Raiders from the North: Empire of the Moghul Read Online Free PDF

urgency in Wazir Khan’s voice burned into Babur. He shouted for his horse and leaped into the saddle. For a second Wazir Khan gripped his bridle. ‘Just a few hours more, Majesty, and all will be well,’ he said. Then, signalling to a detachment of guards to escort Babur, he slapped the horse’s creamy rump and it shot forward.
    As he galloped over the tussocky grass and the rain fell moreheavily, Babur glanced back over his shoulder. He could make out Qambar-Ali moving through the agitated people, arms raised. What was he really trying to do? Calm them or spread panic? Every instinct told him Wazir Khan was right: the malevolent hand that had guided the arrow had not been an Uzbek one.
    Digging into the deep pocket of his quilted overtunic Babur found the arrow he had stuffed into it. Taking his reins between his teeth for a moment, he pulled it out, snapped it in two and tossed it contemptuously to the ground. The pieces landed in a dark mound of sheep droppings.

    ‘How goes it with my son?’ Kutlugh Nigar’s face was drawn, her eyes pink with crying. From deeper within the harem, Babur caught the sound of muted weeping. All the women were observing the rituals of mourning for the dead king. Their gasps of sorrow sounded strangely in unison as if no woman dared to be first to stop.
    ‘It goes well.’ He had decided not to tell his mother about the arrow – at least, not yet. It was the first time in his life that he had kept something from her but the knowledge that he could have lost his life might frighten her.
    ‘And your father. He is at peace?’
    ‘Yes, Mother. We prayed for him and he sleeps in Paradise.’
    ‘Then it is time to look to the living.’ She clapped her hands and her waiting woman, Fatima, stepped forward from the shadows. In her arms were what looked like robes of yellow silk embroidered with flowers in gold and silver thread and a velvet cap of the same yellow, topped with a nodding peacock feather. Kutlugh Nigar took the garments from her, handling them reverently. ‘These are the coronation clothes of the kings of Ferghana. Feel them, they are yours.’
    Babur reached out to touch the gleaming folds and felt a quiver of pride. A king’s robes – his robes. The silk was cool beneath his fingertips.
    His reverie was broken by the clatter of hoofs. From the casement, Babur glanced down into the wet courtyard. Evening was already approaching and torches were being lit in readiness for nightfall. He saw Wazir Khan and the mullah ride in, their horses snortingand steaming. Soon the rest of the mourners would return to the fortress and it would be time to enact the plan that would give him the right to wear these robes. Babur looked at his mother. Her expression was anxious but her eyes were determined. ‘Quickly,’ Kutlugh Nigar said. ‘ We have little time. The robes will be too large for you but we must do the best we can.’ With Fatima’s help she wrapped Babur in them, tying the sash tightly to hold the voluminous folds together, then placed the cap on his long dark hair. ‘See, my son? At this moment you are a prince but by the time the moon rises you will be a king.’ She held up a mirror of burnished bronze, and Babur saw the shining reflection of a stern, slightly startled young face.
    ‘Khanzada!’ his mother called. She had clearly given thought to how Babur’s introduction to the trappings of kingship should be managed. His sister had been waiting and listening in the corridor for her mother’s call. Now she stepped quickly into the chamber. She was carrying a long, thin object wrapped in green velvet. Carefully she laid down her burden, threw back the velvet with a somewhat exaggerated flourish and pulled a curved sword from its scabbard.
    Kutlugh Nigar took it and held it out to Babur. ‘The sword of justice, the symbol of Ferghana – “Alamgir”.’
    He recognised the hilt, cunningly ornamented with white jade to resemble an eagle and studded with gems. The