Eliza waited beside Clifford and watched the small crowd. Just past the main group of British supporters, a man and a tall woman stood arm in arm. The woman glanced across and smiled. Clifford, noticing, whispered that she was Dottie Hopkins, the doctor’s wife. ‘You’ll meet them both later,’ he added. ‘Good people.’
The woman looked friendly and Eliza was pleased at the thought of them being introduced. In the other direction a large noisy group of Indian supporters were gathering, again accompanied by a swarm of servants in formal dress, and now Eliza’s eyes were glued to them.
‘Although this is known as the game of kings, Anish, the ruler, rarely attends these days,’ Clifford was saying. ‘Prince Jayant is the one to watch. He has superb horsemanship skills and is a great team player. If he’s in the team today we’ll have a match on our hands.’
‘Do these games take place often?’
‘The big ones are part of a regular tournament, but this is just a small friendly for our own entertainment. Jaipore have the best reputation, you know. Won the Indian Championship this year, but Juraipore are coming up fast behind.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘And we still aim to triumph. Wave the flag and all that.’
Soon after that the players arrived, looking smart and straight-backed as they walked on to the field. Then the proud-looking grooms led the ponies on, and the crowd began to clap, though Clifford was quick to explain that these were not really ponies but full-sized horses.
‘It’s a terribly expensive sport. The ponies are worth thousands.’
Eliza watched the team members mount – they all looked incredibly powerful – and just as she spotted that Prince Jayant was among them, he began to seat himself on a magnificent black horse. Now a roar went up from the delighted crowd, followed by persistent cheering and whistles from the Indian supporters.
Clifford drew closer to Eliza. ‘He always draws a crowd. And his pony has a brilliant temperament. You really have to rely on the animal not to become over-excited. Now see those two chaps?’
Eliza looked in the direction he was pointing.
‘The umpires. There’s a referee too, in case of disagreement. Polo is all about fair play.’
So far this was good fun, and Eliza was pleased to be out in the open air and enjoying the novelty, despite her earlier reservations. She watched as the two teams lined up facing each other, their polo sticks at the ready, and then, as soon as the ball was struck, the game began. An intense atmosphere developed as clouds of dust rose up from the hard ground and the horses thundered along, but among the swooping and dipping it soon became apparent that the Prince’s pony seemed to be pulling back.
‘Is that supposed to happen?’ she asked.
Clifford frowned. ‘Does seem a bit frisky.’
She continued to watch the men on their ponies and then, glancing at the Indian crowd, saw that a couple of men in formal dress and with curved swords at their waists had stepped forward as if in expectation of trouble. She held her breath, but after that nothing happened and the game went on. Eliza watched in fascination, barely listening as Clifford explained the rules of polo to her and the different terminology.
It was only a few minutes later that something seemed to be really going wrong with the Prince’s horse.
‘My God!’ Clifford exclaimed as it began to trot back and forth in a prancing, out-of-control manner, and then to actually buck.
Eliza noticed the mixed expression on Prince Jayant’s face – annoyance, though puzzlement had the upper hand. There were murmurings among the British and the Indians too and then loud shouting as Jayant’s saddle began to slide to one side and, within seconds, he was lying on his back on the ground, the horse running wild. The rest of the players stood completely still and everyone watched in horror as two grooms ran after the panicking horse. Eliza held her breath and clutched Clifford’s arm as it bolted into the crowd of Indian supporters, many of whom shouted and flapped their arms in shock, while others ran to escape. Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream and a woman fell backwards against the railings. As the horse kicked out again and again, Eliza could feel the fear; people were still running to get out of its path, but the woman, now lying on the ground silently, was not moving at all.
Eliza saw the doctor, whom Clifford had pointed out earlier, run to lean over the woman. Then he squatted by her side.
While the grooms eventually caught and then quietened the panicking horse, two men arrived with a canvas stretcher and the woman was carried off, followed by the doctor. Meanwhile the Prince was scrambling to his feet and dusting himself down, apparently unhurt, but looking absolutely livid, and then he left the field with the horse in tow. The two men with curved swords at their waists went after him and Eliza realized they must be his bodyguards.
The photographer in her was trained to see the details of a scene and she spotted an Indian man, probably a stable boy she thought, though he seemed to almost be sneaking from the stables and around the back of the Indian crowd and then over towards another man. The second man was tall, with a regal bearing. He clapped the stable man on the back and grinned broadly. It struck her as odd, considering their Prince had just been hurt. Despite the tense atmosphere, Eliza noticed two of the British supporters sniggering as they exchanged glances and winked at each other.
‘What idiots! There’s nothing amusing about this,’ she said. ‘For all we know that woman might be dead.’
‘I’ll hear soon enough from Julian Hopkins,’ Clifford said.
Meanwhile the British were talking among themselves, untroubled, not seeming quite as shocked as they ought to have been, and without a hint of making a move to leave. But the Indian supporters were shaking their heads and muttering, several just turning their backs and walking away from the grounds.
‘So the game will have to stop now,’ Eliza said, sure that it must.
‘No,’ Clifford said. ‘Look. A substitute for the Prince is already coming on. It’s allowed in cases of injury.’
‘Really? Isn’t that rather callous?’
‘The show must go on, Eliza.’
