She waited for him to volunteer more information, but when he didn't Alysson fell silent again. It was a comfortable, companionable silence, though, not one that she felt obliged to break.
The sun was sinking below the horizon when they rounded a peak that overlooked a broad valley. Below lay acres and acres of already harvested fields—or rather terraces—quilted with barley and wheat stubble. Above the mountain farmland, hugging the rugged slope, stood a town. There looked to be several hundred houses, built on ledges rising one above the other, Alysson noted, while the whole was surrounded by thick walls flanked with massive watch- towers and an abundance of trees. Strongly fortified and gleaming golden in the setting rays of the sun, the settlement presented a forbidding and splendid sight.
"These are the lands of the Beni Abess," Jafar said in a low voice.
Hearing the taut note in his tone, Alysson turned her head to find him watching her intently. He seemed tense, almost as if he were waiting for her approval. She thought back over what he had just said, wondering if it had some special significance that she'd missed. "It's magnificent," she said finally. "The lands look very prosperous." Oddly, he seemed to relax.
She had only spoken the truth, Alysson reflected. As she rode closer, she could make out the groves of walnut, apricot, and fig that surrounded the walled town. Below, where a thin river roared in its narrow channel down the mountainside, a waterwheel churned—obviously a mill where grain was ground. Above, she could see wreaths of gray smoke curling upward from stone chimneys on the flat roofs of the houses.
No doubt it was suppertime, Alysson thought, and yet suddenly people began to pour from the town in great numbers, to greet the return
ing lord. In short order a large crowd had formed—men, women, children, dogs—and the excited shouts and laughter created a din that was deafening.
The crowd was also colorful. The men wore vivid woolen djellabas and burnouses, the women dark robes with brightly hued girdles and haiks attractively arranged to cover their hair and shoulders—and of course an excess of silver ornaments.
Alysson had no doubt, looking at the proud, sometimes austere features surrounding her, that these people were Berbers. The unveiled women possessed white skin tattooed with elaborate henna patterns, while among the men she spied a variety of blue and gray eyes, flaxen hair, and red mustaches and beards. As the caravan passed, they greeted their lord with an eager respect, their bearing dignified yet deferential.
Their reception of her, however, was much different. Alysson noted a few bright-eyed and curious looks, but in the main, the Berbers' expressions were solemn, suspicious, or narrowed in what might actually be hatred. It made her uncomfortably aware that she was not welcome here.
Feeling suddenly isolated and alone, she unconsciously edged her horse closer to Jafar's—until she realized he was watching her. Abruptly she flashed him a brave smile that hid her discomfiture. "You should have told me I was to be on display," she murmured sotto voce. "I would have endeavored to dress like a model captive."
She couldn't tell from the wry twist of his lips if he was annoyed or amused by her subtle thrust, but at least it had the desired effect of getting him to look elsewhere.
Shortly they arrived at the town wall, which was built from uncut blocks of stone set in mortar. Stone watchtowers covered every approach, including this one which also boasted a massive gate with huge iron-studded doors. Within the gate was a wide flat area lined by trees, which in England would have been called the village green. No grass grew here, though, for the ground consisted of hard-packed earth.
Reaching the middle of the arena, Jafar brought the column to a halt and spoke a few words in Berber to the gathered crowd, repeating, Alysson presumed, the announcement of his warriors' victory over the French. They no doubt had already heard the triumphant news, but the resultant cheers echoed over the mountain range.
Alysson could not share in the excitement. When finally Jafar turned his horse to lead hers off to the left, she felt relieved. They passed several doorways and dozens of passages that seemed more like cool dark tunnels than streets. Beyond these, on the far side of the village, set slightly apart from the others, stood a huge stone structure that resembled a Moorish castle more than a house. It had to belong to some wealthy lord, Alysson surmised, for it boasted its own water supply. A sparkling stream ran in cascades down the rock cliff beside it, to disappear behind the high walls of the house.
Jafar drew his stallion to a halt before a large, intricately carved door and met Alysson's gaze. "Welcome to my home, Miss Vickery."
She didn't know whether to thank him or make some offhand remark about being his guest against her will. Before she could do either, however, the door was flung open and a blonde-haired woman danced into the street. Laughing in delight, she ran up to Jafar and began kissing his hands.
Tall and full-figured, the woman wore a long haik of blue silk, clasped at the waist in a blouselike fashion by a gold belt and jeweled buckle. Her arms and ears and neck were decorated with not silver but gold. She was beautiful enough to take Alysson's breath away. Far worse, though, was the way the lush beauty reminded her of the exotic courtesans she had seen at the oasis of Bou Saada.
Dismayed, Alysson tore her gaze away to stare at Jafar. Mahmoud had told her that Jafar had no wife, but this possessive female was definitely no sister. Her behavior was too familiar, too bold, too brazen.
This woman was Jafar's concubine, Alysson was certain.
Her heart sank to the vicinity of her knees, while the fragile happiness she'd felt during the past few days of loving Jafar abruptly crumbled to dust.
Chapter 19
Her name was Zohra, and Alysson disliked her on sight.
With her fawning intimacy toward Jafar, the Berber beauty managed to communicate quite clearly her privileged relationship to the lord.
The antagonism was mutual. The moment Zohra spotted the English newcomer, her blue eyes flashed instant animosity and disdain.
Fortunately for the sake of peace, Zohra did not make her home in Jafar's house.
"She belongs to another tribe," Jafar explained after the blonde beauty had been dismissed. "Zohra bides with a cousin whenever she visits this village."
Alysson managed to hide her misery and sharp jealousy behind a cool smile, but she was relieved to learn of the living arrangements. She could not—would not—have borne Jafar blatantly flaunting his mistress in front of her, not without making her sentiments clearly known, and likely making a fool of herself in the process . . . a bigger fool than she already was.
How naive she'd been to think she was the only woman in Jafar's life. And how disgraceful her recent behavior toward him had been. It made Alysson flush with shame to recall her wantonness. And made her humiliatingly aware of how docile and accommodating she'd become as well. Suddenly Alysson felt very much the prisoner again, although Jafar did not act as that were so.
"This is your home," he told her as they entered his fortress, and he meant it. Alysson soon learned that Berber hospitality was similar to the famed hospitality in the rest of the Islamic world; a guest had only to admire an object and it would be given to him.