The Young Eagles: ????????????

By Gail C. Roberts

Near the end of eighteenth century Russia as signs of increasing unrest and danger loom nearer every day for its royalty, a young nobleman leaves his betrothed behind and begins an unwelcome and perilous adventure. As Alexandr Barinsky and his guide journey to the wilds of a Turkmenian encampment to meet a leader instructed by his father to train him in the ways of the desert, all he wants to do is get back home in time for his bride-to-bes birthday ball.

After Alexandr and the Turkmen leader, Hakan, meet, the nobleman begins his training in a land where he must learn to cope with merciless mosquitos, poisonous snakes, crucifying heat, and his most dangerous enemy of all: man. Meanwhile his betrothed, Galena Lavaslav, is befriended by the beautiful widow, Countess Adrianna Batrakova. But just as Alexandr completes his long journey, no one realizes that a rider on a black horse is about to change everything for Countess Adrianna, the Barinskys, and the Lavaslavs.

In this historical tale, a young nobleman is led from the palatial castles of Kiev to Turkmenistan and back again as his betrothed, a powerful countess, and thousands of peasants attempt to find their place in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532003738

Gail C. Roberts

Gail C. Roberts nurtured a passion for the Russian people as well as the magnificent dog breed, the Borzoi, ever since she was a child. Because of her writing and photography skills and her knowledge of animals, Gail was the subject of several national magazine articles.

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Copyright © 2016 Gail C. Roberts.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-0371-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0372-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-0373-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016915528

iUniverse rev. date: 11/28/2016

Contents

1 Lone Passenger

2 The Kara Kum Desert

3 The Desert Journey

4 The Lavaslav’s Estate

5 Three Ladies

6 Rostov

7 Galena

8 Evva

9 The Next Morning

10 Anna

11 The Tension

12 The Tragedy

13 The Search

14 Leshii

15 Twins

16 Adriana

17 The Runaway Carriage

18 Danilo

19 Luciano

20 The Mews

21 The Surprise

22 The October Hunt

23 His Royal Highness

24 Count’s Secretary

25 The Full Moon

Also by Gail C. (McRae) Roberts

How to Raise and Train a Borzoi

FrontpieceGailVoshka300dpi.jpg

This book is dedicated to three.

First to the thousands of people starting in Russia and who over centuries bred and developed the wonderful breed of dog, the Borzoi.

Second to the many American owners and breeders, and to the American Kennel Club, which gave me the opportunity own, show, breed and judge Borzoi.

Finally to my family all of whom were inconvenienced, but many of whom eagerly supported my passion as I traveled from Canada to the heart of Mexico via London in the middle.

The result of this was God’s blessing of us having one of the finest Borzoi bitches in the last sixty years, Mirioshka; American, Mexican, International, and World Champion.

Foreword

The Young Eagles takes us on an 18th century romantic journey from Turkmenistan to the palatial castles surrounding Kiev during the peak of Russian landed nobility when romance, family intrigue and grand balls were the talk of the day. Gail Roberts brings a wonderfully engaging writing style that with a brevity of words and skillful imagery transplants us into the lives and times of Count Barinsky, his son Alexandr and all the intrigue and romance of properly marrying off sons and daughters.

In a Jane Austin style with a heightened sense of adventure, we are taken into the hearts and minds of landed gentry making the tremendously important decisions. Important to their families while also taking care of the estates worked by thousands of peasants also trying to find their place in life.

Review by:

Robert A. Campbell

1

Lone Passenger

The lone passenger tried to relax in the sleigh speeding down the narrow, snow-covered road. This was not the most comfortable mode of transportation. The roads in Russia were poor, rutted, and muddy. There was always the danger of becoming mired in mud or deep snow. To add to the danger, the threat of thieves and highwaymen was quite real. One coped.

Running in a tandem the three horses harnessed to the troika, trotted along as best they could. The lead-horse was responsible for finding their way south to their next destination. Ordinarily the little bell attached to the lead horse would be ringing merrily. The passenger required it be removed.

Obscured by mist, the tiny insignificant village from which they had started was quickly disappearing in the distance.

At the moment speed not comfort was paramount. When the road allowed, they made haste. Another verst and on impulse the passenger signaled the driver to stop. It was clear this distressed the three eager horses, knowing they were headed toward familiar territory.

The morning’s weather, making a desultory attempt at winter’s final snowfall, was now clearing.

The driver scanned the area, but saw nothing of interest. Silently he helped undrape the heavy bearskin rug from around his passenger without offering comment. He did not dare offer an objection to the delay.

Using this opportunity to clean the frost and icicles from the horse’s nose and mouth, the driver kept a nervous and diligent watch over the road behind and ahead. Strong, fast and reliable, the horses waited impatiently to be off again.

The driver was resigned to the delay as he watched his mysterious and silent passenger trudge a short distance to a rare hillock on the frozen steppes. The driver, a totally unimaginative man, thought nothing more lonesome than one small person in the vastness of this enormous, bleak, terrain. What’s to look at?

At least we are in a spot with good visibility. Not a place for an ambush, he thought as he scanned the area. Sighing he shrugged and climbed back in the troika. He wasn’t getting paid to speculate, an activity he was woefully inadequate to perform.

The three horses fidgeted, waiting impatiently, steam rising from their bodies. They were anxious to return to their familiar territory.

The passenger felt totally alone. The enormity and bleakness of the land had the effect of making everything else seem tiny and incongruous. Surrounded by snow and mist, the world seemed endlessly white. In the gloomy morning atmosphere every breath was visible in small puffs. The sun, just barely visible, was making a valiant but futile effort to cheer up the landscape.

The heavy cloaked cape with its wolf pelt ruff around the hood obscured the passenger’s features while effectively protecting from the insatiable cold. No chance of recognition could be taken.

In a melancholy reverie, the passenger thought, there really is not much to look at in this empty, lonely region. Some small consolation in knowing this would be the final trip. The chance of being discovered anywhere along this particular route was remote, but one had to stay alert.

St. Petersburg to the north, farther beyond the tiny village they had left, was no longer intriguing. It would not be prudent to be seen in St. Petersburg now without a very valid reason for being there. These trips had to be made at a time when no one else would likely be on the same road.

The passenger stared moodily to the west, with not the remotest chance of a glimpse of that distant land, America - only half a continent, and ocean away! A small chuckle escaped at the absurdity of the thought. Why was this so intriguing? Having read the tales told by the American Ambassador Adams it seemed a strange and wonderful country. Of course people tend to embellish when writing their memoirs. It was well, somehow, inviting to think of a new country. A new type of government, a freedom Europeans and some Russians wanted, but did not yet understand.

Occasionally involved with court life in Russia, the intrigue grew worse. Situations were wearing thin, and the risks growing greater. It was always the same. Everyone maneuvering for favor, position, and money, but especially for power. The signs of increasing unrest and danger that loomed nearer every day. Yearning for peace with just a touch of adventure, it was time to get on. This would be the last trip.

The wind was picking up.

With a sigh of relief and resignation, the passenger trudged back to the promising warmth of the bearskin. Musing silently, that at least the horses would be happy.

These trips had been an unwelcome, dangerous experience. Some small comfort knowing that the next stop provided scarcely civil accommodations or comforts.

The driver did not wait for a signal to move on. The anxious horses enthusiastically leaped to their task. They seemed inexhaustible. Their rhythmic hoof-beats contributed to the boring landscapes ability to make one inattentive. Their cadence was almost hypnotic. It was so warm under the bearskin. This drive, as so many times before, offered no means of visual or mental stimulation. The inward activity to think and plan for tomorrow would wile away the dreary hours. Drowsing slightly the passenger did not notice the two pigeons winging rapidly and unwavering from northeast to southwest.

Late that day, in the White Light zone of perpetual daylight hours, the Inn was barely visible through the mist. As the horses slowed their pace, the passenger stirred. Ironic and optimistic, this place being called The Three Birches! No birch in sight, only some scraggly plants. In fact it was not actually an Inn at all, just a pathetic peasant dwelling, slightly enlarged to include a spare room in back.

It did not even qualify as a post station where travelers are required to present government documents to confirm their identity.

Travelers who did stop here were usually of little interest to the authorities who occasionally checked out the road past the Inn. Scarce comfort and peasant victuals were all one could expect. An equally pathetic structure behind the Inn provided meager shelter for visitors’ horses. A few scattered ramshackle huts could be seen in the area. More like sad, grey graves with only a few old peasants as occupants.

At the Inn’s entrance, the passenger disembarked without a word. The driver said nothing, and tapped the anxious team to be off.

The innkeeper slowly and groggily looked up from his seat by the fire as the guest arrived. A small, dark, stuffy, and smelly room served as a place for the infrequent travelers to rest and eat.

In a corner a shabby old man covered with a large dingy shawl hunched over a bowl of food. His rumpled clothes and scraggly hair seemed part of the dreary room. He could have been sitting there for years. As the new arrival entered, the old man turned his face to the wall. Then he surreptitiously moved a small candle further away from him. This created almost total darkness in his corner.

The inn keeper was animated by the arrival of the guest. Booting a scraggly black cat out of the way, the innkeeper led the way to a small room at the back of the inn. This was an unusual addition to a peasant dwelling, but the inn keeper had a spark of an entrepreneur when he realized the location of his hut had some small benefits. His silent visitor quickly followed, careful to stay concealed in the cloak and hood. The inn keeper had been paid a goodly sum for silence. He only had to provide the room, no questions, conversation or visitors. It suited him fine, but then, it was clear he had no choice whatever when the arrangements were made.

In a few minutes the innkeeper‘s wife brought food for the new guest. The door to the darkened room was opened just enough to take the tray, then closed. It was a polite gesture on the part of the occupant, who most certainly would not touch the food.

The Inn was quiet, nothing changed.

Several hours had passed when an enclosed, very fine, four-horse carriage stopped at the entrance. The identifying crest on the door was carefully concealed. The driver did not wear customary livery but stayed covered with a black cloak. The bay coach horses were chosen because of their common color. The driver did not disembark, but waited patiently.

The cat watched the departure of the morning’s guest with little interest, the inn keeper, dozing near the stove.

Hunched over in the corner, the shabby old man snored.

The cold, crisp air was a welcome relief from the stuffy inn’s smell of peasant cooking. Without comment a footman opened the carriage door to the unoccupied interior.

The passenger embarked with a sigh of relief. At last! The final leg of the journey! As they started off, the passenger glanced out the small window. A dark figure almost hidden behind the Inn was just partially visible in the gloom. It was barely possible to make out the shadowy form of a very fine, dark horse. The animal was saddled. It most certainly did not belong to the innkeeper. What was it doing there and where was the owner? With an uneasy feeling the passenger sat back. The final long leg of the journey began.

A welcome sight in the carriage compartment was the ubiquitous samovar. Tea - real, hot tea! And a small basket containing biscuits and fruits. It would be so good to be home again.

2

The Kara Kum Desert

Months before and far away from the events at The Three Birches, a young Russian Nobleman had begun an unwelcome and dangerous adventure. Late in the afternoon, Alexandr Barinsky and his guide rode without conversation. Everything is the same color, he thought, sand color! Traveling as far as he could by carriage to the border of Turkmenistan, he was now covering the remaining distance by camel to the Turkmenian encampment. When this journey began, he had been filled with excitement and anticipation. Now, he was hot, tired and somewhat disenchanted at the whole event. He ached all over and was developing a distinct dislike for camels. All I want is a cool drink, a bath, a soft bed and sleep.

He thought about Galena, his betrothed. I’ll surely be back in time for her birthday ball. She probably thinks I’m having a great time! He continued to ride along, feeling somewhat sorry for himself.

His guide, although good natured, did not speak Russian. They managed on the few Turkmenian words Alexandr remembered. Riding and walking together for days they had seen no one. The beasts were smelly, cranky and uncomfortable to ride. His guide took proper care of the camels, but gave no instruction to Alexandr on how to communicate or handle his camel. The guide prepared meals of something unrecognizable and Alexandr wondered if they would eventually kill him, perhaps even before they reached their destination!

His father, Count Barinsky, had told him stories of the desert that no longer held such charm. As a small lad they were all wonderful and exciting. Especially knowing that his father had actually been there while in the military on a clandestine operation, he listened with excitement and wonder.

Soon a Turkmen leader would be waiting for him, a man his father had met many years ago.

At last, Alexandr could just make out their destination in the distance. An encampment of yurts, horses, sheep, and people was just in sight.

He was not yet accustomed to traveling without perceptible references by which to guide him. The landscape appeared the same to him as the day before. His eyes were tired of squinting at the ever present sand and winds which sculpted and re-sculpted the landscape. He was totally at a loss to know how his guide found his way in this land. As they topped a dune, the guide turned to him pointing to something in the distance. His nearly toothless smile and skin resembling wrinkled parchment was not enhanced by the setting sun. It gave Alexandr the horrible feeling he may well appear the same at the end of his journey. The guide prodded his camel to a faster pace and looked back, beckoning him to hurry. Alexandr grimaced. The last thing his aching body needed was more haste accompanied by increasing pain. He gave the man a disgusted look, which only served to amuse the fellow.

In the distance, Hakan waited in the small village watching the horizon. He was expecting this guest. Everything was prepared. The Count had sent word his son would be visiting them. The Count knew Hakan would camp near Merv and would send a guide to a prearranged point with news of Alexandr’s arrival. His terse message left the method of training Alexandr to Hakan’s discretion.

My son is in your hands.

Train him in the ways of the desert -

as a man should learn.

Your friend, Count Barinsky

Now, as Hakan watched the approaching travelers, his experience could detect the difference between the two men. It was clear they were from different worlds. They did not waver from their course, and Hakan waited patiently until he felt the distance between them had dwindled sufficiently.

Mustafa, go to greet him, said Hakan. He spoke quietly to his oldest son, as one accustomed to being obeyed. Salim and Zeki, his younger sons quickly brought up two horses.

Mustafa swung effortlessly onto the back of his horse and took the lead of the other. His younger brother, Salim chose a mount for himself on which to lead the men to greet their visitor. Zeki, only nine, would stay behind to help tend the remaining horses.

Villagers watched with pride as the oldest son of their leader streaked off at a rousing gallop. Tonight the men would have a celebration to welcome their new guest! At least, that was the intention. Not every man was pleased to have a Russian come into their village.

Larisa watched from the shaded doorway of the yurt, her black eyes sparkling with pride as her soon-to-be husband galloped off. It was an honor to be chosen to wed the chief’s son. She and Mustafa were promised to each other from childhood by their parents’ pact. Proud of the jewelry made for her by Mustafa, she had dressed in her very best. Her robes and headdress were heavily ornamented with silver jewelry.

Everyone in the village would turn out to greet the visitor. There must be a good reason this Russian was visiting them as guest of their leader.

As Mustafa raced off, the men collected their own mounts. Following in a group, they galloped across the sands, raucously shouting cries of greeting.

Closer now, Mustafa could distinguish Alexandr’s blond hair, briefly lit by the setting sun. He knew what his people would think when they met him.

Mustafa knew the Russians and the Turkmen were not usually on friendly terms. For reasons of his own, his father, Hakan, had made a promise many years ago to Alexandr’s father. Although he did not like the Russians, Mustafa obeyed his father’s command. They would all know the reasons for this visit in the days to come.

As Hakan watched his sons ride off he thought of Count Barinsky. Hakan owed the Count a favor from twenty years ago. Recalling the extraordinary circumstances of their first meeting, and his subsequent obligation, no effort would be spared to train the son of his friend in the ways of the desert. At the moment hospitality was paramount. Training would begin immediately and all the villagers would participate.

Hakan beckoned to his wife Meryem, who quickly left her chore at carpet weaving.

Most of what she needed for the evening meal was already prepared. Important visitors, any visitors, were rare. On such a night they would have a greeting dinner under the stars. Larisa and some of the young girls helped her put out the superbly woven carpet on which they would display the food. Beautiful embroidered cushions were provided on which to sit. Soon a cooling breeze would come up, the meal would begin. The girls bustled to finish preparations and giggled as a slight tremor shook the yurt.

Grandmother, the matriarch, stayed in the yurt, a little tremor was of no concern to her. There were many in her lifetime.

Alexandr could see a horseman riding full tilt toward him, and with a spare mount! What a relief, he thought. It won’t be too soon for me to get off this rumbling, swaying, smelly creature.

The sinking sun gave way to azure, then purple sky with the faint twinkling of a few visible stars.

The distance between the horseman and Alexandr gradually lessened. The scene became reminiscent of the stories his father told. He could imagine hundreds of Turkmen riding to battle, raiding the Silk Road Caravans, plundering and taking slaves.

Now as clouds of dust rose, his reverie was suddenly broken. Aghast he watched as the approaching rider fell off between the two horses. The horses didn’t slow. They continued thundering toward him!

Alarmed, but ready to ride to the rescue, Alexandr prodded his camel to a faster pace. The camel, whose ludicrous name was Bishr, or ‘Joy’, answered the call to hurry. Bobbling along, he wondered if he would live to help anyone and groaned at every step and winced at the pain in his backside.

Glancing back at his guide, he was surprised to see the fellow grinning and unperturbed, following at a more leisurely pace. Perhaps he hadn’t seen?

Lunging along to rescue Mustafa, Alexandr was startled to see him suddenly pop back up on his mount.

Bearing down on the two travelers, Mustafa now deftly leaped to the back of the second horse. Neither animal missed a step while their rider exhibited his talents.

Maybe this is the way they greet visitors, or he could be just showing off, thought Alexandr. He felt chagrined, with a slight twinge of envy. He was beginning to feel this trip held more than his father portrayed.

Grudgingly he had to admit this fellow was quite a rider. Well, I know a thing or two, he thought as he slowed Bishr to a walk.

When Mustafa reached him, he reigned in his mounts pace to avoid showering his guest with sand. Dismounting he motioned Alexandr to join him. He waited while his guest clumsily prodded his camel to kneel. Rocking around on the back of the camel as she folded up, Alexandr was anything but confident and imposing. Presence meant so much to the two young men and neither wished to look like a fool at their first meeting. Mustafa immediately began his assessment of Alexandr. It was obvious this young man had never traveled by camel. Well, they would work on that.

Mustafa approached and embraced a startled Alexandr with a hug and kiss on both cheeks.

I am Mustafa, a son of Hakan.

I’m Alexandr, the son of Count Barinsky.

The two young men immediately began to size up each other. Each with different standards, suited to the lifestyle to which they were familiar. To Alexandr, Mustafa appeared to be only slightly older than himself. Difficult to judge his age. Stocky, muscular, with a mustache and huge smile - he exuded confidence.

Mustafa pointed to the camel.

I think you have seen enough of this noble beast, he said in passable Russian. Come, take this horse.

With one hand on Alexandr’s upper arm, he not too lightly slapped him on the shoulders. Then he pushed him toward the horse.

An excellent animal, mumbled Alexandr as he prepared to mount. You are a very …, he searched for the right word, Fine rider.

Fine? I am a superb rider! retorted Mustafa merrily.

And a very large ego, thought Alexandr. He noticed with pleasure a slight advantage in height over Mustafa. Trying to move without showing the stiffness of his aching muscles he mounted the horse.

Mustafa spent his life in the desert. He understood the sands, the mountains, the weather, the heavens, the animals. He could tell the condition of a horse or camel at a glance, and he could find water in the desert. His life depended on it.

Mustafa quickly sized up the physical condition of his guest. Taking this young man into the desert, he must know how far to push him. Riding back to the village he learned much about the task ahead. Watching, Mustafa was engrossed in evaluation of Alexandr.

Turko-boys began their training as men at ten years. His guest was from the landed gentry. Privileged, with servants to do back breaking tasks, his new student needed physical hardening and an attitude adjustment as well. He watched Alexandr closely and grudgingly admitted to himself that he was a handsome young man. However, his hands, forearms, muscles across the shoulders and abdomen, thighs, all needed work. Posture and signs of fatigue after only ten hours riding and walking today! Mustafa shook his head. One month may not be enough, he thought, but he felt up to the task. In fact, he was looking forward to it.

The biggest hurdle, he knew, would be honing a sense of self preservation. In a land that seemed uninhabited it was easy to forget the real and potential dangers. The wind, the infuriating mosquitoes at any source of water, the distances, scarce water, and bandits. His new student was not prepared for the merciless mosquitos and other insects. Of course, there were poisonous snakes and crucifying heat. One coped.

As ever the most dangerous enemy is always - Man.

As they rode along, Mustafa pointed out the surrounding mountains in the distant, naming each one.

We will climb them also, he said, smiling. His newly acquired charge forced a smile as he looked at the darkening monoliths in the distance.

He thinks I’m going to