‘What did he do to this Anne?’ I asked unhappily. ‘And what was her offence?’
‘She was an adulteress, Tsaritsa,’ she whispered, before drawing her flat hand across her neck.
It was almost midnight when I made my way through the dark, secret corridor that linked Peter’s rooms to mine. The night light just about helped me find my way without stumbling over a sleeping footman’s body. I pressed my ear against Peter’s door: he was in there with Tolstoy and his Chancellor, the German Baron Ostermann. Their voices were muffled.
‘My Tsar, do not act rashly. Please consider the betrothal of the Tsarevna Anna to the Duke of Holstein,’ Ostermann mumbled.
‘I do not see any link there to the Tsaritsa’s crime. Just answer me: convent, exile or death?’ Peter asked angrily. I chewed my fingers and held my breath. The light at my feet flickered.
‘Well,’ Ostermann said, ‘the Duke could dissolve the engagement if the bride’s mother had a bad reputation. With all due respect, the courts of Europe talk enough about the Tsaritsa as it is. If she were to be charged with adultery and beheaded, that would put an end to marriage plans for any of your daughters.’ For once, I felt like kissing the wry German who normally was no one’s friend.
‘Ostermann is right. Not only Anna Petrovna’s engagement is at risk here, we would not find a new suitor for Tsarevna Elizabeth once Versailles turns her down,’ Tolstoy added.
I heard wood breaking, and Peter cursing. What did he kick and smash in his anger; his desk or his chair? There was a moment of silence. ‘How are the marriage plans with France coming along?’ he asked.
‘Not at all,’ Tolstoy said. ‘King Louis is silent – insultingly so. The Duc de Chartres, also a possible suitor, married a German princess a few weeks ago without even telling us. Will a king take what a duke despises?’
I pressed my ear so hard against the wood that it hurt.
‘So be it. I will wait. But Catherine’s hour will come, and it will come soon.’ There was cold fury in Peter’s voice. I tiptoed back to my room, my heart racing and sweat trickling down my neck despite the chill in the passage. What had I sworn to myself that night in the Summer Palace when he promised me marriage? I would not fear.
Two weeks after Wilhelm’s execution, the betrothal of my eldest daughter Anna Petrovna to the young Duke of Holstein was formally announced. The duke gave a concert beneath the windows of the Winter Palace and the musicians’ fingertips and lips froze to their instruments. Afterwards, we crossed the Neva in sleds, and heard Mass in the Trinity Church. Feofan Prokopovich blessed the rings and Peter himself placed them on the young couple’s fingers. During the feast, the ball and the fireworks that followed, I played the radiant Tsaritsa, for all to see, with the very last of my strength. Yet my mind could neither dismiss memories of Wilhelm’s mutilated body, nor of Evdokia’s miserable end.
The palace was treacherously peaceful in the first, dark hours of the day: how long had I knelt there in the cold splendour of the corridor outside Peter’s door? My fists were scraped raw from banging on it, my stomach growled, my hair was tangled and my cheeks scratched and bloody. I had wept and pleaded myself hoarse until, finally, I’d heard him stir on the other side.
‘What do you want, Catherinushka?’ he asked warily. I sat up. At least he’d called me that.
‘Forgive me, my Tsar, batjuschka!’ I was strangled by sobs. ‘I beg you on my knees. Starik, darling, love of my life, please. For all that is dear to us. Our children, Russia – and for all we’ve been through.’ The door opened a crack, and he looked down at me.
‘You deceived me,’ he said bitterly. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, as helpless as a child, and sat up: it was true.
‘Yes. I know. Forgive me. But I do not wish to fight with you, my beloved. I want to make you happy, as I always have. I miss you – everything about you. Take me back into your life, into your heart. Only there do I belong. You are my husband, my brother, my father, my home –’
He opened the door a little further, peering out, and I could see his face. His skin was pasty and his eyes swollen. ‘I do not know, Catherinushka,’ he faltered. His hesitation frightened me more than any judgment passed in raging anger. Snot and tears ran down my face, and I shivered from cold and tiredness.
‘Come in,’ Peter sighed, and pulled me to my feet and into his room. The curtains were closed and it reeked of liquor, sweat and smoke. His favourite chair was pushed in front of the fireplace. Had he sat there, his feet close to the warmth, listening to me pleading on the other side for hours on end? He sat down again and I crouched on a cushion at his feet. Peter looked at me, and I was careful not to interrupt his thoughts. His face was unreadable, changed by the shadows.
‘What is it with you women?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Anna Mons made a fool out of me. Evdokia deceived me even in the convent in which I’d stuck her, while still besieging me with her letters. At least you cannot write, Catherinushka. I will be spared that from you. Maria Kantemir did not keep her pompous promise of an heir for Russia.’ I held my breath while he dropped his hand onto my dark, shining curls, wrapping one around his finger. ‘But you, Catherine, you have betrayed me at the very moment when I gave you the greatest gift imaginable. Why did you do this?’ He sniffed at my hair. ‘You’re still beautiful. How often were you pregnant? Twelve times, if I’m not mistaken.’ He uncorked the brandy bottle which stood beside him on the floor and took a swig. ‘Twelve children, and still so stunningly beautiful. But what will the convent’s chill do to you? What will you look like, bald and gaunt?’ He drank deeply. ‘What’s worst of all is that in the end, you, too, did not truly understand me. Don’t you know how lonely a ruler is; how cold the throne is on the skin of my arse and how far away I still am from even those who are closest to me?’
‘I’ve always been with you. I am always with you. I will always be with you,’ I whispered. The flames warmed my bare arms, yet I had goose-bumps all over my body. ‘Can you not forgive me?’ I had done once what he had done a thousand times. In Russian fairy tales, houses rest on three stilts; was the palace of our love carried by just one pillar: my love and fidelity?
He stared into the fireplace. ‘No. I cannot forgive. But I have not decided either what to do with you. Go to bed now, matka.’
I took his chilly hands in mine. ‘I have borne you twelve children, Peter Alexeyevich Romanov. Can you imagine what it means to give birth twelve times? None of your soldiers has suffered like that or risked his life so often for you. And do you know why I did that? Just for love, my Tsar.’
He gazed mutely into the flames. I let go of his fingers and his limp hands slipped into his lap. At noon the next day, Pavel Jagushinsky picked up Wilhelm’s head from my bedside table and brought it to the Kunstkamera where it was to be housed in future.
Evil spirits and memories haunted Peter more than ever; jealousy seared his soul, making him roam his Empire restlessly. Every day I was left unscathed meant hope remained, but in my uncertainty the passing of time was also a punishment. Every day I heard new and wild stories from my damy.
‘Imagine, the Tsar passed a house where a wedding was being celebrated. So he knocked at the door, sat down at the table and drank more than anyone else.’
‘Yesterday, the Tsar visited the Ladoga Canal and drank until dawn with the architects.’
‘No, he is at the Ironworks of Olonez, where he chased a blacksmith from his anvil, just to smite six hundred pounds of iron himself. He asked to be paid for his work and bought a pair of long socks at the market.’
He was everywhere at the same time, just not in St Petersburg, not with me.
Peter returned to our city in January. His old fever seized him more violently than ever and he did not even recognise me by his bedside. Few people were admitted and I ordered that little Petrushka, Alexey’s son, was not to come to the Winter Palace from his godfather Prince Dolgoruki’s house: seeing him would upset Peter unbearably. My orders were listened to once
more. I knelt there, hour after hour, or lay down beside him, cuddling up close, whispering memories into his ear. He quietened then and his breath steadied. I embraced him and fell asleep.
Menshikov came to the sick room in the early-morning hours one day and opened the window. When the clear winter air streamed into the room, Peter reeled in his fever, but my weight held him down.
‘What made him suddenly relapse?’ I asked.
Menshikov stuffed his long pipe and set it alight. ‘Well, I wouldn’t call that suddenly, my Tsaritsa. When we left the ironworks of Olonez, the Tsar already felt cold, despite the new socks he had earnt.’ We both smiled before Menshikov turned serious again. ‘Yet he pressed on, straight for St Petersburg. It poured with rain; we followed the shoreline, so as not to get lost in the storm, and heard screams coming from the water.’ Menshikov blew a few rings into the air, their thin smoke dissolving. ‘Some sailors were in distress. Before I could hold back the Tsar, he had already jumped off his horse.’
‘And then?’
Menshikov shrugged. ‘What else do you expect? He jumped into the icy water, without the least regard for his own safety or health, and swam out to save the men. Once he had brought their boat ashore, they drank like fish, round upon round of hot spirits, before the Tsar got back on his horse. The storm still raged, but we pushed on. He felt feverish before we reached the first of the city’s barriers.’
Blumentrost entered the room. ‘My Tsaritsa, perhaps it is better for you to leave the room for a while. The mercury cure is not for Your Majesty’s eyes.’
I refused. ‘I’ll stay, Blumentrost. Someone must hold his hand to comfort him.’
Menshikov smiled. ‘A true Empress, as always.’
When Blumentrost opened Peter’s blanket, I pressed my hand to my lips, fighting the bile that rose in my throat. The skin on his swollen belly had blackened, as if rotting away. Spots and ulcers covered his groin and when the doctor pressed his side, ever so lightly, Peter roared with pain and emerged from his feverish sleep. ‘He suffers from kidney stones, Your Majesty,’ whispered Blumentrost. ‘I’ll have to work together with Paulsen and Horn.’ Peter’s puffed-up body and the stench in the room made me choke, but I took a deep breath and raised his head tenderly. ‘I’m ready.’
Blumentrost reached for the mercury ointment and pills.
‘How is he now?’ Menshikov had slipped back into the room after a few hours’ sleep. What should I say? For weeks Peter had hovered between life and death. His gigantic body was weakened by so many struggles: our father Tsar, our protector, just as he’d wanted to be, looked ready to leave us.
Makarov seemed shrunken in his black coat as I waved him close to me, by the window. ‘Makarov, I fear that Blumentrost is killing the Tsar,’ I whispered. ‘Please send a messenger to Berlin. The King of Prussia has a famous physician, Herr von Stahl, of whom Peter has often spoken. Bring him here at any cost.’
Night fell and servants drew the curtains shut, hiding Peter’s suffering from his city. Candles were lit, and the warm scent of beeswax as well as the richly spiced Persian incense that smouldered in burning pans softened the stench of the disease. To Peter, the room’s shadows were alive with the people who had accompanied us along our way and gone ahead into the underworld. I heard him mumble, ‘Mother, do not cry. I am coming. Sophia, leave me alone. And Alexey, you useless boy . . .’ He groaned and wanted to turn over but Blumentrost would not allow it. Peter settled on his back again. He narrowed his eyes, gazing up into the air. ‘Sheremetev! There you are. Actually, it’s all your fault –’
I sobbed as Feofan Prokopovich entered the room together with a simple priest. Peter received the last rites for the third time in as many days.
I wept so much that I fainted several times, from fear or sorrow. I could not master either feeling.
When the Tsar was too weak to speak, Feofan Prokopovich, Menshikov and I formed a tight circle around the bed. I knelt once more to be closer to him. Peter’s gaze slipped away. The bells started tolling and people gathered on to the quays and the Nevsky Prospect for prayer. What did they wish for? His death or his recovery? Did I myself know what I was hoping for?
He opened his eyes once more, searching my gaze. ‘You love me, don’t you? Say that you love me, always,’ he whispered through lips that were dry and cracked.
I nodded, tears streaming down my face. ‘More than my life!’
He sighed. ‘You better had.’
I smiled and placed a finger on his lips. ‘Do not talk, dear. All will be well.’ A glance passed between the doctors: Blumentrost, Paulsen and Horn. Peter whispered something and Feofan Prokopovich bowed his assent, though he frowned as he did so.
‘What does the Tsar want?’ I asked, my voice unsteady.
‘His Majesty asks for paper, ink and guill,’ said Feofan. Menshikov rummaged in the desk. Was I mistaken or did he take longer than was necessary? His future, too, was at stake here. Finally, Prokopovich folded Peter’s fingers around the quill. Black ink dripped on the starched sheets. I heard the feather scratching over the paper, and Peter’s throttled voice. ‘Tsesarevna Anna Petrovna. Bring my Anoushka to me, my dear eldest child.’ Anna? How would she be able to handle little Petrushka’s claim and keep his godfather, the greedy Prince Dolgoruki, at bay? A Tsar’s death meant past and present hanging in the balance. The wind strengthened, whistling around the Winter Palace’s walls. Who had heard his words after all? Neither I nor Menshikov followed his order. Feofan locked eyes with me and then crossed himself in silence.
Peter’s fingers tried to unroll the paper, but the scroll slipped away. All of Russia held its breath.
‘Oh, my God,’ we spoke his last words together.
INTERREGNUM, 1725
As Menshikov opens the door, the corridor outside the small study is full of men. I spot members of the Synod, the Senate and the Admiralty. For one night we have fooled them and Russia. I rise and ready myself for the nasal voice of Prince Dolgoruki, arresting us in the name of Petrushka, the new Tsar of All the Russias, Emperor Peter II. I fold my hands in silent prayer and close my eyes. The light is so bright, it pierces my closed lids. Am I already dead?
‘Tsarina,’ Menshikov says huskily, and I look up. The Privy Council kneels in front of me: Ostermann, Tolstoy and Jagushinsky – all of them. Menshikov stares at me with bloodshot eyes, looking like the scoundrel he is.
I straighten up. The icons on my dress jingle and my jewellery sparkles in the candlelight as I speak. ‘The great and gracious Tsar, Emperor Peter the First, has passed away. We are torn by grief and numb with pain. For We, Catherine Alexeyevna, Empress and Tsarina of All the Russias, are aware of the responsibility God places on Our shoulders.’ My voice fills the room as I lift my right hand. ‘We swear to do justice to God’s grace, and to love all Russians as Our own children. We will righteously reign, and trust in your experienced advice and guidance.’ I look into the Privy Council members’ eyes, man after man. The choice is theirs: rule with me or perish with me.
Menshikov is first to decide, swift and cunning as always. If there is any muttering of discontent among the princes, the boyars and above all, the Church, he can call upon the army; planted bayonets will quell any calls for resistance and turn doubters into fervent supporters: ‘Hail, Catherine Alexeyevna, Tsarina of All the Russias! Hail, the Tsarina,’ he thunders, and the Council joins his cheering.
The call goes forth into the corridor, the courtyard, our city, and finally all over the country. Above the Winter Palace’s gate, the flag with the double-headed eagle is lowered to half-mast. From the Peter and Paul Fortress, one hundred and one cannon shots tear the morning air. The bells of the Trinity Cathedral toll dully, and then all the churches of the city follow: The Tsar is dead; long live the Tsarina!
Feofan Prokopovich has returned, just in time, as is his custom. He kisses my fingers and swears his loyalty to me; Makarov unrolls the hurried ukaz that proclaims me Russia’s ruler. The Princes Dolgoruky come int
o the room, clutching Petrushka’s hands. They must have torn the boy from his sleep, as the young prince blinks, confused by the light of many candles. His hair is tousled and his feet are bare. I feel no remorse: Alexey’s son is still so young, and his time will come. The palace guard secures the steps and stairs before which many hundred voices roar, ‘Hail Catherine! Hail the mother of the nation, hail our Tsarina!’
The generals kneel; countless times I have sat with them by the campfire, celebrating their victories and lamenting their defeats. I tended to their wounds at Poltava, and spooned thin soup into their bowls underneath the beating Persian sun. I was always there, for as long as they can remember. I protected them, their goods and their families from Peter’s wrath. At his side, I had learnt what it took to rule Russia. This is the way it should be: Peter is dead. My beloved husband, the mighty Emperor and Tsar of All the Russias, has died, and not a moment too soon.
Excerpt from the diary of Jean-Jacques Campredon, French Envoy to the Imperial Court of St Petersburg, 16 May 1727
I return from the Palace, where Prince Menshikov told us about the Tsarina’s failing health. In all the years I have lived in Russia on behalf of His Most Gracious Majesty, the King of France, I have not seen so much grief in the people’s faces. Even Menshikov is stricken and he’d better ponder his own future. For what will happen to him once the Tsarina passes away, only two years after the death of the great Tsar Peter? Menshikov has more enemies than hairs on his head, and in his grandeur and ambition ignores this fact blithely. He betrothed his daughter to the Tsarevich Petrushka, but engagements are made to be broken. Oh, there will be a lot to write about in the coming weeks, I’m sure!
The Tsarina is dying, and one can only marvel at the divine will that has raised her so far, so unbelievably far beyond her birth. Even my queen, who came from humble Poland as Princess Maria, is impressed by her, although she of course would never admit to it. The Tsarina wanted the King of France as a husband for her own daughter, the Tsarevna Elizabeth. But a washerwoman’s daughter on the throne of France? Mon Dieu.
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