Barbara Cleverly - The Palace Tiger

He paused and for a moment appeared to be surprised by his own frankness. ‘I learned long ago that ambition is a corrosive thing and our religion teaches us that worldly wealth and consequence avail us nothing in the end. Udai approaches his end fast now and let me tell you what will happen when the moment of death arrives. He will be lifted, as he dies, from his bed and placed on a heap of straw on the floor. He will take his last breath as he took his first — in simplicity, taking nothing from the world as he brought nothing in.’

‘And the horoscopes — the prophecies — will have been fulfilled?’

‘Yes indeed. They are always cast at the birth of a child and never prove wrong. My brother was correctly identified as a future ruler although a most unlikely candidate for the gaddi and, as predicted, he will be succeeded by his third son. Events are not in our own hands, Sandilands, and we try to no avail to twist the arm of Fate. But there are some. .’ he paused and sighed, ‘who find themselves unwilling to accept the unrolling of Fortune’s carpet and I fear that I must ask you to submit to an audience with the mother of Bishan, First Her Highness. She has asked to see you and she is not accustomed to being denied. I will take you to the zenana myself. You understand our custom of purdah? The women’s quarters are guarded and no man but the prince and I may be admitted.’

He rose and summoned the clerks with a clap of his hands, issued further orders and set off with Joe.

After five minutes of striding along a pace behind Zalim, Joe was fancying himself Theseus but without the lifesaving thread. And what dark presence awaited him at his destination? The endless corridors, the rustling of unseen people concealing themselves behind doors and in alcoves as they progressed were disconcerting and disorienting. He reminded himself that he was heading for an encounter, not with a fearsome man-eating monster but with an elderly princess with little knowledge of the outside world, a mother whose only son had died less than two months before and who was clutching at straws in her unwillingness to accept the hand dealt her by Fate. He sighed. Perhaps the monster was to be preferred.

A distancing courtyard alive with doves and chattering monkeys separated the women’s quarters from the main body of the Old Palace and Joe blinked in the harsh sunshine as they emerged from the shadows. Such was the onslaught of the afternoon sun he began to think that crossing the open space to the entrance to the zenana might tax his endurance too far and he looked with wonder at the tall spare figure standing straight as a lance to attention in full sunlight guarding the door.

Elderly, magnificently bewhiskered and hot-eyed, he was obviously a military man of some distinction. Already well over six feet, he wore a turban surmounted by a high red cockade. His waist was hung about with several leather belts to which was attached a medley of weaponry. As they approached, the guard, ferocious white whiskers bristling, drew a slender curved sword from its scabbard and held it before him at the ready in a theatrical but nonetheless purposeful attitude.

Zalim greeted him and ritual exchanges were made in Hindi.

‘My cousin’s father-in-law,’ explained Zalim. ‘A nobleman and keeper of the zenana. We have made special arrangements for your audience with Her Highness. These arrangements will include the services of an excellent interpreter as Her Highness speaks no English.’

He called out a name and a figure which had been waiting unseen in the shadows of the doorway came forward. A girl, a tall girl with long black hair, large darkened eyes and a red rose at a jaunty angle behind one ear greeted Joe in a low and seductive voice. She was wearing, not the traditional Rajput petticoats and tight bodice, but long voluminous trousers and a tunic in a floating, gauzy fabric. Bangles chinked on her ankles and slim brown arms. She wore no veil or dopatta and looked Joe boldly in the face, curious and speculative.

Zalim gave a few words of instruction to the girl and made to take his leave of Joe. ‘Well, off you go. I leave you in the care of Zafira. If there is anything you require. . anything at all. .’ he said, his voice purring in unmistakable conspiracy, ‘he will be delighted to accommodate you.’

‘Another of the Dewan’s pillow-talkers?’ Joe wondered, remembering Madeleine’s scathing phrase.

It was a moment or two before the significance of Zalim’s remark hit him. He followed thoughtfully behind the sinuous figure of Zafira who walked along singing and clapping his hands every few paces as though in warning. ‘Watch out! Here comes. . what?. . a foreign policeman and a palace eunuch,’ Joe supposed. ‘Strange pair!’

Intrigued, he had a thousand questions he would have liked to put to his guide but fearing his interest might be misinterpreted he asked none of them, following silently until they reached a colonnaded central courtyard. Here another paradisal garden spread its four green squares thick with lilies, orange blossom trees and bougainvillea and alive with the sound of piped water tinkling down decorative chutes and splashing from a central fountain.

Peacocks stalked and scolded amongst the greenery but the living birds were outshone by the brilliant representations, tails proudly unfurled, captured in mosaics of lapis lazuli, turquoise and gold which decorated the walls of the zenana. Balconies overhung the courtyard and Joe was aware as they crossed the garden of scrutiny from many pairs of eyes behind the latticed shutters. He guessed that in normal times this place would be alive with chattering, laughing groups, with music, games, and perhaps dancing but today, a funeral day, all was still and silent apart from the mournful calls of the birds.

They arrived at a shaded corner of the colonnade where a screen woven from split bamboo had been erected. On the outer side had been placed a stool and Zafira invited Joe to sit on it. He assured Joe that he would translate fast and accurately; he was accustomed to performing this service for Her Highness. There was a slight movement behind the chik screen, a faint waft of attar and Joe’s audience had begun.

What had he expected? A shy, indistinct murmuring? Female curiosity? An outpouring of grief? All of these.

‘You are very handsome. . for an Angrez!’ The voice was firm, clear and attractive. ‘Tell me, young man, are you as clever as you are handsome?’

‘Clever enough not to be seduced by compliments, even though they come from the highest lady in the land,’ he replied diplomatically.

A burst of laughter from behind the screens made him wonder if, after all, he might begin to enjoy the conversation.

‘I pay no compliment; I merely tell the truth.’

Joe felt disadvantaged by the unequal situation between them: she could catch every nuance of his changing expression whereas he could only guess at hers. Rather like performing on stage, he decided: actors, blinded by the footlights, saw little of their audience yet were able to feed somehow on their responses. Very well, he’d be an actor.

He turned his head and presented his profile but also the war-damaged left side of his face. ‘Perhaps only half the truth, Your Highness. I have it on good authority that I bear more than a passing resemblance to the famous Yashastilak.’

‘I had observed your wound,’ came the calm reply. ‘And it is to be honoured. It is a sign of courage and hurt taken face to the enemy.’

A bursting shell knows no compass direction but if she wanted to believe he’d received a sabre-cut in hand-tohand fighting, he’d happily go along with that. He raised his chin, narrowed his eyes and tried to look at once noble and fierce.

More gurgles from behind the screen.