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Authors: Geoffrey Wilson
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were two hours out of Poole, having left early that morning. Jack had said goodbye to the other servants as first light came across the sky. Everyone lined up at the back of the house and the men shook his hand and the women kissed him on the cheek. Edwin gave him a broad grin and promised to look after the grounds while he was away. The only one who didn’t come to see him off was Sarah.
He retied his ponytail and walked back to the horses. A few of the French scowled at him as he approached. They were heavily built men with straggly beards and heads shaved to iron grains of stubble. One of them, who’d been introduced to Jack earlier as Sergeant Lefevre, said in Arabic, ‘Captain give you a good thrashing, Ros Porc ?’
The other Frenchmen sniggered. Ros Porc was a term of abuse for the English, referring to the fact that they ate pig meat.
Jack was in no mood to back down before a Mohammedan. ‘At least we English kept the true faith.’
‘You kept a filthy, infidel faith.’ Lefevre spat at the ground. ‘Why follow that pig you call a Pope?’
‘Because we didn’t give in like you cowards.’
Jack had experienced this game of taunt and counter-taunt many times in the army. The French had been Christian once, but they’d abandoned it during the five centuries they’d been ruled by the Moors. It was only in the British Isles that the true faith, the faith of old Europe, had been kept alive.
Lefevre stepped closer. He was at least half a foot taller than Jack and wide at the shoulders. ‘You call me a coward? I’ll enjoy showing you otherwise.’ He switched to halting English. ‘I like kill Englishmen.’ He gave a throaty gargle that must have been a laugh, and the other cavalrymen chuckled along with him.
Jack found his thoughts going to the hidden knife again. The fifty Frenchmen carried pistols and scimitars, and carbines were strapped to their saddles as well. Jack hadn’t been issued with a firearm and Sengar had told him he wouldn’t be getting one.
He stayed calm, shook his head and walked around Lefevre towards his horse. Why get into a fight he couldn’t win? How would that help his daughter?
‘You see,’ Lefevre said after him. ‘You English – cowards, all of you.’
‘Right, men.’ Sengar marched across the slope with a young lieutenant named Kansal. He stepped up on to a rock and surveyed his gathered troops, while Kansal stood to the side on the lower ground. The Lieutenant had a youthful face with bushy, owlish eyebrows, and Jack noted that he had no clan marking on his tunic – no sun, moon or fire insignia that showed he was from a military jati. His family must have purchased his commission at great expense.
‘Over there in those hills are lands controlled by the Earl of Dorsetshire.’ Sengar gestured towards the Dorsetshire Downs rippling in the distance. ‘The rebels have been hiding there. The Earl said he’d weed them out, but so far he’s done nothing, so we’re going to have to do it for him. Now, the Earl’s supposedly been loyal since the start of the mutiny, but we need to go carefully. Things could change at any time. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Yes, Gaulmika,’ the cavalrymen responded in unison, using the Rajthani word for ‘captain’, as was the custom in French regiments.
Jack glanced at the downlands. The Earldom of Dorsetshire was one of the so-called ‘native states’ that dotted England. It was supposedly an independent country, but the Earl ruled there only by the grace of the Rajthanans.
And somewhere within those hills was William. Jack felt a tremor of foreboding. William, his old friend, now a rebel . . .
They rode down the slope and then along the road. Sengar and Kansal went at the head of the party, followed by Sengar’s batman – a large, baby-faced Rajthanan. Jack rode alone a few feet behind, and to the rear came the fifty cavalrymen, their gaze an uncomfortable presence on his back.
The day turned muggy as the sun
He retied his ponytail and walked back to the horses. A few of the French scowled at him as he approached. They were heavily built men with straggly beards and heads shaved to iron grains of stubble. One of them, who’d been introduced to Jack earlier as Sergeant Lefevre, said in Arabic, ‘Captain give you a good thrashing, Ros Porc ?’
The other Frenchmen sniggered. Ros Porc was a term of abuse for the English, referring to the fact that they ate pig meat.
Jack was in no mood to back down before a Mohammedan. ‘At least we English kept the true faith.’
‘You kept a filthy, infidel faith.’ Lefevre spat at the ground. ‘Why follow that pig you call a Pope?’
‘Because we didn’t give in like you cowards.’
Jack had experienced this game of taunt and counter-taunt many times in the army. The French had been Christian once, but they’d abandoned it during the five centuries they’d been ruled by the Moors. It was only in the British Isles that the true faith, the faith of old Europe, had been kept alive.
Lefevre stepped closer. He was at least half a foot taller than Jack and wide at the shoulders. ‘You call me a coward? I’ll enjoy showing you otherwise.’ He switched to halting English. ‘I like kill Englishmen.’ He gave a throaty gargle that must have been a laugh, and the other cavalrymen chuckled along with him.
Jack found his thoughts going to the hidden knife again. The fifty Frenchmen carried pistols and scimitars, and carbines were strapped to their saddles as well. Jack hadn’t been issued with a firearm and Sengar had told him he wouldn’t be getting one.
He stayed calm, shook his head and walked around Lefevre towards his horse. Why get into a fight he couldn’t win? How would that help his daughter?
‘You see,’ Lefevre said after him. ‘You English – cowards, all of you.’
‘Right, men.’ Sengar marched across the slope with a young lieutenant named Kansal. He stepped up on to a rock and surveyed his gathered troops, while Kansal stood to the side on the lower ground. The Lieutenant had a youthful face with bushy, owlish eyebrows, and Jack noted that he had no clan marking on his tunic – no sun, moon or fire insignia that showed he was from a military jati. His family must have purchased his commission at great expense.
‘Over there in those hills are lands controlled by the Earl of Dorsetshire.’ Sengar gestured towards the Dorsetshire Downs rippling in the distance. ‘The rebels have been hiding there. The Earl said he’d weed them out, but so far he’s done nothing, so we’re going to have to do it for him. Now, the Earl’s supposedly been loyal since the start of the mutiny, but we need to go carefully. Things could change at any time. Keep your wits about you.’
‘Yes, Gaulmika,’ the cavalrymen responded in unison, using the Rajthani word for ‘captain’, as was the custom in French regiments.
Jack glanced at the downlands. The Earldom of Dorsetshire was one of the so-called ‘native states’ that dotted England. It was supposedly an independent country, but the Earl ruled there only by the grace of the Rajthanans.
And somewhere within those hills was William. Jack felt a tremor of foreboding. William, his old friend, now a rebel . . .
They rode down the slope and then along the road. Sengar and Kansal went at the head of the party, followed by Sengar’s batman – a large, baby-faced Rajthanan. Jack rode alone a few feet behind, and to the rear came the fifty cavalrymen, their gaze an uncomfortable presence on his back.
The day turned muggy as the sun
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