I had to retreat below decks to reflect on what was about to happen. Twenty-five years ago, in another life, a man had bought me for a piece of silver. Now I should be crowned Tsaritsa of All the Russias. Wilhelm dared to slip into my cabin, holding me tightly and whispering sweet nothings until I could breathe again. My fear was mirrored in his eyes, but he kissed me until his strong, steady heartbeat calmed me: how should I do without him? He supported me, felt for me as no man had ever done before. Was there a chance for us to be happy together? I thought, just when I saw the thousand turrets, spires and towers of Moscow. It was not my city, but the place of my most splendid hour. Yet the brightest sun casts the darkest shadow.
On the seventh day of May 1724 I climbed into a golden carriage in the innermost courtyard of Alexander Danilovich Menshikov’s house. Peter himself steadied me in my heavy gown. My hand trembled as I placed my fingers in his. ‘Stand tall, Catherinushka. Have no fear,’ he reassured me, but I felt dazed and the weight of my velvet robes crushed me. Peter had insisted on the warm fabric and the high-necked dress was stiff as a board with gold embroidery. Four of the twelve pageboys appointed to carry my train, lifted it so that I could get into the coach. The boys, all of them sons of Peter’s most faithful confidants, looked adorable in green velvet and matching caps adorned with white ostrich feathers. I gasped under the sudden pressure of the diamond clasps at my throat, but by now cannon were starting to thunder and the bells of the city called; the gates opened, and as soon as the Imperial coach rolled onto the Red Square, cheers and clapping rose. The guards stood to attention; trumpets were blown. Drummers rolled a fast, upbeat rhythm. The musicians of Peter’s two regiments vied against each other. Two swallows buzzed by my carriage, their beady eyes mocking me. The twelve mares pulling it reared, and the coachman sweated in his silk livery. My hand rose of its own accord. I smiled and waved. There was no turning back.
Outside the Uspensky Cathedral, the newly created Cavalry Guard, to which Alexander Danilovich belonged, awaited me. Sheremetev reached out to steady me. He murmured, ‘I am so glad, my lady, I could die.’
Suddenly, the colours were even brighter, the music even gayer. Step by step, I made my way down the nave of the cathedral. The courtiers had had to purchase tickets for the event. A sea of familiar faces turned towards me but I looked straight ahead, to where General James Bruce stood, holding my crown on a velvet cushion, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. I struggled to sit at Peter’s side in my stiff robes, but tried to copy his calmness and dignity. He briefly winked at me then turned stone-faced, looking straight ahead.
As Archbishop of Novgorod, Feofan Prokopovich read the Mass. With the help of my cavaliers, I knelt before him. His voice echoed in the silence of the cathedral. If I had felt unbearably hot before, chills now chased over my skin. The twelve young pageboys pressed their foreheads to the cathedral’s cold stone floor. Silence ruled, inside and outside the holy place. With warm, fragrant oil, Feofan Prokopovich drew a cross on my forehead and muttered his blessing.
The world spun: only Peter remained still, the calm in the eye of the storm. He had done nothing but this for his whole life, I understood, when he lifted the crown, its gemstones catching the light, and I sensed more than saw him. The crowd sighed longingly; blood roared in my ears when the weight of the crown sent a sharp pain through my tense neck down into my rigid shoulders. I placed my fingers in Peter’s. I wanted to kiss his feet, but he did not allow it. ‘Starik,’ I murmured, and the pain ebbed away as I stood, and music flooded the cathedral. Perhaps only then did I understand what he was willing to share with me. Tears streamed down my cheeks, leaving traces in my thick white make-up. Peter held the sceptre to his breast and raised my hand in his: together, we had lived and loved, and together, we ruled.
The Court rose for the final blessing and the choir’s voices carried my gratitude out onto the squares of the city, to the glare of the gold coins Menshikov had thrown into the crowd and the gurgling of the fountains spewing red and white wine. The festivities lasted a week. Then the whole court, with its servants, families, livestock and luggage, left again for St Petersburg where Peter planned to celebrate his name-day on the Neva with sea games and a new round of celebrations.
81
‘Now I have gone too far.’ Peter flinched. ‘As soon as I have battled one pain, I feel a hundred others rearing up.’ His face was unhealthily flushed as he had been bedridden for the past four months. Blumentrost had called in other doctors to give advice, which worried me. If a quack admits his own uselessness, things are serious indeed. Doctor Bidloo arrived from Moscow, but finally it was Doctor Horn who drained almost a litre of blood, urine and pus from Peter’s bladder.
Wilhelm brought me reminders of freedom, wind and sunshine, telling me funny stories about the estate with five thousand souls I had given him. To him, ten days were long enough to gather the adventures of a lifetime. ‘I can’t wait until you come and see me in the dacha,’ he said – that was what he called the little estate close to the Bay of Finland, as if it were a hut. ‘Do you still know how to get an egg out from under a chicken? Are you good at milking?’ he teased me.
‘I’ve forgotten it all,’ I laughed. ‘You’ll have to start from the beginning then, with me, in the stables,’ he said, and I chuckled, going down on my knees and opening his breeches. I sensed his hesitation.
‘Come,’ I whispered. ‘I command it.’ His eyes shone like jewels as I, the crowned Empress of Russia, took him slowly, fully, in my mouth, as if I was a maid. His lust was the only realm I ever wished to rule.
One autumn evening, Peter asked for supper to be served in my rooms. I ordered his favourite food from Felten – pork sausages with sauerkraut, fresh flatbread and cold beer – and adorned the table with evergreens from the Summer Palace’s garden.
Peter arrived accompanied by Jagushinsky, Makarov and Menshikov. Wilhelm waited on me as well as Daria Menshikova and Agneta: the more, the merrier, I thought. My dress was of simple dark-green cotton, yet I wore Menshikov’s necklace to flatter him. When Peter entered the room he gave me a dark look.
‘Are you in pain?’ I asked but he would not answer, so I filled his plate to the brim and broke the bread. He did not thank me. I chatted all the more feverishly. Then, after an hour’s mute chewing and gloomy looks, Peter growled, ‘Tsaritsa, what time is it?’
The table fell curiously silent as I reached for the delicate watch hanging on a gold chain around my neck: a gift from Peter to me, bought in Berlin. ‘Only nine o’clock, starik, so there is time left for more food and enjoyment.’
But Peter lunged at me and tore the chain from my neck. I gasped with pain as the links broke and the ladies screamed. Peter thrust the watch’s diamond hands forward so roughly that one of them broke. ‘You are mistaken, Catherine Alexeyevna,’ he shouted. ‘It’s already midnight, and all but you, me and him –’ Here he pointed at Wilhelm ‘– are to leave.’
My heart pounded and I felt sweat tingling on my neck and in my armpits. Yet I smiled and said: ‘Your wish is our command. Goodnight, my friends.’ I clapped my hands as if this were a routine matter, yet I saw the dread in our guests’ faces and felt faint with fear. Wilhelm stood as still as a statue, his face pale. He steadied himself on the back of a chair, his knuckles turning white. Only the crackling of the logs in the fire was to be heard as Peter’s dark gaze went from me to Wilhelm, and from him back to me. I sat down once more, sipping from my glass. My calm goaded Peter and made him unsure, just as I had hoped it would. He pulled a letter from his chest pocket; the paper had been read and folded many times, and some of the wide, slanted letters were smeared by tears. Peter looked at me, his expression full of contempt, before throwing the letter at Wilhelm. ‘Unfortunately, I have married an uneducated washerwoman. Read, you vain monkey!’ he thundered.
Wilhelm’s fingers trembled as he read soundlessly, before looking up. He fell on his knees, gasping for breath, wrung his hands and stammered, ‘My
Tsar. That’s a shameless, ill-intentioned lie.’
Peter did not leave him any time to protest further but struck Wilhelm in the face with his clenched fist, knocking him over. I called out in horror and leapt to my feet, but Peter grabbed and shook me until my teeth chattered, before shoving me away, staring at me with his face full of hatred: ‘I have married you and made you an Empress. I have crowned you, and this is how you thank me? Rotten to the core as you are, even daring to flaunt the spoils of your corruption before me.’
He lunged at me and tore Menshikov’s necklace from my throat: priceless diamonds rained down upon the rugs in a sparkling shower. Peter pushed me up against the panelling. Wilhelm crawled to him, kissing the rough leather of his boots, sobbing and pleading. ‘My Tsar, for all the love and all the honour you have given my family, please do not believe this. I would never besmirch the Tsaritsa’s name, never betray you.’
‘Son of a bitch!’ Peter kicked Wilhelm several times in the face, chest and belly, making ribs and cheekbones crack and then breaking his strong, white teeth. Wilhelm moaned and spat blood. He bent double with pain. I did not move, cowering against the wall. ‘Do not dare to name the Tsaritsa together with your damned brethren. All the Mons family will pay for this!’ Furious, he seized a porcelain jug and hurled it against a priceless Venetian mirror, smashing it to pieces; I ducked as shards flew. ‘This, Catherine Alexeyevna, shall be done with you and yours,’ he cried.
I crossed my arms. ‘Fabulous. You have just destroyed one of the most exquisite possessions in your palace. Do you feel better now?’ I knew he would take any sign of fear or pleading from me as a sign of guilt. I held his gaze as he pulled me close and I saw doubt in his eyes; that might save me, if not Wilhelm.
‘Damn you and your guts, woman!’ he hissed, before he turned to the door. ‘Guards, to me!’ Four tall men stormed into the room. They must have been stationed outside, waiting for his signal.
Peter pointed at the crouching, bleeding Wilhelm. ‘Arrest that man!’ he ordered breathlessly. ‘Throw him into the Trubetzkoi bastion. Torture him until he confesses his theft and embezzlement from the Tsaritsa’s treasures. I shall have the proof I need.’
‘No!’ I gasped, and Peter caught me as I fainted.
82
On the day of Wilhelm’s execution, I made sure to be seen practising together with my daughters and a dance master from Paris, hiding my pallor and my dread with painted cheeks and glittering jewels. ‘I heard of a new minuet from Paris, teach it to us!’ I clapped my hands and ate sugared violets to force my lips into a smile. The master showed us the series of steps, and Elizabeth repeatedly glanced at me. I thought of the slanted writing that had sealed Wilhelm’s fate: but no, I told myself, that was impossible. She was my daughter. As Wilhelm was dragged from the Trubetzkoi bastion to the scaffold, I moved to the light, floating melody and danced across the pieces of my broken heart.
Peter’s guards entered the ballroom: I was to attend the execution.
The crowd was eerily quiet as the whole Mons family was led close to the executioner’s block so they did not miss a single detail of his death. Wilhelm himself could not walk anymore. Rough hands had thrown him onto a sledge piled with rotten straw, before he was heaved onto the executioner’s broad shoulders. Peter would not let me out of his sight but I smiled at him, crunching more sugared violets until my teeth and cheeks hurt.
‘Well, Catherine Alexeyevna, what do you feel now?’ he asked, beady-eyed. I tightened my fur collar around my neck and shrugged.
‘I took him for a trusted employee. If he really stole my jewels then he deserves just punishment,’ I said, looking at Wilhelm, feeling ready to faint. I had asked God in vain for the strength to face this moment. My love was no longer a man, but a miserable lump of flesh as he was dragged up the steps to the scaffold. He sighed and fresh drops of blood splattered. I knew that he had not betrayed me or our love, despite Peter’s torturers plying their cruel trade to the best of their knowledge.
‘Oh, yes,’ Peter mocked me. ‘He tried to pocket crown jewels, as you know very well. I even have proof of him embezzling your funds.’
He shoved a piece of paper into my hand. I gave a sob when I unfolded it. It was my order for the fabrics for Peter’s Coronation garments that Wilhelm had signed in my name, at my order. The clothes I had sewn with my own hands, as a sign of my love and gratitude to my husband.
‘He signed his own undoing, young Mons,’ Peter smiled. ‘Look. Look well, Catherinushka.’ Wilhelm whimpered and I dug my nails deep into my palms. I loved him; loved him too much, and yet did I love him enough? Why did I not confess and join him on the scaffold there and then? If I once despised Afrosinja for sacrificing Alexey, then the thought of my own silence shall haunt me until my dying day.
Peter tore me to my feet, shoving me closer to the scaffold. ‘You can’t see well enough from here,’ he snarled, and I staggered along, straight to the block, where Wilhelm’s body hung. He could no longer lift his head and I was glad of it, for I could not have borne to meet his gaze.
Peter kissed my cheek and shouted, ‘The Tsaritsa wants to see up close how the common thief Wilhelm Mons, traitor of her trust, is being judged!’
A murmur rose from the people; they knew all too well why Wilhelm had to suffer. On Peter’s sign his men started and I could not hold back anymore. My tears flowed freely, blinding me and blotting out the sheer horror of Wilhelm’s death. I know they broke him on the wheel; they slit him open and tore his guts from his body, roasting them on a spit and feeding them to the crows in front of his eyes, before finally beheading him. Peter held me in an iron grip and let me weep until Wilhelm, my wonderful Wilhelm, so full of life, love and lust, was no more.
83
Oh, yes, Peter knew what he was doing. In the following days he forced me to the scaffold again and again; our sleigh would stop where Wilhelm’s corpse still hung. His limbs had been torn off by wild dogs. ‘Come on, Catherinushka, we’ll stretch our legs,’ Peter would say merrily, steering me so close to Wilhelm that my skirts brushed his butchered body. I obeyed, but chatted about trivial matters until it got too much for Peter himself. ‘You and your damn’ courage. If my generals had had but a sliver of it, I would have won more wars,’ he growled as he pushed me back into the sleigh.
I cast a last glance at Wilhelm’s beheaded torso and took leave of all the love left in my heart. The sleigh jerked forward, its silver bells jingling in the frosty air, and a gust of icy wind hid the scaffold in a cloud of fresh powdery snow.
The same evening, I left the dinner table in Peter’s rooms early. My heart longed for the stillness of the night. I needed all my strength for the days to come. Peter had already forbidden his ministers from obeying any of my orders and had sealed my treasurer’s office. I had no money left and ran up debts with my ladies.
In my bedroom, Alexandra Tolstoya loosened my hair, unclasped my jewellery and unlaced my dress. A few candles were alight. Had someone already been here? I slipped out of my soft shoes, holding on to my dainty bedside table, when my hand skimmed glass. Had I ordered a sleeping-potion? I raised my night light – and gave a scream; the candle slipped from my fingers and flames licked at the sheets. Alexandra Tolstoya rushed in. ‘Milady, what happened?’ She suffocated the flames by tearing the sheets from my bed and stamping on them. I sobbed and gasped, pointing to the night table.
‘Oh my God, the animal!’ she whispered.
Next to my bed stood a tall glass jar, the type used to steep apples in vodka during the winter. Yet no fruit floated in this one, but the head of my beloved Wilhelm. His blue eyes were wide open and his lips pulled back from his gums in agony and fear. He stared at me; his gaze pleading, but not accusing. I gagged with disgust and tears. ‘Take that away, Alexandra,’ I stammered. She lifted the jar with unsteady fingers, but when she turned around, Peter stood in the doorway, towering over us. We both shrank back, horrified. He took a deep sip from his brandy flask, swaying as he did so.
‘Your room is so bare, Catherinushka. What’s wrong with keeping a little jar next to your bed?’ His voice was slurred yet still threatening. ‘Alexandra Tolstoya, whoever moves this jar will pay with their life. In recognition of your faithful service to date, I will allow you to replace it where it belongs and take no action against you. This time.’ Alexandra looked at me. What else could I do?
‘Put it down, Alexandra,’ I muttered and curtseyed to my visitor: ‘How kind of the Tsar to think of this adornment to my room.’ Was that it? Hadn’t he punished me enough? No. Peter pointed at me. ‘That’s just the beginning. Now, Catherine Alexeyevna, I’ll think about what’s going to happen to you.’ His cold, hard eyes made me shiver. He had already won, and I had lost everything: what else could he want? Alexandra made me a sleeping-potion and in my nightmares Wilhelm’s eyes filled the sky like stars.
No one at court was ready to wager a kopek on my future by Peter’s side; my destiny was sealed. The only puzzling thing was what exactly might happen. To which convent should I commit myself, shorn and lonely? Or was there a cell prepared in the Peter and Paul Fortress, where he would torture and kill me as he had done Alexey? Under the first blow of the knout, I would confess all that I was accused of, and gladly add more. I had suffered when giving birth, but could not bear deliberately inflicted physical pain. I remembered surrendering to Vassily without putting up a fight. Only Menshikov did not forsake me, secretly sending me letters and small gifts to lift my spirits. Agneta told me with tears in her eyes what Peter had said in the Senate: ‘I will do to her what England’s King Henry has done to Anne Boleyn.’
Tsarina Page 47
