40
St Petersburg grew with every month that my belly swelled. Despite the burdens of war, Peter insisted on being kept up-to-date with the progress of his city. The wooden Peter and Paul Fortress had been replaced by a star-shaped structure in stone, ready to brave any attack, and its bastions were named after Peter’s best and most trusted men: Menshikov, Sotov, Golovkin, Trubetzkoi and Naryshkin.
The pregnancy weighed on me and I almost feared the moment of birth, not because of the long hours of pain, but because I would start loving the child so helplessly, and once more be open to sorrow and pain should I lose it. Mostly it was Daria who embroidered soft cashmere blankets and sent gifts of rattles and dolls. ‘Don’t give up, Marta. You will have a strong, healthy son that will bind Peter and you forever,’ she encouraged me, forcing me to feel my child quickening. ‘You must hope, and you must believe,’ she urged. I was grateful for her support in something only another woman could understand. Peter was once more excited by the prospect of possibly having another son. He never mentioned our dead children.
Shortly before I was to leave for Moscow, I lay awake in my bedroom in the little Summer Palace, where the Fontanka Canal met the Neva. My body and limbs were so swollen that I could not even braid my long tresses and was too impatient to ask my maids to do it. My curls stuck to my face and neck, which were beaded with sweat. My chambermaid was curled up asleep on the threshold when I heard footsteps; the handle moved and Peter stepped into my room. His eyes were sunken in their sockets; he swayed a bit before climbing onto my raised bedstead. He bit me playfully in the neck and whispered, ‘How are you, my beautiful Marta?’
‘I’m feeling awful. Look! I can’t even brush my hair,’ I moaned, lifting my swollen hands and wriggling my fingers. He grabbed the silver brush from my bedside table, pulled me up from my bed and across the room to the dressing-table and its Venetian glass mirror.
‘I’m quite good at brushing hair,’ he offered, and helped me to lower myself onto the stool before he began to work his way through my thick tresses. My scalp tingled under the firm strokes. When he had finished, my hair framed my face in a shiny, dark cloud. He mutely rested his chin on my head and our eyes met in the mirror. We were both as pale as ghosts and the candlelight blurred the outlines of our faces but sharpened the bones beneath. I rose, wanting to lead him to the bed; perhaps I’d sleep better with him by my side, and the sheets of cool, starched linen looked inviting. ‘Come,’ I whispered, but to my surprise he held me back.
‘No. Put on a cloak. Follow me.’ His eyes were dark and unreadable.
‘What kind of cloak?’ I asked. ‘Now? In the middle of the night?’
He pointed to my chest. ‘Anything, just so you’re not in a nightgown.’ He paused and added, ‘Something dignified.’
Something dignified! I chose a golden-yellow silk cloak which was lined with mink and embroidered with gold threads in a Persian pattern. It fell to my feet and its deep folds and the tie under my bosom covered my belly.
‘That’s good. Come now.’ Peter easily lifted me over the sleeping chambermaid and, once in the hallway, placed a finger on his lips. He beamed now, his face as bright as a jewel. We were like children planning a prank. What on earth was he up to? We crept down the staircase then through the dark Summer Palace, which smelt dankly of the nearby Neva and of the bitter tar dripping off the torches. I felt the cold of the stone slabs beneath my naked feet, and my mirth and wonder mingled with sudden wariness. What had happened? Had the Swedes advanced so far that we must flee the city under cover of the night?
Ahead of me Peter pressed down the high, European-style curved handle to a small reception room. I squinted inside: the room was dark except for the amber glow in the fireplace. Peter’s dogs snoozed on bearskins before it, wagging their tails weakly when they sensed us. Close by stood a priest, wearing a long, dark robe. His feet in their well-worn sandals were bare despite the October cold and dark hair straggled to his shoulders, though his beard was neatly trimmed. I bowed my head and he touched the panagia on his chest in a sign of respect. Peter laced his fingers through mine and drew me closer. ‘Marta, may I present to you the greatest mind in the whole Russian Empire: Feofan Prokopovich.’
So this was Feofan, of whom Peter had so often spoken to me. He greatly admired this holy man even though he belonged to the old Moscow guard and had just returned from Rome; but Feofan’s undisputed talents were reason enough to promote him. Prokopovich, Abbot of Kiev and head of the city’s university, smiled at me: his worn face spoke of warmth and wisdom, and his shiny eyes of a joyful spirit.
‘Now you must also tell me the name of your lady, my Tsar,’ he teased, and Peter smiled. They were clearly at ease with each other. ‘That is why we are here. Feofan, this is Marta. She is the sister of my soul.’
The priest’s gaze weighed on me: I’d rather have this quiet little man as a friend than an enemy, I realised. ‘And why have you summoned me in the middle of the night, my Tsar?’ he enquired. He stroked his beard, while at the same time seeming much less puzzled than I was.
One of the dogs yawned and turned its belly towards the warmth of the flames. Peter chased it away and knelt down on the bearskin instead, pulling me down with him, despite my heavy body. ‘Peter,’ I moaned, but he raised his hand.
‘Silence. I summoned you here to witness an oath, Feofan. Once happier days come for Russia, and once the greatest danger and the threat from the Swedes is turned away, then . . .’
My heart pounded; the blood roared in my ears. Even the child in my body lay still while Peter searched for words to express the unbelievable thing he wanted to say.
‘. . . I wish to make use of my freedom since my divorce from the Tsaritsa Evdokia Lopukina to marry Marta.’
I gasped. Marry me? It had always been on the cards for Daria, being from an old Russian family, even though she had lived in sin. Menshikov had needed to marry sooner or later, to sire rightful heirs. Yet Peter had Alexey, and we were happy together as we were. All the anger and doubt that I had felt in Kiev were long-gone, forgotten like an enemy in exile. I knew what Peter was doing for me now and what he would face as a result – the criticism of his family and the aristocracy as well as the scorn of the foreign powers by whom he so desperately wished to be accepted, almighty or not. Russia meanwhile feared all change that Peter brought about and revered all custom he did away with. He would be lonelier than ever thanks to this decision. He’d only have me, I thought, and the realisation made my heart hurt.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Feofan, emboldened by the power of his office and clearly sharing my thoughts.
‘Yes,’ Peter repeated firmly, ‘I do not fear whatever this might entail.’ My heart leapt and I squeezed his fingers. No, he would not fear, ever, and I was determined to join him in that. Peter spoke solemnly. ‘Feofan Prokopovich, you shall here and now, this morning in October of the year 1707, witness my oath. Marta, when times are better, I shall welcome you into the Holy Russian Church and give you my son as a godfather. I shall marry you, and you shall be known by the name of Catherine Alexeyevna.’
I blinked my tears away. Feofan blessed us before he left, the sound of his footsteps fading away down the passageway. Peter and I were alone in the little room. It felt like a fairy tale; I would not have been surprised if the room had spun three times around us. We settled in front of the fire, holding on to each other, talking quietly for a long time until a late, leaden morning light crept through the half-closed shutters of the room. Just before I fell asleep, I murmured, ‘You do not have to do this, starik, you know that? You are everything to me. But I certainly never expected marriage.’
‘That’s precisely why, matka, I want to give it to you. You have no expectations, which makes it wonderful to delight you. I do not know what the war will bring or what the future holds. But I want you to be sure of my love, and I want you to be safe. My family is a snakepit. The whole world must treat you and our children –’ he felt for the child
in my belly ‘– with the respect you deserve. We are, after all, two of a kind.’ He smiled, nuzzling at my shoulder.
Later in the morning I woke up in his arms. The fire had burnt down and the pale sun was high in the sky. Peter breathed quietly and slept calmly, some of the hairs of his fine moustache fluttering as he breathed out. His smug expression reminded me of Daria’s tomcat when it had drunk some cream, and I chuckled and tickled him. Peter woke and wrapped his arms around me.
‘Do you know what you did last night?’ I asked him softly.
He feigned surprise. ‘No. What?’
‘You proposed to me.’ I grinned, hardly able to say those wondrous words.
He leant on one elbow, his eyes sparkling with mirth. ‘Do you have any witnesses to this, Catherine Alexeyevna? No one will ever believe such nonsense, you know that, don’t you?’ Catherine Alexeyevna: it was the first time he’d called me by my new name. Peter’s fingers slid over my swollen belly and between my thighs. ‘I’ve often made love to Marta, but never to Catherine. I bet she’s an utter vixen. I can’t go into battle without finding out, can I?’ he murmured.
The blood flowed faster through my veins and I felt myself going wet between my legs. ‘Oh, no, Peter, I’m already much too heavy. Come and see me in two months, after the delivery,’ I pleaded.
‘Nonsense. We will find a way . . .’
He helped me onto my knees and his hands slid over my body, enjoying my full buttocks. I knelt naked, my swollen breasts lying on the rug, and my stomach stretched, yet stifled a scream of sudden pleasure when his tongue searched me from behind, hot and moist, finding my most tender spot with ease. ‘Please,’ I panted as he slowly began to lick me, spreading my legs further and pressing my hands to the ground. Peter tasted me with slow, sucking circles, and when I came with a short, joyous scream, he was already inside me, placing his hands ever so gently around my hips and stomach, feeling our child, as he searched and found his way.
When I left St Petersburg to give birth in Moscow, Peter gave me a long and loving letter and a sack of money to take with me, which Pavel Jagushinsky, master of the household, tucked into my sleigh at the very last minute.
‘What is that?’ I asked. Peter looked at me gloomily.
‘Five thousand roubles, in case any Swede aims better than I hope they do. The money is for the child, Ekaterina and you, should I fall and not be able to keep the promise I gave you.’
‘I do not want it. I want you to live,’ I said, pushing the bag away from me.
‘Good. That makes two of us,’ Peter declared, forcing the sack back into my fingers. ‘I, too, am in no hurry to appear before my maker.’
The Tsarevich Alexey met me in the first courtyard of the Kremlin. He kissed me on both cheeks and lovingly pressed my swollen fingers. ‘Marta . . . Your Grace. How was your journey?’ His dark gaze checked my stomach. After the deaths of my sons, he had kindly sent one of his priests to console me – he had loved to play with his little brothers, whose godfather he had been – but Peter had forced the holy man to sing obscene songs before chasing him away, even throwing stones at him. Now, Alexey hopped nervously from one foot to the other as he spoke to me, his pale skin blotched with unsightly red patches.
‘The Tsar writes me one angry letter after the other. Am I not doing a good job as Moscow’s Governor? The city and the Kremlin are well fortified, in case the Swedes do make it here. Why is my noble father so very angry with me?’ he asked.
‘Do not worry too much,’ I said, deciding to hide Peter’s fury from him.
A good job as Governor? ‘He does not know his arse from his elbow,’ Peter would mumble, when he read the orders Alexey had given. ‘Tons of building materials for the fortifications have been squandered, stolen and sold elsewhere. Has he sent the wagons I asked him for? Have the recruits been dispatched, as ordered? None of it. Oh, God. Why doesn’t he just hand Charles the key to the city?’ The harder Alexey tried, the more Peter found him wanting.
I leant heavily on the arm of Alexandra Tolstoya, Peter Andreyevich’s sister, who had accompanied me on the journey as my new lady-in-waiting, trying to make it safely into the Kremlin across the slippery courtyard. Alexey padded around me like a young dog, coughing again and wheezing with excitement. ‘Marta, tell me, did you put in a good word for me? Do you know what people at court say?’
I shook my head, biting my lip.
‘If not for Marta, we’d suffer endlessly from the Tsar’s whims.’
I took hold of Alexey’s cold, red-raw hands: while I was wrapped in a thick sable coat, a matching hat and brightly embroidered gloves, he was dressed like a schoolboy in a simple dark knee-length Polish jacket and a crumpled and stained linen shirt. His hair fell to his shoulders, long and unkempt as a priest’s, and his eyes had a feverish gloss. Did he not understand how risky his comments were?
‘Yes, of course I put in a word for you, Alexey. Your father loves you dearly.’ I crossed my fingers, now back inside the muff, so that God could forgive me this little white lie. The rift between father and son was already deep in those days; still, not I, not anyone, could ever have imagined what was to happen later. ‘He will be so proud if you hold Moscow against the Swedes,’ I added.
Alexey’s German tutor Huyssen joined us then and reluctantly bowed his head to me, but I ignored him. In Huyssen’s letters home, which Makarov of course had opened and read, the shrivelled old prune showed off about his work – making up half the subjects he said he taught the prince – and made fun of me, the washerwoman at the Tsar’s side. Everything about me merited his scorn and apparently caused endless mirth in the German-speaking courts: my way of dressing, my style of make-up, the amount of jewellery I wore.
Alexey embraced me again, then immediately stepped back. ‘I should not get too close to you. I have a bad cold and you are so close to delivery. I do not wish you to become ill before you give birth to my little sister.’ He coughed again, this time into a handkerchief. When he raised his head, I spotted blood in the fine white cloth.
But I had no time to react to that as my last thought, just before my waters broke and the first, drawn-out pain of labour wracked my body, was: Your sister, Alexey? Why ever not your little brother?
Only hours later I held my beautiful, healthy daughter Anna Petrovna in my arms. The feeling of besotted love I had dreaded took me over almost instantly. How had I ever doubted I could feel that again? Fool that I was. She was too much of a miracle. Feofan Prokopovich sent me a copy of his book, A First Doctrine of Youth, which was full of ideas on how to educate a child. I had a few pages read to me, and at first laughed, before snorting in derision and flinging the book into the corner; such nonsense could only occur to a childless priest. Sheremetev offered me a beautiful pearl necklace: each smoky grey pearl was as big as a chickpea, and the locket’s oval sapphire as large as a pigeon’s egg. It was a surprisingly valuable gift: had he heard about the Tsar’s secret promise to me?
As soon as I was strong enough and the ottepel was well past, I boarded a carriage together with Anna and two maids and headed for St Petersburg. I breastfed Anna on the journey and enjoyed my closeness to the little being, kissing and cuddling her at every possible moment. I was determined she would live and at every inn drank litres of the warm, almost black beer, so as to have enough milk for her. God willing, she’d soon have a brother.
41
But then fate struck again: we were busy with the preparations for Easter in St Petersburg when Peter returned from a trip to the Schlusselburg lying on a stretcher. His adviser Peter Shafirov, who had accompanied him on a visit to the planned Ladoga Canal and the oak forests there, which were to be cleared for the timber to build another fleet of ships, told me, ashen-faced: ‘He suddenly felt faint and then stumbled and fell.’ Even though Shafirov’s grandparents had converted from Judaism to the Russian Orthodox faith, Peter called him ‘my little Jew’. He now sat in the Privy Council, an unheard of rise in fortune for a member of the ‘chosen
race’, as they called themselves. Shafirov’s was an exceptional case, as Jews were the one people Peter did not generally welcome to his Empire, saying: ‘I’d rather have Muslims and pagans in our midst than Jews. They are rogues and cheats. I want to eradicate evil, not to multiply it.’
On his stretcher Peter moaned with pain. I gave Shafirov my little Anna Petrovna to hold, which he did clumsily. I felt Peter’s forehead, which seared my palm with fever. His eyelids fluttered and when I turned his hands in mine, I noticed red blotches on his skin. I chided Shafirov: ‘That’s what you get from all your wild feasting. Or has he been with a sick girl?’ I dreaded the answer. Ships from Europe as well as traders from all over the East had brought many an unwelcome visitor to St Petersburg: new and fearsome diseases. The whores did their utmost to spread them further and the courtiers were no better.
Shafirov avoided my eyes. I felt uneasy – was there something I ought to know about? There was no time for further questions: the physician Blumentrost immediately began to treat Peter with mercury pills, which was an atrocious business. The Tsar lay slack in my arms in his sick chamber whose thick drawn curtains dampened down the light and made the air stifling. The pills made him slobber with saliva like a dog and on his naked feet I spotted the same red sores as on his hands. Were these similar to the ulcers that had started to show on his loins? Rime covered my heart, yet I held his hands, instead of folding my fingers into prayer. I had seen these signs of illness many times in the streets of Moscow and St Petersburg, be it on princes or serfs. Spare us, I pleaded, as Peter was further weakened by each bleeding. Whatever his illness was, I wanted him healed and healthy. Two weeks later, he looked at me with a thin, sorry smile on his haggard face. ‘Perhaps I can never keep my word, Catherine,’ he whispered: ‘My bloody, bloody word, as you call it. Maybe I will never be able to marry you properly.’
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