Lestocq, who had gone to make enquiries, came rushing back. ‘Tsarevna!’ he gasped.
’What is it?’ I readied myself. Had a convent been chosen? Instead, he threw himself on his knees and seized both my gloved hands. ‘The Tsar is dying,’ he said, his breath hot on my wrists.
‘No. This can’t be,’ I protested.
‘The smallpox is taking him,’ he said. ‘He has but hours to live. We have to be quick. This is the moment. Go and claim the throne of your father.’
‘The Tsar is still alive?’ I pulled my hands away, sickened by the memory of Augustus’ suffering. Must I also lose the last adult member of my closest family to the dread illness?
‘But for how much longer?’ Lestocq rose to his feet, a vein throbbing in his temple. ‘If you do nothing, you betray your own blood.’
‘I should send you back to Versailles with your tongue in your hand! What do you know about loyalty?’ I held my head as my thoughts raced. ‘Perhaps you can save the Tsar. Do something… ’
The flames in the grate threw tall shadows, making his face hard to read. ‘I can’t,’ he said, but the real answer might well have been, I will not.
‘But I can!’ I pushed him aside and flew out into the corridor, where I seized a torch and ran. I could only remember the lonely little boy Petrushka had been, not the spurned suitor who viciously schemed to cause me misery. My steps echoed down the dark passages of the Kremlin, the torch chasing away shadows. Tar dripped from it, sizzling on the icy stones. I reached the Tsar’s rooms with my ribs heaving and aching from a stitch. People blocked the corridor, some still fully dressed, some in their nightgowns, all looking bewildered. The crowd parted as I stepped towards the dim lights and hushed murmuring within the Tsar’s bedroom. When I slipped past Alexis Dolgoruky, I heard him saying to Ostermann, ‘She has to sign our conditions. No signature, no crown!’ He stopped short upon seeing me.
I stared at him, not sure if I had heard right.
Me?
A low moan forced my attention elsewhere.
‘Petrushka!’ I moved towards his bedside, bracing myself.
The Tsar lay slack-limbed upon the bed, looking as if he had been tossed there. His chin had fallen, and with each rasping breath, his lungs rattled as if drowning in liquid; a sound that was almost too painful for me to endure. D’Acosta lay curled up like a kitten at Petrushka’s feet but stirred and rose when I felt for the Tsar’s limp, hot hands. He did not turn his head, but his eyelids fluttered once or twice when I touched him. I so hoped that he sensed me by his side when he whispered, ‘Let us get the horses ready for the hunt… ’
‘Yes, Petrushka. We shall ride in the morning,’ I said in a voice choked by tears. My vision blurred. I barely took in the courtiers’ avid watchful faces, the fire’s thick smoke, the
flickering candles. I could hear whispering all around, like a flood rising against a dam. On the other side of Petrushka’s bed, Count Ostermann kept close watch beside Alexis Dolgoruky, their faces grey from worry. Past and future hung in the balance. Petrushka’s hand slackened in mine; the Imperial seal hung loose on his thin finger; the crimson double-headed eagle glinted like fire.
If he still felt my caress as I stroked the inside of his palm, I could not tell. His skin felt parched and his eyes rolled up, showing livid, mottled whites. His cracked lips pulled back from his gums as he grimaced in pain and then calmed, his head rolling to one side. His utter helplessness made me forget all my fear and sorrow. I dipped a crumpled silk handkerchief in a glass of water, dabbing his lips with the moist cloth. ‘Sip, Petrushka,’ I whispered, but my hand, hovering over his mouth, felt no further breath. The sudden stillness was terrifying. Droplets of water ran down Petrushka’s slack jaw. On the Red Square, the clock struck three o’clock in the morning. I dropped the handkerchief and hid my face. As I looked up, my eyes met Count Ostermann’s hooded gaze, for once recognising his true feelings: deep grief, anger at fate’s injustice and utter despair.
‘The Tsar is dead,’ I said, my voice brittle, holding on to Petrushka’s purple velvet bed-curtain as I pulled myself to my feet. It was incredible the frightening precision with which fate had struck once more. Petrushka had perished the very morning he was to wed Katja Dolgoruky.
The Tsar is dead. Voices started up beyond the smoke and incense, shock and excitement rising like a wave.
‘The Tsar is dead. Katja stands to inherit! She should rule as she would have been his Tsarina. I claim the throne for my daughter!’ Alexis Dolgoruky acted quickly, lacking all shame.
Ostermann snorted. ‘Katja? Do not be ridiculous! Not a drop of royal blood runs in her veins. And she is compromised by her dalliance with Count Melissimo.’
‘Watch your dirty mouth or I’ll smash your teeth in,’ Dolgoruky growled. ‘My family founded Moscow. I descend from Ivan Grozny.’
‘Maybe. But who knows from whom Katja is descended, pretty as she is. No. Why not let us get the little prince from Holstein, Tsarevna Anoushka’s boy?’ Ostermann suggested.
‘He is a German and barely one year old. A long Regency is the last thing the country needs,’ Dolgoruky objected.
Ostermann looked at me, his cunning gaze never leaving my face. My heart pounded; I could not help it. Me? Was I ready, having passed the last time I sat at fate’s gaming table, folding my hand.
‘What about Tsar Ivan’s eldest daughter, Tsarevna Ekaterina Ivanovna?’ That was Dolgoruky once more.
‘For her awful, estranged Mecklenburg husband to move in with her in the Winter Palace? He’d be here in a flash and Russia ruined,’ Ostermann dismissed the suggestion. ‘No. We know the way forward. We discussed it as soon as the Tsar fell ill. Let us announce the new Tsarina.’
His eyes were fixed on me, gleaming like wildfire.
Me!
My head felt light, as if I were breathing among the clouds, yet I let go of the heavy curtain. In the past five years, the Russian throne had been vacated three times. I looked down at my bare hands. The lack of sun in the winter months and the candlelight had turned my pale fingers to alabaster. The Imperial seal weighed heavily on any hand, I told myself, getting ready, as d’Acosta slid up to me, staying close. He had never been far away during any of the decisive moments of my life, for better and for worse. Go and claim the throne of your father. If you do nothing, you betray your own blood. In my mind Lestocq’s words blended with the Leshy’s prophecy.
Count Ostermann stepped closer to me. Surely, at this fateful moment, all our former differences were forgotten. Only time would tell if I was a deserving ruler; if I had watched and learned more than Mother had. ‘Pardon me,’ he said, and kissed the Tsar’s veined hand, whispering in his former pupil’s ear, caressing his sweaty hair. Tears ran down the German’s stubbly, sagging cheeks. Most of the little happiness Petrushka had known in his short life, Ostermann or I had given him. If we ourselves had not seen eye to eye, I was ready to overlook our previous differences. A ruler needs wise counsel, I thought, as Ostermann eased the Imperial seal off the dead Tsar’s finger: Petrushka had grown so frail during his short suffering that the seal slipped right off.
I readied myself to feel its weight on my finger. Blood raced through my veins. The courtiers fell to their knees, bowing their heads and holding their breath, awaiting the announcement as eagerly as I did. I felt their probing, fearful glances and spotted Lestocq leaning on the threshold, face pale with excitement, biting his lip. Behind him, Schwartz’s face bobbed like a lantern. I read their gamblers’ minds: one game was over, a new one was about to start. Ostermann closed his eyes, gathering himself, closing his fingers and hiding the gold and ruby seal from view. I felt as lonely as any ruler is once the full weight of the task settles upon him – or her.
‘The Tsar is dead!’ Ostermann’s voice resounded through the chamber just as Tsar Ivan Grozny’s Kremlin bell started to toll, low and steady. The winter wind carried the sound away into the vastness of the Empire. Was Russia ready for another Tsarina?
After all, it had been my mother who had been the realm’s first female ruler. Did she pave the way for me?
‘Long live the Tsarina!’ Ostermann bellowed.
I closed my eyes, fighting tears, my breath halting, as the court gave a single roar. Exhausted onlookers were stumbling to their feet, ready to bow once more. Lestocq straightened in anticipation, his eyes gleaming. Schwartz slapped the Frenchman’s shoulder, looking delighted. I savoured the moment, my heart racing. After all, I had been born for this, I would show myself worthy.
Ostermann swapped a quick glance with Prince Dolgoruky, who nodded. ‘Long live the Tsarina!’ he repeated. ‘Long live Her Imperial Majesty Anna Ivanovna Romanova, widowed Duchess of Courland, second daughter of our beloved Tsar Ivan V!’
56
Russian Mountains. This is what foreign envoys called a favourite pastime among St Petersburg residents during the long winters. Serfs piled up sky-high mountains of snow on the frozen surface of the Neva, building a steep and icy slope. We would climb up the other side, stumbling and sliding, gasping and laughing, hanging on to each other, even taking tumbles. Once we made it up to the top, there were wooden sleighs at the ready. We would feel out of breath and slightly dizzy, warm from the effort but also chilled by the icy air and the snow beneath, as well as by fear. Those who lacked courage downed a couple of glasses of vodka and then received a hearty push, careening forward while hoping for the best, which meant reaching the bottom alive. Once the first thrill had faded, the serfs poured water on the slope, making it even more breakneck. The next ride was about pure survival: on the treacherous glistening surface, the sleigh could easily spin out of control and fly into the air, the riders hanging on for dear life, screaming. Anything might happen; any run could be the last.
My life had become just that – a steep, icy, deadly slope, a Russian Mountain.
‘Long live Anna Ivanovna, Tsarina of All the Russias!’ Ostermann’s voice echoed in my ears as silence fell over the courtiers. I saw shock in people’s eyes; only Dolgoruky smiled slyly. Lestocq was pale with disbelief while Schwartz had disappeared, more light-footed than seemed possible for a man of his weight, no doubt already busy coding his message to Vienna, attaching it to the foot of a pigeon schooled in avoiding the Secret Office of Investigation’s hawks. Shock seeped in. Anna Ivanovna? My cousin, the derided and destitute virgin widow bride, forever begging for favours from far-flung Mitau, capital of her barren, boring duchy, and compromised by a low-born lover? She was to rule All the Russias? Anna Ivanovna? How?
Ostermann raised the Imperial ring high above his head, holding my gaze captive with a serpent-like stare. Spoil him and you destroy him, he had said to me accusingly at Petrushka’s Coronation. Now it was clear he blamed me for the death of his charge, the only one to whom he had ever given love – and who in turn had loved only me.
The reckoning could last as long as his lifetime. I had pursued Menshikov while my most implacable enemy had been lurking in the shadows, biding his time, ever the perfect diplomat and statesman. Andrej Ivanovich Ostermann, Count and Vice-Chancellor of Russia. All the strength drained from me as my closest companions – fear and loneliness – returned to haunt me. You would make a spirited Tsarina, Menshikov had sneered at me. The Privy Council – Dolgoruky and Ostermann – would not give me the chance to prove it, too intent on securing any advantage they could gain for themselves, clawing it from history. I felt a sharp tug on my little finger: when I glanced down d’Acosta’s face was full of compassion. Only the little man whose wrath had made Lestocq suffer exile, whose loyalty had made Illinchaya suffer her final punishment and had had Buturlin maimed for life, showed me that rarest of emotions.
I closed my icy hand around his.
Ostermann explained: ‘The throne is vacant for the third time in five years. The male line of the Romanovs has become extinct. The realm needs incontestable legitimacy and a pure bloodline. It needs stability.’ The slight was clearly intentional: I had been born out of wedlock; when my parents’ wedding had legitimised me, making me a Tsarevna, I had been three years old. My blood started to boil. ‘Anna Ivanovna offers what we need. Her father Tsar Ivan V was the elder brother of our great Tsar Peter.’ D’Acosta wove his fingers closer with mine, silently counselling prudence and self-control. ‘Her mother was Tsaritsa Praskovia Saltykova, noble daughter of one of Russia’s oldest families. The Duchess Anna Ivanovna’s legitimacy is uncontested.’ The German’s gaze rested on me as he relished delivering the insult. I ached to line his face further by clawing it. ‘Widowed shortly after her marriage, Anna Ivanovna has lived in virtue, honouring the memory of her husband in Courland.’
No mention of Herr Biren, her faithful companion and former groom now, though it had been the talk of the court for more years than I could recall. Anna’s husband had been a vile drunkard and gambler, suffocating in the snow on his own vomit after days of debauchery, leaving her a virgin widow, which if Ostermann were to be believed, she still was. I would have shown him what I thought of that falsehood, but I remembered the many slights and betrayals Anna had suffered and how grateful she had once been for a bit of kindness and understanding. At least Biren seemed to be good to her. Why should I mock her for welcoming his love?
‘She has all the experience needed, having ruled Courland wisely and benevolently for the past twenty years, taking counsel from her advisers,’ Ostermann ended his obviously well-prepared speech. Dolgoruky nodded his approval. I felt sick with sudden understanding: Anna, overwhelmed by her sudden change in station, was to be their puppet, expected to do anything they said. She would turn a blind eye while the Old Believers led Russia back into a dark past.
Lestocq had disappeared. I was lonelier than ever. Russia had a new ruler: Tsarina Anna I. The courtiers left the Tsar’s rooms, stealing a last glance at Petrushka’s corpse. It hurt to breathe yet it took time for the tears to well up. Petrushka had been my last living reminder of the happiness I had once known; the last Romanov of the direct male line. His life had been snuffed out like a candle. Your sons shall bleed. The Leshy’s curse had come true once more. In vain had I refused to let Lestocq and Buturlin allow Petrushka to die in Tver. Even here in the Kremlin, hours ago, I would not listen to Lestocq’s urging. I braced myself. There were more ways to honour my heritage than someone who wheeled and dealed like a brothel keeper could ever fathom. Anna Ivanovna’s father, Tsar Ivan V, had throughout his life been so ill that his constantly twitching head had sent the Imperial crown flying; his mouth bubbled constantly with spit. Yet he had been my father’s elder half-brother. I crossed myself with three fingers, touching my forehead, chest and shoulders in recognition of the Trinity and of the two natures of Christ, human and Divine. Petrushka’s skin was as cold as marble when I closed his eyes. Ostermann had been too distraught to think of it.
‘Sleep well, Petrushka,’ I whispered, weeping at last. Was he at peace now, united with his murdered father and the mother he had never known?
‘Get some rest,’ d’Acosta said to me. ‘You have a whole life ahead of you. Who knows what fate has in store for a splendid Tsarevna such as you?’ His kind words surprised me: the threat of Katja’s revenge had died together with Petrushka, yet the past weeks had drained me. If my life was a Russian Mountain, then I had just survived a ride down the steepest, iciest slope possible. I had been flung off my sleigh and had neither the strength to scramble to my feet nor the courage to climb the steep slope once more.
Instinctively, I fingered the icon of St Nicholas, its gold cool against my throat.
Surely I had nothing to fear from the new Tsarina. During our last brief encounter in the Kremlin, some days after Mother’s Coronation, Cousin Anna Ivanovna and I been friends; almost as close as sisters.
57
Cannon shots marked Petrushka’s funeral, smoke rising through the glassy January air. The troops – tens of thousands of them – took position in the Red Square, spilling into the surrounding alleys and roads. Eight generals lifted th
e long, narrow coffin onto their shoulders as our house had no more male princes left to do so, carrying it to the Kremlin’s Archangel Cathedral. Alexis Dolgoruky had broken another of my father’s rules – under Great Peter all Romanovs were buried in St Petersburg. Would Dolgoruky dominate Anna Ivanovna and make Moscow, this lively, sprawling city, Russia’s capital once more? How could Ostermann as my father’s close adviser and a cunning politician allow it?
The people’s wails grew deafening and echoed from the Kremlin’s walls as if hordes of wolves had gathered: soldiers mingled with the onlookers, knouting anyone who did not lament loudly enough. In the midst of the mayhem stood Ostermann: a stricken figure, his narrow frame stooped with sadness. He draped the Tsar’s coffin in a black velvet ermine-trimmed Cloth of Estate, his hands shaking, tears freezing on his sagging cheeks. His little Petrushka should not suffer any cold in the Imperial vault.
Katja stood shrouded in dark veils, looking so forlorn that I forgot the bitterness between us. We were both victims here, yet she had lost most: her former love, already engaged to another and posted to Madrid, and the prospect of being Tsarina of Russia. Life had mangled her hopes as unforgivingly as she had treated Molniya. When I embraced her, she clung to me, sobbing, before her father led her away.
The bells tolled solemnly while the Archbishop of Moscow led the funeral procession towards the tomb. Ostermann watched grey-faced, clasping his ebony cane, as the lead-lined coffin was lowered into the burial vault.
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