The Princess and the Foal

by Stacy Gregg

  Haya climbs up on to the wall and stands on the bearskin, draped over the paddling pool. The weight of her body makes the bearskin slip a little underfoot.

  “I’m going to need to tie it down,” she tells Ali. “We need some rope.”

  Luckily there is rope in the greenhouse that is perfect. This is all going so much better than Haya could have hoped. She lashes the bear’s head behind the ears and then ropes down the back paws so that the rug and the paddling pool are now both harnessed firmly to the wall. She climbs onboard once more, twisting her feet to see if it will give. The rug stays firm. At last, she can begin her handstand training.

  *

  “She mutilated it!” Frances is livid. “A priceless bearskin totally ruined by her childish games!”

  Haya does not see what all the fuss is about. It is only an old rug after all. In fact, it is positively ancient: it belonged to Nana. Besides, once it is on the floor, you hardly notice there are flat patches.

  “I wasn’t playing games, I was training for horse riding!” Haya says.

  “This is what comes,” Frances counters, “from not giving children firm boundaries.”

  Behind the mahogany desk the King looks up at Haya and the governess standing before him. He puts his pen down on the stack of papers in front of him. He has been working through the night and his face is drawn and tired. He has been so busy of late it took him three whole days to even mention that the bear was missing.

  “I’m sorry, Baba,” Haya says, “I was trying to learn to do a handstand bareback on Bree, but I kept falling. I thought if I practised on the bear first then I could master it.”

  Her father frowns. “But why did you shave it?”

  “The hair was too long. I needed it to be more like a horse.”

  Her father raises an eyebrow. “That’s clever,” he admits. “Very clever.”

  Haya casts a sideways look at Frances as if to say ‘Hah!’ And then her father shakes his head. “You are grounded.”

  “What …?” Haya is confused. “But you said it was clever!”

  “Haya, you knew it was wrong to do that to the rug, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Frances is right. You need to learn from this, Haya. You must think about what you did. You are grounded for the rest of the month until you leave again for the new term at boarding school.”

  Outside her father’s office with the door shut behind them Frances turns promptly away from Haya and begins to walk towards the kitchen.

  “I wasn’t trying to ruin the rug, I was training …” Haya protests.

  The governess stops. She turns back round.

  “Do you really think this is what your father wants?” Frances’s eyes are cold and cruel. “He is trying to run a Kingdom and here you are, a tomboy nuisance with mud on her knees and horse chaff under her fingernails, causing trouble again with your filthy horses. You should hear the talk around the palace, about the way you behave. Hanging around at the stables. It’s disgraceful.”

  Haya is horrified. “But I am in training! The stablehands are my friends.”

  “It’s entirely inappropriate – I cannot understand the purpose of all this training,” Frances huffs.

  “Oh, here it comes!” Haya is enraged. “Is this the bit where you tell me how I should behave like a proper lady?”

  “I rather think we all gave up on that vain hope a long time ago,” Frances says. And then she adds in a cold voice, “Your mother would be so disappointed.” And with her insult thrust to the hilt, she turns her back on Haya and walks away.

  rances is a stupid meany.” Ali is lying on Haya’s bed, watching his sister stalk back and forth across the bedroom as if she were a panther prowling her enclosure. She has told her brother what Frances said to her yesterday in the corridor, what she said about Mama. It is typical Frances. She always knows how to inflict the most hurt. She never cuts a fresh wound; she just likes to pick at the same painful scab, over and over.

  At the stables Zayn will be setting up the showjumping practice course and Haya should be helping him, but here she is wearing a groove in her bedroom carpet.

  “Why don’t you go out of the window like last time?” Ali suggests.

  Haya shakes her head. “Frances is bound to expect it. I’d get caught and be double-grounded.”

  “Well, just tell Baba then,” Ali says. “If he knows it was all for the King’s Cup, he might let you ride.”

  “Or he might decide that he does not want the shame of having a tomboy for a daughter!” Even as she says it, Haya feels awful, snapping at her brother. None of this is Ali’s fault. But she is still sore from the sting of Frances’s words. Is that how Baba sees her? Is she really such an embarrassment?

  She throws herself down on to the bed beside Ali.

  “All this time when I was training,” Haya says, “I was so excited. All I could think about was how I was going to surprise Baba. I would ride into the stadium on Bree and wave up at him in the Royal Box, and he would be so proud of me because I was his daughter, riding for the glory and honour of the Royal Stables. All I wanted was to make him proud. Now there is nothing to ride for.”

  “So you’re not going to compete?” Ali asks. “But the King’s Cup is tomorrow!”

  “The team is better off without me,” Haya says. “They were probably just trying to be nice letting me ride anyway. Daughter of the King – gotta do what she says. They don’t need a girl getting in their way.”

  Ali stands up. Haya narrows her eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” Ali says unconvincingly.

  “Ali, don’t you dare!”

  “What?”

  “You can’t tell Baba, Ali. It will only upset him. I’ve done that enough already.”

  “You haven’t! Don’t listen to Frances. You should tell him!”

  Haya looks at her brother. “Promise me you will not tell Baba.”

  Ali sighs. “I promise.” He picks up his football lying beside the bed and heads for the door. “I’ll see you later.”

  *

  Haya spends the morning in her bedroom with her treasure box. She takes the objects out one by one, arranges them on her bed: the sunglasses, the tape cassettes, the seashell and the pebbles. She picks up the braid of Bree’s black tail hair and feels the tears well. When Santi and Zayn load the horses on to the truck tomorrow for their journey to the stadium, Bree will be left alone in her loose box. Already the mare must be wondering why she hasn’t been taken out for her morning workout; she will be whinnying her head off, calling to the other horses.

  “Haya?” Ali pokes his head round her door. She quickly gathers up the contents of the treasure box and shoves the lid on, sliding it back under her bed.

  “What?”

  “Baba wants to see you downstairs in his office.”

  “Ali, what have you told him?”

  “I haven’t told him anything! I promised, didn’t I?”

  Haya’s feet move slowly, one step at a time down the staircase. Has Frances been talking to Baba again? What has she said now?

  The door to her father’s office is shut and she can hear the muffled sound of voices on the other side. Her father is in a meeting. She stands there, uncertain, hand poised over the handle, when the door opens in front of her and she is looking up at the tanned, broad face of Santi.

  “Hello, Princess Haya,” Santi says. “Your ears must have been burning. Come in.”

  The door swings wide and Haya can see Zayn. Her first thought is that Frances has complained to the King about Haya spending too much time at the stables. Then the door swings open further and her assumption is confirmed. Haya can see the rest of the grooms standing alongside Zayn. All of them are bunched together, hands clasped in front of them, looking very stiff and uncomfortable about being in such a grand space in their dusty stable clothes. It is quite strange for Haya to see them here, as if her two lives are suddenly colliding in the one room.

 
“Haya,” her father says, “Santi and his grooms have been speaking with me. It appears that you omitted to tell me that the reason you shaved my bearskin rug is because you were training to ride in the King’s Cup?”

  Haya looks at the brave faces of the men. Are they all in trouble because of her? “It wasn’t their fault,” Haya says. “I was the one who thought of the bearskin. Santi didn’t even know about it.”

  “This is not about the bear.” Her father looks grave. “Santi tells me that you did not turn up for training at the stables this morning. He would never have known the reason for your absence if Ali hadn’t gone to see him.”

  Ali! So that was where he went!

  “Really, it is not good enough, Haya,” her father continues. “When you commit to a team, you must not let them down...”

  She cannot believe what she is hearing. “But I am grounded!”

  “You will be disciplined appropriately for what you did to the rug,” her father says. “But these men should not pay for your mistake. You have a team who are relying on you and you must honour that obligation.”

  “So you are allowing me to ride?” Haya cannot believe it.

  Her father gives a wry glance at his grooms. “I think I would have a mutiny on my hands if I did not say yes. You had better change now into your jodhpurs – I believe you have a jumping practice.”

  In her bedroom, Haya dresses in a daze. She has grabbed her boots and is about to head downstairs again when there is a knock at the door. It is her father.

  “Santi and his men are outside in the truck. They will take you with them to Al Hummar,” he says.

  “I should go, Baba,” Haya says, grabbing her sweatshirt. “I have kept them waiting enough already today.”

  “They can wait a moment longer I am sure,” her father says. “I want to talk to you.” He gestures for her to take a seat on the bed beside him.

  “I thought you told me everything, Haya. Why did you not tell me about this?”

  “It was going to be a surprise,” Haya says. She realises how silly it sounds now.

  “Santi tells me that you are the best rider in his team,” her father tells her. “You know it took great courage for these men to come and see me today. They did it because they have great respect for you as a rider, Haya. They are depending on you. Santi thinks for the first time in a long time the Royal Stables can defeat the Mounted Police.”

  He expects her to look pleased, but instead, Haya looks like she is about to burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “What for?”

  “For everything. For being like this. I know the way that I behave, what I am, it isn’t what you wanted,” Haya says. “I disappoint you. I am not a proper lady, not like Mama. I wish I could be like her, but I’m not.”

  “Haya,” her father says. “Do you know what made your mother a Queen? It was not her grace and good manners, it was her heart. She was so determined, so fearless. It is these qualities that I see when I look at you, Haya. You are her daughter in every way. She would have been so proud of you today, to see the way the men of our stables came to stand beside you. You inspire them, not because of your title, but because they can see who you are inside. This was your mother’s great gift and you have it too, Haya.”

  Her father takes her hand. “You will be a lady one day when the time is right. But when you go into the arena tomorrow, that is not the time. Bashir is ruthless and his team will not give any quarter in the arena. You will have to outride them to win.”

  “I am ready,” Haya says. “I promise I will make you proud, Baba.”

  Her father smiles. “My daughter, you already have.”

  he stadium is built like the Colosseum. A circular sand arena bordered by a tall stone wall with tiered seating above so that the crowds can look down on the spectacle of this historic battle between the Royal Mounted Police and the Royal Stables of Al Hummar. Haya has been here every year with her father since she can remember. She has sat alongside him in the King’s box, looking down at the golden sand below.

  Today she sees the arena for the first time from the gladiators’ point of view. In the darkened corridors of the stables beneath the grandstands she squints out into the bright sunlight. She can see the people filling up the stadium; there is a buzz of excitement as the crowd take their seats.

  “Do you hear them?” she whispers to Bree. “They’re going to be making a lot of noise today when we ride out there, but don’t be afraid. They will be cheering for us, you’ll see …”

  Beneath her, Bree stamps her hooves against the concrete floor of the stable block, as if she is anxious too, as if she knows how much this means to Haya.

  They are a team and yet Haya is only telling Bree half the truth. The crowds will celebrate if she wins today. But if she loses? This contest means so much to her people and she feels the weight of their hopes riding on her slight shoulders. Not only that, she knows that Frances and her followers will be out there today too, waiting like vultures to feast on her defeat. “There!” Frances will say triumphantly. “You see? A young lady of royal birth should not be riding. She should be at home, preparing for palace life, marriage and royal duty.”

  Well, Haya defies Frances and her narrow-minded conventions. When she enters the arena on Bree, wearing the colours of Al Hummar, she rides not only for the glory of Al Hummar, for the honour of her father, but for the right to choose her destiny.

  A roar rises up from the crowd. Bree shudders and Haya is shaken out of her thoughts. In the arena, the Mounted Police, led by Colonel Bashir, are about to parade before their King. Bashir is dressed in his full military kit, his khakis decorated with medals, and a red sash worn over his shoulder. In one hand he holds the reins and in the other the red and gold flag of the Mounted Police.

  Bashir’s horse is a chestnut, handsome and fine-boned with three long white stockings and a white blaze. The next two men also ride chestnuts and two more men bring up the rear on matching greys. The horses swing along at a marching walk. The noise of the crowds does not bother them. They are police horses, trained especially for such things. When they reach the Royal Box, they halt in perfect unison.

  “Company, present arms!” Colonel Bashir shouts. His men all reach for their scabbards with their right hands, and in one swift movement their swords are unsheathed and raised in salute to their King.

  In the Royal Box, the King salutes back. Haya can see Ali right beside him also dressed in official uniform, with Frances in the row behind, keeping a watchful eye.

  The other occupants of the Royal Box sit directly in front of their King. There are four of them, old men with faces that are creased and furrowed by the sun, wearing white robes with their heads covered with keffiyeh. They are all great horsemen who have served their King and today these four sit in judgement to decide the outcome of the contest. There will be five events, and from these they will decree the winner.

  “Company, salute!” The Mounted Police riders acknowledge their King once more and then Bashir pirouettes away, urging his horse into a canter. He leads his men as they turn in formation, tracking a half-circle around and fanning out once more, lining up side by side and pulling their mounts in unison to a halt. They march forward on the right rein, then the left, halt and pirouette. And, with a final wave to the crowds, they leave the stadium.

  Now it is the turn of the riders of Al Hummar.

  “Are you ready to go in?” It is Santi, standing beside her. He is dressed in chinos and a cotton chambray shirt. It is a hot day and it will get hotter.

  Haya looks nervous as she gathers up her reins. She wears the blue and white colours of Al Hummar and her teammates line up behind her on their horses dressed in the same uniform. It was Yusef who insisted that Haya should be the one to lead them into the arena.

  “You should do it, Yusef,” Haya replied. “You’re the head groom.”

  “And you are a Princess,” Yusef replied, “which makes you the highest ranking a
mong us. You must be the one to take us into the arena.”

  “I am twelve. I am too young.”

  “Your father was seventeen when he became King of a nation,” Yusef replied, and with his words her courage leapt.

  Haya gazes out across the golden sand. Once, a long time ago, she sat in the Royal Box beside her father and her Mama too. The Queen wore a green dress, a white straw hat and white-rimmed sunglasses. This is not Haya’s own memory, although it feels as though it is. It is a photo she has seen. Her mother in the Royal Box at the King’s side, so beautiful, smiling and waving. Her mother, forever young, untouched by time. Haya wishes so much that she were here today to watch her ride. She is determined to make her proud.

  “We will both make our mothers proud today, Bree,” she whispers to the bay mare moving restlessly beneath her. “You must do this for Amina.”

  Santi solemnly passes Haya the blue and white banner of Al Hummar. With each challenge won, a flag will be raised on one of the five poles. If they win, it is the blue and white of Al Hummar, but if they lose then Bashir’s red and gold flag will fly instead.

  “Are you ready?”

  Haya nods.

  “Then go, ride well and God protect you!” Santi says.

  To the fanfare of trumpets, Haya urges Bree straight into a canter and the men of Al Hummar follow behind her across the sands. Swooping around the arena, she urges the mare to a gallop and the riders speed behind her, their horses’ legs working like pistons in the sand. The blue and white flag flutters violently in Haya’s hand, the wind whipping at it so hard that she has to close her fist tight to keep it in her grasp. They charge past the stands, racing as if their horses have fire in their tails.

  The dramatic entrance receives a roar of approval from the crowd and Bree responds to their cheers, surging forward even faster. Haya looks back over her shoulder to see Zayn, then Yusef, Attah and Radi, all keeping up with her in perfect stride, riding single file at the gallop.