The Tsarina's Legacy (2 page)

She removed her hand and looked up at him once more, her bright eyes moistened with tears. He suspected she'd manufactured the tears to toy with his emotions, and yet his heart ached nonetheless.

“I'm sorry you were hurt,” she told him. “If you return, everything will change. You will have whatever you desire.”

Everything about Catherine left him helpless and besotted, from the curve of her waist to her intoxicating ambition. Surrounded once again by sensual pleasure, he would change. He would forget the peace he knew here and be at war with himself once more. “I fear for my soul, for what I will become if I return to court.”

“You are meant to be a man of this world,” she said, eyes flashing. “You are meant to lead armies and build new cities, a new Russia.”

“You are surrounded by capable men,” he said.

“Who speak only flattery and act only in fear. I have no use for such men. Russia is at a crossroads, on the threshold of greatness. I need someone who will stand up to me and challenge my decisions if they are misguided.”

“I am called to a spiritual life. I shall remain here.”

“Your motherland needs you. What will become of you if you remain in this place?”

As Catherine spoke, the divine hand slowly lifted from his shoulder. He knew too well what would become of him here. The peace he found so soothing would come to dull his senses until he wasted away. Perhaps God had sent Catherine, not to test his faith, but to show him the right path. A young man with an appetite for life should be of this world—was
meant
to be of this world.

Even so, he would not let her victory come too easily, not after all he had suffered at her hands. “I have found God here.”

“God is on my side, Grigory Alexandrovich. He has drawn me here so that you might see your destiny.” Catherine tilted his chin gently and forced him to look her in the eyes. “You belong to me.”

That evening, Grisha shaved his beard. A thread of guilt wormed its way through his chest as he watched the long strands fall to the floor, but he was no longer willing to turn his back on the life Catherine offered.

The imperial carriage returned him to the Winter Palace, jingle bells ringing on the harnesses of eight white stallions as the runners cut through the snow lining the ice-encrusted river. Grisha occupied the apartment below the empress, ascending a spiral staircase to visit her at night. Life meant little without her. It was God's plan.

One

THE WINTER PALACE
MARCH 1791

The sharp smell assaulted his senses immediately. Fortunately, Grisha Potemkin had been warned in advance. He tucked his scroll tighter underneath his arm and withdrew a lavender-scented handkerchief from his pocket. The tight breeches and heavy fabric of his European waistcoat felt thick and burdensome against his bloated stomach. Serving in the south, in his own military encampments, he had grown accustomed to silk robes and loose trousers.

He settled next to a stout cadet in an ill-fitting uniform. The young man gave him a sideways glance and edged slowly away, mopping his broad forehead with a mottled handkerchief. No matter. The opinions of Catherine's courtiers scarcely fazed him anymore. Seventeen years had passed since he left the monastery and returned to this world. He'd long since ceased to care what anyone thought.

Except Catherine. Always Catherine.

Grisha surveyed the crowded salon with his one good eye. Many of the men fidgeted and inched closer to the walls. A few appeared near to forty, while most looked straight out of the Cadet Corps. Catherine had always surrounded herself with youth. Even the chefs in the kitchen were rosy and slim, their youthful metabolisms impervious to decadent preparations. Amid the fresh faces, Grisha spotted a few men even older than him, bodies stiff in formal uniforms, rusting medals and frayed sashes adorning their fragile chests.

An elderly brigadier, face sun lined and flecked with brown spots, hobbled to a silver samovar and struggled to fill a delicate china cup with hot water.

“Not too strong this time.” Catherine's newest favorite, Platon Alexandrovich Zubov, called. He reclined lazily on a richly upholstered chaise longue, long limbs sprawled, nibbling on a wedge of brie. “And don't forget my pot of raspberry jam. Mishka adores it. Let's try to keep him happy. We don't want another accident.”

Zubov waved at his pet monkey, its clever face surrounded by a cream-colored ruff of fur. The creature's urine clouded the plush rug, one of many gifts Grisha had presented to Catherine at the close of the first war with the Turks. The rug was woodland green and woven with interlacing curlicues and darkly blossoming roses, a pattern modeled after a concubine's boudoir in Topkapi Palace. He remembered Catherine's breath, warm and gentle in his ear, when she thanked him.
It is as I said. You were meant to be a man of this world.

The brigadier passed, attempting to balance Zubov's tea and jam in each hand. Tucking his scroll in place under his arm, Grisha extended his hand to take the pot of jam. The old man signaled his gratitude with a weary smile.

Zubov's monkey assessed the room, smacking his lips, small eyes glittering. Grisha flexed his hand and tried not to shudder. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of one of his officers while choosing a man to execute, to break the will of the other prisoners.

At last, the monkey chirped and bounded over to a courtier cringing near the back exit. The creature plucked the freshly powdered silver wig from the man's head and twirled it in his hand, as though preparing for some exotic ball game. He hoisted the wig up in the air, where it caught on the chain of a crystal chandelier.

Sputters of nervous laughter erupted from the corners of the room. Zubov choked on his cheese and coughed, handsome features distorted as he worked the food down his throat and laughed. He took a long swallow of wine. “Priceless! Priceless!”

The men in the room managed a few more chortles. Even the courtier who'd lost his wig tried to smile at his ruined hairpiece. Silver powder scattered on the dark green carpet below.

The monkey scampered up Zubov's arm and hopped onto his shoulder. Zubov ran his hand through the creature's luxuriant fur. Grisha escorted the old man to Zubov's side table, where he placed the pot of jam next to the tea.

“Prince Potemkin!” Zubov cried, catching Grisha's eye. “When did you sneak in?”

The cadet who had been standing next to Grisha suddenly straightened his back. Grisha realized the young man hadn't recognized him at first.

“Your Most Serene Highness,” Zubov intoned. “Field Marshal! Grand Admiral of the Black Sea! Have I learned your titles correctly? It seems the empress enjoys frequently adding to their number.” He fluttered his large hands at Grisha's medallions and ribbons. “My brain simply cannot keep pace.”

“Prince of Tauride,” the cadet told Zubov helpfully, using the ancient name for the Crimea.

Zubov glared at the cadet but kept his voice merry, still reclining as though he hadn't a care in this world. “We've been expecting you, Prince. What kept you?” He cocked an eyebrow imperiously. “Fucking one of your officers' wives again?”

Low laughter filled the room, this time genuine.

Grisha needed to appear as though he didn't care—only the laughter had grown so loud he feared Catherine might hear. He felt sure she'd taken to her neighboring study, quill in hand, scribbling her correspondence, one ear inclined to the door for signs of unrest.

But he had no intention of being driven away by Zubov's hollow attempts at wit. The stench of urine cut through the lavender oil in his handkerchief and Grisha stuffed the linen in his pocket.

“And here I thought I was early for our appointment. We were meant to discuss plans for the construction of a mosque in Moscow. I didn't realize you'd planned court entertainment first.”

“Yes, yes.” Zubov drew to full attention, straightening the ruffles above his ridiculous velvet frock coat. The monkey dug his fingers deep into Zubov's shoulders so as not to fall when his master moved. “But a mosque in the very heart of our land? Wouldn't a church make more sense? We're still a Christian people, are we not?”

Grisha needed to tread carefully. Rumors had reached his ear, even in the faraway southern lands where he had spent the last several months, tales of Zubov's youthful beauty and hold on the empress's affections. He saw it for himself now: Zubov's fine features, broad shoulders, and brilliant eyes, so different from the lumpiness that had spoiled Grisha's own looks as the years passed.

“The empress has taken care to preserve cordial relations with her subjects of the Islamic faith,” he said. “I am particularly pleased with this design. It is modeled after a mosque in the old fortress of Ochakov.”

“And yet you ran the heathen into the ground in that godforsaken place.”

Grisha's hands, slick with perspiration, worked in and out of fists. He had assumed his audience with Zubov merely a formality to make Catherine feel she had taken care with her favorite's pride. He had expected this boy to fuss a bit but ultimately put his stamp of approval on the project, as all of Catherine's other favorites would have done, to curry favor. “The empress's Muslim subjects worship one God, as do we.”

“But we have more pressing problems now, what with England rattling a sword in our direction and trying to drive us out of the Black Sea. Your prize, Prince. Should we not ready our forces to teach the dolts a lesson?”

Catherine isn't foolish enough to make needless war, you pretentious twit.
“A gesture of goodwill seems all the more appropriate, then,” Grisha said. “Surely we don't want the English seducing our old Muslim adversaries with pretty words and promises of petty glory.”

Zubov unleashed a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Catherine said I should listen to your plea, so I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter. She has a soft spot for
old
friends. It's one of her many charms.” He flapped his hands again, ruffles flopping at his wrists, displacing the monkey. The creature landed awkwardly on the floor but scrambled to his feet quickly. “All the rest of you, go!” Zubov barked. “The prince and I require privacy.”

The courtiers shuffled past Grisha to get to the door. Grisha straightened his aching back and sucked in the loose folds of his stomach as best he could manage, ignoring the curious stares as the men strode past. Most of them bowed respectfully in his direction, while others gave him a wide berth, as though fearing contamination.

He didn't move until the last of them, the elderly brigadier, shut the heavy door behind him. Only then did Grisha approach Zubov, the scroll with the plans for the mosque still safely tucked against his side. “The plan is visionary in scope. I think it will please the empress.”

“Doubtful.” Zubov rose to his feet. “I sometimes fear for Catherine's emotional state. The poor dear has grown so flustered. The last thing she needs is your petty distractions.”

Grisha wanted to grab Zubov by the throat and knock his front teeth out. But Catherine wouldn't care to see her current favorite enter the boudoir with his pretty face maimed. Instead he forced his features into a serene expression, preparing to play to the boy's ego. “I would not have troubled you with a whim, Platon Alexandrovich.”

“I still fail to understand the point of a mosque. You are a conquering hero, Prince. We were at war with these people. You did what needed to be done.”

A voice in his head screamed, fueled by the intense adrenaline of battle, the war cry to Allah as the enemy soldiers rushed toward his men, no matter how futile their efforts. Grisha's voice rose, banishing the bloodthirsty battle cries from his memory. “I am here at the empress's behest. She trusts your opinion on this matter.”

“Then I suppose I should at least see this foolishness.” He extended his hand. “May I?”

Silently, Grisha handed over the scroll.

Zubov clicked his teeth and unrolled the thin goatskin parchment. He scrunched his black eyebrows together but scarcely looked at the design. Instead, he scrutinized the paper, fingering it and frowning. “What is this? Papyrus? Are you planning to construct pyramids?”

Grisha had commissioned an elderly Tatar to choose the architect himself. “I consulted with a cleric familiar with the needs of the people of this faith.”

“A Mohammedan! Oh, that's rich.”

Grisha struggled to keep his voice even. “Who else would design a mosque?”

“I understand your whims were given free rein in the imperial treasury in the past, but you've been away too long. Besides, I believe our Tatar friends may already have a mosque or two in our Russian heartland. Catherine will no longer countenance such extravagant waste. I don't care what you've gotten past her before.”

Melancholy played tricks with his mind. In an instant, Grisha saw Zubov no longer as a silly boy speaking out of place, but as a powerful man who held the empress in his hand.

“Besides, if you're so in love with these people, why not look to the khans for inspiration?” Zubov assumed a grand academic tone that tore at Grisha's already fractured patience. “They would show far less interest in construction and far more cunning in yielding tribute from their vanquished foes.”

“The empress is no khan,” Grisha said, “but you would do well to show her deference.”

Zubov stepped toward Grisha, lips curving downward and a hint of menace darkening his gaze. As though sensing his master's sudden shift in mood, the monkey emitted high-pitched chatter and covered his eyes with spindly fingers.

“I only meant,” Grisha added in a louder voice, so any courtiers with an ear to the door could hear, “the empress should decide such matters for herself. I should like to hear her opinion. I came to you only as a courtesy.”

“A courtesy?” Zubov laughed, handing the scroll back to Grisha before sitting back down on the chaise longue. He crossed one long leg over the other and pushed the jam closer to his monkey. The creature dipped his pink tongue into the jar. “You flatter yourself, Prince.”