I sensed that it would not last, but for those few minutes I glimpsed a slice of honesty in this man. This made me brave enough to speak. ‘We should go,’ I suggested, thinking that I’d be happier where there were folk within hailing distance.
‘Where did you find your dagger?’
My guard was down and the question asked so casually that I’d begun to answer him before I saw the trap.
‘In a casket among my papa’s papers after he died …’ I tailed off.
‘Who was your papa?’
‘An ordinary man who spent his life collecting and studying the folk tales of our native Russian peoples.’
‘He must have found it somewhere on his travels?’ suggested Rasputin.
‘I suppose so,’ I answered. I’d no intention of sharing the details of my father’s death with this man.
‘Your dagger has a history. Nina, you must tell me what it is.’
‘I have no sure knowledge of its history,’ I said. That at least was true. I held back from mentioning the weird sensations I experienced when I held the dagger in my hands.
‘There is something you are not sharing with me …’ Rasputin locked his eyes on mine. This time I did not avert my gaze but stared at him with equal intensity. A minute passed, and then another. ‘Hmm,’ he grunted. He tilted his head to one side, accepting that he was unable to hypnotize me.
I released my breath. My confidence was mainly bluff; but at least I’d established that he could not bend me to his will.
‘I should like to see the dagger you own. Did you bring it with you to the Alexander Palace?’
I’d anticipated this question and was ready with my answer. ‘I did not.’
Rasputin nodded slowly. ‘I caution you to say nothing about your dagger in this palace or the Imperial Court.’
‘I have never spoken of it before to anyone,’ I said in complete honesty.
‘Wise girl!’ Rasputin laughed then – one of his loud outbursts of mirth. He slung his arm across my shoulder as he might have done with a fellow drinking companion. ‘You and I are fellow-healers, Nina, and we will get along together very well. Very well indeed.’
Chapter 22
That night I could not sleep.
When I returned to my room I’d taken the casket from my travel bag but I had not opened it.
I was afraid to.
My mind was in turmoil. What was the curse these daggers carried? What had Rasputin meant when he said they were bewitched? Were his words fanciful nonsense?
In a dream-like state I arose in the early hours of the morning. Carrying the casket to the window, I opened it up. The dagger was bathed in the light of the awakening world, and a force greater than I could understand made me take it once more in my hands.
Later – how much later? – I became aware that I was shivering in my nightshift, with no idea how long I’d been caught in the web of a trance. I had seen things, battles of long ago; and I’d heard stories – old, old stories. I’d now no recollection of what they were. But one thing I was certain of: this dagger was crafted to kill. It was made as an instrument of murder. And I knew also that I had not found the dagger.
It had found me.
Rasputin reassured the Tsarina that, apart from a short visit to the monastery at Verkhoturye, he would remain in the city for the rest of the year.
His daughter had travelled from Siberia to help him in his charitable works and she was organizing shelters for the homeless which he would fund. He was busy with these projects but telephoned early each morning to enquire how the Imperial Family had passed the night, and called in at some point during the day that he might lead them in prayer and have a philosophical discussion. When he managed to catch me alone he would quiz me about the dagger I owned.
Had I ever held it in my hand? Rasputin asked. Did I feel drawn to wear it? Had I seen or heard things when in its presence?
To all these questions I answered ‘no’.
When I said this he seemed relieved, yet slightly disappointed. For every question he asked me, I asked the same of him. And I believed him when he too answered ‘no’.
One night when we were in the sitting room, waiting for the family to join us, I indicated the dagger in his belt and said, ‘Can you definitely state that an object might be bewitched?’
He turned his great dark eyes upon me and said, ‘Can you definitely state that it might not?’
‘What is this talk of bewitchment?’ The Tsarina entered the room and fluttered to his side like an elegant jenny-long-legs towards the lamplight.
Rasputin beamed at her. ‘The Tsarina of all the Russias is the most bewitching creature ever born.’
She made a show of protest but dimpled with delight. I withdrew to my sewing corner as their two heads bent together and she unburdened herself by relating yet another spat she’d had with a government minister.
He was now in constant communication with the Tsarina and the children, and so, as Galena pointed out to me when I visited her, there was no further reason for me to lodge full-time at the Alexander Palace.
Yet no member of the Imperial Family mentioned my leaving, and I didn’t raise the subject. I’d become accustomed to my new life. It was comfortable and relatively carefree. Working in the hospital at Tsarskoe Selo with Olga and Tatiana meant that my duties were less taxing than in the Winter Palace. And the city scared and depressed me. The streets were dirty and always thronged with demonstrators. Protest meetings were broken up by the police or detachments of soldiers; street corners haunted by mothers with babies happed up in shawls, begging for food.
Autumn was fading. The trees shed their garments of gold, yellow and bronze, and poked accusing fingers heavenwards. Their stripped spindly branches mimicked the stick-like limbs of the children who gathered in the city centre at midday to gobble the bowls of hot gruel dished out in buckets by volunteers. The thought of their suffering affected my own appetite and my throat closed over when I saw the dishes of food assembled for me to eat in the Alexander Palace. Yet the younger children in the palace whined because their morning pancakes were served without butter or sugar. I became conscious of how spoiled Alexei and his sisters were, and how the Imperial Family’s acts of charity and donations to good causes did not impinge on their living conditions or their way of life.
Sergei Pavlovich, who drove me to and from Dr K’s house, was also Rasputin’s coachman. ‘The monk is a wild drunkard, of that there’s no doubt,’ he told me, ‘but we often stop on his journey home and he hands out anything the Tsarina has given him to refugees on the road.’
With the Tsar many miles away, Father Grigory Rasputin’s visits lasted longer and longer; sometimes the Tsarina delayed her appointments with Ministers of State while she accepted the monk’s advice on how to deal with them. She then reported back to him and they’d confer as to what her next move should be. Only after her subsequent action was the Tsar informed, by telephone or letter. I was sufficiently detached that I could observe Rasputin’s effect on the family, collectively and individually. The Tsarina and her son were totally dominated by him. She consulted with Rasputin on every aspect of her life; it seemed as if the the boy relied on him even to breathe. Olga and Tatiana were submissive and easily swayed by his suggestions. Maria had a carefree nature but I saw that he guided her, and also the youngest girl, Anastasia. I worried that, as their reliance on him increased, if anything happened to him they would collapse in confusion.
In one thing the Ministers of the State and the Councillors of the Duma were united – this man Rasputin was a malevolent influence on the Imperial Family, and the Tsarina in particular. It was now a common cause between them and the nobility. Prince Yusupov especially loathed him – seeing Rasputin as a threat to the existence of every noble family. And so it was a complete surprise for him to arrive on the same day that the Tsarina was holding a reception where certain chosen guests could meet Father Grigory.
I was curious to see the young man whose inheri
ted fortune was greater than the Tsar’s, and who had a reputation for excessive self-gratification; throwing extravagant parties and buying exorbitantly priced jewels to adorn his clothes. He was married to the Tsar’s niece and she loved him, whereas the Tsarina and her daughters clearly did not.
I heard the Tsarina caution the Prince before he entered the salon. ‘You will be respectful to Father Grigory,’ she told him, ‘else I will have you escorted from the palace.’
This was not the form to speak to a nobleman. I expected one of Prince Yusupov’s famous peevish outbursts, but he smiled and said, ‘I will obey your wishes, Your Imperial Highness.’ He bent to kiss the Tsarina’s hand. His smile was as smooth as butter, his tone obsequious. ‘For the good of Russia, I have resolved to befriend the man.’
Felix Yusupov was thirty years old, slim, handsome and worldly-wise. Hair combed and slicked flat with scented pomade, he was dressed in stylish clothes, making him the most fashionable man in the room.
‘I do believe he’s wearing kohl around his eyes!’ A shocked whisper from Tatiana resulted in a disapproving look from her mother.
Prince Yusupov listened, seemingly engrossed, to Rasputin’s account of his time as a contemplative hermit in the Verkhoturye Monastery. He asked questions about mysticism and how a man could interpret divine purpose. I had the impression that I was watching a play. Very skilfully performed – but nonetheless a show of acting.
‘Fascinating, fascinating.’ Yusupov’s head was nodding so often that Maria murmured she thought the Prince was turning into the puppy in the folk tale The Dog Who Could Never Say ‘No’. ‘My wife is very interested in the occult,’ said Prince Yusupov. ‘It is a pity she isn’t here to hear your thoughts and observations.’
‘Ah, your wife … I have heard of her beauty and her grace.’ Rasputin had drunk a large amount of alcohol but was only slightly tipsy. He gave Yusupov a crafty grin. ‘Perhaps I should visit her personally, in your home?’
Yusupov’s mouth twisted as he tried to cope with a remark which was verging on an insult to his wife’s honour.
‘Prince Yusupov’s wife is our cousin, Irina,’ Olga said quietly to me. ‘She has never taken to Father Grigory as we have, and avoids his company.’
To the astonishment of everyone in the room Prince Yusupov replied pleasantly, ‘My wife would be overjoyed if you favoured our house with your presence. Come and visit us before Christmas?’
‘Shortly I intend to spend a few days in the monastery at Verkhoturye.’ Rasputin waved his hand in a careless manner. ‘When I come back we will exchange letters and find a date to suit us both.’
‘I will send a note to Cousin Irina’ – Olga spoke to me privately after the prince had left – ‘to inform her of this conversation. She adores her husband, but might decide to visit their estates in the Crimea rather than stay at the Moika Palace, for she’ll not want to receive Father Grigory in her home.’
‘Does your cousin dislike Father Grigory?’ I asked.
Olga shook her head sadly. ‘Like many people, Irina does not know our friend as we do. She sees him as an uneducated oaf.’
I looked across the room to where Rasputin was greedily eating the remainder of the cake and drinking the dregs from abandoned wine glasses. In this company it was a boorish act, but in the wastes of Siberia, where starvation stalked the land, food was never left to go to waste on a plate. I had a rush of empathy with this rough peasant man so far from home. And it stirred in my subconscious that eventually my resolve would weaken and I would reveal to him all I knew of the dagger I owned. There and then I resolved not to open the casket, or look upon the dagger, until I was able to tell Dr K about it and ask his advice.
It was a resolution I failed to keep.
Chapter 23
At the beginning of November winter spread its icy hand across the land.
‘Snow!’ the Tsarevich Alexei cried out, and he ran to the window.
‘Careful, careful,’ his mother called to him.
‘Careful! Careful!’ he parroted back at her. ‘Fetch Nagorny! We’ll have a snowball fight!’
‘No, no, my sweet boy. No snowball fights for you.’
‘Find my sledge, then!’
‘You may have your sledge, but only so that Nagorny can pull you through the gardens.’
‘I want to go down the long slope of the parkland.’
‘You cannot, my beloved baby.’
The boy made a rude face at his mother.
‘Alexei, you really mustn’t do that.’
‘I will slide down the long slope.’ Alexei stamped his foot in anger. ‘I will! I will! I will!’
‘Of course you will,’ said Maria, always the sister who would join in any fun.
Over her son’s head, his mother looked to Olga for support.
‘Hush,’ Olga told her sister. ‘It is too risky for our brother to play in the snow.’
‘There is another good tale about Masha,’ I said, hoping I might help dissuade Alexei from going outdoors. ‘She gets lost in a blizzard where the snow has covered the houses. Everyone is inside, gazing out a white nothingness, when suddenly a bear—’ I tried to intrigue him by breaking off in mid-sentence. ‘It is called Masha and the Bear of the Snowy Mountains. Might we share that story this afternoon?’
‘That sounds interesting.’ The Tsarina, understanding my motive, seized on my suggestion. ‘I’d like to hear that tale. Wouldn’t we?’ she appealed to her daughters.
‘Of course, Mama,’ Olga and Tatiana, being more mature, agreed with their mother.
The youngest girl, Anastasia, looked longingly out of the window and said nothing.
‘I will take the front place on the sledge, Mama,’ said Maria. ‘Nina will go behind Alexei and hold him. That way he’ll be cushioned on both sides.’
Alexei squealed with pleasure. Then he turned on his best look of heart-rending sadness, hung onto his mother’s hand and pleaded until she relented and said, ‘So be it! But the pathway must be prepared to smooth out the bumps and remove any stones or harmful objects.’
Brooms were fetched and the servants crawled among the snow, sifting out the tiniest pebble lest the sledge topple over.
‘I love snow!’ said Alexei. ‘Russia has the best snow in the whole world! And it’s all mine.’ He looked at his mother for confirmation. ‘Isn’t it, Mama?’
‘Of course it is, my darling boy. God has ordained it. We are his ministers here on earth. Everything and everyone in Russia belongs to the Imperial Family.’
We played outside until the light faded. More snow began to fall, the flakes thicker and wider than before, and the icy wind caught in our throats. Alexei’s cheeks were pink with healthy play, but I was relieved when Olga arrived with an order for us to go inside.
Nagorny took Alexei off to prepare him for bed. The girls bathed and changed into nightclothes, wrapping themselves up in thick fleecy dressing gowns. I went with them to the family sitting room where the Tsarina was waiting for us. The smell of hot chocolate and roasting chestnuts wafted through the air.
‘Nina, you may tell me that story now,’ said Alexei.
‘Which story is that?’ I asked him.
‘Masha and the Bear of the Snowy Mountains.’
‘That is a very good choice for a winter’s eve.’ I was about to settle myself beside Alexei when Father Grigory entered the room. He clicked his fingers at me. I hesitated and then thought it wiser to move so that he could have the privileged place next to the Tsarevich.
I glanced outside to where the sun was singeing through the snow clouds. Molten flame spreading across the sky. Like the ruby on the dagger stuck in Rasputin’s sash.
He saw me looking at the dagger, and his lips curved in a sly smile. Raising his eyes to mine, and in a direct challenge, he declared, ‘Tonight I will tell a story. It is a tale that I was told recently by an ancient sage who lives at the monastery of Verkhoturye.’
His voice was soft but had such a sinister timbre
that the Tsarina asked with a nervous laugh, ‘A story suitable for children, I hope?’
Rasputin didn’t acknowledge her enquiry. He spread his hands and said, ‘They say that everyone has another self walking the earth, and once upon a time this dagger of mine’ – he gestured to the dagger in his sash – ‘had a twin.’
My breath shortened.
He cast no glance in my direction.
‘Many years ago the twin daggers found their way into the possession of a certain man. This man was rich but he was also greedy. Despite everything he had, he wanted more. He wanted what he owned, and he also wanted what other people owned. And one day he saw this pair of marvellous daggers.’ Rasputin drew his dagger from his sash. The pearls gleamed in the lamplight; the ruby burned like a hot cinder. ‘The daggers belonged to someone else, but the greedy man had visited this person’s house and saw them, and he wanted them for himself. Now’ – Rasputin paused – ‘what the greedy man did not know was that the daggers carried an enchantment …’
Alexei gasped. ‘What sort of enchantment? Who placed the enchantment upon the daggers?’
‘All in good time, my dear Tsarevich. Listen to the story and you will find out. First I must tell you how the daggers came to be. It was the nights of the Wolf Moon. In January – when time itself is changing – the Old Year dying; the New Year birthing.’
Rasputin was a master storyteller. Whatever else the monk was, or was not, storytelling was his forte. He modulated his voice, caressing the words, using his breath and his body to create drama and suspense and hold his audience entranced.
‘This was the moment – when ravenous wolf packs roam the land – which was chosen for the daggers to be made. The blades were forged from the stars that shine in the arching vault of the sky. Orion the Hunter, the Great Bear – the ancient constellations that swing above us each night gave of their glory to make this metal.
‘The pearls were harvested from the underground river which divides our world from the next. They are the tears of those awaiting the ferryman who will come to row them to the other side and into eternity.
The Rasputin Dagger Page 12
