Freedom's Banner

by Freedom's Banner (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  Harry strode up towards the town through the shifting kaleidoscope that was the traders’ camp, where men of business of all ages, all colours, and many nationalities were settled amongst the bales of their merchandise awaiting transport north to the markets of Cairo and Alexandria. Small stone-built ovens, steaming kettles and the strong smell of coffee added to the feeling of a permanent settlement engendered by the energetic comings and goings, the lively groups of robed and turbaned merchants, the inevitable barefoot urchins, and the noisy packs of scavenging dogs. He kept an observant eye cocked, wondering if Abdo might not be somewhere here pursuing his business, but saw no sign of him. In the town he brushed aside the eager attentions of the camel-men anxious to persuade him to partake of the privilege of a ride into the desert upon a tasselled and obnoxious beast – a dubious pleasure which no self-respecting tourist was expected to avoid – and finally, after a few minutes’ impatient haggling that left the stable owner aggrieved at the brevity of the ceremony but better off than he deserved to be, he was at last in the worn saddle and riding through the outskirts of the mud-built town that straggled along the shore. Here the rocks and whirlpools of the cataract replaced the wide, placid waters Harry had come to know. A dahabeeyah was being manoeuvred upstream; men stood gracefully balanced upon rocks above the vicious swirling of the waters, singing out to each other as the ropes were tossed from hand to hand, and the boat hauled on, difficult yard by difficult yard. Anxious as he was to push on, Harry could not resist for a moment reining in to watch. Slender and wiry, the men leaped from rock to rock, sure and lightfooted as deer, whilst the crew aboard the dahabeeyah laboured with oar and with sail, guiding the vessel through the waters whose peril was well illustrated by the wreckage everywhere, jammed between the granite boulders or cast upon the mud of the shore.

  Harry urged his mount forward – he was a sorry beast, thin as a cat and long overdue an honourable retirement he would no doubt never be allowed to enjoy – still watching the fascinating activity. Then the trail he was following swung away from the river and into the narrow entrance of a hot, shadeless valley that ran straight as an arrow, rising slowly but steadily into the granite heights. Sand sifted against the raised, rocky trail, gave off a warmth that was stifling into air that was already all but unbreatheable. The sky had cleared a little, though the sun was baleful still through a copper haze of clouds. High above a huge bird of prey wheeled, dipping below the valley edge, reappearing, soaring lazily. Harry narrowed his eyes against the shimmering heat, thinking he saw movement on the hillside, but as he reined in for a moment and scanned the granite cliffs all was still and quiet. He followed the clear track, the splayed footprints of camels, the smaller marks of man and horse, and the scuffed signs of a donkey train. The animal he rode was incapable of a speed much faster than the walking pace of a man; once or twice he found himself, despite the barb of urgency that still prickled at the back of his mind, having to force himself to stay awake as the animal plodded on with steady, swaying movement.

  At the head of the valley, exactly as had been described to him, the trail wound on for perhaps a mile across a small rocky plateau before dropping down towards the valley of the Winter House. Here the temperature was higher than ever, the hypnotic regularity of his mount’s gait an even more irresistible invitation to doze beneath the shade of the wide brim of his hat, to leave the animal to find its own way, as it was undoubtedly capable of doing.

  The coming of the silent Bedouin horsemen as the track rounded a pile of boulders and revealed the stunning sight of the valley below took him entirely by surprise.

  They sat, three of them, poised, dark-faced and watchful, swathed gracefully against the sun in immaculate robes of bleached white. Long, threatening rifles were cradled casually across one arm, their mounts were strong and swift-looking, standing like statues across the path. Jolted awake, and swinging his mount away from the human barrier, it did nothing for Harry’s confidence to find three more ranged as calmly behind him. Cursing himself for being so easily caught, he steadied his horse and sat in silence, waiting.

  No-one spoke. One of the three men ahead of him made an easy gesture. In a spray of sand and fine, tossing heads an escort was formed, and Harry found himself, willy nilly, and necessarily at a pace dictated by his scrawny mount, heading down towards the green vision below.

  The house, vast, white and sprawling, nestled in gardens of palm and of flowering shrub; pools gleamed in courtyard and grove, lush greenery rambled about walls and framed arches and windows. Some distance from the house a tiny, palm-edged lake – obviously the source of the water used so lavishly upon the gardens – divided it from an ordered collection of long, low businesslike buildings, enclosed behind a high and substantial mud wall. More palms shaded an enclosure full of camels and donkeys, and beyond them smoke rose from a small encampment of the large and airy skin-draped tents of the Bedouin; the home, Harry could only assume, of his silent guard. There the lush green stopped, and the valley ended in a sloping cliff face studded with the inevitable, irregular openings of ancient rock tombs. The whole looked peaceful, prosperous and in these stark surroundings beautiful in the extreme. Harry found himself remembering Laila’s casual, ‘The Winter House is better,’ and had to acknowledge it to be nothing but the truth.

  The track, firm, easily negotiable and eminently defensible, wound down into the valley. Hedged in by his escort, stoically resisting the urge to curse himself and his ridiculous mount aloud and roundly, Harry descended it with as much dignity as he could muster. In the wide sweep of raked sand that fronted the house he dismounted, and a white-clad servant, as silent as the Bedouin, took the rein and led the horse away into the shade.

  ‘This way.’

  He followed the tall Bedouin through the open door and into the cool, magnificent interior. The entrance hall was amber and gold, and dominated by a golden figure of Anubis, the jackal-headed god. The walls were hung with silken prayer rugs, and there were shelves of jewelled artefacts – figurines, goblets, platters – that could only have come from plundered tombs.

  Beyond the hall was a spacious room, very cool and comfortable, in which several large divans were set about low tables. Upon one of them reclined a slight man wearing a softly draped embroidered robe. His skin was smooth and olive-coloured, his eyes, his most striking feature, were heavy-lidded and lustrous. His sleek black hair lay smooth against a well-shaped skull. His expression, Harry noted with sinking heart, could not be described as welcoming.

  ‘Captain Sherwood, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘I am Ayman el Akad.’ Gracefully the man came to his feet. He was a full head shorter than Harry, yet his presence was such that the lack of inches was barely noticeable.

  ‘A moment.’ He clapped his hands sharply. Within a second a young man entered, bearing a tray upon which were tall glasses of lemonade, a pot of coffee and two small cups and a dish of dates. These laid quietly upon the table, the young man left, though not, Harry noticed, without a small, brightly enquiring glance in his direction.

  ‘Please.’ Courteously Laila’s father waved a hand.

  Harry took a glass of lemonade, perched upon the edge of a divan. The other man poured coffee, settled back, watching him. ‘Your visit surprises me,’ he said quietly, in perfect and absolutely accentless English, ‘and I have to admit cannot be said to please me. In the story my daughter tells, you do not emerge very creditably.’

  Harry sipped his lemonade, set the glass carefully down upon the table.

  ‘I’m sorry that should be so, Sir,’ he said, with equal care. ‘The last thing that any of us wanted is that your daughter should have been distressed.’

  ‘I entrusted her to your care – yours and Miss Standish’s. That the trip should have been so ill-managed – the dahabeeyah so uncomfortable, her quarters so cramped that she felt it necessary to cut short her stay with you, does not please me.’

  Harry let out a sm
all, relieved breath. It had occurred to him more than once to wonder what tale Hannah and Laila would concoct to explain their early arrival at the Winter House – for certainly the truth would not under any circumstances do, least of all from Laila’s point of view. Hannah, it surely must have been, who had hit upon something so simple.

  ‘I can only apologize, Sir,’ he said, with what he hoped was a suitable show of contrition.

  The man opposite nodded, coolly courteous. A slightly awkward silence fell. Harry sipped his lemonade then lifted his eyes to find his host still waiting, politely but with thinly concealed impatience. Waiting, he realized with a sudden and alarming premonition, for him, his apology delivered and accepted, to leave.

  ‘Miss Standish –’ he began, and as he asked knew with a sinking certainty the reply, ‘– she’s here still?’

  The surprise on the other man’s face was answer enough. ‘Miss Standish? Why, no. Why should she be here?’

  ‘I – thought perhaps she might have stayed?’ Harry was totally unprepared for the dismay the news engendered in him. He had been so very sure he would find Hannah safely settled here with Laila.

  The sleek dark head shook. ‘She came with my daughter, yes. But I have to say, sorry though I am to admit it, my feelings towards her were not perhaps as charitable as they might have been. Laila was obviously unhappy, and she had, after all, been in Miss Standish’s care. The suggestion that she might remain here was not made.’

  ‘When did she leave?’ Harry’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge. God in heaven, he had wasted a day upon this useless trip, whilst Hannah – what? Where was she? What could possibly have happened to her? He stood up.

  Ayman el Akad came gracefully to his feet also. ‘Two days since,’ he said, mildly. ‘She said something about friends in Aswan?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘I’m so sorry; I misunderstood. I assumed it was Miss Standish who had encouraged you to visit – to tender the courtesy of a personal apology.’

  Harry found his hands were clenched. With care he relaxed them; with equal care he forced his numbed brain to reason. ‘Please – might I speak to your daughter? She may have some idea –’ He stopped as the other man lifted a sharp hand.

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible.’ There was no mistaking the iron chill beneath the icy politeness of the words. ‘My daughter has made it quite clear that she does not wish to see or to speak to you or to Miss Standish again. I respect her wish; I expect you to do the same.’

  Whatever else, Harry found himself thinking, Hannah’s hopes of pacifying Laila appeared to have been comprehensively dashed. ‘But –’

  ‘No.’ The word, though quiet, was adamant, and the lustrous eyes were markedly unfriendly. Harry was forced for a moment to wonder whether Laila after all had not confessed rather more than was comfortable to this formidable father of hers. He stood helpless. If Laila would not see him there was nothing he could do about it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ el Akad said again. ‘If your purpose in coming here was to seek out Miss Standish then I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey.’ He clapped his hands again, sharply, twice. ‘I’m sure you must be anxious to leave. You will, I am sure, find the adventurous Miss Standish safe somewhere in Aswan. I am certain she is very capable of looking after herself; she seemed to me a lady of very strong character.’ The words were obviously not intended to sound anything like a compliment.

  Harry heard movement behind him, glanced around to find himself once more hemmed in by the Bedouin who had escorted him from the plateau. His eyes flickered to the long, shining rifles they carried so negligently. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  He allowed himself to be escorted outside where his sorry excuse for a mount awaited him. His host wished him a polite and less than cordial farewell. The red sun had moved to the stark cliff edges that were etched high against the burning sky, and shadows crept across the valley floor. A warm wind had sprung up, dusty, oddly stifling, carrying with it the merest trace of a fetid, unpleasant and unmistakable stench. In silence he swung himself into the creaking saddle, and in silence set off up the steeply winding path. The Bedouin rode behind him, watchfully. As they emerged from the ascent and onto the wide plateau, they reined in their horses and sat motionless, watching Harry, expressionless, as he rode away. For the first few hundred yards his back felt as exposed a target as a barn wall at a hundred paces. He knew from experience the range and accuracy of the long and lethal-looking French Berthier rifles with which they were so efficiently armed; nor did he doubt their ability to use them. He was glad when the flat, rocky plateau was behind him and the track began to dip down into the long, sloping valley that would take him eventually back to the river. He rode deep in uneasy thought and this time with no inclination in the world to sleep.

  The movement he caught at the corner of his eye as he passed a stand of granite boulders had him rolling from the saddle and reaching beneath his coat in a single motion.

  ‘Well done, Captain,’ Abdo said, encouragingly. ‘A couple of seconds faster and you might have made a contest of it.’ His own knife was poised between long fingers, balanced and ready to throw. His tall frame was enveloped in a brown woollen robe, the hood thrown back to reveal the fine bones of his face and the gleam of his smile. A small, tasselled woollen saddle bag lay in the sand at his feet.

  ‘Abdo! What in hell’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘Hunting,’ the other said, briefly. ‘As you are.’

  Harry sheathed his knife, unsurprised to find his fingers a little less sure of themselves than they should be. These sudden appearances of Abdo’s were unnerving. ‘Any luck?’ he was pleased to hear that his voice fairly matched the other’s for coolness.

  The smile gleamed again. ‘A little. You?’

  Harry reached for the reins, drew the animal into the shade of the rocks. ‘I found some brand new Berthier rifles in rather strange hands.’

  ‘The Bedouin?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Ah.’

  Harry waited for a moment, his patience precarious. ‘Well? You’ve found something?’

  ‘I’ve found Miss Standish. I hate to ask, Captain, but is this bag of bones truly the best you could do?’

  Harry caught him by the arm, swung him, big as he was, to face him. ‘Found her? Found her where?’ Then, his eyes on the other man’s face, he released his arm and stepped back. ‘At the Winter House.’ There was only the barest question in the words. ‘She’s at the Winter House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve seen her?’

  ‘From a distance.’

  ‘She’s at the Winter House,’ Harry said again, as if to himself. ‘And I’m the worst kind of fool. Yes, it was,’ he added, absently, in answer to Abdo’s question about the horse, ‘unless I was ready to take a camel or a donkey.’ He looked sharply back at Abdo. ‘You’ve seen her, you say? She’s safe?’

  ‘I said I’d seen her. I didn’t say she was safe. I doubt that anyone within a hundred miles of Ayman el Akad is safe.’ The words, spoken unemotionally, contained a terrible depth of bitterness.

  ‘Don’t riddle me, Abdo. Tell me, how do you know she’s there?’

  ‘I told you. I saw her. Walking in the garden, under guard, late this morning.’ Abdo took the reins from him, led the horse into the shade of a rock, dropped the reins over the animal’s head and tied them to a scrubby thorn. ‘Come. It’s easier to show you.’ He glanced up at the sky. The wind was rising still, rags of clouds scudded from the south. Gritty sand lifted and swirled. He picked up the saddle bag, swung it with ease across his shoulder. ‘Follow me.’

  * * *

  They approached this time not openly across the high and exposed track, but through the litter of rocks and boulders that edged the plateau and towards the cliff face with its pockmarks of rock tombs at the far end of the tiny valley. With the watchful Bedouin and their long rifles in mind, Harry was as ready as Abd
o to go carefully, but yet there was an awful pressure of urgency in him, a desire to run, to launch himself screaming and barehanded down into the valley and upon those who held Hannah captive. It took all the calm and control acquired over fifteen years of soldiering to follow Abdo’s oblique, roundabout route to the top of the valley, flitting from rock to rock, from shadow to shadow. At last they lay together, side by side and flat upon their bellies on a ridge above the gaping tomb mouths. A swift and stormy sunset had begun, the sky was alight with colour; and by contrast, the valley below was shadowed.

  ‘Here, Captain.’ Abdo reached into the saddle bag, and, eyes fixed upon the scene below, handed Harry a small pair of binoculars. ‘The right-hand side of the building – around the courtyard with the rectangular pool. Look at the window on the outer wall.’

  Harry fiddled impatiently with the glasses, swept the shadows, could find nothing, then more slowly quartered the area Abdo had pointed out.

  Attached to the bars of a narrow window set into an otherwise blank whitewashed wall, something fluttered bravely, rippling and reflective in the half-light. A ribbon of some pale colour, streaming in the freshening breeze.