Daughter Of Hassan. PENNY JORDAN

Jourdan,’ Saud said warmly, so warmly that Danielle glanced at him, surprised to see a look almost approaching worship in the liquid eyes. ‘My father says that he is the natural successor to Sheikh Hassan and that without him our country would be torn to shreds and thrown to the winds. He is what in our family we call “The gift of the Prophet”.’

      Danielle thought he was referring to a discreet way of describing Jourdan’s illegitimacy until he saw the look of solemn reverence on his face.

      “‘The Gift of the Prophet?” What is that?’ she asked, curious, in spite of her aversion for the man who would have married her without thought or compunction.

      ‘Quite simply the birth of one with the power, the knowledge and the skill to hold our people together,’ Saud told her seriously. ‘Always such a one is born to our ruling house in times of conflict and need. Sheikh Hassan himself was thought to be such a gift by his father until it was realised that he could not father children. You must know that in a family such as ours with many brothers and sons there is always fierce rivalry. Sometimes that rivalry breaks out in warfare as rival factions battle for control.

      ‘We are only a small country, but very rich in oil. Unfortunately our people sometimes lack the education to use wealth wisely. It is important that we plan now for the future when we may no longer have our oil, and that is what Sheikh Hassan is trying to do. Many schemes have been launched, many of our brighter young men educated abroad, and much money spent in technological equipment and learning, but all this will be wasted if there is no one to continue Sheikh Hassan’s work when he is gone. It must be a man strong enough to quell opposition, fierce as the hawk and wily as the snake. Jourdan is such a man…’

      He sounded very unpleasant, Danielle thought distastefully. ‘Fierce as the hawk.’ That no doubt meant domineering and aggressive. ‘Wily as the snake.’ She conjured up a picture of a Machiavellian mind capable of all manner of intrigue. She already knew how much the Muslim mind appreciated subtlety and how necessary it was to have this gift in full measure if one were to succeed in the Arab business world. The Arab would not respect a man he could cheat, and respect was all-important.

      ‘You obviously admire him,’ Danielle said in a neutral voice, wondering if Saud was aware of the marriage her stepfather had planned for her. In view of Jourdan’s importance it was strange that a full-blooded Arab girl from within the Royal Family had not been chosen for him, and she realised for the first time that her stepfather had been trying to confer a great favour (in the eyes of his family at least) upon her by this marriage.

      ‘I do,’ Saud agreed. ‘Although it is thought by some that his adherence to the religion of his mother is foolish. However, the Koran acknowledges the worth of other religions, and Jourdan accepts the precepts of the Koran and abides by them far more stricly than many of our race.’

      ‘He sounds quite a paragon,’ Danielle said dryly, her dislike of the unknown Jourdan growing by the minute. ‘What a shame that I shall not meet him…’

      She was too busy studying the scenery beyond the window to see the swift, startled sideways glance Saud gave her. They were driving up to an archway set in a high white wall, the white paint glittering so brightly in the brilliant sunshine that Danielle had to close her eyes against the glare.

      When she opened them again the huge car had come to rest in front of a long, low building, its windows all shuttered like so many closed eyes, the delicate mosaic work adorning the gateway making her gasp with pleasure.

      ‘I must leave you here,’ Saud announced, climbing out of the car. ‘The driver will take you round to the women’s quarters where you will be received by the Sheikha.’

      ‘Will I see you again?’

      All at once he had become an important link with home and all things familiar. Saud flushed and seemed to glance hesitantly at the driver as though reluctant for him to overhear their conversation.

      ‘It may be permitted. I shall ask my father,’ he muttered in a low voice, and then the car was sweeping away through another archway decorated with a continuous frieze of arabesques and into a courtyard enclosed on all four sides.

      A door in one wall opened inwards, and feeling rather Alice in Wonderlandish, Danielle realised that she was supposed to get out of the car and enter the building.

      She did so like someone in a dream, aware of activity behind her as another door in the adjacent wall opened and the car boot was opened and her luggage removed.

      As she stepped through the open door, the scent of jasmine immediately enveloped her, together with a welcome coolness which she realised was stimulated by the powerful air-conditioning whose hum she could just faintly hear.

      ‘If the Sitt will follow me.’

      The girl was draped from head to foot in black, her voice low and melodious, and Danielle could just catch the faint chime of ankle bracelets as she swayed down the corridor in front of her. At the bottom she opened a door and indicated that Danielle was to follow. She found herself in a small square room with a low divan under one window and a small sunken pool just beyond it.

      ‘If the Sitt will permit.’

      Gently but inexorably Danielle was pushed down on to the divan, her high-heeled sandals removed. She was glad that she was not wearing tights when the girl promptly proceeded to wash her hands and feet with water from the pool, again scented with some elusive perfume which drifted past her nostrils and refused to be properly identified.

      The girl’s movement were deft and sure, her hands delicately hennaed and her eyes modestly downcast all the time. She must be a maid, Danielle reflected when she walked across to the other side of the room and returned with a pair of soft embroidered slippers.

      ‘It is necessary to wear these in the presence of the Sheikha,’ the girl explained. ‘It is the custom to kneel and approach, and then to leave the room backwards, but in your case it is necessary only to kneel. For you the Sheikha has waived the normal formalities…’

      The girl’s English was perfect, so perfect that Danielle felt ashamed of her own lack of Arabic. She had learned it from her father, she explained when Danielle questioned her, and had been fortunate enough to get her position in the Sheikha’s household because of it, because the Sheikha wanted all her daughters and granddaughters to speak it.

      ‘It is necessary when they go to school in England,’ she added. ‘The Sheikha wishes the women of her family to have the benefit of a good education. She says it is important that the women of our race do not cause our menfolk to have a contempt of them because of their ignorance. I shall take you to her now, if you will please follow me.’

      The room they were in was an ante-room leading into a huge chamber with a vaulted, carved and painted ceiling, the intricacy of the arabesques and stylised carvings on the ceiling taking away Danielle’s breath; and the colours! Never had she seen such a multitude of rich, jewel-bright colours all in one room before, and yet as her eyes became accustomed to the richness she realised that they were carefully and subtly arranged so that turquoise ran into lilac and rich purple into crimson, into royal blue and back to turquoise, the skilful blending shown to its best advantage on the plain off-white divans placed around the room and covered with multi-coloured silk cushions.