Sultana's Legacy (12 page)

He slumped on his seat again and shook his head. “You have requested an audience only to tell me who should sit on my throne? You dare much, my daughter.”

“Father, I meant no disrespect.”

His gaze narrowed. “Yet you show me much the same, as your own husband has done! His ill-mannered ways have tainted you.”

Mistrust darkened his expression. She had seen that look before, directed at other people, never toward her.

“Do you deny that my brother is unpredictable?”

“He is my son, as you are my daughter! Have you no loyalty even to him? Is your only duty to your husband?”

“Father, this matter we speak of has naught to do with the conflict between you and Faraj. The future of your country is at stake. Would you see your son destroy your legacy of learning and just laws because of some misplaced sentiment toward him?”

“Misplaced sentiment!” His voice thundered through the room. “You dare call my love for him ‘misplaced sentiment’ and expect me to listen. I thought you knew my heart and the honor with which I still revere his mother….”

“She is gone, Father. Gone! Do you think Aisha would know a mother’s love and pride in Muhammad?”

“She never loved him! She never loved any of you! She abandoned you for the sake of the Ashqilula. Or, do you forget that, too?”

She turned away, as memories flooded her mind. Now that she was a mother, she understood the complexity of a parent’s emotions. If anything, her experiences in the last day of her mother’s life had taught her to show each of her children her devotion, so that they might always be certain of her love.

“It is the past, Father, it cannot be undone. Aisha’s son does not honor you. Muhammad squanders the privileges you have given him. If he succeeds you, he shall make a mockery of every achievement you have attained.”

 She knelt before him and grasped his hand. He pulled it away, but she reached for him again. “I do not submit these claims with an easy heart or take pleasure in my warnings. Muhammad can never become Sultan of Gharnatah. If you love your people, if you love this land of your children’s birth, do not allow pride and emotion to sway you. Your great father taught you that the future of Gharnatah is all that matters. If you would see the prosperity of this state continue, do not let Muhammad inherit. Do not leave such a legacy to your people.”

He closed his eyes and blotted out the sight of her. She willed him to open them again, but he did not.

“Father, please think upon all I have said.”

“You have said quite enough, Fatima. Leave me now, before I forget that you are the daughter I have loved and treasured above all your sisters. Just as you have forgotten I am your honored father and the duty you have always owed to me.”

She raised the hem of his
jubba
to her lips and forehead. He opened his eyes then, but stared straight at the alabaster wall, his face like a statue carved of stone. She rose and left him. The door closed with a resounding thud at her back.

Deep in her heart, she knew she would regret hiding the extent of Muhammad’s cruelty from her father for the rest of her life.

Chapter 7

Exile

Princess Fatima

Gharnatah, Al-Andalus: Muharram 694 AH (Granada, Andalusia: December AD 1294)

Fatima wallowed in unending misery. For two months, her father had held Faraj at
al-Quasaba
, with no apparent intention of releasing him. Her husband’s travail had taken its toll on her. It also claimed more than just his brother’s life.

She reclined on a pallet in the room she had occupied as a child, a marble alcove that connected with three others and rose to the height of a domed ceiling. The gold filigree and lapis-lazuli, which had once decorated the dome, was gone. White patches coated chips and cracks in the walls. The wind had swept leaves into each abandoned alcove. Stillness reigned in her former chamber, silent as a tomb.

It seemed so long ago that she had lain here with her sisters, each dreaming of their futures. Now, all of her sisters were long gone from this place, wed with children of their own. Only Alimah still resided within the Sultanate.

Soft voices drifted from beyond the alcoves, from the courtyard lined with myrtles and slender columns. Fatima squeezed her eyes shut, as if in doing so, she might shut out the murmurs of concern. A tear crept beneath her lashes and lingered on her cheek, before she swiped it away. Tears would change nothing, not even her losses.

“…Shall be well?” That was Niranjan’s warble, pitched low.

She turned her face to the wall, hating the pity that softened his voice.

“…must take precautions….No more children….”

Fatima clapped her hands over her ears, something she had not done since her girlhood, when thunder and lightning frightened her. She did not want to hear anything else the Jewish midwife had to say.

 Niranjan’s gentle, common touch on her arm stirred her. When she opened her eyes, she found him crouched beside her, a gentle smile fixed on his lips. Somehow, it did not reach his eyes, which were wide and watering. She turned her face to the wall again. She could deal with her own hurt, but not his sorrow for her.

“The Sultana Shams ed-Duna has gone to the Sultan with assurances of your health. The
kadin
is escorting the midwife out of the harem. Your father’s women have promised to return, when you are prepared to receive visitors.”

“I wish they would leave me be!”

Fatima palmed her empty belly, where only yesterday, the child she had nurtured for months nestled inside of her. Tears coursed down her cheeks, unchecked this time.

Niranjan sighed and stood. He pressed his back against the wall next to the pallet and stood beside her with his head bowed.

***

Fatima kept to her room and saw no one, except for Niranjan, Basma and Haniya. If her rejection hurt Shams or Nur, she did not concern herself with the possibility. Each day, they came to inquire after her welfare and always, Niranjan turned them away with assurances that she was well.

Yet, she was not. Regret tormented her and disturbed her sleep. She dreaded nightfall, for it signaled the return to the bloody nightmares that haunted her. Faraj had never known about their child and now, he never would. She had to convince her father to release him.

One week afterward, Niranjan came to her alcove. “The Sultan summons you. He has sent a litter with bearers for your comfort.”

Fatima looked around the dimly lit room. The stub of a beeswax candle flickered on a low table near the sole window, providing scant illumination. The cedar shutters covering the lattice window kept the hour a secret.

She rubbed at her sore, swollen eyes before she pushed back the damask coverlet and rose from the pallet. Her feet sank into a multicolored rug.

She mumbled, “What hour is it?”

“Just before dawn,” Haniya answered from across the room. She held a candle aloft, lighting the brass lanterns affixed to the stucco wall.

“Where’s your sister?” Fatima asked. “She should be helping you with that.”

Haniya shrugged. “I have not seen Basma this morning. She slept on the floor beside me. When I awoke, she was gone.”

Fatima shook her head and cleared her muddled thoughts. “Father wants to see me now? Is he ill, Niranjan?” Then she covered her mouth, even as a terrified shriek escaped her. “He intends to execute my husband today! It can be the only reason he would call for me at such an hour!”

When she swayed, Niranjan grasped her arm and held her steady. “You cannot know, my Sultana.”

He reached for her woolen mantle on a peg and she slipped into its warmth. She shoved her bare feet into red leather boots. Niranjan folded the ermine trim over the band.

The gray morning of Gharnatah awaited her just beyond the entrance to the chamber, as did six bearers burdened by a litter on their shoulders. They lowered it to the ground. She stepped in and sagged against the silken pillows inside. The myrtle trees appeared like aloof sentinels braving the cold. She closed her eyes and shut out the bleak and colorless world around her. Even the bushes and borders, which had still blossomed with flowers at her return, were naked now.

The litter bearers carried her the short distance between the eastern and western wing of her father’s harem. When they set her down, she groped for Niranjan’s familiar hand. He helped her stand outside her father’s door.

Sentries lined the wall, their teeth chattering, gazes fixed on the marble tiles at her feet. Torches flickered over their heads, their profiles cast in long shadows against the cold, dank walls. Two of the guards opened the massive, olive wood doors.

Niranjan released her and stood with his head bowed beside the litter. She clasped his shoulder in gratitude. He was always at her side when she needed him.

“My loyal one. Stay here until I return.”

He offered her a curt nod.

Fatima found her father at his writing desk. His hand, dotted with brown age spots, hovered over a roll of parchment. He put down his quill and faced her.

A pungent scent like burnt hemp assailed her nostrils. She snorted in disgust at the odor and sought out the source. A metal brazier emitted vapors in the corner. She bowed before the Sultan and plodded toward him, with her eyes downcast.

Light shimmered in the chamber and she blinked against its harsh gaze. Of late, no matter the time of day, her father demanded several torches and lanterns lit in his rooms. Perhaps his eyesight was failing as he aged.

She remembered the days before his rule, when he was Crown Prince and she, his beloved daughter. The child whom he had taught chess and poetry, who shared his love of learning and brought him great joy at each of her accomplishments. Now, there were no more pleasant interludes between them. Now, she was the wife of a man her father no longer trusted. The moments where he was not the Sultan of Gharnatah, just her father, no longer existed. Perhaps, they never had since she was a child.

She bowed low at his feet and brought the hem of his
jubba
to her lips. As she stood, breath hitched inside her chest at the redness in his eyes, dark shadows beneath them. Had he slept fitfully or not at all? His pupils loomed large and glittered like the new moon.

 She said nothing and waited for him. Their last exchange in this chamber still pained her, yet her regret at having caused him anguish would not give way to her fierce instincts. He was wrong about Faraj and he was wrong about Muhammad also.

It had never occurred to her, in all her years of devotion to her father that he could ever fall short of her esteem. Age had hardened his natural inclination toward bitter hatred of those who thwarted him, yet imbued him with love for a son who did not deserve his trust.

Sudden tears gathered in his hawk-eyed gaze. The sight of them tore at her heart. Before they could fall, she embraced him.

He slumped against her. Instead of staggering, she supported his weight with ease. He seemed so frail in her arms. How had the change in his statute and size gone unnoticed?

 “Can you forgive me, daughter?”

His voice quavered against her hair, but she heard the question clearly. A lump swelled in her throat. “Oh, Father, what have you done that requires my forgiveness? Please, do not say that you have….”

He drew back, tears coursing along the lines of his leathery complexion. “No, first, you must do this for me. You must promise you shall forgive me. I am so sorry for what I said about your feelings toward your brother.”

The breath caught in her throat. She wanted to rail against him. Her concern did not linger on her damnable brother Muhammad. What of Faraj’s fate?

Yet, she forced herself to cup her father’s cheek and meet his watery gaze. He smiled despite the tears, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You must know, I forgive you too, Fatima.”

She blinked hard and gaped at him. “You forgive me?”

“Well, of course I do,” he said, still bearing his cheerful expression. “You did not intend to hurt me with those words you said. I know that now. Your concerns for your brother are unfounded. He takes care of me and of you, too. You just don’t realize it, because you have not lived with us for many years. You don’t understand Muhammad. You shall see his goodness now.”

She shook her head and withdrew from his familiar comfort. He did not believe the truth about her brother. Otherwise, he could not believe such things. She rubbed her arms again, despite the warmth of the room. Whatever had caused his sudden good mood, it had been a fool’s hope to think he would deny Muhammad the throne. She looked heavenward with a long sigh. What would it take to make him listen?

She swiped at the tears of frustration in her eyes. “I cannot go on this way, Father. Please, tell me you have decided my husband’s fate.”

“Of course I have. Muhammad helped me see the truth. He has swayed my heart with his sound reasoning.” He rubbed his hands together with a chuckle. “Faraj must live, you see, he must live to support Muhammad in the succession. My son shall need strong aides at his side to help him rule well. Your brother reminded me of that fact. He made me promise I wouldn’t do anything to Prince Faraj. I won’t. See, look here, I have already signed the decree which orders your husband’s release.”

Fatima could have fainted with the shock at his rambling answer. He tugged her toward the writing desk and gestured, with a childlike grin, at the parchment. She read the words, written in the Sultan’s style of cursive
Naksh
calligraphy.

“This decree bans my husband from court unless the Sultan summons him.”

Her father nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, see, he is welcome at any time in which I or my son may summon him. He can never come to Gharnatah again as he is done, or he shall die. He must obey me, you understand, you must make him obey me.”

He paced and continued rubbing his hands together. “I could have had him executed. I intended to, but your brother has made me see that I could not do this. No, no, I could not. Faraj has to live, but he has to obey. He has to. He has to….”