Page 27 of Silver Angel

“Did you bear your master a son, the one who married you?”

“My case was different. My first master was not an important man, just a rich one, and he already had six sons by his first wife, so he did not care whether I gave him a son or not. But you are likely to go to an important household, perhaps even the royal harem of Algiers or Tunis, and an important man rarely marries a slave unless she first gives him a son.” At Chantelle’s stricken look, Jeanne quickly added, “You never know,petite. The man who buys you may be looking for a wife. Many of the more pretty and intelligent women are actually sought after as wives by local men, either Christian or Muslim.” She did not add that that was only if they could afford them, and only a select few would be able to afford Chantelle, but she had mistaken Chantelle’s look.

“I don’t want a husband here, Jeanne. That would be too—too permanent. I don’t think I could bear it if I had to give up hope of ever returning to England.”

Those few words had brought tears to Chantelle’s eyes, making Jeanne uncomfortable enough to look away. “As I first said, you are more likely to go to an important household,”

“And escape? Is that possible?

Jeanne couldn’t bring herself to give Chantelle false hope. “Escape is least likely of all,petite. Many harems contain more eunuchs than they do women, and they are there solely to guard the women, to keep outsiders out and the women in.”

“Then what is there for me to hope for?”

“You can hope for a handsome master, one you will fall in love with and adore serving.”

“And sharing with dozens of other women?” Chantelle bit out caustically.

It was the first bit of spirit Jeanne had noticed in the young girl, and she was surprised enough to say, “But that is the way here. It is the one thing you will quickly get used to.”

Chapter Fifteen

Chantelle couldn’t nap that afternoon with the rest of the women. Today marked the fourth auction she had witnessed since her arrival, and she couldn’t get it out of her mind.

She had tried to make friends when she had first been brought to this room. She had spoken with many of the women and found they all shared the same fears. It seemed easier for a while, knowing that she was not alone in what she was feeling. But then she had watched those same women she had spoken with be marched out to the yard and sold. She had stopped speaking to new arrivals after that.

The Frenchwoman was the first exception. And Chantelle wouldn’t have to watch her being sold. No, Chantelle would be the next to go, in only two more days.

She shuddered at the thought. So often she had tried to look on this as an adventure, but she could never quite manage it. The stumbling block was that she knew she was going to be deflowered by some stranger, and she couldn’t get past the horror of that.

At least Jeanne Mauriac had relieved her mind on one count. Ever since she had watched the first sale out in the courtyard, she had been so afraid that she would likewise be stripped down and forced to endure such total humiliation when it was her turn to be sold. One woman had even been drugged, which seemed an even worse crime, for she had lost her last defense in not knowing what was done to her.

As the time drew closer to her auction, her stomach became so tied up in knots with her thinking about it that she became sick whenever she tried to eat.

Jeanne had moved her pallet next to Chantelle’s and lay sleeping beside her, and Chantelle envied the woman her blithe acceptance of her fate. But even with one of her worries put to rest, Chantelle still could not relax enough to while away the time in sleep.

Only two more days. God, she would rather stay here, even if this became a prison she could never escape. At least she had been well treated here, and she had come to know what to expect of each day. There had been her initial horror when she had been subjected to yet another personal examination upon her arrival. Hamid Sharif had had to make sure for himself that no one had altered her virginal state on the journey.

But since then, no one had touched her. The eunuchs who had the care of the women were not harsh as long as they were obeyed, and Chantelle didn’t have the nerve to argue with such big, frightening-looking men anyway. They even deigned to answer what questions she put to them. She was able to bathe each morning. The food was good, even if she had lost her appetite these past few days. Yes, she would definitely rather stay here.

She toyed with her dinner that evening while Jeanne kept up a cheerful chatter, exclaiming over the excellent meal. Huge platters were brought in and set on little stools, forming three low tables the women could gather around. The only exception was the black girl who had arrived yesterday and was kept chained to the wall. Not even for eating was she released, one of the eunuchs attempting to feed her by hand. Chantelle had yet to see her eat anything. She either spat it out or refused to open her mouth.

“What’s her story?” Jeanne asked no one in particular at their table as she watched the African girl tempt the eunuch’s anger.

No one answered, whether the women understood Jeanne’s French or not. Chantelle wouldn’t have answered either, except Jeanne finally looked pointedly at her.

“She’s a princess from some tribe far south of here. She refuses to accept slavery, according to the guards I overheard talking about her.”

Jeanne snorted. “She will eventually. We all do.”

Chantelle had anticipated that attitude from Jeanne, which was why she hadn’t wanted to speak of the African girl. She knew exactly how the girl felt. She couldn’t accept slavery either. She was just too intimidated at present to say so. And that was Hakeem’s doing, by warning her to keep her anger and resentment under wraps. Of course he had been right. She didn’t care to be chained up as the black girl was, which would surely have happened if she had reacted as she had wanted to during that second intimate examination of her body.

She changed the subject and managed to get Jeanne to tell some amusing stories of her harem life while they finished eating. It still amazed her, this attitude of the Frenchwoman. She wasn’t that much older than Chantelle, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, and yet they had such opposite views. Had nine years of living among the Muslims done this to her, or did she truly see nothing wrong with this way of life?

It was only a short while after the remains of the dinner were removed that they had visitors.

“What’s this?” Jeanne asked, sitting up straighter as Hamid Sharif himself entered the room.

The slave merchant was followed by a tall, slim man with skin the color of rich coffee. He was as dark as the Sudanese eunuchs who guarded the women, though much older, yet Chantelle couldn’t imagine him being a eunuch, thereby a slave, not when he wore a magnificent fur-lined robe of blue silk that glittered with sapphires. Ropes of the same gems hung from his nearly two-foot-high turban.