The Maharajah's General (17 page)

Jack held her tight, smelling her perfume, bending his head so that his face was resting against her hair.

She was right to question him. The Maharajah had been quite correct. Jack was an impostor, a deserter and a thief. But was he also a turncoat? He had certainly swapped his scarlet coat for one of blue. But did that make him a traitor?

He glanced down and saw Isabel looking back at him. He closed his eyes and leant forward to kiss her for the first time, losing himself in the taste of her lips. Yet a part of him remained detached, even as he felt her body pressing against his.

The winds of change had begun to blow. Soon they would stop, and when they did, he would have to decide which way he would turn.

The horse pawed at the ground beneath its feet. Jack could feel its muscles tensing underneath him, a shudder of excitement that left the huge beast trembling. Its jet-black coat was already streaked white with sweat after the first headlong gallop down from the fortress. He had clung on for dear life and somehow managed to remain in the saddle. It was more by luck than any latent ability, and he was relieved to have survived so far. But the day was young and he was horribly aware that there were plenty more challenges lying ahead.

They had left the fortress long before dawn, the Maharajah determined to have the first leg of the hunt completed before the sun had awoken to baste the earth in its stupefying heat. The hunters had gathered in the coolness of early morning, the low murmur of whispered conversation cut short as the first haunting call of the hunting horn, a legacy of the Maharajah’s time in England, summoned them to action.

A second column had left the fortress shortly after the hunters. Half a dozen elephants, twice as many bullock-pulled carts and hundreds of servants had been dispatched to construct the resting place where the hunters would shelter through the hottest hours of the day. More guests would arrive for the noon feast before the hunters went back out when the worst of the day’s heat had begun to dissipate.

Despite her polite request to take part in the day’s sport, Isabel had only been given permission to join the secondary party with the rest of the guests. Jack smiled as he recalled her fury at being excluded from the hunt, when he, without half her ability to ride, had been expected to join the other men, who would spend the day enjoying the Maharajah’s favourite sport of pig-sticking.

Thinking of Isabel led his thoughts to the previous evening. He had been unable to stop the kiss. And it had changed things. Isabel had been his responsibility since the moment they had stolen away from Fenris and the others, but now their growing closeness would complicate his options. He had prided himself on being able to cope alone, with no one to care for but himself. Now he would have to think of them both, a responsibility that was as daunting as preparing to lead men into battle.

Jack forced the thoughts of his future away as he contemplated the challenge of the day ahead. He would have to face the trial of keeping pace with the rest of the hunters without any of Isabel’s moral support or hasty lectures on how to ride the huge stallion that he had been lent for the day.

The bustle of the other riders jostling around him posed as much danger as the wild, careering gallop. His horse’s unpredictable movements forced him to make repeated anxious grabs for the edge of the saddle lest he slip in an ignominious heap to the ground. He felt like a fool. The hunters milling around him rode with dignified ease, languidly taking the refreshments offered by the many servants and syces whilst engaging their fellows in quiet conversation. The looks of pity and disdain on their faces as they gave Jack a wide berth left him in doubt that his incompetence was obvious to all.

The sound of the hunting horn rang out and the bearers sprang away from the horses, lest they be trampled in the rush. Jack leant forward and grabbed a fistful of his horse’s mane as the group of riders started to move out, the next stage in the long ride about to begin. One finely dressed young man looked icily at him, his mouth puckered in distaste, then suddenly pulled on his horse’s reins, using the motion to barge Jack’s mount in the flank. The sudden jerk caused Jack to cling desperately to the pommel of the saddle. He might not have understood the words, but his ears still picked up the snickers and badly hidden guffaws of his fellow hunters as they relished the foreigner’s shaming.

There was no time to offer any kind of response for the injury to his pride. The horse lurched into motion beneath him, following the rest of the mounts rather than in response to any urging from its rider. Jack took a firm hold and did his best to grip with his knees as Isabel had told him, determined he would not endure the shame of falling from the saddle.

The next stage of the hunt had begun.

A dense tangle of foliage stretched as far as Jack could see. Bamboo and forest trees fought to break free from the clinging embrace of the thick, thorny undergrowth, striving to reach for the sky, which was hidden behind a canopy of matted boughs. The sight of the interwoven greenery was overpowering after so long spent in the rocky high ground, and he savoured the new environment, his eyes roving over the spectacular growth as he tried to take in the wonderful kaleidoscope of colour, teeming with the promise of life

The noise of the jungle was as much of a contrast, the stillness of the mountains replaced by a cacophony of sound. The loud chirrups and clicks of a thousand types of insect jarred in his ears after so long in the silence of the higher ground. The calls of the brightly coloured birds and the gleeful whoops and shouts of a thousand monkeys provided a wonderful symphony that only emphasised how alien this new place felt to a man who hailed from the man-made rookeries of London.

The heat had built steadily throughout the morning, the humidity in the air now stifling. Jack sweated freely under his tight blue lancer’s uniform, and around him the very air felt damp. It was an oppressive feeling and one that was only made worse as they pushed on to a wide trail that led deep into the dark jungle. The sudden heavy shade pressed down around him and left his eyes struggling to adjust from the bright sunshine. It was a threatening place, and his joy at such vibrant display was replaced with equal measures of unease and discomfort.

The slower going at least meant he made it to the next halt without falling off his horse. But the pit of his spine was beginning to hurt, the backache that dogged his life already adding a fresh misery to the day. The sweat had soaked through his shirt, staining the cloth of his new jacket dark blue and leaving him sodden and drained. The other riders seemed as crisp and polished as when they had started, the long, hard ride merely a precursor to the main event, whereas he was already coming close to the end of his powers of endurance.

‘Sahib?’ Within moments of the party coming to a halt, a syce appeared as if from nowhere to stand patiently at Jack’s saddle and offer up a crystal glass full of lemon-flavoured sherbet.

Jack took the drink gratefully, downing it in several huge gulps, careless of the drops of precious liquid that escaped from the corners of his mouth. He wiped the excess from his lips with the sleeve of his coat before reaching for another glass. He was aware of a rider approaching, and he quickly drained the second drink before turning and looking into the smiling face of Count Piotr.

The count removed his square-topped lancer’s helmet and used a finger to clean the remains of his own drink from his pencil-thin moustache.

‘It is wonderful, is it not? I have often thought I could make my fortune by having the stuff shipped back home.’

The cool sherbet had gone some way to revitalising Jack’s flagging morale, and he summoned the energy to engage the count in conversation.

‘Is Poland hot, then? I had always imagined it to be cold.’ He did his best to sit straight in his saddle, ignoring the spasms in his back.

‘Sometimes it is cold enough to freeze your balls to your saddle.’ Count Piotr clearly enjoyed his own choice of words. ‘But I would be happy to drink this nectar whatever the damn weather.’ His English was accented, but it was clear he spoke the language well.

Jack dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘You might well be correct.’ He bent carefully and retrieved a third glass. ‘It truly is just the ticket.’

His horse chose that moment to move to one side, and Jack lurched forward, distracted by the conversation, spilling a large amount of the precious liquid on to his breeches.

‘You are not a horseman, Lark.’ The count offered the judgement, a thin, humourless chuckle following Jack’s grimace as he struggled to control his wayward mount.

‘I am not.’ Jack did his best to wipe away the puddle of liquid from his thigh, but only succeeded in smearing it so that the white of his new breeches was now stained a dirty yellow.

‘I thought as much. If you stay here long enough, it would be my pleasure to give you some lessons.’

Jack did not like the count’s choice of words. ‘If?’

‘The Maharajah gave you leave to stay. I do not believe he specified for how long.’

‘So I have only been given a temporary reprieve? That fat bugger may still get his wish and see me dead?’

The count laughed at Jack’s lack of civility. ‘That fat bugger, as you call him, is the Maharajah’s most trusted adviser. The vizier is not a man to be crossed. You must tread warily around him. He is as vicious as a cobra and twice as deadly.’

Jack managed to steady his horse for long enough to accept a fourth glass of the wonderfully refreshing lemon sherbet, warily keeping his free hand ready to make a quick grab for the pommel if the ill-mannered beast attempted to move once more.

‘He may not have to worry about me after today. I reckon I’ll be lucky if I finish this damned hunt without falling off and breaking my neck.’

‘I hope not. That would be a sad end for a warrior.’

‘A warrior? I don’t think I have ever been called that before.’

‘You have the eyes.’ The count moved his horse without any obvious command, easing it alongside Jack’s so he could talk more quietly. ‘You have seen war. It is obvious to me, though not, I suspect, to many in the Maharajah’s court.’ He looked around, suddenly furtive. When he spoke again, it was in a hoarse whisper, pitched so quietly that Jack could barely hear his words. ‘You will have to watch your back. This place is a damned vipers’ nest. I have been here six long years and I have seen men poisoned, murdered and executed in a thousand foul ways. It is not a safe place, Jack. Not for you. Not even for me. Not for anyone.’

Jack took a careful look at his recently drained glass. ‘Poisoned, you say?’

The count roared with laughter at Jack’s anxious expression and clapped him hard on the arm. ‘Enjoy the hunt, Jack Lark.’

Jack tossed the heavy crystal glass back to the waiting syce, the cold liquid he had so avidly consumed suddenly heavy in his stomach. The count’s warning had made a mockery of his relief at having secured a refuge in the Maharajah’s court. Despite the intense heat, he shivered, as if someone had just walked across his grave.

The lead shikari crashed his elephant through the undergrowth. His team of beaters thrashed and shouted around him, their long line spread wide as they sought to drive the precious boars towards the gathering of mounted hunters. Their enthusiastic din reached Jack where he sat uneasily on his horse. His hands gripped and re-gripped the thick bamboo spear he had been given when the hunters had been organised into their heats, the small groups that would be allocated a boar by the umpires who ran the hunt. Nerves fluttered in his belly, the sour taste of fear mixed with the pungent sherbet to produce a noxious cocktail that made him feel quite sick.

Count Piotr had given him a rapid run-through of the rules of the hunt. The garbled instructions had been confusing, to say the least, and Jack still had only a vague understanding of what was supposed to happen. The word and judgement of the umpires was final. When the boars, driven forward by the shikari and his men, thundered out from the thick undergrowth, it was the umpires’ duty to verify that the beasts were big enough to be hunted. Only the largest would be selected and allocated to the heats. It would then be up to the riders – or spears, as the count had styled them – to ride down the enraged animals, charging through the jungle until they could close and thrust their vicious weapons into the boars’ flesh. The count had explained a long list of other rules, though his advice on not crossing riding lines and impeding the other riders had made little sense to Jack, who knew it would be a miracle if he managed to stay on his horse long enough to even see the animal he was supposed to chase.

He did his best not to fidget as he waited with the other three spears of his heat. Thousands of small insects had appeared and seemed determined to feast on his flesh or to wallow in the moisture in his nose, mouth and eyes. He passed most of the long wait flapping his hand around his head in an ineffectual attempt to avoid breathing in or accidentally consuming dozens of the irritating and persistent plague.

The other riders ignored the foreigner in their midst, their quiet conversation conducted in their own language. Occasionally they would look in his direction, their guarded eyes and veiled gestures making it clear that he was the subject of their discussion. One of the spears was the same thin-faced noble who had deliberately tried to unseat Jack earlier in the day. He was clearly the leader of the group, the other pair careful to laugh loudly at his remarks, their obsequious behaviour revealing the younger man’s status as eloquently as any badge of rank.

The thin-faced young man caught Jack’s eye. There was no trace of humour in his deep brown eyes, no sense of shared camaraderie. There was simply disdain and dislike.

‘Englishman.’ His English was flawless as he called for Jack’s attention.