Queen of Always

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  ***

  At supper that night, I notice that Count Mercy and Baron de Breteuil have gone from court. Sitting at the head of their usual table is a man I recognize as Baron von Goltz, a Prussian envoy. He’d been at court when I first arrived, when Elizabeth was initially considering a treaty with Frederick. Peter is celebrating his new alliance with his usual boisterous mixture of alcohol and decadence. I sit to his right, Elizavetta to his left. Between dances, he drapes himself on her, laughing drunkenly. As I sweep a gaze across the room, I realize something. There is a division amongst the guests. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but once I see it, it feels blatant, unmistakable.

  On the right side of the massive banquet hall most of the lords, the Privy Council, and the head members of the Synod sit. Around the edge of the room, my guards stand, their sharp, green-and-black Russian uniforms tight, swords at each hip. On the other side of the room, a handful of the younger nobles sit, along with a few visiting ladies and a handful of Prussian diplomats, including Von Goltz and his company. The wall on the left is lined with Peter’s Holstein guard, their bright blue uniforms tight and uncomfortable looking.

  Mikhail sits to my right, an oddity since his normal place is beside Peter. He must see me taking stock because he leans in, whispering. “Just spotted it, have you? It’s been this way for a few weeks now, since Peter announced the treaty.”

  I pull the corners of my mouth into a forced smile, leaning in as I raise a goblet to cover my lips. “Has he noticed yet?”

  Mikhail shakes his head. “No, I doubt he would, even if it were pointed out.”

  “What has Peter been up to these past days?” I finally ask. “He’s been unusually quiet.”

  “Lestocq is back at court. He has Peter hammering out some reforms for the church. And other things.”

  Count Lestocq, once an ally, had plotted with my own mother to try to free Ivan, Peter’s cousin and rival for heir to the throne of Russia, to smuggle him to Prussia and raise an army at his back to depose Elizabeth.

  “Why on earth would he have Lestocq return? He knows of the man’s part in the conspiracy.”

  Mikhail nods, staring at Peter, who has taken to the center of the room and is dancing in a salacious manner with not just Elizavetta, but another young lady as well.

  “Lestocq has convinced him that they only sought to end Elizabeth’s reign because they found her unjust. Peter is prone to believe anything sanctioned by Frederick must be an action worthy of praise, even if that action likely would have ended in his own death.”

  I shake my head, disappointed but not surprised. “I will speak to him.”

  “I pray he will listen,” he says, raising his glass to me before taking a long drink of wine.

  By the time I retire for the evening, Peter is nearly unable to stand. I watch as he’s half carried off to his chamber by Alexander, who doesn’t even spare me a glance as he passes by. Elizavetta, staggering but somehow still on her feet, follows, wine bottle firmly in hand.

  I don’t sleep that night. Lying in bed, I rub my belly absently, trying to imagine a life where I could have my child, where I could live in peace, without always looking over my shoulder for enemies or having to manipulate those around me. Silly, really, that when I look around at my chamber, at the fresh roses, the silk tapestries, and the ornate gold filigree etched into every wall from parquet floor to vaulted ceiling, I would find myself longing for a simple life, for a cottage and a clutch of chickens and a husband who holds my hand next to a simple stone hearth at night.

  Perhaps we only long for things we cannot possess.

  When morning comes, the sickness returns and is slowly calmed with ginger tea and biscuits. As soon as I dress, I make my way to Peter’s chamber, followed by a maid holding a tray of coffee and fresh bread. He will be feeling the full effects of last night, and I will have a better chance of swaying him if he’s being coddled.

  His page moves to announce me, but I wave him off. “Best not go in yelling,” I gently say, pressing the double doors open and stepping inside.

  The door to the far chamber is open. After motioning for the maid to leave the tray, I pour a cup of coffee and head to the back. Elizavetta is naked, her curvy, freckled body only half obscured in the tangle of blankets. Peter is upside down in the bed, still fully dressed from last evening. Reaching down, I touch his shoulder.

  “Peter?”

  He mutters, throwing an arm across his face. “Go away.”

  I gently shake him. “Peter, it’s morning. I’ve brought you some coffee.”

  “Blast it, woman, let me rest.”

  I step back, tapping the side of the cup with my fingernail, making a clicking noise. Finally, he rolls his head to the side, glaring at me through one half-opened eye. I hold up the cup. “There’s whiskey in it.”

  He sighs heavily and rolls off the bed, stumbling before managing to upright himself.

  “Why are you here so early?” he demands, snatching the cup from my hand and walking limply past me. Once he’s in the outer chamber, I pull his bedroom door closed, letting his mistress remain in her deep, noisy slumber.

  “It’s after midday, Peter, truly. You have to meet with the Synod in an hour. I wanted to make sure you were woken gently. But next time, I will be happy to leave you to your grooms, if you prefer.”

  He frowns. Of all the people in the palace, his grooms, both elderly men with little patience, were the least likely to pity his current condition, and we both know it.

  I take a seat as he paces, sipping the coffee with disinterest.

  “So, what is your meeting today about?” I ask as if absently. “Are you instituting some pro-Protestant reform?”

  He snickers. “Something like that.”

  That piques my curiosity. “Are you going to tease me, or may I know of your dastardly plans?” I keep my tone light, joking.

  “Well, if you must know, I’m ordering all the idols and saints be removed from places of worship. And I’m also demanding each church give half of their collected tithe to the crown.” He pauses, taking another drink as he looks past me, out the window overlooking the gardens. “And I think I will have them shave their beards, as a display of fealty to their new king.”

  I wait, hoping he’ll turn and smile, and it will all be some terrible jest. But when he looks at me, he’s stone faced and deadly serious. I open my mouth just a little, saying nothing but running my tongue along my teeth. Do I dare stand against him in this? My own situation is precarious; to point out that his move may lose him even more loyalty would be a mistake. Especially since that loyalty seems to be swinging in my direction. Should he ever take notice, should he ever perceive me as a potential threat, his retribution will be swift and merciless.

  “Do you have an opinion on the matter?” he asks, his voice a clear challenge.

  I look down. “I fear for you, husband. I fear that by bringing Lestocq back to court, that he might not have your best interests at heart.”

  “Lestocq? He is my man, trustworthy in every way.”

  “He would have usurped the throne for Ivan,” I blurt out, unable to stop myself. “They would have put him on the throne in your place, and possibly worse.”

  “If you think that Fredrick would have harmed me, you are gravely mistaken. He loves me as his own son.”

  “Fredrick loves only himself and his nation. He would rule Russia, and he would use your love to do it.” I hear my voice rising, but I can’t seem to bring myself to heel. “I love Prussia as well as you; it was my home also, once. But we are Russia now. Our priorities must lie with her. You must carefully consider your actions. There is a fine line between being an ally to Prussia and being a puppet to King Frederick.”

  He hastily tosses the cup onto the table, cracking it. “And you think me a puppet? A simpleton with no mind of his own?”

  I take a step back. “I think your love for Fredrick, your trust in him, blinds you to his true ambition. And Lestocq is a servant of th
at ambition, make no mistake.”

  He waves me off. “He has given me reason enough to trust him. Come see.”

  He sweeps past me, throwing open his chamber doors and leading me down the corridor. We weave through the maze of halls until we arrive at a small chamber near the counsel room. He pushes the door open and, taking me by the arm, pulls me inside.

  The chamber is meager, but comfortable. A small, four-poster bed draped in a damask canopy is at the center. When Peter arrives, a slender, hunched boy throws back the blankets and rushes to his side, falling to one knee. His hair is long and un-groomed, but he’s clean and in a fresh linen shift. When he looks up at me, something tugs at the center of my mind, a familiarity which I cannot seem to place.

  Then I see it, the family resemblance. The boy looks so much like his grandfather, whose painting hangs in the grand hall, that it’s uncanny. I feel my hand fly to my chest of its own will. “Ivan?”

  The boy furiously shakes his head, lowering his chin further into his chest and muttering.

  I turn to Peter, who is smiling like a fox. “You see, little mother? I handed Ivan to Lestocq myself. He turned me down flat. They have no interest in him. His mind is addled from his imprisonment.” He lowers his voice. “He doesn’t even know who he is. Isn’t that funny? I call him Pigeon.”

  Peter pats the boy’s head and laughs.

  Stepping forward I slap his hand away. “Are you mad? You can’t bring him here and keep him like some pet! He is the heir of Empress Anna and a legitimate rival for your throne.”

  “Frederick will not have him; he would not even try to use him against me.”

  “If not Fredrick, than it will be some other. You have well managed to make enemies of France and Austria. What if word of his presence spreads? Either of them could fund an uprising against you with him as the figurehead,” I practically scream in his face, finally at my limits with his idiocy. I motion to the boy, who scurries around the bed, hiding behind the headboard. “This, this is political castration, Peter. Surely, you can see that?”

  I don’t see the blow coming, so when it lands, an open-handed slap to my face, it rocks me from my feet and I sprawl to the floor.

  “Don’t think to challenge my wisdom, Catherine.” He spits my name like bitter milk. “No one will challenge me because they love me. They adore me. You saw them, each pledging fealty to me as I rode into St. Petersburg. Even Count Mercy begged me to let him remain. You would poison me against Frederick, but his heart is the same as mine, and it beats for Prussia!”

  I struggle to my feet, my face still stinging from the blow, my lips quickly swelling. Curling my fingers into a tight fist, I step forward and swing, landing my blow to his jaw with an impact that seems to instantly shatter all the bones in my hand. Peter falls back, his head smacking against the floor with a dull thud. He looks up at me, disoriented.

  Leaning over him, I speak. “You will never raise a finger to me again or I swear to holy God that I will geld you in your sleep. You will return Ivan to wherever you found him, and you will do it immediately. He isn’t just a threat to you, but to me and our child as well. Let go of your foolish grasp on Prussia, Peter. It will be the death of you.”

  “You hit me,” he whispers, in disbelief, clutching the side of his face. “You can’t hit me. I’ll have you flogged for this!”

  “Oh? Then call the guard. I’m sure your soldiers will get a good laugh when they hear about how your wife laid you flat on your ass with one swing!” My chest heaves with rage as I shout. Finally, uncurling my hand with a wince of pain I try very hard to conceal, I straighten.

  “Is that a threat?” he demands as I turn to leave, my skirts swishing behind me. “You can’t threaten me!”

  I turn back to him, slowly, keeping my expression neutral. “Everything I do, I do to protect you, to protect our son, and to protect Russia. I am not your enemy, Peter. Please don’t force me to be one.”

  As soon as I’m out the door, I press my back against the wall, stuff my aching fist in my mouth, and scream.

  When Sergei arrives in my chamber, I’m soaking my red knuckles in a bowl of cool water and salts.

  “What happened?” he asks, pressing himself along my back, cradling me with one arm while examining my fingers with the other.

  “It’s Peter. I struck him,” I admit, unable to keep the exhaustion from my voice. He leans forward, pressing his face into my neck and leaving a gentle kiss on my collar.

  “You struck him?” His tone is a mixture of pride and exasperation. “Catherine, what were you thinking? He could have you flogged for such a thing.”

  I turn in his arms, our faces nearly touching. “He’s brought Ivan here, to the palace.”

  “Ivan? Why on earth would he do that?”

  I pull away so I can pace as I let the entire story tumble from my lips. He listens, his expression never wavering.

  “I will retrieve the boy, take him back to the prison,” he flatly says. “I’ll go now, before anyone discovers he was ever here.”

  I shake my head. “He can’t go back there. He must be taken somewhere Peter can never find him again. You didn’t see him, Sergei. He’s more animal than man, too many years of darkness and abuse. I don’t want to see him live out his days in such a manner, but he can’t stay here like Peter’s personal dog either.”

  Sergei is quiet for a minute, considering. “There’s a small village near Peterhoff. I can take him there; give him into the custody of the church as a nameless beggar. Do you think he is sound enough to dispute it?”

  “No, I think not. Peter calls him Pigeon. I doubt he even knows his real name anymore.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, Sergei takes my hand. “There is another way to be sure no one can use the boy against you. Perhaps it would be even more merciful.”

  A shiver rips through me at his words, spoken so gently, but holding such deadly promise.

  “No, I would not have him killed if I can help it,” I say firmly. “But be sure the monks know that should anyone ever come for him, should any attempt be made to take him from their care…” I let that sit between us, my edict unspoken but unmistakable. If anyone should try to remove him from their care, he must be killed immediately. “Be certain to offer them enough coin to ensure their silence—and their loyalty.”

  “They will do as their empress commands.” Sergei nods, his expression as unwavering as ever. “But please, be more cautious with treating Peter. I know how difficult he can be, but you mustn’t turn his temper in your direction.”

  I smile at his gentle chastisement. “I know, my love, truly. Still, I can’t put into words just how wonderful it felt, in the moment.”

  He laughs. “I hope someday to discover it for myself.”

  With that, he kisses me tenderly and takes his leave.

  Later, I watch nervously as he leads the boy from his room and into a waiting carriage. The poor, broken boy swings his eyes my way only once, his expression sorrowful and confused. Part of me demands to protect him, to try to heal the terrible damages that have been done to him, but the other part wants only to be free of the threat that his still-beating heart represents.

  ***

  The following week, Peter signs his new declaration into law, against the advisement of his privy council and the Synod. That day, I receive two letters and a private audience with the most influential cardinals in Russia. Each of them begs me to intercede on their behalf, but I cannot. When the Archbishop of Novgorod arrives, seeking an audience, I know too well what he wants. After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, he gets to the matter at hand.

  “His Highness came to me yesterday seeking a divorce,” he flatly states. I feel my mouth gape open. The archbishop looks different than I remember, younger perhaps, with his freshly shaven cheeks, but there is a sadness in his features now that once remained hidden. “He says that if we do not grant him this measure, that he will secularize all church property and ban any outdoor services, and I have no do
ubt of his sincerity on the matter. He has already ordered clergy to wear black cassocks like Protestant pastors. We’ve been forced to shave our beards; those who refused were tortured or imprisoned. Our once-devoted flocks are now riotous. “

  I can only shake my head. “On what grounds does he seek to divorce?” My voice is a whisper, but I know I have brought this upon myself. He has never taken authority well, less so by those he considers beneath him. I pushed him, and now, as Sergei feared, I will pay for it.

  “He accused you of everything from adultery to witchcraft. But I want to assure you, I will not allow such wild accusations to spread. I doubt any clergy would support his request, especially now. Many of us have approached the situation with great humility and in fervent prayer, and we believe God will soon strike down those unworthy of their mantles, preserving his faithful. Let not your mind or heart be troubled, Your Highness.”

  Relief creeps into my skin, numbing me. “So you don’t plan to allow the divorce?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I will delay for as long as I’m able, and with the last breath in my body.”

  He stares at me expectantly, as if searching my very soul. It makes me uncomfortable, so I offer him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  He nods, pulling a worn leather bible from the pocket of his robes. “Will you spare a moment to pray with me?”

  “Of course.”

  We kneel together and he offers a solemn prayer, but I can’t bring myself to focus on his words.

  Peter has finally done it, what he’s always threatened to do. He’s decided to cast me aside, divorce me and make Elizavetta his wife. Perhaps it’s not as soon as she hoped, but her ambition for the crown seems to have no end. She will keep pushing him now; continue building the wall between us until we are so far apart that nothing could bring us together again. And worst of all, I laid the foundation for it myself.