The chaos was instantaneous, the attack so sudden that the French troops had time only to form a protective circle around Alysson and her uncle. She herself was occupied controlling her mount and imploring Uncle Honoré to keep his head down, trying to make her voice heard over the shouts and gunfire.
It was a moment before the clamor quieted. When the haze of d
ust and heat finally settled, Alysson found herself, her uncle, and their French escort surrounded, with three dozen Arab muskets pointed at them.
None of her party seemed to be hurt, she saw with relief. Her uncle's face was red with anger and her own breath was too ragged, but they were both unharmed. Assured of Honoréd safety, she focused her attention on her attackers.
They all wore black robes, while their heads and faces were wound in long black scarves. Their eyes glinted through the slits, as did the blades of their long curved swords thrust without scabbards in their belts. Alysson was quite glad she had the protection of the French soldiers. Because of them, she wasn't afraid . . . yet.
Then she spied the dark horseman, the same man she'd seen twice earlier that day. Her heartbeat took on a erratic rhythm. Had he been following them?
He rode a great black beast with a high curved neck and long flowing tail, and like the others, his features were hidden in the wrappings of his scarf.
When he issued an order in a low commanding tone, she couldn't recognize a word. It wasn't Arabic, she was certain. Perhaps it was the Berber language, which she didn't speak at all.
Indeed, these had to be Berbers, Alysson concluded, eyeing the faces of three men who weren't wearing scarves. Unlike her Arab guides who were swarthy Bedouins, these men surrounding her were fair-skinned, with hard, lean, proud features. And they were much taller, their carriages athletic and noble. She had been told about this fierce warrior race that populated the mountains. The Berbers had lived here for centuries before the conquering Arabs had swept over the face of Africa.
She would have inquired as to their intent, but her uncle spoke before her, demanding in French to be told the meaning of this outrage. Alysson had thought the dark horseman was their leader, but it was one of the other Berbers, a red- bearded man, who responded to her uncle.
He smiled benignly, pressing his hands to his mouth. "Salaam aleikum," he greeted them courteously in Arabic, then repeated in French, "May peace be with you."
"What the devil do you mean, accosting us in this manner?" Honoré exclaimed, ignoring Eastern etiquette entirely.
It seemed rather absurd to be exchanging polite salutations while the acrid smoke of the Berbers' musket fire still hung in the air and their horses stamped and blew, but Alysson was both more familiar with and more accepting of other cultures' customs than her uncle.
"Aleikum es-salaam," she replied, repressing her trepidation. "Perhaps you will forgive my uncle," she added in French, "if he is anxious to learn your intent. Your actions just now do not argue for peace—"
The dark horseman interrupted her with another order in that strange tongue.
"Abandon your weapons," the bearded man advised, "and you will not be harmed."
The automatic refusal that sprang to Alysson's lips died unspoken when she glanced around her. All the Arabs in her party looked appropriately terrified, except her chief guide. He looked infinitely satisfied with present events. Rather smug, in fact.
Anger filled her at the realization that this Arab scoundrel had led them into an ambush. Her gray eyes narrowed, her gaze impaling him.
The guide caught her fierce look and, with a start of alarm, immediately set up a very vocal protest in Arabic against the Berbers, denying their right to make such demands. His resistance rang so hollow that Alysson snapped an order for him to be silent. She was furious that she should have been so dim-witted as to ride blindly into this trap, more furious still at their current dilemma. If they fought now, they might very well die. But the alternative—to meekly hand over their only means of protection—was unthinkable. She would have to determine some way to foil these Berber ruffians—and quickly, before her French escort abandoned her. As it was, they were already shifting uneasily in their saddles, their aims wavering as they looked to her, obviously seeking guidance.
Even as Alysson ground her teeth at their cowardice, a single rifle shot rang out, sending Honor's hat hurtling into the road and making the Europeans' horses shy.
Alysson flinched, staring in horror. The bullet had come so close! It might have killed her beloved uncle. Honoré's mouth had dropped open in shock, while his angry flush had faded to waxen.
Her gaze flew to the dark horseman. He was calmly reloading his weapon, the black stallion beneath him standing rock-steady.
The tense moment drew out, with only the creak of saddie leather and the clank of bridle bits to alleviate the silence. Alysson regarded the black-swathed Berber with every evidence of loathing, but his veiled face, his hooded eyes, gave no indication that he knew or cared about her fury or disdain. As indeed he had no cause. His ease with the long rifle and the accuracy of his shot just now only underscored something else she had been told about the Berbers: they were outstanding marksmen.
The thought filled Alysson with dismay. Her party would have to surrender. If it came to a battle, her spineless French protectors would prove no match for these fierce Berbers. She wouldn't, couldn't, risk her uncle's life.
Just then the bearded spokesman addressed the French troops directly, his tone soothing, almost deferential, as he reasoned with them, appealing to their logic. "Do not be concerned for yourselves. We mean you no harm. We only want the woman."
They meant to single her out? In God's name, why? Alysson wondered. But it was the answer to a prayer. If she could manage to get free of this melee of horses and men, the Berbers would no doubt follow her. She could draw them away, and her uncle would be free to take cover. Moreover, if she fled, she stood a better chance of foiling their plans for her. She was an excellent horsewoman. She might even be able to escape into the shelter of the hills before they caught up with her. Unless they shot her first . . . but if they wanted her, surely they wouldn't shoot her.
This chaos of thoughts whirled through Alysson's mind, even as her Uncle Honoré sputtered in outrage. Despite his close brush with death, he was trying to urge his mount between her and the Berber leaders, evidently in order to protect her. Alysson's heart swelled with love and fear. That he, an aging, comfort-loving gentleman should be the only man with the courage to defend her made her want to weep. She had to get away, now, before another bullet struck a mortal target on her uncle's person, rather than merely his hat.
Letting Honoré's blustering gestures act as a distraction, Alysson edged her gray mare sideways till she glimpsed a clear path between the other horses. Turning the mare's head then, she brought her riding whip down hard on the animal's flank in a single swift motion and dug in her heels. The startled animal let out a squeal, reared on its hind legs, then bolted headlong through the throng of Frenchmen and Berbers.
The mare's rapid flight was all Alysson could have wished. Bending low over the horse's neck, she called out encouragement as she tried to provide some kind of guidance to the frightened animal.
They left the road, surging up a hill covered with prickly shrubs and ancient olive trees. When they came down again, Alysson spied a narrow ravine. She felt the mare gather for the jump . . .