‘Send for the Privy Council – Count Tolstoy, Baron Ostermann and Pavel Jagushinsky. Look sharp, the Tsar wants to see them,’ I said loudly, making sure that my last words were heard the entire length of the corridor.
Menshikov pulled me back into the room, closed the door and sneered his disbelief at my audacity.
‘Come,’ I said curtly. ‘We’ll go next door, to the little library.’ Menshikov picked up his embroidered coat of green brocade from the chair in which he had kept watch at Peter’s bedside for the last days and weeks. A peasant household could easily have lived for two whole years on just one of the silver threads woven in its cloth. His ivory-handled walking stick he clamped into his armpit. In the hidden door that led to Peter’s small library I turned to the doctors. ‘None of you may leave this room and you are to summon no one.’
‘But . . .’ Blumentrost began.
I raised my hand. ‘It cannot become known that the Tsar has passed away. Not yet.’
Peter would have approved of my tone.
‘As you command.’ Blumentrost bowed.
‘Good. You shall be paid later today. The same goes for your colleagues.’
Menshikov swayed a little. Was it tiredness that made him unsteady on his feet, or fear?
I walked ahead of him into the cosy little library. Menshikov followed, but only after seizing the tall carafe of Burgundy he had been drinking from, as well as two Venetian goblets. ‘This is no moment to be either sober or stingy,’ he said with a lopsided smile before kicking the door shut like a common innkeeper. The fire had burnt down in the grate, but the wood-panelled walls retained its heat. The colourful silk rugs we had brought back from our Persian campaign – easily adding a dozen baggage carts to our train – depicted all the flowers and birds of God’s creation in their full splendour. The plain chairs standing by the desk, the fireplace and near the shelves, had all been made by Peter himself. Sometimes I would hear him lathing and hammering far beyond midnight. Carpentry drove out his demons and gave him his best ideas, he used to say. His ministers feared nothing so much as a night Peter spent doing carpentry. He would fall asleep, exhausted, across his workbench. Only Menshikov was strong enough to hoist the Tsar onto his shoulders and carry him to bed. If I were not there waiting for him, Peter would use the belly of a young chamberlain as his pillow. He always needed skin against his skin to keep the memories at bay.
The high windows were draped with lined curtains that he had bought as a young man on his visit to Holland, long before the Great Northern War, those two decades of struggle for survival and supremacy against the Swedes. The shelves sagged beneath the weight of the books, which I was told were travelogues, seafaring tales, war histories, biographies of rulers and books on how to rule, and religious works. He had leafed through each and every one of them time and time again. It was a world where I could never follow him. Scrolls still lay open on his desk or piled up in heaps in corners. Some books were printed and bound in thick pigskin; others were written by hand in monasteries.
On the mantelpiece stood a model of the Natalya, Peter’s proud frigate, and above it hung a painting of my son, Peter Petrovich. It was painted months before the death that broke our hearts. I had avoided this room for years because of it, the painting was too real; as if at any moment my son would throw me the red leather ball he held in his hands. His blond curls tumbled onto a white lace shirt; his smile hinted at a row of little teeth. I would have given my life to have him here, now, and to be able to declare him Tsar of All the Russias. Still a child, certainly. But a son of our blood, mine and Peter’s. A dynasty. Isn’t that what every ruler wants? Now there are only daughters left, and a dreaded grandson, little Petrushka.
The thought of Petrushka took my breath away. At his birth Peter had cradled him in his arms and turned his back on the unhappy mother. Poor Charlotte. She had been like a nervous thoroughbred, and like a horse her father had sold her to Russia. Where was her young son now? In the Dolgoruki Palace? In the barracks? Outside the door? Petrushka was only twelve years old and Peter hadn’t even granted him the title of Tsarevich, but I feared him more than I feared the Devil.
In the library, Menshikov conceded: ‘You did well, calling for the Council and getting rid of Feofan, the old fool.’
I turned to look at him. ‘We’re the fools. I hope he keeps his word.’
‘What promise did he give you?’ Menshikov asked, astonished.
‘You see! You only hear what is spoken, but so much more than that is said.’ I seized him by the shirt collar and hissed: ‘We’re both in the same boat. God have mercy on you for every second you waste right now. I saw neither Petrushka nor his charming friends in the corridor, did you? And why is the rightful heir to the Russian Empire not here at his grandfather’s deathbed, where he belongs?’
Menshikov looked uncertain; he wiped his forehead.
‘Because he’s with the troops at the Imperial barracks, where soon they’ll hoist him on their shoulders and give him three cheers when they find out the Tsar is dead. What will happen to us then? Will Petrushka remember the people who signed the judgment on his father, albeit with just a cross next to their name because they couldn’t write?’
I let go of him. Menshikov refilled his goblet and took a long slug of wine, his hands trembling, strong fingers weighted down with heavy rings. His natural wiliness was blunted by fatigue, but I was not yet finished with him: ‘Siberia will be too good for us in their eyes. The Dolgorukys will feed the four winds with our ashes. No one but us knows that the Tsar is dead,’ I whispered. ‘That buys us time.’ Time that might save us. We couldn’t keep the Tsar’s death secret for too long; it would be out by morning, when a leaden dawn broke over Peter’s city.
Menshikov, the man who had turned so many battles in his favour, whose neck had slipped so many times from even the most perilous of nooses, seemed dazed. My dread was contagious. He sat heavily in one of the armchairs, which Peter had brought from Versailles, and stretched out his still-shapely legs. A marvel that the dainty piece of furniture was able to bear his weight! He took a few sips and then turned the coloured glass this way and that in front of the fire. The flames warmed the goblet’s smooth, tinted surface; it looked as if it were filled with blood. I sat down opposite him. Tonight was no time for drinking games.
Menshikov raised his goblet to me in jest. ‘To you, Catherine Alexeyevna. It was well worth gifting you to the Tsar, my lady. To you, my greatest loss. To you, my greatest gain.’ Suddenly he laughed so hard that his wig slipped down over his eyes. It was like the sound of wolves in winter: high and scornful. He pulled the wig off and flung it away. I calmly took his insolence while Peter would have had him flogged for it. Menshikov was suffering like a dog: it was his lord and love, too, who had died. What was in store for him now? His anguish made him unpredictable. I needed him desperately. Him, the Privy Council and the troops. The Tsar’s last will and testament was wedged up my sleeve. Menshikov’s face was red and bloated under his shaggy, still dark-blond mop of hair. He stopped laughing and eyed me over the rim of his glass, his gaze unsteady.
‘Here we are. What an extraordinary life you’ve lived, my lady. Divine Will is the only explanation for it.’