De Biron caressed the Tsarina’s hair. Ostermann cowered in a chair, waiting, and watching. Ivan’s wet-nurse, a buxom German woman, held the fretful infant; it was way past his bedtime. Milk glistened on his full lips; the candlelight turned his unusually fair complexion pearly white. I crossed my arms to stop myself from reaching out for him. Christine avoided looking at her son altogether. I could only imagine her pain.
Anna turned her head, gasping: ‘Ivan.’ The wet-nurse held the terrified infant towards her. ‘Ivan is to be my heir. He is the next Tsar, Ivan VI. ’ The Tsarina arched with pain as a cramp seized her.
‘Am I being kept only to breed?’ Christine shrieked. Her spirit surprised me, then I remembered the strength that Augustus’ friendship, Buturlin’s adoration and Alexis’ love gave me. Did Julie’s and Lynar’s presences do the same for her? De Biron’s icy stare was meant to silence her bravado, but Christine hid neither her hatred nor her contempt of him: over the nine years of Anna’s rule – a run of absolute power for him – the once tall, lean and muscular man had grown massive, his paunch barely contained by a masterfully cut crimson velvet waistcoat. The once-alluring, animal-like gleam in his eyes had morphed into a steady, relentless glare. ‘Who will be Regent for Ivan then?’ she asked. ‘I am his mother. And I hope I have not changed my name to Anna Leopoldovna, as well as my faith, for nothing?’
Ostermann slipped two papers from his waistcoat and pressed a quill into Anna’s fingers, where the Imperial seal had settled deep in her flesh. The ring would need to be cut in half before it was removed and forged anew. Twice the quill slipped from her grip. In the end, Ostermann guided her hand as she made the two-month-old Ivan the next Tsar of All the Russias.
Ostermann held out a second scroll. ‘And here is the declaration of Regency. It will be a while until the Tsarevich is fit to rule.’
‘Perfect. This is for me then, finally?’ Christine snatched the scroll from Ostermann. De Biron scrutinised Christine as if presented with a mare he found wanting, Then, he stooped and tenderly kissed the Tsarina’s fingers, but Anna Ivanovna’s last look sought and found me. ‘Ne boisya,’ she mumbled. ‘Ne boisya.’ Never fear.
‘I won’t,’ said de Biron, who for one last time was allowed to assume that everything was about him. Just days later, the de Birons would be dragged naked from their beds, arrested and beaten into submission with musket butts. They handed over all their possessions – gold plate and jewellery – in order to be spared torture. Accused of usurping the Imperial power and embezzling public funds, the de Birons were sentenced to be drawn and quartered; the punishment was, however, muted to lifelong exile in Siberia.
When I took my Oath of Allegiance to the infant Tsar Ivan VI, I nibbled the boy’s pinkie, making him squeal with delight. I was thirty years old. Any younger and I would not have been ready for what was to come next.
87
Anna Ivanovna’s open coffin was placed on a sleigh drawn by eight horses, their raven coats groomed to a mirror shine, reins studded with gemstones, black feathers bouncing on their headbands. The Tsarina’s corpse had been dressed in a cloth-of-silver court costume; in her hair gleamed her favourite diamond crown. The funeral procession took three hours to complete a couple of hundred steps, the church bells’ dull, steady call setting the rhythm for the thousands of spectators shuffling forwards. After a decade in which wearing black had been banned, the court was back in funeral attire. The only hint of white in my mourner’s weeds with their heavy nine-foot train came from wide linen bands attached to my neck and cuffs so that I could wipe the tears from my eyes. Following the funeral, the cloth was crusty with salt. I had cried partly out of a real sense of mourning for Anna Ivanovna, who had at one time offered me her friendship, for whatever reason. During the eulogy, my gaze met the vixen eyes of Julie von Mengden, who together with her uncle Count Ostermann shielded Christine from anyone’s attempts to speak to her.‘
Ne boisya,’ Anna Ivanovna had advised me: Never fear.
Easier said than done.
Christine was named Regent Anna Leopoldovna for her infant son Tsar Ivan, but Count Ostermann reigned in all but name. My cousin was happy to retire to her apartments, floating about in déshabillées, playing cards, reading soppy novels, nibbling on honey pastry and spending her days and nights with Julie and Count Lynar. To keep up appearances, the Saxon envoy became engaged to Ostermann’s niece, and they took turns standing guard while the Regent lay with one or the other of them. If her husband Prince Anthony of Brunswick came to his wife’s door, he was chased away like a dog. Come summer, the court moved to Peterhof, leaving me behind; the Summer Palace’s furniture, crockery and cutlery had been loaded onto carts, leaving me to live in an empty shell of a house. On the way out to Peterhof, a sudden downpour ruined the lot. Christine dumped the priceless furniture by the roadside and ordered everything to be bought new in Paris, London and Amsterdam.
I was not even asked to join Tsar Ivan’s first birthday celebrations. Instead, I found joy in the love shown to me by the people of St Petersburg: the food seller who forced a bag of hot pirogi into my hands, refusing to take payment; the shop selling Parisian finery, which consistently forgot to charge me for my orders; the women who asked me to bless their babies when I was out and about; the soldiers who never failed to greet me, joining me for chai and dinners.
Soon the bloodhound Ostermann scented my growing popularity. Count Lynar was to leave for Saxony to prepare for his wedding to Julie. Before he left, whispers reached me that he was overheard advising Christine to: ‘deal with Elizabeth’.
The uncertainty of what this might mean drove me sheer mad with dread. Count Lynar departed from St Petersburg on the eve of St Nicholas’ Day, when Russia honours its patron saint. He is protector of the weak, saviour of the oppressed; he gives to the poor without harming the rich. St Nicholas is the kindest of all Russian saints, a true hero of the disadvantaged.
Fate could have chosen no better moment.
88
On the evening of 5th of December, I sat together with Alexis in the Summer Palace’s small library, low lights burning and a fire crackling. Still, I did not feel warm. Only some of the furniture Christine had looted had been replaced. Inch-wide gaps showed between the floorboards; moisture crept inside, trickling down the bare walls; the windowpanes shook from draughts. Lestocq rushed in, brushing snow off his sleeves and head. He made no attempt at civility. ‘Tsarevna Elizabeth – we have no time to lose. Ostermann has ordered the regiments to leave town and to join the front within twenty-four hours.’
‘What does that mean?’ I rose from my chair.
‘You will be defenceless. Once they are gone, you will be arrested for planning a coup, tried and possibly executed. Go, Tsarevna. Take what is yours. The palace and the power.’
I crossed my arms, trying to stem my fear. ‘I will never go against the oath I have sworn to my cousin Ivan, the rightful Tsar. I am no traitor to my house.’
‘Your house? If only,’ Lestocq said, smiling lopsidedly like an actor who had been given a better cue than he could ever expect. ‘You have believed that for far too long.’ He stepped aside: on the threshold, Maja cowered next to d’Acosta, her face swollen with tears, white hair wild. Alexis stepped behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders.
‘Speak now, woman.’ D’Acosta shoved Maja forward. ‘Pay your debts to the Tsarevna.’
Maja crossed herself: ‘I swear by the soul of the Tsaritsa Praskovia, your aunt Pasha Christine has brought this upon herself. The Regent,’ she spat out, hugging her arms around her shaking body. ‘Her viciousness relieves me of any oath I took.’
My fingers sought Alexis’. I leaned into him, feeling faint: ‘Speak!’ I said.
Maja shivered. ‘The Tsaritsa Praskovia never lay with Tsar Ivan; she could not bear the thought. My lady was the most beautiful maiden ever, as dark, and sweet as a blackberry, and they threw her to this man, this—’ She stopped short of insulting my uncle, Tsar Ivan. ‘On h
er wedding night, she was beside herself with fear, threatening to slice her wrists. So, I helped her. Every evening I gave Tsar Ivan the milk of paradise to drink, so he lay passed out. Year after year I harvested the poppy fields around Moscow. He never, ever consummated the marriage.’
‘But how—’ I started to say. The enormity of Maja’s confession overwhelmed me. She held her arms over her head.
‘Don’t ask any more!’ she pleaded, wiping away snot and tears.
‘Speak!’ d’Acosta hissed, pulling at her pitilessly. She shrieked; a sound that made me freeze with terror. D’Acosta shook her with surprising force, making her teeth chatter. ‘Say it.’
‘She lay with a gentleman of the bedchamber instead. Neither of the Tsaritsa Praskovia’s daughters were fathered by Tsar Ivan. Neither of them was a Romanova,’ Maja sobbed. D’Acosta let go of her, crossing his arms.
I sank against Alexis, buckling under the weight of Maja’s words. Cheating on a Romanov was one thing, fooling All of the Russias quite another. Aunt Pasha’s position had been one of honour – the Tsar’s wife – and being wed to him was an outcome that any nobleman’s daughter would desire, however unprepossessing the groom. I was too stunned to think, let alone speak, as Schwartz rose from his corner seat, setting his cello aside carelessly. The three men’s eyes locked: they were not friends, yet at that moment a powerful current of understanding passed between them. Alexis, Lestocq and Schwartz stood united, for Russia and for me.
Lestocq placed his Tarot pack on the small table in front of me, fanning out the cards, laying them upside down. ‘Take three cards.’
‘This is not the time!’ I said. The world had just come tumbling down. Why should I play cards?
‘When if not now?’ Alexis said to my surprise. ‘Please, Lizenka. Do it.’
I chose randomly, laying three cards face down on the gaming table’s green felt. ‘Have a look!’ Lestocq urged me. Alexis leaned in. Schwartz went on tiptoes.
My hand hovered.
‘Turn them, Lizenka,’ Alexis said tenderly.
I did.
89
The world was in upheaval after Maja’s revelation. Clouds hung heavy with ice, sleet and snow. The moon presided momentarily over the prospects, making the ice on the Neva shine like black starlight before plunging the city into darkness once more. The windows in the high, flat façades of the houses and palaces were unlit; intense cold made the sentries before the palaces retreat inside, where only a spell by the brazier and a sip of vodka kept them alive.
Alexis had helped me dress in the uniform of the Preobrazhensky Regiment; the Imperial green jacket was too tight and the breeches stiff with cold. We slipped silently into the night as the Summer Palace was certainly surrounded by spies. Away from the trodden paths, I sank thigh-deep into the snow but pressed on: we had to reach the barracks! The cold air stung my lungs and made me gasp with pain. ‘Let me help you,’ Schwartz said, linking our elbows and dragging me on as if I weighed nothing at all. Alexis and Lestocq also took turns in supporting me.
In the forced march through the city, every breath seared my lungs, black stars lit my gaze, and my thoughts were hazy from exhaustion. Just when I thought we should never reach the barracks, their lights and din pierced the darkness, parting the veil of snow. The quarters of the two old Imperial Russian regiments teemed with life despite the night hour. Everywhere soldiers dragged saddles, clothes, arms and food rations to the stables; all goods were loaded onto mules, horses and sleds, destined for the front. The men shouted, laughed, pushed each other, happy to escape the city’s oppressive atmosphere and their exclusion from court where any task of importance was awarded to the purely German and Baltic Izmailovsky Regiment.
Were these men ready to assist me? I could not be sure, but just the sight of them made my spirits soar. I was doing what I was destined to do, by Divine Law. I was fulfilling my duty towards Russia. ‘Let us go, boys!’ I called, leaving the cover of darkness and stepping into the light. My heart pounded: how would the regiments welcome me? No explanations were needed. The soldiers dropped everything they carried and ceased whatever they were doing when they saw me. They kneeled down in the driving snow. ‘Matushka Rossiya! Matushka Rossiya!’ they called as one, beating their chests with their fists. Was there ever a greater show of love? Little Mother Russia. At any other time, they called our country that. Their words spurred me on. It all fell into place: you will be a mother, but you will have no child.
I was in awe: the Leshy’s prophecy had never harmed but only prepared me. What had seemed like a threat, in truth had been a saving grace, readying me for what lay ahead.
‘Rise, men, and follow me!’ I called. ‘We have no time to waste!’
We hurried ahead towards the building, sure of the common soldiers’ support. The door to the officers’ mess was closed. I clenched my fists. These were the men I had to convince, the leaders of the troops. What if their Oath of Allegiance to the infant Tsar Ivan bound them tighter than their love for me and Russia? I gave Schwartz a terse nod and he kicked the door open: it struck the wall behind. The men turned, rising from the tables, hands on daggers and pistols.
I stood in the doorway: my cheeks were flushed, my blonde hair tumbled from my fur hat, and the green regimental jacket moulded my body, showing my rosy skin where I had opened it so I could breathe more easily. The icon of St Nicholas sparkled at my throat. My legs in their thigh-high leather boots were planted firmly on the threshold. There was a moment of stunned silence before they shouted a welcome: it was a single roar, a dark green sea of officers rising to acclaim me, gold uniform buttons dancing like starlight on dark waves.
No explanations were needed. They knew why I was here. The common soldiers, too, spilled into the mess. Tonight, destinies were to be forged, fortunes made or lost. Fate held its breath.
‘Do you know whose daughter I am?’ I shouted as two officers seized me and hoisted me on their shoulders. The atmosphere was charged with expectation. A sea of faces was turned to me, adoring and hopeful. Glasses were brandished in the air, vodka splashing.
‘Yes! You are the Tsar’s daughter! The great Tsar Peter!’
I raised my hands, bathing in the warmth of their affection. ‘Yes. But I am also the Tsarina’s daughter. My moment has come. Our moment has come. Help me take my throne! I will reward you as royally as only I can. Tomorrow morning the city shall wake to a new Tsarina of All the Russias. Follow me to the Winter Palace!’
‘Yes, to the Palace! Let us kill them all!’ the men cheered, seizing muskets, bayonets, daggers, swords and sabres.
‘No!’ I shouted, clenching my fists. ‘No, no and no! If you plan to murder, I shall not come. No drop of Russian blood is to be spilled on my account. But hand me a sword!’ I held the weapon high, its blade flashing in the light of the officers’ mess like a beacon. ‘Follow me – for Russia. Matushka Rossiya!’
A tidal wave of soldiers swept me up, flooding out of the mess, seizing their weapons, taking on the night of St Nicholas. Anna Ivanovna might have been right when she said that a pretty face was not enough to send soldiers marching.
But I was the Wolverine, the Tsarevna born under the December stars on the day of celebration for Russia’s greatest victory, the Princess of Poltava.
We made slow but steady progress. My friend the Russian winter muffled our footsteps. At every mansion belonging to the Regent’s supporters, I placed pickets, ready for the morning arrests. Once we reached the Admiralty, I ordered Ostermann himself to be arrested. It was sad that I would not see his face when it happened, but I should witness his punishment later, whatever judgment my court should pass. He had obstructed my hereditary rights for too long. God willing, Russia was to wake to Russian rule on St Nicholas’ Day.
Yet the Devil never rests. My boots were soaked and every breath split my chest with icy pain. The bells struck again, marking another hour lost. I fell behind, exhausted. My sight blurred as I saw the backs of the men storming ahead, snow sw
allowing them and drowning out my shouts.
‘Hurry, Tsarevna!’ Lestocq tried to help me up.
‘I can’t!’ I gasped, tormented by a violent stitch in my side.
‘Yes, you can, my love!’ Alexis, too, tried to pull me to my feet. Snow hid the path ahead. My heart hurt, my limbs burned, my boots were too heavy for me to take one more step. I stumbled anew, falling into the snow on my hands and knees. I broke through its surface, feeling the icy bite on my shoulders, belly and chin. I was soaked to the skin. I stifled a sob but said: ‘Let us press on.’ I plunged into another drift, this time disappearing up to my thighs It was hopeless. For God’s sake, even chubby Schwartz managed better!
‘Schwartz,’ I coughed, longing for his bear-like strength.
‘The Tsarevna Elizabeth!’ he yelled and yanked me up, carrying me in his arms. ‘She’s falling behind.’
‘Go!’ I pleaded, gulping for air.
‘Never,’ Alexis shouted. ‘We go nowhere without you.’ Schwartz gave a sharp whistle, and two officers came running back. Cheering, they hoisted me on their shoulders, galloping ahead. Alexis laughed and ran with us, relishing the adventure, as we stormed through driving snow to the Winter Palace.
The vast building lay in darkness: its shutters were closed, the courtyard deserted. I held my breath, counting the dark windows, trying to make out Christine’s bedroom and the royal nursery. The sentries at the entrance gate, who had been warming themselves at a brazier, laid down their weapons immediately, kneeled and begged for their lives, swearing the Oath of Allegiance. ‘Take me to the guards’ room!’ I commanded. There, the men on duty jumped up at sight of me, unsure what to do. ‘I don’t want any bloodshed. I am here to claim what is rightfully mine – I am the Tsarevna Elizabeth Petrovna Romanova. Lay down your arms and follow me,’ I called, raising my sword.
‘What on earth… ?’ their captain said, but Herr Schwartz seized the man by the collar with one hand only and flung him against the wall, winding him.
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