‘Where the hell are we going?’ said Rathmore.
‘The name would mean nothing to you. We are going to a place nearby. There are plenty of “places” in these hills, none of them frequented by the British. The comforts of these vary but we will do our best to make you feel at home. In any case your stay will not be a long one.’
Rathmore threw his head back. ‘Help!!!’ he shouted. To his bitter mortification this was greeted with a roar of laughter and remorselessly the clattering convoy went on its way. It was clear that Iskander was hurrying them all he could. As dawn broke, a rider offered a water bottle to Rathmore and another a handful of dried apricots. This apart, the journey proceeded in silence as the sun rose.
A way led them down a path in the hills, little more than a steep-sided cleft in the black rocks with a yeasty, brawling and rocky stream at its foot, a narrow ribbon of blue sky above, dotted with circling birds. Listening to the rattle of hooves, Rathmore became aware that a second group was following his but, straining and tied to his stirrups, he couldn’t turn enough to see who or what this could be.
Ceaselessly, Iskander rode up and down the convoy, cheering and encouraging, and at last came to rest beside Rathmore. ‘Five more miles,’ he said, ‘and then you can rest. I’m sorry this has been uncomfortable for you.’
‘Who’s that behind us?’ asked Rathmore.
‘Not, I’m afraid, Indian cavalry come to your rescue but someone whom I think you will be surprised to see. Let’s get you untied. I don’t think you could walk back to the fort from here. And, were you so foolish as to try, you would be picked off by a ten rupee jezail loaded with who knows what, possibly a Lee-Enfield if you were lucky, before you had gone ten yards. You are in what we call and have always called “The Free Land”. The warriors and the shepherds – and out here it’s the same thing – who lurk behind every crag are not aware that they are “the captives of your bow and spear” and a barony is no breastplate out here, you’ll find. And now we’ll halt for a few minutes and get acquainted.’
With a rattle and a clatter the convoy drew to a halt where the track widened and descended to a surging stream. Rathmore’s legs were untied and, stiff and sore, he turned in the saddle to watch the company bringing up the rear approach. Two Afghanis escorted a smaller figure who had been, unlike him, riding free. The small, fair-haired figure bundled up in an afghan poshteen was laughing with one of her attendant brigands. A terrible truth paralysed his mind and the only words he could summon up were a shocked exclamation.
‘Miss Coblenz! Lily!’
He sat transfixed.
‘Lord Rathmore! Dermot!’
‘You little traitor! You little baggage! You’ve betrayed me to these, these bloody murdering wogs! This is all your doing! What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Lily had enjoyed such high expectations of her visit to the frontier. It had seemed to her an area populated by free and dangerous men perhaps, dangerous situations certainly. It was here she would experience – and she tried to avoid the cliché – life in the raw. A long way from the conventions of American society, a long way from the restrictions of Simla, a long way from the straitjacket of the British Raj, its acceptances and expectations. It all seemed – as James himself might have expressed it – ‘jolly good fun’. But there was no doubt about it, her enjoyment had faded in the face of the menacing reality of life on the frontier and after dinner, unable to sleep, she had wandered from her room and climbed on to the wall. She sat quietly, feet dangling, looking inwards at the bulk of the old fort and out over the wall towards the gardens and the outer skirting wall of the lower fort. Peace, or what passed for peace, on the frontier seemed to reign. For the moment. Lily was uneasy and nervous. Something was going on which she did not understand, something in which she was involved but unknowingly involved and if there was anything Lily could not accept it was being in a state of not knowing.
In the centre of her vision was the rear postern gate with its watchful sentries. That old nuisance Rathmore! She identified him as the reason she could not sleep. What had he tried to tell her after dinner before Iskander had interceded? Some rubbish about meeting her at that gate at eleven. And that in itself would not have worried her but it was his manner – gloating, complicitous, out of key in someone who had been rebuffed in strong terms the night before. There was definitely something here that she did not understand. One thing was certain though: she was not going within twenty yards of the postern gate.