I closed my eyes to let the November moonlight flow into my heart. Agneta, though, had heard something else: ‘My Empress,’ she said, smiling, ‘the people say that the latest flood is the fault of this Moldavian witch.’ She lathered my shoulders with jasmine oil and I breathed in the heady perfume. ‘Kantemir is said to have summoned the waters. When she took her barge to the Winter Palace last week, the people bombarded her with horseshit.’
For the first time in ages I laughed, and Agneta joined in. The merriment made me feel more ready to face the world. Maria Kantemir, take my place in Peter’s bed and heart? I neither could, nor would allow this to happen.
74
All of Europe apart from Austria recognised Peter’s new title as Emperor of Russia: Vienna had not forgotten its sympathy for the dead Tsarevich and the manhandling it had suffered at the Tsar’s hands.
But Peter’s gaze turned to the East as his ambassador to Isfahan, Prince Volynsky, spoke in the Senate. He looked impossibly well groomed compared with most of the senators there. It was common to see their real hair straggling down untidily beneath their wigs; their skin was veined and red; and they picked their noses openly, flinging their findings into all corners of the Senate. Volynsky’s dark oiled hair fell to his shoulders, he was clean-shaven and his fingernails were spotless and short. Compared with him, the other senators looked like savages.
‘Welcome home, Volynsky. You look like a true Persian. Do you still eat pork? If not, I’ll have you flogged.’ Peter was only half joking, I knew, but the Senate laughed obediently. ‘What is going on in Persia? Tell me all about Isfahan.’
Volynsky hesitated. ‘I have some good news. More and more trade leads through Russia, and we have been able largely to suppress the attacks of the Cossack tribes along the riverbanks. This ensures safety for our sturgeon fisheries as well as the transportation of caviar.’
‘And the bad news? Or will you bore us with talk of fish eggs any longer?’
Volynsky’s expression turned grave. ‘Russian trading stations have been attacked and the whole country is in turmoil – I am glad to have made it across the border. I have since heard that the Shah of Persia has been overthrown . . .’
‘Why didn’t you say that sooner?’ Peter cried, and lashed out at him with his knout, tearing the silk sleeve of his Persian overcoat and drawing blood from Volynsky’s pale skin. ‘Who has started the rebellion, and when?’
‘Afghan rebels have occupied Isfahan. They burn, plunder, embezzle and kill. Their wild customs spread throughout the land and the law is breaking down there; no one knows any longer what is right or wrong.’
Persia was important to us, I knew; gold, silver, copper, lead, oils, pigments, cashmere wool, silk, fruits and spices, were all loaded onto barges there before the wares travelled West to be traded for gold. What better time could Russia choose to attack the weakened region and return with valuable spoils?
Peter stroked his moustache and grinned. ‘You really did not deserve that knouting, Volynsky. Take it as a sign of my love. The next time I wish to chastise you, tell me it has already been done.’ Then he frowned. ‘All right. Let’s get going. Where are the rebels located? Only in Isfahan or all over the country?’
One month later, Russia declared war on Persia. Peter’s own country was still exhausted; the princes cursed at having to leave their families and estates once again. I alone was elated. This campaign would allow me to escape St Petersburg, where all and everybody watched me, waiting with bated breath for me to be ousted permanently instead of merely sliding out of favour. Also, the simple life we led in the field had always brought us closer. There, I was sure, Maria Kantemir could not harm me. I pondered Blumentrost’s warning while instructing Alice to pack some light, lacy undergarments and nightshirts. Blast him! I would fall pregnant another time and all would be well. My spirits were high when my chests were finally packed. For once I was not leaving behind an infant. My daughters Anna and Elizabeth were young women by now, and our little Natalya was strong and healthy.
On the eve of our departure from Moscow I paid Anna and Elizabeth a visit to say goodbye: sometimes I felt that I did little else with my girls. Their rooms were the picture of peacefulness. Natalya was being comforted at her wet-nurse’s full breast. The child’s cheeks were rosy and her hair thick and dark. She was soon to be four years old.
Anna worked at her embroidery, sitting close to an open window and comparing her own botched stitches with her maid’s fine work. When she spotted me, she came flying over. ‘Mother, how wonderful of you to come! Ever since I heard about the campaign to Persia, I thought I would not see you again.’ She blushed slightly. ‘You know, there’s so much for us to speak about.’
I embraced her. Why did children grow up so fast? Had not I just given birth to her a year before the Battle of Poltava? She was fourteen years old and had inherited Peter’s bright blue eyes as well as his fair skin and dark hair. I knew what she wanted to speak about: the young Duke of Holstein had been asking Peter for one of our daughters’ hands in marriage. Anna as eldest felt that she was entitled to this match, though I knew that the young duke had fallen in love with Elizabeth. At his last visit he’d sailed up and down the Neva, hoping to catch a glimpse of her; but each time I had sent Anna out onto the balcony. Finally, he had stuck to his offer to marry either of the princesses.
‘Let me look at you,’ I said, and spun Anna round by the waist. The pink silk mousseline layers of her dress flew up like gossamer wings. Her ladies laughed and clapped. Elizabeth looked up from her chess game against Wilhelm Mons. He had that air of gaiety and ease about him that no court manners could ever destroy. It had been a long time, with my travels and all the troubles in the land, since I had seen him. My heart missed a beat.
‘Really, Anna, as silly as you are, no peasant in his izba would want to marry you, let alone a duke!’ Elizabeth chided her sister, and I frowned.
Mons faced Elizabeth over a small table littered with captured chess figures. He said, ‘Really, Tsarevna. Is there a greater joy for a young woman than to marry a young man of standing and fortune?’ Did he tease her? She blushed and her fingers silently twisted a fallen pawn against the board.
I watched them closely, which was a pleasure to me – I could have looked at Wilhelm’s handsome face all day long, hoping for a look or a smile. No wonder that at court more than one person joked about my daughter’s closeness to him. So far, I had not paid it any heed; but where there was smoke, there was fire.
‘Do you not wish to bid me farewell before I go to Persia, Elizabeth?’ I asked, trying to ignore Wilhelm, who rose and bowed to me. Time had taken no toll on him; if anything, it made him more handsome. A few fine laughter lines had appeared around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. There – he smiled, showing the tooth with the little chip missing – what had caused that, a brawl or gravel in a piece of bread?
‘Tsaritsa. May the sun shine on you and your happiness for many years to come,’ he said. I saw so much warmth and understanding in his eyes that my soul and my spirit soared towards him. Yet I nodded curtly and turned my back on him.
Elizabeth watched us and then rose to curtsey to me sullenly. ‘I’ll be glad to greet you, Mother. But I needn’t wish you farewell; it is said that you are staying here in St Petersburg.’
Her words hit me as painfully as an arrow. ‘Who says that?’ I asked, struggling for composure.
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Everybody. Father, the court.’ She craned her neck and hurriedly curtseyed even lower than before: I turned. Peter stood on the threshold together with Maria Kantemir. They had spent the last days in Peterhof – our Peterhof! – planning the campaign and she looked like a beautiful savage. She wore an embroidered suede tunic fitted tightly over patterned silk leggings. It was slit to just below her breasts, showing her softly curved belly, and secured with a heavy silver belt; her wrists appeared too slender for the chunky bracelets she wore stacked on top of each other. Instead of painting her
face white, her skin was bare and lightly tanned. She carried a small pet monkey on her shoulder, which she fed with nuts and dried fruit. Daria Menshikova had told me that the Princess bathed naked in the Bay of Finland before allowing the sun to dry her off on the pebbly beach outside Mon Bijou. The water – a mirror of the grey, wild sky – was allegedly tamed by her presence. Even the waves lapped her toes obediently.
‘My Tsaritsa,’ Peter said smoothly to me. ‘What luck. Now I can take my leave of all the ladies close to my heart.’
Elizabeth lowered her eyes tactfully. I felt I was but a heartbeat away from Wilhelm Mons. Without looking at him, I sensed his presence with all my being and it kept me steady. Anna looked stricken. She lacked her younger sister’s resilience and suffered with me in this defeat.
‘Take leave? Why is that? My chests are packed . . .’ I began, but Peter stopped me short.
‘At your age, such a journey is no longer suitable for a woman. You will be my worthy steward here. Who else would serve me so faithfully?’ He gave me a peck on the cheek, his lips and moustache barely skimming my skin. Elizabeth pressed herself against him, and Anna curtseyed before he lifted Natalya up. I felt utterly helpless. If he left for Persia with Maria Kantemir by his side, I might as well have my head shorn here and now, ready for the convent he would choose for me upon his return.
‘I shall be gone for a while. Keep me in your heart and in your prayers, my Empress,’ Peter said formally, and kissed my hands before he turned to leave.
Just then the monkey jumped from Maria Kantemir’s shoulder and seized some of Elizabeth’s chess pieces; it nibbled at the queen, but shrieked with disappointment on finding the wood inedible and chucked the piece to the floor. Maria Kantemir’s voice lashed through the room. ‘Come here!’ The monkey swung himself back onto her shoulder and Peter kissed her on the mouth.
‘Always so imperious, my lady,’ he chuckled fondly. She looked at me, her eyes glowing like those of a wild thing looming out of the dark around a campfire. Her threat was clear: upon his return, Peter should no longer be my husband. I curtseyed lower than anyone else when they left the room together. There was no time for me to lose.
75
My Cherkessk maid Jakovlena understood the order: I had sent for her at a very late hour, in secret, and she had come to my rooms from Felten’s kitchens. Her grey hair was tousled from her sleep near the warm ashes of the fireplace, yet despite her advanced years her skin was smooth and fair, a feature of her tribe who sold their light-skinned daughters for the highest prices to the court in Istanbul. Her people had tamed the smallpox; fathers scratched their baby daughters’ skins and trickled droplets of blood laced with cowpox into their veins. The illness that the babies caught after this was much milder than the smallpox, and so saved them for a lifetime from that disfiguring and often fatal disease. Jakovlena had never wanted more than to work in Felten’s kitchen, though I had richly rewarded her for many additional secret services to me over the years: her stone house stood in the third street behind the Moika. I had not only paid for her daughter’s education, but had also given the girl good pin-money; Jakovlena’s two sons were officers in Peter’s regiment.
‘Persia,’ my maid said, weighing the word, before leaving to pack what little she had this very night. She slipped away, another dark shadow in the bright night of my city, gliding effortlessly between worlds like the secret she was.
On the pier, the day broke bright and blue and seagulls hovered, hoping for rich pickings. The air was alive with all the languages of the giant Empire that Peter ruled. Our three-masters had a long hull but a low keel, as this allowed for an easier journey to the Caspian Sea without the many shallows and sandbanks in the streams holding us back. Flags blazed in the wind; watchmen kept an eye on the cargo, and the crowded quays were buzzing. Sailors swung from mast to mast, their wives wailing onshore and their watchful children pale and sad. Ship’s boys were kept busy running last-minute errands; jugglers with colourful birds and monkeys asked for money or pilfered food and purses; pedlars hawked pots, knives, ropes, tools, lucky charms, icons and potions against sea sickness and other ailments, crooked daggers and swords. Through the colourful hustle and bustle I spotted Peter on his horse from afar, studying a map together with his Cossack leader while Menshikov shouted orders.
Peter didn’t notice me until I was very close to him, taking in the sight blankly. His face twitched, which could be a sign of anything: anger or mirth. Did the sailors suddenly slow down the loading of the cargo? There seemed to be a lull all around as everyone held their breath, watching us. I steadied my mare and trotted it close to Peter’s stallion. The horses nuzzled and chewed each other’s bridles. Menshikov hid his smile behind a cough while Peter reached for his dubina. I sought his eyes, before saying in a low voice, for his ears only: ‘You did not really think that I’d let you go to Persia alone?’
His fingers slid from the knout’s pommel. ‘No. If I’m honest, I did not believe that, matka. I’d rather believe in black snow.’
I smiled and spoke up. ‘My Tsar, forgive my tardiness and my delay. Where shall my chests be loaded?’
Peter hailed Ambassador Volynsky, who was busy riding up and down the quay. His fine Arabian steed suffered in the stifling air of our May morning: its nostrils foamed, and mosquitoes attacked the delicate skin around its eyes. ‘Volynsky. Let the Tsaritsa’s luggage be loaded on my frigate. And see to it that she has everything she might need in her cabin,’ Peter ordered.
Volynsky hid his surprise wisely, but just when I felt ready for a last joke with Peter, a sedan chair made of painted wood, the flag of Moldavia waving on its roof, was set down next to us. A narrow hand pushed aside the curtains. Peter chewed uneasily on his moustache, and Maria Kantemir looked at me in surprise while he bent down to kiss her. ‘Take good care of yourself, my darling,’ he murmured, before saying to me, ‘Matka, we’ll see each other on board.’ He galloped off and Menshikov winked at me, bowed to both of us and followed Peter, his horse’s hooves sending sparks into the morning air.
Maria Kantemir and I were face to face in the midst of the crowd. I stood in my stirrups. ‘Since when do you arrive in a litter? Even your Empress comes on horseback,’ I said curtly.
Her gaze was mocking when she stroked her loose honey-coloured hair back from her forehead. ‘My Empress, have you not been told? How shameful,’ she said. Despite the sunshine, frost settled on my heart. I dreaded her next words: ‘I am pregnant with the son of the Tsar of All the Russias. He does not wish me to ride.’
I took care to be out and about on deck and had a friendly word for everybody, be it a lowly sailor or an admiral of the fleet. I took my seat at the campaign table together with Peter and Volynsky and followed our progress towards Persia on the map: the Moskva met the Oka, a stream as wide as the sea, with densely populated banks and lush, fertile fields behind. Wherever we anchored, the villagers came down to our ships with musicians and gifts such as freshly slaughtered cattle and poultry, barrels of beer and brandy, oven-warm loaves of sourdough bread, eggs and vegetables. Peter took it all with gratitude in his eyes, assuring the people of his grace. They themselves were suffering a second summer of famine and the hungry gazes of the pale, skinny village children followed our ships upstream.
When we reached Nizhny Novgorod, continuing southwards towards Isfahan, we were stranded on some Volga sandbanks. The still summer air held our ship becalmed. Ashore, Peter spotted Tatar scouts, grim-faced with their deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and smooth tresses as black as ravens’ wings. Quivers full of long arrows hung across their shoulders, and I heard that they rode their ponies tender before feasting on them. They were known to be a predatory people, so Volynsky doubled the guards on board.
Maria Kantemir made an unbelievable fuss about her pregnancy. Looking at her frightened me, for now her clearly pregnant belly was more pointed than round, and her skin blotchy and blemished, indicating she carried a boy. The sea journey made her twice as
sick; I prayed for a storm so that she would vomit her black soul out of her body. But Peter was so worried about her that I made sure to ask every day after her well-being. ‘How is the Princess of Moldavia? Has she had some air today? Let me send her my Cherkessk maid. She knows all sorts of healing herbs and potions.’
But Maria Kantemir would have none of it. ‘You do not really think that I am drinking anything the Tsaritsa has sent me?’ she snarled, pouring the hot brew on Jakovlena’s bare feet. Only when her sickness would not abate did she accept my help and after a while she even sent for the tea.
Behind Kazan, the water gained speed; the rapids carried our boats but with the Cossacks and Kalmucks about, the riverbanks were deserted. We anchored on a peninsula behind the city of Tsaritsyn; I had my glass already filled to the brim when Peter stepped out of Maria Kantemir’s cabin. The night air was still as hot as the Devil’s breath and I had washed myself down with lukewarm water to freshen up. My skin was scented with rosewater and jasmine, a potion that Jakovlena blended for me.
Peter appeared, buckling up his belt and running his fingers through his sweaty hair; Maria followed him on deck. She clearly hated making love with him in this hot weather and in her condition. By the pale light of the full moon I could see that her eyes lay deep in their sockets. She settled between Peter and me, but refused the fresh fruit I offered with a sullen shake of her head. Peter forced a grape as big as a walnut into her palm. ‘Eat that. Here. In front of my eyes,’ he threatened. ‘I want a healthy son. Children are born strong when their mother is well fed,’ he joked, then pinched my cheek. ‘When you were pregnant with Elizabeth, you ate like a horse, didn’t you, Catherinushka? So, let us have a toast to the strapping recruit that our beautiful Maria is expecting. A strong son for Russia.’ He drank deeply from the fresh, foaming beer and burped. Maria paled and pressed her hand to her mouth.
Tsarina Page 43