Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (44 page)

"Do you got to be a lady? I'll bet the Widow Maitland would
ask him!"

Marietta laughed. "You may be right at that. But—well, you
see, there are reasons why I cannot."

"Oh. Well then,
make
him ask you."

"How, you little rogue?"

He frowned, and thought for a moment. And then he told her.

The Regent has allowed his crest to be used on the coat of
arms of the Literary Fund," imparted Marietta, reading
The
Spectator
aloud as she sat beside Diccon in the sunny garden.

Arthur, who was busily engaged in driving Friar Tuck mad by
dangling
a long peacock feather just above his nose, asked, "What's that?"

"Probably an association to promote the teaching of reading,"
answered Diccon drowsily. "That should cheer up poor Byron."

Marietta said, "I'm sure it would. But I believe the Literary
Fund
was established to help financially distressed authors. Prinny has
always supported it, and now he's arranged a Charter of Incorporation
for—"

"I tell you he does not wish to receive you! And that you
would dare
show your face here, sir, is past belief!" Sir Lionel's outraged tones
caused Marietta to stop reading and look up anxiously.

Shading his eyes against the sunlight, Diccon also looked up
and swore under his breath.

His step-father, elegant as always, marched across the lawn,
waving
aside Sir Lionel's objections. He was accompanied by a tall Eastern
gentleman clad in a richly ornamented knee-length coat, satin trousers,
high riding boots, and a flowing burnous.

Three other Arabs followed, all similarly but more plainly
garbed,
all tall and formidable of appearance, their wide-swinging cloaks
revealing the great curving blades of scimitars.

"Oh!" exclaimed Marietta, springing up in anger and
indignation.

Sir Gavin stopped beside Diccon's chaise, and said
importantly, "As
you see, sir, my step-son has been gravely injured, which will explain
why he does not rise to greet—"

Very obviously venerated by his companions, the tall Arab
silenced
Coville with a gesture, then his hand moved in a graceful salaam and he
spoke in a deep voice and perfect English. "Have I the honour to
address Lord Temple and Cloud? My title is long and of no importance.
You may call me Ibrahim."

Diccon scanned the proud, finely etched face, the high-arched
nose,
the piercing eyes, and ruthless mouth, and came to his feet. He bowed
slightly but with respect. "You may call me Major Paisley, my lord."

The Arab smiled. "You know me?"

"I believe your title is Sheikh al-Balad. Will you be seated,
sir?"

Coville sprang to pull up Marietta's chair.

The sheikh said, "But I think the beautiful lady occupied
this.
Unless, perhaps, she is to leave us?" The thin lips smiled, but the
hard, dark eyes left no doubt of his meaning.

Marietta felt a twinge of fear but said defiantly, "The lady
is
staying, my lord. But by all means take the chair. I will sit beside
Major Paisley."

Sir Gavin, who had intended to share the chaise, frowned and
murmured, "This is a matter for gentlemen, Paisley."

Turning to him, Diccon said acidly, "Then you had best retire,
sir."

Coville flushed scarlet.

The sheikh's dark face was lit by a very brief flash of white
teeth.

"May I present Miss Warrington, and—" Diccon glanced down, but
Arthur and Friar Tuck had fled.

Marietta was accorded a polite but less flourishing salaam,
and the
sheikh sat down, his men at once stepping close behind the chair.

No sooner were they seated than Sir Gavin said, "Sheikh
Ibrahim has come here to—"

The sheikh turned his head and looked at him and he floundered
into silence.

"I am told that you have found an object that was stolen from
my family," said the sheikh uncompromisingly.

"I believe such things are called spoils of war," countered
Diccon.

The Arab's thin lips curled. "Not in all circumstances, Major.
But—no doubt you are aware of the circumstances?"

Sir Lionel said in exasperation, "It happened over six hundred
years ago! How could
anyone
be aware of the
circumstances?"

The sheikh regarded him as though he were a very strange
insect then
returned his attention to Diccon. "You are aware, perhaps, Major, that
your ancestor, Simon, Lord Cloud, was wounded in battle and carried
into the home of Salah ud-Din, sultan of Egypt, to recuperate?"

"I am aware only that Lord Cloud returned to England with
The
Sigh of Saladin
," said Diccon coolly.

"Which he stole while an honoured guest!"

"How do we know that?" demanded Sir Lionel, bristling. "Eh?
How? And
what difference does it make after all this time? Poppycock!"

Ignoring him, as he ignored Coville, the sheikh's dark gaze
never left Diccon's face.
"The Sigh of Saladin
did not belong to my ancestor. It was a national treasure, considered
sacred by my people. It was entrusted to the protection of Salah ud-Din
during the fighting. Naturally, he did not expect a man whose life he
had saved to rob him. He was deeply grieved and felt he had betrayed
his trust. To the end of his days he mourned the loss."

"War is war, sir," said Coville with a regretful shrug. "But I
am sure that when Major Paisley hears your offer—"

"So you are prepared to make an offer?" said Diccon.

"But of course." Sheikh Ibrahim's smile was touched with
contempt.
"We know the way of the western world. You invade and slaughter and
destroy in the name of God, and steal in the name of greed. So—" He
spread his hands. "It is a national treasure; what can I do? I am
prepared to make an offer."

"And a most generous—" began Sir Gavin.

Diccon interrupted curtly, "Then we had best have the object
here
for you to inspect, my lord. So that you may be sure the greedy
westerners are not trying to foist off a poor imitation on you." He
turned to Marietta. "Would you be so kind, Miss Warrington?"

"I'll come with you," volunteered Sir Lionel hurriedly, and
went off
beside her, talking earnestly, snatches of his remarks drifting back to
them: "… heathen savages…" and "… all a bunch of crafty horse traders."

"I have seen your house, Major," said the sheikh, apparently
not
having heard the words which had brought a flush of embarrassment to
Diccon's thin face. "Do you really intend to rebuild? A costly venture,
I suspect."

Diccon nodded. "Too costly for my purse at the moment, my
lord."

"Ah. You—also—hope to realize a long-cherished dream. Is
that—" He broke off, staring.

There came a clanking sound. Sir Lancelot advanced, helmet
firmly
set, lance in one hand and sword in the other. Friar Tuck attacked the
end of the lance and the knight tripped. One of the sheikh's guards
chuckled, and was the recipient of a glare from his master that wiped
the mirth from his face.

Arthur marched to take up his stand beside Diccon and face the
enemy with fierce determination.

Diccon said, "My lord, this is Master Arthur Warrington.
Arthur, make your bow to Sheikh Ibrahim."

Arthur managed a jerky bow.

The sheikh stood and offered his gracious salaam. "For
a moment," he said, "I had thought I faced your legendary Sir
Lancelot."

Arthur beamed his approval. "That's right, sir! He got me
right, Diccon!"

Sitting down again, the sheikh asked, "Is this the boy for
whom you gave up your arm, Major?"

"I—er, that was not my intention at the time, sir."

"It would seem you have something in common with my ancestor.
You will not know it, but—"

"But Saladin had a deep love for children," interrupted
Diccon. He
saw the look of astonishment on the hawk face, and said with a grin, "I
know quite a lot of him. He was a most remarkable gentleman."

Sheikh Ibrahim betrayed his Oxford education. "The devil you
say!"
he exclaimed, then sprang up as Marietta approached, her father, still
talking earnestly, beside her.

She glanced uncertainly at Diccon. He nodded towards the
sheikh, and
ignoring Sir Lionel's frantic gestures, said, "Please examine it as
minutely as you wish, my lord."

With hands that trembled the sheikh unwrapped the picture.
When he
held it up reverently his followers gave startled exclamations and each
of them dropped to one knee. The sunlight set the gems on fire.
Dazzled, the sheikh stared and stared.

Sir Gavin, also rendered speechless, made a fast recovery. "As
you see, my lord, it is well worth the price!"

"It is beyond price," murmured Diccon.

Sir Gavin laughed. "You've not heard his bid, my dear boy."

"If I am become your 'dear boy,' " said Diccon ironically,
"I've no doubt you already have named your share of the price."

Sir Gavin gave him a look of loathing.

Visibly shaken, the Arab returned the picture to Marietta.
"For
The Sigh of Saladin
, and on behalf of my
people, I will pay you the sum of five hundred thousand pounds, Major
Paisley."

"Half a
million
—
pounds
!"
gasped Sir Lionel, his eyes goggling.

Dazed, Diccon thought of Lanterns, proudly and graciously
refurbished and set amid a groomed park and gardens. He thought of
other things and, aware that his step-father waited with barely
concealed jubilation, turned to Marietta. She was watching him, her
expression grave. He asked, "Well, ma'am? Do you think I should accept
his lordship's offer?"

A moment she hesitated. Then, she shook her head.

"Right!" exclaimed Sir Lionel heartily. "Good girl! Never
accept the
first offer, I told her! Beautiful thing like that; an object of
antiquity. Worth a king's ransom. Ain't that right, Diccon?"

His face cold and closed, the sheikh said, "I do not care to
haggle
in this matter. I would point out, Major, that it could provide you
with a new manor house. A new"—he glanced at Marietta—"and glorious
life."

"Very true," said Diccon. "Still, I must refuse."

The guards muttered angrily.

The sheikh's jaw tightened. "Very well," he said, reluctantly.
"But this is my absolute and final offer: One million pounds."

From Sir Lionel and Coville came simultaneous gasps.

Diccon gazed at Marietta for a long moment and it seemed to
Sheikh
Ibrahim that a silver flame lit those hitherto enigmatic blue eyes.

Diccon said quietly, "As I said before,
The Sigh of
Saladin
is beyond price. It is not for sale, my lord."

The sheikh's lips curled back from his teeth in a soundless
snarl. Three muscular hands reached for three murderous scimitars.

Sir Lionel said a dismayed, "Not for sale? But—my dear boy… !"

Sir Gavin yelped, "You're mad! There's a limit, even to Mr.
Ibrahim's generosity!"

The sheikh demanded coldly, "Have you an explanation, sir?"

Diccon took
The Sigh of Saladin
from
Marietta and held it
up to the light, marvelling at the beauty of it. "I have no doubt," he
said, "that my ancestor considered this to be a prize of war. But to my
mind sacred objects belong to the people and the nation of their
origin." Unused to making speeches, he thrust the picture at the
sheikh. "It's yours. But not because I believe it was stolen
dishonourably."

There was an instant of stunned silence. Then, five howls
fractured
the quiet of the gardens. Two of rage from Sir Lionel and Sir Gavin;
three of joy from the sheikh's bodyguards.

"One million pounds—
truly
a king's
ransom—and you whistle it away?" roared Sir Lionel. "You're stark,
raving mad!"

"If I had my way you'd be placed in Bedlam under strong
restraint!" raged Sir Gavin.

Not daring to look at Marietta, Diccon knew that they were
probably
right. But it was too late for him to change now. He would undoubtedly
be a stupid fool all his days.

Arthur knelt on the rug in Marietta's bedchamber and watched
her
arrange her shawl. "Why was Papa so cross with Sir G'waine yest'day
after those men in the dresses were gone? I 'spect that's why he went
home so quick."

"They weren't really dresses, dear. They're robes that men
wear in
the country they come from. And Papa thought that Diccon should have
done something in a rather different way, that's all."

"Oh. You've tied your bonnet three times, Etta. He went away
yest'day y'know. An' it's already today aft'noon."

"I know. But he's still not very strong, and I don't expect
he'll go
anywhere just yet. And besides—" Marietta started to fashion the bow
again, then sighed and gazed at her reflection. "Oh dear. I suppose the
truth is that I'm just a coward, Arthur. I never did anything like this
before."

Ladies were awful strange, he thought. What was there to be a
coward
about? All she had to do was talk. What was scary 'bout that? "If
you're 'fraid," he said, "you'd better grid up the lions."

She turned and looked at him. "I'd better—what, dear?"

"Grid up the loins. That's what Lem told me to do when Sir
Strut hissed at me an' I was scared. He says it's out of the Bible."

The light dawned. "Ah! So it is. Perhaps Lem didn't speak
loudly
enough for you to hear properly. It really says, " 'Gird up thy loins.'
" She saw his mouth opening and added quickly, "Which means—gather up
your courage."

"Oh. Why doesn't it say that, then?"

"Well, because we say things a little differently nowadays."

"Why?"

"Because times change. And time is changing very fast, so I'd
better
hurry, hadn't I." She tied the bow and took up the valise that lay on
the bed. "How can this be heavy? It's empty." She set it down again and
lifted Friar Tuck out. "Were you going to come and offer me moral
support, moggy?" she asked, holding up the cat.