Curse Not the King (7 page)

He looked at her and laughed in fierce defiance.

“It's you who threaten, Madame! But this time you're powerless to make good your threats; I know how you hate me, I know what you'd like to do. You'd have me killed, as you killed my father, if only you were safe. But you're not safe! The people rebel, they rise against you in thousands! Harm Natalie, and you'll have to take me with her.… I dare you to arrest me! Follow your inclinations, my mother, shed my blood and separate me from my wife, for you'll have to do both I swear to you. Then take the consequences, for before God, you know that if you touch me now the people would tear down the palace walls about your ears!”

She sprang to her feet then, and all the tumult of terrible maternal loathing showed in her livid face and blazing eyes. Paul saw her fully for the first time in his life, saw the carefully cultivated mask of amiability fall to pieces, revealing the true nature of the woman, the greed and lust and fear which dwelt in her soul, warping and strangling the good qualities. He was too prejudiced to see that even in her rage she was majestic, and too much the child of her own courageous body to shrink from the consequences of that anger.

“Get out of my sight! Go, while you still have your life!” she shouted, and as she pointed to the door he turned his back on her and went without a word.

She almost fell into her chair, aware that tears of fury were running down her cheeks. She leant her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her shaking hands, ashamed because she wept, enraged by the loss of dignity and writhing at the memory of Paul's reference to the rebellion.

What he had said was true, and the knowledge ate into her mind like acid. Her people were restive, her kingdom riven by an impostor whose power was still unchecked. And her son, her ugly son whom she had cheated and despised, was as popular with the masses as she was hated.

“You'll live to regret this day.… By God, I promise you I'll make you pay for every word you've uttered. Only wait; wait until I've beaten Pugachev! Then I'll know how to deal with you.”

Once outside his mother's room Paul began to run, careless of the astonished stares of those who saw him, his heart pounding with dread, afraid that even while he stood before the Empress, Natalie had been arrested.

The sight of two guards posted outside the entrance to their joint suite seemed to justify his worst fears, and he halted abruptly. Instinctively one hand flew to his little court sword and snatched the slender jewelled weapon out of the scabbard.

He stepped close to the tall soldier of Catherine's household guard and brought the tip of the blade on a level with his breast. At that moment he felt an awful, crazed strength flooding into every nerve and sinew, and with it the impulse to plunge the glittering steel up to the hilt into the heart of the soldier who barred the way to his wife.

“Where is the Grand Duchess?”

The Russian guardsman looked into the dilated eyes of his Czarevitch and blinked as the point of the sword pricked his tunic. Paul felt the first sensation of human fear that he had ever inspired, and subconsciously the impression went deep. Over and above it lay his terror for the helpless Natalie.

“Answer me, you dog! What have they done with her?”

The sentry grunted and stepped back as the tip of the weapon pierced his uniform and scratched his flesh.

“She is inside, Imperial Highness,” he muttered.

“Out of my way, or I'll pin you to the doorpost.…”

For a second the soldier hesitated, faced with the prospect of a flogging for disobedience, or death at the hands of the Czarevitch. Relying on Catherine's leniency he chose his life and stood aside.

Paul flung the doors open and ran into the ante-rooms, calling her name. He found her in her bedroom. She stood in the centre of the magnificent room, surrounded by the luxuries he had provided, rooted to the ground with terror, one trembling hand straying to her lips.

Her ladies had been sent away, her servants dismissed, and within a few minutes soldiers had replaced the lackeys who did duty outside her doors. No one had explained these measures; her tears and hysterical entreaties had been left unanswered, while the conviction that her intrigue with André was discovered brought her to the verge of fainting with fear.

As Paul stood there in the doorway, looking at her with wild eyes, his chest heaving, the little court sword in his hand, Natalie knew that they had told him, and in her terror believed that he had come to kill her.

“Oh, my God,” she shrieked and fell on her knees, shielding her face with her hands.

Instantly Paul reached her. His sword clattered to the floor unheeded, and the shrinking Natalie found herself gathered into his arms. He held her closely, stroking her hair, soothing and comforting the distress he misinterpreted as the natural fear of innocence.

“Don't weep, my beloved. Don't cry like that. It breaks my heart to see you suffer. You're safe, Natalie. No one shall harm you.…”

Natalie Alexeievna clung to him, and made up in instinct for what she lacked in brain, by keeping silent, aware that by some miracle Paul was promising her his protection, and that her only hope of safety lay in his stumbling words of love and reassurance.

“What have I done? They sent soldiers, dismissed my servants.… I found myself a prisoner as soon as you went to the Empress.…”

The Czarevitch picked her up and laid her gently on the great canopied bed.

“It was a plot to separate us, my darling. My mother invented a foul accusation and tried to persuade me to repudiate you!”

Natalie's eyes widened with terror at his words. Repudiation … Divorce, she had heard what that could mean.…

“Oh, no! No … Paul, you're not going to listen to her … you can't believe her.…”

“My darling Natalie, how can you doubt me? I tore her false evidence in pieces before her face; I warned her I'd resist a separation from you with my life! Stop trembling, I beg you, there's nothing to fear.… I'll protect you, my dearest love.…”

He put fond arms around her and comforted her like a child, until she pushed him away in her anxiety.

“But what did she say when you defied her? What did she say I'd done? Please, Paul, tell me …”

“She was angry,” he admitted, determined to soften the account and allay her fears. “But it will pass.…”

Natalie sat on the bed, one hand held tightly in his, and as he spoke her eyes glanced away from him, unable to bear that loving gaze, afraid that the admission of her guilt would creep into her expression.

Paul watched her for a moment, the explanation dying on his lips, and quite suddenly he doubted.

The memory of that sheaf of papers, of the revolting, detailed evidence, so utterly damning if it were true, the vision of the man they had named as her lover, handsome, carefree André Rasumovsky, all these returned to his mind, and the blind, passionate force of his belief in her wavered. Doubt pierced him with the impact of physical pain; for an instant his ugly face contorted. He watched her closely, and then under that unblinking scrutiny she paled and tried to turn away. At that moment the gentle, trusting dupe had vanished; instead he held her wrists in a tight grip and there was an expression in his prominent blue eyes that she had never seen before.

He hurt her and she wished to cry, to take refuge in the tears that always unmanned him, but this time she knew that something more was needed. For a second, Catherine faded from her mind; her greatest peril lay with Paul, the peril that looked at her out of that ugly face and made it alien.

“They showed me evidence,” he said slowly, and he held her so that she was forced to look at him. “Rasumovsky was named as your lover. For the past six months. Tell me, Natalie Alexeievna, tell me this is not true. Swear to me that you have been faithful.… I wait,” he added quietly, and Natalie froze with fear.

Desperation aided her then; instinctive mortal terror for herself and the man she loved gave her the strength and the talent to cloak her lies with the appearance of truth.

She slipped down and knelt at his feet. Humbly she lifted his hand and kissed it, and her answer came without a falter.

“Before God I deny it. I have loved only you, Paul Petrovitch, and no one else. Now deliver me to my enemies if you do not believe me.…” Then she leant her head against his knee and burst into a flood of tears.

Her word was sufficient, that and his own longing to have his doubts dispelled. He begged her to forgive him for having questioned her at all, and in a passion of relief Natalie did so, until the knowledge that victory over Paul was not enough forced more tears from her.

“What will the Empress do to me? Oh, my God, I know what will happen, I've heard of those dreadful convents where State prisoners are kept.… Paul, Paul, you must save me!” she cried, clinging to him, her delicate features distorted with terror, but though he soothed and promised impossibilities to allay her fears, he could not comfort her.

“Don't think of such things,” he implored, almost weeping himself in the face of her anguish. “You've nothing to fear, I tell you, they can do nothing without my consent.…”

No qualm of suspicion troubled his mind when she rested her head on his shoulder and whispered that he must protect André Rasumovsky since he, too, was innocent.

“He shan't suffer, Natalia. I promise you he shan't be victimized; his safety shall be part of my terms.… Now dry your eyes, my darling, and have faith in me. As long as I live I'll take care of you.…”

With her arms round his neck the Grand Duchess bit her lips to restrain a hysterical impulse to shriek with laughter at his trust and the irony of that last guarantee.

How long would he, or any of them, live, with Catherine as their enemy …?

The rumour of the Grand Duchess's arrest had run through the Court like wildfire, and those who hated Paul and despised his prim little German bride rejoiced. All that day they waited, the malicious, the curious, and the few who sympathized; waited to see the farce of a happy Imperial marriage end in betrayal and disgrace. And among the crowd, yet apart from it, Rasumovsky watched and listened in agony of mind, tortured with fear for his mistress and uncertainty for himself.

He knew that they had been discovered, and the punishment which must befall her would either be death or lifelong imprisonment.

But the hours went by and nothing happened. In the privacy of her suite Catherine told Panin of her son's reaction and pointed out that she was in no position to accept his challenge. The armies of Pugachev were advancing on Moscow itself: to do violence to the Czarevitch might cause a revolution among a people already restive, and decide the wavering loyalty of thousands in favour of the rebels. There was nothing they could do, she repeated angrily, and then added that if her forces triumphed she would remember her son's action and know how to punish it.

With that Panin had to be content, and in the weeks that followed Natalie remained at liberty and Rasumovsky also.

They never had another hour alone together. Paul kept his wife at his side day and night, overwhelmed her with attention in public and soothed her fears in private.

Life on the edge of a precipice was no new experience for him, and the basic human wish to see the mighty fall and suffer for their mightiness was only too familiar. For ten years Catherine's Court had been waiting for him to follow his father's way of imprisonment and death. Now they whispered and watched, hoping for the Grand Duchess as a victim. Paul placed himself between her and danger like a tiger at bay, and the knowledge of her desperate peril made her cling to him.

Most of their time was spent alone together; they dined quietly in their suite and in the effort to distract her Paul played endless games of cards or read to her aloud. Every member of their household was a potential spy and the Czarevitch drove equerries and maids of honour out of their sight with curses, and quite frequently with blows. Natalie had never seen the duality of his nature so clearly as in those terrible weeks of waiting. His fierce tyranny to others was only matched by his passionate tenderness to herself, and often the Grand Duchess, doubly imprisoned by peril and by love, felt tempted to scream or throw herself wildly into his arms.

“Come and play picquet, my dearest,” he asked her one evening when they had finished supper. Natalie rose and walked to the fireplace, staring blankly into the flames. Picquet. They had played every night for a week, and as always he had contrived to let her win.

“No, Paul,” she answered, and her voice shook. “No, I … I don't want to play to-night.”

Immediately he sensed the change in her, knew that her nerves were near to breaking, and he crossed to where she stood and took her trembling body in his arms.

“What is it? You are still worrying, still frightened …” Natalie leant against him, grateful for the strength of his arms and for the illusion of security it gave her. She said nothing for a moment, and in that moment closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body and the comfort of his hand caressing her hair.

Instinctively she slipped her arms round his neck and thought of Rasumovsky, thought of the preliminary embrace before their fevered love-making, an embrace as fierce and hungry as her young husband's was gentle and protective.

The comparison had been enough to send her hurrying out of Paul's reach in the days before this danger threatened her, but for some weeks her awakened senses had been starved of love, even from the Czarevitch, who unselfishly abstained from her for fear that it might tax her strength during the crisis. Quite suddenly the storm within her broke. She clung to him, her body burning, trembling and breathless; the whole mountainous burden of fear, uncertainty, frustration and guilt became concentrated in one surge of feeling.

“Kiss me,” she begged him. “Paul, I need you, please please …”