The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Read online

  Boris leapt from his horse and shot his quarry once in the back of the head to ensure no mistakes resulting in the man coming back to consciousness and attacking him and Vlad. He cut off a filthy braid from the man’s hair, put the kukri in his belt, and removed the man’s boots and tied them to straps on the sides of Kryzhu’s saddle. He ran Kryzhu at a low gallop to where Vlad and the boy stood silently beneath the spreading branches of one of the large mountain ashes.

  “What took you so long?” Vlad said with a broad smile that revealed his three missing front teeth.

  “Bigger man, faster horse,” Boris said and laughed.

  “But it is obvious that you had the better horse, and you never hesitated. You are a brave young Cossack, Prince Boris. Your father will be pleased with you.”

  Boris blushed and was embarrassed about it, but he gave Vlad a courteous salute—one imperial warrior to another.

  Vlad led Boris’s gaze to the boy he was holding on his rope. The boy was probably one or two years older than Boris. He was terrified and had wet the front of his trousers. His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles were lashed to the Cossack horseman saddle’s by a long narrow strap leading to the stirrups. He did not make a whimper and seemed resigned to his fate.

  Vlad said quietly, “Prince Boris, do you know the penalty for murder of a serf?”

  Boris answered, “No, but it should be severe, I would think.”

  “It is a fine—the amount depending on the value of the serf who was killed.”

  Boris shook his head in surprise.

  “Do you know the penalty for stealing a horse, independent of the value of the horse, who owns the horse, or who stole the horse, my prince?”

  “I suppose it must be a lighter fine or maybe a few lashes,” Boris answered attempting to find the judicial logic.

  “Death,” said Vlad flatly and laconically.

  “Are we to take this young boy back to the magistrate in Saint Petersburg?” Boris asked.

  “Depends.”

  There was a pause.

  “On what?”

  “The owner’s choice.”

  “Can the owner choose to reduce the sentence?”

  “No.”

  “What form does the execution take, Vlad?”

  “Hanging.”

  “So, my father must order the hanging, then?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “As scion, you are also the owner of the horses, Prince Boris.”

  “I can decide then?”

  “Here and now, I think is the requirement of the scion.”

  Boris gulped briefly realizing his responsibility. He knew that he could not appear to be a silly boy or a weakling in front of this peasant. He summoned up his courage once again and reached inward for the hardness that he knew was part of the Yusupov character.

  “We shall hang him here.”

  Vlad nodded, and asked, “What type of hanging, my prince?”

  Boris did not know that there was more than one type of hanging.

  “What types are there?” he asked.

  “In cases where many horses were stolen, or the thieves put up great resistance when they were arrested, slow strangulation might be in order. In cases where a dollup of mercy is deemed to be appropriate, such as in the case of the very young, or with females, or with old ones, a heavy hangman’s knot can be used on the side of the neck, and the thief is made to drop a considerable distance; so, the neck is broken; and death is swift and painless.”

  Vlad paused, waiting for Boris to reply, hoping that he would be as firm a Russian officer and powerful landlord as his father.

  Boris read Vlad’s mind and issued a clear simple order.

  “We will hang him here, and it will be the type of hanging with the large heavy knot.”

  Vlad asked, “do you know the knot?”

  “No, please teach me.”

  That pleased the old Cossack. He had Boris practice the knot ten times before pronouncing the boy to be an excellent hangman. Boris placed the end of the rope around the boy’s thin neck, circled it the required thirteen times and left it just loose enough that there would be some give which would allow the large knot to snap against the neck of the falling boy and fracture it just below the junction of the head and the neck. Vlad pronounced it to be perfect.

  Boris wrapped the other end of the rope around his waist and climbed the tree to the second lowest branch. Vlad brought the boy on his horse and stood him just under the line of the dangling rope.

  To the boy, Vlad said in a coarse Cossack order, “Stand on your saddle, Thief.”

  The agile boy did as he was told and stood there uneasily, his whole body shaking.

  “Fix the rope there, Prince Boris,” Vlad directed. When it was done, he said simply, “Good.”

  Boris scrambled down from the tree and looked at his handiwork.

  Vlad led Boris behind the horse.

  “Slap his rump.”

  Boris held his short quirt in his right hand, drew the hand all the way behind him, and whirled his arm forward striking the small horse across its rump. The horse leaped in the air and bolted forward. The hapless boy dropped like a sack of potatoes directly towards the ground. A satisfying, or sickening snapping sound came from the boy’s neck—depending on whether or not the onlooker approved of the hanging. The sound caused Donoschik to let out a loud whistle. It was over in a fraction of an instant.

  “Good job. We will leave him here to rot as an example to other gnilyye zlodei who might come this way and be tempted to steal horses from Yusupov lands.”

  It took two days to return to Moika Palace with their newly retrieved horses. As soon as they arrived Boris and Vlad reported to Prince Nikolai. Vlad was the spokesman. In his laconic way–and speaking Russian, his second language–he recited the events accurately in five sentences, giving all praise to the boy.

  Hiding his immense pride in his scion, Prince Nikolai, pronounced, “Good work. Each of you may choose a fitting reward.”

  He gave the proud family dog—Donoschik—an affectionate pat on the head and scratched behind his ears. It was a time of good family bonding.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COMING OF AGE

  “If I advance, follow me. If I retreat, kill me. If I die, avenge me. It is better to be a lion for a day than a hundred years as a sheep.”

  —Il Duce, Benito Mussolini

  Wild country around Saint Petersburg, July 29, 1863

  School, tutors, and religion, bored Prince Boris to distraction. Already at the age of twelve, he was developing a wander lust and hunger for action of any kind that was unusual for most boys his age and outright concerning for his parents—mainly, his mother. She found him more and different tutors, and he learned extremely rapidly but was never satisfied. Boris seemed to suck the educational blood of his teachers, none of whom were particularly well qualified in mathematics, horsemanship, cavalry tactics, history, or world politics which interested Boris. They seemed to have mastered the courtly graces—the minuet, the waltz, the mazurka—which were all too tame and stifling for the agile and hyperactive prepubertal prince. Even the quadrille with its complicated but active chassé, jeté assemble, and entrechats steps, and the frenetic polka, failed to keep Boris’s attention for more than a few minutes. He liked girls well enough, but the stilted atmosphere of the ballroom even made contact with those mysterious and alluring creatures not worth his time.

  From Vlad, Boris learned the most prevalent of the Cossack languages—Kuban—which was the at-home and local business language of Zaporizhia in the Ukraine—the Don Cossack State–on the river Don. From formal tutors, Boris learned French, the diplomatic language, and was as fluent in it as the diplomats. He had an excellent tutor in German and could keep up with his master at telling jokes, describing technical matters and military tactics, and even in the use of slang. From the English linguistic master he added English language, Latin, and Gree
k, to his repertoire so that he could compete with the other nobles in reading classic, historical, and philosophical literature from the west, especially in the original languages. Latin, Greek, and the Slavic languages were difficult for him, and he could not find any real use for them. His father ordered him to be able to speak fluently with any nobleman from a foreign country who came to the house and with any soldier or servant who spoke one of the lesser languages such as Bulgarian, Croatian, Swedish, and Italian—all of which sounded like the chatter of monkeys to Boris. Thus strongly encouraged by the paterfamilias, Boris doggedly did his work albeit without enthusiasm.

  What Boris did love to learn related to the out-of-doors. After considerable pestering, Prince Nikolai secured a military tactics tutor for his scion and assigned Vlad to the full-time task of teaching the boy Cossack maneuvers. Together, Vlad and the boy spent much of each day galloping around the countryside of Saint Petersburg. They explored beyond the suburbs, beyond the communal serf villages, beyond the verdant fields, and out into the wooded hills and rough valleys to test themselves and their horses. Kryzhu was the equal of every test, and Boris loved him. Donoschik never even seemed tired after running all day. Thus far during his twelfth year, the instruction in Cossack tradition was all seen from horseback, and the best part of the boy’s days were consumed in getting Kryzhu to charge, to wheel, to gallop, and to stop suddenly, to pivot, to jump, to endure the men’s mock foraging and realistic and joyful pursuit or the yelling of the most otherworldly howls, cursing like the vilest of troopers, and enthusiastically brandishing their various weapons. Most difficult of all was to stand quietly at the ready.

  Vlad found large open areas and savannas where he could teach Prince Boris how to mount his horse with lightning speed from a recumbent position, how to thrust and to cut with a straight and curved saber and lance, and how to carry and how to fire his carbine and pistol at a full gallop. These were the advanced horse borne cavalry tactics usually taught to recruits who were over eighteen or more often over the age of twenty. Boris was honing his skills on horseback before the recruits and even the officers he met later even saw such remarkable feats. Vlad was proud of Boris and never ceased to sing his praises to Prince Nikolai.

  Once–in late August–the paterfamilias accompanied Vlad and Boris on one of their practice runs in the countryside. Vlad had prepared by feeding his and Boris’s horses wheat for several days in advance to provide protein energy and by running them up and down hillsides full of hedgerows to jump and trees to avoid at full gallop. He secured the essential cavalry weapons—saber, lance, carbine, and pistols—for the young prince and himself. He arranged for the three of them to leave the palace before first light as he and Boris had practiced many times in the past few weeks. This was an unfair tactic designed to get the elder prince tired before the demonstration of young Boris’s Cossack skills even began in case he wanted to test the boy himself. Nikolai was a hero of the War in the Caucasus against the Avarians which resulted in the young captain being instrumental in the surrender of Imam Shamil and the annexation of North Caucasus into Russia and not a man to shrink at any military challenge.

  The Princes Yusupov sat motionless on their mounts after a long morning’s set of maneuvers—all at a gallop. Vlad had quietly left their sides and disappeared from their view. Suddenly, from above and to the right of them, Vlad galloped full speed ahead towards the princes. He had the advantage of being above them on a fairly steep decline and coming at them; so, they had to look into the approaching noonday sun to find him. Prince Nikolai was entirely taken by surprise and fumbled to turn his mount to be able to face the opponent. Boris was fully ready by his and Vlad’s planning, and he wheeled Kryzhu to the left to be able to meet Vlad side on with his saber directed straight forward. Vlad’s pace was too fast for him to slow and turn to meet Boris, and the boy came within inches of colliding with the old Cossack. Boris made a carefully calculated thrust of his saber, intentionally missing Vlad by inches. Vlad participated in the bit of family theater by acting as if he had been wounded and falling off his horse and rolling to the ground. He lay in the grass giving a convincing performance of a dead man.

  Prince Nikolai took a minute to realize fully what was transpiring and to get his adrenaline driven blood pressure and pulse rate to settle down. His arrival at the scene of the one-on-one combat was ludicrously late, and he began to laugh heartily when he was sure that Vlad was not injured in the least.

  “Well done, my boy, very well done!” the proud father exulted.

  Boris sat sternly in his saddle relishing his victory but keeping a patrician unemotional facial expression as he glanced haughtily at his puffing father. That made Nikolai laugh all the harder. He leapt from his saddle and ran to the boy.

  “My young prince, you have had a true Cossack education; and you passed with flying colors. I have decided on a reward: Kryzhu is now your own horse, and I will give you four more. In addition, you shall have four serfs of your own, young men with vigor and fire. As your prowess continues, I will grant you several more over time as you earn them. As for you, Vlad–you wily old rascal–from this day forward, your debts are forgiven, you are a free man. You may stay with the family or leave as you choose. You are awarded sixteen hectares of good farm land for you and your family.”

  Vlad bowed low, and said tersely, “I am in your debt, Great Prince. I choose to remain as the right arm of young Prince Boris.”

  “You shall take your place as part of the family, my good man. Now, let us enjoy a great feast in the field like brothers-in-arms.”

  By the age of sixteen, Prince Boris was a tall, lithe, strong, young man with his Nordic blond hair worn in a long mane. By dint of considerable fortitude, he mastered the studies insisted upon by both of his parents and by his relentless daily educator, Vlad, the Cossack. He could now fight on the ground hand-to-hand, bare handed and with knife, pistol, and short curved saber. He was fully capable of directing and taking his place in on-the-ground Cossack attacks and retreats. He could dismount and remount on the fly with mystifying agility and speed. His father announced to Boris’s mother that the day had come when he had to go away for further schooling since the family and the estate no longer held mysteries to conquer.

  “If we do not corral his energies, our precocious son will get himself into trouble. There is a foment about for change in the imperial rules and policies. Perhaps there is something to be said about making the lot of the peasants and serfs better, even one day abolishing serfdom all together and building a strong empire of willing Russians—people who have different religions and ethnicity, different languages and customs, but all of whom are deep in their collective souls true Russians. That day is not now. Such talk is seditious, even though one day, it will be part of the fabric of the empire. I am determined that our son will receive a traditional conservative education. I am going to approach his godfather, Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich, to get our fine son into the Imperial Military Academy in Saint Petersburg. Although it is my decision, will you support me in this venture?”

  “Haven’t I always, my husband? And, Niki, I am in full agreement with the choice even though I will shed some tears. He is a wonderful boy, and I will miss him severely. By the way, so will any number of frӓuleins and krasivyye molodyye devushki, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “Of course, I have noticed Tati. Maybe that is a good reason to get him into a world of military discipline and cold showers, and away from all those pretty young girls,” he laughed.

  “It is your duty to inform him, you know,” Tatiana said, with some mischief in her smile.

  Prince Nikolai drafted a carefully worded letter to the Grand Duke requesting an audience with him at the Imperial Military Academy. Grand Duke Paul’s response came by return mail.

  “It will be my pleasure to receive you my friend. Will this Saturday for lunch be convenient?”

  Nikolai sent an affirmative RSVP that day, and the meeting was set.

  The mo
st elaborate carriage owned by the Yusupov family—the four-seated Berline–was brought out, given a thorough cleaning, regilding, and polishing. Prince Nikolai’s best dress uniform–complete with his medals–was cleaned and pressed; his boots polished; and, at his wife’s orders, his hair and beard were trimmed in the latest fashion.

  Pronounced perfect, the paterfamilias set out in his gold encrusted Berline pulled by six identical large, pure white, carriage horses. He and his servants took four days to travel to Moscow so that the Prince would not appear to be overtired, overanxious, and needy—all of which could be considered accurate descriptors. They had bracing cold showers and a hearty German breakfast and arrived refreshed at the academy gates which fronted a magnificent park. It was meant to awe and inspire Russians, and Prince Nikolai was duly impressed. It was also meant to awe and frighten opponents of the imperial army and the tzarist government. Nikolai was proud to be part of such a remarkable empire and to have the opportunity to move his scion into the highest circles of the imperial army. He had prepared for this day for sixteen years.

  He left his coachmen and servants in the carriage and walked across the long stone pathway and up the twelve stairs. He paused with something that bordered on reverence as he gazed at the six gleaming white pillars of the portico set against the imperial yellow of the buildings walls.

  Prince Nikolai was admitted into the hallway where the general staff offices were situated. He waited for half an hour—a highly unusual demonstration of humility for one of the foremost princes of the empire—until an infantry captain in full dress uniform marched out and announced,

  “Prince Nikolai Borisovich Yusupov.”

  Nikolai stood and saluted.

  “Follow me, the Grand Duke is expecting you.”

  The office was sumptuous with ornate imported exotic woods from around the empire, original portraits of the Romanov family, Tlingit souvenirs from the Battle of Sitka and other skirmishes during the family’s colonization of Russian Alaska. There were elegant two-hundred-year-old hand knotted carpets from the Russo-Persian and Russo-Turkish wars, victory swords from the Anglo-Russian wars and assorted battles of the Napoleonic wars, vases and statuary from the Greek War of Independence. The Grand Duke displayed his medals from the Decembrist Revolution of 1826, the Polish Insurgency of 1830-1831, the Imperial Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky, the Order of Saint Vladimir with a bow, the Order of Saint George for Military Merit, Gold Cross, a Crimean War Campaign Medal, Gold Class, and the Imperial and Royal Order of the White Eagle given by Tzar Nikolai I himself. The grand duke, therefore, held among his many titles the right to be known as Knight of the Order of the White Eagle.