‘Guilt?’ Militza smiled. ‘Why would I possibly feel guilty?’
‘I have been wondering who could have denounced Grisha to the police, who knows Grisha well enough to do that.’ He took a step forward, his head moving slowly from side to side like a cobra about to strike. ‘Do you know?’
‘Me?’
‘Your sister?’ He came closer.
‘Stana? Why would she do that?’ Militza laughed a little.
‘Nikolasha?’
‘You cured his dog, helped his marriage…’
‘Not the Tsarina!’ He smiled. ‘She likes Grisha.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Militza. ‘As does the Tsar.’
‘The Tsarina likes Grisha so much she makes clothes for him, embroiders his shirts.’ He smiled again. ‘So that leaves you.’
‘Grisha…’ She smiled and walked towards him. ‘I could never do that.’ She stood in front of him and stroked the side of his face with her hand. ‘We are one and the same, you and me. We are made of the same things, of the same Four Winds, the earth and the fire beneath it.’ Her heart was beating fast, but she maintained the light, playful note in her voice.
‘It can only be you,’ he said, grabbing her wrist.
‘Grisha!’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘I came here to be healed!’
‘Healed?’ He was a little taken aback.
‘Yes!’ she lied. ‘I have thought of nothing else. Nothing else at all, over the days and nights on the train across Siberia.’
‘A healing?’
‘I want to be healed like Olga. Heal me!’ she shouted. ‘Heal me!’
‘My dear, my Mamma, if you don’t sin, you don’t repent. If you don’t repent, you cannot be saved…’
29
June 1908, Znamenka, Peterhof
Militza left Siberia neither repentant nor saved. Her driver, upon hearing her shout the words ‘Heal me!’ loudly and repeatedly had, as instructed, come running into the courtyard to suggest she might urgently leave for Tyumen. So with Rasputin still grappling with his belt buckle, she was taken back to her carriage, lamenting her lack of healing and begging him to return to the city.
The Tsarina was naturally ecstatic when Militza gave her the news in the Rose Drawing Room at the Lower Dacha.
‘At last!’ she declared.
‘I thought I’d come and tell you as soon as I heard.’
‘You did well.’ Alix paused as if debating whether to say something else. She took hold of Militza’s hands and her own were cold to the touch. ‘You must never speak of what I am about to tell you,’ she whispered. ‘Never.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I am only telling you because I know you will find it as outrageous and unfounded as I,’ she continued, still holding Militza’s hand. She nodded. ‘I’ve heard some terrible rumours that…’ The Tsarina paused and lowered her voice even more. ‘That… Our Friend… has been investigated for improper behaviour – for being in a sect!’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘A sectarian! A member of the Khlysty.’
‘And was he?’
‘Being investigated? Yes!’
‘In a sect?’
‘I don’t know. And I don’t care! I put a stop to it as soon as I heard.’ She looked horrified. ‘Can you imagine such a thing?’
‘Rasputin being a Khlyst?’
‘Anyone wanting to investigate Our Friend! I was so angry. Dear, gentle Grisha who has never hurt a fly. Don’t they know how important he is to me? To the imperial family? It’s treasonous! They have no regard for us. It is like they are deliberately trying to cause me pain. Me! Their Tsarina!’
‘Awful.’ Militza shook her head. ‘Do you think he knows?’
‘I should imagine so. They searched his house for two whole days!’
‘Who launched the investigation?’
‘I asked,’ Alix said, her voice raised and quivering with anger. ‘And guess what?’ She patted her nostrils with her lace handkerchief. ‘The file is missing. Typical!’ She shook her head. ‘Only in this country can the Tsar’s closest friends be investigated and the Tsar not be able to find out who did it! This country is not Europe.’ She shivered. ‘It is savage!’
‘Awful,’ agreed Militza again, thanking Nikolasha in her prayers. ‘But anyway at least now he is coming back.’
‘Yes,’ the Tsarina said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘What a relief for us all.’
The conversation changed to the happenings of the last few months. Instead of talking about Stolypin and Nicky’s endless problems with the Duma which wanted to take more and more of the Tsar’s power, Alix wanted to know about the Nikolayevich children and their plans for the summer. For the imperial family, there was a trip planned to the Gulf of Finland in the Standart. Work was starting on the White Palace in the Crimea, which they were hoping might be ready in time for Olga’s sixteenth birthday, in just over three years’ time. Just as she was expressing her surprise that her eldest was getting so old, there was a knock at the door and Anna walked in. Militza smiled through her irritation. She’d been alone with the Tsarina for only half an hour. Half an hour. And she was being interrupted by that bovine little woman, who persisted in talking about the break-up of her marriage and how Rasputin had predicted it all along! And what a good Friend he was. And how often she saw him and how terribly close they were. And…
‘Have you heard?’ she said, her head cocked to one side, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘Prince Yusupov is dead.’
‘The Count?’ asked Alix.
‘The son,’ both Militza and Anna replied at the same time.
‘You knew?’ asked Anna, looking simultaneously surprised and disappointed.
‘Which one?’ asked Militza.
‘The oldest. Nikolai. The good son.’
‘Nikolai? Oh, how awful! How awful to lose a son,’ said Alix, grabbing hold of her handkerchief and covering her mouth in horror. ‘How totally, terribly awful. Poor Zinaida. Poor, poor Zinaida… How?’ she whispered.
‘A duel,’ replied Anna.
Militza shook her head. Her mouth went dry and the breath left her lungs. She’d known something terrible was going to happen to one of those boys. That night, long ago, when she’d seen the cards. The Ten of Swords. Death. The King of Swords. She had never forgotten it. In those quiet moments before dawn, when she’d lie in bed and think things through, those three cards always appeared before her. But a duel? What a waste. What a terrible, useless waste of a young man’s life. A duel? She closed her eyes and then, all of a sudden, she could see it. The early morning sunshine, the dappled ground under the beautiful poplar trees. It was positively bucolic, flowers, birds, the noise of the wind in the trees… The young men were giddy with adrenaline, their fine clothes rumpled by the breeze. There was the smell of wine, the sound of their friends shouting, telling them not to do it, urging them to put down their weapons, to desist. And then the shots, the echo around the woods. What recklessness this was! Not a care for anyone, even themselves. Why didn’t they stop it? Why?
‘First time they both missed,’ said Anna. ‘So they did it again and Count Arvid Manteuffel shot Nikolai straight in the chest, while Prince Yusupov, he fired—’
‘Up in the air,’ said Militza, opening her eyes.
‘So you did know?’ asked Anna.
‘No,’ replied Militza with a shake of her head.
‘Up in the air?’ asked Alix. ‘So he deliberately missed?’
‘It appears so,’ replied Anna.
‘And why did this duel take place? What foolish thing made this madness happen?’ asked Alix.