The Chevalier

by The Chevalier (retail) (epub)

  “Is this story from your secretary true?” Orlov frowns – he is playing his last weak card.

  My Lord Douglas, despite knowing nothing of my artistic skills, has the gumption to say that it is.

  “Then I will allow you to continue in the company of Count Poniatowski.”

  With a mixture of relief and foreboding, I watch the cruel smile spread across the face of my latest rescuer.

  * * *

  It is soon apparent the modernisation of Russia has not advanced so far as to banish all lawlessness from the roads. Our rescuer counsels us to wait for a flotilla of merchants in order to approach St Petersburg in convoy. We languish in our temporary prison at the border for a day before one such train comes along. Our little carriage takes its place in the middle of a long, winding line bringing fashions, foodstuffs, cases of wine, furniture, works of art and other fine aspects of the West to the new capital.

  “Is all this really necessary?” I quiz Stanislaus, who has joined us in the coach with triumphal eagerness, restricting our meagre comfort yet further. Especially for me – he shrinks away from my Lord Douglas and presses on me as much as he can.

  “My dear Mademoiselle d’Éon, I can assure you that it is. Did you not hear what happened to a German Duchess and her maid who passed this way only recently?”

  I confess myself ignorant of their fate.

  “By all accounts, it was a most unusual affair. They were not far from the ruined town of Valka, when a black-clad young woman on horseback is said to have crossed their path, and asked them if they could help her. But the Duchess was nervous about stopping; dusk was falling, and she was anxious to reach an inn for the night. She declared that they were unable to render the young woman assistance. Upon hearing this, the black rider turned her mount upon the horses at the front of the carriage, so that they shied. The coach ground to a halt, whereupon ten ruffians burst from the cover of bushes at the side of the road. Within minutes, the coachman lay dead, whilst alongside his corpse, the two ladies were beaten, stripped, bound and ravished, as their piteous cries for mercy dwindled into the cold night air. An old farmer happened to be watching from the safety of a thicket fifty paces off. He thought the young rider had been merely the accessory to the crime, but what happened next quite froze him to his spot. The girl flung off her black robe to reveal a dress of purest white, and lay down next to the helpless victims. The farmer waited for her to unbind their hands but she did not. Instead she brought her mouth to the sides of their necks in turn, and embraced them as if she were sucking the juice from an orange, peach or some other fruit from the far south. When she arose, her fresh white dress was stained with red, and her victims lay still, the blood congealing, gaping marks at their throats. After she had departed, the farmer rushed to tell what he had seen. No one wanted to move the bodies, until the town clerk ordered the farmer to bury them wherever he could, on pain of being charged with their murder if he refused. And they lie to this day in shallow graves outside the Protestant cemetery at Valka; neither the Reformed Church nor any of the other religions will have them.”

  Stanislaus draws in his breath at the end of this recitation, as do we; in the silence, demonic cackles filter down from Monin upon the roof.

  I cannot tell exactly whether or not such claims of banditry and bloodsucking are true, but I can definitely observe movements in those edges of the forests that cling tight to the road; farmers aside, it is unlikely that any folk who live in these wastes would mean us anything but harm. Stanislaus tells us other gruesome tales of lone travellers who have ventured along these paths with more courage than good sense. After a while, I try to shut my ears, although my companion and his valet are less fastidious. Yet at least my protector does not leave me alone with my would-be suitor again.

  Poniatowski accompanies us as far as Pskov, where he leaves us, claiming he must advance apace with letters for the Court from Augustus, the Elector of Saxony and – seemingly in his spare time – King of Poland. He sets off early in the morning with fresh horses, accompanied only by a hired servant, thus defying his own strictures on safety. However, checked as his advances upon me have been, I am convinced that it is more a reawakened concern for his romantic attachment to the Grand Duchess Catherine that drives him onward.

  * * *

  Beyond Pskov, we put up at a large inn, the City of Paris in Caporya, mostly constructed of wood, with the rooms arranged in formation around a central square. A ladder leads to travellers’ bedrooms on the floor above. That evening, a special sense of foreboding coupled with an old and scratchy mattress cause me to rise from my bed. As I get up, I hear some gentle creaking noises from along the balcony. My wakefulness enables me to watch from a crack in the door as Monin steals from the servants’ quarters to traverse the gallery. He glances around to check all is clear and slides down the ladder, creeping into the courtyard below. In the light of flares outside the stables I can see Lord Douglas waiting. I slither from my room to the edge of the balustrade and strain my ears to hear.

  “Apparently St Petersburg is only a day’s ride away, my Lord.”

  “Then it must be tonight. Make all the necessary arrangements.” He tosses his servant a bag: Monin’s claws grab it fast amid a telling jingle of silver. In the stables, our horses whinny at the sound. The danger to my person is sure to be renewed.

  “As you wish, my Lord.”

  “You can keep the change. But make sure you don’t bungle this one, mind.”

  Monin smirks in greedy anticipation, teeth glinting in the sharp glow from the flares. I move back silently into my room.

  * * *

  At this time of year, when clouds obscure the moon, the night in northern Russia brings a grey half-light. Within an upper room, two figures are lying on a large bed, covered by a vast, decorated quilt. Inside the room, a key key has been left in the door. There is a quiet, insistent scrabbling outside. The key begins to shift in the lock. The sound of ever more frantic activity comes from the balcony. A whispered curse is truncated as the key drops suddenly to the floor. Seconds later, another key turns the lock from the outside and the door opens, very slowly. Two shadowy figures, one large, one small, enter the bedroom.

  “Got a cloth?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Monin pads quietly across the room towards the bed. There’s now a solitary body shape in outline under the covers.

  “Gag her tight. I don’t want any intruders this time.”

  “Shall I bind her hands as well?”

  “Good idea.”

  Guerchy waves him forward, and Monin pounces on the slumbering form. There’s a brief squeal and a slight struggle. Monin turns the body around, stuffs the cloth into her mouth and jerks the victim’s hands above her head, before he ties them with cord.

  “She’s all yours.”

  “Excellent. I’ll show the hussy I’m not to be trifled with. I’ve waited too long for this.” Guerchy leaps upon the gagged figure and pulls up her nightgown.

  “My Lord?”

  “There’s no need for you to hang around, man. Find your own whore.”

  “It’s just that… the hair feels odd.”

  “Could be a wig. What of it?”

  “Something’s not right. I’m going to light a candle.”

  “Don’t be a fool. Remember what happened last time.”

  “I’ll take good care, General.” Monin thrusts the shining candle near the figure lying on the bed. A flaxen-haired, red-cheeked face makes itself visible. She is a young peasant girl, clearly not the intended object of Guerchy’s attentions.

  “What’s this?”

  “You see. I told you.”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  “I don’t know, my Lord. I’m sure it’s the right room.”

  “You’ve messed it up again. Better find out who she is.”

  His servant obeys, easing the gag from her upturned mouth. “What’s your name?” he demands in German and, receiving no reply, again in halting R
ussian.

  “Olga,” says the girl.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Sleeping.”

  Guerchy cuts in: “This is getting us nowhere.”

  Olga adjusts her position in the bed. Monin’s eyes are fixed on her naked thighs. “Might as well carry on.”

  “How can I? You’ve totally thrown me.” Guerchy gets up from the bed and moves over to the door.

  Monin stares wistfully down at Olga. “Suit yourself.”

  “I may never have her now.”

  “We’ll find her, my Lord. I’m sure she’s in here.”

  “Maybe, but we can’t bloody well stay and look. That wretched girl will probably scream the house down if we do. Blow out the candle.”

  They grope their way out to the balcony, Guerchy still cursing under his breath.

  * * *

  As the sound of their footsteps fades away, I tiptoe from my hiding place among the coats in the deep cupboard. My heart is racing after the near escape. Moments later, I hear the soft clicks of two doors closing further along the gallery: there is unlikely to be a second onslaught. Feeling around on the floorboards, I find the key and swiftly relock the door.

  Then, still on my knees, I crawl across to the bed. I fumble in the crepuscular light, removing Olga’s bonds, lingering over her outstretched hands, massaging the spots on her wrists where they are already chafing. As payment for her part in this stratagem, I press a gold chain into her bosom. She looks as though she wishes to smother me with kisses. Why do I attract these mistresses of inns and serving wenches? I peck her on the cheek with coy sisterhood and indicate that she should stay the night. Used to travellers, she is well-versed in the language of signs. She also seems well-versed in other ways. Yet, in answer to her eloquent sighs and glances, I also make it clear to her that I intend to remain chaste.

  Once again, it appears I am blessed with good fortune. Olga contents herself with her bounty. We sleep.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Olga rises to perform her duties and sneaks out onto the silent balcony. I make sure I am also dressed and down in good time for what the Russians consider breakfast, a stodgy mess of eggs and bread. I do not show that I know about the attempted rape and kidnap of the night. Apart from an initial glare, nor does my Lord. We chivvy a reluctant Monin to supervise the packing of our luggage and the changing of our horses before we set off for the final leg of our journey. I manage to give Olga one last look of gratitude – had I not met her on the balcony, my scheme would be in ruins.

  The carriage struggles all the long day through rutted roads and patches of still sodden soil. As the sun begins its descent, we labour up what Monin informs us is a series of mounds known as the Duderhof Heights, and give our horses a rest on Orekhovaya Hill. Our carriage comes to a halt upon the edge of the escarpment. At last I see our goal.

  Chapter Fourteen

  St Petersburg

  Lord Douglas and I lean out of our carriage to survey St. Petersburg and the wooded, marshy swamp before it. The bog, stretching below us and scattered with birch and pine trees, presents one final obstacle. Upon a near horizon – yet distant enough to stoke our weariness – lies the city. Dotted amongst the gilded onion-shaped cupolas are towers, domes and spires that give me the sensation of the Baroque run riot in Muscovy. They burn a series of distinctive images, plates fusing West and East, into my brain. I see beauty and order shaded by tyranny and corruption. I feel the heat of fire subsumed by creeping ice, and then resurgent, melting the cold surface.

  I dream. My Lord awakes me from my reverie. “Feast your eyes on the view, my young companion. You’ll not be coming back this way alive.” He gives a brief, dark chuckle deep in his throat.

  “In which case, you will have failed to discharge your duty,” I respond. Yet I feel a sudden chill all the same.

  He shakes his head. “Once you’re ensconced in the Empress’s Palace – if you’re lucky enough to get that far – it won’t be down to me, my dearest lady. Suppose you fail, and are exposed: you’ll never leave this land. On the other hand, let us presume you succeed, making yourself a favourite: the result will be the same.”

  This harsh analysis nevertheless has a compelling logic, so I return to contemplating the city. My second, more considered sighting from afar reveals the splendour of the buildings, while the faint chink of stone on stone echoing even up here proves there is much activity still going on; but as a capital the place has a long way to go before it can compete with Paris. Since Tsar Peter only founded the city just over fifty years ago, perhaps I should not be too demanding.

  Ships lie at anchor outside the harbour, white sails shimmering with flashes of bright gold. Now I see it for myself, I grant that the position at the eastern edge of the Baltic Sea is very fine. The isle of Kronstadt protects the approaches from the west while, nearer to the city, a strong fortress guards the mouth of the Neva. St Petersburg is most blessed in this respect.

  It is still summer but, as the sun continues to go down, dripping into the sea, I sense a first hint of winter snows in the air, compounding my feeling of dread.

  A rumbling now begins to build, a tremor in the earth. The sound becomes a thundering of hooves: I watch two horses gallop over the crest of the hill. Two wild, young women are in the saddle – one a lively, coltish beauty of barely marriageable age, even in this backward society, and one maybe twice her years, erect, striking, imperious on her mare. They circle the carriage, rein in their horses and draw up some paces away.

  “What are your orders, my Lord?” Monin hisses from the carriage roof. “I have my pistol.”

  “So have I,” says Lord Douglas. “Do nothing till I give the word.”

  We do not move, each of us entertaining the same thought, I presume: these women may be harbingers of a more potent force.

  The Amazonians resume their ride and, from a discreet distance, proceed to girdle us at a slow trot. Light laughter drifts across: they are discussing our appearance in a manner that I suspect is not complimentary. I can just make out their features, very fine for the natives of these lands; the woman is tall in the saddle and rides in the same way as a man whereas the girl is smaller but bounces as though possessed of excessive energy. I have to confess their riding habits are not unfashionable, for young ladies who live so far from civilisation. Their laughter dies down, they tire of their badinage, spur their mounts and gallop away at a furious pace towards the city. The phantom horsemen I feared do not materialise.

  Our carriage trundles in the wake of these outriders. We drop down from the heights into the morass of woods that we have observed from above. It is a different world. At first it seems as if the city never existed, that it is but a figment of our collective imagination, overwrought from the long voyage. We are lost in rampant undergrowth. The smell of swamp and rotting vegetation comes near to choking me. Then, above the treetops, I glimpse once again those spires, cupolas, domes and towers. They seem to be floating rootless on a sea of green, a maelstrom of leaf and branch. Finally the road disgorges us into the plain.

  We struggle towards the city as the day fades, until we reach the gates – from there on only the flickering street lamps guide our path, like footlights at the theatre.

  “My Lord, it is the opening scene,” I say.

  At this, the soi-disant Lord Douglas grunts. I am reminded he is no great champion of the arts.

  Yet the further we advance into St Petersburg, the more I consider we are merely actors in a set upon the stage. The façades of the palaces and houses are grand indeed but there appears to be nothing of substance behind them. Most of the brightly coloured buildings, even the churches, are made of wood. The streets, such as they are, do not all seem to be paved, so I imagine they will soon turn to mud as the season changes. Squadrons of ducks, geese, chickens, sheep and cattle roam the highways in a manner that suggests we are about to embark upon a tale set in a French provincial town a hundred years ago. This illusion is reinforced by
footpads who lurk in the shadows, waiting for the infrequent troops of guards to pass before they spring.

  I must confess there is plenty of construction taking place around us, a constant hammering that fills the ears. The stage hands are erecting new sets everywhere, forming the backdrop to all kinds of human activity: bankers, milliners, grocers, bakers, fishmongers (I hold my nose), chandlers, butchers and other such suppliers vie to satisfy the rapacious occupants of these wooden and stone châteaux. Our carriage crunches to a halt outside one of the more impressive of these palaces, a solid example owning more than two dimensions. Its three-storied front stretches away pink and faultless on either side of great white columns underneath a central dome.

  “Where are we?” I am awestruck at such opulence.

  “On the Nevsky Prospect, near its crossing of the river Moika.” My Lord is confident: Monin’s briefing has served him well.

  “And is that the home of the Empress? The Winter Palace itself?”

  “No. This is the Stroganov Palace, according to my map.”

  “Do we know of him?”

  Lord Douglas consults another fraying document. “Yes, but not enough to ask for help. It says he’s influential, although not especially well-disposed to France.”

  “Surely we can seek directions?”

  We loiter in the background, principals patiently awaiting our turn to speak, while those playing minor parts put the action into motion, as is the custom in theatricals. Monin shows a piece of paper to a soldier at the gates, one that names our wished-for destination. It is not registering with the burly knave. Really, the ignorance of the French language among the peasantry in this corner of the world is quite provoking. Thank God and the King that on our travels our servant has added to his few words of German, a language that seems in vogue in these parts. At last the soldier seems to comprehend the message and mimes some bewildering instructions. Monin slips him one of the two coins in his hand.