Free Land of Hope and Glory by Geoffrey Wilson Page B

familiar, yet also strangely unfamiliar. It was twenty years since he’d last visited a native state. He’d been born in Shropshire, but since his parents had died he’d hardly been back. The years had created a distance.
    The people lived a simple life here, working the land and following the old feudal laws, a life that had changed little during the hundred years of Rajthanan rule. Or the two hundred years of the Moorish Caliphate, for that matter. And it struck him now in a way it never had before: this way of life hadn’t changed for century after century, going all the way back to the time of the ancient Normans, and even before . . .
    Rounding a corner, they approached a village that clung to a slope. The cottages were crumbling and the walls of the tiny stone church were cracked, worn and swarming with vines.
    Villagers in tattered clothes appeared on the side of the road. They were thin – far too thin – and many had hollow eyes and grey skin. Women hugged babies, old men watched with quivering lips, younger men stared with eyes that glinted with defiance.
    ‘Food,’ some shouted as Jack clattered past.
    Jack shivered and tried to ignore them. He’d heard the crops had been blighted in many states, and the mutiny had only made things worse.
    A small boy darted out into the road, his hands outstretched, his face dirty and his feet bare. ‘Please, sir,’ he shouted.
    Jack yanked at the reins, swerved to avoid the lad, then spurred his horse on. He wanted to get away from these people and their cries.
    Soon he was out of the crowd, the village disappearing around the corner of the road.
    Throughout the afternoon they passed further hamlets where thin and ragged people shuffled out to beg for food. In one village a baby wailed so loudly Jack could hear its cry on the wind even after he’d left it far behind.

    It was dusk when Pentridge Castle came into view, its stone walls and towers rising from the summit of a squat, dome-shaped hill. As they rode up the path, Jack could see that in many places the battlements were crumbling and the ageing spires were riddled with holes. The moat appeared to have long been empty of water and was now little more than a ditch overgrown with grass. The drawbridge was down, but the portcullis was closed.
    Sengar called up to the guard tower, ‘I am Captain Rajesh Sengar of the Maharaja’s European Army. I request an immediate audience with the Earl of Dorsetshire.’
    At first there was no sign that the tower was even occupied, but then a guard with long, lank hair bent out of a window and peered down. ‘It’s late. You’ll need to come back tomorrow.’
    ‘Open the gate. I demand to see the Earl immediately.’
    ‘The Earl isn’t . . . available.’
    Sengar’s moustache rolled across his top lip. ‘You will open this gate or I will return with a larger force and raze this castle to the ground.’
    The guard rubbed his eyes. ‘I understand, sir. Wait a moment.’
    The guard disappeared and left them waiting for at least ten minutes. Sengar muttered to Kansal in Rajthani – Jack could just make out various curses and expletives.
    Finally the portcullis rattled up and the guard stood before them, bowing and saying, ‘Namaste.’ Stable hands admitted them into a courtyard and took their horses.
    The guard escorted Sengar, Kansal, Jack and five cavalrymen down corridors lit by infrequent lanterns and sputtering torches. Faded, moth-eaten tapestries lined the walls. Statues of knights and heroes from antiquity flickered in gloomy alcoves.
    The audience chamber was better lit and had pale walls leading up to a distant ceiling. The Earl sat on a carved wooden throne at the far end of the room. To either side of him stood guards in old chain mail and courtiers in long robes embroidered with gold. The Earl himself was a short man, almost too small for his chair, with a large fleshy head and red cheeks. He wore bits of what appeared to be ancient plate armour – a