“Oah, no, memsahib, his manners are good. His mouth is hard, but he will not run under a branch or drop a shoulder to have you off, oah no.”

The affection with which the old man patted the animal’s neck more than the words reassured me that my host wasn’t out to amuse himself at the expense of my bones. I let the beast snuffle my hand, and checked the girths before using the stool to boost myself to the saddle. The maharaja watched me as I took the reins and got the feel of the gelding’s mouth, which did indeed require a firm hand. Then he went over to a beautiful pure-white Arab stallion and mounted up. He and Captain Greaves had spurs on their boots, but none of the others did.

The four strangers were introduced as a polo-playing cousin of the captain’s from Kent, on a world tour, an American recently retired from the Army, and a pair of Bombay industrialists. As we exchanged greetings, I had to wonder if such iconoclastic relationships were common amongst India’s nobility. Khanpur’s prince seemed determined to deny his orthodoxy on all kinds of levels, from the consumption of alcohol and meat to the company of foreign women and businessmen—mere box-wallahs were almost as below the salt here as manual workers.

The men went on with their various conversations as the syce and I made adjustments to the stirrups, and after a few minutes the motorcar from the Fort drove into the yard and gave forth our two missing riders—the Goodhearts, brother and sister. Although he was taller than I, Thomas was given the marginally shorter twin of the chestnut I was on, while Sunny was mounted on a placid mare little larger than a pony that probably wouldn’t have jumped a branch if it was lying flat on the ground, but then again probably wouldn’t spook and dump its rider. With all the saddles full and our host in the lead, we continued around the New Fort hill until we met the main road again.

Before I turned my mount’s head north, I glanced up at the hillside of the eastern Old Fort across the road. There, with the morning sun streaming through the gap, I could see the marks of fire, clear on the stones of the cliff face, where the mutineers and their hostage had been set to flame by the old maharaja in 1857.