Empire of the Moghul: The Tainted Throne (18 page)

‘You look happy.’ Jahangir’s lips brushed the side of her neck.

‘I am. I mean to make my first kill today.’

‘We may be unlucky. The tigers my huntsmen saw this morning may have moved away by now.’

At first it seemed that Jahangir might be right. The huntsmen, galloping ahead, could find no trace of the tigers. Three hours after leaving Agra Jahangir would have given the order to return but Mehrunissa begged, ‘Please. Let’s just go a little further. Look, we’re almost into the hills where the tigers were spotted this morning . . .’

Jahangir smiled. ‘Very well.’

At first the sandy, dune-like terrain with its few spiny bushes looked unpromising. There was insufficient cover for a tiger. But then the ground began to climb towards some large grey rocks among which tamarind trees were growing. Suddenly the elephant halted and Jahangir leaned down to catch the words of a huntsman.

‘They’ve found fresh tracks. They’re going to place a goat carcass they’ve brought near the rocks,’ Jahangir whispered moments later. ‘We’ll wait here, downwind.’

As the minutes passed a light breeze ruffled the tamarind trees but there was no other sound or movement. Then Mehrunissa smelled a strong, musky scent and Jahangir whispered once more, ‘They’re coming . . . see . . . two of them, among the rocks.

‘Pass us the muskets and have the tapers ready,’ he ordered the eunuchs and swept aside the howdah curtains. Mehrunissa quickly balanced the engraved steel barrel of her weapon on the edge of the howdah for support and checked the short thin length of fuse. Then, crouching forward as Jahangir had taught her, she squinted along the barrel. Sure enough, just emerging from the rocks were two black and orange shapes. The tigers, heads low between their massive shoulder blades, were moving slowly and cautiously towards the dead goat. She was about to reach behind her for the lighted taper when Jahangir said, ‘No, not yet. If you’re too quick you may frighten them off.’

With the blood pounding in her ears it was torture to wait. The tigers had reached the carcass and as they sank their teeth into the flesh she sensed their caution was leaving them.

‘Now!’ Jahangir said. ‘You take the one on the right, I’ll take the left.’

Grabbing the smouldering taper from the eunuch behind her Mehrunissa aimed at the broad, goat-gore-covered chest of her target. She heard the sharp crack as she fired, and then her tiger slumped sideways, fresh red blood crimsoning its white throat. Almost simultaneously Jahangir’s tiger collapsed with a great roar and after shuddering for a few moments lay still, pink and black tongue lolling from its half-open mouth. A new visceral thrill ran though Mehrunissa. Lips parted and eyes bright, she turned to Jahangir.

But at that moment from behind their elephant came a high-pitched whinnying and a young
qorchi
on a bay mare panicked by the sound of the muskets rushed past. The elephant raised its trunk in alarm and shifted its feet but
the
mahout
steadied it. The youth, elbows and ankles flapping wildly, sawed futilely at the reins. Mehrunissa was about to laugh when he was thrown clean over the mare’s head to land a few yards from the dead tigers and lay there dazed. Suddenly some instinct told Mehrunissa to look not at the prone youth but into the rocks above. Something orange and black was moving there.

‘My other musket – quickly!’ Dropping the first she seized the new weapon from the eunuch and with two swift movements rested it on the rim of the howdah and trained the barrel on the rocks. She was only just in time as a tiger even larger than the first two leapt in a great arc towards the squire, who was still on the ground. Mehrunissa fired. In her haste she’d not braced herself properly and as the musket discharged the kick sent her tumbling backwards. Scrambling up she saw the tiger sprawled half across the body of the squire, who was struggling to extricate himself.

‘That was some shot. Are you all right?’ Jahangir asked. She nodded, breathing hard. ‘You never cease to astonish me.’ He was looking at her with utter admiration. ‘Your speed of reaction was faster than my own.’

‘The tiger was a threat. I reacted instinctively.’

‘Could you have fired if it had been a man?’

‘Yes, why not, if he was my enemy . . . or yours.’

Khurram should be pleased with this gift of a painting of his bride-to-be, Jahangir thought as he scrutinised the portrait that Mushak Khan, his leading court artist, had placed on a carved rosewood stand in his apartments.

The ruler of a small, far-away realm called England had
recently sent gifts to the court including paintings of himself and his family. Although they looked outlandish in their tight-fitting clothes and high-crowned, curly-brimmed plumed hats, the idea of capturing the images of those around him had pleased Jahangir and he had commissioned several portraits. The mullahs didn’t like it, claiming such man-made images were blasphemous in the eyes of God the creator, but some courtiers, eager to please him, now even wore tiny jewelled portraits of their emperor as turban ornaments.

Studying Arjumand’s face carefully, Jahangir traced a resemblance to Mehrunissa, though to him his wife’s face had a charismatic strength lacking here that in the six months since their marriage had continued to fascinate him. With Mehrunissa he felt complete as never before. Her love enveloped him. Not only did she understand his moods but she could change them. If he felt sad she could make him laugh. If he was anxious she could soothe his worries not just with pretty words but with practical prudent suggestions – never strident and always pertinent. He was spending as much time listening to her advice as to that of his vizier Majid Khan and the rest of his council, from whose words he had to disentangle the wise from the personally motivated. In a month’s time he would be acting as she suggested by allowing the marriage of his son Khurram to Arjumand Banu. Jodh Bai had tried to tell him such a match was unworthy but seeing his determination had fallen silent.

He had already chosen the day – 10 May 1612, a date his astrologers assured him would guarantee the couple’s perfect happiness. All that remained was for him to arrange the most magnificent wedding the Moghul court had ever witnessed. He would do so not only for his son but also for
the pleasure it would give Mehrunissa to see her family so honoured.

In the bridal chamber Khurram, wearing only a green brocade robe secured round his waist with a narrow gold belt, stood alone close to the gauze curtain behind which Arjumand Banu’s attendants were readying her for the consummation of their marriage. He looked down at his hands, painted earlier that day by his mother with patterns of henna and turmeric to symbolise good luck. He was still wearing the marriage tiara of glistening pearls that his father had tied on his head just before he had set out from the fort on an elephant wearing a diamond-studded headpiece that blazed like white fire in the summer sunshine to follow the immense wedding procession winding its way to Asaf Khan’s mansion. Ahead of his elephant had marched trumpeters and drummers, then rows of attendants bearing golden trays piled with spices, then Khurram’s friends and milk-brothers on matched black stallions.

The ceremonies and celebrations had seemed endless – the solemn incantations of the mullahs, Arjumand’s whispered agreement to the marriage, the ritual rinsing of his hands in rosewater and the drinking of a goblet of water to confirm the union, all followed by feasting and exchanges of gifts. Glancing at Arjumand seated beside him concealed beneath layers of glittering veils he had wondered what was going through her mind. Soon he would know. She was so nearly his . . .

His heart was pounding and to his surprise he realised how uncertain he felt, even nervous . . . his expectations
were so high he was afraid they couldn’t be matched. What if making love to Arjumand Banu was not, after all, so special? His own mother, usually so good humoured, had warned him not to expect too much, but he knew he must trust to his own instincts. Jodh Bai resented Mehrunissa and didn’t welcome her son’s alliance with another woman of her family. When she was told that Mehrunissa had complimented Jahangir on his strength and on the sweetness of his breath he had heard her snap that only a woman with experience of many men could make such comparisons.

At last an attendant twitched back the curtain. Arjumand was lying naked against a bolster of ivory silk, her long hair combed out over her shoulders. Her body gleamed with the fragrant oils which had been rubbed into her skin – a ceremony intended not only to render the bride more desirable to her husband but also to stimulate and prepare her for sexual intercourse. The
haram
servants had done their work well. Khurram saw the rise and fall of her high round breasts, the tautness of her small dark nipples and the lustre in her eyes.

‘Leave us,’ he ordered the attendants, aware that their eyes were observing him a little slyly from above their filmy veils. Then he slowly approached the bed and unfastening his belt let his robe slide to the floor. He lay down beside his bride, very close but not touching her. Before he possessed her there was something he must say if he could find the words. Raising himself on one elbow he looked into her shining eyes. ‘Arjumand. Whatever happens, for the rest of my life I will love and protect you. For as long as God gives us together your happiness will matter more to me than my own. I swear it.’

‘And I swear I will be a good wife to you. When my father first told me you wanted to marry me I was afraid . . . you were so far above me, from a world I didn’t know . . . but when my uncle’s treachery brought disgrace on our family you didn’t give me up. That was when I knew you must really love me. Tonight I give myself to you as completely and as trustingly as any woman can.’ Her lovely face looked almost sombre as she made her declaration.

‘No more words,’ Khurram whispered, and pulled her to him.

‘Highnesses. The bedding of Prince Khurram and his bride has been inspected. The marriage has been consummated and Arjumand Banu was indeed a virgin.’ The keeper of Khurram’s
haram
bowed low before Mehrunissa and Jahangir before offering the traditional prayer for the fertility of the young couple. ‘May God bless them with many children so that the bride becomes as a mine teeming with the gems of royalty.’

Mehrunissa smiled fondly at Jahangir. She was an empress and her niece the wife of his favourite son. The future had never looked so promising . . .

‘Marriage agrees with you, Khurram.’ It was true, Jahangir thought as he contemplated the marble chess board, plotting his next move. Khurram did look content. To have a woman for whom you cared above all else was a gift from heaven. He was glad his son had such happiness just as he did himself.

Khurram smiled but said nothing. After a few more moments’ reflection he pushed one of his rooks two squares forward. Jahangir could tell from his satisfied look that he believed he had made a clever move. In fact, he had made a mistake. Two more moves and he himself would be the victor.

‘Happiness is making you careless. You haven’t lost to me in many months but tonight you will.’ Ten minutes later the game was over and a defeated and slightly crestfallen Khurram was standing, ready to call for his horse. But Jahangir had something he needed to say. He wasn’t sure how his son
would react so soon after his marriage to Arjumand and he knew he had been postponing this moment. But Khurram was a Moghul prince and must understand where his duty lay . . .