As Eagles Fly Page 6
“Plain speaking, my Lord!” Natasha retorted.
“And I shall continue to speak plainly,” Lord Athelstan replied. “I have never before met a woman who was supposed to be a gentlewoman who could behave in such an outrageous manner.”
“Then it will be a good experience for you! Think how amusingly it will read in your memoirs!”
“I think, Countess,” Lord Athelstan said slowly, “you had best retire to bed. If you stay here I may say or even do something I would afterwards regret!”
“You would like to strike me, would you not?” Natasha enquired. “It is only your English upbringing and your public school principles that prevent you from doing so.”
“I can only hope that one day,” Lord Athelstan said bitterly, “you marry a man who takes a whip to you!”
“As Russian peasants do to their wives,” Natasha smiled. “It’s a stimulating thought and certainly an idea to sleep on!”
She rose to her feet.
“Goodnight, my Lord. I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to our journey together and to an association which I feel quite sure will be very instructive.”
She spoke sarcastically. Then mockingly she put her hands together, palm to palm, finger to finger, in the traditional Indian greeting.
“Salaam, Sahib!”
Before Lord Athelstan could think of a suitable reply, she had picked up her bourkha and was gone from the tent.
He stood where she had left him, his hands clenched together in an effort at self-control, knowing he was angrier than he had ever been before in his life, seething with a fury because he was so frustrated.
This woman could defy and taunt him, could ignore what he said, could thrust herself upon him with the collusion of the Imam and there was nothing he could do about it!
It was not only that she was laughing at him.
He was well aware that Shamyl would feel that he had scored with truly Oriental subtlety over the slower-thinking unintuitive Englishman.
“Damn him! Damn them all!” Lord Athelstan exclaimed.
Then he was astonished with himself for being shaken out of his habitual reserve, the cool calmness he was notorious for and the control he prided himself on.
‘What does it matter?’ he asked and knew that it mattered more than he dared to admit.
*
Lord Athelstan passed a restless night and when he came from his sleeping-tent to find that Natasha was already seated at the breakfast table it did not appease his feeling of irritation.
The morning, warm and windless, was brilliant with sunshine.
Hawkins had drawn away the sides of the tent from the part which was constructed as a sitting room and Lord Athelstan could look over the green valley they were encamped in.
There was blossom on the fruit trees, flowers were blooming profusely in the grass and he knew that the winter had been left behind in Daghestan.
At his entrance Natasha rose from the chair she had been sitting on.
“Good morning, my Lord!” she said politely and almost humbly.
But she said it with an Indian intonation and Lord Athelstan realised that she was giving a performance in front of Hawkins and the other servants who were waiting on them.
“Good morning!” Lord Athelstan replied sharply and then reluctantly he added, “Your Highness!”
‘If we have to play this blasted game,’ he thought to himself, ‘I had better do it convincingly.’
Hawkins, he knew, would be hard to deceive, whatever the other servants might think or not think.
He also wondered apprehensively whether a woman would be taken in by Natasha’s appearance.
Then he told himself that if he regarded her critically, without prejudice, it would be very difficult to guess that she was not in fact a young man.
She was so thin that there were certainly no soft feminine curves beneath the straight, tight coat and Rajput Princes were noted for the beauty of their faces and their exquisite features.
Natasha’s nose was too short, but many of the Northern Tribes did not have the high-bridged nose so prevalent in Rajput portraits and their skin was lighter than that of the Indians from the South.
Apart from these details known to Lord Athelstan because he had travelled in India, it was unlikely there would be many people in Tiflis who had known any Indians let alone visited their country.
Despite his worries, Lord Athelstan ate a substantial breakfast, although he noticed that Natasha ate very little and guessed it was because after months of deprivation she was finding it difficult to absorb food.
As soon as he had finished, Lord Athelstan rose to his feet.
“We must leave!” he said abruptly.
He was just about to go outside and mount the stallion that was waiting for him, when one of his men came to the side of the tent and spoke to Hawkins.
Lord Athelstan waited.
“There are some soldiers approaching, my Lord.”
Almost before Hawkins said the words there was the sound of horses being brought to a standstill.
A moment later an Officer in Russian uniform came towards the tent, his epaulettes and decorations glinting in the sun.
Lord Athelstan walked forward to meet him.
The Officer saluted smartly.
“You are Lord Athelstan?” he asked in quite passable English.
“I am!”
“I have a message for you, my Lord, from Colonel Prince David Tchavtchavadze. He is at Vladikavkaz and he asks if your Lordship would do him the honour of meeting him as soon as possible.”
Lord Athelstan was not surprised at the invitation.
He was certain that Prince David would be somewhere in the vicinity awaiting with Djemmal Eddin the results of the negotiations for the exchange of the hostages.
“Please inform Prince David,” Lord Athelstan said to the Officer, “that I will come to Vladikavkaz immediately.”
“We are here to escort you, my Lord. My name is Gagarin – Captain Ivan Gagarin.”
“I am delighted to meet you, Captain,” Lord Athelstan said holding out his hand.
As he did so, he was aware that Natasha had risen from the table. She joined him at the entrance to the tent.
He knew it was a deliberate action on her part and now there was nothing he could do but say with what grace he could muster,
“Your Highness, allow me to present Captain Gagarin – Prince Akbar of Sharpura.”
He was aware as he spoke that the Captain was surprised and he was forced to explain,
“His Highness has travelled with me from India. He is journeying to England for the first time.”
Even as he spoke, he knew it was a triumph for Natasha.
She had won!
She had forced him into a position where he had to acknowledge her and, now that he had taken the first step, there could be no retreat.
He could not be rid of her and he was obliged, however much it infuriated him, to take part in a deception which, if it was exposed, would ruin his career and cause a sensation which would be attached to him for the rest of his life.
“The Prince’s invitation is, of course, extended to Your Highness,” the Captain said to Natasha.
“I am very grateful,” Natasha answered.
They set off a few minutes later, leaving Lord Athelstan’s servants to strike camp and follow them more slowly.
Vladikavkaz was a typical garrison town and a trading post between Russia, the Caucasus and the Trans-Caucasian Provinces.
There were the usual bazaars in which travellers and soldiers, when they had any money, could purchase fine rugs, silver and ivory, Persian silks, saddles and spices.
But the most popular articles were daggers and other weapons inlaid with silver and ivory.
Owing to the prosperity which had been brought to Vladikavkaz through its being a military base, there were Persian and Russian steam baths, clubs, shops, restaurants and some quite impressive-looking private houses.
They had been together, he gathered from Captain Gagarin, ever since he had arrived at Vladikavkaz at the beginning of February.
He shared quarters with Prince David and, because of the sacrifice he was to make in giving up what had become to him his whole life in exchange for the freedom of the captured Princesses, the Russians could not do enough for him.
Both his brother Officers and the inhabitants of all the garrison towns between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz gave balls and suppers, receptions and parties in his honour.
“What does Djemmal Eddin feel about returning to his own country?” Lord Athelstan asked Captain Gagarin as they rode over the beautiful green countryside.
“I think the question is,” Captain Gagarin answered, “which country now is his own?”
This Lord Athelstan felt was a very pertinent query when he met Djemmal Eddin.
The young man looked very much the same as when he had last seen him in St. Petersburg, just as charming, just as attractive, except his large dark eyes were even more mournful than Lord Athelstan remembered them.
Now there was something almost agonising about the expression on his face, as if he knew that what awaited him was not only the annihilation but the crucifixion of all he held dear.
When Lord Athelstan had related to Prince David everything that Princess Anna had told him in the brief conversation he had with her at Dargo-Vedin, it was inevitable that they should speak of Djemmal Eddin.
He was not in the room and Prince David said,
“I have never met a Moslem with so little of the Tartar about him.”
He gave a sigh.
“The boy is Russian and completely Europeanised.”
“I can see that!” Lord Athelstan answered.
“What I admire about him,” the Prince went on, “is that he refuses to be lionised or pitied. He will not assume the romantic character of the deliverer.”
But Lord Athelstan realised that was how he appeared to everyone.
He could not help wondering as he talked with the Prince, with Natasha sitting beside him, what she thought and felt.
She would see how deeply moved everyone in Vladikavkaz was at the price Djemmal Eddin must pay for the release of the hostages.
If he had not been so angry, he would have been amused to realise how easily Natasha was accepted as an Indian. Her appearance caused little comment simply because the Russians were concentrating on Djemmal Eddin.
There was, however, an acute feeling of tension that was inescapable.
Negotiations between Shamyl and the Russians for the exchange of hostages were still not finalised.
“The difficulty is,” Prince David said to Lord Athelstan, “I cannot find any more money. It is impossible for me to raise more than the forty thousand roubles I have offered them already.”
He made a sound of frustrated anger as he went on,
“They keep suggesting that I should write to the Czar and the Government, but how can I ask them to pay the ransom for private individuals and swell the Murid coffers?”
“I quite understand it would be impossible,” Lord Athelstan agreed.
He told Prince David how he was certain that it was not Shamyl who was the stumbling block but the rapacity of the Murids.
“For the first time,” Lord Athelstan explained, “they have realised their power.”
“Blasted barbarians!” Prince David ejaculated.
It was hard to know what words to find to comfort the man who was tortured by the thought of his wife and family in the hands of his enemies.
What was more, the letters Princess Anna wrote to her husband were growing, Lord Athelstan gathered, more and more depressed as it seemed there would be no end to their suffering.
“We must not detain you too long here at Vladikavkaz,” Prince David said to Lord Athelstan, “and we are in fact accompanying you to Tiflis where the Viceroy is expecting you.”
He forced a smile to his lips as he added,
“Yet another ball is being given for Djemmal Eddin. I think we are growing a little tired of them, but for him they are his ‘swansong’. He knows that once he leaves Georgia he will never waltz again.”
“Are you quite sure that the Viceroy is expecting me?” Lord Athelstan asked. “I thought perhaps it would be best if I pressed on towards Constantinople.”
He knew as he spoke that he had previously arranged to meet Prince Voronzov.
At the same time he was nervous of staying at the Palace because Natasha was with him.
“I assure you,” Prince David replied, “His Excellency is looking forward eagerly to your visit. I have also sent a message back to tell him that Prince Akbar is with you.”
There was nothing Lord Athelstan could do in the circumstances but express his gratitude.
But before they left Vladikavkaz he had the opportunity of a private conversation with Natasha.
“Perhaps it would be better,” he said, “if I send you ahead so that you don’t have to stay in Tiflis. We could meet at Batoum.”
“Still afraid?” Natasha asked mockingly.
“Of course I am afraid of discovery!” Lord Athelstan answered almost roughly. “You see what the feeling is here. People think and talk of nothing but the exchange of hostages. What do you imagine would happen if they knew that I had with me a hostage and was deliberately conveying her to another prison?”
“Disclosure would certainly be dramatic!” Natasha said lightly. “We must just be careful not to betray ourselves!”
“Ourselves!” Lord Athelstan groaned. “How I ever became involved in this appalling deception I shall never know!”
“Perhaps it was fate!” Natasha said sweetly. “Fate that you should be instructed to visit Shamyl, fate that I should be waiting for you there!”
“It was certainly my most unfortunate day when I encountered you,” Lord Athelstan said.
“Your gallantry overwhelms me!” she replied. “Stop trembling. Anyone who is clairvoyant would know only too well that you were hiding something.”
“You are certainly the skeleton in the cupboard!” Lord Athelstan retorted.
She laughed.
“There you certainly score a point! Up to now I have undoubtedly been the victor!”
Once again Lord Athelstan had an irrepressible desire to shake her, but, because he was determined not to give her the satisfaction of realising how greatly she annoyed him, he walked away, conscious as he did so that she was still laughing.
*
They reached Tiflis late in the afternoon.
The Georgian Capital looked at its best with its spires, towers and roofs glinting gold in the sunshine.
The trees surrounding it were heavy with blossom, the river as they passed over the bridge built by Alexander the Great moved like molten silver between its steep banks.
Prince David and Djemmal Eddin were staying in Military Headquarters, but they escorted Lord Athelstan and Natasha to the Viceroy’s Palace.
It was a magnificent setting for Prince Voronzov’s traditional pomp and the appropriate background for his tall dignified figure, which had been so much a part of the historic Caucasian battles.
Now, at seventy-three, he was growing old, but he still had a presence that made him a distinctive rather awe-inspiring personality who could never be ignored.
The marble colonnades of the Palace, its gigantic chandeliers and gilded furniture, were a magnificent and an almost unbelievable contrast, where Djemmal Eddin was concerned, to the Great Aôul.
They dined off gold plate at dinner, waited on by lackeys in the crimson and white Voronzov livery. There were three hundred of them in the Palace.
The dinner consisted of twenty courses and Lord Athelstan wondered how much Natasha would be able to consume.
The Princess Eliza Voronzov, who wore a necklace o
f huge turquoises and diamonds, employed as a page a dwarf with huge mustachios. He wore a fantastic uniform.
This was in accordance with the Russian love of spectacular servants. The Empress was always followed by her Negro pages, who wore enormous baggy trousers and plumed turbans.
Lord Athelstan watched the ladies flirting and doing everything they could to attract the unhappy Djemmal Eddin. He wondered how it would be possible to make the Murids realise that Prince David could not in fact raise the million roubles they required as a ransom.
Lord Athelstan was quite sure that every detail of this dinner and every other reception given in his son’s honour was related to Shamyl.
Later in the evening during the ball he watched Djemmal Eddin waltzing with the local beauties.
The candlelight shimmered on the decorations of the Officers and on the jewels encircling the white necks of the ladies whose crinolines, just introduced from Paris, swung around to the strains of a string orchestra.
Lord Athelstan then walked through an open window onto the terrace outside.
The garden was filled with oleander bushes in bloom and acacia and eucalyptus trees cast dark shadows.
Because he knew the East so well, Lord Athelstan was certain that Shamyl’s spies were watching everything that happened.
The Imam would not only wish to know what his son was doing. He would also want to be quite certain that it was really Djemmal Eddin who was to be exchanged for the captured Princesses.
Knowing the austerity of the Imam’s life, Lord Athelstan thought the reports from his spies would be disturbing to say the least of it.
For a Moslem to be dancing, embracing what to them were half-naked Christian women, drinking wine and smoking cigars, was to be lost to Allah.
As he was thinking these things, Lord Athelstan heard a light step behind him on the terrace and he was aware before he saw her that Natasha had joined him.
“Are you thinking of Djemmal Eddin?” she asked.
“I was,” he admitted.
“I have been thinking of him too,” Natasha answered, “and of myself.”