeted them at the entrance to his manse. He was a round barrel of a man, with a bulbous red nose that protruded past a wild flaxen beard and a strong set of yellowing teeth. He waded through the snow, and swept up Anastasia's brother in a hug with a guffaw.

"Nikita, my dear nephew! It's been years!"

Nikita clambered out of Uncle Ivan's embrace with as much dignity as he could muster. He landed on the ground with a soft thump. "Just since my father's funeral, Uncle Ivan." He said, in a tone frostier than the storm they were standing in.

That sobered Uncle Ivan. "Ah yes. Roman was a good man. A good man, indeed. But still, that was three years ago. Practically a lifetime for a young man such as you." But Uncle Ivan looked past Nikita, and saw Mama step out of the carriage, and he was grinning again. "Uliana! My sister! You look well!"

In truth, Mama's headdress was askew, and small blond hairs had escaped from her normally perfect coiffure.

"How long have you been waiting for us out here, Brother?"

Uncle Ivan waved the comment away. "Not long, not long. Come, Nikita, Uliana! My family is waiting!"

Nikita nimbly sidestepped Uncle Ivan's next incoming attack, but Anastasia was not so lucky.

"Little Stasya! How you have grown! Why, you are as beautiful as your mother!"

From inside her uncle's engulfing embrace, Anastasia managed a "Good to see you too, Uncle Ivan."

When she was released, the embroidery pattern of her Uncle's kaftan had been impressed on her cheek.

Uncle Ivan stepped back, and stretched out his arms. "Welcome to Moscow!"

...

Uncle Ivan's home was made of sturdy, dark wood, and steeply slanting roofs.It sat low to the ground, the three stories crouched down, and squinted at them through a few narrow windows.  Already, the storm had piled on layers of thick white across the manse, and Anastasia thought it possible that they might be sealed in by morning. He ushered them in, and footman slammed the heavy oak doors behind them.

Uncle Ivan was waving his arms again. "I don't know what they were thinking! Summoning all of the boyars' daughters when winter has just set in! Bah!"

Lifting up her skirts to step around a puddle of half melted snow, Mama nodded emphatically. "I completely agree! All of these poor girls traveling through the snow. No doubt the Muscovites are making a display of where the real power is. The nerve! We are boyars as well, and have as much nobility as them!"

The sibling's voices rose up and echoed through the narrow hall, until a woman coughed. Uncle Ivan and Mama immediately quieted. Aunt Yevdokia was standing by the doors to the great hall, a frown carved onto her thin, stony face. As they approached, the stick-like woman seemed to marshal herself.

"I see that lack of restraint runs in the family." Aunt Yevdokia clasped Anastasia's hands, and kissed her cheek. "Hope that you have not inherited it, girl." Anastasia caught a whiff of charcoal and the sickly-sweet scent of ointment.

Uncle Ivan looked almost sheepish. "Sorry, my dear."

His wife sniffed. "I am sure you have been talking the poor things' ears off." She turned to Mama. "You must all be exhausted. Any journey in this weather is a long one. Let's get Anastasia settled, and the men can gossip all night."

Disappointment was writ all over Mama's face, and Nikita had taken on a sour look and was eyeing Aunt Yevdokia with a look of vengeance.

Soon, Uncle Ivan had dragged Nikita away, and Anastasia waved at him in helplessness.

Anastasia trailed along behind her Aunt and Mama, do nothing more than having a properly interested look on her face.

She pulled her cloak closer around herself and shivered. Even within the glow of her uncle's house, the cold seeped into her bones.

Boyars- aristocratic ruling class of medieval Russia