‘Saving an officer’s life is a meritorious act, Borisov. That is why you have been summoned here to receive the Cross of St George. And…’ the Tsar turned back to his desk and picked up a paper ‘…and for another reason.’
Borisov swayed a little on his feet. Please, no!
‘I have here a plea from a distraught father, Count Ivan Kuralkin, who begs for help to locate his beloved child. This child ran away from home to join the cavalry and has been missing now for more than two years, serving under an assumed name. The father begs that the child, the comfort of his old age, will be found and returned to him. Do you think I should grant his request, Borisov?’ He dropped the paper back on the desk.
The young man gulped, realising that his expression must betray his panic.
‘You have no view on this, Borisov?’ The Tsar’s keen eyes were on him.
‘I would not presume, your Majesty.’
The Tsar nodded to himself, as if acknowledging a good answer, then turned and walked to the long windows overlooking the vast garden of the palace. For several minutes, he stood, apparently contemplating the plants. Then, abruptly, he spun on his heel and said, in a voice so soft that it barely carried to where the trooper stood, ‘I have been told that you are a woman, Borisov. Tell me the truth. Is it so?’
Borisov stood as if transfixed. His mouth worked but no sound came out.
The Tsar strode across the room until the two were barely a pace apart. He did not look angry or forbidding. He looked merely intrigued. And he was waiting for an answer.
It was not possible to lie to the Tsar. Besides, it was clear that he already knew. The young man managed just a thread of a voice. ‘It is true, your Majesty.’ He waited for the blow to fall.
The Tsar smiled broadly and clapped the trooper on the shoulder. ‘I should never have believed that a woman could do all that you have done. Such courage and such dedication. You are a shining example to the army. Alexandra Ivanovna Kuralkina, I salute you.’ He fastened the cross to her uniform, kissed her formally on both cheeks and took a step back, pausing to assess the effect. Then he turned back to his desk and picked up the paper again. ‘And since you did not answer the question when I put it to you, I shall answer it for you now. You shall be returned to your family by the Tsar himself with all honour. Your exploits shall be fêted.’
No! Oh, no! The Emperor was going to send her back to her father and stepmother. She had fled one marriage to a man she had never seen. No doubt her stepmother would soon sell her to another. She would never be free again. Such a punishment was too much to bear. She threw herself at the Emperor’s feet. ‘Your Majesty, I beg you, from the bottom of my heart, please do not send me back to my father. I would rather have died for you on the battlefield than return there. Let me continue to serve you, to fight for you. The cavalry is all I desire in the world. I cannot serve you if you send me back to my father’s house.’
The Tsar looked down at the man-woman at his feet. He frowned slightly and turned away, leaving her crumpled on her knees on the intricately patterned wooden floor. It was no position for a cavalryman to be in, but she did not dare to move. She held her breath, watching him pace. Was there a chance he might change his mind?
‘How old are you?’ he asked suddenly, waving her to her feet.
That was the last question she had expected. ‘Twenty-two, your Majesty.’
‘Indeed? You look no more than sixteen.’ He paused, clearly digesting that information. ‘Tell me, my child,’ he said at last, ‘what would you wish to do, if anything in the world were possible for you?’
‘I would wish to continue to serve you in a cavalry regiment, your Majesty.’
‘Any particular one?’
She hesitated. Did he mean…? ‘A Hussar regiment, your Majesty, if I had a choice.’ A vision flickered across her brain of herself in Hussar uniform, sabre drawn, taking part in a mighty charge. Oh, yes, a Hussar regiment.
‘As an officer?’ A small smile licked the corner of his mouth.
Her heart began to pound at the Tsar’s extraordinary suggestion. Only men with written proofs of their nobility could become officers. Under her assumed name, Borisov, and with no hope of demonstrating her noble status, her only choice had been to enlist as an ordinary trooper. Her military life so far had been wonderful, exhilarating. But to be an officer! She could do it. Of course she could. Like her father, she had been born to do it. ‘A commission in a Hussar regiment, your Majesty, would be like a…it would be the fulfilment of a dream I have always thought impossible.’ She looked shyly up at him, wondering whether any of this could be true. Was he really about to grant her fiercest desire?
He nodded, twice. ‘I shall commission you into the Mariupol Hussars.’
She gasped aloud. She could not help it. The Mariupol Hussars was a crack regiment. Noblemen fought tooth and nail for commissions in it.
‘But not, I think, as Borisov. Nor under your own name, Kuralkina, obviously. You shall take my name. You shall be Alexandrov. Alexei Ivanovich Alexandrov of the Mariupol Hussars.’
‘Oh, thank you, your Majesty,’ she breathed. She wanted to burst with happiness. The Little Father himself had granted her dearest wish. It was a miracle.
‘It is a fitting reward for saving the life of an officer on the battlefield. And since you will not be able to ask your father for the funds you will need, I myself shall supply you. Apply directly to me, through Prince Volkonsky. No one else is to know of this. You will continue to serve as a man.’
‘Your Majesty, I do not know how to thank you. I—’
‘There is one way to thank me, Alexandrov, and one way only. You have been given a new and honourable name. Let your conduct match it, on the battlefield and beyond. Let no stain of dishonour tarnish it so long as you bear it.’ He stared down into her eyes, searching for commitment.
In that soul-searing moment, Alexei Ivanovich Alexandrov swore a silent oath of honour and service to Tsar Alexander. Until death.
Chapter One
Boulogne, June 1814
It was the smell that woke him.
For fully three seconds, Dominic lay quite still in the Lion d’Or’s best bed, trying to make sense of the strange messages tumbling into his brain. Dark. Silence. Smoke? Fire!
He flung himself out of bed. Light! He needed light! And where the devil were his breeches?
A terrified neighing ripped through the pre-dawn silence. Then a whoosh, as if a giant were sucking in a monstrous breath. Followed by red, hellish light.
The smoke had turned to flames. The Lion d’Or’s stables must be on fire!
Dominic threw wide the half-open window, stuck his head out and yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Au feu! Au feu!’ It was surely loud enough to wake even drunken grooms.
He dragged on his breeches and crammed his feet into boots. A voice rang out below. At last! Then more voices. A woman’s despairing wail. And the ominous crackle of the fire taking hold in dry straw and ancient timbers.
Dominic took the stairs three at a time. In the yard, the silence was turning into utter chaos. Yelling, cursing men milling around in the eerie light. No one fetching water. No one saving the horses.
He grabbed the nearest groom by the shoulder. ‘Get to the pump,’ he ordered in crisp French. ‘Start filling buckets. And you—’ he seized another by his flapping shirt ‘—rouse all the men from the house. Get them into a line to pass the buckets. You two. Don’t stand there gawping. Start getting the