At the trough outside the stable, a rider had arrived. He tethered his low, sturdy horse and pulled off his shirt to wash himself. I gasped: his back and shoulders were covered with scars from the lashes of a knotted whip. Some of them had paled and thickened, looking like bark. Others criss-crossed the shoulders like a fresh map of crime and punishment; blood and pus seeped onto the tanned skin. It reminded me of how Buturlin had looked upon leaving the Trubetzkoi Bastion. My heart was in my mouth at the memories the sight evoked.
‘What happened to you?’ I could not help but ask.
The man turned and gave me a ready smile. It was in stark contrast to the deep lines on his young face. This was the man from church; the monk who had saved my life. The memory of his strong arms carrying me gave me goosebumps.
I banished the thought immediately. This man was out of bounds.
66
‘Are you better, Lizenka?’ He pulled a coarse sheet from his saddlebags, which were stuffed to the brim. Lizenka. I hesitated a split second yet haughtiness had never been a flaw of mine. He, however, noticed my reaction. ‘That is what the Abbess said I should call you but please correct me if it is wrong.’
He did not know who I was, I understood: Lestocq and the Abbess had kept it a secret. What a gift! ‘That is indeed my name. I am much better. Thank you for carrying me out of the chapel.’ I smiled at him. ‘You saved my life.’
He placed his folded shirt on the trough’s edge. ‘It was my pleasure. You were as light as a child. Now your cheeks are round again,’ he said, not looking at my cheeks at all. I blushed, aware of the simple white blouse that had slipped off my shoulders to show the alabaster skin beneath. Over it I wore a bodice of unbleached linen, laced as tightly as a maid’s. He averted his eyes; his sudden shyness stirred me. It contrasted with all the brazen courtiers I knew, forever looking to take advantage. Even Buturlin, for all his true desire and devotion, had not lacked ambition. ‘Don’t thank me but God in His mercy,’ the man told me. He wrapped the ends of the cloth around his hands, pulling it taut, to dry his shoulders. As the rough fabric touched the wounds, he winced.
‘Don’t!’ I was shocked to see fresh blood. ‘Let me do that.’ He hesitated but I ordered: ‘Turn. You’ll have to lean forward otherwise you are too tall for me to reach.’ He sucked his teeth as I blotted dry the fresh wounds. ‘Who did this to you and why? To think that you called me a thief who needed punishment! Did the Abbess give you a knouting? Or have you chastised yourself? I thought monks were merciful and just.’
‘Me, a monk? God, no! Life is too short for that.’
‘Well, then?’ I asked, dabbing some more. The number of scars spoke of years of abuse.
‘My father knouted me every day of my life, for as long as I can remember, up to this morning when I took my leave.’
‘Why would he beat you like this?’ I dropped the sheet, aghast.
‘All men want their sons to follow in their footsteps.’
I fell silent. My father had killed Alexey for refusing to yield to his overwhelming demands.
‘Did you hear me sing in the chapel?’ the man asked, his voice proud and his eyes bright, betraying a passion that was wonderfully different from simply wanting to rule or ruin others. What a blessing to know such a purpose. I was almost jealous. I was unable to think of a calling for myself that was not high treason and punishable by death.
‘I did. It was unforgettable. Divine.’
His face lit up. ‘Thank you. You see, my father thinks I should be a shepherd and a cruel drunkard, like him. In fact, he opposed the Tsarina’s orders.’
The cloth almost slipped again from my fingers. ‘What sort of orders?’
‘I shall tell you. But, please, carry on – I like your touch,’ he said, little lights dancing in his eyes. ‘My story is proof that there is a God.’ He laughed, showing strong white teeth and dimples in his cheeks as he raked back his black curly hair with his fingers.
‘Tell me all.’ I eyed him shyly. He had muscles in places I had not thought possible: his body was like an iron spring; his taut, tanned skin glistening
‘If you share my joy, it doubles.’ He smiled and crossed his arms on his bare chest. ‘Today is the last time that my father will ever beat me. I am leaving here.’
‘What does your mother say about that?’
‘She died last year, having been brought to bed sixteen times. Of all those pregnancies, only my brother Kyril and I were to live. My father, the randy goat, killed her; I apologise if those words are not suitable for a maiden’s tender ears.’ He bowed slightly to me. ‘I hope only to save my brother from him one day. Kyril is so different from me but we understand each other perfectly.’
‘My elder sister and I were as different as apples from pears. Still, I miss her desperately, every day,’ I said. ‘She, too, died in childbirth. Her son grows up far away from me, a stranger.’
His eyes were full of compassion when he said: ‘Being a woman is a punishment. I hope life will treat you better, even if you can’t leave here as I can.’
Leave. That word again. I felt my good spirits start to fade. ‘Leave? To do what?’
‘The only thing I can. I will join the newly founded Imperial Choir.’
‘No?’ I was shocked but also flooded by delight. ‘How did the Tsarina hear about you?’
‘The village priest, who had schooled me and my voice, invited me to sing when an Imperial messenger stopped by. He was on his way to Moscow from France; the Tsarina Anna had run out of Champagne and ordered another hundred thousand bottles,’ he said. ‘Apparently, she bathes in it together with her German lover. A foreigner calls the shots in Russia. I hate that.’
‘What a silly, nasty rumour. Nobody calls the shots but her,’ I said fiercely.
‘How would you know, little Lizenka? Do not lower your eyes. I love them: big and blue and wonderfully lively. I shan’t ever forget them.’ As our gazes locked my heart skipped a beat.
‘So, what happened after the messenger stopped by?’
’I was ordered to come to Moscow. I was thanking God for His mercy when I met you.’ He took the sheet off me, storing it in his saddlebag. ‘And thank you, too. Compassion and kindness are rare qualities in Russia.’
The rarest thing in Russia was a man in whose favour the wheel of fortune spun, but pointing out his luck to him might have spoiled it. He looked at my hands: ‘What soft little paws you have, Lizenka. Are you waiting on a high-born lady? Did she pay that foreign quack to heal you?’
‘No, no,’ I said hastily. ‘I work in the parlour, making kefir, cheese and quark.’
‘Do you know how to make a creamy pashka pudding and kulich, the sweet bread?’ he asked. ‘If so, my memory of you shall be forever sweet.’
‘Sure,’ I fibbed, longing to impress him. I was confident that if I had to, I could bake the perfect sweet Easter bread and whip up the sweet curd pudding that usually accompanied it. ‘Nobody makes a more delicious kulich than I – packed with fragrant spices, dried fruit and even citrus peel, if I can get my hands on it. If I make pashka to go with it. I use only the thickest, most creamy milk for the curd, and masses of candied fruit, almonds and whey butter instead of honey.’ I had watched Illinchaya at work often enough to know how she had made the delicacies.
‘Is that so?’ He slid back into his shirt, lacing it up, hiding his smooth chest. ‘That’s a big claim. My mother made the best kulich I know.’
‘I’ll take your wager.’
My heart pounded as he weighed his answer; I so wanted him not to go when I had just found him. This was a decent man and they seemed to be rarer than black snow. ‘Find me in the convent kitchen tomorrow afternoon, if you dare,’ I teased him, knowing he could not resist my challenge.
‘So be it. You’d better get going. A good kulich takes time. If you do it properly, of course.’ He winked and lifted the heavy saddle off his gelding – a farmer’s horse, thickset and low, with heavy, hairy hooves – shouldering the
load with ease. He led the animal away and I called after him: ‘What is your name? I only bake for men who present themselves properly.’
He bowed, laughing. ‘You are right. Where are my manners? Alexis Razum.’
‘Razum. The mild one?’
‘Indeed, Lizenka.’
I smiled. ‘So be it then, Alexis Razumovsky.’
*
My mare stood hidden away in the last box. Her straw was fresh; she had had good feed and her coat was shiny. She whinnied with joy to see me. Her warm nostrils nuzzled my palm searchingly. ‘Sorry, I’ll bring you an apple later,’ I promised, combing her tawny mane with my fingers, her large chestnut eyes questioning me. A blanket had been draped over her silver-grey coat – the hue of a moonlit night – to hide her Imperial brand. Abbess Agatha had gone to great lengths to keep my stay a secret, allowing me time to heal.
The thought of returning to court made the blood rush through my veins, for reasons that were entirely different from the ones I had expressed only an hour ago. But first I needed to bake the world’s best kulich.
67
Vasilisa the cook was out at the market when I sneaked into the kitchen the next day. The maids greeted me before getting on with their work. I was glad not to encounter the mistress of the kitchen: Vasilisa was a giantess of a woman, her hands big as shovels, abundant greying hair hidden under a floral headscarf. She had a tongue even sharper than her knives and a round belly that strained against her plain robe and starched apron. She ruled the Pecharsky slaughterhouse, dairy and bakery – as well as the fabulously stocked cellar, its impossibly large key dangling from her belt.
I squinted as I opened a smaller storeroom: sunlight fell through a tiny window placed high up in the wall. The shelves groaned under jars of oils, vinegar and pickled beetroot, gherkins, and onions, as well as walnuts and stewed fruit to be eaten like jam on fresh warm bread. Damsons, cherries, apricots and peaches were all delicacies of the Ukraine. Sacks of buckwheat, flour, oats and barley were piled up next to bags of dried red, green and white pulses. Cabbage cured in a good dozen barrels and countless bundles of dried herbs – parsley, thyme, chives, dill, bay and sage – were strung from the ceiling. Dried forest mushrooms hung in long, knotted chains, waiting to be soaked for soups, stews and sauces. I climbed on a footstool to reach the candied fruit that Vasilisa kept on the highest shelf – novices were renowned for their sweet tooth and so she hid it away. Of the whey butter, which took days to thicken on the summer pastures, I naughtily took a whole bar.
My arms full, I kicked the door shut behind me and piled everything on the long kitchen table, which normally sat a good twenty people – the kitchen staff – once the nuns and their visitors had been served. Its scrubbed wood showed countless scratches from its many years of service. In the heat of the kitchen, I was grateful for my blouse’s low neckline; Vasilisa had baked bread and the oven still glowed. Loaves were resting on the far end of the table; the late-afternoon sun made their crusts shine.
Right. I had the candied fruit and the whey butter. As I had no curd to make pashka, I scooped the cream off the top of the bowls in the dairy, hoping to keep it as thick as possible, just as I had watched the maids doing. I whipped it stiff with a bundle of tied twigs, licking my fingertips: delicious! Now I had to get on with baking the kulich. I would surprise Alexis, I thought joyfully. When had I last felt anything as real as my excitement now?
Illinchaya, our nurse in Kolomenskoye, had hummed a song to remind herself of the recipe and I still remembered the verse: ‘Two sticks butter or lard, soft not hard. Six eggs do whisk, but never too brisk. Use flour abound, it makes everything sound. Sugar on top, don’t say stop… ’ The half-dozen eggs that I had taken from the basket next to the oven lay close to hand. The monastery’s chickens – silly birds that put up a terrific fight for each egg, scratching, flapping and pecking – laid all day round. I cracked them into a large porcelain bowl, scattering the shells carelessly over the table. Next I needed the sugar, Vasilisa’s treasure. I inched it down from between sacks of pepper, mustard seeds and saffron, and sifted heaps of it into the eggs. Vasilisa would have my hide if she knew – but she never would, so I powdered in a little bit more in a soft, even layer. I was such a master baker!
My cheeks flushed with pride as I creamed together eggs and sugar, making a foamy mess. It did not look too bad when I added the flour from my raised hands – ‘It needs air,’ Illinchaya would say – making the table look as if a snowstorm had raged around it. All the while, the butter melted in a heavy cast-iron pan on the oven. Ouch! I burned my thumb lifting it clear, then poured the golden liquid into my batter before adding the flour, gently, cup by cup, so it took in air. Pails of fresh, foaming milk stood in a shady corner of the kitchen. I spooned a bit off into a bowl, adding the yeast – a blend of flour meal and water that stood fermenting close to the oven’s warmth – and mixed it in well. There! Now it just needed to rise.
A couple of hours later, when Vasilisa and the maids were napping before the preparations for supper started – this task and clearing up afterwards kept them up into the early hours of the morning – I was back. First, I dropped the beautifully risen dough into a copper kulich form, smoothing the top. Then I placed it in the oven, which blazed away day and night, heating water for the samovars, roasting a couple of lambs and baking the Abbess’ favourite biscuits. The bar of whey butter was still out and quite hard, so I placed it next to the oven to soften. I could not resist eating quite a bit of it before the kulich was almost ready.
‘Here you are!’
The voice startled me, catching me with my thieving fingers in my mouth. Alexis Razumovsky stood in the doorway. I sucked my fingertips clean, seeing his eyes darken before he averted his gaze. ‘You are late,’ I said, smiling. ‘Typical. Men have that infallible way of arriving when all the work is done, and the food is ready. In half an hour, I promise, you shall taste the best kulich ever.’
His presence filled the room. My cheeks burned. I moved away from the oven, but, if anything, I felt even hotter when he approached, checking on the kulich by opening the oven’s hatch door: ‘I wouldn’t call this ready. Show-off!’
I felt dizzy, both from the heat and his closeness. How beautiful his hands were, tanned and strong, with long, slim fingers, pronounced knuckles and short, clean nails.
‘Let us see,’ I said, slipping on quilted oven mittens and lifting out the mould, flames licking towards me. Wiping my damp forehead with one forearm, I placed the kulich on the table. I brushed my hands on my dark skirt, careful not to spoil its beautiful floral embroidery.
‘You like whey butter, don’t you?’ he said.
I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. ‘How do you know?’
The open collar of his casually laced shirt showed the smooth skin of his chest. He had the wiry strength of a shepherd, accustomed to climbing rugged mountain slopes to rescue a lamb and to defending his flock from wolves and eagles. Gently, he traced the curve of my upper lip. My breath stalled as my gaze became caught up in his. ‘You have some crumbs here,’ he said, his voice tender.
‘Remove them.’
‘I can’t manage with my fingers.’
‘Well, then.’ I raised my face. He lowered his. My lips parted as I felt him searching my mouth, tenderly, without haste. His breath was sweet and fresh as he kissed me once more, careful, and chaste. ‘Got it. It’s wonderfully sweet, like you.’
‘Let me taste,’ I whispered, going on tiptoe. I saw his surprise as I kissed him hungrily. Together, we stumbled backwards. He lifted me to sit on the kitchen table, kissing me, cupping my face, and caressing first my hair and then my bare shoulders, where the blouse had slipped. I arched my neck, sighing, as his lips found my throat, sending flashes of lightning through my body. My quickening breath made him cup my breasts, lowering his head and tasting my buds through the blouse’s thin linen. The fabric was moist, clinging to my hard pink nipples, a sight which made him groan. I remembered myself at
last, wriggled away and tucked up my stray curls, trying in vain to adjust the blouse, blushing. He would think me a girl of easy virtue! He tore himself away from me, breathing heavily.
‘I am sorry. This is not right,’ he said. ‘I am soon off to Moscow forever and you are a good girl. I shall not leave you shamed. In Kiev, many a good man might wed a sweet parlour maid.’ He gave me a last, tender kiss before placing my palm on his pounding heart. ‘I knew it. You little thief.’
I cleared my throat and slipped off the table. My legs shook but I steadied my voice. ‘How about some kulich now?’
‘That would be lovely.’
It slipped from the mould easily, all spongy and steaming. He smiled at my proud expression when I piled on the thick cream, sprinkling it with layers of candied fruit and whey butter. I chose from the block the long, blunt knife that Vasilisa used to cut cakes. ‘Do you want the first slice?’
‘As I will be the judge of who has won our wager, gladly.’
I placed a large slice on a plate. How perfectly fluffy the sweet dough was, and how stiff the cream – I felt so pleased to see him eat it. Alexis chewed – and almost choked, coughing, bringing up the kulich and running to spit it out in the bucket near the fire. He was still retching when he looked up.
‘What is it?’ I asked, a deep blush creeping over my throat and up to my face.
‘My God, Lizenka, you used salt instead of sugar!’ He wiped his mouth.
‘I am so sorry,’ I stuttered, then mirth rose from deep inside me. This was so funny! ‘Now I know why Vasilisa keeps the sugar next to the pepper!’ I laughed and laughed, bent double and leaning against the table, holding my sides.
‘Are you laughing at me? After almost poisoning a good man?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ I gasped, wiping my eyes.
The Tsarina's Daughter Page 33