Tsarevna: The Tsar’S Daughter

© Copyright 2010 Kirsten E.A. Borg.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4949-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4269-4950-0 (e)

Trafford rev. 11/30/2010

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

The Terem

Chapter 2

Alexis

Chapter 3

Nikon

Chapter 4

Stenka Razin

Chapter 5

Natalya

Chapter 6

Fyedor

Chapter 7

The Streltsy

Chapter 8

The Prince

Chapter 9

The Regent

Chapter 10

Peter

Chapter 11

The Law

Chapter 12

The Tartars

Chapter 13

The Naryshkins

Chapter 14

Novodevichy

Chapter 15

The Great Embassy

Chapter 16

The Refuge

Epilogue

About The AUTHOR

Introduction

Sophia Alexeyevna Romanov was born in 1657, fourth of nine daughters of Tsar Alexis I of Russia. Had she obeyed the traditions of her time, she would have wasted her life in a secluded Terem, locked away from the world with all the other unnecessary females of the Tsar’s family. Instead, she became the first woman to rule Russia.

Sophia was a Tsarevna, a daughter of the Tsar – too exalted to marry beneath her rank, yet forbidden by the Orthodox Church to marry a foreign heretic. Like her aunts and sisters, she was expected to while away her superfluous life embroidering and gossiping and fanning the ego of the Tsar.

Intelligent and spirited, Sophia rebelled against this sterile existence. Ingratiating herself with her father and attaching herself to her brothers, she managed to share their education, if not their opportunities. And when tragic circumstances left the Russian throne with only boys too young to reign, Sophia became Regent. Contrary to expectations – particularly of those planning to control her – she ruled Russia, aided by advisors she chose. Foremost among them was Prince Vasily Golitsyn, with whom she also had a passionate affair. Intellectual and idealistic, he dreamed of reforming Russia; she, meanwhile, tended to the demanding and exhilarating business of running the Russian government.

Always, however, Sophia looked over her shoulder at her younger brother, Peter, destined to become Russia’s greatest ruler. Larger than life even as a child, his titanic energy would one day revolutionize Russia. Knowing that when he took power she would lose everything, Sophia struggled to balance her loyalty to this remarkable boy and the memory of their father, with her love for Prince Golitsyn and the desire to be free.

Set against the colorful, violent backdrop of 17th-century Russia, Sophia’s story is at once that of an extraordinary woman in extraordinary circumstances – and of any woman battling to empower herself in a world that would keep her captive. The only person ever to challenge Tsar Peter the Great was his sister, Sophia. And after his death, Mother Russia was ruled by women for nearly a century. Sophia was the trailblazer who made it happen. In confronting and wielding power, she took charge not only of her own destiny, but of the largest nation on Earth.

Chapter 1

The Terem

A thousand candles bathed the icon-covered walls with glowing amber. A small cloud of incense mingled with soft chanting and ascended slowly to the tiers of compassionately gazing saints. Deep open vowels echoed around the arches overhead, as a grey-bearded man in glittering robes and a gleaming ecclesiastical crown strode out of the gate of the iconostasis. Towering over all those assembled in the Kremlin cathedral, he blessed the congregation with a commandingly inscribed sign of the cross. He nodded to an ornately-clad woman in the first row, who immediately deposited the infant she had been holding into his outstretched arms. Looking down at the baby, his stern face softened.

I, Nikon, Patriarch of the Holy Russian Orthodox Church, baptize thee... Ceremoniously, he immersed the infant once, twice, and then again. The baby protested in a clear voice, punctuating the chanting choir.

Thy name is Sophia, Nikon proclaimed, holding her aloft to the icons. Look upon the Wisdom for which thou hast been named. The baby suddenly stopped crying and gazed curiously about.

After a long ponderous prayer, the Patriarch gently returned young Sophia to her godmother; the Tsarevna Irina hastily rewrapped the child in the warm blankets. The baby nestled gratefully against her aunt’s generous bosom, but did not go back to sleep.

Next to Irina stood her brother, the baby’s father. Clad in robes which rivaled those of the Patriarch, he was tall and muscular, in the full flower of manhood. His handsome face was adorned with a red beard; dark brows arched over alert intelligent eyes which missed very little. On his head was a crown more magnificent than the Patriarch’s. And Alexis, Tsar of all the Russians, wore it in a manner which allowed no one to forget who ruled.

Beside Alexis stood his wife, the Tsaritsa Maria. Of pleasing appearance and not unintelligent countenance, the strain of her calling as Imperial Consort was beginning to show. Sophia was her sixth – and strongest – baby; Maria prayed that her new daughter would survive – even if she was only a girl – and that there would be many more babies to ensure a surviving male heir.

Next to the Tsaritsa stood her only son. The Tsarevich Alexis had inherited his father’s good looks, and – even at three years of age – showed much promise of having also acquired his other gifts. Maria smiled as the little boy at her side surreptitiously scratched his nose. He had been born in the year of his father’s greatest triumph, the winning back of the Ukraine from Poland. That same year, a fearsome plague had also ravaged Moscow. Maria shuddered, remembering, crossed herself fervently and clasped her son’s little hand tightly.

Behind the Tsaritsa stood her father, Boyar Ilya Miloslavsky, dressed for the occasion even more flamboyantly than usual, his calculating eyes shifting restlessly between his daughter and son-in-law. Feeling those eyes upon him, the Tsar’s shoulders tightened. Sensing his exasperation, Maria looked nervously past her husband at her brother – the baby’s godfather – planted reassuringly next to Irina. The impassive face of Boyar Ivan Miloslavsky, a muted and more restrained version of his father’s, belied years of strenuous palace politics, during which he had steadfastly protected the interests of the Miloslavsky clan – sometimes by shielding it from the imprudent actions of its nominal head.

Around the edges of the imperial family was a bevy of brightly-attired women. Irina’s younger sisters, Anna and Tatiana, stood behind her. Several old aunts, sisters of the late Tsar Michael, flanked the Tsaritsa, superintending her older daughters. Long flowing sarafans of velvet and brocade, intricately embroidered with golden thread, cascaded over the ample figures of all the women. Billowing sleeves were held at the wrist by glittering bracelets; huge rings and earrings adorned what little was left uncovered. Except for the Tsaritsa, whose head was carefully encased and crowned, all of the women wore their hair in a single braid hanging long in back, surmounted by a jeweled tiara.

As Nikon finished his prayers, the choir started to sing. Joyously their hymn crescendoed upward and filled the Cathedral. Then the bells began to ring. One by one, all the churches in the Kremlin took up the call; soon all those in Moscow joined in, until the air itself droned and the ground shook in celebration.

Little Sophia smiled. Somehow she knew it was all for her.

*    *    *

Prince Valdemar was as tall as our dear brother, said Aunt Irina wistfully, and almost as handsome. He stayed here for almost two years, begging Papa to let him marry me.

Three generations of tsarevnas sat together in the large room on top of the Terem Palace. The vaulted ceiling was trimmed in gold and profusely ornamented with leafy arabesques, which seemed to rustle in the warm breeze blowing softly from the arched windows. On red leather benches lining the walls, the sisters and aunts of Tsar Alexis sat embroidering. On the parquet floor in between, his small daughters played quietly.

Young as she was, even Sophia had heard Irina’s story many times. Long ago, the King of Denmark had proposed an alliance with the Tsar of Russia. He had even sent his son to woo one of the tsarevnas. Not, of course, that the Danish prince had been allowed to do so directly. But every time Irina told the story, her encounters with Valdemar grew more frequent, their conversations more intimate, their passion more intense.

But my Prince was an honorable man, loyal and devoted to his principles, sighed Irina. So, of course, he could not desert the religion of his fathers, however misguided. And I, of course, could not marry a heretic. Irina crossed herself and smiled sadly, savoring the effect her melancholy romance always had on her listeners. Of all the tsarevnas, only she had even come close to marriage. Not that any of them expected to marry; as daughters and sisters of the Tsar, they were too exalted to become the property of his subjects. And to marry a foreign infidel would be heresy.

Inside the circle of flashing needles and golden thread, Sophia watched her aunts’ clever fingers work the colorful yarn into lavish designs. Aunt Tatiana was embroidering a new vestment for the Patriarch to wear on the next Feast of the Virgin. One of the few men allowed into the Terem, he was the only man – besides close male relatives – Tatiana had ever conversed with. Across from her, Aunt Anna was embroidering a new robe for the Tsar to wear at the christening of his next child. Pausing frequently to cross herself, she prayed that the baby would be healthy – and male.

Sophia herself had been given a small piece of linen and a little ball of red yarn to practice simpler versions of the patterns in these elaborate garments. How beautiful they all were, with their bright colors and intricate stitches! Yes, and how much alike! Sophia sighed softly. It was impossible to tell who had done what, harder even than telling all the aunts themselves apart. In their uniform shapeless gowns and long single braids, the ring of females bending over their needles seemed to blend into an indistinguishable amalgam of maidenhood. Sophia looked down at the row of laboriously stitched circles on the cloth in her hand and was inexplicably glad that they did not resemble the artfully contrived designs of the others. Her needle suddenly leaped outside the line of the pattern and began stitching away from the timorously clustered circles. The boldness of the red line moving out, alone, across the plain cloth pleased her. She smiled.

The feeble wail of a baby announced the entrance of the Tsaritsa Maria, who moved ponderously through the circle of women to an ornate chair at the head of the hall. She was followed by a tall, plainly-clad woman carrying a frail baby. The aunts put aside their needlework and reached eagerly for the child, cooing collectively to soothe his fussing. As he was passed around the circle of welcoming arms, the Tsaritsa lowered herself heavily into the chair of honor and greeted her daughters affectionately.

Catherine and little Maria toddled over for a warm hug, and then climbed into one of the empty laps vacated by the baby. Evdokhia, Martha, and Anya kissed her cheek, then quietly returned to their embroidery. Evdokhia and Martha were already helping Aunt Tatiana with the Patriarch’s vestments, and Anya’s sampler was nearly filled with laboriously copied arabesques of impeccably uniform stitches. After greeting their mother, Anya sat down next to Sophia and ostentatiously spread out her neat handiwork. Not quite suppressing a sigh of annoyance, Sophia jumped up and stood next to the Tsaritsa.

Even since Sophia could remember, her mother’s belly had been rising – then suddenly falling, only to rise again. That the babies who regularly appeared were somehow connected to this phenomenon – which seemed to afflict none of the aunts – Sophia understood vaguely. She also noticed that the advent of each baby seemed to slow her mother’s step a little more, and fade the warmth of her smile.

Even under her flowing gown, the Tsaritsa’s belly once again protruded. Her face was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes. Sophia reached out and patted her mother’s hand protectively. For just a moment, the Tsaritsa leaned against her daughter’s sturdy little shoulder, then straightened up and kissed her gratefully on the forehead.

Sophia continued to stand beside her mother, watching baby Fyedor enthusiastically passed from one aunt to the other. Though all of the babies were fussed over, Fyedor seemed to get more than his share. Frowning, Sophia remembered that the bells had rung longer and louder at Fyedor’s christening than at Catherine’s or little Maria’s.

But my hair doesn’t need cutting, protested an imperious young voice from the corridor.

You look more like a shaggy bear-cub than the Tsarevich, replied a firm older voice.

The Tsarevich Alexis strode with uncertain dignity into the room, patiently pursued by Zhenya, the quietly formidable woman who had earlier deposited baby Fyedor with his adoring aunts. Young Alyosha had recently begun accompanying his father to various occasions of state, and was taking his apprenticeship as heir to the throne with becoming seriousness.

When I am Tsar, declared Alyosha, striking what he hoped was a sufficiently regal pose, "I will decide when to cut my hair!"

When you are Tsar, you will need to see where you are going, retorted Zhenya calmly, even more than you do now.

Oh, very well then, sighed Alyosha magnanimously, I shall allow you to cut my hair tomorrow morning after Matins. Turning, he approached his mother, his manner a remarkably accurate caricature of his father’s most formal ceremonial demeanor. The women in the circle, charmed by his youthful posturing, tried not to smile. Sophia, however, could not suppress a giggle.

The Tsarevich, after greeting his mother, grinned at his sister and sprawled unceremoniously on the bench next to her.

Where did you go today? Sophia asked eagerly, sitting down beside him.

To the Council of Boyars, he yawned noisily. They talked and talked and talked.

About what?

Oh – taxes and laws – things like that. They yelled a lot, too.

What did Father do?

"I think he felt like yelling, too, but he didn’t. Mostly he just listened. And when he finally did speak, they listened."

A ripple of excitement passed through the circle of murmuring females. The Tsaritsa Maria hoisted her swollen belly out of the chair of honour and carefully maneuvered herself onto the nearest bench. Moments later, Tsar Alexis strode majestically into the room. Nodding politely to the group of women, he kissed his wife solicitously and sat down on the vacated throne. The women and girls lined up in order of precedence. To each of his adoring aunts, sisters and daughters, he gave an affectionate kiss and inquired after their health. All of them – even those Sophia knew to be suffering some malady or other – smiled and said they were fine.

Tatiana and Anna displayed the robes they were embroidering; Alexis complimented their artistry. Irina then proffered little Fyedor for inspection. The baby’s face suddenly turned very red. Just as the Tsar was bending over to kiss him, a tiny fart rent the air. Tsar Alexis, Emperor of all the Russians, wrinkled his nose and frowned. The Tsaritsa looked nervous, the tsarevnas all held their breath.

Then the Tsar burst out laughing. The Tsaritsa, relieved, joined in. So, too, did all the tsarevnas. Zhenya unobtrusively retrieved Fyedor and returned him to the nursery. The aunts went back to their embroidery, the girls to their play. Sighing with contentment, Alexis turned to his wife and began to recount the events of the day.

Watching her mother’s face, Sophia could see how hard she was trying to concentrate on what he was saying. Frequently, however, her glance wandered to the children playing on the floor, or to her enormous belly. If he talked to me, Sophia thought irritably, I would listen! Then, ashamed of her disloyalty to her mother, she turned back to Alyosha, who was grumbling about his impending haircut.

Later, the servants brought in tables and served a light supper. Lounging on his throne, Alexis ate sparingly and sipped his watered wine slowly. Ah, how peaceful it is here, he said, smiling benevolently at his circle of docile females. Would that I could spend more of my days in this sanctuary, away from my unruly kingdom.

When I am Tsar, Alyosha piped up, I will mind the kingdom while you rest here.

Being Tsar is a big job, laughed Alexis, gently brushing the hair away from his son’s eyes. You’ll need help.

"I will help him," said Sophia quietly.

Startled, the Tsar looked at his daughter and nodded thoughtfully.

Later, they all went to the cathedral across from the palace for Vespers. But not, of course, together. The Tsar and Tsarevich marched noisily through the main corridors, out the front door, across the courtyard into the cathedral. The Tsaritsa and tsarevnas, out of the public eye, slipped quietly through secret passageways and under closed canopies to a dark corner at the back of the church.

Screened behind red silk curtains with the rest of the women, Sophia watched her father and brother standing proudly before the glowing iconostasis in front.

That’s where I belong! Up there, where God can see me.

*    *    *

Quietly Sophia climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the door at the top. Standing on tiptoe, she lifted the key off the hook and carefully turned it in the lock. The door creaked open just wide enough for her to slip through.

Perched on a corner of the roof of the Terem Palace was a small tower, which cleverly opened up a nearly panoramic view of the Kremlin – and beyond. Sophia pulled her sable cap down around her ears and held her fur cloak against the sharp wind blowing through the arched open windows. Breathing deeply, she gazed longingly at the busy river flowing beside the high thick walls of the powerful fortress which enclosed her world. From the banks on the opposite shore, the rolling wooded countryside stretched endlessly, covered with deep snow glittering in the sunlight.

Snatches of melodious liturgy drifted up from the churches nearby. Over there, on the crest of the Kremlin hill, was the biggest of them – the Uspensky Cathedral, where her father had been crowned Tsar. Across the square was the Cathedral of the Archangel Michael, where her grandfather was entombed. And near the Palace was the Cathedral of the Annunciation, where her family went several times a week for Mass.

Soaring above all the shining white walls and gleaming golden domes were three tall towers joined by several tiers of bells. Cast in silver, copper, bronze and iron, they were of many sizes and timbres. The bells rang often, summoning people to Matins or Vespers, announcing birth and death, tolling and chiming, warning and celebrating. When the great Kremlin towers called forth, the bells of all Moscow’s churches joined in, waves of vibrating sound shaking the earth like thunder. Sometimes the bells rang all night.

Crowding around the churches and palaces of the Kremlin were a jumble of seemingly unconnected buildings of various geometric shapes and sizes. Alyosha had told her that these oddly-shaped wooden buildings housed barracks and stables, bakeries and laundries and such.

When I am Tsar, he had grandly announced, waving disdainfully at the disorderly structures, I will get rid of all that mess.

Sophia had protested, finding the lack of symmetry rather interesting. As usual, they had argued without rancor, both enjoying the pleasure of the exchange.

That, of course, had been before Alyosha’s apprenticeship as Tsarevich had begun in earnest. Nowadays he was so busy learning to be Tsar, there was little time to spend with Sophia. She missed him, but still came to the tower as often as she could.

None of the other tsarevnas ever went outdoors, except under a cloistered canopy or in a closed carriage. Sophia had never even seen them looking out the windows. Not, of course, that very much could be seen through the narrow slots which let in little enough light, let alone a glimpse of the outside world. But none of the aunts and sisters seemed to mind. And if the thought of sitting out in the open – alone – had ever occurred to them, surely it terrified them. They would never understand why this was the only place in the Palace where she could breathe.

Gazing out over the Kremlin walls, her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the cathedral commanding the huge square out in front. Compared to the stately white-and-golden churches within the walls, the bright colors and garishly decorated domes of St. Basil’s looked like a gigantic bowl of exotic fruit. Sophia liked it better than the orthodox cathedrals within the Kremlin.

A few days ago had been Palm Sunday. From her secluded perch, she had watched the people of Moscow parade around Red Square, waving palms and crosses and icons. Boyars in tall sable hats and long flowing robes, peasants in pointed sheepskin caps and brightly embroidered shirts, priests in vestments of gold and glittering conical headdress, they had all marched energetically in constantly shifting concentric circles, almost as exuberant and unrestrained as St. Basil’s itself.

Today there was a gathering of a different sort in Red Square. A large crowd, waiting expectantly, had gathered around a small platform. Sophia frowned, trying to make out the strange objects on the platform.

A light step behind startled her. Turning, she saw Zhenya push through the door’s small opening. I thought I’d find you here, she said calmly, sitting down next to Sophia.

Have they missed me already? sighed Sophia. I didn’t think I’d been gone that long.

When one of the chicks is missing, the whole hencoop worries.

Why can’t they leave me alone!

Be glad they care, said Zhenya quietly, looking affectionately at Sophia from eyes which always seemed too old for the rest of her.

I know. Sophia sighed again. But it’s so small in there, with them. Sometimes there’s no room to breathe. But out there... Sophia took a deep breath and smiled.

Out there is dangerous, said Zhenya, her frown etching lines in her still handsome face.

Sophia leaned her head against Zhenya’s strong shoulder, and noticed that the crowd in Red Square had grown larger. Suddenly a small group of men mounted the platform in the middle. Two of them threw a third down and, sitting on his head and feet, began to beat him with thick cudgels.

Maybe we should go in now, suggested Zhenya, wrapping her arm around Sophia.

Sophia shook her head, and watched stubbornly until the men wielding the sticks got tired. Hauling their victim to his feet, they put a rope around his neck. Not until a second man had been similarly beaten – and then decapitated – did Sophia flinch. A roar went up from the crowd as the head, dripping gore, bounced on the platform. Above it hung the first unfortunate man, swaying in the wind, his head cocked crazily to one side, blood still flowing from his mangled flesh.

Sophia buried her face in Zhenya’s safe, familiar breast. But she did not cry. Nor did she give in to the wave of nausea sweeping through her.

It’s cold out here, Zhenya finally said, standing up slowly. Time to go in.

For once, Sophia did not argue. She was suddenly anxious to return to the warmth and safety of the Terem. But just before she darted inside the door, she paused and looked defiantly at the grisly scene in Red Square. I’ll come back, she said firmly. Not tomorrow, but the day after.

Yes, sighed Zhenya, I know.

*    *    *

Hurry, my little doves, hurry! trilled Aunt Irina to the flock of little tsarevnas she was shepherding. Nervously she peered about the empty corridors of the Palace.

Sophia and her sisters needed no urging. The entire imperial family was embarking on its annual pilgrimage to the Troitsky-St. Sergius monastery in Zagorsk. One of the few times the tsarevnas were allowed to leave the Terem, Sophia looked forward to it all year.

If they leave without us, she grumbled to her sister, Catherine, it’ll be all your fault.

But I couldn’t just leave Koshka behind, sniffed Catherine, who was a year younger than Sophia. She would be all alone.

Cats don’t get lonely, retorted Sophia, and they hate to ride in carriages. That’s why she hid from you.

Catherine had insisted on bringing Koshka along on the pilgrimage, but at the last minute the cat was nowhere to be found. Catherine had adamantly refused to leave without her. After a frantic search, Zhenya had finally dragged Koshka out from the far corner under Catherine’s bed. Clutched firmly under Zhenya’s strong arm, the cat now peered irritably through the folds of her sleeve.

In the courtyard behind the Palace stood several large, bright red carriages surrounded by a troop of mounted guards. Beads of perspiration on her forehead, Irina quickly herded her small charges out the back door into the last of the carriages, and hastily heaved her own ample body in after. Zhenya, with Koshka squirming under her arm, jumped in and slammed the door just as the cat leaped out of her grasp.

Inside the heavily draped coach, Sophia claimed the seat by the opposite window. As the carriage jolted forward, she pulled aside the curtain just enough to peek out. The gold-and-white cathedrals passed in majestic procession before her, followed by the jumble of wooden buildings which looked far less picturesque at close range than from atop the Terem. When the long line of red coaches turned toward the main gate of the Kremlin, Sophia looked back at the Palace, surprised that it looked so large from outside. On top, perched like a small bird, was her little tower. Smiling, she waved.

The carriage tunneled under the thick wall of the Kremlin, then emerged suddenly into the broad expanse of Red Square. As the entourage curved toward St. Basil’s cathedral, Sophia could see rows of people falling to their knees as the first coach passed by. To the rear an endless line of plainer vehicles – filled with servants and supplies – continued to pour out of the massive fortress, the huge tower above the gate looming formidably above.

In the shadow of the Kremlin tower was a round stone platform rigged with crude scaffolding and a large wooden stump. As Sophia’s coach rolled by, she could see that the stump was stained reddish-brown and that the stones around it were also splotched with the same ugly color. Suddenly she remembered what she had seen from her tower that cold day after Palm Sunday. Shuddering inwardly, she nevertheless continued to stare at the gruesome platform, wondering why such a place was necessary, wondering who would understand why she had to know.

The ugly place passed from view and was replaced by the unruly beauty of St. Basil’s Cathedral. Close up, it looked even more wild and untamed than from her tower. That such an explosion of clashing colors and swirling domes and bizarre towers was still standing was surely a miracle. Sophia laughed with delight.

Once past St. Basil’s, the imperial procession moved faster and was soon out in the country. The terrified cat had finally taken refuge under Catherine’s seat and was now curled up for a long nap. Sophia threw open the window drapes. Spring mud had hardened into ruts over which the carriage bounced and jolted; billows of dust rose from the horses’ hooves. Up ahead the Tsar and Tsarevich had mounted horses and were sporting falcons on their wrists.

Always before, Alyosha had ridden with the women and children. Bursting with excitement, he now rode his docile mare back to Sophia’s coach and showed her the small merlin perched on his padded glove. Sophia rubbed the muzzle of the gentle horse and looked warily at the hooded bird.

Well, said Alyosha, beaming with pride, I must get back to the men.

Happy though she was for her brother, Sophia felt a stab of envy. Maybe next year, I can ride a horse, too. But they can keep their birds.

At lunch, they all stopped in a forest clearing for a picnic. The old tsarevnas wore large hats and silk veils and looked nervously at the huge trees surrounding them. The Tsaritsa Maria, however, was in a festive mood and sat next to the Tsar, smiling up at him and laughing gaily. Alexis held her hand and often glanced tenderly at her. Another baby – only a girl named Feodosia – had appeared a few months ago, and the Tsaritsa’s stomach was again flat. Sophia hoped that it would stay that way for awhile. Her mother was so pretty without a big belly, laughing and smiling like sunshine after a storm. The beautiful smile always made Sophia feel better – and everyone else, too. But with each new baby, it seemed to flash less often – and disclose fewer teeth.

The Tsar was regaling the circle of women with accounts of the morning’s hunt. His aunts sliced meat for him, carefully picking out only the tenderest pieces from the game spitted over the fire; his sisters filled his goblet with just the right amount of wine and water; his daughters brought him flowers picked from under the tall trees. And all of them hung on his every word.

Sophia, too, worshipped her father. But it pained her – and even angered her – that he treated her like just another daughter. She wanted more – much more – than an affectionate pat on the head. She wanted to be noticed, she wanted to ride with him, watch him be Tsar, talk to him about the outside world. She wanted him to treat her like he did Alyosha!

Sometimes she wondered how her kind, courteous father would react if any of his doting females ever disobeyed him.