The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘How can you say that?’ I wailed, clawing her skirts and burying my face in their folds, sobbing helplessly. ‘For the love of my father, Tsar Peter, your father-uncle, and my mother, Tsarina Catherine Alexeyevna, your little sunshine aunt—’

  ‘Who both made me lead a beggar’s life in Mitau, being ridiculed by my own courtiers!’ She, too, was crying uncontrollably. Maja rose and dabbed Anna’s cheeks with a lace handkerchief as the Tsarina said: ‘For anything I needed, I had to send a dozen pleading letters, which gathered dust unanswered in some drawer.’

  ‘I knew none of this. I swear it by the sacred icon you once offered me in the Kremlin!’ I clutched the icon of St Nicholas, so hard that Augustus’ leather strings tore. I stared at the damage then dropped them to the floor and fervently kissed the icon. ‘St Nicholas is the patron saint of Russia. Ever since you offered this to me, it has been my dearest possession. I have sold all my worldly goods to survive, but never this icon. You see, after all, not everything has its price.’

  Anna shook her head and hung on Maja’s arm, weeping and shivering as if she were a child again, the least favourite of her mother’s daughters, the family’s black sheep. I clutched her fingers and looked up at her. ‘By everything the two of us have survived, I swear: I would never commit treason against Russia.’

  She hesitated but Ostermann sniped: ‘Not Russia, perhaps, but against the Tsarina?’

  I shook the St Nicholas at him, as if warding off the evil eye. ‘Count Ostermann. You, who owe everything to my parents, do not ever – ever! – dare suggest the like again to my face or I shall scratch your eyes out for want of another weapon. The Tsarina is Russia! She and her people are linked by an indissoluble bond. If you doubt the loyalty of a Russian towards Russia, it is you who are the traitor!’

  He held my gaze ‘The lust for power does strange things to people, Tsarevna.’

  ‘You should know,’ I spat. ‘You might kill off the Dolgorukys. But, my Tsarina, what can of worms might you open if he is allowed to spill Romanov blood? It’s a dangerous precedent.’

  Anna’s gaze went from Ostermann to me and back, unsure. Yet I felt that I was gaining ground when he met my eyes full on, revealing his hatred and contempt. The most dangerous man in Russia was my enemy. I had to fight his cold cunning with the best weapon at my disposal: hot, true passion. If this trap did not finish me, his next would. I picked the book up and flung it to the parquet floor anew; then I stamped on it. ‘This is what I do to traitors to Russia!’ I said. ‘Where did you unearth this rubbish?’

  ‘Prince Antioch Kantemir, my Ambassador to England, sent it. It circulates all over Europe. The editor claims to have found the manuscript, written in invisible ink, in a trunk washed ashore on a beach, the property of a writer lost at sea.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ seethed Ostermann: I was escaping his and Ushakov’s clutches. So what? He could add the book to his long list of imaginary grievances, tear out its pages and use them when he went to relieve himself for all I cared.

  ‘Indeed,’ de Biron said. ‘It’s actually written by an Italian, Locatelli. As he never mentions anyone by name, we can’t accuse him of libel.’

  ‘We could give him a hiding, though?’ the Tsarina suggested.

  ‘Already done, my dove,’ de Biron said. ‘I hired a gang of thugs who beat the villain up. Properly.’

  There was a moment of silence. The fire crackled and logs crashed, sending up sparks. I felt cold sweat drying on my neck. My heartbeat steadied. Yet this was still not over and done with. Anna turned to me, frowning deeply. ‘I have decided against all better advice to trust you one last time. Which does not mean that I have decided what to do with you. Marry you off—’

  ‘Never!’ I said

  ‘Never indeed. But not by your choice, Elizabeth,’ she taunted me. ‘Who would want you now? Your reputation is as destroyed as any princess’ has ever been. You leave me with only one choice.’

  My heartbeat stumbled. The blood rushed from my head. ‘The convent,’ I whispered.

  She turned her back on me. ‘General Ushakov, you are free to leave. The Tsarevna Elizabeth is exonerated from suspicion of high treason. For now, at least.’ Once Russia’s foremost torturer had left, the room seemed warmer and the air clearer. Anna leaned on Maja and wheezed: ‘Let us proceed. All of you shall accompany me to my private chapel. Now. You are to be witnesses.’

  Witnesses of what? She might shear my hair immediately, ready to send me to a dank, dark cell in a far-flung retreat. I panicked: I was to see neither daylight nor Alexis again. My throat tightened until I could hardly breathe. No one would ever know what had happened to me, there was nowhere for me to hide.

  The Duke and Duchess of Courland smoothed their garments while Ostermann struggled to his feet. His face was expressionless, though I felt his fury. I still had not escaped his clutches. Maja and de Biron supported the Tsarina by the elbows, leading her down the private corridor that lay behind a secret door concealed under a tapestry. She winced with pain at every step and her breathing rattled like a blacksmith’s bellows.

  On leaden feet I followed them out of the Imperial apartments on the way to the Tsarina’s small private chapel. These were possibly my last steps as a free woman.

  Still, I walked as tall as I could.

  82

  The Imperial chapel was unchanged: here there were none of Rastrelli’s soaring domes, organs with a plethora of pipes or rainbow-coloured marble floors. It was a reminder of what our faith and our country had once been like, before Old Believers and Reformers started tearing it apart. Myriad gilt-framed, gem-studded icons’ eyes followed me as I walked up the aisle, the bare flagstones icy beneath my slippers. A priest waited next to the baptismal font, standing beneath a simple cross. The whole chapel was bathed in candlelight. Anna had not called us here on a whim: it all had been well planned and prepared.

  I started as a group of men rose from the front pew. They were strangers, looking rugged and sweaty as if they were just off their horses’ backs. All three of them – two grown men and one blond-haired younger man – bowed deeply to Anna. Was this the guard who would take me to the convent? My heartbeat tripped. Anna Ivanovna sank down in her pew, short of breath, sweat glistening on her forehead, before she greeted the men with a wave of her hand. The huge ruby seal on her finger gleamed in the soft light, a dire reminder of her absolute power over all of us. I buried my face in my hands, breathing deeply so as not to faint. Whatever the Tsarina did, she was guided by God, I reminded myself.

  Which convent had been chosen for me: Susdal, where Evdokia had lingered, or gruesome Solovetsky, where Peter Tolstoy had perished within weeks of his arrival? I expected neither pity nor kindness. The youngest of the three strangers stepped over to the Tsarina and to my surprise Anna embraced him while she stayed seated.

  De Biron asked, ‘Are we ready?’

  ‘Better ask: is she ready?’ Anna replied, casting a dark glance at me.

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ Ostermann purred, his gaze also on me. ‘She has had time enough to prepare.’

  Was there ever enough time to prepare for a living death?

  ‘Let us get on with things,’ said Anna, sighing and holding her side at a sudden stab of pain. I settled behind her, next to de Biron’s wife and Maja, who furtively brushed my fingers with hers, her gaze impenetrable. Ostermann lowered himself into the pew next to the young stranger the Tsarina had embraced. Despite the tense moment it struck me how ugly the lad was: with his big head and skinny body, he looked like a tadpole and his face was covered with red, knotty pimples. Possibly age would become him better.

  The priest stepped up, looking solemn. ‘Let us not worry but rejoice. Leave behind what was and embrace the new. This is a joyful and well-worn path; a journey that many souls have made. “Come and see,” said Philip to Nathaniel. “Come and see. Come alive!”’ He sought my eyes as he intoned the text. I swallowed back tears, already feeling my scalp shorn, coarse cloth for my dr
ess, a barred door enclosing me forever. It was too late for me.

  The priest raised his palms as the chapel doors were flung open once more.

  I turned around, my breath stalling.

  83

  Christine, Princess of Mecklenburg, daughter of my cousin Ekaterina Ivanovna, entered the chapel with slow and measured steps, meeting no one’s eye. Swathed in black silk and lace, her pale face veiled, she cut a regal figure. Julie von Mengden carried her long, dark train, carefully adapting her steps to Christine’s pace. Upon reaching the font, my cousin curtsied to the Tsarina and then faced the priest.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Just as we pray that God’s Will be done, we shall embrace His faith in God’s time.’ He bowed his head as Christine sank to her knees before the Cross, folding her hands in prayer, and then looked up to the Lord.

  In their pew, the three strangers exchanged contented glances, nodding to each other, discreetly and proudly clapping the young tadpole on the shoulder. Ostermann smiled at them all. The priest’s voice carried through the tiny chapel. ‘Conversion means living the one true faith. It means belief and acceptance in Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world. It does not happen at once. Nothing ever happens at once. You must convert every day anew if you desire your soul to be saved. Are you ready?’

  ‘I am, so help me God,’ mumbled Christine. I sensed her urge to look at Julie; yet Ostermann stared at his niece, his cold gaze keeping even her in check.

  The priest never took his eyes off Christine. ‘There is no salvation without repentance. You must repent all sins, both voluntary and involuntary. Sins of thought, of deed, of word. Repentance is the way to forgiveness and the Kingdom of Heaven. Do you repent?’

  Christine’s voice quavered, ‘I repent all sins.’

  ‘You have to acknowledge Our Lord as the One who is truly the Christ, the Son of the living God. He who came into the world to save us sinners.’

  ‘I acknowledge Him.’ Christine’s voice was muffled by her veil.

  The priest raised his palms, asking the heavens for their blessing. His voice carried through the chapel, resounding like a bell. The hairs on the back of my neck rose; my skin tingled with a sudden rush of blood. ‘Rise then, Princess Christine von Mecklenburg, and become Tsesarevna Anna Leopoldovna Romanova, heiress to All the Russias. Become the adopted daughter of your aunt, Her Majesty the Tsarina Anna Ivanovna. May God grant the Tsarina a long life; may he guide you with His wisdom.’

  What? I felt faint. My cousin Christine, the plain and abused child, had been baptised in the Russian Orthodox Faith and renamed Anna Leopoldovna Romanova? Worse still, she had been made Tsesarevna? My knuckles turned white as I clutched my hands together in prayer.

  The priest dipped his fingers into the font, blessing Christine’s forehead three times, making the Sign of the Cross on her face, chest and navel in token of the holy Christian Trinity. My chest hurt and breathing was painful. Russia was worth a Mass: Christine sobbed aloud and, once again, the three strangers exchanged contented glances, whatever their business here might be. If they wanted to lock me away in a nunnery, the way was clear. Russia had an heir. The chapel spun around me and I clutched the pew in front, shaken to the core. I could not even take leave of Alexis, the greatest gift fate had bestowed on me.

  ‘My darling child, welcome to the one true belief!’ Tears streamed down Anna Ivanovna’s face as she opened her arms to her niece. ‘I will struggle to call you by your new name, so to me you will stay Christine,’ the Tsarina said.

  Choked by sobs, the heiress flung herself into her aunt’s embrace. For all her display of tears and mercy to me only minutes ago, Anna Ivanovna had ensured that the throne stayed with the older Romanov bloodline of Tsar Ivan V, my father’s half-brother. She was fully entitled to do so. Yet I felt as if I had survived a mock execution when I met Ostermann’s eyes. This was his doing.

  Anna embraced Christine, kissing her hair and forehead, moistening her face with her tears. Only then did she push de Biron forward. He bowed to my cousin, kissing her white, bare fingers, but Christine pulled her hand away as quickly as possible from his pursed lips. Then it was Ostermann’s turn, and finally the new Tsesarevna turned to me, smiling in triumph. I was raw with humiliation. Once more, my heritage had been ignored and my bloodline insulted. I had no choice but to curtsy deeply and kiss Christine’s hand. ‘Tsesarevna,’ I mumbled.

  Julie looked at me unblinkingly. Illegitimate upstart, her gaze said.

  Christine, as I would always think of her, was now the Tsesarevna Anna Leopoldovna Romanova, so-named in honour of her rapist, wife-beating, twice-divorced and debt-ridden father, Charles Leopold von Mecklenburg. She awaited the Tsarina’s command for her to leave but Anna Ivanovna had not finished yet. The Tsarina clasped her hands and announced joyfully, ‘For an Empire as vast as Russia, one heiress is not enough. My dearest child, we have considered all possible options in this matter to come up with the best solution.’

  Christine was taken off guard, looking at Julie, who gave a tiny, questioning shrug.

  ‘Prince Anthony of Brunswick.’ The Tsarina smiled. ‘Step forward.’

  Ostermann seized Julie’s elbow, holding it firmly, and pulled her away from her friend as the tadpole stepped forward. Prince Anthony of Brunswick was smaller than Christine, who had inherited Aunt Pasha’s height. While walking, his big head wobbled on his gawky neck, as if fitted with an invisible spring. He slung back his dark coat, showing a couple of military medals that looked suspiciously shiny; how could a man of his youth possibly gain such distinction? Christine was unable to hide her instant revulsion. Her appalled expression was echoed in his eyes; he had just seen himself as she did.

  ‘My dear adopted daughter.’ The Tsarina smiled encouragingly at her. ‘Christine – or rather, Anna Leopoldovna – meet your cousin, Prince Anthony, Duke of Brunswick. He has asked for your hand in marriage. I hesitated, given my deep love for you, and searched my heart. But Anthony has already proved himself in the Crimean War. His pageboy was shot dead in battle; the colonel next to him was wounded in the head. Yet Divine Providence led Anthony safely home. It is a sign of God’s intent for him. I have agreed to your engagement today.’

  Christine looked aghast. Julie reeled. Had Ostermann not held her so firmly, she would have rushed forward, giving away their secret.

  ‘No, I can’t. I mean—’ Christine stammered, casting about for help where none was to be had. Her gaze fixed on Julie, who shut down her face as a shopkeeper might his premises at dusk. ‘A Duke of Brunswick… Is that good enough for the Tsesarevna of All the Russias? I am a Romanov now.’ It was her last, futile attempt to evade her fate.

  ‘Prince Anthony is cousin to the Crown Princess in Vienna, Maria Theresa. Our beloved Petrushka was another direct cousin – their mothers were all sisters. Russia can’t ask for a better bloodline,’ Anna said

  ‘I don’t know him at all!’

  ‘There is time for that once you are married.’ The Tsarina shrugged. ‘I had only met my beloved husband once before Tsar Peter walked me up the aisle.’

  My thoughts raced. All I longed for was Lestocq’s loyal counsel. Would he even remain by my side after Christine’s appointment was made public? I was further away than ever from the throne. Surely by now Versailles had had enough; their funding of me would cease. The thought of losing Lestocq was harrowing. Time had done its wondrous work, our common cause welding us together. Without him, I would be devoid of any wise counsel.

  ‘So be it!’ Christine sobbed, and Anna Ivanovna cheered: ‘I knew that love would prevail! As you stand to inherit an Empire of ice and snow, let us have your wedding reflect that.’

  The Tsarina was forever resourceful, and the resources at her disposal were endless. An ice-wedding of unimaginable beauty and horror it was to be.

  84

  The sky over St Petersburg looked like a badly wrung dishcloth, the clouds low and stained yellow. Russia and I were lost. Christine’s engagement meant Ger
man Tsars for all eternity, rulers who were Romanov in name only. I bowed to Anna Ivanovna’s decision to adopt Christine and to change her name to Anna Leopoldovna Romanova, while my heart was inwardly bleeding. There was nothing I could do about it, short of committing treason. Alexis looked after me, guarding me in my sleep, his unshaven face growing a salt-and-pepper stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. Without him, I would not have made it through. In vain had I been born on the day of the Poltava parade, the December stars singling me out as a Wolverine. My struggle with the Leshy spirit’s dreadful prophecy had been futile.

  After Christine’s adoption, Russia, the sole reason for my existence, was lost to me for all eternity.

  That winter was the coldest in the memory of humankind, colder even than the days of my birth. According to Lestocq, in Versailles brandy bottles burst and wine froze in drinking glasses. All over Europe rivers froze over. Shopkeepers set up booths and roasted whole oxen on the ice, people flocking to the fairs in their droves. In Russia, things were less joyful: people choked on the breath freezing in their throats.

  When Lestocq came to see me one day, his Tarot cards dancing in his hands, it was three o’clock in the afternoon. The sky was swollen with the threat of more snow. The early, dense darkness matched my mindset. I hid, curled up on a chaise longue in the library – the same room in which Katja Dolgoruky had been forced to accept Petrushka’s proposal – my feet in Alexis’ lap. He massaged my toes, making the minute bones crack. For the first time, I noticed the onslaught of grey on Lestocq’s auburn hair. He was so pale that his freckles showed up like poppy seeds on a white bun. Today even his wide mouth found little to smile about.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked me.

  I shrugged sullenly.

  ‘Perhaps I can entertain you with some titbits about the Tsesarevna’s wedding,’ he said glumly. ‘Christine said she’d rather slice her wrists than marry Anthony of Brunswick. During the engagement ceremony, she hung on her aunt’s neck, crying so much that the Tsarina sobbed as well.’