The Witches of St. Petersburg

^Prologue 10 February 1911, Znamenka, Peterhof

They hammered on the entrance to the palace, pounding with their fists. The heavy wooden doors shook on their hinges and cries of bloodlust rang out into the night.

‘Open up! Police! Open up in the name of the Tsar!’

Militza stood in the hall. She could hear him panting with fear from behind the heavy silk curtain. She glanced across. His pale eyes stared at her from the darkness. The most powerful man in Russia was finally asking her for help. He’d arrived drenched in sweat, his clothes sodden, his bare feet crimson with cold. He’d come careering through the woods like a deer chased by a pack of hungry wolves, had begged her for protection, implored her, promised her anything, everything – and she could hardly contain her pleasure.

They hammered again. The glass in the windows at the front of the palace rattled. A few of the domestic household, some sixty souls, were now gathered on the stairs, some shocked, some quizzical, some clasping their hands together in terror. All were staring at the doors. These were dangerous times; there was more than a whiff of revolution in the air and anything could happen. The burgundy-liveried footman went to open the door.

‘Wait!’ commanded Militza, taking a step forward and raising her hand. She pulled a diamond comb from the back of her head, shook her long, dark hair over her shoulders and partially opened the front of her red velvet robe. ‘Now,’ she said and nodded.

The footman pulled back the brass lock and opened the great doors. An icy blast tore into the hall. In front of her stood a seething gang of some twenty or so policemen. Dressed in navy tunics with lambskin helmets, they surged towards her, their breath white and their eyes wild with the chase. The young officer in charge lunged forward.

‘It has gone midnight! What in God’s name,’ Militza demanded, dramatically crossing herself, ‘are you doing waking my household at this hour?’

‘Where is he?’ barked the officer, leaning in, glancing around the hall.

‘How dare you!’ Militza stood her ground.

‘I am sorry, Your Imperial Highness.’ The young man withdrew slightly, cheeks tinged with contrition, clutching a piece of paper. ‘We are searching for Rasputin. Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin—’

‘The devil!’ someone shouted.

The young officer swung around. ‘Quiet!’ he snarled. He turned slowly back and, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve, he smiled. ‘We believe he came this way.’

‘Well, I am sorry to disappoint,’ Militza replied, returning his smile, ‘but I have been here, alone, all evening and, as you can see…’ She looked down at her smooth, white, carefully exposed skin, ‘I am about to retire.’

The young man immediately averted his gaze. She had managed to disconcert him, but it was only momentary. ‘I would like permission to search the palace.’

‘You doubt my word?’ Militza glared.

‘Witch!’ came a shout from the back of the pack.

‘He is not here,’ she said, ignoring the accusation. She stood aside, calling his bluff. ‘You are very welcome to search the palace of Grand Duke Peter Nikolayevich, cousin of the Tsar, should you so wish, but you will not find the dog.’

The mere mention of her husband’s name called them to a halt. At least some titles still managed to instil a scintilla of respect, fear even, despite the ever-shifting sands.

‘That will not be necessary, Your Imperial Highness.’ He paused, fixing her with a stare. Militza’s face was impassive, her body completely still. She had always been an excellent liar. His men’s feet pawed the ground, itching for a fight, but the officer was not quite brave enough to enter. ‘We know for certain Rasputin came this way.’

Militza stared, a gentle half-smile curling her lips. ‘So…’

The officer cleared his throat. ‘We’ll stand guard on the entrance to your estate. It is, after all, our job to protect you.’

‘Protect me, indeed.’ She nodded, taking in his young face, the blond moustache struggling to cover his top lip. ‘How kind of you. I shall send out warm refreshments for your men.’

‘No need, Your Imperial Highness. My men will be quite warm enough.’

The wooden doors slammed shut and Militza slowly closed her eyes in relief then turned and dismissed her servants. Rasputin waited for the household to disperse before he drew back the curtain. Stepping out of the shadow, he walked towards her, arms outstretched. He pulled her towards him, enveloping her firmly in his embrace. She could feel her stomach tighten.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered in her ear. His hot breath sent a shiver down her spine. ‘May the Lord bless you.’ He kissed the backs of her hands with his dry lips, his coarse beard tickling her skin and the acrid smell of his fetid hair filling her nostrils. He looked up. ‘I shall exit by a basement entrance and head towards the sea. I will trouble you no more.’ He brushed his rough lips once more across the back of her hand. ‘I am forever in your debt.’

It was now or never, she thought. He had come to her of his own free will. It would only work if he were compliant. And here he was. This was it.

‘Stay!’ she replied, a little too swiftly. He looked puzzled. ‘You are cold,’ she added. He hesitated. ‘And you must be hungry, starving. We have sweet cakes, Madeira. All your favourite things. Let me warm you and get you something to eat.’

‘But the soldiers?’

‘Many things might have changed but no one would doubt the word of a Grand Duchess.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘They will soon disappear to find vodka in the village.’

Half an hour later a servant delivered a tray of small cakes and Madeira wine to her private drawing room. Intimate, filled with many of Militza’s most precious philosophical and religious texts, it was rare she entertained here. The fire was well-stoked and Rasputin was lying on her peach velvet button-backed divan, his damp clothes steaming, his small leather bag of possessions next to him on the floor.

Militza was at his gnarled feet, gently washing them in a bowl of hot, scented water.

‘Relax,’ she soothed.

‘Are they still out there?’ He sat up, nervously glancing towards the window. ‘I can feel their presence and smell their sweat; their blood is up, the night is cold and getting colder still – their master shall not keep his hounds at bay for much longer.’

‘They wouldn’t dare. You’re safe here.’

‘Safe?’ he snorted. ‘None of us is safe, my dear, not any more.’

‘What happened to your shoes?’ she asked, wringing out the cloth and letting the warm water trickle between his toes. The sweet smell of Indian sandalwood rose up in the vapours and began to fill the air.

‘I lost them somewhere in the forest. I took my boots off on the train and didn’t have time to get them on again before I saw them at the station. I had to leap from a moving train to get away from those bastards! They mean to banish me from the city. Me? From the city. My city!’ He laughed. ‘Little do they know who they are dealing with!’

He sat in silence while Militza continued her washing. The severity of his situation had stunned him. He had been utterly unprepared. He would not make the same mistake again. Who had sent them? Who had betrayed him? Didn’t they know who his friends were? How powerful he was? They would surely pay.

The heat of the room, the noise of the crackling fire, the wine, the cakes and the gently dripping water wove their soporific charm. Slowly, he sat back into the divan, closing his eyes, his head relaxed, his mouth fell slightly ajar as he lightly licked his lips. He was enjoying the warmth of the water and the softness of her touch. She picked up the bottle of oil again. She had chosen it carefully. Sandalwood: the realizer of dreams. And this was her moment. She could not believe it had arrived so soon after asking. The Fates had indeed been kind. She dried his feet with a towel and then, pouring a few drops of the oil just above his toes, began to massage the liquid into his chapped skin. Her nimble fingers moved adeptly up the arch of his foot, her sensuous touch causing him to moan unconsciously. Suddenly he opened his eyes.

‘What are you doing to me, woman?’ he barked, retracting his feet. ‘What wicked enchantment are you up to now?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Sit back and let me tend to you.’

‘Why?’ he asked warily, trying to read the expression on her face. ‘What are you planning – witch?’

‘You, of all people, know better than to call me that!’ She laughed as lightly as she could, trying to control the rising flush in her cheeks.

Rasputin leant forward. Militza’s heart was pounding. She could feel the cold metal of his golden crucifix as it swung against the warm flesh of her breasts. His breathing was heavy.

‘I’ve had enough of your tricks,’ he mumbled, slowly running his coarse fingertip down the side of her throat. Militza shivered again in an intoxicating combination of mounting fear and desire.

‘Let me be Magdalene to your Christ,’ she whispered, staring into his eyes. She could see his pupils were dilated. Was it natural? Or had he willed them to, as she knew he could?

There was a pause. Militza didn’t dare to move or breathe – and then Rasputin roared with laughter. He threw back his bearded chin and his large frame shook as his crucifix danced on his belly.

‘As you wish,’ he chuckled, leaning back and returning his feet to the towel. ‘As you wish, my little… bitch.’

Militza echoed his laugh with as much enthusiasm as she could muster and, somehow, she managed to control her shaking hands enough to continue the massage. She worked hard and deep, moving up his strong ankles and down between his thick, splayed toes. Clearly this wasn’t the first time he’d run through the forest unshod. She poured on more oil; her hands were beginning to hurt, but she forced herself to continue, humming gently under her breath. Not long now, she thought. Not long. It would take an iron will not to succumb to slumber. And sure enough, Rasputin’s chest began slowly to rise and fall. After a while he started to snore.

At last! Militza sat back on her haunches for a second, allowing herself a moment’s rest. She could kill him now, as he lay there, snoring and slack-jawed, exhaling through the blackened gaps between his filthy teeth. She could slit his throat, plunge a dagger into his rotten, duplicitous heart: it would be quick and easy and no one need know, least of all the Tsarina. She could even feed him to the dogs outside. But he was her creation, her creature, her thick-shafted lover – and she had not finished with him yet.

Quickly, silently, she crossed her boudoir to find the sewing sampler she’d left on the arm of the sofa earlier that afternoon. She lifted it up and, from underneath, she rescued a small pair of ornately carved golden scissors. Quickly, she knelt back down at Rasputin’s feet and slowly, surely, she got to work. The toenails were thick and difficult to cut, but, one by one, she very carefully snipped them off, keeping them as whole as possible, curved as new moons. Only when she had collected all ten, did she place them very carefully in a beautiful wooden box.