‘How is he?’ came a voice from behind them.
‘Your Imperial Majesty!’ said Dr Botkin, with a deep bow. His cheeks flushed a little and his moustache moved nervously. How much had she heard?
‘Any better?’ she asked, reaching for the door handle. ‘Nicky keeps telling me he’s fine. But then, Nicky always tells me he’s fine.’
‘He’s well, though feverish.’ Botkin smoothed his hair.
‘Feverish? How we hate fever.’ Her voice was weak. She appeared drained of all emotion. She slowly lifted her eyes to look at Militza. They were flat and dull, all joy and life long since extinguished. ‘Has any news come from Our Friend?’
28
May 1908, Pokrovskoye, Tyumen, Siberia
It was early May, by the time Militza departed for Siberia. He had sent a telegram which stated that the bleeding would stop at eight in the evening, which it had – and that the fever would go after three days, which it did. The boy was better now, but for how long?
Stana had begged her sister not to go. She repeated over and over that it was an admission of guilt if she stepped on to the train. Quite apart from how dangerous such a journey might be for a woman in her position, there were spies and revolutionaries everywhere; even the Tsar, she reminded her, with all his soldiers and guards, now travelled in a blacked-out train. And besides, as soon as Rasputin saw her he’d realize she’d been the one to denounce him as a member of the Khlysty. Peter was equally anxious. There was something about the way Rasputin had looked at his wife on the night they’d confronted him that made his blood run cold. The man should be left to rot in the Siberian permafrost.
‘Darling, don’t go,’ he urged over breakfast. Dressed in breeches, a loose-fitting white shirt and highly polished riding boots, he stood up from the table.
‘Where?’ asked Marina, looking across the table with her large dark eyes, stirring cherry jam into her hot black tea. ‘Where’s Mama going?’
‘I am going on a trip,’ smiled Militza, giving her husband a brittle look.
‘A trip?’ Roman was straight-backed at the table, his dark hair parted and smoothed flat on his head, his large square chin displayed the odd whisker.
‘Where to?’ queried little Nadejda, who at the age of ten always preferred everyone to stay just where they were.
‘The south,’ smiled Militza.
‘To see Rasputin,’ added Peter, pacing up and down. ‘Is that really wise?’
‘Are you going to forbid me?’ Militza put down her teacup, her eyes narrowed.
‘After nearly twenty years of marriage I know that would only encourage you,’ replied Peter, leaning on the table. ‘I know you will do as you wish. But the man is deceitful and disloyal and you do not have my blessing.’
Militza went anyway. Somehow, she concluded, if she managed to persuade him to return, she would feel less guilty about denouncing him – and just think how terribly grateful the Tsarina would be.
So she pulled her cape up tightly around her face and spoke to no one. For four days she watched the vast Russian steppes roll out before her, grey and flat, just shedding the cold coat of winter but yet to burst into spring. She spent her time dozing, reading and dining alone in the restaurant car. She needed to travel as incognito as possible. It was imperative that no one noticed her.
After four days, she arrived in the bustling market town, Tyumen, whose businesses and commerce were booming due to the Trans-Siberian railway. She booked herself into the unremarkable Sofia Hotel, where her presence raised an eyebrow. What was a woman doing here on her own, without even a lady’s maid for company? She ordered hot soup in her cold room and remained there until early the following morning.
She’d often thought about where Rasputin might have come from. Where the Four Winds travelled, where Spirit searched, where the unshriven soul had alighted: where they might all have found him. He was always talking of Pokrovskoye, particularly after a few glass of Madeira, when he’d get poetic and sentimental. He’d describe the beauty of the steppes, the enormity of the endless sky, the freedom of the wide seas of swaying grass; it was where man and God met, melded and lived in perfect harmony, or so he said.
However, descending slowly out of her carriage after nearly two hours of being shaken and bumped on the rough post road from Tyumen, Militza could not believe how desolate the village felt. How could anyone live here? It wasn’t the poverty of the place. She’d seen that before, back home in Montenegro and in Russia. She’d picked her way through the slums in St Petersburg a few times, a handkerchief clutched to her nose and mouth, when she and Brana had been searching for miracles for the Tsarina and she was not silly enough to think all the world lived in fine houses with gilt ceilings. Even so, she had not been prepared for the endless mud, the squawking, scratching chickens, the grunting filthy little pigs and the lack of people. It was silent, save for the sound of the livestock, deserted – a one-road town, where the road led precisely nowhere. Unless you were a convict, of course. For Pokrovskoye was on the convict trail, where unfortunate souls would be dragged along, their irons clinking, further and deeper east to their fate. On either side of the narrow road was a collection of wooden houses. They were mostly the same size, single storied shacks, with wooden roofs and wooden shutters, but at the far end of the village there was one substantially larger house of two storeys, with a balcony, empty flower boxes, large wooden gates and a tin roof. Militza smiled to herself. She knew immediately where all her money had gone.
Pulling at the hood of her cape, she sidestepped a large puddle and walked on towards this house. She had no need to ask where Rasputin lived, which was fortunate as there was no one to ask. And yet she sensed eyes, many eyes, boring into her back.
She paused at the wooden gates to gather herself, calling to her guide to help her, muttering under her breath, asking for assistance and protection. Standing there, she could hear music, clapping and the sound of shrill laughing voices. There was clearly some sort of party going on. When she’d planned this, she had imagined him at prayer when she knocked; it would certainly be quiet, with nobody else around. Should she leave? She turned to look back at the carriage waiting for her. She could just get back in it and return to Tyumen… No, that would be ridiculous, she told herself. She pushed on the gate, which swung open easily. The courtyard was thick with mud, cluttered and unkempt. There were piles of wood, broken cartwheels, and empty sacks strewn all over the place; a plough and a yoke were propped up against each other in the corner of the yard and next to them was a small blue cart pitched at an angle, half full of fetid rainwater and rotten leaves. As she walked towards the wooden door, long-legged chickens squawked and scattered in her wake. She had one foot on the porch step when the front door burst open and out came a screaming woman dressed in a long white nightdress; her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders and her eyes were shining ecstatically as she tugged at something with her hands.
‘You’re a god!’ she yelled as she spun around, her hair flying and flicking everywhere. ‘A god!’
In the doorway, standing directly behind her was Rasputin, his red baggy trousers around his knees; in his hand he held a whip, which he cracked sharply across the woman’s backside. She called out.
‘More!’ she yelled, her back arching in pleasure as she fell to her knees. ‘More! You god!’
Rasputin cracked the whip one more time across the woman’s back as she shuffled on her knees towards his groin. Militza could not believe what she was witnessing. The woman, who had been tugging at Rasputin’s member while he whipped her, now placed his shaft in her mouth. And while Rasputin stood in the doorway, his eyes half closed, she gorged on his cock like a half-starved peasant who had not seen flesh for months.