As I set foot on the jetty, Wilhelm Mons was there to greet me. I slipped on the wet planks and he caught me, his fingers closing tightly around mine and his four talisman rings cutting into my flesh. I bit my lip so as not to cry out. The sweet pain had accompanied what I most longed for: the touch of his hand. When I looked up, confused, his gaze was deeper than the sea around us. Words of gratitude died on my lips; something long forgotten stirred in my heart, and the sheer force of that feeling robbed me of my breath. My other self, the woman who had hidden in my heart ever since Peter had questioned Alexey, rose from the shadows of my soul, and before I could stop her, she stepped out into the sunlight and replied to Wilhelm’s longing with all her heart.
Nothing more happened, merely the brush of our fingertips and my skin scalded by his touch. I walked up to the palace, not turning to look at him; no, not yet.
That same evening the first of many messengers from the city reached me. Peter wrote to me as he had not done for years: ‘“Matka, where are you? The palace is so empty without you, and no one makes me laugh. I play with Natalya every day, because of all our daughters I find your soul, your wit and your beauty in her. What prince will be good enough for her, one day? Otherwise, I wander from room to room and find you nowhere. But rest well in Peterhof: it’s wonderful to grow old with a loved one . . .”’
I stopped the messenger short. ‘Enough, man, you have a long ride behind you. The gamekeeper has brought pigeons up to the house, go and eat.’
He handed me the crumpled note and bowed. ‘Does the Tsaritsa have an answer for His Majesty?’
‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ I said, waiting for his steps to fade away. I knelt down at the library’s fireplace, which was lit to fight the night chill. I held Peter’s letter to the flames: they licked hungrily over the dry paper. The first words to be swallowed were those of his last sentence: ‘to grow old’. His black writing twitched and fought against the fire, but I crouched, patient as a peasant girl, and watched the paper fall to ashes. Suddenly I had to laugh. I laughed and laughed – a sound to scare a sane man witless. Catherine Alexeyevna is not old, Peter. She is young, strong and beautiful: she who loves, lives, my husband. My laughter turned to tears, and I was crying, cowering on the rug, sobbing and clawing at the pile, all the despair and shock of the past catching up with me. I wept until eventually I curled up like one of Natalya’s kittens, there, in front of the fireplace. When I awoke, I shivered. A summer storm had pushed open the windows; rainwater pooled on the floor and cold, salty air filled the room. My rug was soaked, too, and the light yellow silk of my dress clung to my body. I tried to pull myself up onto a chair, but it toppled and fell with a clatter. The door flew open and I saw the man whom I had hoped and feared to see.
‘My Tsaritsa,’ said Wilhelm, his voice unsteady. ‘I heard a sound. Have you hurt yourself?’ Had he guarded the door all night, watching over me? How else could he have been here so fast? He reached me in a few steps: my hair fell loose and tousled over my bare shoulders, where my dress had slipped during my restless slumber.
Wilhelm knelt next to me; his fingers skimmed my cheeks, touching my mouth like a butterfly’s wings. I greedily closed my lips around them and tasted the salt of my tears. He kissed my damp cheeks and muttered: ‘The colour of snow, the taste of tears and the vastness of the sea.’ I closed my eyes, giving a choked sob.
He embraced me, holding me close. How long had I waited for this moment? Ever since I first met him? ‘We mustn’t . . .’ I started, aware of the danger, the madness, of this.
‘I know,’ he replied, as the yellow silk of my dress tore like parched paper, and his hands cupped my full breasts before he unlaced me; my nipples hardened under his lips and tongue, my body aching for his caress. I bent backwards, slipping to the floor, splaying my limbs and opening up to him. My skirts rustled as he pushed them up to my waist. He searched my wetness with the tip of his tongue, slowly and softly, taking his time to taste me and giving me all the moments I needed to find pleasure. I cried out, arching my back, lying naked in the bright daylight. He would not allow me to cover myself. ‘You are so beautiful, Catherine Alexeyevna. The most beautiful woman under the sun, so full, soft and warm.’
His words made me at ease; his lips found each fold of my flesh and let no part of me escape; his tongue soft and moist, his fingers supple, his hands strong, as he lifted my hips up towards him. I opened my legs wider and wider, greedily pressing towards him and his cock. He was so big and hard that I gasped when he came into my slippery flesh, filling me up, open and wet as I was, and then pulling me on his legs while he knelt. I gave a muffled moan to have him so deeply and still feel him grow, but he placed his hand over my mouth. ‘Move,’ he whispered.
‘I can’t,’ I gasped, but he made me, slowly, strongly, and a new wave of lust came over me, riding him until I felt sore with pleasure. He cupped my buttocks, pushing me closer, his fingers digging into my flesh as I came a second time. I screamed and in my ecstasy bit his fingers with their four rings bloody, as he tried to stifle the sound. I licked the crimson sweetness off his flesh like a kitten would cream. In his arms, I was a woman once more, not just an Empress. I struck all weapons in a defeat sweeter than any victory could ever be.
It was late afternoon when I walked barefoot to the window to close it. It was raining again, and the window swung in the wind. How reckless we were: we had not even shut it before making love. This was madness – if Peter heard of it, it would be our undoing. He had tortured, maimed and killed for so much less than this betrayal. I turned, my heart racing and raindrops wetting my cheeks. My body ached where Wilhelm had touched me, yet already I yearned for more. It felt as if I belonged to him.
He lay sleeping on the rug, breathing softly, sated, his cheeks rosy and his open lips smiling. I lowered myself down by the wall next to the fireplace and sat there looking at him: he was my husband, my son, my youth, my love, my life. I took wood chippings from the basket next to the fireplace and rekindled the flames, just as I had learnt to do as a girl. Sparks fed on the dry straw I had stuffed between the logs, and I sat back on my heels and hummed a little song as I guarded Wilhelm’s slumber. How wonderful life was; I neither wanted to sleep, nor to cover myself, nor to eat. My love refreshed, warmed and nourished me. I knew this must never happen again.
The following months forever belonged to Wilhelm. How we lived our love so fully, I do not know. A special God protects lovers: we shared every heartbeat, every thought, every hope and every fear. In the glorious Peterhof dawn we crossed the park down to the sea, chasing each other and playing hide and seek. We bathed in the bay, splashing and laughing. We moved among the trees until they spun around us; the sea breeze crusted the salt on our skin and blue clouds piled up on the horizon while we sipped at the scented summer rain. Amongst the trees, on the soft earth, Wilhelm and I became one creature with two heads, four arms and four legs. What sounds like a monster from Peter’s Kunstkamera was the most beautiful state of being I was ever to know. The summer in Peterhof was our world, and this world was good and great.
Elizabeth avoided me. She ate with her sisters in their apartments, kept to the company of her ladies, and when I met them in the park she walked away. The sea breeze blew the fountain’s droplets in a rainbow in front of her colourful skirts, which faded amongst the trees as she left me behind.
One morning, I paid her a visit in her schoolroom: the blue silk curtains were drawn back and the books’ polished leather bindings gleamed in the sunlight. In one corner of the room stood a man of glass that the girls used to study human anatomy. He was cross-eyed, as one of his ceramic eyes stared at me, the other one down at his feet, ever since Elizabeth had torn it out, and Madame de la Tour, her governess, had twisted it back in askew. Next to the piano of German manufacture I spotted Anna’s silver music stand, for she had singing lessons to please the young Duke of Holstein. The wind ruffled the sheets, despite the hooks of ivory holding the paper down.
This sound d
id not bother Elizabeth: her head was bent studiously as she wrote a note. I crept up to her; some blonde curls had loosened themselves from her plaits and the nape of her neck was touchingly childlike. Before I knew what I was doing, I caressed her head with more tenderness than I had truly ever felt for her.
Elizabeth started. ‘You!’ she hissed and the look in her eyes, which were as lively as a bird’s, pierced me. But I asked in a friendly fashion: ‘What are you doing, Elizabeth? How diligent of you still to be here after your lessons with Madame de la Tour.’
‘I have not written in my diary for so long and the weather is not fine enough for us to go riding,’ she said. I looked outside, where a light wind swept the sunny treetops. What could I say to her? It was clear she wanted me to go. So I cast a glance at the page before her, and while I could not read her writing, I noticed how strong and slanted her letters were. This was not a child’s hand, but a woman’s.
80
Peter sent me letter after letter to Peterhof, and every line spoke of love and longing: ‘“Unfortunately, I cannot be with you, Catherinushka. My old illness plagues me more than ever, and I am glad to spare you the sight. My stomach is as bloated as a horse’s, and the pain binds my chest with iron straps; the ulcers on my legs make every step a torment. At least Alekasha has given me a magnificent stallion. So I drink to forget the pain and go riding, even though it takes three footmen to lift me in the saddle.” ’
When the summer turned into damp autumn, I returned to St Petersburg with a heavy heart. At least Wilhelm was with me on the voyage back. I asked the sailors to tie up my barge in a secluded creek well before town. I gave them two hours’ leave and was alone with Wilhelm once more. ‘This has to be the last time,’ I said, as his fingers slid into me before I could even undress. ‘If we do this in Petersburg, the Tsar will kill us both.’
‘If I have to die, I want to die for you, with you,’ was his answer.
He pushed me onto the bed and turned me, raising my hips so he could slide into me. His holding me down and closing my legs while thrusting into me gave me more strength than I had thought possible. I bit the cushions so as not to make a sound, yet wanted to cry for more with every breath.
Just when I would have been as happy to tend a fire with Wilhelm in a little izba, I had to plan my Coronation. Was I but a soul after all? I felt utter dread: never before had a Tsaritsa been crowned; the Moscow ceremony should make the importance of Peter’s step clear to everybody, be they a wealthy prince or a pauper in this vast realm. My spirit, my body and my soul dreaded the weight of the crown, and Peter must have felt my unease when he drew me close to him one day in his study in the Winter Palace. ‘Do not worry,’ he said. ‘I shall be with you, every step of the way.’ He smiled, misunderstanding my feelings. I shied away because I longed so much for Wilhelm that I wanted to avoid Peter’s touch. But then I gave in and caressed my husband’s tousled hair. The table was covered with drawings for robes, uniforms, jewels.
‘Look. We drive from Menshikov’s house to the Kremlin, crossing the Red Square, which will be full of flags. The route to the Uspensky Cathedral is not long, but all the people should see you and it must be an unforgettable spectacle.’ He rustled through the papers with his tobacco-stained fingers. ‘Here: the list of the people who will carry your train. I have, of course, thought of Sheremetev . . .’
If anyone deserved to be with me on that day it was Boris Petrovich, I thought, but asked: ‘And who, my Tsar, shall crown me? Feofan Prokopovich?’
Peter dropped the scroll, placed his hands on my bare shoulders and kissed my forehead. His voice quivered as he said, ‘No, Catherinushka. I myself shall crown you, and no one else.’
That night, I sat on the broad windowsill of my bedroom window: darkness had fallen like a curtain over my splendid city in the snow. Wilhelm pulled the floor-length sable coat off my naked body, pressed me against the pane, parted my thighs and slid into me. My calves lay against his shoulders and I arched against the window that was dripping with our breath, sweat and lust. Wilhelm forced me deeper amongst the velvet curtains to muffle my sighs, moans and then a cry. He felt my heart race against his, his mouth laughing as he kissed his own taste from my lips. We lived our love shamelessly, as if there was no tomorrow: the fear of discovery, and what might happen then, made our feelings even stronger and our passion more burning. But the boost of life and pleasure was as heady as no lasting happiness can ever be.
Peter set the date for my Coronation at the end of May. ‘No other month is golden enough to celebrate this day,’ he said at a meal during which his two dwarves wrestled, the Moor Abraham Petrovich being their referee. I ate lots of caviar, as Wilhelm had told me that it was good for love. When I looked up, he was giving me a tender smile, which Peter noticed. My heart chilled as my husband asked lightly, ‘How is young Mons doing in your retinue?’
‘Very well. I have not heard any complaints,’ I replied, feeding Peter with a blinchiki of smoked sturgeon.
‘Mmmm, delicious.’ He smacked his lips and sucked my fingertips, then drizzled lemon juice over my neck and licked it off my skin, but stopped short when he noticed my diamond necklace: Menshikov’s gift. He frowned. ‘Such stones are rare in my kingdom. Who gave it to you?’
‘Alekasha. He was grateful to me for my advice,’ I said merrily, but Peter shook his head reproachfully.
‘Matka. You above all others should not accept gifts, and certainly not from Menshikov. No breath of scandal must ever besmirch you, don’t you understand? There must be one person in my kingdom who remains incorruptible and I wish this to be you.’ He sounded upset.
‘Of course. How thoughtless of me. Come now, starik, this is not an evening for harsh lessons. Drink with me.’ My tenderness soothed him. I refilled his jug to the brim. My body ached for Wilhelm, who stood behind us. But for tonight I had to be Peter’s wife.
The robes and uniforms for my Coronation were delivered from Paris; but my crown was made in St Petersburg: the Nevsky Prospect was cloaked in fresh snow when we first visited the jeweller there. Peter did not wish him to travel with his valuable work. The slight man and his apprentices bowed, moving backwards into the small premises while guards manned the door. Peter and I sipped tea with vodka from dainty china as a casket was placed in front of us.
‘Put the cup down or you’ll spill it,’ Peter warned me tenderly.
The jeweller glowed with pride in his creation: ‘Are Their Most Gracious Majesties ready?’
Peter nodded, and the man blew out his cheeks as he unlocked the box, ordering: ‘Light more candles. I want this to sparkle like the sun, moon and stars.’ I almost had to laugh, he sounded so thrilled by his own work.
‘More than a million roubles, just for your crown,’ Peter murmured, kissing my fingers. Goose-bumps covered my arms: one million roubles was an unimaginable sum, enough to feed generations of Russians in their small, filthy, stinking izby. I blinked my tears away: this crown was a miracle and so different from the jewelled domes I knew. A border of diamonds sparkled at the lower rim: each stone was as big as a hazelnut, resting on a band of ermine so as not to press into my forehead. Grey, pink and white pearls alternated with diamonds on the arches forming the upper part of the crown, whilst in between, sapphires, emeralds and again diamonds sparkled. The splendour was topped by a ruby cross; the stone at its heart was as large as a dove’s egg, radiating crimson and gold sparks.
‘Can I try it on?’ I asked hoarsely, but Peter looked at me, horrified.
‘A crown is not a cap or a hat, Catherine, that you try on, but a sacred sign of the power that God in His grace grants you. You may wear it only once you have been anointed. No water in this world can wash the blessed oil from your forehead: only then are you ready for a crown.’
Back in the sleigh, dusk blotted out the light of the early afternoon. Peter pushed his hands into my sable muff, lacing my fingers with his. ‘Thank you for being with me. It hasn’t always been easy. I hope this will make
it up to you.’
Candles burnt behind the windows on the Nevsky Prospect and in the lanterns along the canals. Snow glowed under the clear, star-studded sky, as shiny as Wilhelm’s eyes were after making love. Could I hope that he would look at me like that forever and ever? A thousand eyes watch a Tsar’s wife. Stepan Glebov had paid the highest price for loving Evdokia, and she had been but a discarded encumbrance to Peter while I was to be honoured in a way that no Tsar had ever done before. It wasn’t even worth thinking about what he’d do to us if he found out. And still I could not let go of Wilhelm. That same evening, I ordered Maître Duval from the gostiny dvor to the palace: he had moved his business to St Petersburg. While all my robes were made in France, I wanted to sew Peter’s Coronation coat myself, stitch by stitch. I ordered many arshin of sky-blue taffeta from Paris and chose silver braid to trim the knee-length jacket. Out of coquetry, I settled upon flaming red silk thread for the stockings. The price that Duval quoted me made my head spin: one silver thread alone could pay a dragoon’s salary for two years. Yet I did not hesitate, and when Maître Duval got his order book out, I said to Wilhelm: ‘Sign it in my name, will you?’
At the end of March, St Petersburg’s noble families left for Moscow. The last icicles still hung in the trees lining the Nevsky Prospect, but milder air and the first rays of sunlight spoke of the approach of spring. An endless train of carriages and wagons crossed the countryside: thirty thousand people were on the road. Ships used the early arrival of the ottepel to sail to Moscow, and children ran along the banks as the Imperial vessel cast off, waving and cheering. Clouds rolled overhead and the wind blew away the worries and the shame from my heart, scattering them across the vastness of the realm.
Tsarina Page 46
