Jack turned in the saddle, grimacing as the movement scraped at the sore flesh of his thighs, rubbed raw by the long ride into the depths of the Maharajah’s kingdom. He looked across at Isabel, catching her eye and sharing a tired, fleeting smile as the end of their journey came into sight.
They had barely spoken since they had spied the Maharajah’s men. To their relief, the four lancers had been part of the force that had destroyed the Tiger’s stronghold. Their leader, a burly, heavily bearded fellow with thick gold bands on his sleeve, had recognised the couple as being the same white-faced foreigners they had rescued a few days previously. It had taken a great deal of gesturing and hand-waving to convince him that they were trying to return to the Maharajah, and Jack was still not sure if they now journeyed as guests or prisoners. Yet the lancers had escorted them in safety and now led them up the long ramp to the entrance into the beautiful but cruel Taragarh.
The gateway to the citadel dominated the top of the ramp. The enormous timber gates were covered in hundreds of spikes arrayed in an ordered pattern so that not one inch was left uncovered, a defence against the might of the elephants that could be used by an attacker to try to batter a passage into the fortress. Each of the two massive gates had been pushed open to admit the long line of carts and wagons that was making the laborious climb up to the fortress. The lancers were forced to dawdle behind the bullock-pulled carts bringing fresh produce to the garrison, the narrow ramp leaving no space for them to force a way past.
The delay gave Jack time to think and to prepare for meeting the Maharajah for a second time. As he studied the seat of the man’s immense power, he started to doubt the wisdom of their choice. He no longer thought of the Maharajah as the kindred spirit to whom he had been able to speak so freely. The man who commanded such a mighty fortress could never be a friend, an equal. Their decision to throw themselves on the mercy of the ruler of this strange, very foreign land suddenly seemed utterly foolish.
By the time they neared the top of the long ramp, he had convinced himself that the most likely outcome was a period of incarceration before they were swiftly sent back to the British authorities. That would be the pragmatic thing for the Maharajah to do. After all, it was the British who now administered his land, and the return of the pair of escapees would certainly garner him favour. With a heavy heart Jack resigned himself to facing the last moments of his temporary respite with as much grace as he could muster.
The cool of the gatehouse was unexpected. Once past the thick gates, the small group of horsemen entered a narrow passageway that first turned sharply to the right, before almost immediately turning to the left. Curious as ever, Jack craned his neck as they passed through the dark space, trying to count the vast number of chutes and arrow slits that covered its walls and ceilings. Any attacking force that somehow managed to force the gates would find themselves in this murderous place, their movements confined by the walls, under constant attack through the multitude of openings that would allow the defenders to bring down a dreadful storm of missiles on their heads, with God knew what horrors poured through the wide chutes in the ceiling. The thought sent an involuntary shudder through him, and he felt as much of an interloper as any attacking soldier.
As they reached the end of the passage, the small party was halted at the back of the queue of wagons that waited patiently for the guards to inspect each and every delivery. The guards were as neatly uniformed as the blue-coated lancers. Their livery was dark blue, with thick red seams running down their trousers. Their short coatees were decorated with red cuffs and collars with three rows of gold frogging across the front. On their heads were Kilmarnock caps, similar to those worn by Dutton’s native troops, with red piping decorating the dark blue cloth that matched their coats. Jack noticed that several sported bright red sashes; these, along with thick white stripes on their sleeves, presumably denoted their higher rank. They were as smart a group of soldiers as he had ever seen. Even their full black beards were neat and uniform. It was as if the Maharajah had been able to replicate a single perfect specimen over and over again, creating an army from one faultless mould.
Their uniforms may have been as fine as any seen on the parade squares of the British cantonments, but their weapons showed that these were not merely ceremonial soldiers. Each guardsman wore a curving sabre at his hip that hung from a thick blue sash belted tightly around his waist, with a vicious-looking curving knife held in a separate scabbard in the small of the back. Jack could not fail to be impressed, and he once again wondered why Dutton had been so dismissive of the Maharajah’s forces.
‘You!’
The single barked word took Jack by surprise. They had been slowly inching towards the guards. There was still one cart in front of them when one of the Maharajah’s men lifted a finger and pointed in Jack’s direction.
‘You there! I’m speaking to you.’
To Jack’s astonishment, the words were delivered in a thick Scottish brogue.
‘Are you deaf, man? I asked you a damn question.’
The cart in front of them pulled away, the driver turning to look fearfully over his shoulder as he heard the raised voices around him. Jack watched him go with envy, wishing his own passage into the fortress could be so swift.
The officer with the astonishing accent strode purposefully to stand at Jack’s stirrup. ‘Listen, laddie, I’ll try to make this easy for you. Start by telling me your name.’
‘Danbury. James Danbury.’ Jack used the name he had given the Maharajah when they had first met.
‘See! That wasn’t so hard, now was it? I am Subedar Khan.’ The guardsman introduced himself before turning away, issuing a rapid series of commands in a language Jack did not recognise.
The lancers who had brought them to the fortress were clearly being dismissed, and they seemed more than happy to abandon Jack and Isabel to Khan’s men, riding away without a backward glance. Jack wondered if they were relieved to have passed on the responsibility for the two foreigners.
‘If you and your lady friend could please dismount.’ Khan stood back as he spoke, clearly expecting Jack to obey immediately and looking up in obvious disappointment as he failed to do so. ‘Now.’ The subedar pointed at the ground, in case Jack was having trouble understanding the request.
Jack heard the tone in Khan’s voice. As a redcoat, he had become well used to unquestioningly obeying his superiors. They might have hailed from very different armies, but it was clear that the subedar was used to a similar level of instant obedience.
He looked across to Isabel and saw the same look of incredulity he was sure was on his own face. He shrugged and slid from the saddle, confident that Isabel would follow suit.
‘That’s better.’ Subedar Khan towered over Jack as they finally stood face to face. ‘You’re going to come with me. If you try any funny business, I’ll rip your head off and shit in the hole. You understand that?’
Jack nodded, doing his best not to smile at the subedar’s turn of phrase.
Khan grunted in disapproval and turned to lead Jack and Isabel out of the entranceway and into the fortress proper.
The antechamber was as comfortable as any room Jack had ever seen. Even the officers’ mess back in Aldershot, where he had served as an orderly, compared badly to the opulent chamber that spoke of wealth and luxury on an almost unimaginable scale. Slim silk-lined couches sat neatly on three sides of the room, each the deep purple of ripe plums and covered with a liberal layer of plump cushions decorated with intricate patterns of golden thread. The white marble floor was nearly completely covered with the deep reds and yellows of a Persian rug, whilst the walls were decorated with silk hangings that matched the colour of the couches. A series of richly coloured paintings ran around the room. They told the story of a hunt, a finely dressed rider depicted chasing down an enormous boar until, in the final picture, he stood astride the beast, his thick-s
hafted spear buried deep in the animal’s heart. Jack had a feeling that he would shortly know precisely how the boar felt. Isabel stood in front of this last painting, her fingers gently tracing the intricate carving on its frame, entranced by the detail of the work.
Yet for all its finery, the room had been chosen as a secure place to hold unwanted guests. There were no windows and the single door was shut tight; Jack had heard the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown when they were left alone. It was a room of charm and elegance, but it was still a prison, for all its opulence. Their cage might have been gilded, but they were as much prisoners now as they had been when captured by the Tiger and his bandits.
Jack rose swiftly to his feet the moment he heard loud footsteps outside the door to the antechamber. He had been perched on the edge of one of the couches, unwilling to lounge back into the luxurious seat lest he fall asleep the moment he relaxed.
The door was thrown back and Subedar Khan strode purposefully into the room, his face creased in a scowl. A thin-framed man followed him, trying to screen himself behind the guardsman’s robust body. He was dressed in a simple white kurta with a sky-blue pagdi wrapped tightly around his head and a matching sash tied around his bony waist. In his hands he carried a thick red ledger on which he had carefully balanced a fine white quill and an ornate china inkwell.
‘Sit there.’ Khan spoke curtly as he turned to wave his colleague to a free couch at one side of the room. The man hurried to obey the command, bending at the waist as he moved, as if trying to bow at the same time.
‘I need some information from you both.’ Khan turned his attention back to Jack and Isabel. ‘Why don’t you sit yourself down, laddie? This’ll take a while.’
‘I’ll stand.’ Jack stood foursquare in front of the native subedar. He was not daunted by the officer’s size.
‘As you like.’ The corners of Khan’s mouth twitched as if he were amused by Jack’s belligerence.
‘Are you not going to introduce us?’ Jack indicated the white-robed man, who immediately looked down at the floor in horror at being the subject of such attention.
Khan looked disapprovingly at Jack. ‘No. Now, what are you doing here, laddie?’
‘We want to see the Maharajah.’
Khan gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Oh really. I’ll just tell him you’re here, shall I?’
‘Very good. We’ll wait.’
‘Funny, laddie, very funny. So you are from the 24th? A deserter and his bint, is it? You’ll not be the first nor, I suspect, the last.’
Jack took a deliberate step forward. ‘Be careful who you call bint, Subedar Khan.’ He spoke slowly and carefully. He had played the part of an officer for long enough to know how to demonstrate authority, and for the first time he saw a shred of doubt on Khan’s proud face.
‘My name is James Danbury and I am a captain in Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. The Maharajah knows me. I was speaking with him just a few days ago. He nearly killed me, but I found it in my heart to forgive him for being so damn rude. My companion is Isabel Youngsummers, and the Maharajah knows her too. Not as well as he would like, but he knows her nonetheless.’ Jack spoke calmly, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Khan’s face. He could sense Isabel’s growing impatience at being excluded from the conversation and he just hoped she had enough sense to keep mum.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white-robed clerk writing furiously to keep up, his eyes wide in horror as the white-faced foreigner spoke to the subedar in such a forthright manner.
‘Now,’ Jack continued without pause, giving the native officer no time to interrupt, ‘I suggest you stop trying to frighten us and have someone tell the Maharajah we are here. I’m certain he is a busy man, but I believe he will make time to see us.’ Jack turned to face the anxious scribe, who was scribbling away for all his worth. ‘Did you get all that?’
Subedar Khan said nothing. He stared at Jack for what seemed a long time. The silence stretched out, uncomfortable and awkward.
‘You are a bold fellow, laddie.’ Khan finally spoke, breaking the silence with a gentle chuckle. ‘Why should I believe all that horseshit?’
Jack took a step forward, his face impassive. ‘If you call me laddie again, I’ll rip off your balls and shove them down your damn throat.’
This time Khan laughed out loud. ‘I truly believe you would try. So it is to be Captain Danbury, is it?’
‘My name is Captain James Danbury and I am here to see the Maharajah.’ Jack felt his face flicker into a smile. It was hard not to like the straight-talking subedar.
Khan made a show of looking Jack up and down, his mouth puckering in distaste at the unkempt appearance of the man claiming to be a British officer. ‘Very well, huzoor. I have never seen a mighty captain of the sarkar who dresses as you do, but you are a strange folk, so I should suppose anything is possible.’
‘Like finding an English-speaking officer in the service of the Maharajah?’
Khan chuckled. ‘A Scottish missionary lived in my village when I was a boy. He taught me to speak English before my father saw sense and cut his throat. Life is odd, is it not?’
Without another word he turned and marched from the room. The scribe immediately leapt to his feet to follow, dropping his quill in his haste. Jack bent and retrieved it, calmly handing it back to the terrified man, who scuttled from the room as if he had been just seen the devil himself.
Jack had done his best. They had flung themselves on the mercy of the Maharajah. Only time would tell if they had made the worst mistake of their lives.
Their footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floors as they were led through the corridors of the palace, the sound only partially muffled when they crossed one of the many carpets and rugs that were artfully displayed in the beautifully decorated spaces. Jack doubted he had ever felt more out of place; a clumsy beast granted admittance to a world of shimmering and delicate beauty.
He had never seen so much wealth. The walls were smothered with fabulous paintings, some small enough to fit into the pocket of his breeches, others big enough to cover an entire wall. Every few paces revealed another treasure, a bewildering array of jade, ivory, gold and silver statues and ornaments displayed on a series of exquisitely carved stone plinths. Each doorway was a work of art, the teak columns covered with a fine tracery of carvings and decorations. Glass chandeliers appeared one after another, their crystal beads and droplets glistening in the sunlight that streamed through the huge windows running down one side of every room.
Isabel was entranced, her head turning quickly from side to side to catch every detail as they hurried after the blue-robed chamberlain who had appeared to lead them from their anteroom into the depths of the palace. The chamberlain’s soft white slippers whispered across the marble floors, his movements controlled and subtle so that it was as if he glided along, his elegant progress standing in stark contrast to Jack’s bullish gait.
Jack’s discomfort made him feel belligerent, and he deliberately walked as loudly as he could. To his satisfaction, the chamberlain turned to look over his shoulder, the silent rebuke clear on his disdainful features. Even Isabel scowled at him, her warning look imploring him to behave.
They walked through a dozen rooms, each as splendid as the one before. Their senses were assaulted with colour. Every room boasted a different shade of decoration, a subtle but noticeable contrast to its neighbour. Every object they passed was worth more than Jack could hope to earn in a lifetime as a redcoat. The maharajahs were clearly not coy about ostentatious display.
The chamberlain stopped in front of a pair of closed doors that were guarded by two sentries wearing the same uniform as Subedar Khan and his men. Each was armed with a fearsome-looking spear that was almost as thick as Jack’s arm, and from the look in their eyes, he was certain that they were more than ready to use them should anyo
ne try to force their way past.
‘You will enter the chamber in silence. His Royal Highness is in durbar and you must do nothing to draw attention to yourselves.’ The chamberlain spoke fast, but in a hushed, reverential tone, the same kind of voice the orderlies used in the officers’ mess when their masters were enjoying a post-lunch nap. He looked only at Jack; it was clear he expected Isabel to say and do nothing. ‘You will not look directly at His Majesty, you will not speak, you will not call out and you will not walk like an elephant.’ His face puckered in distaste before he continued with his staccato list of instructions. ‘If His Royal Highness deigns to speak to you, then I shall call you forward. You must keep your eyes on the ground at all times and you will prostrate yourself on the floor when I give the signal. You must remain there until His Royal Highness has finished speaking. Then you will get up and leave the room immediately. You must walk backwards, again looking at nothing but the ground.’
The chamberlain finished his speech with a badly contained sniff of disgust. Jack had struggled to understand the man’s instructions, his thick accent making the words close to unintelligible. But the message was clear, and he felt a flutter of nerves in the pit of his belly.
‘Excuse me.’ Isabel spoke for the first time, only to be roundly ignored by the chamberlain. ‘What about me?’ This time she reached out and touched the man’s arm, determined to get his attention.
The chamberlain’s mouth twisted in obvious distaste at her touch. ‘You will be permitted to enter the room, but you will remain where I place you.’
‘Am I not to be allowed to speak to the Maharajah?’
Jack saw Isabel’s left foot tapping a fast rhythm on the floor and wisely took a pace back.
The chamberlain’s eyes bulged at the very idea. ‘You are a woman. You will not be allowed to speak in durbar.’
The Maharajah's General Page 14