My Lady of the Bog

by Peter Hayes

  “You mean the treasure?”

  “No, no. These artifacts were found in strata above the body. Two hundred and seventy-seven coins, to be precise, dating from 1306 all the way up to 1937.”

  “What kind of coins?” I asked, both excited and dismayed—for to do this job properly you had to know everything: bones, coins, blood, gypsies.

  “The oldest is a groat from the reign of Edward I. Most everything else is farthings, pennies. One testoon. A gold unite from Charles I. Oh, yes, some shillings from the late nineteenth century. What does all this suggest to you?”

  “It suggests,” I replied, “a devotional cult attracting monetary offerings, dating from the time of her burial onward, by people who were poor. Probably the peasantry offering up their ha’pennies in return for some blessing—except for the unite, which makes me think the lady of the house must have learned of the cult and made an offering of her own.”

  There was a pause. Then Rumple admitted drily, “Yes. It suggested much the same to me.”

  I saw her now, bundled in sable, flinging the bullion into the bog. The coin arcs in the wintry starlight—gold returning to its source. But who is she making her offering to? Who does she think is down there to claim it? What has moved her to sacrifice such a sizeable piece of wealth? Is her daughter hemorrhaging to death in childbirth? Or her beloved son wasting away, the victim of a troll wife’s enmity that only a more powerful sorceress can dispel?

  “And if coins were deposited as late as the 1930s, the tradition that inspired it may still be known. It could be recorded somewhere,” I said, with some excitement, “or someone who knows it may still be alive!”

  What I didn’t share with Rumple was my hope that the book would throw some light upon these mysteries. Instead, I handed him the original codex, without happening to mention Jai’s English translation.

  I left him poring over the rare manuscript, astonished, while I went back to my own office and printed out another chapter of Sikandar’s story.

  Soon after crossing the river border, Sikandar’s war party had encountered Rajputs. In a pitched exchange, the enemy was routed—though only when the dust had settled did Sikandar learn what he had won:

  “. . . not pearls or emeralds, gold or silks, but something far more precious and delicious. Their knights were escorting an enclosed palanquin in which were, apparently, ladies of the harem.”

  Chapter 21

  There are four things, Ghazil says, before which the wise are not bold: fire, kings, saints—and women!

  Remembering this, I advanced with a mien of the utmost restraint. For imagine the terror in the breasts of these ladies as strange, armed men approached their carriage!

  I parted the palanquin’s curtains. Its compartment was black against the blindingly bright sunlit morning and so, with a bow, I invited its occupants out.

  I don’t know what I expected next: the arched instep of a delicate foot, or the swan’s neck curve of a brown and many-braceleted arm? So I was caught completely by surprise when a shrieking Rajput, wielding a katar1, leapt at me from the darkened box—only to find himself, well before landing, impaled on ‘Abd al-Wali’s sword. For a moment he hung there, eyes bugging, looking down in stupefaction, as if he couldn’t imagine how such a long, sharp knife had found its way into his soft, fat belly. Then with a jerk, ‘Abd al-Wali withdrew the blade and, raising it up, brought it down with a clang that was heard in Kabul! My would-be assassin dropped in the dust and through the cleft in his skull, I watched his brains decant: a surprisingly delicate, blood-flecked gray. I looked away, discomfited. For I’ll admit, I was not used to such sights.

  Instantly, however, came something that was. A furious presence invaded the air: some demon summoned by this sacrifice of blood and, under the vengeful spirit’s spell, my men threatened to run their prisoners through.

  There was an uncertain second, as half-a-dozen upraised sabres trembled in the morning light.

  Then Abd al-Wali laughed, and taking up the dead man’s shawl, drew his sabre through it. He smirked in his handsome, reckless way, then discarded the bloody rag, like an offering. Perhaps the spirit accepted it and withdrew, for instantly the tension lessened. Grumbling, my men lowered their weapons. Flies were already feasting on the dead.

  It was then a young woman, dressed in mourning, slipped from the darkened box. Abasing herself, she pressed her face into the dust and grasped my calves with hands of such soft, prehensile strength it sent shivers up my loins. “My Lord,” she declared, “we surrender at your feet.”

  The pandits will ask, what else could she do? She was surrounded, after all; her protectors vanquished. But I tell you now, rare is the one who surrenders with grace. For sharanam, the word she used, means not just “to surrender to” but also “to take refuge in”—less like a king surrendering his army than a soul surrendering to God.

  For the longest time she lay like this in perfect supplication. Then, rising to her knees, she sat back on her haunches and, breaking a thread from the fringe of her sari, solemnly joined it about my wrist. It was a rakhi, the traditional thread of protection that on the full moon day of the month of Srāvana sisters bind around the wrists of their brothers, asking for their benediction.

  Was I moved by this act, at once so bold, inspired, and submissive?

  Yes; for though to her I was the furthest thing from a brother, and Srāvana was more than five moons hence, she conferred the gift upon me now with the perfect faith of a girl, as if she truly did believe in the protective power of this frail act and strand.

  More moving still was the sight of her face. The pallav of her sari had slipped, and in keeping with her state of mourning, her thick, black hair was undressed and free, though its dark disorder only made her seem a hundred times more lovely—like the face of Mother Kali Herself. And like Kali’s, there was madness in it, even if hers was circumstantial: the effect, I assumed, of her fear of rape. Nor was her fear a groundless one. For another man, unenlightened by Ghazil, might have treated his enemy’s captive wife in a considerably bolder way.

  “Who are you, Lady?” I asked, not unkindly.

  “First, O Lord, you must promise your protection.”

  Some note in her voice, imperial, demanding, gave me a moment’s hesitation. And anyway, favours too easily won are not savoured. “I must do nothing,” I informed her firmly. “It is you who are my captive.”

  Lifting her head, she looked me in the eye—as well-bred women are taught never to do. Her nose and brow were streaked with dust from her obeisance; her eyes, an unearthly blue, were shocking in her golden face—though in their depths I saw no fear any longer, only an ardent intelligence and will.

  Her willfulness intrigued me. “Arise now, lady, and say who you are.”

  But despite my command and the presence beside her of the freshly killed soldier, she clasped my legs and once again pressed her cheek to my knees, bathing my feet in the falls of her hair. “First, O Lord, you must grant us your protection.”

  It was maddening, really, but what could I do? A prince’s first duty is to protect the meek and all who take refuge in him. Yet, I might have been able to refuse her still had I not looked down upon her upturned face. It was the essence of petition. Her eyes were poised upon the cliff of my answer, and the jagged tracks of two gold tears shone on her cheeks like holy rivers in the sun; while something about her upper lip made me want to nibble it! And so, moved by these many lofty considerations, I spoke those words that were to cost me so much later: “Very well. You shall have it.”

  “Swear it! On the highest Lord!” She said this with such ferocity of feeling it surprised us both, I think, for instantly she lowered her eyes and, abasing herself once more, placed her forehead on my toes.

  “I swear it,” I said, “on He who made me. Now arise,” I commanded, “and say who you are.”

  But there were sounds, once again, from the palanquin. ‘Abd al-Wali gripped his sword as we watched the carriage shiver and shake
, then spit a child.

  The boy looked about with kohl-smeared eyes at the flyblown corpse and the tableau of warriors. He was one of those children who, whether out of enthusiasm or anxiety, seem to yell whatever he says, for he turned to the girl at my feet and wailed, “MOMMY, WHO ARE ALL THESE STUPID SOLDIERS?”

  My men laughed loudly. There was the sound of a dozen sheathing weapons, like an iron sigh. Even the wounded sprawled on the ground seemed to draw a breath of comfort.

  I bowed. “Your son is right. Allow me to introduce myself . . .”

  But the Lady replied, “O Lion of the Throne of Chosroes, there is no need. Your fame precedes you.”

  Her answer pleased me, and I smiled benignly now at the young widow dressed in white (the Franks, I am told, dress their widows in black!) and reaching out, drew her to her feet.

  “Who are you, Lady?” I asked once again, more curious than ever now.

  She covered her head and lowered her eyes. “I am Mayura, Rani of Indore.”

  I was dumbfounded. “You are . . . the Queen?”

  She bowed her head in affirmation.

  “But . . . your Lord . . . ?” It was a foolish question. Raja Mul was dead. I had, most likely, seen his head—and I quickly amended its direction, saying, “. . . that is . . . how is it you didn’t follow him into the flames?” For this was their barbaric rite: the widow burned on her husband’s Pyre.

  “The King commanded otherwise.”

  “Before he died?”

  “The new King.”

  “Ah, and he is . . . ?”

  “Here,” she said, drawing her boy to her bosom. She gazed on him lovingly. “He begged me, ‘Amma, please don’t leave me.’ And I obeyed. For without me . . .” she playfully covered his ears, and said in a voice so low I wondered if I’d heard her rightly, “. . . they will slay him.”

  A distant apprehension gripped me, like that faint unease that flusters the heart at the first hint of distant thunder, and it took me a moment to locate its source. For what did I care about the fate of this child? Then, with a sort of inner percussion, I realized I must, as he and the Queen were now under my protection. I considered this. “And who is ‘they?’ ”

  The Queen raised her eyes to the sunburnt hills, as though she saw the future approaching like a monster. In that moment, everything seemed to stop: time, the river, the flies drinking blood from the wounds of the soldiers. “Our enemies,” she said in answer to my question.

  And the world began to run again.

  It was the word “enemies” that did it, I think, breaking the spell under which I had fallen. For it was only then that the implications of my promise, so heedlessly given, made themselves plain, accompanied by a prickling sensation of heat that had nothing to do with the April sun. I remembered Ghazil’s injunction to never promise anything in haste; too late! For I had just done an astonishing thing. I had just pledged the arm of my protection to the King and Queen of the Kingdom of Indore—our country’s oldest and bitterest foe!

  1.katar: A type of knife with a handle perpendicular to the blade, allowing it to be gripped in a fist and punched.

  Chapter 22

  I closed the book with a feeling of amazement mixed with one of deep unease. The precipitousness of Sikandar’s promise of protection was not unlike my own to Vidya. And the role, it seemed, was as new to him, as it was to me. With Jai alive, I had always been the protectee.

  And then there was the Queen’s dead husband, and Vidya’s bracelet which adorned my wrist. And a host of other odd parallels, too.

  Or isn’t every good book like this, spiked with remarkable ties and alignments to one’s own life and loves and times?

  Yet I also felt the rising hope that I had come at last upon my Lady’s identity—though how an Indian queen might end up in a Dorset bog . . . Still, Mayura’s age, status, hair and eyes were the same as my Lady of the Bog’s. Then again, they were the same as Vidya’s—and thousands of other women, too. Plus, if my Lady was Queen Mayura, why did the runes call her “Albemarle?”

  Willie was in the garden, leaning on his spade, gazing with a countryman’s pleasure at a white horse in the distance racing across the downs. Odin, his young wolfhound, drum-rolled his tail at my approach. Willie nodded. “Quite the rider.”

  Only then did I realize the figure on the distant horse was Vidya. Why did this—or anything else about her—surprise me?

  Inside the cottage, Mrs. O’Connell was fixing lunch. It was odd; nice; jolly, really. Suddenly the house was full of beasts and people. It was only then, I think, I realized just how all alone I’d been.

  The buzzer rang and I opened the door—on two bobbies. One of them wore an apologetic expression while the other one looked grim.

  “Die, sir,” the first one said. He was a bright young chap with an earnest expression.

  “Good day to you, too. And what can I do for you?”

  “Sir,” he said in his formal way, “we have come into possession of some photographs of the Holders treasure taken the very night it was stolen.”

  Oddly, I felt some slight relief. At least, they weren’t here about Jai’s death—or Henry Jones’s murder.

  “You have them,” I said, “because I took them, and gave them to the coroner to pass on to you. I thought it might further your investigation.”

  “Yes, sir. Did. Helped mightily. Have a squint, sir.” He held up a photograph I’d taken in the basement. “Now this book, sir, one in the picture? We understand it’s in your possession.”

  “No longer. I gave it to Dr. Rumple this morning.”

  This confused him. “But was in your possession—for some time, we understand.”

  “Only a few hours. For the last nine or ten weeks it’s been in London, in the custody of a scholar there.”

  “Sir, the question is, was it or was it not in your possession after the treasure was purloined?”

  Purloined? Whom do these fellows read? Edgar Allan Poe? “Well, of course, it was. I removed it from the hoard only moments after this picture was snapped. It’s the one thing that wasn’t taken.”

  “Yes, sir. And do you see my point?”

  “No,” I said, “as I don’t believe you made one.”

  “My point, sir, is the treasure was stolen. To be frank with you, to this date we have no knowledge of by whom. However, after this date—the day it was pinched—you were in possession of a piece of it.”

  Ill-spoken as it was, I did not like the implication. I wanted to tell them this had already been sorted out by Jai and the Yard’s antiquities squad. Then I realized their investigation was local. And, as in most bureaucracies, one hand doesn’t know the other. “It was in my possession,” I explained with some care, “because I removed it for examination. I was investigating a murder for the CID, and I thought it might help identify the victim.”

  “Understandable, sir. Quite understandable. And since you were removing a piece of evidence—and, I might add, property of the Crown—you, no doubt, signed for it, along with the time you took it out.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I just borrowed it. For the evening. It was late. There was no one to sign it out from.”

  “Ah, yes, sir. We’re all a bit like that at times. Like to skirt official procedure. But you must have told someone you took it. We understand the coroner was with you at the time. Tell him, sir?”

  All this was said very nicely and civilly, but I was damn sure they had already spoken with the coroner. “No, I didn’t,” I admitted. “I saw no need. I was just bringing it upstairs for examination.”

  “And is that what you did, sir? Take it upstairs.”

  “I, uh, honestly don’t remember now.” I was getting rattled. “I think, I meant to go upstairs—but instead, it was late, I was tired, and went home.”

  “With the book?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone see you?”

  “Not that I know of. It was one in the morning.”

  “And when was the ne
xt time the book was seen?”

  “Well, the next day, I sent it off to Dr. Prasad. I also told Professor Rumple I had it.”

  “I see. Now, this Dr. Prasad, could you give us his number, sir?”

  “I could, but it wouldn’t do you much good, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh? And why’s that, sir?”

  “He’s . . . dead.”

  “Dead, sir?”

  “Yes, he was murdered.”

  “Oh, dearie me. That’s right terrible, sir.”

  “Yes, he was a good friend.”

  “And have they anyone in custody, sir?”

  “Not yet.”

  He looked confused. “But if he died, sir, after you’d sent him the book, how did you get it back?”

  “I was . . . uh, in London at the time.”

  “At the time of his death, sir?”

  “Yes. I reported the body.”

  “Did you now?” he said, deadpan. “And you did all this, after the treasure was stolen.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “There, now. See our problem?”

  “Problem? No,” I said, “I didn’t see your point before. And I don’t see your problem now.”

  “Problem, sir, is the treasure’s pinched and then a piece of it shows up in your possession.”

  “If you’re implying that I stole the treasure . . .”

  “We’re just saying, sir, if you had signed the book out or said something to someone, then we might have a record of when it was taken. But the coroner believes the book was with the treasure when the two of you left the basement.”

  “Well, of course, he does. He didn’t see me take it.”

  “Yes, sir.” I was losing their attention. “Mind if we look around?”

  “I most certainly do.”

  “And why’s that, sir? Something to hide?”

  “To search my home, you’ll need a warrant.”