Sultana's Legacy (7 page)
“I cannot, Fatima. I need you to listen.”
She shook her head, her fingers itching for the coarseness of his beard, the planes of his cheek. “What has happened? Did the Marinids overcome the Castillans?”
“I do not know. I abandoned the siege.”
Her hands fell away. Tears stung her eyes. She drew back from him. “The Sultan has ever been good to you. How could you do this to my father?”
Faraj raked long fingers over his face. Creases she had not noticed before now encircled his red-rimmed eyes. “Woman, be silent and let me tell you! The siege has continued for more than three months. The Castillans would not surrender. Then the rebel Prince Juan, the brother of King Sancho, brought out the son of the defender of Tarif. The boy had served as a page at King Sancho’s court, entrusted to the King’s family. You should have seen him, Fatima. He could not have been older than our little Muhammad. Prince Juan threatened to cut his throat if his father did not surrender. When the commander refused, Prince Juan killed the boy.”
He lapsed into silence.
Fatima stared at him, her fingers tightened into fists. Her nails dug into her palms.
A scowl knitted and darkened his features. “Well? Have you nothing to say about this monstrous act?”
“Once, when you defended our home against the Marinids and the Ashqilula, you told me the enemy is the enemy. What difference does this conflict make? You once swore your sword for my father’s benefit, for the pursuit of his will. Why have you betrayed him?”
“Would you have had me raise my weapon on a field dishonored by the blood of a child? By the Prophet’s beard, Fatima, if you think I would sacrifice my principles for your father’s sake, you cannot know me at all!”
She turned from him, shaking. Her hand crept to her belly, where the child inside stirred. She closed her eyes and let the tears fall, her shoulders quaking. She carried a babe who might never know his father.
“Bah! Not your tears, I shall not be unmanned by your tears, woman.”
Even as he railed at her, his hands closed on her arms, his earlier hesitancy long forgotten. She struggled against his hold, but he pulled her close. She leaned into the warmth of his chest. His heart thrummed in a steady rhythm against her back. His lips skimmed the delicate flesh her nape. Sweat and smoke filled her nostrils. Still, she did not recoil from him.
“Always, these tears of yours. You use them against me, I think.”
She swiped at her cheeks. “Never mind my tears. You cannot remain here. You must leave Al-Andalus.”
His grip loosened and she turned to him. She cupped his face in her hands. Although her heart tore inside her, she rushed on. “The Sultan shall kill you. I cannot allow it. Flee to al-Maghrib el-Aska or al-Tunisiyah, wherever you can go.”
“To live in exile like a coward? Truly, you do not know me at all, wife.”
“I wonder if those who have loved even as we have can ever know each other. We have always understood each other well, I think. I have honored my father far longer than I have ever loved you. Still, when I seek comfort and the home of my heart, it is in you that I find these things.”
She withdrew her touch while he searched her face. He could not hold her gaze. His lips tightened in a firm line and their color faded. The pain etched in his crestfallen features hurt her almost as much as his betrayal of her father.
“Faraj, we are so different from when we first married, those days in which we were uncertain and mistrustful of each other. Now, your heart is mine and mine is yours. Yet I must see now, even the hope that our love held sway over all else in our lives was a vain, foolish one. I was wrong to expect that both of us had altered in every way.
“I remain my father’s daughter, as devoted to him as when I was a girl. Your nature is still the same. You do what you must for your own sake. Now, you would abandon our children and me, as you left Tarif. All for your ideals. Principles and conviction mean more to you than the love of your children. More than my love?”
He jerked her toward him, his eyes ablaze. She looked into their centers, unflinching. “Even if you would risk your death, beloved, I cannot allow it. Let me preserve our children’s memories of you as a loyal warrior for the Sultanate. Better that they should believe you fell at Tarif than under the executioner’s blade.”
His fingers bunched in the delicate sleeves of her tunic. “I am no coward.” He ground out every word and pushed her away from him.
She stumbled before righting herself. By the time she straightened, he had hidden his features beneath the folds of his turban again. Her belly soured at the thought of their angry parting and with regret that he would never know of the child she carried. She ignored an impetuous urge to tell him. She would spare him the pain he had not hesitated to inflict upon her.
“It is not too late for you, husband. You can change the course of the events to follow.”
When he chuckled, her stomach knotted. “You make sport of my fears in what may be our last moments together. You do not know me either, Faraj, even after all these years.”
“I laughed because I told someone else at Tarif that he could also change the future. We are more alike than you think, Fatima.”
“In this moment, we are not. I would value my love for you more than my principles. I have done so before.”
His gaze narrowed, hinting that he understood the reference, but she pressed on. “You lied to my father once. You defied his will and killed an Ashqilula governor under the Sultan’s protection. You let me plead for your life before my father, knowing your guilt. He forgave you, as I did.”
He avoided her harsh stare. “I shall always be grateful for his mercy and yours. I have repaid the favor to you at Tarif. I spoke to one of the Marinid commanders, who led a third of their forces and convinced him to abandon the siege, too. Your mother’s brother, Abdallah of Ashqilula.”
Fatima clutched the prayer beads beneath her neckline. “He was at Tarif? How does he fare? Did he ask about me?”
“He did and more. I discovered he knew the circumstances of your mother’s death, had known since his defection to Jumhuriyat Misr fifteen years ago. He understood then and now, as I do, the utter cruelty of those whom he once supported.” Faraj chuckled again. “In that moment as I spoke with him, I thought only of you, beloved. I was not so selfish then.”
She stepped toward him, her hands outstretched, tears stinging her eyes. He shook his head, opened the door and bypassed Niranjan.
Fatima stifled a sob behind her hands and whirled away.
Behind her, Niranjan asked, “Shall I follow him?”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and looked to him. “He would expect it. Who remains trustworthy among my father’s servants in Gharnatah? Someone who would know of the dealings at court?”
“Ulayyah’s son, Faisal. He exchanges letters at least once a month with his sisters Basma and Haniya. He can be trusted.”
Niranjan ducked his head. Still, she noted the heightened color of his cheeks.
“You are fond of this boy?”
“He is a man now. Yes, I am fond of him.”
Fatima swallowed and blinked rapidly. Her mind raced with questions she did not voice, for now was not the time. She nodded to Niranjan.
“Then warn him of Faraj’s intent. Tomorrow, we shall follow. I won’t let my husband sacrifice himself.”
“And if we are too late to stop him?”
“We cannot be! Do as I command.”
“It shall be done.” Niranjan bowed at the waist.
Treachery and Blood
Princess Fatima
Malaka, Al-Andalus: Dhu al-Qa`da 693 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: October AD 1294)
The next morning in the courtyard outside the governor’s castle, Fatima gathered her children together. Niranjan and her trusted maidservants, the twins Basma and Haniya hovered behind her.
Fatima’s eldest daughter Leila presented herself first. At thirteen years old, she was the quiet beauty among her sisters with the dark red hair of her namesake, Faraj’s mother. She hugged her mother and buried her narrow face in the folds of Fatima’s tunic.
“I shall miss you,
Ummi
, now that both you and Father are gone. When is he going to come home?”
Fatima kissed the crown of Leila’s head. “Do not fear for him, I’m sure he shall return to us soon.” She pulled back and looked down at her daughter’s bare feet. “Dearest, I do wish you might wear shoes sometimes.”
Leila frowned at her. “It’s not raining today. You know I only wear shoes when it rains.”
Fatima shook her head at her daughter’s odd penchant. As Leila drew back, Fatima embraced her twins Aisha and Faridah. Both kissed her cheeks in turn.
“You’re taking too long!” Mumina insisted, stamping her foot and scattering her crown of flowers from the previous day to the ground.
The eleven-year-old twins turned in the circle of their mother’s arms. Faridah stuck her tongue out at her little sister. Mumina would have delivered a kick to her sister’s calves, if her elder brother and sister, who waited patiently beside Mumina, had not held her back.
A scant year separated Fatima’s next child, Qamar, from the twins Aisha and Faridah, and from her younger brother, Muhammad. The boy and girl shared the same birth date and behaved in the same manner. They held each other’s hands and bowed before their mother. A lock of Muhammad’s black hair fell over his eyes. When he stood, Fatima smoothed his curls, which he promptly tousled again with a smirk.
After Fatima knelt, hugged and kissed Mumina, she also admonished the little tyrant to behave herself. Amoda brought the younger children, Qabiha and Saliha. Although four years of age, Qabiha barely spoke and her stare seemed vacant, as though she was not aware of the world around her. Fatima worried for her silent, wide-eyed child and lingered over her embraces with Qabiha, before she kissed Saliha’s cheek.
Amoda said, “I shall take good care of them, my Sultana.”
Fatima nodded. “Where is my Ismail?”
“I am here,
Ummi
.”
He led two horses and one pack animal from the stables.
“I don’t understand why we can’t go with you.” Mumina pouted. “We haven’t seen Grandfather since Qabiha was born.”
Fatima looked over her daughter’s head to Amoda, who said, “Come, children, do not pester your mother. Allow her to take her leave.”
Groans filled the air, but several pairs of feet shuffled into the house. Amoda set Qabiha and Saliha at her feet, squeezed Fatima’s hand in her own and raised it to her lips briefly. “God go with you, my Sultana.”
Fatima grasped her eldest son’s narrow shoulders. “I pray our God guide you always, Ismail. You have charge of the household in the absence of your parents. You shall, I trust, defer to the wisdom of Marzuq, Leeta and Amoda. Watch over your brother and sisters.”
“Yes,
Ummi
,” Ismail replied.
Fatima kissed both his cheeks and hugged him against her. He groaned for respite and wriggled from her grasp. He smoothed the wrinkles in his sleeves and bowed, before he followed his chattering siblings into the castle.
Fatima had told only one person the purpose of her hasty departure to Gharnatah with Niranjan, but almost everyone suspected the cause related to Faraj, whom they assumed still fought at Tarif. Only her younger sister Alimah knew the truth.
The widowed Sultana stood in silence beside a column. The wind battered Alimah’s body and billowed her blue-black veils behind her back. Years after the death of her husband, she still wore mourning colors.
Fatima held out her hand to Alimah. After a moment, her sister’s slim fingers clasped hers. In silence, they stood together, foreheads touching. Fatima squeezed Alimah’s hand.
“I wish you would change your mind and come with me to Gharnatah.”
“I promised myself I would never return while the Sultan lived. Why should I go now?”
The pain of betrayal embittered Alimah’s unforgiving tone. Fatima believed the feelings were justified, but she despaired at her sister’s lingering hatred. “Dearest, he is still our father….”
Alimah pulled away and hugged her body against the descending chill. “He is the Sultan of Gharnatah first, a father second. It has always been this way.”
“That’s not fair!” Fatima knew Alimah spoke the truth, but she could not allow anyone to besmirch her father’s reputation, even a beloved sister.
“When you see him at Gharnatah and he has condemned your Faraj, you shall understand. You see everyone so clearly, Fatima, except him. Love for him has always blinded you. I am truly sorry for your husband’s fate. I remain grateful to him, for the sanctuary he has offered since my husband’s death at Mayurqa. You cannot expect me to forgive the Sultan. I can never forget that my son and daughters are orphans because of him. His inaction killed my husband. Abu Umar would be alive if Father had helped us, if he had protected the people of Mayurqa. If your husband had not offered dowries for my girls, they might never have married. Their children shall never know Abu Umar. All this and more I lay at the Sultan’s feet.”
“He suffers regrets of the past.”
Alimah’s brown eyes, which had once glittered with vitality, met Fatima’s own. Naked pain reflected deep within Alimah’s watery gaze. “The Sultan has yet to know the meaning of suffering. I pray by God that he shall learn it before the end of his days.”
Her words chilled Fatima more than the blustery breeze.
“You should forgive him someday, Alimah.”
“You must learn to see the Sultan for what he is. He let my husband die. He may condemn yours without mercy. His own first wife, our mother, could not love him. Have you never wondered why? Have you never asked him?”
Fatima had often considered the pain-filled end of her parents’ marriage, having understood from her own union that bonds could fray at the slightest disagreement. Yet each time memories of her mother’s unhappiness plagued her, she dismissed them. To consider such thoughts would be a betrayal of her father. She loved him too much to condemn him for hurting her own mother.