Later that day, with a weary sigh, Rafiq closed the weighty leather-bound tome that was the official Bharym Stud Book, carefully fastening the lock with the heavy gold key. There were now six yearlings overdue to be delivered to their carefully vetted owners. Though Jasim assured him that no mention of the plague had passed his lips, Rafiq knew it was only a matter of time before word got out.
Only a matter of time too, until the sickness struck his stables again. Watching Stephanie at work this morning, any remaining doubts he had as to her claim to be Richard Darvill’s assistant had dissipated. His Head Groom, Fadil, had also initially been highly sceptical of her abilities. It had not taken her long to prove her mettle though, with her plethora of probing questions, her refusal to accept anything other than extremely detailed answers, and her complete confidence when faced with examining Basilisk, a strapping specimen of a stallion with every bit as lowly an opinion of females as Jasim.
Rafiq smiled to himself. Naturally, he would remain cautious. Of course, it would be foolish to hope for too much. But there was hope. It had arrived in the delightful and distractingly desirable form of Stephanie Darvill. It was too early for her to have made any meaningful progress, he knew that, but he was anxious to hear her initial thoughts and, yes, there was no harm in admitting, he was eager to enjoy more of her company. These last months had been claustrophobic, exposure to company curtailed by necessity. What he needed was a fresh perspective and an escape, if only for a short interlude.
Pausing to instruct a servant as to his specific requirements, Rafiq headed for the stables. Stephanie was sitting on a bench in the inner courtyard, shaded by the balcony on the floor above, watching the constant stream of horses being led in and out for exercise in the relative cool of the late afternoon. Her hair had obviously escaped from its pins at some point in the day, and was now carelessly tied back, though the usual tress had escaped to fall over her brow. It was a lighter shade than the rest, almost golden. Her skin in the bright sunlight seemed more olive, though her cheeks were flushed. She wore the same skirt that she had arrived in. Practical perhaps, but it was far too heavy for these conditions, and though her white top looked to be cotton, it was tightly fitted from neck to wrist. No wonder she looked like a wilting flower in dire need of water.
‘Your Highness.’ She jumped to her feet when she saw him, dropping into a curtsy.
‘Please, there is no need for such formality here at the stables,’ Rafiq said. ‘Tell me, what are your first impressions of my horses?’
She beamed. ‘I have never seen such magnificent specimens. I’ve examined Sherifa, of course. And Kasida. Tamarisk. Mesaoud. Azrek. Nura. Riyala. Shieha. I am afraid I can’t remember all their names.’
Her enthusiasm was endearing. Her smile was dazzling, drawing attention to the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the endearing little fan of faint lines that appeared at the corner of her eyes when she smiled. She had the kind of slightly husky voice that disconcertingly made Rafiq picture her wearing nothing but her underwear. ‘The Bharym Stud Book records every horse, every bloodline, back into the mists of myth and legend,’ he said, trying to banish the vision which had floated into his mind.
‘Legend?’
‘It is said that the Arabian horse was first formed from the south winds. That is why the Bedouins call them Drinkers of the Wind. It is said that a herd of these wild creatures was tamed, and then as a test of their obedience, first deprived of water, then sent racing towards an oasis. Only five returned immediately when called, and these mares are the founders of the five Arabian breeds: Keheilan, Seglawi, Abeyan, Hamdani, and Habdan. I can trace the bloodlines of every one of my horses through the sires, back to one of those original breeds.’
‘It’s a charming tale,’ Stephanie said, looking more dubious than entranced. ‘But I confess, I’m rather more interested in the story of this Sabr race. In the stables, your men can talk of little else.’
Rafiq smiled. ‘It is something of a national obsession with my people. I thought you might like to take a ride out to the oasis where we graze our stallions. It is cooler out there, and it will allow you to see a little of the desert landscape, but if you are too fatigued...’
‘No, I would love to do so.’
‘Good. I will see that the horses are readied.’
* * *
Stephanie watched him go, enjoying the rear view of Rafiq in his long boots and riding breeches striding towards the stalls. When he returned, he was leading three horses. He had put on a white-silk keffiyeh held in place with a plain black scarf. It framed his face, drawing attention to the breathtaking perfection of his features.
‘I had them put on an English saddle for you, but you will have to ride astride.’
‘Luckily I learnt to do so at an early age.’ Stephanie picked up her hat from the seat beside her. ‘I was quite a tomboy when I was growing up.’
‘Now that, I find easy to believe, since you are a walking paradox.’ Rafiq produced another square of white silk, folding it to form a headdress. ‘Put this on, it will protect you from the worst ravages of the sand much more effectively than your hat,’ he said, placing it over her head.
He tied it in place with a bright red scarf, tucking her hair under it. Though his touch was impersonal, she was none the less acutely aware of it. Standing directly in front of him, her face was level with his throat. His shirt was white, with a high neck, fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. He smelled of the soap made with olive oil, reminiscent of the one she had used this morning.
‘There.’ Rafiq took a step back. ‘You can tuck the ends in like this.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Flustered, Stephanie turned her attention to her horse. ‘Kasida,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘Rafiq, I cannot possibly ride such a prize horse.’
‘Do you not consider yourself an accomplished enough horsewoman?’
‘No, I—I mean obviously, I’ve ridden racehorses before at the Newmarket stud, but Kasida...’
‘Stephanie, I know you well enough already to be convinced that if you thought you couldn’t handle her, you would say so. Am I correct?’ He waited until she smiled and nodded reluctantly. ‘Then what are we waiting for?’
Her heavy wide skirts made her feel uncomfortably hot, but at least they gave her freedom of movement. Putting her boot in the stirrup, Stephanie managed to mount with relative decorum, and a great deal of excited anticipation.
‘Kasida is one of our gentlest mares,’ Rafiq said, mounting his own horse. ‘Unlike Basilisk, here, who does not like to be mastered—as you know from examining him earlier. He is one of our best stud stallions, however. Now he has performed his duties, I will return him to the stallions’ paddock and return on this other mare.’
Taking up the rope halter of the spare horse, he preceded Stephanie out of the stable yard. Just like all the stable hands, Rafiq rode Bedouin style, with no stirrups and only a rope halter instead of a bridle or bit, which required an adroitness which Stephanie could not imagine replicating. Basilisk, despite Rafiq’s assertion, seemed to be very well aware which of them was in command. As they left the stable compound, passing the drinking pool and out on to a wide flat expanse of desert, Rafiq urged the stallion into a gallop and Stephanie gave herself over to the thrill of the ride.
The ground consisted of compacted umber-coloured earth rather than sand. Every now and then, a cluster of acacia trees, a patch of bright yellow and green indicated the unmistakable presence of water. The distant mountains which she had thought uniformly an unusual violet colour, now took on multiple hues, the highest peaks a pale silvery-blue, shading to amethyst and violet, lavender and lilac, while the foothills segued from plum to a peaty brown. She had imagined the desert to be flat, uniform sand and little else, much like the terrain she had traversed from the Red Sea port yesterday, but the Kingdom of Bharym was like nothing she had witnessed on any of her travels. Abov
e her, the sky and the sparse puffy clouds seemed to reflect the mountains, a palette of blues that would have taxed the most talented of artists to capture. Stephanie was thinking that she had never seen anything so beautiful, when the oasis came into view, and took her breath away.
The water was deep blue, consisting of a lake with a palm-covered island in the middle. Around it, the ground was lush with verdant greenery making a meadow of the desert, sweetly scenting the air, and reflecting in the mirror-like surface of the water. But there was little time to admire it, for Rafiq had ridden on at a brisk canter.
She heard the whinny of the stallions before she saw them, Kasida’s ears pricking up in response. The enclosure was high-walled. Dismounting, she waited while Rafiq unlocked the gate, pausing only for her to lead her horse in before closing it behind her. A collection of the finest stallions she had ever seen greeted her in the huge compound, in the midst of which was another smaller pool and a large cluster of shady palms. Stephanie gazed around her in astonishment. ‘How many are there in the herd?’
‘Thirty-two, including Basilisk,’ Rafiq replied, removing the saddle from the stallion and setting him free to trot off and rejoin the milling herd. ‘Now we have completed our business, we can enjoy what is left of the daylight. Come.’
He led her round to the far side of the oasis, where a charming little stone bridge led to the island. Enchanted, Stephanie picked her way across, through a gap in greenery to a clearing in the shady embrace of a circle of palm trees. The ground was covered in rugs and strewn with plump cushions. A large hamper sat in the middle. ‘Oh, what a delightful surprise!’
‘I was reliably informed that you were so engrossed in your work today that you did not stop to eat,’ Rafiq said, opening the hamper and beginning to lay out the contents, ‘and so I took the liberty of having some food sent ahead.’
His thoughtfulness, his generosity, but more than anything his willingness to trust her, to have faith in her, brought a lump to her throat. ‘Thank you, you are very kind,’ Stephanie said, sinking on to a large cushion.
The tremble in her voice made Rafiq look up from pouring them both a cool drink. ‘What is wrong, was this a mistake? Are you fatigued?’
She shook her head, managing a weak smile. ‘I’m just being silly. Everything is perfect.’
He pressed a tall, cool glass into her hands. ‘Drink this, you may be a little dehydrated, especially if you have not eaten.’
Stephanie took a sip. ‘Thank you.’
He set a plate of food in front of her. ‘Eat.’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. At once, Your Supreme Highness.’
Her teasing tone earned her one of Rafiq’s rare and perfect smiles. ‘Eat,’ he commanded.
Suddenly ravenous, she did. The food, like last night, was a delicious mixture of fresh, citrusy salads, spicy meats, and light, flaky pastries. She sampled more adventurously than she had at dinner, though a pickled chilli made her gulp down an entire glass of sherbet in one mouthful. Finally, too replete to manage even a fig drizzled with honey, she pushed her plate to one side and washed her hands. ‘That was delightful,’ she murmured contentedly.
‘Yes,’ Rafiq said, ‘it was.’
She had the distinct impression he was not talking about the food. His smile had a sinful quality about it—though what she meant by that, she had no idea.
‘This precious race of yours,’ she said, striving to focus her thoughts on the reason she was here, ‘the Sabr. Tell me about it.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Rafiq intoned. ‘That is how we think of the Sabr here in Bharym.’ He sat up, crossing his legs with graceful ease. ‘Sabr means fortitude or endurance. The race, like my Arabians, has its origins in legend. It is said that it was first mentioned in one of the tales of One Thousand and One Nights, though our records show that it was first raced a hundred years ago this year, its centenary. An earlier Prince of Bharym, a direct antecedent of mine, designed the victor’s trophy, agreed the rules and set the course. There are four Sabr towers, spaced about twenty-five miles apart, to mark out the circuit, which is completed twice. Each section traverses very different terrain. In places flat and hard packed as you can see here, but one of the sections is across shifting dunes, and another meanders the foothills of the mountains.’
‘Two hundred miles in total!’ Stephanie exclaimed.
‘It is the ultimate test of both horse and rider,’ Rafiq said wryly, ‘though there are eight of them, and only one of him.’
‘Good grief! That means the race must take...’ Stephanie screwed up her nose. ‘How long does it take a horse to complete each stage?’
‘It depends on the terrain, but usually between two and three hours. The race starts at first light and lasts all day and through the night. A true test of endurance, though as I said, it is about a lot more than the race itself.’
‘History, heritage, heart,’ Stephanie said.
‘Precisely. From the very beginning, the Sabr belonged to Bharym. Not once did our horses fail to triumph. Every year as I grew up, I watched as our colours crossed the finishing line first. Like everyone in Bharym, I believed we were invincible, that our horses could never be vanquished, that they truly were descendants of the legendary Drinkers of the Wind. The Sabr is in our blood. Without the Sabr, my people believe we have lost something vital, our sense of national identity.’
She could believe it, looking at him now, his eyes alight with almost childlike enthusiasm as he described the race, so very different from the intimidating Prince she had met only yesterday. She could easily imagine Rafiq as the victorious rider, travelling like the wind across the searing desert sands towards certain triumph. She could hear the raucous cheers of his people, visualise their ecstatic faces, and Rafiq, proudly lifting the huge gold trophy. ‘It sounds magical,’ she said when he had stopped talking. ‘All that is required is a princess as the prize for the winner, and it truly would be a tale from One Thousand and One Nights.’
The glow faded from Rafiq’s eyes. His expression darkened. ‘It is the tradition that all the losers forfeit their best horse to the winner. Fourteen years ago, my father’s greatest rival, a Bedouin prince, Salim, entered the race with a team bred from new bloodstock acquired from the far reaches of Arabia. My father coveted that bloodstock. It induced him to enter into a secret side-wager with the Bedouin, where the loser would forfeit all of their stallions, the jewel of their breeding stock, to the other. You can guess the outcome.’
Stephanie covered her mouth in horror. ‘How could he have been so foolish?’ she whispered.
‘Complacency? Greed? We had never lost, there was no reason to imagine that we ever could—but we did. Even now...’ He winced, unfolding his long legs and getting to his feet. ‘Even now, I find it incomprehensible, that he risked something so precious. I remember watching the stallions being led out before being taken away. It felt as if the very lifeblood was being drained from our nation. But that was not the end of it.’
He held out his hand to help her up, and they headed out of the clearing, back to the little bridge, where there was a view into the stallions’ compound. ‘I awoke in the night to see a great light blazing in the sky. It took me some moments to realise it was coming from the stables.’
‘No!’ Stephanie exclaimed, appalled. ‘Oh, no, Rafiq.’
He pressed her hand fleetingly. Gave her a grim little smile. ‘My father released all the mares and foals into the desert first. He could not bear to look at them, to be reminded of his folly, but he could not bear to harm them. We tried desperately, but it was too late to save anything. I will never forget standing among the burning embers, a blizzard of ash swirling around me. It was the end of my dreams to ride to victory in the Sabr. I vowed then that I would find a way to rebuild the stables, restore our bloodstock, breed a new Sabr team to win back the trophy for my people.’
‘Thus restoring your heritage in the true sense,’ Stephanie said, awed. ‘How on earth did you manage to achieve such a feat?’
Rafiq’s countenance did not change dramatically, rather it froze. There was a bleakness in his eyes that reminded Stephanie of the soldiers she had witnessed returning from battlefield like lost souls. ‘It cost me more than you can possibly imagine.’
She knew instinctively he did not refer to gold, and she also knew instinctively not to ask him what he did mean. There were some questions better left unspoken. Some secrets better kept under lock and key. After all, she had her own.
‘You have taken a terrible burden of responsibility on your shoulders. The weight of expectation of a whole nation lies with you.’
‘As Prince, it is my duty to shoulder that responsibility,’ Rafiq replied, ‘although I confess it sometimes feels onerous. My people think me a hero. They have raised me so high that I am sometimes afraid to look down. But I will prevail, Stephanie, not only for my people’s sake, but for my own.’
The Harlot and the Sheikh Page 6