Sultana's Legacy (29 page)

Her jaw tightened for moment, but she fixed a well-practiced smile on her face. “Husband, surely you have not finished dinner already?”

“I had no appetite. Baraka dines with our children tonight.”

His gruff response rankled her. He still resented her absence at meals. Too bad.

He said, “I did not see you after your ride along the beach. There are matters regarding the wedding we should discuss. I hoped we might talk in private.”

Haniya scurried through the entryway. She cast a frown over her shoulder, as she pulled the olive wood door in behind her. Fatima waved her off.

Faraj stood behind her. His warm hands pressed against her bare shoulders. She suppressed a flinch and held herself rigid.

“Shall I continue?”

At her nod, he picked up the brush and ran the bristles through her hair. “The children missed you at dinner. They always miss you these days.”

How dare he appeal to her role as a mother? Was that part of his ploy to soften her heart toward him?

She thought of her poor silent Qabiha, a child who understood so little of the world around her. She often whimpered like a baby throughout the night after Fatima left the nursery, or so Baraka often reported. She responded to no one except little Saliha, the youngest of her siblings at the age of thirteen.

Fatima could not bear the sight of them. Her children would hate the woman she had become, if they knew her ways and means. How dare Faraj mention them?

“You wished to speak of Aisha and Faridah’s wedding ceremony,” she reminded him over her shoulder.

He swept her dark curls, streaked with gray, from her shoulder and neck. A harsh sigh escaped him. “Later.”

“Now,” she insisted.

“Fatima, I have missed you too much.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder.

A wave fluttered through her belly, a stirring she had not felt in years. She recognized faint desire, its pull coursing through her stomach.

His light kisses pressed along her shoulder and across her back, before the brush clanked on the cedar floor. Faraj came around and pulled her up into his arms. His harsh breathing filled the otherwise silent room. His hot gaze bored into hers.

He was no longer the young man who first made love to her years ago. Yet, the same passion inspired her husband’s eager, questing touch. His fingers threaded through the mass of her hair. His other hand palmed her belly, no longer maiden flat after several episodes of childbirth, before his fingers swept along her fleshy hip. 

“We have been apart for too long, wife. We must put the past behind us and start afresh. I’m willing to do this, Fatima, if you shall also try.”

She stepped back from the circle of his embrace. Deep, even breaths slowed and steadied the rhythm of her fluttering heart. She had forgotten how his touch affected her.

“I am no true wife to you, Faraj. It is wrong of me to neglect your desires.”

He reached for her again, but she warded him off. “Wait.”

She went to the door and called for Niranjan. When he came, she informed him of her instructions. With a frown, he glared at her for a moment before he nodded.

Faraj chuckled. “What are you doing, my love?”

She looked over her shoulder. “Please, wait.”

When Niranjan returned, Fatima swung the door open wide. She permitted the entry of the black-haired beauty, who strode past her and stood in the center of the room.

Fatima nodded to Faraj. “She is yours. Her name is Abeer.” To the woman, she said, “Remove your clothes.”

The slave worked the knot holding her robe closed. Unabashed, she let the silk garment slide to her feet. Her pale olive skin, small rounded breasts and generous hips would have tempted any man.

Her luminous eyes met Faraj’s own. His mouth gaped.

A frown of confusion crisscrossed his brow. “Fatima, you want to bring another woman into our marriage bed?”

She shook her head. “I asked Niranjan to purchase her on his recent trip to Madinah Antaqirah. It has been wrong of me to neglect your desires as a husband, though I no longer have such needs. As you can see, she is fashioned for pleasure.”

Faraj’s face reddened. “You cannot mean this. I don’t want her!”

Fatima looked the slave girl over. “There’s nothing wrong with her. Your concubines have grown older. Surely, you wish for someone new.”

Faraj crossed the chamber and snatched up the girl’s robe. He shoved it at her. “Get out! Now!”

When she ran, he grabbed Fatima’s arms and yanked her toward him. “How dare you!”

“How dare you! You would disdain my gifts. I don’t know what you want from me any longer!”

“I want you to be the wife I married, the woman I love!”

He shoved her on to the bed. She lay there, panting.

“That woman is gone. You must accept it. I did this for you! I thought she would please you!”

He turned to the door, but before he left, his gleaming eyes raked over her. The fiery anger and maddened desire in his hot gaze burned into hers.

She grasped the damask coverlet and dragged it up her shoulders. Would he hurt her now, like Muhammad had done with that innocent girl in the baths?  

“You are a fool, wife. As if anyone else could truly please me! I am twice the fool for loving you in spite of everything and hoping you still held room in your heart for me. You no longer have a heart.”

Chapter 18

The Emissary

Princess Fatima

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Hijja 704 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: June AD 1305)

On the day of Aisha and Faridah’s joint marriage to the sons of the foremost
Qa’id
of Lawsa, chaos descended on Malaka. Forbidding clouds appeared on the horizon just before dawn and unleashed a torrent of rain. It forced wedding preparations indoors. In a frenzied jumble, servants scrambled for boughs of flowers draped around the columns. They crushed tender blossoms in their haste. By mid-morning, the downpour caused a mudslide in the east of the town. Many residents lost their homes or lives. Worse still, the mud blocked part of the main route of the wedding procession.

Fatima hoped that those trapped in the mud did not include her eldest son Ismail, who had come to Malaka.

When Faraj informed Faridah and Aisha of the delay, their third daughter sobbed. “It’s so unfair! Why must this happen now? Everything’s ruined!”

Fatima stood beside a window to the east. She peered through the lattice. The unrepentant rain stirred a heavy mist that blanketed the terrain. Nothing came into view beyond the boundary of their estate.

Beside her, Faraj tried in vain to comfort their daughter. “Faridah, do not upset yourself. All shall be well, you shall see, my love.”

“Stop coddling her, she is hardly a child.” Fatima turned to them. “Our people need your help, husband. You must send men to aid those who remain trapped. We do not know what is happening. Perhaps the bridegrooms and their guests and our son are also ensnared in the mud.”

Instantly, she regretted her words as Aisha sobbed against her sister’s quaking shoulders. “What if my betrothed is dead? He could be buried under that mud, too!”

Over their daughters’ heads, Faraj glared at Fatima. She pursed her lips and met his cold stare.

He framed Faridah’s puffy face in his hands and kissed her cheeks. “I’ll return soon. Don’t worry, you shall marry today.”

Fatima kept a solitary vigil beside the window. Her daughters hugged each other and buried their mewling sobs in each other’s marital robes.

Fatima closed the distance between them and yanked both of them up by their arms. Their yelps of surprise mercifully brought the crying to an end.

“What an embarrassment! Would both of you rail at God for sending the rain? He alone determines our fates. Now, compose yourselves. Would you have your new husbands meet you for the first time, with your bloated faces and red noses? You are princesses of the Nasrids, the daughters of a Sultana of Gharnatah and the governor of Malaka. You cannot crumble at the slightest hardship. Life brings many disappointments, daughters. I expect you both to meet them with the courage of your forbearers.”

Fatima called for their attendants, who led the women away. When they had gone, she shook her head in their direction and returned to the window.

***

In the afternoon, sunlight peeked out from behind the pale, gray clouds for the first time that day. Faraj returned, his waterlogged clothing clinging to him. He sat ramrod straight on his stallion’s back. The men who were soon to be his sons by marriage followed on horseback. Each tried to appear unflustered, but their sodden states and muddied shoes belied the attempt.

Behind them, several of the last guests rode. When Fatima caught sight of one of the men through the window, a little sob escaped her. She raced down two flights of stairs and out into the courtyard.

In the flurry of activity, with men dismounting and greeting each other, she had eyes for only one person. She dashed through the group and launched herself at him. “Ismail!”

His arms closed about her. In his warm embrace, something that resembled peace settled in her heart. Even if only for this moment, he was safe with her and far from Muhammad’s clutches.

Since Ismail’s sojourn in Gharnatah, they had traded letters every few weeks. Always, he invited her to visit, but she could not go back there. Not yet. Not while Muhammad ruled Gharnatah. Someday soon, she hoped the city would feel like home again.

She looked up at her darling son and touched the thick growth of his beard. Time had not changed him. He remained handsome, with thick dark hair and the piercing, hawk-eyed gaze of his grandfather. Her heart soared at the sight of him, tall and proud in his green silk
jubba
, trimmed with gold brocade at the hem.

“At last you are home. I’m so glad. How was your journey, was it well? Are you hungry? Come with me, I shall have the cooks….”

“Stop.” Even Ismail’s gravel tenor reminded her of her father. “It would be unseemly to eat before the other guests have the same opportunity.”

She studied him. When had he ever spoken with her in such a clipped, formal tone? Perhaps he was just tired after the journey. Besides, he was a man and did not need her to cosset him.

She relaxed and slid her hands down his chest, patting just above his heart. “You’re right, of course. Come into the house. Let us talk in private. I want to hear everything about your life.”

“I need to speak with Father first. I carry an urgent message from the Sultan.”

“What does he want?” When Ismail looked at her sharply, she bit her lower lip, hard-pressed to hide her natural abhorrence for Muhammad. “He could have sent a messenger to your father before now. You are here for the wedding of your sisters. Why should Muhammad have bothered you with such petty duties?”

“I am here as the Sultan’s emissary. Please let me speak with Father first. Then we can talk. We have time. I have much to share with you. I intend to remain at Malaka for a month.”

“So long? That is wonderful news. I am truly pleased.”

“I did not anticipate that the Sultan could spare me, but I am grateful. My uncle suffers cruelly. He has good reason to dismiss the courtiers around him.”

Fatima shuddered with the effort to hold back her excitement. Her fingers curled into fists. The nails bit into her palm. She relished the pain. It kept her calm and focused. “Why does Muhammad have reason to sorrow?”

“Last week, he lost his long-awaited heir. No one knows how or why. I learned the extent of his fury when he ordered the child’s mother drowned in the
Hadarro
river for her carelessness.”

She exhaled in a rush of relief and turned away from her son for a moment. Niranjan had done well. Was he on his way home?

Ismail touched her shoulder and she turned to him. “Yes, it is all very unfortunate.”

He cocked his head. “I would have thought you might show a little sympathy. I know you revile my uncle with reason, but you also know what it is to lose a babe.”

Her jaw tightened.

He shook his head. “Forgive me. It was unkind of me to remind you.”

“You have never been cruel before. Is this some new talent your uncle has taught you?”

When he did not reply, she shook her head. “Please, I don’t want to quarrel with you over Muhammad. We have been apart for so long. Tell me this, at least, before you go to your father. Are you happy in Gharnatah?”

“I am not unhappy.”

For the first time since his arrival, a smile brightened his sober expression.

On tiptoe, she kissed his cheek. “I’ll return to your sisters. Take as long as you like with your father. It’s so good to have you home again.”

“I am glad to be here.”

***

During the wedding feast, Marzuq found Fatima and asked her to come to the belvedere.

Fatima left the female wedding guests. As she passed by the curtain that separated the men from the women, she searched the bustling, noisy room for Ismail. He stood deep in conversation with his younger brother Muhammad. Something Muhammad said made Ismail throw back his leonine head in raucous laughter.

When they were younger, Muhammad had always followed his elder brother’s lead. Now they stood before each other as grown men. Fatima smiled with the knowledge that their easy rapport continued.

She followed Marzuq to the belvedere. Moisture hung heavy on the breeze. As he stepped aside, Faraj came into view. Marzuq bowed and left them. They were alone. Gooseflesh tingled along her arms. She shivered. They had not been alone in a month.

Faraj’s gaze narrowed. “Have no fear. I don’t intend to demand my husbandly due.”

She hated how her heart pounded with unfathomable disgust. Yet, she could not look at him the same as before. His support of Muhammad’s actions had tainted her view.

Emboldened, she raised her chin a notch and joined him. “You may demand whatever you want from me and I shall comply.”

“We both know that has never been true, Fatima. You have always done as you wished. Yet you offer me your cold compliance now. What a dutiful wife you are! Why do you pretend when we both know the truth?”