The Witches of St. Petersburg

‘Time is the one thing I don’t have!’ snapped Alix, jabbing her needle into her sampler.?‘Can’t you hear them all? Squawking like starlings? Saying that Tsar should have married a nice Russian girl? That I am barren? Sent by the Germans to bring down the house of Romanov?’

‘You just must have faith,’ replied Militza. ‘And it will happen.’

‘It must.’ She sighed. ‘Otherwise I am lost.’

Suddenly there was a terrible shrieking from the corridor outside. All three women put down their teacups and sat up rigidly in their chairs.

‘Is that them?’ asked Stana, turning her head.

The shrieking was replaced by a low growling and then a deep moaning. There were sounds of a struggle and then some banging and crashing from the other side of the double doors. Mitya sounded extremely reluctant to enter the room. The doors finally opened and the screaming intensified as the hooded monk dragged in the poor iurodivye, or holy fool, by a chain tied around his neck. Half blind, with short handless stumps for arms, his festering hair, stinking rags and raw bare feet all added to the man’s woeful appearance. With one hefty tug of the chain he at last arrived in the centre of the room and cowered in front of the three women. He appeared to be completely overawed and confused by the bright lights and the opulence of his surroundings. He started to rock his head from side to side, screaming and hopping about.

‘Shush!’ ordered Egorov tugging at the chain. ‘Quieten yourself!’

Militza had known a little of what to expect, so was only mildly upset by the sight of Mitya, but Stana was appalled. It was all she could do to prevent herself crying out in horror as she swiftly retreated, moving behind a chair. Alix, on the other hand, was completely enthralled. She got out of her seat and walked slowly over to the monk and his charge, her arms outstretched as though she was trying to calm a skittish colt.

‘Hello,’ she said calmly. ‘I am Alexandra Fyodorovna – and I promise I am not going to hurt you.’

Mitya tugged on his chain as he tried to move away. Alix took another two steps towards him.

‘I would not come any closer,’ said Egorov, raising his hand in the air. ‘Mitya doesn’t like it when people are too close.’

‘I promise you no harm,’ said Alix, ignoring the monk and taking another step forward.

Mitya stopped in his tracks and turned back towards the Empress. Walking slowly up to her, he raised his two stumps in the air and, placing his nose close to hers, screamed loudly in her face. The sound was piercing, the sight of his open mouth, his six brown fetid teeth and the shower of spittle that emanated from it, made Stana cover her mouth with her lace handkerchief. The Tsarina was, however, unmoved. She turned and looked at the monk.

‘What is he saying?’

‘I can only understand when he is having a fit,’ explained the monk. ‘It is only when he has one of his attacks that he becomes clairvoyant.’

‘And how often does he have one of those?’

‘When God decides.’

*

It was a full two weeks after Mitya and Egorov moved into the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoye Selo that Militza finally witnessed one of the holy fool’s crises in action. She, Stana and Alix were sitting in the Mauve Boudoir when it happened. Militza was playing Schubert’s ‘Serenade’ on the piano, while Stana was telling Alix about who and what she had seen at luncheon the day before at the Imperial Yacht Club on Morskaya. Then one of the servants came running. Mitya was having a fit. He had collapsed outside in the snow and they should come quickly, otherwise they would miss their opportunity. Grabbing the nearest coats and hats they could find, the three ladies ran, still wearing their silk slippers, through the snow.

It was early afternoon and almost dark. The air was freezing and each inhalation sliced their lungs like a knife. Fortunately, the monk and the fool had not strayed far from the palace.

As the women arrived, Mitya was rolling around on his back in the snow. Egorov had apparently let go of the chain and, still swathed in his black hooded cape, he was on his knees, his eyes closed, his hands together, fervently praying.

‘Mitya!’ demanded Militza, raising her arms in the air as she looked down at the flailing creature, now growling and foaming copiously at the mouth. ‘Will the Empress have a boy?’

They held their breath. The fool yelped and writhed and kicked in the snow. He emitted some high-pitched squeals and moans, which the monk began to interpret.

‘It is still early days,’ said the monk, his eyes shining from underneath his hood. ‘It is still long before the birth, and Mitya cannot say whether it will be a girl or a boy. But he is praying unceasingly and, in the course of time, will give exact information.’

Alix looked at Militza, confused, panicked even. She had waited on tenterhooks for over two weeks for this? She’d believed, had given the monk and his charge her complete trust; she had done exactly what Stana and Militza had told her to do!