He picked up a stick and stabbed the fire back into life. It had been a tedious night. He had chosen to sit and keep watch despite his tiredness, nervous that they would be discovered despite the distance they had covered. The anxiety had gnawed at him but he did his best to keep it contained, forcing himself to sit still whilst Isabel slept. She would need her full strength should they be forced to avoid any persistent pursuit during the coming day.
He kept his eyes low, concentrating on the flickering flames that danced into life in front of him. He craved a decent drink, sorely missing the reviving effects of some tart green coffee or the thick, tarry soldiers’ tea that was made wherever British redcoats rose to face the day. He wondered if there would be tea at the Maharajah’s court, and he walked over to search through the saddlebags on Lieutenant Fenris’ horse to see if the British officer had possessed enough sense to carry some with him.
The image of Lieutenant Fenris rising the previous morning to see that his prisoner had not only escaped but had also taken the young officer’s horse with him crept into Jack’s mind. It was a notion to savour, and he found himself chuckling softly as he pictured the rage that must have surely followed.
‘And what is amusing you this morning?’ Isabel tiptoed across to sit in front of the fire, still swaddled in the thick army blanket that had kept her warm through the chill hours of the night.
‘Fenris. I was imagining how he must have reacted when he discovered I had stolen his horse.’ Jack gave up his search, muttering a curse under his breath at the lieutenant’s feckless decision not to carry any of the precious leaves. He walked back to the warmth of the fire, contemplating a day without tea.
‘Poor Arthur.’ Isabel looked wistful as she carefully took a seat next to Jack.
‘Poor Arthur, my eye.’ He felt not a single ounce of sympathy for his former lieutenant. ‘It’s no more than he deserves.’
Isabel grinned mischievously. ‘And Father will be furious.’ She relished the statement, her satisfaction at her father’s distress obvious.
Jack looked hard at the young girl sitting opposite him. He could only marvel at her spirit. She had left her family behind, gambling her future and potentially her life on a wild adventure with only a proven criminal for a companion. Yet she did not seem the least bit perturbed at her actions; even a night spent with only rocks for a bed had done nothing to dampen her ardour for the escapade.
‘Will they still come after us?’ she asked, wrapping the blanket tightly around herself to ward off the morning’s chill.
‘They might. They’ll want to, that’s for certain. But I reckon they’ll have no choice but to go back to Bhundapur and report what has happened. Proudfoot will have to be told, so I imagine we are safe for the moment.’
‘Proudfoot will be cross.’
Jack shook his head at the childish turn of phrase. ‘He won’t be cross. He will be apoplectic. I almost wish I was there to see him give those bastards a tongue-lashing.’
‘Poor Arthur, and poor Captain Kingsley. He has only just arrived, and now he will be in trouble with his commander.’
‘Save your pity for us.’ Jack poked the fire with force, causing it to flare up. ‘We still don’t know where we are bloody going.’
Isabel pouted at Jack’s obvious irritation. ‘There’s no need to look like you are sucking on a lemon. I didn’t hear you mention that when I rescued you.’
‘I had other things on my mind.’
‘Well more fool you. I cannot be expected to think of everything. I got you free, didn’t I?’
Jack reached out and pressed his hand on to Isabel’s. ‘I am grateful. Truly. I just wish I knew which way to go. It is up to me to keep you safe.’
Isabel looked down at his hand but made no move to remove it from her own. It was the first intimate contact they had shared since they had ridden off into the night, and it promised much.
‘Will you tell me your name?’ She asked the question quietly.
‘Does it matter?’ Jack matched her tone. He could feel the warmth of her hand underneath his. He concentrated on how it felt as his fingertips moved gently to tease out a pattern on her skin.
‘I would like to know who you are.’
‘You will not find that in my name.’ He smiled at his own pomposity. ‘It’s Lark. Jack Lark.’
She did not speak again, satisfied by the revelation. They sat together, staring out into the wild, barren landscape, sharing the moment.
‘I suppose I had better get ready.’ Isabel sighed as she broke the spell between them. ‘I expect you will want me to ride all day again?’
Jack took his hand back, immediately missing the feeling of Isabel’s warm skin. ‘I expect so. But we need to find out where to go.’
‘Perhaps we can ask?’
Jack chuckled at the notion. ‘I’m not sure I speak enough of the local language to ask for directions. Do you?’
‘No.’ Isabel smiled at her own foolishness. ‘The servants all spoke English. I do speak French, though. And a little Latin.’
Jack laughed aloud. ‘Well, that should prove useful.’ He enjoyed watching the expression on Isabel’s face, savouring the sight of her fresh beauty. ‘I knew a fellow who spoke Latin once. He went quite mad.’
Isabel laughed along with him. They continued to sit together, enjoying each other’s company, comfortable in the silence.
‘Jack,’ Isabel was serious when she spoke again, ‘are we in danger?’
He opened his mouth, his first thought to scotch the idea immediately. But he had spent too long living with lies to begin this new life with more of the same.
‘Yes.’ He watched her closely, looking for a flicker of fear in her emerald eyes. ‘Our best hope is to come across some of the Maharajah’s men. Then at least we have a chance, though I suspect they will do nothing more than escort us back to Bhundapur. If we encounter anyone else, then there is not a lot I can do. I don’t even have a weapon.’ He smiled ruefully at the admission. ‘If it comes to that, we will have to ride for it. At least you will. I suspect I will simply fall off.’ He tried to make light of the situation, yet there was little he could do to disguise the peril into which they had plunged so willingly.
‘I know you will keep me safe, Jack. I’ve seen you fight, remember. I know how vicious you are.’ Isabel shook off her fear, choosing instead to copy Jack and do her best to lighten the mood.
Jack laughed at her choice of words. ‘Vicious? I thought I was rather heroic.’
He was pleased to see her smile back. ‘My hero!’ She fluttered her eyelids in a theatrical gesture of adoration before quickly rising to her feet. ‘Now I must ask you to turn your back so I can get ready.’
‘Yes, milady.’ Jack knuckled his forehead in a gesture of obedience. ‘Unless I can be of some assistance? I was once an officer’s orderly, you know.’
‘No thank you,’ Isabel said firmly. ‘I shall manage quite well on my own. You must promise not to peek.’
‘I promise.’ He made a show of inching round so that he faced the opposite direction. ‘I shall not dare to watch. Who knows what I would see.’
‘You’d better not. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’ Isabel wagged her finger at Jack’s back. She had thought she would feel awkward in his company; after all, she had never been left alone with a man before. She walked back to where she had abandoned her few belongings, all that she now possessed in the world. She tried to feel concern for her future, summoning up the image of her father to elicit some feelings of sorrow or of guilt. But she felt nothing save excitement. They might not know where they were going, but she would not turn back. Not now. Not ever.
Jack and Isabel rode on to the higher ground. Mountains rose around them like battlemented towers, their soaring pinnacles and spires reaching far up into the dark blue vastness of th
e sky. They saw little sign of life. Nothing but the birds of prey that soared on the eddies of hot air swirling far above. They had hoped to find a village, or at least some form of habitation, but few of the locals were foolish enough to try to eke out an existence in this barren region, and they saw no evidence of settlement other than some abandoned forts perched high on distant hilltops.
Yet not all was bare and lifeless. Occasional folds or dips in the ground supported lush patches of vibrant growth, a rare treat for eyes that otherwise saw nothing but the dusty grey of the scree slopes around them. These pools of life boasted vivid colours, the bright reds, blues, purples and oranges of the mountain flowers offering a stark contrast to their dull surroundings.
Occasionally the sound of moving water interrupted the lonely quiet, the gentle trickle of a mountain stream or the subtler noise of a thin smear of water sliding across the rocks. Otherwise it was silent, the only noise their horses’ hooves as their iron-shod feet clattered heavily on the rocky soil.
They rode on, surrounded by the vastness of the highlands, the far-reaching views of ravines, sharp peaks, towering mountains, leaping waterfalls and never-ending sloping hillsides only adding to the feeling of isolation.
They spied the dust cloud long before the horsemen came into view. The open ground gave them no place to hide, the barren slope they were on bereft of all living things save for a scattering of thorny bushes and scrubby plants. It was tempting to immediately gouge their spurs into the sides of their tired horses, forcing them into a reluctant gallop in a bid to be far away before the unknown riders came close. But the long morning in the saddle had dampened the desire for more time spent meandering around the bare hills with no clear idea of where they were headed. So instead of flight, they stopped and waited to see who else was journeying through the high ground far to the east of Bhundapur.
‘Be ready to gallop.’ Jack pulled his horse to a halt as he prepared Isabel to flee. His lack of skill on horseback left him standing impotently a good yard and a half behind Isabel, who shook her head in mock despair as she saw what he had been trying to do. With a deft flick of her reins she edged her own horse backwards and to the side so that she could stand next to him, her skills instinctive.
‘You really do need some lessons in how to ride, don’t you, Jack?’ she teased.
‘It was never high on my list of priorities.’ Jack squinted hard, trying to identify the approaching riders. ‘We didn’t have an awful lot of horses where I grew up.’ He thought of the area around his mother’s gin palace. The only animals he had ever seen were the many mangy dogs that managed to exist on the rubbish and noxious offal that littered the streets. His former self could never have imagined even being close to a horse, let alone riding one.
‘How remiss.’ Isabel seemed genuinely baffled at the notion of not being able to ride. ‘I cannot imagine my childhood without my ponies. What is life without a good ride?’
Jack smiled at the innocent naïvety of her remark but kept his eyes fixed on the party of horsemen that was now making directly for them. It was clear they had been spotted and were now firmly in the other riders’ sights.
‘There are four of them,’ Isabel announced suddenly, breaking the silence that had fallen over them as they both squinted into the bright light.
‘Your eyes are better than mine.’ Jack relaxed his face, giving up the effort of trying to identify the approaching horsemen. ‘Are they in uniform?’
It was hard to sit and wait for Isabel to answer the question. His worst fear was that they were being approached by a group of bandits. He had tried to convince himself that it was unlikely the local dacoits paraded around on horseback, but he knew he would have little chance of fighting off even an unarmed schoolboy. Isabel was right to chide him for his incompetence; at anything other than a gentle walk, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. Quite how anyone could fight and ride at the same time was beyond him.
‘They are dressed all in blue.’
Jack tensed as Isabel gave him the vital information he needed. ‘Lancers.’ There was little comfort in knowing who they faced; the vivid memory of nearly being run through by the Maharajah’s lance was still fresh.
‘What shall we do?’ Isabel turned to face Jack as she posed the question. They had discussed the chances of meeting some of the Maharajah’s forces. At the time it had seemed the best thing that could happen to them, but now that four of the Maharajah’s elite lancers were bearing down on them, the idea that they could meekly request safe passage to their leader’s citadel suddenly seemed incredibly naïve.
‘We wait. Let’s hope they are feeling friendly.’
‘And if not?’ Isabel reached across, resting her hand on Jack’s leg as she sought reassurance.
Jack barely felt her touch. He sensed his body tensing as it did in the moments before battle. This time he was unarmed and completely unable to fight. He had never felt so impotent.
‘Then you turn the head of that damn horse around and gallop like the fiends of hell are chasing you.’
‘You won’t be able to keep up.’ Isabel’s voice was mocking, despite the danger.
‘I’ll not even try.’ Jack reached down and took her hand in a firm grip. ‘But you must.’ He squeezed hard to emphasise the seriousness of his words. ‘I will delay them and you will ride back to Bhundapur and beg for your father’s forgiveness.’
Isabel opened her mouth to protest, but Jack let go of her hand, silencing her with a raised finger. ‘You will do as I say, Isabel.’
He gave her no time to reply. Touching his heels to the sides of his horse, he eased it into a walk. He would not sit and wait meekly for his fate to arrive.
He gathered his reins into one hand, doing his best to adjust his weight to cover the slight tremor that threatened to topple him from the saddle. Then he lifted his free hand and rode to meet the Maharajah’s lancers.
The fortress rose sharply from the plain. It dominated the skyline, demanding attention. It was a prantara-durga, a hilltop fortress, and it had been the home of the maharajahs of Sawadh for centuries.
The walls were immense. Made from huge blocks of stone, they rose from the sheer sides of the hillside as if they had been carved from the very rock on which they stood. At their top, the battlements looked down on the wide plain with arrogance, the wide embrasures and merlons arrayed in tight, calculated patterns that would allow the defenders to pour a merciless fire on anyone foolish enough to try to assault the mighty fortress. Huge bastions had been built along the walls, bolstering the strength of the defences. This complex arrangement of wall and tower followed the contours of the hillside, forming five angled sides with a solitary gate at the very centre of the southernmost wall. The natural shape gave the fortress its name. It was the Taragarh, the star fort, and it was impregnable.
The wide stone walls of the fortress had been built as far out as the hillside allowed to create a wide area between them and the citadel that sat serenely in the very centre of the defences. Part palace and part stronghold, the Taragarh was the final bastion of the Maharajah’s power. It had been attacked many times in the five hundred years since it had first been built. Many local chiefs and rulers had cast envious glances at its imposing defences. None had come close to making good on their ambition, not a single assault breaching the walls, their hopes left to rot and fester amidst the corpses of their soldiers.
The fortress had not been left to idle complacently through the centuries. Successive maharajahs had sought to improve the defences, seeking to secure their advantage as the years passed and warfare changed beyond all recognition. Pragmatically-minded engineers had been summoned to the distant site, their knowledge used to apply the latest stratagems of warfare, adapting the stronghold to better counter the many advances in the art of war.
The power of gunpowder had brought about the most radical changes, to
prevent the Taragarh becoming nothing more than a relic of the past, an easy target for the cannons and siege trains that could destroy the proudest and longest-standing fortress in a matter of days. The height of the massive walls had been reduced, whilst their base was thickened and strengthened. The pattern of crenellations and merlons had been altered to create wide embrasures for dozens of cannon to be aimed outwards, their overlapping fields of fire calculated with meticulous care. The ancient citadel was given all the power of the modern world.
Lest the cold application of mathematics and science leave the Taragarh barren and ugly, the maharajahs also summoned the finest architects and artists and employed the best craftsmen and painters to make sure that the palace hidden within rivalled the splendour of any other. Artworks, carvings and mosaics created a place of beauty within the steadfast fortress, a haven of luxurious tranquillity and charm wrapped in all the brutal trappings of war.
Jack’s neck ached from looking upwards for so long. He had stared in fascination at the fortress that loomed above them, its high walls and bastions towering over the small party that had made its way down from the high ground. The sheer sides of the hillside rose dramatically from the floor of the wide plain that surrounded it, the smooth rocky surface soaring upwards for a hundred feet even before the walls themselves began. It was an impressive sight, and he could easily understand why the first maharajahs had selected this location for their citadel.
The ground began to incline under the feet of the horses as they started on to a broad ramp that began hundreds of yards from the main gate, turning sharply left and right at least a dozen times to make the approach to the single entrance long and slow. The breeze that had cooled them for much of the ride picked up as they mounted the exposed slope, the blue and white pennants near the tips of the lancers’ weapons fluttering madly in the fast-moving air.
The Maharajah's General Page 13
