The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Page 2

  “That is just anti-semitism, isn’t it, Niki?”

  “Not at all. Sheeny just relates to the fact that they think they are schön. I believe that is a reference to their perversion of men loving men. It is just a fact. They are untermenschen, and it is a silly passing fancy to give credence to their supposed scientific research. Circumcision is Jewish. We are Russians, not Jewish; and no Yusupov prince is going to have some butcher cut on his generative organ. This discussion is over. And above all else, the Grand Duke is not to hear such heresy in our home. Do you understand, my dear?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, my prince. Of course I do,” she said as meekly as she could muster up.

  “Perhaps, you need new friends,” he stated with finality.

  When the head of the Yusupov family made a declaration, no one–not even his wife–had the temerity to advance another idea after he gave his glance of finality.

  As the evening was drawing to a close, Prince Nikolai, took a momentary opportunity to present a consideration for the new baby’s godfather.

  “Grand Duke, I have a request of you as little Boris’s godfather.”

  “Of course, my boy, whatever I can give.”

  “It is not a material request, Paul Alexandrovich; it is even more important than that. My first born should pursue a military career, one the tzar can find appropriate. I ask that, at the appropriate time, you put him forward to enter the General Staff Academy.”

  “An excellent and timely request, my boy. The day of his birth is the most appropriate day of all to begin molding that robust little boy into a strong man and eventually into a loyal officer of the Tzar’s forces. I will be honored to be his “rabbi” as the Jews say for someone who puts a younger protégé forward.”

  He laughed at his use of the Jewish honorific. Prince Nikolai joined in and thanked his Maker that his silly wife had not gone to Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich before he could intervene.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE MAKING OF A HORSEMAN

  “The wildest colts make the best horses.”

  —Plutarch, CE 46 – CE 120

  The Yusupov Palace on the Moika River, Saint Petersburg, March 4, 1863

  Eleven-year-old Boris Yusupov conspired with the senior equestrian trainer in his father’s stables to have the man teach him how to ride like a cavalryman—“like one of Ivan’s Cossacks”—was the exact reference. Boris wanted to be able to give a flawless demonstration of his expert horsemanship for his father on the occasion of his upcoming twelfth birthday. Boris was already quite skillful, having been placed in a small saddle on a tough little Dagestanskii Pony when he was just two-years-old and had graduated to riding the most spirited of father’s fine stock of Cossack cavalry horses.

  Boris was a prepubertal youth, slender and lithe from his vigorously active life, taller than the other boys in his age group, and devoid of the coarse features of the slavs in the countryside and fortunately lacking any hint of the Yusupov Turkish bloodlines of which his father was so proud. Boris had curly blond hair hanging down to the top of his shoulders and deep-seated Wedgewood blue irises–generous gifts of the Viking ancestors who had so liberally sprinkled their DNA into his gene pool over the last six hundred years. Knowing that he was going out for a hard day’s ride and would have his legs clinging to his large horse’s lathered skin all of the time, he wore an old pair of serf’s baggy brown knee-length trousers and a pull-over shirt laced up at the neck. The shirt was made of the same cloth used for flour sacks—rough, coarse, and utilitarian. It was long, extending to just above his knees, and was tightened at the waist by a rope knotted in front. The only nods to his superior landholder’s status were the heavy and valuable muslin jerkin hanging loosely on his broadening shoulders, and his fine, knee-high polished black Hessian boots with a foppish tassel at the knees.

  Today he was mounted on Kryzhu, a tall muscular chestnut, the largest of the estate’s stallions. Father Prince Nikolai retained the strong masculinity of the Polish word Kryzh, even adding the stronger -u to emphasize the love Russian aristocrats had for the powerful Polish horses preferred by all officers for their personal cavalry mounts. Boris was accompanied by his favorite dog—as he always was—an Asian dhole, a dog but one with its own genus. That genus is characterized by more teats and fewer teeth than Canis, and whistles more than it barks or howls. They live in the forests and steppes of Russia. The puppy was brought by Cossacks to Prince Nikolai when Boris was eight years old and named—appropiately—Donoschik [whistler]. It became Boris’s dog in short order.

  It was still early—first light had not yet dawned—when the retainer and the boy set out through the rear entrance of the stables. Vladimir–the trainer of horses and men–led the way as precisely as if he could see in the dark. Boris held his horse’s reins loosely; so, the horse could follow safely, relying on the age-old wisdom of horses and of men who rode from the youngest age when they could remain in the saddle.

  By the time it was light enough to see a hundred meters, they were trotting along the ridge of the hills on the eastern border of the Moika estate and opposite of the river. Vlad seldom spoke to his betters when others were around; but today, he was voluble, taking his role as a teacher seriously. He was well aware that if his young charge were to be injured during these training rides, the blame would fall on him–not on the horse, not on the boy, not on the lay of the land. He was also well aware that Prince Nikolai expected his son to be a superior horseman by the end of the summer and that the boy, Prince Boris, held him to a higher standard—that of a man who became one with his horse and able to ride hands free to hold his Cossack weapons.

  Vlad signaled a stop with a curt hand gesture. He swiveled in his saddle and surveyed the hilltop area.

  “This is a good place to practice, Boy,” he said. “Take the pike in your left hand and ride from here to the pile of rocks to our right. Walk, do not run; do not trot. Your father left strict instructions for me to have you understand that in all matters related to the education in riding his horses, you are to obey me to the letter and immediately. Do you understand, my Prince?”

  “Yes, Vlad. I will obey.”

  He was anxious to begin the day’s serious riding. Kryzhu was champing at the bit. The stallion could feel the enthusiasm of his light young rider.

  “Go,” Vlad ordered. “Remember, this is not a race. If you cannot obey me in this, then, we will return home where you can think about what you will do on another day when I think you are ready to try again.

  Boris nodded, and squeezed his knees against his horse’s sides, taking care to keep his heels away from the large animal’s flank and his stifle. Kryzhu started at a slow walk, just as the boy’s knees had ordered. After twenty meters, Boris gave a quick extra push against the horse’s flank, and Kryzhu moved into a fast walk, short of a trot.

  “Good boy, Kryzhu,” Boris said to his powerful companion.

  They walked crisply to the pile of walks. Boris used his knees to direct Kryzhu to make a full about face, and they walked briskly back to where Vlad stood waiting besides his horse.

  “Good, lad,” Vlad said. “I know it was hard to go slow, but the first thing a Cossack must learn is to keep his horse in check to conserve his energy and to keep him in line with the other mounts.”

  Boris nodded his understanding and said, “so what’s next, Vlad?”

  “Walk for twenty meters, then trot the rest of the way to the rocks. After that, stop your horse; allow him a short breather, then turn and come back at a good canter. Lay your reins on Kryzhu’s withers. Understand?”

  “I do.”

  Boris had never ridden a horse without using the reins before, and he worried a little about humiliating himself by falling off. But he made a concentrated effort not to show is concern to the tough old Cossack. At the precise place, Vlad told him to make the change, Boris gave Kryzhu a light heel kick in the posterior flank, and the horse quickened his stride into a three-beat gait perfectly between a trot and
a gallop.

  That task went off exactly as Vlad had ordered. Both he and Boris were pleased with the progress he was making. Boris made the sign of the cross in thanks for Mary keeping him in the saddle. The next task was more daunting.

  “Get down from Kryzhu; give him a drink; give his muzzle a rub and speak softly to him.”

  Boris nodded and complied.

  “Now, remount; give a short pull back on the reins followed by a kick in the flanks with your heels. Shout for him to go. And, Boy, hang on for dear life!”

  “Beg!” Boris shouted, and the magnificent creature hurtled forward so suddenly that Boris rolled over backwards and somersaulted over the saddle’s gullet, seat, cantle, the horse’s back, hindquarters, croup, and loin, and landed in a flail on his own rump. It all happened so fast that Boris registered no pain. In a second, he was overcome with humiliation, especially because Vladimir, a servant, was laughing uproariously at him.

  “Whistle for him, Boy,” Vlad yelled, “or we’ll be chasing him all day.”

  Boris’s whistle was usually fairly weak; and now, with his loss of breath, it was little more than a squeak which prompted another bout of uncontrollable laughter. Donoschik imitated Boris but to no effect. Vlad put two fingers in his mouth and emitted a high-pitched commanding whistle which stopped the horse in his tracks. A second, quieter whistle caused Kryzhu to turn about and walk calmly back to the man and the boy.

  Boris was fighting back tears of embarrassment and turned aside; so, Vlad would not see.

  “I was so stupid,” he croaked. “I don’t think I will ever be able to stay on without using the reins,” he said.

  “The horse knows what to do whether you use the reins or not, Boy. But, your problem–just so you know and never forget–is to keep your toes in the stirrups. You seemed to forget that your orders were to keep your hands off the reins, but you were not told to keep your feet away from the stirrups.”

  Boris expected to see a disapproving frown on Vlad’s face, but the older man was smiling. Worse, he started to laugh again, pouring salt into Boris’s wounds. Boris gritted his teeth and choked back the urge to put the servant back into his place.

  “Have you courage enough to try again, Boy?”

  “Certainly. Come here Kryzhu,” he commanded the waiting horse.

  Kryzhu was eighteen hands high and stood with his withers and shoulders nearly a meter above Boris’s head. Boris took a small gulp and bravely swung himself into the left stirrup and over into the saddle. Vlad gave him an approving nod, and Boris used his knees to move the horse into position for the next trial.

  Boris took a deep breath and shouted, “Beg!”

  This time, Boris had both feet planted securely into the stirrups and his knees lock against the horse’s lower shoulder areas. When he gave the sharp heel kick–and Kryzhu took off again as if shot from a cannon barrel–Boris leaned forward and clung on to the mane. He relaxed his white-knuckled death grip on the mane by the time he reached the pile of rocks and kept his hands sedately in his lap as Kryzhu galloped like a cannon shot back to Vlad.

  “Better,” Vlad said with an expressionless face. “This time keep your hands off the mane. That is a child’s way to hold on. Use your legs.”

  It took Boris two more circles to dare finally to let go of the mane. He exulted inwardly when he did it without falling off.

  “Better. Are you tired, Boy?”

  Boris shook his head. He had decided that he did not like being called “Boy” and that at the end of this day, he would merit being called Prince Boris, or at least, Boris.

  The next four rounds required Boris to hold the lance pointing forward in one hand, then the other, then pointing down, then pointing up. It took eight rides for him to be able to keep his back up straight.

  “Enough for now, Boris. We will eat.”

  Vlad watched Boris dismount and secure Kryzhu to a bush. He was very pleased when the young prince removed the saddle and saddle blanket and wiped down the lathered horse and poured some of his canteen of water over the foamy sweat of Kryzhu’s back. The servant and the boy found a small amount of shade and lay down to eat a ration of salt pork and pemmican and a canteen of water. Both threw a few scraps to Donoschik, and the dog gobbled the offerings as if he was starving. Afterwards, Vlad made Boris learn how to do Cossack squats and a few other stretching exercises, then they took a short refreshing nap.

  Vlad stood up, stretched, and gazed over the hillsides stretching below them intent on choosing where to conduct the next exercises on the inclines and declines. Boris followed his lead and scanned the area around him. Vlad was gazing west, and Boris looked to the east. Vlad had a calm face which did not convey emotion. The fissures etched into his brown skin gave evidence of long rides in open country looking into the sun. A saber cut scar on his left cheek gave him a somewhat dangerous demeanor. His brown eyes habitually squinted against the sun—accentuating the Asian oval shape of his eyes–even when the sun was not there. They were keen and perceptive and told of an extensive intelligence regarding things that matter. He wore a faded old Cossack uniform–Prince Nikolai, the master, affectionately called it the uniform of a bandit—consisting of a lambswool papukha on his completely bald head, a faded and patched cherkeska tunic–that had once been bright red–encircled with a broad red leather belt from which dangled a long dagger in a silver tipped scabbard within easy reach, black trousers with a gold stripe down the side of each leg ending in knee-high black boots which Vlad had long since stopped polishing.

  Boris’s intense young eyes rested on a small herd of horses a couple of kilometers down in the valley. As he focused in on them, he became aware that the herd was staying unnaturally close to one another. He squinted his keen blue eyes and focused more intently. Then he saw horsemen keeping the herd of Prince Nikolai’s prize horses in a tight set of lines. It took a few moments for him to recognize the significance of what he was seeing. Donoschik alerted and pointed in the direction of the horses.

  “Poachers!” he hissed loudly to Vlad.

  The older man curled his forefinger to create a tiny hole to look through—as near to a telescope as he could manage. He watched for less than a minute.

  “Good lad! They are indeed thieves. If we ride back to the palace for reinforcements or into the city for the constabulary, those gnilyye zlodei will never be seen again.”

  Boris spoke with all the fervor of the righteous when he agreed with Vlad that they had to do something drastic about the rotten thieves. Vlad looked for a moment at his young charge, then made a very serious decision.

  “Are you brave enough to go after the loshadinyye shorty with me?” the older man asked, a worried furrow in his brow.

  Boris did not answer but let his determined facial expression speak for him: he would not allow the horse rustlers to escape. It would be a stain on his honor as a Yusupov, as a Russian, and as a man.

  Vlad nodded and smiled. He would have to protect this boy at all costs, but he could never go back and stand in front of Prince Nikolai and tell the master that he had cowardly left the field and had allowed the man’s son to be an accomplice to his cowardice.

  “I will carry two guns, and you carry the bag of ammunition. We will ride in the trees until we are a little behind them. When I raise my right hand, we will ride straight down off the ridge and arrest them…whatever it takes.”

  Boris solemnly nodded his acquiescence. He knew that falling off his horse was no longer an option. Today, he had to be a man. The two rode away from the brilliant sun, which they knew would be in the eyes of their quarries—four men. They kept to the trees, pausing occasionally to gauge where the loshadinyye shorty were in reference to their own position among the white birches. When the horse rustlers were in a position ahead of Boris and Vlad to be directly below them when they rode at an acute angle down the grassy hillside, the older man put up his right hand. They stopped and surveilled their current position, the rate of forward movement of the horse thieve
s, and made a rapid calculation of their speed of their trajectory down the decline.

  “Now,” whispered Vlad.

  Boris glanced at the horsemaster who nodded, then the boy shouted to Kryzhu, “beg”.

  Vlad yelled at his horse, and the two men and their horses swept down through the grass. They fitted their horses so well that an onlooker would have thought them to be centaurs—front part horse and rear part man.

  The rustlers did not see the unexpected Cossacks flying down at them until they were fifty meters apart.

  A teenage boy, dressed in rags, saw them first and shouted at his father who was dressed in a tattered old army uniform. The horses they were stealing were noisy and difficult to manage. His beard flapped into his face as he whirled, stopped, and reversed to keep the horses in line and going the way he wanted them to.

  “Imperatorskiye kazaki!” the boy called out again, mistaking the old man and the boy for Imperial Cossack irregulars at that distance.

  Before his father could gather his wits and mount a defense, Vlad was upon him. He bashed the unprepared man in the face and dropped him from his horse. Boris plunged into the line of horses and almost rode down one of the two men on the opposite side. The man’s horse reared and dumped his tired rider onto the rocky valley floor stunning him. The final man did not have time to judge his pursuer or to tell if he was a boy or a man. He pivoted about and began flogging his horse in the opposite direction from which he had been going. His horse was no match for Boris’s Kryzhu. The horse knew exactly what to do. He was no stranger to combat.

  Boris on Kryzhu easily overran the fleeing thief. The man attempted to extract his Nepalese kukri with an inwardly curved blade–similar to a machete–from his belt scabbard; but Boris jammed the end of his French Chassepot breechloader into the man’s back and fired, killing him instantly. Seeing that Vlad had killed the father of the boy and was leading the boy with a noose around his neck towards a small copse of mountain ash trees, Boris decided that he had time to collect a few souvenirs of his first battle encounter.