Land of Hope and Glory Read online

  Jack stepped on a twig, which gave a loud snap. He froze.

  Damn. He was out of practice.

  The trees rustled in the slight breeze. Faintly, he could hear people talking back in the house, the tinkle of glasses and the rattle of plates being cleared away.

  Edwin didn’t react at all.

  Jack shook his head, then advanced, hardly making a sound now – he hadn’t completely lost his touch.

  Edwin was still oblivious to the approaching danger. Jack stood poised in the darkness, just a few feet away from the lad, then stepped out. ‘Bang – you’re dead.’

  Edwin jumped and fell back against the wall. ‘Christ! You nutter.’

  ‘If I was an intruder, you’d be lying there dead and I’d be on my way to the house.’

  Edwin sniffed. ‘But you’re not an intruder. There are no intruders. Nothing ever happens around here.’

  ‘And that’s the danger. It’s quiet. You get lazy. Then – pow – you’re dead.’

  ‘You’re mad, you are. We’re in the middle of the country. There’s no one around.’

  Jack smiled darkly, his weather-beaten features creasing more deeply. He had a triangular face that seemed to emphasise his eyes and his craggy brow. His eyes were narrow and pale, the irises almost white in the dim light. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore a brown, knee-length tunic that was spotlessly clean.

  ‘That’s what you think.’ He looked about as if there were enemies in the trees. ‘There are thieves and vagrants. You get bandits in the hills.’

  ‘Bandits? How often have they tried to get in here, then?’

  ‘They know we’re here watching. If they come, they see us and go on to the next farm. But if they see us dozing, that’s when they’ll strike.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Jack shook his head. He was too soft on the boy. That sarcastic attitude would have been beaten out of him within one day in the army.

  ‘Did you hear about the Ghost?’ Edwin asked. ‘Struck again last night. Knocked out the sattva link to Bristol.’

  ‘That so.’

  ‘They can’t stop him. He’s there one minute, gone the next. I heard he’s a sorcerer.’

  Jack snorted. ‘Don’t you believe everything you hear down the market. The Rajthanans are a lot stronger than you

  think.’

  Edwin looked sideways at Jack, then spoke more softly. ‘Word is, the rebels will win.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, lad.’ Jack glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘The master hears you talking like that, he’ll fire you. If you’re lucky.’

  ‘I’m not scared of him.’

  ‘Well, you should be. You’re talking treason. You’ll get yourself reported to the sheriffs.’

  Edwin looked down and scuffed the ground with his boot. ‘It’s still true.’

  ‘The Rajthanans rule all of Europe, and a lot of other places besides. You really think a few mutineers in England can beat them?’

  ‘They’ve got London now, and the whole south-east.’

  ‘Once the Rajthanans have built up their army they’ll smash those mutineers to pieces.’

  Edwin muttered something inaudible.

  ‘Listen, lad. I’ll give you some advice. Forget about this Ghost or the mutiny or whatever other rubbish is filling your head. There’s an order to things and there’s no point in fighting against it. Some people rule, others follow. That’s the way of it. The Rajthanans rule here and we follow. Now, you look sharp and keep your eyes peeled. And don’t you dare fall asleep.’

  Edwin bowed with his hands pressed together, as if Jack were an army officer. ‘Namaste, great master.’

  Jack rolled his eyes and walked off into the darkness to continue his evening rounds. Edwin had no idea what he was talking about. The rebels might have won a few battles, but that was only because there were hardly any foreign troops in England – there had never needed to be. Now the Rajthanans were bringing in French and Andalusian regiments, and even soldiers from Rajthana itself. Once they’d built up their army in the south-west they would crush the rebellion. It was as simple as that.

  He followed the stone wall for a few feet, went through a gap in the trees and came out on the front lawn. Before him stood the house. It was two storeys high, more than a hundred feet wide, and built in the style of a Rajthanan palace with miniature spires and domed towers. In places, lacy detail in bas-relief lined the rust-coloured walls. The leaded-light windows glowed and cast a series of bright blocks across the grass.

  Through an arched window, he could see the dining room, where silver thalis and bowls glinted on the table. Dinner had just finished and Shri and Shrimati Goyanor had risen and were gesturing for their three guests to join them in the drawing room. Shri Goyanor – a short, plump man – wore his usual beige tunic, while his wife stood tall and elegant in an emerald sari. The children had probably already been sent to bed. Servants in white were busily clearing the table.

  Shri Goyanor was obviously in a good mood – he beamed and rubbed his stomach as he spoke. He was a good-hearted man. He could be sullen, but then so could anyone. The main thing was that he always kept his word, and Jack valued that. It was like in the army. You trusted your officers because they treated you fairly, and in return you would lay down your life for them if they asked you to.

  Jack went on around the side of the house and past the line of palm trees that Shrimati Goyanor insisted on trying to grow. He met Tom, the nightwatchman, coming the other way.

  ‘Evening,’ Jack said.

  Tom raised his lantern and nodded back. He didn’t speak much and Jack approved of this. Tom was a reliable man, who’d been at the house for eight years – almost as long as Jack himself. During that time Jack had never caught him shirking or sleeping on the job, although perhaps he did like a drink a little too much.

  ‘Keep an eye on Edwin,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t let him leave that gate.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll watch him.’

  Jack continued to the back of the house, where only the light from the pantry trickled across the lawn. Ahead of him, the four acres of the gardens were almost pitch black. Off to the right, behind a row of bushes, stood the wall of the servants’ compound.

  ‘Jack.’

  Sarah, the head cook, appeared from the pantry and slipped across the grass towards him.

  He cursed under his breath. He’d been avoiding her. He’d slept with her a few nights ago, but that had been a mistake. Now she seemed to think there was something between them.

  She stepped out of the shadows and looked up at him. She was pretty, with brown hair that fell in thick locks past her shoulders.

  ‘Haven’t seen you around much,’ she said.

  ‘Been busy.’

  ‘Big night tonight. The mistress’s been in a right state.’ She waggled her head and imitated Shrimati Goyanor’s thick Indian accent. ‘I told you never to use garlic and onions when we have government officials to dinner.’

  Jack smiled slightly.

  ‘I’m dead tired now, though,’ she said. ‘Got another blessing in the morning too, first thing.’

  Jack knew that all cooks had to be blessed regularly if they were to prepare food for the Rajthanans. The Rajthanans had a lot of strange ideas about food and drink. It was something to do with their system of caste, which they called jati. The higher jatis wouldn’t take food from the lower jatis, and no one would take it from Europeans unless they were blessed. Jack had actually seen a dying officer in the field refuse water from a native soldier to avoid being polluted.

  ‘If you have an early start I’d better let you get on,’ Jack said quickly, turning to leave. Maybe he could get away before things got difficult.

  ‘Jack.’

  He stopped and turned back.

  Her face was serious now. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea—’

  ‘I see.’ A glint of moisture appeared in one of her
eyes. She looked off into the dark gardens. ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘You know the rules. Servants can’t be couples. We’d get fired.’

  ‘No one would find out.’

  ‘We can’t risk it. Anyway, you could do better than me. Get yourself a good man. Get married.’

  He meant it. He wasn’t well, not since . . . his accident. Sarah didn’t know about his injury and he didn’t want to burden her with it. She should have a strong man who could take care of her . . . But there was more to it than that. If he were honest, the memory of his wife, Katelin, still held him back.

  ‘Have it your way, then,’ Sarah said, with an edge of bitterness to her voice. She turned to leave.

  ‘Wait.’

  She looked back.

  What could he say? ‘It’s for the best.’

  She huffed, spun away again and marched back to the house, her long dress swishing about her.

  Jack scratched the back of his neck. That had gone about as well as could be expected. At least it was over now. Part of him wished he could just give in and be with Sarah. She was a good woman. But it would never work.

  He pressed on into the darkened grounds, crossed the small stone bridge over the brook and continued into the formal garden. Oblong-shaped, ornamental trees stood in rows beside ponds that reflected the moon. Lines of white orchids and lilies swayed in the breeze. He smelt the cool fragrance of flowers and moss. The wooden gazebo, half buried by vines, brooded in the centre.

  Beyond the garden was a series of hedges and then the orchard. He walked between the apple and pear trees, smelling the sweetness of the growing fruit.

  About halfway through, the hairs suddenly stood up on the back of his neck and his skin rippled. The air seemed to tremble with a strange energy. He’d been expecting this.

  He stopped and sniffed. A faint, but familiar, scent encircled him. It was like a mixture of sandalwood, musk, saffron and rosewater. Distinctive, yet impossible to describe.

  Sattva.

  A powerful stream coursed through the grounds here, and he sensed it every time he walked through. He was sure no one else in the house knew about it. Only he had the sensitivity and training to detect it.

  He took a deep breath. That smell reminded him of the past, back when he’d still been able to use his power.

  A movement off to the left disturbed him. What was that?

  He crouched, peered into the gloom, listened intently, searching the surroundings for signs. Tracking came to him instinctively – he’d learnt the skill from his father from the moment he could walk.

  He noticed the movement again – a quick swish near to the ground. He sneaked forward and paused, partially concealed by a tree trunk. Despite the warning he’d given Edwin, the only intruder during all his years as head guard had been a vagrant boy stealing fruit. He waited for several minutes and then a red-brown streak shot between the trees and disappeared – a fox. He gave a small chuckle. He’d thought as much, but it was always best to be cautious. The old army training, the old reflexes, would never leave him.

  He slunk to the end of the orchard – leaving the sattva stream – and reached the stone wall that marked the perimeter of the property. Beyond the wall lay miles of fields belonging to Shri Goyanor – the nearest neighbours were five miles away.

  He walked beside the wall until he reached the iron gate that was the only back exit to the property. He checked that the bolts were secure and then, satisfied that everything was in order, set off back towards the house.

  As he crossed the bridge, he started to feel out of breath.

  He stopped on the other side and leant against a willow tree. He tried to catch his breath, but his chest felt tight and sweat formed on his forehead. This had happened several times recently. What was wrong with him? Was his injury getting worse?

  He shut his eyes, and after a minute his breathing eased. That was better. He opened his eyes again and went to move on.

  Then he felt a thump in his chest, as though someone had kicked him. His ears rang and white spots spun before his eyes. He fell against the tree and sat there, hunched. He was choking. He tried to call for help, but he was too weak even to do that. Blackness passed over him and he fought to stay conscious.

  ‘Jack!’

  He opened his eyes. Sarah was crouching over him with a lantern in her hand.

  He blinked. He felt better – he could breathe again and the pain in his chest had gone.

  Sarah crossed herself. ‘Thank the Lord. You had me worried there.’

  He sat up against the tree. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You tell me. I heard this choking sound and I came down here and found you out cold.’

  ‘Ah. Think I fainted. Haven’t been feeling too well lately.’

  She frowned. ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘No need for that.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Just a touch of the flu.’

  ‘Flu, my foot! At the mission hospital—’

  ‘I said, there’s no need.’

  Her eyes flickered. ‘You’re bloody impossible.’

  ‘Don’t make a scene.’

  ‘Don’t make a scene?’ She raised her voice and turned as if calling out to the house. ‘Why, you worried the master will find out about us?’

  ‘Sarah—’

  ‘Think you’ll lose your job?’

  Jack winced as his chest tightened again and his breathing became laboured.

  She paused for a second. ‘Jesus. You look terrible.’

  He waved her away. ‘I’ll come right in a moment.’

  ‘You’d better get back to your room.’

  He was too weak at that moment to disagree, and he let her walk with him to the compound and past the small white-walled huts of the other servants. By the time they reached his hut he was feeling a little stronger.

  She followed him into his room, despite his protest. He lit a lantern, revealing his plain cubicle. A sleeping mat lay on the floor, a few blankets folded neatly at the end. His spare clothes, also neatly folded, sat on top of a crate in a corner. The stone floor had been carefully swept and washed.

  ‘Why don’t you lie down?’ she said.

  ‘I will . . . in a minute.’

  ‘Here, let me get this.’ She bent to move a carved wooden box that was sitting in the middle of the sleeping mat.

  ‘No.’ He slammed his hand over the box. Then he saw the surprise on her face and his voice softened. ‘It’s just something personal.’

  ‘Touchy, aren’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘It’s just some letters. From my daughter.’

  ‘Your daughter? I didn’t know . . . you’re a dark horse, aren’t you? How old is she?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  A suspicion moved across her forehead. ‘What about the mother?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. It was eight years ago.’

  ‘Do you see her often – your daughter, I mean?’

  ‘Twice a year, at the most. She lives in North Dorsetshire. It’s expensive to get there.’ It was less than a day away, but neither he nor his daughter, Elizabeth, earned much. ‘Sarah, you’ve been very kind, but I should get some rest.’

  She nodded. ‘You see a doctor, though.’

  ‘I will. Just one thing, if the master finds out about . . . what’s happened, he’ll think I’m not fit to work.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone. So long as you see a doctor.’

  He half smiled.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said.

  He gave her a nod as she left. He had no intention of seeing a doctor. He’d always been able to control his injury and this latest attack would just be a temporary setback.

  He was sure it wouldn’t happen again.

  He shut the door, lay down on the mat, put his face in his hands and massaged the skin. He opened the wooden box and took out Elizabeth’s latest letter. He looked at the lines of curling ink, tracing the marks with his finge
r. He couldn’t read the words, but he could recall them. Whenever he paid a letter writer to read one of her letters, he would listen intently and memorise as much of it as he could.

  Dear Father,

  Thank you so much for your letter. I am well and everything is coming along fine. I have been promoted to chambermaid. It is hard work, but more money. My mistress expects a lot, but I am doing my best. She seems to be pleased with me so far.

  You said in your last letter you are worried about me. I know you think I am too young to go into service, but I can look after myself now.

  You know I have always had to do things my way. You used to call me ‘wilful’.

  God keep you, Father.

  Elizabeth

  He put the letter away and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he pictured Elizabeth the last time he’d seen her – seven months ago, at Christmas. He remembered her standing outside in the cold, waving goodbye to him as he left on the back of a horse cart. She shivered and her nose was red, despite the thick cloak she wore over her shoulders. She looked so small and frail as he pulled away, dwarfed by the fields of luminous snow.

  ‘It’s very concerning,’ Shri Goyanor muttered. ‘Very concerning indeed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack was standing in Shri Goyanor’s study with the morning light falling across his employer’s desk. There had been a disaster just before dawn. A servant boy had been caught drinking from the well reserved for the Goyanor family, which meant it was now polluted and would have to be reconsecrated.

  ‘How could this happen?’ Shri Goyanor asked without taking his eyes off his newspaper.

  ‘The well isn’t guarded. I can put someone outside it, but we may need an extra hand in that case.’

  As far as Jack was concerned it wasn’t his fault. His job had always been to stop anyone from outside the grounds getting in. Shri Goyanor had never said anything about the well. But Jack knew better than to point this out. Shri Goyanor was his commander, and you didn’t question your commander. Nor would it do much good if you did.

  Shri Goyanor sighed, pushed up his spectacles and poured himself a glass of water – Jack recognised the label on the bottle: ‘Ganges Finest’. The family had been reduced to drinking expensive imports. Shri Goyanor took a sip, then stared out of the window at the central courtyard where two gardeners were bent over, cutting the lawn with shears.