But no-one in the fort had seen him.
‘He was wounded,’ Tom said urgently. ‘Someone must have brought him back.’
‘I have not had him in my care,’ said Ana. She wore a dirty apron over her dress, her arms wet with blood from the wounds she had already bound that day. ‘They would have brought him to me.’
‘Then where—?’
A sick dread churned Tom’s stomach. He ran to the walls and shielded his eyes, scanning the bodies around the fort for any sign of his friend. Clouds of flies buzzed about the fallen.
‘Look,’ cried Francis. ‘They’ve raised the white flag.’
Four horsemen rode across the blood-soaked sand towards the fort. One carried an upright lance, with a white cloth hanging limp from the tip. Tungar rode beside him. Behind them, two riders trotted forward with a prisoner stumbling between them. Taut ropes around his wrists fastened him to his captors’ saddles, so that if he tripped he was dragged through the sand.
They reined in before the gate. The prisoner collapsed to his knees.
‘That’s Alf Wilson,’ cried Francis.
‘Quiet,’ Tom hissed, but down on the beach Tungar had heard. He gave an evil smile.
‘This man is your friend?’ he called up.
‘A member of my crew.’ Tom tried to sound unconcerned, and hoped Alf would understand why he had to be so callous. Tungar was not fooled.
‘I offer you a bargain. Surrender the fort, and I will let the prisoners go.’
‘And where will we go, if we surrender the fort?’
‘I will give you safe conduct to a nearby village. From there, you may make your way down the coast to the English settlements at Travancore or Cochin.’
‘The same safe conduct you gave to Mr Foy when he brought his diplomatic mission to the Rani’s palace?’
Tungar did his best to sound regretful. ‘The Rani laments that there is war between our peoples, and wishes only for peace.’
Tom could guess what sort of peace he meant: the peace that came at the point of a sword. He tried not to look at Alf but couldn’t help himself. Alf raised his head, and shook it imperceptibly. Wounded, beaten and captive, his face still burned with pride. He could see the lie for what it was. He would not want to be the cause of their downfall.
Tom gripped the hilt of his sword so hard the wire grip left welts in his skin. Only the deep-rooted habits of honour, learned over so many years from his father, kept him from breaking the truce and loosing a shot at Tungar.
‘We will not surrender the fort,’ Tom declared. ‘And if you harm so much as one hair on his head, I will come to your camp and visit such tortures on you as you cannot imagine.’
Tungar gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘You do not know what I can imagine. But you will soon find out, if you refuse my offer.’
‘Go,’ shouted Tom. ‘Before my patience expires. But heed my warning: not one hair on his head.’
Tungar grinned. ‘I swear I will not touch him.’
He turned and left. Alf Wilson gave one, last plaintive look at the fort before the guards dragged him away.
Tom went down into the courtyard, profoundly troubled by what he had had to do. He had not gone far when Francis, who had stayed on the walls, called out, ‘What are they doing to Alf?’
Tom raced back up the steps. At the edge of the beach, beyond the enemy camp, the guards had stripped Alf Wilson naked and were tying him to a palm tree. When he was made fast, one of the guards took a clay bowl and seemed to daub him all over with a liquid that glistened in the sun.
‘What devilry is this?’ Tom wondered.
‘He’s coming back,’ said Francis. Tungar had mounted his horse, and was cantering across the beach, the white flag fluttering from his lance. This time, he came alone.
‘What have you done?’ shouted Tom angrily. ‘You swore you would not touch him.’
‘Nor have I. I am merely letting nature take her course.’ He swung the horse around and pointed the spear at the tree where Alf was bound. ‘The coconut palms produce a sweet liquor called toddy. The natives cannot resist it, but nor can wasps, or the red ants. When the liquor is running, early in the morning, those insects swarm over the trees in their thousands. As the sun rises high and the day grows hot, they retreat to shelter. The ants descend the trees, and bore their burrows into the soft roots.’ He smiled. ‘Unless, of course, on their way down they find something sweeter. The soft, yielding flesh of a man. They will burrow inside him, and I assure you their bite is every bit as painful as the stinging of the wasps, who will be drawn to the honey I have painted on his skin.’
‘Fetch me a musket,’ Tom whispered to Franics. ‘Go.’
‘It can take a man three days to die that way,’ Tungar continued. Most of the fort’s defenders had come up on the walls to listen, but he pretended not to see them. He raised his voice.
‘Give your men this message. The first man who opens the gate to me, I will reward with lands and gold. The others will die – but not before they have wished a hundred times over they were dead already.’
‘I will make you wish that, and then I will make you wish it a thousand times more.’ Tom grabbed the musket Francis had brought and aimed it through the embrasure. But Tungar had read his intention. He kicked the horse, and galloped away across the sand. Tom’s shot fell harmlessly behind him.
Tom reloaded, and trained the gun on Alf Wilson. Alf kept still, either bound too tight or not yet aware of the terrible fate that awaited him. But Tungar’s torture was complete: even the Indian matchlocks, with their superior range, could not cover that distance.
In sheer anger, Tom pulled the trigger. The musket recoiled, and the ball flew into the sea, the little splash invisible among the little whitecaps.
‘What now?’ asked Francis, his face as white as the sand.
‘He dies,’ said Tom.
It took Alf Wilson three days to die: three terrible days that dragged like a nightmare. No one spoke; none of the defenders would meet Tom’s eye. In the evenings, when the breeze came off the land and blew the screams to them, Tom thought about slipping out in the dark and cutting Alf free. But Tungar had posted a double line of pickets, and at night they lit huge bonfires so that no one could approach unseen. Even after Alf was dead, they left the corpse bound to the tree until it was unrecognisable as the man he had been.
Tom longed for the next assault. He craved the release of battle, the chance to seek out Tungar and avenge Alf. But it did not come. Days passed with only the most desultory exchanges of cannon fire to remind each other they were still there.
‘They are trying to starve us out,’ Tom guessed. He had cut the rice ration again that morning, and now that the rains had stopped they were down to their last half cask of water. He had already heard men complaining. Soon they would be desperate.
‘The enemy are losing heart,’ said the hubladar. ‘In this country, armies do not fight sieges to the death. No one is so loyal to his lord that he would die for him. If a castle falls, it is because it is betrayed.’
Francis looked appalled. ‘Are men so fickle here? No Englishman would ever disgrace himself that way.’
‘Peace,’ said Tom, surprised by his nephew’s idealism. ‘No race is immune from cowardice and self-interest. If you look back through the annals of old England, how many of our own castles were taken by treachery or deceit?’
‘My guess is that the Rani is troubled,’ said Ana. ‘She needed a complete victory before the monsoon ended. Soon, the new trading season will open. If she is at war with us, her merchants will have nowhere to sell their pepper and cloth. They will blame the queen for losing their livelihoods, and she will lose her revenues from the customs. The whole kingdom will be impoverished. She knows this.’
Tom gave her an admiring look. Even in the extremes of hardship, she had a cool head for business. He glanced at Francis. He had seen how the boy followed her about, sitting long hours talking with her when he was not on duty, saving little
portions of his rice ration to give her. He marvelled that he could carry on his courtship in such circumstances.
‘The monsoon will turn soon.’ Tom had already felt the change in the air, a new coolness as the prevailing winds shifted. ‘Perhaps then the Rani will reconsider her policy.’
A quarter of a mile away, Christopher sat in Tungar’s tent. Through the open flap, he could see his battery of nine-pounders sitting impotent in their emplacements. The sight enraged him. They ought to have reduced the fortress to rubble by now, and buried all the defenders beneath it. But the Rani’s powder was feeble, and instead of iron balls she only had stones, which shattered against the well-engineered walls.
‘The Rani is most displeased with your lack of progress,’ said Poola. He had arrived unannounced that evening, with a retinue of fifty of the Rani’s bodyguards. According to Christopher’s spies, he had been spending more and more time in the Rani’s council chambers. Perhaps that explained the glittering profusion of gold rings that had sprouted from his fingers like fresh shoots in spring.
I should have cut off your fingers when I had the chance, Christopher thought sourly. And your tongue. He gave a blank smile, and poured his guest another cup of toddy.
‘We would have carried the fort weeks ago, were it not for the accursed hat-wearers who were shipwrecked,’ Tungar protested. ‘Their leader is a djinn, a devil.’
Poola nodded to the Neptune sword that hung from a peg on the tent pole. Light from the lamps smouldered in the depths of the great sapphire. ‘Perhaps if you had not taken his sword, he might have joined our cause. Instead of thwarting us.’
‘Why have you come here?’ said Tungar brusquely. A beetle flew down and landed on the plate of dates he had laid out for his guest. It crawled over the fruit, antennae twitching.
‘The monsoon is nearly over. Soon the seas will open, and the hat-wearers’ ships will return. If our weavers and pepper-farmers have no one to buy their goods, they will starve.’
‘You mean they will not pay the Rani’s taxes,’ retorted Tungar.
‘And who do you think pays for your army?’ said Poola. He coughed; Christopher smelled the sickly sweetness of the toddy on his breath. ‘I counselled against this war, but you prevailed with the Rani. Now that you have had your way, you had better see it to a favourable conclusion. If you fail, do not think you will be welcome in the palace at Chittattinkara. This ill-advised war has cost the Rani a year’s revenues.’
‘No doubt it cost you a pretty penny too,’ said Christopher.
‘The Rani is a river, and all wealth flows from her,’ said Poola unctuously. ‘I would not expect you to understand.’ He looked at Tungar. ‘This is what comes of waging war with pirates and bandits.’
The beetle was still clambering over the fruit plate. Suddenly, Tungar slammed down his fist to kill it. The plate shattered, spilling dates over the floor. The beetle flew away, buzzing around the lamp in the corner.
Tungar picked up a fragment of the broken plate and crushed it to dust in his fist. ‘We will win this war,’ he promised. ‘I will mount the hat-wearers’ heads on spikes every mile from here to Chittattinkara, and when we reach the palace I will mount yours right above the gate, to warn all those who would speak treason to the Rani.’
Christopher stayed silent. He knew it was only the stalemate between Tungar and Poola that kept him alive. If the war was lost, Tungar would surely lose his head – and Christopher with him.
Poola stood to go. ‘I do not think we have anything more to discuss. I bid you good night.’
He lifted the flap of the tent. The beetle, drawn by the sudden brightness of the watch fire outside, fluttered out. It flew into the flames and vanished in a puff of smoke.
Poola smiled. ‘You see? There is more than one way to destroy your enemies.’
After he had gone, Christopher sat by the fire in thought. The safest course, he knew, would be to vanish into the forest, for this could not end well for him. Tungar would send men to hunt him, but Christopher could evade them.
But there was the sword. Always the sword, with its fathomless blue sapphire promising him his inheritance. How many times in those past months had he contemplated murdering Tungar, seizing the sword and fleeing? But Tungar had many enemies, and guarded himself well. In all those months, Christopher had never once caught him alone – and he never let the sword out of his sight.
A challenge rang out in the darkness beyond the fire. He heard an urgent exchange of words, then three guards appeared with a prisoner between them. The prisoner’s sandy hair betrayed him as a white man, though months of exposure had tanned his skin as dark as a native. His cheeks had sunk in, his legs were thin as matchsticks and bony ribs pressed against his tattered shirt.
How have we let these men defy us so long? Christopher thought angrily. He wondered again about the English captain, the man who had staggered out of the sea with the Neptune sword and thwarted all their plans. If the fort fell, there were many questions he would ask him before he died.
‘We found this man trying to infiltrate our lines,’ said the guard captain. ‘He says he wants to speak to you.’
‘To me?’ said Christopher, surprised.
‘He has heard that you speak the language of the hat-wearers.’
Christopher considered the prisoner. Was he a spy? He considered whether he should torture him, to find out what he knew.
There would be time for that later, if necessary.
‘Speak,’ he said in English. ‘Before you suffer the same fate as the last man I captured.’
The prisoner fell to his knees, pleading in a wheedling voice, ‘Bless you, sir, there’s no need to talk that way. I saw what you did there, and I don’t want that happening to me. I come here of my own free will to make you a proposition.’
‘What is it?’
‘My name’s Ilkley, sir. I kept Mr Foy’s accounts. I did hear, sir, that the man who gave you the fort might expect some gratitude. A reward, so to speak.’
‘Yes.’
‘I can be that man, sir. I can open the gates for you.’
He stared hungrily at Christopher, and Christopher stared back. He wondered if this might be a trap: again, he considered torturing Ilkley to be sure of his sincerity. But the fort commander had so few men. He would not have risked one on this errand – not when he knew what fate awaited them.
‘When will you do it?’
‘Tomorrow night, sir. Dark of the moon – they won’t see you approach.’ He clasped his hands. ‘There will be a reward, won’t there?’
‘You will get your due,’ Christopher assured him, hiding his smile.
Ilkley nodded gratefully. ‘I’d best be getting back, sir. It’s my shift on guard, and if I’m not there when the relief comes, the captain will give me a buttock-stirring about it. He’s a hard bastard. Has us drilling our guns till our arms drop off. Me, sir.’ He looked affronted. ‘An accountant.’
Christopher had stopped paying attention to the man’s complaints – but the mention of the captain got his attention.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What is your commander’s name?’
‘Tom Weald. He was shipwrecked just at the start of the monsoon season. Why, sir? You know him?’
‘No. But he seemed … familiar.’
Christopher had revealed more than he intended. He straightened.
‘If that gate is open tomorrow night, you will have your weight in gold.’ He stared into the man’s dull eyes and liked what he saw: avarice, hunger and fear. ‘If not, so help me, I will melt the gold and pour it down your throat.’
Francis woke without knowing why. He’d been dozing in a corner of the fort, body pressed against the warm sand. Automatically, he reached out and felt the musket lying beside him. With the new moon, the night was black as pitch: they had long since run out of candles and oil for their lamps.
Soft footsteps approached. He sat up.
‘Francis?’ Ana’s voice came out of the dark, soft
and cool as night. She sat down beside him, smoothing her skirts under her. Francis could hardly see her, but he felt the heat coming off her bare arm, an inch from his own.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘I had a dream. I was running through a great fortress, looking for you, but I could not find you anywhere. Men were chasing me, always on my heels, and I knew that if I did not find you they would kill you.’
Without even thinking, Francis reached out and cradled her to him. He stroked her hair.
‘It was only a dream.’
She gathered herself. ‘I am sick of this terrible place.’
‘Soon we will go. Just before sunset, I saw a sail out on the ocean. The seas are open again. If Sarah and Agnes got word of our situation to Madras, the governor there will send help as soon as he possibly can.’
‘I wish a ship would come here and carry us far away.’
She stared into the night, then straightened. Francis, embarrassed, lifted his arm, but she had only moved to bring her face level with his. She leaned in, her mouth searching his in the dark.
Her lips were paper-dry. She brushed his mouth, parting his lips with her tongue. Francis wrapped his arms around her, feeling her breasts firm through the thin fabric of her dress. He ran his fingers through her hair, and—
He broke away. Ana sat up, wounded. ‘I thought—’
He hushed her. ‘Do you smell that?’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘It smells like … sulphur?’
‘It is match-cord.’ Francis rose, all thoughts of romance driven from his mind. ‘But we do not use it for our guns: we have flintlocks. Only the Indians use matchlocks.’
Ana understood the gravity of the situation at once. ‘Who is on watch?’
‘Ilkley.’
Francis felt his way along the wall until he found the steps. ‘Wake my uncle,’ he told Ana. ‘It may be nothing, but …’
By now he knew the fort so well he could run up the steps in perfect darkness. He stepped out onto the rampart – and stopped dead.
The night was not so dark as he’d thought. In the west, beyond the clouds, he could see stars shining through; on the eastern horizon, a dim smudge gave the first hint of dawn. But that was not what made him stare. Below him, clustered in front of the fort like sparks around a forge, a hundred orange pricks of light glowed on the beach. He knew what they were. The smouldering cords of the enemy matchlocks.