Queen of Always

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  I add his name as an afterthought, a slight in retribution for the evening before. It’s a risk, challenging him so openly. Perhaps he will retaliate as he did last night, but I am feeling reckless, invincible. And I know that I must prove my willingness to stand up to him if I have any hope of garnering real support from the nobles. Let him attack me again, I think. This time, I will be prepared. This time, I will have him slaughtered like Caesar on the ides of March.

  He stares at me for a moment, then, possibly seeing his fate in my eyes, he sits back, waving his hand. “Then the matter is settled.”

  The day proceeds without my having to intervene again, and toward the end of court, Peter begins leaning toward me, asking for my counsel. It’s a shift that registers in the face of everyone present, a small victory I know I will need.

  By the time I retire to my room to prepare for supper, I’m exhausted and my skin is on fire and itching like the devil. Dash takes the time to help me apply more oil to the burns before dressing me for dinner. At exactly eight o’clock, both Sergei and Alexander arrive to escort me to the dining chamber. They chat pleasantly enough as Dash adjusts my hair and reapplies my makeup. I watch them in the reflection of my mirror, flushing at the memory of the night before.

  Sergei sits, his jacket the dark green of a Russian general, ribbons and medals hanging from his chest. His dark hair is combed back, giving an illusion that it is much shorter than it is. Alexander, by contrast, is wearing a sky-blue tunic and breeches that make his dark hair and eyes stand out even more than usual. He’s freshly shaven, and his cheeks rosy as he laughs at something Sergei has said.

  “Dash, can you leave us for a moment?” I ask. She bobs into a deep curtsy and leaves the room. I walk to my men, kissing each of them in turn. Turning my back to Sergei, I hold my hand out to Alexander, who steps forward to take it.

  “Before we go, there is something I must tell you,” I begin slowly. His face falls into a look of panic for only a moment before righting itself. I glance over my shoulder at Sergei, who nods in encouragement. “You see,” I pause, unsure how to begin. “I realized not long ago that I am with child. With your child.”

  His mouth falls open just a fraction as he glances from Sergei to me and back again. “Were you planning on telling me this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper, giving no insight into how he must be feeling.

  I bite my lip before answering. “I was, but then we had that terrible fight and… I didn’t want to force your decision. I wanted to give you space and time to heal. But yes, I would have told you eventually either way.”

  For a terrible moment, I’m afraid he’s truly angry. But he blinks and, reaching out, cups his palms over my belly. “Our child,” he mutters.

  I smile. “Yes, my love. Our child.”

  With a sound that can only be a cry of joy, he pulls me into his arms, pressing me along the length of him.

  “But there is a complication,” Sergei warns, drawing us apart. “Peter must never know about the pregnancy. He will know there is no way the child is his.”

  I watch Alexander’s face as he works through what Sergei is saying.

  Sergei continues. “It would give Peter all the grounds he needs for a divorce, or worse.”

  Alexander takes a deep breath. “What is your solution then?”

  “I will hide my condition. Sergei will find someone to take the child after it’s born, take it to safety, perhaps in the north.” I pause, resting my hands on my stomach. “And then, I am going to lead a coup against Peter. It’s become very clear to me that he puts himself, and the whole of Russia, in danger with his incompetence. He will not hear reason. I have tried, but I cannot allow it to continue. He must be deposed, for the good of us all.”

  “And then, you can bring our child home?” Alexander asks hopefully.

  I press my lips together. “Yes. Once it’s safe, once Peter is gone, I will bring him home to us.”

  Peter doesn’t show up at dinner, leaving me to not only sit at the head of the table in his place, but to make a further show of my quick wit while entertaining the assembly. There’s a lightness to the room, the deep sense of foreboding that hovers like a storm cloud over Peter’s head is noticeably absent. It could always be like this, is my silent message to them. Follow me and I can drive away the darkness from our lives.

  The next week, I begin my self-imposed seclusion. I only venture from my chamber when Peter is out visiting nearby lands, and I am always careful to conceal my fragile condition. I barely develop a hint of a stomach until well into my seventh month, and that is easily enough hidden under the formal Russian caftan jackets I begin to wear. My message is that I am of Russia, that following me will lead them away from Peter’s dangerous alliance with Prussia, and not into another one. Soon, they have all but forgotten my humble beginnings and have fully accepted me as one of their own.

  My private meetings go well, with no less than two dozen lords firmly on my side, many of whom possess private armies of their own, and the entirety of the Russian army ready to follow at my command. My days are spent in meetings, discussing strategy and preparations, but my nights I spend with the ones I love. Sometimes individually, sometimes together, but they are restorative to my soul. No matter how tired or weak I feel, I can rest in their arms and know that all is right.

  A great deal of my time is spent at the cathedral, taking the Blessed Sacrament or in silent prayer. I no longer pray for forgiveness for my sins, but in gratitude for all that I have been given. The clergy and Synod take every opportunity to offer blessings upon me, and I know that they, too, will support me when the time comes. It’s Peter’s own cruelty toward the church that has lost him their support, that and by so openly abusing his wife and co-regent, he has transgressed beyond the point of redemption—as if such a thing mattered to him.

  After leaving the chapel, I decide to walk back to the palace. My guards hover around me, though Grigori is off meeting with troops in Moscow at my behest and I feel his absence like a thorn in my side. Beside me, Sergei walks slowly, the afternoon sun casting shadows across his face. The air grows cold, the familiar bite of autumn nipping at my nose as we walk down the street. Sergei looks much the same as the day I met him, his tall, black fur hat covering his hair and ears, a rugged line of stubble along his chin and cheeks. He takes a deep breath and absently rubs at his whiskers.

  “What is it, Sergei?” I ask, knowing the pensive expression all too well.

  He replies in low, somber tones. “I believe I have found a family to take the child. They are loyal to you and can take the child to Denmark as soon as it is delivered.”

  I have to force myself not to touch the small lump hidden beneath my fur jacket. Inside me there is a twisting feeling I’ve been able to push away until now. The child will come soon, and my plan will roll into motion. I’ve been so focused on the details, all save this one thing. The thought is simply too painful to bear.

  “Peter will be back from Riga within the week. How on earth will we keep the birth a secret?” I ask, nervousness fluttering in my stomach.

  “I will think of something,” he says confidently, pausing long enough to offer me a sidelong glance.

  Suddenly, I cannot get back to the palace quickly enough.

  ***

  As the days once again grow short, I decide I must visit Paul whilst I’m still able. He’s far too young to understand that soon I will be unable to make my weekly visits. It will be too difficult to hide my quickly growing condition. In my hands, I clutch a box of puppets I’ve had made for him, a humble offering for a young prince who wants for nothing. Rina’s son has joined him in the royal nursery. He’s a dark-haired, soft-spoken child—a steep contrast to Paul’s white-blond curls and devious grin.

  Paul is quickly becoming the bane of his nurses, though I doubt any of them would admit as much. I visit him every Sunday, if only to sit in the nursery and read to myself while he plays. Last week, he threw a tantrum when one of his favorite wood
en soldiers broke, heaving it at his nurse and hitting her in the face. She looked to me, perhaps in hope that I would chastise him on her behalf. I was too startled to say anything. It was much like watching a tiny version of my husband, and I was stricken with grief at the spectacle.

  Now, as I approach the nursery, a familiar sense of dread sets in. The valet opens the door, and my heart sinks into my chest. There, sitting on the floor, are Peter and Elizavetta. I stride in, unable to keep the clipped tone from my voice. “Peter, what are you doing here?” I demand.

  It’s Elizavetta who answers. “We brought the boy some toys and a new uniform.”

  She tugs at the bright blue Prussian jacket enveloping my son. Her expression is one of pure maliciousness.

  Stepping between them, I grab Paul by the arm, lugging him from her grasp. Dropping to my knees, I rip the jacket from his small body, tossing it across the floor. “Paul is a Prince of Russia; I would thank you not to forget that,” I order, glaring at the nurses who stand against the far wall, looking on helplessly.

  Peter stands, brushing himself off. “He is my son, and so he is a Duke of Holstein. And considering your own humble beginnings, I’d say he’s more Prussian than Russian by any account.”

  When I turn on him, I fear for a moment that I might rip his throat out like a mother lion defending her cub. “You idiot! He’s already been taken once by those who fear your love for Prussia over Russia. Do you think by filling his head with this that you are making him safe? You are making him a target, Peter, and I will not stand for it.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, and I silence him with a glare. “Do not think to test me on this, Peter. I will do whatever it takes to protect my son.”

  Now Elizavetta stands, wobbly and unbalanced as she rises in her wide pannier skirt. “How dare you speak to your king in such a tone! He could have you whipped…”

  Taking two strides forward, I come nose to nose with her. “And have you told him yet that it was you who pushed me down the stairs? That it was you who caused the death of our first child? If there’s a punishment to be handed out, I should think you would be the one on the receiving end.”

  At my accusation, Peter steps back, looking back and forth between us. If she is concerned about his wrath, it doesn’t show. Her expression remains unchanged. “You have no proof.”

  Though I never saw her face, I have always known the truth. “I assure you, I’d recognize your stench anywhere,” I spit back.

  Without waiting for her to speak again, Peter takes her by the arm, half-dragging her from the room. Though the valet closes the door behind them, I can hear his angry screams and her high-pitched rebuttals. When I finally look back down at Paul, he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sobbing quietly. I kneel down to comfort him, but he darts away, skittering across the floor and clutching the skirts of his nurse.

  “I’m so sorry, Paul. I didn’t mean to upset you,” I offer in a feather-light tone. Pushing the box across the floor, I smile. “I’ve brought you a present.”

  He stares at me for a minute, then shakes his head and buries his face in the skirts.

  A heaviness spreads through me like hot lead. He hates me. Of course he does. Perhaps he can sense my own hesitation toward him. When I finally leave the nursery, I’m crying too. Sergei bumps into me in the hall as I make my way back to my chamber.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, hesitant to openly console me.

  Wiping my eyes, I frown. “It shouldn’t be this hard to love your own child,” I listlessly respond. “But I see so much of Peter in him. So much brutality.”

  “Perhaps you need to look deeper,” he suggests.

  I don’t answer. Truthfully, I don’t want to look any deeper. I’m too afraid of what I’ll find.

  The labor pains begin early in the morning, only a few weeks later. I know from experience how long the ordeal may be, but I call for Sergei and Alexander immediately. Truthfully, I’m afraid. Sergei kisses me quickly, and then takes his leave, fetching Vasily, my personal valet and one of the few people who knows of our plan. I pace the floor in my inner chamber, Alexander holding my hand as I walk. He’s nervous—as any expectant father might be, but there’s another fear we share. The best-made plans too often fail, and in this, we will have only one chance. He recites writings of a man named Voltaire, who he considers a sage of our time. I have to say, a few pages in and I’m mesmerized by his thinking. He speaks in ways both plain and metaphorical. I know I want to meet him, when all this comes to an end, and I ask Dash to draft an invitation. If I survive the next few days, I’ll send it. If not…

  Well, best not to think of that as I rally my strength.

  Dash sends messages to my ladies and maids that I’ve taken ill and won’t likely be seen for a few days until it has passed. The physician comes by, but she tells him it’s simply symptoms of my monthly courses, and he flees without further question.

  We dare not send for the court midwife, so rather, I ask for Vasily’s wife, Gerta, and my dear friend Madame Groot to be present. They both have some experience in these matters, and I’m confident they can assist me well enough. I continue to pace and when the pain becomes too much, Madame Groot begins to loudly play the piano to hide my soft cries.

  Time moves slowly and quickly in unison, though I’m not sure how it’s possible. By the time dusk arrives, I can no longer walk. My back aches and my feet are sore. It’s then that I hear the wails coming from the town just outside the palace walls. Even from my bed, I can smell the soot, the burning tinder. Alexander kisses my forehead, then rushes off to find Peter and lure him to the town to watch the blaze. Vasily has set his own home, and a nearby stable, aflame. The idea is to draw everyone from the palace—either to watch or to assist in quenching the fire before it spreads out of control. It’s a risk, for certain, but we are left with little alternative.

  Dash returns a few moments later. “Your Highness, the palace is nearly empty. Everyone has gone to town.”

  I exhale slowly, taking Gerta by her plump hand. She’s in a simple grey dress, a white apron, and her brown hair is tied back from her face with a scrap of blue ribbon. “I’m so sorry for your home,” I mutter, knowing I’m on the verge of incoherency. “I will send you with enough gold to buy a new home in Denmark.”

  She nods and pats my hand. We have discussed all this before. She and Vasily are leaving tomorrow to take their poor, orphaned nephew to Denmark after a fire destroys their home here in Russia. From there, they will hand the child over to Alexander’s cousin in Bobriki, who will raise the child as his own until he can be brought safely home.

  I assume it will be a boy, of course. Women in my position know all too well the value of producing sons. But a daughter would be lovely. A wispy little princess with ebony hair and sea green eyes…

  As soon as I conjure the image in my mind, it’s driven away by the pain and I lie back on the bed of linens they have spread on the floor for me, and the real labor begins.

  ***

  The delivery goes quickly and my child, my beautiful son, comes into the world, quiet as a mouse—as even from his first breath, he knows the dangerous world he’s been brought into. Gerta wraps him in silver cloth and lays him on my lap. I touch his face with my fingertips, forcing myself to memorize every tiny ridge, every contour, and every perfect slope. My arms ache at the thought of letting him go. My chest constricts and hot tears run down the slope of my nose, splashing onto his pink cheek.

  “My beautiful son. I name you Alexei, for your father, Gregorivitch, for the man who secured your safety, and give you the title of Count Bobrinski. My precious son, I hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Kissing his tiny head, I breathe in the scent of him, warm and new, and I know I will never forget it as long as I live. With a shaky breath, I hand my child to Gerta, who smiles sadly at his sleeping face. A small whimper rises up, escaping my lips before I can recapture it.

  “I will care for him as if he were my own, Your High
ness.”

  Madame Groot, her hair now silver as the jewels around her slender neck, kisses my temple, and then rises from my side to escort Gerta through the secret door behind my wardrobe. I manage to hold myself together until they are gone, but once the door closes behind them, the torrent releases. Dash gathers me into her arms, rocking me as I sob, reaching through the empty air for my child.

  My first child was murdered before he drew his first breath, my second was stolen from me, and my third, I handed away. And although I swore to bring him back when his safety could be assured, some dark place in my heart knows I never will. It will never be safe enough to bring my little Alexei home. Laying back I squeeze my eyes closed, the pain of labor replaced with a new pain, something much deeper and much more permanent.

  Deep inside me, another fissure opens in my heart.

  I’m sitting in my chamber when the letter from St. Trudpert monastery in Münstertal arrives. Troops came in the night, looking for the man known as Pigeon. As per my orders, he was not taken alive. The letter is to inform me that he has been interred on monastery grounds. I read the words over and over, burning them into my mind.

  Ivan is dead.

  On my orders.

  I crumble the parchment in my hand, tossing it in the crackling fire. It’s been less than two days, but I can wait no longer. This is evidence that Russia’s enemies are gathering forces to move against Peter—and by default, me and our son. Trying to take Ivan is a move born of desperation, and desperate men are dangerous men. I don’t inquire as to who was behind the attack—it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps it was Peter himself, or some foreign power looking for a non-Romanov heir. Either way, the threat has been eliminated.