Flashman and the Mountain of Light. George Fraser MacDonald

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      ‘That is your third cup, bahadur. Have a care. It is … strangely potent, and the night has only begun. Rest a moment.’

      I didn’t mind. With the liquor taking hold I felt safe among the lights and music, with this delectable houri to hand. I slipped an arm round her waist as we looked down on the dancers; the guests reclining in the booths around the floor were clapping to the music and throwing silver; others were drinking and eating and dallying – it looked a thoroughly jolly party, with most of the women as briefly attired as Mangla. One black charmer, naked to the waist, was supporting a shouting reveller as he weaved his way across the floor, there was excited laughter and shrill voices, and one or two of the booths had their curtains discreetly closed … and not a Pathan in sight.

      ‘Their highnesses are merry,’ says Mangla. ‘One of them, at least.’ A man’s voice was shouting angrily below, but the music and celebration continued uninterrupted. ‘Never fear, you will find a welcome – come and join our entertainment.’

      Capital, thinks I, we’ll entertain each other in one of those curtained nooks, so I let her lead me down a curved stair giving on to an open space at one side of the floor, where there were buffets piled high with delicacies and drink. The angry man’s voice greeted us as we descended, and then he was in view beside the tables: a tall, well-made fellow, handsome in the pretty Indian way, with a curly beard and moustache, a huge jewelled turban on his head and only baggy silk pantaloons on the rest of him. He was staggering tight, with a goblet in one hand and the other round the neck of the black beauty who’d been helping him across the floor. Before him stood Dinanath and Azizudeen, grim and furious as he railed at them, stuttering drunkenly.

      ‘Tell ’em to go to the devil! Do they think the Wazir is some mujbee^fn3 who’ll run to their bidding! Let ’em come to me – aye, and humbly! Khalsa scum! Sons of pigs and owls! Do they think they rule here?’

      ‘They know it,’ snaps Azizudeen. ‘Persist in this folly and they’ll prove it.’

      ‘Treason!’ bawls the other, and flung the goblet at him. It missed by yards, and he’d have tumbled over if the black wench hadn’t caught him. He clung tipsily to her, flecks of spittle on his beard, crying that he was the Wazir, they wouldn’t dare –

      ‘And what’s to stop them?’ demands Azizudeen. ‘Your Palace Guard – whom the Khalsa have promised to blow from guns if you escape? Try it, my prince, and you’ll find your Guards have become your jailers!’

      ‘Liar!’ yammers the other, and then from raging and cursing he burst into tears, bleating about how well he’d paid them, half a lakh to a single general, and they’d stand by him while the British ate the Khalsa alive. ‘Oh, aye – the British are marching on us even now!’ cries he. ‘Don’t the fools know that?’

      ‘They know you say so – but that it is not true,’ puts in Dinanath sternly. ‘My prince, this is foolish. You know you must go out to the Khalsa tomorrow, to answer for Peshora’s death … if you speak them fair, all may be well …’ He stepped closer, speaking low and earnest, while the fellow mowed and wept – and then, damme if he didn’t lose interest and start nuzzling and fondling his black popsy. First things first seemed to be his motto, and he pawed with such ardour that they tumbled down and sprawled in a drunken embrace at the stair foot, while Dinanath and Azizudeen stood speechless. The drunkard raised his face from between her boobies once, blubbering at Dinanath that he daren’t go out to the Khalsa, they’d do him a mischief, and then went back to the matter in hand, trying to climb on top of her with his great turban all awry.

      Mangla and I were standing only a few steps above them, and I was thinking, well, you don’t often see this at Windsor – the astonishing thing was that no one else in the durbar room was paying the least heed; while the drunkard alternately mauled his wench and whimpered and snarled at the two counsellors, the dance was reaching its climax, the band piping away in fine style, the spectators applauding. I glanced at Mangla, and she shrugged.

      ‘Raja Jawaheer Singh, Wazir,’ says she, indicating the turbaned sportsman. ‘Do you wish to be presented?’

      Now he was struggling to his feet again, calling for drink, and the black girl held the cup while he gulped and slobbered. Azizudeen turned on his heel in disgust, and Dinanath followed him towards one of the booths. Jawaheer pushed the cup away, staggered, and clutched at a table for support, calling for them to come back, and that was when his eye fell on us. He goggled stupidly, and started forward.

      ‘Mangla!’ cries he. ‘Mangla, you bitch! Who’s that?’

      ‘It is the English envoy, Flashman sahib,’ says she coolly.

      He gaped at me, blinking, and then a crafty look came into his eyes, and he loosed a great shout of laughter, yelling that he’d been right – the British had come, as he’d said they would.

      ‘See, Dinanath! Look, Azizudeen! The British are here!’ He swung round, stumbling, weaving towards them in a sort of crazy dance, crowing with high-pitched laughter. ‘A liar, am I? See – their spy is here!’ Dinanath and Azizudeen had turned in the entrance of one of the booths, and as Jawaheer capered and fell down, and Mangla brought me to the foot of the staircase, I saw Dinanath white with fury – shame and loss of face before a foreigner, you see. The dancing and music had stopped, folk were craning to look, and flunkeys were running to help Jawaheer, but he lashed out at them, staggering round to point unsteadily at me.

      ‘British spy! Filth! Your Company bandits will come to plunder us, will they? Brigands, wilayati,^fn4 vermin!’ He glared from me to Dinanath. ‘Ai-ee, the British will come – they will have cause to come!’ shrieks he, pointing at me, and then they’d hustled him off, still yelling and laughing, Mangla clapped her hands, the music began again, and folk turned away, whispering behind their hands, just as they do at home when Uncle Percy’s had one of his bad turns during evensong.

      I daresay I should have been embarrassed, but with a couple of quarts of mixed brandy and puggle inside me, I didn’t mind one little bit. Jawaheer was plainly all that rumour said of him, but I had deeper concerns: I was suddenly thirsty again, and beginning to feel so monstrous randy that if Lady Sale had happened by she’d have had to look damned lively, rheumatics and all. Doubtless the curious liquor Mangla had plied me with was responsible for both conditions; very well, she could take the consequences … there she was, the luscious little teaser, by the booth where Azizudeen and Dinanath had been a moment since. I lurched towards her, gloating, but even as I hove to beside her a woman spoke from beyond the open curtains.

      ‘Is this your Englishman? Let me look at him.’

      I turned in surprise – not only at the words, but at the slurred, appraising arrogance of the tone. Mangla stepped back, and with a little gesture of presentation, said: ‘Flashman sahib, kunwari,’^fn5 and that title told me I was in the presence of the notorious Maharani Jeendan, Indian Venus, modern Messalina, and uncrowned queen of the Punjab.

      Here and there in my memoirs I’ve remarked on the attraction of the female sex, and how it’s seldom a matter of beauty alone. There are breathtakers like Elspeth and Lola and Yehonala whom you can’t wait to chivvy into the shrubbery; equally classic creatures (Angie Burdett-Coutts, for example, or the Empress of Austria) who are as exciting as cold soup but appeal to the baser aesthetic senses; and plain Janes who could start a riot in a monastery. In each case, Aphrodite or the governess, the magic is different, you see; there is always some unique charm or singular attraction, and it can be hard to define. In Mai Jeendan, though, it stood out a mile: she was simply the lewdest-looking strumpet I ever saw in my life.

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