The captain screamed like a girl and reeled back against the wall, clutching his damaged genitalia with both hands. But he retaliated almost immediately and launched himself back at Lydia. His face was twisted into a mask of agony, and in his right hand he clutched the knife that he had drawn from the sheath on his belt and held poised to strike her down.
‘Stop.’ A loud and authoritative voice rang out. ‘Release that woman at once.’
The guards responded instantly. They backed away from Lydia with their hands clutched behind their backs, and their expressions terrified and abject. Even the captain of the guard opened his hand and dropped his knife to the floor, then cringed back against the wall.
All of them were staring at the man who had entered the guardroom and was standing in the doorway.
One of the guards muttered a name as he touched his forehead submissively. ‘Raudra.’ In the weeks since Raudra had appeared in the castle, he had risen astonishingly fast in Angria’s service. First, he had gone to a village that had resisted Angria’s demands for tribute, and come back with two years’ worth of tribute, and the headman’s head mounted on a stick. Next, he had been sent out on a raiding expedition with one of Angria’s captains; when he returned, it was with five captured vessels, and over a hundred thousand rupees in plunder. Angria’s captain was dead. In the smoke of battle, no one could say exactly how he had been killed, but men cast suspicious looks at Raudra, and muttered when they thought he could not hear. When Angria heard the rumours, he only laughed, and said, ‘A man must be bold to survive a nest of vipers.’ He promoted Raudra in the dead captain’s place, and nothing more was heard of the rumours – especially after one man, who had spoken less carefully than the others, was found floating in the sea at the foot of the walls.
Now Raudra stared at Lydia. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in perfect unaccented English that startled her. He was tall and broad-shouldered. There was a fresh burn scar on his head which had left a bald patch on his scalp. However, his beard and his eyebrows were dark, dense and bristling. He was naked to the waist, with only a leather cross belt slung across his muscular chest. Lydia realized that he was much younger than he looked, but even more dangerous than he seemed.
‘My name is Lydia Foy,’ she told him, hugging her arms across her chest to cover her nudity. Then before he could lose interest, she hurried on. ‘I have news that your lord would want to hear.’
‘What news?’ he demanded.
‘I wish to speak to you in confidence.’ She nodded, significantly, at the other men. ‘Somewhere we can be alone.’
Christopher acceded and led her to his chamber, high in the north-east tower. It had been uninhabited when he found it. Like wolves, the common pirates mostly hunted, ate and slept together in packs. They shunned such lonely places. But for him, the solitude was perfect.
And now it afforded him privacy. He told himself that he had brought her here only so he could hear Lydia’s story without interruption, but that was not the whole truth. He could not forget what he had seen as he stepped into the guardroom: her naked breasts, her dress torn open down as low as her thighs. Now, she had managed to tie the laces of her bodice together to give herself some semblance of modesty, but he could still see bare skin through the gaps in the fabric.
He had not been with a woman since the morning Poola captured him with Tamaana. Not for lack of opportunity – the pirate castle attracted plenty of whores and other, willing women – but he had not felt any attraction towards them, as he did for this woman.
‘What do you have to tell me?’ Christopher asked.
Lydia was once again perfectly poised despite her disarray. ‘How is it that an Indian pirate comes to speak such refined English?’ she asked him.
‘I served some time on a coastal trader,’ he explained.
‘Were you ever in Bombay?’
Christopher tensed. Could she know him? But that was impossible. He had glimpsed his reflection in a bucket of water that morning: his own mother would not recognize him.
‘I have visited Bombay,’ he answered carefully.
‘Then you have heard of Governor Courtney?’
‘Yes,’ he said tightly. ‘Of course I have.’
‘Are you aware that two of his wife’s sisters are held prisoner in this castle?’
Christopher stared at her speechlessly. Lydia, who missed nothing, saw the astonishment on his face, but could not guess the reason for it.
‘Their names are Sarah and Agnes. Except that Sarah will not reveal her identity, because …’ She had been about to tell him the truth, to explain Sarah’s fear of Guy, but her good sense made her cautious. ‘Because she fears Angria will take advantage of the connection to increase the ransom he demands,’ she lied.
‘You are betraying her confidence,’ Christopher observed, but his tone was not judgemental.
Lydia edged towards him, so close her full breasts almost touched his bare chest and she could feel the heat coming off his body.
‘Please,’ she implored him. ‘My husband was killed in the massacre at Chittattinkara, and I am all alone. I do not expect charity; all I ask is a chance to earn my freedom.’
She bit her lip, like a small girl, and opened her eyes wide. She touched his forearm, feeling the hardness of his muscles. ‘I do not know how you came to be here, but it can only be providence that brought us together. I am sorely in need of a good man to give me protection.’
Christopher stared down at her. Her statement had left him in turmoil, yet at that moment, all he wanted was to have her; and it was clear that she was reciprocating his attraction to her.
He reached for her, and untied the laces of her torn bodice and drew them apart. She made no effort to pull away as he bowed forward and took the nipple of one of her breasts in his mouth, sucking on it as he undid his own belt and let his dhoti drop to the floor. Lydia’s wrists were still manacled: she raised her arms and looped the chain of the manacles over his head so they were bound together. Then she moved backwards, drawing him after her, until she felt the back of her knees come up against the mattress of his bed.
‘Be gentle with me,’ she murmured, but Christopher barely heard her. With both hands he reached down and spread the lips of her sex. He ran his forefinger deeply into her; and she was wet and lubricious, slippery to his touch. She toppled over backwards onto the bed, and he was drawn down on top of her. She opened her legs and immediately felt his penis probing blindly at her. She wanted to take it in hand and guide it into herself, but of course her hands were manacled.
‘Put it into me,’ she whispered urgently into his ear, ‘Quickly! I can wait no longer.’ He reached down and she felt the glans of his penis pushing her lips apart. ‘Yes, like that!’ she whispered urgently.
Abruptly he speared his full majestic length deeply into her and Lydia screamed with terror and ecstasy. For the first time in her entire life all the cunning and duplicity that she had built into a formidable bulwark against the world were swept away like so much trash before the roaring flood of her lust.
She carried Christopher with her into the tempest, so that they climaxed at the same moment in time. Her cries almost matched his animal roarings. Afterwards, still manacled to him, she fell at once into a death-like sleep.
Christopher could not sleep. He lay beside her stroking the long braids of her hair, trying to make sense of what Lydia had told him.
Though he had only dim memories of his Aunt Agnes, from before she left Bombay, he could imagine how she might have been captured and brought to Tiracola. But Sarah Courtney?
Caroline, his mother, seldom ever spoke of her second sister; Christopher had been twelve years old before he heard her name mentioned. When he asked, his mother had told him that Sarah had died many years earlier in Africa, with her husband; his uncle Tom Courtney.
But now it seemed that she was not dead. And if she was alive, might Tom not be also?
The moon beamed through the turret window and shone on the Ne
ptune sword that leaned against the far wall. The gold inlay showed silver in the moonlight. Could Tom have brought the sword to India? Was he here now? And if so, what did that signify for Christopher?
Guy hated Tom. Christopher hated Guy. Did that mean that he and his uncle could join forces against his father? Could he use Sarah, somehow – bring her to Tom as part of a bargain? Or should he pass on Lydia’s intelligence to Angria? It would bring a better ransom, and he would rise in the pirate’s favour.
The moon dipped, the stars turned and the sky outside his window began to brighten. Christopher slipped out of the circle of Lydia’s manacled arms and stood up stiffly. He gazed down at Lydia, her skin so pale and smooth. His loins stirred again. There was time, all the time in the world; he told himself.
He lay down behind her. He squeezed her breast, and she moaned softly. He kissed the nape of her neck, and she pushed her naked buttocks back into his belly. Even in her sleep she was seeking out his manhood.
A low sound drifted through the window like thunder. In an instant, Christopher was on his feet. It had sounded far away, but he knew that noise better than his own breathing. It was the distant roar of cannon.
He went to the window and peered out. Beyond, past the castle walls, across the narrow promontory that connected it to the mainland, the sun was rising over a low hill. And on that far hill war banners fluttered from the tips of thousands upon thousands of upraised lances. They fluttered in the morning breeze, while the horsemen who carried them reined in their mounts and gazed down on Tiracola castle.
A mighty army was on the march.
The travellers made their way along the passes through the mountains. The paths were narrow so they walked mostly in single file, dark shapes in the mist making for the great fortress that crowned the mountain ahead.
Tom Courtney led the way, with Ana and Francis following him. Merridew and the four other sailors who had survived the wreck of the Kestrel came after them. They had travelled many days since leaving Bombay, following the coast until they reached the foothills and this path which led them into the high peaks of the Western Ghats.
‘It is like some fairy-tale kingdom, where a terrible curse has befallen the land,’ Francis remarked. As a boy, he had devoured the romances of the Arthurian knights he had found in the library of High Weald. The landscape they had passed through reminded him of the wasteland where the Fisher King lived in the Grail Castle. So soon after the passage of the monsoon all should have been green and verdant; instead, the pastures were blackened and barren. Most of the villages had been abandoned: sometimes they passed three or four days without seeing a soul, and at night very few fires or lamps pricked the darkness. The people they did see were mostly naked and starving, crawling out from their mud hovels like animals from their holes to stare at them as they passed. The only signs of civilization were the forts that overlooked every valley, perched on the mountaintops like the nests of eagles.
‘What has happened here?’ Francis wondered on their second morning in the wilderness.
‘War,’ said Ana. ‘This is the kingdom of the Marathas. They have been fighting for survival against the Great Mughal these past thirty years, and it has cost them dearly. And now they have their kingdom, they cannot agree who should rule over it. They are wracked by civil war.’
Now at last they had reached the fortress of Satara, climbing a road that wound steeply up the face of the mountain. Guards challenged them at the gate. Tom stepped forward. The time for hiding his identity had passed. He spoke slowly and clearly, pausing while Ana translated.
‘I am Thomas Courtney, the brother of Guy Courtney, the Governor of Bombay. I have come to speak with the rajah, Shahuji.’
From the guards’ impassive faces, Tom could not tell if the name meant anything to them. However, they were led into the fortress and admitted to an antechamber, while servants scurried deeper into the castle precincts.
‘What do you know of this rajah?’ Tom asked Ana. ‘His kingdom is in ruins. Will he have the stomach for more fighting?’
‘Do not underestimate him,’ Ana warned. ‘There was a time when the Great Mughal’s army captured this fortress. To prove they meant to stay, the Mughal general brought his wife and children. Shahuji besieged it. He captured the Mughal commander’s wife and daughters, and tied them over the mouths of his cannon below the walls. In full view, he primed the touch-holes and had his gunners light their linstocks.’
‘What happened then?’ Francis asked.
‘The Mughal commander surrendered. Shahuji regained his capital, and he has stayed here ever since.’ She swatted a fly that had landed on her arm. ‘Also, I have heard that he is a master of letting men see in him only what he wants them to see. Whatever impression he gives you, do not be deceived.’
She fell silent as the servants returned. Guy Courtney’s name evidently carried much weight. Leaving Merridew and the men, Tom, Francis and Ana were led through more corridors and anterooms into the very heart of the castle.
‘What does this mean?’ Francis asked in a whisper.
‘It speaks of Shahuji’s self-confidence,’ Tom answered. ‘A lesser man would have sought to impress us with his authority by keeping us waiting.’
At the top of a grand staircase, and through a pair of ornately carved doors, they entered the throne room. It was austere, by Indian standards, though that was still lavish enough to make any European palace seem like a convent. In the centre of the room, surrounded by courtiers and guards, a throne stood on a raised platform. It seemed to be made of solid gold, draped with lion and tiger skins. The man who sat on it wore rich robes, ivory silk sewn with silver threads and strung with pearls, lapis lazuli and garnets.
He was younger than Tom had expected, not yet thirty, his youth accentuated by his clean-shaven cheeks. He held himself erect, tense, conscious of his image, proud of his estate. He studied his three visitors. His gaze was inscrutable. The only sound was the clicking of the magnificent pearls on a string around his neck, as Shahuji shuffled them between his fingers.
‘You are Governor Courtney’s brother,’ he broke the silence at last. It was a statement, not a question. He spoke in Portuguese, the lingua franca between India and Europe. Tom had learned a little of it from the Portuguese settlers he had traded with at Mozambique and Sofala, on the east coast of Africa, but he let Ana translate. He did not want any misunderstandings.
‘I am Guy Courtney’s twin brother.’
‘He has sent you to claim the firman he demands of me?’ Shahuji suggested.
‘I am not here on my brother’s behalf,’ Tom admitted. ‘I am here to suggest to you how you may gain an advantage over him.’
The rajah blinked. ‘If you are Guy Courtney’s brother, how can you wish to betray him?’ Tom remembered what Ana had told him of the civil war among the Marathas, how Shahuji’s aunt had tried to wrest the kingdom from him.
‘I believed you would understand, your highness, how different branches of a family do not always work in accord with each other.’
Tom waited patiently while Ana translated. He wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, if the rajah would take umbrage – or worse. The shuttered eyes gave him no hint. Shahuji stared at him for a while, and then he leaned forward a fraction on his throne. ‘What is it that you have really come to me for?’
‘I wish to speak to you in private,’ Tom said boldly. He knew that the throne room was a political theatre, not a place for real bargaining.
Shahuji pursed his lips. Then, without a word, he rose and stepped down from his throne. The courtiers parted; a door in the far wall opened before him. Tom and the others followed, out onto a high stone balcony overlooking the valley. Tom remembered Ana’s story of the Mughal general’s family. Was this where he had stood, looking down as his children were tied over the mouths of the guns? Had their cries risen high enough that he could hear them here?
The guards left them there and retreated into the throne room, and closed the door
s behind them. The only sound was the wind across the mountains, and the clicking of the rajah’s beads.
‘Why do you wish to betray your brother?’ Shahuji posed the question without judgement, as calmly if he were enquiring about Tom’s health.
‘I believe you and I have an enemy in common.’
‘Governor Courtney is not my enemy.’
‘I was speaking of the pirate Angria. He molests your shipping and terrorizes your coasts. He is also an ally of your mother-in-law in her campaign against you.’
Shahuji gave the merest fraction of a nod.
‘Angria has captured my wife and her sister,’ Tom went on. ‘He holds them in his castle at Tiracola.’
A flash of annoyance passed over Shahuji’s face; the first emotion he had showed. ‘Tiracola is my castle,’ he said.
‘That is why we have come to you,’ said Tom quickly. ‘You desire to have your castle back. I want my family back.’
Whether Shahuji was intrigued or insulted, Tom could not tell.
‘My brother Guy wishes to make a treaty with you,’ Tom said. ‘He allows Angria to commit his crimes with impunity, so you will be forced to negotiate. But if we drove Angria out of Tiracola and broke his power, you would have the upper hand over Guy. And further more you would recover your castle.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’ Shahuji asked.
‘Because Angria offered to ransom the hostages, and Guy refused to pay the ransom money,’ Francis intervened hotly. ‘Only you have the power to seize Tiracola from Angria and free our family.’
Tom shot Francis a cautioning look, although Shahuji gave no sign of having taken offence. He merely raised an eyebrow.
‘Why do you not think that if I had the power to take Tiracola, I would not have done so already?’ He stared down the mountain, into the mist that still swirled through the valley. ‘Let me explain to you about my kingdom,’ he continued. ‘In the lands you passed through to come here – did you see any crops?’
Tom and Francis shook their heads.
Shahuji continued, ‘Why grow crops when your lord cannot defend your village? Once, this was a rich kingdom. Now, the peasants farm only what they can take with them when they flee into the jungles. For thirty years, my grandfather Chhatrapati Shivaji fought the Mughals for this kingdom. When he died, my aunt proclaimed her son the new king, though in fact the throne was mine. Now the Great Mughal is dead and his empire is in disarray, but we cannot have peace because we fight amongst ourselves. We call this bhalerai – the rule of the spear. Every local chieftain thinks he is a warrior. They gather their own war-bands, and fight each other for the scraps. In places, my authority is less than the lowest patil – the headman.’