The Tiger’s Prey. Wilbur Smith
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It flew past his ear and stuck, quivering, in the doorframe.
Christopher didn’t flinch. He stared down at his father, his body rigid with controlled fury. It occurred to Guy that he had never noticed how tall his son had become.
‘Farewell, Father. We shall not meet again.’
‘Wait,’ Guy called. But Christopher had gone.
The sunlight struck him like a bolt of lightning before his eyes. Dazed, reeling from the enormousness of what he had done, he stumbled across the square. Ruth met him by the shore, where rusting anchors and cast-off lengths of rope littered the strand. Though it was less than an hour since she had seen him last, she flung her arms around him and clung to him as if they had been parted for years.
She had arrived with her father nine months earlier. Christopher had watched the arrival of the Indiaman that brought her. From the castle walls, he had glimpsed her in the boat that rowed her ashore: just sixteen, with alabaster skin and rich red hair, colours he’d never seen on a girl before. As her boat passed the castle, she had looked up – doubtless wondering about her new home – and caught Christopher’s eye. At that moment, he had felt a stir in his loins such as he had never felt before; he could hardly breathe with desire.
Of course, an English girl arriving in Bombay was like a rose in the desert, and there was no shortage of men wanting to pluck her for themselves. But they all retreated when they learned Guy Courtney’s son was interested.
Even then, it took time. Christopher was awkward; he did not know how to speak to a girl who was not a servant. Many nights he lay awake, abusing himself, imagining the taste of Ruth’s lips, furious at his lack of courage.
But Ruth was patient. She understood how Christopher felt, in a way his mother and father never did. She saw the love in his heart, and coaxed it out. At an assembly in the Governor’s house, where soldiers’ families were admitted because there were so few other women, she sought him out for a dance. The first time he touched her hand, his whole body convulsed. He had danced the whole night almost bulging out his breeches, certain that everyone must be laughing at him. But Ruth did not laugh. She helped him around the dance floor, and when they moved towards each other she overstepped just a little, so that she pressed against him and he felt every curve of her body through her thin cotton dress.
After that, he saw her almost every day: snatched moments behind the warehouses, or on the beach at Back Bay, beyond the coconut plantations. They held hands and walked across the sand while she told him about England, the country he came from but had never seen. She had seen so much, things he had only ever read in books or heard discussed among his father’s Company colleagues. She spoke to him with respect, talking easily while he stood tongue-tied by her beauty.
They kissed, and he thought life could not get any sweeter. Later, she had allowed him to unlace her bodice and touch her breasts, while she slipped her hand inside his breeches and teased his throbbing manhood. But she would not let him go further. ‘I cannot, until I am married,’ she insisted; and he buried his face between her breasts and promised, ‘I will marry you.’
Now, she saw Christopher’s desolate expression and cupped his face in her hands. ‘What did he say? Dear heart, are you ill? Did he give his permission?’
‘He forbade it.’ Christopher sat down hard on the hull of a rotting boat drawn up above the tideline. A cloud of flies rose off it in protest.
Tears clouded her innocent blue eyes. ‘Whatever will we do? I cannot live without you, my love. I would rather die.’
Christopher closed his eyes. The blinding light made it impossible to think. He rubbed his temples, replaying the conversation with his father. His love for Ruth was so pure, so true, how could his father deny it? How dare he? For a moment, the futility was so bleak he contemplated tying one of those rusting anchors to his leg and throwing himself into the harbour. He would end it all, escape the suffocating weight of his thwarted love and make his father understand.
But that would be no victory.
‘I will leave Bombay,’ he said suddenly.
‘Let me come with you!’
He shook his head. ‘My father has left me with nothing. I must earn my fortune the hard way, and it will be no place for a woman. Stay here, stay with your family, and wait for me to return.’
‘I cannot.’
‘You must. I know it will be hard, but you must for both our sakes.’ He stood and hugged her tight to him, breathing in the perfume of her hair. He was alive with desire for her, but even more than that he longed to prove his father wrong. ‘Stay here, and let him think he has won. When I return, my victory will be complete – and so will our happiness.’
She kissed him on the lips. ‘Promise me, Christopher. Promise me we shall be happy.’
‘I promise, my love. If you wait for me, I will make such a fortune that even my father cannot touch us.’
‘I will wait. I swear it, even if you are gone twenty years I will wait for you. I will sit every day in this place and watch the sea for your return.’
‘Like Odysseus and Penelope,’ said Christopher, stroking her hand.
She wrinkled her brow. ‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged off the coat that was now heavy with his sweat. Now that he had decided, he was suddenly impatient to be away. Shading his eyes, he stared out into the harbour. The East Indiamen still slumbered at their moorings, but there was movement on the deck of a small coastal trader as her crew made ready for sea.
‘That ship will be sailing on the tide. I will take passage with her, and go wherever she takes me.’ He kissed her again, and she thrilled at the feel of his strong arms around her.
‘Wait for me, my love.’
‘I promise I will.’
He had no baggage to take with him. All his possessions were in his room in the Governor’s house, and he could not go back there. Christopher went to the landing place and hailed one of the small bumboats to take him out to the trader. He read her name Joseph, carved on her transom as the boatmen rowed him out to the trader.
He went aboard. Most of the crew were Indians, dark-skinned men working almost naked to stow the cargo. The only white man on deck seemed to be the master, a large man with close-cropped hair and a mermaid tattoo on his bulging forearm. He broke off from supervising the loading and came over.
‘Well?’ he barked.
‘I want to join your ship.’
The master looked him up and down. His face soured. ‘I know you. You’re Christopher Courtney, the Governor’s son.’
Christopher nodded.
‘He’s a sorry twat.’
He was so close that his spittle sprayed Christopher’s face. Christopher didn’t flinch.
‘Well?’ said the master. ‘Are you going to let me insult your father and just stand there? What sort of a man would do that?’
‘If I cared what my father thought, I wouldn’t be here.’
The master gave him a stinging slap across his cheek. ‘That’s enough impertinence. You respect your betters on this ship, or else.’
He bared his teeth, daring Christopher to strike back. Christopher fought the urge and forced himself to stay still. If he had learned one thing from his father, it was how to take a beating.
The master spat on the deck. A gob of phlegm landed next to Christopher’s toe.
‘Have you ever worked a ship?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ever been to sea before?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then why should I take you