The Bride Price

by Karen Jones Delk

Faud’s son returned the greeting politely but without much relish, placing his forehead against Nassar’s while they clapped palms. Then the men strolled toward the house, leaving the women to be helped from their camels by Abu Ahmad and Faud’s servants.

  As Bryna waited for assistance, she looked curiously at the two black-veiled females who waited just inside the courtyard. Latifeh had told her that Faud was a recent widower. These must be his daughters, Oma and Waqi, who would serve as his hostesses.

  Faud’s daughters said little as they led their visitors through the comfortable house to the harem. But when they removed their burqus, their faces were friendly. Waqi, the younger, was only a few years older than `Abla. Oma, her sister, was fourteen and already accomplished at her housewifely duties. The girls welcomed Fatmah and Latifeh warmly and exclaimed over how much `Abla had grown since their last visit. To the foreigners, they said nothing, though their dark eyes drifted to them curiously.

  Sharif’s wives exchanged uncomfortable glances, uncertain how to introduce the infidel women. In the desert it had almost been possible to forgive their strangeness. But in town, among friends, the Arab women searched for explanations, their embarrassment for Nassar’s impetuousness returning.

  `Abla suffered no such chagrin. Taking Bryna’s hand, she led her forward and announced in a piping voice. “Oma, Waqi, I want you to meet my friend, Bryna bint Blaine.”

  “As salaam ’alaykum,” Bryna said graciously.

  “Wa ’alaykum as salaam,” the girls responded in unison, their expressions showing pleasure at being greeted in their own language.

  “Bryna is one of my cousin’s intended,” `Abla explained importantly, “and this is another, Pamela bint Harold.”

  Pamela smiled wearily and allowed the Arab girls to touch her blond hair shyly.

  Remembering their duties as hostesses, Oma and Waqi invited their guests to remove their cloaks and sit down. If they were surprised when they saw Pamela’s pregnant bulk, they said nothing. While their guests enjoyed a light repast, they chatted, drawing Bryna and Pamela into the conversation.

  After making sure the older women were not too tired, their hostesses suggested diffidently that the women might enjoy a trip to the women’s hammam, or public bath, and perhaps a stop in the souk afterward.

  At the bath, as Bryna rounded the corner to her assigned changing booth, she swerved to avoid running into a black-clad Arab woman who walked toward her.

  “A thousand pardons,” she murmured, stepping back. At exactly the same instant, the other woman did the same. Bryna started forward again, and the Arab woman did likewise. With shock, Bryna stopped and stared. She was seeing her own image in a mirror. Her blue eyes blurred with tears, the girl stepped into the changing room and looked at her reflection sadly.

  This was Bryna bint Blaine, she thought bitterly, who looked like nothing more than a Bedu woman. Her feet were dusty and her brown hands rough from hard work. Through the holes in her burqu, her eyes, though blue, were lined with the kohl the Arab women used to lessen the glare of the desert sun.

  Almost reluctantly, she removed her burqu and stared at herself disbelievingly. She had been a girl when she’d arrived in Tangier, but the face she saw today was no longer childish. Her mouth was the same and her nose still slightly upturned, but her face was thin from deprivation and tanned to a light golden color from days in the desert. The last time she had seen him, Derek had said she was beautiful. Would he think so now? The girl he had loved had ceased to exist many months ago. In her place was a determined young woman.

  Almost unwillingly Bryna continued her inspection, revolving slowly before the mirror. Under her ghata her hair was very long, hanging in a windblown mass past her trim waist. She undressed, discovering her naked body was lithe and slender, although her breasts looked fuller than they had. Everything about her seemed changed. The locket she wore at her neck was the only reminder of the girl she had been.

  Despondently she joined the other women in the steaming baths, but her downcast mood could not last as `Abla splashed ecstatically in a tile-lined pool, clowning and chattering with Faud’s daughters. Pamela soaked contentedly, looking more fit than she had for weeks. Even Fatmah and Latifeh smiled.

  While the women lingered in the baths, the men emerged from their hammam nearby. Ibrahim and Nassar went at once to tour the coffeehouses of the town, while Faud and Sharif set off for one of the merchant’s warehouses, trailed by Abu Ahmad.

  “Come, let me show you something,” Faud said, stopping at a squat building with several high, shuttered windows. Unlocking the door, he peered into the shadowy interior. “Bismallah, in the name of God,” he muttered, and entered cautiously, motioning for the other man to follow.

  Heat rolled from the dark building in waves. Gingerly Sharif stepped inside, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. His nose flared at the offensive mix of smells that assailed him: coffee and spices, pungent dyes and spoiled food, unwashed flesh and urine—or worse. He stiffened at a muffled curse from the darkness.

  “What is this, Faud?” the sheik demanded, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

  “Nothing. I tripped over a coil of rope that my assistant, God destroy his house, did not put away. Come, this way.” In the dim light Faud could be seen, beckoning from beside a wall constructed of bags of rice.

  Glancing in silent warning at Abu Ahmad, who poised in the doorway, Sharif followed the merchant warily. The sheik was not a suspicious man, but he was a careful one.

  As he walked toward Faud, the fat merchant picked up a sturdy-looking pole. Sharif’s hand tightened on the handle of his sword.

  “Have to get one of these windows open,” Faud puffed, struggling to reach one of the tiny shutters near the roof.

  When it opened to admit some light and a faint cleansing breeze, he nodded and said, “This is what I wanted you to see.”

  Stepping around the stack of rice bags, Sharif discovered a giant of a white man, chained to the wall. Sitting with his back against the clay wall, he did not even look up when the Arabs entered his makeshift prison. His clothes were in tatters and matted brown hair hung to his shoulders, but even in chains there was a certain pride in his bearing.

  ‘‘Who is this?” Sharif asked.

  “A slave.” Faud shrugged. “I was told he is an armorer. I do not need such a servant, but I thought you might find him useful.”

  “Where did you learn your craft?” Sharif asked the man. The slave did not even look his direction.

  “He is a mute,” Faud said quickly, “and he understands only the Frankish tongue, something I did not know when I bought him. Insh’allah. You speak the language of the Franks, do you not?”

  “It has been a long time,” the sheik muttered. His gray eyes swept the filthy cell with disgust. “Why is he chained, under such conditions?”

  “Thus I bought him from a slave trader who traveled through here some weeks ago. I might have removed them,” Faud revealed reluctantly, “but he fought to escape like one possessed. Allah protect me from the devil! He nearly killed two of my servants. It was all we could do to get him in here. Do you blame me for locking him away?”

  “How much do you want for him?”

  Surprised by the sheik’s interest, Faud named a price that was very reasonable.

  Before he would agree, Sharif addressed the slave in halting French, rusty after years of disuse, “Your sidi tells me you are a mute. This is true?”

  For the first time the big man looked up. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes were intelligent. Slowly he nodded.

  “You are an armorer?”

  Again he nodded.

  “Are you a good one?”

  A faint smile flitted across his dirty face and he nodded again.

  “Your sidi tells me also that you are locked in here because you hurt two men in an effort to escape.”

  A rebellious glimmer showed in the slave’s eyes, and he turned away moodily.

&
nbsp; “Hear me, infidel,” Sharif commanded. “I am the Sheik Sharif Al Selim. I can take you from this room and make you a part of my household. But I will not, unless I have your word you will not try to escape. Will you give it?”

  The hulking slave regarded Sharif assessingly. The sheik looked to be a fair, even a compassionate, man, but not one to cross. Deliberately the Frenchman stood and thrust his shackled hands toward him.

  “I will take him,” Sharif told Faud in Arabic. “Unlock his chains.”

  Faud complied, muttering a prayer under his breath as he eyed the giant distrustfully. From the other side of the rice bags came the sound of a sword being unsheathed. Abu Ahmad stood by in readiness.

  When the shackles fell away, the big man rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. Then he dropped to one knee before Sharif.

  “What is he called?” Sharif asked Faud.

  “I do not know, my sheik. We call him Kedar.”

  “Kedar— ‘the Powerful.’ Good.” He spoke to the slave in French. “Kedar, I accept your bay’ah, your oath of allegiance. Your loyalty will prove you, not bowing. Stand up now, man.”

  Kedar obeyed with a look of respect in his dark eyes.

  “Abu Ahmad, I know you are there,” Sharif called to his old servant in a faintly accusing voice.

  “Yes, my lord.” The old man appeared around the stacks of merchandise, his sword still in hand.

  “Take Kedar to the baths and find a place for him to sleep among the servants. He has given his word he will not run away,” he reassured the old man before he could protest.

  “Go with Abu Ahmad.” he instructed his new slave in French.

  Reluctantly the old servant sheathed his sword and led the hulking Frenchman into the light of day.

  Allahu akbar, God is great! Faud thought. Today had been a most satisfying day. Before he retired, he summoned Oma to his private garden. Only by asking his daughters could he learn anything of Sharif’s household.

  Oma appeared at once, as if she had been awaiting his call, thoughtfully bringing with her a pot of coffee and another helping of the pudding he had enjoyed so much at dinner.

  “Are you enjoying your visit with Sharif’s harem? Are his women well? And those of Nassar?” The man couched his questions carefully.

  “Yes, Abu,” she said in answer to all three questions at once. “But I wish to speak to you of Nassar’s slave.”

  “The pale-haired houri?” he asked eagerly, remembering Nassar’s gloating.

  “No, the Inglayzi is heavy with child.”

  “Oho!” Faud’s eyebrows rose. Nassar had not mentioned that. “What of the other?”

  “She is yet a maiden, I am sure of it. And even though her eyes are blue, she is fair indeed.”

  “Blue?” The man nearly choked on his coffee. “No one told me of this.”

  “Did you think a Bedu would boast of it?” the girl asked with a wisdom beyond her years. “But, Abu, you are an educated man. Surely you do not fear blue eyes?”

  “I suppose not,” he answered his daughter dubiously. “Her hair is not gold, I take it?”

  “No, but it glows with a quiet fire. It is dark, yet red.”

  “And she is docile and well mannered?”

  “Yes, yes!” Oma clapped excitedly, bouncing on her seat as her father began to show more interest. “Latifeh—”

  “Latifeh the learned?” he interjected sourly.

  “The same. She has been educating the infidels to the teachings of the Prophet. I think this Bryna bint Blaine will make a fine wife, but I do not believe Nassar really wishes to marry her. Fatmah wishes he would not marry either one, but he seems set on having the blond girl.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because you should remarry, my father. Both of your wives are dead, and Waqi and I will both be of marriageable age soon. Then who will take care of you? This woman could be the wife of your old age,” she argued persuasively. “She could bear you many sons.”

  He toyed with his coffee cup, a considering look on his fat face. ‘“Waqi feels this way as well?”

  “Oh, yes, Abu.”

  “Then I will speak with bin Hamza tomorrow. Perhaps it is as you say, perhaps he will sell her.”

  “Perhaps, Abu. Insh’allah.”

  Insh’allah, he thought. But Nassar was a greedy young man who always seemed to be in need of money, and he, Faud, was one of limited means.

  But as he bowed down for prayers the next morning, the merchant had an inspiration. Why not give the troublesome French slave to Sharif in exchange for a good word to his nephew? Everyone would benefit. Sharif would have his armorer at no cost, Nassar would be richer in money if not in women, and Faud would have his young wife. Alhamdillah. It could work!

  So the old man said nothing when the young men departed for a day’s hawking, waiting until he could make his proposal to Sharif in privacy.

  “The American girl is not for sale,” Sharif declared, to Faud’s amazement.

  “But I thought she belonged to Nassar,” he stammered apologetically.

  “He bought her, but he traded my camels for her and he has yet to repay me.” Sharif felt a bewildering sense of outrage. What was wrong with him? Faud had not offended merely by offering to buy Nassar’s slave.

  “If she is yours legally, I will buy her from you.”

  The sheik shook his head doggedly.

  “Be reasonable, Sharif,” Faud urged. “For the sake of Musallim, your father, I will make it worth your while. I will give you the armorer plus the price of the camels.”

  “You would pay for seven Al Selim camels?” The sheik’s voice was deceptively mild.

  “Seven?” The merchant gulped. Al Selim camels were among the most valuable in Arabia. But he remembered what Oma had said about the girl. “Yes, I will pay the price.”

  For a moment Sharif saw his old friend’s face through a red haze, and his fists clenched and unclenched as he fought for control. At last he sighed deeply. “I am sorry, Faud. She is not for sale.”

  Faud’s fat face darkened momentarily, then he shrugged. “As Allah wills it. A mere woman must never interfere in a friendship.”

  Sharif did not answer. When his small caravan departed to rejoin his smala that afternoon, he left a purse in payment for the Frenchman. It contained what Faud had asked, plus a few extra gold pieces.

  “Allah keep you on your journey, Sheik Al Selim,” the merchant called as they rode away. He hefted the purse in his hand and smiled with satisfaction. “And may your shadow never be less.”

  * * *

  “Water,” the sick man croaked, “water.”

  “Praise be to Allah, the Englishman is not going to die!” Mustafa exclaimed.

  “I wasn’t going to let him die,” Blaine muttered.

  “Surely you are a great hakim, O’Toole Effendi,” the little slave agreed, hovering just behind him.

  “Let’s just say between Ernst and me, we’ve had a bit of experience with these fevers,” the Irishman grunted.

  “But, sidi, I saw with my own eyes your skill,” the Egyptian flattered with natural ease.

  Blaine frowned and ordered, “Just fill that cup with water and hand it here.”

  When Mustafa had obeyed, he held the cup to Derek’s cracked, dry lips. “Easy, lad, easy,” he cautioned, allowing him only small sips so he would not choke.

  After seeing that his patient rested comfortably, Blaine drew the Arab servant away from the bedside and instructed him quietly, “Find Ernst and tell him Derek has regained consciousness. We must make ready to leave.”

  “What you say is true, sidi.” The servant expelled a breath in relief. “It is dangerous to stay longer. I will tell him at once.”

  The big man stood at the window and stared down unseeingly at the throngs clogging the street of Jidda. His party had barely touched solid ground when Derek collapsed with a fever. Mustafa had located a cheap inn, where no one would ask too many questions. There Derek ha
d thrashed deliriously in a narrow bed and insisted he must find Bryna. He had been wrong...so wrong, he groaned. He must go to her at once. It was all the others could do to keep him in bed.

  Now the worst was over, but so much time had passed. And each day it seemed as if Bryna was farther away.

  Not since Catherine’s death had he been so torn by duty, Blaine brooded. If only the young Englishman had not been so ill, he could have gone. But he could not leave him in Jidda to die. Whatever Bryna’s relationship with him, whatever his own feelings about him, he reflected, Derek had stood by him in the fight with Gasim and had withstood the hardships of desert and sea.

  Let no one say Blaine O’Toole had not returned the favor, he told himself. He had stood by the lad through his illness.

  “Colonel...” The invalid’s voice reached him weakly.

  “Ashburn, you’re awake.” Blaine strode toward the bed.

  “How long?” Derek asked, swallowing painfully.

  “Two weeks.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “In three days, if you can.”

  “I can.” He sat up, the exertion bringing a cough.

  “It’s going to be hard on you, m’boy, until you have your strength back, but we cannot tarry here.”

  “I will make it,” the young man countered stubbornly.

  Blaine sat on the chair beside the bed. Leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees, he said bluntly, “‘Tis only fair to warn you. Derek, Ernst and I have talked about it. If you cannot keep up, we will leave you and Mustafa in the first village we come to.”

  “I hate to undo any plans the two of you may have made, but I am going with you to find Bryna.”

  “Still determined, eh?” The big man rose and grinned at him. The lad had more backbone than he had realized at first.

  “More determined than ever, thank you,” Derek retorted with surprising vigor. “Besides, we would not want to separate that happy couple, the Arab and the Arabist. I am ready to leave when you are, but for now, send Mustafa up with some food, will you? I could eat a—”

  “A camel?” Blaine suggested, chuckling to himself as Derek’s pillow sailed past his head and bounced soundlessly off the door.