Sultana (16 page)

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful, my prince. Thank you for your consideration.”

“Yes, well…it’s appropriate for me to consider you. You’re my wife.”

She removed the cotton covering and revealed a golden gilded cage. Inside, a bird folded its black wings. Its small white head bobbed as golden-brown eyes darted everywhere.

He said, “The seller assured me this kite is gentle enough to eat from your hand. I named her Fatima in your honor.”

 She looked at him askance. “Do I remind you of a bird now?” Before he could answer, she continued, “I had a bird like this, once. My brother shot a sparrow and I helped to heal her broken wing. She died a year ago. I never thought I would have my own for a pet.”

“Then, you like the gift?”

“I do, very much. I thank you for her.”

Her face flushed with happiness. Her mouth curved in a delectable smile. A surge of elation filled him at the thought of making her happy.

“I believe I could be content for the remainder of my life, if only you would always smile at me.”

When her eyes widened, he chided himself for his thoughtless slip of tongue. He was not some lovesick fool for her.

They sat in silence until he said, “I must leave Gharnatah in a few days, at the Sultan’s request. I do not know how long I shall be gone.”

“Grandfather relies on you. What do you do for him when you’re away?”

“I follow his commands and do what he wishes of me.”

She scowled. “If you do not wish to tell me, I won’t pry.”

Sighing, he said, “Your grandfather gives me different responsibilities. I have served as his interpreter and as a secretary, commissioned to write his letters of state.”

“Grandfather can write his own letters. Why does he ask you to do it?”

“You object to his choice of me as his emissary and scribe?”

“I wonder why he chooses you for such missions.”

Often, he wondered the same. The men who usually undertook such duties were learned ministers, or preparing for administrative office. He had no interest in, or prospect of, either possibility. The sole responsibility he desired in life remained elusive, as in the days after his father’s death.

Chapter 12

 The Raiders

Prince Faraj

Al-Andalus: Jumada al-Thani 671 AH (Andalusia: January AD 1273)

The rocky promontory at Jabal Tarik pierced the morning mist, welcoming Faraj home to al-Andalus after a nine-month absence. He returned with the Sultan’s retinue of emissaries by trade ship from al-Maghrib el-Aska. They had left the Marinid ruler without assurances of an alliance. Just before departing the capital city at Fés el-Bali, Faraj wrote his master about the apparent failure of the negotiations.

Except for the crew, he stood on deck alone while the ship crossed the White Sea that Christians called the Mediterranean. Salt spray thickened the crisp, wintry wind. The boat rounded the western portion of Jabal Tarik and proceeded along the coastline of al-Andalus. They neared the port of disembarkation at Munakkab, one of the few seaside towns the Ashqilula family did not control.

On dry land again, Faraj commandeered one of several mounts the Sultan had sent from Gharnatah. A groom, who held the reins of his horse, proffered a rolled parchment bearing the Sultan’s seal. Faraj scanned it and mounted the gray stallion. He considered the instructions in the letter and sensed Gharnatah’s fortunes were once again about to change.

He parted fromthe others, who would return to Gharnatah directly, and circumventedthe hillside base of Munakkab’s citadel. At the outskirts of the city, bare mulberry trees covered the plains, evidence of the flourishing silk trade within the Sultanate. The sun glittered against the pale brick and rubble masonry of the city’s walls. In the citadel’s courtyard, a detachment of Moorish soldiers barred his entry. He dismounted, looking for the Crown Prince. Within minutes, the heir of Gharnatah emerged from the citadel and he was not alone. The Castillan commander Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara strode beside him.

Faraj’s fists tightened at his side. Nearly six years after his secret encounter with the commander, his parents’ blood cried out for revenge against the Ashqilula traitors and all those who had helped them.

The Crown Princespoke in animated tones and smiled at his cohorts, before he approached.

Faraj bowed. “I came as your noble father ordered. I trust all goes well in Gharnatah,” He nodded to the Crown Prince’s companions standing a few feet away.

The heir favored him with a cautious smile. “We shall speak in a moment of Gharnatah’s affairs. Tell me instead of your sojourn in al-Maghrib el-Aska and of Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub’s words.”

Glancing at the Lara men who waited and observed, Faraj shook his head. “The Marinids cannot commit to an alliance with Gharnatah now.”

The Crown Prince stroked his dark, pointed beard and nodded, before looking over his shoulder to where his guests awaited him. He smiled at them and then whispered, “It’s just as well. My father anticipated such a decision from our brothers of the Faith. His greatest disappointment may be that the Marinids cannot yet rid him of my sister Maryam. We shall know the Sultan’s true feelings soon enough, when we arrive at Gharnatah.”

“Do we depart soon?”

“Yes, in the company of those whom you see here. In the time that you were away in al-Maghrib el-Aska, the Lara men approached my noble father with entreaties, seeking another agreement. Against ardent objections, particularly from me, the Sultan does as he wills. Thus, we are to host the family of Lara and their companions for a time. My father has provided a large estate in al-Bayazin for his new allies.”

“I must ask, is this the wisest choice? Your father has committed the Sultanate to a course of action that has unforeseeable consequences for us all. How can we be assured the Castillan rebels shall remain steadfast, when in the past, they…?”

“We must trust in the Sultan to do what is right for Gharnatah’s future. Come, let us dine with these fools here and enjoy the entertainment their presence may provide.”

Weeks passed, in which the Sultanate of Gharnatah existed in a state of uncertainty. Minor skirmishes at the border with Castilla-Leon and near the territories under Ashqilula control resulted in a handful of injuries, but few deaths. In fearful whispers, courtiers predicted that either King Alfonso or the Ashqilula or both would besiege
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
. Yet, neither declared open warfare. Faraj did not know which situation the Sultan found more intolerant; the lack of a decisive victory over his enemies, or their pragmatic positions.

Then, Gharnatah’s soldiers and the Castillan rebels raided at border towns, which Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara had identified as weak targets. Buoyed by their successes, the Sultan joined his compatriots in the raids, taking plunder and slaves.

Faraj had accompanied them in the last two successful raids into Castillan territory, but he would not do so today, in the attack on the town of Martus. Instead, he waited in the precincts of
al-Quasaba
, with the royal family and the courtiers who wished the Sultan success.

He stood beside Princess Fatima in the cold balm of morning. Since his return to Gharnatah, they had seen little of each other. His repeated requests for an audience, at first, seemed ill timed. The Crown Prince’s chief eunuch always offered the excuse that she was too busy or indisposed. Faraj was not a fool. He knew she was avoiding him and he suspected the reason, however foolish. He had not corresponded with her during his sojourn in al-Maghrib el-Aska, but surely, she did not care about that.

Even now, her apathy annoyed him, as she stared straight ahead. Though she wore the veil, like other married women around her, he would have known his wife among all others, for only she displayed the coldest indifference to him.

Now, he almost wished he had joined the raiding party, for Fatima’s silence was maddening. He suspected she would have preferred him gone, too. Her sister Muna showed some sympathy, or at least her eyes said as much, whenever she regarded Fatima and him.

The Sultan called the raiders to attention. He rode the length of the entire column of men with a brusque charge. In that moment, he looked nothing like an octogenarian. The energy he displayed enthralled everyone. His family cheered him loudly and lustily in, what must have been for him, a heady reminder of his youthful days.

He accepted the acclaim with a broad, charming grin and spurred his horse toward his family and retainers, who awaited him. Three women approached his horse. His wives and honored concubines wore white silk. Opaque veils covered their hair and faces. The women took hold of the Arabian’s reins without fear, though the horse snorted and tossed his head. The Sultan spoke with each of his women. In turn, they kissed his hands and bid him farewell.

The women moved aside when the Crown Prince approached and bent on one knee at his father’s side. The Sultan dismounted. Words passed between the men beyond the hearing of anyone else. The Sultan clasped his son by the shoulders. They exchanged the kiss of peace. Then the Sultan mounted his horse and raised his hand in salute. He ordered the raiders out of the western gate of
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
.

Fatima whispered a soft, fervent prayer. When Faraj glanced at her, moisture glistened in her eyes. He laid a hand upon her arm. “He always returns, you know.”

She stiffened at his touch. “If such is the Will of God.” She glared at his hand on the white sleeve of her
jubba
. A silent command flared in her gaze.

When he withdrew his hand, she turned away without another word.

Without forethought, his fingers closed on her forearm, none too gently.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “My tutor awaits me.”

“Surely, he can bear the demands of your husband.”

She looked over her shoulder. The princesses Muna and Alimah lingered, with anxious gazes. She waved them away. They hesitated, briefly. When the royal family and courtiers finally dispersed, some with curious glances at him, Faraj released Fatima’s forearm, which she rubbed gingerly.

He began, “I am sorry if I have hurt you.”

Her soothing gesture stopped. “I’m not fragile and do not bruise easily. Yet, I must warn you. Do not touch me again with so little care. I am a princess and by that title alone, I am worthy of your respect. Because I’m your wife, I also deserve to be treated with gentle care.”

“As your husband, princess, I expect to be treated with the same respect and care you desire. Why then do I feel slighted by you?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Then let me make my meaning plain. You have ignored me in polite silence and abused me with determined indifference since my return. How have I offended you? I expect a truthful answer from you. I demand it as your husband.”

She frowned and set her hands on her hips. “Very well, I shall tell you how you have offended me. You are a riddle, impossible to understand. Your words and actions are always at odds. You leave for nine months without a word of greeting whilst you are gone. I am your wife. When you treat me with so little interest, you can’t ask for more than the same from me.”

He drew back under her harsh words, but she pressed on. “I want to respect and admire my husband. Yet how can I, when in every instance of our years of marriage, you have shown you don’t care for my thoughts or feelings?”

Faraj shook his head. She was angry because the Sultan had sent him to al-Maghrib el-Aska. If anything, she should have been annoyed with her grandfather. Besides, why did she care about his absence?

He bowed. “I’m sorry to be found so wanting in your eyes.”

Fatima sighed and shook her head, before her angry gaze returned to his.

“Mock me, if you like. You shall have those things of me, which I must give, because they are your due. But, you shall never have my respect, until you can give the same with an open heart.”

Princess Fatima

After her lessons, Fatima returned to the harem and slunk into the
hammam
. Absentmindedly, she lingered in the water untilher skin reddened. Alone in her room, she brushed her hair before a long silver gilt mirror, while Amoda laundered the clothes and Leeta oversaw the preparation of the evening meal.

The bristles whipped through her hair, tugging strands from the scalp. Her anger lingered. Faraj had ignored her for ninemonths and then expected her joyous welcome at his return. His arrogance embittered her. He wasn’t worth her attentions. Yet, she had thought of him so often during his absence and even more now since his return. With a sigh, the brush hung in her hands.

Terror suddenly implanted itself in her mind. At first, she did not understand what it meant, but it squeezed at her heart like a mist of dread that enshrouded her. Grandfather. The reality of his fading mortality struck her.  

Her reflection in the mirror became unclear as a chill shuddered through her. The brush slipped from her loose hold and clattered on the tiles. It cracked in half.

“What has you so pensive, Fatima?”

The unexpected sound of her brother’s voice forced her from her reverie. Startled, she slid from the wooden stool where she sat, and landed on her buttocks with a sharp thud. The wool robe she wore fell around her shoulders. She clutched it tight. Muhammad’s bemused expression infuriated her even more than Faraj’s arrogance.

“What are you doing here?”

“I called for you. One of your slaves told me you were within.”

Holding the robe closed, she stood. “This is my bedchamber and you shouldn’t be here. It’s unseemly.”

“You’re my sister, how can it be unseemly that I should visit you here?”