The Maharajah's General (15 page)

‘Sit there.’ Khan spoke curtly as he turned to wave his colleague to a free couch at one side of the room. The man hurried to obey the command, bending at the waist as he moved, as if trying to bow at the same time.

‘I need some information from you both.’ Khan turned his attention back to Jack and Isabel. ‘Why don’t you sit yourself down, laddie? This’ll take a while.’

‘I’ll stand.’ Jack stood foursquare in front of the native subedar. He was not daunted by the officer’s size.

‘As you like.’ The corners of Khan’s mouth twitched as if he were amused by Jack’s belligerence.

‘Are you not going to introduce us?’ Jack indicated the white-robed man, who immediately looked down at the floor in horror at being the subject of such attention.

Khan looked disapprovingly at Jack. ‘No. Now, what are you doing here, laddie?’

‘We want to see the Maharajah.’

Khan gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Oh really. I’ll just tell him you’re here, shall I?’

‘Very good. We’ll wait.’

‘Funny, laddie, very funny. So you are from the 24th? A deserter and his bint, is it? You’ll not be the first nor, I suspect, the last.’

Jack took a deliberate step forward. ‘Be careful who you call bint, Subedar Khan.’ He spoke slowly and carefully. He had played the part of an officer for long enough to know how to demonstrate authority, and for the first time he saw a shred of doubt on Khan’s proud face.

‘My name is James Danbury and I am a captain in Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. The Maharajah knows me. I was speaking with him just a few days ago. He nearly killed me, but I found it in my heart to forgive him for being so damn rude. My companion is Isabel Youngsummers, and the Maharajah knows her too. Not as well as he would like, but he knows her nonetheless.’ Jack spoke calmly, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on Khan’s face. He could sense Isabel’s growing impatience at being excluded from the conversation and he just hoped she had enough sense to keep mum.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the white-robed clerk writing furiously to keep up, his eyes wide in horror as the white-faced foreigner spoke to the subedar in such a forthright manner.

‘Now,’ Jack continued without pause, giving the native officer no time to interrupt, ‘I suggest you stop trying to frighten us and have someone tell the Maharajah we are here. I’m certain he is a busy man, but I believe he will make time to see us.’ Jack turned to face the anxious scribe, who was scribbling away for all his worth. ‘Did you get all that?’

Subedar Khan said nothing. He stared at Jack for what seemed a long time. The silence stretched out, uncomfortable and awkward.

‘You are a bold fellow, laddie.’ Khan finally spoke, breaking the silence with a gentle chuckle. ‘Why should I believe all that horseshit?’

Jack took a step forward, his face impassive. ‘If you call me laddie again, I’ll rip off your balls and shove them down your damn throat.’

This time Khan laughed out loud. ‘I truly believe you would try. So it is to be Captain Danbury, is it?’

‘My name is Captain James Danbury and I am here to see the Maharajah.’ Jack felt his face flicker into a smile. It was hard not to like the straight-talking subedar.

Khan made a show of looking Jack up and down, his mouth puckering in distaste at the unkempt appearance of the man claiming to be a British officer. ‘Very well, huzoor. I have never seen a mighty captain of the sarkar who dresses as you do, but you are a strange folk, so I should suppose anything is possible.’

‘Like finding an English-speaking officer in the service of the Maharajah?’

Khan chuckled. ‘A Scottish missionary lived in my village when I was a boy. He taught me to speak English before my father saw sense and cut his throat. Life is odd, is it not?’

Without another word he turned and marched from the room. The scribe immediately leapt to his feet to follow, dropping his quill in his haste. Jack bent and retrieved it, calmly handing it back to the terrified man, who scuttled from the room as if he had been just seen the devil himself.

Jack had done his best. They had flung themselves on the mercy of the Maharajah. Only time would tell if they had made the worst mistake of their lives.

Their footsteps echoed loudly on the marble floors as they were led through the corridors of the palace, the sound only partially muffled when they crossed one of the many carpets and rugs that were artfully displayed in the beautifully decorated spaces. Jack doubted he had ever felt more out of place; a clumsy beast granted admittance to a world of shimmering and delicate beauty.

He had never seen so much wealth. The walls were smothered with fabulous paintings, some small enough to fit into the pocket of his breeches, others big enough to cover an entire wall. Every few paces revealed another treasure, a bewildering array of jade, ivory, gold and silver statues and ornaments displayed on a series of exquisitely carved stone plinths. Each doorway was a work of art, the teak columns covered with a fine tracery of carvings and decorations. Glass chandeliers appeared one after another, their crystal beads and droplets glistening in the sunlight that streamed through the huge windows running down one side of every room.

Isabel was entranced, her head turning quickly from side to side to catch every detail as they hurried after the blue-robed chamberlain who had appeared to lead them from their anteroom into the depths of the palace. The chamberlain’s soft white slippers whispered across the marble floors, his movements controlled and subtle so that it was as if he glided along, his elegant progress standing in stark contrast to Jack’s bullish gait.

Jack’s discomfort made him feel belligerent, and he deliberately walked as loudly as he could. To his satisfaction, the chamberlain turned to look over his shoulder, the silent rebuke clear on his disdainful features. Even Isabel scowled at him, her warning look imploring him to behave.

They walked through a dozen rooms, each as splendid as the one before. Their senses were assaulted with colour. Every room boasted a different shade of decoration, a subtle but noticeable contrast to its neighbour. Every object they passed was worth more than Jack could hope to earn in a lifetime as a redcoat. The maharajahs were clearly not coy about ostentatious display.

The chamberlain stopped in front of a pair of closed doors that were guarded by two sentries wearing the same uniform as Subedar Khan and his men. Each was armed with a fearsome-looking spear that was almost as thick as Jack’s arm, and from the look in their eyes, he was certain that they were more than ready to use them should anyone try to force their way past.

‘You will enter the chamber in silence. His Royal Highness is in durbar and you must do nothing to draw attention to yourselves.’ The chamberlain spoke fast, but in a hushed, reverential tone, the same kind of voice the orderlies used in the officers’ mess when their masters were enjoying a post-lunch nap. He looked only at Jack; it was clear he expected Isabel to say and do nothing. ‘You will not look directly at His Majesty, you will not speak, you will not call out and you will not walk like an elephant.’ His face puckered in distaste before he continued with his staccato list of instructions. ‘If His Royal Highness deigns to speak to you, then I shall call you forward. You must keep your eyes on the ground at all times and you will prostrate yourself on the floor when I give the signal. You must remain there until His Royal Highness has finished speaking. Then you will get up and leave the room immediately. You must walk backwards, again looking at nothing but the ground.’

The chamberlain finished his speech with a badly contained sniff of disgust. Jack had struggled to understand the man’s instructions, his thick accent making the words close to unintelligible. But the message was clear, and he felt a flutter of nerves in the pit of his belly.

‘Excuse me.’ Isabel spoke for the first time, only to be roundly ignored by the chamberlain. ‘What about me?’ This time she reached out and touched the man’s arm, determined to get his attention.

The chamberlain’s mouth twisted in obvious distaste at her touch. ‘You will be permitted to enter the room, but you will remain where I place you.’

‘Am I not to be allowed to speak to the Maharajah?’

Jack saw Isabel’s left foot tapping a fast rhythm on the floor and wisely took a pace back.

The chamberlain’s eyes bulged at the very idea. ‘You are a woman. You will not be allowed to speak in durbar.’

A pink flush was spreading up from the nape of Isabel’s neck to colour her cheeks. ‘And why is that?’

‘You are a woman,’ repeated the chamberlain, turning away. Clearly he considered the matter closed.

Isabel, however, did not. She reached forward, taking firm hold of his thin shoulder and pulling hard so that he spun around to face her once again. She was several inches taller than the sparsely framed man and she loomed over him as she finally released the pent-up emotion she had kept contained ever since they had arrived at the fortress.

‘How dare you! I am a subject of the Queen and I shall not be kept quiet. Nor will I allow myself to be treated like some piece of unwanted baggage. I have spoken to the Maharajah before and I fully intend to do so again now.’

The chamberlain waved his hands in front of him to ward off the enraged young woman, who looked ready to commit violence. ‘It is tradition.’

‘Tradition, my eye. How I pity the women who have the misfortune to be born in your misbegotten country. Why, do you not know that a woman rules Great Britain? Would the Maharajah not deign to speak to her? Would he force the greatest queen this world has ever seen to remain silent?’

‘No, no, no,’ the chamberlain whined in reply, his voice wheedling and imploring. ‘It is the way.’

‘Isabel, leave the poor man alone.’ Jack decided to intervene lest their chance of seeing the Maharajah disappear. ‘He’s only doing his job.’

Isabel turned on him, her eyes flashing in fury. ‘So you think I should remain silent too! How dare you! After all I have done for you!’

‘Yes. Yes, I do think you should remain silent if that is how things are done here. We cannot waltz in and expect them to lay out the red carpet for us.’

‘I expect to be heard.’

‘Oh, I am sure the Maharajah will want to do more than just hear you. But you must wait.’

Isabel crossed her arms in front of her. ‘So I have to do as I am told?’

‘Yes.’ Jack smiled at the pouting face. ‘This time you do as you are bloody well told, unless you want us to be clapped in irons and shipped back to Bhundapur.’

Isabel sighed in resignation. ‘Very well. But don’t you dare mess this up. If you do, I shall never forgive you.’

‘I won’t. Now stand still and look pretty. I don’t imagine the Maharajah will ignore you for long. It cannot be often that he has a beautiful English rose in his court.’

Jack turned and nodded to the chamberlain, signalling that they were finally ready to enter the durbar room.

With a final haughty sniff, the chamberlain signalled the guards to open the ornate double doors.

The durbar room was hushed. With its high vaulted ceiling it felt like a grand library, and the sombre silence pressed around Jack as soon as he followed the chamberlain into the room. On one side, wide windows had been thrown open, and the air felt fresh, cooled by the breeze that rushed into the vast space. Everything in the chamber was white, with dramatic silk hangings around the windows that billowed theatrically in the breeze. After so many examples of dazzling colour and ostentatious display, the contrast was stark; the durbar room was a haven of peace and tranquillity.

Yet it was not completely silent. The sound of quiet conversation could be heard from the far end, where a crowd of onlookers were gathered, all listening with intense concentration. Jack was too far away to make out any individual words as he walked as quietly as he could in the wake of the chamberlain. As they approached the small gathering, the chamberlain turned and gestured curtly for Isabel to wait to one side, a sarcastic smile stretched across his pale lips. The solemnity of the durbar had done wonders to quell Isabel’s temper, and she simply bobbed her head in acknowledgement of the command, meekly moving to the place the chamberlain indicated.

Jack did his best to place his boots with care as he once again followed the chamberlain forward. His heavy tread still echoed loudly, and more than one face turned in annoyance as his entrance disturbed those straining to hear the murmuring voices at the room’s end. One by one the heads of the spectators turned to look at the firangi who had entered their midst.

The majority of the room’s finely dressed occupants were pressed to the flanks, leaving the end of the enormous space as a stage for the durbar’s prime participants. These were the figures that looked up last of all, their earnest conversation coming to a faltering close as Jack approached.

He did his best to stand up straight as he became the focus of the room’s attention. He wished he was dressed in uniform, the outer shell of a British army captain a fine prop to a man’s confidence. Instead he faced the gathering of nobles wearing nothing more than a stained shirt and a pair of filthy trousers. There was no sign of the Maharajah, and for that Jack was grateful, as he felt his confidence wane in the face of such intense scrutiny.

‘Who are you?’ The question was posed by one of the two men who had been engaged in the important conversation. The man took one long look at Jack and shuddered in obvious revulsion at his filthy attire.

Jack decided to ignore the chamberlain, who was flapping his hand in a desperate attempt to get Jack to prostrate himself now that he was being addressed.

‘My name is Captain James Danbury.’ He hoped his voice conveyed the right balance of respect and confidence.

‘Danbury.’ The man stumbled over the foreign pronunciation. He was finely dressed in thick red robes that did little to hide his round belly. His head was swathed in a golden turban that had a pair of ostrich feathers attached to the front by a huge gold and diamond clasp. Each of his thick, stubby fingers was covered with gold rings, and around his neck was the biggest ruby Jack had ever seen. ‘I do not know a Danbury.’

‘I am with the 24th Foot stationed at Bhundapur, sir.’ Jack did his best to sound respectful.

‘No. I do not know you.’ The man’s whole face wobbled as he shook his head. It was clear that he had heard all he needed to, and he turned his back on Jack, once again facing away from the rest of the room’s occupants.

The second figure laughed aloud at such posturing. He was the only man in the room dressed in uniform. Now he took a step forward and clicked his heels together before offering Jack a short, clipped bow from the waist.

‘Count Piotr Wysocki, once of the Régiment de Chevau-Légers Lanciers de la Garde Impériale.’

Jack did not fully understand the count’s formal introduction, but there was something familiar in his choice of uniform. He had a hazy recollection of a painting in the officers’ mess in Aldershot that depicted the charge of the famous Polish lancers at Waterloo. Count Piotr sported the same dark blue uniform with a crimson front panel to the jacket and a thick crimson stripe running down the seam of the snug pantaloons.

Jack quickly understood the impact of the count’s presence in the Maharajah’s court. ‘You must be responsible for the blue-coated lancers.’

Count Piotr bobbed his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes. They are my creation. Have you seen them?’

Jack shivered involuntarily at the image of the Maharajah thundering towards him with his deadly steel-tipped lance aimed squarely at his heart. ‘I may have caught a glimpse of them.’

The count’s eyes twinkled at the reply. ‘Then you have seen how well I have trained them! They only had a rabble here before I came. Now they have a full squadron of lancers that even the Emperor would have been proud to have in his service.’

Jack presumed that Wysocki was referring to Napoleon Bonaparte. The count did not look old enough to have served the fabled French leader; Jack would have judged him to be in his mid forties. If he had been at Waterloo, then that would have placed him firmly in his sixties. With a trim, athletic build and a lancer’s uniform that fitted like a kidskin glove, it was hard to believe that that was the case.

‘I am sure the Maharajah is delighted to have a man of such experience as you in his service.’

Count Piotr laughed. ‘You will have to ask him. I am not so sure he fully appreciates my talents.’

‘I hope I get the chance.’

‘Why not ask him now?’ The count moved gracefully to one side, revealing the final occupant of the room.

For the first time, Jack saw the simple wooden chair that had been placed strategically at the very end of the room. It was not the throne he had expected; in place of precious stones and exquisite carvings, there were simply the signs of long use and careful preservation.

He found himself looking into the same eyes that had stared at him from behind the eight-foot reach of a lance. He was finally once again face to face with the Maharajah.