‘Stop it!’ I scolded. The Privy Council had been the wisest heads in Peter’s empire. God protect Russia from Elizabeth, I thought. She shrugged her bare shoulders and hummed a tune before getting bored with that as well, looking sullenly into the flames.
I glanced at the window, trying to guess the time. The inky night was putting up a struggle against the morning hour with its wan blue shine and the day’s short hours of sparsely measured grey light. The city lay in wait, shining in its cloak of sparkling white; ice crystals adorned the windows of the palaces and houses. As children we’d suck on icicles, surprised to find that they tasted of dust. Elizabeth asked, ‘Did you ever love my father?’
And I didn’t know the answer to that anymore.
28
My first journey to the heart of the Russian realm seemed endless: how could a country be so vast? The winter was severe and our train of sleighs and sledges was stuck right in its merciless cold. Birds froze in mid-flight, falling like stones from the sky, and travellers perished in sudden snowstorms, never reaching shelter. The wolves lost all fear of man and came right up to the izby doorsteps, snatching children and small livestock, crazed with hunger. How my family could have survived this, I did not know, having to shake the thought out of my head lest it eat me up. My Baltic fatherland was no more; from Reval to Riga, everything had fallen prey to the war’s terror. At the end of our time in Marienburg, Sheremetev was said to be clueless as to what to do with all his loot, and prices for either a sheep or a child sank to a denga apiece. Half a kopek for a human being! There was no time to think as impatience drove the sisters Arsenjeva on. They’d have the drivers whip the small spotted ponies mercilessly to win verst upon verst, until the animals’ mouths foamed and their backs were covered in weals. At every postal station we changed ponies, taking our pick from the innkeeper’s and other travellers’ stables, without ever paying for them. What belonged to any Russian belonged first and foremost to the Tsar and his friends, and Menshikov took full advantage of that.
When I had first heard about travelling to Moscow, I had pictured a modest number of sledges and sleighs, with possibly a guard in attendance, making their way through Russia. All I knew of travel, after all, was the drive with Vassily to Walk and then the smelly cart to Marienburg. Instead, we left in a train with hundreds of other people. Menshikov sent ahead everything he deemed necessary for the Yuletide festivities in the capital. I did not know where to look first, stunned by the splendour and also by his being so self-indulgent. Behind our sleigh travelled a good hundred other vehicles laden with luggage, food and people, such as Menshikov’s political and military advisers, as well as two chamberlains and three pageboys, a cauldron-maker and two trombonists, a Moor and a family of dwarves, three scribes, a dozen castrati, a priest and two cooks with their chubby kitchen boys. When I asked Daria about it, she just shrugged: ‘Alexander Danilovich needs what Alexander Danilovich needs.’
The closer we came to Moscow, the more handsome became the houses and inns, where all life centred around a big hearth, its mantelpiece made of stone or tiles. The kitchen served hearty cabbage stews, chicken broth with dumplings made of offal and blinchiki, little pancakes filled with molten cheese or salted and smoked meat. Pigs and poultry were locked in sties and coops and would no longer stray amongst the guests in the main room.
When we stepped into the cosy warmth our dank furs steamed up the small windows. The heat and the stench of the many people eating and drinking and sleeping hit me like a slap, but it took only a couple of glasses of vodka to get used to it all. At night, the men of our train burrowed in the straw like pigs, whilst I relished having a room in the inn, where I joined the Arsenjevas. If Varvara minded – ‘Shouldn’t Marta sleep in the stable with the other serfs?’ – Daria’s friendship protected me. The maid first warmed our bed with her body, before curling up on the threshold of our door for the night. Before I fell asleep I would pray to the god who wanted to listen, thanking him for my fate such as it was, even if my future hung on Daria’s mood and goodwill. What if Varvara started to talk even more against me? Already, no day passed without a stinging word or two.
The seven hundred and seventeen versty from the Schlusselburg to Moscow could take anything from six days’ to four weeks’ travel: we got into the sleighs in the early-morning darkness and stepped out of them long after sunset. They were like small, colourful houses on skids, painted gaily on the outside and stuffed with cushions and fur blankets, where we lay and chatted the day away, relishing the warmth of the copper pans full of smouldering coals that the maids had placed there as their first duty of the day.
The sun only showed in the leaden sky in the late morning and we craned our necks towards it from the windows of the sleigh, longing for its first rays. My belly was filled with hot, sweet and salty kasha and the bitter chai we’d had for breakfast in the inn. This was so different from the cold and lonely trip from Walk to Marienburg of just a few years ago, and I relished the comfort, the good food and all the laughter and the stories the sisters had to tell. Depending on whether Rasia Menshikova felt like company or not, she shared our sleigh or kept to herself, though I was sure that nothing escaped her attention. She guarded herself from joining in with Varvara’s needling, but wasn’t as close to me as Daria.
The landscape flying by the small barred windows looked alike from one day to the next. Forests, hills and plains were shrouded in snow, and only adventures and mishaps marked time’s passing, such as the heavy snowstorm that forced the driver to sit with us – the sisters plied the man with vodka and told jokes to make his ears burn – or the wolves that attacked our vehicle, circling it one afternoon well before we’d reach the safety of an inn. When Varvara heard the first long, dragging howl that made my blood chill, she shouted at the coachman, ‘Whip those beasts away! They are the Tsaritsa Evdokia’s faithful servants and she has sent them to eat us up. She’s a witch and they are of the Devil.’
The poor man thrashed as hard as he could, but there were just too many of them, so, the Arsenjevas and I, too, seized the whips that were stored underneath our seats and started lashing, taking turns to stand in the open door of the sleigh. By the light of the full moon rising I saw the wolves’ eyes shine with madness and hunger; icicles hung in their fur and around their salivating mouths. The other sleighs caught up with us and the men started to shoot at the beasts, who turned into a howling, bloody muddle of fur, teeth and bodies. In the evening Menshikov’s men boasted about their great bravery, the wolves growing stronger, bigger and more ferocious with each glass of vodka, until I snatched Daria’s sable coat and pretended to be a big wolf. She chased me round the room with a whip, which made the men howl with laughter. Even Varvara was in stitches.
The same evening, Daria asked me: ‘Marta, would you like to be my lady-in-waiting? Like that we can be always together and have all sorts of fun. Varvara can be such a spoilsport with her constant nagging. You’ll have a room in Menshikov’s palace and a salary.’ I felt like throwing myself at her feet and kissing her toes, but instead embraced her warmly as a sister would, and answered: ‘That would be a joy and an honour. I especially can’t wait to dress you up as Menshikov’s bride.’ Daria smiled and kissed me back.
Yet the closer we came to Moscow, the less I wanted to think further ahead than Yuletide. What if Daria’s mood changed or Varvara managed to sway her? Even a lady-in-waiting could very quickly be cast aside for some clumsiness or other and find herself alone, poor and homeless. Daria found me amusing, but I had been surer of my future at the Glucks. I tried to do as the Russians did and live for the moment. I did have one substantial asset, though.
Just before we left the Schusselburg, Menshikov had given me a purse heavy with coins. When I had opened it, it was filled with gold that blinked in the grey morning light.
‘What is this for?’ I gasped. Never in my life had I seen such riches, nor held them in my hand. What could I buy with that? My old life, ten thousand times over.
>
He shrugged. ‘That’s for you to decide. Go shopping if you like and get some dresses and a sable coat or two. Daria knows all the best places in Moscow.’
‘But why are you giving it to me?’ I stared at the open purse, trying to estimate the amount inside. It was too much. ‘I mean, thank you –’
‘Oh, the gold is not from me. I’d never just give things away, you know that.’ Menshikov winked at me and folded my fingers around the purse. ‘Close it, girl, and keep it out of other people’s sight. Some secrets are best not shared.’ He grinned at me. ‘But no worries, I’ll find out exactly what happened and what that money is for. Until then, spend it wisely.’
‘Is it from Boris Petrovich Sheremetev?’ I called after him, as he gathered his cloak and pulled his fur hat deeper over his forehead, before fighting his way back to the fortress through the thigh-high snow. Menshikov turned and pulled a face; the two men’s rivalry was far from over. I smiled. Of course, that was well guessed. Dear Sheremetev didn’t want me entirely at Daria’s mercy. After the night when I had held Peter, Sheremetev had left at once on the Tsar’s orders. I couldn’t think of anyone else who would make me such a present. I weighed the purse again. If I knew where my family was, I could change everything for them. But life was never that easy.
One morning, after about two weeks in the sleigh, Daria craned her neck, lifted the curtain, looked out of the window and ignored our pleas against the cold and the wind. She’d often poke Varvara and point at the forest that lay like a dark line beyond the fields, or at a certain hill in the far distance. She knew the landscape around Moscow like I knew every field and road around my mir.
‘Stop!’ she called and knocked on the sleigh’s side. The driver obeyed. Her cheeks were aflame and eyes shining as she pulled my hand up from under the warmth of the fur blanket. ‘Come with me, Marta. I’ll show you something your poor eyes have never seen before.’
When she hopped out, she sank up to her knees in the snow, which made her laugh and push on, forcing me to follow, until the driver ploughed a way for us up the hill.
‘Come on, don’t dawdle,’ she called over her shoulder, stumbling over the dragging hem of her cloak and straightening up again, her hands red and sore and covered in snow. Up on the hilltop, she embraced me and pointed to the plain beneath us.
‘Look,’ she called, gasping for air. ‘We are on the Sparrow Hills. And this, Marta, is the world’s most wonderful city: Moscow!’
I held my breath: the heart of Muscovy stretched across the whole horizon and offered itself proudly to my eyes. Countless spires and cupolas sent their own golden light into the hours of the early dusk. The Taiga’s fresh evening breeze blew in from far beyond the city, but it carried sounds and smells with it: Moscow had a life of its own; a life so strong that I felt it as far away as the Sparrow Hills, closing my eyes and imagining it.
Whips cracked, women laughed, children bawled and men in the kabaki shouted. Animals brayed, water ran over mill wheels and hooves thundered on cobblestone streets and squares. I sensed the food in the kitchens, the sewage in the alleyways, the oils and perfumes in the shops and stalls – all the splendour and squalor. Moscow wasn’t built like Riga or Marienburg, all orderly and laid out around a market square. While I saw high city gates, there was no city wall as even Walk had had, but houses of all sizes stood jumbled together, spreading out randomly in every direction. All around lay a belt of smaller settlements and fields that fed on the Moskva and its side rivers. Yet coiling like a snake around the city’s very heart, a group of dark, large houses formed a palace with heavy, high roofs and even more spires and cupolas.
‘It doesn’t look at all like Marienburg!’ said
Daria laughed as if I had suggested something ridiculous. ‘These are the posady,’ she said, pointing, ‘they’re outer settlements, where you’ll find the most shopkeepers and handymen, artists and gardeners, that the Tsar has lured to Russia; carpenters, rope-makers, blacksmiths, painters, welders and sculptors. Next to them are the mills and the fields that the Moskva floods to give the best fruit and vegetables. But you’ll also find the trappers there, the fishermen and the breeders of falcons, horses and hounds. Next to them the beekeepers have settled. Wait until you taste Moscow honey.’
‘Who lives further out?’ I asked, squinting my eyes.
She shrugged. ‘Serfs and peasants.’
Perhaps my family was there if they had been lucky enough to survive. If so, I’d find them, I thought, but Daria pointed to three shiny spires in the heart of the city. ‘That is the Kremlin, the palace of all palaces,’ she said in awe. Her pretty face looked like a rosebud cupped in the fur of her collar. ‘And not far from it, over there, is the gostiny dvor. We’ll go as soon as we can.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked. ‘Is it like a market?’
‘A market,’ she snorted. ‘You really have a lot to learn. It’s a place of wonder for a girl with a purse full of gold,’ she said, her eyes locking with mine. I thought it best to be honest and nodded, touching the purse that Menshikov had given me. Daria pressed my hand. ‘Don’t worry. I know about the money. In the gostiny dvor you’ll find the most beautiful things a girl could wish for; stalls with gold and silver, Belgian lace, French fabrics, gemstones, fine leather, felts, feathers, studding, embroidery and so on.’ She took my elbow. ‘Let’s go and feast. I want to get properly drunk to forget this hell of a trip. Tomorrow, there will be many people to greet. Come.’
We stumbled back to our sleigh where Varvara sulked as her copper pan had gone cold. Rasia Menshikova gave the signal for our departure and in the evening we feasted our near arrival in Moscow with freshly baked bread, fat salmon, smoked strips of venison, pungent cheese, pastries filled with mushrooms and offal as well as pickled radishes, sour gherkins and eggs marinated in mustard and cream. The innkeeper’s pantry, not to mention his cellar, was empty when we moved on and as usual I didn’t see Rasia Menshikova pay.
Our group was like a swarm of bees getting close to its hive. The next day we arrived in Moscow.
29
Menshikov’s palace was the most splendid in Moscow and built of stone at a time when much of the city was still made of timber. The Muscovites only spoke of a fire if a couple of hundred houses were properly ablaze. The Tsar, I heard, adored the sight as much as he did fighting it with his own hands, and a new ukaz had ordered any burnt-down house must be rebuilt in stone; those who were unable to afford that had to sell their land.
Inside Menshikov’s palace, the walls were clad in painted leather or covered by huge, heavy tapestries that he had bought in Holland. The corridors were lined with honey-coloured parquet and high, tiled stoves heated each of the hundred rooms, whether they were in use or not. Daria still called her quarters the terem and had made them cosy with plush-piled rugs from Persia, velvet cushions and fur throws, and old-fashioned icons on the walls as well as smaller tapestries that told stories neither of us had ever heard. We wondered together who that beautiful young girl, riding away from her clamouring friends on a bull, might be: ‘It can’t be comfortable with that spiky hair at her naked bottom?’ I said, making Daria laugh. And why did the young man on another tapestry hold out a golden apple to three beautiful women? ‘Just eat it yourself, boy, if they don’t want it,’ was Daria’s comment, before I chased her – screeching, laughing and pleading with me to stop – galloping down the palace’s corridors, pretending to be the misfit, half man, half horse, that we had spotted in a painting.
My room lay between Daria’s and Varvara’s: yes, my own room, no poky maid’s chamber. It was bigger than our whole izba had been and I luxuriated in the rugs on the flagstones under my bare feet and brushed the icons’ golden frames with my fingertips. My mattress was stuffed with horsehair and the bedlinen was scented. Daria gave me my very own oak chest and watched me fold my clothes inside it: her hand-me-downs as well as looted dresses that had been shared between us in Marienburg.
She frowned at them. ‘They’re
no good. You need proper clothes if you want to feast at Yuletide. Give me that purse.’ She weighed it in her palm after I had fished it out from behind my bedstead. ‘Good Lord. That’s more than I thought. And you really don’t know who gave it to you? Alexander Danilovich just would not say?’ she said, her eyes narrowing. As long as she was not his wife, she could never be sure of his feelings. So far, he showed no sign of wanting to step underneath the bridal crown with her.
‘My guess is Sheremetev. He is kind and generous, but would not want to shame me. Just as Alexander Danilovich doesn’t want your ladies-in-waiting to shame you,’ I said smoothly.
Varvara joined us. She never left Daria and me alone together for too long, if she could help it. ‘Sheremetev, you say? Everybody knows that he has a hedgehog in his pocket. Just look at his shabby house and his old hag of a wife who wears last year’s fashion. What should a Russian count like him give you gold for?’ She, too, weighed the purse. ‘A maid should never be more beautiful than her mistress,’ she said with a catty smile. ‘Men always have second thoughts. Daria, you might have befriended your own undoing. Menshikov has a roving eye.’
I bit my lip, as I did not dare to be rude to Varvara. Still, I looked her straight in the eye. Nobody loved me more if I tried to please them. If Varvara didn’t like me, she should at least know her limits as well as mine.
‘Let’s go, Marta,’ Daria said, after passing a long look from her sister to me. ‘We’ll need quite some time to kit you out.’
Daria had made no empty promises: the gostiny dvor was a heaven on earth for a woman with a purse full of gold. So far, I had only bartered for things at the Spring Fair in my village, and in the marketplaces in Walk and Marienburg had watched wealthy, freeborn people buy trinkets from travelling merchants. Those stalls were there one day and gone the next, whilst tailors, cobblers and carpenters would have their own shops, but those were not for the likes of me. From Menshikov’s house our sleigh crossed the Red, or Beautiful, Square, snaked its way through icy, busy alleyways and then stopped outside the gostiny dvor. ‘You can go into a kabak, but don’t you dare get too drunk,’ Daria warned the coachman and pulled me with her.
Tsarina Page 17
