Rebel Princess (25 page)

“The night our Empress dies, the Czar sends to make peace with the Prussian King. On
Frederick's
terms, by God! Like a defeated nation forced to sue for mercy, we abandon the war after five years, when victory was in sight! So the Czar signs an armistice with our enemies—but does he give the country peace? No, my friends, he prepares for war against Denmark! And for what? To restore some cursed piece of Holstein that the Danes have taken! I say the whole of Russia means less to him than this cesspit in Germany that gave him birth!”

There was a shout of agreement at these words and Alexis raised his sword to still the tumult.

“We swore allegiance to him, you and I and all his people. Every little soldier in the army would lay down his life for him because he is the Czar. He is our father, our protector, and we of the Guards are his dutiful sons! But that is not enough for him! Our Emperor does not want us; the glory of Russian arms is nothing to him.
We,
the personal troops of the sovereign, are not to act as bodyguards to Peter the Third! Our Czar goes and sends for a regiment of Holsteiners instead!”

This time there was no silencing the roar of anger that greeted the announcement.

There were officers of the famous Ismailov Regiment and some from the Preobrazhenskies present in that barrack-room, men whose valor and nobility had received a mortal insult when their Emperor had summoned a force composed of their late enemies to fulfill the duties regarded by the Imperial Guards as a sacred right and privilege.

Alexis Orlov, his Russian blood aflame with hatred and resentment, knew well the sore spots of pride which his denunciation had opened afresh. The wine was flowing and tempers were rising; by tomorrow they would have calmed down, but the seed he planted in their hearts was destined to bear fruit.

“Thank God we have a patriotic Empress!” he roared, and his brother Gregory took up the cry.

“God save Catherine!” And from every throat the salutation was repeated. “God save Catherine! God save Catherine!”

In the midst of the uproar that ensued, Alexis saw a soldier approach his brother and whisper a few words in his ear. Gregory's expression changed and he took a crumpled piece of paper which the other gave him and read it anxiously. The messenger departed with a few kopecks in his pocket and Gregory Orlov edged his way out of the excited throng of officers, his handsome face clouded and frowning. He pushed his way through to his brother, and Alexis knew that whatever had been written on that note, the contents had disturbed him considerably.

Gregory drew him quietly aside. “What is it?” Alexis asked him.

Orlov held the screw of paper in the flame of a smoking wall sconce, and it flared up instantly. Before replying, he trod the ashes under foot.

“That was a message from Vladyslava,” he muttered. “It said, ‘the tree is bearing fruit.' That means she is in labor! God's blood! If the Czar gets word of this he'll have her murdered where she lies! I cannot go to her, I cannot even be near in case aught should go wrong.”

Gregory looked at his brother.

“If anything happens to her I swear before God I'll kill Peter Feodorovitch with my own hands.”

Alexis glanced around him; in the general babble of excited comment which his oration had aroused, they were unnoticed by the rest.

“Nothing will go amiss; I'll wager my life she will have taken all precautions. Calm yourself, Gregory, or you'll be noticed. I'll make my way to the palace; I've a little mistress there who is excuse enough for my presence, and if there is any trouble, word'll reach you on the instant! Do you stay here now and see that the wine flows freely. If all goes well tonight, we're going to need our brother officers!”

Clapping his brother on the shoulder, Alexis Orlov pushed his way to the door and was gone. He paused only once as he walked through the darkness towards the Summer Palace, and that was to loosen his sword in its scabbard.

Leo Narychkin was making his way towards the Czar's apartments in answer to a summons which had just been delivered to him by one of Peter's pages.

The order to appear before his Emperor filled Narychkin with suspicion and distaste; this cultivation of his company was an ill-natured caprice on the part of Elizabeth Vorontzov, who delighted to see the Czarina's oldest friend forced to play the jester for her benefit. Several nights a week the unwilling Leo had been ordered to recite, or use his gift of mimicry, for the royal amusement, while uncomfortably aware that Peter sat at the head of the long dining-table, his elbows on the board, his bulbous eyes watching Catherine's staunchest supporter with an expression in which there was no laughter. Narychkin should pay for his loyalty to her with his head, and that was the message which Leo read in the face of his Emperor during those evening gatherings.

When or where the order to arrest him would be given Narychkin did not know, and the suspense added a spice of cruelty which appealed to Peter. Only one thing was certain, that the ending of the Vorontzova's little jest had long since been decided, and it might be sprung at any moment. Perhaps on that very evening, while his tormentors sat at table.…

Leo walked down the long palace corridors with a casual, unhurried step, mounting the carpeted stairway which led to the Emperor's suite. Since Fate seemed to have delivered his beloved Catherine into the hands of her hated husband, it mattered little what the future held for him.

Such thoughts as these were in his mind as he approached the carpeted gallery preceding Peter's rooms; it was a quiet part of the palace, occupied only by sentries standing motionless guard at intervals along the route to the Czar's suite, and for all his inward melancholy, Narychkin was startled to hear the sound of someone running.

Turning, he saw a man approaching from behind, his coat-tails flying as he ran towards Narychkin. The other stopped abruptly and caught at Leo's satin sleeve; he was panting and shaking with excitement.

“Is His Majesty in his rooms? Tell me, you are of the Household! Where is he? I must find him!”

Suddenly every instinct in Narychkin's long experience flashed a warning. He gripped the man by the arm and held him, and his tone was one of haughty anger.

“Damn your insolence! How dare you address me with familiarity. What business would you have with the Czar?”

The man was dressed in the palace livery. Narychkin judged him to be one among the thousands of servants living within the imperial walls, but he answered with a disrespect that would have cost an ordinary lackey the skin off his back.

“I pray you, sir, direct me to the Czar. There is not a moment to be lost. He'll have my head, and yours also if you detain me! I have news for him which will not wait! In God's name, can I find him here?”

Narychkin gripped the other firmly; the man was no lackey, his words and manner belied the uniform he wore. And what information had he for Peter, that the delaying of it even for a moment might cost men's lives?

“What is this news of which you speak! Tell it to me and I'll inform the Czar. The Emperor does not speak with servants.”

“I am no servant,” came the answer, “I am Chancellor Vorontzov's man, and the Czar will listen to me.… Only release me and I will find him without your assistance since you refuse to give it!”

Leo Narychkin was a tall man and strong, despite his slim proportions. His hands gripped the Chancellor's spy about the coat collar and his fingers were but an inch from his throat. He shook him gently and his eyes were black and merciless. “I am a curious man. Tell me what news you have for the Emperor; then I shall release you and tell you where to find him. Tell me, or I'll choke you for your insolence … lackey!”

The spy swallowed, and his face was livid with fear and helplessness.

“As you persist … I go to tell His Majesty that the Czarina Catherine is giving birth to a child in her apartments at this very hour! Do you still hinder me …?”

Narychkin's heart almost stopped beating.

Catherine was having a child! At that moment in her rooms, she lay in labor. God in heaven! This man, this miserable spy, had found her secret out, and sped to Peter with the news! Without a thought for the consequences to himself, Narychkin drew his little court sword to silence the betrayer where he stood, but the spy, seeing the evidence of his own doom, made a desperate lunge at his captor and struck him in the face. For a second the blow dazed Narychkin and his victim tore himself free, even as the sword blade passed within inches of his evading body, only to strike the wall and shatter into pieces.

The next moment Vorontzov's spy had taken to his heels and was running like the wind down the gallery; he was already within sight of the next sentry and Narychkin quickly abandoned all hope of catching him. The man was gone, gone on his way to the Czar, bearing the message that would have Catherine Alexeievna and her illegitimate child slain on the mattress where they lay.

There was one faint hope, so slender that he sickened with dread for her even as he turned and began to run in the direction of her suite. She must be warned. He must reach her first and give the word that Peter knew and would be coming to surprise her secret—coming with soldiers and witnesses to prove her adultery and guilt. Doubtless among them would be found men ready to kill the Empress when their master gave the sign. Unless he could get to her in time.

Chapter 12

Peter Feodorovitch was at table when he heard the news.

The Chancellor's spy knelt before him, gasping for breath, stuttering his message in a voice loud enough for everyone seated round the board to hear. When he had done there was a moment of deathly silence; not even Elizabeth Vorontzov dared speak while the full import of the informer's words sank into the brain of her royal lover.

Peter rose slowly to his feet, his sallow face had flushed a deep crimson and his eyes seemed about to start from his head; a flood-tide of hatred rose in him, and mingled with it was a triumph so intense that it robbed him of speech.

The Chancellor watched him fascinated. If he had been capable of feeling for Catherine, then her probable fate at the hands of this madman might have aroused some spark of pity; as it was, he merely congratulated himself upon the wisdom of placing a spy so close to the Czarina, but wondered uneasily whether Peter might not emulate his illustrious aunt and have a seizure from excitement.

Suddenly the Czar threw back his head and laughed aloud; it was a shrill, demoniac sound, mirthless and inhuman.

“If this is true, I'll kill the she-devil!” he shouted. “No more of your cautionings, Chancellor! The penalty for whores is death!”

He drew his jeweled court sword, and the thin bright blade flashed in the candle-light; the movement of his arm upset the golden wine goblet placed on the table before him and the dark red liquid spread in a slow stain over the embroidered cloth.

The spy still knelt at the feet of his Czar, wondering whether he might tell of the courtier who had tried to intercept and kill him before he could deliver his message. The noble had been in the Czarina's pay; he too should be dealt with.…

The Emperor would reward him with rivers of gold for his services that night.

“Sire,” he began. “On my way to you I was hindered, one of your household tried to kill me.”

But his words went unheard; Peter was not listening, neither were those who surrounded him. The spy had spoken the death knell of the Empress and his hour of fame was done.

By that time the whole room was on its feet and Peter turned to his guests, his sword pointed towards the doorway.

“Come,” he invited. “Come, ladies and gentlemen. We go to attend a lying-in.” He started forward and his entourage followed him in a sudden stampede of pushing, curious men and women, half eager, half horrified by the prospect before them.

As he stepped into the corridor, Peter shouted, and the sentries who ringed his apartments came running at his command.

On the fringe of the crowd, Vorontzov's spy lingered, anxious to see the outcome of his revelation, determined to be within sight of his Czar as a reminder when the climax came.

Peter Feodorovitch glared around him, at the soldiers, obedient to his bidding, at his mistress, whose painted face was twitching nervously, at her uncle, the soft-spoken Vorontzov who had encompassed the downfall of the common enemy, at all his syncophants and courtiers. They pressed about him, eager and excited, with the herd instinct that loses all discrimination at the scent of blood.

For this once he would outdo the barbarians in barbarism, and only when he had plunged his sword up to the hilt into the heart of Catherine Alexeievna would his fear of her be exorcised.

“To my wife's apartments!” he shouted. “Forward, damn you, the Czarina needs us, she is giving birth!”

He raised his weapon and cut viciously at the empty air. “Behold, I bring her the midwife!” he added.

Leo Narychkin was running.

Careless of etiquette or caution, he ran through the interminable corridors and traversed the long staircases so beloved of the architects of imperial palaces, watched by gaping lackeys and the moving eyes of sentries, ignoring the groups of gentlemen and court ladies who sought to detain him and who turned in astonishment at this spectacle of undignified haste.

Time was on Peter's side, and even as he turned in the direction of the Czarina's apartments, Narychkin imagined that the Emperor was already on his way to those same rooms with an escort. What hope had he of saving Catherine, when at that moment she was perhaps in the throes of childbirth, or in the grip of labor that could not be concealed?

As he reached the end of the passage leading to her rooms, he collided heavily with a tall Guards officer, who had been strolling casually in the vicinity for some time. One glance at the other's profile, hideously scarred, proclaimed the identity of the man who barred his path.