I spoke to her before finally shouting and raging, hurling questions at the wind to carry away to sea, forever unanswered. I recalled the good times we had wasted in fighting, not knowing our days together were to be cut short. Father had been so right! Just as death could not be reversed, lost time could never be retrieved. I hunched over in the coarse grey sand, cupping my hands and scooping up the clear salt water that drenched the hem of my dress. I splashed myself with it, washing away the tears, then smeared sand all over my face, kneading until my skin was sore. Yet even that physical pain could not end the torment in my soul as the absoluteness of Anoushka’s passing dawned on me: I wished my grief would dissolve like the laudanum in Lestocq’s potions, but it never did. I rose and stepped into the leaden water; my heavy mourning dress was soaked up to my thighs. It would weigh me down and make me sink like a stone if I allowed myself to fall. Yet if Anoushka had let go of my hand and was slipping into darkness, I was not quite ready to follow her. Until then, I vowed, I should think of her every day.
Every single day, I promise, my sister.
Meanwhile I had Russia to live for.
Whenever Menshikov, who had taken up residence in the neighbouring Oranienbaum Palace, called on the Tsar, I made sure that Petrushka and I were out on treasure hunts, picnics or boating, sometimes staying away for days on end. I received reports of him prancing about like an outraged peacock, shouting and laying about him angrily with his diamond-encrusted walking stick. They raised my spirits no end. That season, I shot nine stags, seventy-five hares, sixteen roe deer, sixty-eight ducks, four boars and a wolf – from its skin I had a fine cloak made for Petrushka. The bristly grey hide was lined with crimson velvet and worn over one shoulder only, where it was fastened with a chain of solid gold fashioned in the shape of Imperial eagles. Petrushka and I shared Molniya, the peregrine falcon, and if she was not with me, my crossbow was almost as keen and accurate: a good huntress strikes but once.
One morning, when the sky was red-veined, conjuring a day of still, late-summer heat, I was out on my own with the pack of hounds that Anna Ivanovna had given Petrushka. Molniya floated high in the sky, lifted by a breeze and calling upon the clouds, the sun’s glare blackening her silhouette. I carried no other weapon, as was the custom when hunting with birds. The hounds rushed ahead and I followed, urging them on, imitating their baying, my boots noisily breaking branches and my hands snatching at bushes, to let them snap back as I walked deeper into the thicket.
The she-bear and her cub rose suddenly and as if from nowhere: they were a perfectly camouflaged part of this forest, their coats as tawny as early-autumn leaves. I froze in my tracks and exhaled slowly. A beast like this could tear me apart with a single swipe. I silently prayed to both God and all the spirits of the forest to help me. My teeth chattered. I bit my lip to still them as the beast rose on her hind legs, standing twice my height. Her fury filled the air between us like a veil that separated my life from my death. I sucked in air, making a small, helpless hiccupping sound. She was an overwhelming, invincible foe; larger than anything I had ever seen before. Still, I would not retreat, either because I dared not or could not.
I watched in horror as her solid mass came rolling towards me, ready either to kill or to lay down her own life for her cub. She bared her fangs as if testing them; the heat of her anger was searing. Any step I took, in any direction, would be my last, I knew. I let go of the icon and raised my hands in the air: here, look, I come unarmed. A single deep growl chilled my blood but it was from one of the hounds. It launched itself at her like a bullet, its flanks sleek and fangs gleaming. The hound bayed with foolish delight finally to encounter the enemy it had been bred to fight. The bear stopped it short, slamming it with a single strike of her paw, swatting it away. There was a harrowing crunch, as of cartwheels stuck in hard, thick snow. The hound spurted blood and convulsed, as the bear clamped it by its neck, shaking it once, as a child shakes a rattle, snapping its spine like a twig.
She eyed me, her soul searching the depths of mine. I cupped my mouth in horror, mourning the brave four-legged companion as much as fearing her next move. In her jaws, the hound went limp, its lungs rattling in a last pained breath. I heard a bird call from far above and peered up: Molniya circled over us, her wings spread and floating, the only dark spot in a clear sky. The air stilled. With a grunt the she-bear slung the hound’s body into a ditch, without so much as tasting it: she had proved her point and such was her contempt that she left the cadaver for the crows, hyenas and vultures. As silent tears streaked my cheeks and I stood trembling, she picked up her cub, which hung slack and shiny from her mighty jaws.
Together, with last disdainful glances back at me, they disappeared into the darkest thicket of the Russian forest, where no one should ever dare to follow.
I stood frozen, my blood still rushing, counting first to three hundred and then another hundred more, for good measure, until my pounding heartbeat abated. My mouth was dry with terror. It took a long while before my hand was steady enough for me to raise it for Molniya to settle. Feeling her weight on my wrist calmed me. Shivering, I stepped over to the twisted, bloody cadaver of the faithful creature that had so bravely laid down its life for my sake. I wiped the tears from my face yet they weighed me down like drops of molten lead. Molniya cocked her fine head, her beady eyes confirming what I had already realised: Russia herself had taught me a lesson about how to deal with enemies.
Menshikov would never know what had hit him.
49
Summer faded away: September brought the earlier onset of dusk – a brief blue hour dissolving into the inky night – and darkness blotted out the White Nights once more. Back in St Petersburg, Petrushka and I would not be close any more. Soon, he was to marry Maria Menshikova. When the Menshikovs finally managed to see us, Maria wore my mother’s altered gowns as well as her jewellery, just to spite me: the women of Menshikov’s family had riches enough to buy a thousand new wardrobes for every season of the year. Petrushka greeted her curtly, his gaze skimming over her flat chest and sallow skin before he was all too glad to give an excuse, following me out. Upon leaving the room, I caught the quick glance that father and daughter exchanged: I had only days left in which to relish the freedom of Peterhof. In Susdal, or any other convent, there would be only a lifetime of loneliness behind unbreachable walls.
As we walked amongst fields high with wheat, the serfs’ backs bent in hard labour until nightfall, I sighed. ‘This estate should really belong to the Crown. It is so splendidly fertile. Alas, Menshikov requisitioned it last summer as his private property.’
When Petrushka became fretful, breaking a sullen silence by prodding me and asking: ‘Are you running out of stories, Lizenka?’, I was careful to steer my reply in the same direction.
‘Possibly. I should love to invite Katja Dolgoruky to join us. She is so amusing and full of ideas. Unfortunately, Menshikov has banned her from seeing us. I wonder why? Might Maria Menshikova be jealous of her light heart and her great beauty?’
The gardens were still resounding with birdsong, the feathered creatures calling belatedly for mates. We noticed work had ground to a halt at the grotto where I had once drenched Augustus. The winches rested idle and buckets hung empty, as supplies of sand and stones had been siphoned off.
Petrushka frowned: ‘Why has this work been stopped? The repairs were urgent.’
‘Oh, Menshikov has ordered the workers over to his palace. The public purse is being diverted to the work on Oranienbaum instead.’
For the rest of the walk, Petrushka brooded, kicking up gravel, breaking off a branch and whipping the hedges with it, like a boy beheading thistle. I was careful not to disturb his thoughts. In this way not a day passed by without my bringing up the subject of Menshikov, just as steadily dripping water gradually hollows a rock.
Yet everything comes at a price, as my cousin Anna Ivanovna had once warned me before she returned to her barren Duchy of Courland.
As the
seasons changed and the serfs worked frantically in the fields to beat the autumn rains, I felt the time was ripe for me to gather my very own harvest.
‘Grant me the favour of a final dinner together,’ Petrushka pleaded on our last morning in Peterhof, not letting go of my hand when we took leave of each other for a couple of hours’ rest. ‘Meet me in the Central Hall of the Grand Palace.’
Schwartz sat close to one door, playing the harpsichord, pouring his soul into the music, the notes pearling like water. Buturlin shadowed Petrushka, as was his duty as chamberlain. I felt him lingering in the background, his presence reassuring and as warm as his caresses, but forced myself to ignore him, which was hard to do. He emanated more heat than a fire in a cold night.
Beneath the vaulted ceiling with its floating fresco of the four seasons, servants had laid a table with crisp linen, gilt underplates and blue-and-white patterned Meissen porcelain. Garlands of wild roses wound between the cutlery and the crystal, their petals redolent of summer, the dewy scent bewitching. Murano goblets gleamed, breaking the light into countless facets: no wonder that any apprentice seeking to leave the Venetian island and disclose the secret process of their manufacture, was executed. The lights of the candles flickering in the silver candelabra were reflected in dozens of mirrors and bathed the stucco walls in their glow.
The caviar was perfect: each pearl was firm, yet burst with a fresh, salty flavour on my tongue, spreading a taste like dark starlight. Juicy wild pigeons were stuffed with the first mushrooms and chestnuts of the year, blending pungency and sweetness, before we enjoyed fresh forest berries on fluffy peaks of smetana and crisply baked meringue. As I licked some cream from my fingertips, I lazily eyed Petrushka, sitting close by. ‘I want this moment to last forever,’ I sighed. ‘I wonder how often we will meet once we’re back in St Petersburg?’
‘Oh, so do I,’ he sighed, his face flushed with wine. ‘We shall meet all the time. Let us have lots of dinners like this, shall we?’
‘Yes. Let us try to be simple.’ I brushed my St Nicholas icon, silently pleading for his support. ‘Though I am sorry that I cannot adorn myself for you, my Tsar. Menshikov has robbed me off my mother’s jewels.’
‘The wilder you look, the more beautiful you are,’ he said, then frowned. ‘How come he took the Tsarina’s gems? I honour her memory. She treated me with kindness whenever possible. What did he do with the gems?’
I shrugged my naked shoulders, which my maid had scrubbed with pumice. I knew my skin shone like alabaster. ‘My guess is as good as anyone’s. He cannot have sold them, no? Otherwise, surely, some funds would have been sent to Gottorf Castle to guarantee the upbringing of Anoushka’s son.’ I blinked away tears but was careful not to smudge the thin line of kohl I had applied. It made my blue eyes sparkle more than ever. ‘It’s shameful. The little boy is an heir to the Russian throne. The two of you share a grandfather – and not just any grandfather: the great Tsar who loved us all, in his way.’
‘Well, it was a very curious way as far as I was concerned. Nobody has ever hidden their love for me as well as Grandfather did,’ Petrushka said bitterly.
I took his hand, squeezing his fingers and looking at him sympathetically, tears welling up.
‘God, I know,’ I whispered, choking on the bitter memories. ‘But you are family. Whatever Menshikov says!’
‘Why, what does he say?’ Petrushka asked, his voice sharp.
I bent forward, afraid of eavesdroppers, and saw Petrushka’s gaze change direction to the low neckline of my gown. I had pressed my ample flesh forward with my arms and now quickly sat up straight again, giving him a coy smile. He must listen to this as my nephew and as Tsar. ‘Menshikov didn’t even grant the boy a salute at his birth. Little Karl Peter has no stipend and his birthday is not included in the court calendar. Could there be anything more disrespectful? Who, I wonder, is next on his list? Nothing would surprise me after what he has done to me… ’
It was not difficult to look tearful as Petrushka downed another glass of the clear, chilled vodka that finished our meal. He rolled the stubby glass between his palms, looking thoughtful. ‘We have to stick together, Lizenka. After all, how many of us are there left? The Romanovs seem cursed.’ He rose abruptly, sending his chair toppling, and seized my hand. ‘My beautiful, warm and adorable Lizenka. Together we can face the world. Say goodnight to me… but do it properly, for once.’
He stepped around the little table, pulling me to my feet. His eyes were glassy from drink and his lips moist when he placed them, fervently, everywhere: on my palms, my wrists, my bare inner arms. ‘I so wish you’d dream of me tonight,’ he murmured, drawing me closer. The acoustics in the rotunda meant his voice carried further than he had intended it to. I tried to hide my shock at the passion he was showing, conscious all the time of Buturlin watchful in his attendant’s niche.
‘I shall, my Tsar,’ I whispered. Petrushka held me tight, forcing me against him, hands pressing my lower back and neck. There was no way out. His breath was laced with Champagne, Burgundy, vodka and schnapps.
‘I wish… ’ His lips hovered over mine.
‘You wish, Your Majesty?’ He held me too tightly. My heart raced with fear. Had I overplayed my hand? He cupped my face and gazed at me adoringly. His face drew closer and he kissed me, not as my nephew and not as a friend, but as a clumsy lover: passionate and greedy. I tried to wriggle free but suddenly his hands were everywhere, groping me and tearing at my gown. His tongue prised my lips open, forceful and crude, and he pushed me backwards onto the table, spreading my thighs. This was going much too fast – we had not yet arrived at the conclusion I desired.
‘Don’t,’ I gasped, as he hungrily bit my mouth once more, sucking my lips, pressing himself onto me. I felt his desire and his excitement. This new-found strength after the long months of illness was surprising and shocking; Schwartz’s playing stumbled once, but then the melody danced on. Nobody would move, even if Petrushka forced himself on me here, right in front of their eyes.
‘I want you,’ he groaned, hauling up my skirts and groping between my legs, his fingers probing, seeking their way in past my silk stockings and tender skin. It hurt. ‘Here, now!’
With all my strength, I shoved him away and rose, smoothing my skirts, my face on fire. I touched my bruised lips. ‘No! We must not! If Menshikov finds out, he will kill me,’ I gasped, but Petrushka came forward again and clasped my face, his hands almost crushing my skull. ‘I have always loved you, Lizenka. I do not fear Menshikov’s wrath any longer. I want to be free and I want to live with you. Be mine.’
‘I can’t. Not like this.’ I tore myself from him. The garden offered sanctuary. I backed away and Buturlin quickly stepped forward, bowing to his Tsar, ready to accompany me back to Mon Plaisir. ‘If you do not fear Menshikov, I do. I know what he is capable of.’
But Petrushka called, ‘Lizenka, my love. Wait!’ He stood trembling before us, clenching his fists. ‘If it is Menshikov you fear, what can he be charged with?’
I took a deep breath. The moment had finally come to clear my family of original sin. The blame should be put where it rightfully belonged: on Menshikov’s shoulders. I knew who had urged on my father to take the measures he had against Alexey; who had assisted him at the height of his rage.
‘You name it, he has done it. Even murdering a Tsarevich.’
‘Murdering a Tsarevich?’ Petrushka staggered against the table, looking crushed. ‘Are you speaking of my father?’
I nodded mutely. Menshikov’s Oranienbaum was close enough for a dawn raid. I shook with fear and tension. ‘Menshikov was the first to sign your father’s death sentence. He, who had tutored Alexey and had every chance to form him! The Tsarevich died with Menshikov’s knee on his head; he urged Father on and on… ’ I choked and halted, crying too much to speak. I shook my head. ‘My half-brother was not a traitor; he was a victim. Menshikov’s victim.’
‘What can I do?’ Petrushka groaned and swayed. His shirt
was stained and his dark hair stuck to his temples.
‘Your father’s true murderer is Menshikov.’ I folded my trembling hands. ‘The Tsar can do anything. Always.’
He smashed his fist on the table, making plates and glasses topple and soaking the table linen with Burgundy. ‘I shall show him who is Tsar!’ he shouted, and then stepped up, towering over me. ‘If I do, will you be mine? Promise me,’ he slurred, holding my wrists.
‘I so wish I could,’ I said, turning away.
Petrushka turned and kicked the table savagely, toppling it. As I fled into the scented cool of the night garden, my heart racing at my own daring gamble, priceless porcelain shattered on the marble floor closely followed by a rain of glass as the Tsar hurled the crystal goblets against the mirrors.
On the terrace d’Acosta waited, holding a torch, ready to accompany me to Mon Plaisir. Had he witnessed Petrushka’s rough and tumble attentions as well as his promise? The dwarf had an uncanny knack for being in the right place at the right time, seeing it all, sealing it away for future reference.
‘Off we go, d’Acosta,’ I said, my voice unsteady, clasping my hands in front of me to stem their trembling. It seemed impossible to split the man from the nephew, and the nephew from the Tsar. Was I summoning powers I could not master? But if I let him be, Menshikov would destroy both my Holstein nephew and me. I had no choice.
The Tsarina's Daughter Page 24
