‘Yes.’
‘Even to fight against your own people?’
‘I would prefer not to. Although my own people have chosen to fight against me.’
Peyraud’s lips twisted; Richard couldn’t be sure whether he was expressing contempt or sympathy.
‘As far as we are concerned,’ he said, ‘the East India Company is far away, and of no account. A good man will always be welcome in our ranks. I would have you display your skill.’
Richard was taken outside, and a bottle suspended from the branch of a tree, some twenty-five paces away.
‘Hit that, if you can,’ Peyraud said.
The entire camp gathered round, and Richard was heartily wishing he had not drunk quite so much wine. But there was nothing for it, and besides, Hanif was there, grinning and telling his new friends to observe his master’s skill.
‘Give me a count,’ he suggested to Peyraud.
‘Very well. The count will be three. One…two…three!’
Richard brought up his arm, his eye immediately picking up the sight on the gun barrel, as he had practised so often. His entire hand closed, the pistol exploded, and the bottle shattered into a thousand fragments.
‘Bravo!’ Peyraud cried, and his men equally applauded.
‘Oh, indeed, you must fight with us, Englishman. Our war is with Scindhia. Hence you see us on this marauding expedition. We are now on our way home.’
‘And where is your home?’
‘We march for Agra.’
Richard’s heart gave a lurch. He had not, after all, fallen on his feet. This was a contingent of the army of Renaud, known as Sombre. Some of these men would have been at the appalling sack of Patna. Even though Peyraud was too young, and it had all happened several years ago, Richard could not help feeling that these men were his enemies.
‘You serve Renaud, the man they call Sombre,’ he said. ‘I have been told he hates the English.’
‘Indeed he did. Had you come upon me a year ago, I would have executed you without question. However, the Viceroy is dead. He died ten months ago.’
‘My God! Then, who do you serve? Is Sardhana reverted to the Mughal?’
‘He has indicated that he would like that to happen, truly,’ Peyraud agreed. ‘However, our mistress thinks otherwise. She has elected to inherit her husband’s rights as well as his domains.’
‘Your mistress?’
‘The Begum Renaud.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘We call her the Begum Sombre.’
Richard scratched his head. ‘And this Begum looks more kindly upon the English than did her husband?’
Peyraud gave an enigmatic smile. ‘I believe she may look more kindly on you, at the least, Monsieur Bryant.’
*
He was, indeed, an enigmatic fellow. Both Richard and Hanif were treated with courtesy, and given horses to ride, but there could be no doubt that they were prisoners, even if no attempt was made to relieve Richard of his weapons.
Peyraud ordered his men to find some clothes for him, however, and he was eventually fitted out in a blue jacket, which was too tight for him, and a pair of breeches which were far too loose; there was no waistcoat to fit, and his chest was left bare.
‘Nevertheless, a European must preserve his distinction from the natives,’ the captain pointed out. ‘There are too many of them, and too few of us. I do not speak of my own native troopers, who are loyal enough, but of the masses.’
He wished to hear about the duel, and about conditions in Bombay, as well as about Richard’s trek through the jungle.
Richard was willing enough to relate his adventures, and bask in the older man’s obvious admiration, but he was more interested in learning about affairs in Sardhana, and this woman of whom he had never before heard.
‘Is the Begum also French?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Peyraud told him. ‘She is not French.’
But he offered nothing more, save to say, when several days later—their progress was slow because of the slaves and the goats who had to be dragged along behind the horses—they had left the country of Scindhia and were descending from the hill country into the valley of the Jumna, ‘Her Highness the Begum seeks loyalty. Hers is a difficult situation. Give her loyalty, and she will reward you beyond your wildest dreams. Remember this, if you would prosper, Monsieur Bryant.’ These words left Richard more curious than ever.
*
From the hills the squadron debouched on to a level plain which stretched as far to the north as they could see. It was clearly a fertile valley, for it was watered by three large rivers, and was under intensive cultivation.
‘The Lord Sombre chose well, when he set up his standard,’ Peyraud agreed in reply to Richard’s comment.
He was less sanguine when they encountered an encampment of troops, mostly Indian with French officers, who were apparently guarding the southern borders of the viceroyalty.
‘We must make haste,’ he said, after conferring with their commander, Colonel le Cocq.
‘Trouble?’ Richard asked.
‘Who can say. We must make haste. Now is your chance to earn yourself a place in the Begum’s esteem.’
Indeed he abandoned the main body of his squadron, leaving them to drive their captives and booty towards the capital. While he and half a dozen men, including Richard and Hanif, galloped ahead.
The following morning they saw pinpoints of light in the distance.
‘Someone is signalling to us,’ Richard suggested.
Peyraud grinned. ‘It is a perpetual signal, Monsieur Bryant. Those are the rays of the sun reflected from the minarets of the Taj Mahal and the Pearl Mosque.’
Richard’s breath was taken clean away as they approached the river and the city, and he gazed at the perfect shape of the mausoleum. Clearly this was somewhere to be explored when he had the leisure. But Peyraud was hurrying past the tomb and into the city itself, making for a large red sandstone fortress which dominated the narrow streets, and from within which there rose a mass of minarets and cupolas of surpassing beauty, which he gathered was the Pearl Mosque. Both fort and mosque had been built by Akbar, whose tomb was apparently situated five miles north of the city.
It was an indication, Richard supposed, of how low the Mughal Emperor Shah Alam II had truly sunk, that this ancient and holy city and its environs, containing as it did not only the bones of the greatest of his house but also the most famous monument erected by his ancestors, should have been allowed to fall into the hands of an Alsatian adventurer, and was suffered to remain in the grasp of his relict.
There were guards at the fortress gate, who endeavoured to prevent Peyraud from entering.
‘We will send word to the Begum that you have arrived,’ they promised.
‘I will inform her myself,’ Peyraud snapped. ‘Stop me at your peril.’ He glanced at Richard, standing at his shoulder.
‘If you would truly prosper, Monsieur Bryant,’ he said. ‘Support me now.’
‘Willingly,’ Richard agreed, unable to fathom what was going on, but knowing that this man appeared to be his only powerful friend in a hostile continent.
The guards hesitated, and Peyraud pushed his way past them. They passed through the guard chambers, and emerged into a huge courtyard. Peyraud approached another building within the walls, also made of red sandstone. Here too there were guards at the door, but Peyraud snapped, ‘Stand aside!’ and they obeyed him.
Richard followed him into the wide, high-ceilinged hallway, the floor of which was marble. The ceiling was covered in mosaics, mostly of naked men and women, engaged, he observed in some fairly explicit loveplay.
But there was no time to admire these. Peyraud was hurrying up the central aisle, ignoring the men who stood to either side, who had been talking amongst themselves, hut now very rapidly approached. Some of them were French, others Indian. All, from the richness of their dress, were clearly officers.
‘Halt there!’ one of the Frenchmen shouted. ‘General Marcel has forbidden an
yone to enter the presence of the Begum without his permission.’
‘Stop me, and you are a dead man,’ Peyraud said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
There could be no doubt that he meant what he said. The officers stepped back, and Peyraud threw open the doors at the far end of the room. Richard followed him, and for the third time that morning caught his breath with wonderment.
The room was sparsely but beautifully furnished. Hangings of incalculable richness concealed the walls; the ceilings were again decorated with studied indecency; the floor was of white marble, but covered with a variety of Persian carpets.
The only furniture was a divan set well back from the doorway, almost against the opposite wall, covered in beautifully embroidered cushions.
There were two people in the room. One, a man, had been standing before the divan, apparently haranguing the woman seated there. He wore the white uniform of a French general officer, and was a man of some years, Richard gathered, as he turned to discover who the intruders were. His face, sun-and wine-reddened as it was, grew even darker as he gazed at Peyraud. Richard he ignored.
‘What means this, that you burst in here like a villain?’ he demanded.
‘I have much to discuss with her Highness, General,’ Peyraud replied.
Richard was already looking past the general at the woman on the divan, and experiencing a most peculiar sensation.
The Begum Sombre was not a great deal older than himself! Indeed, she looked a girl, but he knew that had to be a false impression.
Her skin was pale, too pale even to be Caucasian, and her hair was jet black, parted in the middle and allowed to flow beneath the cowl of her orange sari and down her shoulders. She wore no caste mark, no jewellery on her face, not even earrings. There was nothing to dilute the stark beauty which gazed at him—for she also wore no veil.
Her face was heart-shaped, with each feature perfectly delineated: high forehead, wide-set brown eyes, short nose, long upper lip, small but well-shaped mouth, pointed chin. Her complexion was flawless.
Since she was seated, it was difficult to determine her figure. But the leg which drooped down the side of the divan, bare from mid-calf—the other was curled beneath her on the cushions—was equally flawless, and there was little reason to doubt that what lay between would match face and feet.
The Begum Sombre! And to think he had thought Barbara Smythe beautiful!
The most amazing thing about her was that she was smoking a hookah, the bowl of which rested on the floor beside the divan.
The woman’s expression, when they first entered the room, had been one of cold disdain. But the moment she recognised Peyraud it became animated. A mixture of anger and triumph raced across her lovely features, redoubling her beauty as they did so.
‘Peyraud!’ she breathed. ‘Peyraud, strike him down, for God’s sake!’
Peyraud hesitated but an instant, then drew his sword. He had no other weapon.
‘You!’ snapped the general, and took the pistol from his belt.
‘Now, Richard, if you would live!’ Peyraud gasped, as the general’s arm came up.
Richard did not hesitate. He drew, sighted and fired in an instant. The explosion filled the room. General Marcel turned towards him, then struck the floor, half of his head shot away.
‘Mon Dieu! But you are a marksman!’ Peyraud cried.
Richard watched the Begum’s tongue, pink and wet, circle her lips, as she looked at him and then at the dead man. Suddenly the door burst open to admit the officers waiting in the antechamber.
Richard hastily exchanged his used pistol for the other.
‘The general!’ someone shouted.
‘Is dead,’ Peyraud said firmly. ‘Executed at the Begum’s express command, by her new captain of the guard.’
The men, who had scarcely noticed Richard when he had walked by them earlier, stared at the still-smoking pistol in his belt, the other in his hand.
‘The general sought to exceed his authority,’ Peyraud told them. ‘This the Begum could not allow.’
They gazed from Richard to the dead general to Peyraud and then to the Begum herself, who had risen from her divan.
‘Colonel Peyraud is now in command of the army of Sardhana,’ she announced, in a quiet but strong voice.
Peyraud gave a shallow bow.
‘You are dismissed,’ the Begum said.
The officers hesitated, then turned and filed from the room.
‘What happened here?’ Peyraud demanded.
Richard noted that there was none of the respect one might have expected of a man addressing a ruling sovereign who was also his employer.
‘He seized command, once you had left. He took me by surprise.’ Her voice was a trifle high, and breathless. ‘He made me appoint him general, and commenced to rule in my name.’ She glared at the lifeless body on the floor. ‘He was a wretch. You should have never have trusted him.’
The doors were closed, and she seated herself again, in a rustle of orange silk.
‘He planned to have you murdered, on your return. But you took him by surprise.’ She smiled, revealing a trace of white teeth. ‘With your friend.’
‘An English renegade, who is expert with a pistol.’
‘For which we must all be thankful,’ the Begum said. Her voice suddenly became harsh. ‘Now you must command those men. Make your dispositions. Condemn whom you will, and keep them until I am ready. Restore to me the command of my own army.’
Peyraud nodded. ‘I will do that, Highness.’ He beckoned Richard. ‘They are quite cowed at the moment. But none the less, recharge your pistol, and be prepared to use it.’
‘The renegade will stay here,’ the Begum said, softly.
‘Highness…’
‘Have you not just appointed him captain of my guard? You may execute Caillaux. Nor do you need him, as they are, as you have said, quite cowed.’
‘Your Highness knows nothing of this man,’ Peyraud said.
‘I intend to find out about him, Peyraud,’ the Begum said. Now take command!’ Her voice was like the crack of a whip.
Peyraud hesitated, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
The Begum gazed at Richard speculatively.
‘An English renegade,’ she said. ‘Renaud would have had you executed.’
‘I would hope to have justified my existence, Highness,’ Richard said.
She dropped her gaze to the dead man, then clapped her hands, three times, sharply.
Instantly the room filled with women, mostly young, and wearing only dhotis. The sight of so much half-naked pulchritude was breathtaking. The girls were of all shapes and sizes, from the voluptuous to the slender, and all complexions too, from the very dark to one who had yellow hair and a fair skin. She naturally interested Richard the most, but a glance at her small breasts and flat belly suggested she was hardly more than fourteen.
‘Remove that carrion. Throw it to the dogs,’ the Begum commanded.
Richard drew a long breath. There was something unnatural about such a command issuing from such perfect lips. But then, she had commanded the general’s death in the first place. And several since.
And he had carried out the execution without hesitation, or remorse.
Four of the girls seized the general’s legs and dragged him from the room. Others brought cloths and basins to clean away the blood.
The rest waited, heads bowed, for their mistress’s command.
‘Bring food and drink for the captain,’ the Begum said, and smiled. ‘I do not know your name.’
‘My name is Richard Bryant, Highness.’
‘Captain Bryant. Haste. Food for Captain Bryant.’
The girls scurried to and fro. Some fetched a cushion, on which it was indicated he should sit. Others brought bowls of spicy meat, and rice, and rosewater and wine. To his amazement, he discovered that he was about to be fed by semi-naked houris who were using their fingers, soft and sweet-smelling, to roll
the meat into the rice, making little balls, which they then conveyed to his mouth. Had he indeed stumbled into Hanif’s paradise?’
If so, this was definitely a Muslim rather than a Christian paradise, one ruled by the sword, and by a woman with the face of an angel, and the heart of…he did not care to think what.
And Hanif?
‘I have a servant,’ he said.
‘He will be taken care of.’
He listened, to a great deal of noise from outside, and outside the palace as well. But as the Begum did not seem alarmed he presumed it was what she wanted to hear, the sounds of Peyraud taking command.
Peyraud, he thought; there was a mystery, in his relationship to this woman.
But not so mysterious as the woman herself.
His meal finished, the girls who had been feeding him hurried from the room with their utensils. The others waited.
The Begum stood up. ‘Come,’ she said.
She parted the drapes, and passed through another door.
Richard followed the Begum through the open door, along a corridor, and into what was obviously a sleeping chamber. It was scarcely more fully furnished than the reception room, but the divan was much larger, there were cushions scattered on the floor, and the entire room was heavily scented.
His heart began to pound.
The Begum sat on the divan.
‘It is unseemly to enter a bedchamber armed,’ she pointed out.
Richard hesitated only a moment. In any event, he was entirely at this woman’s mercy. He took his claymore from his belt, handed it to one of the girls. Then the two pistols. Then his haversack with its bag of powder and shot.
The girls took them almost reverently, to indicate that they understood what had happened in the reception chamber. Perhaps they had even been watching.
Perhaps the Begum had not been quite so helpless as she had appeared, before the coming of Peyraud and himself. There could be no doubt that these handmaidens would obey her in everything.
‘Your weapons will be returned to you,’ the Begum said, ‘should you require them. Now disrobe.’
Richard licked his lips. If he had suspected something like this was coming, he still had no idea how to cope with it. He had never undressed in front of anyone in his life, save Hanif.
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