Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  Silence reigned. The guard looked at the tips of his boots, his face as red as the apples growing in the orchards outside town. Menshikov stared at me, open-mouthed. Then he threw back his head and laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes, and gasped: ‘Who am I? You want to know, you dirty little tramp.’

  ‘I am only dirty because circumstances have not allowed me to be otherwise. And my name is Marta.’

  Menshikov grabbed my chin hard. I stifled a wince and met his gaze. I would not lower my eyes, whatever the cost.

  ‘I, Marta, am Alexander Danilovich Menshikov, the most powerful amongst the powerful, the Tsar’s most loyal and absolute friend.’

  ‘Who loyally and absolutely fills his pockets whenever possible behind the Tsar’s back,’ Sheremetev added.

  ‘Shut it! We don’t need you here.’

  ‘It’s my tent, Alexander Danilovich. And I am the victor of Marienburg, not you.’

  Menshikov walked up to me. I stiffened. He sniffed ostentatiously. ‘You smell all right, though a bath wouldn’t hurt. Show me your neck.’ He pushed back the hair that covered my shoulders and forced my chin up. ‘Ah, it’s nice and long. And you seem strong and healthy. Just what I need when I’m in the field.’

  Both Sheremetev and I started, but Menshikov just slapped my hip and moved closer. I pulled my legs together and glowered at him.

  ‘Your wine is sour, Sheremetev. I’ll send you some from the Rhine together with the maps later on. Give the girl a bath and then she can follow my scribe to my tent. I wouldn’t trust your soldiers if she walked alone through the camp. Perhaps she can sleep on the floor next to Daria’s bed, as long as they don’t squabble. I’m not so much into girls wrestling, unless it happens under the open sky, in the mud.’ Menshikov grinned at me, nodded to Boris Petrovich and was gone: the waxed cloth of the flap hit the pillars a couple of times, then all was silent. I swallowed and tasted the salt of my rising tears.

  Sheremetev shrugged and sighed. ‘So be it then, Marta. He truly is the most powerful, after our Tsar. If he wants you, I can lay no claim to you. Let’s have you bathed and find some clothes that might fit you, shall we?’

  If even a Russian marshal and battlefield victor could not stand up to Menshikov, what could I hope for? I buried myself in his cloak like a stubborn child, clenching its seams and trying hard not to cry ‘No. I don’t want to. I am not a toy.’

  I saw understanding in Sheremetev’s eyes. ‘Being born a woman is a punishment sometimes. Look, Marta, I am not saying I like it, but if Menshikov orders you to his tent, let me tell you, many other women would give an arm and a leg for the opportunity. Use life’s surprises to your own advantage. See your power over men like a hand of cards; play them to trump other people.’ He laughed before he added, ‘And, by the way, Menshikov can be all words and no deeds. If his mistress cottons on that he is interested in you, she’ll scratch his eyes out. Try to be careful of her.’

  ‘Who is his mistress?’ I asked, my skin prickling with fear. Had I dropped into a wasps’ nest?

  ‘Daria Arsenjeva. She is a daughter of an old Russian boyar family; be sure to stay on her good side or you’ll need a very strong protector indeed. She’s been with Menshikov for years. Although she looks the other way as expected when she has to, you can never be sure how she’ll react. At some point he’ll do the honourable thing and marry her, I suppose.’

  The general took the map over to his desk and sat down, leaning his head on his hands to study it closely. The guard led in a maid. She curtseyed to me, which almost made me choke, and then led me to a tub in a curtained-off corner of the tent. While I waited, she filled it with bucket after bucket of hot water. The poor thing had to run endless times between the fire and the tent as I asked her to splash more and more hot water over me until I had cleansed myself of my old life and its memories.

  When Menshikov’s scribe arrived with his arms full of maps, I was sitting on the bed, ready and waiting for him. The borrowed clothes were a bit tight around my chest and hips, but my wet hair was pleated in braids and my skin burned from scrubbing. I felt like a new woman. The guard lifted the tent’s waxed flap aside for me. I thanked him with a nod and turned one last time to Sheremetev, who feigned not to have noticed me leaving.

  ‘General Marshal Sheremetev,’ I said. He looked up.

  ‘What is it, Marta?’

  ‘You have saved my life and you have been very kind to me. I shall not forget that. If it’s ever possible, I will pay you back.’

  If the legendary general found those words strange coming from a penniless girl, he did not let on. He bowed his head and answered me solemnly, ‘Gratitude is a rare virtue these days. I am sure we’ll meet again and I am looking forward to it.’

  23

  The stench of sweat and latrines, dysentery and gangrene, pus, blood, dirty clothes, cabbage soup, bean stew, cold gunpowder and swathes of smoke lay like a bell jar over the wide field where Sheremetev’s army was encamped. The smell stuck to my skin like nettles to a shirt. The Russian tents met the horizon, housing tens of thousands of men. It was an unforgettable sight; the Tsar’s army truly stunned and shocked by its sheer size. While I walked, the sun set upon the camp and soldiers lay around the first campfires in their torn and dirty uniforms, stirring heavy cauldrons and playing cards and dice, as the Tsar had forbidden all other games of chance. Men cleaned their weapons, checked minor wounds, spooned up thick brews or downed litres of beer and kvass, which had been given to them every evening since the siege had ended in their favour: to the victor, the spoils.

  I thought I saw a familiar face moving through the crowds, though I couldn’t be sure. I squinted and then ducked behind Menshikov’s scribe: it was matushka Sonia and her sorry band of girls, offering themselves. She was, if possible, even more portly than before, and spoke with the Russian soldiers as she had done with the Swedish dragoons, before pushing the little Tatar girl forward. Her gums were toothless, angry pustules bloomed on her neck and her dirty, ragged dress hung on her skinny frame. I was far from safe but I felt pity still for their wretchedness. How easily I could have ended up just like them. I noticed that even the camp washerwomen, their arms heavy with linen, made a detour to avoid them. I lowered my head until I had passed by. I had enough to deal with.

  All around us the fields had been crudely harvested to feed the Tsar’s hordes. In the vicinity of Marienburg there wasn’t a sheaf of wheat left to grind, no livestock to slaughter, no chicken to pluck, no orchards with cherries, pears and apples to be picked. From the remnants of the town wall fresh smoke rose into the wide sky, and despite the late hour a steady stream of people moved out of the city, into the white night and an uncertain future. The Russians took off them whatever they pleased, sharing it amongst themselves there and then, ridding the wealthier burghers’ carts of everything they liked, be it a jar of pickles, a rolled rug, a fine piece of furniture, a last plump chicken or a wailing girl, maids and burghers’ daughters alike. Only the crippled and the beggars plodded on unmolested, as what they had to offer was too lousy even for the least of Sheremetev’s soldiers.

  I scanned the people who had made it safely out of Marienburg: were the Glucks among them? If they were alive, where would they hide from the Russians? We were like ants crushed under the Tsar’s feet. It was horrible: things had turned out as Ernst Gluck had predicted. I felt like a swimmer caught in the rapids after the ottepel, the current almost swallowing me and just a branch to hold on to. If I so much as tried to come up for air and to think, I would drown for sure. So I looked ahead as that was the only way I could go.

  I closed my ears to the crude jokes and the catcalling of the men; every step still hurt me and I hoped that my rapists had died under the knout. Nobody survived fifty lashes, I knew that as well as Sheremetev did. When we arrived at Menshikov’s tent, I braced myself and weighed the general’s words, which I had soaked up like one of his sponges had the bathwater just a few hours earlier. Tar dripped from torches stuc
k to pillars on both sides of the entrance where guards stood, bayonets slotted onto their muskets. Lanterns glowed warmly in the pale dusk.

  ‘Wait here,’ the scribe said, and went into a side room off the main reception area of the tent, which was more like a house made of canvas, with its formal entrance and several distinct rooms. I was stunned: there was no sign of war or hardship before me now. These were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, beggaring even the wonders of Vassily’s home. I saw daybeds carved from black shiny wood, standing on curved, elegant legs that ended in animals’ heads. The beasts’ mouths were wide open and wooden manes flamed around their heads. What on earth were they meant to be? Richly embroidered cushions and fur-lined velvet blankets lay carelessly piled up on these beds, and my naked feet – which were dirty once more after crossing the camp – sank into the deep, silky pile of the colourful rugs on the floor. On Menshikov’s desk two high candelabra shed their flickering light over bowls of nuts, candied fruit, biscuits, fresh cherries and apples. I also spotted piles of maps on a campaign table. We had kept similar ones in the Glucks’ schoolroom. When war had begun, the pastor had followed the campaign by sticking Caroline’s sewing pins into the thick paper, trying to guess both Swedish and Russian strategies. The memory made me smile, but also feel a twinge of sadness.

  Across the maps lay a freshly sharpened quill in a heavy golden penholder. I picked it up and twisted it in my fingers before sniffing at it. Mmm, fresh ink – what else smelt so beautifully of learning? I weighed the penholder; its value would have freed and fed my family a hundred times over. I calmly put it back where I had found it. Just then, the skin on my neck prickled. Was somebody watching me? I looked up and met a man’s implacable gaze, fixed in oil on canvas. I shrank back in horror: he didn’t look like our icon of Saint Nicholas or like the Holy Trinity above the Glucks’ altar. His face seemed so real with that fine, pale skin and rosy cheeks; his dark, curly hair seemed shiny enough to touch; and his blue eyes gazed at me, sparkling and bright. His eyebrows reminded me of a raven’s wings, high and dashing, while the fine moustache he wore led my gaze to his well-cut mouth. His breastplate of gold and silver, his white coat and the bright blue sash across his chest, turned him into a warrior; one elbow rested on his helmet, which was topped with a bunch of red feathers; the other hand pointed far ahead, to the West. In the lower right-hand corner, the double-headed eagle swooped, as I had seen it a thousandfold on Russian flags during the siege of Marienburg. Perhaps this was Alexander Nevsky, the only Russian saint I knew next to St Nicholas. There was something about the man’s eyes though, that didn’t look very saintly.

  ‘What are you doing, girl, ogling our Tsar like that?’ a woman’s voice asked me sharply from behind. I blushed deeply. I didn’t want to look nosy: the sin of curiosity, as Caroline had called it, and I surely didn’t want to be caught staring at a man. Turning, I was almost stunned by the woman’s beauty. I shoved one mud-encrusted foot underneath the other and hitched my too-tight, coarse linen skirt higher, trying somehow to look more in keeping with this place, though it was hopeless.

  Her blonde mane fell loose to her shoulders like shimmering fur and the tightly laced deep-blue silk dress she wore matched her eyes, which reminded me of violets. It was very low-cut and showed off the top half of her firm white breasts. Close to one nipple, a tiny beauty mark rose and fell each time she breathed. She circled me like a hawk does a mouse and I didn’t dare move. Each of her steps doused the air with rosewater and a heavier, headier scent. But with the flick of a wrist she broke the spell by pulling a lacy handkerchief from her tight sleeve and pressing it in front of her tiny, upturned nose. ‘God, you reek, girl. Don’t you ever bathe? And it’s you Menshikov wanted in his tent? I was worried when I heard about you, but now that I see you . . .’ She giggled, which felt like a slap to me. ‘I suppose he just wanted to get one up on Sheremetev, which is just as well. I can do with another maid. Or did you flirt with him?’ she asked, grabbing my wrist and digging her nails into my flesh. I met her eyes calmly, freed my wrist and shook my head.

  ‘I did not,’ I said. For some reason I was not afraid of Daria – for that’s who this woman must be – in spite of Sheremetev’s warning. The way she carried herself, so sure of her beauty, reminded me of my little Christina, wherever she was now.

  ‘Are you Daria Arsenjeva?’ I asked.

  ‘How do you know?’ she hissed.

  ‘Well, General Sheremetev said that you were very beautiful and very witty – and that Count Menshikov is utterly besotted with you.’

  Her smile was catlike. ‘Well and wisely spoken, my girl, even though Sheremetev would never say anything like that. He despises me and thinks I am a whore for living with Alexander Danilovich. But who cares what that uptight ass thinks?’ she said, smiling as she sank onto one of the daybeds, spreading her wide skirt, which was embroidered with pearls and gemstones and lined with lace. Small, silky slippers matched the colour of her dress. She patted the seat next to her. ‘Sit down with me. How did you come to be here? It must be quite a story and I love a good yarn!’

  I told her, skipping the worst details of the attack. But by the way she looked at me, I understood that she knew anyway. I was a prisoner-of-war: what else could have happened to me? Daria Arsenjeva listened to me while nibbling on some cherries in a way that made me blush. Then the curtain to a side room was torn aside and Menshikov entered the main tent. I sat up but Daria stayed as she was, half lying among the cushions, sucking on a cherry, the mark near her nipple reeling in Menshikov’s gaze like bait to a big fish. She lowered her long, dark lashes, but her eyes never left him. He patted my head and tousled my hair.

  ‘Ah, Sheremetev’s little find. How do you like her, my darling Daria?’

  She poked me with her sharp elbow. ‘Not bad. She’s a bit buxom for my taste, but we have had a bit of a laugh already.’

  ‘I like a bit of buxom. What shall we do with her?’ He took an apple from the bowl on the desk, threw it in the air, caught it again and bit into it, chewing and crunching it as loudly as a horse, every bite an explosion of spit and apple flecks. Daria moved as swift as a squirrel, slapping Menshikov’s mouth with her lacy handkerchief. I held my breath as his face reddened with anger, but Daria casually said: ‘She can work as a washerwoman. More hands truly make for lighter work. In the evenings she can be with us. If I catch you near her otherwise, I’ll kill you both, and I am not joking.’

  I curtseyed, grateful for Daria’s jealousy. We’d get along just fine: if Menshikov was all she wanted, God, she could have him. Daria pulled him into a side room, yanking the heavy velvet curtain with gold tassels closed after them while she smiled at me around its advance: ‘The guard will show you the washing place. You can sleep in a corner here; take all the cushions and blankets you need. My maid will bring you some of my dresses that she can alter for you. Those rags you wear are an eyesore.’

  Somebody else should alter my dresses? I curtseyed once more and kept a straight face. Daria’s scent lingered long after she was gone.

  24

  As a washerwoman, by day I scrubbed, rinsed, dried and pressed the general’s shirts and those of the many other nobles camped around Marienburg. The Tsar had drafted the sons of the Russian nobility into military service, and young men of the realm’s best families now stretched their long limbs under the Baltic sun in a well-deserved break from warfare. Most of them had seen neither their families nor their lands for years, as the huge distances involved did not allow short absences.

  In the evenings I frequented Menshikov’s tent and watched Daria very closely: her way of dressing, of moving, of treating people and speaking to them. She’d chat to men in a low voice, so they’d have to lean in in order to listen. She seemed to keep Menshikov on his toes with a mix of crude humour, servility and flashes of naughtiness. Her moodiness kept him in thrall, as he was never entirely sure what she would do next. Thankfully, that kept him too busy to pay me more attention than was neces
sary, or healthy. I could get on with the business of surviving. If life in the Russian camp was like quicksand, my friendship of sorts with Daria was a rope that a merciful God had thrown me.

  ‘Your lips are chapped. Here, smooth them with this paste of beeswax and honey. Before you go to sleep, put some sour cream on your skin. There’s nothing like a bit of smetana. And just look at your hands! They’re as red and callused as a serf’s,’ Daria chatted on, handing out advice, bottles and jars. ‘Keep your hair shiny by rinsing it with beer after each wash.’ In our izba, Father had only had sips of beer on high holidays; if we spilt a drop he’d wallop us. Daria herself rinsed her hair in a chamomile brew before bleaching it strand by strand with the juice of a fruit I had never seen before, shiny yellow and egg-shaped. ‘Have a bite,’ she said, watching me when I bit into the waxy skin and then pulled a face: the taste was sour and acidic. Daria laughed so much she had to hold on to her chair; she liked a practical joke.

  What she didn’t share with me was a smelly grey paste she ordered from Venice, which kept her face pallid. ‘It’s so expensive you could live for a decade on the price of one jar, but believe me, it’s no good,’ Daria’s maid told me while cleaning the tub. ‘The Moscow damy who use it are always sick with headaches. And, you know, after a while, it looks like their skin’s been eaten by maggots – and just when the Tsar has forbidden them to wear veils in public. So you know what they do?’ she chuckled. I shook my head. ‘They smear even more of it on. Beats me.’ Daria’s skin looked fine to me; the maid was probably telling tall tales.

  Life in Menshikov’s palace in Moscow sounded like a never-ending feast day, filled with light and laughter. If the court calendar with the many royal birthdays and saints’ names days didn’t give good reason to celebrate, they’d meet for a forbidden game of cards, a big dinner or a dance.