Toledano bowed his head. “You are right, of course, Se?or Hopkins. The proceeds are hardly worth the barley groats I have to feed them to fatten them up,” he lamented.
Then he looked around and rode closer to Benjamin’s mule. “Over in America, the prices are still quite decent: seventy pounds for a healthy man and fifty for a woman. But unfortunately, you English have prohibited overseas sales.”
“Seventy pounds!” Benjamin stopped his mule and looked at Toledano in disbelief. His father was grateful to make about twice that sum a year at his job as a bank teller.
“I assure you, Se?or Hopkins, and if you will allow me . . .” Toledano once again looked around in all directions.
Nadira came up galloping.
“Master, master!” Her face was distorted with worry. “Please come! The mistress is in great pain.”
Sibylla screamed in anguish, dropping her reins and grasping her abdomen. Disoriented, her mule took off at an irregular trot. Sibylla groaned. Every step felt like a stab. She collapsed in the saddle and clung to the animal’s mane.
“Sibylla, for heaven’s sake, don’t fall!” Sara Willshire guided her mule next to her friend’s and tried to take the reins, but the startled animal flung its head back and forth and made it impossible.
“Help! Stop! We need help!” Sara screamed.
Eventually, the pain in Sibylla’s abdomen subsided, allowing her to reach for the reins and stop the animal.
“What’s the matter with you?” Sara asked, profoundly alarmed.
Sibylla shook her head. Her face was white. “I just had a horrible pain in my belly and back. It’s much better now.”
“Your child! It’s coming!” Sara gasped, crossing herself. “Here, in the middle of nowhere!”
“Nonsense!” Sibylla replied. “I still have four weeks to go.”
“You had better dismount in any case,” said a French-accented voice behind her.
Sara and Sibylla turned and stared at Monsieur Rouston. He leapt off his brown mare, walked over to Sibylla’s mule, and took the reins.
“Madame Hopkins, n’est-ce pas? My name is André Rouston.” His voice was soft and reassuring, and yet she blushed.
“Alors, madame, don’t be afraid. I’ll help you.” He extended his hand to Sibylla. She tried to stand in the stirrups, but was overcome by a new wave of pain.
“Stay calm, madame,” she heard Rouston say. “Give me your hand. I have you.”
As the contraction subsided, Sibylla took the hand offered to her. Rouston’s hand was warm, tanned, and callused on the inside.
The nervous mule suddenly stamped its hooves and she fell against Rouston with a cry. Quickly, he caught her in his arms.
“I am going to carry you into the shade now, Madame Hopkins. Can you see the palm tree with the three trunks over there by the dry riverbed?”
She nodded silently and clenched her teeth in pain.
He noticed this and continued. “You were so concerned about the well-being of the blacks, you must have forgotten all about your own.”
“Fortunately, you, Monsieur Rouston, seem always to be in the right place at the right time, whether to help maltreated slaves or a woman in distress,” she replied. She noticed how flippant the words sounded and was annoyed with herself. She wanted to convey to him how very grateful she was.
“Stubborn girl was determined to undertake this trip even though I warned her against it!” Sara had gotten down from her mule and was trailing behind the Frenchman and Sibylla, looking anxious.
Sibylla shook her head. “I’m fine. The pains will go away. I’ve had them all along.”
Sara placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “What? Since when?”
“Since we left Marrakesh,” Sibylla replied softly. “And a little bit before, but not so severely.”
“And you said nothing? At least in Marrakesh we would have had doctors and midwives!”
“The child is due in four weeks? Did I hear that correctly?” Rouston asked.
He was carrying Sibylla as gently as a porcelain doll. She felt safe and sheltered in his arms, and the pain no longer frightened her so. When they reached the palm tree, Rouston knelt down and delicately placed her on the ground, careful to ensure she was entirely in the shade of the sprawling tree. Sibylla heaved a sigh of relief. Even the afternoon heat was more tolerable here. The Frenchman looked at her pensively.
“Perhaps the journey has been too stressful. Your child may indeed come sooner than expected.”
Alarmed, the women looked at each other.
“No! Not here!” Sibylla implored. What a nightmare, to be delivered of a child along this caravan route without any help! She turned her head and looked over to the chained slaves, the heavily laden camels, to the slave drivers and the riders on their donkeys, mules, and horses, who marched by in a long line without taking much notice of her. And to think she was to blame for her own misery! Tears welled up in her eyes. “Oh, if only I were at home!”
Rouston went to his mare and fetched his rolled-up blanket from behind the animal’s saddle. He returned to Sibylla and pushed the blanket under her head.
“You must not get upset, Madame Hopkins. I am afraid that, by the time you arrive home, you will have a baby in your arms. We cannot help that, but we are going to get you safely to the caravanserai, at least. You cannot ride, so I am going to build a stretcher for you. Toledano will have to lend me four of his strongest men, and they shall carry you for the next few hours. Can you hold on that long?” He scrutinized her face.
“I’ll try.”
“Build a stretcher? But how?” inquired Sara Willshire.
“I learned it as a soldier. A few strong branches and a blanket is all I need. It’s best if I start looking at once. Finding good trees is the hardest part.” He looked at the almost treeless plain, which was covered in sand and stones. “There are some young jujube trees on that knoll over there. Perhaps I can use them.” He jumped on his horse and galloped off.
Sara sighed. Then she took a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, found the water bottle hanging on her mule’s saddle, poured lukewarm liquid over the cloth, and sat down next to her friend. “How are you feeling?” She gently dabbed Sibylla’s forehead, face, and neck.
“Better right now, thank you.” Sibylla’s eyes followed the small dust cloud making its way up the hill. “Monsieur Rouston is a gentleman, isn’t he? I mean a true gentleman, not one who just pretends to be polite to a woman but in fact thinks very little of her.”
They watched as Rouston reached the top of the hill, took his scimitar from his saddle, and began hacking away at the trees.
“Watching him attack those trees just to be of service to you, my dear, one might almost feel pity for the poor plants,” said Sara.
“What do you mean?” giggled Sibylla.
They could hear rapid hoofbeats approaching. Benjamin jumped off his mule and threw the reins to Nadira, who had followed on her donkey.
“Sibylla!” His face was pale with worry. “What’s happened? Are you all right? You didn’t fall from your mule, did you?” He squatted down next to her.