‘But there’s still the damn protocol. We should have an audience with the Earl first.’
‘Is it necessary, sir?’
‘Things could get difficult if we don’t at least go through the motions. These pathetic little lords can make a fuss. No, we’ll go to Pentridge first. It’s in the same direction as the train line anyway. We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow.’ Sengar smirked, his moustache coiling even higher than usual. ‘Looks as though the Ghost has given us quite a gift. A fresh trail. We’ll have him in no time.’
4
They rode between the hills at a steady trot, dust rising from the horses’ hooves. As before, Jack was behind Sengar and Kansal, with the French bringing up the rear.
They’d crossed into the Earl’s lands three hours earlier and since that time the narrow, winding, poorly maintained road had hampered their pace. Added to this, they’d lost an hour at the train arranging for carts to be sent from Fern Down to rescue the stranded Rajthanans. Now the late afternoon shadows were pooling in the valleys and gullies and they still hadn’t reached the Earl’s castle.
Jack gazed at the rolling countryside – the scene in the native fiefdom was quite different from the Rajthanan-controlled lands to the south. The farms were mostly smallholdings with ramshackle huts and barns. The few hedgerows were unkempt and wild. There were patches of dense forest and heaths that seemed never to have been cultivated. He often saw small shrines on the hilltops, their simple stone crosses dark against the white cloud.
This landscape was familiar, yet also strangely unfamiliar. It was twenty years since he’d last visited a native state. He’d been born in Shropshire, but since his parents had died he’d hardly been back. The years had created a distance.
The people lived a simple life here, working the land and following the old feudal laws, a life that had changed little during the hundred years of Rajthanan rule. Or the two hundred years of the Moorish Caliphate, for that matter. And it struck him now in a way it never had before: this way of life hadn’t changed for century after century, going all the way back to the time of the ancient Normans, and even before . . .
Rounding a corner, they approached a village that clung to a slope. The cottages were crumbling and the walls of the tiny stone church were cracked, worn and swarming with vines.
Villagers in tattered clothes appeared on the side of the road. They were thin – far too thin – and many had hollow eyes and grey skin. Women hugged babies, old men watched with quivering lips, younger men stared with eyes that glinted with defiance.
‘Food,’ some shouted as Jack clattered past.
Jack shivered and tried to ignore them. He’d heard the crops had been blighted in many states, and the mutiny had only made things worse.
A small boy darted out into the road, his hands outstretched, his face dirty and his feet bare. ‘Please, sir,’ he shouted.
Jack yanked at the reins, swerved to avoid the lad, then spurred his horse on. He wanted to get away from these people and their cries.
Soon he was out of the crowd, the village disappearing around the corner of the road.
Throughout the afternoon they passed further hamlets where thin and ragged people shuffled out to beg for food. In one village a baby wailed so loudly Jack could hear its cry on the wind even after he’d left it far behind.
It was dusk when Pentridge Castle came into view, its stone walls and towers rising from the summit of a squat, dome-shaped hill. As they rode up the path, Jack could see that in many places the battlements were crumbling and the ageing spires were riddled with holes. The moat appeared to have long been empty of water and was now little more than a ditch overgrown with grass. The drawbridge was down, but the portcullis was closed.
Sengar called up to the guard tower, ‘I am Captain Rajesh Sengar of the Maharaja’s European Army. I request an immediate audience with the Earl of Dorsetshire.’
At first there was no sign that the tower was even occupied, but then a guard with long, lank hair bent out of a window and peered down. ‘It’s late. You’ll need to come back tomorrow.’
‘Open the gate. I demand to see the Earl immediately.’
‘The Earl isn’t . . . available.’
Sengar’s moustache rolled across his top lip. ‘You will open this gate or I will return with a larger force and raze this castle to the ground.’
The guard rubbed his eyes. ‘I understand, sir. Wait a moment.’
The guard disappeared and left them waiting for at least ten minutes. Sengar muttered to Kansal in Rajthani – Jack could just make out various curses and expletives.
Finally the portcullis rattled up and the guard stood before them, bowing and saying, ‘Namaste.’ Stable hands admitted them into a courtyard and took their horses.
The guard escorted Sengar, Kansal, Jack and five cavalrymen down corridors lit by infrequent lanterns and sputtering torches. Faded, moth-eaten tapestries lined the walls. Statues of knights and heroes from antiquity flickered in gloomy alcoves.
The audience chamber was better lit and had pale walls leading up to a distant ceiling. The Earl sat on a carved wooden throne at the far end of the room. To either side of him stood guards in old chain mail and courtiers in long robes embroidered with gold. The Earl himself was a short man, almost too small for his chair, with a large fleshy head and red cheeks. He wore bits of what appeared to be ancient plate armour – a breastplate, greaves and a single gauntlet – but the pieces were ill-fitting and the steel discoloured. He slumped to one side and perspired heavily. Above his head hung a banner displaying the family crest: two leopards about a shield.
Sengar and Kansal walked across the room, the sound of their boots echoing.
‘Namaste, Lord Dorsetshire,’ Sengar said. ‘I have been sent here by order of the Raja of Poole and the Maharaja’s Army in Europe.’
‘Greetings, Captain.’ The Earl’s speech was slurred and he moved his hand listlessly, as if tossing something aside. He appeared to be drunk.
‘I request leave to pass through your lands in search of a band of renegades led by the man known as the Ghost. We believe these rebels are hiding in the hills under your jurisdiction. You are also requested to afford me all possible assistance in bringing the Ghost to justice.’
The Earl gave a guttural laugh. ‘Good luck to you, my friend. The army have sent in hundreds of men over the past few months. They haven’t caught him yet.’
Sengar’s eyebrow twitched. ‘I assure you, I mean to succeed. And you would do well to remember it is your responsibility to deal with bandits within your own borders. Some might say you have been more than remiss in failing to capture these rebels.’
The Earl stopped smiling and chewed air. ‘It’s not a simple matter. Of course, I’ve tried to deal with them, but my lands are large and I have few men—’
‘There was an attack on the Barford train today.’
‘Yes, we heard about it.’
‘I need a guide to take us to the place tomorrow.’
‘You can certainly have a guide. All of my men are at your disposal. But I’m sad to say you can’t expect much. Half of them are traitors anyway.’ The Earl glowered at his own guards and courtiers, who shifted uncomfortably. ‘I can’t trust anyone any more.’
‘You will naturally be held responsible for the actions of your own men.’
The Earl took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I will do all I can. But be careful, Captain. The train was attacked out in the wild lands. As well as the rebels there are all kinds of bandits and devils up there.’
‘Thank you for your concern.’ This with a smear of sarcasm. ‘Just organise the guide and give us lodgings tonight. We’ll have this Ghost captured or killed in a matter of days.’
Jack paused as he left the stables. It was night and the stars and moon were shut out by the cloud, but he could still make out the walls of the castle’s inner bailey and the two guards leaning beside the portcullis. Off to his left, the stable hands and some of
the other castle servants sat about a fire. They were laughing and joking, but they all fell silent as he wandered across to them.
‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘Can I get some water?’
He’d been given a corner of the stables to sleep in, but thirst had distracted him when he’d tried to meditate.
The servants stared at him, their faces glossy and wavering in the firelight. They wore no uniform and their clothing was little better than that of the peasants scraping at the dry earth outside the castle walls. Most were munching on pieces of burnt chicken.
‘Get him some water,’ grunted the master groom, who Jack had met earlier.
One of the servants carried over a full wooden bucket.
Jack bent to refill his skin, then noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a dark shape in the corner of the bailey – a blackened iron post about ten feet high and surrounded by a mound of ash and charred wood. He felt a chill. He knew what it meant.
The master groom noticed where Jack was looking. ‘Witch burning. Caught one two days ago. Evil bitch.’ He tossed a chicken bone into the fire and sucked his fingers. ‘Had a lot of problems with them lately. Been cursing the crops, they have.’
‘We burnt her good and proper.’ Another man grinned toothlessly. ‘Should have heard her squeal for mercy. Well, she’s where she should be now, feeling the fires of hell licking at her.’
A few of the men chuckled while others crossed themselves.
Jack plunged the skin into the bucket. He hadn’t heard talk of witch burning for years. The Rajthanans had stamped it out in the lands under their rule, but here in the native states it lingered on like a disease. Jack despaired of his countrymen for a moment. These men were mired in superstition and they clung to wicked traditions. There were no witches – just old women.
‘You eaten?’ the master groom asked.
Jack lifted the skin out of the water and slipped in the stopper. He hadn’t eaten, and now that it was mentioned he felt hungry.
‘You’re welcome to join us, stranger.’ The master groom held out a chicken drumstick.
Jack knew he should eat – he needed all his strength for tomorrow – but he was reluctant to spend any time with these . . . natives. Then the sweet, smoky scent of the chicken hit his nostrils and he found himself sitting down.
The chicken tasted good, despite being stringy and overcooked, and grease ran over his hands as he ate.
‘You’re with those army men, aren’t you?’ one of the servants said.
‘That’s right,’ Jack replied through mouthfuls of chicken.
‘Looking for the Ghost?’ the same servant asked.
Jack looked up from his food. The circle of men all had their gleaming eyes on him. ‘Something like that.’
‘Don’t think you’ll have much luck. No one’s caught him yet.’
Jack continued eating but could feel the knife beneath his tunic. He didn’t like the tone of the servant’s voice.
‘We were a bit surprised when we saw you come in with those soldiers,’ the servant continued. ‘Some reckoned you must be a half-caste or some such. But I reckoned you must be a Mohammedan.’
Jack looked up. ‘Any man who says I’m a Mohammedan has got a fight on his hands.’
‘Hey, hey,’ the master groom said. ‘There’ll be no arguments here. And you watch your mouth, John Carter.’
‘I apologise to you, stranger.’ The servant, John, grinned. ‘I meant no offence. Just curious.’
‘Who I am is no concern of yours.’ Jack finished his chicken and threw the bone into the flames.
‘Who do you think you are?’ a young man, no more than sixteen, blurted out. ‘Coming here and talking all fancy. The Ghost is a great man. And Sir Gawain and the King—’
‘Shut your mouth, you idiot.’ The master groom stood quickly. ‘All of you shut up.’ He glared at them and they all looked down, including the young man. ‘Now, we should be showing some hospitality to this fellow, no matter who he is or where he’s from.’
‘It’s all right.’ Jack stood and wiped his hands on his tunic. ‘I’m going to rest now anyway.’
‘Aye,’ the master groom said. ‘I think we should all be doing that.’
As Jack rearranged his things and flattened out his sleeping mat back in the stables, the master groom walked over carrying a lantern that cast the furrows on his brow even deeper.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ he said. ‘I want to apologise for before.’
‘No need.’ Jack continued straightening the sleeping mat.
‘The boy . . . what he said. He doesn’t mean it. Doesn’t know what he’s saying.’
Jack stood and offered a weak smile. What was this about? ‘It’s all right.’
The master groom fiddled with the lantern. ‘You won’t . . . you won’t mention it to your masters, will you?’
‘The Rajthanans?’
‘Yes, them.’
So that was it. ‘No. I won’t mention anything.’
‘Ah, you’re a real gentleman, you are, sir.’
The master groom shuffled away and Jack massaged his face with his hand. Why should he mention anything to the Rajthanans? What did he care if some idiots wanted to bleat on about the mutiny?
And then it struck him – Elizabeth and William supported the mutiny. What could have led them down that foolish path?
William must have changed. Changed a lot.
But Elizabeth? She’d been the same as ever when he’d last seen her at Christmas. There’d been nothing to make him think she was about to throw her lot in with the rebels.
Something must have happened. Someone must have led her astray. A man, perhaps. His stomach knotted. That was it, she’d fallen for some rebel and now she was caught and in twenty-seven days she’d be hanged.
His heart galloped. He had to slow it; he was no use to his daughter dead.
He sat, crossed his legs and took several deep breaths. He could hear the stable hands preparing their own beds and some were already snoring in the darkness. For a moment he wondered how safe he was. Any of the servants could attack him in the night, but he doubted any of them would try it. They seemed afraid of the Rajthanans, and none of them looked like hardened fighters. All the same, he took out the knife and slid it under the sleeping mat, within easy reach should he need it in a hurry.
He circled his shoulders to loosen them and twisted his neck to either side. To find William he was going to have to use his power. Would he still be able to do that after all this time? Was he too out of practice? And what would happen if he could? The army doctor who’d examined him after the accident had told him to avoid using his power – it was too dangerous. Now that the wound had spread to his heart, surely it would be even more risky. Would it kill him?
Better to find out now.
He swept the straw away from the ground in front of him, then, with a stick, scratched a circular design into the compacted earth, first the outer rim, then a point in the centre, then a series of triangles and lines within the circle.
When he’d finished, he blew away the disturbed dust and stared at the image for a moment. The marks only depicted the main outline – the full design was much more complex. Would he be able to remember all the details?
He shut his eyes and concentrated on the design. The circle and the main outlines appeared to him, glowing white on a black background. He moved his mind’s eye around and forced each tiny flourish, curlicue and shape to blink into view. Soon the circle was full of twisting, interconnected lines, triangles and smaller circles.
Good.
It was the native siddha yantra, the yantra that gave him his power.
He remembered Jhala showing him the design for the first time as they sat in the training tent. Jhala had handed him a piece of cloth with the image embroidered on it and said, ‘You know what this is?’
Jack shook his head. He was twenty-one at the time and Jhala, who was in his late thirties, seemed ancient to him.
‘It’s a y
antra,’ Jhala said. ‘Meditating on it will connect you to the spirit realm, which we call purusha and you call heaven. If you meditate properly a power will channel through to you.
‘All the powers come from the yantras. But to use a power you must first learn its yantra. That means memorising every detail of the design, every single line and marking. You must be able to hold the entire image still and perfect in your mind, without any other thought intruding. Only then will you be able to use the power.’
At first Jack had thought this wouldn’t be so difficult. But the more he stared at the yantra, the more he realised how complex it was. There were many minute details that he hadn’t even noticed at first.
Almost every day for three months he met Jhala in the tent and tried to memorise the design. When he asked whether he could take the cloth to study it in the evenings, Jhala plucked it away, saying, ‘The yantras are secret. The oath you gave when we began this training must be upheld. You cannot remove the design from this tent.’
Jack began by copying the image on to sheets of paper, then moved on to drawing it entirely from memory. Finally, he tried to hold the design still in his mind. This proved the most difficult task by far. Not only did he have to recall the whole yantra, he had to keep it the sole focus of his thoughts. The moment he thought of anything else or concentrated on just a piece of the design, the meditation was broken.
Jack grew frustrated and even Jhala at times seemed to think the task might be beyond him.
Jhala sighed once and said, ‘You are doing as well as you can, Casey. This is a difficult task for Europeans.’
But Jack persisted. Jhala had spotted his special sensitivity to sattva and taken on the task of teaching him. He didn’t want to let his guru down, particularly when Colonel Hada had been reluctant to agree to the training in the first place. Hada was a traditionalist who disapproved of native siddhas. Jhala, however, was one of those who argued that natives should be trained to the extent of their abilities.
Jack didn’t want to let himself down either. He was one of the few Europeans who would ever receive this training, and he meant to make the most of it.
Land of Hope and Glory Page 7