The litter was hastily set down and Raoul clambered out, pulling the veil right down to cover his face. He mustn’t abandon the princess yet.
“Quickly, this way!”
The bearers started to run down the street. As they rounded the corner there came another shout and again the clash of weapons.
“Save yourself however you can, Sami,” Raoul said, briefly grasping the man’s hand. “Thanks for all your help.”
There was nothing else for it. The palace walls on the left were smoothly plastered and well maintained. Those on the right, although higher and topped with spikes, had crumbled in places giving footholds and hand-holds. Rough tufts of grass had sprouted between some of the stones. It would be difficult but, for him, not impossible. He tucked the slippers into the deep pockets of his tunic, spat on his hands and began to climb.
“Highness, no! Not up there!” Sami sounded panic-stricken.
“There’s nowhere else,” Raoul panted, “Don’t worry about me. Just go!”
A toe-hold crumbled and he turned his attention back to the wall, managing to find another and heaving himself upwards. A tuft of grass pulled away, he almost slipped, found a tiny crevice, clung to it then inched upwards again. He didn’t know whether Sami was still down there. He barely heard the sounds of battle. Gradually, chest heaving, heart racing with exertion, he was moving steadily up towards the top. When his groping fingers felt the solid iron of a spike, he grasped it with a panting sob of relief. He hauled himself with relative ease up the final part of the wall and stood on the top. From here he could see that the two separate groups, previously screened from his sight by bends in the street, were still engaged in bloody battles. Only two of his guards at the rear were still standing, however, and they looked likely to be defeated at any moment. He daren’t stay there any longer.
The angled spikes on the top of the wall were close together but he could squeeze sideways between them. Beneath him lay a garden, quiet and peaceful in the sunlight. There was a tinkling fountain and a small tree-shaded pavilion in the centre. It seemed to be entirely deserted. Remembering his training as a tumbler, Raoul bent his legs and dropped down into the flowering bushes far below. He landed unhurt. Now where should he go?
Outside, in the street, there was an angry cry. Probably the empty palanquin had been found. Possibly they would come in here to search for him. He must hide. He looked round hastily. There was only the pavilion. He dashed across the grass towards it, pulling his dagger out from under his clothes.
Through the arched doorway – there was no door as such – there was a single, extraordinary room. As no-one seemed to be there, Raoul stepped inside and looked around in awe. In its centre was an immense bed, draped with peach coloured satin and piled at one end with plump tasselled cushions. All round the walls, alternating with arched windows, were huge mirrors set into alcoves. The floor and the walls were of white marble, inlaid with coloured stones in a design of flowers. The centre of the ceiling was domed and painted with the figures of plump naked girls who cavorted playfully with an array of colourful birds and creatures. Admonishing himself for standing staring like a fool, Raoul looked round more prosaically – was there anywhere he could hide?
Almost behind the bed he suddenly spotted two curtained archways. One seemed to be a closet – for a servant, perhaps. There was a thin mattress on a wooden frame, a low table and a small stool. The room was plain and unadorned. Through the other archway was a small but adequate bathing room. As it was only partially roofed, it was airy and bright. There was a large, elaborately decorated tub, a marble slab, and a round pool of cold, crystal-clear water which was constantly renewed as a pipe trickled into one side and another flowed out at the other. In the bottom there was a mosaic picture of a voluptuous naked girl. On glossy marble shelves there were folded towels, hairbrushes, bottles, jars and pots of perfumes and cosmetics. Above them, as in the bedroom, the walls were lined with huge mirrors. What was this place?
He returned to the main chamber and cautiously peered out through the doorway. There were no sounds of fighting or pursuit, only birdsong and distant cicadas. Perhaps he could still, somehow, get to the Emir. But first he must find a way out of this garden. That was easier said than done, he realised, as he cautiously emerged from the pavilion. Before he jumped down he had not, of course, been able to look at the inside of the walls. Where the outside was rough and crumbling, the inside was covered up to a height of perhaps ten feet with polished tiles, patterned in pink and gold, making the walls totally impossible to climb. Above the tiles there was smooth white plaster and the spikes were angled inwards. The only tall trees gave shade round the pavilion – and it was right in the middle of the garden. It might have been deliberately designed to prevent escape. But climbing the walls could not be the only or even the most obvious way out. There must be a gate or a door somewhere even though, so far, he hadn’t seen one.
Raoul went back into the pavilion and through to the bathing room. There he pulled back his sleeves and carefully washed his hands. He had scraped his knuckles quite badly on the wall but a little coloured salve would help to conceal the wounds. He washed the grime off his feet, brushed the dust off his clothes and replaced his slippers. He no longer looked quite as perfect as he had, but it would do. He shook out his veil – luckily it had not fallen off or torn on the climb – and set it in place. He had never removed the one which covered his nose and mouth. He checked that the kohl round his eyes had not smeared or run, then left the pavilion again, walking boldly this time.
He now made a careful circuit of the garden. A slender black sleepy-eyed cat roused itself and stalked towards him on velvet paws, miaowing imperiously until he had stroked it. After a few moments it flicked its tail and padded away to resume its ablutions in the shade. Two peacocks strutted off as he approached, their colourful tails firmly closed and trailing behind them. Almost angrily they uttered their plaintive unearthly cries. Several fan-tailed doves had settled on the roof of the pavilion and they filled the air with their rich cooing. Apart from the fact that Raoul was fully clothed, the scene was almost that on the ceiling of the pavilion, he realised.
At last, hidden behind a screen of slender, densely growing and fragrant trees, there was a broad arched gate-way with a smaller gate to one side. The gates themselves were magnificent: gilded lattice-work decorated with enamelled flowers. Both were firmly locked. Beyond was another courtyard and garden with equally high walls covered in the same smooth tiles. At the far side there was another arched gate-way, identical to this one. Beyond it there was probably another and then another. These palaces could be vast, Raoul had learned. He turned away with a sigh. As he completed the circuit he realised that the locked gates provided the only way out of the garden.
A few moments’ thought told Raoul that, eventually, someone must come in. The pavilion was obviously in use. He must keep a constant watch on the gates and seize whatever opportunity was presented. With his dagger he cut a narrow horizontal slit in the screen of foliage so that he could see without being seen. Once that was done, he kept the weapon ready in his hand and waited.
By now it was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day. The sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky, beating onto Raoul’s back. It was almost unbearable, standing motionless there, but he daren’t move for fear of missing his chance. Ironically, on the other side of the screen there was a dense pool of shade. As time crept by, its dark fingers stretched out through the lattice-work of the gates but still no-one came.
Eventually, when Raoul was starting to believe that he had been mistaken in his assumptions, he saw figures in the distance. The far gate was opened and a group of people came through. Raoul prayed that this garden was their destination. They paused, in discussion or argument, and then moved closer. As he saw the leading figure, Raoul’s heart sank. He was a vast mountain of a man, dark-skinned and with no visible neck between massive shoulders and a bald head. He was dressed in voluminous pantaloons and a s
hort sleeveless top. Round his waist was a brightly coloured sash from which hung a huge curved sword. He drew a key from a pocket in his trousers, unlocked the door and stood aside. The two men behind him could almost have been his brothers although their skin was fairer and their features more aquiline. They were all identically dressed and armed. Raoul would have no hope of overpowering three giants like these. He must wait and try to discover what was going on.
Between the two men was a small slight girl, exquisitely dressed and, surprisingly, unveiled.
“So I must return to my gilded cage, must I?” she said, chin high and eyes narrowed in anger.
The man with the key simply bowed and indicated with a gesture that she should enter.
“Is there no alternative?” Her voice was softer, more plaintive.
“Lady, you know the alternative,” said the taller of the other men. “If you will humble yourself and beg forgiveness from His Excellency you can return at once to the other women.”
“And be summoned again to be hurt and humiliated?”
No-one replied but the men beside her each took hold of one of her arms.
“Don’t you dare to touch me!” she shrieked. “You filthy brutes!”
Raoul longed to go to her assistance but knew it would be suicidal madness.
“Lady, you may step into the Paradise Garden of your own free will or Ashvaq and Sadek will carry you. There is no other choice.” The man with the key spoke gently and reasonably, bowing again as he spoke.
“Very well. I will go by myself. Stand back.”
“Do not forget what His Excellency said, lady.”
“How could I forget?” she said, turning angrily to face them as the gate was shut and locked behind her. “But I have not promised to obey! If Allah wills it, I shall die. I am not afraid.”
Realising that it could not be long before the girl saw him, Raoul decided perhaps it would be best if he returned to the pavilion. It seemed more sensible to deal with her than with her gaolers, if that was what they were, although he had no idea what he was going to say. He sheathed his dagger then quietly crept away. Once in the pavilion he sat on the edge of the great bed and waited.
A few moments later, he heard the girl approaching. She was weeping now, her angry sobs clearly audible. She stumbled through the doorway, saw Raoul and froze, her tearful sorrow turning instantly to livid rage.
“So you are here,” she snapped. “I might have known they were lying!”
“Lady, I’m sorry but...”
“Don’t you try to speak to me. I’m not going to listen to anything you can say. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but...”
“Get up off that bed, you whore! How dare you! And take off your veil. You won’t meet any men here – we are to be quite alone as I am sure you have been told!”
She gave a slightly hysterical laugh.
Raoul stood up hastily. If she thought he was a maidservant, perhaps he should retire to the closet. But before he had taken more than three steps, she flew at him, seized the long veil and ripped it from his head; she then yanked the other away from his face.
“The idea of modesty in a woman like you is obscene!” she said, viciously tearing the veils to shreds. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself!”
“Perhaps I should leave you, my lady, until you are a little calmer...”
“Calmer?” she echoed. “Calmer? I have heard so many vicious lies that I shall never be calm again. They told me that my husband was young and handsome – he is old and fat. They said he was kind – “ her voice rose, “- but he is not! They said you were out of the city, that Forida Mufiz could not be found – and here you are! But I will not listen to your filth! I’d rather die! I’d rather kill myself!”
She started to tear off her jewellery, flinging bangles and rings on the floor. Then, with her nails, she began to claw at her face, screaming hysterically. Raoul leapt towards her and caught hold of her hands.
“Don’t, don’t, lady. Please, please, you must not harm yourself. Please, stop it, hush...”
All he could think to do was to fold her into his arms. At first she fought frantically, screaming, pounding on his back and thrashing her head from side to side. He still held her tightly, rocking her and murmuring soothingly. After a while, she slumped against him, her body lost its rigidity and tears began to flow, deep heart-rending sobs. He carried her to the bed and sat with her cradled in his arms like a child, continuing to hold her, rock her and stroke her hair.
“Hush, hush, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s all right. No-one is going to harm you.”
Much later, when it was almost dark in the room, her tears finally ceased. She raised her head from his shoulder.
“Thank you, Forida,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you would be kind.”
“I only want to help you, my lady,” Raoul said softly. Now was not the time to reveal his true identity to her.
“You may call me Aysha,” she said graciously.
She slipped off his knee and went across to one of the mirrors. Behind it was a cupboard. Hearing Raoul’s exclamation of surprise, she opened the others and revealed their neatly stacked and folded contents.
“They have provided everything I could need,” she explained.
From one of them she extracted a tall glass bottle, two drinking cups, some little clay lamps and a tinder box.
“Would you care for some sherbet?” she asked.
“Thank you. Shall I light the lamps?”
“Please. Now we can be comfortable.” She scrambled up and settled herself against the plump pillows at the end of the bed.
“You may sit beside me, Forida,” she said.
Raoul did as she had told him and once he was seated, she slipped her hand trustingly into his.
“Aysha, could you tell me a little of what troubles you?” He would have to be careful what he said, but perhaps, as the person she believed him to be, he might bring a little reassurance to this frightened child. “I was told nothing before I came here – just that you needed my help.”
“I’ll tell you a story instead. I love stories – don’t you?”
“If they have happy endings.”
“I don’t know the end of this one – you can help with that part.”
“All right.”
“Put your arm round me. That’s it. That’s how I used to sit with my nurse at home. Are you comfortable, Forida?”
“Very.”
Raoul smiled to himself. This was an extraordinary situation, even stranger than being seduced by Bertrand de Courcy! How shocked she would be if he told her the truth.
“Once there was a castle, high in the mountains, one hundred miles from the city of Baghdad. In the castle lived a wealthy Lord who had just one daughter and her name was Aysha. She wasn’t very pretty but...”
“She was extremely pretty,” Raoul corrected her.
“Everyone said she was much too thin and she’d never find a husband. Then, one day, her father told her about a young, handsome, wealthy man called Khaliq Ur-Ehman who wanted to make her his wife. So they travelled hundreds of leagues to a city called Damascus. Aysha was very sorry to leave her home but she knew it was a woman’s duty to marry and bear children. Her husband would be kind and gentle and she was told that she would be his only wife. When they reached the city, the marriage ceremony was quickly held – she still had not met her husband – and then her father left. After that there was feasting and dancing...” Her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper.
“Don’t go on if it pains you, sweetheart,” Raoul murmured, pressing his lips gently against her hair.
“No, I want to tell you. At the feast,” she continued in a brisk factual tone, “she met the other ladies of the household: Khaliq’s mother, his first wife Musarrat and his many, many concubines. They lived in a large and splendid seraglio guarded by massive eunuchs.” She paused for a moment. When she continued, she seemed to have forgotten the idea of
the ‘story’. “My father only had one wife, Forida, you see, and my mother died when I was young – I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Poor little Aysha.”
“It wasn’t too bad at first. Most of the other girls were quite nice though some were jealous of me for being actually married. My husband didn’t send for me for several weeks – Musarrat said I was much too thin so they made me eat a lot and lie for hours in a warm bath, but I was given new clothes and jewellery almost every day. Then two days ago he sent for me. It was...” She broke off, biting her lip; then she seemed to force herself to continue. “He wanted to do terrible things to me. When I struggled or cried out he hit me and did them anyway. In the morning he was angry and I was so unhappy...”
“Because you hadn’t pleased him?”
“Because I am married to a monster!”
She sat up and looked at Raoul indignantly.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said hastily. “What happened then?”
She continued to sit upright, her face turned away from Raoul, her hands gripped rigidly together.
“I was made to share his bed again the following night but I refused to let him touch me. I screamed so loudly that Imraz, the chief eunuch, had to take me away. I was locked in here. When they took me to see Khaliq today, he decided that I must stay here on my own for forty days so that I can learn to become a dutiful and obedient wife. But I’m not going to. I don’t intend to let him touch me again – not ever.”
“And what will Khaliq do then?”
“He will send me away in disgrace and my father’s heart will be broken.”
“I’ll get you some more of the sherbet.”
Sensing she was again close to tears, Raoul found her cup and went to re-fill it. It was hard to know what the true story really was. Perhaps her husband had subjected her to foul unnatural acts or perhaps she just hadn’t known what to expect: the sex act was bizarre enough anyway. She seemed so innocent, such a child. Perhaps Khaliq was actually being quite patient with her.
The Rightful Heir Page 39