“Let her have the horse,” he ordered tersely. “And make sure she keeps up. Now, ride!”
They sprang away, and Cecile barely had her foot in the stirrup when her horse leapt after them. Grasping the saddle tightly, she swung herself upward, fortunately landing astride. Then she gathered the reins and leaned forward over the horse’s withers, at once in rhythm with the rolling, ground-eating stride of her racing mount.
The clothes Cecile wore were hardly suitable for riding. The brief jacket flapped and gaped, the trousers whipped frantically against her legs. Somewhere along in the confusion the golden leash had been lost, but the collar still bound her neck. It did not seem to matter. She was barely aware of her earthly body as she flew atop the ground, the desert mare’s streaming mane tangling in her fingers. She was caught in the stuff of dreams.
The other riders pounded around her, the leader just ahead. On they rode at full gallop, into the warm desert night. The city was far behind now, and strange shapes loomed about them, eerie, dark rock formations and scatterings of volcanic debris, faintly lit by a sliver of moon.
Time lost its meaning. Cecile was unaware how far they had ridden, but it had to be a great distance. She heard the chuffing of her mare, as well as the others around her, and her muscles ached from the effort of clinging.
Yet the desert horses were bred not only for speed but for stamina, and they continued until Cecile feared she might slip from the saddle out of sheer exhaustion. Just when she knew she could not bear another moment of riding, she saw their leader raise his hand.
With the cessation of speed came sharper awareness of her physical surroundings. The band slowed to a trot, then a comfortable jog, and Cecile saw they approached a range of low, jagged hills. The volcanic debris around them seemed to have multiplied, and they wound their way carefully through the strange, harsh shapes. She pulled her jacket close across her breast, but no one seemed to notice her, and she had the bizarre feeling she had, indeed, been caught in a dream. With the morning sun she would wake and find it had all been an incredible fantasy.
“The Jabal ad Duruz,” the leader said suddenly, pointing to the hills ahead. Cecile realized he had dropped back to ride beside her. Without a word of warning, he suddenly reached for her, but before she was able even to flinch, he had removed the golden collar from her neck and thrown it away into the night. He tossed her a cloak. He did not utter another word, and though she was unable to see his eyes beneath the hood of his robe, she felt his gaze bore into her. A moment later he rode swiftly away, returning to the head of the band, leaving her to wonder at his kindness.
They continued through the foothills, headed roughly south. The going was slow, and the moon climbed higher in the sky. At last they left the hills behind and descended into more debris-strewn terrain.
El Faris signaled and the group broke into a slow lope, the mile-eating stride for which the desert horses were renowned. Thus they covered a considerable distance in a short time. But it was too long in the saddle for Cecile. Once again, however, just when she thought she could not endure another minute, the end of their journey came into sight.
It was a modest-sized camp. Cecile saw several tents silhouetted against the night, tethered camels sleeping beside them. There was also a small herd of goats and sheep, who stirred nervously at their approach. Otherwise, the stillness was absolute.
Then there was a shout. The riders broke into a gallop. Half a dozen women and a few men emerged from the tents to greet the band. There was happy confusion as the riders dismounted.
But Cecile felt at a loss. What was she to do? Where was she to go? With El Faris? Her stomach spasmed. Was she his property now?
He seemed to have forgotten her, however. A woman led his horse away and, after greeting several people, he disappeared into his tent. If it hadn’t been completely against her nature, Cecile would have broken down and wept with the sheer frustration of not knowing what was to become of her.
Then an old woman hobbled in her direction. “My name is Hagar,” she announced without preamble. “You are to come with me.”
Cecile debated briefly. If she was going to get away, now was her chance. But where would she go? Where was she now? She had absolutely no idea. And she was almost too tired to care.
Cecile dismounted slowly, stiffly, and a second woman appeared and took her horse. Cecile hurried to catch up with Hagar and followed her into a tent.
A simply woven rug covered the ground. There was a small fire pit, a heap of camel dung fuel beside it, sleeping quilts and various utensils scattered about. In a corner stood a qash, the traditional box that contained a woman’s supplies. Hagar opened it and withdrew a bundle of clothing.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the bundle at Cecile. “Put these on.”
Without hesitation, Cecile stripped off the dusty cloak and harem clothes beneath. Clucking with disapproval, Hagar picked them up and carried them from the tent. To burn them, Cecile hoped. She picked up the garments Hagar had left.
Each tribe dressed a little differently. With a start, Cecile realized she had been given what looked to be what her father had described as the traditional garb of a Rwalan tribeswoman. Rwalan! Luck appeared to be on her side for once. She wondered if it would hold. What lay ahead?
Well, she would find out. She didn’t care if it was the middle of the night, or that her body ached and her eyes threatened to close even as she stood on her feet. She dressed quickly.
First Cecile donned the towb aswab, a long, broad-sleeved dress of dark blue, and caught it in at the waist with a red-and-black belt of woven goat hair. Last, she picked up the makruna, a head drape, and studied it for a moment. The other women she had seen had a particular way of winding it about their heads, and she copied it as closely as she was able, leaving the end to hang down the right side of her face. She secured it in place with a mindil, a thinly woven cord, and pulled the black cotton veil over her mouth. Hagar reappeared just as Cecile finished.
The old woman nodded with approval. “Better,” she pronounced. “Much better.” She indicated one of the quilts. “Now sleep. We move camp in the morning.”
Cecile remained motionless, fighting her fatigue and gathering her courage. “I’m sorry,” she said with quiet firmness. “But I must see the man who brought me here. He is your leader, I think.”
“See El Faris?”
So that was the name she had heard. “Yes, El Faris.” Cecile watched the old woman closely, expecting an argument, but it was not forthcoming. The old woman seemed to consider.
“Very well,” she replied at length. “I am aware of the circumstances from which you are come. Tonight,” and she emphasized the word, “tonight he may make an exception. We shall see.”
Cecile followed Hagar from the tent, her mind reeling. Hagar, it appeared, had been prepared for her arrival. Others in the camp had not seemed at all surprised by her presence among them, a strange woman arriving on a horse in the middle of the night. Indeed, it seemed they had all expected her. She had not, evidently, been carried off at the sudden whim of some renegade Badawin chieftain. But why had she been taken, and what did this El Faris intend to do with her now that he had her? Well, she would soon find out. Her exhaustion seeped away as she lifted her chin and prepared herself to tell this El Faris, whoever he might be, that she had plans of her own.
Bidding her wait, Hagar entered the large, centrally placed tent. Cecile heard the low murmur of voices, and Hagar emerged.
“He will see you,” she said shortly, and walked away. Cecile found herself alone. And uncertain. Then she remembered.
Frantically, she groped beneath the makruna, amid the appalling tangle of her hair. Had she lost it in that wild ride? Where was it?
Cecile’s fingers encountered the feel of velvet. Thank God! Heedless of the strands of hair that came away with it, she yanked the drawstring free and clutched the pouch in her hand. It lent her the final courage she needed. Without further ado, Cecile pulled aside
the tent flap and entered.
He sat on the carpeted ground, leaning casually against his saddle. He had loosened the end drape of his khaffiya, and Cecile saw the lower half of his face now. She at once had the impression of a man chiseled from granite. His skin was deeply tanned, and there were faint lines etched about his hard, unsmiling mouth. Though his eyes were still concealed within the shadows of this hood, Cecile felt them pierce her.
He gestured to the enormous black-skinned man Cecile had seen at the city gates and who now knelt before El Faris, preparing his coffee, and the servant left at once. They were alone. Cecile took a deep breath to still the tremor of her heart and remained immobile, silently enduring the Badawin’s regard.
“You will sit,” he said at length.
Cecile did not move. Defiantly, she stood her ground.
“You have much to learn about our customs, I see,” he said in a slightly disparaging tone. “Now lower yourself, as you should have done immediately.”
Memory returned in a rush. It was impolite to tower over a seated man, and Cecile did not want to antagonize him at the outset. She sank quickly to the ground.
“Despite the hour, and custom,” El Faris said abruptly, “I have granted you an audience. So speak, woman. What is it you want?”
In spite of her resolve, Cecile’s temper flared. She was simply too exhausted to control it. “I want an explanation,” she demanded. “What do you think?”
“I think you are ill-mannered and ungrateful,” he replied evenly.
Cecile flinched as if stung. Her lips tightened, and her eyes blazed. “And you are the rudest man I have ever met,” she retorted. “You cannot treat me this way. I am the daughter of Sada, a Rwalan, and foster child of Shaikh Raga eben Haddal!” So saying, Cecile opened the pouch, withdrew the will, and thrust it at the man sitting opposite her. “Here, read this. It’s proof of what I say!”
He made no move to take it. “If this is so,” he said at last, “how come you to be on your way to the caliph’s harem?”
Cecile lowered her arm slowly and laid the paper in her lap, wondering how much to tell him. Who was he, anyway, and what right did he have to know more than she had already told him? Then Cecile realized she had very little choice. Not if she wanted him to help her. With a sigh, Cecile began her tale.
He seemed to listen carefully to her abbreviated statement of the facts: her father’s death and the reason for her journey, the abduction, Muhammad, the auction. Tears sprang to her eyes when she voiced her fears about Jali’s fate. She finished by saying, “Then you and your men came. And now I am here. But …”
Cecile paused, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts. “But … why?” she continued. “Why did you take me? You don’t even know me.”
“No,” he answered calmly. “Yet I had seen you.”
“But where? I saw almost no one until …” The enormity of the answer hit Cecile with the force of a blow. “The auction!”
“Of course, I saw you and knew you were … the one.”
The trace of a smile curved at the corners of his mouth, and Cecile felt her temper flame anew. Never had another human being had such power to provoke her.
“So, rather than pay for me, you simply stole me … Is that it? Picked me up and carried me off like a sack of grain! And now I am your property—your prisoner—correct? To do with as you wish?”
Cecile was about to add that she would die first, but he gave her no opportunity. Folding his arms, he said, “We are all prisoners of some kind, are we not? However, you are not mine. You are free to leave my camp, if you like. But tell me, where would you go?”
Beneath the veil, Cecile’s jaw dropped. Had she heard correctly? “I … I don’t understand,” she stammered.
“It is quite simple. I asked what you would do if you left my camp.”
Do? Cecile repeated to herself. Beyond escape, she had hardly considered it. The time, however, miraculously appeared to have arrived. She tried to collect her whirling thoughts. “I … I suppose I would return to Damascus.”
“That hardly seems wise, with the caliph’s men looking everywhere for you.”
“But I … I have a … a contact there. At least I think I do,” Cecile amended. “There is a man my father told me about, Andrew Blackmoore. I told you I had written to him. He’s surely wondering what became of me. And there’s my servant, Jali. If he’s alive, and I could just find him …” She let the sentence trail away, aware of how impossible it all sounded.
“As to the first,” he said, filling the silence, “Andrew Blackmoore passed away some time ago. His son, Matthew, has taken over his father’ affairs, but he is not, at this moment, in Damascus.”
Cecile’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”
“I know many things,” he replied without boast. “I know also that you will not find your servant in Damascus. If he lives. It is a large city, and you are a woman … alone. With the caliph’s men at your heels.”
It felt as if a balloon had deflated inside her. Was this El Faris to be her only hope, then? Straightening her spine, Cecile stared firmly into the shadow that concealed his eyes. “There are many things I do not understand,” she said slowly. “For instance, why you saved me from the caliph’s harem. Or why, having taken me, you would let me go free. I can only presume it is because you are an honorable man. As such, I would bid you grant me a request.”
The ghost of a smile returned. El Faris nodded.
“You know I wish to find Haddal. Will you let me travel with your camp?”
His lips pursed ever so slightly. It was maddening, Cecile thought, not to be able to see his eyes.
“That might be a solution,” he responded finally. “With tomorrow’s dawn we begin our journey into the desert where, with the rest of the tribes, we will spend the summer months. And, hopefully, stay out of the caliph’s very long reach. It is likely we will meet with Haddal’s camp. However …” He paused and stroked his chin. “If I allow you to travel with us, of what use will you be? Resources are precious. We can afford to squander nothing, and everyone must contribute. What can you do?”
Cecile managed to bite her tongue. She could not, however, conceal her suspicions. “Just what is it you suggest? Do you perhaps think to make a trade with my body?”
She was not quite sure how she had expected him to respond. Certainly not with laughter. His teeth were very white against his skin. Humiliated, Cecile endured in stoic silence.
“You are quite amusing,” he said at last, still chuckling. “For that reason alone I might take you with us. But the others, I fear, would not understand. Life is harsh on the desert. Everything, everyone, must have a purpose. No, I think you must be a bit more useful than that. Can you cook? Weave? Milk a camel? Make leben?”
“I can certainly try,” Cecile snapped. Then, because she still did not trust him completely, she added, “As long as that is all you will require of me.”
The features visible beneath the hood appeared to grow serious. “You have suffered much at the hands of men, so perhaps you suspicions are understandable. But I will tell you this: We are Badawins, not men of the city, not men of the caliph’s ilk. A woman’s honor is sacred to us. Only within the bonds of marriage would a man lay a hand on a woman. So, you need have no fear on that account.
“Further, I say to you, you have shown courage and stamina, if not the wisdom to guard your tongue. And from what I hear from Hagar, you speak our language in a manner befitting one who has been born to it … despite your European upbringing. As a matter of fact, I prefer you use our language from now on.”
Cecile clasped her hands to hide their sudden trembling. In the dialect of the desert, rather than French, she said, “You will take me with you, then? You will help me find Shaikh Haddal?”
“You have the word of El Faris.”
He had replied in Arabic, and for the first time Cecile realized the meaning of his name. El Faris … the Horseman. But what was his real name? And
how, now that she thought of it, had he come to learn French?
He must have seen the question in her eyes, for, misinterpreting it, he said, “You doubt me still, I see. Well, perhaps I should not blame you. As I said, you have suffered a great deal recently at the hands of others, Arab as well as Frenchman. So …” He paused, then raised his hands to the hood of his robe.
Slowly, he pulled it away from his face. Cecile saw his dark, thick brows first, drawn almost straight across the eye ridge. Then she saw his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.
They were blue, as clear, bright, and true as the waters of a shallow bay. They crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
“So,” he continued casually, “mayhap you will accept the word of an Englishman. Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Matthew Blackmoore …”
Chapter
7
“WAKE UP. WAKE UP, THE DAY IS WASTING!”
Cecile came to groggily and opened her eyes to see Hagar bending over her. Dust of the desert swirled through the open tent flap, and beyond she saw a laden camel as it passed. It wasn’t a dream! Cecile sprang from the sleeping quilt, nearly knocking Hagar from her feet.
“Careful, you stupid girl!” the old woman admonished, not unkindly. “Now hurry and get to work. We must strike the tent and load the camels.”
“Just a few moments,” Cecile begged. “Please!”
Before Hagar could protest, Cecile had bolted. She couldn’t wait; she had to find him. There had been no time last night. When El Faris, or Matthew Blackmoore, or whatever he wanted to be called, had finished with his stunning revelations, she had been too exhausted to do more than crawl back into Hagar’s tent and go to sleep. But now …
The camp was a beehive of activity. To her right, a tent fluttered to the ground and was immediately set upon by two women. Others loaded the makhur, the pack camels, as still others fed the war mares. There was a great deal of dust and confusion. Cecile wanted to cry aloud but knew it would not be fitting. Frantic, her eyes search for the familiar figure.
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