As Eagles Fly

by Barbara Cartland

  They were circling beyond the lights of the camp and he knew at once that they were the wolves.

  He had picked up, as he left his tent, two pepperbox pistols, muzzle-loading, each with six barrels.

  They were the very latest weapons, which he had brought with him from England and he knew that Hawkins also had a pair. The other men were not so well provided and would have to reload their guns after each shot.

  At this time of the year, when the wolves had grown thin and increasingly savage during the privation of the winter months, it was inevitable that they should come down into the valley at night.

  They stole for food the lambs, the goat kids and every other young animal that could not escape from them.

  The farmers suffered severe losses, but however many wolves they destroyed, nothing could ever rid the Caucasus Mountains of the packs of ravenous beasts.

  “How many are there?” Lord Athelstan asked one of his men.

  Always when they encamped there was a sentry on duty for fear not only of wolves but also of thieves and tribes who looked on travellers as their natural prey.

  “I don’t think it is a big pack, my Lord,” the man replied.

  They were all silent watching the animals moving in front of them, being at times indistinguishable from the rocks or shrubs and at other times clearly evident by the glint of their eyes and a flash of their bared teeth.

  Lord Athelstan knew that they would reconnoitre for some time and then, if their leader was courageous, they would rush the camp.

  He had an instinct that this was about to happen and his hands tightened on the barrels of his pistols, waiting tensely.

  Suddenly they came.

  There were more of them than he had expected, their leader springing forward snarling, his teeth and eyes grotesque in the flames from the fire the tents had been erected around.

  Lord Athelstan fired first and his men followed him.

  His pistol accounted for the leading wolf and for three others, but still they came.

  The noise of the firing was deafening and Lord Athelstan saw with something like consternation that his men were not as accurate as he had hoped, or else the wolves were tough enough to continue advancing even with bullets in their bodies.

  The men reloaded and fired again and Lord Athelstan realised that he had expended all six barrels in one pistol and only had a few shots left in the other.

  He started to reload and as he did so was aware that Hawkins was firing on his left side and that the man on his right also had a pepperbox pistol.

  He knew that Hawkins must have shared his weapons and was surprised.

  It was unlike him to be so generous. He was inordinately proud of having been entrusted to handle a pistol similar to his Master’s.

  The wolves were hesitating – their advance had been checked, but they were still hungry enough to make another attempt.

  Then as Lord Athelstan, his pistols reloaded, was waiting to fire again, two wolves, obviously more hungry than cautious, fell on the dead bodies of their companions and started to tear them apart.

  It was only a few seconds before the rest of the pack followed their example.

  It was then easy to shoot them as they quarrelled, snarled and fought amongst themselves, pulling the carcasses to pieces and oblivious of any other danger.

  Lord Athelstan shot them down one after another. Finally only half a dozen escaped all dragging with them a part of their mauled and mangled companions.

  He fired the remaining bullets in his pistols after them, but it was difficult in the darkness to know whether he had scored a hit.

  He looked around at his men.

  “Well done!” he said. “Pull what is left of the dead wolves out of reach. Those who escaped may return for them.”

  The men hurried to obey and Lord Athelstan turned to speak to the man who had stood on his right firing one of Hawkins’ pepperbox pistols. But he was not there.

  Reloading his weapons as he went, Lord Athelstan walked back to his own tent.

  Hawkins followed him to take his fur-lined cloak from his shoulders and put it down where it had been before, just inside the opening of the tent.

  “I might have anticipated that we should have visitors of that sort tonight,” Lord Athelstan said in genial tones. “Commend the man who was on sentry duty and saw them first.”

  “I will, my Lord!”

  “And by the way, who was the man you loaned one of your pepperbox pistols to? I have never known you do that before. He was a good shot!”

  There was a moment’s silence and then Hawkins answered,

  “As he is your Lordship’s guest, I thought it was only right, my Lord.”

  “My guest?” Lord Athelstan exclaimed.

  “Yes, my Lord. It was the Indian gentleman. The Naib informed me that he was travelling with us as far as Constantinople.”

  Lord Athelstan was suddenly still.

  Then in a voice unexpectedly sharp he said,

  “Show him in here!”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  Lord Athelstan was aware that Hawkins was surprised at the tone he had spoken in, but he had suddenly a terrible suspicion of who the stranger might be.

  He could hardly believe it possible and yet, where Shamyl was concerned, would he have expected him not to be determined to get his own way?

  Some minutes passed.

  Then Hawkins drew back the flap of the tent.

  “His Highness, Prince Akbar of Sharpura, my Lord!”

  The visitor came into the tent and Hawkins removed his goatskin bourkha to lay it beside his Lordship’s own cloak

  Then he retired, securing the flap against the night air.

  Nathasha Melikov stood looking at Lord Athelstan and for a moment neither of them said anything.

  She was dressed in the long tight-waisted, high-necked brocade coat of a Rajput Prince.

  She wore a blue turban and Lord Athelstan saw that she had darkened the skin of her face and hands.

  Her eyes were faintly outlined with kohl and beneath the brocade coat her legs were encased around the ankles in the white tightly-wound trouser-like garment that was worn by the Northern tribes.

  Angry though he was, Lord Athelstan could not help acknowledging that her disguise was extremely effective.

  She did in fact look very much like a young Indian Prince and there was something in the pride and dignity with which she faced him that made the illusion even more convincing.

  At last he found his voice.

  “How dare you!” he exclaimed. “How dare you inflict yourself on me when I made it very clear both to you and the Imam that I would not escort you!”

  “There was no other way I could save my brother,” Natasha answered.

  “That is your problem and not mine!” Lord Athelstan snapped. “You will return to Dargo-Vedin. I will have no part in this!”

  “Do you expect me to leave tonight or are you prepared to send me tomorrow?” Natasha enquired. “I shall require an escort of four men.”

  Lord Athelstan’s lips tightened with fury.

  He could not at the moment spare four men or their horses unless he was to sacrifice a large amount of his personal equipment.

  There were others of his staff who were to meet him in Tiflis. He had sent them there direct from the Persian border with the bulk of his baggage which there had been no point in taking on the perilous ride to Dargo-Vedin.

  But he had no desire to take Natasha with him to Tiflis and anyway, if his men arrived with four of their number missing, it was quite obvious that they would gossip amongst themselves.

  Lord Athelstan was well aware that a whisper in the bazaars of Tiflis would be known in the Viceroy’s salon before evening.

  Was he prepared to explain, he asked himself, the reasons why, having brought one of the imprisoned Princesses as far as the Georgian valley, he had deliberately sent her back into captivity?

  He realised the impasse in which he found himself and
this made him angrier than ever, but, because he always had an iron self-control, he did not rage at the woman facing him, but his voice was icy and like a whiplash as he said,

  “I am appalled and disgusted by your presumption! I did not believe that Shamyl would treat me so treacherously. I shall certainly not further his cause with Britain!”

  “To penalise Shamyl would be unjust and spiteful!” Natasha retorted. “You have every reason, my Lord, to be incensed, but, because you have been outwitted, I did not expect you to be unsporting and petty about it!”

  “You have used some very hard words to me, Countess, ever since we met,” Lord Athelstan replied, “but you can hardly expect me to be pleased to jeopardise my career for an action on your part of which I utterly disapprove and which in fact disgusts me!”

  “It need not disgust you any more than the thought of my being raped by a barbarous Tartar in a crumbling aôul,” Natasha retorted.

  She sat down in one of the chairs at the table. As she did so, he realised that she was as angry as he was. Yet she too was self-controlled and only the flashing of her dark eyes told him of the resentment burning within her.

  “Can we talk about this sensibly, my Lord?” she asked.

  “There is nothing sensible about it!” Lord Athelstan replied, “but I am prepared to listen to what you have to say to me.”

  “That is indeed generous of your Lordship,” Natasha replied sarcastically, “since you have no alternative.”

  “I could throw you to the wolves!” he said.

  There was a twist of amusement at the corners of her mouth.

  “That would be very un-English,” she answered, “but doubtless it would be a compensation to listen to the crunching of my bones!”

  She paused to add,

  “They would still be hungry. There is very little flesh left on my body after living in the Imam’s house.”

  She was trying to shame him, Lord Athelstan knew. At the same time he could not help being vividly aware of how thin she was from her imprisonment.

  It struck him too how stiff and tired she must be after the last two days’ gruelling ride, when she had been unable to take exercise for so many months.

  Princess Anna had told him how confined they had been in Shamyl’s hands.

  “May I offer you a glass of wine?” he asked.

  She looked at him and now there was laughter in her eyes.

  “Beware of the Greeks when they come bearing gifts!” she quoted. “Are you trying to persuade me to go back voluntarily?”

  “Actually I was thinking you must be tired,” Lord Athelstan replied.

  “I am!” she answered. “Equally I would not trust you not to trick me!”

  “As you have tricked me!” he answered. “I assure you, Countess, I would do so without hesitation, if I could think of how it was possible.”

  Lord Athelstan brought the bottle of brandy he had been drinking from earlier in the evening from the leather wine box embossed with a coronet in which his drink was carried on a packhorse.

  He placed it on the table, produced two glasses and half-filled them.

  “Let us drink without prejudice to what we have to say to each other.”

  As Natasha lifted the brandy to her lips, he saw that her thin fingers were trembling and he recognised that she was in fact very tired.

  Quite suddenly it struck him how brave she was and yet he told himself that he must not weaken in his conviction that he must be rid of her.

  As if she read his thoughts, she took another sip of the brandy and asked,

  “Well, have you decided to murder me or send me back in chains?”

  “You know full well I can do neither,” Lord Athelstan replied and now once again he was extremely angry.

  He could not arrive at Tiflis with a woman disguised as a man and not even an ordinary woman at that but a prisoner of the Imam.

  A woman who was prepared to sacrifice herself in an exaggerated and ridiculous manner that, once it was known, would cause an immense sensation over the whole of the Christian world.

  “Listen to me,” he said forcefully. “You cannot do this thing! I know you love your brother and that you wish to save him, but the way you are trying to do so is impossible!”

  “Why?” Natasha enquired.

  “You know the reasons as well as I do,” Lord Athelstan replied in an irritated tone. “What you don’t understand is that it is only a question of time before Shamyl is defeated. He cannot hold out much longer against the Russians. His army is depleted. They are being driven further and further back from the territories they once held and Field-Marshal Bariatinsky is harassing them all the time.”

  “If the Russians do reach Dargo-Vedin,” Natasha replied, “do you imagine that there will be many left alive to tell the tale? You know as well as I do that the Caucasians die fighting.”

  This was indisputable and Lord Athelstan could not contradict it.

  The Caucasian warriors always preferred death to being disarmed. The mystique of the sword for Shamyl’s Murids had not been understood by the Russians for a long time.

  “I have the chance to save my brother,” Natasha went on, “but the only choice as far as I am concerned is between a Naib or a Sultan.”

  She shrugged her shoulders expressively.

  “I cannot see that one is any worse or more unpleasant than the other.”

  She gave a deep sigh and added,

  “Dimitri will go home. That is all that matters.”

  “I suppose you expect me to admire what you are doing,” Lord Athelstan asked bitterly.

  “I expect nothing from you, my Lord,” Natasha replied, “except what I can extort by blackmail or treachery.”

  She drank down the rest of her brandy and it seemed to give her a fresh impetus to say,

  “You will take me with you because you have no alternative. No one will guess who I am. To your servants, to everyone we meet, I am a Rajput Prince, the son of the Maharajah of Sharpura. You brought me with you from India. Who is going to question such a story?”

  Lord Athelstan pressed his lips together to prevent himself raging at her.

  Her sheer audacity and impertinence seemed to him intolerable and yet he did not know how to reply.

  It was true that it would be quite unexceptional for him to allow a young Prince who wished to visit Britain to travel with him.

  If there was in fact a Maharajah of Sharpura and he had asked him for such a service, he would have acquiesced even though he thought it a nuisance.

  Yet to arrive at Tiflis with one of Shamyl’s prisoners, about whom the whole of Russia was concerned and not to hand her over to the care of her own people was an act so incredible, so unprecedented that Lord Athelstan could find no words in which to express his distaste for the whole plot.

  “Damn you!” he said forcibly. “This is not a moment for playing charades – for hoping that you will not be recognised or discovered. If you have to behave in such a ridiculous manner, why should I be a part of it?”

  “I accused you of being a coward when we first met,” Natasha replied. “Now I will add to it the charge of being grossly selfish. You are, my Lord, thinking only of yourself.”

  “I am thinking of my position as a representative of Her Britannic Majesty Queen Victoria,” Lord Athelstan retorted.

  “All very impressive!” Natasha mocked, “and I am sure you look very pretty in your diplomat’s uniform. But I am concerned with saving my brother’s life and I do not care what I do.”

  “That is obvious!”

  “Just trust me,” Natasha begged. “I promise you that I will not let you down. You will not be discovered with a woman in your baggage, if that is what worries you. Besides if they did, it is doubtful if anyone in Tiflis would be shocked.”

  “That obviously depends on the woman,” Lord Athelstan commented.

  “That is true, but no one will point a finger of scorn at your kindness in escorting a young Indian on his first visi
t to this country. And I promise you I am a very good actress!”

  “All women are born deceivers!” Lord Athelstan said bitterly.

  “Has that been your experience?” Natasha asked. “Who broke your heart?”

  There was an audacity in the question that brought a frown to Lord Athelstan’s brow.

  “I think, Countess,” he said coldly, “if we are to take part in these amateur theatricals it would be wisest for us to avoid personalities.”

  “Meaning you are longing to say some very unpleasant things to me,” Natasha replied. “Well say them! I assure you I am far more thick-skinned than you are!”

  “That I can well believe!” Lord Athelstan snapped.

  She gave a little laugh of sheer amusement.

  “You are a bad loser, my Lord. At the same time I perceive that you have already acknowledged defeat. We act what you call ‘this charade’ together!”

  “Without my approval, against every decent instinct in my body and with a feeling of frustration and fury in my heart,” Lord Athelstan said violently.

  Natasha’s eyes opened wide.

  “So you have a heart?” she exclaimed. “I was beginning to doubt it!”

  Lord Athelstan rose from his chair.

  He was so angry that he felt at that moment an insane desire to take Natasha by the shoulders and shake her.

  It was something he had never felt before about a woman and he knew that in some extraordinary manner this young Russian girl had got under his skin.

  Every word she said was an irritation.

  It was not only her audacity in forcing herself upon him after he had already refused to do what she asked.

  That was bad enough.

  But now deliberately to provoke him, to jeer and jibe at him in a manner which he had never experienced before, was to arouse feelings that no other woman had ever been able to do.

  “It is quite obvious to me,” he said, “that not even imprisonment or starvation has managed to produce in you the feminine graces which all women worthy of the name should have.”

  He thought Natasha looked amused and went on,

  “Spoilt, cosseted and adulated all your life, you think that you can get your own way and do what you like simply because you are an aristocrat. Well, let me tell you, Countess, I dislike you just as I dislike your behaviour and it is intolerable for me to think that I must submit to being in your presence as far as Constantinople!”