Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Charles cheered and the throng all joined in.

  ‘Welcome to the 9th Native Infantry,’ Kendrick said, to even more cheering.

  Charles picked up his mug and held it unsteadily. ‘And here’s to giving the heathens a thrashing.’

  The crowd roared with delight, stamped their feet hard and whooped into the darkness.

  ‘The Grail will come again,’ someone shouted.

  The crowd cheered even louder. The Grail would come again and the crusade would throw the Rajthanans from England’s shores, just as King Edward had cast out the Moors, just as Arthur had freed the land from enchantment.

  Only Jack knew that would never happen. The Rajthanan army was marching across the countryside and would soon sweep them all away. Most of the soldiers about him would probably be dead within days.

  He slipped over to one of the fires on the edge of the field, his thoughts like hovering crows. He wanted it all to be over. The mutiny. His pursuit of William. Pretending to be a rebel.

  The people around him were fools. How could they put their faith in the Grail? They were going to get themselves killed because of a myth.

  And then he recalled something he’d forgotten until now. Something Elizabeth had said to him when he’d visited her last Christmas. They’d been walking across the snow-covered fields near the house where she worked. He’d been struck by how much she seemed to have grown up within the space of six months, and he was proud of how she’d survived on her own.

  They passed fences sagging with ice, and dark trees that cut the white sky. Then they plodded down to the small church where Elizabeth came for Sunday mass. The building stood beside a frozen pond and the snow lapped at knee height against the stone walls.

  Inside, it was silent and empty. The air was even colder in there than outside, and their breaths were chalk dust about their mouths.

  A handful of stools stood to the side of the room. Elizabeth grabbed one and sat down. ‘I was thinking about the Grail the other day.’

  Jack smiled. ‘Remember when you ran off to find it?’

  ‘Still looking for it.’

  He shot her a look and she grinned back, then turned more serious. ‘I’m glad you told me those stories. It’s good to know about the past.’

  ‘Well, it’s not all true. You know that. They’re just stories.’

  ‘Maybe a story can be true even if it isn’t real.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her face was porcelain as she stared at the altar. Then she seemed to shake herself from a trance. ‘Nothing. Just being silly.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go back.’

  And she led him out into the glowing snow . . .

  Now Jack stared into the flames. The minstrels started playing again.

  Maybe a story can be true even if it isn’t real.

  It had been a strange thing for Elizabeth to say. Had she heard it from someone else? Had a rebel said it to her?

  The Grail. King Arthur. King Edward casting out the

  Moors.

  Was this what Elizabeth had been thinking about when she became a rebel?

  Jack found Kendrick standing away from the fires and looking out over the moonlit sea of fields.

  ‘Thanks again for helping us,’ Jack said as he walked over.

  Kendrick turned and stretched a smile across his face, but not quite quickly enough to hide the more serious expression that had preceded it. ‘Not at all. We’re all comrades. We all want the same thing.’

  Jack stared out into the darkness. He smelt grass and earth cooled by the night. The minstrels and the crowd sang behind him, and frogs chirped in the distance.

  He toyed with the rebel patch sewn on to his tunic. ‘You been in London, then?’

  ‘For a bit.’

  ‘A lot of men there? To fight, I mean.’

  ‘More coming in every day. Sir Gawain reckons we’ll get a hundred thousand in the end.’

  ‘You know Sir Gawain, then?’

  ‘Met him. You see him around London. A great man.’

  ‘Have you heard of the man they call the “Ghost”?’ Jack tried to say it nonchalantly, as an aside.

  ‘Of course. He’s an inspiration to all of us. Fought the Rajthanans in Dorsetshire with just sixty men. Sixty!’

  ‘So you’ve seen him, then? In London?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t around when I was there. But I heard he arrived a week ago. Why? Do you know him?’

  ‘No.’ Did he say that too quickly? ‘Just heard about him, that’s all.’

  As they came over a rise, hot from marching through the muggy morning, London rose before them. They were approaching from the south-west, and from this angle the city looked at first like a single dark fortress. A vast stone wall swelled from the ground and climbed to battlements and bastion towers. Behind this, a spire floated above the trails of smoke and scratched at the cloudy sky.

  Kendrick pointed to the spire. ‘St Paul’s.’

  Jack nodded as he walked. He’d guessed as much – the cathedral was famous all over Europe. Four hundred years ago it had even been the seat of the Popes after the Moors took Rome. But, of course, the papacy had later moved to Dublin when the Moors invaded England.

  Jack felt a knot of sickness in his stomach. London was close now and somewhere within those walls, he hoped, was William.

  The day was overcast and the light like gelatine. To the left, across the fields, flowed the grey, sluggish Thames. A settlement squatted on the opposite bank, about a mile from the city walls. It was dominated by a white mosque that glimmered faintly as if with an inner fire. Icy minarets and a grand cloud-like dome topped the mosque. And about it were red and white Rajthanan buildings speckled with small cupolas and turrets. The town’s reflection trembled in the water below.

  ‘Westminster,’ Kendrick said. ‘The Rajthanans lived there until we kicked them out.’

  Jack recalled the reports of the massacre. The rebels had stormed the town in the early days of the mutiny and slaughtered the Rajthanans – only a few had survived and escaped to the south-west. Apparently hundreds of women and children had been killed.

  ‘And that’s Westminster Mosque,’ Saleem said quietly.

  Kendrick nodded. ‘Built by the old Moors.’

  ‘Never thought I’d see it,’ Saleem said. ‘My father’s not going to believe this.’

  The road curved to the east and then turned again so that they were approaching the city directly from the south. On this side, the city had no wall and lay open before them, protected only by the river. A swarm of terraced buildings with sharply angled roofs tumbled over each other and down to the water’s edge. Above these towered St Paul’s and the steeples of numerous smaller churches. Away to the right, but still within the city walls, a fortress with a pale central tower stretched up from the riverbank.

  ‘They call it the Tower of London,’ Kendrick said. ‘That’s the White Tower in the middle, where the King lives.’

  The road became clogged with people and animals: bullock and mule carts brimming with fruit and vegetables, men and women from the countryside on foot, and friars in black, white or grey robes. Drivers argued with each other as they tried to turn their vehicles or squeeze them through gaps. Buildings began to appear on either side of the road – at first small farmsteads and barns, but then larger houses, stone churches and roadside inns. Soon they were in a bustling township, surrounded by timber-framed, wattle-and-daub buildings that slanted haphazardly. Chickens ran across the street. Vendors shouted from their open-fronted shops. The smell of smoke and excrement swirled around them.

  ‘This is Southwark.’ Kendrick raised his voice over the din. ‘We’ll cross the river into London in a few minutes. We’ve been billeted on the north side of the city.’

  The traffic slowed and they could only inch their way forward. Then the buildings opened out on to the riverbank. The city seethed and smoked on the far side, stretching for at least two miles in each direction.

  The river was
grey and choppy, and around 900 feet across. Dhows, rowing boats and old square-sailed cogs skimmed along. Both banks were jagged with wharves and quays where men worked to load and unload the docked vessels.

  A single stone bridge spanned the water in a series of arches. Across the top, the sides were lined with buildings, as if the city had spilt out across the river, unable to be contained.

  ‘London Bridge,’ Kendrick said. ‘It’s the only way across. They say it’s the biggest bridge in Europe.’

  Charles appeared transfixed by the spectacle. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

  Jack shook his head. The city was smaller than Paris and not as grand as the Rajthanans’ settlements, but it was still one of the larger cities he’d been to, and the bridge was wider than anything he’d seen before. His countrymen had achieved much in the past without any help from the Moors or Rajthanans.

  Crossing the bridge was like walking down a city street. The buildings crowded to either side and the river was only occasionally visible in between. Carts, people and animals jostled around them. Jack saw a bear standing on its hind legs with a chain around its neck.

  About a third of the way across, a stone gateway arched over the road. It was topped by battlements from which flew two flags displaying the St George’s cross. The drawbridge had been lowered to allow traffic in and out of the city. Guards in white surcoats watched passers-by, stopping some and questioning or searching them. On the guards’ chests, Jack recognised the coat of arms of the City of London – a red cross on a white shield, with a sword in the top left corner.

  For a moment he imagined he would be found out – a traitor trying to enter the city. But, of course, that was impossible. How could the guards tell what his real motives were when he proudly wore the uniform of a rebel?

  One of the guardsmen welcomed Kendrick. ‘A good omen yesterday. A crowd saw the Grail in the clouds above St Martin-le-Grand.’

  Kendrick grinned. ‘Then God is truly on our side.’

  Jack was allowed to pass without any questioning. He walked with the others along the remainder of the bridge and into a maze of narrow streets. The buildings leant forward and in some places were joined across the road by wooden bridges. Jack noticed many European Army uniforms amongst the throng, and even spotted a few elephants being driven by army mahouts. The bells of a hundred churches were ringing Sext, the sound sailing above the cacophony of the streets.

  After half an hour they reached their billet, a stone house four storeys high and the width of two ordinary terraced homes. A gate opened into an archway that led under the first floor and out to a cobbled courtyard, where men in army uniform stoked cooking fires, carried pots and skins of water, and cleaned muskets. Some sat about, talking and chewing paan.

  A portly sergeant major with a red, gleaming face greeted Kendrick, then looked about distractedly.

  ‘Three new recruits.’ Kendrick gestured to Jack, Charles and Saleem.

  ‘Good.’ The sergeant major didn’t even look at them. A soldier came over to ask him a question, but he waved the man away. ‘Later, later.’ He turned back to Kendrick. ‘You’ll have to sleep out here. Everything else is full.’

  Ramshackle canvas awnings had been set up on three sides of the yard. Beneath these lay lines of sleeping mats and army rucksacks.

  Kendrick nodded and turned. ‘Men, make camp.’

  They found a free space in a corner, dumped their things on the paving stones and began unpacking.

  ‘I’m going to find out if the 12th are here yet,’ Charles said and wandered off, asking after his regiment amongst the soldiers nearby.

  Jack looked around at the busy men. They appeared organised, but it was strange to see not a single Rajthanan giving orders. This was an army that had lost all its officers. But he spent little time considering this. He was in London for one thing only.

  He slipped away and went back to the sergeant major, who was still puffing as he directed operations.

  ‘Sir,’ Jack said. ‘Sir.’

  ‘What is it?’ the sergeant major snapped.

  ‘Have you heard of the Ghost? Is he in London?’

  The sergeant major paused, his forehead shiny with sweat. ‘Course I’ve heard of him. Can’t tell you much more than that, though.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s staying?’

  The sergeant major scowled. ‘How the hell should I know? Get out of the way.’

  Jack heard a shout behind him and he dodged aside as a man carrying an enormous iron pot full of water staggered past.

  The sergeant major shouted at the men tending a fire nearby, seeming to have completely forgotten about Jack.

  ‘You looking for the Ghost?’ asked a soldier who’d overheard the conversation.

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’s going to be a parade for him. He smashed a battalion of Rajthanans at Brighthelm.’

  ‘Rajthanans?’

  The soldier smiled. ‘That’s right. Not French or Andalusian. Actual Rajthanans.’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s good news.’ Jack felt his face tingle and realised he was grinning. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but be amazed at his friend’s achievement. Rajthanan forces were rightly considered far superior to European.

  ‘He’s a hero. Took a few thousand from the city and thumped the buggers at the coast.’

  ‘Where’s the parade?’

  ‘Near the Tower. I’ll take you tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow? Jack’s grin drained away. ‘But he’s in London at the moment?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s on his way back from Brighthelm. The news only came in this morning.’

  ‘I see. Tomorrow, then.’

  Another day lost and another day closer to Elizabeth’s execution. But there was nothing he could do, other than wait for William to arrive. There were only nine days left now. Not much time, but there was still a chance. Tomorrow he would get close to William somehow.

  And then?

  Then he would have to act quickly if he were going to get his friend back to Poole.

  15

  ‘They’re coming,’ a soldier behind Jack said.

  Jack leant against the stone rail and craned his neck for a better look. He was standing on a rooftop balcony with a group from the 9th Native Infantry, as well as Charles and Saleem.

  Crowds swarmed along the street four storeys below and spilt out into the muddy square outside the Tower. At least half of the people were in army uniform, but the others were civilians – from peasants to wealthy merchants in colourful cloaks.

  On the far side of the square, the Tower rose up in a series of ramparts from the moat to the pale keep in the centre. The White Tower quivered in the chalky light, as if formed from the mist of the Thames.

  Jack strained to see up the wide thoroughfare. In the distance he made out movement, and then a man riding a white horse came down the middle of the street. Behind the rider marched a column of troops that snaked away into the maze of streets.

  The crowd swirled and churned, then erupted into cheering.

  Jack could see the rider clearly now – a muscular figure in an army uniform, his head shaven.

  William.

  Jack stepped back slightly from the rail, although there was little chance of his friend noticing him on the balcony. His heart quickened and his hand rested involuntarily against the knife that still lay hidden beneath his tunic.

  Charles shouted down at the street, while Saleem smiled broadly, his eyes glazed.

  As William crossed the square, people reached out to touch him, as if he were divine. Guards had to hold back the mob.

  A raised wooden platform, guarded by a line of soldiers, stood in front of the Tower. William dismounted and climbed the steps to the top of the platform. His men stopped marching and stood watching with the rest of the crowd.

  Horns blasted, the sound cutting through the roar, and the throng quietened.

  Figures appeared from the Tower’s fortifi
ed entrance, walked across the drawbridge and stepped up on to the platform. First came a group of men who looked like courtiers or noblemen in ceremonial robes, then a bishop wearing a mitre and carrying a hooked crozier, and then a band of Sikhs in orange tunics and turbans. Amongst them was Kanvar, the young siddha who’d given Jack the jatamansi in Dorsetshire.

  Finally, a dark-haired soldier helped an old, hunched man up the steps. Jack couldn’t see the men’s faces from a distance, but he could make out the old man’s pure-white beard and hair, and the simple crown glinting on his head.

  There was a loud rustle as the whole crowd dropped to its knees.

  ‘The King,’ Charles said quietly.

  ‘And that’s Sir Gawain with him,’ a soldier beside Jack said.

  The King raised his hand and held it unsteadily above his head. He looked small and frail, and Jack remembered the rumours that the old man was senile and being manipulated by the rebels. Back in Poole, he’d assumed the King would never side with the mutineers unless he was out of his mind. There was too much to lose – the Rajthanans could end the royal line any time they wanted. And yet, although the old man looked weak, there was no reason to think he didn’t know what he was doing.

  And Jack felt something else. There was a stone in his throat and he had a sense of being humbled before greatness. This was the King, after all. His King.

  King John now held out his hand to William, who had also gone down on one knee. William kissed the ring.

  Sir Gawain helped the old man turn back to the crowd, and called out, ‘The King wishes you all to arise.’ His voice rang out clearly across the square.

  Everyone stood, like a flock of birds taking off.

  Sir Gawain then led the King to a chair that had been brought out from the Tower. The old man sat slowly and with great difficulty.

  Turning back to the crowd, Sir Gawain held out his hand and gestured to William as if introducing an actor on stage. ‘William Merton, the Ghost.’

  The crowd gave a rumbling cheer and waved their fists. Charles bellowed until he was hoarse.