Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

‘You enjoy the best of both worlds, Your Highness,’ he said and dared to add, ‘But how long will it last? Is there anything in the future that could alarm you?’

‘I’ll say!’ she said with unexpected energy. ‘This freedom you see me enjoying is an illusion! When Udai dies and the men are at each other’s throats fighting for their place on the gaddi what do you suppose happens to the widows? We cannot remarry, you know. In the past there was always the funeral pyre as a quick solution to the problem and I’m sure it is an option that First Her Highness would choose if the interfering British still allowed her to do that. They outlawed the practice many years ago.’ She looked at him enquiringly, wondering how far he understood India with its rules written and unwritten, its customs upheld or suppressed according to Western morality. ‘Royal wives tend these days to find themselves under guard — oh, a very discreet guard, of course — when their husbands die. Udai will go alone to his funeral pyre. And rightly so.’

‘But you would say that his wives will be left more than usually forlorn?’ Joe prompted.

‘A wife can only continue to hold on to power and respect for her position if her son inherits and she becomes regent during his minority. And now the sons of the first two wives are both dead, First and Second Her Highnesses might as well both be dead. It was always a sadness for Udai that he had so few sons. Many daughters (expensively married off!) but only two sons survived infancy and, in his own way, each was a disappointment to his father.’

She tapped her boot with the riding crop in some agitation then said, ‘Udai had begun to acknowledge that neither Bishan nor Prithvi was going to please him. I think one of his reasons for marrying me was to renew the chance of filling the royal cradle with a series of strong, acceptable sons. But sadly. .’ She looked away to hide her emotions.

‘And now the two main players have been swept from the board, the palace strong men are jockeying for position?’ Joe said.

She laughed. ‘How you mix your sporting metaphors, Commander! But, yes, you’re right! Udai has many ambitious cousins here at court who would like nothing more than to be named as his heir. He has countless relations out there in the moffussil,’ she waved a deprecating hand in the general direction of the desert beyond, ‘to say nothing of his so able elder brother! So many players! I sometimes think this whole succession problem could be worked out on a chessboard! And never forget that more than one of the strongest pieces are representing the interests of the British Government. Sir George Jardine is definitely a player.’

‘A knight! He’d be a knight!’ said Joe. ‘Two steps forward, one to the side, always going over your head!’

‘Of course! And Sir Claude? Now he prefers to move tangentially, sneaking up on his target crabwise. . he’d be a bishop!’ she said, almost playfully, joining in his game. ‘But all we plodding, powerless pawns can do is keep our heads down and sacrifice ourselves for our royal master,’ she added bitterly.

Joe considered the clever face looking mournfully into the distance and wondered why she was attempting this bluff. Pawn? Plodding? Powerless? No. He was looking at a black queen. The most powerful piece on the board. And this was no nautch girl in spangled tiara pretending for the space of a game to have power. This was a diamond-crowned woman whose power came from within and he had no doubt that when her moment came she would swoop about the board in any direction she chose and weaker pieces would topple. No one would be safe from her gliding attack. Watch out, Claude!

‘Is it at all reassuring to have the Vyvyans at your elbow?’ he asked. ‘They would seem to represent a certain security, a familiar London way of going on. Claude strikes me as being the best the civil service has to offer.’

Did her lip curl slightly as she replied? He thought it did. ‘A true product of Haileybury. He does — what would you say? — everything by the book, and, yes, that, in its way, is reassuring. You always know exactly where you are with Vyvyan. But that can be a problem when you realize that where you are with him is many leagues behind his master, the British Government. Don’t be deceived by his bonhomie, his easy way with the natives, Commander — he’s a dog with one master. He talks with open-minded concern about the well-being of the state of Ranipur and its inhabitants, he makes suggestions for improvements to our lives but he’d cheerfully have us all shot from cannon if His Majesty’s Government gave the command.’

Joe was taken aback by the sarcasm in her tone and turned the conversation. ‘And Lois Vyvyan? Is it a comfort to have available the company of an educated and sophisticated woman?’ Joe asked.

‘Oh, Mrs Vyvyan,’ she replied with a shrug, ‘Lois is as cultured as her pearls!’

Startled by the casually cruel remark and unsure how to respond, he remained silent.

‘Minor aristocracy fallen on hard times,’ she enlarged on her remark. ‘Her father was a military man. . army, I believe. . Sir Alistair Graham. Lois has done well for herself landing Claude Vyvyan. A well-qualified, good-looking chap like him could probably — should probably — have aimed for an heiress of some sort. I don’t imagine that your government pays him much, though his prospects are good. A wealthy wife would have been a great asset to him. I fear Claude made the mistake of marrying too early in his career.’

Joe was amused. Again, the tones of Queen Mary came vividly to mind. She had discussed the domestic arrangements of one of her footmen with just the same tone of proprietorial concern.

‘But you are too good a listener, Commander. I see I shall have to beware or you’ll ensnare me into admitting it was I who stole the Koh-i-nur diamond! We should return to the palace where I understand you have a busy morning of interviews arranged.’

His audience was over. Joe was being dismissed. He rose to his feet and extended a courteous hand to help her up and then brought her horse over to her. She waited for him to put out his hand again to hoist her up into the saddle and with a regal inclination of the head urged her horse into a showy trot heading in the direction of the stables.

‘Now what the hell was all that about?’ Joe wondered.

He followed at a discreet distance, handed his horse over to a waiting syce then began to wander back to the New Palace. From the shaded verandah on the northern side he stood and watched as a small plane hummed into sight and landed behind a group of low, one-storey buildings screened by a line of poplar trees a quarter of a mile away. Joe decided that if he set off now he would be able to greet Stuart as he was finishing his post-flight checks. A little earlier than planned perhaps but Joe liked to see the people he was interviewing in their context, even catching them off guard.

Setting his topee firmly in place before venturing again into the sunshine he made for the hangar. The pilot, who was indeed Stuart Mercer, was busy giving instructions to an Indian flight engineer in what sounded like a mixture of English and Hindi. There was a good deal of agreeing going on and this appeared to be an easy relationship.

‘Captain Mercer!’ Joe called.

‘Oh, hi there, Sandilands! Good to see you! It’s early — you had coffee? We’ll have a cup of java — though out here it’s more likely to be Mysore. Good, anyway, wherever it comes from!’ He nodded to his engineer who hurried off to fetch more coffee.

Joe liked Americans. He admired their easy ways and their directness but above all he respected the courage and tenacity with which he’d seen them fight alongside in Europe in a struggle which was not their own. And top of the heap, for him, were the young flyers of the Escadrille Américaine. Volunteers, and for the most part from privileged backgrounds, they had wangled themselves into the war before their country was ready to commit them, before it even had an air corps of its own, by being taken under the wing of the French air force. The original group of seven, a mixture of rich playboys, foreign legionnaires, Ivy League graduates and stunt-flyers, had trained in legendary luxury and splendour at Luxeuil in the Vosges. When finally they were unleashed, their effect was deadly. The playboy squadron fought with the unthinking bravery, the dash and skill of a troop of medieval knights, and stories of their exploits had gone like wildfire through the allied forces. Some of the original seven even survived to preside over the adoption of the squadron into the US Air Service, late in the war, in the spring of 1918.