Land of Hope and Glory (48 page)

‘Drop the knife,’ William shouted. ‘I don’t want to break your arm.’

But Jack still clung to the blade and kicked and struggled with all of his remaining strength.

There was a loud crack. William suddenly released his grip and staggered away. Jack flipped over, still lying on the ground. William clutched his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his fingers. At the end of the hall stood a silver-turbaned Rajthanan lieutenant and five Andalusian soldiers. The soldiers had their muskets trained on William, while the officer held a pistol that drooled smoke.

‘Don’t shoot,’ Jack shouted. But his words were drowned out by the tearing, blistering sound of five muskets and a pistol firing.

William jolted, stumbled, tried to stand, slipped to his knees, got up again. It was as though he were balancing on the deck of a ship in a wild sea. Finally, he fell back against the wall, beneath the line of windows. Bullet wounds peppered his chest and abdomen, but he was still alive. He glared at his enemies, then turned his head and looked at Jack, one eye half closed. Jack stared back. There was a light behind his friend’s eyes for a moment, then it went out. William’s body relaxed as he took his final, long, sighing breath.

‘You were lucky,’ the lieutenant said in Arabic. ‘That bastard would have done you in if we hadn’t got here.’

Jack groaned as he tried to move. It felt as though all his ribs had been cracked and a metal peg had been driven into his face.

Bodies littered the slope outside the White Tower. The dead lay contorted where they’d fallen. Those still living sobbed and moaned and writhed like crushed beetles. The rain had eased to a drizzle and fell tenderly on the broken men.

Jack stopped for a moment. The stretcher-bearers had arrived and were carrying away the wounded, but there were so many injured he could tell that most were destined to lie there for hours and eventually die.

He looked back at the White Tower. It stood at the top of the incline, pallid against the dark sky, only slightly damaged by the fighting. The King was still inside, Jack had been told, being held for his own protection now that he’d been ‘freed’ from the captivity of the rebels. Sir Gawain, apparently, had been taken alive and would be tried within a matter of days. No doubt he would soon be hanging from the gallows.

A gust of wind blew raindrops into Jack’s face. Elizabeth was due to be executed in just over two days.

He grasped the stretcher on to which he’d tied William’s body, wrapped in a sheet of sackcloth, and staggered forward as quickly as he could. The stretcher bounced over the mud and the twisted bodies, the tortured faces, blank eyes, gleaming teeth, clawing hands.

No one paid him any attention. All those who’d survived the battle were either wounded or exhausted. A private dragging a corpse wasn’t anything notable.

He reached the smashed remains of the outer wall and hauled the stretcher up the rubble. At the summit he stopped to regain his breath. Below him was the slope he’d run up an hour earlier. It was covered in corpses, limbs, lumps of flesh, blood, all glistening in the rain. Beyond this was the ruddy moat with the ramps still lying across it, then the square where the bodies formed a carpet that almost completely covered the cobblestones. And on the far side of the square lay buildings reduced to hunched ruins by artillery fire.

The spire of St Paul’s rose above the roofs of London, the pinnacle invisible amongst the drifts of rain. At least the cathedral had survived.

He took a deep breath. He would have to leave immediately if he were to have any chance of getting to Poole in time.

As he turned into a narrow lane, Jack spied a horse, a white charger, wandering without a rider. He wasted no time in grasping the reins and then heaving William’s corpse, still wrapped in sackcloth, across the animal’s back. He mounted and set off in the direction of the New Gate.

Thunder rolled across London and dark cloud toiled above, although the rain had stopped for the time being.

After around ten minutes he realised he recognised the streets and squares about him – he was near the house where Charles had died, and where Saleem was hopefully still hiding. He was in a hurry, but he could spare a few minutes to check on Saleem. He owed the lad that much.

He sawed at the reins and the horse cantered down a side street. Soon the arch to the courtyard appeared ahead. He leapt to the ground, tethered the horse in the courtyard, then strode to the double doors to the house, which swung open when he pulled them.

He hesitated. He’d told the woman to keep the house locked. Had enemy troops been here? Had they found the woman, Saleem and the children?

He swallowed and stepped into the dim, musty chamber. Everything seemed exactly as when he’d left hours earlier. There was no sign of a struggle.

‘Saleem,’ he called out.

No reply.

He poked his head into the bedroom and was surprised to see that Charles’s body had been removed.

Strange.

He marched to the trapdoor, flung it open and stared down into the gloomy cellar. It was empty.

‘Saleem!’

He dashed through the other rooms on the ground floor, then hurried up the stairs and searched the top storey. There was no one about. Had they all escaped? Taking Charles’s body with them? As he’d ridden across the city, he’d seen thousands fleeing over London Bridge or in small boats across the Thames. Hopefully Saleem and the others were amongst them.

He juddered back downstairs, kicked the trapdoor closed, then turned to leave.

His heart shot into his throat.

A figure in a hooded cloak stood in the entrance, silhouetted against the grey light.

Jack swung the musket from his shoulder and pointed it at the figure. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

‘Wait.’ The figure raised a hand and drew back the cowl.

Jack blinked a few times. It was Kanvar the Sikh, his orange turban smeared with dirt and his thin face more gaunt than before.

‘What are you doing here?’ Jack kept the musket trained on Kanvar.

‘Following you.’ Kanvar stepped into the room, his pallid eyes boring into Jack.

‘Following me.’

Kanvar cast a glance about the room, seemingly unconcerned that there was a firearm pointing at him. ‘Yes. I sensed you.’ He looked at Jack again. ‘I sensed what you did.’

‘I don’t have time for riddles.’

Kanvar stepped closer. ‘You broke the law of karma. You used a new power when your learning had already been blocked. You shouldn’t have been able to do that. No one’s ever done that.’

Jack gripped the musket tighter. It looked as though Jhala had spoken the truth, then – the law of karma really did work as he’d said.

‘There’s something . . . unusual about you,’ Kanvar went on. ‘I could tell in Dorsetshire. There was something, but I didn’t know what.’

‘There’s nothing unusual about me. You lot, you siddhas, have been lying to me for years. Why should I believe anything you say?’

Kanvar frowned and stared at his hands for a moment. Then he looked up again. ‘You don’t trust me. I understand. But I’m here to help. I’ll show you.’ He reached for something under his cloak.

Jack flinched. ‘Stop.’

‘It’s just this.’ Kanvar waved a piece of cloth about twenty inches square. On it was embroidered an intricate circular design. A yantra.

Jack flexed his fingers on the musket. Where was this going?

‘Here.’ Kanvar held out the cloth. ‘It’s a new yantra for you to learn.’

‘Is this a trick?’

Kanvar shook his head. ‘Try it. It’ll help you.’

‘What’s the power?’

‘Try it, then you’ll see.’

Jack didn’t know what Kanvar wanted with him, but he was also tempted by the offer of a yantra. Finally, he lowered the musket and took the cloth. He studied the yantra and was taken aback for a moment – it was far larger and more detailed than the two he’d previously learnt. It would take many months to memorise. Not that this mattered to him at the moment.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He stuffed the cloth in his pocket and slipped the musket back on to his shoulder. ‘I have to go now.’

‘You must come with me.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I know where you’ll be safe.’ Kanvar trod closer and grasped Jack’s arm.

Jack shook off Kanvar’s hand. ‘Listen. I don’t know what this is about, but I’m going to Poole and you’re not going to stop me. Now, get out of my way.’

Kanvar stepped aside, face solemn. ‘Of course, it’s your choice.’

‘Right.’ That had been easy. ‘Farewell, then.’ He walked to the doorway.

‘Jack.’

He stopped and looked back at the Sikh.

‘Stay alive,’ Kanvar said.

Jack couldn’t help smiling at this. ‘I’ll try.’

20

J
ack stopped the horse on a rise, leapt to the ground and collapsed to his knees. The moon was bright and the night sky clear, sobbing stars. The road to Dorsetshire glimmered faintly and the fields of barley to either side swayed.

He clasped his hands before him and bowed his head. He shouldn’t have stopped – he had to get to Poole as quickly as possible – but he also knew he had to spare a moment to do this.

He’d been riding almost without stopping for over a day. He’d escaped from London without much trouble and then ridden hard through Surrey and the smouldering, ruined landscape of Hampshire. He’d met soldiers along the road occasionally, but none had stopped or questioned him. The country was only now beginning to recover from the chaos of the mutiny and it seemed that no one was much interested in a soldier like him, wandering the countryside.

William’s body still hung across the back of the charger.

‘Please Lord, forgive me for what I’ve done,’ Jack said. ‘I betrayed my friend. I betrayed my country. But I had to do it for my daughter.’

Sickness rose in his throat.

Our deaths will be a message to our children and grandchildren
. William had said that before he’d died.

‘William, you haven’t died in vain,’ Jack whispered. ‘Old friend, I’ll keep your dream of freedom alive. You will be remembered.’

But first he had to free Elizabeth.

He jumped back on the horse and spurred the animal into a gallop. It was getting late, around ten o’clock. He’d made good time and now there was just the final ride down into Dorsetshire remaining. But he would have to keep up the pace if he was going to get to Jhala before the pardon ran out.

During the long ride, thoughts of the mutiny – the crusade – had swirled and churned like opposing tides in his head. The crusade had failed, as he’d always known it would. But it wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be the end.

Perhaps there would be a time in the future when his countrymen would rise up again, fulfil William’s prophesy of freedom. Perhaps it was possible. But his people would not succeed as they were. They would have to progress.