It was as if God had abandoned both the Tsarina and her son.
Day followed night and there was no respite. The boy cried and moaned constantly, gradually becoming more exhausted by the pain, gradually inching one step closer to death. But still his mother didn’t move. No one dared enter the sickroom for fear of what they might see. There was one moment when the Tsar himself approached his son’s bedside, only for the child to say:
‘Papa, it hurts.’
Nicky left the room, and was soon heard weeping farther down the corridor.
It was Nicky who telephoned Militza.
‘You have to come,’ he’d explained very quietly down the line. ‘She can’t be on her own any longer. For if it is God’s will that Alexei dies tonight, she will need her friends.’
It was Peter who suggested that Militza take Rasputin along.
‘If the situation is as grave as you say, then at least he might prove to be something of a distraction,’ concluded Peter, as Militza was rushing out of the door.
‘But can we trust him?’
‘He might be able to help?’
It was midnight, on the third night, when Militza, Stana and the Muzhik arrived. They left Rasputin in the carriage outside, fearing his presence might spook Alix and entered the palace through the back, not wanting to go through the numerous guards who would spend too long entering them into official registers. Every step the royal couple was taking these days was recorded, and there were spies and informants everywhere. After walking up the back stairs, they entered the private apartments where they knocked three times on Alix’s door. There was no response, so Militza knocked once more and entered the room, leaving Stana in the corridor. Inside, she found Alexandra prone on her bed. Exhausted, she had long given up on God and was staring, unseeing, at the ceiling, waiting for the dawn and the inevitable death of her son.
Militza bent down and, placing her face close to Alix’s on the pillow, she started to whisper in her ear. She told her help was at hand, that they had brought Rasputin with them. She reminded Alix that he’d cured a dog and had recently saved a child in the village, said that they had so much more evidence of his powers, that the stories were coming thick and fast from Siberia all the time.
‘He is a true miracle worker,’ she hushed. ‘Let him see Alexei – I know he can help. He’s outside, waiting in a carriage. He has a message for you: “Just tell the Empress not to weep. I will make her youngster well. Once he is a soldier, he will have red cheeks again!”’
Alix lay still as she listened; at the mention of Alexei’s cheeks turning red, she smiled. ‘Red cheeks,’ she whispered.
‘Remember, my darling, remember what Philippe said,’ Militza continued to whisper. ‘That someone will come, someone who is more powerful than he, someone who is a friend. He will make your son well. He will save Russia. God has sent him to you.’
Nicky finally entered the room with a lamp. His wife turned to look at him; her eyes appeared glassy.
‘My darling,’ she said slowly, ‘let the Muzhik in, bring in Rasputin. He has been sent by God. By Philippe. Only he can help us now.’
Nicky hesitated. Few, but this intimate circle, even knew his son was ill. Could he trust this man? This man they hardly knew? They’d met him once and now he was about to become privy to their innermost secret. But his son’s life was slipping away from him, faster than the melting snow. He had very little choice.
Rasputin was escorted up the back stairs and led along darkened corridors so as not alert the guards. Finally he appeared at the door to the boy’s bedroom. Dressed in a black tunic, his hair unbrushed, he immediately embraced Stana and Militza and then, turning towards the Tsar and Tsarina, he kissed them both three times on the cheek. The nurse attending to Alexei stopped mopping the boy’s brow and opened her mouth in shock. She had never seen such familiarity. Who was this man who entered the Tsarevich’s room in the middle of the night?
Rasputin immediately fell to his knees in front of the wall of icons above the boy’s bed and began to pray. He then approached the bed, made a sign of the cross over the boy’s forehead and said:
‘Don’t be afraid, Alyosha, everything is all right again.’
The boy opened his eyes and stared at the strange figure above his bed. Rasputin proceeded to stroke the child, moving his hands slowly and gently over his arms, down his body and legs. They were little brushing movements, light as feathers, as if he was clearing crumbs off a table. At the very tips of Alexei’s toes he appeared to flick and brush whatever it was he’d collected off his fingers into the ether. And all the while he mumbled, all the while he muttered – and all the while everyone else in the room looked on in silence.
‘There,’ he said. ‘I have driven all your horrid pains away. Nothing will hurt you any more. Nothing. Tomorrow you will be well and then see what games we can play!’
Instead of being scared by the large figure in black, Alexei was intrigued.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘A holy pilgrim,’ replied Alix. ‘A holy man who will make you well again. God himself has sent him to your mama and your papa.’
Rasputin sat down on the bed. ‘I am from Siberia,’ he said. ‘A land so vast and wide no one has ever seen the end of it. It is a land where bears roam, where the tigers are white; in the winter months even the sky dances at night.’
‘Where is this strange land?’ Alexei’s fever already seemed to have abated. He was so mesmerized by the extraordinary character at the end of his bed that he sat up. And then he smiled. At which point Alix let out an odd whimper and left the room.
‘Shall I tell you a story?’ began Rasputin.
‘Yes, please.’
‘It begins like this… The Sun has many children—’
‘Like Mama,’ said Alexei.
‘Just like your mother.’ He smiled. ‘The Sun’s eldest son is Peivalke, then the Four Winds, the Storm Cloud twins, Lightning, Thunder and Tempest. But most of all the Sun loves his three daughters: Golden Sunshine, Misty Shadow and the youngest, Bright Sunbeam. The Sun’s daughters live fearless and free, chasing the wild reindeer over the tundra, dancing in woodland glades, darting like silvery fish in Lake Seityavr and reposing on its broad banks. One day…’
Militza and Stana left the room closing the door gently behind them. They walked down the corridor in silence, neither exactly sure what they had witnessed; all they knew was that a child, on the verge of death, had miraculously been brought back to life before their eyes. Had Rasputin hypnotized him? Was he a faith healer? A magician? A trickster? Had he brushed away the Tsarevich’s pain like a shaman? Who was this man? Militza turned to her sister.
‘Thank you!’ came a quiet voice from the darkness. It was Alix, sitting slumped in a chair in the corner of the landing, her weary head in her hands. ‘He is saved,’ she said simply, looking up, her eyes full of tears.
‘Yes!’ said Stana, crouching down next to Alix and taking hold of her shaking hands. ‘I know! We have witnessed a miracle! A powerful miracle! Here, in this palace, in the depths of the night, something happened. Something that we shall never forget.’
‘Did God not forsake me after all?’ asked Alix.
‘He did not,’ confirmed Militza. ‘Your prayers were answered.’
Alix laughed. ‘What are they doing now? What is my son doing now? My son who I thought would never see the dawn again, what is he doing?’
‘Rasputin is telling him stories about Siberia,’ said Stana. ‘About wolves and bears and bubbling rivers and vast open steppes.’