The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  Jack stole a glimpse at Isabel as the Maharajah spoke. She was clearly enthralled. He saw her eyes moisten as the Maharajah dropped his voice to the hushed tones of a man in pain, caught in the emotion of his own words. She was clearly spellbound by the foreign king, and Jack found he could not tear his eyes away from her. He stared in fascination at the base of her throat, the soft white skin gently pulsating with each beat of her heart. Her wild hair had been tamed for the evening, and it shone in vivid contrast to the dark hair of all the other ladies. She was dressed in the same simple gold sari she had worn the evening before the hunt, and Jack did not think he had ever seen anyone look as beautiful.

  The Maharajah’s voice rose to a climax, his arms spread wide in a dramatic gesture as he brought his speech to a resounding finish, and Jack forced his gaze away before Isabel discovered his intense scrutiny.

  On cue, two lancers strode purposefully into the room. As they marched forward, Jack noticed with mounting horror that every head in the room had turned to stare in his direction. To be the object of such examination was excruciating, his embarrassment surely clearly visible to all. The agonising sensation was not helped by the Maharajah, who walked towards where Jack sat, his arms spread wide in greeting. As he drew close, he turned and gestured to the audience, encouraging a round of applause.

  ‘Stand up, Jack.’ The Maharajah was close enough to give the order quietly.

  Jack glanced imploringly in Isabel’s direction, as if she could save him from the very public spectacle. But Isabel was little help; she too raised her hands and lifted them to clap in his direction.

  ‘Come now, Jack.’ The Maharajah beamed with happiness as he relished Jack’s obvious discomfort. ‘Enough of the reluctant hero. Try to enjoy the moment.’

  With his face burning, Jack slowly got to his feet, grimacing as the movement encouraged the enthusiastic crowd to redouble their efforts.

  ‘There, that wasn’t too bad, now was it?’ the Maharajah whispered softly, before reaching out to clasp Jack’s hands across the table. Then he turned to address his beloved audience once again, keeping Jack’s hands held fast in his own.

  Jack was forced to stand in embarrassed silence as the Maharajah began another dramatic soliloquy. Several gestures were aimed in his direction and he forced his face into what he hoped was a good-natured smile. Despite not understanding a word of what was said, he did his best to join in, nodding and chuckling when the Maharajah made some quip or wry comment that had his audience guffawing with delight, and trying to look suitably sombre when the king’s voice dropped into more emotional tones.

  Finally the torture was over and Jack immediately tried to sit down. The Maharajah was having none of it. He continued to clasp Jack’s hands in his own, keeping him on his feet whilst nodding to the pair of lancers to step forward.

  For the first time Jack noticed that both carried a blue velvet cushion. On the first was a naked sword, which gleamed in the soft candlelight. The blade was decorated with an intricate swirling pattern of letters and designs that flickered and twisted along its length as they caught the light. The grip was wrapped in a beautiful deep red sharkskin; the craftsman who had made it had given it a practical, workmanlike finish that showed it was a weapon to be used rather than just worn for ceremony. The guard that would protect the hand was a thing of beauty and the gleam of a dozen precious stones flashed brightly as the Maharajah finally let go of Jack’s sweating grip.

  The audience hushed as they saw their king look in awe at the beautiful sword. He turned to face Jack before presenting it reverentially forward.

  ‘This is for you.’ The Maharajah had been watching Jack closely. He had read the younger man’s emotions as he looked at the weapon, and now he willed him to accept the gift.

  Jack was struck dumb. The sword alone must have been worth a lifetime of a captain’s pay. Yet the second lancer bore a leather scabbard decorated with golden clasps that was also worth a small fortune. Now the Maharajah was offering them both to Jack, who up to that moment had owned nothing save for the clothes he had already been given.

  Jack reached forward, his hand shaking, and caressed the tip of the sword, the metal cold under his touch. He could feel the tracery of the letters, the delicate script scrolling under his fingers as he ran them down the length of the blade. A spark of avarice suddenly surged unbidden into his heart. He took the red grip in his hand and felt the weight of the sword for the first time. The sour taste of greed dissipated in a heartbeat as he held his reward with all the care of a father holding his firstborn son.

  He looked up into the Maharajah’s eyes and saw the pleasure his taking the sword had given.

  Jack held a king’s ransom in his hands.

  ‘No, no, no! How many times must I tell you the same things?’

  Jack eased back on the reins, bringing his sweat-streaked horse to a stand. He stifled a belch, the spicy reminder of the previous night’s feast nearly making him gag.

  His instructor spurred hard across the dusty ground to stand at Jack’s side, his exasperation clear. Jack used the momentary halt to look across to where Isabel sat on her own horse. To his chagrin, he saw the slow shake of her head as she despaired at his lack of progress. He tried to curb the flush of anger that stirred inside him, and lifted one hand from the reins to wipe away some of the sweat that ran down to sting his eyes. At his side, his new sword lay flat against his thigh, the long straps holding it firmly in place no matter how hard he worked his borrowed mount. He still could not believe his good fortune, and he reached down to touch its golden guard, the feel of the cool metal still sending a spark of excitement through his tired body.

  His riding lesson was taking place in the wide area that separated the Maharajah’s palace from the walls of the fortress. It had been designed as part of the fortress’s defences, the open space a killing ground should any foe ever succeed in breaching the walls. It was also used as a parade square for the hundreds of men of the Maharajah’s army that were garrisoned in the fortress, which also meant it was the place where punishment drills were carried out. Jack was beginning to wonder if any unfortunate soul had ever been made to suffer more than he was, the long riding lesson a torture he would happily have forgone.

  ‘Jack. You must listen to the prince. It really is not so difficult.’ Isabel had ridden over to join in Jack’s latest lambasting. His slow progress and lack of natural ability were clearly beyond the understanding of a girl who had learnt to ride as soon as she could walk. Isabel was proving to be a harsher critic than even the maddened prince.

  ‘I’m doing my best,’ Jack growled as he endured another tongue-lashing. He felt he was making fine progress, his confidence in the saddle growing with each long minute of this, the first of what would be many such sessions. But it was clear that his frustrated teachers were not so pleased.

  ‘Well you must try harder!’ Isabel snapped the words.

  ‘You are savage. You pull too hard and you kick like an angry peasant. You yank when you should be gentle and you are gentle when you should be firm.’ The prince shook his head, once again wondering at the punishment his father had given him.

  ‘Feel the horse, Jack. Be sensitive to him. He should be an extension of you. He is not some tool to be used.’ Isabel leant forward and teased the ears of her own horse, smiling as it flicked its ears at the touch. ‘Treat him gently.’

  Jack sighed. It was hard to remain calm in the face of such criticism. ‘Perhaps that is enough for today.’

  ‘No!’ The prince snapped the words with all the authority of the heir to a kingdom. ‘You will ride again until you get it right.’

  Jack heard the pique in his voice. It was clear the boy wanted the lessons to come to an end quickly. If that meant Jack being ridden into the ground, then that was a small price to pay to end the harsh punishment his father had chosen to inflict.

&n
bsp; ‘You are too hard on him.’

  The unexpected voice came from behind Isabel. A rider with the slim body of a young boy rode to join them. ‘You should not shout at the king’s general so. He is a man of much importance.’

  The owner of the voice turned a pair of enormous brown eyes on Jack. He had not expected to find a supporter so close at hand.

  ‘Hush, sister. You are not the one instructed to teach this barbarian to ride.’ The prince was quick to interrupt, yet he beamed with delight as his elder sister pouted at his rash choice of words. It was clear there was much affection shared between the Maharajah’s two children.

  ‘Barbarian, is it? Is that how you address the man who saved your precious hide?’ Lakshmi matched her brother’s hectoring tone.

  The prince had the grace to blush. ‘I am very grateful for his service, of course.’

  Lakshmi turned the power of her presence on Jack. ‘You have my brother’s gratitude. Let us hope it will prove as useful as the talwar my father presented you with.’

  Jack was lost as he returned the princess’s frank and open expression. She was a rare beauty, her tiny features perfectly symmetrical. Her dusky skin shone with vitality, but it was her eyes that captivated him. They were large for her face, two deep, liquid pools, and they sparkled with life.

  ‘You will find Jack is a man of few words, Your Highness.’ Isabel spoke for Jack as he failed to reply. She was clearly comfortable in the princess’s company, and from the warm smile Lakshmi shared with her, it was obvious that the two young women had already struck up a friendship.

  ‘Enough!’ snapped the prince. ‘We are here to ride. Not to gossip like washerwomen.’ He eased his horse forward so that he blocked Jack’s view of the two females. ‘Go round again. And this time do not kick so hard.’

  Jack turned the head of his horse, reluctantly urging the recalcitrant beast into a trot. As he moved away, he twisted in the saddle to flash what he hoped was a dashing smile towards the female part of his audience, keen to show his growing competence. His borrowed mount chose that as the perfect moment to lurch itself into a fast canter, and Jack had to grab hard at the saddle lest he be sent sprawling to the ground.

  With his ears ringing from the prince’s tirade and his face burning with embarrassment, Jack forced his aching thigh muscles to grip the saddle whilst doing his best to ignore the mocking female laughter that found such delight in his ineptitude. He was a general being taught to ride by a prince under the gaze of a princess. If his breath had not been coming in laboured gasps, he would have laughed at the impossible twist his life had taken.

  ‘They are beautiful, are they not?’

  Jack started as the words interrupted his thoughts. He had not heard anyone approach as he studied the series of astonishing paintings that adorned the grand room outside the Maharajah’s durbar. He had stolen an hour’s solitude and had thought to explore more of the fabulous palace that had become his home. He was fascinated by the magnificent works that were scattered with vulgar abandon throughout the public rooms, the fantastic pieces of art demoted to the role of mere props to impress visitors with the Maharajah’s phenomenal wealth.

  There was something in the intricacy of so many of the objects that intrigued him. Each one had required exquisite skill to produce, and he wondered how their creators would feel to see their precious handiwork displayed on such a vast scale, the minutiae of their tantalising detail lost in the grand spectacle.

  It appeared someone had noticed his fascination, and he turned to face the Maharajah’s only daughter, his heart pounding.

  ‘They are more beautiful than I could ever have imagined was possible.’

  ‘I love these paintings. They are my favourites.’ Lakshmi stood close enough that Jack could smell the delicate fragrance of her perfume. She was so small that she did not even reach his shoulder. She had all the delicacy of a small bird, but she possessed an aura of confidence that belied her tiny frame.

  Jack did his best not to stare at her; instead he wrenched his eyes away and returned his gaze to the painting in front of him.

  ‘Do you understand what it is that you see?’ Lakshmi asked, lifting her finger so that it hovered close to the painting, tracing yet not touching the intricate artwork.

  The many bangles she wore chimed as they slid down her bare arm, revealing the dusky skin beneath. To Jack’s fascination, her wrists and hands were decorated with patterns of black henna, an intricate web of fine tracery that curled and twisted across her flesh. It would have been easy to wonder what other surprises lay beneath the pure white sari that was bound tightly around her slight figure, and Jack had to force his mind to study the painting rather than dwell on the fascinating creature at his side.

  A tiny monkey perched on her shoulder, its wide eyes fixing Jack with a knowing stare as if reading his lustful thoughts. The creature was dressed in a miniature crimson coat and its ankles were tethered by a delicate golden chain that was held in place by golden rings. The odd little creature chattered incessantly, as if affronted by Jack’s interest in its mistress, only hushing when Lakshmi lifted a slender finger and stroked it into gentle submission.

  ‘Do they tell a story?’ Jack felt his voice catch in his throat. He hoped Lakshmi could not tell how nervous she made him. ‘They are by the same hand. That much I can tell.’

  ‘They are of the Ramayana. They have been in my family for centuries. The Ramayana is a story, a poem, written by the great Valmiki long before the birth of the Christ that you Christians have chosen to worship.’

  ‘And these depict scenes from the poem?’ Jack was intrigued. He wanted to know more, to add to his meagre knowledge. And he wanted to prolong the encounter with the Maharajah’s beguiling daughter.

  Lakshmi nodded. She stared at the picture for some time before speaking again, as if it had been a long time since she had contemplated its fine artistry. ‘This is from the Yuddha Kanda, one of seven books that make up the Ramayana. It tells us how Rama, the favourite son of the great king of Ayodhya, takes his army to fight Ravana, the king of Lanka.’

  Jack wrestled with the strange foreign names that echoed in his head. Lakshmi’s accent rolled the sounds around, their rich timbre warm and fascinating.

  He peered at the picture. ‘With an army of monkeys?’

  Lakshmi laughed at his tone. ‘Yes! With an army of monkeys.’

  Jack liked the way her face flushed as she laughed. ‘I wish I could remember all this.’

  ‘I will teach you. If you like. My brother can teach you how we ride. I can teach you of our history. You will need both if you are to prosper as a general in my father’s army.’

  Jack watched Lakshmi as she spoke. He was mesmerised by her vitality. He did not think he had ever seen anyone so full of life.

  ‘Do all Englishmen stare at women in such a way?’ Lakshmi turned her head sharply, her eyes narrowing as she rebuked Jack for his intense scrutiny.

  Jack blushed and hung his head at being so transparent. ‘I am sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t—’

  Lakshmi reached forward and stopped his stuttering apology by placing a single, cool finger on his lips. The monkey chirruped and chattered for attention, jealous at seeing its mistress touch another.

  Lakshmi smiled at the animal’s fuss. ‘What a silly creature. Getting all hot and bothered so very easily.’

  Jack had a sneaking feeling the princess was talking about him, and not about the chattering monkey. He remained silent under her touch, every fibre of his being coming fully alive at the feel of her flesh pressed against his.

  ‘Do not apologise, General Lark.’ She withdrew her hand but continued to stare at Jack’s face, a frank look of obvious humour on her face. ‘I am quite used to such attention.’

  Lakshmi laughed as she spoke. It was a soft sound that emanated from deep in her thro
at, and Jack immediately smiled in response.

  ‘You are the rajkumari.’ He stumbled over the recently learnt word, his clumsy attempt to use Lakshmi’s correct title sounding lame even to his own ears. ‘I am sure it is inevitable.’

  Lakshmi pouted. ‘So you stare because of the accident of my birth? Not because you consider me beautiful?’

  Jack saw the sparkle in her eye as she replied. He sensed the danger of talking so freely to the Maharajah’s only daughter. Yet he could not help his attraction. ‘You are as beautiful as the morning sun, Your Highness. I cannot imagine a day without the radiance of your presence.’

  Lakshmi snorted in a very unladylike manner at Jack’s courtly tongue, causing her pet monkey to start and shriek. She stilled the startled creature with her hand before turning the full weight of her attention back on Jack. ‘My father was quite wrong. You would make a wonderful ambassador. You are wasted as a general.’

  ‘Your father does not truly know me, Your Highness.’

  ‘Does anyone?’ Lakshmi was suddenly serious. She reached forward and grazed the skin around his eyes with the tip of her finger. Her touch was as light as a feather, and Jack shivered. ‘I see pain in the lines on your face, General Lark,’ she continued, her finger sliding gently down his face so that it traced along his jawline. ‘The stain of suffering that should not scar a face as young as yours.’

  Jack could not speak. His face tingled where her finger had been, the gossamer lightness of her touch inflaming his soul.

  Lakshmi stepped back, Jack’s skin suddenly cold as she withdrew her touch. ‘You are an interesting man, General Lark. You intrigue me.’