Tsarina

by Ellen Alpsten

  The snow had thawed and we made slow progress with the muddy roads being torn open by the sheer force of the ottepel. Tolstoy had to wake the ferrymen from their stupor and kick them down to the river, where the haggard men struggled to keep their flat barges on course under our weight. Waves rolled and splashed against the sides of the vessel and last slabs of ice crashed into it. After passing half of the post-stations, Tolstoy, his men and I left the coach route. The rides were long and arduous, but I loved the feeling of the wind on my face as well as the crushing tiredness at the end of a day, weighing my muscles down and making me sleep dreamlessly. I felt strong and made sure not to hinder the men’s progress.

  The once fertile and lush country had turned into a barren strip: as in every war, the simple folk suffered most. The izby made of mud and straw were ransacked, houses of wood had been burnt down and stone buildings plundered and set alight, their walls blackened by flames.

  Almost three weeks later, at one day’s ride from the Tsar’s encampment, Tolstoy pitched camp for the night near the ruins of a church. All that was left of its mir were the foundations of the razed houses and the graveyard, but even the gravestones had been knocked over and desecrated. War knew no respect, not even, or perhaps least of all, for death.

  While Tolstoy and two of his men were hunting for our supper, I wandered through the burnt-out nave. The chapel’s roof was gone and charred, broken beams reached into the sky like bony fingers, and the pews that had not been used for firewood lay toppled and smashed. First green shoots pushed through the cracked flagstones and I spread out my woollen cloak in front of the altar. It was uncomfortable to kneel down in my high riding boots, but I took off my gloves and folded my hands like a little girl. There, underneath the wide open sky, I prayed to the god who had done so much for me: I placed myself in his hands once more. When I stepped outside, the bushes and tall grass dripped with dew and the white moon was full and high in the sky.

  The men and I shared a sinewy winter rabbit for dinner. When we lay down to sleep we used our Cossack saddlebags as cushions and our cloaks as blankets. The night was clear and Tolstoy and I gazed up at the stars and spoke quietly about our lives until our eyes shut. A soldier whose face had been disfigured by wolves kept guard that night. Ever since the attack he’d hated the beasts, hunting and killing them, then sewing their tails to his cloak. There was hardly any cloth left to cover.

  Before we set off the next morning, I cleaned myself as best I could. Behind the church ran a brook where I washed the dust and the dirt off my face and fingers, before scrubbing my teeth with the roughed-up end of a twig and some sharp blades of grass. Finally, I tamed my curls into a Dutch braid. Neatness was more admired on the field than any lace and finery. I kept my pass at the ready in my belt, as we had to show it to one patrol after the other, the closer we came to Peter’s camp. Tolstoy raised his eyebrows when he saw the paper’s Imperial seal, but didn’t comment, and I was grateful for that.

  We easily found the Tsar’s encampment on the shores of Lake Ladoga from the trail of destruction all around it. The small farms in the region had been plundered, the winter crops crudely plucked and entire forests felled for the building of the Tsar’s flotilla. As we climbed the slope ahead of the camp our horses’ breath steamed in the cold air. A light rain fell as we surveyed the plain stretching beneath us. I had forgotten the sight, the sounds and the stench of tens of thousands of people living side-by-side in one encampment. Behind the veil of drizzle, the first fires were being lit in the early dusk. Through the dying light of the day we could see part of Peter’s fleet rolling gently on the water.

  Tolstoy sighed. ‘They’ll never change.’

  ‘Who? What?’ I had been trying to spot the Tsar’s tent, but in vain. No wonder: he’d sleep in as small and shabby a tent as all the rest.

  ‘The Russian army,’ he answered. ‘They are savages, Marta. Just look at them. Half of them don’t even have a uniform, and if they do get one the cost is docked from their pay. Their training consists of eating bad or little food, sleeping on the bare earth and having their ears boxed by their officers. They have to fight before they know how to hold their weapons properly. No wonder they scarper like rabbits given half a chance. Peter’s soldiers are deserting in droves, didn’t you know that?’

  We rode slowly through the encampment. Several generals sat by the fires next to simple soldiers, talking, laughing and eating with them. Some of them recognised and greeted me and I spotted a crowd that had formed into a circle: at its centre, Sheremetev was prowling, breaking up a fist fight between a Tatar and a Russian with a snap of his whip. He lowered it, stunned to see me. I bit my lip: of course, he had heard about my finding favour with the Tsar. I was feeling less and less comfortable about my decision to seek out Peter. Maybe the scribe had been right and forging the pass would end up being a fatal mistake. Maybe Peter would send me right back, or I’d find another girl in my place and be cruelly punished? I saw some other women coming out of the washing tent, their day’s work done. I warily eyed their low-cut dresses, knowing their hopes and ambitions all too well. One of the women smacked her lips and swayed her hips as we rode by. Tolstoy grinned and nodded at her.

  The entrance flap to the Tsar’s tent was fixed back and I could see the guards playing dice close by. My heart raced: there he was! Peter sat inside at a table with Menshikov and two other generals. Their loud calls and laughter told me that they were in the middle of a game of cards.

  When I got down from my horse my legs were trembling in their tight riding breeches. Tolstoy watched in silence as the soldiers checked my pass; they couldn’t read, of course, but the seal was all they needed to see. I took a deep breath and stepped into the tent. The men stopped their game and looked up. Silence fell before Menshikov grinned, dropped his cards on the table and cried out, ‘Queen of Hearts, trumps.’ Then he opened his arms wide: ‘Marta, you are always good for a surprise. And that’s my highest praise for a woman.’

  The other men, too, relaxed and laughed. All of them apart from Peter. I trembled inside but stood firm as the Tsar jumped up, so that his low wooden stool toppled over. His eyes were dark with anger as he strode towards me. I felt like bolting back to Moscow there and then.

  ‘How did you get here, girl?’ he thundered, towering over me.

  Menshikov rolled his eyes as I searched Peter’s face. His mouth was thin with anger, but somewhere in his eyes was a glint of light. I pushed my luck and shrugged. ‘I rode. I came on horseback, more than twenty long days of riding from Moscow to Lake Ladoga.’

  ‘On horseback. And how, may I ask, did you get past the guards and the controls?’

  I drew the pass from my belt and gave it to him, my heart pounding. This was the moment of truth. Peter unfolded it, studied it with a frown, and then turned and bellowed, ‘Makarov, come here. Now!’

  Sweat trickled down my neck. The cabinet secretary came at a run. Behind him, at the back of the tent, I spotted the Tsarevich. Alexey was looking glazed with boredom, standing in front of an outspread map.

  ‘Is that your seal, Makarov?’ the Tsar asked. The secretary blanched, turning the paper this way and that. He finally said, ‘Yes, sire. The seal is mine, but I didn’t issue the pass.’

  The Tsar weighed Makarov’s words before he looked back at me. I smiled and tucked away a strand of hair. ‘Well, then, let us forget we have ever seen this paper.’ Peter chuckled as he held the pass up to a torch and the paper caught fire with a crackle. ‘Otherwise it could mean the wheel or the cotton mills for you, Marta. And that would be a shame.’

  I made to curtsey, but Peter caught my elbow. ‘Stop. It’s such a waste of time. Do you think I have nothing better to do than to watch people bob up and down?’ The smouldering pass dropped into the sand at his feet, where it fell to ashes. Peter stamped out the embers. ‘Go now, Makarov. And try not to despair – it’s not you at fault, it’s Alexey. The Tsarevich is as dumb as an ass,’ he said. ‘But together we’ll bre
ak him in.’

  Makarov bowed and left. The other men settled down to their cards again and the Tsar and I stood alone by the entrance to his tent.

  ‘You came on horseback?’

  ‘Yes.’ My cheeks were aflame.

  ‘Alone?’ He casually twisted a stray lock of my hair around his finger.

  ‘No, I came with Tolstoy. It was a beautiful journey. Unforgettable, really.’

  ‘A beautiful journey!’ Peter snorted. ‘It is madness for a young woman to do that in these times. Foolish and headstrong, that’s what you are, Marta. Do you have any idea what might have happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing that has not already happened in my life,’ I said. ‘Taking this risk is part of my duty to the Tsar.’

  His eyes swept over me, taking in my tight-fitting men’s clothes. My breasts, now even fuller than before, showed clearly beneath my waistcoat. I had undone the top button of my shirt so that there was a hint of flesh. He seemed to like what he saw.

  ‘And why did you come here? Is life in Moscow so dull for a young woman?’ His fingertip followed the line of my throat to my collarbone. My skin prickled with desire.

  ‘I came,’ I said, ‘because I wanted to be with you.’

  ‘Is that all?’ He arched his eyebrows and cupped my face, ready to kiss me.

  ‘No. I also came because I am pregnant with the son of the Tsar of All the Russias.’

  The lights in the Tsar’s tent burnt brightly all through that night.

  34

  The full moon took my wonder and surprise like a prince might: coolly and haughtily, as his due. Through the long, dark tube of the telescope it seemed impossibly close to us. What were those blurred shapes on its surface: towns and cities like ours, or plains and high mountains? Was the moon a mirror of our life on earth, and why did it shine only at night?

  I asked Peter all these questions and many more when he set up his telescope for me, after rummaging in the chest that his servants had carried up a hill above the camp at nightfall. He kept all his treasured tools and instruments in it: one of his friends and helpers, General James Bruce, bought them for him in England for outlandish sums. Nothing excited Peter more than gazing into the sky: ‘See what a book of God’s marvels opens up before your eyes,’ he’d whispered and tried to answer me as well as he could, but finally he said, ‘Planets are like humans, Marta. There is always a dark side that we do not see. A side made of want and hidden desires.’

  ‘Even the Tsar does not see it? Don’t you know all and everything?’ The moonlight seemed to change his face, even if the clear night sky was also sprinkled with stars.

  ‘I wish! No. The Tsar above all others will never see that other side, as it is so carefully hidden from him. Perhaps it is for the better, though,’ he said.

  ‘Well. There’s an exception.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Love. To love is to know the dark side of the other and still want him or her. You are my planet and I see all of you, even without peering through a pipe into the sky.’

  He touched my softly bulging belly. ‘I like you in all your curves.’

  I gave in to his embrace.

  It was a raucous and cheerful group that had gathered for dinner in the Schlusselburg. The kitchen served five whole roasted oxen and the servants could scarcely keep up with refilling cups with beer and brandy. Only Alexey crossed his arms in mute protest: he refused to drink his measure. Peter watched the Tsarevich and banged his eagle cup hard on the table. ‘Drink, Alexey!’ he ordered.

  Silence fell and all faces turned to the pale boy. Peter’s dwarf Jakim tried to lessen the tension by pulling an angry face. ‘Drink! Drink!’ he mimicked in a shrill voice, but Menshikov smacked him so hard on the head that he howled and hid away in the shadows.

  Alexey pleaded with his father. ‘Please, sir, do not force me to. If I drink so much, I feel weak and terrible in the morning.’

  ‘I bet you do. Pull your pants down so we can see you’re not really a girl! But look at Marta here: she drinks me under the table before she carries me back to my bed. Our unborn son starts off as he should carry on.’ He patted my belly and then glowered at the boy. ‘Drink! Or I’ll have you beaten.’

  Alexey struggled for courage to speak up against his father: ‘I am your son as well. I am your heir. You should worry about my health instead of harassing me.’

  From the corner of my eye I saw Jakim crouching against the wall, pressing his small, fat fists to his eyes and shaking his head in silent despair. I held my breath.

  ‘My heir?’ Peter’s voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling. Alexey reeled in his chair. Peter drew breath again, the veins bulging on his forehead: ‘Listen to me. I might die tomorrow, Alexey Petrovich, but you will have little joy in your heritage if you do not follow my example. You must love what makes your country stronger and forsake everything that holds it back. Stop hiding behind stinking priests’ robes, like a girl would.’ Peter’s grabbed his dubina: the knout had so far been lying peacefully beside him, but now he raised it in his hand. ‘My heir you will be when you have listened to wise counsellors who will lighten the burden of your duty. My heir you will be if you spare no effort to secure the happiness of every Russian. But my breath, and my advice, are wasted on you.’

  The dubina lashed through the air; Alexey shrank back, sobbing and folding his arms over his head. But Peter was not finished with him. ‘Nobody is my heir because he was born between his mother’s thighs. The Tsar suffers most amongst all Russians. I live for Russia, and one day, I will die for Russia.’ Peter refilled his cup to the brim and held it out to Alexey and said, calmly but threateningly, ‘Drink, or you’ll be sorry.’

  Alexey still hesitated, but Menshikov leant over, forced his jaw open and Peter poured the contents of the cup down Alexey’s throat. The Tsarevich spat, gargled and coughed, but when Peter wanted to do it once more, I gave him a light shove.

  ‘What?’ he asked, the empty and dripping eagle cup in his hand. I raised my own, as if toasting him. ‘You have spoken well, my Tsar. May the day of your death be as far from us as the stars in the sky.’

  Alexander Danilovich was still waiting to carry on torturing Alexey, but Peter hesitated and said, ‘Leave him. He has already wet himself with fear.’

  Menshikov wiped his hands on his breeches in disgust and I glanced at the Tsarevich. A wet trace led from the crotch to the knees of Alexey’s leather breeches and the boy wept openly, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Out of my sight with you,’ Peter ordered, and Alexey fled. The diners roared with laughter, glasses were raised, the music played again and the feast continued.

  ‘Marta the merciful,’ Menshikov said, glancing at me sidelong as if to caution me. I knew what he meant: I had just convinced Peter to allow Rasia Menshikova’s wedding to Antonio Devier, the dark stranger from the riotous party, against Alexander Danilovich’s wishes. Four times Devier had proposed, four times Menshikov had had him brutally beaten up by his thugs, but Rasia had her heart set on the Portuguese. I raised my glass to Menshikov and he returned the toast.

  After our love-making the next morning, I held Peter tight. I felt so close to him that it hurt – close enough to ask a question that pained and puzzled me.

  ‘Why do you treat Alexey so harshly? He is just a boy. Don’t you love him?’

  In a serf’s hostile and precarious world, everybody outside our izba was a possible threat or even enemy. Trust could only be placed in the family. We held together wherever we could. Whom to love, whom to trust, if not a father his child? Serfs had a saying, ‘Other people’s tears are only water.’ It was brutal, but true.

  Peter looked at me, amazed, and then shook his head. ‘I don’t treat him harshly. I prepare him for his life as Tsar. That’s a life without real love.’

  I frowned. ‘What are you saying? I love you. And I don’t want our child to turn out like Alexey.’

  He kissed me tenderly, stroking a dark curl fro
m my forehead. ‘Don’t worry. It won’t. Alexey was not made with love, but only from duty and boredom. I never wanted to be with Evdokia.’

  ‘Don’t make Alexey pay for that.’

  ‘He even looks like her!’ Peter shuddered. ‘Everything – his sallow skin, the dark eyes and high forehead, the thin hair, that moody, pinched mouth. God, even the way he walks, that slow gait, is Evdokia’s. It drives me crazy. How did she make him so like herself?’

  ‘That is not his fault,’ I said. ‘He can be like you in other ways. I suppose you have him always with you?’

  ‘It might be too late for me to teach him. In former times, he wasn’t with me at all. He was with the Lopukins and their priests too much as a child while I was travelling, learning. See what they have made of him. Only half a man!’

  I bit my lip. I felt for Alexey, but this was not my battle. Furthermore, I bore Peter’s next child. I leant on my elbow for some more pillow talk: ‘So you never loved her? Evdokia, I mean? Never, ever?’ I felt a ridiculous pang of jealousy of the wretched woman. Yes, she had been Peter’s wife, but it was I who lay in his bed, while her flesh rotted from her bones in the convent she had been forced into.

  ‘No, never,’ Peter answered without hesitation. ‘The thought of her and our life together makes me shudder and feel sick. My mother chose her for me, as she seemed to fit the bill. Of a lesser family than the Romanovs, fair of face, pious and seemingly docile . . .’

  ‘Seemingly?’ I asked.

  ‘Every time I came home from visiting girls in the German Quarter, she moped and nagged. Once I even brought her a present to appease her. It was a vase that she smashed at my feet, shouting at me, instead of greeting me with a smile and thanking me. And as stubborn as a mule! I spoke for four hours to her, to convince her to take the veil, and she refused. Now she is a prisoner in the convent, where her mind can turn as dusty and moth-eaten as her robes.’

  I kissed his forehead. ‘Well, if you ever come home to me from other women, I will whip you.’