Peter smiled at the nickname and grabbed the braying and bucking beast, almost throwing its rider off: ‘Stop it, the two of you! This is a holy donkey, hands off,’ the Prince-Caesar squealed. He tried to hit us with his censer, but both Peter and I dodged him, chasing round the donkey who shat on the golden parquet. We held on to each other in wild laughter until I could grab the donkey’s head, forcing its mouth deep into one of the huge jugs. It drank greedily and then farted, which left Peter in stitches. ‘Ahoy, there is donkey wind! Let’s all set sail.’ He ripped off his neckerchief and held it like a sail behind the donkey’s bottom, but the animal staggered off through the hall, crashing into tables, toppling jugs, bottles and glasses and making people scream. The Prince-Caesar whipped the poor beast while downing the last of the holy vodka.
Peter touched my silk dress. ‘What a lovely colour. You look as if you are engulfed in flames. But I hope that is not all you get for a purse of gold in the gostiny dvor these days?’
‘Oh, no. There are lovely things such as . . .’ I stared at him: the purse that Menshikov had given me was not Sheremetev’s gift!
Peter grinned and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s a small price for the best night of sleep I have had for as long as I can remember. I hope you spent it wisely,’ he said, his fingers fondling my bodice and searching out my breasts without further ado.
I felt heat rise from my belly, but slapped his hands away. ‘Careful! Wandering hands get caught in a wolf trap.’
He looked at me with shining eyes. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
I followed Peter to Menshikov’s table, where I saw the Arsenjevas, Pavel Jagushinsky, master of the Tsar’s household, and Rasia Menshikova, who sat much too close to a handsome olive-skinned stranger: beneath the large silk cushions they held hands. Varvara reared to her feet when she saw Peter holding my hand, pulling me with him. Her face was pure threat that I tried to ignore. Tonight or never! Around us settled a motley crew – ‘Meet Louis Bourgeois from Paris!’ Peter said, slapping a giant of a man on his back – two dwarves and a Moor. My head spun: had my life had turned into Master Lampert’s Tent of Wonders?
Peter pulled me down next to him while filling up our big cups again. ‘These are eagle cups,’ he said proudly. ‘I had them made especially, as all the others were too small to cause a real stupor.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Let’s play a drinking game. I had lost matka, but now I have found her again and she wears a pretty dress made of flames. Let’s toast to that with Tokay. Be warned, I’ll whip anyone who drinks Rhine wine!’
‘To matka and her dress of flames,’ Menshikov said and everybody drank, even if Varvara’s eyes stabbed me from over the rim of her cup, a threatening, dark look that chilled my heart. But I pushed down my fear: tonight I wanted to be merry. The dwarf somersaulted, which made his face turn green. He fled away to be sick. Peter’s dogs joined us, licking his face until the Tsar hid under the cushions, laughing and begging for mercy. The giant from Paris spoke with Rasia Menshikova’s lover in a strange, foreign language, and I met Daria’s questioning glance: I had never told her about that night in Marienburg. Yet now I sat on Peter’s lap, feeding him sweet morsels and throwing food at passing courtiers. He whooped and cheered when I hit a target well, and Daria raised her cup in a toast to me. Thank God, I had inherited my father’s steadfast approach to drinking. But when even I had started seeing double, the Tsar leapt up and grabbed Menshikov by the collar.
‘Traitor! What are you hiding under that cushion?’ he shouted, tugging out a bottle of Rhine wine. ‘I knew it! That light plonk. You are such a cheat, Menshikov. Sorry, I must punish you. But as you are not an utter dog, you shouldn’t drink alone.’ His eyes locked on Daria and Varvara. ‘The Arsenjevas will join you. Three eagle cups of Tokay will do for each of you.’
Daria passed out and Varvara was sick into her cupped hands before collapsing on the floor. All her finery was destroyed; she had lost one earring, her hair had come undone and the feathers in it were mere stalks when a servant hoisted her onto his back like a sack of barley. Menshikov drank obediently, before rising, saluting his Tsar, and then throwing his cup at the wall, where it broke into dozens of pieces. His eyes turned glassy and he crashed over like a felled tree. Peter skipped in circles around his friend, eager for more, more, more. He was about to grab me when a cushion hit his chest.
‘Hey! What’s going on?’ he shouted, and was hit by a second cushion that came flying through the hall.
‘Look, Peter,’ I said, to distract him from the cushion fight. Rasia Menshikova lay with her thighs parted among the cushions and the dark-skinned stranger’s buttocks heaving above her, his breeches around his knees. Peter whooped and grabbed the man’s hips, spurring him on. ‘Devier, you rascal. Do I have to teach you everything? Don’t they even know how to fuck in your country? Rhythm, man!’ Rasia Menshikova covered her face in shame when Peter fondled her tiny breasts, pushing them to the right and then left. ‘Starboard! Larboard! All hands on deck,’ he shouted.
Feeling sorry for Rasia, I grabbed one of the cushions and hit Peter straight over the head, once and then twice. The cushion burst and rained feathers, which stuck to his sweaty forehead and hair. I held my breath – had I gone too far? I had whacked the master of life and death, and there he stood, covered in vodka and down. I went for it: ‘It’s snowing!’ I laughed, delighted, shaking my locks and spreading my arms, which almost made my bodice burst. ‘Look, finally some snow and ice for you, and you are their king.’
‘Just you wait! You’ll be no better off than Menshikov’s skinny sister when I catch you.’ Peter lunged at me, but I ducked and ran, shouting, ‘Well, catch me if you can, starik!’
I skipped around the Prince-Caesar who was kissing a laurel-wreathed boy; a courtier smeared caviar over the naked breasts of one of the whores, then sucked her full white flesh. The drunken donkey shat some more, swaying pitifully in the midst of the music, the writhing bodies and steaming heat. Soldiers watched stone-faced as Peter towered over me and I halted, hiccupping with laughter, panting, my cheeks burning and my blood rushing through my veins, waiting for his next move. He seized me and threw me on to some cushions; it rained more and more feathers, food flew through the air and the Prince-Caesar hung limp in his saddle.
I felt nothing but Peter’s hands, lips and then his heavy body on mine. He spread my thighs and was inside me before I could even catch my breath: how could I refuse the Tsar of All the Russias?
31
I woke when a sunbeam tickled my nose. I stretched like a cat and looked around. Where was I? This was neither my bedroom nor Menshikov’s palace. Furs and heavy covers kept me warm in a wide bed. A fire crackled somewhere. I opened the embroidered hangings around the bed: the Tsar sat at a table next to the open fire, his back turned to me, clearly visible in the white light coming from the window. His feet in their felt slippers tapped on the flagstones while he twirled a quill in his fingers.
I was naked and my clothes were nowhere to be seen, so I wrapped the sheet around me and slid out of the bed. The flagstones in the gaps between the furs and rugs were cold as I tiptoed my way to Peter and looked over his shoulder. The icy winter light fell on a pile of papers, unfurled or still in scrolls. Peter hummed to himself and lowered the quill onto the paper in front of him. I peered at it: he sketched something like a large arc. I touched his shoulder and asked quietly, ‘What is that?’
He started and jumped to his feet.
‘It’s only me!’ I said. ‘Matka.’ He calmed; his eyes a bright and, given the short hours of rest, surprisingly clear blue. He stuck one hand into a fur-lined pocket of his green belted dressing-gown while waving the other breezily over the pile of papers, then rummaged in the scrolls, making paper rustle and fall. ‘Oh, it’s everything and nothing! Just some ideas I have, really, some for ships, some for buildings. Letters to write, to friends, soldiers and other rulers in the West, and drafts of laws that may or may not be introduced,’ he said, laughing.
‘Who can tell with the Russians? I also have to find new taxes!’ He smiled and scratched his head like a boy.
‘True. I have heard you will be taxing the winking of an eye next,’ I said earnestly.
He looked at me, astonished. ‘Who says so? Where did you hear that?’ Realising it was a joke, he chuckled and stroked my shoulders.
‘Everywhere. On the streets. In the coffee houses.’
‘You’ve been in coffee houses? Oh! You could be my spy.’
‘I could,’ I said teasingly. ‘But my services don’t come cheap.’
He arched an eyebrow, before he asked: ‘What are they saying there? Don’t they love me? If you say yes, I’ll abolish that tax on the winking of the eye just for you.’
‘Well –’ I began, but he would not let me talk, growing impatient.
‘Do you know how expensive a war is? Giving my people places to live, to train soldiers and to turn Russians into thinking human beings, comes at a cost. And all they do is hate me for it! I almost have to beat their children into the schools I’ve founded for them. But wait . . .’ He pulled out a closely written sheet of paper, which was signed and sealed with the gleaming double-headed Russian eagle. A little drying sand still stuck to the scarlet wax. ‘Here is my last ukaz: any child of the boyars and free citizens who has not attended school is forbidden to marry. That’s a fine rule, isn’t it? No schooling, no wedding. I want my people to be educated. I want them to . . .’ He hesitated.
‘To . . . ?’ I prodded him, thinking of Sheremetev’s words: Ever since his return from Europe, he is a man possessed.
‘I want them to think. To think for Russia.’
‘But will they still follow you when their thoughts are so free?’ I asked.
Peter caressed my tousled curls. ‘Well, I never! Matka thinks and says wise words. Or did you overhear that at one of my parties?’
Without further ado he lifted me off the floor and the sheet slipped from my shoulders. In two long strides he reached the bed and fell upon me. It all happened as fast as the night before, when I had put his haste down to drunkenness. He gave my full breasts a quick squeeze before he cast off his sleeping gown and made short work of opening my thighs and thrusting into me. As he pushed inside, he sucked noisily at my neck and breasts like a child. After a few hurried movements he shuddered and fell on top of me with a contented sigh.
I lay still, feeling raw, unfulfilled and disappointed, his breath hot and unsteady on my aching breasts, and to my surprise mirth took over. Was this the kind of love he had learnt from Anna Mons? Was this the passion that the Arsenjeva sisters whispered about behind their hands? I so longed for the fire that Anton had lit in my veins. Peter had slipped off me, all spent, just when I felt the embers of lust stirring. He was almost asleep when I playfully grabbed his hair and asked hoarsely, ‘What about me?’
He raised his head, looking at me with heavy eyelids and half a smile. ‘What? What about you?’
I gave him a little push and he rolled onto his back. Sweat glistened in the thick hair of his chest, a sight that filled me with a sudden tenderness. I sat astride him.
‘Caress my breasts!’ I whispered. ‘Tenderly, and don’t stop.’ My heavy breasts grew even fuller under his touch and my wide pink nipples hardened, just as my warm wetness found him. He was now limp and moist, but lay just beneath my secret spot. I gently slid up and down on him. My hair fell across his face as I found my own rhythm and began to moan. Peter grabbed my waist, holding it with both hands, just when starlight shot through my veins like a hot golden rain. I rose with a short scream and then curled up on his chest, panting, and with a satisfied sigh.
He held me tight for a moment, mutely, before he kissed my damp forehead. ‘My kitten. Are you hungry?’
‘I’m starving. I don’t know about you, but there was this big man yesterday evening who kept me so busy I could hardly eat.’ I winked at him.
He pulled a cord and a chamber boy entered through a door hidden in the wood panelling, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He must have fallen asleep standing up. I pulled the sheets over my nakedness. Peter laughed. ‘No need for false modesty. I can’t live without my chamber boys. They know everything about me and you had better get used to them.’
My heart skipped a beat: You had better get used to them.
The boy returned shortly with a tray. A dish was placed in front of me: pierogi – pastries filled with chicken and molten cheese – as well as cherries soaked in wine and raisin biscuits baked in honey. The chamber boy poured me a dark, steaming drink into a bowl. It smelt of sugar, milk and smoke and had a thick, bitter-sweet taste. It was heavenly and stoked all my senses. I felt like dipping my fingers into the gooey brew and licking them clean. Instead, I sipped it as a lady would.
‘What is this?’ I asked as Peter returned to his desk.
‘Chocolate,’ he answered, taking a gulp of cognac from a small flagon before stuffing and lighting his pipe. This was how he broke his fast.
‘What is chocolate?’ I asked, breathing in the scent of it again. It was wonderful; I wanted more and more of it.
‘The Queen of France brought it with her from Spain, her homeland. Chocolate and the dwarves in her entourage are her only comfort as her husband, the Great Louis, carries on with his mistress who costs him so dearly. Really, the Sun King could fill his stables with whores instead of horses with what he spends on Madame de Montespan.’ Peter carried on with his drawing and I silently sipped the hot, sweet brew. Who would have thought that I could have it better than this poor Queen of France? I bit into a sweet biscuit, before dipping it into my bowl.
Since Peter had taken me back with him, I hadn’t been to Menshikov’s house. The Tsar asked for my few dresses and undergarments to be brought to me. The messenger also carried friendly greetings to Daria, which I dictated to Peter’s scribe. To my relief her response, read out to me, was quick and warm. She had done me nothing but good.
The church Masses leading into the New Year were strange, dark and endless. After the unbridled joy and wild blasphemy of the Drunken Synod, I was struck by the piety with which Peter bowed his head in prayer. I did likewise to please him though my heart was untouched. The priceless icons encrusted with gold and silver, the singing, the prayer-books bound in leather and velvet, the sparkling vessels and splendid robes heavy with gold that showed off the wealth of the Russian Church and intimidated believers, could not compare in my estimation to the cheerful ease of the Glucks’ church at Marienburg. What had become of them?
Peter sent fireworks into a sky still heavy with sleep to welcome in the New Year. The display was his own idea and he cheered at each bright explosion, each glittering, starry tail. I stood close to him by the open windows of the Kremlin, as did his son. But Alexey averted his eyes and looked as if he wanted to stick his fingers in his ears to block out the noise. Peter shoved him and the boy stumbled.
‘And you want to be my heir, join my recruits and one day lead my armies, Tsarevich?’ Peter barked. ‘Each cannon blast has you almost wetting yourself. When I think that I celebrated the occasion of your birth with a firework display!’ He spat at Alexey’s feet.
The prince regained his balance. ‘Yes, and a Prince Dolgoruki was killed when a heavy firework cask fell on his head,’ he dared to answer.
‘There are enough of them around, God knows! But if it had hit you instead, I’d have one less worry,’ Peter said and turned his mighty back on the slender boy. The courtiers tittered. I saw Alexey fighting back tears. In the short spell of darkness between two balls of fire, I squeezed his arm. He looked surprised to receive kindness from any of his father’s friends and smiled at me shyly.
That same evening, the Tsar made me the gift of a pair of earrings.
‘Take them, Marta,’ he said, fiddling with the catch against my earlobe. ‘They suit you, as they suited my mother.’
My eyes widened and I caught his fingers. ‘Your mother? She, who shielded you with her own body against the S
treltsy soldiers when they hacked the rest of her family to death?’
‘You know the story?’ He fixed his gaze on the earring. ‘Stupid thing,’ he said, unable to manoeuvre an object of such delicacy.
I touched the earrings, which were fashioned into crescent moons and studded with precious stones. They swung with each movement of my head.
‘This is too valuable a gift, my Tsar,’ I said, and feigned taking them off.
‘They are very dainty. There is hardly any gold in them,’ he said. ‘Keep them, please.’
‘I am not talking about the value of the gold.’
There was a brief silence and I only let go of the earring when he stepped behind me and embraced me. I felt his hands on my shoulders: ‘They are yours. That is an order. Do you like them?’
‘Yes,’ I said hoarsely. ‘I like them very much. No man has ever given me such a present.’
‘You must have known the wrong men. They are to bring luck to a girl who warms my body and my heart.’
I turned to face him; Peter was awaited at a Synod, for men only this time. Afterwards Menshikov, with the help of two servants, dragged him back to his chamber. Peter kissed me and when I softly opened my lips to taste his tongue, I felt him grow and press against my belly. My hand slid over his brightly embroidered waistcoat to the soft deer leather of his breeches; I loosened the belt and wrapped my fingers around his warm flesh. He sighed and closed his eyes when I sank to my knees, the silk of my robe rustling, and placed my lips around him. He swelled even more and gasped when I took him fully. Peter began to move in my warm, wet mouth, where I sucked him deeper and deeper, tasting his lust and his desire for me. It didn’t take long until he dug his fingers into my shoulders and cried out. My hair had come loose and he stroked it back tenderly.
‘Where did you learn that?’ He tightened his belt and smoothed his waistcoat.
I laughed. ‘Well, I was a soldier’s wife, after all.’
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