Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  Fatima screeched, “Do not speak of me as if I am not here!”

  Muhammad II shrugged. “You know no power on earth, or very likely in the heavens, can alter my daughter’s course when she has her mind set upon a thing. I see no danger in this, not when part of my personal guard shall protect her. Your wife has my consent. I cannot rescind it. Now, she desires your approval.”

  Faraj crossed his arms over his chest. “She shall never have it.”

  “This debate is useless,” she concluded. “By your leave, I bid you good day, Father.”

  She kissed the hem of the Sultan’s jubba, before her sharp gaze stabbed at Faraj. Then she stalked from the room. He turned away, shaking his head in disgust.

  Behind him, the Sultan inquired, “Have you told my daughter the truth yet?”

  Hard-pressed to hide his annoyance, especially when the Sultan had caused all the trouble in the first place, Faraj asked, “Have I told her the truth of what?”

  “That you love her.”

  Faraj shook his head, but he could not deny the truth.

  The Sultan continued. “Have you told her how your concern for her safety is nothing compared to the love you feel for her?”

  Faraj questioned, “Why should I speak of love? Why speak of what is obvious?”

  “You should tell my daughter of your feelings. Perhaps then she shall understand your fears.”

  “She understands. She simply does not care.”

  “Oh, she cares, cousin. If she did not care for your feelings or desire your approval, she would not press this issue. Go to her and see that I am right.”

  Faraj sighed. Fatima was as much a part of him as the heart beating inside his chest.

  “Do I have your consent to enter your harem, my Sultan?”

  “You do not go to the harem to seek my daughter at this hour. Fatima is most likely with her brother. He is training her to use the bow, should she find herself under attack.”

  “I cannot believe he aids her in this folly.”

  Muhammad II smiled. “Admittedly, when she first approached him to learn, my son dismissed her. She convinced him by taking up his bow and trying to learn on her own. Finally, he took pity on her rather vain efforts, and taught her to use the weapon properly. He believes that if no one can dissuade Fatima, she should at least know enough to safeguard her own life. I’m inclined to agree.”

  “Dare I ask if she is skilled enough?”

  “Go to her at my son’s house and you shall see for yourself.”

  Faraj went in search of Fatima at her brother’s brick abode to the southeast. A slave escorted him to the indoor patio of the house.

  She stood at the center of the courtyard in the open air, her veils discarded. Her hair, bound loosely in one braid, trailed down the length of her back and curiously, she wore a blindfold. Her brother stood at her side, adjusting the manner in which she gripped a wickedly curved bow. The head of the arrow glinted in the sunlight, the promise of a swift death gleaming at its edge.

  “Loose!” he instructed.

  The arrow struck just shy of the center of the target.

  Faraj rolled his eyes heavenward. He leaned against the wall behind him, arms crossed over his chest. “My wife’s become addle-brained, but I never thought you would lose your sensibilities as well, Your Highness.”

  Muhammad turned with a scowl. Fatima removed her blindfold.

  Her brother said, “My sister can be persuasive, as you must know, being her husband.”

  Faraj ignored him and held out his hand to her. “Come with me.”

  She had another arrow nocked in the bow and pointed at him, before he could say another word. Her hand trembled.

  Her brother laughed – great, belly-quaking, cackles that made him collapse on the ground, howling with delirious mirth.

  Faraj ignored him. “Fatima, are you aware our marital contract states I am within my rights to beat you now for threatening me?”

  “As you have seen, I know what to do with this weapon, so please, try.” Her grip tightened on the bowstring, her face a dark mask.

  Her brother’s incessant laughter grew annoying. She must have felt the same way, for she kicked his leg. “Be quiet, you braying ass! Go away, you are of no help.”

  Still holding his belly, Muhammad sketched a clumsy bow and left.

  Faraj moved a step closer to Fatima. The arrow tip indented his silk caftan. “If you must shoot, then do so. I shall not leave without you. This is madness.”

  “It’s madness that I want to be with you, to ensure you don’t come to harm?”

  His emotions too frayed to acknowledge her tender feelings, he insisted, “Stop pointing that thing at me, please? You’re ruining one of my favorite garments.”

  “I’m sure you have more than enough dinars to buy other clothes.”

  “Why would you risk your life and safety?”

  “Don’t you know why? This one conflict may determine the future of Gharnatah.” She paused with a sigh. “You men with your wars, you never think of those whom you leave behind. I waited after Madinah Antaqirah, wondering if you had survived the fight. I shall not linger here, not knowing if you have suffered an injury. What if you died at Istija? I could not bear it if something happened to you.”

  He shook his head. Her emotions tugged at his heart. Could she possibly feel the same way as he did? If so, he was doubly committed to ensuring she remained in Gharnatah. He would die if anything happened to her, his beloved.

  “Fatima, put that thing down, so I can say what I must without fear of a wound or death.”

  She hesitated, before she lowered the bow to the ground. He took the weapon and tossed it aside, before capturing her in his arms. She stood stiff and unyielding for a moment, but after a time, she surrendered.

  They remained silent, his chin resting on her head. Then, he framed her face in both hands. Tears glimmered in her eyes. As always, they unmanned him.

  “I could not bear it if you were harmed at Istija. Fatima, you are my life and my love. I do not say such words just because I want to keep you away from the battle.”

  Her gaze softened and her tears flowed freely. “I believe you.”

  He traced the glistening moisture on her cheek. “I love you too much to expose you to any danger.”

  She stared at him blankly, as if she had not heard what he said. Then she smiled, though tears still shimmered in her eyes.

  “Faraj, if I go to Istija, I shall be even safer than you, for I’ll have the guards Father assigns to me. And there shall be a retinue of Gharnati and Marinid warriors to protect my aunt Maryam.”

  When he drew back, she continued, “Aunt Maryam is going to Istija, as well. She must love her husband, because she shall not leave his side. Faraj, please do not ask me to remain here. Whatever danger you encounter, I want to be with you when you face it.”

  He groaned at her dogged refusal. “You may not be afraid, but I am. I cannot allow you to travel with me and the army to Istija. The Sultan has given you his consent, but I shall not. You must respect my opinion and believe it is born of the love I feel.”

  “Just as my love demands I must be with you! Why would I argue so with you, risking your displeasure yet again, if I did not love you, did not fear losing you? Why would I risk my safety, if not for love of you?”

  He stared, incredulous. She placed her hand over his heart, which thumped loudly with the emotions churning inside him.

  “You are my life, Faraj, and my love. If you should die…must I wait here to receive your body, cold and stiff? Don’t ask me to do that.”

  Her voice dissolved on a whimper. He wanted to spare her pain, especially at this moment, when they had admitted their feelings to each other for the first time. However, he could not pretend he wanted her with him in the coming conflict.

  “Then we are at an impasse, Fatima. You want the one thing from me that I cannot give. If you leave Gharnatah with the army, you do so without my approval.”

&n
bsp; Chapter 20

  Jihad

  Prince Faraj

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Sha’ban 673 AH (Granada, Andalusia: February AD 1275)

  During the month of Sha’ban, the first Marinid contingents arrived at the port of Munakkab, under the banner of their leader, Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub. The Marinids numbered twelve thousand cavalry and infantrymen with siege weapons. Their ships swarmed the White Sea and remained anchored just off the coast of Munakkab, until the Sultan gave permission for them to go ashore. Faraj waited to welcome his master’s new allies to al-Andalus.

  The Marinid Sultan refused to embark, insisting the success of the coming battle would require yet another truce between the Nasrids and Ashqilula. Weary, Faraj returned to Gharnatah.

  He had never seen Muhammad II so angry in all his life. He raged, cursed and bellowed as a man possessed.

  “By the Prophet’s beard I swear…that camel-eating sot thinks he can interfere in the internal matters of the Sultanate!”

  He stalked back and forth across the width of the room, rage emboldening his steps. The members of the Diwan, who had stood at his side earlier, scrambled out of his way. Faraj remained where he stood, awaiting the end of the Sultan’s tirade.

  The Sultan demanded, “By what right does he press such a claim against me? I am the master of Gharnatah! How dare any outsider impose his will upon me?”

  Faraj cleared his throat. “Lest you lose perspective completely, my master, he is right.”

  The Sultan turned to him with murderous rage, daring him to repeat those words.

  Though Faraj’s heart rebelled against peace with the Ashqilula, who had helped kill his father, he said, “If we want to win this campaign, you must have peace with the Ashqilula. While we fight the Castillans, would you risk the Ashqilula attacking our cities? Worse, that they should join forces together with the Castillans? Do not let your pride sway your judgment. Only further delay and the possible withdrawal of the Marinids shall result.”

  Muhammad II shook his head in frustration, but Faraj pressed him further. “My Sultan, in days of old, your noble father taught you to place the survival of Gharnatah above all else. Since you ascended the throne, you have lived by his words in every decision and action you have undertaken. Let us enter into a truce with one enemy, so we may fight the other, for we would face an even greater foe, if the armies of Castilla-Leon and the Ashqilula united against us.”

  The next day, Faraj readied for the journey with Muhammad II, the Sultan’s brothers and heir, to meet the Marinids and the Ashqilula. The army would follow in a day, led by Umar, the Shaykh al-Ghuzat.

  Faraj had tried to speak with Fatima beforehand. Her eunuch-guard Niranjan replied she was indisposed, but Faraj guessed she remained angry at his refusal to let her go to Istija. Annoyed at his wife’s childish behavior, he left his house in a huff. Marzuq waited at the side of his horse. The Sultan’s retinue had already mounted in the courtyard of the madina. He snatched the reins and barely acknowledged the steward’s farewell with a grunt, before he spurred his horse to join the group.

  A rider swathed in black drew his attention at once. His spine tingled a warning. The rider turned to him. Dark eyes glittered between the slits of a blue-black veil.

  He urged the dun-brown Arabian stallion closer to Fatima’s gray Andalusi mare. She wore masculine attire, despite her concession to modesty with the veil. A wickedly curved dagger was in a sheath at her waist and over her shoulder, she had slung a bow and quiver of arrows.

  “If you delay us in any manner, I shall send you home.”

  Though his voice barely rose above a whisper, she drew back as if the fury in his tone were a slashing whip. Then she stuck out her chin defiantly. “I can ride a horse well. You’ll hear no complaints from me or my servants.”

  Then he noticed the two other riders in black at her side and Fatima’s constant shadow, her eunuch guard. He groaned, realizing she intended to bring her damnable servants too. He shook his head at their foolery and jerked his mount away before joining the Sultan.

  At the Sultan’s signal, they rode out in a flurry of rapid movement, leaving behind the confines of the Sabika hill. They covered ground swiftly and moved out on to the dun-brown plains surrounding the city. They sighted the encampment of their new allies and the Ashqilula in the distance. The flags of the Marinids floated in a sea of other banners.

  Awed for a moment, Faraj angrily recalled his wife’s presence. Didn’t she recognize the danger in all this?

  He slowed and drew his mount beside hers near the middle of the column. Her brother Muhammad also hung back to ride at her right side. Muhammad leaned forward in the saddle and nodded to him. He returned the gesture, pleased to see they were of the same mind about his sister’s safety. Fatima’s gaze darted between him and her brother, but she said nothing.

  Muhammad II stopped short of the outer edge of the camp, and waited. His horse snorted, stamped and tossed his head. Faraj wondered whether the stallion could feel his master’s obvious tension. Then Abu Yusuf Ya’qub rode toward him, flanked by the governor of Malaka, Abu Muhammad.

  Faraj could hardly fathom it, but the truth overwhelmed him. When he had come to Gharnatah years ago, just before that bright morning of the Ashqilula’s triumph, he had looked on the face of the man who murdered his parents. Abu Muhammad bore responsibility for everything he had lost that night. The blood of his parents demanded justice, but he only wanted retribution. He imagined thick globs of blood pouring from Abu Muhammad’s throat, ripped from ear to ear, as his father had suffered.

  His belly tightened in a heavy knot. He had not seen the man who conspired to murder his family in years. Yet again, circumstances forced him to put aside his vengeance for the good of Gharnatah. He vowed Abu Muhammad’s death would come, but not this day.

  Fatima whispered. “He’s here.”

  Her brother asked, “The Marinid Sultan impresses you so much?”

  “Not him. I meant Abu Muhammad of Malaka. He once wanted to marry our mother. He was there when she stole me away to the house of her brother Abdallah.”

  Faraj clenched his jaw tightly. “Did he hurt you?” He waited expectantly, but in truth, the prospect would just be yet another reason to murder the man.

  Fatima answered, “No, but he let my mother die.”

  “Then I have one more reason to hate him.”

  “You hate him, too? What has he ever done to you?”

  He made no reply, despite her puzzled stare. He was not ready to reveal the depths of his hatred, even to his beloved. Still, the burden of the secret weighed upon him.

  The Marinid Sultan and his companions met Fatima’s father, who greeted his ally with the kiss of peace. Then the sovereigns drew apart and seemed to assess each other.

  Faraj judged Abu Yusuf Ya’qub and Muhammad II to be very much alike, though physically they could not have been more different. Where his master stood lean and tall, with olive skin and in the prime of life, the Marinid ruler was small and swarthy. His hair had gone completely gray since Faraj saw him at Fés el-Bali, just over a year ago.

  “It is good that you have come, my brother of the Faith.” Abu Yusuf Ya’qub’s voice boomed across the plains.

  Muhammad II replied, “I wish our alliance to remain strong. I would not have it threatened by what is, at least for me, an internal matter for Gharnatah.”

  Abu Yusuf Ya’qub chuckled and stroked his gray beard. “You are a man of plain speech, which is good, for I am the same. You resent my interference. Yet, you cannot deny the Ashqilula proved worthy allies in the early reign of your father. They can do so again and help us inflict a resounding defeat upon our common enemy in this jihad, Castilla-Leon.”

  Muhammad II said, “The Ashqilula clan doesn’t view the Castillans as the enemy.”

  Abu Yusuf Ya’qub offered him a shrewd smile, “The same could be said of your father. At times, he counted the Castillans as enemies, but sometimes he was not so certain.”

&n
bsp; “Circumstances often change.” Muhammad II paused and glared at the other Ashqilula chieftains gathered behind Abu Muhammad. “And they can again. What do the Ashqilula pledge by way of this truce?”

  “They shall provide three thousand cavalry, archers, infantry and siege weapons.”

  “At what cost to me?”

  “The one who leads them, Abu Muhammad of Malaka, shall speak the terms, when your envoy negotiates with him on the morrow.”

  Faraj blanched. The Sultan had compelled him to be Gharnatah’s envoy in the negotiations. How could he endure bargaining with his father’s murderer?

  Fatima interrupted his reverie. “I don’t understand. Where is the chieftain Ibrahim? Why doesn’t he lead the Ashqilula today?”

  Faraj ignored her question, intent on the ensuing discussion, though he had wondered the same.

  Muhammad II asked, “If I refuse to bargain with the Ashqilula? What shall you do then, my brother of the Faith?”

  The Marinid ruler considered his reply before he answered, “Let us hope, by the Will of God, that our negotiations do not reach such a conclusion.”

  Muhammad II nodded and turned his horse away. He rode directly toward Faraj.

  Scowling heavily, he whispered, “Bargain with them. Offer them Paradise if you must, but know this: I shall not hold to this treaty one moment longer than it takes to defeat Alfonso.”

  Princess Fatima

  Fatima spoke with Leeta inside their tent while Faraj met with her father and his counselors. “I think I’ll visit with my aunt Maryam. Since our arrival, the talk has turned to war. Maryam may be glad for the company, since Prince Abu Zayyan has joined his fellow commanders to plan strategy.”

  Leeta brewed a tisane of crushed mint leaves, lemon peels and cinnamon. “Soon Sultana Maryam won’t be so lonely. I heard her body slave talking in the hammam last week. The Sultana is pregnant, three or four months now.”

  “Are you certain? You should know better than to believe gossip, Leeta.”

  “The slave was arguing with another servant about whether their mistress should travel to al-Maghrib el-Aska before the baby is born. The Marinid prince believes she should give birth at his home. It seems the Sultana refuses to leave.”