For a short while, her presence went undetected. Nearly all the men of Jafar's tribe were there, Mahmoud explained in a whisper, as well as the ranking officials of ail the neighboring tribes, but they had their backs toward her, their attention focused on the speakers in the center of the gathering. She could not see Jafar, but she heard him speak occasionally. And with help from Mahmoud, Alysson was able to follow the line of conversation.
Jafar's prime accuser, it seemed, was a cousin of Zohra's, a caid of another tribe, and the prime allegation was one of betrayal of the blood oath.
"You have failed to avenge the death of the late lord, your father," Zohra's cousin charged in a ringing tone.
In response, Jafar began his defense for sparing the life of his blood enemy. "My lord father's death has been avenged. Blood has been spilled in battle."
The sudden chorus of whispers that suddenly broke out around Alysson made her realize she'd been found out. She felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her.
Then the whispers quieted, while the sea of warriors slowly parted, making a path to the highest-ranking members of the council. She could tell by the severe expressions on the faces of the Berbers around her that they highly disapproved of her interruption. Some, like Zohra's cousin, were incensed by her presence.
As for Jafar himself, she couldn't tell what he was thinking. His eyes narrowed for a moment upon seeing her, but otherwise he showed no sign of surprise. Perhaps he had come to expect such outrageous behavior from her, Alysson thought uneasily.
He stood there waiting imperiously, looking every inch a prince in his flowing scarlet robes, a regal warlord in total command of the moment. Drawn by the power of his golden gaze, she moved forward, while Mahmoud trailed miserably behind.
"I should like permission to address the council," she said finally to Jafar, and was pleased that her voice did not quaver.
"To what purpose, mademoiselle?" His cool tone was devoid of emotion, giving her no encouragement.
Alysson bit her lip. Perhaps she was acting foolishly for daring to intrude on the council's business, but she couldn't stand idly by while Jafar paid such a high price for his act of mercy. "I . . . want to speak in your behalf. Whatever your reasons for sparing Gervase, politically it was a wise move. He is one of the few officials in the French government sympathetic to your cause, and he can help. I think your tribal leaders should consider that before they condemn you."
Jafar's features seemed to soften for a brief instant, but if he was flattered or displeased by her eagerness to defend him, he gave no other sign. "There is no need for you to be here, Ehuresh. "
She started to protest, but his next words forestalled her; Jafar raised his voice again to address the crowd. "Gervase de Bourmont is a good man," he said clearly in his own language.
At first Alysson thought she must have misunderstood, even with her growing command of Berber, but Mahmoud's translation into French verified what she'd heard. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Jafar was actually defending his blood enemy?
"This Frenchman is not like the others of his kind," Jafar told the council. "He has used his office to help our people, not to drive us into proverty and submission. The Englishwoman has pleaded on his behalf and sworn his innocence, and I believe her. This man Bourmont is not his father. It is not required that his life be forfeit."
Stunned, Alysson listened with amazement and throat- tightening joy. This man is not his father, Jafar had said. Gervase should not die for his father's sins. It was a huge admission for Jafar to make. She watched as he continued his defense.
"Bourmont's capture proved advantageous for our side. His exchange will spare the lives of a score of our sultan's warriors. They will live to fight again."
That point was deliberated in detail, which Mahmoud tried to translate. Then the discussion shifted to Alysson herself.
"The infidel Englishwoman is an evil influence over Sidi Jafar!" Zohra's cousin cried. But Jafar scornfully refused to debate either Alysson's influence over him or her presence in his home.
"She is only a woman," he told his accuser in a lethal tone, "and you insult me by suggesting I could be corrupted or governed by her. She is also my captive to do with as I please. You may choose to cast your vote against me, but that is the extent of your power. You will not prescribe my choice of women or dictate what manner of guests I invite into my home. I will step down if you wish another to lead you, but let me be judged on the issue at hand."
At the moment Alysson was too concerned with the seriousness of the charge against Jafar to be incensed by his demeaning dismissal of her. She remained silent, straining to follow the conversation.
The dispute then swung back to the crucial question of Jafar's clemency for his father's murderer. It was a solemn, black-bearded man who offered another argument by quoting the words of the Prophet Mohammed. "Avert the infliction of prescribed penalties as much as possible, the Prophet says. If there is a way out then let a man go, for it is better for a leader to err in forgiving than to err in punishing."
Caught up in what was being said, Alysson was startled to realize Jafar was addressing her again.
"If you will be so kind as to return to the house, mademoiselle," he said gently, "we have business to attend to."
His quiet tone of command left her no room for argument. Realizing the total irrelevance of her presense, Alysson flushed and ducked her head. Jafar hadn't needed her testimony at all. If anything, she had only provided ammunition for his accusers, the ones who claimed his judgment had been corrupted by an infidel woman.
With a small murmur of apology, she withdrew as gracefully as possible, leaving Mahmoud behind to observe the rest of the proceedings.
She retreated to the courtyard of Jafar's house to await the verdict, but it was nearly two hours later before Mahmoud came running and, despite his limp, began dancing in excited circles around her, exclaiming in rapid Berber. Alysson jumped up in alarm, while the greyhound bitch lying at her feet bared its teeth menacingly at the boy.
"The council has voted!" Mahmoud exclaimed in French. "The lord has been cleared of all charges! He is still amghar el-barood!"
Relief, swift and sweet, flooded through Alysson as she stared at the boy. Jafar was still chief of war. He had not been deposed for his act of mercy.
"Thank heaven," she murmured with heartfelt elation, then commanded Mahmoud to sit beside her and tell her the details of what had occurred after her dismissal.
In actuality, her defense of Jafar had made little difference, the boy said. It had been the lord's own argument that had swayed the council—that the exchange of prisoners had benefited the Berber cause more than the shedding of blood would have done. In the end, the vote had been nearly unanimous. Jafar was reaffirmed as amghar el-barood.
She thanked Mahmoud for relaying the good news, and sat there after he'd gone, trying to come to terms with the truth.
A short while later, she heard the sound of footsteps and looked up to meet Jafar's eyes. Somehow she forced herself to speak. "I am glad you won, Jafar."
"Thank you. I am also." His expression was half tender, half serious when he commented softly, "I did not need you to defend me, Ehuresh. "
"Yes . . . I see that now."
"But I am Honoréd that you made the attempt."
Alysson gazed back at him, not knowing if she could believe him.
When he reached out, laying his palm against her cheek in a caress, she closed her eyes, his recent declaration haunting her. She is only a woman . . . you insult me by suggesting I could be corrupted or governed by her. Jafar wouldn't want her love, any more than he'd wanted her interference in his affairs.
When finally he turned away, she didn't prevent him from leaving. And yet watching him go, she felt totally bereft.
No, he hadn't needed her. She'd only been a detriment to him.
The elation she'd felt at his vindication disappeared, to be replaced by aching despondency. The answer to her uncle's question was ob
vious. She had no future with Jafar. She had been deluding herself for one moment to think otherwise.
No, their parting was inevitable.
Forcibly, Alysson swallowed, blinking back the stinging tears welling in her eyes. She had to be strong. For Jafar's sake, as well as her own, she had to resist the insidious desire to pretend they could build a life together. Their passionate wanting would not be enough. Her love for him would not be enough.
At least she had not been blessed with Jafar's child, Alysson thought bleakly. Her intimacy with Jafar had not resulted in pregnancy. Her monthly courses had begun shortly after their last tryst, an event for which she ought to be grateful. She knew Jafar well enough to realize he would never let her leave carrying his child.
And she had to leave. She had to flee from him while she still had the chance to forget him. She must somehow escape this impossible love that threatened to consume her.
As if sensing her despair, the greyhound raised its sleek head and sniffed Alysson's cold hand, then gave her fingers a sympathetic lick. Absently, Alysson stroked the silken head, but she could draw no comfort from the dog's friendly gesture. It would take a great deal more than that to diminish her sense of raw desolation or ease the fierce ache in her heart.
Chapter 23
Her chance for freedom came in a way she never expected. It was the first, of December, a day marked by two disturbing incidents.
The first was news of a tragedy. The lion that had been stalking the hills at night had attacked and savaged a woman from a neighboring tribe. Mahmoud gave Alysson the gory details when he served her breakfast.
"Ezim ezher," the boy said with solemnity and awe. "The lion roars."
No longer possessing an appetite, Alysson pushed away her plate while Mahmoud expounded on his subject. The Berbers had the greatest respect for the king of beasts, she learned, calling it sidi, which signified ruler or master. But Jafar's tribe had supreme confidence in the lord's ability to track down and kill the savage creature. Jafar was at this very moment making preparations to hunt the lion that was terrorizing the countryside.
Before he could depart, however, an event of a different nature occurred, one that filled Alysson with a stark foreboding. Messengers from the west began streaming into Jafar's reception room, bringing word of their sultan, Abdel Kader. The noble Berber leader had been betrayed by the Sultan of Morocco, they reported, and Abdel Kader might at any moment be forced to retreat to Algeria.
Alysson greeted this intelligence with dread. Surrounded as she'd been during the past three weeks by the luxury and comfort of Jafar's home, she'd almost forgotten that a war still raged in his country. But hearing of the dismaying turn of events in Morocco brought reality back to her with a vengeance. For Jafar the conflict was not over. Perhaps it never would be.
The messengers were followed shortly by the arrival of Jafar's Arab friend, Khalifa Ben Hamadi. The general was returning from the eastern province after trying to raise support for his sultan, and since Jafar's mountain fortress lay near the direct road to Constantine, Ben Hamadi had called to discuss the fate of their leader, Abdel Kader.
Unable to leave his guest to hunt for the lion, Jafar remained closeted with the general for several hours. Afterward, a feast was held, similar to the one given during Ben Hamadi's last visit to Jafar's camp. Unlike last time, however, Alysson was invited to attend, as was her Uncle Honoré. She was aware of the honor, but Honoré—perhaps because of his pain, perhaps because he held the khalif's army to blame for his injuries—glared at the Arab chieftain during the entire meal and answered any remark with a testiness that bordered on rudeness.
In fact, the entire atmosphere that afternoon was grim, despite the delicious food. Squabs, roast chickens stuffed with olives, and a savory meat pie made up the first courses, followed by couscous mounded with chunks of mutton, eggplant, turnips, and grapes. Yet Alysson barely tasted what she ate.
In direct contrast to her uncle's scowling expression, she smiled graciously at the khalifa and responded with deferential respect when he spoke to her, her civility a measure of how much her relationship with Jafar had changed her. Weeks ago during Ben Hamadi's last visit, she had dismissed his gallantry and paid little attention to his ram- blings about his Berber commander. This time, however, she listened intently as he told her the news of Abdel Ka- der's possible banishment from Morocco. Jafar's future and that of his countrymen might very well depend on the Berber leader's fate.
"The traitorous Moroccan sultan has sided with the French," Ben Hamadi explained to her. "The sultan has denied Abdel Kader refuge in Morocco any longer and has even threatened to drive our leader out by force. Abdel Kader must decide whether to fight the Moroccan army as well as the French."
Alysson met Jafar's eyes across the low table. "Do you mean to go to his aid?" she asked, her throat hoarse.
"He has not yet called upon his followers," Jafar said carefully.
"But you will go."
"You know I will."
She fell silent. She wanted to argue, to plead with him to reconsider. But she knew nothing she could say or do could persuade him differently. He would never give up his struggle. Not as long as his sultan needed him. Not as long as his country needed him.
Jafar skillfully changed the subject then—perhaps, Alysson thought despairingly, because he still suspected her of trying to discover the Arab army's plans so she could report back to Gervase.
Her thoughts bleak, she was not aware at first that Ben Hamadi had addressed her. "I am certain you are relieved now that your fiancé, Colonel Bourmont, has been released, Miss Vickery."
Released? Gervase had been released? Shocked, Alysson turned to stare at Jafar. "Gervase is free?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.
Jafar gave her an enigmatic glance. "Yes. He was exchanged for some two dozen other prisoners of war last week."
"But you didn't tell me."
"I only just received word. My lieutenant, Farhat, returned yesterday with news of the success."
Alysson regarded him in consternation. "Then you will let us go now?" she asked raggedly.
Jafar's mouth tightened. "As I have said before, you will remain here to allow your uncle's wounds time to heal."
"They have healed well enough for him to travel."
"Indeed," Honoré asserted. "I may not be able to sit a horse, but if you would allow me the use of the litter, I could manage adequately.''
Alysson started to agree, but Jafar gave her a quelling look. "We will discuss this later, Ehuresh. "
It was a direct command to drop the subject, and she knew argument would be fruitless. The company resumed the meal then, but Alysson's heart and mind were in such turmoil that she couldn't eat.
Eventually the conversation turned to the local tragedy, and how best to kill the lion that roamed the hills. Politely, the general described to Alysson the two usual methods of lion-hunting in Barbary.
"One is to dig a deep pit and cover it with brush, and tie a live kid or calf to a nearby tree. The hunters then watch, concealed, till the sacrificial prey attracts the lion. The second, mademoiselle, is for scores of hunters to form a wide circle around the lion's usual poaching ground, then close in. The footmen advance first, rushing into the thickets with their dogs and spears to flush out the beast, while the horsemen keep a little behind, ready to charge."
Honoré spoke up again, his tone one of derision. "I fail to see why you must make all these elaborate preparations. My niece has hunted tigers in India armed only with a rifle."
Ben Hamadi, a self-professed avid sportsman, gave Alysson a look that was both curious and disbelieving. "Is this true?"
Alysson sent her uncle a distracted glance. She had once killed a Bengal tiger single-handedly, under the direction of her Uncle Oliver, but destroying such a magnificent animal was not something she was particularly proud of. "Yes, Excellency, it is true," she answered with reluctance. "Another uncle of mine is a hunter renowned for his marksmanship. He taught
me a great deal about hunting game in the wild."
The expression on Ben Hamadi's dark, sharp-featured face turned admiring. "No woman of my country has such courage or skill.''
"But then Miss Vickery is not of our country," Jafar interjected coolly.
Alysson might have retorted that the women of his country were given little opportunity to exhibit either courage or skill, but she bit back the remark. "My skill is meager," she said instead, with an Eastern display of humility.
The khalifa, however, seemed intrigued by her revelation. He stared at her thoughtfully while he stroked his beard. After a brief glance at his host that might have been called sly, Ben Hamadi addressed Alysson again. "Perhaps you would care to demonstrate this skill, Miss Vickery. No doubt Jafar el-Saleh would be pleased to be rid of this scourge that is menacing the population. If you could kill the beast, perhaps the saiyid would be grateful enough to offer you your freedom."
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