The Tsarina's Daughter Page 4

  ‘How about a worthy grandson, little Petrushka? He is you-know-whose son after all.’ I just about stopped short of mentioning our half-brother Alexey’s name, as Father had commanded. ‘He’s almost ten years old, the sole surviving Romanov male and a suitable heir for both Father and Russia.’

  ‘Poor little Petrushka will never reign. Father can hardly bear to see him live and grow up. Mother had to beg for sour-faced Count Ostermann to be his tutor. Father only agreed because he hoped to keep the Old Believers at bay.’

  ‘Poor Petrushka, having that gouty German as a tutor.’

  ‘He is better than the tutors we had,’ Anoushka laughed. ‘Learning is a privilege.’

  ‘Speak for yourself. I for my part learned a lot.’

  ‘Like what? German, French and Italian? Embroidery? Hand-writing?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly. But I can catch and fillet a fish, shoot my crossbow like a Tatar and ride faster than any Cossack.’

  ‘All enviable skills for the wife of a king,’ she laughed. ‘Versailles will be so impressed when you arrive on horseback, sitting astride and dressed as a man, like you always do.’

  ‘Hush! That is a secret.’ My mood darkened. ‘I wonder what it will be like. I mean, moving to Versailles… or anywhere at all really. I can’t bear the thought of leaving Russia, nor of leaving you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ she replied, a bit too quickly, raising her chin. ‘I, too, will make a glorious match.’ It was clear that she had thought about this many times before. Then her expression softened. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid? I am terrified!’

  ‘I feel the same. There is nowhere like here. Perhaps we can ask our cousins Anna and Ekaterina Ivanovna what it is like to be a married Tsarevna and live abroad?’

  ‘If we ever see them again. They live so far away and are so much older,’ I said.

  ‘Do you think they ever mind?’ Anoushka asked.

  ‘Mind what?’

  ‘Well, that Mother, you and I are now the first ladies in Russia, even though mad Ivan was Father’s elder brother and a reigning Tsar, too.’

  I hesitated. ‘No. I think they ought to be content with their lot.’ Aunt Pasha’s daughters had been the first Russian Tsarevny ever to be married. Prior to Father’s travels to the West, a Tsar’s daughters and sisters remained unmarried, living in the terem, the women’s quarters of a Russian house or the Kremlin. Only their brothers and fathers would ever see them, as any lower-born Russian was perceived as a subject, while a foreign prince was deemed a heathen. I had been an infant when Anna Ivanovna got married to the Duke of Courland, a small Baltic state. Yet at Ekaterina’s wedding to the German Duke of Mecklenburg, Anoushka and I had been maids of honour. Father had given both his nieces astounding dowries of 300,000 roubles and had himself led them up the aisle. The Tsar’s best friend from childhood days, Prince Alexander Danilovich Menshikov, had footed the festivities’ outrageous bill, adding a chapel to his Moscow palace and transforming its Great Hall into a blooming indoor garden. Flowers and fruit had been brought in from the Crimea and thousands of bottles of Champagne had been sabred. Father had been so delighted with the success of the feast that the following day, he had married off hundreds of dwarves to each other in a ceremony mirroring Ekaterina’s. Both the matches our Ivanovna cousins made had brought Russia wedding contracts that were much to Father’s liking.

  Anoushka chuckled. ‘They ought to be happy with what they have? Lizenka! No man ever is, and a woman even less so.’

  ‘Better not ask them then if they want any more,’ I giggled. I, too, should further Russia’s fortunes. ‘If I can neither embroider nor write beautifully, perhaps King Louis will be happy that I dance well?’ I whirled a couple of steps, pulling her along, before I stopped and held her by both hands. ‘I dread being separated from you, Anoushka.’

  It was midday and shifting clouds outside cast shadows on her face as she said: ‘I feel the same. Though now I want to fetch my book and read in the kitchen before lunch. Shall I see you there? Illinchaya is preparing a Solyanka.’

  The thought of a cauldron full of the sweet and sour stew of beef, sausage and pickled vegetables made my mouth water. ‘Then I might be there before you,’ I said as she slid away almost soundlessly over the dull parquet. The door fell shut behind her with a thud, an echo lapping after it in tiny waves, before it lost itself in the Great Hall’s vast space.

  I held my breath, listening to Anoushka’s steps disappear, until I was sure that she was truly gone.

  Then I turned to Grandfather Alexis’ throne.

  4

  My skin prickled. Blood rushed through my veins. I got goosebumps. The lions’ ruby eyes were watching me. I stood still for a while, yet the throne’s majesty and supreme confidence lured me closer. In Versailles I would sit on a throne next to my husband, ruling France. What else could my birth under the December stars, feet first, on the day of the celebration of Father’s biggest ever victory, have portended? I would be a great queen. What did Herr Schwartz, my Viennese dance teacher, always say in his harsh and edgy-sounding Russian, before setting down the dainty feet that did not quite match his bear-like body? ‘Practice makes perfect.’ Indeed. And, after all, nobody would ever know. So…

  The throne reeled me in. I edged towards it, my heart pounding, breath quickening. I turned to look over my shoulder, as if my steps might have alerted someone. For a moment I thought I heard the drumbeat, which had once announced my grandfather’s sitting in state in this hall, followed by the regimented steps of his hundreds of grim-faced Cossack guards, wielding shiny axes, their white leather uniforms studded with gold and silver. People had slid up to Tsar Alexis on their knees, prostrating themselves, never daring to raise their face towards their batjushka Tsar, their little father. I seemed to hear those soft shuffling sounds now – but, no, it was just my pulse racing. Once we received Versailles’ answer, I would leave Russia, God’s most blessed country. I needed to prepare. My feet felt as if they were weighed down, yet the steps leading up to the throne were surprisingly shallow. I took a deep breath: there, I had done it. I was on the dais and shoving the silver footstool aside so that I could stand comfortably, spread my wide skirt. The crimson of the velvet seat cushion was almost obscured by dust, the gold galloon tassel torn and frayed. It had once been meticulously quilted. I turned my back on the throne; my trembling hands rested on the lions’ manes as I slowly, very slowly – shaking with fear and excitement and imagining fanfares and oaths of allegiance – lowered myself onto the seat. I first balanced on its very edge, squeezing my eyes shut, as my mouth went dry and the blood pounded in my ears. The earth might open and swallow me. The sky could crack and fall in on my head, crushing me like an ant, if lightning did not strike me down first.

  Time crept by.

  My breathing steadied.

  Nothing happened.

  I shuffled backwards until I felt the carved backrest edging uncomfortably into my spine. I first squinted through my lashes, seeing the hall as if between bars, before fully opening my eyes. Light fell through the stained glass, pooling on the parquet like water and tinting the wood all the colours of the rainbow. Dust flecks danced in the air. A sunny silence reigned. All was as it had ever been. I relaxed my shoulders, breathed out and sank into the cushioned seat, even bouncing up and down a bit. There! I clenched my fists. I had done it. I sat on the throne of All the Russias. A giggle rose in my throat. How different things looked from up here: if the hues of the stained-glass windows gleamed more intensely, and the design of the painted wood panelling was more startling and evident, the lions’ heads looked much more worn, viewed from close up. My finger traced the line of their manes’ stylised curls, where the gold-leaf had worn thin.

  Outside, in the corridor, footsteps were approaching.

  ‘Lizenka? Are you still here?’ Anoushka called. The handle of the big door moved. I jumped up as if the throne had scalded me.

  ‘I am coming.’ I
leaped clear, making the cushion slip, and jumped off the dais to run across the Great Hall. Only once I had reached the safety of the doorway did I halt, my breath catching, and turn back to meet the lions’ ruby gaze. I stuck out my tongue at them and wiggled my fingers in my ears: ‘Whaaaaa!’

  Then I slipped out into the corridor.

  Anoushka read while walking, frowning at the latest twist in her novel. I skipped along, running rings around her, smiling to myself at the memory of my secret adventure.

  5

  ‘What is your plan for the afternoon?’ Illinchaya asked as she helped herself to a bowl of Solyanka. We had finished our meal on our own, as Mother still spent most of her time in her rooms. Our gold plate and porcelain – beautiful, intricately patterned blue-and-white Meissen, of which thankfully not too much had been smashed on the road – sat as awkwardly on the scrubbed wooden surface of the kitchen table as a rich lady visiting a poor relation. Our Murano goblets were filled with elderflower cordial and clear water. Both Anoushka and I left wine, beer and vodka until dinnertime.

  The vast, vaulted kitchen was warm from two fires, crackling at either end of the room. Chicken, geese and piglets ran freely and the maids’ chatter, while they prepared the evening meal, filleting a huge sturgeon and buttering the copper tins for honeyed medovik tart, made our ears burn. Illinchaya stirred the Solyanka, fishing for the last pieces of cured beef, slices of kielbasa sausage as well as the capers, onion slices and pickles, before she poured herself some kvass from a jug. A second cup of the bitter, cheap drink of fermented yeast she placed in front of d’Acosta. The jester slurped from it, eyes closed in delight, while Illinchaya preferred to dip a slice of crusty, unleavened bread in her kvass. It gave her a swift boost; judging from the flush on her fair skin, it was not her first of the day.

  ‘Mother is asleep,’ I said, fidgeting with impatience. I seemed still to feel the lions’ heads beneath my palms and the ebony carvings of the backrest against my spine. Noon had passed; the day stretched ahead of us like dough.

  ‘Best not to disturb her,’ Illinchaya said, talking, chewing and gulping, all at the same time, which was frightful to watch. ‘She has much to recover from.’

  Anoushka suggested: ‘We might go to see the dovecotes and the falcons. Perhaps Lizenka can choose a fledgling to train?’ In the grounds of Kolomenskoye, a hundred thousand doves were kept in cotes dating from the days of Grandfather Alexis; they were bred as fodder for his birds of prey. The ceremony with which he had surrounded the falcons surprised foreign envoys and made his family gently tease him. But falconry was not a pastime that Father enjoyed, so who knew what was left of the cotes and nests? Possibly by now all the birds had had their necks wrung so they could be plucked and roasted.

  ‘That’s a good idea. The falconer still lives there. Do you remember, Evgeni with the ginger hair? Though nowadays he is more salt and pepper, as are we all.’ Illinchaya chuckled and took a deep sip of the kvass. D’Acosta imitated her, smacking his lips, and screwing up his face in mockery, as she winked and said: ‘Just don’t lose your way – you might end up in the sacred oak grove or beyond.’

  ‘Silence, woman,’ d’Acosta ordered, suddenly stern, sitting up straight.

  ‘Where?’ I asked.

  ‘The sacred oak grove?’ Anoushka chimed in.

  Illinchaya blushed, with an effect like throwing a raw crayfish into a boiling pot of broth: the fine translucent flesh turned bright red. ‘Just some fairy-tale nonsense,’ she mumbled.

  ‘You said those were no fairy-tales,’ I answered, sliding towards her and topping up her bowl of kvass generously once more. ‘Tell us. Come on. Father never mentioned a sacred oak grove?’

  ‘For good reason. Enough of this,’ d’Acosta said, pushing his bowl of kvass away, but Illinchaya could not resist our cajoling. ‘Ah, well,’ she started as if implying, There is a lot your father never mentioned to you. Of course, saying that out loud could result in her having molten metal poured down her throat. ‘Why not? You are not children any more. I have kept the secret long enough, as the Tsar ordered.’

  D’Acosta’s frown deepened. ‘Since when has that order been rescinded?’

  I could hardly sit still. ‘What secret?’

  D’Acosta sat back, his lips thin and disapproving, as Illinchaya spoke after sucking again at the soggy, intoxicating crust of her sourdough bread. Anoushka and I listened with bated breath. ‘The sacred oak grove lies deep in the grounds of Kolomenskoye. Beyond it opens the Golosov Ravine… ’ Illinchaya was loving the feeling of our attention fixed on her. Her words gave me goosebumps, and Anoushka, too, crossed her arms, as if to warm herself from a chill of foreboding. From all her reading, her imagination was teeming and most nights, at dreamtime, when both heroes and villains came to life for her, she slipped into my bed for comfort and we fell asleep together.

  ‘The Golosov Ravine,’ I repeated, tasting the words. ‘I have never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s cursed,’ Illinchaya warned. ‘Whoever walks into it one day, returns a century later. Tsar Ivan Grozny is said to have sent a troop of Tatar soldiers in there to explore. They came out a hundred years after, unchanged, just in time to salute your grandfather, Tsar Alexis.’

  ‘But why did Ivan the Terrible send those soldiers into the Golosov Ravine?’ I wondered.

  Illinchaya’s eyes opened as big as saucers. ‘The ravine answers your every question.’

  ‘Any question at all?’ My heart thumped.

  She nodded. ‘There you will learn your fate. But everything comes at a price.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘What sort of price?’

  ‘Tsarevna. Please do not insist on asking such questions, I beg you,’ d’Acosta said, squirming on his seat.

  ‘I thought you said it was all silly superstition, d’Acosta?’ I teased, and Illinchaya shrugged, loftily ignoring the little man, as so many people did. ‘Who knows whom, or what, the Tatars encountered in that ravine.’

  ‘Was it the witch Baba Yaga, who ate their children, or the Domovoi lobbing timber at them?’ I could not help it, I giggled.

  Illinchaya shrugged grumpily. ‘Whomever. In any case, they were lucky to return at all.’

  Anoushka shivered, as if our nanny’s words crawled like a spider’s legs on her skin.

  D’Acosta leaped off his seat. ‘Enough of this! No, Tsarevny, go and see the falcons, please. Evgeni told me that he has hundreds of fledglings, so take your pick. The Tsar will have our hide if anything happens to you. ’

  ‘Quiet, d’Acosta, or I’ll lock you in the chicken coop. There you can cluck and fret all day long.’ Illinchaya rolled her eyes at him before she was required at the kitchen door: peasants had called, carrying baskets filled with jars of last autumn’s pickles and preserves to sell to the Imperial household.

  I pulled Anoushka to her feet. ‘You are right. Let us go and see the fledglings.’ D’Acosta’s gaze followed us as we left. In the dusky cool of the corridor, Anoushka laced her fingers with mine, setting off for Evgeni and the dovecotes.

  ‘Wrong direction,’ I said. ‘We want to go out towards the forest and the Golosov Ravine.’

  ‘But – you heard what Illinchaya said. It steals your life. What if we never come back?’ My sister’s voice was shaky.

  ‘Scaredy-cat. Don’t believe old women’s tales.’ In truth, I would not want to go there on my own and hoped that Anoushka’s curiosity would get the better of her. ‘I am as good as engaged – don’t you want to know what fate has in store for you, as the Tsar’s elder daughter?’

  Still she shook her head, hesitant.

  I crossed my arms, tapped my foot. ‘Fine. As you wish. I shall go on my own. But I will neither tell you whom I met in the ravine nor what I asked them. You can suit yourself!’

  ‘Lizenka,’ she pleaded, holding me back. ‘I will not let you go alone. You are right: I do want to know my destiny. How could I not?’

  I took her hand again, feeling ashamed. No illicit sitting
on whichever throne in the world justified harassing my own sister. ‘Anoushka Petrovna Romanova,’ I said solemnly, clasping her fingers close to my heart. ‘You shall learn all about your glorious destiny, I promise! And now let us be off, before the snoop d’Acosta has the idea of accompanying us to see the falcons. That would not be fun, would it?’

  We first walked, then skipped and finally ran, giddy and laughing, all the way down to the tall gate out to the garden. It was bolted: ‘One, two, three,’ I counted and together we lifted the iron bar. It was much heavier than expected and slipped from our fingers, crashing on the flagstones. Anoushka pulled me back just in time, otherwise it would have squashed my toes. We stared at each other, wide-eyed, listening to the fading echo, but so close after lunchtime everyone else was dozing. We pushed open one side of the large double gates – they were only ever both opened to allow the Tsar’s carriage to pass – and slipped out into the grounds. The gravel crunched beneath my silk slippers as we stole away.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get boots and capes? We’ll catch a cold.’ Anoushka shivered in the afternoon chill.

  ‘Hush now. Who cares about capes and colds when you are about to know your fate?’ I ducked into a thicket and Anoushka followed, her cheeks flushed, blue eyes sparkling and her dark braids loosening.

  When I turned to look back over my shoulder, Kolomenskoye had disappeared from view.

  6

  The foresters here did their work sloppily: much too soon the garden turned into a wilderness with no path to be seen. The dense, thorny undergrowth tore at my skirt and any grass was still drenched in dew, the new blades sharp. Above our heads the treetops met, twining branches locking out the daylight. Roots as gnarly as Illinchaya’s fingers reached for our feet. All around us, the dark, moist green breathed. Branches cracked under nobody’s step, the unexpected sound sending birds flapping and shrieking for cover. We chased on, jumping and stumbling. My blood raced, my heart pounded, breathing hurt. Anoushka grabbed my hand, holding me back: ‘Is this the right way?’ We looked around. The bushes closed behind us like barriers; no twig was broken, no moss torn, no earth furrowed by our steps. Everything looked just as it had before. Had we already left the boundaries of Kolomenskoye, and missed the sacred oak grove as well as the ravine?