The Winter Queen

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  She waves one hand, resuming her seat in the chair. “How long have you been bedding him?”

  “Once only, last evening. I think…” I hesitate to share my thoughts. “I think he tricked me, so that I might be disgraced. Be forced to stay here as his mistress.”

  She narrows her eyes. “A clever rouse. Too clever for the boy king. No doubt the duke’s influence. Only he did not count on your bravery, on your refusal to acknowledge the incident. If they say the king bedded you, you can claim he took you against your will. The pope will condemn him. Force him into a marriage. To do less risks war. If they say nothing, you leave with your virtue intact—but the king does not get his prize. Either way, you have put the duke in a difficult spot.”

  “What shall we do?” I ask, still too raw of heart to think clearly.

  “You, Petra, and I will spend a few weeks at the abbey in Moscow. Some time for prayer and reflection will be good for us. Once we are assured no child has been conceived, we will return to the palace. We should leave as soon as possible. Go and bid your ladies to pack. And do not speak to Louis again. Do not see him before we go.”

  “Surely he can do no more damage,” I say bitterly. “Any affection I might have had for him is well past.”

  She shakes her head. “Men are idiots, my daughter. The sooner you learn that, the wiser you will be.”

  “Not Father—” I defend, but she cuts me off.

  “Your father is a good man, the best I’ve ever known. But yes. Even him. Peter—God bless him—set aside his wife and only legitimate male heir for the love of a lowly maid. He was so blinded, so besotted, that he nearly tore his country apart. We had to marry in secret lest his advisors and nobles rise against him over it. Even now, he pays the price for those decisions. They will haunt him—and us—all our days. It is a pity these men are destined to rule the world based only on the lump of flesh between their legs and not the sharpness of their mind.”

  I’m shocked by her candor, for she has never spoken to me so frankly, but the truth of her words is plain.

  “That is why we must always rely on our wits. And you, my brave Elizabeth, must be the cleverest of us all. You must be like the ice—beautiful, but cold and unrelenting. There will always be men who envy your title, who covet your body, or who would crush your spirit. Should you ever wear a crown, they will claw it from your head if they are able. You must be above them all. You must be a winter queen.”

  “Father would never allow that,” I say. “He will protect us.”

  She cocks her head, her expression softening. “Your father grows old. His time on the throne is short. It is the only reason he will suffer this slight. He cannot afford war with France so close to his end.”

  “When he passes, you will reign. He has decreed it so. You are the Crown Queen of Russia.”

  “And yet, our marriage has always been debated—as has your legitimacy. Should I be fortunate enough to sit upon the throne, my time there will be short. No woman can rule Russia, Elizabeth. It is the curse of our sex.”

  I shake my head. “No, do not speak of it. Father is strong, and he will recover. We will find another marriage. Perhaps Spain or Austria.”

  She sighs. “Perhaps. In the meantime, off to your rooms. We must prepare for our departure.”

  We both stand. As I smooth my skirts, my hand hesitates, lying flat across my stomach, “And if there is a child?” I whisper, the idea striking me not for the first time, but now with a dread I have never expected.

  Is such a thing possible? Surely one encounter isn’t enough to conceive a child.

  Her tone is soft, but unwavering. “If there is a child, we will deal with it. In the meantime, pray that you bleed. An indiscretion we can easily conceal, a child, however, leaves evidence that cannot so easily be hidden.”

  The days are grey, the air cool. Rain beats like hooves on the roof of the abbey, the sound lulling me to rest after a long day of working with the nuns to clean, tend the garden, and translate some of the texts in their humble library.

  I haven’t been so bored in all my days.

  We have been in Moscow nearly three weeks when I’m awakened in the dark of night. The pain is like being ripped apart, and I cry out, waking Mother and Petra, who share my meager rooms. The next days are a blur of fever and bleeding. When the days had come and gone with no courses, I’d feared the worst.

  The blood flowing now would be welcome except for the stabbing, burning pain that steals my breath and keeps me from my feet. We dare not send for a physician, so the nuns tend to me as best they can. Soothing herbs and teas are offered in between fits of vomiting. I pray daily, even as sweat holds my gown to me while I toss, even as we struggle to keep clean linens on the bed.

  During one of my feverish fits, I notice a great beast in my room. Its fur is grey, its muzzle long, ears pointed and alert. A wolf, I think. Come to eat me like a monster in a children’s storybook. But the more I stare, I see it’s not quite wolf. A mixture, perhaps. A great dog with wolf-like features. It’s sitting, watching, from the corner of the room. An omen, perhaps. A death omen.

  I’m dying, I realize.

  This is my punishment, my penance for trading my maidenhood to the unworthy king.

  I pray for absolution. For forgiveness. But more even than that, I pray Louis might feel my pain—that he might wake in the night knowing what he has done to me. I pray for that with a bitterness that stains my very soul.

  Morning comes again, and the sounds of birds chirping beyond my window echoes through my chamber.

  “Be strong, sister,” Petra coos as she wipes my head and face with a cool cloth. “You must eat something today. It has been too long, and you grow weak.”

  “Where is Mother?” I ask, glancing around the room. Besides my sister, the only other creature with us is the dog, curled at the foot of my bed and sleeping soundly.

  “Mother has gone,” she says, setting the cloth aside and lifting a bowl of soup. “Father needed her in St. Petersburg.”

  “She left me? Even as I lay here so close to death?” I whine.

  “Father is ill, Lizzie. Badly ill. The sisters whisper—they say he may not recover.”

  That thought alone clears my mind, pushing everything else away. The pain, the despair, the self-pity.

  Father is dying.

  “Help me sit,” I bid. Setting the bowl aside, Petra adjusts my pillows. The dog growls softly as I disturb his sleep.

  “Oh, hush, Pushka,” she chastises softly.

  “Whose dog is this?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

  She shrugs. “He appeared the night you first cried out, and he’s not left your side since. The nuns started calling him Pushka. He’s been eating the scraps you leave behind.”

  “I thought him a death omen come to carry me to heaven,” I admit.

  “Or perhaps an angel come to guard you in your illness. Tell me, how are your pains?”

  Leaning forward experimentally, I wince. “There is hurt, but it is not so terrible now. Mostly, I am just exhausted.”

  “Well, your fever has broken, so that is a blessing.”

  “How is Father? What have you heard?”

  Petra hesitates, reaching to stroke Pushka. “They say it is grave. The sweating sickness. He is not expected to survive. Mother has gone to him, but…”

  But indeed.

  “I cannot imagine it,” I say. “Father was always so strong. So fierce.”

  “Even kings must pass…eventually. It is the way of things.”

  “I want to go to him,” I say, motioning to the soup. “Help me eat, and we will go to him.”

  She shakes her head. “Mother bid us stay here. We are not to return to St. Petersburg until she sends word. She fears for our safety. She fears the Privy Council will use his illness to undo some of his less popular legislation.”

  “Such as our legitimization,” I say for her.

  She only nods.

 
“Then I shall eat and rest, and we shall prepare for her summons.”

  With a deep sigh, Petra offers me a spoonful of pheasant soup.

  “A letter from Mother,” Petra calls out.

  It’s not yet full dawn, but the nuns are already bustling in the garden, harvesting the wheat with withered hands. I stand, dropping a tomato into my basket and wiping my hands on my apron.

  “Finally,” I say, making my way across the field to her. My limp is pronounced, and I wince with every other step. Though the bleeding has stopped, I know damage has been done. The nuns worry I may never carry a child now. I am too grateful for my life to be terribly bothered by it.

  News of Father’s passing reached us only days before, and our grief was softened with word that Mother will succeed him. Surely, she will send for us now that it is safe again.

  Taking the letter into the sitting room, I poke at the fire as Petra reads.

  My brave daughters,

  It is with heavy heart that I write to you with news of our king’s passing. He went without much pain, peacefully in his bed. His decree that I take the throne has been honored—for now. It has been made plain to me that I must name your half-nephew Peter as my successor if I hope to remain regent. I suspect that as soon as I agree, my time will be quite short indeed.

  I have arranged for you to travel to Holstein-Gottorp, to the land of my kinsmen, to be wed to two of the princes there. It is a small principality, but you will be safe from the reaches of those who will fear your heritage. Petra, my darling, you are to wed the handsome young Sir Charles Frederick, Duke of Holstein-Gottorp. He is a brave man and nephew to the king of Sweden.

  Elizabeth, you will marry Charles’ cousin, Charles Augustus, Prince of Eutin. I’m told he is a wise leader and a fair-minded man. I have no doubt you will find safety and happiness in his court. I have sent a carriage and two of my most trusted ladies to accompany you, along with as many gowns and jewels as I could slip out unnoticed. There is also a chest that holds coins, enough to provide your dowries. I only wish I could do more.

  Please, go to Germany immediately. I will delay the signing as long as possible, but for your own sakes, you must be beyond Russia’s borders when I do. I wish with all my heart that I might hold my children once more, but I fear it is not to be. If I am able, I will flee and join you there. If not, know that my love goes with you.

  I will pray for your happiness, but above all, for your safety.

  Catherine R

  The parchment falls from Petra’s fingers, fluttering to the floor like a feather on the breeze. We are too stunned to speak, the weight of our mother’s words like stones on our chests.

  Crawling across the floor, I put my hands on her knees. “Sister, are you certain it was Mother’s seal on the letter?”

  She nods, her eyes peering into the fire like she can see nothing else.

  “Then we must go,” I say, standing. Grabbing her arms, I tug her to her feet.

  “We have to go to Mother,” she whimpers. “They will kill her. We have to help her.”

  With a deep breath, I shake her roughly. “No. They will not. She is a queen. Protected by God. To harm her would be the greatest sin. We must do as we are told. Don’t you see? They will come for us.”

  Petra blinks, her eyes watery with unshed tears. “But she’s our mother.”

  “Our father is dead. Mother does what she can for us, but she is not here. It’s just you and me now. And if we ride into St Petersburg, they will use us as leverage against her. We go to Germany, we marry if we must, then we find allies—people loyal to Father. We can raise an army, one big enough to defend Mother and protect her.”

  Her voice is soft, the tears finally breaking loose down her cheeks. “I’m afraid.”

  “Then I will be brave for both of us. Now, go pack your things.”

  The carriage ride is long and tedious. We stop often so I might stretch to ease my pains, and my lady Ivaonna forages for berries that help relax my tensions. We play cards, sew, and I help Petra practice her German. Pushka lays at my feet, warming them with his body when the nights grow cold. We do not dare stop to make camp for fear the council’s men will catch up with us.

  By the time we arrive in Holstein-Gottorp, every bone in my body aches. We stop long enough to bathe in the cool Baltic waters before crossing the Schlei. There, we fix our hair and change our clothes for the impending arrival. When we pull to a stop outside the tiny castle, I force myself to exhale deeply before being helped from the carriage.

  A handful of people wait to greet us. An older woman stands with a warm smile, her robes suggesting nobility—though worn and slightly out of fashion—with a small tiara tucked into her grey curls. Beside her is a younger woman with dark hair and suspicious eyes. She’s older than I am, though not by much, her face naturally falling into a dour frown. Three young men stand by her side. One taller, with ginger hair and matching beard. The second has a fuller build, though not quite as tall, and he’s cleanly shaven with short dark hair. He has the look of a general or some flavor of military at least. The third is behind the others, a bit younger perhaps, with dark shaggy hair and piercing green eyes.

  The moment I’ve taken them all in, I can’t help but wonder to which of these men I’m to be sold away to, and an unfamiliar bitterness fills my belly. I stifle the feeling as soon as it comes, resolving to making the best of it.

  For now.

  Once Petra is at my side, we walk toward the ladies, Pushka close at my heels. When we reach the first lady, who steps forward and offers a deep curtsy, the shaggy beast barks once and launches off—quicker than I’ve ever seen him move—toward the men.

  “Pushka,” I call, lifting my skirts to follow him. The last thing I need is for the silly creature to maul my suitor.

  The older dark-haired man crouches, grabbing the scruffy dog and scratching him behind the ears.

  “There, there, boy. We mean no harm to your mistress,” he offers cheerfully, earning him a quick lick on the hand before Pushka trots merrily back to where I’ve stopped short, stunned.

  “My apologies, Your Grace. He’s run quite wild his entire life. I’ve only recently taken him as my own and begun to train him.” With a snap of my fingers, Pushka comes to a seat at my side. “A work in progress.”

  “Aren’t we all?” he says, bowing before reaching out for my hand and pressing a soft kiss across my knuckles. “Your Imperial Highness, I’m glad for your safe arrival. I hope the trip wasn’t too strenuous.”

  “Not at all,” I offer. “Though we are all glad to be welcomed to your home.”

  He grins. “Ah, but where are my manners? I am Charles Augustus, Prince of Eutin.” He bows again, motioning to his compatriot with the beard. “And this is my cousin, Duke Charles Frederick, though we refer to him as Duke Karl to avoid any confusion. Welcome to Gottorf Castle, Your Highness.”

  I look past him, feeling a stab of guilt at the relief I feel that my intended is so fair of face while Petra’s suitor is quite…rugged. The castle stretches three stories into the sky, a simple bell tower at its center. It’s quite plain for a royal residence, none of the lavish gardens or artistic columns so popular in St. Petersburg. But then, Holstein-Gottorp is not known for its luxury.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” I turn, motioning for Petra to join us from where she is already chatting with the ladies. “My sister, Her Imperial Highness, Princess Anna Petrovna.”

  The men bow humbly.

  “We do apologize for the informality of our greeting, Your Highnesses,” the older woman says, curtsying again. “Since we have severed ties with Sweden, we find ourselves quite short of staff to accommodate such noble visitors.”

  Petra smiles. “It is no matter, Lady Lucretia. We have only just come from some weeks spent in prayerful contemplation in a humble abbey near Moscow. The experience has reminded us about the value of remaining penitent and humble despite our titles.”

  “Your Highness, I am Lady Lucretia of Hols
tein-Gottorp, mistress of Gottorf Castle until my son weds. I welcome you both and embrace you as daughters.”

  “Ah, and I am Duke Karl Frederick.” The ginger-haired man bows. “And this is our envoy from Denmark, Sergei Salkov.”

  “I believe we are acquainted with your father. He served our late king as a member of his Privy Council, if memory serves.” I offer the boy my hand, which he accepts and kisses.

  “Then Your Highness’ memory must be as acute as her beauty.”

  “And you share your father’s charming tongue,” I say, eyeing him for a moment before returning my attentions to Lady Lucretia.

  “And this is my daughter, Lady Penelope.”

  The dark-haired girl bobs a quick curtsy. “Your Highnesses.”

  Her mother seems to be waiting for the girl to say more, but she remains tight-lipped.

  “Please,” Lady Lucretia offers after a moment. “We shall show you to your rooms.”

  “There are some matters to be discussed,” Karl says, scratching at his beard. “Once you are recovered from your long journey.”

  “Of course,” I say, turning to the valets Mother sent with us. “Please see the trunks to our rooms. And my ladies, if you would see to the kitchens, some tea would be most welcome.”

  They curtsy, and Sergei motions for them to follow him inside.

  The inside of the palace is as unremarkable as the out, a handful of dark portraits on the white walls, the dark wooden floors and banister seeming to eat the light streaming through the rows of tall windows. There is little color, and even less joy.

  We follow Lucretia and Penelope up the stairs and to the south wing, where a set of wide doors open to adjoining suites.

  Inside, the room is surprisingly lush, with pale cream fur rugs and wispy golden curtains draped from the ceiling to the floor. On the table is a massive vase of wildflowers, yellow, purple, and blue. Reaching out, I touch a petal as we walk inside.

  “Prince Charles wanted to bring some color in for you,” Lucretia boasts. “He picked them himself.”