The Summer Queen

by Margaret Pemberton

  The Austrian Ambassador to St Petersburg’s reading of the situation was equally low-key. ‘Austria is simply trying to teach Serbia a lesson,’ he said to Nicky. ‘It is a rap on the knuckles; nothing more serious than that.’

  Georgie didn’t believe the ultimatum was a mere rap on the knuckles. No self-respecting country could accede to the demands Austria was making, and Austria would be well aware it couldn’t. And what would happen when Serbia didn’t accede to them? His answer to his self-imposed question was immediate. Austria would use it as an excuse to declare war on Serbia and, when it did, Serbia’s friend, Russia, would come to her aid. And when Russia came to her aid, what nightmarish spot would Russia’s allies be in?

  It was all too dreadful to even think about, and so he didn’t think about it. Instead he went down to his stamp room, poured himself a stiff tumbler of whisky and began rearranging stamps of Australia and New Zealand, all of which reassuringly bore his own image.

  The next morning came news that Serbia had replied to Austria’s ultimatum and that, except for an unimportant point, the Serbs had agreed to every demand. The relief in Potsdam, London and St Petersburg was overwhelming. Austria now had no excuse for declaring war on Serbia and consequently there was no danger of Russia, Germany and England being dragged into the Balkan mire.

  Nicky went down to the tennis courts and, in hot sunshine, played an energetic match against Tatiana. Willy ebulliently fired off a congratulatory telegram to Emperor Franz Josef, saying that Serbia’s agreement to all Austria–Hungary’s demands was a great victory for Vienna; that it did away with any need for war and was an outcome on which Emperor Franz Josef was to be congratulated. Accompanied by his equerry, a vastly relieved George took his favourite horse for an energetic gallop across Windsor’s parkland, giving private thanks to God that the world was a safe place again.

  The next morning Austria–Hungary declared war on Serbia and, from the far side of the Danube, Austrian gunboats began shelling Belgrade.

  Willy was poleaxed. Always all front, his sense of insecurity and fearfulness that he kept so deeply buried beneath the swagger and bombastic bluff and bluster was terrifyingly laid bare. If Russia came to Serbia’s aid, he would have to carry out his thoughtless promise made in the aftermath of Franz Ferdinand and Sophie’s murders and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Austria. And if he did that, he would most likely find himself not only at war with Russia, but with Russia’s long-term ally, France – and for Germany, because of her geographical position, that would mean war on two fronts.

  It was a prospect that filled him with crippling panic, and he immediately sent off a telegram to Nicky saying that he was about to exert his utmost influence with the Austrians to arrive at a satisfactory understanding, and that he hoped Nicky would help in smoothing over any difficulties that might arise.

  Nicky replied that Austria’s attack was an outrage, and the next day he mobilized his army along Russia’s border with Austria.

  ‘It’s just in case events escalate even further,’ he said to Alicky truthfully. ‘It’s only a precaution.’

  Distraught, Alicky sent a telegram pleading for advice to Rasputin, who was still in a Siberian hospital bed. The cable she received back was starkly blunt: Let Papa not plan war, for with it will come the end of Russia and of yourselves, and you will lose to the last man.

  Appalled, Alicky ran to show the telegram to Nicky, who, in a meeting with his ministers and military leaders, did something previously unthinkable for him, where advice from Rasputin was concerned. He ignored it.

  Other telegrams began flying thick and fast between the Foreign Office Departments of St Petersburg, Berlin and London and, on a personal level, between Nicky, Willy and Georgie.

  Willy cabled Nicky, demanding that he halt his mobilization.

  Nicky responded that it was technically impossible for him to do so, but that as long as conversations with Austria were not broken off, his troops would not take the offensive.

  Willy replied that he had gone to the utmost limits in his efforts to keep the peace; that he wouldn’t be the one to bear responsibility for the disaster now threatening the civilized world; and that if the Russian mobilization of troops was halted, a general war could still be avoided.

  It was a telegram that his government followed up with an ultimatum. Unless Russia halted mobilization within twelve hours, Germany would have no alternative but to mobilize also.

  When the deadline arrived and Russia had not replied, Willy carried out his threat and, as there was still no response from Nicky, on 1 August Germany declared herself to be at war with Russia.

  Denmark, Sweden and Norway hurried to declare their neutrality.

  France mobilized.

  On 3 August, Germany declared war on France, and Belgium refused permission for German troops to pass through its country en route to France. As if he had no memory of King Albert and Queen Elisabeth sitting alongside him at Sissy and Ernst’s wedding breakfast in close family harmony, Willy signed an order that sent his troops marching through Belgium anyway.

  It was too much for the British government. On 4 August, George signed the document declaring that Great Britain and all her Dominions over the seas were now at war with Germany.

  When they were alone together, George said, ashen-faced, ‘There was no alternative, May. Belgium is a neutral country, and for Willy to have ignored that . . .’ His voice shook. ‘We had to come to King Albert’s aid, but that it should have come to this, May.’ Tears streamed down his face. ‘War with Germany. What on earth would Granny Queen have said?’

  Knowing the kind of response he needed, she said robustly, ‘Granny Queen would have said it is none of your fault, George, and she would have been heartbroken, as we are, and as all the rest of the family are.’

  An hour later she stood next to George on the balcony of Buckingham Palace, in front of a vast cheering, flag-waving crowd that stretched from the palace gates all the way down The Mall to Admiralty Arch and beyond. It was a sea of thousands, all wanting to show loyalty to her and George, and all exultant at the thought of a war that would show the bullying Germans what was what. It took all of May’s iron self-control to keep her own, very different emotions from showing.

  She hadn’t been exaggerating when she had said that she was heartbroken. Only fifteen months ago, at Sissy and Ernst’s wedding, the Royal Mob had been united in close family togetherness; now it was difficult even to know on what side of the conflict some members of the family stood. For nearly all of them had either married Germans or, like herself, had far more German blood in their veins than English blood.

  Irène and Willy’s sister, Sophie of Greece, had been holidaying together at Eastbourne and were now, she knew, desperately trying to return to the other side of the Channel – Irène to Germany, where her English-loving husband Heinrich was commander of the Baltic Fleet, and Sophie to Athens.

  Irène’s sister Vicky, whose husband Louis of Battenberg was First Sea Lord of the Royal Navy, had been visiting Ella in Moscow, and Vicky had sent a cable saying she was now on her way back to England and was praying she would meet with no difficulties when it came to crossing Germany, the land of her birth.

  As Grand Duke of Hesse, their brother Ernie had no choice concerning where to place his loyalty.

  ‘Willy will have him commanding troops within days,’ George had said when May had mentioned Ernie, ‘and the same applies to newly married Ernst. What other choice will either of them have?’

  Nicky’s mother was in England visiting her sister, Georgie’s mother, at Sandringham.

  Russian Aunt Marie had shocked George deeply by declaring that she was siding with Germany and would be in Coburg for however long the war took, until it was over and everyone regained their senses. This meant her daughter Ducky, married to a Romanov and with homes in St Petersburg and Tsarskoe Selo, was now technically her enemy.

  As the crowd of thousands on The Mall began singing the national anthem, May�
��s mind was full of thoughts of her two eldest children. Twenty-year-old David was already in the Army, having joined the Grenadier Guards in June; and Bertie, who, like his father, had been a naval cadet, was at present serving as an officer aboard HMS Collingwood in the Mediterranean.

  ‘And our boys will fulfil their duty splendidly, May,’ George had said to her. ‘We shall be able to be proud of both of them.’

  As the crowds rousingly and deafeningly roared, ‘God save great George our king! God save our noble king! God save the king!’ tears stung the backs of May’s eyes. Of course she would be proud of David and Bertie. She couldn’t, in a million years, imagine being anything else. But oh, how she wished things were different, for so many of England’s enemies had a place deep in her heart – and always would have.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  DECEMBER 1916, PETROGRAD

  One of the first acts Nicky had taken after war with Germany had been declared had been to change the Germanic-sounding name of St Petersburg to the more Slavic ‘Petrograd’. It had been a change Alicky had fully supported. Half-English and half-German, she had now utterly repudiated the German side of her heritage and had become as fiercely anti-German as every other Russian. All her loyalties were to Russia; all her prayers were for an Allied victory.

  As for her former Kindred Spirit, Willy – she now thought of him as the devil incarnate, for it was Willy who had broken the blood-pact he had sworn to decades ago at Osborne. She remembered as if it were yesterday May asking what would happen if the pact was ever broken, and she recalled her own reply: that to break it would be to bring about something more terrible that could ever be imagined; something so terrible it would be like the end of the world.

  She was in her mauve boudoir, counting off the hours until Nicky and Alexei arrived home from the Stavka, the Russian Army Headquarters situated in the deep forest of Poland, halfway between Moscow and Warsaw.

  When war had broken out, Nicky had appointed his cousin, Grand Duke Nikolai, as Commander-in-Chief of the Army, and for the first weeks of the war Russia had enjoyed exhilarating victories, but the victories hadn’t lasted. When Russia began suffering a series of defeats, Nicky had dismissed Nikolai and taken overall command himself. It hadn’t been a popular move within the family, but both she and Nicky were long accustomed to receiving criticism from his family, whatever it was they did.

  Even though it meant the agony of long separations between the two of them, Alicky had been fully supportive of Nicky’s action. He was the Tsar and, as Tsar, his rightful place was to be in overall command. She had even been supportive when he had suggested that Alexei spend time with him at the Stavka. ‘He will enjoy feeling part of the Army that will, after all, one day be his army,’ Nicky had said, adding sheepishly, ‘And he will also be able to sleep in my quarters and be company for me.’

  Nicky’s new role had also meant a new role for Alicky – one she had undertaken with great uncertainty in the beginning, but which she now felt quite at home in. At the Stavka, Nicky couldn’t fulfil his autocratic task of governing the country and so, with his blessing and with Rasputin by her side to offer advice, she had begun doing it for him. Doing so exhilarated her. Her darling Nicky had always been too hesitant when it came to changing ministers; he didn’t possess her inner certainty and iron will. Now in a position where she could bring about change, she had set about doing so and had earned her darling Nicky’s gratitude.

  Olga ran into the room. ‘Word has come that Papa and Alexei are on their way here from the station. Their cars will be arriving any minute!’

  At the outbreak of war, Alicky had turned the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo into a military hospital, and a wing of the Alexander Palace into a surgical unit. Then, along with her two oldest daughters, she had trained as a Red Cross nurse. By now all three of them were qualified and highly competent and Olga, having just come off-duty, was still in her nurse’s uniform.

  Alicky sprang to her feet. Every day that she and Nicky were apart she longed for their reunion, and especially for the nights they would once again share. To be in Nicky’s arms in the darkness, to feel his lips on hers and his hands on her body was the very breath of life to her. Having been married now for twenty-two years, for both of them the passion and the rapture never faded.

  This time, though, their reunion didn’t bring joy in its wake, for when Nicky walked into the palace, Alexei wasn’t at his side. He was being carried, and Dr Fedorov was hurrying alongside him, holding great pads of blood-stained bandages to Alexei’s nose.

  Alicky screamed and broke into a run.

  Nicky said tersely, ‘It started with a sneeze. At first it didn’t seem as if it was going to be a serious bleed, but by this morning I knew I had to get him home.’

  Over the top of the blood-saturated pads, Alexei’s eyes flickered open. ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ he whispered, and then his eyes closed, his face deathly white.

  ‘Grishka!’ she said through a sob, running after Nicky and the officer who was carrying Alexei as they headed at top speed up the grand staircase towards Alexei’s bedroom. ‘Have you contacted Grishka?’

  ‘I’ve sent word. He’s on his way.’

  By the time Alexei was propped up on pillows on his bed, Dr Botkin was with them and not long afterwards Rasputin entered the room at a run, snow clinging to his long hair and knee-high boots. Ignoring Botkin and Fedorov, he strode to the side of the bed and, as Alicky dropped to her knees to join him in prayer, he stood silently, as he always did at times like this, his head bowed.

  For several minutes he prayed and when he finally raised his head he said in his deep, soothing voice, ‘Do not be alarmed, Little Mother, Little Father. Nothing bad is going to happen’ and then he turned and left the room – and the palace – with the same speed with which he had entered it.

  Exhaustedly, Alicky rose to her feet and sank into the chair by Alexei’s bed. ‘The bleeding will end,’ she said to Fedorov and Botkin. And then, to Nicky, ‘And this Man of God who holds our son’s life in his hands is the man your family wants you to banish? It must never happen, Nicky! Never!’

  Fifteen miles away, in the Vladimir Palace in Petrograd, a royal family conference was taking place, chaired by Miechen, Vladimir’s widow.

  ‘Desperate situations call for desperate measures,’ she said grimly, looking around at the small group of people seated in her opulent drawing room. ‘We are all agreed, aren’t we, that something has to be done?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Tall, and with the ramrod-straight bearing of a man who had been a soldier all his life, the Grand Duke Nikolai was standing sentry-like near the door. ‘But how do we do anything that will make Nicky see sense? In the past I’ve stood in front of him and threatened to shoot myself, if he didn’t change his tune and grant the kind of reforms Russians are desperate for, and what response did I get? He simply tapped ash off his cigarette, gave me that damned enigmatic smile of his and wished me good day.’

  Nicky’s Uncle Paul was sitting on the arm of a chair, a glass of vodka in one hand. ‘Nikolai is right.’ He ran his free hand over still-thick hair. ‘It’s impossible to reason with Nicky, and we all know the obstacle. Alicky was bad enough before Nicky acted like a madman and took over from Nikolai as Commander-in-Chief of the Army, but now that she’s begun governing the country while Nicky is at the Stavka for months on end, we’re going to hell in a handcart. Six Ministers of War in as many months. Three Ministers of Food and Distribution. Two Prime Ministers. How can a country at war be run in such a manner? It’s insanity!’

  No one in the room – Miechen, Nikolai, Misha, Ella, Paul, Paul’s twenty-five-year-old son Dmitri or Prince Felix Yusupov, who was married to one of Nicky’s nieces – disagreed with him.

  Misha said, ‘It’s Rasputin who is behind every governmental change she makes. Alicky does nothing that her mad monk hasn’t suggested and approved of – and the people know it. There are queues a mile long every day outside his flat in Gorokhovaya Street
, all people who want a favour, a position, all knowing that it lies in his power to see to it that their wishes are granted – if, of course, they give him what he wants.’

  ‘And when it comes to the women, we know what that is,’ Felix said, looking as richly dressed as if for an imperial ball and wearing a delicate touch of blue eye make-up.

  It was a crudity that Miechen and Ella didn’t even blink at. Everyone knew of Rasputin’s reputation with prostitutes, and with the aristocratic women who thronged his flat, all wanting the thrill of being able to say that the Tsarina’s mad monk had indecently pleasured them.

  Paul drained his glass and said, ‘Every last person in Russia believes Alicky is his mistress and, when Rasputin is constantly in the bedrooms at the Alexander Palace and Nicky is hundreds of miles away in Russian Poland at the Stavka, you can’t blame them for thinking that. There are times when I’ve come damn near to thinking it myself.’

  ‘The last time she showed her face in public, people began shouting “Niemetzkaia bliad”.’ There was a raw edge to Misha’s voice, ‘Because her Russian has never been more than basic, she didn’t understand they were calling her the German whore. But that isn’t the really serious stuff, is it? The serious stuff is that it’s obvious from despatches that the military secrets Nicky shares with her, she then shares with Rasputin.’

  Miechen looked towards Nikolai for confirmation and he nodded. ‘It’s true, Miechen. There are rumours sweeping the country that both she and Rasputin are German spies and, as she is a German, it is why – one way or another – both of them have to go. Unless they do so, and soon, there’s going to be a full-scale revolution and, when Nicky is brought down by it, we will be brought down with him.’

  Miechen’s reaction was swift and blunt. ‘Then the only answer is Nicky’s abdication.’