‘Are you deformed?’ the Begum asked.
‘No, your Highness. But…’
‘You are not circumcised. Few of the French are. Do not be ashamed of it.’
She spoke in such matter-of-fact tones, of a subject no Englishwoman would dream of broaching. Richard undressed as quickly as he could, handing his clothes to the waiting girls. The fact of his situation could not help but arouse him, but they seemed almost disinterested.
The Begum was most certainly interested, however. She leaned forward when he was naked.
‘Face me,’ she commanded.
He had turned away in embarrassment while undressing. Now he obeyed her.
‘You will make a splendid captain of my guard,’ she said. ‘But you have not bathed today. Go with my ladies. They will see to you.’
One of the girls hurried across the room and opened yet another door, then looked at him, and bowed.
Richard walked across the room, keenly aware that they were all watching his every movement, and feeling more exposed than ever before in his life. The room into which he was taken was a bathing chamber, the centre of which was filled with a pool of constantly bubbling water. Undoubtedly he was supposed to immerse himself in that. He stood at the head of a shallow flight of steps, hesitating for a moment…and four of the girls stripped off their loin cloths and plunged in ahead of him, armed with oils and sponges, and clearly intending to minister to him.
One of them was the yellow-haired child.
He went down the steps and surrendered to their ministrations. Whatever was to happen, he could do nothing more than submit to the most delightful of sensations as the gentle fingers slid over his body.
That he would have to perform for the Begum was now obvious. Richard did not doubt that Peyraud, who had been so rapidly promoted to colonel, had once been her lover, even if he could not afford to reveal any jealousy. The Begum accumulated handsome young men, it seemed.
Well, who was to say her nay?
He found himself gazing at the young blonde girl. Unlike her Indian companions, who chattered excitedly as they massaged him, her face was grave as she rubbed his nails with a small brush to bring them absolutely clean. It was in any event a serious face, the features sweet and compact, in keeping with the rest of her, but well formed. She would never be beautiful like her mistress, nor even handsome like Barbara, but he was strangely attracted to her.
He touched her arm, and she raised her eyes, then hurriedly lowered them again,
‘What is your name?’ he asked, on a sudden impulse, in English.
‘My name is Caty,’ she replied, in English but with a slight Scottish accent, then lowered her head again.
Before he could carry the conversation further, he was being escorted from the bath and wrapped in a huge towel, while the fingers probed and massaged some more. He looked for the Scottish girl, but she had hurried from the room. How had she come here? Clearly she was a slave; all of the girls were slaves. But, a Scottish girl, a slave of the Begum Sombre?
How had she been taken? Then he remembered what he had heard of the capture of Patna by Sombre, how the men had been massacred and the women and children taken away to slavery. That had been eight years ago. This girl would have been less than ten years old.
He wondered if he also was now a slave.
*
His consideration of the girl’s situation, and his own, quite took his mind off sexual matters, as the Begum saw immediately when he was led back into her bedroom.
‘Are you ill, Bryant?’ she demanded. ‘Being bathed by six beautiful girls is supposed to arouse a man’s ardour, not quench it.’
‘I was distracted, Highness.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘By Caty. I should have known. Very well, you may have the girl. If you please me.’ She raised her finger. ‘If you please me.’
The towel had been removed, and now he felt his arms being drawn behind his back. He did not know what to expect, and so made no demur until it was too late; then realised that his wrists had been slipped into a noose made from silken rope. The noose was pulled tight, and the girls tied the knot.
‘My God,’ he snapped, straining on the bonds.
The Begum smiled. ‘Do not be alarmed. I will not harm you. I but seek to make sure that you cannot harm me.’
His efforts were useless, and he subsided, panting. The girls had left the room. He was alone with the Begum. ‘Come here,’ she commanded.
He hesitated, then walked towards her. He had no choice, and besides, he was as curious as he was aware of becoming aroused again.
‘That is better,’ she said, and touched him. Only the Bombay whores had ever touched him there before. The effect on him was all the Begum could have wished.
She laughed, a low ripple of throaty amusement. ‘When I grow tired of him,’ she said, ‘I will have him circumcised. It is better that way.’
Richard could only gaze at her. The feeling of being utterly in this woman’s power was almost hypnotic.
Now behold beauty,’ she told him. She slipped off the divan, stood up, and unwound her sari. She moved slowly, and with a great deal of practised eroticism, yet with no coquettishness. And while she undressed, she gazed into his eyes.
But he had to look lower because she had not told a lie. She was not tall, rather below average height, he thought, but her body was as perfectly proportioned as her face, while being entirely that of a mature woman. Her breasts were full and high, with temptingly ripe nipples; her belly pouted attractively; her legs were straight and well-formed without being excessively muscular; her pubic hair was as dark and luxuriant as the hair on her head.
She gave another low laugh, and turned her back to let him look at that also, revealing tight buttocks, and then scooping her hair above her head to show him the deep curve of her back and shoulders.
‘Am I not the most beautiful woman in the world?’ she demanded.
‘You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,’ Richard said, truthfully enough.
‘Lie on the bed,’ she commanded. ‘On your back.’
He obeyed, making himself as comfortable as he could on top of his bound hands and arms.
‘Now there is a noble lance,’ the Begum commented, and sat astride his thighs to play with him, occasionally bending to kiss and suck him.
‘My name is Aljai,’ she said. ‘You may call me Aljai, within these four walls. If you use the name outside these walls, I will have you blown from the mouth of a cannon. Remember this.’✓
He did not see how he could possibly forget it. Because he knew that she meant it.
‘I am from Persia,’ she said, releasing him and lying down on him, sliding her breasts across his chest and then across his face, half smothering him in the sweet smelling softness, pushing the brown nipples into his mouth. ‘Do you know of Persia?’
‘Only that it is a land of great antiquity, Highness,’ he gasped when he could breathe.
‘It is that. My father was a wealthy merchant. But he was taken by the Mughal raiders, with his caravan and all his family. They impaled him, before my eyes.’ She sat astride his thighs, and gazed at him. ‘Do you know of impalement?’
‘It sounds very unpleasant.’
She laughed. ‘It is very unpleasant, for a man. Women are impaled all the time, if they are fortunate, but upon a much more useful weapon.’ She rose to her knees, and inserted him into her, then slowly lowered herself again, at the same time closing her eyes in ecstasy.
‘So I was sold as a slave,’ she murmured, working her body now. ‘And eventually Renaud saw me, and bought me. I was thirteen. A skinny runt. But he could detect the beauty that I would become. Ah,’ she gasped, as he exploded into her. But she kept moving, now more lubricated, and he remained hard, for long enough for a long shudder to ripple through her body: her nipples distended, the tendons on her neck stood out, and the muscles in her stomach hardened.
He had never seen a woman so transported, had never suspected
it was truly possible, as he had supposed the Bombay women had been play-acting.
He did not imagine the Begum had ever play-acted in her life.
She sighed, and lay beside him. His own passion spent, he became aware of how uncomfortable his wrists and arms were. But he did not suppose appealing to her would accomplish anything.
Her head rested on his shoulder, and he inhaled her scent. Peyraud has done well,’ she said. ‘Bringing you to me. You will make a splendid captain of the guard. We will show those curs who is the mistress here.’
She seemed to bounce off the divan. ‘That Marcel thought I could be made into a puppet, his puppet. Now he knows better.’ She clapped her hands, and the room was invaded by the waiting girls.
‘Up,’ she told Richard. ‘We have much to do.’
He swung his legs off the divan and stood up. He no longer felt embarrassed by the presence of the girls, not even little Scottish Caty. He seemed to have known them all a very long time.
Would the Begum really give him Caty? What an incredible thought, that one women would give him another, at a whim.
How should he treat a fourteen-year-old-girl who had clearly already suffered a great deal?
But then, Aljai had also suffered a great deal, if what she had told him was true, and it had not affected her.
Perhaps he was wrong, he realised when, washed clean and dressed, his wrists released and his sword and pistols restored to him, he accompanied the Begum outside.
A guard of honour was drawn up in the courtyard, consisting entirely of French soldiers. Peyraud was also waiting for her, although he did not command the guard. He escorted her to the outer gate, beyond which another company of soldiers waited. These were Indian, although dressed in the French uniforms of pale blue coat, red waistcoat, and white breeches; their feet were bare.
Accumulated here was also a large crowd of the Indian population of Agra, shuffling their feet and muttering to each other. And there were six cannon arranged in a row, their muzzles pointing at an open space between the houses.
To the muzzle of each cannon a naked man was tied, his back pressed to the bore, his wrists and ankles carried behind him and tied to the wheels so tightly that his body was arched backwards and movement was impossible.
Four of the men were Indian, two French; all had been in the group of officers waiting in the reception hall earlier that morning.
Richard swallowed. He could not believe that the Begum had made such violent and ecstatic love to him, knowing that these orders of hers were at that very moment being carried out.
Aljai walked in front of the cannon and gazed at the men. Peyraud remained at her shoulder, and motioned Richard to remain on her other side. Richard’s throat was dry, and his stomach felt light. Several of the men, whether from awareness of their terrible position or from the manhandling they had received while being strapped into position, were half aroused.
Certainly Aljai saw, as she walked along their ranks, flicking their faces or their genitals with her horsehair whip.
‘You will remember me,’ she said, ‘as your souls wing through eternity. Remember that one day I will be following you, to chastise you yet again.’
The Indians were stoical, and returned her gaze. One of the Frenchmen, a young boy, was weeping. The other’s mouth trembled.
‘Spare me, Highness,’ he begged. ‘And I will crawl at your feet for the rest of my life.’
‘What good would you do me there?’ Aljai asked. ‘But I will spare you…’
The man gasped with relief.
‘Until the last.’ She stepped to one side. ‘Begin at the far end.’
The gunners stepped forward, lighted matches in their hands.
‘Your Highness,’ Richard ventured.
‘Be quiet, boy,’ Peyraud snapped. ‘This is no concern of yours.’
Is it not? Richard wondered.
But while he hesitated to speak, the first gun exploded. Blood and guts flew through the air; horrifyingly, the man had been blown in half. His head, arms and legs remained, dripping blood; his body, from hips to shoulders, had disappeared.
The crowd applauded.
The second cannon roared, and then the third. The Frenchman who had begged for mercy began to scream in a high-pitched voice.
The fourth cannon blew its victim in half, then it was the turn of the younger Frenchman. He drew an enormous breath, as if trying to catch all eternity in a single gasp, and died.
Richard felt the sickness growing. He did not know how much longer he would be able to stand there.
The Begum waited a long minute before giving the last signal. ‘Think of me, Dubois,’ she jeered, and raised her hand.
Dubois was in mid-scream when the blast cut him in half.
Aljai faced the crowd. ‘Thus die all traitors,’ she cried in a high, clear voice. ‘Throw these carrion to the dogs,’ she told the gunners. ‘Colonel Peyraud, I would have you equip Captain Bryant properly, and then show him his duties.’
She walked away from them, back to her fortress, while the crowd, and her soldiers stood to attention.
Diary of Mrs Alistair Lamont, 26 March 1780
My head is spinning. Yet record I must, if only to set my own thoughts in order.
What did I know of love before last night? Was I not a silly girl; with my flirtations, my kisses, and my affectations?
If only Captain Lamont were more…but he is my husband, and there is an end to it.
I must forget my initial feeling of dismay when he was presented to me, on the very day, more than two months ago, that the Indiaman dropped anchor. I must forget the consternation I felt when Uncle Jonathan spoke to me of him within the week.
Uncle Jonathan says that Captain Lamont comes from a very good Scottish family.
But he is so old! Thirty at least!!!
Aunt Lucy says older men make the best husbands. She should know, as she is married to one!
Uncle Jonathan says that although Captain Lamont is only a captain of artillery, his talents are well recognised and it is expected that he will rise rapidly.
But he is bald!
Aunt Lucy says bald men are the most virile! Whoever would have thought Aunt Lucy knew about such things! But she may well be right: Uncle Jonathan is certainly not bald, and they have no children.
I may be pregnant already, so deeply have I been stabbed!
Mr Lamont also has a moustache. This, no doubt, is to make up for the lack of hair on his head. It tickles most terribly when he kisses me.
But he is my husband! I am Mrs Lamont!
Yesterday was a great occasion. I wore white satin with a tulle veil, and white satin shoes. Aunt Lucy gave me a blue garter for my right thigh. I swear that she has grown quite fond of me, from the moment I was engaged. Before then, she has confessed, she was terrified. Especially after that business with Mr Bryant!
The cathedral was so crowded no one could breathe, but at least it didn’t rain.
Mr Lamont looked quite handsome in his uniform, but so stern! He has no sense of humour. I shall have to bury mine.
There were two hundred guests at the reception. Mr Forsythe got very drunk. He is even more boring drunk than sober.
Uncle Jonathan also got very drunk, and had to be put to bed.
My husband put me to bed!
Was I nervous? I do not believe so. I was more curious. For so very long have I dreamed of sharing a bed with a man. Well, not with a man like Captain Lamont, to be sure. But he is nonetheless very much a man. I have never seen such a yard. I have never seen a yard at all, save his. I had no idea it could grow so big. I gave a little scream, and that seemed to please him.
My figure also seemed to please him. He sat beside me on the bed and touched my breast beneath my nightgown. Oh, I wish Mr Bryant had had the time to touch my naked breast before wandering off to be eaten by a snake or a tiger!
Then my husband made me take off my nightgown. I was appalled. I did not know what to do.
&
nbsp; But he is my husband. I had just promised to honour and obey!
So I obeyed.
Can I express the feelings of a blushing maid who lies naked before the eyes of a man, a man who has the right to possess her entirely?
Captain Lamont indulged that right.
When he touched me, I was terrified and broke into a frightful shivering.
When he parted my legs, I was deeply humiliated. But more afraid as I realised what was to be plunged into me.
It was very painful. I cannot believe all men are as large as he.
But it was also very quick. I cannot believe it is always so, and with so little feeling, at least on the woman’s part. When I recall the emotions which used to mount in my breast when dear Richard held me in his arms, the expectations of the ecstasy I would one day enjoy…truly my lot is not a happy one.
Or am I just cursed?
Poor dear Richard. I wonder how big was his yard, when extended?
5: The Fighting Irishman
‘She is a devil,’ Richard said. ‘A devil incarnate.’
Jacques Peyraud grinned. ‘For blowing her enemies from a cannon? May I remind you, dear Richard, that such a method of execution was first used in India by your own General Hector Munro, some twenty years ago?’
‘I am not proud of that. But for a woman…’
‘Who is also the sweetest woman who has ever lived. Haven’t you found that out yet?’
‘If I had known…’
‘What would you have done? What could you have done, with your hands tied behind your back. Oh, yes, we all have to go through that. Aljai is only a devil to those who oppose her.’
He took Richard to the armoury, and there introduced him to a somewhat small and very precise white man named Hamilton Dyce.
‘Mr Bryant,’ Dyce said, ‘who now wishes to become Captain Bryant. Ah, well, we’ll have to see what we can do for ye.
He summoned various Indian clerks and Richard was soon outfitted with two uniforms, as well as a variety of shirts and undergarments, stockings and boots. Dyce appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of these, to accommodate all sizes.
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