Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re free. That’s all you need to know.’

  She flung her head back on his shoulder and her whole body shuddered. ‘I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t have got involved. I was so stupid.’

  ‘No,’ he whispered in her ear so that no one else could hear. ‘You weren’t stupid. I’m proud of you. And everyone who fought. I’m proud of you all.’

  21

  ‘Ithought the Grail would come,’ Elizabeth said as she sat on the back of the horse, clinging to Jack.

  ‘A lot of people did,’ Jack said. ‘At least it inspired them. Maybe a story can be true even if it isn’t real. You said that to me last Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, in the church.’

  ‘Did a crusader tell you that?’

  ‘No, Mother. When I was little. I always remembered it.’

  Katelin? Jack had never heard her say that.

  ‘I asked her whether the Grail was real and she said it didn’t matter,’ Elizabeth continued. ‘She said that even if the Grail isn’t real, the story can still be true.’

  Eyes moist, Jack glanced back. There was his daughter – thin, but otherwise well. Her eyes still had that fire within them that he’d always known and her dark hair streamed behind her in ribbons. Thank God she was alive. What would he do without her? He had to face forward again, blinking furiously.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Shropshire.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We need somewhere safe. Where we can start again. Shropshire’s a native state. The Rajthanans don’t go there, and we don’t want anything to do with Rajthanans from now on. Besides, I was born in Shropshire. I still know a few people there.’

  His parents were dead and the remainder of his and Katelin’s families were scattered about northern England, mostly in service on Rajthanan estates. But he hoped he would still find a few old friends in Shropshire.

  Elizabeth had been released that morning. A description of William had come down the sattva link and this had been enough to convince Pundir that Jack really had brought in the corpse of the Ghost.

  But Pundir wouldn’t hand over William’s body, and that still rankled. William should have a proper burial, but there was little Jack could do about it.

  A cloud of guilt passed over him. He’d as good as killed William. And he’d murdered Harold. He would never forget that.

  His wound quivered, his breath shortened and his head whirled. He tried to recover, but his injury just got worse. He halted the horse beside a stretch of forest.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Nature calls.’

  He swung down and walked as steadily as he could toward the trees. He didn’t want Elizabeth to see his weakness. There was no point worrying her.

  He plodded into the forest and, once he was out of Elizabeth’s sight, let out a deep breath, winced and rubbed his chest. The pain was fierce and worsening by the second.

  He eased himself down and sat cross-legged on the forest floor. It took only a moment to recall the healing yantra, and then a few minutes more to hold it still. He reached out with his mind and found he was in a medium stream. He smelted the sattva. Warmth rippled across his chest and he felt lighter, stronger, younger. He breathed deeply, the air clean and sharp.

  He slipped out of the trance and sat still for a second. Birds chirped overhead, bees hummed, dappled sunlight hovered about him. He hadn’t felt this calm for four weeks. He’d been living on his nerves.

  What did the future hold? He didn’t know. He’d promised, before God, that he would keep William’s dream of freedom alive. But he wasn’t sure yet what that meant. Would he continue the crusade? How?

  Would Kanvar’s yantra help?

  He stood, stretched, rubbed his neck and then walked back.

  Elizabeth was safe.

  That was all that really mattered.

  Acknowledgements

  Land of Hope and Glory grew out of my interest in Indian history and was inspired in particular by three books: The Indian Mutiny by Saul David, The Last Mughal by William Dalrymple and From Sepoy to Subedar by Sitaram Panday. The novels of the incomparable Bernard Cornwell also showed me just how much I would have to improve my writing if I was going to have any chance of being published.

  I would like to thank both my agent, Marlene Stringer, and editor, Carolyn Caughey, for taking a chance on a new author. Carolyn also provided many insightful comments on the book, which resulted in a much-improved final draft.

  Thank you to Dave King and John Jarrold for editorial advice at different stages of the book’s evolution, Gail Tatham for the translation of the Lord’s Prayer, and Stephen Coulter for information about the Stour River and surrounds.

  I owe a huge debt to my family and friends for all their help and encouragement, and for reading various versions of the book. There are too many people to mention but I would like specifically to thank Helena Quinn, Gail Tatham, Harry Wilson, Edward Wilson, Anita Hrebeniak, Blue Quinn, Molly Flowers, Dilraj Singh Sachdev, Renata Huvarova, Chris Tobias, Simon Tobias, Chris Millar, Simon Small, Wayne Tomlinson and Laurence Cooke.