The Harlot and the Sheikh

by Marguerite Kaye

  Stephanie was at the mule’s head, trying to calm the animal. She looked up when he closed the door softly behind him. ‘Thank goodness. They said I should not disturb you because it was only a mule, but I knew you would want to be here, and besides, I need you to verify that the symptoms are the same.’

  She wore a plain white tunic similar to his own, an abba of the same cotton. Her hair was down. It was shorter than he had imagined, falling just past her shoulders.

  ‘Rafiq? Can you see the swelling and redness around the eyes? The discharge from the nostrils and the fever? Though it is not so severe as you described it...’

  ‘The cough is the same. And the laboured breathing. There is no doubt that it is a case of the sickness. What course of action do you recommend?’

  ‘Do nothing,’ Stephanie said after a long, tense moment’s thought.

  ‘Nothing!’ Rafiq stared at her in consternation. ‘You don’t think bleeding, or a poultice or...’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘Jasim has tried these treatments before, has he not?’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t mean to sit back and do nothing,’ Rafiq said incredulously. ‘What about an emetic, cautery—there must be something you can do, some course of treatment you can attempt?’

  ‘All the standard remedies have been tried by Jasim to no avail. He has been very thorough, but we are obviously dealing with something new here,’ she replied gently. ‘So we need to do something different. It strikes me the one thing that hasn’t been attempted is to let nature take its course without interference. Poor Batal here will need all his strength to fight the fever. In my experience all the remedies which you suggest will only serve to weaken him further.’

  ‘But to do nothing—!’

  ‘Is sometimes the very best course of action, when one has no certain knowledge of the cause. We can calm him. We can keep him cool, and we can keep him on his feet walking, fighting. Trust me.’ She turned her attention briefly from her patient to face him. ‘Rafiq. I will not dose him with powders or drain away his lifeblood just to demonstrate to you that I am well versed in traditional treatments. Perhaps Batal will live up to his name, prove himself a hero and survive. Perhaps he will not, but at the very least we will have ruled out this approach as a treatment option without having added to his suffering.’

  She would not defer to him, nor would she lie to him. She gave him no false promises, but that in itself raised his hopes. Rafiq nodded his agreement. Stephanie’s satisfied smile was cut short when the mule gave a distressing hack and tried to escape her hold, bucking feebly and tossing his head.

  ‘Here, let me,’ Rafiq said, taking the rope. ‘Trust me,’ he added when she looked as if she would refuse, ‘I too know what I am doing.’

  * * *

  Stephanie watched, fascinated, as Rafiq murmured to the terrified mule in a language she could not understand. In less than a minute the animal had calmed, his breathing eased marginally, and he had ceased straining at the halter. It was almost as if Rafiq had managed to put Batal into a trance.

  ‘Are you a horse mystic?’ she asked, only half-joking. She had heard tell of such things, but she had always been sceptical.

  ‘I learned some of the ways of the Bedouin as a child,’ he answered in a whisper. ‘If you wish to cool him down now, he won’t resist.’

  She did as he suggested. The mule’s flanks were worryingly swollen, his fur already damp, though the water she doused over him seemed to give him some relief. They worked together, calming and cooling, listening, their own breathing suspended, their own hearts pounding, while Batal grew worse, every breath a tremendous effort.

  ‘Is there truly nothing you can do, at least to ease his suffering?’ Rafiq said, breathless with the effort of keeping the mule on his feet during the last, grim bout of coughing.

  Stephanie shook her head. Her own feeling of helplessness was reflected in his expression. ‘We must not despair,’ she said, far more reassuringly than she felt. ‘Hope is the most mysterious of all healers. Batal will sense it if we give up on him.’

  ‘Then we won’t give up,’ Rafiq said grimly.

  * * *

  They did not, though it was a long, exhausting night. The lanterns were extinguished, the first grey morning light filtering through the high window of the closed box when Stephanie carried out her half-hourly check of the mule’s heartbeat. Rafiq had no need to calm him this time. She thought at first that desperation had misled her, but a second listen was reassuring. ‘I think he has turned a corner. He is not out of danger yet, but his breathing has eased marginally, and his fever is slowly abating. I think he has a fighting chance of a full recovery.’

  ‘You can have no idea how much this means to me.’

  ‘Rafiq, we must not get ahead of ourselves. This proves nothing as yet. Batal’s infection was a less severe case, I think. It may affect mules differently from horses. You must not think I have necessarily found a cure. I simply let nature take its course.’

  ‘Which achieved more than all of Jasim’s remedies put together.’ He pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Thank you.’

  Rafiq’s touch was gentle, he smelled of sweet sweat and fresh straw and olive-oil soap. It was a very different kiss from that one yesterday by the pool. A gentle kiss, their lips clinging, almost tender in the dawn’s light, after the long night’s vigil. Her fingers in his hair, his in hers, threading themselves through her tangles, so gently, the warmth of his palm on her nape, the soft flutter of his breath. She was acutely aware of his body, though there was still a tiny gap between them which neither moved to close, because this lingering kiss was enough, more than enough.

  They broke apart slowly. Their eyes met, slightly dazed. Stephanie did not speak. She had no words, and no desire to spoil the tenderness of the moment. Rafiq’s mouth curled into a half-smile that twisted her insides, reminding her that desire was not entirely a foreign country after all, and so she busied herself with the now exhausted Batal. ‘I think we can let him lie down and rest now.’

  ‘I think all three of us would benefit from a rest,’ Rafiq said. ‘I will ask Fadil to look after Batal. No,’ he said, when she made to speak, ‘there is no need for you to stay here with him.’

  ‘But, Rafiq...’

  ‘You will be no use to Batal if you don’t rest yourself. You have been up all night. That is a command, Stephanie, from a prince. Do not pull a face as stubborn as your plucky patient here.’

  She was forced to laugh. ‘Very well. Only let me see him settled—and, no, I won’t leave that to anyone else, no matter what you command.’

  ‘Very well.’ Rafiq kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you. I will see you and your hopefully restored patient later.’

  She watched him go, listened to him issuing orders in that commanding way he had, wondering what it was in his tone that made it clear he took instant obedience for granted, for she had never heard him raise his voice. She put her fingers to her mouth, reliving the gentle touch of his lips on hers.

  Batal brayed, a plaintive little sound, but a valiant one. Stephanie ruffled his ears. ‘You really were named well, my hero,’ she said softly. ‘You are going to get well, little man, I promise you.’

  A noise in the doorway made her turn. Fadil stood there, a gaggle of stable hands gathered behind him. ‘It was an auspicious day when fate brought you to us,’ he said. ‘His Royal Highness was a wise man to appoint you his Royal Horse Surgeon, Miss Darvill. Now we dare hope that the Sabr will return to Bharym as our Prince has promised.’

  * * *

  Rafiq, who had returned to the loose box to check on Batal, was not surprised to see Stephanie walk in. ‘You managed to obey my command for two whole hours,’ he said blandly, ‘I suppose I should consider that progress.’

  Stephanie had bathed and changed, her hair tied back with a fuchsia-pink silk
scarf, a colourful contrast to the muted pink-and-cream stripes of her tunic and cloak.

  Though it had been a very different kiss, that kiss this morning, a kiss fuelled by relief on both their parts, by gratitude on his, it had been there all the same, that tiny thread of awareness that linked them, no matter what the circumstances. It was present now. He could no longer pretend that it was abstinence which fired his desire. It was Stephanie. This particular woman, most likely because of these peculiar circumstances. Circumstances which made him hesitate to act, for though his desire for her was fierce, his desire to rid himself of the past was even stronger, and Stephanie held the key to that. He could not afford to lose her. That much, he sincerely hoped, he had made clear to her, though she could never understand the true significance of the Sabr to him.

  Batal’s survival was a portent, another step towards the future, when Bharym’s people would recover their spirit, when Bharym’s Prince would rid himself of his guilt. He had a foretaste of how that would be when he was with Stephanie. He was a different man, with her. He caught himself sometimes, talking to her, teasing her, laughing with her, in a way that was quite alien to him. He didn’t recognise that man, but he enjoyed the change, no longer a man haunted by his past, but a man who relished the present. Stephanie gave him a glimpse of how it would be in the future. He wished fervently that there was a way to glimpse more of it, to indulge their mutual passion, without endangering the future itself.

  Was there a way? Watching her rise from checking Batal, Rafiq wondered. It could mean nothing to either of them, they had already established that. If Stephanie wanted to—and he was pretty certain she did, as much as he—then surely they could come to some sort of tacit understanding, within strict boundaries?

  Meeting her eyes as she dried her hands, Rafiq smiled.

  ‘I think Batal here has made a quite remarkable recovery,’ she said, ‘though how he became infected in the first place is a question which I can’t answer at the moment, for he shares neither food, water nor bedding with the horses in the stables.’

  ‘Batal is what we call a companion,’ Rafiq told her, ruffling the mule’s ears. ‘Despite his behaviour last night, he is a placid beast, and has a very calming influence on our more highly strung thoroughbreds. He has seen some of our most nervous mares through difficult foalings, some of our friskiest yearlings through their early training.’

  ‘So he may have become infected here?’ Stephanie said. ‘I will check when he last performed his companion duties. We will need to keep an eye on the other mules now too, lest Batal here has infected them, though proximity to an infected animal does not seem to result in contagion.’ Stephanie pursed her lips. ‘I have eliminated a good many causes, but I am still no closer to finding the source.’

  ‘You have only been here two weeks, and this is your first case.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘Enough, for now. I have a prescription for you, veterinarian. You will take a break for the rest of the day from horses and from the stables and from the palace,’ Rafiq said. ‘It is time you saw a little more of my kingdom.’

  * * *

  The city was far more extensive than Stephanie could have imagined from the glimpses she’d had when she first arrived in Bharym. Viewing it now from the vantage point which the approach from the palace afforded her, she could see that the red-brick buildings extended right into the foothills of the mountain, climbing in terraces up the sheer rock face. Though all the tightly packed buildings were square and flat-roofed, some were narrow, some broad, some had only two storeys while others soared six, seven, or more storeys high.

  She and Rafiq rode unescorted. ‘I believe I informed you on your first night here, that I have not my father’s fondness for pomp and ceremony,’ he told her, when she commented on this. ‘In his day, a journey to the city would have involved a caravan of at least thirty camels, and any number of standard bearers. My father had the most cumbersome saddle too, more like a mobile throne, which took a considerable toll on the camel which had to bear it.’

  But as they passed through the soaring stone arch of the city gates, it became apparent that Rafiq had no need of camels or bearers or throne-like saddles to proclaim his majesty. He wore a simple white tunic and cloak, his keffiyeh held in place with a red-silk scarf, the only gold the glittering hilt of the sabre hanging from the belt at his waist. She was reminded of her first glimpse of him in the Royal Receiving Room, her urge to kneel before him, distinctly different from the most disrespectful urge she had had the last time the Duke of Wellington had inspected Papa’s regiment. The Commander-in-Chief’s arrogant assumption of superiority had raised Stephanie’s hackles. Glancing over at Rafiq, smiling and gesturing his kneeling subjects to their feet, her blood heated for a very different reason.

  They entered an open space bordered by market stalls. Rafiq brought his camel to a halt, summoning one of the cluster of small boys who had gathered around to take the reins as he dismounted, gesturing to another small boy to tend to Stephanie’s animal as Rafiq helped her to dismount. ‘The streets are extremely narrow. It is easier if we progress on foot,’ he continued in English quietly. ‘It is my custom to hear informal petitions on such occasions, so we may be somewhat besieged at times but fear not, you will be perfectly safe.’

  She had no time to respond, for they were at that moment swept away into the recesses of the city. A noisy, cheerful, excited rabble of people of all ages surged in a wave around them, making their progress into a procession. Though she was separated from him, Rafiq made a point of halting every now and then, the crowd parting automatically to usher her through to join him, and then they continued.

  She was content to observe, and there was a great deal to absorb her attention. The city itself, with its myriad of idiosyncratic buildings, decorated with pale stone swirls which, when seen close up, formed themselves into elaborate geometric patterns. So closely packed were the houses that the cobbled streets were cool, even in the blaze of the afternoon sun. Fountains trickled at every junction, some mere stone pedestals, others in the shape of scallop shells, fishes, serpents. The air here smelt sweeter, with no trace of the dusty, gritty desert which lay beyond the gates.

  The women of Bharym wore no veils, though they protected their heads from the heat of the sun in a variety of ways. Some wore huge squares of fabric, big enough to act as both headdress and cloak, others cleverly draped long strips, like evening stoles, to form a hood and a scarf. A few sported turbans decorated with beads. And some, like Stephanie, wore a keffiyeh. The Sabr seemed to be their only topic of conversation when she chatted with them in their own language while Rafiq was otherwise engaged.

  ‘When the Sabr returns to Bharym, we can once again hold our heads high.’

  ‘When the Sabr returns, the rain will fall in torrents.’

  ‘When the Sabr returns, our Prince will be blessed with an heir.’

  ‘When the Sabr returns, my goat will produce milk again.’

  ‘When the Sabr returns, the market traders will stop trying to short-change us.’

  ‘And my mother-in-law will compliment my cooking!’

  These last two sallies provoked an outburst of laughter, but no matter how preposterous Stephane might think some of the claims being made for the Sabr—for there was a part of her that still couldn’t credit a race with such power—she was left in no doubt of his people’s feelings for Rafiq. He was not only a prince but a hero to them.

  They had reached a surprisingly large open square, right in the middle of the city. Rafiq held up his hands, said some words Stephanie could not catch, and the crowd began to disperse. ‘What is happening?’ she asked, when he beckoned her over.

  ‘It is the hottest part of the day. Everyone retires inside,’ he answered, ushering her towards the tallest building on the square and producing a key. ‘Including us.’

  ‘Good
ness, surely not another palace?’

  Rafiq laughed. ‘No, it is merely the royal viewing gallery.’

  ‘To view what, your subjects going about their daily business?’

  For answer, he led her up three steep flights of stone stairs and through a door into a high-ceilinged room, the principal feature of which was the window. Or row of windows, to be more precise, six tall arches divided only by the thinnest layer of supporting brickwork, facing out on to the piazza they had just left.

  ‘It is breathtaking,’ Stephanie said, ‘and it makes me a little giddy. ‘I can see why you call it a viewing gallery, but what do you view? Oh, goodness, surely not...’

  He laughed, for the horror of what had just crossed her mind must have been clearly reflected on her face. ‘No, we do not carry out either public executions or floggings, nor have there been either in Bharym for a great many years.’

  Stephanie shuddered. ‘In the military, regrettably, flogging is all too common.’

  ‘How so?’

  She stared out at the piazza, deserted now, for the sun was at its zenith. ‘We have been at war for a very long time. Some of the men have been away from their families for years, since only a very small minority of them are permitted to have their wives travel with them—and to be honest, many chose not to, for the conditions are very harsh. It is not surprising that they reach a point where homesickness overrides loyalty to the crown. Or where the constant risk of death erodes their willingness to fight. As if a whipping would make any difference,’ she said bitterly. ‘We treat our soldiers a great deal worse than our horses, in the army. No officer would dream of beating his horse, but most officers believe it their duty to beat their men. Save my father. Just one of the many things which sets him apart.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Stephanie shrugged. ‘He has served for most of his career with the Seventh Hussars, but it is only recently that he was promoted from army farrier to Veterinary Surgeon, an appointment which in theory carries with it an officer’s rank.’