Historical Romance: April Books 1 - 4. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
* * *
Alone at last in her private quarters at the end of a very long day, Tahira lay on her divan on a mound of cushions, staring out of the latticed window to the little courtyard, watching Sayeed, her pet sand cat at play. He was perched on the edge of the fountain, his long ringed tail swishing furiously as he swiped at the fish. It was one of his favourite games, despite the fact that he was almost entirely unsuccessful, for the fish were tiny, and the sand cat’s abhorrence of water extreme. Temporarily distracted from her dilemma, Tahira sat up, laughing as the spray of water generated by Sayeed’s swiping paw landed on his face, darkening his beautiful pale-gold coat. Hearing the sound of her voice, the cat cast the fountain a contemptuous look and leapt lithely down, padding through the open window, seating himself disdainfully on the cushion beside her.
Tahira tickled his favourite spot on his forehead. Sayeed’s purr was more of a low growl. Vicious claws extended, he began to paw at the cushion, shredding the delicate silk. The fur on his front legs was soaking, making the two distinctive chocolate-coloured rings