unreasonable offer: 'If such a sad thing should happen one could only presume the snakes were dropped into your bathing pool by those snakes in the grass in the Congress Party. No doubt some of the troublemakers that Mr Gandi is always organizing to shout in the streets for the British to quit India. Your deaths might give New Delhi the courage to deal with those scum in the way they should be dealt with.'
Carol's mind raced and the conclusions she reached were not comforting: the truth was that there were very good reasons why Prince Ravi would probably be quite content to kill the British women.
Kultoon and the other independent states like it were happy to be part of a British run India, for they knew that if India ever did become independent their lands would quickly be seized by the new government and subsumed into the newly born nation. Prompted by such fears for their future the native princes were fretting because they thought the British should have hung Gandi and his fellow nationalist leaders long ago. And they knew from their grandfather's tales that when the future of British India had trembled in the balance once before it had been the massacres of British women and children which had sent the tiny British army of India into a berserker rage. A rage which had burnt and blasted all hopes of Indian independence for generations. A rage which had lasted so long that many British soldiers in India still had 'CAWNPORE WELL' tattooed on their bodies as part of the rites of passage from raw recruit to seasoned veteran. Prince Ravi and his father might well want to see some new tattoos on brawny British arms as a reminder of new atrocities: 'GAZEPORE SNAKEPIT' would probably serve their turn quite well. And when Carol looked around at the other faces around the pool she felt that most of the women understood Indian politics well enough to take Ravi's threat very seriously.
Yes, and already Ravi come within a hand's span of shattering the bowl and dropping the kraits in amongst the women. That was how little he cared about their lives: Hamlet wasn't in it compared to this mad prince. Carol could imagine the tangle of writhing green bodies falling into the water, bursting apart and spreading out in a maddened fury, and then the screams of the women trying to get out of the pool with snakes hanging from arms and legs, already fated to die in choking agony like pi-dogs with rabies, swollen tongues protruding from foam dewed lips. And because every detail of her fate was already clear in her mind she dared say nothing in rebuttal to Ravi.
The Prince looked at all the women, all apparently as speechless as Carol herself was. He grinned, lifted a languid hand and clicked his fingers: 'Bring along the party requisites, please, gentlemen.'
There was a bustle of activity as two officers came into the Moorghi-Khana carrying a wickerwork picnic basket between them. They lifted it up and set it down carefully on top of the table. Damp patches began to form on the magazines underneath the basket. One of the men undid the lid of the basket and lifted it up. But none of the British women even noticed that action: what they were gaping at was what four more officers were bringing into the room. It was a sight beyond belief.
The four men made their way through the onlookers, to the edge of the pool. Then they set down their burden in front of the Prince. It was a rocking horse. Made of wood, skillfully painted a realistic shade of dappled gray, a tail made of what looked like real horse hairs, and with bright blue dolls' eyes painted on the head. It was far larger than any normal toy and in fact looked as if it might have come from a fairground ride. But the strangest thing of all about it was the saddle on top of the wooden horse, a fat well padded red silk pillow of a saddle which ran all the way from mane to tail. In addition there were reins on the well shaped head, fine leather reins, and thick leather stirrups on each side of the horse with wide wooden foot rests.
Ravi patted the horse on the head: 'Patience, ladies, all will soon be clear. But first a peace offering.'
The officer who had lifted the lid of the basket held up chunks of white between his fingers and called out: 'Come on, Kirpa, old boy, hurry up.'
Another officer passed him an ice bucket. In the summer heat it seemed almost as an incongruous sight as the rocking horse, but the clatter of the white shards as the officer dropped them into the container and the way he rubbed his numbed fingers afterwards confirmed that the bucket was being used for its intended purpose. Confirmation made doubly sure as a champagne bottle was lifted carefully out of the ice filled wicker basket. The audience in the pool gaped again as the officer holding the bottle opened it with a few twists of his finger and sent the cork flying high in the air. It was obvious that he'd been trying to land it inside the bowl of snakes and missed by only a few feet. Another of the Kultooni cavalrymen had a tray ready and took out glasses from the basket, champagne glasses cold enough to be instantly covered in condensation as they were set out on the tray and each one instantly filled with foaming liquid.
'Bollinger, the 1913 vintage,' Prince Ravi boasted. 'I hope you ladies appreciate it. You certainly should since I had to have a private box car entirely filled with ice at a freezing works in Calcutta in order to have some small portion of it still intact by the time it got here.
I wish I could share some of the champagne with you but unfortunately my religion forbids it.'
He smiled again and pointed at the rocking horse: 'Champagne and a jolly fine wooden horse, hey? No doubt you are wondering what old Ravi is playing at. I already have you at my mercy, isn't it, so why the French champagne and the toy? Well, ladies, these props are for a little game we are going to be playing. The Kultooni Irregulars are inviting you all to take part in a Saumur steeplechase. Perhaps many of you know that Saumur is the town in France where French cavalry officers are trained, and I'm sure that some of you know the traditional test undertaken by an officer graduating from Samaur to prove he is a worthy successor to Marshal Ney.'
The Prince smiled, held up one of the glasses above his eyes and watched the tiny streams of bubbles in it rising to the top of the champagne: 'This is part of the test, proving that the aspiring candidate can hold his drink. Champagne of course, since it is in France. Each officer is given three hours to complete the test. During that time he must drink three bottles of champagne, ride thirty miles across open country and seduce three women. The order in which he carries out these tasks is left to his own judgement.'
Ravi carefully put down the glass and folded his arms: 'Ladies, today we are privileged to offer you the chance to show your mettle in a Saumur steeplechase. Five of you and fifteen bottles of champagne to be consumed in the next three hours. Unfortunately we can't let you go riding out into the country so we've bought you a horse in here. It may only be a rocking horse but whilst each one of you is on it I think I can guarantee there'll be some very fast galloping, my word, yes. But to make up for the lack of outdoor exercise we've increased your indoor exercise – three bottles each and four men each in three hours. Not very difficult, hey!'
He slapped his palms together and one of the ayahs came scuttling forward, to pick up the tray. 'Please accept a glass each as the tray is taken around. The first lady to refuse will immediately be placed on the horse's back in exactly the same condition as Lady Godiva was when she made her famous ride through Coventry.'
The woman in the pool gaped at him, except for Amanda, her eyes being fastened on the tray as the ayah knelt down to present it to her. She was totally confused as to what to do, until the Prince took a step towards her. Without any more delay she immediately decided that he was perfectly capable of making good his threat and picked up one of the cold glasses and sipped from it – the iced Bollinger as delicious a drink as anything she could ever remember tasting in her entire life.
'No heeltaps, young Amanda,' the Prince said genially. 'All down the hatch, chin, chin. There's a lot to drink yet.'
She obeyed and swallowed the rest of the glass in one gulp, and went to put it back on the tray, only to find it already carried away.
'Keep the glass, Amanda, a refill is already coming.'
Three of the native officers, slim and smiling, came towards her. One of them was carrying an ice bucket with the long neck of a champagne bottle protruding from the top. More officers were breaking up into small groups, each group with a bucket and a bottle, and each group walking around the pool and stopping at the back of one of the women.
It was as if each of the wives had been assigned her own escorts.
Amanda realized with a shock that was probably the truth, the selection already made of which man – which men – would have each woman. She looked around and saw the same knowledge dawning on her friends' faces. Amanda also noticed that none of the women were refusing to drink. Jean Ellington had been the most obviously reluctant to pick up a glass but Carol Carnac-Smyth had snapped something to her which had made Jean comply. And that was no surprise, what with those damned snakes hanging overhead.
'Now, who's the senior lady present today?' The Prince demanded.
He was smiling, rubbing his extended thumbs against the silk sleeves of his jacket as he grinned at his prisoners. It was a joke, a sly joke about the Indian caste system as adapted and practiced by the British. Every civil servant's desk had a warrant of precedence on it, a book which showed the relative status of every servant of the King-Emperor. Without the warrant nobody would have known how to arrange the seating at a dinner party, and
