The Sandalwood Princess Read Free Page B

said, “Now I come to my own lifetime.”
    From the doorway came a long, drawn-out sigh. The princess affected not to hear it
    “I was many years a younger woman than you when a Punjab prince conquered my father’s kingdom,” she said. “When this conqueror investigated his new domain, he made two discoveries. One was myself. To strengthen his political position, he took me as his wife. He also discovered the temple ruins. His greed being far greater than his fear of curses, he ordered the temple excavated. Thus he unearthed all the treasure the robbers had left behind in their terror. Also, he found the skull of the chieftain, and within it”—she paused briefly—”the Tear of Joy.”
    Amanda stifled a gasp. “In the skull?” she asked incredulously. “How did it get there?”
    The rani shrugged. “Who knows? There it lay, undamaged after nearly a century. My husband gave it to me, before all the town. He was a pig, but politic. Before them, he gave it to me. In private, he took it back—for safekeeping, he said. He permitted me to keep a few baubles, and this figure, the only one which had not been destroyed in the temple’s collapse. I was not pleased,” she added with a faint smile.
    There came a loud sniff from the doorway.
    “What ails you, Padji?” the princess asked.
    “Nothing, mistress.”
    “Then be silent.” She turned back to Amanda. “Once and only once in my life have I loved,” the rani said. “I speak not of ordinary love, which I have possessed in abundance. I speak of a great, all-consuming love, such as most persons merely read of or see performed in drama, but never experience in their lives. In your legends, it is the love of Tristan and Isolde. In mine, it is that of Krishna and Radha.”
    After a moment’s consideration, Amanda said softly, “You mean sinful love, I think.” She blushed as she spoke, not for any missish reason, but because to speak of sin to the rani was... oh, absurd, really. Her morality was not defined by the Church of England or English society.
    “Yes,” the Indian woman answered calmly. “Sinful love.” She lazily drew upon the waterpipe.
    While she awaited the rest of the story, Amanda gazed about her, trying to memorise her surroundings, for it would be the last time, perhaps. Thick with smoke and incense, these chambers would have frightened the ladylike Eustacia, and most gently bred British ladies. They would have per ceived the place as a den of iniquity. Certainly it fit their image of the Rani Simhi as a dangerous woman whose history comprised one long career of sin.
    Perhaps it was sin, Amanda reflected. Nonetheless, the princess’s world was fascinating, and Amanda had been happier here than anywhere else she could remember. Whether legend or history, the universe her Indian friend revealed was a dream world, captivating as a fairy tale. It was also just as safe as one, for Amanda could never enter its pages.
    A light breeze wafted from the garden, carrying the scent of flowers and the fresh fragrance of the carved vetiver entryway. Something else, Amanda thought, drawing an appreciative breath. Agarwood?
    “My husband became one of the most powerful princes in India,” the rani continued. “Thus the British soon arrived, to persuade him to accept their protection rather than that of the French. Among them was one, tall and fair. In his hair gleamed the golden light of the sun, and in his eyes the glistening sea. I saw him and love consumed me. This passion caused me to risk death, the punishment for adultresses. Richard Whitestone became my lover, and in time, I ran away with him.”
    Padji cried out, “Oh, mistress, would that I’d cut out the dog’s heart!’’
    “Hold your tongue,” said his mistress. “My friend does not wish to hear your ignorant babbling.” She turned back to Amanda. “He is like a child sometimes. He thinks everything may be resolved by cutting out hearts. One cannot explain to him. He is not a