Rebel Princess by Evelyn Anthony

wondered in agony what the pale Grand Duchess, a distant glittering figure kneeling at the high altar, would endure at Peter’s hands that night.
    While the ceremony proceeded inside Kazan Cathedral, a great concourse of people were assembled outside, overflowing into the streets and squares. It was a joyous crowd, its belly filled with free bread and its head swimming happily with the Empress’s gift of wine that ran in unlimited supplies from every fountain in the city.
    The people might perish of cold and hunger on every other day of the year, but on this day every man, woman and child could eat and drink their fill for nothing and scrabble in the gutter for the Empress’s scattered largesse.
    All the church bells in St. Petersburg began to peal in a swell of joyful sound as the doors of the cathedral opened and the Empress’s magnificent state carriage drove up to the steps.
    A tremendous roar of cheering greeted Elizabeth as she emerged from the cathedral and stood outlined in the archway. Hundreds of the devout among the pressing crowds sank to their knees, dazzled by the splendid figure of their ruler.
    Elizabeth paused to acknowledge her people’s homage, and then walked slowly down to her carriage. A thunderous shout told her that the Grand Duke and his bride had emerged from the church.
    Every eye was fixed upon the couple who stood at the head of the cathedral steps; thousands of voices were raised in a roar of welcome to the future Emperor and his Empress; and the sight of Catherine on that day was to remain engraved on many humble hearts.
    She lingered there, with her hand resting on her husband’s arm, a picture of youthful beauty and grace, attired in a dazzling gown covered with silver and gold embroidery, diamonds blazing from her throat and hair.
    The ceremony had lasted almost six hours, but she showed no signs of fatigue; a wave of color rose in her cheeks at the reception given them.
    She stood rooted, detaining the impatient Peter with a firm hand, looking out on to the forest of heads and waving hands that surged about the cathedral, listening to the unforgettable cry of acclamation that drowned the joyfully pealing bells.
    The people approved her; the great, shadowy masses of Holy Russia welcomed her and took her to their hearts as she waited there, smiling and kissing her hand to them while tears of emotion filled her eyes and her heart beat wildly with sudden, unbearable exultation.
    The triumph of that day was hers. Russia had claimed her for its own forever, and with utter gladness she surrendered to that call.
    It was not Peter the crowd cheered, for his gorgeous uniform and glittering decorations could not deceive the people; they knew him for what he was, a German through and through, ugly, sullen and alien.
    It was Catherine’s name they shouted, and Catherine knew it.
    Once in the Empress’s carriage, the Grand Duchess gazed through the windows, smiling and bowing like a queen to the lines of struggling citizens who thrust forward, braving the Cossack soldiers’ blows for a glimpse of the royal party.
    As they proceeded slowly towards the palace, Catherine almost forgot the presence of her husband and the Empress in her excitement; she was not aware of the sudden jealous tightening of Elizabeth’s lips as she watched the radiant Grand Duchess so readily taking the plaudits of the crowd.
    Her little protégée had developed on quite unexpected lines; her personal beauty was counted as second only to Elizabeth’s own at court, and her assumption of popularity with the people made the Empress’s heart contract with rage.
    What viper had she nourished all these months, Elizabeth wondered suspiciously, as the yells of Catherine’s name came to her ears almost as often as her own.
    At length the Empress leaned forward and tapped the Grand Duchess sharply on the knee with her fan.
    â€œSit back, Madame!” she said shortly. “You are not