Читать книгу Hot Arabian Nights - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 12
ОглавлениеJulia rubbed her eyes, pushed back the bedsheets and sat up. The divan was positioned on a central podium under an elaborate fretwork canopy supported by four intricately carved wooden pillars. Her bedchamber was ostentatiously decorated, the walls covered in embossed panels depicting delightful scenes of lush vegetation, colourful birds and other exotic animals. The stained-glass window set into the centre of the sloping roof filtered a soft, dappled light into the room, the colours dancing on the pale marble floor, which was deliciously cool under her feet. It was very early, but she was far too excited to sleep, for today she was to leave the palace with Azhar for the first time.
He had sent word last night, confirming what they had agreed two days ago in the garden. He must have briefed the body of elders he referred to as Council yesterday on his proposed plan of action. She found it somewhat baffling that someone as manifestly self-reliant as Azhar would permit another to make decisions on his behalf, even if the person concerned was his brother, who had apparently been in temporary power throughout the period of their father’s illness. It seemed odd that the dying Sheikh had not sent for his heir sooner. They had been estranged, Azhar had said. Meaning, he could not—or would not—return to Qaryma while his father, the King, lived? He had expected to be disinherited, that much he had admitted. Had he then assumed that his brother would inherit? It was a reasonable enough assumption. She knew of many examples among the English aristocracy where second sons fell heir for all sorts of reasons. And Azhar’s brother, would he too have assumed that he would become King? Julia knew nothing of the laws and customs of this kingdom, but it was likely, surely, that he would think so, especially since Azhar had been absent for so very long.
Ten years. So much would have changed in the intervening period. She supposed it did make sense for Azhar to take time to take stock before assuming power. It would also allow time for his brother to become accustomed to the idea of having to step down. Julia grimaced. It was unfair of her to judge, given she’d been in the man’s company only a matter of moments, but she had taken an instant dislike to Kamal. He did not appear to her to be a man who would take kindly to being effectively deposed. The whole situation read like a fairy tale, the handsome Prince returning after ten years in the wilderness to oust his evil brother from the throne. Not that Kamal really was evil. Just a little repellent.
Julia smiled to herself. It wasn’t like her to let her imagination run riot. But then again, she wasn’t exactly in the habit of waking up in a private suite in a royal palace. She had never, in all her travels, nor even in books, seen anything so opulent. Or so beautiful. Padding across the bedchamber, she slid back the door which led to her sitting room. With triple aspect floor-to-ceiling windows, the glass panes set in delicate wrought-iron frames, light flooded in and made it the perfect place for her to work.
The sketch books, charcoals, pencils and watercolour paints which Azhar had miraculously sourced for her yesterday, were set on the table. It was extremely thoughtful of him to take the time to do so, when he had much more weighty matters to attend to. She had spent the whole morning sketching in the garden, retiring to this delightful salon to escape the worst of the afternoon heat and add splashes of colour to her outline drawings. She couldn’t quite believe her good fortune. To have been rescued by a prince, taken to his magical castle and given her heart’s desire! Julia smiled to herself. This might feel like a fairy tale, but she was hardly fairy-tale-princess material. Azhar however, was very much a prince. An extremely attractive, thoughtful prince, who might well think her unusual and extraordinary, but who was going to disappear from her life in a month’s time. She had better not get too used to his charming company and his delightful smile and that way he had, of encouraging confidences from her that she would not normally give.
But on the other hand, provided she did remember this was a moment—or a month—out of time, it meant a whole month to enjoy all this. She curled her toes into the luxurious pile of the rug, woven in vibrant jewel-like colours, which covered the floor. An enormous three-sided couch sat in the conservatory-like windowed recess, strewn with cushions decorated with gold tassels, worked in the most intricate of silk embroidery. Further seating was provided by larger cushions and several low gilded chairs, which were set around the table. The windows were draped in long, pale voile curtains which protected the room from the heat, though the room itself faced north. Above her, the ceiling was also ornately worked, a lattice of cornicing in gold, crimson and emerald.
Pulling back the gauzy curtains, she gazed out at the view of the courtyard beyond, as enraptured today as she had been for each of the last three mornings. Unable to resist the allure of the early light, she opened the latch on one of the long windows and stepped outside.
The courtyard was enclosed by three walls, the fourth formed by the room from which she had entered it, and was thus completely private. It was hot already, though the air had that damp, salty taste of early morning. The sun was still low, the pale blue sky decorated with a few stray puffy pink clouds. A lemon tree grew in one corner, a wooden bench forming a crescent around its trunk. A long rectangular pool ran from the step down from the windows right up to the perimeter wall. Tall, precisely trained jasmine shrubs stood sentry-like in ceramic tubs on either side of the pool. The scent from the delicate white flowers was heady as Julia brushed her fingers along the dew-tipped leaves. Two steps led down into the pool, which was lined with iridescent turquoise tiles. Lifting the hem of her nightgown, Julia dabbed her toes in the cool water, shivering with pleasure as it lapped against her skin, up to her calves, then her knees as she went down the steps. She was about to give in to the temptation to immerse herself completely, when a noise from the terrace startled her.
Julia waded out of the pool, the hem of her nightgown flapping around her wet ankles. The maidservant bowed her head, though not quickly enough for Julia to miss the quickly suppressed smile. ‘Good morning, Aisha,’ Julia said in Arabic, clasping her hands and bowing in the customary greeting.
The maid smiled shyly, ushering her to the table, which had been set for breakfast.
‘Shukran,’ Julia said. ‘Thank you, Aisha.’ Seating herself on a large cushion, she forced herself to wait to be served, knowing that to help herself would be a huge breach of etiquette. The coffee poured from the tall silver pot into the delicate china cup was thick and dark and sweet. There were pastries filled with candied fruit and nuts, dusted with sugar powder; a thick yoghurt swirled with honey; and melon, peaches and fruit Julia had never seen before, delicately carved into flower shapes, served with orange water.
‘Eat with gladness and health,’ the girl said in Arabic, the phrase familiar to Julia as the one traditionally spoken before eating.
‘Shukran,’ she said again, feeling quite inadequate, making a mental note to improve her vocabulary with all speed. Crossing her legs awkwardly underneath her, she began to eat, closing her eyes as the buttery, flaky pastry melted on her tongue. The bittersweet coffee scalded its way down her throat, ridding her of the last vestiges of sleep. Sated, she was cleaning her fingers in a copper bowl of water scented with rose petals when Aisha returned, indicating that it was time for Julia to dress by holding open the connecting door to the bedroom.
The clothes laid out on the divan were not hers. Instead of thick brown wool and white cambric, these were a swathe of colours in the softest of fabrics. ‘For me?’ she asked, and Aisha nodded. Though it would be most improper of her to accept such a gift, Julia hesitated only a moment. Azhar would not have selected the clothes himself. She would recompense him, she would not wish to be beholden to him, nor accept his charity, but it would be churlish to refuse them.
The garments were not only practical but beautiful. The pale-green soft cotton shift, worn over pantaloons of the same material, had wide sleeves gathered into ruffles at her wrists. A wide sash of intertwined silks in shades of green was tied at her waist to hold the shift in place. Over this, the abba cloak was draped, the pretty beading embroidered around the hem keeping it in place. The keffiyeh which Aisha folded expertly before placing it on her head was made of the same cotton as her shift, held in place by another band of multi-coloured silks. The veil was of some filmy, incredibly light material that allowed Julia to breathe easily. Yellow ankle boots with pointed toes made of calfskin so soft that they felt like slippers completed her outfit. Julia gazed in wonder at the exotic creature in the long mirror looking back at her, astounded by the transformation. She could look like an Arabian princess after all!
‘You like?’ Aisha asked.
‘I like very much indeed,’ she replied, twirling around. Back in England, this clothing would be deemed indecent, despite the fact that she was showing almost no flesh at all, and she could understand why. The flimsy layers of material clung in soft folds to her body, emphasising her own clearly uncorseted curves. Aisha had expertly pleated her hair into one long thick braid which she had pulled over her shoulder. There was something decadent about that fiery red plait, something exotic about Julia’s eyes flashing from above the flimsy veil. And something really quite delightful about the caress of the loose apparel on her skin too. She looked and felt utterly different. A sultry creature, fit for the desert.
Fit for a desert prince? What would Azhar think of this new Julia? Singular and extraordinary is how he’d described the old one. He’d said he thought her company delightful. Now, clad in her desert attire, for the first time in her life, Julia felt almost deserving of the description. She twirled around in front of the mirror again. Her headdress, her veil and her long plait of hair swirled sinuously in a wide arc. She felt decadent and daring, and, yes, she felt desirable too. It was all a fantasy of course, a fanciful conceit, but a deliciously distracting one.
A month out of time, she had here in the magical city of Al-Qaryma before reality must again be embraced. For a month, she would allow herself to be this alluring creature. And for a whole month, she would enjoy the company of the man who had helped create her new persona. Whatever that entailed. In a month, the mirage would fade and she would be Julia again. But not now. Not yet.
* * *
Azhar was waiting for her in the main courtyard of the palace. A small circle of guards stood around him. He seemed, by the various gestures he made, to be issuing a complex string of commands. Aside from a scarlet headdress fastened with a band of gold silk, his dress was the same simple attire he had worn when she first encountered him at the oasis. Unlike Kamal, he had a natural air of command, and no need of ostentatious dress to artificially bolster it. The guards certainly gave him their full attention. A gentle breeze tugged his cloak out behind him, making the tunic underneath cling to his lean, muscular frame. The combination of austerity and beauty in his features took Julia’s breath away anew. Suddenly shy in her new clothing, and uncertain as to whether he would expect to be treated as man or prince in the presence of others, she hovered in the lee of the portico waiting on him to notice her.
When he did, he dismissed the men curtly, and strode quickly over to her. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting. I am concerned that the palace guard are not being used to the best of their abilities. Some of the practices I have discovered are incredibly inefficient and ridiculously wasteful. It seems my views are shared by several of the men too. I have implemented some changes now, but I will have to take a proper look at the detail later. Talking of which...’ Azhar studied her appreciatively. ‘My compliments, Julia. A quite remarkable transformation from English rose to desert flower.’
His lips brushed her fingertips, making her shiver. ‘I certainly feel much cooler and more comfortable dressed like this,’ she replied, feeling quite the opposite. ‘I am much obliged to you for being so thoughtful. I will of course recompense you for the expense you have obviously gone to on my behalf, once I have exchanged my bank notes.’
‘Of course you will.’ Azhar spoke as coolly as she, but his eyes and his set expression told a different story.
‘I mean it. It would not be proper for me to...’
Azhar stiffened. ‘Julia, I rather think you left the boundaries of propriety behind when you headed out into the desert alone, but if it makes you happy, I will keep a tally of your expenses.’
‘I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it is I who must apologise. I sometimes forget that your customs are very different from ours.’ Azhar’s mouth softened again. ‘You are my honoured guest, Julia. As your host, it is my duty to ensure that your every comfort is provided for, and you cannot deny that in those inappropriate English clothes you were very uncomfortable indeed.’
‘I looked like a wrung-out dish rag, if truth be told. Thank you for being too much of a gentleman to point that out.’
Azhar laughed. ‘I have no idea what that is, but I assure you, even if I did, nothing would be further from my thoughts. What I do know is that what you are wearing is an infinite improvement. Now, if we are quite finished discussing fashion, we should ride out now while the sun is still low. Have you brought your drawing materials?’
‘Yes. Another thing I must thank you for, and which should be added to my growing pile of expenses.’
‘I assure you, my coffers can bear the strain. I don’t know what other botanical equipment you will require, but if you provide me with a list I will have it delivered to your quarters. Now, let us commence.’
He led the way across the courtyard, where not one but two camels were waiting, and Julia’s heart sank. After several futile attempts at mastering the art of mounting her own camel, horribly aware of Hanif and his men laughing behind their hands, she had chosen to ride one of the pack mules. With hindsight, this had been a mistake, an indication to the dragoman of her inexperience. She could not possibly ask Azhar to bring her a mule, but she wasn’t at all sure she could get herself on to the high seat of the camel without help, never mind steer the beast.
Azhar, having stowed her drawing supplies away in the saddle bags of his own camel, took both sets of reins from the camel driver and dismissed the man. In response to the strange clicking sound, Azhar’s mount dropped down and the horrible groaning, growling noise which all camels made when forced to kneel began to emanate from the beast.
‘Do you wish me to help you?’ he asked. ‘There is a knack to it.’
‘I know,’ Julia said grimly. Her palms sweating, she approached her own camel and attempted to imitate the clicking sound. What emerged reminded her embarrassingly of a slightly hysterical chicken. Screwing up her face for another attempt, she must have managed by some small miracle to produce something approximating the correct noise, since her camel, albeit reluctantly, dropped down with a loud groan of complaint. She knew from bitter experience that she had to get herself into the saddle quickly, before the camel changed its mind, so threw herself at the high box seat, scrambling on to it as the camel, true to the form of every camel of her experience, and regardless of Azhar’s restraining foot on its front leg, reared up alarmingly.
As the beast kicked its back legs out and Julia lunged forward, she was aware of Azhar yanking on the reins and calling out. She clung desperately to the pommel and managed to stay on board. Just. The invariable second attempt to dismount her had succeeded the last time, for she was not expecting it. This time however, when the camel immediately kicked its front legs out, instead of flying backwards in the saddle before tumbling over and landing on her behind, she leant quickly forward and clung on for dear life. Honour satisfied on both sides, the camel stood compliantly still and Julia, catching her breath, turned to Azhar with a triumphant smile, which quickly faded when she saw his grim expression.
‘I assumed you knew what you were doing.’
‘Well, in theory...’
He cursed under his breath. ‘In theory? In practice you might have been killed.’
‘Nonsense, I’ve fallen off several times before, and was only a little shaken up.’
Azhar cursed again. ‘You could have fallen and broken your neck. I thought—I assumed that since you had spent over a month in the desert—did that scoundrel of a dragoman teach you nothing? How on earth did you manage?’
‘I rode a mule,’ Julia confessed, ‘and before you feel the need to point out to me that by doing so, I contributed to my own downfall by displaying inexperience, I have already worked that out for myself.’
She looked down. It seemed a long way down, and the cobblestones, unlike the soft desert sand, did look rather lethal. Julia shuddered. ‘I’m sorry. I remember now, you said that the last thing you want on your hands is a dead Englishwoman,’ she said, in a poor attempt at a joke.
She was rewarded with a poor attempt at a smile. ‘Cornishwoman,’ Azhar reminded her. ‘But it is true, I would very much prefer if you managed not to kill yourself while you are under my protection. Can you manage to stay in the saddle if I lead your camel?’
Julia opened her mouth to demand the reins, and then thought better of it. ‘I believe so.’
‘If you think at any point that belief is unfounded, you will inform me of that fact,’ Azhar said curtly. In a matter of moments he had mounted his own camel and drawn alongside her, surprising her by reaching across to press her hand reassuringly. ‘My drawings look like tarantula tracks. It is not a weakness to admit to a lack of proficiency, Julia.’
* * *
The souks were already opening as they wended their way through the bustling streets of Al-Qaryma, the familiar scents of spices blending with the early morning freshness of the day. He could be in any city in the East, Azhar told himself, his keffiyeh fixed over his face, refusing to acknowledge the people who dropped to their knees as he passed, the little knot of children who ran after them. Yesterday, the Council had been shocked when he categorically refused to permit them to arrange the ceremonial audiences and formal celebrations which preceded any coronation. The people had been waiting three months already. Another month would make no material difference.
The Council had been even more taken aback by his refusal to take up his throne. But Kamal had been the custodian of Qaryma for more than a year as their father’s illness increasingly sapped his strength. Kamal was more than capable of continuing to deputise, was he not? Azhar had demanded. The response to this question had not been unequivocal. Though some of the newer members of Council had indeed been enthusiastic, Azhar noticed that the elders were more restrained in their support for his brother, and even more reserved in their response to Azhar. Traditionalists, men who had been loyal to his father for almost as long as he had reigned, Azhar could not decide whether they judged him harshly for having left, or for having returned.
He sighed impatiently. It mattered not. They had no option but to do his bidding. He needed neither their acceptance nor their approval. When he chose to inform them of the real state of affairs, they would understand his actions—not that he required their understanding either. What mattered now, was to make the most of the time he had bought for himself. And in doing so, to enjoy the company of the unusual and extraordinary woman who accompanied him.
As they left the city and the oasis behind, along with the discomfiting attentions of the people who thought him their Crown Prince, Azhar brought Julia’s camel alongside his. In her Eastern dress, she looked at the same time both exotic and yet unmistakably not of the East. The soft fabrics emphasised the slim lines and soft curves of her body. The bright colours highlighted the vivid green of her eyes, the burnished auburn of her hair. She had curled her legs around the pommel of the saddle. There was a tantalising glimpse of flesh above the top of her boot, below the gather of her pantaloons. Dragging his eyes away from it, he discovered she was watching him, trying to assess his mood. Behind his keffiyeh, he smiled. ‘Would you like to attempt taking the reins yourself?’
Her eyes became wary. ‘Azhar, I am a more-than-competent horsewoman, but I suspect I will never master the art of riding a camel. Nor will ever have cause to, since they are in rather short supply in England.’
‘No doubt English camels, if they existed, would be twice the size of our scrawny desert ones.’
‘Now you are mocking me.’
‘Not mocking, merely gently teasing you,’ Azhar said, bringing the camels to a halt. ‘But I dislike the fact that you mock yourself by berating your inability to control a camel.’
‘It is a stupid thing, not to be able to ride the ship of the desert when one has spent the last month travelling in that desert.’
‘You are very harsh on yourself. Had your dragoman made an effort to teach you, I have no doubt you’d have mastered the art long before now.’
‘I doubt Daniel would share your confidence.’
Azhar’s hands tightened on the reins. ‘Daniel is not here to disapprove.’ The man was a fool. He evidently took every opportunity to point out his wife’s inadequacies. But there was no point in castigating her for listening to such arrant nonsense. What she needed was encouragement. ‘Would you like to take the reins, just for a short while, Julia?’
‘What if it bolts?’
‘It takes a great deal of effort to make a camel bolt. It takes a great deal of effort to get a camel to do anything, if truth be told. Its reputation for stubbornness is well earned.’ Still, she looked unconvinced, eyeing the distance between the saddle and the sand dubiously. ‘Julia, even if you do fall on your most delightful rear, the sand here is very soft. The courtyard was a different matter entirely.’
Above her veil, her eyes widened. ‘You think my—my rear is delightful?’
Azhar laughed. ‘Very.’
‘How odd. No one has ever referred to it as delightful before.’ Julia frowned. ‘Actually, I don’t think anyone has ever referred to it in any manner at all before.’
‘Perhaps the men of your acquaintance are singularly unobservant,’ Azhar responded. ‘To say nothing of unappreciative.’
‘Perhaps it is these clothes.’
‘I was not admiring the clothes but the woman they adorn.’
She was close enough for him to see the flush on her cheeks beneath her filmy veil. Close enough for him to give in to the urge to run his fingers down the length of her silky plait of hair. Close enough for him to hear her sharp intake of breath as he did so. Close enough for his leg to brush against hers. For him to slide his fingers up her arm, over the soft billowing folds of her tunic, to rest on her shoulder. So close he saw the flame of desire he was feeling reflected in her eyes. So tantalisingly close he could almost touch his lips to hers.
But even as he shifted to close the final infinitesimal gap his camel bleated, and Julia’s balance on the box seat wavered, and Azhar caught at the reins he had almost dropped. ‘There is an old saying, that in the desert a camel is more useful than a kingdom,’ he said ruefully, ‘but as a location for lovemaking, it leaves a lot to be desired.’
* * *
Clutching the pommel of the saddle, Julia could think of nothing to say in response to this scandalous remark. How had they shifted from the subject of learning to ride a camel, to her rear—her delightful rear—to a kiss in the space of one conversation? How was it even possible that they had combined such disparate subjects? Her head whirled and her body thrummed. For once, she had no difficulty in reading Azhar’s expression, for it exactly reflected her own feelings.
‘Azhar...’ Realising that she still hadn’t a clue what she was going to say, she shrugged. ‘I’d like to try taking the reins, please, provided you keep a close eye on my progress.’
‘A most prudent suggestion,’ he said, giving her a slightly crooked smile.
Julia laughed. ‘I’m not sure that prudent is the word I’d use to describe what I’m about to do.’
‘Perhaps not, but it is a great deal less dangerous than what I was in the process of attempting. And I am not referring to physical danger. I hope I did not offend you.’
‘You must be perfectly well aware that you did not. If you must know,’ Julia said daringly, ‘I’ve been wanting to kiss you.’
Once again, she surprised him into a laugh. ‘I believe that is what they call serendipity,’ he replied, ‘because that is exactly what I too have been wishing to do. Though I could have chosen a more propitious moment.’
The way he was looking at her was making her feel not only daring, but decidedly decadent. ‘Then I hope you choose better the next time,’ Julia said, taking up the reins, and urging the camel into action.
It would have been a most dramatic gesture if it had worked. Sadly, the camel stayed firmly rooted to the spot. Julia tugged the reins tighter. The camel turned its long neck around and nonchalantly attempted to bite her. In her surprise, she loosened her hold on the reins, and to her astonishment the beast set off at a slow plod.
‘I thought you said you understood the theory,’ Azhar said, catching up with her on his own mount.
‘Obviously I was wrong. What do I do to change direction?’
‘If you will permit me to ride a little in front, your camel will naturally follow mine.’
‘And to stop?’
Azhar laughed. ‘Do exactly what you thought you should do to start. We have about an hour’s ride to the oasis, do you think you can manage that?’
Julia risked a glance to the side. She was riding a camel, in the most beautiful desert, in the kingdom belonging to this most beautiful man. A man who thought she had the most delightful rear. A man who wanted to kiss her every bit as much as she wanted to kiss him. ‘I know that I will regret saying this, but at this moment in time, I think I could manage anything.’
* * *
One hour later, she heartily regretted her words. Her rear felt not at all delightful, but quite numb. The relief she felt when Azhar’s camel slowed in front of her was immense. Bringing her own mount to a stuttering but effective halt, Julia dismounted by the simple process of sliding on to the sand, discovering to her cost that it lay in a very thin layer on top of crumbly red rock.
‘Did you hurt yourself?’
Dazed, she shook her head, allowing Azhar to pull her to her feet. Having discovered that the best way to avoid seasickness from the swaying saddle was to concentrate only on the view in front of her, Julia’s vision had been focused entirely on Azhar’s back. Now, she took stock of her surroundings and gasped with surprise. ‘What is this place?’
Azhar spoke the name in Arabic. ‘It means Oasis of the Red Rock and the Tumbling Waterfall,’ he elaborated. ‘Rather more prosaic in translation.’
‘There is nothing at all prosaic about this place, it is absolutely breathtaking.’
The oasis was small, a hollow protected by a semi-circular rock formation about thirty feet high. The waterfall tumbled down from the centre of the rocks into a deep pool. Years of pounding water had carved out fantastical shapes on the rock face. Behind the cascade, a species of silvery-green moss grew in long fronds. Trees the same strange colour of silvery-green grew on either side, almost as tall as the rocks, their reflections shimmering on the ruffled surface of the water. The air was refreshingly cool and damp, the shadow cast by the rock formation a welcome relief from the heat, which was already searing, though it could not be much more than ten in the morning.
The low stone houses, constructed of the same red rock, clung to the perimeter of the water on the shaded side, blending in so well with their surroundings, that Julia didn’t notice them at first. ‘It is so quiet,’ she said. ‘Does no one live here?’
‘At this time of day, the men will be at work,’ Azhar replied. ‘There is a diamond mine two hours’ travel from here. Only the women will be at home.’
‘And I suppose they will not reveal themselves to a stranger. Though—you know, it has only just occurred to me, when we arrived in Al-Qaryma you were recognised almost instantly, even though you have been away ten years.’
Azhar finished hobbling the camels. ‘I was a grown man when I left, Julia, and I did not spend all of my formative years closeted behind the palace walls.’
Curious as to how he had spent his days, she was distracted by a cry of welcome coming from the largest of the village houses. An old woman stood in the doorway, her lined face unveiled, her arms extended in welcome. When he saw her, Azhar’s face lit up. ‘Johara,’ he said to Julia. ‘She is a herbalist. I was afraid—but I should have known she would still be here. I think she will live for ever. Come, let me introduce you.’
He got to Johara’s side in time to prevent the woman from falling to her knees, pulling her into an embrace and speaking gently to her in his own language.
‘Madam Julia Trevelyan,’ Azhar said, introducing her.
The woman’s face was heavily lined, her tiny frame bent and frail, but her eyes, under their drooping lids, were a bright and fiercely inquisitive blue. Herbalist, wise woman, fey wife, healer or witch, depending on which culture they inhabited, Julia had encountered Johara’s kind several times on her travels, and knew that they commanded respect as well as fear. She dropped to her knees, bending over the woman’s gnarled hand, and muttered the traditional words of greeting in her halting Arabic.
After helping her back to her feet, she was rewarded with a nod of approval from Azhar, and a look she could only term quizzical from the old woman, who then broke into a torrent of Arabic, accompanied by many gestures. Standing to one side, Julia watched as the doors to the other houses in the village opened, and women of all shapes, sizes and ages began to emerge, two, three sometimes as many as four from each. They were all heavily veiled. One by one, they came forward, bowed over, eyes to the ground, forming two lines in front of the herbalist and their Crown Prince.
Feeling awkward, Julia shuffled to one side. Azhar, his back to the women, deep in conversation with Johara, seemed not to have noticed their arrival. Julia tugged on his sleeve to get his attention, motioning over his shoulder. He turned, most reluctantly, it seemed to her. Had he been ignoring them? She caught what looked like a momentary flash of annoyance, or embarrassment in his eyes, before he said some sort of formal greeting and indicated that they should rise. They did so slowly, their eyes above their veils quite patently expecting more from him, but Azhar spoke under his breath to Johara and turned away.
‘We are invited to take tea,’ he said to Julia, taking her arm, compelling her into the wise woman’s house without a backward glance.
‘That was a little rude, if I may say so.’ Julia shook herself free. ‘Those women wished only to show their respect to their future King, and you as good as turned your back on them.’
Azhar’s mouth tightened. ‘I do not deserve—’ He broke off abruptly. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. ‘I am not yet their King. I have not yet been crowned.’
There was a faint flush on his cheeks. ‘That is sophistry. Does it embarrass you, their adulation?’ Julia asked, confused by the strength of his reaction, recalling now, Azhar’s refusal to acknowledge the crowds which had followed them through the city on their arrival. ‘It does seem a little strange to me, the bowing and scraping I mean, but then I come from a country which has locked one King up, and put an overweight, over-indulged and frankly over-excitable popinjay on the throne in his place.’ The similarities between the two Regents, Prince George and Prince Kamal, struck Julia suddenly. Now it was her turn to blush. ‘I did not mean to compare the two, of course. It is the merest—I mean I am sure that your brother is not a...’ Libertine? Rake? ‘Profligate.’
‘Are you? You seem very certain about everything else, for one who has spent less than fifteen minutes in his company.’
Azhar gave her one of his haughty looks. Instead of inhibiting her, it made Julia’s hackles rise. ‘I am a most astute interpreter of character,’ she said.
‘So astute, that you employed a thief as your dragoman.’
‘Oh! That was most—’ Once again, she broke off. ‘You are quite correct, of course. It is I who have been unfair, leaping to judge a man I do not know. Not that I am acquainted with Prince George either, but his habits are well established, and—and anyway, Azhar, we have strayed very far from the point. Even if it does make you uncomfortable, all the women were doing was showing you the respect due to their Prince.’
‘Even a prince must earn respect, Julia.’ Azhar took off his headdress, refolded it and replaced it. ‘It was not my intention to be rude. I—’
A woman bearing a huge tray of tea things interrupted him. She was followed by Johara, who ushered them both to take their places on the cushions by the low table. As the sweet mint tea was poured with due ceremony, Azhar asked Johara to explain her craft for Julia’s benefit, translating the old woman’s words and Julia’s eager questions. Though she had encountered some of the plants mentioned, many were strange to her, either due to their local names, or simply because she had never encountered them before. Questions, more questions and yet more, Julia threw at Johara via Azhar, as the encyclopaedic extent of the woman’s knowledge became apparent. Finally, Johara clapped her hands and summoned one of her daughters.
The book which was reverently laid on the table was folio-sized, bound in dark-red leather, and clearly ancient. ‘You are privileged indeed,’ Azhar said. ‘This book has been passed from mother to daughter in Johara’s family for more than two centuries.’
The illustrations were so beautiful that Julia gasped. Plants, flowers, trees and roots, one species to a page, below which were what she assumed to be recipes for medicinal potions, documented in minute Arabic script. Julia carefully turned the pages, tracing the delicate paintings with her fingers. ‘These are wonderful. Please tell Johara that I am extremely honoured, that I have never seen anything quite so exquisite. Shukran,’ she said, putting her hands together. ‘Please tell her that I am very, very grateful.’
‘Johara says that you are welcome to copy the drawings if you wish, but you must not transcribe the recipes, or a curse will befall you and your family,’ Azhar said. ‘It is a warning I would not ignore lightly. But I thought you may prefer to take the likenesses of some of the specimens in their natural habitat. Many of them grow here at the oasis. Johara’s daughter will show you where, if you wish.’
‘If I wish! When may we start? Oh, I did not mean to be rude, but...’
‘But you are anxious to begin your task,’ Azhar said, smiling. ‘We have about four hours before we must leave.’
‘Thank you. Oh, thank you so much, but what about you, what will you do while I am working?’
‘I have ten years of history to uncover, Julia. I shall not lack occupation.’
* * *
As Azhar waited for Johara to summon the women of the village, he watched Julia heading off to the other end of the oasis with mixed feelings. The honesty he had requested of her came at a price. She saw too much. More, he suspected, than she chose to share with him. He suspected too, that he would prefer her to keep those thoughts to herself.
Her perception discomfited him, surprising him into confidences he would rather not make, forcing him to confront facts he would prefer to ignore. His people’s unwarranted adulation, for example. Did they not realise that he had abandoned them? He had expected resentment at his return, sullen acceptance at best. If only his brother had made more of an effort to endear himself to the people. He’d had ten years to prove himself worthy. But then, hadn’t Kamal always held the belief that birthright alone was sufficient? Recalling Julia’s comparison of his brother and the English—what did she call him?—popinjay Prince, Azhar snorted in amusement. It was apt, there was no denying that. He wasn’t quite sure what a popinjay was, but he could imagine.
Yes, Julia saw too much, but Julia had not the full picture. If she did, she would understand—Azhar caught himself short. He needed her honesty, but not her understanding. He had no need to explain himself to Julia. Even if she was correct about the adulation. It was odd, he had no compunction in misleading Kamal and his Council, he had been most careful to tell no lies, even when he revealed only part of the truth. But it sat very ill with him to be misleading the people.
Outside, the women had gathered. What he intended to do was for their own good. And his. It was the only possible outcome. But in the meantime, as Julia had pointed out, coronation or not, he owed those who thought themselves his subjects some respect. Picking up his keffiyeh, refolding it carefully, Azhar headed outside to demonstrate that fact.
