Claiming His Desert Princess

‘No! Absolutely not. I do not refer to myself.’

‘Then who...?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You are right. It was just a kiss.’

Just a kiss. He took her hand. Her fingers were long and slim, her nails patterned with henna. His bloodline did not define him. He was nothing like that man, nor ever would be. ‘Just a kiss,’ he repeated, ‘but a very delightful one.’

She was blushing charmingly. ‘Do you mean that? You forget, I have no experience and am therefore in no position to judge.’

‘I don’t forget, Tahira.’ He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand. ‘Your innocence is something I would never forget, never take advantage of, I swear.’

‘If I was betrothed, you would not have kissed me, would you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So I may assume you are also free?’

‘I am neither betrothed nor indeed married, if that is what you are asking. In fact, I doubt the woman exists, who would tolerate my investing every penny I earn in excavating holes in the ground. Nor would any, I am certain, endure the travails of traipsing around Egypt, living in caves and tents while I spend most of my waking hours digging up bones.’

‘It sounds to me like paradise,’ Tahira said whimsically. ‘I wish I could live such a life.’

‘Be careful what you wish for. The reality is hot, exhausting, uncomfortable, often tedious, extremely hard work for little reward.’

‘What you mean is that I’m completely unfit for such a life.’ Her smile wobbled. ‘I do understand the difference between dreams and reality, Christopher. And my reality—at least I can be reasonably sure that I’m fit for purpose as a wife. It’s what I was raised to be, after all.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to patronise you.’ Or hurt her, which he clearly had.

But Tahira shrugged. ‘You spoke the truth. We are, as you have pointed out, from very different worlds.’

‘Yet here we are, together.’

She smiled at that. ‘A hiatus from reality.’

‘Sadly,’ Christopher said, looking up at the sky, ‘one which must draw to a close for tonight. Isn’t it high time you left, if you are to be back before dawn?’

‘Yes.’

Turning away, Tahira stumbled. As he caught her, peering down at the sand to see what had tripped her up, Christopher saw not a rock, not the gnarled root of a shrub, but something gleaming dully. Pulling it free from the sand and dried mud which encased it, he stared at the object in astonishment. ‘It’s a pot.’

His heart began to pound as he rubbed the surface clean. ‘A silver vessel,’ he said, turning it over in his hands to examine the patina and shape. ‘Very old.’

He could see his excitement reflected in her face. ‘I’ve never seen anything—never found anything—Christopher, what do you think it means?’

He shook his head, though he couldn’t suppress his own smile. ‘This is not the kind of item a lowly miner would own.’ His laughter echoed into the desert night. ‘It means we most definitely have more work to do here.’

* * *

Christopher had visited many souks and market places throughout Arabia, but the bazaar in the centre of Nessarah’s main city, which he decided to visit the next morning, not to buy a flying carpet but for a far more serious purpose, took his breath away. The building itself was unremarkable, white painted with narrow slits for windows which were cut seemingly at random into the fortress-like walls. The geometric octagonal shape of the structure was the only clue that what was contained behind the massive wooden doors which stood open wide to the early morning sunshine was the antithesis of plain.

The entrance led through a narrow passage to a huge central atrium which soared the full height of the building. Light poured down from the apex of the vaulted ceiling, a dome which had been sliced open to the sky. The dome itself was moulded in an elaborate pattern to give the impression of overlapping tiles in gold and turquoise, while the supporting pillars and columns were also brightly patterned in vivid colours of emerald, mustard yellow, cobalt and white. Terracotta tiles paved the ground, a fountain populated by a shoal of tiny fish stood under the open dome, and low divans were scattered invitingly for weary shoppers to rest their feet and pass the time of day.

The bazaar was bustling with women gossiping, men haggling, children playing. Inured to the curiosity his shock of blonde hair and distinctive blue eyes aroused, Christopher made no attempt to disguise his foreignness and instead adopted the air of bland indifference which, while it did nothing to suppress the stares and whispered asides, at least discouraged the curious from approaching him directly.

The arcade of shops ran around the outer walls on two levels, the arched entranceways to each decorated in highly individual styles, the startling variety of goods on sale evidence of Nessarah’s wealth. This kingdom was reputedly the richest in the whole of southern Arabia. It appeared that claim might be justified. Wandering past a spice-seller, Christopher was struck as he always was, not just by the heady aroma, but by the myriad colours, the care the owner had taken with the displays of produce, stringing up dried chillies like jewellery, moulding powdered spices into pyramid shapes ranged in an order that segued from the warm gold of turmeric to the deep, dark red of paprika and the burnt ochre of sumac. The confectionery stall next door housed sweetmeats stacked into complex towers, and next door again, nuts, pulses and grains were laid out in boxes and sacks with a pleasing symmetry. Beaten copper in every form was the province of the next shop in the arcade. Polished platters in every size, precarious stacks of cooking pots, ewers and bowls, trays and moulds, plain and decorated, the choice was infinite. Next door, a glittering display of decorative silver dishes, pierced and chased, urns and vases, mirrors, jewellery boxes and bonbon dishes.

He wandered on, intent on finding the section of the market which had brought him here, yet careful to let none see that he had a purpose other than aimless browsing. Silver gave way to gold. Decorative items gave way to jewellery. Finally, he found it, tucked away, behind a closed screen, the entrance to the area of the bazaar given over to the trade in precious stones. But what to do? A huge mountain of a man dressed in the royal livery of crimson and white stood guard. A massive paw placed on his chest forbade Christopher from proceeding any further. ‘By invitation of Prince Ghutrif only.’

Christopher bowed and backed away, his suspicions confirmed. The diamond trade in Nessarah was indeed tightly controlled by the royal family. It was frustrating, but after all, no less than he had expected. He would simply have to formulate a strategy, for he must match the stones of his amulet against those being mined here. He smiled to himself. As a last resort, he would find a way to confront the man who controlled the trade, Prince Ghutrif himself, though he wasn’t absolutely sure that a previously successful tactic of deliberately getting himself arrested was such a good idea. It had worked well enough in Qaryma, but Prince Azhar was a well-travelled man of the world. The little he had heard of Prince Ghutrif led him to think that that he was unlikely to be received with civility, let alone hospitality.

He would think of something. There was certainly no need to show his hand just yet. With a polite nod of farewell to the watchful guard, Christopher retreated. The tinkling of a fountain drew him to a small courtyard, where mint tea was being served. A pleasant place to gather his thoughts, and to listen to the gossip. One never knew what nugget of valuable information one might overhear, but he had taken only one sip from his glass, when a squad of guardsmen entered. They wore the royal colours. He braced himself for arrest. Despite his low profile, his presence in Nessarah had clearly been detected, and was being investigated. After visiting so many kingdoms in the past six months, he supposed it was inevitable that word had got out. He set down his glass, careful to keep his expression one of mild enquiry.

‘Greetings, Stranger.’

Christopher made a formal bow.

The palace guard in Nessarah were considerably more polite than some others he had encountered. ‘With regret, we must ask you to leave the bazaar with immediate effect.’

Extremely polite!

‘The bazaar is temporarily closed to the public in order to allow a royal shopping trip to take place. You may return in two hours.’

‘I would have thought King Haydar would have any number of people to do his shopping for him,’ Christopher exclaimed in surprise.

The man cast a glance over his shoulder. ‘It is the royal princesses who are gracing the bazaar with their presence. Please,’ he added hastily as another of the coterie approached him, ‘you must go now, quickly.’

He did as he was bid, following the crowds of people making for the central atrium. There were small posses of royal guards everywhere, some standing sentry, others sweeping through the warren of shops and stores, still others issuing urgent instructions to anxious-looking storekeepers. He left the rapidly emptying central atrium and stepped out into the blazing mid-morning sunshine, where most of the people stood, clearly eager for a glimpse of the royal cortège. Fascinated, Christopher stood too, finding a position on the far edge of the crowd.

The royal entourage arrived in a magnificent caravan of camels, flanked by two sentry lines of heavily armed guards on foot. Ten women, female attendants or ladies in waiting, in two rows of five were cloaked and veiled in finest silk. Their camels were also elaborately dressed, with colourful tasselled saddle bags, silver bells tinkling from the reins, braided necklaces and chest bands adorning the beasts themselves. Amidst them, what must be the princesses’ own mounts, pure white thoroughbred camels, which were adorned with pearls and semi-precious stones. Their saddles, unlike the others, were canopied to shield them from the sun.

Five princesses, women or girls, it was difficult to tell, for they were swathed in silk, head to toe and all of their faces, save the slit left for their eyes, leaving absolutely everything to the imagination. King Haydar’s most valuable assets, the kingdom’s most exclusive and reclusive females.

They would be riding in strict order of seniority, Christopher knew. As they approached, the crowds fell to their knees in obeisance and he followed suit. All eyes were lowered. It was disrespectful to look at the princesses, but on the assumption that the princesses were modestly keeping their eyes to the ground too, Christopher risked a glance.

He remembered now, what he had quite forgotten, that a princess of Nessarah was betrothed to Prince Kadar of Murimon. Now he looked more closely, he saw that the one in front was with child. Prince Ghutrif’s wife, he assumed, and so it must be the next one, clad in the colours of the setting sun, who was destined for the kingdom of Murimon. Impossible to determine anything of her, beneath those voluminous layers. He wondered idly whether the prince had been permitted to unwrap his prize before proposing. Most likely the match had been made for dynastic reasons. Bloodlines and power, that was what princes traded in, whether in Arabia or England. The story went that Prinny had agreed to marry Princess Caroline without meeting her. Not exactly the best example of the likely outcome of such random alliances. Though it was most unfair of him to compare the scholarly Prince Kadar with Prinny, it was barbaric, to think that the princess would have no choice in the matter. One reason, at least, to be thankful that the blood flowing through his veins precluded any dynastic match-making.

The royal caravan passed by and Christopher got to his feet with the rest of the crowd, his thoughts turning to Tahira. No dynastic power would be traded, no royal treaties nor alliances would be created by her marriage. Her wedding robes would not be dripping with precious jewels, her dowry most likely consisted of linens and pewter, but in one sense her fate would be the same. She would be married to a man of another’s choosing. She would be passed from her family to his like a—a parcel. Her worth would be measured by the sons she produced. He knew that it was a common enough fate, he knew that there were far worse, but still, it made him furious. He pictured her, separated from her beloved sisters, deprived of the freedom to escape into the desert night, effectively caged like one of the lionesses in the Tower of London, pacing back and forward in the home forced upon her, withering, her spirit broken.

It appalled him, but there was nothing he could do to change her fate. He couldn’t whisk her away on a magic carpet or even a white charger. Appealing as the fantasy might be, the reality was utterly impractical. She had nowhere to run to, no one to take her in, and he certainly had no place for her in his life. So why on earth was he even thinking about it! He recollected that one of Tahira’s dreams was to gallop across the desert on horseback. Such a simple wish. He wished he could indulge her whim.

Stupid thought. He had more than enough on his plate without adding any unnecessary distractions. For a start, he had no access to horses. Though there were thoroughbreds aplenty here in Bedouin country, the Bedouins were not exactly renowned for their generosity with their horseflesh. Quite the contrary, in fact, and entirely irrelevant. His entire focus must be on his quest.

Though it was not, for the moment, all consuming. He had to wait on an opportunity to acquire a sample of the turquoise from the mine once the miners had reached the ore seam. In the meantime, he had to find evidence that the mine was worked fifteen hundred years ago, but he could only search for that at night. He had to match his diamonds against samples from other mines in Nessarah. That was a trickier problem, regarding a deal of thought, now he knew the set up in the bazaar. But as to diamond and gold mines in Nessarah contemporary to the amulet—now there he was fortunate, for Tahira seemed pretty sure she’d be able to confirm those. Something which surely merited a favour in return.

He had time on his hands. Why not use it to surprise her, to please her? Cudgelling his brain, trying to recall her other wishes, Christopher smiled softly to himself. A bit of ingenuity, that was all that was required, and some lateral thinking. He prided himself on possessing both. He was already looking forward to the challenge.

* * *