Call of the Trumpet (12 page)

But he was still a man and never, never, would she trust another. True, Blackmoore had rescued her. But did he do so because he was honor-bound, or merely to cheat his enemy, the caliph?

Cecile smiled grimly beneath her veil, thinking of Blackmoore, remembering Shaban, the sailors, the way their eyes and hands had touched her. Let Hagar and others rave about how wonderful he was, this El Faris. She knew better. He was a man and, underneath, just like all the rest.

The band halted at midday long enough only to turn toward the east and say their prayers. “For we reach a well today and must make camp before the sun sets,” Hagar informed Cecile. “Tonight we must pitch our tents, as well as tend to our other chores. El Faris is thoughtful, you see. He knows a good leader must keep the women happy, so he ensures we arrive in plenty of time to complete our work before darkness.”

Still in a sour frame of mind, Cecile folded her arms across her breast and sank back against the
maksar.
Oh, yes, she thought. Allah forbid a woman not have time enough to finish her cooking, weaving, milking, dung gathering, and tent pitching before time to crawl into the lord and master’s bed. She could hardly wait to arrive at the well and begin such inspiring and life-fulfilling tasks. Thank heaven she was not required to warm the master’s blankets, as well, after a day like that. She should consider herself lucky.

As satisfying as her ill-tempered ruminations were, Cecile forgot them as soon as the “well” came into sight. She leaned over Hagar’s shoulder, scarcely able to believe what she saw.

She had heard about oases before, of course, but she was not quite prepared for the reality. Miles and miles of nothing but rock and scrub brush and sand, and then, suddenly, paradise. She could almost smell the water hidden within the thick, lush stand of palms. And that was not all there was to see.

Two other large camps had already arrived. There were many tents and grazing herds of camels, sheep, and goats. The smoke of cook fires spiraled lazily upward on the still air, dogs barked, and hordes of children laughed and played.

They made their own camp at the southern end of the large oasis, nearly a half mile from their nearest neighbors. All the women hurried to choose the best spots for their tents, Cecile among them. When she had found the ground she wanted, she waved Hagar to bring the pack camel.

Fortunately, Cecile learned, Blackmoore’s tent would be pitched by the wives of his other servants. Hagar and Cecile’s only duties were to cook and weave for him. But it was enough. The time she had spent in Hagar’s tent when she first arrived had been so brief she had forgotten there were so many supplies and implements for two such supposedly simple tasks. It seemed to take forever to unload it all.

Cecile laid the carpets on the floor, sleeping quilts to one side. Against the back wall she stacked sacks of wheat, dates, butter, salt, sugar, coffee, and rice. On the wall opposite the sleeping area, she placed the loom and spindle, Hagar’s
qash,
and a box containing the cooking utensils, water bags, and hide buckets. Finally, she made the fireplace.

Hagar, meanwhile, had been collecting both firewood and gossip. She returned with a few sticks and a great deal of news.

“There is to be a wedding the night after tomorrow,” she announced. “In the camp of the Anizah, next to us. We are all invited to attend. There will be a great feast. And in honor of the occasion, the men will ride out on a hunt tomorrow. If Allah is with them, we will have
hubara, arnab,
maybe even
dhabi
.”

Hubara,
Cecile recalled, was a large, turkeylike bird.
Arnab
was the wild desert hare, and
dhabi,
gazelle. Her mouth watered.

“Now go, lazy girl,” Hagar commanded. “Tend to the mare while I fix our dinner.”

Blackmoore was nowhere in sight and Cecile’s irritation mounted. It had been a long day, and it was not over yet. There were many chores yet to be done. Furthermore, she was ravenously hungry, her back ached, and she felt impossibly grubby. She gazed at the water longingly, the tall reeds lining its shores just visible through the clustered palms. The temptation proved more than she could resist.

Near the other end of the long deep pool, camels were being watered and a few women washed clothes. But there was no one close. Cecile made her way to the water’s edge.

Its surface was smooth, clear, and unmuddied as yet by the hooves of animals. Cecile knelt and leaned forward.

The reflection shocked her. Could it be? Cecile Villier, lately of Château Villier, Paris, France?

Six thin braids swung forward, partially hidden on the right by the hanging end of the head drape. Her bangs hung low over her eyes, causing them to appear larger and darker than ever above the veil. This was, Cecile thought, the face of a woman of the desert.

Pride swelled Cecile’s heart. She had survived, unscathed, an unspeakable journey into slavery. She had ridden with El Faris into the desert. She had even survived the rocking and swaying camel ride and was learning, successfully, to become a true desert-dweller. She was justly earning the right to be called bint Sada … daughter of Sada.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Cecile whirled. “You!”

“Yes, I think so,” he replied genially. “I was looking for you.”

“Well, you did not have to sneak up behind me like that,” Cecile retorted. “You … you startled me.”

“I’m sorry. But could you lower your voice? You’re upsetting my horse.”

“You could have called to me, couldn’t you?” Cecile persisted, rattled by Blackmoore’s sudden presence yet not knowing why. “I have a name, don’t I?”

“Do you?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I have a name.”

“A French name, yes. But it hardly seems appropriate on the desert. Especially for one who looks so … authentic.”

Cecile was not altogether sure he had given her a compliment. He had also, again, come disconcertingly close to her own train of thought. “Do you … disapprove?” she asked at length. “With the way I look, I mean?”

Matthew let a smile touch his mouth. So, he thought, it was as he had suspected. Beneath that obsidian exterior, there really was a woman. He chose his next words carefully. “It is not for me to either approve or disapprove. You are your own person,” he said. “But I will tell you this. Your appearance brings me pleasure.”

Thank God, she thought, feeling the hot blush rise to her cheeks, that only her eyes were visible above the veil. Ducking her head, Cecile turned away. “I will see to your horse now.”

“Wait.” Matthew made no effort to hand over the reins. Despite the spark within her that often fanned into flames, he found her company delightful. “I thought we were going to decide on a more fitting name for you.”

Cecile dared to raise her eyes. Did he tease her again? “You know I am the daughter of Sada,” she said cautiously. “Therefore I may be called bint Sada.”

Matthew nodded, blue eyes sparkling. “Yes, that properly denotes lineage. But what about you yourself? You must have a first name, one which conveys something of what, or who, you are as a person.”

Cecile was unable to control her curiosity. “Like … like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know, something fitting, like …” Matthew stroked his chin, suppressing a chuckle. “Like … Drahmbul …”

“Badger?”

Ignoring her, Matthew gazed upward innocently. “Or, oh, yes, I know. How about … Nis?”

“Porcupine! Oh, you … you … how
dare
you?”

The chuckle rumbled upward and escaped. “Because there are beautiful golden lights in your eyes when you are angry,” Matthew replied, surprising both himself and Cecile. He had never said anything like that to a woman in his life.

Cecile didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slap his face. To solve the dilemma, she took a long, deep breath and said calmly, “If you don’t mind, I should tend to your mare. It grows late, and I have many things to do.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to help you.”

Had she heard correctly? It was not unknown for Badawin men to assist their women, of course, but usually only if they were bonded in some way. Or intended to be …

Cecile glanced up into the clear and shining eyes, so blue against the dark skin. He was not courting her, so what was he up to? Was this another of his little jokes? “Thank you, but I can handle it myself.”

“I know you can. I watched you last night. You’re very good with horses. You have a way with them.”

Did he mean it? Might he actually be trying to say he liked her? Cecile was afraid to look at him again lest she see a betraying grin. Instead she applied herself to the clinch.

“Here, I’ll take it,” he said, and before Cecile could protest, he swung the heavy saddle to the ground. A Badawin woman, of course, might see this as a sign of romantic intent, which he certainly did not mean. It was simply the English part of him that lingered still, and probably always would.

Or did he, after all, have more than mere politeness in mind?

“Thank you,” Cecile muttered, confused and suddenly shy. “I’ll take her now. The feedbag and
jillal
are in our tent.”

Matthew did not release the reins, and when Cecile tried to take them, their hands met, sending a lightning shock through her arm.

“Stay. For a moment,” Matthew said. “Please. You seem to know a great deal about horses. Do you also know the legend of their origin?”

It was a favorite subject. Forgetting her embarrassment, Cecile smiled. “Of course, I know,” she replied with genuine feeling. “It is said that Allah spake to the South Wind, saying, ‘I will create for you a being which will be a happiness to the good, and a misfortune to the bad. Happiness shall be on its forehead, bounty on its back, and joy in the possessor.’ And so saying, he created from the South Wind … a horse.”

Matthew was surprised. Gazing down into her fascinating eyes, he said, “Allah also said, ‘After woman came the horse, for the enjoyment and happiness of man.’“

This time Cecile was certain he could see her blush, in spite of the veil. But when she tried once more to leave, he restrained her with his words.

“Pretty sayings. But do you know the real story? The story of the five mares who founded the noble train of the
Asil?”

“I … I don’t know,” Cecile stammered, certain only that all coherent thought had been driven from her mind.

“The five original mares,” Matthew pressed, “who belonged to the Prophet, Muhammad. You should know their story. The legend is as much as part of the desert as the horses themselves.”

Cecile looked at him then, caught up in spite of herself.

“The five were part of a great herd,” he went on. “The finest of the desert which Muhammad had gathered to be his own. Yet he was not content. He wished to refine the breed, to include not only beauty, strength, and speed, but devotion to their master. So he conceived an idea.

“For many days he kept his horses from food and water. At the end of the time, they were nearly crazed with hunger and thirst. Then he led them to an oasis.”

Cecile bit at her lips. It sounded so cruel. Her eyes narrowed, but Matthew did not notice.

“He released them,” he continued. “He let the entire herd run toward the food and water. When they had almost reached it, he unslung his war horn, the trumpet with which man and horse alike were summoned to battle. And he blew upon it.

“Maddened, most of the herd ran on. All but five. The Faithful. They returned to him.”

“Why?”

The question took Matthew completely by surprise. He gazed down into the wide, questioning eyes. “Why, because … because they answered the call of the trumpet.”

“But it doesn’t seem right. Horses are free, noble, wondrous animals. They were subjugated, mistreated, then asked to return to their tormentor … a man … their master?”

Again her question shook him, and Matthew was not sure why. It almost seemed she challenged him … on a level that had nothing at all to do with horses. “Yes, they are all you say,” he agreed solemnly. “Yet they are also capable of returning love. And devotion. Their hearts belonged with Muhammad. And when he called to them, they returned.”