‘Your son,’ she said quickly, not looking up.
‘I have two sons,’ he replied, slowly getting out of his chair.
‘Two?’ she asked, sounding puzzled. She looked at the cards and then looked across at the Count. ‘Well, look after them,’ she bluffed, hurriedly clearing the cards away. ‘Both of them…’
‘And this is Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna,’ interrupted the Countess Ignatiev. ‘I am sorry, Count.’ She smiled at Yusupov.
‘I was just leaving,’ he replied, getting to his feet hurriedly.
‘Here’s the someone I am dying for you to meet,’ continued the Countess, bubbling with excitement.
Militza turned and caught her breath. Before her stood a young, heavily bearded priest, swathed from head to foot in a long black hooded cape. Under the cape, his floor-length black robes were emblazoned with a large golden Orthodox cross. His hooded black silhouette was an arresting sight amongst the gold and raspberry velvet of the salon. He looked like the grim reaper himself. Militza stood up.
‘This is Father Egorov,’ announced Sophia. ‘He has come all the way from the Optina Pustyn Monastery to be with us.’
‘Optina Pustyn,’ repeated Militza; its highly devout and austere reputation was well known.
‘Where Dostoyevsky went before writing The Brothers Karamazov.’ Sophia smiled encouragingly.
‘I know it,’ replied Militza, staring intently at the monk, waiting for him to speak, trying to work out what his intentions were.
‘My friend, Prince Obolensky, has an estate not far from the monastery, near Kozelsk. Dreadful place,’ continued Sophia, taking a swing from her glass of champagne. ‘Nothing to do but hunt in the miserable forest. But he heard this amazing story about a holy fool called Mitya Koliaba who makes prophecies. Only recently he predicted that a local countess would have a baby. And Father Egorov is the only person who understands Mitya and his predictions.’ She smiled. ‘Mitya is a mute epileptic.’
‘What baby did the barren woman have?’ asked Militza, wondering why the Fates had brought this man before her.
‘A son.’
‘And you can understand the epileptic?’
‘I prayed before the Icon of St Nicholas and the voice of the saint came to me and revealed to me the secret of Mitya’s sounds,’ Father Egorov mumbled into his lengthy beard.
‘You understand every word?’ she asked. The monk bowed again. ‘And his prophecies are reliable?’
‘As God is my witness,’ he replied.
8
January 1900, Znamenka, Peterhof
It was only a few weeks later and Militza, Stana and Alix were sitting in silence, drinking tea in the Red Salon at Znamenka, their eyes trained on the door. Such was the anticipation of Mitya and Father Egorov’s imminent arrival that none of them could concentrate on their embroidery.
Six months had gone by since the birth of baby Maria and the court was growing restless. The Season was in full swing, the gilded and the well-connected had all left their country estates or Moscow palaces and descended upon St Petersburg for the annual three-month merry-go-round of feasting, dancing – and most importantly of all, gossiping. Two of Alix’s ladies-in-waiting had recently announced their own confinements and the pressure on the Tsarina was growing.
‘Have you seen the Yusupovs recently?’ asked Militza, to break the monotony of the crackling fire.
‘No.’ Alix shook her head. ‘The only people I see are you. Everyone else has abandoned me!’ She laughed wryly. ‘They exhaust me with their questions and their looks. I don’t know how anyone lasts more than a few hours at these wretched balls.’
‘I agree,’ Militza sympathized.
‘And then I am afraid I have to go. Nicky often stays on well after me. He says that it keeps him in touch, that he can discuss politics and that sort of thing. How else, he says, is he to know what is going on in and outside the court.’
‘Well, that is important,’ added Militza.
‘I don’t see why. Nicky rules by divine right and his people love him. You can see it on their faces when we ride by. One smile from him, one glance in their direction and their souls are full, their life is complete. It is better than a basket of bread.’ She sighed. ‘And besides, the Yusupovs spend much of their time at Arkhangelskoye, these days; Zinaida is far more interested in my sister and the Dowager Empress. She, Elizabeth and Minny spend hours taking carriage rides and endlessly discussing Elizabeth’s new Orthodox faith.’ She smiled. ‘I have enough worries of my own without listening to lengthy tales of my sister’s Damascene conversion from the Lutheran church.’
‘How is the Tsar getting on with his herbs?’ enquired Stana.
‘Nicky is smoking hashish every night,’ confirmed Alix. ‘And not only does he sleep so much better than before, but his stomach cramps have completely disappeared.’
‘That is good news,’ said Stana, taking another sip of her tea.
‘At least Dr Badmaev’s cures works for someone,’ sighed Alix. ‘I have been taking them every night and nothing…’
‘Give yourself some time,’ suggested Stana.
‘Time is the one thing I don’t have!’ snapped Alix, jabbing her needle into her sampler.?‘Can’t you hear them all? Squawking like starlings? Saying that Tsar should have married a nice Russian girl? That I am barren? Sent by the Germans to bring down the house of Romanov?’
‘You just must have faith,’ replied Militza. ‘And it will happen.’
‘It must.’ She sighed. ‘Otherwise I am lost.’
Suddenly there was a terrible shrieking from the corridor outside. All three women put down their teacups and sat up rigidly in their chairs.
‘Is that them?’ asked Stana, turning her head.
The shrieking was replaced by a low growling and then a deep moaning. There were sounds of a struggle and then some banging and crashing from the other side of the double doors. Mitya sounded extremely reluctant to enter the room. The doors finally opened and the screaming intensified as the hooded monk dragged in the poor iurodivye, or holy fool, by a chain tied around his neck. Half blind, with short handless stumps for arms, his festering hair, stinking rags and raw bare feet all added to the man’s woeful appearance. With one hefty tug of the chain he at last arrived in the centre of the room and cowered in front of the three women. He appeared to be completely overawed and confused by the bright lights and the opulence of his surroundings. He started to rock his head from side to side, screaming and hopping about.
‘Shush!’ ordered Egorov tugging at the chain. ‘Quieten yourself!’
Militza had known a little of what to expect, so was only mildly upset by the sight of Mitya, but Stana was appalled. It was all she could do to prevent herself crying out in horror as she swiftly retreated, moving behind a chair. Alix, on the other hand, was completely enthralled. She got out of her seat and walked slowly over to the monk and his charge, her arms outstretched as though she was trying to calm a skittish colt.
‘Hello,’ she said calmly. ‘I am Alexandra Fyodorovna – and I promise I am not going to hurt you.’
Mitya tugged on his chain as he tried to move away. Alix took another two steps towards him.
‘I would not come any closer,’ said Egorov, raising his hand in the air. ‘Mitya doesn’t like it when people are too close.’
‘I promise you no harm,’ said Alix, ignoring the monk and taking another step forward.
Mitya stopped in his tracks and turned back towards the Empress. Walking slowly up to her, he raised his two stumps in the air and, placing his nose close to hers, screamed loudly in her face. The sound was piercing, the sight of his open mouth, his six brown fetid teeth and the shower of spittle that emanated from it, made Stana cover her mouth with her lace handkerchief. The Tsarina was, however, unmoved. She turned and looked at the monk.