Land of Hope and Glory (36 page)

And then?

Then he would have to act quickly if he were going to get his friend back to Poole.

15

‘
T
hey’re coming,’ a soldier behind Jack said.

Jack leant against the stone rail and craned his neck for a better look. He was standing on a rooftop balcony with a group from the 9th Native Infantry, as well as Charles and Saleem.

Crowds swarmed along the street four storeys below and spilt out into the muddy square outside the Tower. At least half of the people were in army uniform, but the others were civilians – from peasants to wealthy merchants in colourful cloaks.

On the far side of the square, the Tower rose up in a series of ramparts from the moat to the pale keep in the centre. The White Tower quivered in the chalky light, as if formed from the mist of the Thames.

Jack strained to see up the wide thoroughfare. In the distance he made out movement, and then a man riding a white horse came down the middle of the street. Behind the rider marched a column of troops that snaked away into the maze of streets.

The crowd swirled and churned, then erupted into cheering.

Jack could see the rider clearly now – a muscular figure in an army uniform, his head shaven.

William.

Jack stepped back slightly from the rail, although there was little chance of his friend noticing him on the balcony. His heart quickened and his hand rested involuntarily against the knife that still lay hidden beneath his tunic.

Charles shouted down at the street, while Saleem smiled broadly, his eyes glazed.

As William crossed the square, people reached out to touch him, as if he were divine. Guards had to hold back the mob.

A raised wooden platform, guarded by a line of soldiers, stood in front of the Tower. William dismounted and climbed the steps to the top of the platform. His men stopped marching and stood watching with the rest of the crowd.

Horns blasted, the sound cutting through the roar, and the throng quietened.

Figures appeared from the Tower’s fortified entrance, walked across the drawbridge and stepped up on to the platform. First came a group of men who looked like courtiers or noblemen in ceremonial robes, then a bishop wearing a mitre and carrying a hooked crozier, and then a band of Sikhs in orange tunics and turbans. Amongst them was Kanvar, the young siddha who’d given Jack the jatamansi in Dorsetshire.

Finally, a dark-haired soldier helped an old, hunched man up the steps. Jack couldn’t see the men’s faces from a distance, but he could make out the old man’s pure-white beard and hair, and the simple crown glinting on his head.

There was a loud rustle as the whole crowd dropped to its knees.

‘The King,’ Charles said quietly.

‘And that’s Sir Gawain with him,’ a soldier beside Jack said.

The King raised his hand and held it unsteadily above his head. He looked small and frail, and Jack remembered the rumours that the old man was senile and being manipulated by the rebels. Back in Poole, he’d assumed the King would never side with the mutineers unless he was out of his mind. There was too much to lose – the Rajthanans could end the royal line any time they wanted. And yet, although the old man looked weak, there was no reason to think he didn’t know what he was doing.

And Jack felt something else. There was a stone in his throat and he had a sense of being humbled before greatness. This was the King, after all. His King.

King John now held out his hand to William, who had also gone down on one knee. William kissed the ring.

Sir Gawain helped the old man turn back to the crowd, and called out, ‘The King wishes you all to arise.’ His voice rang out clearly across the square.

Everyone stood, like a flock of birds taking off.

Sir Gawain then led the King to a chair that had been brought out from the Tower. The old man sat slowly and with great difficulty.

Turning back to the crowd, Sir Gawain held out his hand and gestured to William as if introducing an actor on stage. ‘William Merton, the Ghost.’

The crowd gave a rumbling cheer and waved their fists. Charles bellowed until he was hoarse.

Jack gave a few half-hearted shouts – it would have looked strange if he hadn’t joined in. He felt a flicker in his stomach when he considered what he had to do. He cheered more loudly, trying to drown out his racing thoughts.

After a few minutes, Sir Gawain raised his hand and the sound dampened.

‘You’ve all heard about the great victory at Brighthelm. The Ghost has shown us what we can do when we join together to fight these invaders, these heathens who’ve taken our lands from us.

‘Their main army is marching on the city, as you know. Within three days they’ll be here. They want to take our city from us, and our King. They want to put us back in chains. But we will not let them.’

Sir Gawain gestured to the Sikhs who stood in two rows behind and to the side of him.

‘These men have come from India to fight with us. They have sworn to destroy our mutual enemy. Once we win, we will embolden others to rise up, here in Europe and even in the New Colonies across the Atlantic. Everyone is watching us.

‘Less than three days, my crusaders. It will be our chance to free ourselves from them for ever. We will not let them take our city. We will stand here, shoulder to shoulder, and we will defeat them.

‘Do not lose heart. Victory is within our grasp. And years from now, free English men and women will look back and praise our bravery to the heavens.’

The crowd gave a wild cheer that punched the sky. Everyone was roaring, shrieking, embracing each other, some even weeping. Chants of ‘God’s will in England’ surged and receded.

Charles slapped Jack on the back. ‘We’ll do it. We’ll beat them.’

Jack nodded and gave a brief smile. They all believed, the people about him. They all truly believed they could defeat the Rajthanans.

But they were deluded.

He felt distant from them, as though he were in exile in his own country.

And he felt distant from Elizabeth. She stood on the other side of a divide he couldn’t cross.

For a moment he wished the rebels really could win, that somehow they could find a way—

But he stopped himself. What was he thinking? The rebels could never win.

Was this what it had been like for Elizabeth – listening to some stirring words and then toppling over into the madness?

It could easily happen. But he wouldn’t give in to it. He had to stay fixed on reality not dreams. He had to stay fixed on saving his daughter.

Jack slipped down a side street. It was dark, and in his black, hooded cloak he was hidden in the shadows. Ahead, the way opened on to a wider road, where he paused. It was close to midnight, but there was still a handful of people about. Lanterns hung from each building and light, laughter and singing spilt out from the open windows of a tavern.

He waited until the road was empty, then swept down it, keeping to the darkness, cowl low over his face. Two men stumbled out of the tavern, clinging to each other and talking loudly. Jack moved to the other side of the street and the men staggered on without even noticing him.

He took the next turn to the right, as he’d been told. It hadn’t taken him long to find out where William was billeted – the whole city was alive with stories of the Ghost. The street ahead was narrower, with few lamps along it.

He’d gone only a few paces when he heard footsteps ahead. A figure carrying a lantern came round the corner. Jack turned into an alleyway, moving quickly, but not, he hoped, suspiciously quickly. He slid into the shadows.

The sound of the boots came closer. Jack wasn’t sure whether he’d been seen. The figure with the lantern appeared at the end of the alley. It was a man in the uniform of the city guards – a nightwatchman.

Jack held his breath and pressed himself deeper into a doorway. There was no curfew, but anyone out late could attract attention.

The watchman stopped for a second, scratched his backside, spat, and then walked on.

Jack waited a few minutes and then went back to the street. No one. Silence, save for the sound of the tavern off to the left.

He pressed on down the street and soon the building he’d been looking for loomed on a corner. It was just as it had been described to him – a four-storey stone house with a gryphon carved in bas-relief above the double doors.

He shot past the entrance and into a gloomy alleyway that ran along the side of the building. Pausing in the shadow, he stared at the side of the doorway. There were no guards, but he had no doubt the doors would be locked – and even if they weren’t, he couldn’t just walk in. He would be recognised in no time.

He looked up the wall and saw windows in the storeys above, although there were none at ground level. He might be able to climb up, but the shutters were all closed and it would be hard to get them open from the outside.

Leaning back against the wall, he felt his heart thudding through his whole body. He shut his eyes for a second. What to do? He had to get into the building somehow. Elizabeth was depending on him.

For a moment he was running through the dark forest again, following his daughter’s cries, unable to find her, slapping his way through branches, stumbling on the uneven ground . . .

He opened his eyes and tried to still his mind. He had to concentrate.

The sound of voices drifted from over a wall further down the alley. He peered into the shadows, but saw nothing other than the thin passage curving away out of sight. The voices became louder – two men talking.

He edged down the alleyway and stopped beside the wall. The voices were clear for a moment, but before he could catch what they were saying the men walked away, their boots scraping on stone.

He glanced around again. Seeing no one, he jumped up, getting his fingers over the top of the wall. Giving a slight grunt, he hauled himself to the top and hung there with his feet still dangling on the alley side.

Below him was a courtyard that backed on to the house where William was supposedly billeted. On this side of the building, every floor had windows, some with the shutters open and breathing soft light into the darkness. Two men were walking inside through a door.

He waited until the men had disappeared, then pulled himself up until he was sitting astride the wall. His chest was tight and painful. He paused, waiting until he got his breath back.

What should his next move be? He could easily get into the house – he only had to drop down to the courtyard and run through the half-open door. But what would he do then? It would be better to be cautious, scout out the building a little more first.

He lifted his leg, swung down to the ground and stumbled back into the shadows. After waiting a few seconds, he stole around the side of the yard and sneaked up to the wall of the house, pressing himself against the stone. Candlelight spilt out of the door. If anyone walked through that door now, they would be able to see him. He had to move fast.

He crept over to the nearest window. The shutters were open, but little light filtered out. He peered inside. The room was dark, lit only by lines of radiance around the edges of a closed door. After his eyes adjusted, he saw the chamber was empty, save for two rows of unoccupied sleeping mats and a few rucksacks.

He slipped past the window, came to the door, glanced through the opening and saw a hallway with stairs leading up at the far end. Three lit candles stood on a table about halfway along. The hall was empty, although he could hear voices nearby.

Scurrying past the door, he came up to the second window, which had one shutter open. Voices drifted from inside – several men talking. He strained to hear, making out snatches of a conversation about an army campaign in Macedonia. The men seemed to be reminiscing about past exploits.

He crouched and scuttled across to the other side of the window and the open shutter, careful to stay below the line of the windowsill. His breath shortened as he inched his head around the side of the window.

He needed only a second to take in the scene. Seven men in army uniform were sitting about a table. One of them was William, carving absently at the wooden tabletop with a knife.