The Lost Souls of Angelkov

  PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 Linda Holeman

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2012 by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.

  www.randomhouse.ca

  Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Holeman, Linda

  The lost souls of Angelkov / Linda Holeman.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-36161-5

  I. Title.

  PS8565.O6225L68 2012 C813’.54 C2011-908179-2

  Cover design by Terri Nimmo

  Cover image: © Mark Owen / Trevillion Images

  v3.1

  In memory of my grandparents,

  Theodor and Lyuba, who left me a rich Russian legacy

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “Sans illusions, adieu à la vie!”

  Motto from Reminiscences of a Mazurka

  MIKHAIL GLINKA, 1847

  “The hundred-year rise and fall of serf orchestras had produced precious few serious musicians and only one great composer who had been exposed to them—Glinka.”

  RICHARD STITES

  Serfdom, Society, and the Arts in Imperial Russia

  ANGELKOV ESTATE, PROVINCE OF PSKOV

  Three days’ ride from St. Petersburg

  APRIL 1861

  The day his son was stolen, Konstantin had noticed the difference in the air. It was a subtle smell, the first hint that spring might finally end the long winter. It is this he’s thinking about—the smell of the air—when the men appear in front of him.

  They arrive from the quiet forest—his forest—slipping and weaving between the slender, leafless birch and green spruce. How did he not hear the hooves pounding in the hard snow, the heavy breathing of the horses as they charged in his direction? He remembers that Mikhail had called out to him, Papa, someone’s coming, yet he ignored the boy. Why? Would it have made a difference? Should he have stopped his horse and listened?

  The men wear their tall fur hats pulled low, covering their eyebrows. Their wool jackets bear the distinctive Cossack insignia. Their noses and mouths are hidden with scarves. On their swift horses they appear huge, monstrous. They charge at him with their sabres drawn, the sabres Cossacks favour.

  Konstantin drops the reins he holds loosely in one hand, grabbing at his own sword. He pulls it awkwardly from the scabbard as he shouts over his shoulder, Ride, Mikhail, ride away! But Mikhail can’t control his horse.

  Papa, Papa, I can’t turn him. Mikhail is ten years old. He’s not on his own small and gentle mare; he rides a frisky dappled gelding. Grisha, Konstantin’s steward, had suggested the challenge would be good for the boy. Damn Grisha. Would it have changed things if Mikhail had his usual horse, the one instantly responsive to his commands?

  There are three Cossacks, maybe four; it’s happening so quickly, and his eyesight … it’s no longer what it used to be. He’s too old to see with the clarity he once possessed, to hear what he should hear. Suddenly his son is beside him; he catches a glimpse of Mikhail’s thick blond hair, creamy skin. So like his mother.

  Antonina, he thinks next, oh God, no, Antonina. She told him not to take the boy today, told him it was too cold, the child had been ill. Don’t take him out, Konstantin, she’d begged, please, Kostya, he shouldn’t be out in the cold.

  He knows instinctively that whatever happens in these woods will destroy her. Her face rises before him, stricken, agonized, an expression he has never before seen. But it’s too late. He knows it’s too late.

  Konstantin grabs the reins of Mikhail’s horse, pulling up on them sharply so that the horse and Mikhail are close beside him. The gelding still prances nervously. The Cossacks circle Konstantin and his son.

  This was all because he was stubborn—you stubborn old man, Antonina had said when he’d insisted on taking Mikhail with him. She’d called after him again, when he’d refused to have any of the servants accompany them on their ride, and then Konstantin saw her speaking to Grisha, pulling on the steward’s sleeve. She was already unsteady, although it was only early afternoon. And then, after Grisha walked away, Antonina stood on the wide steps of the house, holding a pillar for support. She’d shouted at him one last time, her usually melodic voice hard and flat in the still, cold air, something about a hat for Mikhail. He looked away. A servant chased after them with Mikhail’s ushanka, waving the ear-flapped fur hat.

  He’d galloped towards the forest. Mikhail was a length ahead of him, and he admired the way his son’s thick hair blew in the cool breeze.

  And now … The leader of the Cossacks, taller and broader than the other men, brings his chestnut horse up beside Konstantin’s silvery grey Arabian, shivering on its slender legs. The Cossack’s horse worries its bit, nodding its head as if in agreement with whatever its rider will direct it to do. Konstantin’s Arabian is taller than the Cossack’s horse and yet it shies, throwing back its head as though it feels the violence in the air.

  Konstantin lifts the sword he holds—how has it grown so heavy?—but before he’s aware of movement from the Cossack, there’s a sly whistle, and a thin, deadly blade slices into the back of his ungloved hand. His sword is gone.

  He doesn’t feel pain immediately, and manages to hold on to the reins of his son’s horse with his left hand. He hears Mikhail’s cry of distress, hears him shouting, Papa, Papa.

  “It’s all right, Mikhail,” Konstantin says to his son.

  Mikhail’s face is ashen, his mouth trembling.

  “It’s all right, Misha,” he repeats. “Be quiet.” He feels that silence will help prevent the disaster about to take place. He also thinks he should have taken the hat: Mikhail’s head is too exposed, too vulnerable. Somehow the hat might have helped the child.

  “Count Mitlovsky,” the Cossack in front of him states, his voice muffled by the scarf.


  The Cossacks know him. Everyone knows him; he’s the landowner. He owns the grand estate of Angelkov and the hundreds and hundreds of surrounding versts. He was also, until recently, the owner of thousands of souls, all his former serfs. So yes, it’s a plan. How many hours have the Cossacks waited for him in the trees, in this damp, late winter cold, their toes numb within their high leather boots, their hair slick with sweat under their hats? How many days have they come to this place, waiting for just this moment: when Count Konstantin Nikolevich Mitlovsky travels, unaccompanied, through his own thick forest of pine and spruce and birch? When he rides, unsuspecting, along the isolated trail he had his serfs cut through the woods so that he might come out at the road close to the nearest village, saving a distance of five versts?

  But in almost the same instant he realizes he has done this very thing every day over the last week. The weather has been so fine. Yes, alone, he rode this path yesterday, and the day before that and before that. The only difference today is that his son is with him.

  His only child.

  Konstantin tries to focus more clearly on the dark eyes of the man in front of him. He’s now aware of a shocking, great throb in his right hand. It hangs loosely at his side, and blood drips from the ends of his fingers onto his grey woollen pant leg, onto the lustrous polished leather of his high riding boot, onto the packed snow beneath his horse. He’s glad Mikhail is on his other side, and won’t see the blood.

  The Cossack peers around Konstantin, studying the boy. Something in the Cossack’s eyes makes Konstantin close his own, sending a silent prayer towards the saints. “I have a number of rubles with me,” he says, opening his eyes and again looking into the Cossack’s face. His voice is raspy, as if just awakening from a long sleep. “Here.” He makes a motion with his head, a nod at the side of his greatcoat, where a leather bag is attached to his belt. “Take it. And there’s more. You know there can be any amount. Name it. Name it, and it will be yours.”

  Konstantin must continue to hope that what is happening is only simple robbery. That these men are taking what they feel is rightly theirs, another result of the unrest sweeping the country. The Tsar emancipated the serfs in February, and with their freedom has come a cost to those who once owned them. These men may not be true Cossacks, not soldiers of the Tsar, but newly free men angry with those who once dictated their futures.

  The Cossack uses the tip of his sabre to slash through the leather tabs holding the purse onto Konstantin’s belt. In one more deft movement of his sword he flips the purse into the air, grabbing it with his left hand and cramming it into the pocket of his coat.

  But Konstantin isn’t relieved. The men circle closer. He knows what will come next. A desperate, tipping weight makes him feel, suddenly, that he might fall from his horse in a way he hasn’t since he was three years old and on his first small pony.

  The Cossack puts the tip of his sword to Konstantin’s neck. “Hand over the boy’s reins.”

  Konstantin doesn’t move, aware of that deadly point. “Please. Spare the child, I beg of you. What good is he—a boy, and not even a good horseman yet? He’ll only slow you down. On God’s name, I will give you what—” He stops, the tip of the sabre pressing so deeply into his neck that there’s a tiny pop, a sound that echoes in his ears as if a bottle of chilled champagne has been opened in an adjoining room. His flesh burns as though a flame is held to it.

  “Give me the reins,” the Cossack says again. He lowers his sabre and reaches forward with his other hand, huge and corded, to rip the leather reins from Konstantin; the older man’s strength is no match for the Cossack’s.

  As the boy’s gelding passes in front of his Arabian, Mikhail stares at him. “Papa?” he says. He is not a particularly obedient boy, and yet at this moment he is waiting for his father to instruct him.

  Konstantin sees the boy’s name, Mikhail, embroidered in blue wool along the bottom of the back of his talmochka. He remembers watching Antonina as she worked with her needle and thread, her head bent over her son’s quilted coat.

  “Please,” Konstantin begs, and even to his own ears his voice is feeble, an old man’s voice. Helpless. He has no weapon now, no defence. He’s one old man against three—there are only three, he sees—strong young Cossacks. Still, he leans sideways in his saddle, tugging at the Cossack’s sleeve with his good hand. Cut off my hand, he thinks, cut it off, cut off both of my hands, so all will know I tried to save my son.

  But the Cossack simply slides his sabre into its sheath, struggling to yank his arm from Konstantin’s grip. Konstantin won’t let go. The Cossack digs his heels into his horse, kicking its flanks, and it rises on its hind legs. Konstantin is thrown to the ground, and his horse bolts and gallops through the trees, ears back. The Cossack turns his own gleaming chestnut in the opposite direction. Guiding Mikhail’s horse, he rides away, the others following.

  Mikhail twists in his saddle to look at his father. Konstantin is already on his feet, and calls out to his son, “It’s all right, Mikhail. Be a good boy. Do what they tell you. I will come for you later. I will come for you. Don’t be afraid.” He thinks his voice sounds certain and will reassure Mikhail. Does it? Mikhail’s expression is panicked, his eyes wide, grey-green in the thin winter air, but he doesn’t make a sound.

  A brave boy, Konstantin thinks in an oddly suspended moment. “The ransom,” he shouts, as the men ride farther into the trees. Mikhail is still slightly turned, looking over his shoulder at him. “The ransom! Any amount. Send word. I will pay immediately. Any amount, I tell you. I’ll give you anything. Anything! Tell me!” He’s watching the direction the Cossacks are heading as he looks in the thick trees for his own horse. He has to follow them.

  At his father’s shouting, Mikhail turns away, his small shoulders stiff and high, his hair a golden glow in the light streaming through the tall, swaying trees.

  It’s too cold for him to be without a hat, Konstantin thinks. The child’s mother was right, as always. I should have listened to her.

  The sound of hooves echoes behind him. He spins. It’s Grisha, holding the reins of the grey Arabian.

  “Grisha,” he says. “Thank God. They’ve got Mikhail. They’ve got my son. Go after them, Grisha.”

  Grisha drops the Arabian’s lead in front of Konstantin. Konstantin attempts to pull himself onto his horse with his good hand. He falls onto the bloodstained snow, tries to rise, falls again. His left hand trembles as he points west, into the thick forest.

  Grisha gallops in the direction of the kidnappers, disappearing into the trees.

  Antonina is alerted by the screaming of a servant in the yard.

  She holds up her wide skirt with both hands and runs towards the front door. She arrives in time to see Grisha helping Konstantin off his Arabian. He would have fallen had it not been for Grisha’s firm grip.

  She takes in the scene in an instant: her husband and Grisha. Something is wrong with her husband. Where is her son?

  “Misha,” she says. “Misha.” Grisha, aided by Lyosha from the stables, half drags, half carries Konstantin towards the house.

  “Let’s go now, Grisha,” Lyosha shouts, struggling under the count’s weight. “I’ll get the others. We can’t give them any more time.”

  Antonina’s mouth goes dry, dread gripping her with such strength that she can’t speak. Can’t even say her son’s name again.

  Grisha hisses at Lyosha to shut up. “We’ve got to get him inside. Then we’ll go back.”

  Antonina grips the door frame, staring at her husband’s open coat, his bloodied shirt and hand wrapped in a scarf she recognizes as Grisha’s. They push past her, and she smells the rancid odour of fear, the metallic tang of blood in the waft of air that follows the men. She is beside them as they lay Konstantin on the emerald silk settee in the drawing room.

  Grisha straightens and looks at her, and suddenly it’s as if the air in the room has stilled around Antonina.

  Servants crowd in the doorway, pushing again
st each other silently, crossing themselves. Antonina sees her maid, Lilya, clutching her younger brother Lyosha’s shoulder as if protecting him, even though he is taller than she, and she has to reach up.

  If she moves or speaks at this moment, Antonina fears she will come undone and do something mad—whirl her arms like a windmill, or crash to the floor, kicking her legs so that her underskirts are revealed to all the servants. She’ll wail—oh, she knows with certainty she’ll wail like an old babushka, following a coffin to the cemetery.

  No. She won’t allow herself to do any of these things. Finally she says, “My son. Where is my son, Konstantin?”

  When Konstantin closes his eyes and turns his face towards the back of the settee, Grisha says, “He was taken, madam. I was following the count and your son, as you instructed, but I stayed back. I knew if the count saw me … so by the time I arrived in the clearing and found him”—he indicates Konstantin with his chin—“the men had a good start. I followed the direction the count pointed out, but after only a short time it became impossible. There were too many trails, countess. I knew I had to get back to the count and bring him home. His hand …”

  Lyosha steps forward from the crowd of servants in the doorway. “Let’s go after them, Grisha.”

  Grisha stares at him until Lyosha takes a step back. Lilya puts her hand on her brother’s arm. Grisha is the head man on the estate. He reports to the count. It is Grisha the others obey.

  With no warning, a rush of acidy fluid is in Antonina’s throat. She swallows, bringing her fist to her mouth. She won’t disgrace herself in front of the servants. Her throat burns as she lowers her hand. “Taken?” she repeats, and clears her throat. “Taken by whom?”

  “I don’t know, madam. I didn’t see them. There were three, the count says. He needs a doctor, madam.”

  Konstantin finally speaks, loudly. “No, there is no time for a doctor. Bring clean linen.” He sits up and slowly unwraps the scarf, wincing.

  Antonina looks at her husband’s hand. The back of it is slashed through, tendons and veins a pulpy mess of congealing and fresh blood.