How cold the words feel in my mind. I have to remind myself that Ivan was more than a threat. He was a person, a lost boy stripped of everything in life simply because of his lineage. What a double-edged sword power can be, both to those who possess it and to those who threaten it.
A tap at my door shakes me from my thoughts. It’s Mikhail. I don’t stand at his entrance and he bows, looking up at me through thin, stringy, yellow hair. Once, he’d been so handsome, so closely resembling Peter as a young man that one might have thought them brothers. But the years have not been kind and now he stands, hunched, a shell of the man he once was, his hair gone from the front of his head and his face sallow.
“Your Majesty, I thought you should know Peter is about to leave to go inspect his troops at Oranienbaum. Do you wish to accompany him?” he asks.
I feel myself frown. The invitation could not have come from Peter, who has not said a word to me in months. Was this some way for Mikhail to let me know of Peter’s plans discreetly? I watch him with wary eyes. Mikhail is clever enough; he must at least suspect what is coming. I know that he would be an asset to me, if only to serve as a watchful eye over Peter once he is deposed.
“I think not. I am quite busy here. But thank you for the kind invitation,” I finally say.
He bows again and takes his leave. Turning to Dash, who is quietly sewing in the far corner of the room, I hold up my hand.
“Dash, please fetch Lord Salkov. And is Grigori returned yet?”
She sets her stitching aside, standing. “Only today I believe, Your Majesty. Shall I fetch him as well?”
“Yes, please. And tell the ladies that I’m feeling much better.”
With a curtsy, she hurries off to do as I bid. While she’s gone, I pull paper and a quill from my desk and settle in to write a letter to the Privy Council. My words are clear. Peter has left the Winter Palace, refusing to be properly crowned and anointed, and has gone to Oranienbaum to inspect more Prussian troops. I say, simply but plainly, that should he remain sovereign, that it is only a matter of short time before he hands Russia over to King Fredrick. I outline my plan to force him to abdicate, leaving me as sovereign Empress of Russia, and I ask for their support. I add that doing so is not treason against the crown, but a necessary step toward protecting the nation and preserving the crown that serves it. With blood-red wax, I affix my personal emblem, sealing not just my letter but my fate as well.
There can be no turning back now.
***
Two days later, I’m requested to attend the council. Rather than a gown, I choose to wear a traditional Russian military uniform, green ushanka, a matching riding skirt, and my red Order of St. Catherine Ribbon draped across my chest. When I arrive, silence cuts through the room like a sword. I stride in, unabashed, and take a seat in the golden throne of Imperial Russia.
“My lords, you requested my presence?”
Lord Grey is the first to step forward. Without preamble, he drops to one knee, his fist over his chest. Soon, others do the same until there is no one standing in the room. Even Alexander and Sergei are kneeling in fealty.
I stand. “Your support is recognized and appreciated. I will ride out today with my personal army and meet Peter in Oranienbaum. There, I will convince him to abdicate the throne to me. When I return, I will greet the council and Synod in the Fortress of Peter and Paul and be formally recognized. Afterwards, I will return to the Winter Palace and address the crowd from the main balcony, along with my son and heir Paul.” I pause, looking around the room, the weight of my actions resting like heavy stones upon my shoulders. “Now rise, my privy council, and greet your empress.”
They obey, and I exit the room to thunderous applause. The same applause, I recall clearly, that greeted Peter upon his ascension to the throne not so long ago. A lump forms in my throat, and I fight to swallow it down as I make my way to the stable.
The ride to Oranienbaum is a slow, arduous one. I have to stop periodically to change the bandages I still wear from giving birth not one week ago. The closer we get to my old home, the more my muscles tighten into stone, the more my throat dries out, and the more my old doubts and fears fight to creep into the back of my thoughts. Still, with my guard at my back, and Sergei and Alexander at my sides, I press on.
“I don’t think it’s wise to keep Mikhail as chancellor,” Sergei says again, as though perhaps I hadn’t heard him the twice before.
“He is clever and well liked by the Synod. He has often spoken in my defense against Peter.”
“Then why does he not stand with you now?” he demands. “He is a coward, playing both sides until a clear victor is decided. He will be trouble, I promise you.”
I sigh. “Or is it just that you had your own eye on the position?” As soon as I speak the words, I regret them.
“Of course not.”
Alexander cuts in. “Then what positions shall we have? Or are we simply to remain in court as the empress’ mistresses?”
Rolling my head to the side, I crack the bones in my neck. “I will find you suitable appointments, of course. Though if you continue pressing me on the matter, you both might end up as the court stolniks.”
“I’m merely pointing out that there are more trustworthy men to place at your side,” Sergei finally says.
“I find trust a rare commodity, especially in men. I seem to have the last two trustworthy men in Russia riding beside me.” I turn, glancing over my shoulder at Grigori, who rides a chestnut stallion a few paces back. “Well, the last three at any rate.”
Upon our arrival at Oranienbaum, we come across a small force of Holstein guards just outside the palace grounds. Sergei motions for me to stay back, but I ignore him, riding to the front lines. The time for meekness has passed. I will succeed or die trying. And if I am to fall this day, I’d rather it be with an army at my back and a sword in my hand. Drawing my weapon, I ride ahead of the regiment, into the middle of the confused-looking soldiers.
“Men! You may know me. I am Empress Catherine. Only today, the Council of Lords and the Synod gave me their blessing to come here and deliver a message to Peter, to tell him that I am God’s chosen ruler in Russia. I do not seek to harm any of you, but if you draw arms against me, if you stand in my way, I will unleash the fury of my army upon you. So before you raise your sword, consider my words and know that I speak for Russia.”
After a few confused moments, one solitary man draws his sword, only to be quickly and unceremoniously knocked out by a fellow soldier. Tugging on the reins, I rear Peony onto her back legs. Around me, like a wave on the ocean, men collapse to their knees.
Cheers of “Long Live Queen Catherine!” and “All Hail the Queen!” echo across the field like a song. With a wave of my arm, I send my soldiers forward past me and onto the main palace grounds.
While I wait on horseback, my lieutenants make the first sweep of the palace, only to find it empty. Beneath me, Peony shuffles skittishly in the dying afternoon light.
“Someone must have warned him we were coming,” Grigori reports. “From the tracks, I’d say they left not two hours past.”
I curse. Of course. Hated as he was, Peter would still have at least one loyal ally in court. “Where have they gone?” I ask, sounding more irritated than I intend.
“South, judging from the trail. Probably heading for Riga in search of allies. Perhaps he’s even heading to Prussia.”
I turn to Sergei. “If he makes it out of Russia, Fredrick will shield him, and my bid for the throne will be lost.”
Sergei nods, spurring his horse to turn to face the soldiers. “There’s no time to be lost. Water the horses quickly and gather any supplies we may need. We will have to pursue into the night.”
He turns back to me. “What shall we do with Peter’s soldiers?”
“They will join my army,” I order.
“Are you certain that’s wise? They are Prussians, after all.”
I cock my head to the side. “Is there no one yo
u trust, Sergei?”
“I cannot afford to trust, not when you have more than enough trust for both of us.” His tone is bitter, and I feel it like a slap across my face.
“We will ride until we can no longer follow the trail, then stop and make camp for the night. Then we will leave again at first light,” I order. “Peter’s traveling in a carriage, so we will be able to make up some time. And the Prussian soldiers will come with us. Keep them in front, where we can keep an eye on them, should it come to battle.”
Sergei nods curtly and rides away to give the soldiers the news.
By the time we make camp, I can scarcely move. I’m sore from the saddle, sore from carrying such tension, and sore with worry that we will not find Peter in time. I lay alone in my bed, not willing to risk taking comfort with my lovers with so many eyes fixed on my every move. The wind blows, beating against the damask walls of my tent, an ominous sound that keeps my eyes from fully closing.
When daylight comes, I’m already dressed and ready to ride again. It is only my own will that keeps me moving now, and it will have to sustain me for some time yet, I fear.
We ride on, finally catching up to Peter’s entourage at Alexander Palace. The citadel looks largely abandoned, save for Peter’s empty carriage and a handful of guards milling about outside. As we approach, they draw swords and rifles, set on defending their king. I ride ahead, offering them the same terms as the last set of troops. One man, a tall commander, snickers and brandishes his sword at me.
In one smooth motion, I draw a knife from my boot and throw it, impaling him square in the chest. He falls to the ground with a surprised mutter. As soon as his body falls, my soldiers ride in, some forming a protective ring around me, others attacking outright. The battle doesn’t last long. After the first few bodies fall, the others throw down their swords and rifles. Sergei, after leading the charge, breaks through my protective guard to where I wait, still mounted lest I should need to flee.
“They have thrown up arms and surrendered. Peter is inside.”
Exhaling, it’s as if the breath is seeping from my very marrow. I never wanted war, never wanted to see men bloodied at my expense. But that is the cost of being empress, and while I know that, seeing it so closely is quite another thing. I ride past the tall, iron gates and into the courtyard before dismounting.
As I make my way up the main stairs and into the wide, gothic parlor, Alexander takes his place beside me, handing me a tightly wound scroll.
“Where is he?” I demand of a white-wigged valet who peeks his head around the corner.
Apparently deciding that dignity is the better part of valor, he steps out, straightening his gold-buttoned jacket. “He’s in the West Hall,” he says, motioning for us to follow him.
The palace, still unfinished, is a raw shell. The floors are laid, stone walls constructed, but it lacks the detail, the lavish décor and gilded arches, of the other Russian imperial palaces. Tucking the scroll under my arm, I swiftly strip off my riding gloves, handing them off to Sergei, who stands stiff, one hand on his sword as if expecting an ambush. I stop and the valet throws the glass doors open with fervor, stepping aside to let me pass.
Huddled on the floor in a crumpled heap, Peter is absently chewing on the lapel of his coat like a child. His blue eyes are wide, ringed with red, and his face is pale and emaciated. The smell of sour milk and brandy rolls off him in toxic waves, making my eyes water as I approach. They had told him I was coming, surely, and he chose to drink himself into oblivion rather than fight for his country.
For a moment, there is pity that creeps into my heart. I force myself to remember every cruel word, every rough touch, every bruise and cut and every single time I hated him. It buoys me, filling each step with renewed purpose.
This is a hell of his own making.
I tighten my fingers around the scroll until my knuckles are white, the parchment crumpling under the strain. In the corner of the room, Mikhail sits, his head down, his hands folded in his lap. He seems like a man expecting an axe as opposed to forgiveness. Perhaps Sergei is right; perhaps he is dangerous to me. It is a matter I will have to decide later.
Peter looks up at me, his expression that of a dog waiting to be beaten. “I fear I have displeased you, little mother.”
Refilled with righteous anger, I say nothing, snapping my fingers to the nearest guard and motioning for a chair to be brought over. He obeys quickly and I fold myself into the seat like a queen, slowly and with a flourish of my riding skirts. Clasping my hands patiently in my lap, I wait in silence. This seems to unnerve Peter even more. Reaching up, he weaves his fingers into his disheveled blond curls and pulls forcefully, ripping out bloody chunks and offering them to me.
“Is this why you’ve come? For my blood? It’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?” he spits.
I frown. “If it was simply your blood I wanted, I would have taken that long ago,” I answer, no emotion left in my voice. “But you have pushed me, Peter, far beyond what you should have. Now, there is no option left for me—for us—save you giving me what I came for.”
He looks away, his eyes fixing on my guards, who wait in the doorway, swords drawn. Licking his lips, he asks, “Have you come to kill me?”
I feel my jaw clench, if only for a moment. Killing him would be the wise thing, the just thing in every respect. Yet somehow, I know that despite all he has done, it isn’t in me to kill him. He is deplorable in his patheticness—that much is true. But he is my husband, and I can’t shake the feeling that it should count for something at least.
“No, but I think you shall wish I had.”
“How is my son?” he asks sadly, his skin waxen in the flickering candlelight. “Do you think he will weep for me when I’m gone?”
A flicker of anger spreads through me like warm water. How dare he even ask such a thing, after all he has done? He never cared for the boy before… Then I realize his real question. Am I going to allow his son, our son, to live, or am I going to erase their line completely? What a monster he must think I am. Or… perhaps, it is simply what he would have done, had our situations been reversed.
I exhale deeply. “Paul is well. He is the heir, and he is protected.”
Peter nods.
Holding up the scroll, I lean forward. Though I’m growing numb to the smell of Peter’s stench, night is falling quickly and I hear the horses growing restless outside. There is something in the air that makes me uneasy, a deep, cold resolution of changing skies. The storms are on the horizon, I can feel it in my bones. This must be taken care of before his Holstein reinforcements arrive.
“This is a letter of abdication. You will sign it.”
I’m not sure what I expect from him. Once, not so long ago, he would have raged at my demand, but this is not a king, I remind myself. This is a broken boy, a once-beautiful, clever man who has been reduced to the creature before me. He is damaged. Some by my own hand, some by others, some damage from long before I first set eyes on him, but he is beyond repair. Left unchecked, he would burn all of Russia to the ground, and me along with it.
“I never wanted Russia in any case,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I belong with my own people; I belong in Prussia. Remember that you never defeated me, wife. I simply refused to fight.”
And so, he doesn’t rage or fight or scream. He just nods, his expression petulant, and holds out his hand for the scroll.
“If I sign this, you will allow Elizavetta and me to flee to Prussia, unmolested?”
Holding myself perfectly still, I nod once in agreement. Behind me, I feel Sergei bristle, but I ignore it.
He unrolls it and reads aloud. “I, Peter, of my own free will, hereby solemnly declare, not only to the whole of the Russian empire, but also to the world, that I forever renounce the throne of Russia to the end of my days. Nor will I ever seek to recover the same at any time or with anyone’s assistance. I swear this before God.”
As I watch, he reaches out his other hand, w
aiting for a quill to be stuffed into it, and then scribbles his name hastily before crawling away, under a nearby table. I look up. Sergei is eyeing him closely as Bestuzhev circles the room, picking up the discarded parchment and adding his initials as a witness. When he holds out the scroll to me, I quickly add my own signature and it’s done. The royal seal is applied, and the scroll is laid carefully in a wooden box.
Just like that, in a dark, stagnant sitting room in Alexander Palace, I have taken the last of it. Everything he had or was or might have been, now belongs to me. His name, his crown, his country, his wealth, it is all mine.
I know it’s a great victory, but even as everyone in the room, friend and foe, begins to drop to one knee with a cry of “Long Live the Queen,” it doesn’t feel like a victory at all, and I can’t stop staring at Peter’s beady blue eyes glowering at me from under that table.
It’s Sergei who helps me to my feet. Releasing his hand quickly, I avoid his gaze. I know he thinks I should strike Peter down this moment, he’s said as much time and again. As a matter of fact, it seems to be one of the few things he and Alexander agree on. Their argument is sound. After all, Elizabeth let young Ivan live and it haunted her until the day she died. There is so little of my humanity left, I cannot bear to waste it on Peter. Sergei levels his gaze at me; his expression is one of steely warning. It’s a warning I’ve chosen not to heed.
I sweep through the palace in a flourish. Near the top of the stairs, I see the guards are holding a woman by the arms. Though she isn’t facing me, her long, orange-red hair gives her away. My anger bubbles once more inside me. Peter, perhaps, is too sad to bring me to such hatred, but she, she who is the cause of so many of my pains, is quite another matter. Before I can think of what I’m doing, I’m climbing the steps, slowly, ferocity growing with each foothold.
“Elizavetta,” I call. “Stand aside.”
She turns and immediately, my heart sinks into my bowels. She is plump and pink faced as usual, but her belly is round with child. It seems I was not the only one hiding a pregnancy these past months. She strokes her stomach and glares at me.
Queen of Always Page 12