Sultana (28 page)

“Stay here, Fatima. I trust that I don’t have to post a guard outside.”

 The evening passed without incident and he retired early, intent on checking on Fatima. He called out at the entrance to her tent but no one replied. Light glowed from within, but he feared something was wrong and pushed the flap aside. 

Fatima’s slaves gasped. She ducked behind the women who blocked his view, but not before he had spied her perfect form. With her wavy hair pinned up, she revealed the pale olive skin of her back and the smooth contour of her hips.

“Forgive me. I worried when you did not immediately respond after I called out. I wanted to ensure you were well. When I did not hear a reply, uh, I, well….”

His voice trailed off. He remained rooted to the spot in silence.

Fatima said, “Do not apologize, Faraj. You are my husband and may see me in a state of undress.” As if to prove the truth of her words, she allowed her servants to continue rinsing her. 

He stepped inside the tent and closed the flap. Before now, he could not have guessed at her flawlessness. Two candles cast eerie shadows in the recesses of the tent, but mainly served as illumination for the perfect view of his wife’s body. Her slim hips flared in delicate, rounded curves. Her legs were taut, slightly dimpled at the backs of her knees. She showed no coyness or abashment. She appeared completely at ease in his presence, though he was not the same. A throaty groan escaped him when water trickled across her skin, gliding along her spine down to the twin globes of her rounded buttocks. A harsh intake of breath whistled through his teeth. His hands closed into tight fists.

She said, “This evening must have been very hard for you.”

“Uh...what? Oh, you must mean the dinner. I left early. As I said, I only wanted to ensure you were well. I should go now.”

“Don’t leave.”

He swallowed, not trusting himself to speak just yet. 

“Faraj, I know you share a smaller tent than this with my brother and my uncle Yusuf. Remain here with us tonight, where you might be more comfortable. Amoda and Leeta may wash you, if you like.”

“I…I have no garments here for the morning. There is only one pallet.”

“Then fetch your clothes and pallet. The twins shall attend you when you come back.”

Folly made Faraj enter the tent the first time. Surely, madness inspired his swift return.

When he tugged the flap a second time, Fatima stood with her arms outstretched, her back to him. One of her slaves massaged her entire body with fragrant oil, a blend of cassia and ambergris. Her skin, already glowing with the health and vigor of youth, glistened in the lamplight under the ministrations of her slave. By the time she slipped into her sleeping garments, Faraj did not trust himself to be alone with her. 

“Thank you both. Please tend to my husband now,” she instructed her slaves.

He cleared his throat. “How…how can you tell them apart? They are dressed identically and each is a mirror of the other’s features.”

She smiled. “With one difference. Amoda always wears her hair parted on the left and Leeta prefers to part her hair on the right.”

 He stared at the slave girls. “That is all?”

“It’s enough for me. Leeta and Amoda shall tend to you with care.”

 She turned away and lay down on her pallet, the slender curves of her form hidden under her blanket. Her slaves approached him. They were almost methodical in the removal of his garments. They put fresh water into a bucket, washed and dressed him in silence. He thanked them both, before he moved to the tent’s entrance.

“You won’t remain here?” Fatima asked, as she rolled to face him.

He shook his head. He thought she had fallen asleep. “I’ll sleep outside to protect you.”

“The air is chilly tonight. If you must protect me, sleep inside at the entrance of our tent, where the brazier may still warm you.”

Unable to fault her reasoning, he unrolled the bedding and lay down. The slaves damped down the lanterns and took their rest.

He looked toward where Fatima lay. “Good night.”

She rustled underneath her coverlet in the dimness. “Good night, Faraj.”

In the morning, Faraj rose early to continue the negotiations with the Ashqilula. He stared at Fatima, who still slept. He washed, trying to make as little sound as possible. Dressed for the day, he knelt beside her pallet. The angular contours of her face enthralled him, the delicate arch of her eyebrows and her dark lashes like soot against the pale olive skin of her cheek. The sweet curve of her mouth invited a kiss. Instead, with a lingering glance, he left the tent.

Chapter 21

 Union

Prince Faraj

Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha’ban 673 AH (Granada, Andalusia: February AD 1275)

When Faraj left the tent, Fatima opened her eyes. She had woken almost at the instant he did. In silence, she listened to the swirl of water for his morning wash and the rustle of the fabrics while he dressed. As he had knelt at her side, her heart wrung with pity. When his heart must be so heavy with emotion, she did not know how to comfort him. Her father asked much of him, to negotiate a treaty and fight alongside those who had tried to kill him in al-Maghrib el-Aska.

Light filtered through the slight opening at the tent’s entrance. Amoda and Leeta stirred and rolled up their pallets. She greeted them.

Amoda said, “Your husband is gone, my Sultana.”

“Yes, he left a short time ago.”

Leeta knelt beside her. “God be with him.”

She forced a smile. “I pray He is with us all today.”

In the afternoon, they learned Faraj had struck a peace accord with the Ashqilula. When Fatima’s father visited after the meeting, he informed her of it. He drew her outside the tent, where they strolled together.

“I yield the glory to the Marinid Sultan. I shall await the news of the coming battle at home. For now, we’ll withdraw to Gharnatah and seal our alliance with the Marinids.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “You mean with a royal wedding?”

He halted and took her hand. “I have hesitated to speak of the possibility for months. I feared your reaction most of all. You anticipated me.”

Fatima nodded. “The Marinids shall strengthen us. I am sure your new wife shall be happy in our home. My sisters and I shall welcome her. We’ve been without a mother for too long.”

He kissed her brow. “You please me greatly, daughter. You looked so gloomy when I arrived, my dear. Is it because you shall miss your aunt Maryam?”

“Miss her?”

“Yes, she came to me before I met Abu Yusuf Ya’qub this morning. After the wedding, her husband’s retainers shall escort her to the Marinid capital. I thought you might have known her intentions. She is carrying Prince Abu Zayyan’s child and wants the baby born in his father’s capital. She surprises me, though. When I first told her of the betrothal, she swore she would never leave Gharnatah. Love can make people do extraordinary things, don’t you agree?”

Fatima nodded again. “Yes, love can do that.”

She returned to the tent alone.

Faraj arrived within a moment. Her heart thrummed at the sight of him.

He clasped her hands and drew her to him. “You have heard?”

“Father told me. I know how you must hate the Ashqilula for what they tried to do to you in al-Maghrib el-Aska.”

“Don’t worry for that, now. I want to discuss the future. I wondered what you plan to do when we go home and your father marries the Marinid princess.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, she’ll take your role as the mistress of your father’s harem. It is time for a change in your living arrangements. That is, I would like you to consider it. I want you to live with me in…our house.”

His gaze, so expectant and full of hope, tugged at her heart.

“I want that too, Faraj. I shall live with you when we return home.”

Festivities in celebration of the Sultan’s nuptials began within the following week. The princess Shams ed-Duna was the daughter of Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub and a beloved Nubian concubine. Like Fatima and her sisters, Shams ed-Duna’s mother had died when she was young. Though barely aged twenty-four years, the Sultana was twice a widow.

The Marinid Sultan arranged for the delivery of his daughter from her ship docked at the port of Munakkab. Beforehand, Fatima met with the chief eunuch Hasan and her old governess Halah, and told them that she intended to leave the harem, ceding all authority to the Sultan’s new wife.

“Be good to your new mistress as you have been to me.”

At noon, with her sisters and Halah, Fatima waited to greet the Sultana Shams ed-Duna at the entrance of the harem. Her father would escort his new bride in advance of the wedding ceremony later in the evening. Fatima and her sisters stood resplendent in silks and gold brocade, in honor of their father and new stepmother.

The Sultan’s distinctive footfalls echoed against the marble floor. Fatima hushed Nadira, who trilled a silly song. Their father walked with his head held high. He held aloft the hand of a beautiful woman, radiant in gold jewelry and yellow silk. Her smooth, dark skin and the column of her graceful throat evoked the epitome of beauty, pride and nobility. Long narrow feet peeked out under her garments. Her eyes were obsidian, set in a heart-shaped face with a short nose and a full mouth, framed by jet-black hair elaborately braided into twisting locks. She was somewhat plump and shorter than their father was. As they drew closer, Fatima realized she and the princess were the same height.

Their father halted and the princesses bowed, as did the new Sultana of Gharnatah.

The Sultan said, “My children, I present the princess Shams ed-Duna bint Abu Yusuf Ya’qub of the Marinids. I bid you welcome her to our home.”

“The peace of God be with you,” Fatima and her sisters intoned.

Their father turned to his prospective bride. “Before you stands my eldest, the princess Fatima and beside her, my daughters the princesses Nadira, Tarub, Azahra and Alimah. My second daughter, the princess Muna, resides in al-Jaza’ir with her husband. My other daughter, the princess Zaynab, is with her mother, my
kadin
Nur al-Sabah al-Muhammad.”

Fatima thought his mention of his slave woman and her child seemed callous, however, no discernible change altered his new wife’s pleasant expression.

Shams ed-Duna bowed again. “I greet all of you with the peace of God.”

He continued, “Sultana Fatima has had charge of the harem since the death of my first wife, authority which shall become yours when our union is made official tonight. She shall show you to your apartments that you might rest.”

Fatima bowed before the Maghribi princess and introduced Halah as the governess of the royal children. They led the Sultana to the newly constructed apartments, rooms fit for the Sultan’s queen. The rooms were four times the size Fatima had ever seen in any part of the palace, with
Naksh
calligraphy and foliage incised on the walls. Multicolored carpets covered the marble floors and a frosty winter breeze unfurled damasks and silk curtains hanging before latticed windows. Fatima dismissed Halah, who bowed and left them.

Sultana Shams ed-Duna said in a quavering voice, “These chambers should give anyone pleasure…but I have no entourage to require such a large domain. All my life, I have relied upon one slave from birth, my governess. I do not even have her now. She died of fever on the journey here.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your honored servant. Know that the slaves here are at your disposal. You are mistress of this harem now.”

Shams ed-Duna admired the striking vista to the south. “Your father told me that you were a child bride, but you shall be living in your husband’s house now. Do you like your husband?”

“Yes, I love him very much. I did not always love him, but now it is different.”

Shams ed-Duna’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Then you are fortunate. I have never cared for any of my husbands. The first was nearly eighty years old when we married. He could not give me children. The second was a commander of my father’s armies. Though he was young and vigorous, he refused to believe he could not sire children. He beat me and his other three wives every day for what he saw as our failures. He died two years ago. Now, I marry again.”

Curiosity filled her face. “What of my new husband’s
kadin
? How long has she been the Sultan’s lover?”

Fatima frowned. “Truly, my Sultana, this slave is of no concern to you.”

The Sultana put her small, dark hand on Fatima’s forearm. “No, you misunderstand me. I do not care how your father feels about her. I wish to meet her, for if she has held the Sultan’s attentions and borne him a child, she must know how to please him. Will you arrange for me to speak with her?”

Fatima hesitated. “Yes…if that is what you wish, my Sultana.”

“Please, let us not be so formal. Do call me Shams.”

“I shall, if you would call me Fatima.”

In the evening, the Sultan wed his new bride. The guests celebrated their marriage afterward at the traditional feast. All the queens, princesses and honored concubines of
al-Qal’at al-Hamra
attended, except for Maryam Sultana.

During the wedding feast, Fatima observed the easy rapport developing between her new stepmother and her father’s
kadin
. Shaking her head, she vowed not to worry for her father’s domestic situation anymore.

Throughout the previous week, slaves had removed her belongings to Faraj’s home. At the conclusion of the wedding feast, while Hasan escorted Shams ed-Duna to his bedchamber, Fatima led Niranjan, Leeta and Amoda from the palace under a brilliant full moon, which marked their progress. Up ahead, her husband’s steward stood outside the door.

“Good evening, my Sultana, the peace of God be with you.”

“Thank you for your gracious hail, Marzuq.”

They followed him into the house. Faraj waited, leaning against the doorway that led to his inner courtyard. Fatima interlaced her fingers with his. He kissed her hand.