Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  “Aunt Maryam must want her baby born in Gharnatah.”

  Amoda entered the tent with breakfast. While her servants chattered, Fatima thought of Aunt Maryam’s probable pregnancy. She pressed her palms to her belly. What would it be like to have Faraj’s baby growing inside her? Would their child favor her or Faraj?

  Fatima looked up and found Leeta grinning at her. She dropped her hands to her sides. “I’m visiting the Sultana Maryam. If Faraj is successful in his negotiations, war shall come soon.”

  Amoda protested, “But Prince Faraj may not like it if you go alone to visit the princess. Her tent is pitched at the outskirts of the encampment.”

  “Niranjan shall protect me, I’ll be fine.”

  When she stepped outside the tent, he stood beside the flap, silently scanning the encampment although there was a detachment of her father’s personal bodyguards ringing the shelter. She shook her head. “Do you expect an attack here? The Ashqilula would never be so bold.”

  Niranjan glanced at her. “They were bold enough to move against your husband, though he was an honored guest of the Marinids. Never forget that Ibrahim of Ashqilula wanted you for himself. We must remain vigilant, my Sultana.”

  His subtle scolding reminded her of the gravity of the situation. She nodded and said, “Accompany me to my aunt’s tent.”

  She strolled toward the green and white striped tent the Sultana shared with her husband. Covered in discreet garb, she kept her eyes averted from the soldiers who milled around the campsite.

  Again, her mind swirled with thoughts of Faraj’s child inside her. One day, their beautiful daughters and fine sons might play in the gardens where she and her siblings had whiled away the hours as children.

  One of her mother’s last wishes for her echoed in her thoughts. Be happy in your marriage to Faraj.

  She stopped for a moment, and looked up at the sky with a smile. Her mother’s wish had blossomed. Faraj loved her, as she loved him.

  She continued to Sultana Maryam’s tent. There were no guards posted. Perhaps the Sultana had gone elsewhere – but then raised voices of a man and woman escaped the folds of the tent. Certain it was the Sultana and her husband, Fatima turned away. “We’ll come later, Niranjan, when the Sultana is perhaps alone….”

  “Stop, Abu Muhammad! You’re hurting me.”

  Fatima halted. The man in her aunt’s tent was not Prince Abu Zayyan. Sultana Maryam’s voice had never sounded so high and hysterical before.

  Niranjan drew a short dagger from the belt of his tunic. Fatima jerked in surprise, never having seen her slave handle such a sharp blade. She was also unaware that he carried it in violation of the Sultan’s rule that no slave should possess a weapon. When she stared pointedly at the dagger, he shrugged. “How else can I protect you?”

  She gestured for his silence and edged closer to the tent. When he followed, she whispered, “No! I am also armed. Wait here. I shall call if you are needed.” She cut off his ready protestation with a curt wave of her hand. However, he did not return the weapon to its sheath.

  Fatima ducked inside, her hand on the dagger concealed at her waist. “Aunt, are you unwell? I heard you cry out.”

  Sultana Maryam sat on a wooden chair. Her coloring faded into a deathly pale shadow of her usual healthy glow. A man hovered over her. He shook her roughly and then released her, before he turned to Fatima. Luminous hazel eyes, hooded under heavy brows, met her stare. She drew back, stunned into silence, looking from one face to another, one full of anger, the other a mask of terror.

  Abu Muhammad of Malaka glared at Aunt Maryam and tossed a bag to her. Her eyes widened with alarm.

  “Find a way, damn you,” he muttered.

  Before Fatima could raise an alarm, he dashed from the tent. Maryam stared after him. Her talon-like hands gripped the arms of the chair until her knuckles turned white. Then, the haunted look in her eyes dissipated. She gripped the leather pouch on her lap.

  “Fatima, why did you come to me unannounced?”

  “There are no guards outside your tent, but you know about their absence, don’t you, Aunt Maryam?”

  Though she seemed distressed a moment ago, Maryam’s features became remarkably composed now. “What are you saying? I knew they were gone. I dismissed them, after all. What I meant was why didn’t you warn me that you were coming? I could have….”

  “…Told Abu Muhammad to come later? What was he doing inside your tent? What does he demand of you? What must you ‘find a way’ to do?”

  The Sultana’s thin lips crimped with annoyance. Fire smoldered in her green eyes. “I do not stand for questions from you, child!”

  Fatima moved closer. “Perhaps you can answer my father. You can explain why his enemy was here with you! Your husband might like the explanation too, of why another man was alone in his tent with his wife. Shall I call him?”

  Blood drained from Maryam’s face. “Your petty accusations,” her voice broke. “I have done nothing for you to treat me so poorly.”

  “Your voice is your undoing. The pitch goes higher when you lie. Tell me that you are not a spy for the Ashqilula, that you have not betrayed our family to the enemy. I shall know the truth when I hear you speak.”

  “How dare you accuse me? Get out of my tent, at once.”

  Indignant, Maryam stood. The leather pouch on her lap fell, spilling an array of precious gemstones. A ruby, the size of an egg and the color of blood, rolled across the carpet and stopped at Fatima’s feet. She bent and clutched the precious stone in a tight fist.

  “For jewels…for jewels you destroy our family?”

  Maryam knelt on the floor, gulping air furiously. She shoved the gems into the bag. “You don’t understand, Fatima, you’re…mistaken.”

  “I am not mistaken! For the first time, I see you more clearly than I ever have. At the installation of the Diwan last year, you accused our aunt Faridah of spying for her son. When I told you that you and I were the only ones with suspect loyalties, I did not understand why you said I had tried to accuse you of something. You thought I had discovered your secret, didn’t you? Now, I have.”

  Maryam dropped the leather bag. “What can you do, take me to your father? Whom do you think he shall believe? I’m his sister!”

  “I’m his beloved daughter and he trusts me. He’ll know I am telling the truth.”

  Maryam rose from the floor and sank into the chair, her face ashen.

  Fatima asked, “How long have you been spying for them. Was it before or after your first husband died?”

  Her aunt responded with only cold silence, but Fatima pressed on, “My husband went to al-Maghrib el-Aska last winter. Did you warn your Ashqilula masters of his journey?”

  Fatima lunged at her aunt when she refused to speak, nails pressed against the large vein at the side of her throat. Maryam let out a strangled cry.

  “I swear, Fatima…I swear I did not know what they meant to do!”

  “You told them, didn’t you? That is how they knew of Faraj’s journey. They tried to kill him. Do you understand me? My husband could have died because of you!”

  “You’re hurting me! If I die, you shall kill my baby too! Stop! I am pregnant with the Marinid Sultan’s grandchild.”

  Fatima drew back. Maryam clutched at her throat, where nail marks gouged the flesh.

  “Do you know how many have perished in this civil war?” Fatima paced the floor. “How can you carry a child in your belly, knowing how your treachery has robbed so many mothers of their children and wives of their husbands?”

  “Why should I care? I lost a husband because of a Sultan of Gharnatah!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My first husband!” Maryam’s voice exploded in a piercing screech. “He was one of the Ashqilula. He died because of my father! The Hud family assassinated him during a banquet at our home, because of his loyalty to the Sultan. My father refused to help the Ashqilula avenge his death. He said the time was not right to mov
e against the Hud family. He did nothing. I hurt him in the only way I could, by siding with others who eventually found reason to betray him, too! What was I supposed to do?”

  Her ugly words ended on a pitiful sob. Though Fatima realized there had been equal acts of betrayal on both sides, she refused to summon a shred of pity for her aunt, not when her treasonous behavior had almost ended Faraj’s life.

  “I’ll tell you what you shall do. Leave Gharnatah, Sultana Maryam. You shall beg your husband today to send you to al-Maghrib el-Aska, to have his child there. You shall never return to al-Andalus. Beg his favor, or I shall tell him and my father the things you have done. No traitor can escape the Sultan’s justice, not even his sister.”

  Fatima returned to her tent. Leeta offered her the tisane. “Did you have a pleasant visit, my Sultana? How is your aunt? Did she tell you her news?”

  Fatima sank on a low stool. “She told me everything I needed to hear, Leeta.”

  Prince Faraj

  Faraj arrived at Fatima’s tent in the early evening. She stood with her back to him, dressed in a midnight blue jubba.

  He sensed the tension in her. “I want you to stay here, while I dine with the Marinids this evening. If there is treachery, you shall be safe.”

  She nodded.

  Suspicious of her easy acquiescence, he grasped her arm and turned her to him. “Why do you yield? You have made it clear you shall defy me whenever you wish.”

  Great pools of tears welled in her eyes. “I am fearful for you. What if something should happen tonight?”

  Cursing his mistrustful nature, he took her in his arms and kissed her brow. “Do not be troubled. We’ll be safe in the company of your father’s guards.”

  He could not resist the temptation of a kiss from her trembling lips. Her eager response thrilled him from head to toe. The embrace lingered longer than he intended. The velvet softness of her lips intoxicated him. She seemed almost disappointed when he pulled away.

  “Stay here, Fatima. I trust that I don’t have to post a guard outside.”

  The evening passed without incident and he retired early, intent on checking on Fatima. He called out at the entrance to her tent but no one replied. Light glowed from within, but he feared something was wrong and pushed the flap aside.

  Fatima’s slaves gasped. She ducked behind the women who blocked his view, but not before he had spied her perfect form. With her wavy hair pinned up, she revealed the pale olive skin of her back and the smooth contour of her hips.

  “Forgive me. I worried when you did not immediately respond after I called out. I wanted to ensure you were well. When I did not hear a reply, uh, I, well….”

  His voice trailed off. He remained rooted to the spot in silence.

  Fatima said, “Do not apologize, Faraj. You are my husband and may see me in a state of undress.” As if to prove the truth of her words, she allowed her servants to continue rinsing her.

  He stepped inside the tent and closed the flap. Before now, he could not have guessed at her flawlessness. Two candles cast eerie shadows in the recesses of the tent, but mainly served as illumination for the perfect view of his wife’s body. Her slim hips flared in delicate, rounded curves. Her legs were taut, slightly dimpled at the backs of her knees. She showed no coyness or abashment. She appeared completely at ease in his presence, though he was not the same. A throaty groan escaped him when water trickled across her skin, gliding along her spine down to the twin globes of her rounded buttocks. A harsh intake of breath whistled through his teeth. His hands closed into tight fists.

  She said, “This evening must have been very hard for you.”

  “Uh…what? Oh, you must mean the dinner. I left early. As I said, I only wanted to ensure you were well. I should go now.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  He swallowed, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

  “Faraj, I know you share a smaller tent than this with my brother and my uncle Yusuf. Remain here with us tonight, where you might be more comfortable. Amoda and Leeta may wash you, if you like.”

  “I…I have no garments here for the morning. There is only one pallet.”

  “Then fetch your clothes and pallet. The twins shall attend you when you come back.”

  Folly made Faraj enter the tent the first time. Surely, madness inspired his swift return.

  When he tugged the flap a second time, Fatima stood with her arms outstretched, her back to him. One of her slaves massaged her entire body with fragrant oil, a blend of cassia and ambergris. Her skin, already glowing with the health and vigor of youth, glistened in the lamplight under the ministrations of her slave. By the time she slipped into her sleeping garments, Faraj did not trust himself to be alone with her.

  “Thank you both. Please tend to my husband now,” she instructed her slaves.

  He cleared his throat. “How…how can you tell them apart? They are dressed identically and each is a mirror of the other’s features.”

  She smiled. “With one difference. Amoda always wears her hair parted on the left and Leeta prefers to part her hair on the right.”

  He stared at the slave girls. “That is all?”

  “It’s enough for me. Leeta and Amoda shall tend to you with care.”

  She turned away and lay down on her pallet, the slender curves of her form hidden under her blanket. Her slaves approached him. They were almost methodical in the removal of his garments. They put fresh water into a bucket, washed and dressed him in silence. He thanked them both, before he moved to the tent’s entrance.

  “You won’t remain here?” Fatima asked, as she rolled to face him.

  He shook his head. He thought she had fallen asleep. “I’ll sleep outside to protect you.”

  “The air is chilly tonight. If you must protect me, sleep inside at the entrance of our tent, where the brazier may still warm you.”

  Unable to fault her reasoning, he unrolled the bedding and lay down. The slaves damped down the lanterns and took their rest.

  He looked toward where Fatima lay. “Good night.”

  She rustled underneath her coverlet in the dimness. “Good night, Faraj.”

  In the morning, Faraj rose early to continue the negotiations with the Ashqilula. He stared at Fatima, who still slept. He washed, trying to make as little sound as possible. Dressed for the day, he knelt beside her pallet. The angular contours of her face enthralled him, the delicate arch of her eyebrows and her dark lashes like soot against the pale olive skin of her cheek. The sweet curve of her mouth invited a kiss. Instead, with a lingering glance, he left the tent.

  Chapter 21

  Union

  Prince Faraj

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

  When Faraj left the tent, Fatima opened her eyes. She had woken almost at the instant he did. In silence, she listened to the swirl of water for his morning wash and the rustle of the fabrics while he dressed. As he had knelt at her side, her heart wrung with pity. When his heart must be so heavy with emotion, she did not know how to comfort him. Her father asked much of him, to negotiate a treaty and fight alongside those who had tried to kill him in al-Maghrib el-Aska.

  Light filtered through the slight opening at the tent’s entrance. Amoda and Leeta stirred and rolled up their pallets. She greeted them.

  Amoda said, “Your husband is gone, my Sultana.”

  “Yes, he left a short time ago.”

  Leeta knelt beside her. “God be with him.”

  She forced a smile. “I pray He is with us all today.”

  In the afternoon, they learned Faraj had struck a peace accord with the Ashqilula. When Fatima’s father visited after the meeting, he informed her of it. He drew her outside the tent, where they strolled together.

  “I yield the glory to the Marinid Sultan. I shall await the news of the coming battle at home. For now, we’ll withdraw to Gharnatah and seal our alliance with the Marinids.”

  She laid a hand on his sh
oulder. “You mean with a royal wedding?”

  He halted and took her hand. “I have hesitated to speak of the possibility for months. I feared your reaction most of all. You anticipated me.”

  Fatima nodded. “The Marinids shall strengthen us. I am sure your new wife shall be happy in our home. My sisters and I shall welcome her. We’ve been without a mother for too long.”

  He kissed her brow. “You please me greatly, daughter. You looked so gloomy when I arrived, my dear. Is it because you shall miss your aunt Maryam?”

  “Miss her?”

  “Yes, she came to me before I met Abu Yusuf Ya’qub this morning. After the wedding, her husband’s retainers shall escort her to the Marinid capital. I thought you might have known her intentions. She is carrying Prince Abu Zayyan’s child and wants the baby born in his father’s capital. She surprises me, though. When I first told her of the betrothal, she swore she would never leave Gharnatah. Love can make people do extraordinary things, don’t you agree?”

  Fatima nodded again. “Yes, love can do that.”

  She returned to the tent alone.

  Faraj arrived within a moment. Her heart thrummed at the sight of him.

  He clasped her hands and drew her to him. “You have heard?”

  “Father told me. I know how you must hate the Ashqilula for what they tried to do to you in al-Maghrib el-Aska.”

  “Don’t worry for that, now. I want to discuss the future. I wondered what you plan to do when we go home and your father marries the Marinid princess.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, she’ll take your role as the mistress of your father’s harem. It is time for a change in your living arrangements. That is, I would like you to consider it. I want you to live with me in…our house.”

  His gaze, so expectant and full of hope, tugged at her heart.

  “I want that too, Faraj. I shall live with you when we return home.”

  Festivities in celebration of the Sultan’s nuptials began within the following week. The princess Shams ed-Duna was the daughter of Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub and a beloved Nubian concubine. Like Fatima and her sisters, Shams ed-Duna’s mother had died when she was young. Though barely aged twenty-four years, the Sultana was twice a widow.