A pink flush was spreading up from the nape of Isabel’s neck to colour her cheeks. ‘And why is that?’
‘You are a woman,’ repeated the chamberlain, turning away. Clearly he considered the matter closed.
Isabel, however, did not. She reached forward, taking firm hold of his thin shoulder and pulling hard so that he spun around to face her once again. She was several inches taller than the sparsely framed man and she loomed over him as she finally released the pent-up emotion she had kept contained ever since they had arrived at the fortress.
‘How dare you! I am a subject of the Queen and I shall not be kept quiet. Nor will I allow myself to be treated like some piece of unwanted baggage. I have spoken to the Maharajah before and I fully intend to do so again now.’
The chamberlain waved his hands in front of him to ward off the enraged young woman, who looked ready to commit violence. ‘It is tradition.’
‘Tradition, my eye. How I pity the women who have the misfortune to be born in your misbegotten country. Why, do you not know that a woman rules Great Britain? Would the Maharajah not deign to speak to her? Would he force the greatest queen this world has ever seen to remain silent?’
‘No, no, no,’ the chamberlain whined in reply, his voice wheedling and imploring. ‘It is the way.’
‘Isabel, leave the poor man alone.’ Jack decided to intervene lest their chance of seeing the Maharajah disappear. ‘He’s only doing his job.’
Isabel turned on him, her eyes flashing in fury. ‘So you think I should remain silent too! How dare you! After all I have done for you!’
‘Yes. Yes, I do think you should remain silent if that is how things are done here. We cannot waltz in and expect them to lay out the red carpet for us.’
‘I expect to be heard.’
‘Oh, I am sure the Maharajah will want to do more than just hear you. But you must wait.’
Isabel crossed her arms in front of her. ‘So I have to do as I am told?’
‘Yes.’ Jack smiled at the pouting face. ‘This time you do as you are bloody well told, unless you want us to be clapped in irons and shipped back to Bhundapur.’
Isabel sighed in resignation. ‘Very well. But don’t you dare mess this up. If you do, I shall never forgive you.’
‘I won’t. Now stand still and look pretty. I don’t imagine the Maharajah will ignore you for long. It cannot be often that he has a beautiful English rose in his court.’
Jack turned and nodded to the chamberlain, signalling that they were finally ready to enter the durbar room.
With a final haughty sniff, the chamberlain signalled the guards to open the ornate double doors.
The durbar room was hushed. With its high vaulted ceiling it felt like a grand library, and the sombre silence pressed around Jack as soon as he followed the chamberlain into the room. On one side, wide windows had been thrown open, and the air felt fresh, cooled by the breeze that rushed into the vast space. Everything in the chamber was white, with dramatic silk hangings around the windows that billowed theatrically in the breeze. After so many examples of dazzling colour and ostentatious display, the contrast was stark; the durbar room was a haven of peace and tranquillity.
Yet it was not completely silent. The sound of quiet conversation could be heard from the far end, where a crowd of onlookers were gathered, all listening with intense concentration. Jack was too far away to make out any individual words as he walked as quietly as he could in the wake of the chamberlain. As they approached the small gathering, the chamberlain turned and gestured curtly for Isabel to wait to one side, a sarcastic smile stretched across his pale lips. The solemnity of the durbar had done wonders to quell Isabel’s temper, and she simply bobbed her head in acknowledgement of the command, meekly moving to the place the chamberlain indicated.
Jack did his best to place his boots with care as he once again followed the chamberlain forward. His heavy tread still echoed loudly, and more than one face turned in annoyance as his entrance disturbed those straining to hear the murmuring voices at the room’s end. One by one the heads of the spectators turned to look at the firangi who had entered their midst.
The majority of the room’s finely dressed occupants were pressed to the flanks, leaving the end of the enormous space as a stage for the durbar’s prime participants. These were the figures that looked up last of all, their earnest conversation coming to a faltering close as Jack approached.
He did his best to stand up straight as he became the focus of the room’s attention. He wished he was dressed in uniform, the outer shell of a British army captain a fine prop to a man’s confidence. Instead he faced the gathering of nobles wearing nothing more than a stained shirt and a pair of filthy trousers. There was no sign of the Maharajah, and for that Jack was grateful, as he felt his confidence wane in the face of such intense scrutiny.
‘Who are you?’ The question was posed by one of the two men who had been engaged in the important conversation. The man took one long look at Jack and shuddered in obvious revulsion at his filthy attire.
Jack decided to ignore the chamberlain, who was flapping his hand in a desperate attempt to get Jack to prostrate himself now that he was being addressed.
‘My name is Captain James Danbury.’ He hoped his voice conveyed the right balance of respect and confidence.
‘Danbury.’ The man stumbled over the foreign pronunciation. He was finely dressed in thick red robes that did little to hide his round belly. His head was swathed in a golden turban that had a pair of ostrich feathers attached to the front by a huge gold and diamond clasp. Each of his thick, stubby fingers was covered with gold rings, and around his neck was the biggest ruby Jack had ever seen. ‘I do not know a Danbury.’
‘I am with the 24th Foot stationed at Bhundapur, sir.’ Jack did his best to sound respectful.
‘No. I do not know you.’ The man’s whole face wobbled as he shook his head. It was clear that he had heard all he needed to, and he turned his back on Jack, once again facing away from the rest of the room’s occupants.
The second figure laughed aloud at such posturing. He was the only man in the room dressed in uniform. Now he took a step forward and clicked his heels together before offering Jack a short, clipped bow from the waist.
‘Count Piotr Wysocki, once of the Régiment de Chevau-Légers Lanciers de la Garde Impériale.’
Jack did not fully understand the count’s formal introduction, but there was something familiar in his choice of uniform. He had a hazy recollection of a painting in the officers’ mess in Aldershot that depicted the charge of the famous Polish lancers at Waterloo. Count Piotr sported the same dark blue uniform with a crimson front panel to the jacket and a thick crimson stripe running down the seam of the snug pantaloons.
Jack quickly understood the impact of the count’s presence in the Maharajah’s court. ‘You must be responsible for the blue-coated lancers.’
Count Piotr bobbed his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes. They are my creation. Have you seen them?’
Jack shivered involuntarily at the image of the Maharajah thundering towards him with his deadly steel-tipped lance aimed squarely at his heart. ‘I may have caught a glimpse of them.’
The count’s eyes twinkled at the reply. ‘Then you have seen how well I have trained them! They only had a rabble here before I came. Now they have a full squadron of lancers that even the Emperor would have been proud to have in his service.’
Jack presumed that Wysocki was referring to Napoleon Bonaparte. The count did not look old enough to have served the fabled French leader; Jack would have judged him to be in his mid forties. If he had been at Waterloo, then that would have placed him firmly in his sixties. With a trim, athletic build and a lancer’s uniform that fitted like a kidskin glove, it was hard to believe that that was the case.
‘I am sure the Maharajah is d
elighted to have a man of such experience as you in his service.’
Count Piotr laughed. ‘You will have to ask him. I am not so sure he fully appreciates my talents.’
‘I hope I get the chance.’
‘Why not ask him now?’ The count moved gracefully to one side, revealing the final occupant of the room.
For the first time, Jack saw the simple wooden chair that had been placed strategically at the very end of the room. It was not the throne he had expected; in place of precious stones and exquisite carvings, there were simply the signs of long use and careful preservation.
He found himself looking into the same eyes that had stared at him from behind the eight-foot reach of a lance. He was finally once again face to face with the Maharajah.
‘We meet again, Captain Danbury. Or are you going to tell me your true name this time? I must confess I am finding this all rather confusing.’
The Maharajah lounged with his right leg draped over one arm of the simple wooden chair, completely at ease with his surroundings. He was dressed very simply in a loose-fitting white shirt and snug white breeches. A pair of blood-red Cossack boots reached to just below his knees, his sole concession to vanity. The fat man who had treated Jack with such disdain wore more jewellery on one pudgy finger than Jack could see on the whole of the Maharajah’s body. It was becoming clear, from both his appearance and the style of the durbar room itself, that the ruler of Sawadh paid little attention to the opulent finery that so embellished the rest of his palace.
Jack saw the smile on the Maharajah’s face as he spoke. He hoped it was a good sign.
‘My name is Jack Lark, sir. I am afraid the rest of it was just a pretence.’ Jack had no real idea how he should address the Maharajah. He had first met him dressed as an officer and so it seemed natural to continue with that approach.
‘I am glad you finally feel able to tell me your name.’ The Maharajah rubbed his hand vigorously against the bald dome of his head, as if physically clearing his mind. ‘So tell me, Jack Lark, why would you lie about who you are?’ His face showed intense interest, his eyes piercing into Jack’s own as if studying the very depths of his soul.
‘I was born poor. I could never hope to be an officer any other way.’
‘But you wanted it? You wanted the place in life that was denied to you?’
‘Yes, sir. I did.’
‘So you took it?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then you enjoyed living the high life of an officer?’
‘No. I went to war.’
The Maharajah seemed to approve of the reply, and for the first time Jack began to believe he might have a chance of convincing the ruler of Sawadh to let them stay.
‘So you freely admit you are a charlatan. Must I also assume you are a thief?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jack felt his eyes drift to a spot six inches above the Maharajah’s head. It was easier than staring into the man’s uncompromising eyes.
‘And a deserter?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a coward?’
Jack’s gaze snapped downwards. He looked hard into the Maharajah’s brown eyes. ‘No. I have never shirked from a fight.’
The Maharajah nodded slowly. ‘I accept your answer.’
With a lithe bound he got to his feet and walked to stand in front of Jack. They were of the same height, and the Maharajah came to a halt so close to him that Jack could feel the wash of his breath on his face.
‘So, Jack Lark. You are an impostor, a thief and a deserter. Why have you come to me?’
‘Because I had nowhere else to go.’
The Maharajah threw his head back and laughed. ‘Since when did it become known amongst the mighty sahibs that I take in any waif and stray who happens to pass by?’
‘I am not an ordinary waif. I came to offer you my service.’
‘Your Highness.’ The finely dressed fat man had moved forward to stand at his master’s side and now chose to intervene. ‘He is clearly a spy. He should be killed and his body thrown from the battlements.’ He stumbled over the words, obviously ill at ease speaking in English. But there was no mistaking the relish with which he called for Jack to be put to death.
The Maharajah never once took his eyes off Jack. ‘The vizier is quite correct. You are a spy and I will have you killed.’
Jack didn’t flinch despite the icy flush that hurtled down his spine. ‘So be it. But that would be a bit of a waste, don’t you think?’
‘A waste! Why would having you killed be a waste?’ The Maharajah threw the question back at him, a few flecks of his spittle landing on Jack’s face, such was the force of his words.
‘Because I may be a thief and an impostor, and a deserter come to that. But I was also a British officer. I fought the Russians in the Crimea and I have commanded a company of British soldiers. I would have thought a man in your position could have use of my service.’
‘A man in my position?’ The Maharajah seemed genuinely intrigued.
‘A king who chafes at being under the authority of a foreign power. A man who does everything he can to push against those put in charge of his kingdom but who stops short of open rebellion for fear of inciting a response stronger than he can bear. A ruler who fears for the future and for the rights of his descendants to rule in his place when he is dead and buried. I think a man like that would want to surround himself with those who know his enemy. Men who can help him.’
‘You presume a lot.’ There was ice in the Maharajah’s voice now.
‘I say what I see. I think you need me.’
‘Need you! I do not need you. And you are wrong, Mr Lark. I am not afraid.’
‘Perhaps you should be.’
Jack thought the Maharajah would lash out. His face was full of tension and Jack was certain he had gone too far.
The look of anger passed. ‘Perhaps I should be.’ The Maharajah turned on his heel and flopped heavily back into his chair. ‘Where is Miss Youngsummers?’
Jack turned and looked over his shoulder. ‘She is waiting dutifully at the rear of this room.’
‘So you stole her too?’
‘She rescued me.’
The Maharajah arched an eyebrow. ‘She must be an astonishing woman. I think I will find the time to get to know her better.’
‘I think I shall have to make sure that never happens, sir.’
The Maharajah gave a short laugh. ‘I suggest you never try to impersonate a diplomat. You really do not have enough oil on your tongue.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
For a second time the vizier intervened, impatient with a conversation he could barely understand.
‘He is a spy. Kill him and his woman. You have wasted enough of your time on him.’
The Maharajah took no offence at the interruption. It was clear he valued his vizier’s opinion.
‘So. What should I do with you? If I truly thought you a spy I would have you killed this very moment.’ The Maharajah drummed his fingers on his leg. ‘Count, what do you think?’
The Polish count did not reply immediately. After a moment’s thought he turned to face Jack.
‘Did you truly fight in the Crimea?’
‘I did.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘At the Alma. I commanded the Light Company of the King’s Royal Fusiliers. We were in the Light Division and we captured the great redoubt on our own.’
‘Did you kill many Russians?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you a hero?’
‘No. My men were the heroes. I was simply fortunate enough to be with them.’
The count turned back to the Maharajah. ‘That is good enough for me, sire. I believe him.’
The Maharajah s
norted. ‘You believe him because he claims to have killed a few Russian conscripts. He admits he is an impostor. Is he not lying now?’
‘I can see it in his eyes. He has fought in battle. He knows what it is to lead men. I believe him, sire.’
‘The count hates the Russians.’ The Maharajah offered the explanation to Jack. ‘He fought against them back in the thirties and he would fight against them now if he had half the chance.’
The count shrugged. ‘Of course, sire. We beat them at Stoczek and I would happily give my life to face them again. Yet I have a feeling I am more likely to have to fight these damn British first.’
The Maharajah nodded at the wise comment before smiling wolfishly at Jack. ‘How does that sound, Jack? Are you ready to go to war against your own countrymen?’
‘No.’ Jack had not even considered the idea. Yet here he was throwing himself on the mercy of the ruler of a land he knew the British authorities were planning to annex as soon as they got half a chance. If the Maharajah resisted, Jack could well find himself stuck on the wrong side. The redcoats could become his enemy.
‘Your honesty is refreshing. Perhaps you are the one who should be afraid,’ the Maharajah replied evenly.
‘Do you plan to fight?’
‘No. No sane man seeks to fight. No father wants his children to go to war.’
‘Whatever happens?’
The Maharajah’s eyes were suddenly moist. ‘I do not know the answer to that question.’ He turned to look out of the windows that gave a view on to a beautiful courtyard at the very heart of the fortress. ‘You may stay, Jack Lark. As may Miss Youngsummers. You can both stay here in safety.’
He turned back and fixed Jack with the intense stare that Jack found so unsettling. ‘But we must both think of the future. Of what might be. A man should know what lies in his heart so that when he must choose he is ready. For I fear we will both have to choose where our future will take us.’
He lolled back into his chair and closed his eyes.
‘Durbar is finished. Count, take Mr Lark and Miss Youngsummers to that Scottish fool who let them in here. Tell him that we have a new recruit for my lancers. He is to find them whatever they need and have this one ready to join us on our hunt tomorrow. He is charged with their safety until then. Now leave me. I have need of rest.’
The Maharajah's General Page 15
