The Maharajah's General (22 page)

‘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 arrogant 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.’

Proudfoot smiled, without any trace of warmth in his expression. ‘There has been no mistake, sire. We have been given no proof that the children you mention are indeed your own. If you were able to produce their mother . . .’

‘She died in childbirth.’ The Maharajah snapped the words. ‘Not even a king can raise the dead.’

Proudfoot gave no sign of embarrassment. ‘Then we have no choice, sire. In cases such as this, the doctrine must be applied. The Governor has been magnanimous in allowing you to be apprised of the situation so that you are able to make . . .’ he paused, matching the Maharajah’s style of delivery, ‘suitable arrangements.’

The Maharajah contemplated Proudfoot’s words. ‘So I must provide proof that my children are indeed my own? Or should I simply sire more heirs? Perhaps you would like to nominate someone to bear witness as I perform the necessary act.’

Proudfoot shuddered with distaste at the notion. ‘There is no need for such excess, sire.’

‘So when I am dead, the British will rule the land that has been ours for centuries?’

Proudfoot spread his hands apologetically and shrugged. ‘The Governor would deem that the best course of action, sire.’

‘And if I resist?’ The Maharajah spoke in no more than a whisper, yet every ear in the room heard his words.

‘That would be . . .’ again Proudfoot paused, as if sucking each word to check it was not too peppery, ‘ill advised. As you will be aware, we have recently applied the doctrine successfully elsewhere, and it would really be better for everyone concerned if it were also to be applied here. Though only at the proper time, of course.’

‘When I am conveniently dead, you mean.’ The Maharajah gave a mocking smile. ‘I admire boldness, Proudfoot. You are nothing if not bold.’

Proudfoot held out his hands in apology. ‘We merely seek to do what is right, sire. What is best.’

For a moment Jack was certain the Maharajah would unleash his temper. He could see the rage flashing across his eyes, but it was nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of the man’s true feelings. Somehow the emotion was contained.

‘We will consider what you have said. I must thank you for taking the time to deliver this message to me personally.’

Proudfoot bowed at the waist. ‘It was my pleasure.’ He made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. Jack would have gained a great deal of pleasure from slamming his fist into the centre of the man’s smug face and seeing how pleased he looked then.

Fenris leaned forward and whispered into Proudfoot’s ear, shooting a venomous look in Jack’s direction as he did so.

Proudfoot nodded, as if reminded of a minor item he had overlooked. ‘There is one other small matter, Your Highness, if I may?’

The Maharajah fluttered his fingers to acknowledge the request.

‘Thank you. I’m afraid this is a delicate matter and one that is somewhat . . .’ again the annoying pause, ‘embarrassing.’

‘Go on.’

‘It has come to our attention that there is a criminal at large. He is a man who is adept at the art of masquerade and he has been able to dupe a number of unfortunate souls with his evil cunning. To my shame I must admit that I myself was one of them.’

Proudfoot looked across at Jack before returning his gaze to the Maharajah. If he hoped to see any sign of encouragement, then he was to be disappointed.

‘He has gone to great lengths to hide his deception and he will stoop to any depths to avoid being brought to justice. I am afraid to report that this has included deceiving an innocent young girl and encouraging her to accompany him on his foul mission.’

‘I have no idea of what you speak.’ The Maharajah’s voice hardened. ‘I shall have my men inform you should this miscreant make the mistake of trying to dupe me.’ He looked at Jack and gave him a very obvious and unsubtle wink.

‘Sire, I am not a fool.’ Proudfoot spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘The man stands in plain view.’

‘He does?’ The Maharajah made a show of looking around the durbar room. ‘I see no one who does not belong here.’ There was a warning in his tone that was quite lost on Lieutenant Fenris, who was unable to contain himself any longer.