‘She is desolate at our father’s death,’ said Aziz, trying hard not to cry, ‘and weeps for our dear uncles. Like me, she can’t get the thought of what happened out of her mind . . .’
Word was sent to the Kashmiris about the massacre of the wedding party and to ask them to send an escort for Sultana. Ahmed Shah delayed sending word to the Kazilbashis; he did not want to provoke a feud on his doorstep.
A week later, as they waited for news from Kashmir, their one remaining uncle from the wedding party died of his wounds too. He had babbled incoherently about Sultana and Aziz as fever overtook him.
‘Perhaps he wants revenge,’ said John grimly.
‘Or for us to take care of his nephew and niece,’ countered Ahmed Shah.
The uncle was buried in the cemetery on a hill outside the fortress. The amir worried about what should become of the young Kazilbashis in his care. Twelve-year-old Aziz was trying to be brave and assume the role of protector to his sister but he followed John everywhere, limping beside him, reluctant to let him out of his sight. He told John all about his village in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, with its apple orchards and mulberry trees that gave shade from the hot sun and how his father had taught him to hunt with a hawk.
‘I have an uncle, Azlan, who taught me to do the same.’ John smiled. ‘Do you have a hunting dog too?’
Aziz nodded.
‘Tell me about your dog,’ John encouraged.
One day, John took him up to a high roof in the fortress and gave him his telescope to look through. Aziz was fascinated.
‘I can see birds as big as dogs!’
‘Not that big.’ John laughed. ‘They are ordinary birds. You just see them magnified – as if they are closer.’
The boy took to sleeping at the foot of John’s bed. Rajban grinned and said he, Rajban, would soon be demoted to sleeping with the servants around the kitchen fire.
‘You have become his uncle,’ Ahmed Shah said, commenting on how Aziz depended on John. ‘It is because you are a Highlander like us.’
Perhaps because of Aziz’s complete trust in John or because Sultana knew that it was John who had prevented her abduction by the robbers, she asked to see him.
He went reluctantly, not knowing what he could say to this reclusive and traumatised young woman.
She was standing by the narrow window looking out on the scene in the courtyard below. Her servant hid her face from him as he approached but when Sultana turned, he saw that she was unveiled. She had pale auburn-tinted hair and a slender fair face under her bandaged forehead. To his surprise she looked at him directly and not with downcast eyes. He jolted under her steady gaze; she had startling blue-grey eyes. Something about her reminded him of Alice – not the sophisticated woman who was Gillveray’s wife but the young Alice without guile with whom he had fallen so deeply in love all those years ago.
After a stilted exchange of greetings, John asked, ‘Are you feeling better?’
She nodded.
‘Does your head still hurt?’
She shook her head. John wondered if she was going to say anything and if not whether he should withdraw quickly from the room.
Abruptly, Sultana said, ‘I want to thank you for saving my life. I cannot bear to think what would have happened . . .’
‘I am glad to have done so,’ John said. ‘I’m only sorry that we could not save your father and uncles.’
He saw the pain in her eyes but she replied with dignity. ‘You did what you could – you and your friend. Aziz has told me how much. I don’t know how we can repay your bravery and kindness.’
‘There is nothing to repay,’ John assured her, startled by her eloquence. ‘It is enough that you and your brother are safe and will be able to travel on soon.’
He saw a shadow cross her pretty face. ‘It was my uncle who arranged the marriage. He has traded in Kashmir for years. My father wanted me to stay in the Kohistan and marry within our people. I wish that I had.’ Her expression was full of anguish.
‘Oh,’ John said, embarrassed by her frankness. ‘So why didn’t you?’
‘My uncle is the eldest – was the eldest,’ she said with a shudder. ‘He wanted to strengthen our links with the merchants in Kashmir.’
‘And what did you want?’ John asked.
She looked at him startled, her eyes widening. ‘I want what my elders think best,’ she said.
It struck John how the blue of her eyes was made more vivid by the darkness of her lashes – surprisingly dark for one with pale-brown hair. He saw the colour rise into her cheeks and realised he was staring. He quickly looked away.
‘What do you think will happen to Aziz and me?’ she asked.
‘You are under the amir’s protection,’ said John, ‘so you must not worry. He will see you safely to Kashmir or back to the Kohistan if that is what is decided.’
Even as he said it, John wondered who it was who would make that decision for the young Kazilbashis now.
‘We’re very grateful,’ she replied.
Glancing at her, he saw how young and trusting she was and was once again reminded of a seventeen-year-old Alice.
‘I am glad you are feeling better,’ he said. With a bow, he hastened from the room.
A fortnight later a message came from Kashmir. The marriage would not be going ahead. Sultana should return to her family.
Ahmed Shah was scathing. ‘The cowards! They are only thinking of their purses. They don’t want a girl who comes without riches or trading agreements. And they call into question her honour,’ he cried. ‘How dare they suggest I would have let her come to harm!’
John said, ‘No one could doubt that you would defend her honour like your own daughter’s. But there are no men of her clan to speak on her behalf. The word of Aziz – a mere boy – is not going to satisfy them.’
The amir’s anger quickly deflated. ‘You speak wisely,’ he said.
John had come to greatly respect the Balti ruler over the past few weeks; he was a man of peace and good humour who was trying to hang onto sovereignty in the same way as was the King of Ladakh. The amir’s son, a handsome, jovial young man, had confided that they feared that the Singhs of Kashmir had designs on their territory too. The news filled John with dismay; he didn’t want a repeat of his treatment in Ladakh.
‘The Kazilbashis’ fate is in the hands of Allah,’ said Ahmed Shah. ‘It will become clear what must be done.’
While pondering what to do with the young people under his protection, the ruler took his other guests hunting. John and Rajban were keen to see beyond the castle walls.
‘Why not take Aziz too?’ John suggested. ‘He can still ride, despite his bad leg, and it will take his mind off his troubles. He tells me he is an expert with a hawk.’
The amir agreed at once. ‘You see how quickly you have become his uncle,’ he teased.
They all enjoyed the morning’s hunting, going out at break of day, before the sun grew too strong. They shot ibex and water fowl.
As they returned, Ahmed Shah spoke his thoughts to John. ‘There is rumour of war breaking out in Afghanistan between Dost Mohammed and rival chiefs in the west and also with the Sikhs. Are you sure you want to go there? You are welcome to stay here as long as you want.’
John was touched by the generous offer but was also aware that the amir might want to keep him as insurance against attack from the Sikhs.
‘I know a fellow Scots officer in Kabul, Alexander Burnes, who might be able to give me work,’ said John. ‘Speaking Pashto and Persian I could be of use to him as an interpreter. And I know much of the ways of the Afridis from my uncle, Azlan, who I told you about.’
‘You could certainly pass for an Afghan.’ Ahmed grinned. ‘You look like one of the brothers with your dark beard and your light eyes.’
John laughed. Watching Aziz thrusting out his arm for the returning hawk, he said, ‘Perhaps I could accompany Aziz and Sultana back home to Afghanistan when I leave? If that would be a help
.’
‘It might well be, my friend. Better to travel in a small group and attract less attention than with a camel train of spoils.’
John could hear the shouting from along the dark corridor. Aziz was arguing with his sister. He was about to intervene when Rajban said, ‘Best leave them alone. This is a matter for the amir.’
Nonplussed, John retreated to the hall below. Ahmed Shah appeared distracted. Only much later did he send for John to join him in his private chamber. It had a large balcony that jutted out over the cliff side, and its shutters were thrown open to admit the cool evening air.
They stood together looking out at a fiery sunset that was turning the shadowed peaks purple. John had never seen such a blaze of colours in the sky.
‘Sultana is fearful of returning back to her people,’ the amir confided. ‘It is causing bad feeling with Aziz. He is keen for you to take them home – and show you off to his cousins.’ The ruler gave John a wry smile.
‘She is bound to be afraid of the journey,’ John sympathised, ‘considering what has happened.’
The older man fixed him with a look. ‘She has more courage than you give her credit for,’ he said. ‘It is not the journey that daunts her but the reception of her family. She fears they may also reject her as dishonoured – the way the Kashmiris have done.’
‘Surely not?’ John was dismayed. ‘Aziz would speak up for her.’
‘She says that his word will not carry enough weight, even with their own people.’
John sighed impatiently. ‘Is that why they have been arguing?’
‘It is,’ said the amir with a nod.
‘Well, I will explain everything to her family when I deliver her home,’ John pointed out.
‘She believes that will not be enough. And I have sympathy with her plight. There is one solution I can think of . . .’
‘What is that?’ John asked.
‘That she returns as your wife.’
John gaped at him, thinking he must have misheard.
‘It is a good solution, don’t you think?’ Ahmed Shah smiled. ‘She goes home with honour and you secure a pretty young wife. You British leave it too long to marry. You should have the comfort of a woman.’
John exclaimed, ‘I couldn’t possibly!’
‘Why not? You wish to make your home in Afghanistan anyway. It does not stop you choosing another wife from your own people as well, if the need arises.’
‘That’s not quite how our women see it,’ John said. ‘Besides, she is a Mohammedan and I a Christian. The Kazilbashis would never accept me.’
Ahmed Shah was not to be put off. ‘You are both believers of the Good Book – such a marriage is allowed as far as I am concerned. And I’m sure Sultana could be persuaded too. Aziz says she has taken a liking to you.’
John was astounded. ‘But – why can’t – wouldn’t it be more suitable for one of your own people to marry her?’
The amir was dismissive. ‘No Balti would trade living here for Afghanistan.’ He gripped John’s shoulder. ‘It is the only solution that will reconcile Sultana and her brother. Aziz would be proud to have you as his kin – and you already know the ways of the Afghans.’
‘Of the Afridis, not the Kazilbashis.’
The amir waved away such a trifling difference. ‘At least give it some thought.’
John swallowed down his frustration and nodded in agreement.
Sleep eluded John. Marriage to Sultana was a ridiculous idea. It would tie him down to a fresh set of obligations just when he had shed his old one to the Company army. They didn’t know each other. She was much younger than he; they had nothing in common. He wondered what Azlan or Hercules would have done in his situation. He rather thought that they would just have gone along with it.
Had Azlan not been in a similar position years ago, arriving as a stranger in Ramanish thousands of miles from home? Yet he had embraced his new life and taken a local woman for his wife, even though they could hardly speak a word of each other’s language.
He knew that Azlan loved his Aunt Morag and that she adored him. In time, perhaps, could he grow to love Sultana? He could not deny that he had felt an attraction for her on the one occasion he had been allowed to visit. Again it unsettled him that she had reminded him of Alice. The light-coloured hair and the mesmerising eyes . . .
John’s insides clenched at the thought of Alice. She was like a fever that had entered his bloodstream. Would he ever be cleansed of thoughts of her? Perhaps marrying Sultana would help rid him of his desire for Alice once and for all.
It struck him that he would like the companionship of a woman, someone with whom to share his life in the way that Azlan shared his with Aunt Morag. He could settle with her in the Kohistan – in time they would have a sweet daughter like Ariana or a son to carry on the name of Sinclair. Or he might take her to Kabul where she would keep house while he worked for Burnes or at the court of Dost Mohammed. Dost’s mother was a Kazilbashi so he might find favour with Afghanistan’s amir if he were married into their clan.
‘What should I do?’ John asked Rajban, his thoughts in conflict.
Rajban shrugged. ‘Only you can decide. I will come with you, either way.’
‘Thank you,’ John said gratefully, wondering what he would do without his loyal friend.
By morning, with only snatched sleep, John had made up his mind. He would be firm and say no. He didn’t want to be burdened with a wife. An itinerant life, roaming Central Asia as an interpreter, was no life for a married man. He would keep his word to deliver Sultana and Aziz safely home to the Kohistan but after that his obligation to them would be over.
He found the brother and sister together in Sultana’s small chamber, the pair peering disconsolately out of the narrow window. With a pang of pity, John thought of how deeply they must be grieving for their father and uncles.
Aziz’s face lit up at his appearance.
‘Uncle John, you’ve come! Isn’t it a great thing that the amir has suggested? Have you come to say yes?’
John’s heart sank. He braced himself for the boy’s disappointment.
‘Aziz,’ he said, ‘could you wait outside for me? I wish to speak to your sister first.’
Aziz hesitated, unable to judge if this was good or bad. ‘But I am her only male relative here so you must speak to me.’
‘Well, if that’s what you wish . . .’
‘No, Aziz.’ Sultana spoke up. ‘We should do as the lieutenant asks.’
Her brother seemed about to protest but he went, his face anxious.
John could not look at Sultana; he stared over her head at a cracked tile in the mosaic around the window frame. He had rehearsed his speech; his words of refusal would be softened by the promise to speak on her behalf to her people.
‘I have given the proposal much thought,’ John began, ‘but I think you will agree that marriage between us—’
‘Please,’ Sultana said.
He was stopped by her voice. John looked at her. There was an intensity in her gaze that set his heart thudding. She had such beautiful eyes. What did ‘please’ mean? That he should not have come at all and his presence pained her or that she wanted to marry him?
She stepped towards him. He found it impossible to look away. She held her head up proudly but her pale lips trembled and her eyes glittered with tears.
‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘don’t leave me. My father would have wanted me to marry you, I am sure of it.’
John’s resolve melted. She looked so lost and unhappy, and yet beautiful and brave.
He reached out and took her hand. She flinched as if he had scalded her but did not snatch it back.
‘Then I will marry you,’ said John, hardly believing his own ears.
Tears brimmed over her lids and slid down her cheeks. He bowed his head over her hand but did not kiss it. Then he swiftly let go, unnerved by the effect that touching her had on him. When he looked up she gave him a wan smile.
He left the room wondering what on earth had possessed him to change his mind.
John and Sultana were married without delay and a message was sent to her family. John could hardly comprehend that it was still July yet in two short months since escaping Ladakh, his life had changed completely. He had to admit that he had not been happier for a long time. It made him realise how alone he had felt all those years as a bachelor, missing Alice and determined to live a solitary life. Finding Alice again in Simla, married to Gillveray, had been sweet torture. It reinforced how much he had longed for her and left him all the more determined never to let his feelings rule his future again.
But Sultana had broken through his emotional defences with her beauty and trusting adoration. He still thought of their first night as husband and wife with tenderness. She had unbound her hair, which fell to her knees, and he had gasped as the long strands had glinted like copper in the lamplight. John had pushed from his mind how it made him think of Alice’s hair. He had filled his hands with it and buried his face in its smoky scent.
Sultana had been nervous and shy at the beginning but John had been gentle and loving. Now, every night after a day’s hunting with the amir, he was impatient to get back to his new wife and be alone with her in their bedchamber. He relished their lovemaking and her company. She knew little of the outside world but had an enquiring mind and a sense of wonder about the stories he told her. She never tired of hearing about Ramanish and his people, and it made John feel closer to home to be able to repeat his family tales.
The amir was so hospitable that John delayed taking Sultana and Aziz back to Afghanistan. He was enjoying the freedom to hunt and explore into the mountain passes as well as his married life. But he knew that at some point he would be obliged to take her back and face her family. He hoped they would accept him as easily as Sultana and Aziz had done.
Then, in September, as the Baltis were harvesting their crops of wheat, barley and peas, Sultana broke the news to him.
‘I am carrying our child,’ she said, blushing but unable to hide a smile of triumph.
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 26