The Flashman Papers 09 - Flashman and the Mountain of Light fp-9

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I can't account for these occasional infatuations, but then neither can the poets—uncommon randy, those versifiers. In my own case, though, I have to own that I've been particularly susceptible to crowned heads—empres- ses and queens and grand duchesses and so forth, of whom I've encountered more than a few. I dare say the trappings and luxury had something to do with it, and the know-ledge that the treasury would pick up any bills that were going, but that ain't the whole story, I'm sure. If I were a German philosopher, I'd no doubt reflect on Superman's subjection of the Ultimate Embodiment of the Female, but since I ain't I can only conclude that I'm a galloping snob. At all events, there's a special satisfaction to rattling royalty, I can tell you, and when they have Jeendan's training and inclinations it only adds to the fun.

  Like most busy royal women, she had the habit of mixing sport with politics, and contrived our next encounter so that it dealt with both, on the day of her emergence from mourning for her eagerly-awaited durbar with the Khalsa panches. I'd tiffened in my quarters, and was preparing for an afternoon's drowse with the Soochet-wallahs when Mangla arrived unannounced; at first I sup-posed she'd looked in for another quarter-staff bout, but she explained that I was summoned to royal audience, and must follow quietly and ask no questions. Nothing loth, I let her conduct me, and had quite a let-down when she ushered me into a nursery where little Dalip, attended by a couple of nurses, was wreaking carnage with his toy soldiers. He jumped up, beaming, at the sight of me, and then stopped short to compose himself before advancing, bowing solemnly, and holding out his hand.

  "I have to thank you, Flashman bahadur, says he, "for your care of me … that … that afternoon …" Suddenly he began to weep, head lowered, and then stamped and dashed his tears away angrily. "I have to thank you for your care of me …" he began, gulping, and looked at Mangla.

  "… and for the great service …," she prompted him.

  .. and for the great service you rendered to me and my country!" He choked it out pretty well, head up and lip trembling. "We are forever in your debt. Salaam, bahadur.

  I shook his hand and said I was happy to be of service, and he nodded gravely, glanced sidelong at the women, and murmured: "I was so frightened."

  "Well, you didn't look it, maharaj'," says I—which was the honest truth. "I was frightened, too."

  "Not you?" cries he, shocked. "You are a soldier!"

  "The soldier who is never frightened is only half a soldier," says I. "And d'ye know who told me that? The greatest soldier in the world. His name's Wellington; you'll hear about him some day."

  He shook his head in wonder at this, and deciding but-ter wouldn't hurt I asked if I might be shown his toys. He squeaked with delight, but Mangla said it must be another time, as I had important affairs to attend to. He kicked over his castle and pouted, but as I was salaaming my way out he did the strangest thing, running to me and hugging me round the neck before trotting back to his nurses with a little wave of farewell. Mangla gave me an odd look as she closed the door behind us, and asked if I had children of my own; I said I hadn't.

  "I think you have now," says she.

  I'd supposed that was the end of the audience, but now she conducted me through that labyrinth of palace pass-ages until I was quite lost, and from her haste and the stealthy way she paused at corners for a look-see, I thought, aha, we're bound for some secret nook where she means to have her wicked will of me. Watching her neat little bottom bobbing along in front of me, I didn't mind a bit—tho' I'd rather it had been Jeendan—and when she ushered me into a pretty boudoir, all hung in rose silk and containing a large divan, I lost no time in seizing her opportunities; she clung for a moment, and then slipped away, cautioning me to wait. She drew the curtain from a small alcove, pressed a spring, and a panel slid noiselessly back to reveal a narrow stairway leading down. Sounds of distant voices came from somewhere below. Having had experience of their architecture, I hesitated, but she drew me towards it with a finger to her lips.

  "We must make no sound," she breathed. "The Maharani is holding durbar."

  "Capital," says I, kneading her stern with both hands. "Let's have a durbar ourselves, shall we?"

  "Not now!" whispers she, trying to wriggle free. "Ah, no! It is by her command … you are to watch and listen … no, please! … they must not hear us … follow me close … and make no noise …" Well, she was at a splendid disadvantage, so I held her fast and played with her for a moment or two, until she began to tremble and bite her lip, moaning softly for me to leave off or we'd be overheard, and when I had her nicely on the boil and fit to dislocate herself—why, I let her go, reminding her that we must be quiet as mice. I'll learn 'em to lure me into boudoirs on false pretences. She gulped her breath back, gave me a look that would have splintered glass, and led the way cautiously down.

  It was a dim, steep spiral, thickly carpeted against sound, and as we descended the murmur of voices grew ever louder; it sounded like a meeting before the chair-man brings 'em to order. At the stair foot was a small landing, and in the wall ahead an aperture like a horizontal arrow-slit, very narrow on our side but widening to the far side of the wall so that it gave a full view of the room beyond.

  We were looking down on the durbar room, at a point directly above the purdah curtain which enclosed one end of it. To the right, in the body of the room before the empty throne and dais, was a great, jostling throng of men, hundreds strong—the panches of the Khalsa, much as I'd seen them that first day at Maian Mir, soldiers of every rank and regiment, from officers in brocaded coats and aigretted turbans to barefoot jawans; even in our eyrie we could feel the heat and impatience of the close-packed throng as they pushed and craned and muttered to each other. Half a dozen of their spokesmen stood to the fore: Maka Khan, the imposing old general who'd harangued them at Maian Mir; the burly Imam Shah, who'd described Peshora's death; my rissaldar- .major of the heroic whiskers, and a couple of tall young Sikhs whom I didn't recognise. Maka Khan was holding forth in a loud, irritated way; I suppose you feel a bit of an ass, addressing two hundred square feet of embroidery.

  To our left, hidden from their view by the great curtain, and paying no heed at all to Maka Khan's oratory, the Queen Regent and Mother of All Sikhs was making up for her recent enforced abstinence from drink and frivolity. For two weeks she'd been appearing in public sober, grief-stricken, and swathed in mourning apparel; now she was enjoying a leisurely toilet, lounging goblet in hand against a table loaded with cosmetics and fripperies, while her maids fluttered silently about her, putting the finishing touches to an appearance plainly calculated to enthrall her audience when she emerged. Watching her drain her cup and have it refilled, I wondered if she'd be sober enough; if she wasn't, the Khalsa would miss a rare treat.

  From mourning she had gone to the other extreme, and was decked out in a dancing-girl's costume which, in any civilised society, would have led to her arrest for breach of the peace. Not that it was unduly scanty: her red silk trousers, fringed with silver lace, covered her from hip to ankle, and her gold weskit was modestly opaque, but since both garments had evidently been designed for a well-grown dwarf I could only wonder how she'd been squeezed into them without bursting the seams. For the rest she wore a head veil secured by a silver circlet above her brows, and a profusion of rings and wrist-bangles; the lovely, sullen face was touched with rouge and kohl, and one of her maids was painting her lips with vermilion while another held a mirror and two more were gilding her finger and toe nails.

  They were all intent as artists at a canvas, Jeendan pouting critically at the mirror and directing the maid to touch up the corner of her mouth; then they all stood back to admire the result before making another titivation—and beyond the purdah her army coughed and shuffled and waited and Maka Khan ploughed on.

  "Three divisions have declared for Goolab Singh as Wazir," cries he. "Court's, Avitabile's, and the Povinda. They wish the durbar to summon him from Kashmir with all speed."

  Jeendan continued to st
udy her mouth in the mirror, opening and closing her lips; satisfied, she drank again, and without looking aside gestured to her chief maid, who called out: "What say the other divisions of the Khalsa?"

  Maka Khan hesitated. "They are undecided …"

  "Not about Goolab Singh!" shouts the rissaldar-major. "We'll have no rebel as Wazir, and the devil with Court's and the Povinda!" There was a roar of agreement, and Maka Khan tried to make himself heard. Jeendan took another pull at her goblet before whispering to the chief maid, who called: "There is no majority, then, for Goolab Singh?"

  A great bellow of "No!" and "Raja Goolab!" with the leaders trying to quiet them; one of the young Sikh spokesmen shouted that his division would accept whoever the Maharani chose, which was greeted with cheering and a few groans, to the amusement of Jeendan and the delight of the maids, who were now holding up three long pier-glasses so that she might survey herself from all sides. She turned and posed, emptied her cup, pulled her trouser waist lower on her stomach, winked at her chief maid, then raised a finger as Maka Khan shouted hoarsely:

  "We can do nothing until the kunwari speaks her mind! Will she have Goolab Singh or no?"

  There was a hush at that, and Jeendan whispered to the chief maid, who stifled a fit of the giggles and called back:

  "The Maharani is only a woman, and can't make up her mind. How is she to choose, when the great Khalsa cannot?"

  That sent them into noisy confusion, and the maids into stitches. One of them was bringing something from the table on a little velvet cushion, and to my astonishment I saw it was the great Koh-i-Noor stone which I'd last seen streaked with blood in Dalip's hand. Jeendan took it, smiling a question at her maids, and the wicked sluts all nodded eagerly and clustered round as the Khalsa fumed and bickered beyond the curtain and one of the young Sikhs shouted:

  "We have asked her to choose! Some say she favours Lal Singh!" A chorus of groans. "Let her come out to us and speak her mind!"

  "It is not seemly that her majesty should come out!" cries the chief maid. "She is not prepared!" This while her majesty, with the diamond now in place, was flexing her stomach to make it twinkle, and her maids hugged themselves, giggling, and egged her on. "It is shameful to ask her to break her purdah in durbar. Where is your respect for her, to whom you swore obedience?"

  At this there was a greater uproar than ever, some crying that her wish was their command and she should stay where she was, others that they'd seen her before and no harm done. The older men scowled and shook their heads, but the youngsters fairly bayed for her to come out, one bold spirit even demanding that she dance for them as she had done in the past; someone started up a song about a Kashmiri girl who fluttered her trouser fringes and shook the world thereby, and then from the back of the room they began to chant "Jeendan! Jeendan!" The conservatives swore in protest at this indecent levity, and a big lean Akali with eyes like coals and hair hanging to his waist burst out of the front rank yelling that they were a pack of whore-mongers and loose-livers who had been seduced by her wiles, and that the Children of God the Immortal (meaning his own set of fanatics) would stand no more of it.

  "Aye, let her come out!" bawls he. "Let her come humbly, as befits a woman, and let her forswear her scandalous life that is a byword in the land, and appoint a Wazir of our approving—such a one as will lead us to glory against the foreigners, Afghan and English alike …"

  The rest was lost in pandemonium, some howling him down, others taking up his cry for war, Maka Khan and the spokesmen helpless before the storm of noise. The Akali, frothing at the mouth, leaped on to the front of the dais, raving at them that they were fools if they gave obedience to a woman, and a loose woman at that; let her take a suitable husband and leave men's affairs to men, as was fitting and decent—and behind the purdah Jeendan nodded to her chief maid, draped a silver scarf over one arm, took a last look at her reflection, and walked quickly and fairly steadily round the end of the curtain.

  Speaking professionally, I'd say she wasn't more than half-soused, but drunk or sober, she knew her business. She didn't sidle or saunter or play any courtesan tricks, but walked a few paces and stopped, looking at the Akali. There had been a startled gasp from the mob at her appearance—well, dammit, she might as well have been stark naked, painted scarlet from the hips down and gilded across her top hamper. There was dead silence—and then the Akali stepped down from the dais like an automaton, and without another glance she continued to the throne, seated herself without haste, arranged her scarf just so on the arm-rest to cushion her elbow, leaned back comfortably with a finger to her cheek, and surveyed the gathering with a cool little smile.

  "Here are many questions to be considered at once." Her voice was slightly slurred, but carried clearly enough. "Which will you take first, general?" She spoke past the Akali, who was glaring from side to side in uncertainty, and Maka Khan, looking as though he wished she'd stayed out of sight, drew himself up and bowed.

  "It is said, kunwari, that you would make Lal Singh Wazir. Some hold that he is no fit man —"

  "But others have bound themselves to accept my choice," she reminded him. "Very well, it is Lal Singh." This brought the Akali to life again, an arm flung out in denunciation. "Your bed-man!" he bawled. "Your paramour! Your male whore!"

  There was a yell of rage at this, and some started forward to fall on him, but she checked them with a raised finger and answered the Akali directly, in the same calm voice.

  "You would prefer a Wazir who has not been my bed-man? Then you can't have Goolab Singh, for one. But if you wish to nominate yourself, Akali, I'll vouch for you."

  There was a moment's stunned hush, followed by scandalised gasps—and then a huge bellow of laughter echoing through the great room. Insults and obscene jests were showered on the Akali, who stood mouthing and shaking his fists, the rowdies at the back began to stamp and cheer, Maka Khan and the seniors stood like men poleaxed, and then as the tumult grew the old soldier roused himself and thrust past the Akali to the foot of the dais. In spite of the din, every word reached us through that cunningly-designed spy-hole.

  "Kunwari, this is not seemly! It is to shame … to shame the durbar! I beg you to withdraw … it can wait till another day …"

  "You didn't bid that thing withdraw, when he brayed his spite against me," says she, indicating the Akali, and as it was seen that she was speaking, the noise died on the instant. "What are you afraid of—the truth that everyone knows? Why, Maka Khan, what an old hypocrite you are!" She was laughing at him. "Your soldiers are not children. Are you?" She raised her voice, and of course the mob roared "No!" with a vengeance, applauding her.

  "So let him have his say." She flirted a hand at the Akali. "Then I shall have mine."

  Maka Khan was staring in dismay, but with the others shouting at him to give way, he could only fall back, and she turned her painted smile on the Akali. "You rebuke me for my lovers—my male whores, you call them. Very well …" She looked beyond him, and the thick heavy voice was raised again. "Let every man who has never visited a brothel step forward!"

  I was lost in admiration. The most beardless innocent there wasn't going to confess his unworldliness to his mates—and certainly not with that mocking Jezebel watching. Even Tom Brown would have hesitated before stepping forth for the honour of the old School-house. The Akali, who hadn't the advantage of Arnold's Christian instruction, was simply too dumbfounded to stir. She timed it well, though, looking him up and down in affected wonder before he'd collected his wits, and drawling:

  "There he stands, rooted as the Hindoo Kush! Well, at least he is honest, this wayward Child of God the Immortal. But not, I think, in a position to rebuke my frailty."

  That was the moment when she put them in her pocket. If the laughter had been loud before, now it was thunderous—even Maka Khan's lips twitched, and the rissaldar-major fairly stamped with delight and joined in the chorus of abuse at the Akali. All he could do was rage at her, calling her shameless and wanton, and drawin
g attention to her appearance, which he likened to that of a harlot plying for hire—he was a braver man than I'd have been, with those fine eyes regarding him impassively out of that cruel mask of a face. I remembered the story of the Brahmin whose nose had been sliced off because he'd rebuked her conduct; looking at her, I didn't doubt it.

  The Akalis are a privileged sect, to be sure, and no doubt he counted on that. "Get you gone!" he bawled. "You are not decent! It offends the eye to look at you!"

  "Then turn your eyes away … while you still have them," says she, and as he fell back a pace, silenced, she rose, keeping a firm grip of the throne to steady herself, and stood straight, posing to let them have a good view. "In my private place, I dress as you see me, to please myself. I would not have come out, but you called me. If the sight of me displeases you, say so, and I shall retire."

  That had them roaring for her to stay, absolutely, which was just as well, for without the throne to cling to I believe she'd have measured her length on the floor. She swayed dangerously, but managed to resume her seat with dignity, and as some of the younger men startled to hustle the Akali away, she stopped them.

  "A moment. You spoke of a suitable husband for me … have you one in mind?"

  The Akali was game. He flung off the hands pulling at him and growled: "Since you cannot do without a man, choose one—only let him be a sirdar,*(*Chief.) or a wise man, or a Child of God the Immortal!"

  "An Akali?" She stared in affected astonishment, then clapped her hands. "You are making me a proposal! Oh, but I am confused … it is not fitting, in open durbar, to a poor widow woman!" She turned her head bashfully aside, and of course the mob crowed with delight. "Ah, but no, Akali … I cannot deliver my innocence to one who admits openly that he frequents brothels and chases the barber's little girls. Why, I should never know where you were! But I thank you for your gallantry." She gave him a little ironic how, and her smile would have chilled Medusa. "So, you may keep your sheep's eyes … this time."