‘No, no, Your Majesty,’ he stammered, his face as crimson as an autumn apple.
‘Well, then,’ Anna said. ‘What are we waiting for? I am ready.’
‘Ready for what, my dearest?’ de Biron asked, coming close to her at once, and Maja moved in as well. The Tsarina had three shadows when she announced: ‘I shall go and visit the Russian regiments. Do come along, de Biron.’
‘Where you go, I will be.’ He nodded at his wife, who duly gathered the boys. How strange that the children had such dark eyes, I thought, seeing both the de Birons’ light, wide gaze.
‘Your Majesty,’ the messenger dared to object: visiting the regiments without agreement from the Privy Council – or Alexis Dolgoruky – was also against the conditions of Anna’s rule. Maja shook her head at him in a silent warning.
‘What is it?’ the Tsarina snapped. ‘I shall act in accordance with the will of my people. Nothing else shall be my guideline.’
The dwarf d’Acosta – as ever, where he ought to be – rose from his bearskin by the fireplace, weaving his way through the courtiers. He kneeled down next to the messenger, blowing out his cheeks and aping the man’s fear and confusion. Anna laughed, and all the courtiers quickly roared along with her. The sycophantic display of mirth stuck in my throat. No signature, no crown! I remembered Dolgoruky’s words. If they had thought to have their way with Her widowed Majesty, they were mistaken. Still, she had signed Dolgoruky’s clauses. How would she get out of having given her Imperial word?
De Biron waited in the doorway, now wearing a velvet and wolfskin cloak trimmed with gold galloon, not unlike the one I had once offered Petrushka. His sour-faced wife covered the Tsarina’s broad shoulders in a magnificent blue velvet cloak lined with ermine. The sellers in the gostiny dvor must have been working overtime to fill my cousin’s wardrobe! Finally, Anna pulled on kidskin gloves, the soft leather snagging on the huge Imperial seal. ‘Good afternoon to you all,’ she said, ready to leave, then turned to me once more. ‘Before I forget: where do you live now, Lizenka?’
‘In Izmailov. The house of your childhood.’
‘Ah. I see. Make sure not to go anywhere else without our Imperial approval, will you? I prefer to have you close.’ She swept out, de Biron in her wake. The courtiers’ chatter grew to a cacophony, making my parrots’ morning gossip pale in comparison. Upon the Tsarina’s departure there was general movement: the courtiers flocked out, de Biron’s wife leading them into smaller and cosier rooms. Ekaterina Ivanovna and Christine seemed ready to return to the Kremlin. Only the birds still darted about in the hall. Even Feofan Prokopovich made his way out, brushing me as if by mistake in passing.
‘Stay close, Tsarevna, I beg you,’ he whispered. ‘She wouldn’t take kindly to you straying from under her eye. Whom she loves as a cousin, she ought to fear and dislike as a Tsarina.’ Then he spoke up, for all to hear. ‘Be my guest in my house in Moscow, will you? Do come as soon as possible,’ he added, his gaze fixed on me. Was he speaking as my family’s priest or as head of the dreaded Imperial Secret Office of Investigation? My breath caught in my throat, raw with fear.
No man shall disappoint you as woman will.
Once more, the Leshy spirit’s words had come to pass.
Anna had been mistaken about the weather. As I stepped outside, the dark layers of sky shifted and snow fell once more, the thick, wet flakes swallowing trees and houses. A sled bearing Ostermann’s coat of arms had arrived and a servant stepped out, carrying an exquisite-looking clock of German make, his gift to the new Tsarina. I tightened my squirrel-fur collar against the cold – at least I had not yet stooped so low as to wear rabbit, as Anna had done at the time of Mother’s Coronation. Better be on my way back to Izmailov; the cold, lonely ride should at least allow me some respite.
I knew that once again I had slipped from the frying pan straight into the fire.
60
BELOVED
I stretched out on the mottled, sticky furs of my hired vehicle, just as the large Imperial sled floated through the stable-yard’s arched gateway. On each door the Imperial eagle was emblazoned, large and golden, threatening even daylight into submission; the crimson velvet curtains were drawn. The sled flew down the snowy poplar alley, silver bells ringing at the eight horses’ ruby-red leather reins. I imagined Anna and de Biron sitting inside, sipping mulled wine, nibbling blintshiki and discussing it all: my visit, her sister Ekaterina and her niece Christine, surely mocking the Privy Council’s messenger. They might whisper and laugh as Augustus, and then Buturlin, and I had done. The one had prepared me to love, the other had been my lover. Did de Biron combine both roles for her? What a blessing if so.
I imagined Anna Ivanovna’s arrival in the regiment’s barracks: the soldiers worshipped the ground beneath the Tsar’s feet. They would be overjoyed to see her, cheering her, perhaps even lifting her up on their shoulders, though it would take many mightily strong men to achieve that! A change of ruler also meant a general change in fortunes: Anna knew how to play that game. I forbade myself any further grief, as it robbed me of my strength. I needed to keep my wits about me in order to survive.
My hired sled driver, who looked every inch the kind of lice-ridden, smelly thug who might rob and rape me before dropping me for dead by the roadside, stuffed some chewing tobacco beneath his upper lip. Before mounting the box, he spat out. His cherry-coloured saliva splashed blood-red, soiling the fresh snow, reminding me of Buturlin’s fate. What was he doing in Kamchatka – deeming himself lucky to be alive, or cursing me in gargled cries, his mind broken by living a ceaseless nightmare from dawn till dusk? I could do nothing to change his lot.
‘Go,’ I ordered the driver, swallowing my tears. His whip cracked. If he sped on, I might be in Izmailov by suppertime, where Lestocq awaited me. I knew what he was thinking: If only you had allowed me to bleed Petrushka. But I never would have, either back then or now if he were still with us. This was the order of things and cursed be she who forces fate’s hand. The two ponies strung in single file took the strain of the sled and I dropped the curtains around me. Pain ground inside me like a screw driven into soft wood. Beloved. I placed my fingertips on my temples. What a blessing to share life with another: it meant lightening any burden and doubling any joy. Surrounded by the frosty, sleeping landscape, my heart twisted as I remembered how I had been described to the Tsarina. Still as lively and beautiful as you ever were. And always in wonderfully high spirits. De Biron had spoken honestly, yet all the gifts God had graced me with were wasted.
Beloved. Would anyone ever say that to me again, sharing my laughter and my tears, offering advice or holding his tongue, loving and desiring me? My hand slipped down to stroke my barren belly. I was unable to give life, while Anoushka’s son grew up a stranger in Holstein. Hot tears welled up, the chilly air cooling them on my cheeks. I lifted the sled’s curtain once more. The cold slapped me, making my cheeks burn and my eyes sting. Icy clods and gravel flew from the horses’ hooves and the sled’s runners. I ducked to avoid being hit yet remained peering out. The road was long and winding; the skies were bursting, the horizon all but swallowed up in the gathering snowstorm. It was impossible to see where we were heading. Loneliness lunged at me like wolves in winter at a solitary traveller. I sank back into the smelly, threadbare cushions. The ponies pounded on; the coachman, too, wanted to return to his izba before night fell. I closed my eyes. The worst was neither Anna being Tsarina, having me at her mercy, nor me being cast aside on the grounds of my illegitimate birth.
The worst was the absence from my life of that one word I doubted I should ever hear again: Beloved.
61
Have you heard?
These words dominated life after Anna’s arrival, making the air crackle constantly as if lightning had struck.
Have you heard? The Tsarina has given de Biron the rank of Grand Chamberlain and Count of the Empire. His family is to move into Kremlin apartments, neighbouring hers. The Tsarina does not take a step, l
et alone a decision, without him. He is the cause of the German Yoke on Russian shoulders. It is called the age of the Bironyshkchina.
Have you heard? The Tsarina will neither live in the Kremlin nor St Petersburg. She will build a new palace of two, no, three, no, four hundred rooms. Or is it five hundred? It will be called Annenhof, a fine name indeed.
Have you heard? The Tsarina is now the colonel of both Imperial Regiments and the Imperial Horse Guards. The officers threw themselves at her feet, kissing the embroidered tip of her silk slipper. She offered them drinks with her own hands, handing out roubles as freely as if coins were acorns.
Have you heard? The Coronation will surpass anything we have ever seen; the crowds who gathered in Moscow for Petrushka’s wedding are to stay put. Precise orders are being drafted concerning their clothes, liveries and uniforms. Flaunt them at your peril!
Have you heard? The Tsarina is finally meeting the Privy Council ahead of her entrance to Moscow. She is said to have agreed to sign Dolgoruky’s conditions.
Have you heard? Even Ostermann is out of bed, his right hand miraculously recovered from the attack of gout. He, too, is to attend the meeting of the Tsarina and the Privy Council.
When I heard that Ostermann was up on his feet again, ready to stand by Anna’s side, I knew the game was afoot. The meeting in which the Privy Council planned to end the absolute rule of the Tsar or Tsarina in Russia was set for 25 February 1730. Whatever man decides, makes for fate’s merriment.
62
‘Count Ostermann. Good to see you so well – your health was restored just in time,’ I purred, waiting outside the Kremlin’s throne room for Anna’s arrival. Ostermann bowed his head as perfunctorily as he could get away with, looking pale and leaning on a stick. Had he truly been ill? I was not so sure, knowing him to be not above plundering his wife’s rouge or leaving it off when it suited him. I straightened myself so I could look down on him.
‘Timing is indeed everything in life, Tsarevna,’ he said, as if talking to an indolent child. As much as I hated him, I took careful note of his every word.
‘Whom are we to meet?’ I asked.
‘Well, the Tsarina and I are to meet the Privy Council, who wish to curtail the Tsarina’s powers,’ Ostermann said. ‘Let us see where Dolgoruky wants to take this. He has long pondered which form of new government might be best suited to Russia.’
‘And what do you think, who owes all to the Tsar, my father, an absolute ruler?’
Ostermann gave me a probing look. ‘Indeed. Dolgoruky wondered if we should follow the British or the Swedish model.’ I knew nothing of the differences between them but Ostermann rattled on. ‘The Swedish monarch is but a puppet. And as for Britain – can you imagine a parliament in which the Russian people truly has a say?’ He gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘A great many things are happening at the moment. I see lies, intrigue, duplicity, ambition and self-interest wherever I look. But never – never, Tsarevna – must the Russian people be allowed to rise from their stupor, or they will feed upon themselves in the cruellest way imaginable.’
‘Does Dolgoruky think the same?’
‘I doubt it.’ Surely Ostermann had had a good reason for distancing himself from the Council’s demands on Anna: if there was a noose when they backfired, his head would not be caught in it. I thought of de Biron’s wife, who came from the same German village as Ostermann did; of Anna carefully tucking something under the baby’s bib, as if hiding it; of his servant delivering the gift of a clock to the new Tsarina: a clock large enough to hide a message. Had the Privy Council really thought they could seal Anna off from him? Ostermann was like dirty water, always seeping back in through the tiniest of cracks; a flood which did immeasurably more damage than a roaring fire ever could.
I smiled. ‘Who only sees what is shown to him, and only hears what is said, misses out on the truth.’
Ostermann looked at me, as surprised as a lizard that has missed a juicy fly.
Inside the Throne Hall the atmosphere was thick with suspense. The opposing forces that had reigned, clandestinely or in the open, since Petrushka’s death, charged the air with tension; though emotions were hidden, expressions carefully kept in check.
I crossed the red carpet to the dais, where low gilded chairs with plump purple velvet upholstery waited behind the throne: Ekaterina Ivanovna was already seated there, her face as sour as if she had enjoyed a bottle of vinegar for breakfast. Christine twisted her fingers in her lap, her shoulders slumped. I slipped onto my seat as drum rolls and trumpets sounded in the Kremlin’s corridors. Silence fell in the hall; all heads turned, expecting Anna and her ladies to sweep in, guileless and gullible.
Instead, the heavy footfall of hundreds of men preceded her into the hall: the Preobrazhensky Guard. The men looked splendid in their dark green coats, cream kidskin breeches and polished, thigh-high boots, faces set and hard. The Privy Council cowered in surprise, like wild cats facing the lash of a tamer’s whip. The soldiers positioned themselves to one side of the throne as the sound of chanting began. The courtiers crossed themselves with three fingers and kneeled as Feofan Prokopovich and every possible dignitary of the Church entered the hall to flank the throne’s other side. Their heavy golden crosses were a reminder of the one true power. Red-cheeked choirboys accompanied them, swinging jars of smouldering myrrh and frankincense, spreading a musky scent.
Only then did Anna enter, moving through the sudden eerie silence calmly and at a measured pace. She was covered in the State jewellery, which had been piled on: a high diamond and emerald kokoshnik tiara matched her earrings, which brushed her shoulders, and the collier, which spread in a star-shape and filled out her cleavage in the low-cut dress of silver cloth. Upon spotting the Privy Council, she looked at each of the men in turn, thoughtfully. Was she pondering their reward or their punishment? They swapped swift glances before bowing deeply. Only Ostermann stayed straight-backed, his hooded eyelids lowered, his face dreamy, which meant he was more alert than ever.
As Anna took the throne, her ladies-in-waiting adjusting her beautiful mustard-coloured velvet train, the tiny diamonds sewn on it catching the light of the chandeliers, Alexis Dolgoruky stepped forward. He held his list of conditions in one hand, a quill dripping ink in the other.
‘Yes, Prince? We listen,’ Anna said, but as Dolgoruky made to speak, she tutted. ‘Not you, Dolgoruky. I mean the Prince Cherkassky, of course.’
‘Cherkassky? But why?’ Dolgoruky dared to object, looking alarmed. This had not been planned.
Anna ignored him as Cherkassky stepped into the middle of the hall, a small, broad man with a head that seemed too large for his neck, tilting towards his left shoulder while his belly hung to the right. He wore heels to make him look taller and more appealing, which was an unnecessary ruse since it was known that nobody was richer than the Cherkasskys. ‘Prince Cherkassky, I so fondly remember your visit to Courland, many moons ago. Let me listen to you, old friend,’ Anna said.
Dolgoruky blew out his bearded cheeks: ‘By what right… ’
Anna frowned at him as Cherkassky thundered, ‘I have the same right to advise Her Majesty as you have to impose conditions on her – without consulting us, the army or the Church.’ Anna looked from one to the other, still apparently stunned. Then she rose, looking mountainous in her Imperial splendour, hands placed on the throne’s armrests. Ostermann did not take his eyes off her, as if working her like a puppet.
‘What are you saying, Cherkassky?’
He bowed. ‘Your Most Gracious widowed Majesty. Eight hundred Russian nobles have gathered on the Red Square, imploring you not to sign these conditions. They will harm you – and thus Russia.’
‘Eight hundred nobles, eh? But who are they? How is this possible? I thought the Privy Council gives voice to my people’s will, which I vow to obey. The will of all my people!’
‘Your people’s will? Far from that,’ Cherkassky spat. ‘This is the conspiracy of one man only: Alexis Dolgoruky.’
Anna turned to Dolgoruky, her eyes wide. ‘Do you mean that the list of conditions you sent to Mitau were not approved by All the Russias?’ She looked nothing short of magnificent: as tall as a man with the Imperial ermine coat cloaking her shoulders; the blue sash of the borrowed order of St Andrew rose and fell across her mighty bosom, diamonds and emeralds glittering on every inch of exposed flesh. Feofan crossed himself, as if horrified, and the regiments jeered. As if on a secret cue, the waiting nobles now flooded up the Red Staircase, spilling into the hall, filling up every available space.
‘Were these conditions the will of my people?’ Anna shouted above the commotion. ‘Yes or no?’
‘No! They were not, Your Sovereign Majesty, and they will never be!’ Cherkassky shouted triumphantly as Dolgoruky stood defeated, his shoulders slumped. Shots rang out and stucco crumbled from the ceiling. Ivan Grozny’s bronze bell started to toll in its tower. The soldiers roared and the courtiers stormed the dais, throwing themselves at the Tsarina’s feet so as not to be swept away by the turning tide, cajoling and assuring her that they had always despised and doubted any conditions that limited her power.
‘Silence!’ Anna thundered. She had the majesty of a true ruler and her fury reminded me of the story she had told me about Aunt Pasha punishing the man who had denounced her as an Old Believer. Anna Ivanovna the Terrible indeed, as d’Acosta had once called her. ‘Alexis Dolgoruky, have you lied to me?’ she roared, and he fell to his knees as Cherkassky drew his own petition from his waistcoat.
‘My Tsarina: sign this instead – promise to be our absolute sovereign, whose will and wisdom are governed only by God.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Dolgoruky dared to plead. ‘Do not make any rash decisions.’
Anna hesitated as Ekaterina Ivanovna jumped up, saying: ‘What’s this talk of rash decisions? Why should my sister deliberate over so simple a matter? Surely it is better to get it over and done with.’ She took Cherkassky’s petition and gave it to Anna. The Tsarina signed it, ink dripping and the quill scratching, before Ostermann quickly spilled sand over the signature and then dripped hot red wax on the document. The members of the Privy Council shrank back, ready to slip away and lick their wounds, but Anna caught wind of their intention. With a flick of her wrist, she plunged the Imperial seal into the oozing mass, pressing down hard: ‘I request the pleasure of my Privy Council’s company at dinner. Now!’
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