The Winter Queen

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  “They are lovely,” I admit.

  “These rooms are yours until the wedding,” Penelope says. “Afterward, Your Highness, Elizabeth will remain in the north wing with the prince, and the duke shall return to his residence in Kiel.”

  I exchange a glance with Petra.

  “It is just across the bay,” Lucretia clarifies as though sensing our apprehension. “An hour’s ride is all.”

  “Thank you, ladies. The rooms are quite acceptable, and your warmth is most welcome,” Petra says, motioning to the sleeping chambers across from the main chamber. “We are glad of your hospitality.”

  Lucretia steps forward, her head hanging low, “If I may be so bold. Your father—our dear king—was a great man. He knew my son and nephew, and he was always good to us. The world is a darker place in his absence.”

  “Thank you, Lady Lucretia.”

  “We have some things to tend to before supper. Is there anything we can do to help you settle in?”

  I shake my head, “No, thank you, my lady. We will just have some tea and rest until supper.”

  “Of course.”

  After they curtsy, they take their leave just as our ladies are returning with tea and a tray of fruit.

  They sit while the valets bring in the trunks, then set themselves to tending the linens and arranging the room. Once I’m sure we aren’t being overheard, I lean forward, whispering to Petra.

  “So, what do you think of Duke Karl?”

  She shrugs. “I do not know him.”

  “Well, you are sure to have fiery redheaded babies,” I tease.

  “Do…do you think they have news of Mother? Do you think she’s all right?”

  I sigh, my attempts to distract my stoic sister clearly failing. “I do not know, but I plan to find out.”

  “Tonight at supper?”

  I wave her off. “Oh, I do not plan to wait that long. You rest, sister. I will acquaint myself with our new surroundings.”

  She warily exhales. “Do not set about making trouble, Lizzie. This bleak castle may be our last refuge in all the world.”

  Taking her hands in mine, I smile. “Do not worry so. I will be cautious.”

  There’s no relief in her at all when she withdraws from me, heading to her own rooms.

  After checking my reflection quickly, I sneak out the door and make my way down the long, empty hall with Pushka at my heels.

  While descending the stairs to the main floor, two young boys pass me, their tiny cheeks flushed, their hands black. No doubt tending the fires in the kitchens. They freeze when they see me, then fall into deep bows.

  I motion for them to rise, and they grin. “Your Highness,” one says boldly. “Are you to be our new mistress?”

  “I am,” I say, offering them a sly smile. “And what are two capable lads such as yourselves doing running about?”

  “We work in the kitchens, Your Highness.”

  “Good, strong boys. Tell me, what is the way to His Grace’s office? I am to meet him there, and I seem to be quite turned around.”

  The bold one points behind them. “It is the door at the end of that hall, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for your assistance. Tell me, would you be so kind as to find a bone for my sweet Pushka? He is famished from our long journey. And he might like a bit of sunshine as well.”

  “I can, ma’am. I’d be happy to.”

  “I know where the cook keeps the stock bones. We can pinch him one for sure.”

  “Thank you so much. Kindness is never forgotten,” I promise, circling around them. Kneeling, I rub Pushka behind the ear. “You go with these fine lads now. I’ll fetch you in a bit.”

  Behind me, I hear giggles as the boys run off again, this time with furry paws dogging their steps. When I reach the door at the end of the hall, I knock sharply.

  No response.

  Pushing the door open, I step inside.

  It looks not unlike Father’s office. A large table surrounded by chairs. Maps, ink and paper, wax for sealing, and candles burnt beyond the second nail. A pile of papers sits atop the map, and I begin to rummage through it.

  A voice behind me gives me a fright, and the papers fall to the floor as I spin to face it.

  “Your Highness, is there something I can assist you with?”

  I exhale, relieved to see the friendly smirk on Prince Charles’ face.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” I offer. “My dog has run off, and I got turned around while searching for him.”

  “Is that so? I happened to see two kitchen boys sneaking him bones only minutes ago.”

  Touching my chest, I draw his eyes down to avoid the guilty flush that hits my cheeks. “Well then, I must go fetch him.”

  I move to leave, but Charles steps in my path, blocking my retreat.

  “Or perhaps we might be honest with one another,” he says, his eyes firmly locked on my own.

  For a moment, I hesitate, chewing at my bottom lip before finally speaking. “I have questions,” I say finally.

  “Good,” he says with a nod, motioning me to take a chair. “I have a few myself.”

  With no way to escape the room without appearing to be a petulant child—or worse—I take a seat. He does the same.

  “I wonder if you have news of my mother. My sister fears the worst. Should her fears have basis, I would like to speak to her about it privately, lest she be caught off guard and become overwhelmed with grief.”

  “Have you no fear of being overwhelmed yourself?” he asks, his face serious.

  “You will find I am not so easily taken leave of my emotions as others of my sex.”

  Now he laughs, his dark eyes playful. I glare in return.

  Holding up a hand, he apologizes. “No, I mean no disrespect. As far as we are informed, your mother is well, though last she wrote was to send us the formal marriage documents. She has named your young nephew as her heir, however.”

  I frown. “Then her time as regent is short. Would it be possible to hold the weddings in St. Petersburg so that we may see her?”

  Sitting back, he runs a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid that would be unwise. Until the wedding, you and your sister are still potential targets for anyone who might challenge the authority of the council.” He hesitates only a moment. “Make no mistake, it is they who are overseeing the nation now. Your mother is but a figurehead.”

  “Yes, I assumed as much.”

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “It seems only fair,” I say, unable to cease the worry in my head.

  “You are Russian—born to be a queen. Yet you find yourself here now, in this tiny, poor Dutchy, bound to wed a prince you do not know in a country not your own. Do you imagine that, in time, you might be satisfied with that? That you might find happiness here?”

  “That is an odd question indeed.”

  “Humor me, please.”

  “Honestly, I do not know. If it were just me, it would not be an issue, as I am not much bothered with finery and wealth. But as for my nation, it is as much a part of me as my own beating heart. How can I be content if she is in turmoil?”

  He licks his lips. “An honest answer, and it is appreciated. Understand that my father and mother…their marriage was arranged much in this same way, for political safety. And from the time I was old enough to hear it, these halls were filled with regret, vitriol, and disrespect. They were never a match. My mother, who came from much greater means, never let my father forget it. I know your rank is much greater than my own, and we do not know each other yet, but I would be a good and faithful husband if you think that you might come to care for me. I would never have such hostility in my home again—if it can be helped.”

  His candor surprises me. Yet, at the same time, part of my heart is warmed by it. He is a good man, more honest than most, and there is a kindness to him that puts me at ease.

  “My Prince, you honor me with your candor. I, too, would avoid such an unhappy life, and I am sorry you had
to suffer it. I cannot know what the future will bring, but know I do not forget the great kindness you have done me by accepting this proposal, especially when you have so little to gain from it.”

  He nods, his lips turning to a frown.

  “Then there is one thing you must know. The marriage contracts have a specific clause. By signing them, you and your sister renounce all rights and claims to the throne—both for yourselves and your progeny. By signing, you are no longer princesses, and as such, are no longer Russian. My cousin and I, however, are made lieutenant colonels of the Preobrazhensky Regiment and are given seats on the Supreme Privy Council.”

  I sit back in my seat, feeling as if I’ve been slapped. No, it wouldn’t be enough to remove us from the country, to marry us off to pauper royals. We are to suffer this indignity as well.

  “May I see the documents?”

  Standing, he reaches atop a high shelf, tapping the scroll on the desk before placing it in my outstretched hand.

  “I am so sorry, Your Highness. We did not seek these addendums. I believe they were insisted upon by the council—in exchange for letting your mother live.”

  Unrolling the papers, I read over them carefully. When I finally see it, I can hardly believe my eyes. Leave it to my mother to add a clause of her own, something certain to be overlooked by others. A clause that allows the emperor—on in her case, empress—to name a successor out of any sons from the marriage. So while her daughters may never rule Russia, our sons, should we be so blessed, may.

  Rolling it back up, I hold it out for him.

  “These terms are acceptable to us, and I appreciate your honesty in showing them to me now. I will write my mother to let her know of our arrival.” Before I move to leave, I add, “I believe you to be a good man, Charles. And the Privy Council needs more good men in its ranks. I beg you to serve Russia well in my stead.”

  When I stand, he bows as I take my leave.

  I’m all the way back to my room before my legs finally give out and I fall onto the settee, holding back gasps of tears.

  Two weeks later, my sister is married. Petra, in her golden gown, opted for a simple circlet of gold and pearls rather than a crown. As she and Karl kneel on the altar to sign the contract, I sit beside Charles, who smiles warmly at me.

  Duke Karl’s family has spared no expense, using nearly the entirety of Petra’s dowry on the event. The tables were set with all sorts of delicacies, including enormous pies that, when the orchestra began to play, erupt with dwarves who begin to dance on the tables. Each toast was accompanied by cannon fire from a nearby yacht, and the whole of Holstein-Gottorp dances through the night and into the next day.

  My ladies and I are the ones who see Petra to her wedding bed. Karl, while rugged in exterior, seems a decent man. He drinks too much and speaks too loudly, but he is soft with my sister, kind even. For that alone, I am grateful. He seems eager to begin his stay in St. Petersburg, and I am just as eager to have him gone. Of Charles, I cannot say the same.

  Mother could not attend, as she struggles to retain her precarious position. The council has put her marriage to Father under investigation, and have witnesses lining up to earn coin by claiming the ceremony had never taken place at all.

  For his part, Charles tries to keep me distracted with daily horseback rides, picnics, and archery practice. He is quite an accomplished artist. I sit for him for many hours while I quietly contemplate my next move.

  Reaching out to once-loyal lords has come to nothing. They congratulated me on my upcoming nuptials. Even sent lavish gifts. But they made no offer of support—to myself or my mother.

  “More wine, Your Highness?” a familiar voice asks, drawing me from my bleak thoughts as we dine.

  “Sergei,” I chastise playfully. “The sun has risen. Should one be indulging too greatly at this hour?”

  With a laugh, he fills my chalice. “It is a wedding, Your Highness. If that is not cause enough for riotous celebration, then what in life is?”

  “And what will you do with yourself now? I’m told you are to leave with the duke?”

  He nods. “I am to accompany him to St. Petersburg, where I will take my father’s place for a time. He is weary of court and longs to return home.”

  “I shall miss you,” I offer earnestly. “You have been the most pleasant distraction in these dark days.”

  “You just like watching Charles whip me at cards,” he teases, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

  “Perhaps,” I admit with a chuckle.

  “There now, are you bothering my future bride?”

  Charles saunters over, having taken his cousin to the wedding chamber as well.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Sergei says, holding up one hand. “But if you will excuse me, I have some lovely hearts to break.” He motions to a group of dancing ladies, then offers me a wink before sauntering off to his conquests.

  Settling in next to me, Charles holds out his hand. When I lay mine in his, he kisses it reverently, his cheeks flushed with the drink and dancing.

  “My love, are you well? You’ve seemed distracted this day.”

  I smile, warmth filling me. Though we’ve known each other such a short time, he has already cracked me open, knowing me through and through. He’s so different from the boy king I once knew, kind, patient, and honest. Everything a woman might want in a man. Yet, I fear his upcoming time at court. I fear he is too good to survive there, and it fills me with dread.

  When I don’t answer, he presses. “Is it our own wedding plans? Have no worries, we shall have such a ceremony that this one will seem a pale comparison.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he silences me with an upheld hand. “No, I know the pageantry isn’t of much import to you. But I want all of Europe to know how proud I am to have you as my wife.”

  Had we been in private, I might have kissed him for that alone. I have kissed him only once, and it was a secret, stolen moment during a walk through the woods. The simple kiss had ignited a spark inside me like nothing ever has. The woman in me longs for more.

  But the princess in me has other needs.

  “The Menshikovs will not attend,” I say flatly. “Nor will the Dolgorukovs. Any supporters we may have had are lost to us now.”

  “Is it the slight that upsets you or the lack of authority?” he asks thoughtfully.

  I wave a hand. “I am not planning a coup, if that is your fear. My only wish is to have at least one loyal ally in St. Petersburg protecting what is left of my family.”

  With that, he seizes my hand once more, this time with a gentle squeeze. “Once we are wed, you will travel with me to St. Petersburg. I know you cannot remain there with me as I begin my service, but perhaps long enough to see your mother, at the least.”

  I feel the tears well in my eyes before I speak. “Truly? You think we will be safe?”

  He nods. “I am required. Surely no one will begrudge me for bringing my new wife along for the journey.”

  The next morning is gloomy. Rain falls across the land, tapping at my window and chilling the air. Ominous weather, I think. Tossing in my sheets, I struggle to calm my mind, to find solace in sleep. My eyes have only just closed when my door is flung open, my maid rushing in.

  “A letter has arrived for you, Your Highness. The rider says it is urgent.” Her voice is tight, her cheeks pink.

  Throwing off my blankets, I stand. “Help me dress. Quickly.”

  By the time I race down to Charles’ office, Petra and Karl are already there, as is Sergei and a handful of Charles’ men.

  “It is from the Supreme Privy Council,” Charles says softly, motioning for me to sit.

  When I shake my head silently, he continues.

  “A declaration this day is made by His Serene Highness Prince Menshov upon the passing of Her Imperial Majesty, that, in accordance with the laws of rightful succession, Prince Peter Alexeyevich is ascended to the throne this day, in the year of our Lord 1725. Being crowned and anointed at th
e Cathedral of the Archangel, we, the Supreme Privy Council, hereby swear an oath of loyalty to his Imperial Majesty and offer prayers of long life and good health to our new king.”

  The blow comes quickly, the air forced from my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath. I fight to remain still—composed. Charles continues reading, but there is a bell ringing in my ears that I cannot force aside.

  “Crowned, engaged, and removed from the capital all in one day. This Menshov wastes no time. And betrothing the king to his own daughter, no less. I have never seen such plain ambition,” Karl remarks.

  Charles moves toward me, but I’m no longer in control of my own body. My feet run, out the door and down the hall, spilling into the garden and the rain. My gown goes heavy, soaked and clinging to me, mud licking up the hem of my skirts.

  Still, I run. I run until I can’t see, can’t breathe, into the trees, through the forest. Until my trembling legs finally give out and I fall onto a bed of moss, my fingers digging into the blanket of damp greenery to find earth below.

  In the same moment that a scream erupts from me, a pair of strong arms encircles me from behind. Charles pulls me close, into his lap, and rocks me as I cry. In the distance, I hear Pushka wail, a howl of grief that echoes my own.

  “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispers, pressing kisses into my wet hair.

  I scream again. Raging against God, against my country, against the men whose hands carry the blood of my mother.

  “You are not alone, my love. I am here.”

  “They killed her, Charles,” I sob.

  “You don’t know that,” he offers gently. “People die every moment.”

  I struggle to free myself from him, but he holds me fast. “They murdered her because she was a woman and a peasant. She wasn’t worthy in their eyes. Even Petra feared they might, but now they have done it, I know not how to face this world without her. How can I?”

  “Perhaps, my love, but you are safe. Petra is safe. I will keep you both safe, I swear it.”

  Calming, I turn to face him, “Am I cursed? Is this my punishment for my sins? That those I love—my family—should be taken from me?”