Now the Tiger began to chant, his deep, melodic voice clear despite the animal grunts as the two men kept up the pace of the fight. It was just as Jack remembered, the rhythmic resonance of the words sending a shiver down his spine. There was no pause in the bandit leader’s attack as he chanted; indeed, he began to push Jack backwards with a series of blows even faster than before. Jack parried one after another, his arm beginning to feel like lead as the onslaught continued. Again and again the Tiger attacked, the blows ringing down. Jack’s defence began to falter, and twice the Tiger nearly had him, the tip of the talwar whispering past, his weakening parries only just doing enough to deflect the merciless assault.
The Tiger bellowed the last word of the chant, his voice rising in a crescendo loud enough to wake the dead. His sword flashed past Jack’s face, a final mighty sweep of the blade before he lifted it above his head, readying the killing blow.
One Jack had seen before.
He dived forward, hitting the ground with his shoulder. He sensed the Tiger’s sword scything down, the dreadful edge reaching for him, the heavy talwar cutting through the air where he had just been standing. He scrabbled on the ground, twisting around in the matted undergrowth before driving his boot forward and smashing the heavy heel into the huge man’s groin.
The Tiger grunted in pain but his sword continued its descent, hunting for its prey. The blade cut into the undergrowth, missing Jack by no more than an inch, and stuck fast in the spongy ground. Jack rolled away and stabbed his own talwar upwards. It had been badly battered but the point was still sharp, and it punched into the Tiger’s body, tearing through flesh and gristle as Jack drove it deep. Blood ran down the blade, washing over his wrist and arm and falling to stain the front of his blue uniform coat, yet still he twisted it, tearing the life from his foe.
With the blade still buried deep in his body, the black-robed bandit leader toppled to one side. He made no sound as he fell, his huge sword dropping to the ground as his nerveless hands lost their strength.
Jack scrambled to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the huge man he had just defeated. Unable to comprehend that he had won.
With their leader struck down, the bandits fled into the jungle, running for their lives despite the fact that Jack was battered and exhausted. At that moment a washerwoman with a kitchen knife could have defeated him, but the bandits clawed at each other in their haste to get away, the jungle hiding them from view as they scattered in every direction.
Jack walked to stand over the body of the black-robed Tiger. He looked down at the face of the man who could not be killed. He did not see a prince of the darkness. Nor did he see a man who had been feared and hated in equal measure. He simply saw the lonely face of someone moments from death. The Tiger’s eyes were open, the vitality of life still alive in the blackness. They moved as Jack stood beside him, fixing him with a hard, flat stare of hatred.
The Tiger’s lips began to move. At first the words were barely audible, but from deep in his soul he found the strength to speak louder. As he did so, he kept his eyes fixed on Jack. The words flowed from him, their pace and tone steady, with the same deep, melodic rhythm that had so unsettled Jack when they fought.
Jack sensed the presence of the nobleman he had saved. The youngster came to look down at the man who had so terrified him.
‘He is cursing you.’ The boy spoke in no more than a whisper, his fear still very real.
Jack felt a shiver run down his spine as he met the Tiger’s merciless stare, the terror he had kept contained for so long once more writhing deep in his belly.
‘What does he say?’ He spoke firmly, wrestling with his emotions as if they were a demon to be fought and imprisoned. He felt the calmness begin to return as he regained control, the fear forced to the recesses of his mind, committed to the darkness in his soul.
‘He is condemning you to a life without hope. A life alone.’ The boy’s voice trembled as he told Jack the meaning of the foreign words, translating them with reverence and no trace of vindictive pleasure.
The Tiger stopped abruptly. Jack never once let his eyes move from the bandit’s unwavering stare, and he saw the glimmer of life flicker, then leave the pitiless black eyes for ever.
The man who could not be killed was dead.
The crowd jostled around him. Jack felt his exhaustion build, his body craving rest. The bewildering hubbub continued unabated, shouts and questions bellowed back and forth in the language of the Maharajah’s court that Jack did not understand. The young noble he had saved stood at the centre of the melee, surrounded by a crowd of men who were all talking at once. Jack recognised the urgency of their words, the hurried interrogation of people desperate to find out what had happened so they could either claim some share in the victory or steer well clear of the blame.
The young noble’s higher-pitched tones cut through the deeper voices of the men who challenged him, carrying an authority that silenced them. He spoke quickly and firmly and the crowd pressed forward as they listened to his hurried account, captivated by the drama.
Jack wanted no part of the inquest. He had done what he had felt to be his duty. Now that the vicious fight was over, he wanted nothing more than to fade back into the background.
The Maharajah and his entourage arrived, the ruler’s huge white stallion flecked with mud and sweat; it had clearly been ridden hard to get here. Jack saw the distress on the Maharajah’s face, the strained expression of someone seeking news they knew could change their life for ever.
The entrance of their king silenced the throng that had gathered at the site of the ambush. With an athletic bound the ruler of Sawadh leapt from the saddle and rushed towards the young noble who now owed his life to the white-faced foreigner he had treated with such disdain. Without stopping, the Maharajah reached forward and crushed the boy to his chest, enveloping him in a fierce embrace, the bright prick of tears in his eyes.
Finally Jack realised who the youngster was, and why his comrades had been so ready to laugh loudly at his quips. Jack had just done the British government a great disservice.
He had saved the life of the Maharajah’s heir.
‘There are no words to convey my thanks, Jack.’
Jack could not meet the Maharajah’s intense stare. He looked to his boots but the Maharajah reached forward, lifting Jack’s hands and enclosing them in both of his own. The touch was intimate, the Maharajah’s hands warm and the feel of his flesh shocking. Jack felt intensely uncomfortable at the contact, his natural reaction to withdraw, but the Maharajah held him firm.
‘You saved my son. I am in your debt.’
‘I did what had to be done, sir.’ Jack’s reaction was stilted.
‘You English. You are so bloody stuck up!’ The Maharajah dropped Jack’s hands, smiling at the obvious relief on his face. ‘I thank you anyway. Whatever you say, I owe you a great deal. My son has told me what happened here.’ He turned and looked at the dead bandits that his men were dragging unceremoniously into a grotesque heap. ‘You certainly do know how to fight.’
‘I’m a redcoat. It’s what we are trained to do.’
‘My son said he has never seen anyone quicker.’ The Maharajah’s voice was full of admiration. ‘You killed that black-robed bastard. For that alone I owe you a reward.’
‘I do not ask one, sir. You have already shown me favour by allowing me to stay in your court.’
‘One of the best bloody decisions I ever made.’ He turned and gestured for his son to come to him. ‘I am forgetting my manners. I suspect you have not been properly introduced. Jack, this is my son, Abhishek. He will rule after I am dead and gone. Thanks now to you.’
Jack looked the boy in the eye. The earlier childlike arrogance was gone. Abhishek’s privileged background had been no protection from the brutal reality that so many boys his age would already have exper
ienced. Jack hoped the bitter knowledge would teach him well.
‘Thank you.’ The boy’s voice was small, the moment clearly embarrassing him. But he was also the rajkumar, and he pulled himself upright, standing with a stiff back in front of the man he had insulted so cruelly but who had saved his life. ‘You have done our country a great service.’
The Maharajah whooped with delight at his son’s pomposity. ‘You see, Jack. I have bred a fine boy. He has the grace of a king. He is not like me at all.’
Jack inclined his head to acknowledge the boy’s thanks. ‘It was my pleasure to be of service, sir. I can only hope that my disgusting stench no longer offends you as once it did.’ He could not resist the barbed comment. The boy might have been a prince, but that would not stop Jack twisting his tail.
Abhishek’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He glanced across at his father before bowing his head.
The Maharajah clapped his hands with enjoyment. ‘You are priceless, Jack, absolutely bloody priceless. Now then, let us speak of your reward.’
‘Sir, there is no need for a reward.’
The Maharajah flapped his hands to silence Jack’s protest. ‘Enough of your bloody English modesty. I wish for you to become my adviser.’
Jack laughed at the notion. ‘Sir, you most certainly do not need my advice.’
‘That is my decision, not yours. You will also assume command of my lancers. As of this moment, you are my general.’
Jack shook his head in denial. The promotion was meteoric indeed but the idea that he could be a general was laughable. ‘I cannot accept, sir. As your son here will attest, I cannot even ride a horse properly.’
‘I will not be gainsaid. Not even by a hero. Abhishek will teach you to ride. It can be his punishment for not treating one of my guests with the right amount of courtesy.’ The Maharajah was clearly delighted by the idea. ‘Now we must leave this place.’ His face twisted with distaste as he surveyed the scene where his son had come so close to death.
Jack stood back as the Maharajah left. Like most ambitious men, he had come to India to seek his fortune. He had never dreamt it would lead him here. It might only be in the service of a wilful maharajah, but Jack had been made a general.
It was quite a step up for an urchin from the East End of London.
Jack belched as softly as he could. The lamb kidneys on sweet naan had been his favourite dish, but there had been so many that he was fast losing track. The feast arranged in his honour was only an hour old, but already his stomach felt fit to burst. Dish after dish had been placed before him by the hundreds of servants charged with seeing to every whim of the Maharajah’s guests. As the principal guest, Jack was the first served, and he had felt compelled to take something from every dish offered. They had started to eat just after sunset, and he was now beginning to wonder how he would continue to cope should the feast go on all night.
‘They were delicious.’ Isabel dabbed at her mouth with a gold silk napkin. She reached across, using it to wipe clean a stain from Jack’s mouth. ‘How’s the head?’
Jack instinctively raised a finger and poked carefully at the yellow and purple mark in the centre of his forehead. ‘Not so bad.’
Isabel smiled. ‘Well that’s what happens if you are foolish enough to use it as a weapon.’ As much as she tried to make light of the comment, he saw her distress. She had already witnessed one brutal battle, so she knew what it was for men to fight to the death. She would have some idea of how dangerous the ambush had been, how hard Jack would have had to fight to survive.
Jack did his best to return her smile. A servant bowed in front of him as the next dish arrived. He looked at it with caution. He had learnt to be circumspect. He could still taste the effect of the fish on wooden skewers. He had only taken a single mouthful, but it had been so hot that it had felt as if his brains had been blown out of his head. He dipped a small morsel of naan bread to taste what looked to be a quail stew. Reassured, he continued with more freedom, ramming home a few mouthfuls like a gunner double-shotting a cannon. As he ate, he noticed Isabel looking at him.
‘What?’ he asked, raising his own napkin, suspecting he had dribbled some of the stew across his chin.
Isabel blushed. ‘You surprise me.’
‘Surprise you?’ Jack scowled. ‘Do I eat that badly?’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She smiled. ‘When I first saw you in Proudfoot’s bungalow, I had no idea of the kind of man you are.’
It was Jack’s turn to blush. He sat back in his chair, wincing as the movement jarred his body. He knew he had been lucky to survive the fight with nothing more than bruises and a battered arm, but it still felt as if he had gone a dozen rounds with a back-street prizefighter.
‘And now?’
Isabel arched her eyebrows. ‘Now I think you’re a fool! We came here to hide, yet you have already saved the life of the Maharajah’s only son and been appointed a general in command of his lancers.’
Jack frowned, sensing mockery. ‘I did not have much choice in the matter.’
Isabel laughed aloud. She placed her hand on his forearm. ‘You keep surprising me, Jack. That is all.’
The sound of music interrupted their conversation and the room quietened as a small group of richly dressed men and women were ushered in, singing as they were escorted through the wide double doors. It was a lament, the soft blend of voices merging together in harmony to weave a spell over the hushed audience. Jack listened to the strange music, feeling it resonate deep in his soul. He did not understand the words, but the melody touched a place he had thought hidden, and for a reason he could not fathom, he felt the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes.
The gentle rhythm of the song faded to silence before the musicians, unseen behind a lattice screen, picked up the tempo. At once the doors to the dining hall were thrown open again and a troop of nautch girls bounded in. They raced across the room, moving into position in front of the tables, where the Maharajah’s guests clapped and roared with delight as the entertainment took a more lively turn.
One girl spun to halt directly in front of Jack. She writhed on the ground, lithe as a panther, her hips thrusting forward, before springing to her feet to pirouette so that her back faced him. She gyrated, arching her spine like a cat, before shaking herself with the wanton rhythm of the music. The silk gauze she wore revealed much to his rapt gaze, the sheer fabric stretched tight over her dark body. No part of her was truly naked save a wide band around her taut midriff, but it was not difficult to imagine how she would look were the flimsy silks whipped away. And Jack had a fine imagination.
The hypnotic, pulsating rhythm stopped abruptly and the girl froze in her pose, every sinew stretched tight as she held the final position of her dance with dramatic poise. The insubstantial costume rose and fell around her chest as she panted with the exertion, a thin shimmer of sweat glistening above the veil that masked the lower half of her face.
Jack did his best to ignore the heaving chest inches in front of him and stared into the huge brown eyes that looked at him over the thin veil. The girl matched his appraisal, shameless in front of his scrutiny, her eyes mocking as she saw the man she had danced for transfixed by her supple beauty.
A hard wooden fan rapped sharply on Jack’s arm, its intricately carved handle turned into an improvised weapon that was used with some force to attract his attention. He turned and saw Isabel arching her eyebrows in his direction.
‘Do stop staring, Jack.’ She was clapping her hands with an enthusiasm that was not mirrored in her eyes, which flashed venomously as Jack continued to gaze at the young dancer. ‘You may also wish to return your tongue to its rightful place in your mouth.’
He belatedly joined the applause, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed the way the dancer had gripped his attention. The smiles on so many of the faces told him t
hat it had been obvious to all, and he felt his cheeks sting as the inevitable blush spread quickly across them.
The girl bowed and trotted away, the dozens of bangles that adorned her wrists and elbows jingling together as she moved. Jack snatched one last look at her bouncing behind before turning to Isabel with as much nonchalance as he could muster.
‘She was a fine dancer. Did you enjoy her routine?’
Isabel raised the fan threateningly. ‘Don’t make me use this again.’
‘I was merely admiring her abilities.’
‘Oh, I am sure,’ Isabel said tartly, ‘and from your avid inspection I am certain you found both of them much to your satisfaction.’
Jack was saved from a reply as the sound of the gong being rung silenced the room. A flurry of activity followed the last reverberation and an army of servants rushed into the room, arms full of empty platters and steaming bowls of water. They attacked the huge trestle tables with gusto, their practised hands deftly removing the remains of the feast and cleaning away the mess that the guests had created. In less than a minute the room was once again immaculate, every trace of the enormous banquet swept and wiped away.
The Maharajah got to his feet and everyone fell silent. In the glow of the thousand candles that lit the huge room, he looked like a king from a fairy tale. He was dressed in fabulous crimson robes, for once eschewing the practical garb of a soldier, and was covered in jewellery, some adorning his clothing, still more draped around his neck and smothering his fingers. His head was bound in a plain gold pagdi adorned with a single ruby that was at least the size of Isabel’s hand. It was a vivid reminder of his power, and Jack felt the stirring of unease deep in his belly. He was a foreigner in a king’s court, beholden to a whimsical ruler he barely knew.
The Maharajah began to speak. His voice was deep and he demonstrated obvious charm, clearly relishing being the lead actor on the stage. The audience hung on his every word, as rapt as Jack had been when he had stared so obviously at the young dancing girl. He addressed his court in their own language, but Jack did not have to be able to understand every word to hear the sparkle in his voice, his dramatic pauses and changes in tempo revealing his oratory skill even to a foreigner.
The Maharajah's General Page 19
