Fatima drew back and pressed a hand to her chest. A sudden tremor pounded in her heart. She recognized the woman. She had seen her only briefly in the past. She could never forget the familiar face, yet the woman was like a stranger to her.
The woman withdrew one hand from her companion’s grasp and smoothed a lock of his thick, brown hair away from his forehead, where deeps lines burrowed. “I have known danger most of my life, Abdallah, ever since I married the Crown Prince of Gharnatah. Why should tonight be any different?”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the fingertips. Fatima smothered a cry behind her hands, but not quietly enough. The pair jerked toward her.
The woman’s wide, green eyes, lined with kohl and painted with malachite, sparkled like emeralds. At first, Fatima imagined those eyes filled with tears, but that could not be true.
A sharp pain dug into Fatima’s brow. Her hands fell at her side, shaking. “How could you do this to my father? Steal me away? Be here with another man? Why are you letting him,” she stabbed her finger at the stranger, “touch you?”
The woman rose and approached, her bejeweled fingers clasped together. A lock of her hair slipped from beneath the folds of the hijab, in a thick coil of burnished copper. The warming pink flush of her face faded to a muted, cream-colored sheen. She seemed like a stone carving in the garden – beautiful, but cold and hard.
The pockmarked man behind her stood. He towered taller than any other person Fatima had ever seen. “Ignorant child, you know nothing of what you are speaking. You are being disrespectful to your mother.”
The woman hushed him. “Do not chide her, brother. If Fatima is ignorant or willful, it is because her father and grandfather have allowed her to be so.” She paused and held out her hand. “Come, daughter, it is time you learned the truth.”
Fatima drew back. “Don’t touch me! You’re not my mother, you never were.”
Prince Faraj
Brass lanterns sputtered in an orange haze of fading light. Evening shadows lengthened as defeat cast its grim pall over Faraj. He faced his opponent on a familiar battlefield. Muhammad ibn al-Ahmar, the Sultan of Gharnatah leaned toward him and smiled a predatory grin, before he delivered the deathblow. “Do you yield, nephew?”
Faraj stared at his adversary. The Sultan’s piercing hazel eyes looked at him from a careworn, olive-skinned face, with laugh lines around the mouth. Faraj shared similar features with the old man, family traits like the heavy brows and the hawk-like nose. The Sultan covered his thinning hair with a shashiya. He rarely wore any head covering except the brown skullcap.
Faraj returned his attention to an ebony wood chessboard, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, his father’s last gift to the Sultan. Despite the passing of several years, Faraj still admired this elegant piece of handiwork. A wall of his white pawns now lined the other side of the board. He shook his head in dismay, recognizing how the earlier, reckless positioning of his cavalier had heralded his downfall. He rubbed at the corners of his burning eyes and wracked his mind for a counter-move. Yet, he could not deny the truth. As in all other things, his uncle held the advantage.
He barely recalled the time when he had not lived by the Sultan’s whim and desire. After his arrival in Gharnatah nine years ago, a wearied and bloodied boy, the old man raised him alongside his own royal sons. At nearly seventy-four, the Sultan’s mind remained formidable. Despite his advanced years, he appeared rested and focused, but then, he probably slept well most nights.
For his part, Faraj could not remember the peace that sleep had once brought. The memory evaded him, just as easily as contented slumber had for nearly ten years.
“Do not succumb to idle thoughts, nephew. You have already lost pawns, as a result.”
“I do not have my father’s skill. How was it that he was able to best you every time?”
The Sultan exposed a gap-toothed smile. “Is that what he told you? Your father’s talent for exaggeration was always incomparable, but perhaps in this, he did not lie. You may not have his talent, but each day you grow more in his image. If he had lived, my brother would be very proud of you. My only regret is that he was unable to witness your union with my granddaughter today.”
Faraj kept his stare fixed on the board. He dared not raise his gaze for his uncle’s eager scrutiny. Otherwise, the hawk-eyed glint in his expression would pierce the heart of him and reveal the turmoil brewing inside.
Throughout the day, unrelenting fear had roiled in his guts, warning him against the path he now trod. As before, the same concerns that had plagued him earlier returned now. He pushed them aside, but swallowed audibly before daring an answer. He prayed his voice would not betray him.
Jaw clenched tightly, he muttered, “I share the same regret, my Sultan.”
His uncle leaned forward in his cedar chair, as though he had not clearly heard Faraj. “Your father would say to both of us that regrets are best left in the past. In that, as in other things, he would be right. Still, I believe he would have been proud that you have attained your manhood and taken a royal bride.”
Faraj nodded, though he believed his father would have viewed the marriage with the same circumspect opinion he once held of his own wedding: a means to an end. As with his father, Faraj had not chosen his own wife. At least his father had made a better bargain, with an alliance that benefitted their family. Faraj was not certain how his own marriage gave him any advantage. Likely, it would result in his quick death.
The Sultan showed no awareness of his companion’s discomfort. “Your union with Fatima surely surprised many people. I suspect it has angered others, particularly the Ashqilula family, but they shall accept it.”
“And if the Ashqilula do not accept this marriage?” Faraj gasped at his own carelessness and gripped the edge of the chessboard until the nail bed of his thumb whitened. He chided himself. Only a fool revealed his fears so easily, especially before another who would play upon them.
As he anticipated, the Sultan paused and cocked his head. Faraj perceived the change in him instantly, like a hawk sighting prey. He knew their game of chess was at an end. He released the side of the gaming board and steeled himself, feigning courage he did not feel.
“Do your ties to the Ashqilula family still burden you, nephew?”
The attack came sharp and swift, tearing to the core of him. The roughened nails of his hands cut into the palms, unseen by the Sultan’s persistent gaze. How dare the old man even ask about burdens? Faraj cursed him inwardly, for having burdened his family generation after generation. Likely, the Sultan’s machinations had brought them to the brink of ruin.
Still, Faraj waved a trembling hand over his chest, as though flicking away dinner crumbs from his black tunic. He controlled the fluttering at his breast with even breaths, before he glanced at the Sultan. He hated and loved this old man, who always pierced to the heart of a matter. Faraj could almost admire the skill, if the Sultan had not turned it against him.
“Why should old ties impede me?” He despised the unsteady warbling in his voice, but the unbreakable cord still encumbered him – blood ties to the Ashqilula family.
Their blood coursed in his veins by virtue of his mother, an Ashqilula chieftain’s daughter, who had wed the Sultan’s brother and loved him until her death. Faraj shuddered at his last memory of her, bloodied and ruined, and drew a deep breath before continuing.
He forced the words from a dry throat. “I couldn’t care less about my ties to them. The Ashqilula mean nothing to me.”
The lie hung heavy in the room. Faraj gritted his teeth as the weight of it bore down upon him. A burdensome encumbrance, but one he undertook for his own sake. The Sultan expected it. He would never accept anything but unwavering loyalty from his family.
“What are your thoughts on my granddaughter, then?”
Faraj swallowed at the sudden change of topic and pronounced a swift reply.
“I hardly know her. We had never met before I married her today.”
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“That is common enough. Yet, surely, you must feel something about this union. You have barely spoken of it since the oaths made during the ceremony. When my heir congratulated you before all our guests, you did not acknowledge his acclaim beyond a mere polite nod.”
Faraj cursed the old man. Why did he keep pretending that this wedding was anything other than a declaration of war against his enemies? Why did he appear so unconcerned that those enemies would now retaliate against him and embroil Faraj in their feud?
Still, he steeled himself against showing any further weakness. He began, “My Sultan, I perceive the great honor you have bestowed upon me with this union betwixt myself and the daughter of the Crown Prince.”
“Bah! Do not dissemble. You do not have your father’s skill for it. Not yet. Tell me, truthfully, what did you think of my granddaughter as you beheld her for the first today?”
Through the haze of his bewilderment, Faraj recalled the image of the pale, stick-thin girl whom everyone expected he would acknowledge as his wife. She had worn gaudy jewelry, garish cosmetics and rich robes - extravagant wastes for such a scrawny, waif-like child, in his opinion. The weight of her finery overwhelmed her, as she had sat apart from everyone on a yellow, damask cushion trimmed with gold filigree. Her features were markedly angular and gaunt, similar to her father’s in appearance, though not as sallow. If the sight of her had not stirred his revulsion for the prospect of marrying a child, he might have pitied her. Except in one instance.
When the evening breeze had filtered in from the open-air courtyard, torchlight flared and cast its glow upon her dark hair in an eerie halo. At that moment, her sharp chin rose and her stark gaze met his, unflinching. Brilliant flecks like the embers of a fire glittered in her brown eyes. The sight took him aback for a moment. Then she looked away. Even now, his lips curled at the memory of how she had turned and ignored him, with the neglect reserved for menials.
He tamped down the abhorrence souring in his belly. “Forgive me, but she is merely a child of eight years. What can I, a man ten years her senior, be expected to feel regarding her?”
After a moment, the Sultan shrugged and nodded, as he had hoped. “I suppose you have years, Faraj, in which you may come to know my granddaughter better. For now, she shall remain in her father’s house until she can bear your children. I rely on her father to protect her.”
“Your plans shall tear the Sultanate apart.”
“Your union with Fatima shall heal the rift. Can I rely upon you?”
Though Faraj doubted how a union with a child might preserve the land, he kept those thoughts to himself.
“You may.” He held the Sultan’s gaze without wavering. Not for the first time, he thought the old man burdened him unduly with inopportune vows.
Raised voices echoed beyond the closed doors of the chamber. Both the Sultan and Faraj turned toward the sound. Two sentries stationed beside the door opened it at a curt nod from their master. Faraj stood as torchlight revealed the sallow face of Fatima’s father, the Crown Prince of Gharnatah, Abu Abdallah Muhammad.
The Crown Prince stood tall and sneered at the guardsmen outside the chamber before he approached. He sagged on one knee before the Sultan, his dark leonine head bowed. When his father touched his shoulder, he stood unsteadily. Faraj scratched his thin beard and eyed the men intently.
A frown marred the Crown Prince’s brow, aging him beyond his thirty-one years. His deep-set eyes, another family trait, were red-rimmed and his mouth, bounded by a dark beard and moustache, was a grim, fixed line. He spoke in low tones with his father. When he finished, the Sultan grasped his arms, as though propping his son up.
“Are you truly surprised by this betrayal? It is only your wounded pride that cannot accept it.”
“She belongs to me! I shall never give her up.”
The Sultan sighed. “You insist upon this obsession.”
“I love her!”
“Yes, despite her feelings. If you must have her back, we shall find her. There are few places within al-Qal’at Al-Hamra where she can hide.”
“She has escaped the palace!”
The Sultan cocked his head and chuckled. “She possesses a quick wit, far greater than you anticipated. Of greater concern to me is that she also has allies to aid her cause. We must eliminate all those who remain loyal to the Ashqilula.”
“They have too many spies here!”
“It is a concern that we shall deal with in time. We have our own spies within their walls, too.”
“My chief eunuch is questioning Aisha’s servants now, in the presence of the executioner. How could she do this to me? I have given her my heart.”
“Women weaken the heart. Do not trouble yourself, my son, we shall find her before she leaves Gharnatah.”
“When I have her in my arms again, she shall regret this night.” Thinly veiled rage seethed from the Crown Prince’s embittered lips.
Faraj wondered who could have made him so angry. From the import of their conversation, it was likely some favorite. He sneered and shook his head. The Sultan was right. Women weakened the heart and any man who allowed a woman such power over his emotions was a fool. How disappointing that the Crown Prince possessed poor control of his passions and his household.
The Sultan strolled toward Faraj. Looking down at him, he gestured at the chessboard. “The pieces are set. The game can begin.”
The last embers within the brass lanterns crackled and died, as Faraj pondered the meaning behind that enigmatic statement. His mind swirled with myriad thoughts. Foremost, he must ensure his uncle’s plans would not threaten his own survival or interests. He was not about to become anyone’s pawn again, not even that of the Sultan.
Chapter 2
The Ways of Men
Princess Fatima
Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Muharram 664 AH (Granada, Andalusia: October AD 1265)
Fatima trembled, a sharp breath paining her side. Princess Aisha’s lips were pressed tightly together, nearly bloodless. Something in her eyes seemed sad, before she waved away the man at her arm.
He touched her shoulder, his hand almost like a caress, leaving Fatima uneasy and repulsed. She shuddered at the sight of the deep scars from the pox that marred his otherwise handsome features. His hair was darker than Aisha’s locks but otherwise he possessed the same olive skin she did, with her dark brows and lashes, aquiline nose and small mouth. Although Aisha had called him her brother, his boldness was unexpected, especially when Fatima had never heard of or seen him before.
He said, “Do not be too harsh with her, sister. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”
Aisha shook her head. “My daughter is the image of her father in many things. Like him, she has learned how to wound with words.”
Fatima swallowed loudly and looked away, the nervousness bubbling inside her stomach. When the man glanced at her and shook his head, her chin jutted forward.
“I shall go to her now, Aisha. Summon me if you need me.”
She waved him away. Fatima’s stare followed him from the room.
Aisha smoothed her thin hands across the skirt of the silken robe. She gestured toward the wooden stool at the window. “Please sit.”
Fatima shuffled on the tiles, the white marble like a gleaming sheen of ice beneath her feet. Still, she stuck out her chin further and remained rooted to the spot. “I want my father.”
Aisha turned to the sole window. “I am unused to your disobedience, but stand if you prefer.”
Fatima glanced at the stool before she noticed Aisha eyeing her over her shoulder.
“Where is my father?”
A strong gust of wind whipped through the lattice, carrying away Aisha’s sigh. She pushed aside the damask curtain. Her fingers traced circles on the plasterwork wall, her eyes fixed on some point in the darkness. When a dog howled, she trembled and rubbed her arms.
“Do you know why your grandfather married you off to your cousin, Prince Faraj?”
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��Father told me to marry him.”
“You are so obedient that you do anything your father tells you?”
“Father says children must listen to their parents.”
Aisha turned to her. “Would you do so now? I shall tell you the truth your grandfather and father have concealed, about why they made you marry Prince Faraj.”
Fatima looked away, avoiding the plea shining in Aisha’s dark eyes. She wanted something from her, though Fatima did not know what it could be. Whatever it was, she swore she would not submit easily.
“Father says you are a great liar. He said I must never believe anything you say.”
A soft gasp escaped Aisha, who suddenly faced the window again, with her head bowed. Her shoulders shook and she did not speak.
Fatima swallowed past the heavy lump wedged in her throat. Something about what she had said had disturbed her mother…no, she must not think of her in that way.
From her earliest memories, the palace servants had told her never to call Aisha ‘Ummi’ or speak with her unless the princess spoke first. She had never forgotten the warning. Still, her words had clearly upset Aisha and that bothered her. Was Aisha right? Had she told the truth because she knew it would hurt? Was it possible to hurt a woman who never showed her feelings? Did she even have any feelings?
Fatima hugged her arms as a sudden breeze tore through the folds of her silk tunic. Despite the brazier and Aisha’s presence at the window, she felt cold and alone. Were other women as unkind and uncaring to the children they bore? Did they ever hug their daughters or wish them sweet dreams at night? Did they love their children? Did those children know it?
“By tradition, your grandfather has always sealed the alliance with the Ashqilula through marriage.”
Aisha’s low, bitter tone broke the silence. Fatima jerked back to awareness.
“It has been so, child, since my aunts Leila and Fatima married the Sultan’s brothers. Even the Sultan took an Ashqilula wife, your grandmother the Sultana Muna. He gave his sister Faridah in marriage to my uncle. The Sultan’s daughter Mu’mina wed my cousin, the chieftain Ibrahim. Then your father demanded me for a bride. Now, everything is different, but the blood ties remain.”
Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain Page 2