XXIV

Fire and Manoeuvre

Next morning

The Ranee trembled as she spoke, though she struggled to master her dread. Show fear, and predators struck. Besides, if she were to be spirited away through that dark, dank tunnel – and who knew what perils lay therein? – few could accompany her. Death remained – certain death – for those left behind. The rissaldar and loyal sowars had their own lives to save as well as hers. Whose would they choose first? (It had ever been thus with Praetorians.)

‘Tell your husband, Mira Bai, that it must be this day. As soon as the Company’s soldiers appear before the walls, Ashok Acharya will force himself upon us, and the bodyguard will be overcome, and then my life shall be held forfeit. It must be this day. This mulatto captain, he is brave and true, you say. He must act, at once.’

Mira Bai could assure her that Fairbrother was brave and true, for though she would not say it, to come within the walls of the palace, even as a hijda, was perilous in the extreme. As for her husband, it surely went without saying – and yet he had her children to keep safe, and few enough to guard the house. ‘I will go at once, Highness. Trust to Kali.’

The rissaldar beckoned one of his Sikhs, truest of his true, to escort the Ranee’s lady to the citadel gate. He knew not precisely of what they’d spoken, but he saw that his Ranee was fearful – bravely though she tried to hide it (doubly bravely, for she was but a woman) – and for the moment it mattered not. As soon as she gave him leave he would order the entire rissalah – sixty sowars – to put saffron on their faces and a yellow cloak over their armour, just as a Rajpoot prince, riding out to fight, would vow that if he could not win he would die, and his bondsmen likewise would put on yellow, the clothes of the dead, vowing not to return from battle unless victorious – sworn to die. And this – this above all – would surely give heart to his Ranee?

Mira Bai slipped out of the gate of the citadel to respectful compliments from the guards – the dewan’s guards keeping the pretence of ceremony rather than confinement. (Inside, men of the rissalah stood more serious sentry, a field piece loaded with grape ready to sweep the approaches.) She walked slowly but unhesitant, her eyes lowered modestly, her left hand at the skirt of her saree to lift it an inch or two clear of the earth, her right clutched to her breast. Her Rajpoot instinct was to walk with head held high, but women were few within the palace walls now – even the hijdas were fewer – and she would not tempt hindrance or insult.

As she reached the middle of the maidan a subedar of the dewan’s auxiliaries, ill-dressed and rough in manner, barred her way.