by Stacy Gregg
Haya writes back to Jemima: I am in training for a competition here in Jordan. It is called the King’s Cup …
*
For the past month, as Haya and Zayn have trained, Santi has kept half a wary eye on them, and one day he comes down to the arena with Ursula. Haya has been focused on gymnastic schooling for Bree. The mare has proven a quick learner and Haya has slowly taken the poles up a few centimetres each time. Now at last she is ready to tackle a proper course.
Haya has seven jumps set up in the arena – all of them at a metre twenty. As she canters into the first fence, she checks Bree back beneath her and then pushes the mare on with a cluck and a tap of her heels. Bree responds with ears pricked forward and they fly the first fence. At each jump after that the mare comes in on a lovely forward stride and they complete the course without so much as rocking a pole. There is clapping from the sidelines as Haya joins Ursula and Santi, letting Bree stretch out on a long rein.
“Very good!” Santi is impressed. “The mare jumps even better than her mother. You ride her well.”
“Well enough to compete in the King’s Cup?” Haya asks.
Santi frowns. “I thought you were over that idea.”
“What idea?” Ursula asks.
“Titch wants to ride in the King’s Cup,” Santi says. “But I have explained to her that she is too young.”
Ursula looks at him. “Santi! You know there isn’t a man in your stables who could jump the course that Haya has just ridden.”
“They can jump well enough,” Santi grumbles.
Ursula shakes her head. “You are being stubborn.”
“And what if I let the Princess ride and she gets hurt? What then?”
Ursula sighs. “She is not a six-year-old girl any more, Santi. You cannot protect her from living her life. If she wants to ride then let her ride.”
Haya senses that now is her chance. “Please, Santi,” she says. “I won’t let you down. I was jumping even higher when I was in England – I did Grand Prix.”
“This is no pretty showjumping contest like the ones that you rode back in England,” Santi says. “There are other events too. Tent-pegging and vaulting, and what about the falconry? We still have no one in the team who can compete in this event.”
“Zayn and I have been training for the vaulting,” Haya says confidently. “And I will compete in the falconry too.”
Santi looks surprised. “You have a falcon?”
“Well, actually, not yet,” Haya says, “but I am getting one, very soon.” Her heart is pounding in her chest.
“Oh, come on, Santi,” Ursula says. “You know she would be a great addition to the team.”
Santi sighs. “Even if I say yes, it is impossible. Bashir will object.”
“I’m not so sure that he will,” Haya says. “How would it look if Bashir tried to stop me competing? Like he is so scared of being beaten by a girl that he would complain about me in public to the judges!”
Santi laughs. “You are right,” he says. “And I would love to see the look on his face when you take to the field against him and his men.”
“Please, Santi,” Haya says. “All I want is to help you bring home the King’s Cup for Al Hummar.”
“You understand what you are taking on?” Santi looks serious. “This is a brutal tournament, with no holds barred. It is a battle and Bashir has an army.”
“Well,” Haya replies, “now you have me and Bree.”
t breakfast in the Blue Room the next morning the King is reading the morning paper when Haya pushes aside her plate and summons up the courage to ask him.
“Please, Baba, can I have a falcon?”
“To eat?” Ali asks with amusement.
Haya glares at her brother. “To train,” she clarifies.
The King puts down his newspaper. “What has brought on this sudden urge? The last time we went hunting, I recall you were on the side of the hare.”
“I have changed my mind,” Haya says. “Please can I have one? I will feed him and look after him and train him myself.”
“Falcons are not easy to handle,” her father says. “They require skill and commitment.”
“I looked after Bree well,” Haya says. “Please, Baba?”
“I will speak with the head falcon trainer at the Royal Mews,” the King says. “We shall see what he can do.”
Two days later, a tall man dressed in a white thobe arrives at Al Nadwa, carrying a cage draped with a white sheet.
“Is it him?” Haya asks, trying to sneak a peek under the sheet.
Her father nods. “Would you like to meet him?”
Haya and Ali follow their father into the office and the falcon trainer puts the cage down on the pedestal by the window. He grasps the corner of the sheet and pulls it so that it falls to the floor and the bird in the cage is revealed.
He is small. Much smaller than Haya thought he would be, about half the size of her father’s falcon Akhbar, a little less than thirty centimetres high, with drab, mottled feathers. Some of the feathers have fallen out in patches, as if he has been in a skirmish with a cat.
“He’s got bits missing,” Ali points out.
“He is moulting,” the falcon trainer says. “He is passagar, a young bird, and he has yet to grow into his adult plumage.”
Compared to Akhbar this bird looks sickly. “Can he actually catch things?” Haya says, a little concerned.
“He is a sakret,” the trainer replies. “A very popular bird, a good hunter, especially for desert hares. This is a good bird for you to begin with.”
Haya is very grateful to have any falcon at all. The sakret may not be what she imagined, but she is not about to reject the bird that she is being offered.
“I’m going to call him Sama,” she says. The name means Sky in Arabic, and Sama seems to love gazing up with his amber eyes. He looks as if he is deep in thought, with romantic visions playing in his head.
The falcon trainer steps over to the cage, opens the door and slips a leather hood over Sama’s head. The bird’s little beak pokes out beneath it. He ties off the leather cords to keep the hood on tight and then attaches the leather jesses to both of the bird’s legs.
“You must always leave the hood on when you are handling him at first,” the trainer advises Haya. He nudges his leather-gloved fist up against the belly of the sakret and the bird hops on to it obediently. He withdraws his hand from the cage very slowly with the sakret still seated on his fist, the bird’s claws clenched tight, digging into the leather of the glove.
The falcon trainer passes a smaller glove to Haya. “Here,” he says. “Put this on.”
When Haya nudges the bird in his belly, Sama steps obediently off his trainer’s fist and on to Haya’s.
The sakret feels so strange perched there on her hand. She tries to keep her elbow crooked and her forearm at a right angle to hold him steady, but the bird begins to fidget and turn around.
“He is quite heavy!” Haya says nervously. She is not sure how long she can keep holding him.
“You will get used to it,” the falcon trainer insists. “Keep him with you as much as possible in the first few days so that he knows you are his master now.”
Haya tries to hold her arm steady, but Sama keeps rocking about. He is cocking his head from side to side, as if he is searching for something he cannot see.
“Your Majesty,” the falcon trainer says, “I have brought another bird with me today that you may wish to use for your next hunt. It is in the cage outside. Would you like to come and see it?”
The King looks at Haya. “Will you be all right here until we return? We will only be a moment.”
“Yes, Baba,” Haya says confidently.
In the office, Haya holds her arm stiff and waits. Ali peers at the sakret. Then he waves his hand in front of the tiny hooded head.
“He can’t see you,” Haya says.
“It must be awful being blind,” Ali says. “Do you think maybe we should take his ho
od off?”
“OK, you do it,” Haya says. She holds her hand as steady as she can while Ali loosens the leather straps on the hood and gingerly slips it off the sakret’s delicate head.
The moment the hood is gone the sakret lets out an ear-splitting scream, and immediately launches himself from Haya’s fist. Unfortunately for Sama, there is a window between him and the sky, and he thwacks into it with a hard bang and falls to the floor.
The falcon trainer is shocked to return a moment later and find the bird lying on the floor.
“Is he dead?” Haya is too scared to touch him.
“He is just stunned.” The falcon trainer picks the bird up. “It’s lucky that Sama is so small – if that had been Akhbar then he would have broken the glass and kept on flying!”
Sama is put back in his cage to recover.
“How long will it be before I can fly him to catch a lure?” Haya asks the falcon trainer as he is leaving.
“These things take time,” he says. “You will know when he is ready.”
This was true when Haya broke in Bree. But Haya doesn’t have months to wait. She peeks under the sheet at Sama in his cage. “You need to be ready soon,” she tells him. Time is the one thing they don’t have.
*
That evening Haya tries to have dinner with Sama on her fist.
“You can’t take a bird with you into the dining room!” Frances says.
“I have to take him everywhere with me,” Haya insists.
“It’s unhygienic!” Frances says. Then she spies Haya’s arm, criss-crossed with talon marks.
“Haya! What have you done to yourself?”
“I’m fine,” Haya says. “They’re just scratches.”
“Good gracious, child, they’re open wounds,” Frances says. “Did the bird do this?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Haya says. “I had my glove on, but it doesn’t go all the way up my arm. When I took his hood off, he tried to get away, but he still had the straps holding him on to me and he kind of panicked.”
Frances shakes her head in disbelief. “I thought boarding school would civilise you,” she sighs. “But here you are, covered in wounds and coming to dinner with a bird perched on your hand like some desert Bedouin!”
She means it as an insult, but Haya instantly forgets the pain of the scratches on her arm and swells with pride. Enduring a few scratches is a small price to pay to prepare herself for the King’s Cup.
*
Now that Santi has agreed to let Haya ride in the King’s Cup she will practise each morning with the rest of the team. But when Haya arrives at the stables for her first practice, something is wrong.
“What is going on?” Haya asks as Zayn leads out a grey Arab mare from the loose boxes and holds out the reins to Haya. “Where is my horse?”
“Santi asked me to saddle Hira for you,” Zayn replies. “He wants you to ride her instead of Bree.”
Zayn sees the look on Haya’s face. “I’m guessing that he hasn’t told you this?”
Haya shakes her head. “Wait here,” she tells Zayn.
She finds Santi in the tack room, sorting through a tangle of bridles.
“Ah, Titch!” he says. “Has Zayn tacked up Hira for you? I will be out there in a moment to organise the tent-pegging …”
“I’m not riding Hira,” Haya says. “I’m riding Bree.”
Santi stops what he is doing and turns to her. “Haya, Bree is still in training. Hira is an excellent tent-pegging horse. Very swift and experienced, the fastest that we have.”
“Then Zayn can ride her,” Haya says. “I will not ride any other horse but my own.”
There is concern on Santi’s face. “Titch,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “we do not have much time, only a few weeks left to train. When we ride into the stadium, those grandstands will be filled with thousands of spectators. This contest is very important to them. Do you want them to think that you were only chosen to ride because you are the daughter of the King?”
Haya shakes her head. “Santi, I know how much this means to my people. When I ride into that arena, I carry their hopes with me. I wish only to bring honour and glory to my father and to the stables of Al Hummar.”
“Then ride Hira!” Santi says. “She is a proven mare; she has competed in this contest many times. On her you will acquit yourself admirably. On a young horse like Bree there is too much of a risk. Maybe she will go well for you, but we cannot know. She is untried in competition.”
“I know that you are only trying to protect me,” Haya tells Santi, “but I promise you that when the people see me in that arena they will know I am riding my heart out. And they will see me riding the horse that I raised and broke in myself. Bree is my horse and she is the only one that I will ride.”
*
The grooms have cigarettes clenched between their teeth as they tack up their horses. The morning air is filled with smoke and the sound of their talk, but when Haya leads Bree through to join them, the men fall silent.
It is Yusef who speaks first. “Santi has told us you will be riding with us at the King’s Cup,” he says. And then his face breaks into a broad grin. “Welcome aboard, Your Royal Highness.”
“You had better be as good at the showjumping as Zayn says you are,” Attah adds, “because Radi is useless!”
“Hey!” Radi turns to him. “You are worse than me!”
He smiles at Haya. “It is good to have you on our team.”
The grooms mount up and begin to head down the driveway. They ride with their reins hanging long and loose, sitting relaxed astride their mounts, laughing and teasing each other.
Haya and Zayn are the last ones to ride down to the arena. Bree jogs along, skipping from side to side, her horseshoes chiming on the tarmac, and Haya has to tighten the slack on her reins to stop her from tearing off.
“Steady, girl,” Haya reassures the mare, but although her voice is calm, her stomach is in a knot. She is just as excited as Bree.
“What did you do to your arm?” Zayn asks. Her left arm above where the leather glove ends has become like a road map of scars from Sama’s vicious attacks. This morning Haya took the sakret’s hood off to feed him his breakfast and he went berserk, screaming and clawing.
“It’s nothing,” Haya says. “I’m fine.”
Santi has two tea chests filled with long slender wooden javelins, their blunt ends sticking out, the sharpened points facing down. In the centre of the arena, he places a row of small squares of paper, no bigger than table napkins, on the ground, weighted down by pebbles so that the wind cannot blow them away.
The grooms separate themselves out into two groups at the far end of the arena.
“Princess Haya!” Yusef, astride his big grey, calls out to her. “Come and join our team.”
Haya rides Bree at a loping canter down to the far end of the arena. Radi is on their team too. Attah and Zayn are the opposition and Santi rides with them to make up even numbers.
Each man rides his horse up to the tea chest, grasping and pulling out a spear with their right hand, reins held in the left. Haya rides Bree forward. The mare snorts at the sight of the tea chest and backs off.
“Come on, Bree.” Haya kicks her on, but Bree dances on the spot and refuses to go any closer.
“Here,” Yusef says, “take mine.”
He passes his spear to Haya and takes another from the tea chest for himself. The problem is solved, but Haya cannot help but think about Santi’s offer of Hira. Bree looks at a tea chest full of sticks as if it is a mountain lion about to eat her. How will Bree cope on the day of the contest if Haya cannot even get her to do this simple task at a practice?
Haya has seen tent-pegging performed many times, but this is the first time she has ridden it herself. It is an ancient cavalry sport and the aim is to be the first to race and spear a piece of paper on the ground and carry it back to the start line.
The horses are ready. Bree is trembling, every muscle and fib
re ready to run. “On your marks …” Santi begins, but before he can say anything more, Bree rears up on her hind legs. Haya reacts fast and flings herself forward on to her neck to keep from falling. She pulls the mare down and stays in the saddle, but her face is pale with fright.
“Are you all right?” Santi asks.
Haya nods. She takes up the reins tight. “On your marks …” Bree tries to rear again, but Haya is too quick for her this time. She spins the mare in a tight circle, regaining control.
“Go!”
Bree breaks into a gallop and alongside her so does Hira. Both mares are quick and they are matching each other stride for stride. Bree’s breath is coming in huffy snorts, ears flat back against her head, but Hira is one stride quicker and it is Zayn who reaches his target first. He makes a stab at the paper and misses! Now it is Haya’s turn and she plunges her spear deep into the ground.
She misses too.
Haya has to make another three stabs before she manages to get the paper speared and by the time she and Zayn cross the finish line Santi has put away the stopwatch, shaking his head.
Yusef rides over to her. “You hold the spear as if it were a stick,” he says.
“It is a stick,” Haya says.
“No,” Yusef says, “you must think of it as if it were your own arm. You should hold it like this, do you see? Now hang low off the saddle and reach out to the paper as if you were about to grasp it in your hand.”
As she gallops the next time, Haya imagines her arm reaching down to the ground, the target touching the tips of her fingers, and this time when she pulls her spear back up she is delighted to see the white piece of paper fluttering at the end.
“I did it!”
From that moment onwards the spear is a part of her and she never misses.
*
Haya is in the kitchen on her hands and knees behind the stove when Ismail comes in.
