I did not attend Charlotte’s funeral lest an evil spirit might strike and my caution was rewarded: I myself gave birth to a strong and healthy son. I wet his scalp with my tears and held him tight, counting and recounting his strong, rosy fingers and losing myself in the sweet smell of the nape of his neck. ‘Peter Petrovich,’ Peter shouted in triumph, holding him up into the light, tears streaming down his face, checking the boy’s limbs again and again, kissing the little toes and fingers and gazing into the child’s eyes of deep, dark blue just like his father’s. He embraced the baby, sobbing, and holding him so tightly that the worried midwife had to prise him away. We kissed, tears of joy streaming down our faces, as cannon salvos echoed a hundred and twenty-one times through the St Petersburg night. The bells in church towers all over Russia danced with joy. The next morning Peter presented me with a suite of Siberian diamonds that took my breath away: necklace, bangles, brooch and earrings were shaped like ice crystals. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. When I wanted to thank him, he waved my words away: ‘Small fry for a woman who has given me everything. Everything.’ He choked with emotion and we cried again, together.
That night, I gazed through the open window at the fireworks Peter had ordered. He himself was out and about in the streets, beating his drum and gladly accepting a myriad of invitations to drink to my and the little boy’s health. The sky filled with rainbow showers of light. I had a son, I thought, before my eyes closed. Finally. My very own beautiful, strapping boy, and Russia had not one, not two, but three heirs.
‘“My father”,’ Pavel Jagushinsky read aloud, and frowned, looking down at Alexey’s letter. Was he deciding to alter the words before he spoke?
It was the first time I’d returned to the Senate after giving birth to Peter Petrovich two months earlier. I sat next to Peter, gently steadying his kicking, twitching legs when he heard that salutation. Menshikov, wearing a red coat and a wig of silvery hair, his cheeks looking fresh from the morning visit of his barber, listened closely too.
‘“If Your Majesty wishes to exclude me from the succession to the Russian throne, your will shall be done. Please take this yoke from my shoulders. My inheritance crushes me, and my unsteady mind makes me unfit to rule. My body is too weak to steer the country with the iron hand it needs.” ’ Peter snorted in derision, but I placed my hand on his: Alexey had been diagnosed with the Wasting Disease after all. He grunted and Jagushinsky went on reading. ‘“I pledge never to seek the crown of Russia. May God protect my brother and give you many more years to live and to reign. The well-being of my children is in your hands. For myself I ask only what I need to live.” ’
Peter raised his hand, and Jagushinsky paused. Silence stretched in Senate. ‘Give me this,’ the Tsar ordered, scanning the letter. Menshikov watched him with burning eyes. What was going on: did Alexey really wish to give up his inheritance?
‘I can wrap fish in that, nothing else. “Your will shall be done”,’ Peter mimicked, crumpled up the letter and threw it at Makarov. ‘For your archives. Empty promises and silly phrases.’
Makarov smoothed the paper and let it slip between his documents. The senators sat waiting in silence until Peter spoke in a dangerously low voice. ‘The Tsaritsa Catherine Alexeyevna has given me a healthy son. The matter of the succession must be clarified. We are planning a long journey through Europe. Upon my return, it shall be determined. Until then –’ he snarled, so loud that the veins on his forehead bulged and his face turned crimson. ‘Until then, my useless son has to decide: either he shows himself worthy of the honour or he disappears forever into the darkness of a monastery.’
Peter’s last words faded into a gargling sound; he fell from his chair, face distorted. I jumped up. ‘My God, Menshikov, hold on to him. Hold his legs tight!’
The members of the council had shrunk back, pressing themselves against the wooden panelling or seeking cover behind their chairs. Menshikov weighed the Tsar’s feet down while I dodged his beating arms. He swiped the tiara from my head, but I managed to press his face into my bosom where he calmed down.
‘The council is over. The Tsar needs peace. You will be told how to proceed,’ I said.
Menshikov and I stayed behind while they left. The only sound in the room was the Tsar’s heavy, irregular breathing.
61
When Peter had set off on his first journey through Europe years earlier in search of knowledge and progress, the Western courts and their kings and queens had greeted him with curiosity rather than respect. This time he left to be welcomed as a European: Dutch and British ships now protected trade in the Baltic Sea. Poland, Saxony and Denmark formed a defensive wall against the Swedes. And another reason for Peter’s departure to the West made me smile: his niece, the little vixen Tsarevna Jekaterina Ivanovna, was to marry the Duke of Mecklenburg in April.
Our sleighs were loaded with luggage and laid with skins, furs, cushions and blankets, while Peter strolled about in the courtyard, our little Peter Petrovich in his arms. The boy was three months old, strong and full of life, and the thought of leaving him for so long, after all the years I had waited for him, broke my heart. Snowflakes danced in the icy breeze and the sky was covered with thick clouds. It was late January in St Petersburg and so cold that our bodies left warm traces in the crystal air and our breath hung in icicles on our lips. Peter showed off his son proudly to the household while the child’s nurse followed him, running around like a headless chicken.
‘My Tsar, please, let the prince wear his fur cap. Otherwise he might catch a deadly cold,’ she begged, but Peter pressed the little one to his chest and sniffed at his neck. ‘Oh, rubbish. A Russian prince is hardy. Is that not so, my little one? Your mother and I are off, but not for long. Just to kick the Swedish King in the arse and to visit all his former friends. Remember, one must attend to one’s enemies as much as to one’s friends.’ He kissed our son, and the little one cooed as Peter’s moustache tickled him and freed his chubby hands from the sable blanket in which he was wrapped. ‘You must not be offended that we leave you behind. I’ll take you with me next time. Do not be angry with your batjuschka – I would never leave you alone if it was not necessary. Look, even your mother will only follow me a little later. We will find you a fine European princess for a bride.’
Peter nuzzled our son’s pink fingers, then sniffed and wrinkled his nose. ‘The prince has just relieved himself. On my uniform.’ He handed him to the nurse, who hurried back to the palace with the infant. Peter slung his arm around my shoulders. ‘It is right that you stay here until our angel has survived his first winter. Besides, I expect Jekaterina Ivanovna’s wedding is a matter of little interest to you,’ he teased.
‘On the contrary. The Tsarevna wanted to marry so badly that I wish her all the luck in the world.’ I smiled. ‘Hopefully her husband will survive the wedding longer than her brother-in-law, the Duke of Courland, God be merciful upon his soul.’
Peter frowned. ‘Soon we must also think of finding husbands for our daughters. Let me have a proper look at that young King of France.’
I fell silent because I was still hurt Peter did not want me to go to Paris with him. Instead, I had to remain in St Petersburg and then meet him later on in Hamburg.
‘Why can’t I go with you?’ I had pleaded.
‘Oh, Catherinushka, you would just be bored there! Besides, I do not have to worry about Russia if you are here as my Regent,’ he had tried to flatter me.
‘I’d be bored? In Paris?’ I had stared at him blankly. I might not know Europe, but I knew that a woman could not be bored in Paris. I suspected the truth and it burnt like fire: Peter was ashamed of me. Like all the foreign envoys, Versailles mocked the way I presented myself. I just did what the other damy did, wore what we deemed fashionable here in St Petersburg, which was normally fine for Peter. But now he was eager to be received with all possible honours in Paris: the Regent and the little King Louis XV should welcome him personally, and take him seriously.
Whereas at first sight of me the whole of Versailles would be sent into fits of laughter, as we knew from the intercepted letters Campredon had sent to France. When he briefed Peter before the visit to his king’s court, he’d said: ‘French courtiers change their robes up to five times a day.’
Peter had been stunned to hear it. ‘Five times? Really? How dissatisfied are these Frenchmen with their tailors?’
‘Don’t worry, Catherinushka,’ he tried to placate me. ‘I shall share my joy and my memories of the road and the city with you and write every day.’
‘Isn’t that very ambitious, seeking sons-in-law in Paris?’ I asked, to hide my shame and pain. Peter took my hands out of my sable muff and held them: ‘Little Louis is a sweet boy, with rather too much powder and make-up on his face. But once he grows into a man, he’ll be just right for Elizabeth. Queen of France, our daughter! What do you think?’ He spun me around in a circle, dancing wildly among the whirling snowflakes. ‘I want a king!’ he cried, his voice echoing from the smooth, high façades of the Winter Palace. ‘The King of France for one of my daughters.’ We slid over on the icy cobblestones and fell into the snow, where we lay on our backsides, holding on to each other, helpless with laughter.
Two weeks later fog and frost swallowed the Tsar’s train of five hundred sleighs heading for the West. The last I saw of Peter was the royal standard, the crimson double-headed Imperial eagle, blazing in the pure white of the surrounding landscape.
Alexey’s expression had been gloomy when he took his leave of his father. I could not read his thoughts any longer; those days were long gone. Did he really wish to retire to a monastery, or was he just trying to win himself time? A monastery was neither a prison nor a grave, and many a man had willingly swapped the royal mantle for a robe. However we all knew that Peter could and would not live forever. What was his eldest son playing at?
Shortly before he left, I had accompanied Peter to Alexey’s apartment. A stupefied and drunken Afrosinja had been drowsing half-dressed in front of the fire. She jumped up on seeing us, curtseying deeply yet sullenly. Peter’s dwarf Jakim mimicked her clumsy movements and she kicked him, but he avoided her heel with a swift twist, cackling and shrieking like a monkey.
Peter ignored the girl and held the letter that had been read to the Senate towards Alexey. ‘Are you serious about this? You wish to retire to a monastery?’
Alexey knelt and I noticed the bald spots on his head. ‘Yes. Please believe me, my father!’
Peter shook his head and seemed to soften. ‘You do not know what that means. You’re still so young. Think about it again. Then write to me.’
Despite everything, he was ready to give Alexey another chance and I loved my husband for that. Somewhere, deep down, there was still good in Alexey. In spite of everything he had done, I could see the traces of the fearful child within him, a child that could be helped and educated.
‘When do I need to answer by?’ he asked, perhaps a little hastily.
Peter, who had already turned to go, hesitated. ‘I shall give you six months, my son. I wish to receive an answer upon my return.’
I saw relief and triumph flicker over the Tsarevich’s face as he exchanged a quick glance with Afrosinja. We all knew how much could happen in six months.
A few weeks before my own departure for the West, I heard a knock on the door of my study. When Alice opened it, I heard words in German being exchanged.
‘Who is it, Alice?’ I asked.
‘It is Anna Mons. I mean, the Countess Keyserlingk,’ she said. I rose from my desk where I was studying drawings of new robes to be made for me. What a surprise: what could Anna, Peter’s first great love, possibly want with me? I shot a quick glance into the Venetian mirror that hung over a dainty console table. My eyes sparkled, my lips were full and rosy; my throat was covered with diamonds, which also dangled from my ears; and I wore a dress of burgundy velvet that flattered my golden skin. Yes, I felt ready to receive Anna Mons, the woman all the damy and whores of the realm had feared more than the smallpox.
She was still beautiful; her ash-blonde hair was silky and her deep blue cloak matched her eyes as well as her sapphire jewellery. She curtseyed to me deeply. ‘Tsaritsa. Thank you for receiving me.’ Her voice was hesitant and I sighed to myself. Ever since my marriage to Peter no one ever spoke to me in a straightforward manner but threw in my title whenever possible, like seed in freshly hoed soil, hoping for a harvest. Each sentence was as convoluted as its true meaning. I felt for Peter, having only ever known this. ‘Countess, please sit down.’ I patted the small sofa next to the hot Delft-tiled stove and belatedly spotted the young man standing behind her.
‘Who is with you?’ I asked.
‘My younger brother, Wilhelm Mons. He has just returned from Europe and is now looking for a position at court. Is there any use in the Imperial household for him?’ she asked.
The young man bowed: he was as impossibly handsome as the whole Mons family, all of them fresh-faced and with an air about them that spoke of walking barefoot in the grass and swimming naked in a river. His dark-blond hair was thick and wavy, and blue eyes, clear as the St Petersburg spring sky, were looking at me earnestly from beneath long, almost black eyelashes and eyebrows. He was tall and well built, which his tight breeches, long, shiny boots and fashionably narrow-cut jacket made clear to his advantage. He bowed deeply, looked up – and smiled. One of his front teeth was slightly chipped and on both suntanned cheeks, deep dimples formed. It was a smile such as I had never seen before, lighting up his already handsome face as well as the room. All and everything else disappeared for me – Alice Kramer as well as the Countess Keyserlingk – and I had to hold on to the back of a chair; that smile’s promise of solace in times of suffering as well as unbridled, light-hearted joy was almost too much for me to bear.
I blushed, which made me angry. Was I the Tsaritsa or some silly handmaiden? He straightened and I looked at his long, slender fingers, where he wore four rings forged from different metals. He noticed my gaze and opened his palms towards me, as if making an offering. ‘These are my lucky charms, Tsaritsa. A ring of lead to lend weight to my actions, copper for the warmth in my heart, iron for steadfastness, and . . .’ He broke off.
‘And?’ I asked, somewhat tersely.
‘And one of gold,’ he answered, his eyes never leaving me.
‘What does it stand for?’
‘True love,’ he said. ‘It is as valuable and as indestructible as gold, I believe.’
A sudden silence hung in the room. I rose and the former Anna Mons curtseyed, worry and surprise in her face. Had they angered me? Had her brother not done well? ‘Your brother may join my daughter Elizabeth Petrovna’s household. If he proves himself there as her chamberlain, we can take things further,’ I declared curtly. He bowed, his eyes full of gladness. His sister wanted to kiss my hand, but I turned away quickly. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said, and left the room, ignoring the mumbled expressions of gratitude from the siblings.
Alone in my bedroom, I leant against the wall and took deep breaths. My heart pounded, but my head was as light as a feather. I suppressed the urge to walk to the window and see them leave, see how this Wilhelm Mons moved, see if he turned in the courtyard to look up at my window. I would not. True love, he had said: as valuable and as indestructible as gold.
A few weeks later I left St Petersburg. Anna and Elizabeth as well as my little Peter Petrovich were left with Daria Menshikova. The city disappeared behind us under fresh snowfall, which eased the further west we moved. Reaching the Baltic provinces, I tried to recognise what I could, yet failed. How confusing I found Europe – and especially the German states – to be; the number of small duchies and principalities here was astonishing. Soon I no longer counted the customs and frontier barriers on which we were held and controlled; our purse emptied quickly in the face of all the tariffs and border taxes. We made swift progress, though, and the inns were clean and comfortable, so that I felt fresh and full of vig
our when we arrived in Hamburg in late May. The King of Denmark, Frederick IV, together with Peter, awaited my train of five hundred coaches and wagons.
After the last Swedish attack, the city lay in ruins and its inhabitants lived in the still-smouldering ruins, feeding themselves on berries, roots and, it was said, stray dogs, cats and rats. We set up camp in lavish tents, their waxed linen adorned with gold tassels. My foldable furniture was forged from gilded metal. Peter sent me his barber every day, as he wanted me to shine next to the other ladies.
While he and Frederick tried to agree on a last joint strategy against the Swedes, I strolled through the city, well guarded, together with my three hundred damy. We visited the first opera house in any German state, which was still standing. What a difference from the Moscow theatre that Peter had tried to establish, where the audience laughed, cried, clapped, chanted or shouted and threw rotten vegetables, whenever it felt like it.
When we camped outside Copenhagen in the summer, I was pregnant again and praying for a healthy brother for Peter Petrovich. What more could I hope for? Things there dragged on until eventually we left for Mecklenburg, where we expected Jekaterina Ivanovna and her husband to lodge us, our troops and our entourage. But fearing the cost and effort involved, they fled as fast as they could, sailing or paddling across the Elbe to seek shelter in the free Hanse cities of Hamburg and Lübeck. At our first meeting since her marriage, Peter kissed Jekaterina on the mouth in front of her husband, which made the young duke blush with embarrassment. Peter poked him and then patted my belly.
‘Look, Karl Leopold. My Tsaritsa is again in blessed circumstances. Aren’t you young people stunned by what we old foxes can still do? Better get on with it, man. Let us drink a toast to that!’ With a single gulp he emptied the glass a page held out to him.
We had not heard from Alexey since I had left St Petersburg. Why not? I wondered. It would have been wiser for him to keep in touch with Peter, proving his earnest wish to be a worthy heir. I remembered the look that had passed between Afrosinja and my stepson at our last encounter: a look of cunning and connivance.
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