38
We made our field quarters in Kiev, where Peter wanted Ekaterina and me to be comfortable, so I dictated long lists of necessary supplies to Makarov, who sent them first to Arkhangelsk and then west by ship. Patiently, the secretary repeated to my companion Daria and me the Tsar’s own orders: ‘A full English porcelain service, hand-painted with rural scenes, in blue, to serve forty-eight people. Thirteen bales of striped taffeta and several bales of Indian fabrics with various woven floral and square patterns. Twelve barrels of olives and two barrels of anchovies . . .’
I snapped my fingers. ‘I want stockings! The Polish ones run after the first ride. And when I am with Peter I need warm feet, otherwise I am in a bad mood. That’s the last thing he needs now. And you, Daria? What do you order for yourself ?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Italian balm for my hands, pickled lemons, silk from Amsterdam and rolls of Brussels lace.’
‘And a golden wedding ring,’ I said with a giggle, but instead of laughing Daria looked as if she might cry. I was ashamed to have hurt her, and immediately embraced her. ‘Forgive me. You’ve been by Menshikov’s side for almost nine years. Surely you are as good as married?’
‘You have no idea what’s been happening,’ she sobbed. ‘Menshikov has decided to marry, but not me. He has fallen in love with a Princess Saltykova. The slut is only fifteen years old and last night he told me he wanted to marry her and sire a dozen children, whilst I should retire to my family estate and await further orders.’
‘What? This beggars belief.’
Makarov hastily stashed his papers and bowed his way out; Daria was so furious that she grabbed a small silver candlestick and threw it after the fleeing cabinet secretary. ‘Just run away, coward! You men are all the same.’ Then she flung herself at me. ‘Oh, Marta. She is young, beautiful and of a much better family than mine. I’ve given him my best years. Who will want me now?’ She pressed her fists against her swollen eyes. ‘He’s only crazy about her because he cannot have her! Her family does not allow him a single second alone with her and he scribbles one horrible love poem after the next to her, war or no war, battle or no battle. While I am always available. How interesting is that?’
I listened in silence and picked up Ekaterina, kissing her hair. Daria’s tears had smudged her white face paint, which made her look even more careworn. She was almost twenty-three years old, like me. If she still wanted children, she had better get on with it. I kissed her, then pulled her to her feet. ‘We will find a way, Daria,’ I said, as reassuringly as I could. ‘Go home, have a hot bath and then drink some warm milk with honey, so you can sleep. Trust me, and do not worry.’
I hoped it comforted her because I certainly didn’t believe it myself. Peter and I laughed and drank and carried on so much in Kiev’s bright nights that I was sure to be pregnant again soon. But what if he thought of marrying a young princess, for Russia’s sake? I could imagine my fate then, as well as Ekaterina’s. The thought chilled me like an icy wind.
When Daria’s litter left, Ekaterina played at my feet with one of Peter’s old pipe stumps and sucked on a carved Russian double eagle. Her sweet saliva changed it into a bulky, formless clot. Sunlight made her silky blonde head shine; she looked like an angel. I picked her up. ‘Come. Let’s go and see your father,’ I whispered, and she smiled.
‘What do I care about Menshikov and his trouble with women?’ Peter looked up from a map he was studying. To the west, the Swedes held Saxony; to the east, the Don Cossacks and their Ataman Bulavin were staging a revolt, while the Porte in Istanbul was also readying itself to pounce. Russia was utterly beleaguered, ready to be sliced up by her enemies in a peerless, hitherto unimaginable feast. Had Peter pushed our luck too far?
‘Women,’ he snorted, before continuing to scribble his notes, which he sent out every evening in all directions. He had already forgotten my presence, but I would not give up so easily.
‘What do you mean by that? Daria has given him her best years. Should she now watch him marry a younger woman?’
Peter shrugged. ‘But of course. What else do you imagine? Daria has the worst reputation. I myself have chosen the Princess Saltykova for Menshikov. She’s a juicy little thing, but horribly well guarded. He must put a ring on her finger to get her, which is as it should be with a girl of good family. I shall stand godfather to each and every son she bears him.’ He smiled and fingered the ribbons on my dress. ‘Perhaps we, too, should get on with having more children than just our sweet Ekaterina?’
I pushed him away.
‘What are you thinking, woman?’ he hissed, but I stood firm. Was I really only fighting for Daria? No, I was not.
Peter sighed. ‘All right. Listen. So far, I did not want an ambitious marriage for Menshikov, for he shouldn’t get too above himself and too greedy. But he has proved himself in battle as well as in life. I can now reward him without any eyebrows being raised. My love for him can no longer be labelled blind and unjust. When the times are better, I will also make him a Prince of Russia. For this, he needs the right woman by his side.’
I was stunned: besides the members of the Tsar’s family, no one had ever been a Prince of Russia. Nobody was born to that rank, even a Tsarevich had to earn the title. Peter leant in to embrace me while I trembled with rage. ‘I see. The Princess Saltykova is a “juicy little thing”, is she? Well, just to be clear: for as long as Menshikov does not marry Daria, you are no longer welcome in my bed. He is to keep his word. His bloody, bloody word!’ I sobbed as I spoke for I had just put everything I had gained at risk: for Daria, for Ekaterina and, last but not least, for myself.
Peter grabbed his chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. I backed away. ‘It’s my bed, not yours, Marta. Nothing in this world belongs to you. Nothing! You are as poor as the Baltics.’ In all the years we had been together we had never quarrelled; no raised voices, no long, ghastly silence. And now this! It hit me like a cudgel. I could hardly breathe and my chest tightened as if under an iron band. I held Ekaterina, who wept and clung to my neck, tightly. I felt her heart race and buried my face in her hair, which smelled of honey and sunlight. Peter avoided my eyes but looked at his little daughter, pain in his face.
‘That is not true, Peter. I do own something. I have my pride and my freedom, which you gave me. If you think like that about Daria, what then do you think about me? If Menshikov will not be held to his word, will you? What is to happen to me . . . to us . . . if you meet some other princess who is a “juicy little thing”? I prefer to leave before I am driven away,’ I said as calmly as I could, swallowed my tears and turned to leave.
He crossed his arms. ‘Where will you go? What will you live on?’
I gave no answer but left the room.
‘Marta! Stay here. Stay. That is an order!’ he shouted, but I closed the door behind me. Once I was in the corridor all the strength drained out of me, like water from one of Felten’s sieves. I sank onto my heels, leant against the wall and hugged my child to me. I gasped and tried to suppress sobs, but then like a dam burst I cried so much that I had to wipe the snot from my face. Ekaterina touched me with her little hands, eyes dark with worry, and muttered the few half-words she could say.
Inside Peter’s room, I heard wood splinter. That would be his chair, I thought, or the desk. He shouted with rage. I steadied myself, picked up Ekaterina with trembling hands and went to my room. ‘Pack my things,’ I ordered my maidservant, wiping my face. Crying would not help me. What had I done? I might have to give Kolomenskoye back, but the jewellery and the gowns belonged to me. I could sell those. And then? I’d have to learn how to read, write and count. But lesser minds than mine had managed that. In the gostiny dvor there was certainly room for another shop. I could become a merchant and afford an education for Ekaterina. She should enter into a proper marriage; a bond in which she was loved and honoured. No one was to treat my daughter as I had been treated.
For two days and nights I heard nothing from Peter. I
paced the house while he turned all his thoughts to the threat of the approaching Swedes. By day, he drew up plans for his army; at night, he whored his way through Kiev, striking fear in the heart of the most battle-hardened girls. I swallowed more laudanum than I should in order to be able to sleep. Sometimes I woke drowsily and listened. Did I hear footsteps halting in front of my door? Maybe. I knew that in his anger he could throw bolts of lightning then feel sorry for the blaze he had caused, doing all he could to extinguish its flames. But not this time. Had we both gone too far? Peter never came into my room – if he had been there in the passageway at all – and I slipped back into an unhealthy, intoxicated slumber. I suffered like an animal, as despite his words, I still loved him and it hurt me to see him suffer. Normally, I would have stood by him and Russia in this difficult hour. But now was not a normal time. My pain at the harsh words we had exchanged mounted. Of course I had known about his temper, but so far I had only witnessed his rage against others and sought to mellow it, never been at the receiving end of it myself. I had to do what I had to do, for how could I live with him if he did not respect me?
Finally, there was no reason left to delay my departure. My chests were packed and tightly chained and locked, as I was to cross the war-torn countryside from Kiev to Moscow. When I asked Peter for an armed escort, he had Makarov reply that he could not spare a single man at the moment.
It was a sunny morning in late August. The golden roofs of Kiev were damp and glistening with dew when I stepped into the courtyard of our low, dark house. In my arms, Ekaterina looked around in surprise: we were leaving the only home she knew. There was no turning back, even if I had to force myself forward, step by step.
Makarov and Felten were standing in the doorway, looking so downtrodden that I embraced both of them and pressed small medals embossed with the image of St Nicholas into their palms, folding their fingers around the charms. ‘You have been my loyal friends. Please be the Tsar’s faithful servants in this hour of need. And when you come to Moscow, come and see me in my shop.’
Makarov shuffled his feet and Felten wiped his eyes with his for once clean apron, before he handed me a bag of warm, freshly made fudge for Ekaterina. I swallowed and tasted salt. Was I throwing my whole life away? There ought to be another way forward, as there had always been in my life so far. Servants lifted my boxes onto the carts; I climbed into the carriage and reached out for Ekaterina, who would travel on my lap. Don’t cry, I ordered myself through gritted teeth: do not cry! I had ample time for that once we had passed the city gates. I waved to the men again and Felten sobbed like a child.
The coachman clicked his tongue and raised his whip, flicking it over the back of the horses. I was ready to settle into the cushion when I was flung forward: the wagon jerked to a sudden halt and the horses dug in their hooves, for the Tsar’s hand gripped the reins with all its might.
39
Daria’s wedding to Alexander Danilovich Menshikov was a quiet but joyful event. Peter had ordered that we celebrate it in the European way. Daria just shrugged her shoulders. When the morning before the ceremony, I scrubbed her skin rosy and glowing with a pumice stone, she told me, ‘I’d marry him wrapped in a net. That he becomes mine is all that matters.’
Menshikov glowered when he stepped under his groom’s crown with a representation of Christ embossed along its golden rim; but Daria was radiant in her dress made of ivory silk and silver-thread embroidery. Her bridal crown depicted Our Lady. The light of the hundreds of candles that Peter had provided made her shimmer like the moon itself as she stepped into the dusky little church in Kiev. I wept with happiness.
After the wedding not even the proximity of Swedish troops hindered us from celebrating as we should, with drinking games and dancing. Just before the ashen morning hour, we stepped out into a balmy summer night and I felt the dewy grass as fresh as a promise under my naked soles, for I had left my embroidered slippers under the festive table. The afternoon I had swum naked in the Dvina had never felt further away. I shrank back when the first firework burst suddenly above our heads: Peter’s very special surprise for Menshikov. He embraced me from behind and whispered the words that glowed in the sky: ‘Vivant. That means: may they live – and long and happily. Look now, the next display will spell out: Connected by their love!’ I marvelled at the light and glory of it, and clapped my hands with joy, before we all coughed and wiped the soot from our faces.
That morning, after making love, my breasts were wet with Peter’s tears. He raised his head, looking bewildered. I combed his dark curls away from his lined forehead. ‘You must never leave me, Marta,’ he pleaded. ‘I am only a human being when you are with me. If you ever leave or forsake me, I am but an animal.’
Marriage was not too bad for Menshikov: only three months later Daria was pregnant and he pranced about as proudly as the peacocks he had ordered from Persia for his St Petersburg palace on the Vassilyev Island. Peter stood godfather to Daria’s baby boy the following May, offering the child several villages with thousands of souls and a bale of fine Amsterdam cloth for his christening robe. But the little one died before he began teething and then Daria and I were linked by a different bond.
By autumn, when the still-supple summer earth was preparing for the first great frost, Peter was merely trying to avoid open battle with the Swedes for as long as possible: he lacked the means to win. But then he found an ally to strike fear into the bravest soldier’s heart. An ally who had always been by his side, silently and almighty: Russia herself.
When I heard the words for the first time, they chilled the blood in my veins: scorched earth. I remembered my own hunger during the short siege of Marienburg. And the Swedes were to endure a whole winter of it? There could be no crueller plan.
Charles was about to march on Moscow, boasting he would dethrone Peter and shatter the Russian Empire into small Swedish provinces. Was this to be our end?
Peter stood in his study in Kiev, looking at maps of the Ukraine. Deep furrows lined his forehead, and for the first time I noticed sharp lines at the corners of his mouth. Dark shadows lay under his eyes and his cheeks were gaunt. When had he last had a square meal? I seemed to have breakfasted, lunched and dined with Daria all the time in recent weeks.
General Major Nikolai Iflant ran his finger over a chart and explained: ‘Charles will move his men along here, but the country is hardly cultivated. There are few villages, and the forests are so dense that men and livestock can easily hide in them for months, if necessary. Scorched earth is a Cossack tactic, my Tsar. When an enemy approaches, they set fire to everything . . .’
‘Everything?’ Peter asked, his eyebrows arched.
‘Everything. The Swedes will be left with nothing to eat. Winter is coming. Charles marches into frost and famine. I tell you, no army conquers as well as scorched earth and the Russian winter working together.’
I paused at my embroidery: Peter looked pale, but as keen as an unsheathed blade. His blue eyes were gleaming as he laid his hand heavily on Iflant’s shoulder. ‘That’s it, Nikolai. Scorched earth. Give the order.’
I knew what this meant to the little izby. As soon as the enemy set foot in the Ukraine, millstones would be smashed to gravel and all food, be it growing in the fields, waiting in the threshing houses or stored in the grain-chambers, and which was not necessary for the survival of our own army, was to be burnt. Fire would devour all houses, all churches and all stables; bridges would be tumbled into rivers, their rocks and stones damming up the water. Forests and embankments would be turned into walls of flames. People who refused to follow orders would have to watch their whole village being torched before they were killed by their own side, Peter’s soldiers.
‘What will happen to the people who live there?’ I dared to ask, my voice husky.
Iflant shrugged. ‘They will be sent into the remaining forests, along with their cattle and everything they can carry. It sounds cruel, but it’s for the sake of Russia. We all pay.’
; Peter paced the room like a captive animal. His old uniform jacket hung on his too tall, too bony body. What did he live off? Brandy, some kasha in the morning, and a few bites of whatever he found in the evening.
‘And when the Russian winter comes?’ I whispered.
Peter smiled for the first time in a long, long while. ‘Oh, matka. I can’t wait to greet him, the Russian winter, this most loyal friend who does my every bidding. For if we Russians think the winter cruel, what will the Swedes feel? They shall be culled like cattle.’
The following night Ekaterina fell ill. She had been coughing for a while, but now she gasped for air, wheezing and crying, holding her little ear, which was as red as fire inside. We tried everything to lower her fever; Blumentrost bled her several times and, oh, how bravely my little girl held up when the hot glasses were placed on her tender back. She sobbed, but bit her lip and pressed my fingers, which I clenched. The doctors bathed her in ice water and I felt like hitting Blumentrost but was about to allow her treatment with mercury when our little daughter died.
Peter was numb with pain but threw himself into the preparations for scorched earth, disappearing night and day into his study with his generals and advisers. His spirit and his soul were caught up in the struggle for Russia’s survival. Though I failed to understand his distance from my mourning in those days, I heard him dictate a letter to a friend who had lost his son: ‘I am so very sorry about your loss of a fine boy, but it is better to let go of the irretrievable rather than recall it; we have a path laid before us, which is known only to God. The child is now in heaven, the place we all want to be, disdaining this inconstant life.’
And so, when he clung to me at night, tormented by nightmares, his words reached me, even though he could only speak them to others and not to me. But if I had been devastated by the death of my little sons, then my mourning for Ekaterina, our daughter who was talking and learning and giving us both so much joy, was like falling into a deep, dark well that had no bottom and from which I thought I could never emerge. Soon, I was pregnant again, but where the love for Ekaterina had burnt so warm and bright, a dark chasm of bitterness stayed within me, which I believed nothing would ever close.
Tsarina Page 24
