The Maharajah's General (20 page)

Jack looked the boy in the eye. The earlier childlike arrogance was gone. Abhishek’s privileged background had been no protection from the brutal reality that so many boys his age would already have experienced. Jack hoped the bitter knowledge would teach him well.

‘Thank you.’ The boy’s voice was small, the moment clearly embarrassing him. But he was also the rajkumar, and he pulled himself upright, standing with a stiff back in front of the man he had insulted so cruelly but who had saved his life. ‘You have done our country a great service.’

The Maharajah whooped with delight at his son’s pomposity. ‘You see, Jack. I have bred a fine boy. He has the grace of a king. He is not like me at all.’

Jack inclined his head to acknowledge the boy’s thanks. ‘It was my pleasure to be of service, sir. I can only hope that my disgusting stench no longer offends you as once it did.’ He could not resist the barbed comment. The boy might have been a prince, but that would not stop Jack twisting his tail.

Abhishek’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He glanced across at his father before bowing his head.

The Maharajah clapped his hands with enjoyment. ‘You are priceless, Jack, absolutely bloody priceless. Now then, let us speak of your reward.’

‘Sir, there is no need for a reward.’

The Maharajah flapped his hands to silence Jack’s protest. ‘Enough of your bloody English modesty. I wish for you to become my adviser.’

Jack laughed at the notion. ‘Sir, you most certainly do not need my advice.’

‘That is my decision, not yours. You will also assume command of my lancers. As of this moment, you are my general.’

Jack shook his head in denial. The promotion was meteoric indeed but the idea that he could be a general was laughable. ‘I cannot accept, sir. As your son here will attest, I cannot even ride a horse properly.’

‘I will not be gainsaid. Not even by a hero. Abhishek will teach you to ride. It can be his punishment for not treating one of my guests with the right amount of courtesy.’ The Maharajah was clearly delighted by the idea. ‘Now we must leave this place.’ His face twisted with distaste as he surveyed the scene where his son had come so close to death.

Jack stood back as the Maharajah left. Like most ambitious men, he had come to India to seek his fortune. He had never dreamt it would lead him here. It might only be in the service of a wilful maharajah, but Jack had been made a general.

It was quite a step up for an urchin from the East End of London.

Jack belched as softly as he could. The lamb kidneys on sweet naan had been his favourite dish, but there had been so many that he was fast losing track. The feast arranged in his honour was only an hour old, but already his stomach felt fit to burst. Dish after dish had been placed before him by the hundreds of servants charged with seeing to every whim of the Maharajah’s guests. As the principal guest, Jack was the first served, and he had felt compelled to take something from every dish offered. They had started to eat just after sunset, and he was now beginning to wonder how he would continue to cope should the feast go on all night.

‘They were delicious.’ Isabel dabbed at her mouth with a gold silk napkin. She reached across, using it to wipe clean a stain from Jack’s mouth. ‘How’s the head?’

Jack instinctively raised a finger and poked carefully at the yellow and purple mark in the centre of his forehead. ‘Not so bad.’

Isabel smiled. ‘Well that’s what happens if you are foolish enough to use it as a weapon.’ As much as she tried to make light of the comment, he saw her distress. She had already witnessed one brutal battle, so she knew what it was for men to fight to the death. She would have some idea of how dangerous the ambush had been, how hard Jack would have had to fight to survive.

Jack did his best to return her smile. A servant bowed in front of him as the next dish arrived. He looked at it with caution. He had learnt to be circumspect. He could still taste the effect of the fish on wooden skewers. He had only taken a single mouthful, but it had been so hot that it had felt as if his brains had been blown out of his head. He dipped a small morsel of naan bread to taste what looked to be a quail stew. Reassured, he continued with more freedom, ramming home a few mouthfuls like a gunner double-shotting a cannon. As he ate, he noticed Isabel looking at him.

‘What?’ he asked, raising his own napkin, suspecting he had dribbled some of the stew across his chin.

Isabel blushed. ‘You surprise me.’

‘Surprise you?’ Jack scowled. ‘Do I eat that badly?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ She smiled. ‘When I first saw you in Proudfoot’s bungalow, I had no idea of the kind of man you are.’

It was Jack’s turn to blush. He sat back in his chair, wincing as the movement jarred his body. He knew he had been lucky to survive the fight with nothing more than bruises and a battered arm, but it still felt as if he had gone a dozen rounds with a back-street prizefighter.

‘And now?’

Isabel arched her eyebrows. ‘Now I think you’re a fool! We came here to hide, yet you have already saved the life of the Maharajah’s only son and been appointed a general in command of his lancers.’

Jack frowned, sensing mockery. ‘I did not have much choice in the matter.’

Isabel laughed aloud. She placed her hand on his forearm. ‘You keep surprising me, Jack. That is all.’

The sound of music interrupted their conversation and the room quietened as a small group of richly dressed men and women were ushered in, singing as they were escorted through the wide double doors. It was a lament, the soft blend of voices merging together in harmony to weave a spell over the hushed audience. Jack listened to the strange music, feeling it resonate deep in his soul. He did not understand the words, but the melody touched a place he had thought hidden, and for a reason he could not fathom, he felt the prick of tears at the corners of his eyes.

The gentle rhythm of the song faded to silence before the musicians, unseen behind a lattice screen, picked up the tempo. At once the doors to the dining hall were thrown open again and a troop of nautch girls bounded in. They raced across the room, moving into position in front of the tables, where the Maharajah’s guests clapped and roared with delight as the entertainment took a more lively turn.

One girl spun to halt directly in front of Jack. She writhed on the ground, lithe as a panther, her hips thrusting forward, before springing to her feet to pirouette so that her back faced him. She gyrated, arching her spine like a cat, before shaking herself with the wanton rhythm of the music. The silk gauze she wore revealed much to his rapt gaze, the sheer fabric stretched tight over her dark body. No part of her was truly naked save a wide band around her taut midriff, but it was not difficult to imagine how she would look were the flimsy silks whipped away. And Jack had a fine imagination.

The hypnotic, pulsating rhythm stopped abruptly and the girl froze in her pose, every sinew stretched tight as she held the final position of her dance with dramatic poise. The insubstantial costume rose and fell around her chest as she panted with the exertion, a thin shimmer of sweat glistening above the veil that masked the lower half of her face.

Jack did his best to ignore the heaving chest inches in front of him and stared into the huge brown eyes that looked at him over the thin veil. The girl matched his appraisal, shameless in front of his scrutiny, her eyes mocking as she saw the man she had danced for transfixed by her supple beauty.

A hard wooden fan rapped sharply on Jack’s arm, its intricately carved handle turned into an improvised weapon that was used with some force to attract his attention. He turned and saw Isabel arching her eyebrows in his direction.

‘Do stop staring, Jack.’ She was clapping her hands with an enthusiasm that was not mirrored in her eyes, which flashed venomously as Jack continued to gaze at the young dancer. ‘You may also wish to return your tongue to its rightful place in your mouth.’

He belatedly joined the applause, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed the way the dancer had gripped his attention. The smiles on so many of the faces told him that it had been obvious to all, and he felt his cheeks sting as the inevitable blush spread quickly across them.

The girl bowed and trotted away, the dozens of bangles that adorned her wrists and elbows jingling together as she moved. Jack snatched one last look at her bouncing behind before turning to Isabel with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

‘She was a fine dancer. Did you enjoy her routine?’

Isabel raised the fan threateningly. ‘Don’t make me use this again.’

‘I was merely admiring her abilities.’

‘Oh, I am sure,’ Isabel said tartly, ‘and from your avid inspection I am certain you found both of them much to your satisfaction.’

Jack was saved from a reply as the sound of the gong being rung silenced the room. A flurry of activity followed the last reverberation and an army of servants rushed into the room, arms full of empty platters and steaming bowls of water. They attacked the huge trestle tables with gusto, their practised hands deftly removing the remains of the feast and cleaning away the mess that the guests had created. In less than a minute the room was once again immaculate, every trace of the enormous banquet swept and wiped away.

The Maharajah got to his feet and everyone fell silent. In the glow of the thousand candles that lit the huge room, he looked like a king from a fairy tale. He was dressed in fabulous crimson robes, for once eschewing the practical garb of a soldier, and was covered in jewellery, some adorning his clothing, still more draped around his neck and smothering his fingers. His head was bound in a plain gold pagdi adorned with a single ruby that was at least the size of Isabel’s hand. It was a vivid reminder of his power, and Jack felt the stirring of unease deep in his belly. He was a foreigner in a king’s court, beholden to a whimsical ruler he barely knew.

The Maharajah began to speak. His voice was deep and he demonstrated obvious charm, clearly relishing being the lead actor on the stage. The audience hung on his every word, as rapt as Jack had been when he had stared so obviously at the young dancing girl. He addressed his court in their own language, but Jack did not have to be able to understand every word to hear the sparkle in his voice, his dramatic pauses and changes in tempo revealing his oratory skill even to a foreigner.

Jack stole a glimpse at Isabel as the Maharajah spoke. She was clearly enthralled. He saw her eyes moisten as the Maharajah dropped his voice to the hushed tones of a man in pain, caught in the emotion of his own words. She was clearly spellbound by the foreign king, and Jack found he could not tear his eyes away from her. He stared in fascination at the base of her throat, the soft white skin gently pulsating with each beat of her heart. Her wild hair had been tamed for the evening, and it shone in vivid contrast to the dark hair of all the other ladies. She was dressed in the same simple gold sari she had worn the evening before the hunt, and Jack did not think he had ever seen anyone look as beautiful.

The Maharajah’s voice rose to a climax, his arms spread wide in a dramatic gesture as he brought his speech to a resounding finish, and Jack forced his gaze away before Isabel discovered his intense scrutiny.

On cue, two lancers strode purposefully into the room. As they marched forward, Jack noticed with mounting horror that every head in the room had turned to stare in his direction. To be the object of such examination was excruciating, his embarrassment surely clearly visible to all. The agonising sensation was not helped by the Maharajah, who walked towards where Jack sat, his arms spread wide in greeting. As he drew close, he turned and gestured to the audience, encouraging a round of applause.

‘Stand up, Jack.’ The Maharajah was close enough to give the order quietly.

Jack glanced imploringly in Isabel’s direction, as if she could save him from the very public spectacle. But Isabel was little help; she too raised her hands and lifted them to clap in his direction.

‘Come now, Jack.’ The Maharajah beamed with happiness as he relished Jack’s obvious discomfort. ‘Enough of the reluctant hero. Try to enjoy the moment.’

With his face burning, Jack slowly got to his feet, grimacing as the movement encouraged the enthusiastic crowd to redouble their efforts.

‘There, that wasn’t too bad, now was it?’ the Maharajah whispered softly, before reaching out to clasp Jack’s hands across the table. Then he turned to address his beloved audience once again, keeping Jack’s hands held fast in his own.

Jack was forced to stand in embarrassed silence as the Maharajah began another dramatic soliloquy. Several gestures were aimed in his direction and he forced his face into what he hoped was a good-natured smile. Despite not understanding a word of what was said, he did his best to join in, nodding and chuckling when the Maharajah made some quip or wry comment that had his audience guffawing with delight, and trying to look suitably sombre when the king’s voice dropped into more emotional tones.

Finally the torture was over and Jack immediately tried to sit down. The Maharajah was having none of it. He continued to clasp Jack’s hands in his own, keeping him on his feet whilst nodding to the pair of lancers to step forward.

For the first time Jack noticed that both carried a blue velvet cushion. On the first was a naked sword, which gleamed in the soft candlelight. The blade was decorated with an intricate swirling pattern of letters and designs that flickered and twisted along its length as they caught the light. The grip was wrapped in a beautiful deep red sharkskin; the craftsman who had made it had given it a practical, workmanlike finish that showed it was a weapon to be used rather than just worn for ceremony. The guard that would protect the hand was a thing of beauty and the gleam of a dozen precious stones flashed brightly as the Maharajah finally let go of Jack’s sweating grip.

The audience hushed as they saw their king look in awe at the beautiful sword. He turned to face Jack before presenting it reverentially forward.

‘This is for you.’ The Maharajah had been watching Jack closely. He had read the younger man’s emotions as he looked at the weapon, and now he willed him to accept the gift.

Jack was struck dumb. The sword alone must have been worth a lifetime of a captain’s pay. Yet the second lancer bore a leather scabbard decorated with golden clasps that was also worth a small fortune. Now the Maharajah was offering them both to Jack, who up to that moment had owned nothing save for the clothes he had already been given.

Jack reached forward, his hand shaking, and caressed the tip of the sword, the metal cold under his touch. He could feel the tracery of the letters, the delicate script scrolling under his fingers as he ran them down the length of the blade. A spark of avarice suddenly surged unbidden into his heart. He took the red grip in his hand and felt the weight of the sword for the first time. The sour taste of greed dissipated in a heartbeat as he held his reward with all the care of a father holding his firstborn son.

He looked up into the Maharajah’s eyes and saw the pleasure his taking the sword had given.

Jack held a king’s ransom in his hands.

‘No, no, no! How many times must I tell you the same things?’

Jack eased back on the reins, bringing his sweat-streaked horse to a stand. He stifled a belch, the spicy reminder of the previous night’s feast nearly making him gag.

His instructor spurred hard across the dusty ground to stand at Jack’s side, his exasperation clear. Jack used the momentary halt to look across to where Isabel sat on her own horse. To his chagrin, he saw the slow shake of her head as she despaired at his lack of progress. He tried to curb the flush of anger that stirred inside him, and lifted one hand from the reins to wipe away some of the sweat that ran down to sting his eyes. At his side, his new sword lay flat against his thigh, the long straps holding it firmly in place no matter how hard he worked his borrowed mount. He still could not believe his good fortune, and he reached down to touch its golden guard, the feel of the cool metal still sending a spark of excitement through his tired body.