The Tsarina's Daughter

by Ellen Alpsten

  ‘How did you do that?’ I asked admiringly, laughing and feeling exhilarated.

  He flexed his mighty muscles and grinned. ‘I always told you: practice makes perfect!’

  My regiment flooded the room, taking command, as the palace guards were outnumbered by three hundred or more men – and one woman. ‘Go!’ I urged them on, slashing the taut skin of their drums. The leather split with a wonderfully ugly sound, a hiss like a wild cat ready to pounce. Nobody would be able to raise the alarm with this. ‘A thousand roubles for each man who is with me when the morning dawns,’ I called.

  There was no further hesitation. The Imperial Guard followed us as we swarmed all over the sleeping palace like angry bees, ready to sting. ‘Up here!’ I took two marble steps of the grand staircase at a time, turning towards the north-west wing of the building. Our steps echoed along the high gallery and long corridors as we stormed ahead; the lights and torches in our hands cast ghostly reflections on the mirrored walls. Nothing was an effort any more. My blood was a red-hot current racing to my heart, setting my mind aflame. I took only what was my due: the men’s devotion and Russia’s love carried me.

  Outside gilded double doors, we halted.

  I caught my breath: the high European-style handle pressed lightly against my palm. Behind lay an antechamber, I knew, in which a dozen or more ladies-in-waiting were crammed together to sleep. They guarded the bedroom of my cousin Christine – Russia’s Regent Anna Leopoldovna.

  ‘This is it,’ I said, my voice tight with apprehension. I opened the door and slipped inside. As my men poured after me, the ladies and their maids woke and shrieked, covering themselves and begging for their lives.

  ‘Take them to the kitchens,’ I ordered, as the women were bundled out into the corridor. ‘No rape and no molestation or I’ll have your skins.’ I strode over the golden parquet, patterned with ash and ebony, and pushed open another set of double doors. The room had not been aired for a while; the air was as sticky as in the Izmailov Wolf House. I raised my light: Christine slept in Julie’s arms. Both women were naked, limbs laced together, their long hair spilling over the white starched linen. In her sleep, Julie’s hand lay slack on the Regent’s lower belly. I could see the stretch marks where Christine had borne my darling Ivan. Behind me, the soldiers gawped: so, the scandalous rumours were true!

  Julie stirred as the light from the lanterns pierced her sleep; the commotion and excitement all around swamping her dreams. Before she could say anything, I shook Christine by the shoulder, waking her. She opened her eyes drowsily, then blinked and sat up. ‘Lizenka, what on earth… ?’ She stopped short when she saw the soldiers’ weapons as well as my flushed cheeks, my uniform, the smile that made my eyes sparkle.

  ‘Wake up, little sister,’ I said merrily. ‘It is time to rise!’

  ‘Have mercy!’ she begged while Julie sobbed. In vain she tried to cover her nakedness. They embraced one another but the soldiers tore them apart, wrapping them in sheets. ‘Whatever you do, don’t harm Julie,’ Christine pleaded, as she stood next to her bed, shivering.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

  ‘What are you doing then?’ Christine clutched the sheet in front of her.

  I steeled myself. ‘Now? I am going to see Ivan.’

  Understanding dawned in her eyes; fear filled her plain face. ‘Oh, Lizenka! Please don’t hurt him!’

  There were no words for the feelings that warred inside me then. I had been led to believe that this woman was my cousin, yet she was no blood relative at all. For a decade, she and her brethren had obstructed my hereditary rights. Anything worth calling a life would cease for her and hers, this very night. I should end it with my own hands.

  So, I went to see sweet Ivan, my beloved boy, the infant Tsar, in his nursery.

  IN THE WINTER PALACE, ST NICHOLAS’ DAY, 6 DECEMBER 1741

  The lightest load will be your greatest burden.

  As the Leshy spirit’s last prophecy comes to pass, the soldiers pour in, elation on their faces, the captain of the Preobrazhensky regiment storming ahead. His men and he have put their destiny in my hands by following me. The nursery’s dusk is brightened by flaming torchlight, hours before the morning is due. As the wet-nurse stirs, she is dragged out before she can scream. I lift Ivan out of his cradle and nuzzle his cheek, drinking in his sweet scent of milk as well as the lavender in which his sheets are stored. I must remember this moment. If my half-brother Alexey’s death at our father’s hands once cursed the family, then handing Ivan to the soldiers will save us – and Russia. I force myself to remember that not a drop of Romanov blood flows in his veins.

  ‘Shhh. It is me, Aunt Lizenka,’ I whisper, and kiss him; a smile buds, spreading sunshine over his little face. His hair is so fair; his eyes so big and blue; an uncommonly handsome boy. I loosen his swaddling.

  ‘Enka,’ Ivan coos, as the captain approaches like a tomcat on the prowl, his excitement and impatience filling the room. Within hours lives are destroyed and made, riches are lost, fortunes won. He reaches out for Ivan. ‘Please hand me the Ts—’

  I raise my eyebrows in a silent warning and he corrects himself. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. Please hand me Ivan Antonov,’ he says.

  Your Majesty. It seems I took the decision about Ivan’s fate when I left the Summer Palace for the barracks – or perhaps even earlier, when I decided to live up to the Leshy spirit’s prophecy. I hand him over, my heart breaking. Any further delay is impossible.

  ‘Don’t drop him!’ I do not know what else to say.

  ‘I shan’t. Let us go, Ivan Antonov,’ says the soldier, his chin and cheek darkly stubbled. Ivan rubs his hands on it, while the captain looks at me questioningly.

  Let us go. I taste the bitter sting of tears. What I have to do is unforgivable, yet there is only one way forward. The choice that I take to surrender Ivan is for the benefit of Russia. Who am I in comparison with that? A mere tool. My country can only have one ruler. I have earned the right to reign as much as I have inherited it. ‘Take the family of Anthony of Brunswick to the Summer Palace,’ I say. ‘They are to be placed under house arrest.’

  ‘And Ivan Antonov himself?’ The soldier rocks the babe.

  ‘You are to await further orders,’ I tell him, turning away to hide the tears welling in my eyes.

  Further orders. These two words are the midwife to the most monstrous, unavoidable decision. Ivan will become Prisoner Number One of All the Russias, condemned to a living death. I will lock him away in the dark, dank Schlüsselburg for all eternity, or until the end of his days – whichever comes first. Father’s conquest of this water fortress on the Neva estuary – a wasteland of swamps and thick mists – had made the founding of St Petersburg possible. As Ivan’s prison, it will be a constant reminder of what it takes to rule Russia. If there is any attempt to free him – and there will be, because there always is – Ivan will be killed immediately. I kiss his little hand one last time; his fingers, which will never hold a toy, or a quill, let alone the orb and sceptre.

  While Ivan sacrifices his body and mind to Russia, I add my immortal soul to that grisly offering, giving my realm the Holy Trinity that it deserves. It makes me join Ivan in a prison of sorts: the Winter Palace, where I shall forever fear dusk and the night that follows. Any night. What if another heir apparent storms along the Neva embankment towards the Tsarina’s residence? For me, no sleep will be taken in the same room two nights running, if it is found at all, so as to confuse a possible enemy. Alexis and my court will keep me entertained with festivities lasting until dawn, when fatigue overwhelms me. Nobody will dare attack and usurp me in broad daylight.

  ‘Poor Ivan Antonov,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘It’s not his fault. His parents are to blame.’

  ‘At your orders, Tsarina.’ The captain’s eyes commiserate, but his soldier’s stance is resolute. Tsarina. I am grateful for the tears that blur my vision. My throat burns and my heart is spiked by lead as the captain leaves with Ivan in
his arms; the ringing of boots against the marble floor drowns out the boy’s sweet prattle.

  I am not to see Ivan ever again.

  Nobody is.

  The palace is awake even though the morning of St Nicholas’ Day has not yet broken. Passages and staircases are swarming with people, hastening to swear their allegiance and secure their good fortune. I have become their fate. Yet I need to be on my own, to marvel at the enormity, as well as at the ease, of the events of the night. I shut the door but resist the urge to turn the key. The room is deserted – the cradle empty, the toys scattered, the seat still warm from the wet-nurse’s ample bottom – and will remain so for years to come. I am Matushka Rossiya and my children are millionfold. My vastest and richest of all realms will shelter them. The thought floors me. My knees buckle and I sit for a long time, crying helplessly. The pain stretches away from my heart. It thins and lengthens, twisting like a threadworm before it sinks its barb into my guts.

  When did I hear the knock?

  I rise, wipe my eyes and open the door. It is Alexis, the only man I can bear to share this moment with. He embraces me, holds and rocks me, as if I were the baby. I need not explain; he knows what I have done; he understands why I had to do it. He does not judge.

  ‘The soldiers who arrested Ostermann brought me this,’ he whispers and opens his hand. On his palm gleams the Imperial seal. The double-headed eagle seems alive, rising from the gemstone’s fire. The bird veers towards me, claws sharp, beak shiny, wings vast.

  ‘Put it on,’ Alexis says.

  I slip it onto my ring finger, where it hangs loose. The gold band has been snipped with pliers to release it from Anna Ivanovna’s swollen finger. It will be properly fitted onto mine in good time.

  ‘Come,’ Alexis says. Gently, he leads me to the window and pulls the drapes aside. ‘Look,’ he says softly, holding me so close that I feel his heartbeat. I am grateful, as I still feel faint when I think of Ivan and the life – or rather, existence – he is to lead. My doubt and remorse will be submerged during the days to come. They pass in a deluge of adoration while I am introduced to my new life of privilege and duty, reigning over an enormous Empire. But for now Alexis loves me, despite what I have done. No, on the contrary: he loves me for what I have done. It is morning and the storm has abated. Light floods the room, hitting me like icy water sloshed in a drunkard’s face.

  I look, and I see.

  The snowfall has ceased. The sky is the palest shade of blue, like the duck eggs hidden in the reeds at Kolomenskoye. Thin clouds are strung across it, like tightropes to the heavens. The houses gleam, rainbows caught in stone. St Petersburg is still, floating eerily in the crisp air, like a bauble in a bell jar. As I open the window, the morning tastes as sharp as chilled vodka. Soon, the church bells will give tongue, their sound swelling to the heavens, telling Russia about its new Tsarina – I have saved my country and my people.

  For this, no price is too high to pay.

  The city is asleep yet I catch a movement over on Menshikov’s Vassilyev Island. I squint – and my breath stalls. Something slides from the shadows on the riverbank into the sunshine. The creature stands and returns my gaze, a slight figure in a cloak of mottled grey. With a twist and a turn, swirls of silver fur blend with its own tresses. The light catches a face that shows the flash of fangs.

  ‘Alexis, did you see?’ I gasp.

  ‘What is it?’ He draws me back against his chest.

  On the opposite bank, the Leshy dissolves into thin air.

  ‘Nothing.’ I swallow. ‘It’s a glorious morning.’

  ‘It is, Tsarina Elizabeth.’ My love is the first to call me by this bold shining name, the one that history will remember me by. Tenderly, he kisses my hair.

  The Neva’s ice is as blank as a mirror, a sheet of silver gleaming in the morning sun. It will keep its promise to carry me: safely, forever.

  Me.

  Author’s Note

  Elizabeth Petrovna Romanova, Peter the Great’s only surviving child, seized power in a palace coup and declared herself Tsarina of All the Russias on the morning of 6 December 1741.

  The reigning infant Tsar Ivan VI was imprisoned in the Schlüsselburg, where he lingered for more than two decades. During a conspiracy to reinstate him at the beginning of the reign of Catherine the Great (Catherine II of Russia), he was stabbed by his guards. His parents and siblings were kept under house arrest; once released and allowed to leave Russia, they were unable to resume a normal life. Elizabeth ruled Russia for twenty years as a contemporary of Frederick the Great in Prussia and Maria Theresa of Austria.

  Count Andrej Ivanovich Ostermann, a priest’s son from the German town of Bochum and Vice-Chancellor of Russia, was condemned first to be broken on the wheel and then beheaded; yet true to her promise never to sign a death warrant, Elizabeth spared his life while subjecting him to the horror and humiliation of a mock execution. His only sign of emotion on the scaffold was a slight tremor in his hands as he readjusted his wig. He and his family were exiled to Beresov in Siberia, where he died six years later, in 1747.

  Ekaterina (Katja) Alexeyevna Dolgoruky survived her banishment to Siberia. In 1741, Elizabeth appointed her as a lady-in-waiting. In 1745, she married Lieutenant General Count Alexander Romanovich Bruce. She died of a cold in 1747.

  Ernst Biren, the groom turned Count turned sovereign Duke of Courland, escaped the jaws of the great She-bear of Russia: Elizabeth recalled him from Pelym in Siberia, offering him an estate and serfs. Biren re-emerged in 1762 when the Germanophile Peter III of Russia summoned him back to court. In 1763, Catherine the Great re-established him in his Duchy of Courland. The last years of his rule there were just, if somewhat autocratic. He died in his palace in Mitau in 1772. The princely family of Biron of Courland prospers to this day.

  Moritz Karl, Count Lynar was about to commit to being the full-time lover of Regent Anna Leopoldovna – Elizabeth’s cousin Christine – when Elizabeth’s coup cut short his ambition. His link to Russia remained: the descriptions of him as an ‘utter fop’, worried about his fair complexion, impregnating countless women and always clad in pastel shades, are taken from Catherine the Great’s diary. Lynar died childless.

  Julie von Mengden, a Livonian baroness, was the lady-in-waiting and lover of Christine von Mecklenburg, the Regent Anna Leopoldovna and engaged to Count Lynar to hide their scandalous ménage à trois. She devotedly followed Regent Anna Leopoldovna (Christine) into house arrest and imprisonment but was released in 1762. She followed her lover to Denmark.

  Alexander Borisovich Buturlin, Elizabeth’s supposed first lover, is here merged with Alexis Shubin, another of her passionate affairs, who was first brutally maimed, then stationed in Kamchatka. At her accession, Elizabeth recalled Shubin; he lived a long, prosperous life on a vast estate. Buturlin went on to be a general in her army.

  The character of the Prince Alexis Dolgoruky, the godfather of Petrushka – young Tsar Peter II – is an amalgam of several princes of this vast, conniving family, which was left almost extinct by Tsarina Anna Ivanovna and Count Ostermann. Added to his character is that of Prince Mikhail Golitsyn, who actually suffered as a birdman in a cage for the better part of a decade, and who was the groom at the famous Ice Palace wedding. His Kalmuck wife and he had several children together.

  Jan d’Acosta was a Portuguese Jew and court jester, ‘thanks to a funny figure, knowledge of many European languages and a gift to make fun of all and everything’, as the historian Shubinsky writes. D’Acosta’s fate beyond Anna Ivanovna’s reign is unknown.

  Jean-Armand de Lestocq, the French physician and adventurer, went on to wield enormous influence on foreign policy during Elizabeth’s early reign. In 1748, however, he was accused of plotting in favour of Ivan VI. Lestocq was tortured and sentenced to death. Elizabeth, however, spared him and had him exiled. Only upon her death was Lestocq restored to his estates and allowed to return to the Russian capital.

  Despite supposedly secretly tying the
knot with the love of her life Alexis Razumovsky, Elizabeth remained officially unmarried and never had children. Instead, she named her German nephew, Karl Peter von Holstein (Peter III), Anoushka’s son, Tsarevich. He abhorred Russia and would have preferred the Swedish throne. As a staunch supporter of Frederick the Great, he was happy to be engaged to a young German princess: Sophie Frederika von Anhalt-Zerbst. Elizabeth baptised her in the Orthodox faith as Catherine Alexeyevna. She was later to usurp her husband’s throne and rule Russia as Catherine the Great.

  The Golosov Ravine located near the Moscow River and the former Tsarist palace of Kolomenskoye, has several springs and a brook running through it. It is home to a neo-pagan shrine and associated with legends about time travel and magical woodland creatures.

  Acknowledgements

  The Tsarina’s Daughter had big shoes to fill. If it takes one author to write a novel, it takes a global village of an outstanding team of publishers, editors and agents to make Elizabeth’s development from ingénue to a woman, who does not shy away from taking a hard – if not the hardest! – decision, come to pass. So many people were involved in helping me to write the best novel I could. Many thanks to everybody involved at Curtis Brown: my agent, the amazing Alice Lutyens, for whom nothing is ever too much and who always finds the right encouraging word while keeping her eye on the pie, as well as tech-savvy and fun Sophia Macaskill, and the energetic Foreign Rights Team, Sarah Harvey and Jodi Fabbri. In New York, I am grateful to the elegant and capable Deborah Schneider of Gelfman Schneider / ICM Partners for her patience and belief in The Tsarina’s Daughter. My gratitude goes to the team at Bloomsbury London – my intuitive, passionate and wise publisher Faiza Khan, who is as much in love with strong women and the early Romanov era as I am, as well as enthusiastic and organised managing editor Lauren Whybrow and the eagle-eyed copyeditor Lynn Curtis. Also, I know that once more Philippa Cotton, Laura Meyer and Rachel Wilkie will do their publicity and marketing magic for ‘my girl’ Elizabeth. In New York, thank you to the team at St. Martin’s Press, above all Charlie Spicer with his knack for adding conflict and drama to a manuscript, Sarah Grill for her steady, spirited support and Dori Weintraub and Marissa Sangiacomo for their ‘haute couture’ attitude to marketing and publicity. Thank you, too, to literary scout Daniela Schlingmann, a woman of the first hour, for spreading the word further. Thank you to the Petersham Writers Circle, in particular my fellow author Emma Curtis, as well as editor Patrick Newman, who reliably keeps the ‘Germanometer’ of any first draft as low as humanly possible. Last, but not least, thank you to my sons Linus, Caspar and Gustav, who adopted Elizabeth Petrovna Romanova as their honorary sister for more than a year, even though they are yet to read one of my novels. Thank you, Tobias, for stoically taking any quips about ‘lots of method writing happening in this household’!