When they reached the palace, they were all ushered into a large hall, then left waiting there with the guards, armed, keeping watch over them. Unlike his earlier visit, this time they did not have to wait long. A bare ten minues had passed when a door at the end of the hall opened, and the bey, an average-sized man of middle years, tending slightly portly, with a silk turban wound about his head and a wide silk sash going over one shoulder and around his waist, came striding through, his personal guards at his back.
The captain bowed low.
The bey waved him up, and demanded an explanation for the crowd in his hall.
The captain’s story was brief and to the point-and accurate, much to Gareth’s relief.
The bey ran his eye down the line of those gathered. Then he ran his gaze back and fixed it on Gareth. “Major-I believe we met briefly this afternoon.” This time the bey spoke flawless English.
Gareth bowed. “Your Excellency.”
“Am I to take it that certain of these men attacked you as you returned to your lodgings?” When Gareth inclined his head, the bey raised his brows. “Which ones?”
Gareth shifted so he could point along the line. “These five first, then when they called for support, those three joined in.”
“Very good.” The bey marched down the line until he stood directly in front of the five. “Why did you attack these people, who I had only just welcomed to our fair city?”
The five fell to their knees, then further, prostrating themselves. After uttering various obeisances, one hurriedly said, “We were hired, Excellency, by another foreigner.”
The bey frowned, and glanced back at Gareth. “Who?”
“He wore a turban like the tall one”-the attacker pointed at Mooktu-“but his had a black band.”
Gareth shared a glance with Mooktu and Mullins beyond him.
The bey noticed, and came striding back to halt before Gareth. “You know of this black-turbaned man.”
A statement, not a question. Gareth met the bey’s dark eyes. “Sadly, yes, Your Excellency. It appears we’ve been followed-or perhaps this person reached here before us-but they are acting on behalf of an Indian cult leader who wishes revenge against a lady, the Governor of Bombay’s niece, who was instrumental in gathering vital evidence against the cult leader. The cult threatens the government and the people of India.”
As Gareth had suspected, as a ruler himself the bey had no time for anyone who threatened any government.
“This cult,” the bey declared to the room at large, “is to be given no help by my people.” He paused, then returned to the five still kneeling men. “You have been foolish beyond belief in attacking one I had welcomed at the behest of a foreigner. Captain!”
The captain approached. “Yes, Excellency?”
“Take these five, and the other three as well, and have them sweep the streets about the palace and clean the palace stables for the next three months. Then perhaps they will think again before they take coin from a foreigner to attack one of this city’s guests.”
The eight men all prostrated themselves. It was a lenient sentence, but, Gareth felt, a wise one. He and his party would soon be gone, but the bey would remain and continue to rule these people.
The bey briefly interrogated, then dismissed the other onlookers who had joined the fight. As they all filed out, relieved to have been spared any punishment, the bey strode back up the hall to where Gareth and his party remained.
The bey’s gaze raked the three women, all incognito behind their burkas, then lifted to Gareth’s face. “This lady, the governor’s niece-she travels with you?”
Gareth nodded. “It is my duty to keep her safe from the cult on our journey back to England.”
“Good.” The bey clapped a hand to Gareth’s shoulder. “Come-walk a little way with me.” He glanced back at the women. “And if it is not against your rules, as I believe it is not, perhaps your lady might join us?”
Without a second’s hesitation, Emily lifted her burka, putting it back from her face, then stepped forward and curtsied. “Your Excellency.”
The bey appeared pleased by the graceful obeisance. He bowed in return. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” Gallantly he offered his arm. “This is how it is done, is it not?”
Emily smiled and placed her hand on his arm. “Just so, Your Excellency.”
“Good.” Looking to Gareth, the bey waved him on. “Come-walk with me in the cloisters.”
Gareth glanced pointedly at the others of their party, standing quietly waiting.
Following his glance, the bey raised a hand. “My apologies. Your people may return to your lodgings. I will send guards to escort them, and the captain will escort you and your lady there shortly.”
Gareth inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Leaving the others filing out of the hall with the guards, Gareth walked by Emily’s side as the bey led them through a wonderfully carved archway into the tiled cloisters surrounding a courtyard.
They strolled, the bey pointing out various mosaics and sculptures, which they dutifully-and quite sincerely-admired. Once they had completed a circuit of the courtyard, the Bey ushered them into a small parlor overlooking the courtyard pool, and waved them to fat cushions. Once they’d all sat, he got down to buisness.
“I have a small favor to ask-a minor indulgence if you can see your way to granting it.” He looked from Gareth to Emily and back again. “It is my great hope to visit various European courts next year, and as it is expected and the European way, I will take my wife-my principal wife, the begum-with me. Also my closest courtiers. However, other than myself, and then only as a young man many years ago, we have little experience of European manners. No recent experience at all.” He paused, then fixed his gaze on Gareth. “I was hoping I might prevail upon you and your lady to attend a dinner here tomorrow night, and give us-myself, the begum, and those who will travel with me-instruction in how to conduct ourselves at a European table.”
Gareth blinked, then looked at Emily-read her surprise, and her curiosity, in her eyes. He looked back at the bey, formally inclined his head. “We will be delighted to oblige, Your Excellency.”
17th November, 1822
Evening
My room in the guesthouse at Tunis
Dear Diary,
I am scribbling this in between rushing about madly getting ready for what surely will be the strangest dinner of my life. The bey wishes Gareth and me to tutor his retinue in European ways. Given the bey is the absolute ruler of this city, it was impossible to refuse the invitation.
This afternoon, after spending the morning looking for the captain Laboule recommended as the most likely to get us to Marseilles safely, with as yet no luck, Gareth spent some time discussing with me what particular manners it would be wise to address. Somewhat diffidently, he suggested that the bey most likely assumes we are man and wife, as in this culture it would be highly unusual for an unmarried woman of good birth to travel with males not of her family. The long and short of our subsequent considerations is that I will wear my grandmother’s ring on the ring finger of my left hand tonight.
In the circumstances, pretending to be man and wife seemed the safest course, protecting me and also pandering to Gareth’s protective streak, although naturally he did not put matters in those terms.
So now I am bubbling with eager curiosity, not just over what dealing with the bey, the begum and their retinue will be like, but even more over how it will feel for Gareth and me to behave as one day we will be.
Practice should never be sneezed at.