The Bride Price (A Historical Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  Bryna tried to keep up, the men’s sandals Mubarak had finally located to fit her flapping in the dust. Hoping for a miracle, she looked around desperately, her vision impaired by the heavy veil she wore. If only she could spy her father’s face in the crowd, she would call out to him, she could escape.

  Soon they passed through a gate into streets that became wider and less congested. The air even seemed cleaner. Slowly they descended toward the shimmering blue brilliance of the ocean, which they could see in the distance beyond the sunbaked brick buildings. Glancing over her shoulder, Bryna thought she could see Blaine’s home perched on the cliff above them.

  Suleiman’s company stopped before a large whitewashed compound. The marriage broker dismounted with an exercised wheeze and led the way into a pleasant courtyard, its lush growth encircled by colorful tiled walls. In each of the four comers of the enclosure, small fountains tinkled musically, and in the center another shot a stream of water into the air, where glistening droplets caught the sun like tiny prisms. The main house, built around the courtyard, was spacious and open, permitting a sea breeze even in the walled courtyard.

  Breathing heavily, Suleiman collapsed on a stone bench. “Turki,” he gasped, motioning for the black boy to fan him. As the three white women in their uncomfortable costumes and the Nubian guards stood by in the sun, the boy applied himself energetically to his task.

  When he had recovered sufficiently, the fat man clapped his hands and an aging black eunuch appeared. Dignified and efficient, the slave bowed to his master and presented him with a cup of water.

  Between greedy swallows, Suleiman said, “This is Jamil, head of my household in Tangier. He will see to your needs. All you must do is ask. Listen to him well, for he has much to teach you.

  “Jamil, take them to the baths right away.”

  “Yes, sidi. Follow me,” Jamil instructed the women in French. He led his charges past a luxurious majlis, through an exquisitely crafted iron gate to a breezeway leading to the building that served as harem. They did not stop at any of the closed doors lining the corridor. Instead the eunuch led them straight through the building into the baths.

  Several female Arab bath attendants met them at the door. They laughed and chattered as they helped the newcomers remove their clothing, their voices dying to awed whispers when Pamela’s fair hair and skin were revealed.

  “My master has done well today.” Jamil’s forbidding face softened approvingly. “Skin so fair I have never seen.”

  At a nod from him, three servants came forward and took charge of the new women. The girl assigned to Bryna was a striking Berber with a warm smile and intricate tattoos along her dusky arms.

  When she learned her caretaker spoke neither French nor English, Bryna said little. She suffered herself to be stripped and led to the baths. She did not fuss and try to hide her body as the European women did, but she refused to surrender her locket. Using sign language, the Berber girl made it clear the necklace would be returned after the bath. Too weary to argue, Bryna gave it to her, oddly pleased when the other girl admired it. The only possession left to her, it kept the Creole girl from feeling as if she had slipped into a nightmare where she would be forever lost.

  The bath was over none too soon for Bryna. Wrapped in a towel, she was laid on a bench and her thick hair spread out to dry. Skillfully the Berber girl massaged Bryna’s back and neck, relieving knots of tension and strain, then left her to nap. After nearly an hour Bryna was awakened and given a cup of cool water to drink and some clothes.

  The gauzy caftan Jamil had selected for her was the same blue as her eyes and richly embroidered with golden threads. With the Berber girl’s assistance, Bryna slipped it over her head. It slid into place, skimming her hips with a sensuous hiss of silk on skin.

  Her dresser smiled approvingly and gestured for her to sit on the bench. Shyly she fastened the golden locket around her neck. Then she brushed the American girl’s hair to a glossy sheen and braided it with a golden ribbon in one simple plait down her back. Skillfully she shaded Bryna’s eyelids with a blue powder and lined them with kohl. She applied rouge lightly to her cheeks and, as a final touch, painted her lips a brilliant carmine.

  The slave stepped back and regarded her creation with obvious satisfaction. She slid a pair of decorated babouche slippers on Bryna’s feet. The backless shoes were made of fine scarlet Moroccan leather and fit perfectly.

  Her job complete, she led Bryna to a tall mirror that hung nearby. Bryna stared at her reflection incredulously. Her costume made her look exotic and seductive, but her cheeks reddened with a contradictory blush. The plunging neckline of her gossamer dress left little to the imagination. Involuntarily her fingers plucked at it, drawing the edges together for modesty’s sake. Secretly amused by her reaction, the Berber girl bowed and departed, leaving her to locate her companions in separate corners of the room.

  “What do you suppose happens next?” Pamela asked no one in particular. Refreshed from her bath, the English girl seemed calmer now. Dressed in a pink-and-silver caftan similar to Bryna’s, she looked soft and almost relaxed.

  Theresa glanced at her distractedly but did not answer as she paced the length of the narrow room. Conversation was forgotten when three servants appeared with their lunch. The women were seated cross-legged on the floor and served khli, a pickled chopped beef with rice; a colorful sweet pepper salad; flat bread; fruit; and a smooth, cool concoction Jamil called most. They ate, carefully hiding their left hands in the folds of their robes.

  They had barely finished when Jamil presented each girl with a small filmy square of fabric.

  “Follow me, mademoiselle,” he instructed Pamela.

  Unwillingly the English girl rose, throwing a helpless look toward her companions as she was led away.

  Cover yourselves,” the eunuch instructed over his shoulder. “You are about to meet a man who is neither a kinsman nor a eunuch. You must be properly veiled.”

  On the opposite side of the baths from the harem, Jamil opened a door that led into a small chamber. “Remove your shoes, please, before entering,” he told Pamela. “That, too, is our custom.”

  When she had obeyed, he set her slippers inside the door and gestured for her to enter. Then the door closed. Bryna and Theresa glanced at each other nervously but remained in their seats, their gazes fastened on the door.

  After a time it opened, and Jamil beckoned Theresa.

  “No,” the Spanish girl muttered. “I will not go with him into that room.”

  “Theresa,” Bryna said softly, “I do not believe he intends to harm you. And remember what you told me about punishment.”

  “Sí,”Theresa agreed woodenly, and went to where the eunuch waited. He ushered her into the room, the door closed, and Bryna was left alone.

  After a few moments an angry screech and the tinkling of broken glass came from the inner chamber. The wait seemed interminable before Jamil returned and signaled for Bryna, his temper obviously frayed.

  “By the Prophet, I have never seen such behavior,” he informed the American girl through thin lips. “God destroy your house if you do likewise. No, do not remove your shoes or you will cut your feet.” He flung the door open and waited for her to pass.

  Filled with dread, Bryna entered a sparsely furnished room, where she was greeted by a flustered old man. He greeted her, sidestepping the servants busily sweeping up shards of glass.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle, I am Halef, the hakim—the personal physician—to Hajji Suleiman Ibn Hussein. Allah praise him as a good and generous master. I mean you no injury, so please have the goodness not to behave as the others.”

  “What happened?” Bryna surveyed the room uncomprehendingly.

  “The Inglayzi woman wept piteously. The Spaniard threw a pot at me. Just because I was ordered to make sure the new women are healthy. It is ordinarily so simple.” He gestured feebly toward the divan. Bryna’s eyes widened as she surmised his intent.

  “I will all
ow you to examine me,” she agreed brashly, determined to have the upper hand, “but only if the others leave the room.”

  “Everyone?” Halef’s face registered shock at the idea. This woman had a most disconcerting way of meeting his gaze. There was perhaps fear, but no submission, in her blue eyes. “All of them cannot leave.”

  “All of them,” Bryna repeated firmly.

  “That is most unorthodox,” the old man wavered, evaluating her demand, remembering the others. “You promise to cooperate?”

  “Oui.”

  “You will not make trouble for me later?”

  “Non.”

  “Then I suppose it would be permissible.”

  “I do not like it, Hakim,” Jamil spoke up suddenly. “I should be here in case you need me.”

  “Stand outside the door, Jamil. I will call if I need you.”

  “But to be left alone in the harem...” the eunuch protested. Even though they spoke French, he looked around uneasily for fear they might be overheard by the servants.

  “Calm yourself, my friend. She has given her word. Granted, it is the word of a kaffir, but she will honor it.

  “You must, you know,” he told Bryna seriously, “for Suleiman would be greatly displeased if he found out. But I will do as you ask.” The doctor chased the servants from the room and dismissed the eunuch firmly.

  The physical examination to which Bryna submitted was mercifully brief, but humiliating. She was relieved to join the others in the private apartment they were to share. Red-eyed from weeping, Pamela met her at the door.

  “Are you all right, Bryna?” she asked frantically.

  “Yes, and you?”

  “I’m all right, but I do not know about Theresa.” She looked with concern toward the saffron-clad girl, who paced the room like a caged animal. Her bare feet slapping softly against the tile, she muttered ceaselessly in Spanish.

  “I do not know what they did to her,” the British girl said anxiously, “but it must have been terrible. She has not said a word to me since Jamil brought her here.”

  “Nothing was done to her that was not done to you or to the American. The Spaniard will recover soon,” Jamil spoke dryly from the doorway, “as you did.

  “Now it is time for kef,” he continued as slaves circulated, refilling the jars of water in each corner that cooled the room. “Sleep, then after evening prayers, my master will send for each of you individually. You need not veil yourselves, for he wishes to acquaint himself with each of you. No one will see you here but eunuchs. Pray remember to enter Hajji Suleiman’s presence with humility, as befits a woman of the East.”

  Their attention on the servant, Bryna and Pamela missed the look of utter horror that flitted across the Spanish girl’s face.

  Despite her nervousness and Theresa’s dire muttering, Bryna lay down on one of the divans and managed to sleep. Exhausted by tension, she awakened when the cry of the muezzin—”Allahu akbar”—drifted in on the twilight breeze.

  She opened her eyes to see Pamela sitting tensely on the divan across from her, while Theresa still prowled the room, her path bringing her to pass back and forth between the two couches.

  “I suppose Suleiman will send for us soon,” the blond girl whispered, obviously frightened.

  “Don’t worry.” Bryna tried to smile reassuringly, but it was a weak attempt. “If we were going to be harmed, it would have happened before now.”

  “I guess,” Pamela agreed with a marked lack of conviction. “Although the examination was far from comfortable.”

  “True, but Halef did not harm you intentionally.” Bryna nodded toward Theresa. “Did she sleep at all?”

  “I don’t think so. I napped for a while, but when I awoke she was still pacing. It’s eerie, Bryna. When you speak to her, she does not seem to hear.”

  “Bon soir, young ladies.” Jamil threw open the door. “I bring dinner and then you, most fair”—he pointed at Pamela—”will be the first to go to our master. Allah grant him joy.”

  “Why must I always be first?” Pamela found the inner strength to protest.

  “Because you are a rare treasure, foolish woman. Few have I ever seen to compare to you. Eat, for I will come for you soon.”

  Bryna and Pamela tried to interest Theresa in food, but they received only a contemptuous stare in response. After they had eaten, Jamil returned to take Pamela to Suleiman, and Bryna was left with Theresa in the room, silent now except for the other girl’s muttering.

  Nearly an hour passed before Pamela returned. The tiny English girl bolted into the room as soon as the door was opened and threw herself down on the divan, weeping bitterly. Bryna went immediately to her side. When she looked up, she saw Jamil lead Theresa gently toward the door. With a sound akin to a snarl, the Spanish girl wrenched her arm free and walked in front of the slave, her shoulders stiff and her head held high.

  “Pamela.” Filled with dread, Bryna touched the other girl’s shoulder. “What happened?”

  “It was horrible,” Pamela sobbed. “Suleiman sat on his divan and looked at me and asked questions.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “He did not touch you?”

  “No, but I cannot abide disrobing in front of all those people,” Pamela wailed.

  “All what people?” Bryna asked in a choked voice.

  “The people in the majlis—Suleiman and the guards and the servants. They all looked at me when I was n-n-naked.”

  Brought up in a convent, Bryna could hardly conceive of such treatment, but she did not dwell on it. Instead she asked insistently again, “You were not harmed?”

  “No, no one touched me. Suleiman does seem kind, for a Turk.” The English girl sniffled. “It was just being unclothed in that room full of men, even if most of them are not really men, you know. It is hideous what they do, even to little boys like Turki.”

  “I know,” Bryna murmured, turning her mind now to the interview to come. She tried to calm her inner turmoil, to steel herself. At least she knew what to expect and she must get through it without losing her temper or showing fear. She must talk to Suleiman reasonably.

  It was not long before Jamil returned for Bryna, but when he came he was flanked by two of Suleiman’s Nubian guards, and Theresa was not with them. The old eunuch’s dark face was grim.

  “Where is Theresa?” Pamela asked shrilly, rising on her elbows. “What have you done to her?”

  “Ask rather what she has done to herself, the poor mad one, to break the laws of Allah,” Jamil replied solemnly. “While standing before my master, she seized the knife from the belt of one of the guards and drove it into her own heart without warning.”

  “Oh, no.” Pamela burrowed her head in the pillows. Her voice muffled, she asked, “Is she dead?”

  “Insh’allah... it was the will of God.”

  While Bryna knelt beside Pamela and endeavored to console her, the weeping girl raised her tearstained face and cried wildly, “Poor Theresa, she only did what we would like to do.”

  “Do not think you can follow your friend to Nasrani heaven,” Jamil interjected sourly. “These guards are here to prevent that.”

  “I would not kill myself,” the blond girl confessed sadly. “I haven’t the courage.”

  “It takes more courage to live, Pamela,” Bryna told her fiercely. “I will live and so must you.”

  Holding herself erect, the American girl followed the servant from the room, leaving the two guards to watch over the sobbing Pamela.

  Silently Bryna followed Jamil through the breezeway, trying not to think of what was to come.

  The old eunuch did not look back. Though he could not ordinarily tolerate infidels, he was impressed with this strong, dark-haired girl.

  When the pair drew even with the corridor leading to the stables, an agonized scream rent the still night air.

  “What was that?” Bryna gasped.

  “Only the incompetent guard being punished by bastin
ado.”

  “Isn’t that a severe punishment?”

  “His carelessness cost my master a sizable investment,” Jamil explained. “Do not waste compassion on him. The sidi allows him to live, which is more than he deserves.”

  Bryna decided it was best to keep her feeling of revulsion to herself. Without another word she followed the eunuch to the doorway to the majlis.

  Removing her shoes, she ducked her head and went inside. It nettled her to bow her head docilely when approaching a man, but if she displeased Suleiman now, she might never have the chance to tell her story.

  Bryna’s meek entrance was wasted. The marriage broker stood to one side of the room, washing his hands in a bowl of water. He scrubbed vigorously at his hands and forearms, as a part of Moslem ritual, regretting it had been necessary to touch a corpse and thus become unclean.

  While she waited for him to finish his ablutions, the Creole girl lifted her head to survey the room. The evening breeze stirred the tapestry wall hangings to either side of her. But no evidence remained of what had occurred mere moments ago. Except for an oddly bare space on the floor where a rug had been, the room was orderly and serene by the light of the oil lamps.

  She ducked her head quickly as Suleiman waddled to the dais on which his divan was placed. He positioned himself on it without looking at her, staring off into space for a moment before speaking. When he broke the silence, his reedy voice was sad.

  “I could not make the Spaniard see that I wished her no harm. But as Allah is my witness, I did not. Do you understand?” He glanced down at her for the first time since she’d entered the room and was taken aback. Lit from behind by the torches that shone through the door from the passageway outside, the girl’s curvaceous figure was clearly silhouetted beneath the flimsy gauze of her caftan. He had bought a treasure without even knowing it. “I will not harm you,” he said lamely.

  “I know.” Her low voice floated to him.

  “Bien,” Suleiman pronounced, seemingly heartened by her fearless response. Though she stood with her head properly bowed, there was nothing humble in her proud, erect bearing. “Now look at me and we will talk.”