…More hoofbeats as the prince and Sir Manfred came up, and the attendants. Several of them were swearing in amazement [at the scene where Princess Sita—not part of the hunting party—had just killed a wild boar from horseback]; one gave an involuntary shout of “Shabash!” and then they were all crying it.
All but the prince. “Sita, what the devil do you think you’re doing here?” he began.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” Henri said. “It appears that your sister is here saving my life. A thousand thanks,” he continued, with a sweeping bow made less graceful as he winced and rubbed his elbow.
Sita looked down at him from the saddle, her eyebrows raised against a smile gone cool and considering. “You are welcome, Monsieur le Vicomte,” she said. “My apologies also, if I have shocked you.”
Henri grinned. “Au contraire, Princess Sita. Let me say at once that my prince will not be in the least shocked. In fact, I think I may say that he would heartily approve.”
“Good spear,” Sir Manfred said quietly. “And a very fortunate one, Your Highness.”
The party all looked up as the file of Bikaner Horse troopers pulled up on lathered horses. Their commander saluted and took a long look at the little tableau. When he nodded to Sita again, the iron mask of control over anger had turned to wary respect.
“Good spear, Kunwari,” he said. “And I would pay thirty gold mohurs for that horse! Kunwar,” he added to Charles. “If there is fault, it is mine—I took my men in the wrong direction when the princess’s horse…bolted.”
Charles snorted, and Sita looked offended at the notion any horse could run away with her. Henri bent to check the legs of his own mount; uninjured, except for a bad fright and some bruises, he thought. That gave him an unobtrusive chance to study Prince Charles’s face, which was scowling as the heir to the Lion Throne saw one of the troopers gray-faced and cradling an arm.
“You, sowar,” he said. “Are you injured?”
The trooper looked as though the attention from on high was more painful than the arm. “It is nothing, Kunwar, ” he murmured. “A clean break—my horse shied—it will heal.”
Charles turned to his sister. “It might have been his neck!” he snapped.
Sita flushed. “I am sorry,” she said; then repeated it in Hindi to the horse-soldier.
“It is nothing, Kunwari,” the trooper demurred. He looked at the dead boar, and at the spot where the royal family’s guest had lain. “Good spear! And the arm is nothing; I have eaten your salt; it is my karman to shed blood for your House.”
“And rajadharma not to make men risk their lives without need!” Charles said crisply, and called over his shoulder for a surgeon.
Sir Manfred had dismounted; he murmured in [Henri’s] ear: “Rajadharma; ruler’s duty.”
The prince went on: “What is your name, sowar?”
The man drew himself erect: “Burubu Ram, Kunwar.”
“Where did you break that?”
He nodded when the officer described the location; he knew this hunting park as well as most knew their front gardens.
“Miles, at a gallop, with a broken arm?”
The Rajput officer coughed discreetly: “He would not return, Kunwar. Please forgive the indiscipline.” The words were apologetic, but the tone rang with pride.
“Very well,” Charles said, and looked at the trooper again. “You are given six months sick leave, with pay. Before you return to your home…your family hold land?”
“Han, Kunwa.” Yes, Imperial Prince. “Thirty acres, northwest of Bikaner on the new Essmeet Canal—a grant to my father for twenty-five years’ service. I am heir to the holding.”
“The Smith Canal…Good. Surgeon, see to this man’s arm.”
His comrades helped him dismount, and the doctor began to probe it gently, then to prepare a splint. That sort of medicine was always available on the hunting field.
“Sowar Burubu Ram, before you go on sick leave, you may select one horse and its tack from the Imperial stud; that is my sister’s gift to you.” He looked up and shifted to English for a moment: “You’re paying for it out of your allowance, by the way, Sita.” In Hindi once more: “Also, if you have a younger brother who would care to enlist in the Guards, I will furnish his mount.”
The trooper grinned despite his pain. Imperial cavalry regiments were raised on the sillidar system; the Raj provided weapons and ammunition, but the trooper found his own horse and its fodder and gear out of his stipend, replacing the mount as needed unless it was lost in battle. It ensured the cavalry a better class of recruit than the infantry units, but the initial expense could be heavy for a middling-prosperous yeoman, and prohibitive for more than one son.
Sita swung down out of the saddle. She unfastened the long jewel-hilted hunting knife from her belt and tucked it into the injured man’s sash.
“A keepsake from your princess, sowar,” she said. “And if you have a sister who wishes a position in the household, it will be given.”
The trooper started to salute, winced, and gave a dignified salaam as he spoke his thanks. Then he walked off, accompanied by comrades who helped him toward the roadway and damned him for a lucky dog in genial whispers, swearing that they’d gladly break both arms for the favor he’d been given….
— The Peshawar Lancers, Chapter5
