Free Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne by Alex Rutherford

them, Ghiyas Beg’s face was full of pride. ‘Our thoughts will be with you. Serve your mistress well,’ he said.
    Mehrunissa followed the
khawajasara
out of the courtyard and down a sandstone staircase that gave on to the steep ramp leading into the heart of the Agra fort. A few yards away six female attendants dressed in green waited beside a silk-decked palanquin. They looked tall and broad. She had already heard about the muscular Turkish women who helped guard the
haram,
but as she drew closer she gasped to see that the attendants were not women but eunuchs with large hands and feet and strangely smooth faces, neither masculine nor feminine. All were wearing rich jewellery and the eyes of several were rimmed with kohl. She had seen eunuchs before, employed as servants or dancing and playing for crowds in the bazaar, but never dressed as parodies of women like this.
    ‘Madam, the palanquin is for you,’ said the
khawajasara.
Mehrunissa stepped inside and sat cross-legged on the low seat. Hands twitched the silk curtains into place around her and the palanquin rose as the eunuchs lifted it on to their shoulders. As it began its slow swaying progress up the ramp, carrying her to a new life, she found she was clasping her hands and her heart was beating so fast that her blood seemed to pound in her ears. So much had happened in such a shorttime . . . In the shadowy half-light she tried to recapture Jahangir’s lean, handsome face, the way he had looked at her as she had danced for him in Kabul . . . Was he really to be her future as her father claimed and she so desired? Soon she would know.

    ‘What do you wish to tell me, Majesty? I came from Fatehpur Sikri as soon as I received your summons.’ The Sufi’s voice was gentle but his gaze was penetrating. Now that the moment had come, Jahangir felt reluctant to speak. The Sufi, whom out of respect to his status as a holy man he had invited to sit on a stool close by his own in his private apartments, seemed to sense his awkwardness and continued, ‘I know that when you were only a boy you opened your heart to my father. I don’t presume to have either my father’s powers of prophesy or his insight, but if you will trust me I will try to help you.’
    Jahangir thought back to that warm night in Fatehpur Sikri when he had run from the palace to the house of Shaikh Salim Chishti hoping to find answers. ‘Your father was a great man. He told me not to despair, that I would be emperor. His words sustained me through many difficult times as I grew to manhood.’
    ‘Perhaps my words can also give you solace.’
    Jahangir looked at the Sufi – a much bigger man than his frail-looking father had been. He was as tall as Jahangir and well muscled as a soldier, but physical strength wouldn’t make him any more forgiving of moral weakness, Jahangir thought . . . He took a breath and began, choosing his words with care. ‘When my father exiled me to Kabul I saw awoman there, the daughter of one of my father’s officials. I knew instinctively that she was the woman I had been seeking. Though I already had several wives I was certain beyond any doubt that she would be my soulmate – that I must marry her. But there was a problem. She was already promised to one of my father’s commanders and though I begged my father he refused to break their betrothal.’
    ‘The Emperor Akbar was a just man, Majesty.’
    ‘Yes, but not always where members of his own family were concerned. He refused to accept how important this woman was to me. He wouldn’t understand that I felt as my grandfather Humayun must have done when he saw his wife Hamida for the first time. He broke with his brother Hindal, who also loved Hamida, in order to have her. He even hazarded his empire because of his love for her. Some might say he was foolish . . .’ Jahangir glanced at the Sufi sitting silent by his side, hands resting on his knees and white-turbaned head slightly bowed, ‘but he was right.