The Bride Price (14 page)

As the party ascended into the mountains, the humid, stifling air of the Tihama was left behind and the breeze was cool and juniper-scented. Eagles wheeled lazily in the cloudless blue sky above their aeries, and in the mountain passes baboons shrieked down at the travelers as the line of graceful horses picked their way along the rocky paths, descending into the lovely valley where Taif nestled far below.

Higher up, another rider shared the vista. Sharif Al Selim reined his mare to a halt and stopped to enjoy the view. Down the trail behind him, the chieftain could hear his kinsmen and retainers laughing and talking among themselves as they ambled through a copse of wild olive trees. They were less concerned with flushing game from the bushes than with enjoying each other’s company.

Despite the easy camaraderie he was missing, Sharif was pleased to have a moment of solitude. He sighed deeply and turned unfocused eyes on a green mountainside in the distance. When would the ill fortune that seemed to pursue him tire of the chase?

It had been a day much like this just last month when even more bad news had reached him. As the sheik had returned from the hunt and neared his house, the mourning cry had reached his ears. Shrill and piercing, it rose from the women’s quarters, lingering on the wind, and it could only mean death. Throwing himself from his saddle, he was greeted in the courtyard with the news that Zayid, his impetuous nephew, was dead, another victim of his father’s murderers.

Later Sharif had walked alone in the hills behind his villa, trying to ease his own pain while the keening wail seemed to echo from the rocks. It rose not only from his own home, but from the houses of his people. His sorrow was not his alone; it was shared by the tribe, for one day the young man would have succeeded Sharif as sheik. Now the only one left besides the small children was Nassar.

As Allah willed, Sharif reflected, but his mouth tightened nonetheless at the thought. In the year since his father’s death, Nassar had squandered most of his inheritance. No doubt now he would spend Zayid’s share of the legacy just as rapidly.

There was nothing wrong with the young man that some schooling in Bedouin ways would not have corrected, Sharif mused, but it was too late now. The inevitable hardening that came when the sons of nobility lived with the Bedu was intended for boys. Nassar had been soft and sickly all his life, and his mother had convinced Hamza not to expose him to the deprivations of the desert. Nassar had stayed safely at home.

Sharif knew, however, that the young man’s weak appearance concealed a will of iron when it came to having his own way. Nassar also had a notoriously bad temper. It was legendary among the servants, although Sharif had never actually seen him mistreat a slave.

Now, since Zayid’s death, Nassar was
ibn ’amm,
the son of her uncle and the mate, according to Arab custom, for Sharif’s daughter, `Abla. The thought pained the chieftain. Although he was not close to his daughter, he would not wish her cousin on anyone. Thank God she was young yet, he thought darkly. Perhaps by the time she was old enough to wed, his nephew would have mellowed with age.

Absently the man’s gaze swept the panorama before him, narrowing when he saw the small caravan descending to the valley floor below.

Even from this distance Sharif recognized the horseman who slouched along in the lead. It was Nassar. But why was he coming back to Taif so soon? He had been sent to Mecca two weeks ago for dual purposes. He was to participate in hajj for the first time, earning the title of Hajji, as was fitting for a sayyid. After
Eed al Adha,
the feast celebrating the end of pilgrimage, he was to remain in the holy city long enough to purchase a load of wheat and barley brought by caravan from Syria.
Eed al Adha
would not occur for nearly two weeks, yet here he was. Even more puzzling was the identity of the women he brought with him.

Sharif wheeled his horse and doubled back on the trail. A short distance down the mountainside, he met his surprised entourage.

“Where do you go so quickly, Sharif?” one of the men called.

“To the villa,” the sheik responded, reining his horse near Sa’id, his cousin and most trusted friend. Quietly he told him what he had seen.

“Do you wish me to accompany you?” Sa’id asked immediately.

“No, take the others on the hunt,” Sharif requested. “Enjoy yourselves. It is said that a man forgets his birth and suffers in death. He must not neglect the life in between.

“Good hunting,” he bade the others, and urged his horse toward home—and the harem, for that was where he would find his nephew.

The shrill, welcoming trill of the women greeted Nassar and his retinue as they approached the pastel-hued villa. The young man spurred his horse mercilessly and galloped toward the two waiting figures, swathed in concealing black cloaks and masklike
burqus.

“As salaam ’alaykum.
Welcome home, my son,” Fatmah, the shorter and stouter of the two, called as he dismounted.

“Peace to you, ya Umm,” he greeted his mother. “And to you, Latifeh,” he said to his aunt. “It is good to be home.”

“Tonight we will roast a goat to celebrate,” Fatmah announced, “but for now, let us receive you in the harem, where a cool drink will refresh you.”

Nassar tossed the reins of his horse to a waiting servant and commanded Bryna and Pamela to follow him, ignoring the questioning glances his mother and aunt shot at him.

The girls trailed behind him through an exquisite courtyard, more beautiful than they had ever seen. The elegant stone house was built in a U shape around the courtyard. An airy
majlis
formed much of the base of the U, with a kitchen at the back. The lower floor of the left wing housed storerooms; a private chamber for the sheik’s trusted servant, Abu Ahmad; and a dormitory for the male servants. Upstairs were apartments for the male members of the family. Nassar’s overlooked the courtyard; and a spacious apartment, facing the gardens at the back of the house, belonged to Sharif.

The right wing was connected to the
majlis
by a breezeway. A formidable door barred the entrance to the harem, where the household’s women and children lived. Women servants slept in a dormitory near the front of the house, while Sharif’s small family, Fatmah, Latifeh, and `Abla, occupied the back section, an enormous suite of apartments that opened onto a pleasant walled garden.

The procession had no sooner reached the women’s quarters than Nassar’s mother and aunt ripped the
burqus
from their faces and pounced on the young man with questions.

“Who are these women?” they demanded in unison, turning hostile eyes on the newcomers, who hesitated in the doorway.

“Slaves,” Nassar answered noncommittally, sprawling on a pillow.

“We do not need more serving girls,” the sensible Latifeh protested, offering him a cool drink.

“Then it is just as well that I purchased them as wives,” the young man answered, smiling at her smugly.

“Wives?” Fatmah shrieked. The portly woman sank down beside her son and clutched at his sleeve. “What of your betrothed?”

“What of her?” Nassar shook free of her grasp. “I am not even sure I should marry her since Zayid’s death. After all, now I have to marry `Abla.”

“It is true that `Abla is your
bint ‘amm,
the daughter of your father’s brother, and obligated to marry you, but you have been pledged to Farida since childhood,” his mother argued reasonably.

“Yes, you must honor that vow,” Latifeh confirmed.

“Very well, I will marry both of them,” Nassar agreed indifferently, “but I will also marry these two.”

“Not until you have done your duty by Farida,” Fatmah scolded.

“I want these now, Umm
,”
he cajoled his mother. “You will not mind if I have them, will you?”

“I have told you my feelings. If you are to wed them, it must wait until after you have married Farida,” she answered firmly.

“Then I will take these as concubines,” Nassar countered just as firmly.

“Nassar,” Fatmah gasped. Leaning back on her pillow, she fanned herself with a palm leaf fan. “What can you be thinking?”

“Yes. Nassar, you cannot—”

“I may not be a scholar, but do not tell me I am forbidden by the Prophet to take them, Latifeh.” He scowled at his aunt, who was nearly as learned in Islamic law as a man. “If I took this issue before the ulema, that holy court would back me up. I intend to have these women... now.”

“Why now?” his mother pleaded.

“I will show you why!” Jumping to his feet, he strode to Pamela and ripped the burka and
ghata
from her head. The shocked girl retreated in confusion, her eyes wide as her blond hair tumbled to her shoulders. Nassar seized her arm tightly and thrust her to stand before the older women.

“Let them look at you,” he snapped.

“Allah protect me from the devil!” Fatmah wailed. “You have brought a kaffir into our home.”

“You cannot keep her,” Latifeh argued despite Nassar’s warning. “You would become unclean every time you touched her.”

“Then I will wash until she makes her
shahada.
Mind your business, woman,” he snarled.

“What about this one?” Latifeh pressed, undeterred. She pointed at Bryna, who was poised at the door.

“Come here and take off your veil,” Nassar ordered his unwilling slave.

“Allah will turn his face from us, so great will be his displeasure,” Fatmah moaned when Bryna stood bareheaded before them, her chest heaving in restrained anger. “Another kaffir, and this one has the blue eyes of a bewitcher.”

“What will we do with foreign women in the harem? How can we even speak to them? I doubt they understand the tongue of the prophet,” the ever-practical Latifeh said with a disdainful snort.

“You speak a little of the language of Frankistan.” Nassar shrugged carelessly. “I prefer they speak the language of the Franks, anyway.”

“I do not know enough to make the infidels understand my commands,” Fatmah complained to her son, who ignored her.

“I do not think you have to worry about that with this one,” Latifeh murmured, watching the American girl closely. “I think she understands what we are saying.

“What is your name, girl?” she asked Bryna directly in Arabic.

Bryna looked at the woman and replied evenly, “Bryna bint Blaine Al O’Toole.”

“My lady,” Fatmah corrected stridently. “Tell her she must address us with respect.”

“Tell her yourself.” Latifeh frowned at her. “By Allah, I do not know how she could help but hear you when you screech in her ear.” Turning to her nephew, she said, “This Bryna bint Blaine is not stupid, but her accent is hard to understand and she is as tall as a man. Why did you buy her?”

“To keep the golden-haired houri happy.”

“You have surely been possessed by a jinni, Nassar,” she responded disapprovingly. “What will people say when they find you have taken not one, but two infidel wives?”

“I will be the envy of all men when their wives and sisters tell them how beautiful my Inglayzis are. They will speak of my prowess around the campfires.”

“Do not do this, my son,” Fatmah begged. “You will bring shame upon our family.”

“Shame! Do not speak to me of shame,” Nassar screamed, suddenly galvanized into action. He lashed out, stomping around the room in a fit of temper, driving his fist into columns and kicking at the pillows and dishes on the floor.

While he ranted, Bryna prudently removed herself to a window overlooking the harem garden. Shrugging off her black cloak in the heat, she perched on the broad sill and tried to follow his tirade.

“Has Sharif done anything to lessen our shame since the death of my father?” Nassar demanded hotly. “He did not avenge our name with a
ghazzi
on the dogs who raided us.”

“It was not fitting,” Latifeh defended their new husband. “Theirs was a tribe of low standing. It would blacken our face to war with them.”

“Yet he allowed Zayid to seek revenge,” he jeered.

“Yes, he allowed Zayid to go.” Fatmah sighed. “I do not think he could have stopped him.”

“And all my beloved brother did was to get himself killed,” the flabby young man scoffed, uncaring that his mother still mourned his older brother. “Now the raiders have disappeared into the sands, and still there is no blood for blood, no retribution.

“So do not speak to me of shame, old women. Has your precious Sharif sired any sons—or even tried? He did his duty and married you, but has he taken a woman to bear him children? Has he even ceased to be celibate? A man is his sons, and Sharif is no one. The father of a daughter. I ask you, where is the honor in that?”

“Where is the honor in what, Nassar?” a deep, rich voice inquired quietly from the doorway, and Sharif stepped into the room.

From her seat on the windowsill, Bryna inspected the new arrival with interest. This would be Nassar’s uncle, the powerful Sheik Sharif Al Selim. That he was a leader of men was evident in his very bearing. His easy confidence demanded respect. Tall for an Arab and well proportioned, he stood erect with legs slightly spread. One strong, brown hand caressed the hilt of the sword that swung at his side. The man’s back was to the window, and over his shoulder Bryna caught glimpses of a handsome, craggy face, bronzed by the sun.

From what she could see of him, Bryna decided Sharif Al Selim looked as if he were in his mid-thirties. Even though his neatly trimmed black beard was peppered lightly with silvery white hairs, he hardly looked old enough to be the revered leader of the respected tribe. Beneath his snowy kaffiyeh, his headdress, the sheik’s eyes were an unexpected slate color. Their gaze was disturbingly direct and penetrating.

Sharif’s loose-fitting white
thobe
and russet aba did not disguise the muscular figure beneath. A saffron sash encircled his lean midriff. Tucked into the sash was a jeweled silver dagger and a brace of pistols.

The moment of his entrance seemed frozen in time as Sharif took in the tableau. Nassar halted his frantic pacing and gazed at his uncle defiantly, while Sharif’s wives stared at him openmouthed, consternation written on their lined faces. And in the midst of the chaos, a pale blond beauty stood, still swathed in her cloak. Her head was bowed and tears seeped from her tightly shut eyes.