“You are covered by the blood of your father!” said Maria Feodorovna.
Alexander collapsed to the ground. His wife and those few other present thought him dead.
Chapter 21
Winter Palace, St. Petersburg
November 1801
Alexander often dined alone in the Winter Palace.
This night he dined with Empress Elizabeth, who desperately tried to soothe her young husband’s conscience as he teetered on the edge of collapse.
“Darling Alexander. You must deliver yourself from this abyss. Russia needs your leadership, your enthusiasm for the throne!”
Alexander stared at his plate.
“Even my mother calls me a murderer. How should I find this ‘enthusiasm for the throne’?”
“Oh, dear Alexander. Do you not see how she loves you? The shock induced such a rash accusation. She longs for her eldest son to serve Russia with honor. Above all things, she recognizes your good heart. Go to her and receive her blessing, I beg you.”
Alexander looked up through the flame of the candelabra at his wife, his lips trying to form a smile.
How good she is to me! I am not deserving of Elizabeth … or of Russia.
“You are right. I shall go to my mother. I must have her blessing or perish.”
“Emperor Paul was a tyrannical fiend,” said Elizabeth, folding her napkin.
“He was my father and I loved him,” said Alexander, holding up his hand. He said a silent prayer. When he looked up again, his wife’s eyes had dropped to her lap, filling with tears.
She would never hurt me, her heart is golden. How I wish I could leave Russia and take Elise away with me to live in obscurity, raising our children away from the sycophants and murderous schemers of this empire!
But how could I leave my Maria Naryshkina?
“Elise,” said Alexander. “I have sent for Adam Czartoryski.”
Elizabeth stiffened.
“He has been my closest and most faithful advisor,” said Alexander. “The two of you have been friends in the past. Before …”
Elizabeth nodded her head woodenly.
“I need him,” Alexander said. “I hope that you two can remain … friends.”
Elizabeth drew a deep breath. She looked out into the dark, where she knew the Neva still flowed through the night.
“Adam Czartoryski is indeed an honorable man,” she said. “But Alexander, after the death of little Maria, I don’t know if I can suffer any more. I simply … can’t.”
Alexander moved his chair closer to hers. He took her hand.
“I understand. I only want you to accustom yourself to the idea of Adam being close at hand. There are so few men I can trust. I am surrounded by sycophants, every one! I need Adam.”
Elizabeth nodded. “For you, Alexander. And for Russia. I will try to be his friend.” Then she dipped her head, not looking at her husband. “But every time I see his face, I see little Mäuschen.”
“With time you will heal, my dearest Elise. I pray for this.”
“But go now, Alexander. Speak to your mother. You will see how a mother forgives all.”
A servant approached Alexander with a silver tray. Alexander frowned knowing that only an urgent message would be presented to him while he was dining with his wife. He opened the envelope.
“What is it, Alexander?” said Elizabeth.
“A matter I must take care of immediately. Forgive me, my dear.”
“Of course.”
Alexander’s valet, Boris, stood waiting in the study. He bowed as the emperor entered.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. My deepest condolences—”
“Boris, what is this urgent news?”
Boris glanced at the door.
“The late tsar’s head valet, Monsieur Littauer, has brought a document that was found in your father’s bedchamber. He asked me to deliver it at once to Your Majesty’s hand.”
Boris produced a scrap of linen stationery from a leather satchel strapped around his waist.
“I cannot say what it is, but as it is written in your father’s hand, Monsieur Littauer thought you should have it.”
Alexander looked at the piece of paper. It had been crumpled, but the creases had been smoothed.
A short string of random numbers were penned in black ink. There were two letters among the numbers: AP. Alexander recognized the flourish of his father’s pen stroke.
“It’s gibberish,” said Alexander.
“Perhaps it is not for me to say, Your Majesty. But I believe it is code.”
“Where was this found?”
“On the late tsar’s writing desk.”
“Thank you for this, Boris. And I shall thank Monsieur Littauer personally for his consideration.”
“At your service, Your Majesty,” said Boris, bowing.
Alexander stared at his father’s lettering.
AP … AP …
Adam Czartoryski sipped his cognac, looking out over the Neva. He was weary from travel.
I need you, Adam. I need your good counsel, the new tsar had written.
Keenly aware of Russian history, Czartoryski knew a weak or reluctant tsar was an extreme danger to Russia, especially as Napoleon gathered more and more strength, collecting lands and people throughout Europe.
Taking up his pen, Czartoryski wrote to his friend Nikolai Novosiltev:
The grief and remorse that Alexander relives in his heart are inexpressibly deep and troubling. He has mad hallucinations. He sees in his imagination Paul’s mutilated and bloodstained body on the steps of the throne which he has to ascend. Our dear friend whom we so heartily encouraged to be tsar has human sensitivity that is in total conflict with being the Strong Man of Russia.
The Pole blotted his letter and set it aside. He stared across the room at a fat fly, creeping along the edge of his plate, still resting on the dinner table.
Lazy winter insect!
Czartoryski waved his hand viciously at the pest and considered what must come next:
We will reverse the course Tsar Paul charted for us! We cannot remain allies with this fiend, Napoleon, or refuse Britain’s overtures. We will ally with the Ottomans if we must, but the French shall not be our masters, or our equals!
I shall be the Tsar’s ambassador to Napoleon and say as much to his face.
Napoleon wasted no time sending his emissaries to the new tsar. His emissaries sent back reports filled with praise of Alexander. “How perfect is his French, with no telltale intonation of the Russian language. He employs such lofty expressions—obviously the result of a careful education. He knows all the writers of the Enlightenment and is well versed in French literature, music, and culture.”
“We shall be allies, this glorious tsar and I,” Napoleon declared. “Together we will rule the world.”
But the French emperor’s entreaties to Alexander were rebuked. Unlike his father, the new tsar wanted nothing to do with the Grand Armée or Paris. When Napoleon heard of Russia’s rapprochement with England, he was incensed.
“How dare he!” Napoleon shouted at Alexander’s emissary who brought word of the Tsar’s refusal. “We were to share in power. How can this man turn his back on so brilliant a future? He is so well versed in French, schooled in liberty and Enlightenment.”
The fire had been laid, the tinder was ready, and only a spark was needed. Napoleon provided the spark when he ordered the execution of the Duc d’Enghien, a member of the French royal family. When a commoner dared to touch a royal, all Europe’s sovereign families trembled with collective rage. This upstart Corsican had crossed the line, revolution or no revolution.
Tsar Alexander’s emissary, Adam Czartoryski, conveyed a message of disgust and condemnation to the French ruler.
And with that, Russia and France were at war.
Empress Elizabeth watched her husband slowly grasp the scepter.
She and the Kremlin advisors had begged him to step forward and fill the vacuum of power befo
re vying nobility could attempt to usurp his right as the Tsar.
And slowly, each day Alexander became stronger, remembering his intentions to institute reform, pledged what seemed like a lifetime ago with his Committee of Friends. He set to work, aligning Russia once more with Great Britain as his grandmother had done.
“You will be a great and good tsar,” Empress Elizabeth told him. “You will protect us from Napoleon and unite Europe.”
Alexander shook his head.
“I wish I had the iron strength my forebears did. The only force that compels me is duty to Russia. And the need to control this mongrel who has usurped the French throne!”
Chapter 22
St. Petersburg
January 1802
Ekaterina Pavlovna, the Tsar’s youngest sister, the most spirited of all the Romanovs, often sat at her brother Alexander’s table. She was given the honor of sitting at his left, while his mother, Maria Feodorovna, sat on his right. The dowager empress was moved into the Winter Palace, now with greater power and influence than she ever had under the rule of her husband. With each passing day, she forgave her eldest son for his complicity in his father’s assassination, for he was so racked with grief she was convinced he had indeed taken no part in the murder.
Empress Elizabeth watched the light of the chandelier glint off the crystal champagne flutes, the silver and gold cutlery. With his mother’s love and his family’s encouragement cocooning him from the raw ache of his father’s murder, Alexander emerged shyly but brilliantly in his new mantle of Tsar of Russia. Seated on the Romanov family dais, Alexander radiated confidence.
His mother nodded with pleasure as she watched him.
He is coming to life. When he saw his father, strangled, trampled, a beaten corpse—exactly like his father, Peter, before him—when Alexander saw that, he died his own little death. But now he laughs, breaking bread with his family, those who share the same blood that spilt from his father’s veins.
My son is resurrected.
And as Maria Feodorovna basked in her son’s happiness, Elizabeth shrank in her gilded chair, noticing how Alexander’s eyes flashed as he exchanged looks across the room with the Polish princess Maria Naryshkina. Despite her extravagant fortune—her villa in Fiesole, her castle in Florence, her residences in Russia—Princess Naryshkina dressed simply in white with no jewelry or adornment. Her black hair seemed to float about her white neck, tendrils spilling gracefully to her shoulders.
Elizabeth shuddered with hatred at the audacity of her husband’s mistress.
She had to tell me, when I inquired after her health, with simple politesse, “Ah, I am pregnant, you know.” Oh yes, I know. Just as I know the father is Alexander. My husband. I almost slapped her, just to see my red hand print on her white skin.
Amid the warm laughter and smiles of the Romanovs and courtiers, Empress Elizabeth receded in the shadows.
Part 3
Shadows of War
Chapter 23
The Don Steppes, the Ukraine
September 1806
A Cossack’s duty is to his horse. Without a horse, we are nothing. With the Cossacks, I learned to saddle and unsaddle my horse—a chore that had always been done by a groom both in the cavalry and at home. On my own, I had almost always ridden bareback.
But no matter his rank, a Cossack cared for his horses personally. Every night we led our mounts down to the water, letting them drink their fill. That was my favorite time of the evening. I watched Alcides’s lips meet the surface of the water, breaking the transparent ripples over the gray river rocks. The sun slid through the branches of the overhanging trees and stillness fell, except for the comforting snorts of the horses. Alcides drew the water down his throat, his ears swiveling forward and back with each gulp. I stroked his withers, stretching my arm over his back. I drew in the salty scent of warm horse mixed with the mineral smell of wet river stone.
He nuzzled against me curling his big head over my shoulder to my breast and nibbling at the buttons of my tunic.
I truly believe Alcides loved the Cossack cavalry as much as I did. We both tasted freedom. My body ached, but my soul soared.
“He is a fine animal,” said a voice. I turned and saw Denisov behind me. He was chewing on a stalk of dry grass.
“Da,” I said, turning away from him. The rocks were slippery on the bank and I did not want to embarrass myself by falling in the river.
“Where did you get him?” asked the Cossack.
“He was a gift.”
“But where did he get him? He is a Cossack breed, but not from the Don. Pah! Most of our herd are ugly dogs. That horse is from the Caucasus Mountains, or at least his ancestors are.”
“My father had a friend who rode with the cavalry in the eastern mountains. Alcides was a special gift.”
“You sit him well,” said Denisov. “He is comfortable under your hand.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning to face him now.
I caught the sparkle in his eye. Then his face turned serious. “But you are no cavalry soldier,” he said, shaking his head. “You have much to learn about riding. Good instincts but not enough instruction. Or experience.”
I turned away, shame washing over me.
“You say you want to join a unit, Aleksandr Vasilevich. But you cannot wield a weapon over your head or follow military drills with precision. You haven’t the strength, and you haven’t the discipline.”
“I am strong enough,” I snapped back.
He laughed. “No, you are not! And if you are permitted to join a regiment, you will be nothing but a burden. Our captain has a soft spot for young strays. He did not want to see you lost in the woods. But we will be joining the other Don Cossacks soon and then disperse. Then what will you do?”
“I … I …”
“You do not have a plan, do you?”
“I will join a regular regiment,” I said. “I come from a noble house. They will take me as an officer.”
“Not unless you become much stronger and not so naive. They cannot play nursemaid to you on the battlefield. You will endanger other lives.”
Alcides had finished drinking. He lifted his head, drops spilling from his mouth back into the river. He swiveled his ears toward me, waiting for my command.
I tugged on the rope and he leapt up onto the bank. I wanted to leave, but Denisov wasn’t done with me yet.
“You know you will have to travel northeast to Grodno to meet up with the regular regiments. There will be none there on the Don. Just we Cossacks. After our review, we depart for duty in all directions. You will be alone. How will you make it to Grodno alone?”
I stared at him. “I do not know. Not yet.”
“You need to have a plan, Aleksandr Vasilevich,” he said, turning toward camp. As he walked away, he called over his shoulder. “Think about it.”
We reached the Don River and Cossacks began to arrive from all directions. The Cossacks were attached to regiments throughout the Russian Empire, but returned to their roots to assemble and drill as a united tribe.
During the three days of drills and review, Alcides and I roamed the boundless steppe or I walked on foot, carrying a gun. As a young soldier—a boy—I had every right to explore the magnificent Don on my own, with no one to stop me. Half of my blood was Ukrainian and I was at last in my homeland.
Among Cossacks.
I thought of what Denisov had told me. I tried to strengthen my upper arms by wielding my sword over head. I could not begin to match the strength of a man. The sword point dipped dangerously close to Alcides’s neck.
On the third afternoon, the review ended. As I practiced maneuvers with my saber, I watched the hundreds of Cossacks on the hillside scatter in all directions, like ants fleeing a disturbed anthill. They were headed home, dispersing across the steppe.
“Aleksandr Vasilevich.” Denisov had ridden up quietly behind me.
I nearly sliced my thigh with my saber as I whirled around.
�
�You haven’t the technique at all. Let me show you before I leave for the north.”
He grasped his own sword, unsheathing it in a flash.
“Hold the hilt like this,” he said, grasping the saber with a practiced hand.
I watched him and tried to imitate him.
“No! Here, let me show you.” He sheathed his saber. “Extend your thumb along the back strap of the grip. Then you will have a more forceful downward swinging cut. Watch me.”
He unsheathed his saber with a resounding ring. He swung from the shoulder, his elbow locked, a straight line from his right shoulder through to the tip of his sword.
I watched him make a savage upward slice with the weapon.
“That is when a man’s guts are spilled. Hesitate and you are a dead man.”
Spill a man’s guts? I had thought of the thrill of battle, galloping toward the enemy. Beyond that—to kill? To see a man die by my sword?
Denisov moved his horse beside Alcides and grasped my hand. I felt the roughness of his skin, as callused as a field hand’s. He moved my fingers around the hilt of the sword, arranging my hand properly. I noticed he let his hand linger on mine. I felt his warmth and sinewy strength.
He reined his horse even closer until Alcides’s shoulder met his horse’s. His leg brushed mine.
“Then you must keep the blade above your head, giving full range to your blow or to the charge. If your arms are too weak to lift it sufficiently, you must lower it and let blood rush to your arms. To swing the blade as low as you do is dangerous. It is only a matter of time before you gash yourself, Aleksandr Vasilevich. Or worse yet, this marvelous horse.”
“I will not harm Alcides!” I said.
“Then practice cautiously, Aleksandr. And often.”
I held the sword over my head, swinging it as I had seen my father and the cavalry soldiers do so many times. My arms began to tremble.
Denisov made a deep grunt of disapproval, seeing my right arm and shoulder shake with fatigue.
“Aleksandr Vasilevich, you have led a soft life in your noble house,” said Denisov. “Lower your weapon before you hurt yourself. You are no Cossack!”
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