Far Flies the Eagle

By Evelyn Anthony

Imperial Russia’s Czar Alexander I battles Napoleon for control of Europe
 
After declaring himself Emperor of France following a sweeping victory in Europe, General Napoleon Bonaparte, the son of a poor Corsican lawyer, is ready for his next conquest. He has no doubt that he can defeat Austria, and is confident that Russia will soon follow. After all, he triumphed in revolution and recast an empire. What has he to fear from the twenty-nine-year-old czar of a barbaric country?
 
The grandson of Catherine the Great, Alexander I is tall, irresistibly handsome, and known for his liberal leanings and winning ways with women who are not his wife. He ascended to the throne by murdering his father and is now determined to vanquish the French emperor. Napoleon will soon learn that he has a formidable adversary in Alexander.
 
Sweeping from St. Petersburg to Paris, from the Kremlin to the battlefield, and filled with historic authenticity, Far Flies the Eagle offers a fascinating glimpse into the Romanov family, including the controversy surrounding Alexander’s relationship with his beautiful, power-hungry sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine, whom Napoleon considers marrying if he can rid himself of his years-older wife Josephine.
 
Far Flies the Eagle is the 3rd book in the Romanov Trilogy, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Nov 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504022286

Evelyn Anthony

Evelyn Anthony is the pen name of Evelyn Ward-Thomas (1926–2108), a female British author who began writing in 1949. She gained considerable success with her historical novels—two of which were selected for the American Literary Guild—before winning huge acclaim for her espionage thrillers. Her book, The Occupying Power, won the Yorkshire Post Fiction Prize, and her 1971 novel, The Tamarind Seed, was made into a film starring Julie Andrews and Omar Sharif. Anthony’s books have been translated into nineteen languages.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Your Majesty, the Russian Emperor is about to embark. The man seated behind the wide desk looked up at his aide.

I am aware of that, Henri. I shall be ready in five minutes.

He took up his pen and began writing; the aide bowed and withdrew. Five minutes would ensure that the Russians were inconvenienced, and it was part of his policy to keep them waiting.

He frowned and scratched out a word of what he had written; his face was fine featured, but inclined to fat; portraits and the official stamp on French coins flattered him. He signed and pushed the papers away and withdrew a gold watch out of his pocket. It was nearly time to leave. He had just beaten Austria, Prussia and Russia after a war lasting eighteen months, a war begun by these powers because Napoleon Bonaparte, whose father was a poor lawyer in Corsica, had dared to proclaim himself Emperor of the French.

The young General of the Revolution had become the General of the Directory which followed the fall of Robespierre and the end of the Terror. The shabby young officer who was always at such a social disadvantage in the elegant salons of the new ruling class in Paris had won victory after victory for France. He had made a fool of himself by marrying Josephine Beauharnais, who was years older, and had only agreed to the match because her protector Barras insisted; it was a good way of getting rid of her; he would help the gauche husband with a promising Command. The Command was Italy, and the result—Napoleon, who knew exactly why the Director Barras had smiled on his union with Josephine—Napoleon smiled in his turn when he thought of it.

He had dissolved the Directory after a military coup d’état and made himself First Consul. A further series of victories and wholesale annexations of conquered territories had culminated in two things.

The discovery of a Royalist plot to assassinate him—had given him the excuse to have the Bourbon Due D’Enghien kidnapped out of Germany, tried by court martial for complicity, and shot in Vincennes prison.

That settled any question of re-establishing the old Royal dynasty.

He then made himself Emperor of France.

He had never doubted that he could defeat Austria; the real military question mark was Russia, and though Russian forces took part in the battle of Austerlitz, where the Austrian army was annihilated, the result was less conclusive than Napoleon had hoped. The Russians fought well, but their organization was appalling and their Emperor Alexander had taken Supreme Command. One thing Austerlitz proved, and that was the Czar’s lack of military skill. But properly equipped and led by a good general, the Russian soldier might give a very different account of himself.

Napoleon frowned slightly; after Austerlitz the Prussians had come into the war and been hopelessly beaten at Jena and then at Friedland. At Friedland the Russians were defeated for the second time, a defeat which not even their Emperor could deny. The Prussian Army was destroyed, the Russians suffered heavy losses in men and materials, and the Czar led his troops in headlong retreat to Tilsit, and crossed the Niemen into Russia.

Russian emissaries came to Napoleon, hinting at peace without any hope of success. The French had reached Tilsit and were encamped on the opposite bank from the exhausted Russian Army. All Napoleon had to do was cross the river. To everyone’s amazement he had agreed to an armistice.

It was the Czar who suggested that a raft be built and moored in the middle of the Niemen so that both rulers could meet in a neutral area; it was a shrewd suggestion because it saved Alexander the indignity of going across the Russian frontier to meet his enemy.

Napoleon saw through it, and his estimation of his opponent rose.

It was a long time since he had been so curious about anyone as he was about the Emperor Alexander; a study of his Ambassador’s reports and the facts known about him had presented Napoleon with a puzzle he was determined to solve.

He was gentle, eye-witnesses said, with irresistible charm and a rather shy manner; he professed Liberal sympathies in a country where freedom was unknown, and surrounded himself with young men of similar ideals. He had even talked wistfully of abdicating. If there was any defect in his character it was weakness, the tendency to bend to stronger personalities. Everyone Napoleon questioned agreed on one point. Alexander of Russia was the most handsome man they had ever seen.

Napoleon had then compared this portrait of a good-looking figurehead with the facts; and the facts didn’t blend with the portrait. Alexander was the son of Paul I, a madman and a genius whose name was the synonym for terror, and he was the grandson of Catherine the Great.

It was unlikely, Napoleon thought grimly, that such a heredity had produced either a Liberal or a weakling.

It was even more unlikely when one remembered that at the age of twenty-four the gentle humanist of the ambassadorial reports had had his own father brutally murdered and taken the Crown. He had then disposed of the murderers one by one when his position was established.

He was reputed to have had as many women as Napoleon himself, but to have fallen in love with none of them.

And he, the youngest of the three monarchs concerned in the late war, had been the instigator of the whole attempt to smash France and dethrone her new Emperor. He had also been the first to abandon Prussia and sue for Napoleon’s friendship as well as for peace.

He had been lucky, Napoleon decided, that peace and friendship were also in French interest at that time. An alliance with Russia and the promise to cease trading with England were what Napoleon hoped to gain from this meeting. In return he would promise Russia a free hand against Turkey; she could attack her hereditary enemy and France would see that no one in Europe dared to interfere. He would resurrect the dream of Paul I, a world divided between France and Russia, as the price of Russian support against England. Once he had beaten England, by strangling her trade and attacking her allies, then he could destroy Russia in his own time.

He never doubted his ability to ensnare the Czar; whether he proved to be a fool or a schemer, Napoleon was quite certain of success. He had matched his wits against the wiliest men in France, seized power and outraged the principals of the Revolution by re-establishing not just the monarchy, but an Empire. The most brilliant diplomats in Europe had failed to stand against his cunning in politics, falling as low as his opponents in the field.

The twenty-nine-year-old ruler of Russia would never succeed where everyone else had failed.

Napoleon looked at his watch again, and rising, called for his valet.

My hat and my sword.

He stood while his sword-belt was buckled on, a tiny figure of a man, less than five feet four inches tall, in the uniform of the Imperial Old Guard, without any decoration but the red ribbon of the Legion d’Honneur which he had instituted himself. He put on his wide cocked hat; the valet bowed.

Send for Duroc, Napoleon ordered. I am ready to leave.

An enormous wooden raft was moored in the middle of the river, and a pavilion the size of a small floating palace had been erected on it. The June sun was shining that day, glistening on the swelling water, on the gilt, the standards, the coloured tents clustered on the raft, and on the vast encampments on either side of the Niemen, the victorious army of France and the defeated troops of Holy Russia.

In the private sitting-room in an inn on the banks of the Niemen, Alexander of Russia waited with his personal friend and aide, Colonel Novossiltsov.

Your Majesty, he’s late! the Colonel exclaimed angrily. This is an insult, it’s deliberate!

Alexander looked down at him and smiled.

Have patience. I arrived early, if you remember. It is arranged that we land at the same time. A lot depends on appearances, my friend. The King of Prussia has been left to wait on shore.

I am not concerned with Prussia, Sire. But this is an insult to you!

Novossiltsov watched his Emperor and frowned; he had learnt at last that Alexander’s gentleness was a sign of danger. When he was angry he froze; emotionally touched, he wept; when he was planning something he smiled, as he was doing then.

The Czar’s blue eyes turned away from him.

This is to be an alliance, you understand, he said quietly. Not a peace treaty in which we appear the defeated.

Novossiltsov stared at him.

No, Sire. Of course not.

Alexander knew what he was thinking, knew that he was remembering the battlefield at Austerlitz, the thousands of Russian dead stiffening in the frozen swamps of the Goldbach, the unforgettable horror of their flight across the Lake of Tollnitz where the ice gave under them and hundreds drowned. Then Friedland, where 40,000 troops had faced a French force of twice that number, and after losing fifteen thousand men, were driven back to Tilsit.

They were not defeated, he had said, and watched the confusion and resentment on Novossiltsov’s face as he agreed to the lie. He knew the truth, he and the other members of Alexander’s staff who had been engaged in the war, and they were blaming the Czar for having tried to direct the army himself. They were also blaming him for making peace instead of trying to redeem his honour, blinded by anger and pride to the fact that they were practically disarmed, their troops in utter confusion, and that their enemy was the foremost strategist in the world.

They were unused to defeat; the tradition of Catherine the Great and Russian invincibility would not admit it. They wanted to fight, to be annihilated if necessary, rather than return without glory; they would never forgive Alexander for arranging this meeting, and he knew it. The peace party in Russia who had opposed the war in the first place would never forgive him either, for having proved them right.

Novossiltsov, he said.

The Colonel turned to him. Sire?

I had to make peace while we were still in a position of some strength, do you understand? He would have invaded Russia and no one could have stopped him. He wants peace now, my friend, so whatever his terms I shall be able to safeguard the interests of Russia, you may be certain of that.

I know that, Sire, the Colonel said quickly. Believe me, it’s just that I resent …

You resent Austerlitz and Friedland, Novossiltsov. And so do I. I had to ride for my life from the battlefield; do you think I shall ever forget that?

The Colonel scowled. None of us will, Sire.

Alexander smiled sadly.

You will have to trust me, my friend. Trust me to do what is best for Russia.

As he spoke he knew that not even Novossiltsov was really loyal to him any longer. And if he, who had served him devotedly for years, was not to be trusted, then his danger was very great. If failure in war were followed by failure at the Conference, then Alexander knew that he would lose his throne and his life when he returned to Petersburg.

He straightened a jewelled order that hung from his collar. His father had worn it, he remembered; his father had become Napoleon’s ally too, but he had been murdered before the alliance could take effect. And that murder had indirectly resulted in the war.

The news of the execution of the Duc D’Enghien had profoundly shocked the Courts of Europe, and not least the Imperial family of St. Petersburg whose record was crimson with murders and Palace revolution. Alexander expressed his horror at the act, and promptly received a reply reminding him that France had not presumed to interfere when the Emperor Paul was murdered.…

From that moment he had determined to overthrow Napoleon, and it was for this reason he had persuaded Austria and Prussia to embark on the war which had ruined them. His anger had not abated, it was as bitter on the raft at Tilsit as it was when he first sent his troops into action against the French, but like all his deep emotions, it was hidden. He disguised his hatred for Bonaparte from the moment it became necessary to make peace with him; if the act was to convince his enemy it must also convince everyone else, and all his life Alexander had played different rôles for the benefit of different people. The loving grandson for Catherine, and this was easy because she was the only member of his family for whom he felt the least affection. The dutiful son for his father, but his father was as shrewd in some things as he was mad in others, and his father never believed him for a moment.… And the unwilling conspirator in the plot to dethrone Paul; that rôle was followed by the reluctant ruler whose only wish was to reform the abuses of his father’s reign and then abdicate. Within six years of his accession he had gained a reputation for Liberalism and personal mildness which practically obliterated the circumstances of Paul’s death. The projected reforms were discussed at length, but never put into practice; he would have liked to improve the governmental system to prove to himself and the world that he had justified his means by the end, but he quickly realized the impossibility of abolishing either serfdom or political corruption. While he abandoned the plan he continued to talk, firing the young men who surrounded him with ideals as splendid as they were untenable. His great friend Adam Czartorisky was an enthusiast for the most extreme plans, seeing in every suggestion a chance of securing freedom for his native Poland.

Alexander liked Adam, he admired his courage and unselfishness; he listened to many of his counsels, rejecting the idealistic and accepting the practical, with as little intention of restoring the kingdom of Poland as he had of freeing the serfs.

He found the Poles a fascinating people; Adam was handsome, fierily romantic and quixotic enough to fall in love with the Czarina Elizabeth, Alexander’s wife.

And the man who could do that was an idealist indeed, he thought coldly. Thank God for it, thank God for Adam’s hot blood and his own quick wits. The scandal of his wife’s passion for her own lady-in-waiting was killed by the scandal of her affair with Adam, and the danger of domestic upheaval passed. He had never forgiven Elizabeth for the adolescent abnormality or admitted that his own neglect and coldness were responsible.

And the Czar’s sexual indifference which had tormented his young wife was completely cured by a countrywoman of Adam Czartorisky, the beautiful, spirited Marie Naryshkin, wife of one of the wealthiest nobles in Russia.

Oh, God, he thought suddenly, God, how I long to see her, how I long for all this to be over.…

The French are approaching, Sire.

Alexander turned to Novossiltsov. We will embark at once.

The French boats were tying up at the side and the blast of French trumpets sounded as the Emperor Napoleon landed.

A moment later Alexander stepped on to the raft and walked towards him. They came within a few paces of each other and then the Czar held out his hand.

He’s so small, he thought, while his brilliant smile greeted Napoleon. So small and yet not ridiculous.… He has terrible eyes.

I hope we meet as friends, Sire, rather than enemies, he said simply.

Bonaparte looked up at the tall figure of the Czar; his height was accentuated by the brilliant uniform of the Preobrozhensky Guards laced with gold, and the sash of the order of St. Andrew crossed his chest; a Maltese Cross studded with enormous diamonds hung from his collar. His blond head was uncovered and he bowed slightly. Napoleon decided that it was impossible for any man who looked like that to be intelligent as well.

He also smiled, and his grim, sunburnt face relaxed.

My only enemies are the English, Sire, he answered.

Nominally Russia’s ally, England had confined her support to promises and conserved her own strength while the three military powers exhausted themselves in the conflict.

Alexander’s face became cold and grave.

They are Russia’s enemies too.

Then, Napoleon replied firmly, we are at peace. Side by side they walked to the Pavilion and disappeared inside the room reserved for them. No one else was present at the meeting.

The door closed behind them, and the officers of the Russian Guard looked across the Pavilion at the French. Alexander might shake hands with an upstart who had defeated them in the field; he might smile and show friendship, but they would not. The Russian nobles turned their backs on the members of the French entourage and began to talk among themselves.

Rabble, Count Ouvarov snapped. An army of parvenus led by a parvenu. Did you hear what was said about England? He wants us to fight England with him!

The Czar will refuse, Novossiltsov said. You underestimate him.

I hope so, Ouvarov answered. I don’t like any of this. I don’t like this fawning on these French vermin; I don’t like this peace.… And a lot of others will feel as I do. For his own sake, I hope the Czar knows what he’s doing; if Napoleon doesn’t take his throne from him his own people might!

You talk treason, Novossiltsov whispered. Who would replace him, his brother Constantine? Do you want another Paul or worse.…

I’m no traitor, and you know it. I conspired to put Alexander in power, but I’d not keep him there to make us vassals of France. As for a successor, he has a sister, Novossiltsov, and Russia prospers under women. If he goes too far, there’s always the Grand Duchess Catherine.

CHAPTER TWO

The Imperial family were gathered in the Dowager Empress’s apartments in the Summer Palace at St. Petersburg; it was early afternoon and the big salon was bright with sunshine. Sunshine poured through the long windows to the despair of the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, who was sure it would fade her magnificent Aubusson carpet.

She sat in a gilt fauteuil embroidering, wishing that she dared order her daughter Catherine away from the window and have the blinds lowered. Her younger son, the Grand Duke Constantine, paced up and down behind her chair, scowling and muttering to himself. It was quite useless to tell him to sit down; he was always restless and vile-tempered whenever his brother Alexander was near, and Alexander was expected any moment. That was the reason for the unusual family gathering; Alexander was returning from Tilsit, and his mother, his younger brother, his sister and his wife were waiting to welcome him.

The Grand Duchess Catherine stood with her back to them, staring out of the window. She was tall and gracefully built with beautiful hands and perfect shoulders, exposed by the high-waisted white satin dress. Two miniatures surrounded by large diamonds were pinned to her breast, the portraits of her brother the Czar Alexander and of her grandmother the great Empress Catherine. There were pearls in her black hair and round her narrow throat. Catherine the Great had worn them once, and her granddaughter had besought Alexander to give them to her. After all, as Catherine coolly pointed out, the pearls had never suited his wife anyway.

The striking beauty of her face, with its straight features and slanting black eyes was spoilt by an expression of sullen arrogance. She was just eighteen years old.

In a corner of the room the Empress Consort of Russia sat with her hands in her lap, staring into space. She was delicate featured and very fair; her mother-in-law’s summons had interrupted the long letter she was writing to her own mother:

He is coming back to-day, dear Mama, and I’m afraid the situation here is very dangerous. I shall be able to tell you very little because I am not in his confidence as you know. He seldom speaks to me and naturally I cannot approach him. In spite of the pain I have suffered and still suffer from his indifference, and the presence of that creature Naryshkin at Court, I have the most loyal and affectionate feelings towards him. The Court is outraged by this pact with Napoleon Bonaparte, and his sister, of whom I have written before, is the centre of intrigue against him.…

She glanced across at the Dowager Empress who smiled vaguely at her. She had never been unkind to Elizabeth Alexeievna, merely abrupt and inclined to ignore her, which was only natural since her own husband set the example, but she had never been cruel. Unlike the other two.… The young Empress looked towards her brother-in-law Constantine and shuddered. Hideous, a coward, unbelievably cruel and degenerate in his habits, he was more like a wild beast than a man. He was short, thick set, with the flat features of