African Enchantment (6 page)

It was obvious that she was to have no privacy in which to bathe. Perfumed oil was poured into the water, flower petals scattered on its surface and then, with much good-natured laughter, the girls began to remove her garments. At first she objected strenuously, but this only increased their hilarity. Eventually, accepting defeat, she removed her dust-stained camisole and underskirt herself. Then she stepped into the luxurious, hot and scented water and unpinned her hair. It fell in a shining mass, rippling over her shoulders and down her back. There were gasps of incredulity and envy, and then she was given soap with which to wash and all the while the girls clustered around the enormous bathtub, chattering and giggling like a flock of brightly coloured birds.

The dust of weeks was rinsed from her hair. She felt clean and fresh but to their dismay adamantly refused the heavy perfumes they plied her with. In vain she looked for her clothes so that she could dress again. There were more giggles. A kaftan of fine, floating silk, delicately embroidered with silver flowers, was held out for her. Velvet slippers replaced the high-button boots. Her hair was still too wet to rebraid and so she left it hanging sleekly down her back, the tendrils around her face curling wispily. Feeling curiously naked she allowed herself to be led once more across the fountain-filled courtyard and into the Pasha and Raoul's presence. At the door the girls hung back and Harriet felt suddenly afraid. Though they had no common language, they had been her own age and friendly. She had disliked the Pasha on sight and was now filled with a sudden dread that when she entered the room, he would be alone; that Raoul would have left in search of the needed horses.

The little negro boy opened the door and hesitantly she entered, her fears subsiding. He had not left her. He was still as she had left him, his white, lavishly laced shirt negligently undone, his close-fitting breeches tucked into sand-covered knee-high boots. He must have ached for a bath as much as she, but he had remained instead with the Pasha. Though not understanding why, she was grateful. The eyes, slanting under winged brows, darkened the instant she stepped into the room. In the loose, flowing kaftan she felt indecently exposed, her small, high breasts pressed tantalisingly against the fine silk.

At the sight of her the Pasha's small pink tongue moved restlessly over his lower lip. The Englishwoman was not only beautiful – she was magnificent. In that moment he determined that however formidable the Frenchman, he would see to it that she never left Berber.

‘Send my servant to me,' Raoul demanded abruptly.

Hashim entered, his eyes widening at the sight of Harriet dressed in the manner of one of the Pasha's concubines.

‘My cousin needs suitable clothing in which to travel,' Raoul said, his voice throbbing with anger. ‘Please see to it.'

Hashim turned obediently, and vainly Harriet wondered where he would obtain the kind of clothes she was accustomed to.

‘You must be hot and tired yourself, Capitaine Beauvais,' the Pasha was saying, taking his eyes away from Harriet with difficulty. ‘A bath has been prepared …'

‘Later.' Raoul waved a hand dismissively. ‘However, we are both hungry and thirsty.'

Harriet saw the Pasha's eyes narrow malevolently. The man did not like Raoul and no doubt Raoul was aware and uncaring of the fact. Who was he that he could demand hospitality from a man who so clearly disliked him? The rank of captain would not warrant the sort of deference that the Pasha was showing him. Harriet's puzzlement increased as cold meats and fresh fruits were brought in and set on the low table. She remembered the reference to his family name and Raoul's reply that great families had many branches. Who were the Beauvais? Were they a family of stature? Was that the reason he was being treated with such deference?

They sat on velvet cushions to eat, the Pasha half lying, his eyes flicking ceaselessly over Harriet's body. She kept her eyes lowered and ate gratefully, wishing that the company were different. Raoul sat beside her, as at ease on the perfumed cushions as he had been on horseback. She paid little heed to the conversation, only sufficient to understand that the local governor was absent, which was, no doubt, the reason Raoul had sought the Pasha's hospitality instead.

Before the meal was over, there came a deferential knock at the door and at the Pasha's command the little negro boy opened it to reveal a smiling Hashim with a cotton blouse and linen skirt triumphantly laid over his arms, and a pair of thonged sandals in one hand.

Harriet gave a cry of disbelief. Raoul remained infuriatingly unsurprised.

‘I would appreciate it if my cousin could change into her own clothes now.' It was not a request. It was an order.

The Pasha flushed angrily but summoned two of the many female observers.

‘My cousin is of a very enterprising nature,' Raoul continued, his dark eyes holding Harriet's intently. ‘She wishes to see something of Berber before we travel in the morning.'

The Pasha was already rising eagerly to his feet. ‘And so my manservant will escort her,' Raoul continued.

‘Most unsuitable … Most …' The Pasha's eyes met Raoul's. At what he saw there he faltered. Beauvais' reputation was well known in both Egypt and the Sudan. He would have as little regard for the life of a Pasha as he had for a dog in the gutter.

Harriet, not understanding, began to protest, but one glance from Raoul's hard, agate eyes silenced her. Obediently she left the room and freed herself of the perfumed silk. The skirt and blouse were plain and serviceable. She braided her hair and pinned it securely in the nape of her neck. Smoothing the cool linen of the ankle-length skirt, she again felt like Miss Harriet Latimer of Cheltenham. The sandals felt strange at first but were infinitely more comfortable than high-buttoned boots.

When she had changed, Hashim escorted her through the overly rich rooms and she noticed for the first time the curved scimitar at his waist. Two fresh horses waited outside. Hashim shouted what seemed to Harriet to be curses and blasphemies at the many servants who rushed forward to help her mount. They fell back beneath Hashim's onslaught, and he himself helped her into the saddle. She paused as she was exposed once more to the unbearable heat of the afternoon sun.

‘I do not really want to see Berber, Hashim.'

He grinned. ‘ I know that and do not blame you, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, but it is my master's wish.'

They cantered towards the dung-filled streets. ‘ But why, if there is nothing here for me to see?'

He grinned again. ‘Maybe not, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, but my master wishes to bathe and rest himself.'

‘I still don't understand …'

Hashim said patiently, ‘My master does not trust the Pasha. He is a man who likes women. Many women. My master knows that with me you will be safe.'

Harriet laughed with relief and pleasure. So that was why he had ordered her out into the heat of the afternoon. He had been jealous. It was a novel thought and one she liked. Hashim ignored the cesspool of Berber and rode away from it towards the banks of the river. The broad expanse of water glistened as it swirled onwards towards the coast. She gazed at it in fascination. Where had it come from? Already it was exercising as powerful a hold on her mind as it had on her father's.

‘Does anyone know the source of the Nile, Hashim? Do the natives?'

Hashim shook his head. ‘It comes from deep in the heart of Africa. From country where no man goes, now or ever.'

‘Not even Captain Beauvais?'

Hashim looked at her strangely and dug his heels in his horse's flanks, not answering but riding away from the reed-lined banks and obliging her to follow.

They rode a little way in silence and then Harriet said, ‘Why does the Pasha have so many servants? I counted over fifty. Surely he cannot need so many.'

Hashim frowned. ‘The Pasha has no servants.'

Harriet said impatiently, thinking that he had misunderstood her, ‘Servants, Hashim. The men and women who tend the horses and fetch and carry. The girls who led me away to bathe and change.'

‘They are slaves and concubines.'

Harriet gasped, her eyes widening.

‘Every Pasha has his slaves and concubines,' Hashim said reasonably.

‘But there were scores of them,' Harriet protested.

Hashim shrugged. ‘The Pasha is a wealthy man. He can afford to buy many women.'

Harriet felt faint. The girls were no older than herself: some of them younger.

She said in shocked outrage: ‘It should not be allowed! It should be outlawed!'

‘The English do their best,' Hashim said pacifyingly. ‘But it is of little use. In our country there has always been slaves. Why should it suddenly be different?'

‘Because it is
wrong
for one human being to belong to another, like a chattel,' Harriet said explosively. ‘If I had known I would never have set foot in the Pasha's residence! I would rather have starved!'

This time it was her turn to dig her heels hard into her horse's side.

‘Where are you going, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady?' Hashim called, taken momentarily by surprise at her out burst of rage.

‘To Captain Beauvais!' she shouted back over her shoulder. ‘I shall tell him immediately of the true state of affairs in the Pasha's residence! Once he knows he will not even spend the night there!'

Hashim sighed, foreseeing trouble in the days ahead. It was patently clear that Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, knew nothing about the existence in Khartoum of his master's slave. The Circassian – Narinda.

Harriet rode furiously, her whole being burning with rage. She would tell the Pasha herself what she thought of his domestic arrangements! Berber straddled before her and she reined in, aware that the way back to the Pasha's residence was not as simple as it had seemed. A maze of dust-blown streets and alleyways confronted her. She took the widest and spurred her horse on. It could not be difficult locating a building as grand as the Pasha's. Against the searing blue sky she saw the fluttering flag of the Ottoman Empire and rode confidently towards it. If the Pasha displayed his country's flag so prominently in his main room, then no doubt it also flew from his roof.

Far behind her Hashim saw the route she had taken and rode hard after her, filled with sudden disquiet.

The street narrowed, becoming crowded. Frustratedly Harriet slowed her horse to a walking pace and tried not to let the strange, strong smell overcome her. Wretchedly dressed women halted in their tasks and stared at her in amazement. Children pointed and swarmed around her so that she had to shoo them away, frightened that the smaller one would fall beneath the hooves of her horse. Above the shabby buildings, the red crescent flag fluttered nearer and nearer. At last she turned a corner in its direction and faltered. It did not fly from the Pasha's residence, but from a vast army barracks. Instead of women and children she was suddenly surrounded by men; coarsely dressed, Sudanese soldiers who, the minute they saw her, ran leeringly in her direction. In seconds they had surrounded her, blocking her exit, shouting and laughing at each other in a language incomprehensible to her, but their intent was clear. Desperately she urged the horse forward but scores of hands were holding its head. Other hands, a sea of them, were touching her legs, her waist, trying to unseat her.

‘Let go of me!
Let go!'
Frenziedly she lashed out at them with her riding crop, only to arouse a fresh storm of laughter.

Women and children surged from the alleys to watch silently. Hashim was impotent, his horse wedged in on either side by human flesh.

There was a loud scream and above the mass of dark heads he saw Harriet pulled sideways, the horse rearing. Agilely he sprang to the ground and like an eel twisted and pushed through the gathering crowd, not towards Harriet but away, running with the speed of a gazelle in the direction of the Pasha's residence.

‘Take your hands off me!'
Her voice was a shriek as her riding crop was wrenched from her hand and she was hurled from one pair of searching hands to another.

The men who had crowded her horse had formed a circle and were spinning her from one to another as if she were a rag doll while their less fortunate companions pushed and shoved in order to obtain a better view of the spectacle and gave encouragement by clapping wildly and stamping their feet.

‘Stop it! Stop it! Oh let me go, please! Please!'

Her distress only caused more hilarity. The pins in her hair fell free and a great cheer went up as her hair spilled from its prim braids.

Round and round they whirled her so that without the momentum of their hands she would have fallen, sick and dizzy, tears streaming down her face. The noise, the heat, the horror intensified. The buttons were wrenched from her blouse, her heaving breasts contained only by her lace-trimmed camisole.

‘No! No!'
she gasped.
‘ Please God. No!'

Her hair was tugged, wrenching her head back, a triumphant hand seized hold of one of her breasts and in the same split second a revolver shot rang out, scattering the women and children in the alleyways, silencing the beating feet and handclaps of the men.

The hold on her body intensified, brutal fingers digging into the soft flesh. Half senseless, held stationary, the world still spinning about her, Harriet saw the great stallion and its rider force their way through the throng. His shirt was gashed open at the throat as if he had been in the process of dressing when Hashim had reached him. His tightly trousered legs were encased in gleaming Hessian boots; his eyes were frightening, cold and hard, more menacing than the smoking revolver he held in his hand.

The silence was momentary. There were shouts of defiance and abuse from the soldiers and several hands reached to the waists and the pistols lodged there.

‘Drop your weapons to the ground or every last one of you will be court martialled and shot!'