The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘Who asks to enter?’ a voice asked sternly. Was this Abbess Agatha? She had been Mother’s friend: if I had neither parents nor sister, I had her. I had decided I would not leave this place without answers to the many questions that troubled my heart. If indeed I left at all.

  ‘Her Imperial Highness Tsarevna Elizabeth Petrovna Romanova of All the Russias,’ Lestocq boomed, before I could stop him. Pompous fart! I thought, a searing heat rising from my neck to my skull, setting me aflame with pain.

  There was a brief silence. ‘How does God know you?’ asked the woman behind the door, unimpressed by my title.

  ‘Lizenka,’ I said, holding on to the gate. My voice broke and I was racked by a choking cough.

  Agatha opened the door wide and spread her arms to embrace me. ‘My friend the Tsarina’s daughter… Lizenka. This is as I know you, too,’ she said. Her scratchy robe smelled of smoke and camphor; she was lined and drawn. But her blue eyes sparkled, her smile reaching my heart. I felt so relieved to have reached her.

  ‘God, you are skin and bone!’ she called. ‘I’ll beef you up, little one. Dinner is ready to be served. You are in luck – we slaughtered a pig just yesterday. But you might want some rest first.’

  I shivered. ‘No, Mother. First, I would like to thank God for my safe arrival, if the chapel is still open?’

  ‘It always is. Except there is someone in there now. But you should not be in each other’s way. Do join us quickly. You look exhausted.’ She felt my forehead briefly. I took her hand and kissed it, letting it drop. The Abbess looked at Lestocq. ‘I have prepared a room for your physician above the stables where it is nice and warm. As a Frenchman, I suppose you look forward to dinner? We have stewed apples from last autumn to go with the pork crackling, which our cook has rubbed with salt.’

  Lestocq patted his gaunt midriff: ‘Rubbed with salt? How interesting. This is what we do in Alsace, too. So, who am I to say no, Mère?’ he said, shouldering his saddlebags. ‘I have also heard about the quality of your beer.’

  The Abbess smiled, flattered, and led him away. ‘Ah, yes. We add toasted white sugar to the barrel, letting it ferment for a week or two. It lightens the drink, I find, and makes it wonderfully frothy… ’

  ‘In Champagne, too, we use an interesting method to make the wine pearly. Let me tell you all about it.’ As their voices disappeared down the cloister walk, I took the archway towards the chapel, walking slowly and occasionally resting my hand against the wall for support, mopping cold sweat from my brow.

  Just a brief prayer, I told myself.

  Nothing more.

  It was cool and dusty in the chapel, its scent laced with beeswax, myrrh and frankincense. The carved and studded timber double doors fell shut behind me. The thud they made washed up the aisle to the altar, its echo lapping at the pillars before ebbing away. A feeling of deep calm engulfed me. I dipped my fingertips into the font-water, crossing myself, my spirit settling and my soul opening to the surrounding silence. The candles here would burn throughout the night. Thousands of icons framed in solid gold, silver and gemstones covered the walls, their shine and splendour awe-inspiring. I stood still a moment to catch my breath, but my legs trembled and my knees buckled as I stood beside one of the first pews. I grabbed hold of it, my bruised knuckles blanching with the effort. The altar blurred. Pain throbbed behind my temples. Memories of Augustus and Petrushka haunted me: merry by dawn, buried by dusk.

  Gasping, I sank into the pew, shivering and fastening my cloak over my chest in a vain attempt to feel a bit warmer. My high, mud-splattered boots made kneeling difficult, but I took off my flat hat, placed my gloves on the bench and folded my bare hands, their skin hot with fever. Still my spirit would not settle; instead, I checked my limbs for red scabs, panicking. There were none. The sound of footsteps made me look up.

  A man came out of the vestry hidden behind the altar. He wore a monk’s dark belted cassock. He was tall, with strong shoulders and narrow hips, so far as I could tell. His dark hair fell to his shoulders, curly and unruly.

  I ducked my head. I did not feel like company, and wished only to pray.

  A low humming sound filled the air. He stood before the altar, tuning his voice, which seemed to make the air throb around him. My hands clasped each other tighter. The sound grew, filling my ears, deep and steady. I forgot my prayer and stared at him in awe: what a gift! The man turned his face to the heavens and spread his arms, starting to sing. The flesh on my arms prickled with goosebumps. In the chapel’s unsteady light, his faith shone forth; that miraculous voice rising towards the dome’s inner cupola in a tone as beautiful as a bronze bell’s. My soul followed the sound, spiralling skywards. The golden notes poured from his throat into the stillness of the chapel. There was a river of them, soaking into the barren ground that was my soul. I pressed my fingers to my lips, tears welling at the sheer beauty of his voice. What a gift! I could not help it: I buried my face in my hands and sobbed helplessly, crying so desperately for all I had lost that I neither noticed the sudden silence nor the steps coming down the aisle towards me.

  ‘What are you doing here so late, boy? Should you not be home for supper?’ a voice enquired.

  I wiped snot and tears from my burning face. The singer stood before my pew; his blue eyes were stern and black brows furrowed. Hard lines were etched in his forehead, though he was probably not much older than me. Boy. My boots and breeches had fooled him. I wanted to answer but my voice failed me. Instead I clutched my saddlebag, the sudden movement making the candles flicker. Their flame caught the diamond-studded icon around my throat, the simple leather strings belying its value.

  The singer seized my wrist, his touch cool and firm on my feverish skin. ‘Oh, my God! Look at yourself. You are but a child and already a vile thief! Where have you stolen that amulet? Here, from this church? I’ll have your skin—’

  No! I shook my head, unable to speak.

  ‘What is hidden in that saddlebag, scoundrel? Your loot?’ He grabbed me harder, making me wince. ‘Shame on you, stealing from the house of God! As young as you are, your soul belongs to the Devil. Let me see… ’ He tore the saddlebag from me, unbuckled and shook it. My dearest belongings tumbled to the chapel’s marble floor: a silver cup, in which my mother had served Anoushka and me hot chocolate on the rare evenings she had put us to bed; a velvet-bound book of prayers, the fabric frayed but studded with silver and precious stones, that I had inherited from Aunt Pasha; a chipped ebony-and-ivory cross from Mount Athos – Father had worn it around his neck in Poltava, where it had caught a bullet intended for him; a silk scarf, which Anoushka had embroidered when a child, the stitches large and clumsy. I saw my belongings through his eyes: of course, he took me for a common thief. The incense made me dizzy, the saints’ mournful gazes spun around me.

  The monk scooped up my belongings into the saddlebag with one hand, not letting go of me. ‘Let us go to Mother Abbess. They will bury you up to your neck and stone you!’

  His handsome, stern face seemed to float amongst the candle flames, making him look like an avenging angel. All the strength seeped from me, leaving me limp: I hung in his grip as he shook me, dropping the saddlebag. Then his hand checked my forehead just as I began to lose consciousness. He caught me as I leaned into him, sighing: smoke, leather and tobacco scented his cloak.

  ‘Oh, God! You are a girl,’ he called incredulously. Around me, silence and darkness beckoned in eternal welcome.

  Yet safe in his arms I floated in a pool of light, like a feather on a lake’s silver surface.

  An angel will speak to you.

  65

  For a fortnight I was at death’s door, drifting between the earthly and heavenly realms, undecided as to where I belonged. My dreams were ridden by the past, memories blurring: Anoushka and I fleeing the Golosov Ravine; Mother’s tears at her failure to produce a male heir; Petrushka gifting me Molniya, who fell victim to his love for me later; Anna Ivanovna offering me the icon of St Nicholas… eve
rything comes at a price; Father disappearing in a halo of light; Augustus holding me in the Bay of Finland; Menshikov’s gaunt and frozen face; Buturlin’s mouth gushing blood; Katja Dolgoruky mourning her losses; Ekaterina Ivanovna sneering; Christine smiling dully; Ostermann incalculable in his movements; Maja’s cleft mouth mumbling, Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Once the fever abated, I fell into a deep sleep.

  Finally, reality regained its hold over me: Abbess Agatha slipped in and out of my cell. ‘No, I will not read the last rites. She will recover,’ she insisted to the fearful Lestocq, spoon-feeding me hot chicken broth laced with wine and smetana.

  He checked my temperature and tapped my chest, hoisting me up to listen to my pained breathing. ‘There is no blood,’ he said when checking my phlegm, the relief in his voice palpable.

  There was another presence, though, one I was unable to recognise. Someone floated alongside me, bravely, brazenly, crossing the twilight between life and death as soon as the Abbess and Lestocq had departed. Warm fingers held my hand. His touch cooled my fever; he dabbed my parched lips with a cloth soaked in water and vinegar. My soul rose to meet his fingertips as they circled my throat and neck, cleaning me with rosewater and almond milk. When I stirred, he said, ‘Shhh,’ holding me tight, as a brother would. To make me fall asleep, he sang to me, his voice a cloak that shielded me against the cold and darkness.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ I heard him warn Lestocq when the Frenchman started heating up his cursed cups on an open flame, preparing to bleed me. I felt too weak to open my eyes and protest. The stranger objected for me: ‘Bleed her? For what reason? She is but a young woman. How can she have bad blood?’

  What might have been a fleeting memory lost at sea became an anchor holding me safe on life’s ripping, roaring currents.

  By midsummer I was back on my feet. Long hours of light still kept the darkness at bay, reducing the night to short, pale hours. The Abbess led me around the monastery’s cloistered courtyard, linking elbows, carefully adjusting her steps to mine. Every day I walked a bit further, soaking up the sunshine, until she led me back to my cell where I lay and rested. Agatha also offered me a kitten from a stable cat’s litter, which I spoiled with leftover smetana. The adorable little thing – silky black fur, three white socks and a white belly – kept on bumping into me: it took me a while to realise that it was blind. I had to dip its nose into the cream to make it feed.

  Its helplessness made me love it even more: I felt needed.

  Lestocq called on me every day, whether I wished to see him or not, as if there was a future to discuss. Wherever I hid, he found me: late in June I sat in a nook of the cloister’s walkway, making the kitten tumble from one palm to the other. He sneaked up on me, appearing out of the blue.

  ‘Tsarevna Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘You look well. Soon you will be strong enough to ride again.’

  ‘Surely not.’ The thought of returning to court made my stomach go cold, be it Moscow or St Petersburg. I might be shot at during Anna’s little morning practice when crossing the Red Square or serve as fodder for her birds and stinking giant porcupines. Compared to that, staying in a convent was a sensible choice. Anna was right: as things were, I only had a hired Frenchman to count on.

  To hide my despair, I held the kitten to my cheek; it purred, closing its veiled eyes with pleasure. Its warmth reminded me of how life simply carried on: the Pecharsky’s grounds were teeming. Birds ruled the treetops, calling with the first light of the day, making us curse them despite the beauty of their song. Later on, they flitted across the courtyard, beaks filled with grass for their nests. Ducklings and goslings waddled about, getting under everyone’s feet; cygnets dotted the banks of the Dnieper. In the stables, calves sucked on my thumbs; I held the lambs to be branded and even helped the blacksmith turn a foal in her mother’s belly. It was born safely; we shared the mare’s pride once the little one rose, unsure of its own wobbly legs. I felt like a child again, back in Kolomenskoye.

  ‘I am not sure I will ever return to court,’ I said.

  Lestocq stuck his hands in his pockets, weighing my words. ‘Of course, you will. Don’t you know who you are?’

  ‘Oh, I do. Who I am is the problem.’

  ‘Others would be delighted.’

  ‘Well, ask them to do your bidding then.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’ He bent until he was eye to eye with me. His gaze pinned me to the cloister wall; the cold of the stone seeped into my back. ‘Think about it. How did your father feel when the Streltsy slaughtered his family in front of his eyes? When his half-sister tried to assassinate him? When the clergy turned on him and his realm cursed him for his reforms? What were his thoughts the night before the battle at Poltava, which was to determine the fate of Russia forever? We do not know, yet one thing is for sure: he didn’t run and hide!’

  ‘He was not a woman.’

  Lestocq gave me a surprisingly warm smile. ‘Your gender is of no importance. After all, you are the Tsarina’s daughter.’

  ‘My mother had my father and the support of his cronies.’ I fought back tears. ‘I have no one. You have seen my loneliness at court.’

  He smiled with the same daring that had brought him, a Huguenot, to St Petersburg in the first place, and which had convinced Mother to end his banishment to Kazan to join my retinue. ‘Win them over then. And take heart: you still have me.’

  ‘You mean, I have Versailles?’

  He shrugged. ‘Soit. That is more than most people will ever have. You ought to return. There might be a war against the French as the quarrel about the Polish throne intensifies. But even if Versailles fights Russia in Danzig, it still wants you back at the Tsarina’s side.’

  ‘When I last looked, I was a Tsarevna, not a French princess.’

  ‘Last time you looked is already much too long ago,’ he countered.

  ‘What’s the urgency?’ I tickled the kitten’s soft underbelly, smiling at its utter abandon: paws stretched, eyes closed, purring with pleasure.

  ‘The Tsarina Anna will have to name her successor. She needs an heir… or should that be an heiress?’

  ‘And that would be me?’

  ‘Who else? Sweden and France are ready to back your claim to be Crown Princess once more: Tsesarevna.’

  His words were high treason. ‘They are both enemies of Russia! What, I wonder, am I supposed to do in return? Everything comes at a price.’

  ‘Well, yes. They demand the return of the Baltics, which your father took in the Great Northern War.’

  I carefully placed the kitten on the floor and rose to my feet, fighting the lightness in my head. ‘Listen, Lestocq,’ I said, seizing his lapels. ‘If you suggest ever again that I surrender an arshin of land for which a drop of Russian blood has been shed, you can pack your stuff and leave.’

  He looked at me, at first unsure if I was serious, but then seemed surprised at my determination. ‘Then you’ll be lonelier than ever. And penniless.’

  ‘You are the mercenary, not I. I should rather starve than be a traitor to my country. It’s called honour, Lestocq, a word that must be foreign to you,’ I said hotly, letting go of him.

  He stroked back his hair, adjusted his coat and cleared his throat. ‘Well, then, return to court for Russia’s sake.’

  ‘Better not let Ostermann hear those words.’

  ‘Ostermann will not live forever.’ Lestocq smiled. ‘You have to be seen at court; people must not forget your existence. A Chinese delegation is approaching Moscow. They left Peking to celebrate Petrushka’s wedding but arrive for Anna’s celebration of six months as Tsarina. Also, the Shah of Persia is looking for a bride for his eldest son. Apparently, two thousand men and sixteen elephants, laden with gifts, are also closing in on Moscow. We could do with replenishing our coffers.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ I frowned. ‘You know my stance. I have rarely seen happiness arise from such marriages.’

  ‘It will be interesting nevertheless. One must think ahead, at
least a step or two.’ He might as well have poured a bucket of icy water over me.

  ‘Even if I were ready, how is my horse?’ I said, to gain time.

  ‘It’s in the stable, all fattened up, ready for the ride back to Moscow. Eventually, I mean,’ he added, as my face fell. ‘That is, soon. Very soon. The best day would have been yesterday, actually.’

  ‘I shall see for myself.’ I scooped up the blind kitten and placed it in Lestocq’s cupped hands. ‘Here. Be careful it doesn’t bump into the pillars, will you?’ The clever thing meowed and clawed his fine, nervy physician’s hand.

  ‘Ouch!’ he complained.

  I would have giggled had not his words about Father already wormed their way into my mind: he didn’t run and hide.

  The June sun cast shifting shadows over the cloister’s flagstones as I stepped out into the walled rose garden. The air was heavy with scent and filled with the buzzing of bees. The white gravel of the pathway was blinding. Trying to calm the anger I felt at the dressing-down Lestocq had just given me, I turned into the monastery’s courtyard. Here nuns were returning from the market, the novices carrying baskets that were as full as the Mother Superior’s purses: the monastery sold as much as it bought.

  The air was laced with smoke as the blacksmith hammered away, shaping a hot, gleaming iron bar. A carpenter planed heaps of rough timber into smooth planks for another outhouse, pigsty or chicken coop, while butchering the tune that he whistled. The tailor sat cross-legged at his work, his tongue sticking out between his lips and his eyes squinting as he threaded a needle. I crossed over to the stables; their roof was freshly thatched and the walls whitewashed with lime. A cat turned lazily on the warm cobblestones, her belly for once big not with kittens but the mice she had caught. Abbess Agatha ran a tight but happy ship. Damn Lestocq! The day I left here I would lose paradise.