The Lioness of Morocco(19)

“Hey there, what’s the matter? Calm down.” Benjamin jumped back. As he did, his tall top hat, which gave him the appearance of a long, thin reed among the shorter Arab men, fell off.

The qaid croaked with laughter. “Your horse wants to fly again, Englishman. I think it knows the Koran. There it is written, Thou shalt fly without wings!”

But Benjamin could not hear him. He was busy chasing his hat, which the wind was driving along the quay.

The governor slowly approached the horse. By God, what a wonderful stallion, he thought, congratulating himself on having offered the Englishman the use of his stables. He would mate the magnificent animal with one of his mares and ride it without the Englishman’s knowledge. The man’s equestrian skills were like those of a monkey riding a camel, and he was using the horse only to show off anyway.

“Be careful, Your Excellency!” Benjamin called out as the stallion shook its flame-colored mane.

But the qaid was undeterred. Speaking mellifluously and softly, he took hold of the halter and reassuringly patted the animal’s neck. The stallion snorted but held still, and Benjamin watched in disbelief as the Arab stroked the flanks, then squatted and felt the legs while a sailor carefully removed the straps.

“He has the chest of a lion, and his legs are as muscular as those of a wild ostrich,” the qaid declared with admiration.

Flattered, Benjamin adjusted his top hat and replied, “He comes from Earl Godolphin’s stock and has won many important races in England. I’ll wager a hundred pounds that he could leave any of your little Arabian horses in the dust.”

The qaid’s eyes sparkled, but unfortunately, the Prophet had strictly forbidden games of chance. With a heavy heart, he replied, “I will forgo the competition for your sake, Mr. Hopkins. An Arabian horse is unbeatable.”

“You jest!” cried Benjamin. “Even my three-year-old son would come in first on an English stallion such as this!”

The qaid bared his teeth furiously. “Before you mount this stallion, you are going to pay the import tax, or else I shall be compelled to confiscate him.”

Benjamin swallowed back an angry reply. That cutthroat Hash-Hash was capable of anything. These Muslims were probably so foul-tempered because it was Ramadan. After all, denying yourself even the most basic necessities throughout the day and then gorging after sundown was surely not very healthy. No wonder they awakened in the morning with an upset stomach and in a bad mood! Benjamin, smirking to himself, watched as the qaid trudged away without any acknowledgment.

“So this time it’s a racehorse that you’re rubbing the Arab’s nose in. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s stupid to show off like that?” a voice behind Benjamin whispered.

He spun around. “Brown! For God’s sake! I hadn’t noticed you. Do you have to creep up on me like that?”

The Queen Charlotte’s captain grinned. Benjamin looked at the man’s decayed tooth stumps and grimaced in disgust. Brown resembled a crow with his dark frockcoat, stringy graying hair, and dark, piercing eyes.

“We should leave now,” he declared. “Or have you forgotten that we have an appointment with old Toledano? This was a devil of a trip, by the way. I’ll tell you about it when we get to Toledano’s . . .”



André Rouston placed both hands on the remnants of a three-hundred-year-old stone wall that had once been part of a small church built by the Portuguese when they had had a trading post here. At one time, it had been possible to stand on the brick floor and see the beams of the steeple with its bell. Now, however, both the roof truss and the bell were gone, and André enjoyed the wide view of the Atlantic. Far to the southwest, the pale gold December sun had broken through the veil of mist and sparkled on the water like diamond dust. In the north, the color of the waves alternated between ink blue and stone gray. Whitecaps danced on the surf. It was low tide; the ocean was slowly retreating, exposing the wrecks of fishing boats run aground outside the harbor entrance, and leaving behind shells, driftwood, and a wavy impression on the wet sand.

Whenever André had business in Mogador, he came to this place, secluded from the noisy, bustling harbor. He watched two three-masted sailing ships, one flying the red-and-green banner of Portugal, the other with the French tricolor. They had rounded the promontory and set course for the open seas, their sails inflated.

Whenever he stood in the ruins of the old church, listening to the seagulls screeching and the eternal rushing of the water, he pictured the ships that carried their cargo to every corner of the earth and then took the exotic wares of distant countries on board in return. He was fascinated by the way shipping connected all the continents of the world. Years before, during his brief stint as a sailor, he had not yet seen things that way. He had experienced brutality, cruelty, oppressive confinement, and draconian punishment. And as soon as his ship had reached its homeport in northern France, he had run away. To the army.

He could hear the jeering laughter of children below the walls. Next, the reproachful voice of a little boy called out in English, “Mummy, you’re doing it wrong! It keeps falling down!”

Curious, André leaned over the parapet. Directly below, a half dozen Arab boys were jumping up and down, screaming something about stupid infidels. At some distance from them in the sand stood two little boys with curly blond hair. The younger hopped excitedly around the older, trying to snatch a ribbon, which the older one clutched tightly. At the other end of the ribbon was a diamond-shaped kite made of red and yellow parchment paper being held by a woman.

André was elated when he recognized her. The wind had pulled a few golden strands out of her long braid and was playing with the hem of her kaftan. She jumped in the air, trying to launch the kite. He noted with a grin that she was barefoot. For a few seconds, the paper kite spun helplessly in the air, sagged, then crashed to the ground while the Arab boys jeered and whistled.

André’s eyes wandered from the kite to the woman. She was kneeling before her distraught son and trying to dry his tears with her handkerchief. But Tom crossed his arms and turned away from his mother. He obviously blamed her for the fact that the kite would not fly.

It did not take André long to spot the cause of the problem. After all, he was a farmer’s son from the Causses region in the south of France, and he’d grown up building and flying kites on the high, windy plains near his home. How lucky for Sibylla and her boys that he was there to help! He pushed away from the rough tower wall and hastened toward the beach with a spring in his step.

André knew it was unwise, but he had longed to meet Sibylla Hopkins again, without her husband, servants, or Mrs. Willshire. And now le bon Dieu—the good Lord—had granted him this opportunity. Who knew when He might see fit to do so again!





Chapter Ten

“Monsieur Rouston! But what on earth?”

Sibylla tried to smooth her windblown strands of hair only to have the wind tousle them again. He noted with delight that she blushed and tried to hide her bare feet in the sand.

He had found her looks remarkable more than three years ago when she had stood before the sultan in Marrakesh. Tall and slender, light haired and light skinned, she stood out in this country like a rainbow over the desert. Yet it was her face that captivated him. It was only at first glance that Sibylla looked like a delicate English rose. If one looked more closely, as he did, one noticed the headstrong line around her mouth and her keen, intelligent eyes. This woman took an interest in everything happening around her and always wanted to get to the heart of the matter.

He’d understood immediately why they compared her to a lioness—it was not only because of the color of her hair, but because of her determined personality. What heavily pregnant woman would undertake the arduous journey from Mogador to Marrakesh? His friend Udad bin Aziki, sheikh of the Chiadma Berbers, had tried to warn him. “If you find a great treasure, beware of the fearsome snake that is hiding.” The reminder that Sibylla was a married woman and a mother had not dimmed André’s fascination.

And now this absurd joy at seeing her again.

“Bonjour, Madame Hopkins.” He extended his right hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But it seemed to me that these charming boys could use a little help.” He winked at Tom, who was sheepishly wiping away his tears.

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Sibylla said. “Benjamin built this kite for the children, but it simply won’t fly.”

John came toddling over on his little legs to investigate. André leaned toward the children. “You two are Tom and John, no? I will show you how to make your kite fly.”

The brothers nodded happily.

“Bon alors, garçons,” said André. “Now listen to me. John, you go and get the kite. Tom and I are going to cut off a piece of the line and you, little rascals over there,” he said, switching languages as he turned to speak to the Arab boys, “go and get me an armful of halfa grass over there by the fortress wall.”

The boys scampered off, Johnny ran to fetch the kite, and Tom helped cut a piece of the line with André’s sharp knife.

Sibylla had put her shoes back on and was trying to put her hair in some kind of order. She listened as Rouston showed the children how to make a tail for the kite using tufts of halfa grass by knotting them at regular intervals on a piece of line. With his black jacket, shirt belted at the waist, and wide pants tucked into his leather boots, he reminded her a little of an Ottoman officer she had met at the Willshires’.