The Arabian Mistress

In the distance she saw a massive sprawling building surrounded by fortified walls that got higher the closer they got. As the limo approached, a cluster of tribesmen squatting in the shade jumped up to open the gates. Two sets of solid iron gates, Faye noted, one shorter inner pair, the outer so tall they could have kept the sun trapped, she thought fancifully.

Within the walls, terraced gardens of breathtaking beauty stretched up the hillside in every direction. She was blind to them. She was noting the number of guards on duty and reckoning that Tariq’s desert palace appeared braced to withstand both imminent seige and invasion. Her heart sank. Her nebulous plan to stage an escape within the next twenty-four hours would be more of a challenge than she had naively hoped.

Shoulders straight, chin tilted, ignoring the curious eyes and the whispers that accompanied her passage, Faye entered the palace. On her way past, soldiers snapped to attention, presented arms and saluted. She drifted on. It would be so easy to develop delusions of grandeur in Jumar, she decided. The Muraaba was a really ancient building, she registered with a grudging stirring of interest. Fantastic mosaic panels in glorious turquoise, green and gold covered every inch of the walls in the great hall that echoed from her footsteps.

A startling cry of pain followed by the shout of a child smashed the tranquillity and made Faye first freeze and then hurry on in search of the source. If a child had been hurt…

Faye came to a halt on the threshold of a room. So appalled was she by the scene which met her gaze, she could not initially accept what she was seeing. Three servants were huddled by the wall wailing and a fourth, a woman, was down on her knees while a small boy struck at her back with a switch. For an instant, Faye waited for one of the staff to intervene and then she realised that nobody was going to intervene and that the victim seemed too scared to protest such treatment.

Faye stalked forward. ‘Stop that!’

The little boy in his miniature robes stopped for an instant in surprise and then started again.

‘Stop it right this minute!’ Faye ordered icily.

The next thing the little horror rushed at her with the switch! She bent down and gathered him to her. The switch fell from his hand. Then she held him at a distance from her to let him kick out his tantrum without hurting her or anyone else. He was very young but his little face was screwed up in a mask of uncontrollable rage. ‘Let go of me!’ he bawled at her. ‘Let go, or I will whip you too!’

‘I’ll put you down when you stop shouting.’

‘I am a prince…I am a prince of the blood royal of Jumar!’

‘You’re a little boy.’ But Faye stiffened, now picking up on the stricken silence surrounding her. She studied the exquisite silk embroidery on the clothing the child wore. He spat at her and she grimaced. ‘No prince of the blood royal would behave like that,’ she told him without hesitation.

His bottom lip came out. His big brown eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘I am an ibn Zachir. I am a prince. You do what I tell you…why you not do what I tell you?’

And in that instant he went from being a little monster to being a child, and a distressed and frightened child at that. As he went limp, Faye slowly released her breath in relief that she had won the battle and drew him close. He could not have been more than five years old, maybe not even that. ‘Does the prince have a name?’

‘Rafi…’

Belatedly conscious that an outraged parent might descend on her at any minute, that she was in a foreign country with a very different culture and that for all she knew even the tiniest royal children were encouraged to beat servants all the time, Faye attempted to set the boy down again. Disconcertingly, he clung like a limpet.

Faye felt something touch her toes. She peered down over Prince Rafi’s back. His female victim was sobbing at Faye’s feet. The other servants were now lying face down on the floor as if they were waiting on a bomb dropping or someone shouting, ‘Off with their heads!’ She felt like an alien set down without warning in very dangerous territory.

‘Sleepy…’ Rafi told her round his thumb.

‘Will someone put Rafi…I mean, His Royal Highness down for a nap?’ Faye asked with the weak hope that someone spoke some English.

‘Nurse…I am nurse.’ It was the lady cowering at her ankles.

‘It is wrong and unkind to hurt people, Rafi.’ Faye sighed.

‘He no mean hurt,’ his nursemaid muttered fearfully.

‘Rafi sleepy…’ He snuggled his silky dark head under her chin. ‘Lady take Rafi to bed?’

Well, hopefully that would get everybody up and moving again, Faye decided.

‘My horse flies faster than the wind,’ Rafi told her sleepily as she carried him from the room.

She resisted the urge to ask if he beat the horse too. ‘I love horses.’

‘I show you my horse.’

It was a long trek through passageways, a positive procession for they seemed to gather servants and grow into a crowd on the way. And with every covert marvelling look that came her way, every awestruck appraisal that suggested she was doing something extraordinary, Faye’s frown grew. It was one weird household. She might possess the stepfather from hell but Tariq had got nothing to boast about on his own home front. Did he beat his servants too? Her tummy turned over at that image.

Finally they arrived in Rafi’s bedroom which was just stuffed with every imaginable toy and indulgence. Spoilt little brat, Faye thought, refusing to be softened by the child’s sweet innocence asleep. But some adult must surely first have taught such brutality by example, she conceded heavily. A parent? Evidently, Tariq shared his huge palace with his extended family. No wonder he was talking about stashing her like a guilty secret in a harem! No way was she staying in the Muraaba palace!

With that conviction in mind and ignoring the servants following never more than a dozen feet from her, Faye explored until she found a room literally walled with packed bookshelves. Her search took some time but eventually she found a map of Jumar which had the airport clearly marked. Noticing that the airport appeared to be a much greater distance from the city than it actually was, she assumed that it was an older map for the city had grown much larger in more recent times.

Concealing the map in her bag, she settled down in a magnificent reception room on a low traditional divan. Refreshments were brought to her there. More grovelling, all the staff seeming so scared and desperate to please. At the same time, her dazed eyes roamed over the spectacular exoticism of her surroundings. Rich geometrical patterns of faience tiles adorned the walls, some of which were even studded with what appeared to be precious stones, and the elaborate domed ceiling far above appeared to be composed of tiny coloured glittering mirror-glass mosaics. Superb Persian rugs lay on the pale marble floor. The divan on which she sat was covered with hand-painted precious silk. This was where Tariq had grown up, she found herself thinking, against a fantastic and opulent backdrop so dissimilar to hers, it took her breath away.

A wave of what appeared to be collective anxiety sent the maids into retreat a mere minute before Faye heard a man’s footsteps echoing in the main hall. Seconds later, Tariq strode in and stilled to view her.

His lean, strong face was taut. ‘Latif has informed me that there had been some incident between you and Rafi—’

Eyes flaring with anger as she recalled the shocking episode she had witnessed earlier, Faye shot to her feet in full defensive mode. ‘So someone has complained about my behaviour, have they? Well, let me tell you, you had better get me on a plane home because I have no plans to stand by and watch any child or indeed any adult beating servants!’

His superb bone structure clenched hard. ‘Say that again—’

‘You mean once wasn’t enough? What sort of primitive country is this? What kind of a society allows a small child to behave like that?’

Pale with anger beneath his bronze skin, Tariq breathed. ‘Are you telling me that Rafi struck one of the household staff?’

Breathing in deep, Faye described the scene she had interrupted in a few pithy words.

‘Rafi is mine to deal with,’ Tariq growled, the darkening of outrage accentuating his bold cheekbones. ‘We are not a primitive country. I will have you know that assault is assault in Jumar, no matter who the victim or who the perpetrator. I am very grateful that you intervened but do not judge a whole people by the behaviour of my obnoxious little brother!’

‘L-little brother?’ Her cheeks were now glowing red as fire. ‘Rafi is your little brother? But if what you are saying is true, why didn’t someone step in to assert control over him?’

‘Who? My father died when he was three. His mother died six months ago. She was an evil-tempered woman from another Gulf state.’ His stunning dark eyes had a grim light. ‘She taught Rafi to behave as he does. The servants who look after him were hers and the spirit was knocked out of them long before they accompanied their mistress to Jumar. They would never dare to try and restrain Rafi. It is an offence to lay hands on anyone of royal blood—’

‘Is it?’

‘That law was not made to allow a child to rampage out of control! I was reluctant to deprive Rafi of the nursemaids who have looked after him since he was a baby but I see now, it must be done. He has to be taught how to behave.’

‘What age is he?’

‘Four…old enough and bright enough to know better. I shall deal with him.’ Tariq headed for the door like a male with a target and a definite purpose in mind.

Faye rushed after him. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I can see what you think I’m going to do but you’re wrong,’ Tariq spelt out in impatient reproof as he read her anxious expression. ‘I may know little about children but I hope I know enough not to repay violence with violence. I will talk to him and remove certain privileges as a punishment.’