The Bride Price (A Historical Romance)

by Karen Jones Delk

  When `Abla’s weeping had subsided, she suggested gently, “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  `Abla sat up and looked at the other girl through gray eyes that were much too mature for her age. “Tomorrow is the day my mother died,” she explained gravely. “Even though my father can hardly bear to look at me sometimes because of it, he is my father. Now he is going to fight and I am afraid I will have no one.”

  Tears sprang to Bryna’s eyes as she remembered so clearly the feeling of being unwanted and alone. “Oh, `Abla, I know exactly how you feel. But you must know that your father loves you.”

  “He does?”

  “Of course he does,” Bryna assured her. “It just hurts him to remember your mother. My own father had the same problem for many years. But I know now that he loves me.”

  “Then why did he sell you?” `Abla asked in bafflement.

  “He did not sell me.” Bryna tried to keep the indignation out of her voice. `Abla was young and did not understand any world but her own. “I was kidnapped,” she explained, “taken from my father’s home.”

  “Was his camp not guarded?”

  “Yes,” Bryna answered, puzzled as to how she might explain.

  “Then he rides in ghazzi like my father,” the child concluded. Then she asked sadly, “Your abu will come for you someday, won’t he, Bryna?”

  “Perhaps...if he can find me.” The American girl sighed.

  “I hope he cannot, not ever,” `Abla replied with childish candor. “If you went away, I would miss you almost as much as I would miss my father.”

  “I am not going anywhere yet, so do not borrow trouble,” Bryna responded crisply, reminding herself suddenly of Sister Françoise. Hotel Ste. Anne seemed a lifetime ago, she thought sadly.

  Rising, Bryna held out her hand to `Abla. “Remember this, chère, everyone says your father is a great warrior. Nothing is going to happen to him.”

  `Abla looped her arm loosely around her friend’s waist, and they walked slowly back to camp.

  It was not until Bryna awakened just before dawn that she realized it was `Abla’s birthday. Poor child, she thought as she stirred on her pallet, she thinks of it as the day her mother died. As daylight began to give muted color and form to her surroundings, Bryna’s eyes fell upon the reds and blues of the unfinished ghata she was embroidering. The colors were perfect for `Abla. It might not be Bedouin custom, but the little girl was going to have a birthday gift, belated though it might be.

  That pleasant thought had to be put away immediately as the last preparations for ghazzi were made. After dawn prayers the men rode away, heavily armed and dressed in black robes, the lower halves of their faces veiled. Following them to the edge of camp, the women let down their hair and trilled loudly to ensure victory in battle. Then the women, children, and old men returned to their silent tents.

  Household chores filled the morning, but by afternoon the camp had settled into uneasy waiting. Occasionally quarrelsome female voices shattered the hush as the wait became onerous. Nerves were on edge in every tent. When Fatmah, strained from waiting, screeched at Bryna over an imagined transgression, the American girl stalked from the tent, her temper barely under control.

  Back in Nassar’s majlis, Bryna, nearly unnerved by the oppressive silence, worked mechanically on `Abla’s ghata. She wondered if she should go again to look for the little girl who had not been seen since morning. Before she could do so, she heard `Abla’s piping voice.

  “They are coming! They are coming! With many camels!”

  The women rushed out to welcome the returning warriors. Driving the herd before them, the men rode into camp, tired and dusty, but triumphant. Badly needed skins of water and food hung over their saddles. Herdsmen ran to meet the victors, their elation balanced by the hard work that lay ahead of them.

  The men dismounted in front of their tents without a word of greeting to their wives. But their happiness showed on their faces and could wait until they were alone with their women. All but Nassar were beaming.

  He stormed past Bryna and Pamela and threw himself down on the pillows in his majlis. Nothing had gone as he wished. His flabby body ached from the swift ride across the desert. And his pride hurt because it had been Sa’id who had led the second group when Sharif split the band for attack. Then, to add insult to injury, the sheik had prevented him from killing one of their foes.

  “Camels, not blood,” Sharif had roared at his nephew over the din as the men thundered through the enemy camp.

  Ya Amm Sharif, you will not always be chief, the young man thought petulantly. When he became sheik, the name Selim would be feared by all Aribi.

  The young Arab pouted in his tent while outside, the present leader of the tribe announced gladly, “Tonight there is water for coffee. We will speak of the ghazzi over the campfire. Tomorrow we will feast. We will dance the ardha and celebrate!”

  When Bryna rose at dawn, the delicious aroma of roasting meat filled the desert air. The servants were already gathered around a pit, arguing about the best way to cook camel.

  There was a festive mood in the camp even before the races and the shooting contests took place. At about midday the men went to Sharif’s majlis, where they were served from several great dishes of meat over rice, captured from their enemy.

  When everyone had finished eating, the women formed a large circle, and in the middle the men danced, their swords flashing in the sunlight. Among the jubilant dancers, Sharif whirled gracefully, his robes and kaffiyeh swinging in the desert breeze. When his searching eyes found Bryna, he smiled unexpectedly, happiness transforming his rugged face at the very sight of her.

  The girl smiled tentatively in return, but as always with Sharif, she felt a tempest of unexpected desire. Afraid everyone would read her emotions on her face, she was almost glad when a tug on her aba distracted her.

  `Abla was beside her, her little face alight with happiness.

  “Is today not a glorious day, Bryna?” she asked blissfully.

  Lifting her gaze, Bryna saw that Sharif still watched from the corner of his eye. Though he did not look at them directly, his smile broadened even more when he saw his daughter with Bryna.

  The feelings Sharif Al Selim roused in her could only cause trouble, Bryna thought fleetingly. She belonged to Nassar, and Sharif was forbidden to her.

  But then, inexplicably filled with joy, she thrust the thought from her. She put her arm around `Abla and smiled radiantly at the little girl’s father.

  “Indeed, chère,” Bryna whispered, “it is the most glorious day I have known for a very long time.”

  CHAPTER 14

  After the victory celebration at Bir al Selim, the smala resumed its seemingly endless journey. Despite the supplies Sharif’s men had taken on their raid, food and water were still rationed. Every drop of water was precious, for now they had even more camels than before. There was not even enough for coffee, but the Bedu had no fear. With their sheik’s careful planning, they would soon reach the next well, where they would rest.

  The tribe seemed reasonably content as they rode through the arid, unchanging landscape. Even Sharif smiled now and then when one of his men would offer casually to trade one of the camels that had been his share of the booty. The others would take up their part of the game with enthusiasm, discussing the finer points of various camels. They bargained affably for hours without the least intention of trading.

  Listening to their voices as they floated back from the front of the caravan, Bryna smiled, too, knowing the game was a way to pass the time on the long march. Each negotiation invariably ended with the phrase Yafteh Allah, which meant “Allah opens the door of daily bread,” a way of saying the traders were not really likely to do business.

  As they traveled, she was pleased to note improvements in Pamela’s health, despite the lacks in a desert diet. Even though the English girl was still pale and wan, her lackluster stare brightened now that she and Bryna were no longer summoned to tea by Fatma
h. By the time they reached the well, Pamela had recovered her appetite and was more like her old self.

  Sharif’s smala had been camped beside the well for a few days when Smemi’s bugling bark heralded the approach of visitors. The men rode on horseback, which meant they had come from a short distance away. The women were hastily sent to the tents, and Sharif greeted the callers as they entered the camp.

  “What is the news?” he called cordially.

  “The news is good, praise Allah,” they responded genially. “What is the news with you?”

  “None but good.”

  When they dismounted, Sharif invited the callers to his tent for coffee. The visitors joined the sheik and his men in the majlis, where they were offered bread and salt as honored guests. In turn they invited Sharif’s camp to join them for a wedding feast that night. The sheik accepted but warned that only his family and the family of his nephew would be there. He could not leave the camp unguarded.

  Learning they were to visit another camp that night, Bryna worked quickly to complete the ghata she was making for `Abla. The white fabric was intricately worked in bright blue and red thread with glints of silver running through them. Yes, she thought, her little friend was going to be pleased.

  But Bryna did not know how pleased until she saw the joy in `Abla’s gray eyes. “Oh, Bryna, it is so beautiful! Are you sure it is for me?”

  “Yes...and this.” She held out a small square of the same gauzy fabric. “Since your father said you must veil yourself soon, I thought it would be nice if the veil matched the ghata.”

  “I have never had anything so beautiful!” Immediately the child threw the embroidered ghata over her tousled ringlets and ran to show Fatmah and Latifeh. Then, taking her friend’s hand, she skipped along beside her to Nassar’s tent, where the young man lounged idly in his open majlis.

  “See what I got, Nassar!” `Abla pirouetted around her cousin.

  “Where did you get it?” He glanced at her without much interest.

  “Bryna gave it to me,” the little girl chattered happily.

  “You gave it to her?” He looked at Bryna questioningly. Then, catching the edge of the headdress, the man tugged it from `Abla’s head and examined it. ‘‘Why?’’ he asked, glaring critically his American slave.

  “It was a birthday gift,” Bryna retorted. Without thinking, she snatched the ghata from Nassar’s hands and returned it to `Abla.

  When Nassar sat up, his dark eyes narrowed dangerously, Bryna knew she had gone too far. Feeling one of his tantrums coming, she turned to the child. “You’d better go and put that away for now, if you want it to look nice for tonight.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” `Abla crowed with delight. “I can wear it to the wedding. I will look so beautiful. You’ll see, Bryna,” she called over her shoulder, running off toward Sharif’s tent.

  After a moment of ominous silence, Nassar got to his feet slowly. “Why did you embarrass me in front of my bint ‘amm, woman? And why did you give that ghata to her? It is much too fine for a child.”

  “It was a gift,” Bryna answered, displaying more calm than she felt, for she knew she had never borne the full brunt of Nassar’s temper. By defying him openly, she had given him a reason to punish her.

  “Tell `Abla you want the ghata back,” he ordered, advancing a step toward her. “It will look much better on Pamela.”

  “I will not.” The girl’s voice was low but determined. She held her ground, refusing to retreat.

  “Wallahi, you defy me?” Nassar bellowed. “Do not make me beat you. It is too hot.”

  “I made it for `Abla,” Bryna maintained staunchly. “I will make another for Pamela, if you like.”

  “You are my slave,” he snapped furiously. “I give you the food you eat, the clothes you wear, and the threads you use to embroider. The fruit of your labors are mine, just as you are mine.”

  Bryna struggled to contain her own temper. “You may give me food and clothing,” she said, “but you did not give me the threads for that ghata. Umm Walid gave them to me. I worked on it only after my chores were done. That ghata was mine to do with as I pleased.”

  “Perhaps it is not too hot for a beating after all. Then I will prove to you who your master is.” Gripping her arm tightly, Nassar pulled the resisting girl toward him, finding suddenly that he liked the idea of punishing her. It aroused him to think of humbling her at last. His breath was hot on Bryna’s face as he ripped off her veil and kissed her with wet lips and probing tongue. It had been too long since he had had a woman. The prostitutes in the Saluba camp offered only momentary satisfaction.

  “Nassar...” Pamela’s voice floated from the women’s quarters, where she had been listening.

  “What?” he roared. His mind on taming Bryna, he was annoyed by the interruption.

  “If you are truly going to have Bryna make a ghata for me, may I have a pink one?” Coming into the majlis, the English girl put a hand on Nassar’s arm and smiled up at him enticingly.

  The moment the Arab’s grip loosened on her, Bryna retreated. She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could remove even the memory of his sodden kiss. Nassar did not see. He stared down at Pamela, all thought of the dark-haired girl forgotten. How often he had longed for his blond houri to look at him so. He sank down on the pillows, pulling Pamela with him.

  “Pink, with golden threads,” she wheedled prettily, throwing quick warning glances toward her friend. “She will do it if you ask. Please, sidi.”

  “Make a ghata for Pamela, Bryna bint Blaine, of pink silk,” he ordered arrogantly. “And have it finished by the time we reach Riyadh.” Lying back, he pulled Pamela down so her head rested on his shoulder. A reluctant houri, the English girl gazed at her friend with beseeching brown eyes. If Bryna protested, this diversion, so distasteful to her, would be for nothing.

  “I...I would be happy to, but I have no pink silk,” Bryna said hesitantly.

  “Then buy some. We come to a town soon.” Nassar tossed several copper tawilahs at Bryna’s feet. When she had picked up the coins, he gestured for her to leave.

  Bryna ducked out of the open tent and into the blinding sunlight. Sharif stood nearby, his face stark with anger. He had witnessed the entire scene, she realized, and would probably speak to Nassar about allowing such shows of temper from his slaves. She walked away quickly, feeling sick, knowing his narrowed gray eyes were upon her.

  * * *

  Bryna kept to herself at the wedding and for days afterward. Tension filled the air each time she caught sight of Sharif, for his gray eyes seemed to smolder with contained anger. She was relieved when the smala moved on and the sheik turned his mind to other things.

  Sharif was also grateful, for he wanted nothing more than to forget the sight of Nassar forcing his kisses on the unwilling girl. It was not his affair, he kept reminding himself. But he watched over her nevertheless, failing to understand why she avoided him, refusing to meet his eyes.

  After several days of travel, Fatmah visited Bryna. Once she had received the respectful hospitality due her, the old woman said reluctantly, as one umm al’-ayyal to another. “Bryna bint Blaine, I have come to tell you it is my husband’s wish that Nassar and his women accompany us to Kasr al Haroun tomorrow.”

  “Kasr al Haroun?”

  “A small town where we will buy food and visit the merchant Faud al Haroun, an old friend of my husband’s family.” Fatmah added darkly, “You can see it is important that neither you nor Pamela bint Harold do anything to dishonor our name. You represent the household of a great sheik. Take care to behave properly.” Then old woman rose to her feet with painful dignity.

  Despite her dislike for Fatmah, Bryna said sympathetically, “I see your legs are paining you, my lady. Will you take some ointment I have made?”

  The woman accepted her offering with a grudging smile. Before she limped to her tent, she turned to Bryna gravely. “For your own good, remember what I have told you. I cannot
say for sure what my lord Sharif would do, but if you dishonor my son, I know he will kill you.”

  As the smala neared a well the next day, Sharif’s family veered off from the others and rode toward Kasr al Haroun. Bryna sat sedately in a camel litter, yet she was excited at the very prospect of a trip to a town. She clung desperately to the idea of escape. Where there were people, she might find help, she thought hopefully, but her plans were shattered by her first sight of the dusty settlement in the distance, its squat buildings barely discernible on the horizon.

  This was hardly worth wearing a burqu, the girl thought uncharitably, for the town looked no better when they approached it through parched, terraced fields. At the outskirts were a large well and several camel-powered mills for grinding meal.

  In single file the Selim camels passed through the narrow streets. First Sharif, then Nassar, then Sharif’s women, followed by Bryna and Pamela. Abu Ahmad, Sharif’s servant, brought up the rear with the pack camels.

  They passed through the souk, where men sat on rugs in shady stalls, smoking and talking. After the calm of the desert, the noise was deafening as merchants hawked their wares and bargained loudly. Bryna was relieved when they turned onto a quiet residential street.

  When the small caravan neared the largest house on the street, Sharif gave the signal to stop. Before their camels were couched, Faud Al Haroun waddled out to meet them.

  “As salaam ’alaykum. Welcome to my home, Lord Selim,” Faud greeted his honored guest with a congenial smile. Wearing the white turban and robes of a town Arab, he was about sixty years old, nearly as round as Suleiman had been, and even shorter. His arms spread wide as he strode toward Sharif, the old man presented an imposing picture.

  “Wa ’alaykum as salaam, noble Faud Al Haroun.” The sheik met his father’s old friend and embraced him.

  Turning to look at Sharif’s entourage, Faud asked cordially. “Is that Nassar bin Hamza I see? Dismount, young man, and peace be unto you.”

  “And unto you be peace,” answered Nassar. “And to you, Ibrahim bin Faud,” he greeted a young man who joined them.