Three men in Algerian dress stood across from Sharif Al Selim’s home, watching the bustling servants in the courtyard.
“You are sure this is the right house?” Blaine asked impatiently.
“It is, but we cannot simply storm the gates,” Ernst responded. “We are not even certain your daughter is here, O’Toole Effendi. Besides, these Aribi are very possessive with what is theirs.”
“Bryna is not theirs. She is a free woman,” Derek snapped.
“One of the Selims paid for her, and he is not likely to see it your way,” the guide maintained reasonably. “If she is in the house and he does not wish to surrender her, there is not a lot we can do...legally.”
“All the more reason to go in after her,” Derek muttered, hating the helplessness he felt.
“How many times...” Blaine began ominously.
Ernst eyed them balefully and admonished, “My plan is still the best. You must wait until I can get inside and find out what is going on from one of the servants.”
“I am not sure they’ll let a tinker into that palace,” Derek said derisively.
“Then it’s just as well he’s a seller of knives and blades,” Blaine retorted, running out of patience. “A great sheik will be interested in what he has to sell. Why do you think he decided on that disguise?”
“Before I visit the sheik, I will visit the souk to see what information I can gather,” Ernst intervened. “You should go to the coffeehouse to meet Mustafa. He’s probably found lodgings for us by now.”
As the men parted company, Blaine and Derek cast one last, hopeful glance toward the palatial house. Then in gloomy silence they walked to the coffeehouse, but when they arrived Mustafa was nowhere to be seen. Hot and disgruntled, they dropped onto a bench outside to wait.
“What time is it?” Blaine asked in the French they had used since Tripoli.
“Must be past four,” Derek replied, fishing for the ornate watch he carried. As he pulled it from the front of his thobe, the scrap of green cloth in which it had been wrapped fluttered onto his lap. “It’s half-past,” he pronounced with satisfaction.
Glancing over at him, Blaine said, “I thought we never would get rid of the suspicious old coot who sold that watch to you. I think he would have crossed the desert on foot, just for the pleasure of quizzing us.”
“We wouldn’t have gotten rid of the worthy sayyid if I had not bought the watch and financed his return to Jidda.” Absently Derek picked up the green cloth and mopped his perspiring face with it. “Zut, but it is hot,” he complained.
“Kaffir! Blasphemer!” a furious voice roared behind them, and a stout rod whistled through the air to descend on Derek’s back.
Shielding himself from a rain of blows, the Englishman struggled to his feet as the muttawwah swooped down upon him. The furious Arab yanked the cloth from Derek’s hand and waved it under his nose.
“How dare you wipe your worthless face, using the sacred color of the Prophet?” he demanded shrilly. “Bear witness, people,” he addressed the curious crowd that began to gather, “Allah punishes those who defile the memory of his messenger.” The old man applied the rod vigorously across Derek’s shoulders several more times.
The young soldier did not understand why he was being beaten; he knew only that he was under attack. With a bellow, he charged the muttawwah, intent on returning the abuse.
“Derek, don’t.” Blaine grappled with him futilely. “He is one of their holy men. You will get us killed.”
“What is this language they speak?” the muttawwah shouted, wild-eyed. “They are indeed kaffirs—foreigners! One blasphemes and the other has the blue eyes of a sorcerer. Hold them lest they use evil magic to escape.”
Filled with holy purpose, the bystanders rushed toward them.
A little way down the narrow street, two litters approached the market, bound for a last-minute shopping trip. Their procession, led by a slave bearing a pot of smoldering incense to sweeten his mistress’s progress, slowed when the bearers were forced to sidestep avid spectators hurrying toward the commotion ahead.
In the lead litter, the curtains stirred slightly as Farha Al Selim, wife of the great sheik, called out to the old servant who walked beside her conveyance, “What is going on in the street ahead? I hope it is not another public execution.”
“Perhaps there will be a beheading later. They say two kaffirs struck a muttawwah, “Abu Ahmad replied disapprovingly. “They will be taken to jail in a moment and then we can get through.”
Bryna settled back, sweltering in the closed vehicle. After removing her burqu in the privacy of her litter, she fanned herself with the stiff veil. The delay was a minor annoyance, but she wondered how her impatient stepdaughter was faring in the litter behind her.
They inched through the milling throng until Bryna’s litter was almost even with the muttawwah and his prisoner. She peeped through the curtain, but the crowd blocked her view. Gawking bystanders jumped at the back ranks in an effort to witness the foreigners’ arrest. One of the observers leapt up, coming down on the foot of one of her bearers, bringing all of them to a halt while the injured one yelped in pain.
Bryna clung to the frame as the litter jostled and swayed. Her bearers were experienced, and the litter was not in danger of upset. Abu Ahmad shouted at them nevertheless not to drop his mistress.
Somehow the old man’s shouts caught Blaine’s attention as he fought the crowd closing around him. The big Irishman glanced at the wobbling litter making its way past the crowd, just as the curtains opened slightly, permitting the barest glimpse of the occupant. “Bryna,” he breathed.
“Bryna!” he shouted, giving up the fight to shove through the throng toward the litter. “Bryna, wait!”
His voice reached the occupant of the litter faintly. Who was that? she wondered. The voice sounded familiar, but she did not understand the words. Peering carefully between the curtains again, she saw nothing except the crowd that they were rapidly leaving behind.
In the midst of the confusion, Blaine struggled to reach her in vain.
“Seize him! Do not let the other kaffir get away,” someone in the mob shouted. Blaine was dragged to where the muttawwah stood with a bruised and battered Derek. The Arabs who flanked the English soldier looked no better, for he had given them a good fight.
“You might have escaped. Why did you shout and draw attention to yourself?” Derek asked exasperatedly through swollen lips.
“Because I saw her—I saw Bryna—in a litter. She is here, Ashburn. She was so close I could have touched her, and I didn’t know until it was too late.”
“Did she see you?”
“I don’t know. She might have.”
“If it was Bryna, why didn’t she stop?”
“Silence!” the muttawwah roared. “No more of your infidel babbling. Let us take them to the jail,” he ordered pompously. The eager Arabs obeyed, hauling their unfortunate captives to a formidable stone prison, where they spent a sleepless night.
Just after dawn Sharif’s small party departed for Mecca. Mounted on swift camels with their horses on lead ropes, they traveled light. On the way out of town, Bryna shed a few tears at leaving `Abla and Taman behind. She had bade both of them good-bye the night before and given `Abla a silver bracelet that she had bought in the souk. Bryna had loved it from the moment she saw it because its exquisite rose engraving dimly reminded her of something she had once known. She did not know why, but it seemed to bespeak warmth and love, and she wanted the little girl to have it.
The Selims rode out of Riyadh past early risers and laborers. Passing the constabulary, they did not notice the anxious man who entered to do business there. Mustafa beseeched the officials to release the Algerians whose ways were different from the Wahabis. The jailer was unswayed until baksheesh was produced. Many coins changed hands before the foreigners saw the light of day, but at last they were released with an admonition to leave Riyadh at once. Nothing would please them better. All that r
emained was to rescue Bryna.
Mustafa took his exhausted charges to the lodgings he had found, a meager apartment of uncomfortable rooms. There they waited for Ernst, who had already departed for the house of Al Selim, disguised as a Syrian merchant and laden with fine Ajami and Hindi knives.
While the Swiss guide was away, Blaine paced, unable to rest even after the nightmarish stay in the Arabian prison. “Ernst will find her,” he asserted, as much to convince himself as the other men. “She is here. I saw her.”
“If you are sure it was Bryna, why don’t we just go and get her?” Derek asked, as ready as ever for action despite what Ernst had told them.
“Please, young effendi, do not speak foolishly,” Mustafa entreated. “You must be patient.” The Egyptian watched them nervously until the other guide’s footstep was heard on the stairs. Relieved, he opened the door for him.
“She was here,” Ernst announced without preamble, unburdening himself of his wares.
“What do you mean, ‘was’?” Blaine shouted. “I saw her myself only yesterday.”
“She left this morning with a small party bound for Mecca,”
“She wouldn’t have done that,” he argued hotly. “She peeped out. She must have seen me.”
“All the same, she has gone.”
“Perhaps she did not recognize you, sidi,” Mustafa suggested, “You look very different with a beard.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, unconvinced.
“Or perhaps she does not wish to be rescued,” Derek muttered, voicing his fears for the first time,
“There is something to what you say,” Ernst interjected unexpectedly.
“What!” Both men wheeled on the guide.
“Al Selim’s cook fancies himself a teller of tales, and Bryna’s romantic story greatly appeals to him,” the guide said.
“What romantic story?” her father roared.
Ernst was not intimidated. “She was a slave who lost her memory during a raid in the desert. When the sheik rescued her and brought her to Riyadh, he was not eager for her to remember her past. He is, it seems, a man in love. His actions have brought doubts to the minds of his own tribesmen, but he has even expressed a willingness to give up his position for her. This woman means a great deal to him.”
“What of Bryna?” Blaine asked, his deep voice soft.
“The servants say Farha, as she is now called, is sometimes despondent but strives to make a new life for herself. She apparently returns the sheik’s affection enough to become a Moslem.”
“My daughter is convent bred. She would not embrace Islam,” Blaine protested.
“Surely not,” Derek agreed. “She is too strong-willed to be bullied into such a thing. Why should she become a Moslem?”
Ernst looked back and forth between the hostile faces before answering reluctantly, “She would become a Moslem so they could marry, my friends.”
“Bryna is going to marry someone else?” the young Englishman said disbelievingly.
“I am sorry, Lieutenant. She already has. So you must consider that even if we were to find her, she may not wish to go with us,” the guide said gently.
“She loves me. I know it,” Derek protested hoarsely. “We are to be married. I will not believe she loves another until she tells me herself. We must go after her.”
“We will, lad, we will,” Blaine muttered, his face aged and stricken. ‘‘We’ve come too far to give up now.”
“Do you know what you are saying, sidis?” Mustafa cut in worriedly. “If we did not overtake their party in the desert, we would have to go all the way to Mecca to find them.”
“I know,” the Irishman answered wearily.
Only Ernst appeared excited at the possibility. “Mecca...hmmm...yes. We might be able to pass for foreign pilgrims. Our disguises have held for months.” The idea clearly appealed to him, despite its obvious danger.
“But, effendi,” Mustafa argued, “all of Arabia is dangerous for kaffirs. Although I have tried to convert you to the god of Muhammad, you have not cooperated. You cannot go to the holy city. You would not know what to say, what to do. If it was discovered you were an infidel, it would mean immediate execution. Have you not heard of the Jewish horse trader who tried to pass himself off as Moslem? They hung his body from the Hail gate for all to see and take warning.”
“Then it is up to you to teach us what we need to know and to make sure we are not found out,” Ernst informed the Egyptian, “for we do not want to decorate the gates of Mecca.”
“Up to me to perform the impossible? Allah protect me from the devil! I am a simple Moslem, not a derwish, not a worker of miracles. I would be killed first if it was discovered I brought you there. No amount of money in the world could convince me to undertake such a foolish task.”
“Surely some amount could,” Ernst retorted knowingly.
“Cursed of your two parents, you think to bribe me?”
“Of course.” The guide laughed. “But you are indeed blessed of Allah. Not only will you become a rich man, Mustafa, but you will have visited the holy city, and you will have further opportunity to convert not one, but three infidels.”
“Perhaps,” the Arab servant replied grudgingly. “I must think on it.”
“While you think, let’s get ready for departure,” Blaine instructed. “We will be leaving immediately.”
* * *
Feeling happy and free, Bryna wondered why she had been afraid to return to the desert. Accompanied by only a few of Sharif’s tribesmen, she was allowed to wear a light veil and trousers under her thobe to make riding easier.
She managed to keep up with the men, enjoying their easy camaraderie, even though she could not participate in it. She rode uncomplainingly for hours on camelback, with Rih running gladly beside her. At the end of the day’s march, she drew from unremembered habit and set up Sharif’s tent, reveling in it, for it showed she was his woman.
Despite what his men might think, Sharif ate dinner with his wife each evening in their tent. Behind the goat-hair panels, the couple dined together, speaking in low, intimate tones. Often the sheik reclined, his head in Bryna’s lap, and smilingly allowed her to feed him choice morsels. They could hear the laughter of the men outside where they pulled the bread from the embers with their fingers and drew lots for the meat. So generous were the Bedu that each insisted the others take the largest portions. Lottery was the only solution to the problem.
After dinner Bryna sat quietly behind her husband at the campfire, observing the age-old ritual while coffee was prepared and served. Under the starlit Arabian sky with Rih curled at her side, she listened to qasidah. She felt she had experienced nights such as these before, but the perception brought no jarring memories, only comfortable glimpses of other campfires.
Sharif took part in the recitations as expected and told stories from his childhood among the Ottomans. But each night he retired as soon as possible with his young wife, leaving the others to exchange knowing looks over the camel-dung fire.
On their pallet in the dark tent, Bryna snuggled happily against Sharif’s side, content to have his strong arms around her. In the desert she found unexpected peace. No longer plagued by dreams, she slept the sleep of the untroubled.
After a week’s travel, they came upon a young shepherd camped near good grazing. While the boy napped under a saf, his cloak fluttered on the staff he had driven into the soft sand to give the sheep the sense they were being watched over and keep them from straying too far. Hearing the riders approach, the lad stood up and greeted the sheik respectfully.
“Fen el-Arab? Where are your people?” Sharif called when he had ascertained the boy’s tribe, the Al Shammar, was friendly to the Selims.
The shepherd answered they were some distance away and pointed to the south. Because the camp was out of their way, the sheik sent most of his smala on toward Mecca, entrusting his wife’s welfare to Abu Ahmad while he rode with a few men to visit the other chieftain. In a time of political unr
est, it was wise to keep as many friends as possible.
When the tiny caravan finally stopped for the night, the men settled to wait for their sheik. Though the hour grew late, they did not eat or drink, for it would be impolite to do so before their companions had returned. When Sharif rode into the camp well after midnight, Bryna already slept in the women’s quarters, so he did not disturb her.
Rising in the cold dawn, she donned a heavy aba of black-and-white-and-red striped wool and a scarlet ghata and veil and went out immediately. The men were finishing a breakfast of dates and camel milk, and she ate hungrily. She waited, but Sharif said nothing of ráhla. Instead he announced his intention to ride to a nearby well to refill the water skins. To the surprise of everyone in the party, he invited his wife to ride with him. Eagerly she accepted.
Bryna’s surprise was compounded when one of the men brought a dainty prancing bay mare with a fine leather saddle to the front of the tent. “The well is not far. We will go by horseback,” Sharif explained gruffly. “This one is yours.”
“Mine?” she asked wonderingly, her eyes wide over her veil. So taken was she with the graceful animal, she was completely unaware of the undercurrent of disapproval that ran through the tiny camp. Truly their chieftain must be bewitched, the men grumbled under their breath. Though the lady Farha was docile and kind, to give a woman a fine mare was an unheard-of extravagance.
“I bought her for you last night when I visited the Al Shammar. They breed the finest horses in Arabia. Consider her a belated Eed al Fitr gift.” Sharif handed her the reins, chagrined by his retainers’ rapt attention to the exchange between them.
“Oh, Sharif...” Bryna’s voice trailed off as she patted the mare’s velvety nose. The little horse nickered softly but did not pull away. While she stroked the animal’s neck, Bryna wished she could tell her husband how happy she was with his gift, but she would convey just how happy when they were alone, she decided.
“Mashallah. What is her name?” she asked, for Arabs did name their horses.
“That is for you to decide.”
“Then I would like to call her Scheherazade.”
The Bride Price (A Historical Romance) Page 31