by Sarah Hegger
“You are a man of God?” Bahir seemed to have more knowledge of Gregory than she.
“Indeed.” Gregory smiled.
He should do so more often. It transformed his grave features into breathtaking handsomeness.
“For many years, I believed my place was in the church.” He winked at Alya. “And then Lady Faye changed my mind.”
The wink had her giggling like a silly girl, but goodness, the man’s looks were ridiculously pleasing.
“You did not join the war?” Bahir had that look on his face he got when he found something fascinating.
“Nay.” Gregory straightened his shoulders. “Many of us did not believe in the holy pilgrimages. Sir Arthur amongst them. We tried to talk Henry out of going.”
Now he intrigued Alya. “But Henry went anyway.”
“Aye.” Gregory drew a line through the rushes with his toe. “The Henry who left here is not the same man who returned. Henry held such strong beliefs at the time. He felt he wanted to go and do his part for God.”
“A jihad,” Bahir said.
Gregory raised a brow in question.
“A holy war,” Alya said. “A war against the unbelievers. Or it could be a war within yourself.”
“I know a little something of the last part,” Gregory said.
Bahir folded his arms. The next sign that Bahir had found something that captured his full attention. “Yet you did not favor this jihad? Even as a man of God?”
“I am a man of war as well, as Lady Alya pointed out. But that was not so much a choice I made, as one made for me,” Gregory said. “My size marked me as a warrior and I was raised as such. Still, it did not seem to me that killing people was the best way to spread the word of our Lord.”
“Not an opinion shared by many of your countrymen.” Bahir snorted.
“Nay.” Head lowered, Gregory entwined his fingers. “I believe, first and foremost, that all life is precious. The God I serve taught me this reverence for life.”
“Huh.” Bahir glanced at her.
Alya could not believe how she had misjudged Gregory.
“I would ask you, Sir Gregory, of this god you serve.” Bahir spread his arms. “If you would talk to me of this.”
“I would be delighted.” Sir Gregory smiled. “And in turn you can tell me of the god you serve.”
Bahir inclined his head.
“What if they were the same god?” As a Christian in the world of Islam, Alya had grown up seeing both beliefs at work.
Bahir and Gregory gaped at her.
Uncomfortable under their scrutiny, she rose. “It is just that there are a lot of similarities between them.”
“You were raised Christian?” Gregory looked taken aback.
Alya pinned him with a challenging stare. “Is that an assumption I heard you make, Sir Gregory?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “A hit, Lady Alya, to be sure.”
* * * *
Alya waited until Henry joined her in their chamber before she spoke to him. Her conversation with Gregory had raised a few questions in her mind.
Heads together as they talked and talked, Bahir and Gregory had spent the afternoon in the hall. Faye had to separate them to get Gregory to the dinner table.
It did Alya’s heart glad to see Bahir relaxed and enjoying himself. As much as she was treated as an interloper here, it was worse for Bahir. He bore it all silently, but it had to make him lonely.
Henry entered their chamber and bowed. “My lady.”
It thrilled her each time he did that. Not the courtesy of the bow, but more the wicked gleam in his eyes as he did so.
Already in bed Alya sat up.
Henry stopped at the foot of the bed, unfastened his belt and dropped it to the floor. “Are you well?”
“I am.”
Fisting his tunic, he tugged it over his head. “How did you spend this day?”
Dear Lord, he expected her to speak when he revealed all that male beauty for her gaze to feast upon.
His fingers moved to his belt.
“I did some sewing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You hate sewing.”
“Aye, but I must do something.”
His belt dropped to the floor.
Alya’s mouth dried. “I had an interesting talk with Gregory today.”
“Indeed.” He dropped his chausses.
She gripped her last traces of good sense and forced herself not to stare at the rod rising strong and hard from between his thighs. “We talked of the holy pilgrimage.”
“Ah.” Henry turned and strode to the washbasin.
His scars nearly made her retreat. This subject matter remained painful for Henry.
Ducking, he splashed water over his head and neck.
As his wife, though, her questions grew with each day and she tried again. “Gregory said your family was not in support of you going.”
“Nay.” He snatched up a washcloth and rubbed it over his chest and belly.
Frustration forced her lust down to a low simmer. “Yet you went anyway?”
“I believed I did the right thing.” He finished washing and rubbed his flesh with a drying cloth.
“You believed you fought for God?”
Henry turned. “What are all these questions, Alya?”
His stern expression gave her pause, but Henry surrounded himself with invisible walls as thick as those guarding Anglesea. “You believed in God enough to go to war for him, and yet you do not pray, Henry. I go to prayers, but you do not come with me.”
“Nay.” Blowing out a big breath he dropped his head. “I do not.”
“Why not?”
He approached the bed and slid beneath the furs. Lying back, he sighed then crossed his hands behind his head. “It is difficult to speak of.”
“Can you try?” Alya snuggled down beside him. “For me.”
His jaw clenched. Muscle bunched in his arms. “I do not speak of it, Alya. Ever.”
As if he slammed a door in her face, she blinked. The hurt took her by surprise. She had sought only to know him better and he denied her that. Good enough to warm his bed, but not good enough to share his thoughts. She turned on her side, and gave him her back. Two of them could throw up walls. “As you wish.”
Linen whispered and he touched her shoulder. Leaning over her, he said, “This is our bed, sweeting. This is where I come to forget. I do not want it tainted with speak of war and blood and lost gods. The things I saw…the things I did…I cannot speak of them, and I beg you not to ask me to.”
“Was it terrible?”
“Aye.” He kissed her shoulder. His arm slid about her and pulled her bottom into the cradle of his thighs. His rod nudged her. Clearly, he had lost none of his interest in their marital bed.
Sliding his hand up, he caressed her breast.
Her body responded, like it always did, to his slightest touch. Alya arched her back, pressing her breast into his palm.
Henry pressed into her bottom. “See now. Is this not a better way to spend our time?”
Doubt lingered in the back of her mind, even as she said what he expected to hear. “Aye.”
* * * *
Outside Alya’s casement sheets of rain poured down and pounded the sea. Waves threw themselves against the rocks in a white break of spray. What a surprise, more rain. She turned her back on the view and stomped across her chamber.
She had draped the bed in silks from her dowry in the hope that they would inspire her to turn them into colorful cushions and bed curtains. Her proposed riding lesson had been postponed due to the weather. How could one country have so much weather, all the time?
Arms crossed, Bahir lounged in her doorway. “You are fretting.”
“Nay, I am not.”
His teeth flashed white in a huge grin. Strolling in, he pointed to the bed. “What is all this?”
“An attempt to amuse myself.”
A vain one at that. “I thought I might sew some things for the room. Make it feel more like mine.”
Bahir winced. “You sew?”
“Precisely.”
“But it is a fine idea. You could ask one of the seamstresses to help you.” He fingered the edge of a dainty peacock green silk. “These are too beautiful to risk your needlework skills.”
All true, but still irksome. She did not want to complain to Bahir about the way the seamstresses treated her. He had enough of that aimed at him. “Did you want something?”
He looked smug. “I saw the rain and I thought of you.”
“Maybe I should learn to swim and then I would have more to do here.” The sea crashed and thundered below her.
“Swimming is for fish.” Bahir went to the door and stretched out of her sight for a moment. He returned with a dumbek gripped in his large hand. “Now the zaar is for everyone… Particularly for grumpy ladies who have many things on their minds.”
“I can’t dance a zaar, here.” But even as she said it, her mind whispered, why not? To be able to lose herself and her worries in the zaar might be exactly what she needed.
Bahir smirked and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. On the dumbek, he beat the familiar rhythm, dun-kateka-dun-tek.
Alya tapped the same beat on her thigh. “What if someone saw me? They would think me even more strange.”
Bahir raised his brow. Dun-kateka-dun-tek.
“You are going to get me into trouble.”
Dog thumped her tail and watched Bahir, head cocked.
Dun-kateka-dun-tek
Beatrice stuck her head in the room. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Alya glared at Bahir.
Dun-kateka-dun-tek
“Lady Alya is going to perform the zaar.”
“Ooh.” Beatrice stepped into the room. “What is that?”
Bahir kept drumming.
“Would you stop that?” Already Alya’s limbs itched to follow the rhythm, become entwined with it and let it flow through her until her worries disappeared.
“Nay, don’t stop.” Beatrice clapped along with Bahir. “I like it. It sort of makes you want to move with it.”
“That it does.” Bahir flashed Alya an evil grin. “That is the entire point of the zaar.”
Beatrice raised her clapping hands and swayed. “Can anyone do it? Can I?”
“You most certainly can.” Bahir closed his eyes as he drummed. His body swayed in time to his hands hitting the hide.
Faye knocked on the door. “Sorry to interrupt but I was looking for…Beatrice what are you doing?”
“The zaar.” Beatrice grinned at her. “Or I will when Alya teaches me how.”
Faye clapped along with Beatrice. “Can I watch?”
“Nay, my lady.” Bahir stopped drumming. “The zaar is to be performed, not watched. An ancient ritual amongst women.”
Faye pulled a face. “I am not much of a dancer.”
“You don’t need to be.” Alya had the feeling she was outnumbered.
Beatrice waved her over. “Come on, Faye, you can do it with us.” She stopped in front of Alya. “Show us.”
Bahir picked up the beat again.
Alya loosened her hair and motioned Faye and Beatrice to do the same. She dropped to her knees, forehead pressed to the earth.
“Um…what are you doing?” Beatrice crouched beside her.
“The zaar,” Bahir said. “Do as she does, and let the beat take you where it will.”
Alya draped her hair over her head until it curtained her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in the dun-kateka-dun-tek.
Head low, she swayed her head. First this way and then that.
Beatrice copied her, her golden hair a stark contrast beside Alya’s.
On the other side of her, Faye sat on her knees and watched them. She loosened her braid. “I can do that.”
Bahir grinned. “Do it, my lady.”
“Just let your head go.” Alya’s voice fell in with Bahir’s drumming. “Let it find the beat and merge with it.”
“Like this?” Beatrice whipped her hair around her head.
“Slow down.” Alya bit back her laughter. “Slow down and go with the beat.”
Beatrice stopped, waited and then swayed in time with Bahir. “I like this.”
“It’s a way to release your worries.” Alya let her shoulders move with her head. Her world narrowed to the black curtain of her hair. Beside her she was aware of Beatrice and Faye, but they blended into the hypnotic rhythm. Soon she would lose all knowledge they were there.
Her rib cage flexed and contracted in time with her head movements. Her arms came up behind her back and reached for oblivion.
Bahir picked up the beat and her body responded. Her movements grew larger, wilder as the drum gained speed. The steady beats drove her higher on her knees, so she could dip and sway with it. Her heartbeat took up the dun-kateka-dun-tek. It pounded through her blood and echoed in her breathing. Her feet took her to standing.
Henry, Anglesea, the rude servants, all of it melted away. Her mind emptied of everything but the steady rhythm of the dumbek. Alya slipped away into the collection of limbs and muscle that moved to the beating of her heart. On and on it went, growing faster and faster, wilder and wilder, drawing her deeper into its trance.
The drum stopped.
Alya opened her eyes.
Her chamber swam before her vision.
Beatrice, breathing hard with her hair a tangle around her head, stood beside her with her eyes wide open and stunned.
Faye’s pale skin gleamed with perspiration. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest.
All three of them breathed hard.
“Oh, my.” Faye giggled and pushed her hair back. “That was…”
Beatrice nodded. “It was indeed.”
“Here.” Bahir handed them all a goblet. “Drink.”
He wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve. But he too wore the vacant expression Beatrice and Faye did. Alya felt certain her face mirrored theirs. “So.” The bitter bite of ale quenched her thirst. “That was the zaar.”
Beatrice drained her goblet. “We should do that again.”
“Not now.” Faye looked alarmed. She tottered to the bed and sat. “I am worn out. Yet strangely exhilarated.”
“This is why the women of Egypt do this,” Bahir said. “As a form of release.”
“I like it.” Beatrice tried to tame her hair.
Faye adjusted her girdle. “I would like to hear more of where you come from, Alya. I know so little of the world beyond Anglesea.”
Suddenly the rainy day did not seem so horrible, and Alya did not have that empty ache of loneliness within her. She returned Faye’s smile. “I would like that.”
Chapter 22
Emboldened by her success with Faye and Beatrice, Alya snatched up two of her new silks, gave another two to Bernard and went to see the castle seamstresses. Dog dropped into place at her heels.
Bernard held the silk gingerly. “Where are we going?”
“Into battle, Bernard.” Alya squared her shoulders.
In a small room on one side of the inner bailey beside the laundry worked the seamstresses. Great vats from the laundry billowed steam into the gray afternoon, and carried the smell of boiling laundry.
A laundress stopped stirring and leaned against her paddle as Alya passed.
“Good day.” Alya used English and a pleasant smile.
The woman stiffened, nodded tersely, and worked her paddle through the water again.
Chatter stopped as Alya entered the seamstresses’ lair. Light flooded the small chamber and made sewing easier. Three faces turned and stared at her.
“Good day.” She did not have many English words but she had drawn a picture of what she wanted. She moved aside an overflowing work basket and put her parchment down on the table. “Make, please.”
Henry had stressed the importance of using please. Alya spread her silks on the table, being sure not to let them touch the floor, and motioned Bernard to do the same.
The women glanced at each other.
The older of the trio got up and stared at the drawing. She said something in English and pushed the drawing back at Alya.
“They say they cannot.” Bernard translated for her.
She didn’t need Bernard to understand the clear message. These women did not want to do her work. Alya pointed to the silk and the drawing. “You make.”
Gray Hair shook her head. “Nay.”
“Please…why?” Her English improved day by day but she had never cursed her lack of proficiency more.
Gray Hair rolled her eyes. “Silk for pillows. Nay,” she yelled.
Did the woman think if she spoke louder, Alya would suddenly understand? “Why?”
“No good.” Gray Hair sat down and snatched up her work.
“She says the silk is too good for making pillows.” Flushed and frowning, Bernard cast a longing gaze at the door.
“I understood that,” she said, but Alya had lain on enough silk cushions in her time to know the woman did not speak the truth. “I want silk.”
Cackling, the seamstresses put their heads together.
Bernard gasped and glanced at her.
Alya willed the earth to open and swallow her whole. Or better yet swallow the cow camels talking and laughing at her. If this were Cairo, Bahir would have whipped them for their rudeness. Then again, if this was Cairo, she would know how to speak to them.
“Make.” She pushed the silk toward them.
“Nay.” Gray Hair shoved the silk back at her so hard it slithered off the table and dropped to the dirty floor.
The seamstresses laughed.
Alya bent to gather her silk. She bowed her head to hide the weak tears pricking behind her eyelids. How dare they treat her as if she did not matter? They did not know her to be so rude to her. They could make what she wanted, but they chose not to.
“Meg.” Kathryn’s voice cracked from the doorway.
Gray Hair sprang to her feet and curtsied. “Good day, Lady Kathryn.”
At least Alya understood that much.
A rapid conversation ensued, too quick for Alya to follow. Based on the way Kathryn stood arms jammed on her hips and the way the seamstresses hung their heads, she would wager Kathryn was giving the women a tongue-lashing. Good! Let them feel the scald of humiliation.