Sultana's Legacy (10 page)
Fatima stared long after Faisal had left. He was the elder brother of her servants, Basma and Haniya. Their mother had been Ulayyah, a slave within the household of the Sultan’s old enemies, the Ashqilula.
Fatima ducked her head and ate her food. Remorse still filled her. If she had never conspired with Ulayyah in the betrayal of her Ashqilula masters, Faisal and his sisters would not be orphans. She had stolen their mother away.
The eunuch soon returned, bearing a glass vial with a wooden stopper. He had his mother’s coloring, but his height and dark eyes were traits of his father, the chieftain Ibrahim, who had murdered Fatima’s mother.
Faisal raised his gaze and met hers in a bold, blunt stare. His stark features revealed nothing, as he uncorked the vial. An aromatic, pepper flavor drifted from the bottle.
After the Sultan took it from him, Faisal withdrew to his solitary corner. His stare returned to Fatima for a brief moment, until he dipped his head again.
Fatima asked, “Father, what is that?”
He dipped a spoon into a bowl of honey on the table and then mixed some of the tiny, black granules from the vial with it. He swallowed the spoonful before replying, “Seeds of blessing.”
“It’s black seed, Fatima,” Nur explained, the blush still on her cheeks. “It’s good for many things, coughs and pains in the abdomen among them.”
Fatima asked, “Are you in pain, Father?”
He said, “My doctor says it is helpful for digestion.”
Shams ed-Duna’s fingertips alighted on the silken sleeve of his
jubba
. “That is rumor, husband. My eunuch procures it upon your orders, but we cannot know the true properties of the
habba souda
.”
He shrugged off her hold. “How can you know? Are you a doctor, Shams? When I eat the black seed after a meal, my stomach feels better.”
He spooned more of the seeds mixed with honey into his mouth.
Fatima said, “Everyone knows chamomile tea is best for digestion and relaxation, Father.” She beckoned the eunuch. “Bring your master a cup.”
“No, I don’t want it,” the Sultan said. His gaze narrowed. He seemed so quick to anger these days. Faraj’s betrayal must have cut deep, beyond measure.
“Daughter, if I wanted chamomile tea, I would have asked for it!”
“There’s no need to be so angry, Father.”
The Sultan pounded his fist on the cedar wood table. “Do not tell me how to feel! If I am angry, it is because you are making me so. You forget that I am the parent and you are the child. You dare not disrespect me at my own table.”
Shams ed-Duna shook her head and returned her attention to the meal. Fatima left the remainder of her flatbread untouched, no longer having an appetite for it.
The Sultan took another spoonful of the black seed and honey mix. Fatima stared at the vial. She needed to know more about the properties of the seeds. Her father’s reliance on such aid bothered her. He had never required them before. Perhaps, she might have dismissed his need as part of aging, but her father was not so old. The men of her family had always lived for long years, seeing multiple generations come after them.
A knock sounded at the door and by the Sultan’s command, a messenger entered. He bowed at his master’s side and gave him a message on rolled parchment, tied with a red string.
Fatima’s father read the letter in silence before saying, “The siege of Tarif is over. Our warriors are coming home.”
He glanced at her. “It would seem the Marinids have no heart for warfare, now that your husband has persuaded half of the forces to withdraw. He should die for what he has done.”
Fatima’s heart thumped so loud, she thought everyone in the room heard the sound. She gripped the table, as fearful anticipation dissipated in sadness.
“Please….”
A spasm of irritation crossed the Sultan’s face. “No, no more, damn you! I should have had him killed this morning, along with his greedy brother. You should not have married him.”
“I did! I love him, Father! Please, I beg of you, do not take him from me.”
Shams ed-Duna put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Do not blame the withdrawal of my people on Prince Faraj alone. They could have stayed on and fought. Yet, the Marinids also understand the duties of honor and sacrifice. My brother, Sultan Abu Ya’qub Yusuf, is an honorable man.”
Her husband turned to her, his face flushed. “He promised to recapture Tarif on my behalf. What do I care for his honor? What of his damned promises to me? How does my alliance with him or my relations with you serve me, if Abu Ya’qub Yusuf cannot even take one coastal city without his honor impeding him? You should have written to your brother and demanded he secure that city in my name!”
Shams’ stare widened with astonishment before her eyes watered. She looked away, blinking hard.
Fatima shook her head. She could not believe her father would say something so unjust to her stepmother.
“Father, the Sultana has no control over Abu Ya’qub Yusuf. She severed ties with the Marinids years ago, when her father betrayed you and put his troops on Andalusi soil at the behest of the Ashqilula. Shams has ever been your most loyal companion in life.”
His gaze swung to her. “What good is she if she cannot influence her damned brother? I did not marry for love! I made an alliance! I have yet to see the benefit of this union….”
“Father, stop! You’re being cruel, without cause.”
The Sultan’s face became a dark mask. “Get out and take her with you. Your presence tires me.”
Fatima flung her napkin on the table in disgust. She jerked to her feet and extended a hand to Shams.
Her father’s wife ignored her and glanced at the Sultan. A plea shone in her eyes. “Forgive me, husband. If you wish it, I shall write to the Marinid Sultan this night.”
“Are you foolish? The Marinids would have begun their withdrawal already. Go far from me! You are useless!”
Nur clasped her hands together. “My Sultan, please do not say so, for the sake of your queen and the children she has borne you!”
Shams clutched at his arm. “Do not send me from your sight in anger, my Sultan.”
“I said, get away from me!”
The Sultan shoved her aside, pushing with such force that Shams flung backward, striking her head hard against the stucco wall behind her.
Fatima rushed to her side and cradled her stepmother. Blood seeped through the veil covering Shams’ thin braids.
Openmouthed, Fatima glowered at her father. His jaw dropped as he stared in silence, perhaps as incredulous at what he had done.
Shams moaned in pain. Fatima beckoned for Faisal, who observed the scene without a word or altered expression. “Help me with your mistress.”
The Sultan began. “I did not mean to…Shams ed-Duna, I would not….”
Fatima shut out the rest of whatever he might have said. She supported her stepmother’s weight beneath her right shoulder, with Faisal assisting her on the left. They helped Shams at each step down the stairs.
Niranjan waited at the bottom of the landing. With a nod to Faisal, he took Shams ed-Duna in his arms. Instead of returning Shams to her rooms at the opposite end of the harem courtyard, Fatima escorted her eastward to the wing she occupied. They entered her chamber and went into the bedroom. Fatima’s slave Basma had just turned down the damask coverlet.
Niranjan placed Shams on the bed. Soft shudders coursed through her body. She rolled on her left side. Tears squeezed beneath her thick lashes.
Fatima spoke to Basma. “Fetch warm water in a basin, a clean cloth and herbs for a poultice.”
The servant asked, “Why, are you hurt?”
“Don’t ask foolish questions! Can’t you see the Sultana is in pain? Now, are you going to stand there staring all night, or can you do what I have asked?”
Basma’s jaw tightened for a moment, but she complied.
Fatima shook her head, and nodded to Niranjan and Faisal. “You may leave us. I shall summon you both if you are needed.”
Niranjan clasped Faisal’s shoulder and waved him toward the door. The younger eunuch glanced at his mistress, before he bowed at Fatima’s side and left the room, guided by Niranjan.
“I never thought Father could hurt you.” Fatima sat beside her stepmother. “I didn’t expect many of the things that have occurred.”
Shams sniffled. “It was only his anger at your husband and Abu Ya’qub Yusuf. My brother is not the warrior our father was in life. Fatima, do not blame your father. It was an accident. I forgive him and you must, too.”
Fatima’s hands tightened into tiny fists. “Shams, what he did is unforgivable. No man should raise his hand to his wife. By the Prophet’s beard, why is Basma taking so long?”
She went out into the antechamber, calling for her servant. Basma re-entered the apartment with everything she needed. “Why is the Sultana Shams ed-Duna hurt? What happened?”
Fatima yanked the cloths, herbs and basin of water from her grasp. “I shall clean her wound. You may go.”
“Are you certain?” Basma peered around her into the larger chamber.
Fatima’s gaze narrowed on her. “I don’t like repeating myself, especially to someone who serves me. In the future, if I have to do so again, you shall regret it. I shall tend to Shams. You may go. Speak to no one of what you have seen.”
“I would never….”
Fatima cut her off with a wave of her hand and returned to Shams ed-Duna’s side. She staunched the bleeding with one of the cloths and cleaned the cut. She winced with her stepmother at every furtive touch. The poultice of dried herbs would prevent swelling, or so Fatima hoped. She bandaged Shams’ head and tossed the bloodied cloths into the basin.
“Do not hate him,” Shams pleaded.
Fatima sat beside her again. “Oh Shams, I wish I was more like you. You are too good, always willing to forgive even the worst in people. Do you not see that something is happening with my father? He is different. The man who raised my siblings and me with such tenderness would never have struck out at any woman. Even my mother, who reviled him all her days, was never a victim of his anger. At least, I never saw it, but perhaps I was a fool to think him incapable of such actions. He has changed, Shams. He is cruel now. The Sultan is not the father I knew, or the husband you married.”
The Crown Prince
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Hijja 693 AH (Granada, Andalusia: November AD 1294)
Cold descended from the mountains in the month of Hajj. Fatima hugged her arms as she hurried from a visit in al-Bayazin with her old tutor, the former
Hajib
Ibn Ali, who lingered on his deathbed. She rushed past familiar buildings that had stood before her childhood, cursive script etched into the weathered marble. Niranjan followed her, his familiar footfalls scraping the cobblestone streets.
In the courtyard opposing
al-Quasaba
, her little brother Nasr stood in a circle of young men, including their elder brother, Crown Prince Muhammad. Fatima had avoided him since her arrival in Gharnatah weeks ago. The sight of him now stirred the usual rancor in her heart, but for more than one reason.
Muhammad had grabbed the little boy, swung him up by his legs and dangled him over a cistern in the courtyard. His companions laughed at Nasr’s squeals.
Fatima pushed her way through the men. She grabbed Nasr under his arms and tugged him from their brother’s grasp. The little boy buried his face in her neck. His hot tears coursed along her flesh. She cradled him close and stared in horror at their brother, unable to speak.
Muhammad was exactly a year older than she was. At thirty-nine years of age, nothing in his physical appearance had changed since she had last seen him. He stood tall, the image of their father, with the same deep-set eyes, hooked nose and a fleshy mouth, almost obscured by a dark beard and moustache. However, it seemed his inclination toward cruelty had only increased.
His casual grin in the aftermath, as if he had done nothing wrong, alarmed her more than his carelessness with Nasr. “Why Fatima, I did not know you were here….”
“You wretched monster! How dare you frighten a child so, our own brother. You could have killed him!”
Muhammad laughed and clapped one of his friend’s shoulders. The petty courtier made a hollow chuckle.
Fatima’s brother shook his head. “Our father has another son. Besides, this one’s the spawn of a slave.”
“A beloved slave who holds our father’s heart. What do you think the Sultan would do to you if Nasr had died?”
Muhammad crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Nothing. I am his heir, after all.”
Fatima set Nasr down and kissed his brow. She waved Niranjan over. He had stood at a respectful distance. His hand lingered on the fold in his robe, beneath which he always kept a dagger concealed, ready to strike on Fatima’s behalf. As she summoned him, he drew back his hand.
“Take this boy back to his mother in the harem.”
Niranjan bowed and took Nasr’s hand. The little boy wrenched his fingers from the eunuch’s grasp. He looked at Fatima with his chubby, moon-shaped face still red, his watery, blue gaze reflecting gratitude. Then he scuttled off to the palace, as Niranjan kept pace with him.
At the garden entrance to the Sultan’s palace, Niranjan glanced over his shoulder. Fatima shook her head and he followed Nasr.
“Do you coddle your own sons in such a manner? You must be a tiresome mother to have about, Fatima. You’ve ruined my sport.”
Muhammad rolled his eyes at her. She could not bear his thoughtlessness. Her hand came up of its own volition and she delivered a stinging slap across his cheek.
He reeled and clutched the side of his face. A thin trickle of blood seeped between his fingers, where her ring had cut him.
“You bitch! You’ll be sorry for that.”
“I already regret much concerning you, especially the fact that I must call you brother.”
“Wait until Father sees what you have done. You’re mad!”