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“His life is forfeit.” Borislav’s voice was steel as he repeated his cousin’s words.
Radomir stroked his beard. “Perhaps, cousin, we could reconsider commuting the sentence. Not from execution,” he said at the flash of fury in Borislav’s eyes, “but from being drawn and quartered to a milder death, provided his story proves true. Beheading or hanging. Something cleaner. Showing mercy would endear you to the men after the…difficulty following the desertions.”
“I cannot afford the luxury of being seen as weak.” Borislav’s voice still bore steel. “Il’ich betrayed me, and he betrayed every man who serves me. He will receive the full sentence, and we’ll send a message to anyone else contemplating treason.”
My heart sank. “And his sons?”
“Once my brother realizes I have executed his spy, he’ll have no need for them. He’ll most likely free them, as their continuedcaptivity would serve no purpose, but if they remain imprisoned, I will find and free them once the throne is indisputably mine. Assuming they exist at all.”
His tone would brook no argument. In the ensuing silence, Lada cleared her throat. “What was the difficulty after the desertions?”
Borislav’s nostrils flared, but it was Radomir who answered. “Some of the men felt the executions were unnecessary, or at least the display of the bodies. There was a small riot over it.”
“The men involved were whipped,” the tsar said, “but they should have been hanged.”
Radomir sighed. “We can’t execute the entire army. If you kill everyone who disagrees with you, you won’t have anyone left.”
This was clearly not the first time they’d had this discussion.
“If I executed everyone who disagrees with me, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t want to kill everyone, just those who stir up dissent among my subjects.”
The prince shook his head. “That’s a dangerous road, cousin. If you follow it all the way down, you’ll end up alone.”
I didn’t disagree.
Chapter thirty
Discontent
Han
Agnawing sense of dread filled my stomach. Yakov had woken without complaint—for possibly the first time in his life—to join me for breakfast, but I hadn’t been able to make myself eat. Not with Matvey Il’ich’s execution fast approaching. I wanted, needed, to be a friendly face at the man’s death, having failed to convince the tsar to commute his sentence.
At least Yakov had agreed to go with me.
As we left the castle grounds, I saw a crowd had already gathered around the gallows that had been built outside the gates. I’d hoped Il’ich would be spared the cruel, jeering crowds that often attended executions. I’d never been to one, but I had heard execution spectators could be vicious.
The crowd was silent as still as the predawn sky, though. Il’ich wasn’t there yet. He wouldn’t be. The arrival of the condemnedwas a punishment in itself. I saw a few familiar faces, mostly men from Il’ich’s unit. Fyodor Yakovlevich gave me a tight nod.
The sun had just peeked over the horizon when the tsar arrived, followed by Prince Radomir. Both of their faces were set. The tsar’s held grim determination, while Radomir’s held resignation.
From the castle gate came the steady clopping of hooves. The crowd turned as one toward the sound, and my stomach clenched.
Matvey Il’ich, wearing only a long, white linen shirt, was tied by the wrists to the saddle of a horse, stumbling behind it. Two guards followed it. As they exited the gate, the executioner, who held the horse’s lead, dropped it and smacked the beast’s flank. It broke into a trot. Il’ich raced after it. Stumbled. Fell.
The horse dragged him the rest of the distance to the gallows.
No sound came from the observing crowd when the guards lifted Il’ich to his feet. Scratches streaked his body, but he matched the crowd’s silence. A guard released him from the horse, leaving his hands still bound together, and led him up to the gallows.
The executioner placed a noose around his neck, and the tsar spoke in a cold voice. “Do you have any final words, Matvey Il’ich?”
My chest tightened. Why hadn’t I tried harder to convince the tsar? Surely there was something I could have done.
“I have betrayed my tsar, my country, and Otets.” Il’ich’s voice was clear, though thick with emotion. “I have betrayed the trust of the men who served under me, and I have risked countless lives. I deserve this punishment, and I hold no anger toward any of you.” His gaze swept the crowd, resting momentarily on me. “I ask that you consider my debt to you paid with my death and forgive me. And for those of you that have that power, I beg you to have mercy on my sons.”
Prince Radomir spoke. “The Witness reminds us that, ‘In an abundance of care for His children, the Father ordained death for the evildoers. But though the Father is just, He is also merciful. If the condemned man be truly repentant, he will not be punished in the life to come.’”
The prince’s words soothed some of the tension in Matvey Il’ich’s face, and he closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer. Then he looked at Borislav. “I rest my spirit in the hands of Otets. May He bless you, my tsar.”
