Her most trusted companions had conspired against her so that Jasim ibn Ismail could enter her bedchamber. They seemed certain she would wish for this marriage.
If only Zorahaida shared their certainty.
Chapter Seven
The Sultan had decreed that the marriage ceremony would take place in the Chamber of the Ambassadors, a cavernous room with a double row of arched windows. Every inch of the intricate plasterwork was covered with flowing inscriptions and symbols. Nasrid mottoes sat cheek by jowl with writings from sacred texts.
Other than the location of the ceremony, Jasim had little idea what to expect. The Sultan was a law unto himself and Jasim’s prospective father by marriage was clearly not happy about his daughter’s marriage. It had even occurred to Jasim that he might not be alive in two days’ time. A dagger between his shoulder blades seemed a strong possibility. That it hadn’t happened already was, he felt sure, thanks to the restraining presence of the Spanish contingent. Once they left for Spain, Jasim suspected anything might happen.
He was prepared to take the risk because, despite his misgivings, his clandestine meeting with the Princess had strengthened his desire to marry her. God willing, he would soon be wed.
It seemed that fortune was with him for the two days passed swiftly and without mishap and his wedding day dawned.
As was the custom, Jasim was to bring two witnesses to his wedding. He had chosen Farid as his first witness. Finding a second witness had been trickier, but his luck had been in. A handful of knights had yet to leave the palace, and one of them was happy to support him. The witnesses were there to ensure that the exchange of vows had been properly made and that the marriage agreement was valid.
The bride herself did not have to attend, a tradition which had always struck Jasim as odd. Instead, as long as she sent witnesses to watch proceedings, the marriage was binding.
Unsurprisingly, the Sultan was the Princess’s main witness although, rather astonishingly given the animosity known to exist between the brothers, Prince Ghalib had been appointed as her second witness.
Jasim very much hoped that Princess Zorahaida would attend in person. Since he’d climbed down from her tower, he hadn’t caught as much as a glimpse of her. He’d wasted too much of the previous night, wondering whether she would attend in person.
Shortly before the time set for the ceremony, Jasim went with Farid to the Court of the Myrtles where he and the knight he’d chosen as his second witness exchanged greetings. Then he and his witnesses strode past what must have been an entire regiment of guards and arrived in the Chamber of the Ambassadors.
The vast hall was practically empty. There didn’t appear to be anyone save the Sultan, his brother and one other man, presumably the celebrant.
Today, the Sultan’s throne was monumental, it dominated the square room, dwarfing the thrones Jasim had seen on previous occasions. There was almost too much gilding. Shafts of light cut through coloured panes of glass in the upper windows, seeming to set it alight. It was as though the Sultan was sitting on a fiery chariot, an illusion which was probably intentional. The Chamber of the Ambassadors was, as its name suggested, where Sultan Tariq met governors from the various provinces and diplomats from neighbouring kingdoms. Treaties were signed here; alliances were formed and dissolved. Doubtless, the Sultan imagined that if he presented a warlike appearance, he would gain the upper hand in any negotiations.
Prince Ghalib stood stiffly at the Sultan’s right hand.
The Sultan nodded brusquely at Jasim. Prince Ghalib inclined his head and smiled. Bowing deeply, Jasim and his witnesses stood to one side.
At the edges of the Hall, several columned arches opened out into side chambers. Looped-back curtains signalled that they could be screened for privacy. Today, most of the curtains had been tied back, revealing them to be unoccupied. One was curtained off. As Jasim looked towards it, his heart lifted. Princess Zorahaida was behind that closed curtain, he knew it.
Sure enough, when the Sultan clapped, the curtain parted. With a rustle of silk and the light chime of bells, the Princess appeared.
Relief made him smile. The Princess’s appearance in person was surely a good omen. He hoped it meant that she bore him no animosity for tearing her from her home. Politics and personal interest aside, the urge to remove her from her violent father was irresistible.
For her marriage, Princess Zorahaida had chosen a veil and gown in a subtle shade of blue, lavishly embroidered with gold thread. As she came towards him, beams of light from the upper windows flickered as she passed through them. Briefly, her clothes appeared to shimmer with every colour in the rainbow. A king’s ransom in pearls was wound about her wrists. When she came to a halt a few feet away, the bells fell silent. Jasim glanced down. She was wearing an anklet of silver bells. His mouth dried as he thought about what lay beneath the all-enveloping blue robes. He already knew the Princess had a body made for love. Surprisingly, it was her smile he remembered most. It hinted that perhaps, one day, there might be more to their union than politics.
Sensing her gaze was trained on him, Jasim looked warmly towards her and bowed. Curse that veil. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? He burned to know.
For himself, he felt uncharacteristically uneasy. He had rushed her into this. Had their illicit meeting allayed at least some of her fears? It had certainly helped him. The physical side of their marriage appeared more promising than he had dreamed possible.
As Jasim took his place facing the Sultan, he congratulated himself on what he had achieved thus far. This was the first time in many years that a representative of Madinat Runda had been inside the Chamber of the Ambassadors on official business. His uncle, Governor Ibrahim ibn Osman, had never set foot in Granada, never mind the Alhambra Palace.
Jasim’s gamble at the tournament had paid off. If everything went smoothly, his uncle must finally agree that as far as the Sultan was concerned a policy of appeasement was useless. Direct action was the key to successful negotiation with the Sultan.
When the celebrant cleared his throat, Jasim forced himself to concentrate. It was vital that everything was done according to the conventions. This marriage must be legal. He would take home a Nasrid princess as his wife and a new era would dawn for Madinat Runda. One of peace and prosperity.
* * *
Zorahaida was uneasy about this marriage, torn in so many ways. She studied the grim set of Jasim ibn Ismail’s mouth with a sense of foreboding. He looked as though he was attending a funeral rather than his wedding, although she had to admit he had taken pains with his attire.
Jasim’s tunic was one a prince might wear, cloth of gold silk with blue and white motifs embroidered on to it. From this angle, Zorahaida couldn’t make out the detail, though the overall impression was magnificent. A jewelled belt glittered. Was this finery for her? It seemed far more likely Jasim wished to impress her father. He was representing Madinat Runda, after all. His turban was a spotless white with a large sapphire nestled in the centre. Blue again, like his colours at the tournament.
Had he noticed that she had tried to honour him by wearing his colours? He was so focused on the celebrant, she couldn’t be sure. Where was the gallant knight who had entranced her with his kisses?
She swallowed. It was too late to back out. Not that Jasim or her father would permit her. They were both set on this marriage.
The celebrant was reading Holy Script. In a moment she and Jasim would exchange their vows. She would be married. As to her future—she had no idea what to expect. Seldom had she felt so unsettled.
Heart thumping, she listened with half an ear to the reading and struggled to reconcile the difference between the charming knight who had climbed into her tower and the stony-faced diplomat currently beside her.
All too soon the ceremony was over.
When Jasim took her hand, her father watched, white about the m
outh. ‘Take care of my daughter,’ he growled.
Jasim bowed. ‘I will, Great King.’
The Sultan looked at her, face inscrutable. ‘Are you ready to travel, my dove?’
Beneath her veil, Zorahaida blinked. ‘Today? Father, if it pleases you, I need a few more days to prepare myself.’
Sultan Tariq’s face relaxed. Rising, he came towards her and pinched her chin through her veil. She managed not to flinch.
‘Not ready to leave me, Daughter?’
A husband had control of his wife in much the same way as a father. It was entirely possible that when she left the palace, she would merely be exchanging one form of oppression for another. What did her father expect her to say?
‘Father, I am not fully packed. There is much to prepare.’
The Sultan nodded. ‘Very well.’ He turned to her husband. ‘As proof of my goodwill, Jasim ibn Ismail, you may lodge with my daughter in her apartments until she is ready to leave.’
Her husband bowed, took her hand in a fierce grip and they left the Chamber of the Ambassadors together.
* * *
Suma and Maura were appalled by the new arrangement and Sama wasn’t the least bit shy about saying so.
When Zorahaida arrived back at the tower with her husband, Sama hastily donned her veil and took her mistress to one side. Happily, Jasim was still on the steps outside, apparently instructing his squire to fetch their belongings from the barracks.
‘Your father the Sultan, blessings be upon him, has commanded that you share your apartment with your husband?’ Sama hissed.
‘Yes, Sama, he has.’
‘Princess, it’s not right. Jasim ibn Ismail should have his own quarters, then he can summon you whenever he requires you.’
Jasim stuck his head through the door. ‘No.’ The sapphire in his turban flashed as he shook his head. ‘That will not be convenient. The Princess and I shall share the upper chamber. Farid can bed down on the lower floor, near the stairwell. I assure you our presence will not cause difficulties.’
Sama’s foot tapped and she muttered under her breath.
He sighed. ‘Your name is Sama, is it not?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Sama, we will only be here for a short while, would you be so good as to enlighten me as to what is troubling you.’
‘Very well,’ Sama’s chin inched up. ‘Jasim ibn Ismail, Maura and I have served the Princess loyally for many years and this has always been a house of women. We do not wear veils. With you and your squire taking residence with us—’
His face relaxed. ‘Is that all? Sama, until I leave Granada, this tower is to serve as my home. You need to understand that in my household, women are not required to wear the veil unless we are entertaining strangers.’
Sama put her head to one side. ‘Truly?’
‘Truly. Know that whilst you are within these walls you will be respected.’ Broad shoulders lifted. ‘If you wish to wear a veil, fine. If not, that also is fine. Please understand that as one of the Princess’s handmaidens, I consider you part of my household and thus you are entitled to my protection.’
Sama hesitated, and in a sweeping movement, dragged off her veil. ‘Thank you, Master.’ She left the chamber smiling and calling for Maura.
Zorahaida faced him. ‘I too may lift my veil?’
He smiled. ‘I wish you would.’
Zorahaida couldn’t remove it completely. Weighed down with her headdress and thick gold embroidery, dozens of pins were keeping it in place, but she lifted the hem and tossed the veil back.
Her husband’s squire sent her a curious, assessing look and she felt herself flush. After years of struggling to remember to always wear her veil, it was odd to be without one. Even before a young boy.
‘Ignore Farid,’ her husband said. ‘He is as harmless as his master.’
Her husband believed himself to be harmless? Zorahaida wasn’t so sure. Jasim ibn Ismail had braved her irascible father to ask for her hand, he had overridden her every objection and against all the odds they were married.
‘Off with you, Farid,’ Jasim said. His amber gaze captured hers. ‘Princess, I swear to you, that whilst there is breath in my body, neither you nor your maidservants will come to harm.’
As the door closed behind his squire, Zorahaida stared at Jasim, bemused. He was unlike any man she had ever met. One moment stern and forbidding, and the next all charm. The charm was very much in evidence now. He had got his way, she supposed. He could afford to be charming.
‘Come.’ Eyes glittering, he caught her hand and made for the stairs. ‘You can show me the rest of the tower.’
She hung back.
He tugged on her hand. ‘Princess?’
‘How am I to address you?’
‘I was wondering when you’d ask that.’ He pulled her closer and dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘Jasim, I hope. I also hope that I might address you as Zorahaida.’
‘Thank you, I should like that.’
His smile lit his eyes and she couldn’t look away. She saw them darken and watched his gaze drop to her mouth. A muscle clenched deep inside.
Was he thinking of kissing her? She rather thought he was. This last couple of days, she had spent far too long thinking about kissing him again. Something about him drew her and she’d been afraid that marriage might change that. Would kissing be as pleasant as it had been before—when he’d been trying to win her over? Now they were man and wife he need not take care to ensure her pleasure. He could assert his husbandly rights whenever he wished.
‘Zorahaida, I thank you,’ he said, voice warm. An eyebrow lifted. ‘I shall take that as permission.’
‘Permission to do what?’
He swept her into his arms and Zorahaida found herself gripping those muscled shoulders. Sama must have returned for she heard a startled gasp and footsteps hastily retreating. Astonishingly, there was no room for embarrassment, for all of her, every fibre of her being was bent on discovering whether his kiss would be as devastating as before.
She lifted her mouth and her stomach swooped. His kiss was tender, gentle. Agonisingly sensual. Her knees buckled and his arms tightened. His tongue traced her mouth. She knew what he wanted. He hadn’t done this last time, but the concubines had told her what to expect. She opened her mouth, heard his throaty groan and felt the determined sweep of his tongue on hers.
Her body came alive. It was as magical as it had been. Better, if that were possible. She hadn’t been wrong about Jasim, he would never hurt her. Longing swept through her and fleetingly, she found herself wishing that he had wanted her for herself, and not simply as a means to an end.
He shifted his stance and lifted his head. They were leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairwell and Zorahaida had the strong notion that he was as moved as she. Perhaps it didn’t matter that he was marrying her to further his ambitions. The palace concubines had told her that the most she could expect from a man was a little consideration, she would be foolish to hope for more.
‘Save me, Zorahaida, you are beyond tempting,’ he said, voice hoarse as he stroked her cheek. He frowned. ‘Where’s your handmaid?’
Zorahaida blushed and eased back. At some point during their kiss, her hands had crept up around his neck and she was mortified to realise that she’d been sliding her fingers under the white cloth of his turban, with a vague notion of freeing his hair. She longed to touch it. ‘Sama? She’ll be hiding somewhere. I believe we embarrassed her.’
He drew her back, kissed her ear and murmured, ‘Sama will have to get used to our being affectionate.’
Affectionate? The word stole Zorahaida’s breath before common sense reasserted itself. He wasn’t declaring a fondness for her; they hardly knew each other. He was simply being polite. The fire that flared between them came, she was sure, from an instinct far baser th
an affection. This was lust. Her body attracted him just as his attracted her. It was better than nothing.
Was it a foundation upon which to build a good marriage? She would have to pray that it was, for although she wasn’t entirely sure what made a good marriage, she realised she wanted one.
The light in the entranceway was better than it had been in her bedchamber a couple of evenings ago and his eyes, she now saw, weren’t pure amber. They were rimmed with grey, with streaks of silver near the centre.
‘We are man and wife,’ he said. ‘Come, show me the rest of your domain.’
Somehow, they made it up the next flight of stairs, though it quickly became apparent that Jasim wasn’t interested in looking at any of the chambers. That insistent tug drew her past the living quarters, past a chaos of fabric and half-made clothes, of packing cases and jewel boxes. On up another flight, until at length they were at the top.
He guided her through the bedchamber door. The shutters were closed against the heat of the day, and the floor was covered in starry splashes of light formed by the piercings in the wood. The songbirds were singing.
Jasim stopped before the cage and stared at them.
‘The singing disturbs you?’ Zorahaida asked.
She was feeling incredibly shaky. And incredibly self-conscious. The concubines had been keen to educate her, in lurid detail, about what went on in the marriage bed. Their blunt recitation of who did what to whom had been far from reassuring. What on earth would it feel like? Dear God, she’d never felt so edgy. Obviously, whatever if felt like, she must do her best to affect pleasure. Men had such pride.
She swallowed. ‘Jasim, I can cover their cage if you wish.’
‘Leave them, I like it. Come.’ He led her unerringly to the bed and sat down, taking her with him. He lifted an eyebrow at her. ‘Your maidservants won’t disturb us?’
Her cheeks scorched. ‘I believe they understand your intention.’ Just then she heard a familiar chattering sound and jumped up sharply. ‘Oh, no.’
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