Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  He rummaged in the little pocket of his waistcoat and fished out a coin.

  ‘In that case . . .’ He tossed the coin into my lap. I held my breath. Should I feel hurt? Peter was grinning away, looking terribly pleased with himself. I wasn’t delighted but a coin was a coin: I picked it up and bit into it. The smile fell from Peter’s face.

  ‘Did you think the Tsar of all the Russias would give you counterfeit money?’ he asked, his voice low with anger. I did not flinch.

  ‘You never know. Who can you trust these days?’

  I could hear him laughing all the way down the hall. Smiling, I dressed for a late dinner, one held for the damy of the Russian court. A dwarf wrapped in bright ribbons jumped out of a pie in the early hours of the morning. We all pulled him this way and that, making him spin like a top, until he finally stumbled around the room stark naked. He was every bit as adorable as the Princess Cherkassy’s little drunken lapdog, which was given bowl upon bowl of the sparkling wine the Tsar had ordered especially from France.

  Come Epiphany and the blessing of the waters of the Moskva, the magic of the Yuletide festivities was over. Peter hopped impatiently from one foot to the other while the priests had a hole sawn into the Moskva ice and boys, their cheeks pink with cold, swung golden censers back and forth, lacing the cold winter air with myrrh and frankincense. The scents hung in heavy clouds over the ice as the court gathered round the Tsar one last time, still wearied and still half-drunk, but in all its New Year splendour of gowns and coats of silk and velvet, embroidered with gold and silver, and furs of sable and mink. Many of the men still wore flat fur hats, and some ladies pulled veils of gold-embroidered muslin over the chalk-white and red of their sleepy painted faces. The Tsar looked at them through smouldering eyes: not even this bitter cold that touched the marrow was any excuse for wearing the loathed and forbidden Old Russian style of dress. As the first courtiers stripped off and dived into the hole for a swift dip in the icy waters to bless the year ahead of them, Peter was already back in the stables, checking on his men and horses. Everything was ready for him to leave for the field again.

  Peter ordered me back to Menshikov’s house without the slightest hesitation: ‘I want you to be safe until we meet again,’ he said. He had no idea.

  32

  Varvara came for me on my second afternoon back at Alexander Danilovich’s house. I was sitting near the fire in Daria’s rooms, embroidering a scarf of mustard-yellow wool that I planned to give to her as a present. The wool’s soft down grew in between the thick, wiry hair of Persian mountain goats; it was so fine that I could draw the scarf through a ring, and worth its weight in gold in the gostiny dvor, as my now almost empty purse testified.

  A flurry of steps echoed in the hall, the door smashed open against the wall behind. I shrank in my seat: Varvara’s hair flamed around her head and shoulders. She held a whip in her hand. In her fury and self-righteousness she reminded me of Vassily; how often had he, too, tried to humiliate me? Now the moment had come for her to do me serious harm. At first I froze with fear, as I had done that night in my former master’s kitchen. But I was not a nameless serf or a maid anymore who had to duck and seek cover, hoping for the best. I had slept in the Tsar’s arms, however far away that moment felt now – almost as far away as Peter himself was. Who could protect me? No one but myself. She walked over to me, her bare feet soundless on the tiled floor between rugs and furs, and raised my chin with the end of her whip. ‘So you’re back after your little stay in the Kremlin!’ she said, with a nasty smile.

  I smiled back at her and took up my embroidery again, which made her furious, as I’d expected it would. She screamed: ‘That’s the thanks one gets for picking up dirt like you from the street – trying to take my place in Peter’s life?’

  The whip snapped through the air. God knows, I’d mastered the art of dodging blows as a child when my stepmother came for me and I was off the sofa in a flash. The whip tore into the silk cushion, making it rip, and Varvara stared at the damage, as if surprised not to have hurt me instead. I used this short respite to tackle her around the thighs and knees and she tumbled to the floor with me. Her hands closed about my neck, where her fingers and nails dug into my flesh. I gasped for air as she squeezed my throat tighter; I frantically scrabbled for the whip, but her nails seemed to be everywhere at once. I felt a smarting scratch at my cleavage and yelped with pain. In my despair, I grabbed her hair, twisted it around my fingers and tore out a clump. She howled and lashed at me, but I spun away.

  ‘I didn’t take Peter from you. The Tsar isn’t interested in some tart who humps anything on legs. I bet you go down a treat in Menshikov’s stables!’ I spat the words in her face. She screamed and swung at my head, pushing me backwards into the edge of the mantelpiece, banging my head into it. She raised her whip again and took aim. I tried to duck away, and lunged from the fireplace towards the door, but she was quicker, grabbing me by my hair and pulling me backwards. I screamed as a red-hot pain seared through my scalp and neck. My head was yanked around and my body followed, as helpless as a rag doll.

  ‘Look at me before I kill you,’ she said, her words ringing with triumph. Look at me before I kill you. Vassily had said the same thing to me on that terrible night in the kitchen. In despair, my hands shot up, nails aiming for Varvara’s face. I hit her straight in the eyes and dug in as hard as I could. She screamed and let go and I gave her a desperate kick in the stomach, which made her double over with pain. Now! I thought, but when I tried to get to my feet, I felt so dizzy I sank down again. Varvara stumbled towards me, looking deadly: her skin ashen, mouth snarling. She placed one foot on the hem of my dress. ‘Stay still, Marta. So I can take better aim,’ she said. ‘I’ll slice you to pieces and feed you to the dogs. What shall we start with? Ah, yes, your face . . .’ I curled up, raising my arms and folding them over my head, trembling and crying – no, finally sobbing properly, openly, without shame. I had gambled and lost. But the blow never came.

  ‘What the Devil is going on here? Can’t you womenfolk be left alone for a minute?’

  I only just dared a glance, for I couldn’t believe my ears: Peter, whom I had imagined far beyond the Sparrow Hills, dragged Varvara backwards by her hair. She was whimpering with pain and crying.

  ‘You, Fury, away with you to your rooms,’ he ordered, snatching at the whip. Back to her room? So she could finish me off the moment he left for real? My heart stalled; I had to do something, anything! In my despair, I tore free one of his mother’s earrings. As the catch snapped, blood dripped from my earlobe onto my dress.

  ‘Oh, Peter, look what she has done!’ I cried. Tears streamed down my face, as the shock and the pain were real enough. Blood trickled down my neck and there was an angry red weal on my bosom from Varvara’s attack. ‘She hates me,’ I sobbed. ‘She wants to kill me, just because I adore you. Look what she’s done to your mother’s earring.’ My eyes briefly locked with Varvara’s, who had gone ashen.

  ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘It’s not true! I didn’t touch the earring.’

  ‘My matka,’ Peter murmured, his finger tenderly trailing over my cheek, down to my chest where blood blended with my tears. But as I’d hoped, it was the sight of his mother’s broken earring that pushed him over the edge. Wielding the whip aloft, it seemed for a moment as though he would hit Varvara, who stumbled backwards, pressing her hand to her mouth.

  Peter’s face twitched with rage. ‘I never want to see you again, witch! Off to the spinning mills with you.’ The whip sliced through the air, narrowly missing Varvara’s head, and she took to her heels. I sent a little prayer of thanks to whichever god might be listening: they richly deserved it. Peter knelt by my side, stroked my forehead and cupped my face, which was shiny with tears.

  ‘My girl. Matka. That happened on my account,’ he whispered, and I shivered while he rocked me gently back and forth. I threw my arms around his neck and wept and wept and wept, dampening his uniform. I felt him melting towards me: She
remetev’s feeling for my utter helplessness had been my salvation in Marienburg. Now Peter’s pity and my show of loyalty and love for him should save me twice over!

  ‘Hush now . . . shh, shh,’ he said awkwardly, not letting go of me.

  The door opened and Menshikov and Daria returned, her arms laden with small parcels from the gostiny dvor. She cried out and rushed over when she saw the state of me; Peter made sure I could stand, kissing my forehead once more. Then he took some gold coins from a pouch and held them out to Menshikov.

  ‘Here, take them, Alekasha,’ Peter commanded.

  ‘For what?’ Menshikov asked, hooking his thumbs into the loops of his belt. What had got into him? Menshikov hesitating before an offer of gold was something none of us had seen before.

  ‘For the girl, of course.’ Peter pointed at me. My heart was pounding. Did that mean he’d be taking me with him, that I would be his?

  But Menshikov would not take the coins: I dared not breathe. What was he playing at? I’d got the better of Varvara this time round, but if she got a chance before leaving, she would kill me. Alexander Danilovich shook his head. ‘Marta isn’t for sale, my lord and master.’ In the silence that followed his statement, I trembled in Daria’s arms. What did Menshikov want?

  Peter frowned and rummaged for more money. ‘There you go, you greedy dog. Sometimes I’ve a mind to take a whip to you!’

  Menshikov knelt and took Peter’s hand in his, kissing the Tsar’s fingers. ‘I kiss the hand that blesses Russia. My Tsar’s hand, to whom his underling, Alexander Danilovich Menshikov, can sell nothing, but only make a present to His Majesty of his heart’s desire.’

  It took me a moment to understand his words, but Daria embraced me. ‘You belong to the Tsar now, lucky girl. Make something of it, Marta,’ she whispered.

  Menshikov beamed. ‘Mijnheer Peter, allow me to give you the girl Marta as a gift!’

  ‘So be it,’ Peter shouted as he flung an arm round Menshikov’s shoulders, blew me a kiss and drew his friend out into the hall. ‘We’re going to celebrate,’ he called over his shoulder to me. ‘Celebrate properly. Pack your things, Marta, and have them taken to the Kremlin. I’ll see you tonight.’

  Daria and I held each other for a few moments more. When she let go of me, I still trembled, but she cupped my face and steadied me. ‘You must fall pregnant soon, Marta,’ she urged me. ‘Anna Mons never had a child. It cost her her power and his love. Nothing brings such joy to a man, and a Tsar, as a son. Nothing will bind him more strongly to you.’ I wiped my tears away and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Your advice will be forever in my heart.’

  Then I turned to the door. To my surprise, Varvara had dared come out of her quarters again, pale and crying with rage, fingers pressed to one damaged eye. I weighed my options carefully. True, she was Daria’s sister and I did not wish to hurt my friend by causing even more trouble. At the same time, I knew Varvara could easily bribe a maid who knew her potions, as she had done with Anna Mons, and then I would be left as barren as Peter’s mistress had been. I stretched out one hand, holding my torn dress to me with the other, with as much dignity as I could muster. ‘Kiss my fingers, Varvara, and I shall ask the Tsar for mercy, for your sister’s sake. Not the spinning mills for you, but a fine, far-flung convent, where you can praise the Lord every morning for the rest of your life.’

  Varvara, bubbling snot and water at the bleak turn her life had taken, choking back anger and with her teeth audibly gnashing, took my fingers and kissed their tips.

  I spent Peter’s last two nights in Moscow with him in his bed. The evening before he left for the field he fell asleep on my breast like a sated child, and in the morning tenderly kissed me farewell. ‘You are a free woman, Marta. Should anything happen to me, the master of my household, Pavel Jagushinsky, will give you fifty gold ducats. You’ll be able to build a new life with that.’

  I opened my mouth to thank him, then stopped myself. ‘Nothing will happen to you, ever,’ I said tenderly. ‘My love will protect you, always.’

  He laughed as though it were a joke and nuzzled my chilly fingertips. ‘That is good, matka!’

  When the Tsar and his men rode out of the Kremlin gates, the whole city lay frozen, floating in a bubble of ice. The chill reached my heart: had I been left behind, ready to be forgotten and moved on from, as he did with Moscow? I could not allow that to happen.

  33

  The nobles’ palaces on the streets around the Kremlin and the Red Square were bereft of masters, who were once more in the field with their Tsar. In the gostiny dvor womenfolk were serving, and the Moscow damy employed Swedish prisoners-of-war as tutors for their sons. Soon these men spoke Russian with an endearing accent and had mastered our latest dances as well as other kinds of games. The following year some of the oldest Russian families would be blessed with athletic, blond, blue-eyed offspring. My days in Moscow were comfortable, bright and full of life, my needs tended to by Pavel Jagushinsky. Yet I felt restless. I had heard nothing from the Tsar, who had moved back towards the West to keep the Swedes at bay. Was he simply too busy to write or had he forgotten me? Oh, I knew about the whores and washerwomen in the camps, and that Peter slept well only with skin against his, warming him and keeping the nightmares at bay. Or, worse still, was he ill or had he been wounded? The thought made my heart race. No, I would have heard about that. If my fate was proving elusive, I must seek it out.

  It was one of the first days of spring. The wan sunshine was still grappling for the strength it would need to rule the night. Rays crept through the small windowpanes of the Kremlin and made the dust dance on the stack of papers on the desk in the cabinet secretary’s office.

  The young scribe looked at me uneasily when I held out the Imperial double seal. Makarov, the cabinet secretary, who had left with Peter, kept it in Moscow in case of an emergency and for ukazy issued during the Tsar’s travels and campaigns. ‘No, Marta. Do you know the punishment for misuse of the Tsar’s seal? Death by suffocation. They don’t just strangle you, they pour molten metal down your throat. Why not simply ask the Tsar if you so wish to join his camp?’

  ‘Because I can’t write and because he will not grant it. He doesn’t want any women in the encampment – beyond what is necessary,’ I added, blushing.

  ‘Well, that’s that, then,’ the scribe said, his arms folded. As stubborn as a mule, this one, I thought, and pushed the seal towards him once more. ‘You’ll come to no harm,’ I coaxed. ‘On the contrary.’

  He got up and looked out of the window onto the busy Red Square: merchants touted their wares; lepers rang the bells on their wrists to clear their way; children ran races; the sedan chairs of the damy passed one another, servants obediently stopping for their mistresses’ quick exchanges; priests kept one hand on their head coverings in the blustery wind; people took a break from their daily business in the coffee houses.

  ‘No,’ he said, his hands dug into his pockets. My heart sank. In a moment he’d ask me to leave so that he could get on with his work. I thought quickly: the scribe was a young man from a simple background, just like Makarov himself. Hadn’t he recently married the daughter of Peter’s second stable-master? Yes, I had seen her; she was heavy with child. The needs of a young family were many. I reached into my money pouch, but all I found there was an altyn. The coin, worth three kopeks, was the last of my funds. No matter. It would be well spent, I hoped, and would buy the baby some fine lacy linen.

  ‘Prepare the pass and let the Tsar’s seal be my concern,’ I whispered.

  He looked at the altyn, gleaming brightly against the dark wood of his desk, and then slipped it out of sight. The ink dripped thick and black onto a small sponge from the sharpened tip of the quill. He filled a sheet of paper with long, graceful curves. When he was finished, he stretched, winked at me and said, ‘I’ll just nip into the hallway to see whether the messenger from the West has arrived.’

  Before he left, he pushed a lump of wax as well as
the candle towards me. He didn’t want to be in the room to see this done in case it cost him his neck. I worked as swiftly as I could with trembling fingers, his fear contagious. Was I sealing my own death warrant? The hot wax dripped onto the paper at the very place where the words stopped. Once the layer was thick enough, I reached for the forbidden seal and pressed it down firmly, so that the crimson double-eagle both rose and sank on the thick, oozing mass, proud and threatening.

  ‘You are mad,’ Daria said while she watched me go through my clothes. ‘What can I do to hold you back?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ I smiled at her. ‘You know me, I have to go. What if he forgets me, or meets someone else to replace me?’

  ‘True. Then do me a favour at least and let these be,’ she said, taking the lacy underwear and fine gowns from my arms.

  ‘But –’

  ‘No ifs and buts. I’ll get you some men’s clothes from Menshikov’s staff. Though their bosoms are not quite as big as yours,’ she said, giggling. ‘We also have to cut your hair . . .’

  ‘No!’ I said in horror, touching my beloved locks. ‘I will pin it up and that will do, together with a flat Polish hat that I can pull low over my forehead.’

  ‘As you wish. But promise me: breasts in, belly out, Marta. And keep that cloak closed.’

  I promised and she gave me not only a little money, but better still, a companion who was a good shot: Peter Andreyevich Tolstoy. He was on his way to Peter’s camp, from where he was to be sent as an envoy to Constantinople. If he was less than keen on taking a young woman with him through the wild vastness of Russia, he didn’t let on.

  We left Moscow in late March. When we reached the Sparrow Hills, I halted my horse and looked back, remembering my arrival some months earlier. Smoke rose out of countless chimneys, and domes and spires reached proudly into the dense spring sky. I’d miss Moscow, whatever Peter decided to do.