Land of Hope and Glory (50 page)

‘Are you sure?’ Jack whispered.

‘Yes. It’s all written down here.’

‘Let me see the cells.’

‘There’s no need. She’s not there.’

‘Let me see!’ Jack slammed both hands on the table.

The two guards beside the door stood up straighter.

‘I think you’d better go now.’ Ghosh put his hand on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack shook away the hand and then leapt across the table, grabbing the gaoler by the collar. ‘You weren’t supposed to kill her!’

Ghosh and the two guards jumped at Jack and held his arms. He wrestled with them, grunting and roaring like a wild animal. He would kill as many of them as he could.

They managed to get him out of the building, but at the bottom of the steps he shook them off. Ghosh was knocked down. The other two guards got hold of him again. Soldiers came running to see what the commotion was about.

Jack got one arm free and lashed out, catching one of the guards on the jaw. Ghosh leapt back to his feet and rejoined the melee. Dust swirled around them as they fought.

‘Stop, stop!’ The gaoler stood at the top of the steps, waving a small piece of paper.

Jack stopped struggling and Ghosh got hold of him from behind.

‘The execution was postponed,’ the gaoler said. ‘There was a note clipped to the page. I didn’t notice it. She’s due to be hanged today. She’ll be at the gallows now.’

Jack felt a surge of nerves.

Ghosh released his grip and stepped away.

‘Where are the gallows?’ Jack asked hoarsely.

‘Over there.’ The gaoler nodded to his right, down a parade between two rows of buildings. ‘Hurry and you might get there in time.’

‘I’ll take you,’ Ghosh said. ‘Follow me.’

Jack was dazed as he walked beside Ghosh. A couple of other soldiers walked along with them, watching him carefully after his outburst.

But after a few seconds he realised there was no point in walking – why go so slowly?

He sprinted off down the path. Ghosh and the two soldiers shouted and ran after him. He ran faster, his breath scratching his throat, the old ache in his chest building and purplish blots appearing before his eyes.

‘Slow down there,’ Ghosh called.

But Jack wasn’t listening. No one was going to get in his way now. He charged past building after building and soldiers stood and gawped and despite his injury, Ghosh and the others couldn’t catch up with him.

‘You’re going the wrong way,’ Ghosh shouted.

That made him stop.

‘Down there.’ Ghosh panted as he ran up to Jack. He pointed to a path to the right, at the end of which stood a stark, wide scaffold.

Jack shivered, then ran down the path with Ghosh and the soldiers jogging beside him. Three hooded figures dangled from the gallows. Jack’s heart jolted. He was too late. He ran as fast as he could but there was no point now. He skidded into the open ground, dust whirling about him. Everything slowed down. The hanging figures swayed and turned in the breeze.

‘Father!’

He heard the shout from amongst a group of soldiers to the side of the raised scaffold.

It was her voice.

And there she was, in the midst of the men, her hands bound behind her back, her dark hair ragged across her face and her cheeks gleaming red.

Jack started across the open space. Elizabeth struggled against her captors, but they held on to a rope tied to her wrists and she was unable to break free.

‘Father,’ she screamed.

‘You there,’ Ghosh shouted. ‘Release her. Orders of Colonel Pundir.’

The soldiers let go of the rope and Elizabeth almost fell forward. She stumbled awkwardly across the square with her hands still bound behind her.

Jack ran up to her, grasped her, squeezed her. She couldn’t hug him back, but she dug her face into his shoulder and sobbed and sobbed.

‘It’s all right.’ Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘It’s all right now. I’ve come to take you away from here.’

Elizabeth looked up at him, forehead creasing in puzzlement. ‘How?’

‘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

‘
I
thought 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.