‘I was there!’
‘You were?’
‘I was walking barefoot with the pilgrims. I touched the coffin of the Holy Saint before he was placed into the giant marble and granite sarcophagus and while you bathed in the river at midnight I announced to the congregation in the church that the long-awaited heir to the throne would be born within a year!’
‘And he was!’
‘He was.’ Rasputin paused. ‘And he is well?’
‘Quite well, thank you,’ said Alix. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘you must come and visit us at Selo.’ Nicky looked across at his wife, but she ignored him. ‘I would love for you to meet him. He is a very dear, beautiful boy, with great big cheeks and huge blue eyes. Everyone loves him.’
They sat and talked for another twenty minutes before Alix announced they must leave. She wanted to find out how the girls had coped with their new tutor and she didn’t like to leave her boy for too long.
‘I am always worried about him,’ she said, allowing Rasputin to kiss her goodbye. ‘He is so very precious to all of us, you see.’
‘And upon him rests the hopes of all of us,’ agreed Rasputin.
As soon as they left, Rasputin demanded a bottle of Madeira wine, which he proceeded to drink one whole glass at a time.
‘I think they liked me,’ he said, draining a glass. ‘She is a nervous, skittish thing who appears to have the worries of the world on her shoulders. She needs to relax a little more, have some amusement in her life. She has a sadness that I can’t quite yet put my finger on.’ He sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his hand and then chuckled. ‘And his Imperial Majesty is so small! Nothing like your stallion, Mamma!’ He grinned at Stana. ‘Now that is a man! I bet he is an enthusiastic ride.’
‘Do you mean the Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolayevich? Commander of the St Petersburg district?’ she asked. ‘My very dear, close friend?’
‘A very close friend, Mamma. But when your husband lives abroad, what are you to do, except make close friends?’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said Stana, a little riled. ‘I must check on the children.’
Rasputin laughed as he watched her go, then helped himself to some more Madeira.
‘Tell me…’ He paused to drink from his glass. ‘I hear you have an icon of St John the Baptist? Given to you by a Maître Philippe.’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Militza.
‘Bishop Theofan likes to talk.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t.’
‘He couldn’t help himself. It is famous,’ he said. ‘It protects whomsoever owns it.’
‘From what?’
‘Evil. Death. Assassination.’ He smiled. ‘I’d like to have a look at it.’
‘It is not here.’
‘Another time,’ he said, taking another large sip of Madeira. ‘We have plenty of time, you and I, plenty of time. Don’t we, Mamma?’ He paused. ‘I have an icon I want to give the Tsar and Tsarina – Righteous St Simeon of Verkhoturye. It’s not quite like yours, but it is also one of the most powerful icons I know.’ He looked at the floor and belched through the back of his teeth. He was lost in his own world for a second. ‘I can’t help but feel they might need it. There is a rocky and difficult path ahead for them. I see it.’
He looked morose for a second, as if what he had just witnessed disturbed him.
‘But tonight,’ he announced, getting out of his seat, ‘tonight, I dine with the gypsies!’
‘You do?’ Militza was a little surprised.
‘That lovely little actress with the milky shoulders, from the other night, has suggested we dine at the Cubat.’
‘I am not sure that is sensible for a man in your position,’ said Militza.
‘What position?’
‘You’re a priest.’
‘I am a man of God, Mamma, not a priest.’
‘All the same.’
‘Are you jealous, Mamma?’
‘Of course not!’ snapped Militza, feeling her cheeks flush a little. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘As you wish,’ he said, taking another large gulp of wine.
‘But there is one thing you have to promise me.’
He looked at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t like making promises.’
‘You must not – and I repeat must not – go and visit the Tsar and Tsarina alone. You must only go with Stana or me.’ She paused, then said, ‘It’s for your own good. We need to be there, to help, you understand. I don’t want you to make a mistake. I don’t want you to overstep the mark, do something wrong.’
‘Are you saying that a peasant doesn’t deserve to dine at the court of the king?’
‘No, no. Of course he does. But there are many enemies out there. Take it from someone who knows the pitfalls and traps of the court. You have to be smart and you have to play clever.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, turning to walk away.
‘We will not see!’ Militza raised her voice. ‘You will do as I say.’
‘Do as you say? Or what?’
‘Or I will destroy you!’
‘Destroy me? You barely know me.’
‘I made you and I can just as easily destroy you!’ she pronounced dramatically, then immediately felt a little foolish.
He looked at her quizzically. ‘You did not make me, Mamma, and neither can you destroy me,’ he whispered as he stared at her, his eyes unblinking. ‘I’m a strannik, a wanderer from the steppes of Siberia. I am at no one’s behest and call.’ He started to walk out of the door. Then he stopped and turned. ‘Have you not heard the story of the fisherman who makes a man out of clay?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, let me tell you.’ He smiled and he walked slowly back towards her. ‘So the fisherman fashions a man out of clay and leaves him outside to dry and when the clay man is finally dry, he sits outside the house and then he tap, tap, taps on the windowpane. At first they ignore him, hoping he’ll go away. But he won’t stop tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. On and on. Until eventually the fisherman’s wife lets him in.’
‘And then?’
‘And then – he swallows them both up whole: arms, legs, even the fishing nets, all in one go.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The end.’
‘Actually,’ interrupted Stana, appearing right behind him, ‘I am not sure that is the end of the story.’
‘Really?’ said Rasputin.
‘Doesn’t the clay man get too greedy? Doesn’t the clay man eat half the village, the milkmaids with their yokes and their pails, the old women with their baskets of berries, only to try and eat the beautiful elk? But the beautiful elk charges into the clay man’s open, greedy, expectant mouth, making him explode into a hundred little tiny clay pieces, never to be seen again…?’
There was a pause.
‘Well, Mamma,’ he replied eventually, with a nod of his head. ‘I commend you on your knowledge of Siberian folk tales.’
21
12 March 1906, Tsarskoye Selo
It wasn’t long before tragedy struck.
Out playing with his sailor bodyguard, Derevenko, and Derevenko’s own son, the Tsarevich Alexei had fallen in the garden. Everyone had been watching, everyone had been paying attention, but still the child had managed to trip over and land hard on his knee. He’d stood up quickly enough, only to fall backwards, pale as death, into the arms of Derevenko.
Alix had been at his side for three days and three nights, nursing him. She had not slept, or washed, or eaten. She would not, could not, leave her son. There were blue swellings, a sign of an internal haemorrhage, as the boy lay crumpled in agony, clutching at his knee, his small white face poking out above the covers like a corpse in the morgue. Doctors came and went and Dr Badmaev arrived with brown packets of herbs and potions, elixirs and a herbal poultice to ease the pain. Nothing made a difference.