The Maharajah's General

by Collard, Paul Fraser

  Jack had to clear his throat before he could speak. He was certain Lakshmi could see the desire on his face, the lust that had charged into his eyes when he felt her touch on his skin.

  ‘I am pleased you find me so fascinating. But I am not a painting to be studied.’ His shame made him harsh.

  ‘Oh, I know that.’ Lakshmi flushed crimson as she spoke, her eyes suddenly downcast as if she was ashamed of her own behaviour. ‘No one will ever be able to own you.’

  Without another word, she turned and walked quickly away, her small bare feet whispering across the marbled floor with barely a sound.

  Jack watched her go, his emotions in turmoil. Lakshmi fascinated him. She was beautiful and exotic and he couldn’t help but be attracted to her. She beguiled him in a way that Isabel never could. But he had made his choice the moment he agreed to go on an afternoon’s picnic to visit a crumbling stone tower. His head might be turned but his heart could not be.

  The sound of laughter echoed down the passageway, the hard marble floor and the wooden panels on the walls making the sound reverberate so that Jack heard it clearly even though he was still yards away from the source of the frivolity.

  He turned the corner to see Prince Abhishek standing on one leg in front of a clearly delighted Isabel. The boy’s antics were obviously the source of the warm sound of amusement, and Isabel was clapping her hands together with glee at his jests.

  ‘What is going on here?’ Jack snapped the question in the commanding tone of a British army officer.

  The prince started, the sudden interruption nearly causing him to lose balance. A fleeting look of guilt flashed across his face, like a schoolboy who had been caught cheating at a game of cards. Jack understood the expression at once. He made a mental note to keep a close eye on the Maharajah’s son.

  ‘Jack!’ Isabel bounced with girlish glee as Jack strode into view. ‘Prince Abhishek was imitating his uncle’s favourite pet monkey. The poor thing only has one leg and must hop everywhere!’

  Jack had a pretty shrewd idea that the prince had been thinking of a different kind of antic, and the bright crimson flush on the boy’s cheeks confirmed his suspicions. He was not the only one becoming infatuated with a foreign woman.

  The prince held his hands together in front of his body as Jack approached, nervous to have been discovered cavorting with his father’s guest. Jack made sure to look the younger man firmly in the eye, unconsciously straightening his spine to emphasis the difference in their heights.

  ‘Your Highness is a fine comedian.’ He spoke the words through gritted teeth. The boy recognised the tension in the words and dropped his eyes, suddenly fascinated by the intricate veins in the marbled floor beneath his feet.

  Isabel laughed at Jack’s heavy flattery. She saw nothing of the challenge in his posture or in the veiled menace of his tone. ‘Prince Abhishek has been regaling me with so many stories! Why, Jack, you would not believe half of them.’

  Jack smiled, keeping his eyes firmly on the top of the prince’s head. ‘I am certain the prince knows how to tell a story. All boys of his age have a fine imagination.’

  The prince looked up and quailed as he saw the older man’s heavy scrutiny. ‘Please excuse me. I must attend on my father.’ He quickly muttered the polite phrase before scuttling away, his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

  Jack watched him leave, a wry, mocking smile on his face. For the first time Isabel noticed his mood.

  ‘Have I done something wrong?’ She moved forward, placing a hand on Jack’s arm. He had unthinkingly taken a firm hold on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

  ‘You? No? But you should keep an eye on that boy.’

  ‘On Prince Abhishek? Why? He is charming. Why should I be concerned about him?’

  ‘I have a notion he would like to be not so charming. And he is no boy. He has the emotions of a man, and I rather fancy you have stirred some passion in him.’

  ‘Jack!’ Isabel stepped back as if horrified at the base observation, her mouth open in amazement. But the look on her face told Jack she was not totally put out at the notion of being the object of a prince’s desire. ‘How can you say such a thing?’

  Jack snorted at the veiled innocence. ‘He is a young man. You are a blonde angel like no one he has ever seen. He cannot but be infatuated.’

  Isabel stamped her foot. ‘That is not so. You are just saying it to be spiteful.’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I’m letting you know so you don’t encourage him.’

  ‘Encourage him! Why on earth would I encourage him?’ Isabel looked at Jack through hooded eyes. ‘Why, I think you are jealous!’

  ‘Jealous! Of a whippersnapper who has only just stopped having some nanny wipe his arse.’ Jack chuckled as if amused by the notion. ‘I’m not jealous. I’m simply concerned that you do not know what you are doing when you flutter your eyelashes at the poor boy.’

  Isabel’s temper was rising. ‘How dare you! Why, it is at times like this that I am reminded of how coarse you really are.’

  ‘I may be coarse, but at least I’m able to see what is staring me right in my damn face.’

  ‘Oh, really.’ Isabel moved forward, wagging her finger inches in front of Jack’s nose. ‘So what of the princess? Don’t think I haven’t seen how you moon over her.’

  ‘Now who is jealous?’ He raised his hand and used it to push Isabel’s wagging finger to one side.

  Isabel’s mouth opened and closed several times, but she was unable to speak. With a final grunt of barely suppressed anger, she turned sharply on her heel and stamped away down the passageway.

  Jack felt a pang of regret. He had no desire to hurt Isabel, but his building infatuation with the beguiling Lakshmi had made him feel guilty. Mixed with a little jealousy, it fermented a cocktail that he had been powerless to control.

  ‘General Lark!’

  A voice called his name, interrupting his train of thought. He pushed the difficult emotions away and forced a smile on to his face. It felt odd to be addressed as ‘general’ but he had a feeling he could get used to it.

  ‘So, you have been given my lancers!’

  Count Piotr strode jauntily across the marble, the spurs on his high black boots jangling with every step. There was no trace of animosity in his words.

  ‘I have to learn to ride first.’

  ‘Yes, you must!’ The count laughed as he replied. ‘I cannot have my men led by a damn infantryman.’

  ‘I shall do my best.’

  Count Piotr nodded in agreement. He was watching Jack closely, as if considering something.

  ‘Whatever you have to say, just say it.’ Jack was blunt. The confrontation with Isabel had worn his patience thin.

  The count’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well. You are an astute man, Jack, for all your attempts to portray yourself as nothing more than a humble soldier.’ He paused, his brow furrowed. ‘Did you stop to ask yourself why you have been given the command of the finest men in the Maharajah’s army?’

  Jack smelt trouble. ‘No.’ His answer was wary but honest.

  The count snorted once before he replied. ‘I thought so. It is a fitting reward for a man as brave as you, no?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you think on what had happened to the man who had commanded them before you?’

  ‘No.’ Jack had been too wrapped up with his spectacular rise to give the matter serious thought. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was deemed to be too old to continue in his command; past his usefulness. You have replaced him.’

  Jack heard the bitterness in the revelation. ‘I’m sorry. I did not intend to force you from your position.’

  To Jack’s surprise the count laughed again. ‘You are a quick-witted fellow, Jack. Perhaps you will do well in your new
role.’ His face changed, his expression suddenly serious. ‘I do not begrudge you commanding my men. But you would do well to think on your life here. Are you being rewarded for valour? Or are you a bauble? An adornment that satisfies the Maharajah’s fancy.’ He waved his arm, indicating the dozens of fabulous objects scattered around the corridor in which they talked. ‘He has many trinkets. They interest him for a day, perhaps a week.’ He fixed Jack with an intense stare. ‘And then he tires of them.’

  Jack understood immediately. The Polish count was warning him for a second time. ‘So what happens to you now?’

  Again the count laughed. ‘You must not worry about an old man. I am still here. I shall still advise the great king although I am not so sure he will listen to me. But he has not fully tired of me. For the moment at least.’

  He chuckled, as if amused at a joke only he had heard, before he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Jack watched him go. He would heed the count’s warning. He would take nothing for granted. As long as he served the Maharajah, he would be on his guard.

  Jack stood in the white durbar room, trying to look composed and assured. The chamberlain had positioned him near the Maharajah’s simple throne, in full view of anyone entering the room. The richly dressed noble to his left had taken a self-conscious step to one side as Jack arrived, leaving him to stand quite alone.

  He was dressed in another new uniform, the tailored lancer’s coat now adorned with the thick white epaulettes of a general in the Maharajah’s service. Yet today the fine blue officer’s jacket felt tight around his chest, and the waistband of the new white breeches cut deeply into the flesh around his stomach. Even the tall black boots he had worn for several weeks now pinched across the instep, the highly polished leather suddenly tight and unyielding. His discomfort was made worse as it dawned on him that he had been positioned with care. He was supposed to be seen, his presence in the durbar arranged with calculated design.

  The last weeks had passed quickly. Jack had been made to work for his keep. He had spent countless hours under the uncompromising tutelage of the Maharajah’s son, learning to ride and gaining the skills he would need to fight in battle from the back of a horse. As he progressed, he had begun to spend more time with the blue-coated lancers. At first he had been thrust into their ranks, trusted with nothing more than learning the complex mounted drill that Count Piotr had passed on to the Maharajah’s favourite troops. He had accompanied them on long marches through the Maharajah’s domains, hardening his muscles and broadening his knowledge of the lands and the people of Sawadh.

  As he became more accomplished, he had begun to take his position at the head of the lancers, slowly starting to live up to the grandiose title that had been bestowed upon him. He was nearing the point where he would be able to influence his command, moving from student to teacher, passing on what he had learnt of battle, of what it took to translate the manoeuvres and drills from the parade ground to the battlefield.

  The rest of his time had been spent with Lakshmi and Isabel, exploring the palace and learning more of the country that sheltered them from the righteous anger of the British authorities. The friendship that had developed between the two young women fascinated him. He would stare at them as they wandered the corridors and rooms of the fortress arm in arm, talking ten to the dozen, as if they had known each other all their lives. He did not understand how they had established such a strong bond, but somehow it made it easier for him, his fascination with Lakshmi neutered with Isabel present. Not that he had the energy to even think of anything untoward, the hours spent with the Maharajah’s lancers sapping him of the necessary energy and strength.

  He looked around the durbar room, trying to remember the names of all who were present, just one of the many things he was struggling to learn as he took his place as one of the Maharajah’s inner circle of advisers. His heart was pounding in his chest as he waited for those who had come demanding an audience with the Maharajah. He sensed that his future hung on the events of the next hour. The calm of recent weeks had dulled his anxiety, the simple pleasure of life in the Maharajah’s court allowing him to put his concerns for the future to one side. Now the urgent summons to the durbar room mocked such complacency.

  The Maharajah lounged on his simple throne. He was dressed in the unassuming shirt and breeches of a soldier, only the fabulous golden silk cravat revealing any flamboyance. Every insouciant gesture reaffirmed his lack of concern, as if the meeting that was about to take place was as mundane as dealing with the trivial arguments solved by his junior ministers. Yet Jack had known him long enough to see the anxiety in his eyes. The Maharajah might have presented the calm facade of a man fully in control of his destiny, but Jack sensed the tension that was building within.

  The Maharajah was right to be concerned. For the official delegates of the British government had arrived unannounced and demanded an immediate audience. He could not ignore the men who governed his land under the terms of the treaty signed by his father.

  As for Jack, he would have to stand in full view as Major Proudfoot ventured into his enemy’s lair. For good or for ill, he was about to come face to face with his former commanding officer.

  The large doors swung open, the two guards standing rigidly to attention as the British deputation strode purposefully into the durbar. The sudden flash of their scarlet coats jolted Jack and he felt a tremor of shame deep within his belly. He was wearing the uniform of a foreign power, and for the first time he felt like a traitor.

  Proudfoot marched towards the Maharajah’s throne. Jack could see the major’s face set into a purposeful scowl, the look of a schoolmaster before he administered the cane to an errant yet deserving boy. He walked with the air of a man in charge, as if he, not the man who lolled in the room’s only chair, were the rightful ruler of Sawadh.

  Lieutenant Fenris followed Proudfoot into the room. He caught Jack’s eye, the sudden flare of recognition quickly replaced by a look of such loathing that it momentarily stunned Jack with its force. He had known that the junior officer had become his enemy, but he was still struck by the power of the hatred that emanated from the younger man. Proudfoot himself glanced across at Jack for no more than a single heartbeat before he bowed to the Maharajah and began to speak.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us at such short notice, sire.’

  ‘The pleasure is all yours, I am sure.’ The Maharajah still lounged on his throne, one leg thrown casually over its arm. He looked thoroughly bored, and Jack wondered what emotions were hidden behind the mask of supercilious disdain.

  ‘Indeed it is, sire.’ Proudfoot did not bat an eyelid at the rude remark. ‘I trust we find Your Highness in the very best of health.’

  ‘I am full of the joys of spring, Proudfoot. Much, I am sure, to your disappointment.’

  ‘I am delighted to hear it, sire. I hope that the rest of your family is equally healthy.’

  ‘If you have come all this way merely to ask after the health of every Tom, Dick and Harry who lives in this damn palace, then you have had a wasted trip.’ Some of the Maharajah’s tension escaped as he tired of Proudfoot’s insincere enquiries. He twisted athletically in his chair, swinging his leg around so that he sat facing forward. ‘I would ask you to say what you have come to say. I am a busy man.’

  ‘Very well, sire. As you demand.’ Proudfoot turned and gestured for Fenris to hand him a roll of cream parchment that the younger officer had carried into the durbar. ‘I have come to deliver you this document.’

  The Maharajah chuckled. ‘You British set such stock by documents. What of a man’s word? Is that not enough any more?’

  ‘Such things must be done correctly, sire.’

  ‘What things?’ The Maharajah gestured impatiently for the parchment to be handed to him.

  Proudfoot passed it over and then stood back, his face betraying an air of arroga
nt satisfaction. It was quickly replaced by irritation as the Maharajah casually tossed the rolled parchment over his shoulder.

  ‘I would rather you simply told me what’s in it, old boy,’ he said, lounging back on his throne.

  Proudfoot looked longingly at the discarded parchment. He took a moment to compose himself and still any outward sign of temper. ‘Of course, sire. I am afraid I am the bearer of sad tidings. Have you heard of the Doctrine of Lapse?’

  Jack’s heart had been pounding ever since Proudfoot had begun to speak. The dry legal phrase stilled it in an instant.

  The Maharajah sat forward in his chair, his attempt at nonchalance abandoned. ‘I’m familiar with the term, though I do not understand why you would mention it.’ His tone was icy. The court froze, as if every person drew in breath as one.

  ‘That is why I am here, sire.’ Proudfoot thrived on the attention, hostile as it was. ‘The Governor has ordained that due to your lack of satisfactory evidence to the contrary, he must assume you to have no heir.’

  Jack stared in fascination at the Maharajah. There was no trace of emotion on his face. Where a lesser man would have leapt to his feet, roaring in indignation, he sat still and composed, only the hard, flat stare an indication of the emotions that were raging inside.

  ‘I see.’ The Maharajah said nothing further; simply sat where he was, his attention fixed on the political officer standing in front of him.

  No one dared speak. Jack watched as Proudfoot rode out the storm of silence, his own composure matching that of the Maharajah. Only Fenris seemed uncomfortable, visibly squirming as the uncomfortable hiatus went on.

  ‘There has been a mistake,’ said the Maharajah finally, in the quiet tones of a reasonable man, his delivery careful and deliberate. ‘I am sure the Governor is very busy and is poorly guided in this matter. There has never been any doubt that I am blessed with two children, both of whom are more than able to rule here in my stead when I am gone. The Doctrine of Lapse cannot . . .’ he paused before continuing, ‘shall not be applied here.’