Queen of Always

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “What you have done here is of no consequence. Peter will be king once again, and he will make me his queen. Our child will sit on the throne of Russia,” she spits, her voice thick with venom.

  I wave the guards away. “Give us a moment.”

  Sergei puts a hand on my shoulder, but I brush it away. I watch him canter down the stairs, Alexander offering me a sidelong glance as he follows. The rest of my entourage is not far behind them. Once they are gone, I circle her like a hawk about to dive for prey.

  “Peter has abdicated. You, nor your child, will ever sit on the throne,” I say, trying to fight back the rage slowly building inside me. “You will waste away in whatever prison I decide to throw Peter into, and your child will never be allowed to see the light of day. Is that the shining future you hoped for when you stole Peter from me? Was it worth all the years you spent bending over for a man so addled that he couldn’t even be bothered to officially claim his own throne?”

  She smirks, taking a step forward. “You will fail. Peter will gather troops from Prussia, and they will send what’s left of you and your child back to Germany in a box.”

  My resolve cracks and I strike out, grabbing her by the wrist. “You took my husband. You killed my first child because you saw how it was bringing us together. You told Elizabeth about my plan to run away with Alexander before the wedding.”

  “Of course I did! Though I see now I should have let you run off to Denmark and ruin yourself for that wretched nobody. Then I would have been queen from the start.”

  We are shouting now, and though she tries to wrench herself free, I hold her fast.

  “You stole my life. My every chance at happiness. You killed my child.” My voice is no longer my own. Fury rises inside me like a tide I cannot struggle against.

  “And I would do it again!” she screams.

  The smugness melts from her face, replaced by a look of shock—and fear—as she realizes what she’s said. Her cheeks pale, her mouth snapping shut like a bear trap. I tighten my hand around her wrist until she cries out in pain. Burning behind her eyes is a determination I’ve never noticed before. Peter is dangerous only as a figurehead, as a political puppet. She is dangerous in the way only a woman can be. She will see me and my children dead if the chance arises; there’s no doubt in my mind.

  I’m not sure what comes over me in that moment. Years of buried hate, resentment, and rage froth to the surface, clouding everything else. In that moment, there is true darkness in my soul and all I want, more than anything in the world, is to watch the life bleed from her eyes.

  And I jerk her arm.

  At first, I’m not sure what’s happened; the move is so much an unthinking reflex. But as I watch her begin to fall, I know I could stop her. I could reach out, take her now-outstretched hand, and save them both.

  But I don’t.

  Watching her fall slows time down inside my mind. I remember my own fall down such a similar staircase. Time slows around me, the present slipping away into my memories. I remember crushing blows one after another as my body rolled down step by step. I remember the feel of her hands on my back, the pain ripping through me as I prayed for death, and most of all, I remember waking to discover my child had been lost. Sergei’s child.

  By the time the world snaps back into focus, it’s far too late. She tumbles, a blur of red hair and blue silk, down the stairs, finally hitting the bottom with a thick crunch. I don’t take my eyes off her as I descend the stairs, getting closer and closer to her crumpled body. By the time I reach the bottom, a small pool of blood has formed under her head, and her lifeless eyes are wide. Numb to what has just happened, I step over her, lifting my skirts to avoid the blood.

  I know I should feel something. Guilt, remorse, even satisfaction. But there’s nothing. Just a deadness tingling through my entire body as I walk past her, not looking back. When I open the doors, Sergei looks past me at the horrifying scene and takes me by the arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asks, not taking his eyes off her still body.

  “It was she who killed our child,” I whisper. “It was she who pushed me down the stairs so long ago. I always believed it was, but to hear her speak the words…” Glancing back over my shoulder, I frown. “I don’t think I meant to do it. Or maybe I did. I can’t be sure.”

  From somewhere, a dry laugh rises, slipping free from my lips before I can stop it. It’s only then that he looks at me, fully and in the face, his eyes swirling with concern. I pull myself free of him.

  Turning to Grigori, I raise my hand. “Seize Peter. Tie him and throw him on a horse. He will be taken to the citadel for imprisonment, indefinitely.” He obeys without hesitation. Behind me, Peter mewls like a whimpering child. The sound is grating. I find I can stand it no longer, so I run from the hall and out into the grey dusk.

  “You promised him freedom,” Alexander whispers as he comes to my side.

  I rake my hands through my hair. “I know. I made a promise I couldn’t possibly keep. You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

  He jerks back, surprised by my harsh words. I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just feel so adrift.”

  He takes my hand gently, grazing a kiss across my knuckles. “Then let me be your anchor, at least during this storm.”

  No sooner do I nod than the sky lets loose, rain falling cold against my skin. I only have a few moments to let it wash over me before Alexander hoists me onto my horse, shoving the reins in my cold hands. I don’t wait for the others. Kicking my mare into a full gallop, I ride as if I can outrun the devil himself.

  We ride hard and fast through the beating rain back to the Winter Palace. I’m so cold and wet that I’m shaking all over but I never stop, never slow my pace. The rain rolls down my face like holy baptism until I can’t even tell if I’m crying.

  I waste no time riding into the fortress of Peter and Paul. There is no one waiting for me in the driving rain save for a handful of guards, who usher me inside. At my left, Alexander steps forward, presenting the Archbishop of Novgorod with the wooden box containing the scroll. I fall to my knees before him, part humility, part exhaustion. He reads the mandate aloud to the gathered Synod and council members before taking me by the hand and leading me to the golden iconostas that arches above us and into the bell tower. As he begins his chanting, the storm breaks. The afternoon light filters through the tall, stained glass windows, illuminating the cathedral in shards of red, blue, and green. The gathered crowd is so quiet that his words echo through the room as he pronounces me Gosudarina, the sovereign ruler of Russia.

  Each attendee takes a moment to offer me a blessing as well as their fervent oath of loyalty. Perhaps it is having seen them offer the same loyalty to Peter, only to then watch as they each, in turn, turned on him, that makes their pledges feel empty. I know that their loyalty, their support, will come only so long as I continue to earn it, to prove each day that I am worthy of their devotion. Perhaps that is the biggest difference between Peter and me. He thought himself owed their love. I know I will have to earn it over and over.

  By the time the rest of my group arrives, I am already mounting for the trek back to Winter Palace. I will not stop in the square, but rather address the crowd from the great balcony of the palace, my son in my arms.

  Alexander rides ahead, to set the final preparations into motion. By the time I arrive, Dash has dry clothes set out and little Paul is waiting in my chamber, playing with a wooden train with his nurse. I kiss him gently atop the head and retire to change.

  My legs quake beneath me, threatening to give out at any moment. By the time I arrive at the balcony, Lord Grey, along with Prince George and Mikhail himself, are addressing the crowd. They attest that I, Catherine II, being moved by the perils facing Russia from a shameful dependence of foreign powers, and sustained by divine providence, have yielded to the outcries of my people that I should ascend the throne. When I step forward, Paul on my hip, the crowd greets me with riot
ous cheers. I raise a hand to calm them, but it is of no use. The crowd is thick from palace square, as far as the eye can see.

  With my chin up, I simply say, “My faithful subjects, you have prayed earnestly for liberation from the dark days that have followed us since the death of Empress Elizabeth. It is my humble offer that I will lead you once more into the light. And I present to you, my son, and the rightful heir of the Imperial throne, Paul Petrovitch of Russia.”

  Cheers double, creating a thunderous sound. Church bells ring out, and Paul covers his ears against the noise. Ducking back inside, I release him to his nurse and turn to Grigori.

  “I must do one more thing this day. I must visit the soldiers. Gather the house guard, the infantry, and any nearby regiments. I will meet them at Peterhof, at the head of the Horse guard,” I say, the first hints of exhaustion seeping into my voice.

  Dash and I change once more, into Preobrazhensky uniforms, the uniforms of the old guard, before Peter ordered them into their silly Prussian-inspired attire. Mine fits well, but Dash’s makes her look like a young boy, something that seems to make her giddy with delight. Leaving my poor, hard-ridden mare Peony to rest, I mount the largest white stallion and lead my men on the road toward Peterhoff. People gather in the streets to watch us pass, some running up to kiss my boot or the hem of my jacket.

  It’s slow going, but we make it to the grounds at Peterhoff before nightfall, and at my count, nearly fourteen thousand men await my arrival. A handful of men approach me, their faces flushed.

  “Beg forgiveness, Your Majesty. We would have joined you at the Winter Palace, but some of our generals would not allow it. We have arrested them, you see.” They motion proudly to where four men stand tied in a tight ring.

  Reaching down, I touch the head of the one speaking. “Your loyalty is appreciated.”

  They all cheer as I dismount, Grigori close by my side. “Have those four generals brought to my tent. I would speak with them,” I say flatly.

  “Of course. But first,” he pauses, waving his hand toward the assembled masses, “your army awaits your inspection.”

  Taking a deep breath, I nod and head for the first regiment.

  ***

  I sleep only a few hours on a small cot, Dash curled beside me in the tent outside of Peterhoff. But the men are eager to return to St. Petersburg, so we ride out before dawn. As before, the streets are crowded with people. Only now, I ride into the city with thousands of soldiers at my back, a sight startling enough to make anyone quiver with awe. When I return to my chamber, the maids are already moving my things into the Imperial apartments—the rooms that once belonged to Elizabeth. I’m too tired to stop them, so I simply allow myself to fall into bed.

  It is nearly a full day later when I wake to find the transition well in hand. George has sent letters to every foreign ruler alerting them to the coup, as well as sending agents to the wharf to alert all ships and dock workers to the new sovereign. I find he is quite good at these things and consider keeping him on as part of my new Privy council. Days pass in upheaval, the old house guard replaced, Peter’s Prussian soldiers sent back to Holstein—save for the few who volunteered to remain as members of the new Russian army—and new ladies-in-waiting are assigned. Soon, we have formal alliances with every nation from France to Denmark, and old wounds are finally beginning to heal.

  “Where is Peter now?” I ask, shuffling the papers around my massive oak desk.

  “He was complaining of the conditions, so he’s been taken to Ropsha, a secluded house in the country. There’s a lake, as well as pastures for him to walk around,” Alexander answers through gritted teeth. “Though I don’t know why you go to such trouble to see that he is comfortable. Surely, he never gave you such consideration.”

  I pause, looking up from my work. “He has been in custody for months and he has sent me letters nearly every day, each begging me to reunite him with Elizavetta. He still believes I will eventually release them both to Prussia,” I answer, my heart leaden. “Not only have I lied to him, but I have stolen from him the thing he holds most dear in life. Do you not imagine that is suffering enough for his sins?”

  Alexander’s answer is firm and unwavering. “No.”

  “We could send him to Schlusselburg for confinement,” Sergei offers.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s too close to the city. Besides, that is where Ivan was kept, and I saw firsthand what that sort of confinement can do to a person’s mind.”

  “Either way, you cannot deny the need to rid yourself of him. Even dethroned and imprisoned he remains, in the eyes of God, your lawful husband,” Alexander adds, his voice monotone.

  That gives me pause, and I set my quill in the inkwell. “And you imagine I should murder my husband so that I might be free to take another?” I glance between them. “I suppose I know which of my lovers you believe should take his place.” His face falls, and I know I’ve been too harsh. “I will not stoop to the depth that Peter would have in my place. He will live out his days, as comfortably as I can allow, far from court. And that is my final word on the matter.”

  Neither man seems pleased with my decree, but the matter is dropped.

  Though I’m far too busy with matters of state—mostly consisting of cleaning up Peter’s messes—to handle the details myself, Chancellor Bestuzhev spares no expense in preparing for my coronation. There was some concern about returning him to the post he’d served for so long, but with all the other changes, I liked the idea of returning some of the old guard, as it were, and when he took his vow of loyalty to me, there was no doubt of his sincerity. I offered the post first to Mikhail, but he refused. I think he simply spent so much of his life dancing to Peter’s ever-fluid tune, that he dreamt of leaving court far behind. I gave him a small parcel of land near Peterhoff and kopecks enough to live out his days quite comfortably.

  I allow myself to be pulled from my office for the first time in days as Jean and his assistants begin preparing me for the ceremony. My hair is still quite short, but many of the noble ladies of court cut their hair to match the fashion. Even Dash trimmed off nearly a foot of her long, golden locks to remain in style.

  The gown is dreadfully heavy, much worse than my wedding gown. It’s gold and silver threads and embroidered with the twin-headed crowned eagle, the symbol of the Romanov house. A reminder for all that, unlike Peter before me, I stand for Russia. When they drape it over my wide-caged panniers, I think I might collapse from the strain.

  “I hear women in France are adding tiny, wheeled carts in their undergarments to help support the weight,” Dash offers jovially.

  The side of my lips turns up, imagining the French queen rolling herself down the hall on such a contraption. “I’m sure it works quite well, until one is faced with the issue of stairs.”

  We both laugh and it feels refreshing, as if it’s for the first time in years.

  A specially crafted cape of red and white fur trails behind me as I make my way down the aisle of Kazan Cathedral, the same place where I had been converted and ordained Catherine II. The priests sing and chant, and the room is filled with burnt frankincense wafting in white clouds. Every inch of me is draped in gold and jewels. My legs quake under the strain as I slowly march forward. The whole day has been a blur of activity, only now, in the relative silence, do I have a moment to pause and take a breath. As I kneel at the altar, they anoint me and bless me, finally hefting the diamond-and ruby-laden crown onto my head to thunderous applause.

  I’m too preoccupied to truly enjoy the ceremony. Odd, since I’d worked so hard to arrive at this precise moment, but it all falls away as I search for a familiar face in the audience, only to be disappointed. A fleeting moment of panic clutches me and I have visions of Holstein troops bursting down the doors of the church, Peter striding in on horseback, declaring my claim to the throne invalid. It doesn’t happen, of course, but I don’t feel the tension leave my shoulders until I’m safely back in my carriage. I exhale, handing my cape
to Dashka.

  “Where are Sergei and Alexander?” I ask, watching out the window as the guard surrounds the carriage and the royal procession begins its journey back to the palace. “I didn’t see them at the ceremony. They didn’t come to breakfast either.”

  She doesn’t answer right away, instantly drawing my suspicion. I glance at her, and she is fiddling with the cloth in her lap.

  “Where is Sergei?” I demand.

  She takes a deep breath and releases it before answering. “I can’t say, Your Majesty.”

  I lick my lips. “And where is Alexander?”

  She shakes her head again.

  I snap my fingers. “You must tell me, now.”

  Visions of their capture dance in my head. My dear Sergei bound and beaten, blood covering his rugged face. Alexander, his dark eyes staring up at me vacantly from the ground. Though the chancellor assures me that Peter’s forces have all but crumbled, there is always an uncertainty in his voice that frightens me. If they have been taken…

  No, I can’t even entertain the thought.

  “I believe they left the palace only last night, Your Majesty. I do not know where they went.”

  “And they left, together?” I ask.

  She nods, but she doesn’t meet my gaze.

  I swallow my doubts as we reach the main road where the people have lined up to watch the procession pass. Leaning forward to be visible through the window of the carriage, I smile and wave to my people as we pass even as my stomach churns with worry.

  SERGEI

  Night has only just fallen when I reach the stable. Alexander and I are preparing to ride out under the cover of darkness. He’s already there, saddling the horses.