‘What are you doing?’ Peter cried. ‘Now we will never find our way back to Russia.’
I locked eyes with him. ‘Nobody shall ever know that the Tsar of All the Russias wanted to run away like a common thief. You would become the laughing stock of all Europe and destroy everything you’ve ever built.’
After a moment of silence, he asked: ‘What do you suggest instead, Catherine Alexeyevna?’ How formal my name sounded all of a sudden.
‘I am going to get my jewels, Peter. All my jewellery. Everything that you in your love and generosity have ever given me. More gems than the fat, greedy Sultan has ever seen. Sheremetev and Shafirov are to hand over the loot – as a gift, with my sincere respect to the ruler of the High Porte of Constantinople, the Prince of the Golden Gate. And then . . .’ I grabbed his wrist.
‘And then?’
‘Then we negotiate,’ I said calmly, even though my heart pounded.
Wind chased away the clouds and the slim moonlight made Peter’s face look gaunt and his eyes huge and shiny. He tenderly touched my cheek. ‘At heart, you are a man. Perhaps you should rule Russia, not I. At least for tonight,’ he quickly added.
I returned to our tent, where two large studded oak chests contained my most precious possessions. I draped several Persian scarves over the floor, dragged the chests to the middle of the tent and tipped them over, their sparkling contents cascading like a waterfall of wealth: pearls and beads, strings of sapphires, rubies and emeralds mounted on breast crosses, jewelled hairpins, rings, earrings, bracelets, brooches, tiaras, chokers and ropes of pearls.
I knelt to eye the treasure and my chest tightened: this was everything I had. Tokens of Peter’s love, surely, but also my only security against his whims – such as the danger still that he would marry a European princess – as well as those of fate. What if he were to die tomorrow? I combed my fingers through the jewellery, untangling the strands of pearls from the other pieces. Peter had always spoilt me on my name-day, each Easter, at Christmas, and of course every time I had given birth. There was the tiara made of pearls, rose-quartz, tourmalines, blue topaz and thinly beaten gold, which I had worn a year ago in my hair, dressed up as a flower fairy, together with the matching necklace and bracelets.
I sifted through the jewels as if they were pebbles in the Dvina, letting diamonds run through my fingers like droplets of the river where I swam in my youth. They were magnificent and the finest stones Russia had to offer. To please me, Peter pushed his jewellers to use larger and more unusual gems, such as green or yellow diamonds, and to set them in new ways. I liked my necklaces to reach my breasts or even dip between them, a cascade of dazzling light and wealth. I gladly accepted the ache a tiara gave me in my head and neck – and held my chin even higher with pride. An earring had to brush my shoulder, competing with a chandelier’s lustre, for me to consider it worth wearing. After a feast, I loved the cool feeling of the gems and precious metal against my heated skin and often Peter had made love to me when I wore nothing but these stones. Now the Sultan would break them apart.
I searched for and found the earrings that had once belonged to Peter’s mother, his first gift to me. I hooked them into my earlobes. I also took a bracelet made up of tiny portraits of Peter, Anna and Elizabeth, and their faces smiled up at me from the diamond-studded miniatures when I snapped the clasp shut. Just then, I spotted the ring that Peter had given me in Kiev to mark our darling little Ekaterina’s first birthday. It was a huge, heart-shaped yellow diamond set in a simple band of gold; the goldsmith had worked one of Ekaterina’s blonde curls into the band. I slid it on my finger, got up and gathered the rest of the jewels into a couple of bulky bundles. Good riddance, I thought. When I looked up, Shafirov and Sheremetev’s son were waiting in the doorway.
‘Take it all,’ I said, and soldiers hoisted the bundles on their shoulders.
A small group of men left the camp at the first sign of dawn, swiftly moving into the desert. I watched them leave. My throat burned with thirst, but my eyes remained dry. Peter stood silent beside me. When the men had disappeared, he pulled a ring set with a big, round ruby from his finger, placed it in my limp palm and closed my fingers around it.
‘Let us never forget what you have done today, for me and for Russia. I shall pay back my debts to you, double and triple. Let us also never forget the bravery of Shafirov and Colonel Sheremetev. Who knows if they’ll come back alive?’
I slipped the ring into the little pouch that hung on my belt. I wouldn’t need it until much later.
The Grand Vizier accepted my gift for the Sultan with an appreciative clicking of his tongue. He graciously consented to peace negotiations in which Russia was robbed of all and everything. The Treaty of Pruth returned Azov to the Ottoman Empire, and all Russian fortresses along the Black Sea were to be razed. Peter Shafirov had to stay in Istanbul as hostage. He was to join Peter Tolstoy in the Seven Towers, a prison feared for its dank dark cells. I gave my word to look after his daughters and honour the Tsar’s promise of marrying them to a prince each. It took us two years and a new peace treaty to regain his freedom, together with Tolstoy’s.
When we were close to St Petersburg on our return, Peter stopped his horse on a hillside, seizing my reins and lacing his fingers with mine. ‘Catherine Alexeyevna, marry me as soon as the ice on the Neva thinks about melting,’ he asked solemnly.
The plains lay peacefully in the evening sun. The star-shaped walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress turned crimson in the dying light of the day, while the water of the Neva shimmered green and mysterious. How beautiful my home was; how glad I was finally to return here. We had lost the war, but I had triumphed.
‘Did you hear me?’ Peter asked, but still I had no answer for him. The evening mist rose from the marshes, hiding the city like a veil and spicing its dew with our dreams and desires.
53
My wedding to the Tsar of All the Russias took place almost ten years after the fall of Marienburg. It was a decade since I had entered Alexander Danilovich Menshikov’s tent, when I’d had dirty feet, worn a hand-me-down tunic and slept wherever I could roll out my bedding.
In my bedroom in the Winter Palace I sat with my legs crossed, touching the soft soles of my feet; the feet of a woman whose skin was peeled and pampered every week in the banja before she was anointed with a paste of almond oil and lime juice. A woman who barely walked a step too far, and then only when wearing velvet slippers. How much would the pointed pebbles and sharp stones on the banks of the Dvina hurt my feet today? I thought, wiggling my pink toes with pleasure.
With a light knock, Alexandra Tolstoya and Daria slipped into the room: I peered at them from between my fingers when they curtseyed deeply. Oh, God, no! Daria was already wiping tears from her eyes. I scolded her for it. ‘We will all cry so much today, do not start now.’
My chambermaid drew back the Chinese silk curtains from the window and morning light flooded the warm, cosy room, where the fire in the Delft-tiled stove had been alight throughout the night. I pushed aside my breakfast of pancakes and hot chocolate and opened my arms to my visitors. ‘Very well then, let’s weep together. I cannot believe it either,’ I sobbed, and they both rushed across to embrace me.
‘Come here.’ I patted my sheets and they climbed onto my bed, giggling like girls, even though they were already dressed, coiffed and adorned for the celebration. Their new brooches with my intricately laced and diamond-studded initials sparkled as badges of honour on their breasts: Peter had made them my official ladies-in-waiting. Daria poked me and laughed. ‘Get up, Tsaritsa! You cannot marry in bed.’
‘Why not? In bed Peter has learnt to love me,’ replied
My chambermaid curtseyed to us. ‘The parikmacher, Tsaritsa.’ The hairdresser bowed and entered, carefully carrying the high powdered wig he had made for me; behind him I spotted the tailor with his two apprentices, and a footman, who carried my wedding dress.
‘Eat and drink, the day will be long,’ I told my ladies.
I slid from the bed and skipped on my bare feet to the window like a girl would. Daria and Alexandra laughed with their mouths full: ‘Dance, Tsaritsa, dance!’ they chanted before eating more pancakes. Daria was now as chubby and soft as a cushion due to her weakness for good food.
On the shining ice of the Neva skaters slid and spun in circles; sleds decorated with cheerful bunting and wreaths and garlands of evergreen skidded along. The sky was a dense blue and the white winter sun gave the city a glossy, almost unreal look, with trees and bushes apparently wrought from silver and houses built of sheer crystal. It was a kingdom of ice, and I was to be its queen. Trumpets sounded and cannon salutes rang out. St Petersburg was about to celebrate our wedding with pride. The joy to be felt in this crisp morning seized me; I was not only part of it, but at its very heart. I gave a sob, but Daria chided me, ‘I cannot do your make-up when you cry, Marta.’
‘Catherine Alexeyevna,’ I corrected her, which made me cry even more. That morning I heard my old name for the last time as before the mirror framed with silver and mother-of-pearl, Marta, the soul born out of wedlock, gifted with a desperate heart and a growling stomach, disappeared forever. Into her place stepped Catherine Alexeyevna, who returned my amazed look with the proud gaze of a Tsaritsa. For weeks Peter’s Italian barber had lathered my skin with potions of buttermilk, lemon and vodka, to make my shoulders look like the marble from his home country. My hair had been rinsed in a wash of chestnut, beer and eggs, to give my curls shine and colour after the merciless sun of the Pruth. Thanks to Daria’s droplets of belladonna my eyes were big and bright.
Daria and Alexandra Tolstoya helped me into my wedding gown, woven from silver damask. I gasped when I felt the robe’s full weight on my shoulders but admired its pearl and silver-thread embroidery of birds, butterflies and blossoms; thick, twisted cords of silver held a heavy cloak of blue velvet and ermine in place on top of it. I struggled for balance when I took my two faithful friends by their hands. ‘Daria. Alexandra. Promise to help me never to forget who I am and where I come from.’ Alexandra Tolstoya curtseyed in response and Daria nodded, her eyes as round as saucers.
In my salon, Peter, Menshikov and the Admirals Cruys and Botsis waited: Peter had asked his favourite Dutch sailors, who had helped him set up his fleet, to be his ushers. The Tsar looked so splendid in his uniform that my heart beat faster. He bowed and held out a velvet-covered casket to me.
‘Open it, Catherine,’ he said brightly. ‘My mother wore this crown for her wedding. Now it shall be yours, matka, and our daughters after you.’
I gasped when I saw the delicate diadem with its pearls and yellow and pink diamonds. Peter smiled tenderly as he took it out of the case and everybody clapped. Only the parikmacher made a worried face: how on earth would he fix the crown to my hairstyle? But Peter was already holding out a second casket. ‘You might wear far too many clothes for my taste, but your neck is decidedly too naked.’
I snapped it open and was speechless: on a ten-strand choker, each pearl was as large as a chickpea. It was secured by a clasp, to be displayed in front, depicting the Imperial double eagle in diamonds, rubies and sapphires. Peter placed it around my neck, kissing my shoulders as he did so. ‘This is the foundation for your new collection.’ He winked at me as the clasp snapped shut.
I touched the eagle, which covered my whole throat, and said, ‘This beast is suffocating me.’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said, wrapping his arm around my waist and whispering, ‘Really, when will I be able to tear all these heavy clothes off you?’
The doors to the wider palace were flung open and the sounds of trumpets and drums became deafening. Anna and Elizabeth flew towards us in silver dresses, taffeta trains and lace veils. Peter caught them before they could make me lose my balance. ‘Hey, behave, you little witches, or I will have you thrashed.’ Both of them giggled and Elizabeth tickled her father’s chin and twisted his uniform buttons. She knew that Peter would never raise a hand against her. Oh, if only she were a son, I thought, but reined my thoughts in: not here, not today.
Feofan Prokopovich blessed our union before God and man in the small wooden church of St Isaac. Clouds of incense dulled my mind; sparks of gold and purple danced before my eyes just as they had done so long ago, on my way down to the Dvina, my arms heavy with dirty laundry. The chants and prayers rose and fell all around us. The bridal crown floated over my head. After my vows, Menshikov helped me stand up and steadied me.
After the ceremony, our sleigh flew across the frozen Neva to Alexander Danilovich’s palace, which bloomed with flags and flowers that were brought in from greenhouses on the Krim. Menshikov himself struck the parquet with his diamond-studded staff to let the feast begin. The tall French mirrors on the long walls of the splendid hall reflected images of unbridled joy a hundredfold. When Peter had drunk three bottles of Moldavian wine, two eagle cups filled with Prague beer and a carafe of pear vodka, he swayed to his feet and called over towards my group of damy, ‘Stand up, Anastasia Golizyna, I appoint you Her Majesty’s jester!’
The old princess was still chewing her food and pleadingly raised her hands, but he seized her by the hair and dragged her off her seat: ‘In the middle of the hall with you. Spin, babushka, spin!’
She turned awkwardly in the middle of the hall, more or less in tune with the music. Peter grabbed a piece of smoked salmon and threw it at her cheek, where it clung to her chalky, pasty make-up. Her high powdered wig started to slip. He shouted, ‘Hit and sunk! Now you, Catherinushka, show the old frigate that you are a good shot.’ I laughed myself to tears, took a sip of vodka and threw a chicken wing at Anastasia Golizyna, which hit her smack on the nose.
I whooped with pride and Peter shouted, ‘A salute for the Tsaritsa, who is as good a shot as the best of my men!’ They drew their pistols and fired into the ceiling; stucco and gold leaf rained down on us. At three o’clock in the afternoon the sun set and the fireworks lasted all night long, tinting the houses of St Petersburg in flaming hues of red, blue and gold. For three days afterwards, the smell of soot and gunpowder enveloped the city. In spite of the bitter cold, musicians played in all the squares and streets and people danced outside, wrapped in furs and coats, free wine and vodka warming their veins instead of blood.
The following morning, a procession of vehicles brought Peter and me to the Winter Palace. Menshikov staggered ahead of us to our rooms, shaking sleigh bells that he had nicked from a driver and still far too drunk to mind the din he was making. Shafirov and Peter were holding on to each other, and both Daria Menshikova and Alexandra Tolstoya made rude jokes about my wedding night. When Menshikov was about to throw back the bedcovers, Peter grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. ‘Do not touch my bed with your sooty fingers, you scoundrel,’ he cried, and shoved his old friend towards the door. ‘Out, all of you. I must now fulfil my marital duties with my shy bride.’
Everyone linked arms, laughing and swaying, and it took awhile for their shrieks and singing to fade away down the long corridors of the Winter Palace. The room was warm, the curtains drawn to block out the winter day. My feet ached and my head spun; exhausted, I leant against the wall as Peter stepped up to me. ‘How am I going to take you now, Tsaritsa?’ he asked, his eyes sparkling.
‘Well, how any good sailor would take his girl, Peter Alexeyevich,’ I chuckled, toying with the collar of his uniform.
‘You asked for it,’ he said, loosening my skirt. The heavy fabric fell in folds around my ankles. My bloomers followed and I kicked them aside. He lifted me up as if I were a feather, cupping my buttocks. ‘My wife has the best arse in Russia. If that is not a good reason to marry, I do not know what is,’ he murmured, sucking my nipples, which burst from my half-undone corset. I wrapped my legs in their silk stockings around his hips, before playfully pushing him away, pleading, ‘No, please don’t! I am still a virgin.’
‘Let me do something about that, so help me God!’ Peter roared; I arched and he thrust inside me; I tightene
d my muscles around him and rubbed myself against him.
When I was close to coming, I held him back, whispering, ‘Wait!’ He paused and blew softly over my face as I slowly and lustfully satisfied myself.
When I sighed and placed my moist forehead to his neck, he laughed. ‘My Tsaritsa. You are a soldier indeed.’ I held him tightly as he came inside me. For a while we leant against the wall together, panting, before he let me slide to the ground. He stroked the sweaty hair from his forehead and his eyes were as bright as a boy’s.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Now?’ I laughed. ‘Now we’re going to bed. I’m exhausted. And don’t dare to wake me up before tomorrow evening.’
Peter held me while I slept, slipping dreamlessly into my new life as Tsaritsa of All the Russias. Nothing, or so I was convinced, could ever blight our happiness.
54
St Petersburg was expanding; the spring green of the trees lining the Nevsky Prospect filled me with as much pride as the stately buildings along the Fontanka and Moika shores. Could it really be only ten years ago that Swedes, souls and swine had dwelt here? When the Neva thawed, foreign frigates danced on the waves next to the boats of Russian noble families and merchants. Their houses gladly answered the midday cannon thunder from the Peter and Paul Fortress with pistol shots and volleys.
‘Go ahead and leave me. There’s business to be taken care of,’ Peter said half mockingly, half sadly, when I left for the Neva pier in early May. A new bout of syphilis had left him bedridden for a week; the bloating of his body made him howl with pain. ‘I expect this Mr Schlüter would rather deal with you than with me,’ he murmured.
‘Well, after the long trip from Berlin he will be glad to have firm ground under his feet, no matter who welcomes him.’ In truth I was looking forward to the outing and to some fresh air as I was pregnant again. This child was more than a sign of our love; it celebrated the hopes we had for the new city and a new Russia. Would God finally grant me of His Grace a healthy son? I prayed for it every night before going to bed.
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