The Witches of St. Petersburg

¹¹ 19 June 1901, St Petersburg

Militza never forgot the morning she woke up to the 101-gun salute. For the last two weeks of Alix’s confinement, both she and Stana had been almost continuously by the Empress’s side. The increasingly hot and humid days under the summer sun had been spent in a state of heightened and yet contented alert; they’d drunk tea, sewed samplers and had quietly waited for Alix’s waters to break. The confident assurances of Maître Philippe had meant the usual anxiety that surrounded the final days of the Tsarina’s pregnancy had dissipated into a sort of balmy blissfulness. She was to have a boy and hers and Russia’s problems would soon be over.

So when Militza lay in bed that morning and heard the resounding silence following the one hundred and first firing of the canon over the Neva, her head began to swim, her heart began to race – and it was all she could do to reach the nearby pot in her bedroom before she vomited. Despite the bright sunshine outside, her teeth began to chatter. She could not understand how this could have happened. Philippe had been so sure, so confident. She had trusted him completely, so had Alix and, so indeed, had the Tsar. How could she and Stana ever come back from this? What would happen to their friendship? Their influence? Their power?

She had to think – and she had think at great speed, before all that she had worked for, all that she had achieved, disappeared like sand through her quivering fingers. She pulled on her dressing gown and began to pace her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of herself in her gilt triple-paned dressing-table mirror: she looked haunted, ashen-faced and her long dark hair tumbled, unbrushed, over her white lace chemise. She was shocked by what she saw. She had been so certain. Tears welled in her black eyes. What could she do? There were no incantations to change the sex of a baby that had been already been born, no spells to alter what had already come to pass. Where was her magic now? How could it have gone so wrong?

There was a knock at her door and Brana walked in, bringing with her a steaming cup of tea.

‘Oh Brana!’ she cried, rushing across her bedroom and throwing herself at the aged crone, collapsing onto her small hunched shoulders and inhaling the acidic smell of old sweat and garlic. ‘I can’t believe it! Where’s Peter?’

‘He left for his club early this morning,’ replied the crone.

‘The Tsarina has had another daughter!’

‘Last night?’

‘A fourth! What are we to do?’ The old woman could offer little advice but instead she stroked Militza’s hair, as she had done a thousand times before, muttering simple platitudes in her ear. Slowly, as Militza sat back on the bed, tears of frustration and humiliation trickling down her face, Brana poured her a cup of camomile tea laced with laudanum and wild strawberry jam.

‘This will make you feel better.’

‘I am not sure if even one of your special drinks can make a difference,’ she replied, as she watched her old nursemaid replacing the lid on her familiar blue glass bottle. ‘I am not sure how we can ever come back from this.’

‘You will come back from this,’ said the crone. ‘You always have a plan.’

It wasn’t long before a sweet laudanum sleep came over her. Cradled in its soft opium embrace, Militza lay back and loosened her gown, relaxing in a semi-naked state on the bed, feeling the gentle summer breezes flow over her exposed skin. Down she went, deep down into her disturbed subconscious and the voices began: whispering, chastising, teasing, the faces, the tears, the cries, the longing, the desperation, Count Yusupov’s laughing eyes, the sneers of Grand Duchess Vladimir, the words ‘Goat Girl,’ ‘Goat King,’ all finally dissolved into the loud, painful screams of labour. She woke dramatically from her slumber, to find her sister violently shaking her by the shoulders. Stana was fully dressed and sunlight was streaming through the open window.

‘Wake up, wake up!’

‘What time is it?’ mumbled Militza gathering her white shift around her.

‘It has gone two o’clock in the afternoon!’ declared Stana, her eyes wide with panic. ‘It’s the most appalling day of our lives and you take one of Brana’s cocktails? What is wrong with you? We need to think! We need to act! We need to come up with a plan!’

‘I am sorry, I am sorry…’ Militza roused herself as fast as she could. Clearly, Brana’s tea was stronger than she thought. ‘Give me a minute, I shall be fine.’

‘Fine! I am not sure we shall ever be fine. It was all anyone was talking about on the English Embankment as I came over here. You can hear the whispering all the way along the park. You can almost hear the Vladimirs sniggering from here. We are lost. Our country is lost. Papa will never forgive us. Montenegro was relying on us for grain, for arms. The Tsar promised Father 40,000 rifles – do you think he will give them to him now?’

‘The Tsar will give Papa his rifles,’ Militza stated quietly, buttoning up her shift. ‘You have my word on that.’

‘Your word? What use is your word when Alix has had another daughter? We should have cracked an egg, done the test, then at least we would have known.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! That’s a parlour game, not something you can play with a Tsarina!’

‘Have you spoken to Philippe? Philippe will know what to do,’ declared Stana, pacing around the room. ‘Philippe always knows what to do.

Half an hour later, a surprisingly calm-looking Philippe strode into the Red Salon at the Nikolai Palace. The two sisters were sitting side by side on the button-backed divan, their backs straight, their hands on their laps, as they awaited his explanation. But instead of any browbeating or hand-wringing, the diminutive guru from Lyon stood by the fireplace, placed his hand on the marble mantelpiece and slowly shook his head.

‘She did not believe.’

‘But she did,’ corrected Stana. ‘We all did.’

‘She did not believe… enough,’ replied Philippe, with a shrug. ‘Maybe she had doubts? Maybe she did not listen enough, maybe she didn’t believe with her heart? Monsieur Philippe never fails. Monsieur Philippe always succeeds.’

The two sisters stared at him in silence. Was this the best he could do? Was that all he had to say? Stana was expecting more. An idea at the very least. Something to give them all hope, a scintilla of a chance against the growing clouds of jealous animosity that were gathering on the horizon.

‘Yes!’ Militza agreed suddenly, standing up and starting to pace the room. Her sister looked at her a little surprised. ‘Monsieur Philippe never fails.’ She nodded. ‘He always succeeds. He never fails. We never fail.’ It was as if she were trying to convince herself. ‘The Tsarina simply did not believe enough. It is that simple. Should always be kept very simple. She needs to try harder; she needs to submit entirely to Philippe’s will. To the will of God.’

‘I am glad you understand,’ smiled Philippe, smoothing down his fecund moustache. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I am a man of my word. I have cured all my patients from many terrible diseases – and those I haven’t cured simply didn’t believe enough. Remember the other day, when I calmed a storm while we were sailing on the Standart?’

‘Yes,’ enthused Stana. ‘We were so lucky you were there, otherwise who knows what would have happened!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Militza, remembering the dark gathering clouds and the subsequent lashing rains and the hands of Philippe raised at the bow of the Standart as he shouted incantations into the roaring wind. It took a while for the storm to abate, but abate it did, and everyone who’d been cowering below decks, holding on for dear life, gave him the credit. ‘You did calm the storm. You absolutely did calm the storm.’

‘As God is my witness, you did,’ added Stana.

‘So, as you can see, I am a man of my word.’ Maître Philippe smiled confidently, his argument won.

It was four days later and the midnight sun was low in the sky when Militza and Stana left Znamenka carrying two small wicker baskets and a couple of sharp knives. It was St John’s Eve’s night – midsummer’s eve – and the most auspicious night of the year for gathering herbs. This was a childhood hobby that had, over the years, gained in importance, but that night, Militza remembered, was perhaps the most significant of all. They had been invited to see the newborn, Anastasia, at Tsarskoye Selo the following day, which, given that she was only a few days old, was a great honour indeed. It suggested to Militza that all was not lost with the Tsar and the Tsarina; it appeared they were to be given a second chance. However, to arrive without a persuasive plan would be foolish, possibly terminal. Like losing one’s footing on a steep cliff, it would leave their hard-worn position entirely vacant, ready for someone else to step into, as they themselves fell, bruised and lacerated, all the way down.

‘So, we reiterate Philippe’s suggestion,’ began Militza as she walked through the woods, hitching up her white skirts, already damp with dew.

Being alone in the forest all night with her sister brought her no fear. In fact, she loved the feeling of solitude, loved listening to the wind as it rustled through the leaves of the silver birch; it was as if the trees themselves were talking to her, muttering and mumbling their secrets, telling them exactly where to find the woodland treasures that they were seeking. She loved the light during the hours of night this far north, when the weak sun never waned and the sky was a pale, clean, clear blue; it was as if everything was crisp and new, about to be reborn again.

‘Alix simply didn’t believe enough,’ she continued, picking her way along the path. ‘She may have thought she had, but she did not.’

‘Maître Philippe doesn’t fail,’ agreed Stana, sounding equally determined. ‘We just have to make her realize her mistake. It’s all her own fault; if only she’d trusted Philippe, trusted us a little more.’

‘It’s not just her we need to convince. There!’ Militza said, pointing to a small patch of blue flowers nestled at the foot of a tree. ‘Knapweed. Adam’s Head, the Tsar of herbs, for the Tsar of Russia.’ She smiled. ‘Just what we were looking for.’

Stana rushed over with all the enthusiasm of a child, knelt down and cradled the small blue flower in her hand. ‘What a perfect specimen – and gathering morning dew just as it should be. We couldn’t wish for better.’

‘Lord, bless me.’ Militza took a small wooden crucifix out from deep in her dress pocket and, waving it over the flowers, started to chant. ‘And you, Mother Fresh Earth, bless me to cull this plant.’ She made the sign of the cross over the front of her breast. ‘You have brought it forth for man’s use and thus I take it. From the earth a plant. From God a medicine. Amen.’

‘Amen,’ repeated her sister.

Militza took out the short sharp-bladed knife and knelt down before the plant. A curl of loose birch leaves blew off the ground and spun and danced before them like a wisp.

Militza smiled. ‘Here come the woodland spirits,’ she said, looking up at her sister. ‘Are you ready? Turn around, otherwise the herbs will lose their power.’

Stana turned her back and prayed. ‘Holy Adam ploughed, Jesus Christ gave seed, the Lord sowed it, the Mother of God watered it and gave it to the Orthodox people as an aid.’ She crossed herself and spat three times on the ground. ‘Amen.’

‘Amen,’ repeated Militza and plunged the point of the knife into the palm of her hand. A searing agony ripped through her and she cried out. Her eyes watered, but as she exhaled through her half-open mouth, she began to feel the rush, the high, giddy joy of the pain. She sucked on the wound, drawing the blood closer to the surface. Eventually two scarlet drips appeared and snaked down her wrist, staining the white cuff of her dress. She knelt over the flower, squeezing her left hand harder and harder until finally another three large drops fell, splattering the small blue petals.

‘Adam’s Head, the dew of midsummer morn and the blood of a witch,’ declared Stana and she swiftly sliced the stem close to the root. ‘It does not get more powerful than that.’

‘Mix with holy water and, even the most barren will conceive a son.’

Later that morning they opened the door to the Tsarina’s bedchamber. Crepuscular, with the curtains tightly drawn and devoid of oxygen, the room was hot and crammed with photographs, icons and endless painted images. Between the two brass beds, swathed in the pink bows and a fussy English floral-wreath patterned chintz, every nook, cranny, surface and space was crammed with pots, plants, bronze statues or little knickknacks from Alix’s travels, the effect was not only an assault on the eyes, but overpoweringly claustrophobic.

Through the half-light they could see Alix propped up on her pillows, the mewling infant by her side. The Tsarina’s hair was loose, her face covered in a cold, dank sheen and she looked weak and lost. Such was the shock and the disappointment of a fourth daughter she had, apparently, been driven mad by insomnia. She had not slept for three days, stalked by the twin demons of guilt and fear. On closer inspection the sisters saw that her eyes were rubbed red raw, her mouth was dry and her parted lips were barely capable of speech.

‘You are here. At last,’ she said.

She spoke so softly the sisters had to strain to hear her. She closed her eyes as a tear slipped out of the corner of one eye and slithered down her cheek. ‘Tell me all is not lost.’ She turned her head towards the closed window and tried to stifle a small cry. ‘Tell me I am not lost.’

‘All is not lost,’ replied Militza, sitting on the bed and taking Alix’s thin hand in hers. ‘You are not lost.’

‘We’re here now,’ added Stana, sitting down on the end of the bed. ‘And we have something for you.’

While Alix stared listlessly, Militza placed twelve little wooden dolls, one by one, in a circle on the bed. Made from laundry pegs carved from rowan wood, hand-snipped headscarves of various hues were tightly pinned around their smooth, faceless heads. The last time she’d used her Herod’s daughters, Militza had managed to quell the worryingly high fever that had gripped the son of Stana’s lady’s maid, Natalya. For two nights he had tossed and turned, pale and pouring sweat, but eventually the dolls had performed their magic, and the fever had calmed. This morning as they sat in the dark, stuffy bedchamber, Militza was hoping they might cool Alix’s fever and help her overcome the terrible disappointment of Anastasia’s birth.

‘What lovely little dolls,’ she whispered, stroking the smooth, featureless face of the one closest to her with a quivering hand. ‘Rock-a-bye baby…’ she began singing in a thin, quiet voice, gently under her breath. ‘On the tree top…’ She slowly swayed the poppet back and forth. ‘When the wind blows, the cradle will rock, and when the bough breaks…’ She paused and turned to stare at Militza. ‘The cradle will fall…’ Her eyes were so haunted and pale and, although she was looking at Militza, Militza wasn’t sure if she could see her at all. ‘And down will come baby… cradle… and… all.’ She suddenly looked at the wooden poppet and threw it across the room. It smashed into a small mirror sitting on one of the many cluttered shelves, which fell to the floor and immediately shattered into a thousand little pieces. The shocked silence that followed was only broken by the gurgling noises from the tightly swaddled baby lying on the bed.

‘Philippe says you will have a son,’ declared Militza, taking back hold of Alix’s hands. Alix did not reply. She simply stared into the darkness, her face devoid of expression. ‘Philippe promises you will have a son – and Philippe is never wrong.’

‘Really?’ she responded eventually, sounding so very hopeless and so very unconvinced.

‘Yes! You just have to believe.’

‘Yes,’ added Stana joining in. ‘You just have to believe.’

‘Believe in what Philippe said. He’s been sent from God. Believe in God and the Will of God. Believe with all your heart,’ confirmed Militza, taking hold of both of her thin white hands and squeezing them.

‘Just believe…’ Alix sighed and closed her eyes, all her fight gone.

‘Just believe, my darling, open up your heart and it will happen,’ whispered Militza, gently stroking the back of her hand.

‘Believe,’ hushed Stana.

They carried on whispering, caressing her hand, stroking her hair, until it almost became some sort of mantra; they rearranged the small wooden poppets, moving around the bed in the half-light, like shadows in the night, their footsteps light, their movements slow. It was like a dance. They lit the heavy rose oil incense burner in the private oratory just off the bedroom and the sweet, sickly smell wafted into the room, its odour overpowering. The more the girls moved, the more the airless atmosphere was rendered claustrophobic. The chanting, the cloying perfume, the whispering around the bed – the effect was hypnotic. Alix was slowly drawn into their vortex so when they came to administer the drops, she was powerless to resist. She opened her mouth like a compliant child as they slipped the pipette between her gently parted lips.

‘Adam’s Head,’ Militza whispered in her ear. ‘The Tsar of plants, for the Tsarina.’ Alix managed a small smile. Militza leant in closely and her lips brushed against Alix’s cheek, then slowly, tenderly, she moved lower, gently kissing Alix on the mouth. The Tsarina inhaled sharply, her eyes suddenly wide open, her face questioning. Undeterred, Militza continued: ‘Two drops a day, every day, my darling.’ Militza whispered, kissing her again, then when your menstrual blood flows again, four drops every day after that until you conceive again. Which you will… I promise.’

‘I will,’ repeated Alix, smiling slowly at her friend as her pale cheeks flushed pink. She stared into Militza’s deep black eyes, her own burning more brightly than before. She caressed her cheek before she turned her head and, with a relaxed and heavy sigh, let her lids slowly close. Finally, a few minutes later, her chest began to rise and fall. At last she’d fallen asleep.

Outside the room, the anxious Tsar was pacing up and down the corridor, his polished boots tapping on the wooden floor. He looked gaunt, his eyes emanating a deep sadness; it was as if he had aged a dozen years overnight.

‘How is she?’ he asked, taking hold of Militza’s shoulder as the two sisters exited the room, chased by a heavy cloud of incense. His grip was urgent. ‘Dr Ott wants to prescribe aspirin?’

‘He always wants to prescribe aspirin, that’s his answer to everything,’ said Militza. ‘She is asleep now and she needs to rest. Let the wet nurse take the child.’

‘You know Alix doesn’t like that.’

‘Alix needs to sleep – desperately needs to sleep. She can feed her child later,’ asserted Militza.

There was a noise at the end of the corridor and Nicholas turned to stare as his two eldest girls, Olga, aged five, and Tatiana who had just turned four, appeared. Dressed in identical white frilled dresses, their long hair tied back with large pale blue ribbons, they rushed towards him.

‘Papa!’ exclaimed Olga, as she fell against his legs and embraced him.

‘Papa!’ cried Tatiana, doing exactly the same.

‘How is Mummy? Is it a “one”, or a “two” today?’ Olga asked, her pretty face upturned towards her father. ‘I hate it when her back pain is a two because I know we are not allowed to see her.’

‘It is not her back that is hurting today,’ said Nicholas, kneeling down and stroking the top of his daughter’s head. ‘It is the new baby, she’s making Mama tired.’

‘When will she be awake? When will she be better?’ continued Olga.

‘I want to see Mama,’ Tatiana announced, trying to push her father to one side to get into the room.

‘No, no, no,’ said the Tsar, taking both his daughters gently by the hand. ‘Mama needs some rest, she needs to sleep. Why don’t you come outside with me? It is a beautiful day; let’s go for a walk? A walk always makes everything much better.’