The Princess and the Foal

  Contents

  Cover

  Midnight, 23 August 1986

  The Storm

  The Legend of Al Khamseh

  Aqaba

  The Treasure Box

  The Foaling

  The Birthday Present

  Bint Al-Reeh

  The Desert Patrol

  Mrs Goddard and the Tanks

  The Dumb Waiter

  Taming the Wind

  A Strange Land

  The Upper Third at Badminton

  Challenger

  Home

  Learning to Fly

  The Sakret

  The Shaved Bear

  Daughter of the Wind

  The King’s Cup

  The Silver Accord

  9pm, 24 August 1986

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other books by Stacy Gregg

  Read on for a sneak peek of ‘Mystic and the Midnight Ride’

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Is it true you ask? And I say yes, especially the most extraordinary bits, they are the very truest of all.

  To Her Royal Highness Princess Haya Bint Al Hussein.

  Thank you for sharing your incredible story with me, and to all the other princesses who dare to dream.

  his book is a work of fiction, inspired by the early life of Her Royal Highness Princess Haya Bint Al Hussein. Any historical events, real people or real locales in this novel are portrayed fictitiously. Other names, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  ello, Mama,

  I am underneath my blankets with a torch as I write this. I don’t dare turn the lights on because Frances might see and know that I am awake, and the last person I want to deal with right now is Frances.

  I should be asleep, but I am too full of nerves about tomorrow. Santi has a calendar in his office at the stables and I have marked off the squares in red pen one by one, the knot in my belly tightening as the day grows closer. For a long time it seemed forever away. And now suddenly there is no more waiting. In a few hours it will be dawn and I will go down to the stables and prepare Bree. I’ll braid her tail and bandage her legs and then we will load the horses on to the truck and travel across the desert, bound on a journey that must end in either defeat or honour and glory for the Royal Stables.

  I am trembling as I write these words to you and I tell myself that it is not fear, it is excitement. In all the history of the King’s Cup there has never been a girl rider. But I am not just a girl. I am a Bedouin of the Hashemite clan and I was born to ride. Thousands of years ago the women of my tribe sat astride their horses in battle and fought side by side with men. Well, I do not want to fight – all I want to do is win.

  A thousand faces will stare down from the grandstand tomorrow. Baba will watch me from the Royal Box with Ali by his side, and no doubt Frances will have elbowed her way in too. She’ll be waiting for me to fail, to make a fool of myself in front of all those people. All the time undermining me to Baba, saying it is not right for the daughter of the King of Jordan to spend her time hanging around the stables, mucking out the dung. She is always trying to make me into something I am not.

  Frances wants me to be like some princess in the storybooks – confined to my tower, dressed in ball gowns and a golden crown and glass slippers. I mean, who in their right mind would wear glass slippers? If I had my way, I would wear jodhpurs all day long.

  “Your mother always deported herself as a gracious lady.” That is exactly what Frances says. She talks so posh sometimes it is as if she is the royal one not just my governess.

  Frances is always telling me I should be more like you. It is so annoying because if you were actually here then I wouldn’t have to listen to her. I would be allowed to do as I like and I would never have to wear stupid dresses to dinner or put up with any of the rules that Frances makes up.

  I tell her that you were a Queen, but you wore a T-shirt and jeans. I remember your favourite pair of red jeans. The ones you bought in Rome when you were very young, before you married Baba.

  You wore those red jeans and your long hair was always loose over your shoulders and swept back off your face. I have grown my hair long now too, but it is plain brown. Baba insists that I look just like you, but you always looked like a movie star to me with your green eyes and dark blonde hair. If I close my eyes sometimes, I can see your face and hear your laughter like music filling the palace at Al Nadwa.

  I remember I would ask you, “Can I become a Queen one day?” and your answer was always the same. You would tell me, “Haya, you are a Princess of Jordan. Perhaps one day you will be a Queen, Inshallah. But remember your title is on a piece of paper, on a page of a history book, no more than that. It’s what you have inside that means everything. You must always be yourself, Haya, never pretend. Do you understand?”

  I would look at your face and you would be very serious, but then you would pick me up and smother me with kisses until I giggled and we would laugh together as you held me close in your arms.

  The last time I asked you this question we were in the gardens at Al Nadwa. It was a summer day and you had spread a blanket on the lawn in the shade of the big pomegranate tree. Ali was there with us too, playing with his toys. At least I think Ali was there. Sometimes I wonder if I am making bits up. I am twelve now and that day has faded in my mind like an old photograph.

  I have another memory and this one is very clear. We are outside Baba’s office, you and me and Ali. You are kneeling down on the marble floor in front of Ali, grasping his tiny hands as he wobbles on his chubby little legs.

  He steadies himself and then gently, carefully, you let him go. You keep your arms encircling him as Ali rocks back and forth, but he doesn’t fall and you smile with delight and pick him up and say, “Oh, my darling Ali. Now that you can stand on your own feet I can leave you for a while.”

  Mama, I have been doing my best to stand up, to find my feet without you there to hold my hands. My two legs were not strong enough at first, but then Bree came along with four legs to carry us both. Her heart and courage gave me the strength that I needed.

  I wish you could be there to see me ride her tomorrow. Baba says that if I have something important to tell you, I should write to you. But I could never do it. Not until tonight. I have so much to tell you, about me and Bree and everything that has happened since you’ve been gone. But it is very late and my hand is getting cramp. It is quite hard writing on a mattress when you are holding a torch in one hand and trying to breathe under the blankets. If you were here, you would tell me to finish the letter tomorrow and get some sleep.

  Mama, you know how I said I wasn’t afraid? Well, maybe I am, just a little. This is the greatest contest in the kingdom; what if Bree and I are not good enough? I do not care that Frances and her supporters think it is wrong for a princess to ride. But I know how important this is to our people and I feel the weight of expectation upon me. When I ride into that arena, I carry their hopes along with me and I am determined that I will not let them down. I do this to make Baba proud, but also to prove myself, to show them that when I am on a horse I am the equal of any man.

  I am a princess, but this is no fairy tale. If it were then I would know what is to come, my happy-ever-after. But I do not yet know how the story will end. All I know is that this story of me and Bree begins like fairy tales do:

  Many years ago, once upon a time in Arabia …

  wo lions stand guard at the entrance to the Royal Palace. They stand upright on all fours, alert and ready. Their powerful, sleek bodies are golden in the afternoon
sun.

  If the lions turned round, just a whisker, then they would see the little girl who stalks up silently behind them. But they do not move; their eyes stay trained on the stairs below.

  The girl tiptoes forward in one-two-three quick strides. She has chosen her lion and in a bold leap she vaults up his rump and on to his back. Heart racing, she reaches out with both hands and grasps his mane tight and then she digs her tiny heels into the lion’s flanks.

  “Go!” she commands. “Go now!”

  Leaning low over his mane, she kicks him on, the way she has seen her uncle ride his polo ponies. Just ten metres away there is a massive stone wall that borders the palace compound. If she can ride fast enough then the lion will leap the wall and they’ll keep riding out across the green lawns of the Royal Court. Then beyond the next wall until the pink limestone buildings of Amman disappear and all that is left is the bleached, sunburnt sand of the Arabian desert. A lion can travel swiftly across the sand on his padded paws, but first they must leap the wall!

  She is pressing the lion on, crouching low, legs kicking and arms pumping, when she senses a tall, dark shadow looming over her.

  “Your Royal Highness.”

  The little girl looks up and smiles at the kindly face of Zuhair, head of the Royal Household Staff.

  “Princess Haya,” Zuhair says, “Queen Alia is looking for you.”

  Haya swings her leg over and then slides down the rump of the statue, landing neatly on her feet and running on ahead of Zuhair. She is three years old, with bright brown eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. Small for her age, her skinny arms are only just strong enough to push open the massive front doors of the palace that are made of heavy teak studded with brass orbs the size of her head.

  In the hallway the portraits of Kings look down on her as she skips along, her feet pattering against the cool marble floor. She likes the way their eyes follow her as she runs by. Her father is King, but he is not on the wall. Whenever they have tried to hang his portrait, her Baba always says no thank you, he has no wish to stare at himself all day. He prefers photos of tanks and boats, and horses of course. Her Baba loves horses, just like Haya.

  They call her father the Lion of Jordan, but Haya has never heard him roar. He is a soft-spoken man, handsome with short-cropped dark hair and a moustache. His dark eyes are bright with intelligence and his smile is gentle and kind.

  But today, when Haya peeks in from the hallway through the door of his office, her Baba is not smiling. He sits at his desk, his brow furrowed deep with concern. In the centre of the office there is a large bearskin rug and her Mama is there too, standing on the bear and holding her little brother Ali on her hip.

  “I have spoken to the officials in Tafilah,” the Queen says. “Conditions there grow more desperate by the hour. Refugees are pouring in. Many of them are women and children and they need food and medicine. The hospital staff are exhausted. There are no beds left. People are sleeping on floors and without blankets. They cannot wait another day. I should go there this afternoon in the helicopter and take them medicines and supplies while you meet with the foreign delegates in Aqaba.”

  Prince Ali squirms on the Queen’s hip as she speaks. Only this afternoon he stood up for the first time and now he is reluctant to be restrained by his mother’s arms any longer. His sturdy little legs kick out as he wriggles in a bid for freedom.

  The worried expression does not leave the King’s face at his wife’s suggestion. “Alia, we agreed at breakfast that you would take the car. It is too dangerous to fly with a storm coming.”

  “If I take the helicopter then I can be home again by nightfall,” the Queen says. And then before her husband can object she adds, “Badr Zaza has offered to fly me.”

  Badr Zaza is the King’s own pilot and in all of Jordan there is no one better. The King nods in agreement at his wife’s plan. “If Badr Zaza is willing to undertake the journey then I know you will be safe …”

  “I want to come too.”

  It is Haya. She is standing in the doorway, eyes bright with excitement.

  “Haya,” her Mama cautions. “What did I say at dinner last night? I told you, if you wanted to come with me, you had to eat your steak and your Brussels sprouts.”

  “Ali didn’t eat his either!” Haya offers as her defence.

  “Ali is staying home too,” her Mama says, rocking Haya’s brother gently on her hip. “Grace will take care of you until I get home and next time, if you eat everything on your plate, then you may come with me, OK?”

  There is a storm coming, but right now the sun still shines on the palace. On the lawn, not far from the pomegranate tree where Haya played that morning with her mother, a helicopter roosts like a sleeping dove.

  “Are you going to fly away?” Haya asks her mother.

  “Yes,” the Queen says, “but Grace will look after you while I am gone.”

  Grace, their nanny, stands beside them on the balcony that leads to the lawn. She is holding Prince Ali in her arms. Grace is nice; she bakes biscuits.

  Haya frowns. “Will you tuck me in?”

  “Not tonight. Baba will be home in time to put you to bed and I will be there when you wake up in the morning.”

  Grace reaches out to take Haya’s hand. It is time to say goodbye.

  “Be good, Haya,” her mother whispers in her ear as she bends down and kisses her.

  The Queen kisses Ali too and then sets off across the lawn towards the helicopter.

  “Wait! Mama!” Haya shouts, but the helicopter engine roars to life and drowns her words. Grace’s hand is clasped firmly over hers, anchoring her to the balcony. Then suddenly Grace’s hand is empty. Haya has broken free and is running helter-skelter after her mother across the flat, green lawn.

  The Queen has almost reached the helicopter by the time the little princess catches up with her.

  “Mama!” Haya’s tiny hands clutch at the Queen’s trouser leg. Startled, her mother looks down and sees Haya standing there beside her. Above their heads the blades of the helicopter begin to turn. The dove is waking.

  Haya has something to tell her Mama, but her voice is too light as the engines of the helicopter thrum overhead. Her words are lost the moment they leave her lips. “Don’t go!” she shouts. “Stay with me. I love you, Mama.” And then she looks up into her mother’s eyes and Haya realises that she does not need to say anything because her mother understands.

  The Queen bends down and picks up her daughter, taking her in her arms and hugging her tight. She kisses her one last time, and Haya feels the softness of Mama’s skin. Then Grace is beside them and her mother is passing her over into the nanny’s arms. Grace, who is still holding Ali, manages to straddle Haya on one hip and Ali on the other as she walks back to the garden terrace.

  The helicopter blades turn slowly and then faster and faster until they are a blur. The wind gets stronger and whips at Haya’s hair, flattens the flowers in the gardens below.

  At first, the helicopter rocks up off the ground and bumps back down again as if it cannot make up its mind. Then, suddenly, it lifts up like a leaf caught by a gust of wind, rising straight into the air. It hovers for a moment and then arcs away, clearing the high palace walls and the tops of the trees beyond, setting a flight path towards the distant hills.

  Haya tries to keep watching it, but the sun blinds her eyes. She shuts them tight, just for a moment, and when she opens them again, the helicopter is gone.

  *

  Haya curls herself up tightly into a ball. It is pitch-black in here, but nice and warm too, and she has her favourite toy, Doll, with the pink hat and sewn-on eyes and squishy cotton legs, with her for company.

  “Shhhh,” she whispers to Doll. “I can hear them coming. Be quiet now or they will find us.”

  There are voices outside and then car doors slamming. Haya feels her heart racing as the engine begins to purr. They are moving!

  Uh-oh. The car has stopped again. There is the sound of voices once mo
re and then footsteps, and suddenly the car boot is wide open and she is blinded by the glare of daylight.

  “Haya! Not again!”

  It is Baba. He has opened the car boot and found her!

  “Haya.” The King hardly seems surprised to see his daughter in the boot of the car. “Out you hop, please. I need to go now.”

  The first time Haya hid in the boot of Baba’s Mercedes she made it all the way to Aqaba. But ever since then the King has been wise to her tricks and he always checks the car before he drives off.

  Haya unfurls herself slowly and reluctantly, as if stalling for time will help matters.

  “Please can I come?” she asks hopefully. “I won’t be any trouble.”

  The King tries to suppress a smile at her antics as he bends down and lifts her out of the boot. “Somehow I find that very hard to believe.”

  Haya isn’t going anywhere and so it is up to Grace to keep her amused. That afternoon they are baking biscuits in the palace kitchen. Grace makes them with dates and almonds and it is Haya’s job to roll the mixture into little balls, dip them in sugar and then squish them down with a fork before they are put on the baking tray.

  Ismail, the head chef, is grumpy that they are taking up his kitchen space. He doesn’t complain – how can he tell off the daughter of a King? But he does clatter about, making extra loud noises banging his pots and pans as he cooks. He is making mansef for dinner: a rich dish of lamb with rice and thick pungent yoghurt. Bedouin food, Ismail calls it, one meal powerful enough to sustain you for many days.

  This is what Haya’s ancestors survived on during nomadic voyages across the great deserts. Her great-grandfather, King Abdullah, ate mansef with Lawrence of Arabia when he led the Bedouin army in the Arab Revolt.

  Haya never met her great-grandfather, but she has seen his portrait on the wall of Kings. Baba was with him on the day that he died. He was accompanying his grandfather to pray, climbing the stairs of the mosque in Jerusalem, when an assassin opened fire. King Abdullah was shot and Haya’s father would have been killed too if he had not worn his new uniform that day, with his medal for sword-fighting pinned over his heart. The medal stopped a bullet and saved her father’s life.