‘How good of you to come and see an old man, my dear child!’ Feofan Prokopovich welcomed me and I could not help but fly towards him, before kissing the panagia that gleamed on his simple black robe: if anyone could tell me how to save Alexis and myself, it was this man. His wisdom had enabled him to leave the Trubetzkoi Bastion unscathed. Now his enemies were dead, banished or confined to a cage, clucking for their life, while he had turned the tables on them and was heading the dreaded Secret Office of Investigation. His clever pug’s eyes sized up my simple cloak of undyed linen as well as the dark, unadorned skirt and neat white blouse. My earlobes, wrists and fingers were bare. The only jewellery I wore was, as always, the icon of St Nicholas.
‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ he said, turning to indicate the vast stone house rising proudly from a walled courtyard, lit by the fading October sunshine. It was constructed with utmost care and complete disregard for cost. Anna cared as little for what Feofan spent as my father had. The courtyard was all hustle and bustle: carts arrived to restock his kitchens. Men lugged bags of oats, groats, barley or wheat and rolled countless barrels of beer and wine towards trapdoors leading to the cellars. Feofan had many mouths to feed and countless staff, ranging from valets and cooks to craftsmen such as carpenters, clerks and copyists, as well, of course, as equerries, coachmen, grooms and harness-makers, not to mention his gardeners. In one corner of the courtyard artists sat cross-legged, sketching birds who picked at carefully arranged crumbs. Two Greek Orthodox priests were about to mount their carriage; two Rabbis waited for another, their long black cloaks billowing in a fresh wind. Feofan saw each group off with a farewell in their own language.
One never left Feofan without feeling a little bit better, a little bit wiser.
‘You time your visit well,’ he said. ‘I have taken delivery from Novgorod.’ He patted his belly, frowning. ‘I despair at the cost of my table. Are six barrels of anchovies too much, I wonder?’
‘I’d make that seven next year,’ I laughed. ‘Don’t ask me. I am as greedy as you are.’
‘A woman who eats is a gift from God.’ He winked at me, comfortable in his celibacy. ‘I have also received wine from Italy. It’s a stunning colour – almost green – and it smells of cut grass.’ On the threshold he enquired, ‘Now, do you come as a Tsarevna or as a friend?’
‘Both.’
‘Is that possible?’
‘I should hope so.’
‘In that case there are some men who would like to meet you.’
At a nod from him, a couple of soldiers rose from the courtyard’s slabs, straightening their dark green uniform jackets, gold buttons and toggles gleaming in the sun. I hesitated: the presence here of soldiers of the Preobrazhensky Regiment did not bode well. Nobody was safe from sudden arrest or prosecution by them. If I could not trust Feofan, who could I trust?
He sensed my unease: ‘Do not fear. These men, too, have come to see you as a Tsarevna, but also as a friend.’
Buturlin had belonged to the Preobrazhensky Regiment. The soldiers dashed towards me, impatient as young colts. ‘Tsarevna Elizabeth, what luck!’ The first of them to draw level with me kneeled to kiss my fingers and the other men followed suit.
‘Once I told them you were coming, I couldn’t hold them back. And as head of the Secret Office of Investigation, I need to be informed of all your meetings.’ Feofan winked at me. ‘Though as luck has it, just now I really ought to check on the kitchen.’
‘Matushka! Our Little Mother! What a pleasure to have you back,’ another officer greeted me. I furtively scanned the busy courtyard. Little Mother. That was the customary way to address the Tsarina, not an outcast such as me. Behind him lingered a groom, ears flapping. Was Feofan, the leading spy, being spied on? De Biron was no fool.
‘I, too, am happy to see you here. Are your barracks still close?’
‘Not any more.’ The man had cautiously lowered his voice.
‘Let us walk.’ I ducked through an archway into Feofan’s walled garden, a refuge from Moscow’s stench and noise. Fruit trees grew next to rows of berries and vegetables. No mole stood a chance here. The crisply raked gravel cut through the thin soles of my slippers. ‘Why have your barracks moved?’ I asked. ‘Yours is the foremost Imperial regiment, founded by my father.’
‘The Tsarina has founded a new regiment, the Izmailovsky Guard. She gave her men our barracks while we moved to makeshift buildings.’
‘Who is its colonel? The Tsarina herself?’
‘No, upon de Biron’s advice she has appointed a German, Count Loewenwolde.’
A German as colonel of an Imperial regiment? What an insult to any good Russian soldier. The soldier drew closer. ‘Matushka, we come to ask for a favour from you. Already our age is known as the Bironyshkchina, the age of the German Yoke. There are foreigners everywhere. Who has the strength to save this country? Who will be the Tsarina’s heiress? You must be Tsesarevna once more.’
Bironyshkchina, the age of the German Yoke. The mythical bond between people and Tsar, knotted from ancient threads, was these days reduced to rags, replaced by a shiny cloth so garishly new it unravelled everything I knew, lived for and loved. They were right: the only way to change this was to be Anna’s heiress, the Crown Princess and Tsesarevna once more.
‘I have no influence,’ I warned.
‘We want no influence. We want your love. We know who you are.’
‘And who is that?’ I looked up at him, my heart pounding, tears welling up.
‘You are Russia – the Tsar’s and Tsarina’s daughter. We beg you: our wives have had children in the past weeks. Do us the honour of being their godmother? Then we will feel that not all is lost.’
Feofan appeared at the back door of the house. One hand gripped his pectoral cross, the other shielded his eyes. His gaze was as impenetrable as God’s Will. Nothing here happened by chance. I held out my fingers for the soldiers to kiss once more. ‘It will be my greatest pleasure. Let me know when and where the christening is taking place. We shall wet the children’s heads together.’
Before I knew what was happening, the men had seized me and lifted me on their shoulders, spinning around and wreaking havoc on the neat gravel, shouting and laughing. I screamed, first with surprise and then with joy, and just about avoided being thrown into the air. As I pleaded for mercy, laughing, they let me down and Feofan joined us: he gamely asked about the mothers’ wishes and the children’s needs. Christenings were expensive; Feofan always had an open purse and tended to forget and forgive a debt.
Generosity, I learned, was an invaluable trait in a tsarevna.
Lunch was simple: borscht and marinated herring, served with hard cheese, sourdough bread, boiled eggs and chives, all washed down with Italian white wine and chilled vodka. Pudding was a towering honeyed medovik tart, and Feofan set the samovar to boil, ready to lace the chai with vodka, nutmeg and cinnamon.
‘How good of the soldiers to consider me as their children’s godmother,’ I said. ‘Surprising that they remember me at all.’
‘Russia has never forgotten you,’ he said. ‘Especially not now. I see a lot of both your parents in you.’
His words were balm to my wounds. ‘I don’t think Count Ostermann shares that opinion.’
Feofan cut two generous slices of the medovik, its crust breaking perfectly and honey dripping. ‘Oh, cranky old Ostermann. He loved but twice in his life. First your father, who adored you. Then Petrushka, who adored you even more. The German’s vindictiveness blinds him, which is astonishing for a man as level-headed as he is. At least you are aware of his calibre.’
‘Father was a match for him. Peter the Great! Who dared oppose him? But my chances against Ostermann… ’
‘Your father was not born Peter the Great. When he and I first met, Russia was in dire straits and Moscow almost under Swedish siege. He was a young man crushed by the weight of history. But he rose above that. I sense a change in you. Has something happened?’
I decided to be honest. ‘Yes. I have met a man. I think he’s the one.’
‘That is a tall order for any mortal. Does he feel the same?’
‘Yes. Still, I don’t know how to make him mine.’
Feofan chuckled. ‘That should not be a problem for you, the most beautiful princess known to Christianity. You have the natural warmth and the spirit your father adored in your mother.’
I blushed. ‘That’s not the problem. He is a soloist in the Tsarina’s choir, brought here from Kiev when she heard of his talent. Anna has already taken Izmailov from me, so what will be his fate? Everything is done to keep me in check. I am not her heiress yet and might never be.’
‘Her ways are unfathomable. Moscow rules Russia. The Kremlin rules Moscow. The Tsarina rules the Kremlin. God rules the Tsarina. How did you meet this man?’
‘During my last pilgrimage. An angel spoke to me.’ I halted, surprised: I had used the Leshy’s words with neither fear nor hesitation.
Feofan licked the honey off his fingers, as a boy would. ‘God Himself has put the two of you together. Man should not presume to interfere.’
‘I have not seen him since moving to Annenhof,’ I said.
‘That was only a couple of days ago. Send for him,’ Feofan urged.
‘He doesn’t know who I am. I mean, he doesn’t know who I really am.’
‘Oh,’ he said and leaned back. ‘I see. And he still loves you?’
‘Surprisingly enough, yes,’ I said, my voice small.
‘If he is so good, it is natural for the Tsarina to want him in her choir. Russia’s best is hers by birthright.’
Even the cup of hot, spiced tea that Feofan placed in my hands could not fight my sudden icy fear. ‘I need him, Feofan,’ I pleaded. ‘I long for him every day. How can he be part of my life?’
He sipped his chai pensively. ‘In the long run, it might mean that the Tsarina will not pronounce you her heiress. Everything comes at a price. Are you willing to pay it?’
‘I shan’t sell my soul,’ I told him. ‘Otherwise, yes.’
‘That is what I hoped to hear. Then, Tsarevna, there is a way to get him. But will his love for you survive what you need to do?’
‘I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.’
‘That about sums it up,’ he said, eyes full of pity. His words were like bricks, walling me inside the choice I had to make.