Not Quite a Husband (20 page)

She thought they would depart immediately. Instead, Leo huddled for a while with the guides, who then left by themselves.

“Where have they gone?”

“To set up a rudimentary stage system for us,” he said curtly. “We will leave at first light tomorrow and make for Malakand.”

“In one day?”

“I can’t in good conscience caravan on as if nothing is the matter. Since you want to get behind the front line, I will get you there as fast as I can.”

“How far are we from Malakand?”

“Seventy miles or thereabout.”

“And how many changes of horses will we have?”

“Two.”

On the road into Kashmir, ponies were changed every six miles. Here they would have to use the same horses for twenty-five miles.

“What about the coolies?”

“They will remain here until the guides return for them and then head south. I will wait for them at Malakand. Don’t worry about your things. I’ll have them shipped to London.”

She nodded. “Very good.”

“Prepare for a long day. The horses are not bred for speed; we’ll be lucky if we can manage seven miles an hour on average.”

“Understood.”

He sighed and put his hands on her arms.

“You can still change your mind, Bryony,” he said. “Let us wait here in safety rather than going forward to tempt Fate.”

“Nothing will happen. We will arrive in Malakand tomorrow night sore but well.”

“And if not?”

A chill ran down her back. Until this moment she’d been immune from any and all fear with regard to the Mad Fakir and his doings—but that was because Leo had shouldered all the responsibilities for their safety. Now the onus had shifted. Should
anything go wrong, all the blame rested squarely with her.

“I believe I’ve already proved that my marksmanship is up to the task,” she said. “The die is cast. Let’s have no more doubts or demurrals.”

He moved away from her. “I hope you are right,” he answered. “I hope to God you are right.”

B
y eleven o’clock the next morning they finally came across a blue scarf tied on a tree, signaling the end of their first stage. They were running late. Even under perfect conditions, with the narrowness of the road and its tendency to shift, twist, and drop unexpectedly, they would not have been able to gallop at any appreciable speed. But the storm from two nights ago had slowed their progress even further. At quite a few stretches, the rain had washed mud, rocks, and broken tree limbs onto the road, forcing them to pick their way through the debris.

Hamid had two new horses ready for them and food he’d procured at a nearby village. He also had encouraging news. The Khan of Dir had expressly forbidden his people from participating in the Mad
Fakir’s schemes. Their safety should be assured for as long as they traveled in Dir.

And as soon as they left Dir, they’d be within view of a British installation. Bryony unwound somewhat—she hadn’t realized how tense she had been, how anxious, as the road stubbornly refused to allow them a rapid progress.

By mid-afternoon they reached Sado, a village that had no significance whatsoever, except that it marked the point where their road would leave the Panjkora Valley and take a sharp turn east-southeast.

From Sado it was thirty-five miles to Chakdarra, and another eight miles to Malakand. She estimated that they had perhaps four hours of daylight left. They’d have to slow down once night fell, so it was likely they’d only manage to get to Chakdarra at the end of the day. But that was fine. At Chakdarra they’d still be completely out of danger and from Chakdarra she could still reach Nowshera in less than a day.

“Are you all right?” Leo asked.

They’d stopped to rest and water their horses by a stream that fed the Panjkora. She was crouched by the water, soaking a handkerchief.
Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies merely glow
. In damp, cool England perhaps. In India ladies too sweated like horses,
especially ladies who rode in the middle of the day under an unsympathetic sun at an altitude of less than three thousand feet.

She looked up at him. He usually shaved in the evenings, but he hadn’t the night before. She wanted to stare at the stubbles on his face—the shadow of growth that kissed the firm set of his jaw and the leanness of his features. She turned her face back to her handkerchief. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

“I’m used to this,” he said. “Is the sun getting too harsh?”

He’d been quite lovely to her. Were she to judge him solely by his demeanor, she’d never have guessed that they’d fought heatedly the day before and that he was staunchly opposed to this southward venture.

She wrung the handkerchief dry and patted her face with it. “The sun is tolerable.”

As she rose, he handed her a canteen of water. “You can open a button or two on your jacket if it gets warmer. You are a man today. Enjoy your freedom.”

He’d decided that it was safer for them to appear as two men traveling, rather than a man and a woman. He’d have preferred for them to be in native dress, but neither of them could keep a turban from unraveling, so two
sahibs
they remained. She was
dressed in his spare clothes. His shirt and jacket were loose on her but his trousers had braces and stayed loyally above her waist.

She sipped just enough water to moisten the inside of her mouth—relieving herself was even more of a problem in men’s clothes than in women’s; best to have as little need of it as possible. Capping the canteen, she gave it back to him.

He helped her into the saddle and handed her the reins. “This is not how I would have us part ways, Bryony.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “So let us get on with it.”

The storm seemed to have bypassed Lower Dir altogether. Southeast of Sado, the road improved nicely, wide and smooth enough for wheeled vehicles. The terrain continued to slope lower; their horses picked up speed.

Along the road there were more travelers than Bryony was accustomed to seeing—she attributed it to the better condition of the road and greater proximity to the more populous Swat Valley. Her mind still clouded with the events of the two previous days, it took her a while to see that for every traveler going northwest, there were ten going southeast.

They were all men—no surprises there—traveling on foot. They were armed—again not surprising, in a land where blood feuds were common and disputes frequent. She considered for a moment whether they were the Mad Fakir’s followers, then dismissed the thought out of hand—Upper Swat Valley lay quite in the opposite direction of where these men were coming from. Far more likely that they were on their way to a wedding or some other such communal celebration.

They were two miles past Sado when they passed a group at least a hundred strong at prayer, their weapons by their sides. Another mile later, under the shade of an enormous banyon tree, some fifty men sat drinking tea and chatting. This latter group looked up as Leo and Bryony rode past, but otherwise ignored them.

Half an hour later, however, they came to a third large group of men. The men were about sixty in number and took up almost the entire width of the road. At the sound of riders approaching, the men stopped and turned around. They looked at Leo and Bryony. To Bryony’s dismay, almost half of the men, particularly the younger ones, reached for the hilts of their swords.

She opened her mouth to call to Leo, but no sounds emerged from her suddenly numb throat.
But as if he heard her silent entreaty, Leo slowed his horse somewhat and motioned Bryony to draw up to his left.

“We will pass them on the left. You stay exactly abreast of me and you do not stop no matter what, do you understand?”

She nodded, her heart not quite beating.

“Now ride as fast as you can.”

They urged the horses into as much of a gallop as these sturdy beasts of burden were capable of. The men continued to stare at them, as they drew near, as they veered up the slope beyond the edge of the road, Leo passing just out of reach of the men at the periphery of the group.

And the men were behind them. But before Bryony could breathe again, a series of soft metallic hisses made her peer over her shoulder. A good three dozen swords had been pulled out of their sheaths and held overhead, their blades gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Leo beheld that same display of power and belligerence. His face turned to hers. There was no fear in his eyes, but his hand clutched tightly around his revolver.

“They were all wearing white,” she said, her heart now beating like a war drum. “In every group we’ve passed, the men were all wearing white.”

He returned the revolver to its holster under his jacket. “So they were.”

He needed to say nothing more. The men were headed toward a common purpose, and it wasn’t a Pan-Swati game of cricket.

“I don’t—I don’t suppose we can turn back now?”

“No, can’t turn back now,” he said. “Ride faster.”

Bryony was petrified. So much so that when they came to the rendezvous point with Imran, the elder guide, Leo had to pull her off her horse and then pry her fingers one by one from the reins.

She stood with her back against an apricot tree. They were at the edge of a quiet village. The sun had slid behind the top of the slopes. The air, smelling of hoof-trampled oregano, cool with the arrival of early evening, would have been hugely welcome at their previous stop; but now the breeze made her shiver—or perhaps it only made her shiver
worse
. And the village itself further fueled her fear: It was fortified, with silent, watchful presences behind narrow slits in the high earthen walls.

Beside her, Leo and Imran conferred in whispers.

“I thought the Khan of Dir had forbidden his men to rally to the Mad Fakir,” Leo said.

“These are not Dir men. They come from Bajaur.”
Imran’s leathery face was troubled. “They even invited me to join them, an old man like me. You must get away from here as soon as possible.”

Leo did not ask whether there was still time to get away, and Bryony did not dare. The men saddled the new horses and transferred saddlebags that held bare essentials. When they were done, Leo told Imran to be mindful of his own safety and sent the guide on his way back north.

He turned back, looked at Bryony, and frowned. “Did you drink?”

Bryony looked down at the canteen he’d given her after he helped her off her horse. Did she drink? She had no recollection. She’d forgotten altogether that she had the canteen.

He took the canteen, unscrewed its cap, and put it back in her hand again. “Drink. And take more than a sip. It will be dark soon enough and no one will see you if you must relieve yourself.”

She did as she was told with a dumb obedience.

“And eat this.” He pressed a biscuit into her palm.

“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach felt as if it had been stepped on, repeatedly.

“Your nerves may not want food. But your body does. We’ve still hours of riding ahead of us. You must keep up your strength.”

She could not suppress a whimper of panic.
Hours. How many more armed men would they come across? The region was crisscrossed with valleys rich in alluvial deposits. Crops pushed eagerly through the soil and grew with a lust that would have amazed peasants who had to eke out their living on less blessed dirt. She could only guess at the size of population this ease of cultivation supported.