Thirteen Years Later (68 page)

But there was another matter to occupy him today, of higher precedence: the crown of Russia. He suspected that what Iuda had told him about Konstantin and Nikolai was true, but it had to be verified, and he could think of only one man in Petersburg whose word he would trust on the subject – and that man would be difficult to reach. He headed over to the Winter Palace.

Yevgeniy Styepanovich was surprisingly easy to get hold of. The Lieutenant General emerged from the Winter Palace almost as soon as Aleksei asked after him. His mood was curt.

‘What is it, Danilov? This is not a good time.’

‘I need an audience with the grand duke,’ said Aleksei.

Yevgeniy seemed flustered, and Aleksei could well guess the
reason. To the outside world, there were two grand dukes in the palace – Nikolai and Mihail. To the cognoscenti, there was only one, the other having been recently promoted to the rank of tsar. Aleksei allowed Yevgeniy a few moments of confusion before providing a clarification.

‘I mean Grand Duke Mihail,’ he added.

‘Some hope! He’s gone back to Warsaw.’

Aleksei looked over at the Lieutenant General. He was a big man, but Aleksei knew him to be weak. ‘No, he never made it to Warsaw. He got as far as Neenal and then was told to turn back.’ The information had been simple enough for Aleksei to pick up. ‘He arrived here earlier today.’

Yevgeniy considered for a moment. ‘Wait here,’ he said at last, and marched off back towards the palace. Aleksei leaned out over the Neva. The bridges that spanned it were almost meaningless at this time of year. A thick crust of ice covered the river, though the water beneath flowed as quickly as ever. Most who needed to cross to the northern islands of the city could walk straight over. Only those on horseback or with heavy cargos that risked cracking the ice stuck to the bridges. At this time of the morning, when the sun was as hot as it would get, a mist rose off the river. The sun’s heat probably did little to weaken the strength of the ice-sheet, but if Aleksei had needed to go across, he would still rather use a bridge.

He was on the English Quay, between the Admiralty and the Winter Palace, a little further east than where he had last met Yevgeniy Styepanovich. He did not have to stand there for very long.

‘Three o’clock,’ said the Lieutenant General on his return. ‘His Highness will allow you five minutes.’ With that, he was gone once again. Aleksei had four hours to wait.

Aleksei ate, and then drank, and then drank some more. It was still only one o’clock. It would not do to appear in front of Grand Duke Mihail in any but the most alert state of mind, so he decided
a walk through the cold winter streets would refresh him. He’d gone to his barracks and changed into his full dress uniform. It would impress the grand duke and, moreover, it was well made – it kept him warm. He glanced at his gloved hands. On the left, the two redundant fingers had been folded over and sewn neatly into the palm. It was the same with all his gloves – Marfa had done that for him.

In total, he walked past the front of his own house seven times. He glanced up occasionally, but saw no sign of her. His own servants might have seen him, but they would be discreet – they had been discreet enough over the years about what their mistress had been doing. Twice he almost went in, but never quite made it. The previous evening he had told her they would find a way of working things out, and he was convinced that she accepted it. To go to her now would not change that – what it might change was precisely where the advantage lay in their relationship once they had sorted things out. It would make him seem weak, and even she would not be happy for him to have that status in the long run.

The sun was already setting when he arrived back at the Winter Palace. Yevgeniy Styepanovich took him through corridors and hallways, until they eventually arrived at a first-floor room that overlooked the river. Mihail Pavlovich was in conversation with two other men when Aleksei arrived, so he stood quietly in the shadows and waited. When the others had left, the grand duke beckoned him over.

‘Colonel Danilov,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

‘May I offer my condolences on your brother’s death, Your Highness,’ replied Aleksei. He looked at the grand duke. It had been a few years since their first and only brief meeting. Mihail was now twenty-seven. Between his fingers, as always, he clutched a foul-smelling cigar. He did not look like any of his brothers. Aleksei wondered if he really was the son of Tsar Pavel, though he had never heard even the slightest rumour to the contrary.

‘Aleksandr Pavlovich set great store by your abilities,’ said Mihail, ‘and therefore so do I. What is it that brings you here?’
He sat down and offered the seat opposite to Aleksei, who took it.

Aleksei knew there was no option but to speak frankly. ‘Why have you not sworn allegiance to your brother as tsar?’

‘To my brother?’

‘To Konstantin Pavlovich.’

‘Konstantin Pavlovich is not tsar; Nikolai Pavlovich is,’ the grand duke explained simply.

‘So it’s true that Konstantin has abdicated?’

‘He was never in line of succession.’

It seemed clear enough to Mihail, but Aleksei was dumbfounded. Perhaps it was Konstantin who was not his father’s son – but that was absurd. ‘Never in line?’ was all he could manage.

‘“Never” is an exaggeration; not since 1823, though some of us suspect that Aleksandr had it in mind much earlier. He decided his brother could never become tsar, and Konstantin, so it seems, was more than happy to agree.’

‘But why?’

‘From Konstantin’s point of view – because he loathes responsibility. From Aleksandr’s, it’s more a legal matter. Konstantin married beneath him. Our father changed the succession laws in 1897, and by most interpretations Konstantin could not become tsar. The decision of Aleksandr was merely a formality.’

‘So Nikolai Pavlovich has known for two years that he would be tsar?’ Aleksei’s voice revealed his astonishment.

‘Indeed.’ Mihail ran his hand through his hair before resuming. ‘But he feared that no one would accept the news if he simply announced it, so he awaited Konstantin’s arrival. But Konstantin refuses to come. Half the army has already sworn allegiance to Konstantin – as has Nikolai. Now if he attempts to set things right, they’ll call him a usurper.’

‘What does he plan to do?’

‘Tomorrow he will ask the senate and the army to swear their allegiance to him. Enough people have now heard of Konstantin’s refusal, even if some don’t believe it.’

‘You think the men will comply?’ asked Aleksei.

‘I believe that is the sort of information my brother used to rely on you for.’ The grand duke was more wily than his years suggested.

Now Aleksei had to decide. In reality, he doubted whether what he said would make much difference, but it would show the world – and himself – where his heart lay. If Konstantin was unwilling to be an absolute tsar, then it was unlikely he would become a constitutional one. Nikolai would never compromise with the rebels, so the options were either a republic, or Tsar Nikolai. A republic, Aleksei was convinced, would lead to chaos and a bloodbath. Tsar Nikolai I would lead to Tsar Aleksandr II and the risk of Zmyeevich once again seeking his revenge against the Romanovs. That was the more remote possibility, and the one Aleksei would rather live with. He would tell Mihail all he knew – most significantly that the attempt to make the army swear allegiance would almost certainly be the flashpoint. After he had betrayed all their secrets, then all he had to do was to save one particular member of the Northern Society – his own son.

He took a deep breath and began. ‘Highness, as far as I know . . .’ The door opened and in walked a figure that Aleksei could recognize only from portraits. It was Grand Duke Nikolai. A second later, he corrected himself; it was Tsar Nikolai. He leapt to his feet, as did Mihail.

‘Good evening, Brother,’ said the tsar, somewhat formally, presumably because he was in the presence of a stranger.

‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ said Mihail. ‘May I present a gentleman who was a loyal servant of the late Aleksandr Pavlovich.’

Nikolai held out his hand, and Aleksei bent to kiss it. He was not a man to be affected by grandeur and status, but he felt a swelling of pride within him as he considered the honour of this early introduction to the new tsar – before many Russians even realized that Nikolai
was
tsar. He could not tell whether he would ever love him as he had Aleksandr, but he felt profoundly sure in
the knowledge that it was his duty to serve him.

‘Colonel Danilov, Your Majesty,’ he said, his head still bowed. ‘Aleksei Ivanovich.’

Aleksei felt the tsar’s hand suddenly withdraw. He looked up and saw Nikolai backing away, with an utterly unconvincing pretence of casualness. With every step he took, the look of horror on his face grew. Aleksei could not fathom what had caused it. He glanced over his shoulder to see what it was that had so shocked the new tsar, half expecting to find that Iuda had broken into the palace, but there was no one there. He looked back at Nikolai.

‘Kolya?’ asked the tsar’s brother. ‘What’s the matter?’

The tsar raised a trembling hand and pointed at Aleksei. ‘That man,’ he said, ‘is a traitor.’ He had reached the door and opened it to shout through. ‘Guard! Guard!’

‘You must be wrong,’ insisted Mihail. ‘Our brother put great faith in him.’

Nikolai remained by the door, moving the line of his gaze between Aleksei and the guards he was hoping to see outside. ‘Only yesterday I received a letter from Aleksandr Pavlovich declaring this man a turncoat, along with the whole of their damned society of rebels.’

It took Aleksei a moment to realize what Nikolai meant. It was a simple misunderstanding to clear up – the very list the tsar referred to was written in his own hand. At that moment, the guards arrived. There were three of them. Aleksei realized that he might prove his innocence, but that it would take time, which for now he didn’t have; not if he was to save Dmitry.

He grabbed hold of one of the long, sleek velvet curtains that hung from the window and jumped into the air, pulling himself up on it. The curtain swung back towards the window, and with it went Aleksei. He held his feet out in front of him and heard the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood as they made contact. He closed his eyes momentarily to avoid them being hit by any shards, and when he opened them, he found himself suspended above the snowy street below, at the very limit of the
curtain’s swing, before he slowly began to fall back towards the palace.

He let go just before reaching the broken window and landed on the ledge outside. The snow was halfway up his calves and felt slippery under his feet. Inside, the guards were almost up to the window, swords drawn. Aleksei edged along the ledge as fast as he dared, and soon found his way blocked by one of the towering Corinthian columns that decorated the walls of the palace. He began to climb down, lowering himself from the ledge and scrambling with his feet for the ornate golden leaves of the capital of the column below. He found them and allowed himself to slip a little further downwards.

Suddenly, there was a shot. He looked over to the window and saw one of the guards leaning from it, smoking pistol in hand. Even as Aleksei looked, he saw the guard withdraw so that another might take his place. Aleksei let himself fall, and then grabbed the tiny ridge that ran above the next row of windows, scarcely able to grip it through the snow. He dangled there, wondering whether to let himself drop or try to climb further down.

The decision was taken from him. Another shot rang out, and he felt a sudden burning pain in the middle finger of his left hand. He snatched it away instinctively, but his right hand could not take his weight alone. He fell to the ground and immediately found himself in blackness and unable to breathe. He pawed the snow aside with his hands until he saw light and felt the cold night air fill his lungs again. The snowdrift had to some extent broken his fall, but he could not waste time determining whether he was injured. He scrambled to his feet and ran along the quay to the east, keeping close in against the palace wall.

Another shot was fired at him, but came nowhere near. Now all three guards had fired, and Aleksei felt safer. He forgot about hugging the wall and ran with all his strength, his aging lungs and legs straining for life and freedom. When he did stop, he fell down exhausted in the snow.

Monday 14 December 1825

I
T WAS MORNING – AS DARK AS ANY WINTER MORNING IN PETERS
burg; the solstice had occurred just five days before. Aleksei had slept in the same tavern as the night before. His one goal since fleeing the Winter Palace had been to find Dmitry, and so far he had failed. He had gone first to his own home, but the footman had informed him that neither Marfa Mihailovna nor Dmitry Alekseevich was there. The man had bandaged Aleksei’s finger, which was a relief. In future he would be known – amongst those
voordalaki
who cared – as the two-and-a-half-fingered man. The bullet had gone clean through between the first and second knuckles, leaving a reasonably neat stump. The cold had numbed it, but once he had got into his house, it began to throb with pain. He could not stay. His address was registered. Soldiers, under Nikolai’s orders, would soon arrive there.

He had gone to Ryleev’s house and found it bustling with officers, each with the same thought on his mind: tomorrow was to be the day of revolution. But Dmitry was not among them. Someone suggested he should try Obolensky’s, but that had been his next port of call anyway. The prince’s house was quieter than the poet’s had been, but amongst those who were there, the mood was the same. There was still no sign of Dmitry.