by Liz Fielding
She found herself presiding over her own majlis. Like the Emir, she was there for all women to visit, to talk with, to bring their problems to as they drank tiny cups of coffee in the traditional way. She listened to their concerns and in turn, through Leila, talked about the value of education for their daughters.
And when she was taken by his sisters to visit the important hareems, especially the Sayyid hareem, she took that message with her, and found not just the younger women receptive, but their mothers and grandmothers, too.
It was the one thing she could do for Fayad, because he'd been right when he'd said, 'You're mine. You'll always be mine…' and the time she spent- running out faster than sand in an hourglass-was increasingly precious.
She might not be his wife in anything but name, but he treated her in every way like his queen. He discussed his ideas with her, took her with him when he visited schools, encouraged her input in the areas of women's health, employment.
He took her into the highlands and the valleys, to visit farms, smallholdings, to see for herself the life that his people lived there. The life the women lived. She'd expected hardship, and there was, but there was always warmth, hospitality, a simple joy in a life well lived.
They trekked across the desert-Violet swathed in veils, making him laugh out loud as her camel took her by surprise when it rose back legs first, so that she had to cling on for dear life to prevent herself being thrown over the creature's nose.
Everything was new, exciting, and she knew deep in her heart that the only thing that would make life better would be if, at the end of day, Fayad stayed with her instead of leaving her at her door. If he were truly her husband.
But he was careful always to keep a distance between them.
They were never alone. There were no more kisses. He did not reach for her hand.
Only sometimes she would turn and catch him looking at her, and for a moment she would believe that he felt the same way and her heart would turn over. But then he would look away and she'd know she was fooling herself.
She designed clothes for Leila, for Fayad's sisters, for her Sayyid cousins, and had them made up by a co-operative she'd set up for young girls who had no family. The workmanship was exquisite, and soon local women flocked to buy her designs, too, eager no doubt to please their new Emir. In her new position she discovered that there were no places barred to her, and she had a buyer from one of the big London stores corning to discuss an outlet for her label.
Breaking eggs.
There were rumblings of discontent about compulsory schooling for girls, she knew, stirred up by Ahmed al Sayyid, but they were muted, and when she visited the souk women reached out to touch her, whisper blessings.
And all the time her dowry accumulated at an alarming rate.
Each morning brought some new treasure. Diamonds in every imaginable colour. One set, in a shade not quite blue, not quite green, Leila swore were a perfect match for her eyes. There were emeralds, sapphires, pearls. And gold. Mountains of the stuff. Bracelets, unbelievable necklaces that looked just like those she'd once seen in a photograph that were supposed to have been worn by Helen of Troy.
And then there were the rubies. Polished cabochon heart-red rubies. A stunning stone in a simple gold setting. A tumble of them in a pair of matching earrings that fell almost to her shoulders. Bracelets with each stone encased in fine wire cages of gold. A wide choker necklace of pearls with a great polished teardrop ruby at its centre…
There were bolts of every kind of cloth from which wedding clothes were to be made. Pointless to say that they would not be needed. She designed, and her girls made, seven exquisite wedding dresses in figured silks. Dresses in every conceivable colour with long baggy pants to be worn beneath them, edged in embroidery. Underwear. Thaubs.
And then, one morning, she rose to find Fayad's mother arranging a gold cap hung all around with threads of gold, fine as silk, as long as her hair, on a tall stand in the centre of all this treasure.
So far she had resisted the temptation to try on any of the jewels. They were so exotic, so unreal, that to Leila's consternation she treated them almost as a joke.
But this was different and, unable to stop herself, she reached out a hand to touch the delicate threads.
'What is it?' she asked.
'It is your bridal cap,' Leila said, almost swooning with excitement, 'to be worn when you receive visitors for the seven days after the Emir comes to make your marriage.'
Make their marriage.
There could be no mistaking what she meant by that.
'Not yet…'
Please not yet. It was too soon. She had so much more to do. She did not want to leave Ras al Kawi. She did not want to leave him…
'It is time, Violet,' Fayad's mother said firmly.
'Does he say that?' she asked. If he did then there would be no question that it was time for her to go.
'He says he is too busy to discuss it, but his grandfather grows impatient, and since everything is ready-the house, the dowry-there need be no more delay.'
That would be the grandfather who was supposed to be on his last legs, but who, far from fading, seemed to have regained much of his strength in the last months.
'Which means?' she asked, hoping against hope that weddings took as long to organise in Ras al Kawi as they did in London. Months and months…
'We'll hold the maksar the day after tomorrow,' Fayad's mother replied. 'All the women will come to see the dowry, to feast.' She smiled. 'Then my son will come in the evening.'
To make her his wife.
Leila shivered with delighted anticipation.
Violet just shivered. 'I really need to talk to him about this, Sheikha.'
'He flew to Ras al Hajar this morning. He won't be back until midday tomorrow. But you don't have to worry about a thing. Everything is arranged. We will pamper you, and paint you with the wedding henna. Dress you, veil you.' She headed for the door, then turned back. 'He will expect you to resist him. Did you know this?'
'I knew.'
'Not much.' And she smiled. 'Just a token…' Then, 'I'll be back in an hour.'
Oh, the temptation. How easy it would be to just let it happen. Allow his mother to go ahead with her plans. Say nothing…
How would he be able to refuse?
Such a thought was unworthy of her. Unworthy of a man who had given her everything.
'I'm going to take a walk, Leila.'
'Now?' The girl was an unenthusiastic walker. 'But we need to begin…'
'An hour.' Little enough time. 'I just need some air.' She made herself smile. 'There's no need for you to come with me.'
'Oh, well. If you're sure?'
'I'm sure.' She wanted to take one last walk through the gardens, take the path above the palace to the place that Fayad had taken her, where she could see the whole of the city spread out below her.
A messenger met her at the door with an envelope, hand-delivered from Amira al Sayyid. She pushed it into the pocket of the jeans she wore beneath the abaya she'd thrown on to keep out the heat.
Her bodyguard half rose, but she waved him back into the shade. 'Stay, Yusuf. I'm not going far.'
She walked through the garden, through the gate that led to the home farm, with its fruit trees, vegetable gardens, its small herd of goats that provided milk for yoghurt and cheese. Up the steep path to the flat rock that provided a seat at the highest point.
She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there when a shadow cut off the sun. Yusuf, grown anxious? Or Leila, full of guilt?
Fayad had known and respected the Emir of Ras al Hajar since boyhood. The man was everything he aspired to. Cleaving to the best that was traditional in their way of life, but modern in outlook. And his English wife was not only mother to his sons, but stood beside him on the political stage, an advocate for women and an ambassador for her country.
Already Violet was filling that role in his own life. Full of ideas, proactive supporter of all hi
s projects, in the task of convincing the conservative die-hards on the education question, talking to the women.
Every day he spent with her was a joy. And a day nearer the time she would leave Ras al Kawi and go back to her real life.
And every day he thought about the moment when she'd made him whole, when he'd cried out, "You are mine!" But he'd known even then that she would never belong to anyone. Only someone who was utterly free could have surrendered something as valuable as the Blood of Tariq and asked for nothing in return.
He'd known from the beginning that she had every quality that would make her a worthy queen. From the first moment he'd seen her, recognised her courage as she'd flown to her friend's aid, she'd overturned everything that was dead inside him.
The one thing he had not expected was to fall in love with her. It was something so new, so different. But this must be love, surely? Not just the derided western word for what was little more than lust, but the knowledge that grew stronger every day, that when she left him to return to her own life she would tear out his heart and take that, too.
He would give everything to have her by his side, his wife in every way.
'Fayad?' He realised that Hassan had asked him a question. Was waiting for an answer.
'I'm sorry…'
'Your mind is elsewhere. This will keep.' He stood, releasing him with a smile. 'Next time you come to Ras al Hajar, bring your new wife with you. Rose is eager to meet her.'
Before he could answer, he saw his aide coming towards him, his face white. Without a word, he handed him the cellphone he was holding.
The caller did not bother introducing himself. All he said was, 'I have your wife.'
There was nothing else. No ransom demand. No threat.
There was no need.
He flew straight back to Ras al Kawi. Leila was distraught, blaming herself. 'She said she wanted to walk. To be alone.'
Violet's bodyguard was suicidal.
'Neither of you are to blame,' Fayad assured them. 'This is entirely my fault.'
He had brought her to Ras al Kawi. Worse, he had under-estimated the ruthlessness of Ahmed al Sayyid and just how determined he was to get his hands on the dagger.
He drove alone to the place where he was to deliver the khanjar. He took no one with him, would not risk Violet's life by deviating from the instructions he'd been given. By attempting a rescue attempt.
He had been careless of his first wife, his son, and he had lost them. Now, when in his head he had offered all he had in return for the woman he loved, Allah had tested him, was calling on him to make good his word.
He left the four-wheel drive and, carrying the Blood of Tariq in one hand, walked towards the narrow bridge slung across a high gorge.
Ahmed al Sayyid stood at the far end of the bridge, holding Violet by the wrist. With a gesture he made the point that if there was one false move on his part he would pitch her into chasm.
He walked slowly towards them, making sure that his hands were always in sight, set the khanjar down at the centre of the bridge, then turned to walk back.
The tension was unbearable. Would she follow? Would they keep her until they had roused their supporters, deriding him as weak, unfit to lead their country? For the first time in his life he looked back. Straight into Violet's eyes, and said, so that all could hear him, not that foolish, possessive "you are mine", but stood as a man should and said, 'I am yours.'
'Go and pack your bags, Fayad al Kuwani,' Ahmed mocked. 'I'll send your wife to join you in exile in her little house in London.'
He'd looked back. That was all Violet could think as she was delivered to the small private jet. He'd looked back and said, 'I am yours.'
He had not just surrendered everything for her. He had surrendered himself.
The plane was in the air for only twenty minutes, and when it touched down the first person aboard was Fayad. No holding back, no distance. He gathered her in his arms, held her close. 'My heart…you are safe.' Then, looking at her. 'They did not hurt you?'
'I am safe,' she repeated, clinging to him despite every promise she'd made herself. 'I was so afraid for you.' They'd had guns, and it would have been the work of a moment to have killed him once they had what they wanted. Then, 'You just gave it up. Handed over the Blood of Tariq for me. Are you prepared to go into exile…?'
'Would you come with me?'
'To the ends of the earth…' Then, because that really left her completely exposed, with no hiding place, 'Where on earth are we?'
'Ras al Hajar. This aircraft belongs to Ahmed al Sayyid and the pilot is married to Amira al Sayyid. Amira, however, wants her girls to go to school, and so she told him that if he took you to London he need not come home.'
'I know Amira. She comes to the majlis. In fact…' She dug into her pocket, drew out the envelope that had been delivered earlier that day. 'She sent me this, this morning.' Tearing it open, she found a letter, written in Arabic. 'This is Fatima's letter,' she said. 'The one that was stolen from my house…'
Fayad skimmed it. Then grabbed her and kissed her. 'Ahmed may have the Blood of Tariq, but he does not have you, twin of my soul.'
Twin of his soul…? 'What does it say?'
'It's a confession. Written when she was old, near death. I believe she meant to send it to my great-great-grandfather, but maybe she left it too late.'
'Yes, but what does it say?'
'Her marriage to Tariq al Kuwani was arranged by her father for the sole purpose of stealing the khanjar from him. The plan was that she should drug him, take it, make her escape by night.'
Violet caught her breath. 'If she had been caught…'
'I know. Death would have been certain, but it was for her tribe, her family. Her brother was to wait for her at a given place every night until she escaped. It was weeks before she could bring herself to do it- would not have if her father hadn't made her swear on the holy Q'uran. When she finally forced herself to do it, her brother was not there. Perhaps he'd given up, or thought that she'd been caught and killed. She couldn't go back and, knowing that her husband would kill her if he found her, she ran.'
'And was found by my great-great-grandfather.'
'He saved her life, paid her passage to England- because he knew what would happen to her if he left her behind to fend for herself. Then he married her in England when he was discharged from the army.'
'He was a true hero, then.'
He took her hand. 'Not all Hamilton men are bad, Violet.'
She shook her head. 'No…'
'Fatima vowed to make the most of her second chance, vowed to be a good wife to him. Bought him the house with her gold.'
'But she hid the khanjar.'
'It was famous. If it had appeared in London…' He left her to imagine what would have happened.
'I don't think it was chance that Lawrence put that fancy bit of cutlery in your great-great-grandfather's
hand,' she said. 'He chose wisely. And now, because of me, you have lost it.'
'You gave me everything you had and I could do no less for you.' She tried to speak but he stopped her. 'Later. My plane is waiting to take us back to Ras al Kawi.'
'Not exile, then?'
'The Kuwani have ruled Ras al Kawi for ninety years without your "fancy bit of cutlery", Violet. It takes more than a symbol to hold a country together over many generations, to bind it into a nation. It takes heart. Something that you have in abundance.' Then, 'Do you really want to go to London? Or does "the ends of the earth" include the bed of the Emir of Ras al Kawi, Violet Hamilton?' He took both her hands in his. 'You are my wife, the owner of my heart, the twin of my soul. Nothing will ever change that. Now I ask you, in your own language, in words that you will understand, will you stay at my side for always, be the mother of my children?'
Violet lifted her hand to his cheek. 'I will be at your side for always, Fayad al Kuwani, owner of my heart, twin of my soul. Be the mother of your sons, insh 'Allah. Or your daughters, if that is
his wish.'
And when their plane touched down in Ras al Kawi an hour later, Violet was not whisked away in a limousine while her husband was greeted by the tribal leaders. On this occasion she had her own reception, as the head of every hareem-with Amira al Sayyid first in line-waited to touch her hands, kiss her forehead, welcome her home.
The Sayyid coup was put down without bloodshed.
Even those who had sided with Ahmed on the question of education were horrified at what he had done, and in their effort to distance themselves from him were swift to ally themselves with the Emir.
The khanjar was returned anonymously and Fayad wore it when he arrived at the maksar, three days later, to claim his bride.
In the silence of the bridal chamber, Violet waited for her husband. Her hands and feet had been painted with the ornate bridal patterns. Her friends, Leila and Amira and Fayad's mother, had, giggling like girls, wrapped her in a series of gauzy gold-edged veils.
Fayad met little resistance at the door as those who guarded Violet bowed him through, but his heart was in his mouth as he opened the last door, saw her waiting for him, gift-wrapped and sitting upon a white sheet.
He expected that she would fight him, just a little, but as he picked up the edge of the first veil, 'My love,' he said, his voice shaking just a little. 'Will you have me?'
'My lord…'
Her voice was shaking, too, he realised. She was trembling. It was not what he'd expected from his modern British bride. He'd expected giggles, a pretend fight…
He kissed the edge of the first veil and slowly removed it.
'I have to tell you something, keeper of my heart, twin of my soul. I have to tell you why, when my grandfather, my family, pressed me to marry I refused to consider it.'
She looked up and he kissed the edge of another veil and slowly removed it,
'The truth is that I was so racked with guilt at the death of my wife, my son, I was useless to a woman.
'But…'
He smiled as he removed yet another veil, could see her eyes widen with surprise. Well, of course she must have been aware of the effect that she had on him. When he had kissed her, had come within a hair's breadth of making their marriage a reality…
