Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  The Marinid Sultan arranged for the delivery of his daughter from her ship docked at the port of Munakkab. Beforehand, Fatima met with the chief eunuch Hasan and her old governess Halah, and told them that she intended to leave the harem, ceding all authority to the Sultan’s new wife.

  “Be good to your new mistress as you have been to me.”

  At noon, with her sisters and Halah, Fatima waited to greet the Sultana Shams ed-Duna at the entrance of the harem. Her father would escort his new bride in advance of the wedding ceremony later in the evening. Fatima and her sisters stood resplendent in silks and gold brocade, in honor of their father and new stepmother.

  The Sultan’s distinctive footfalls echoed against the marble floor. Fatima hushed Nadira, who trilled a silly song. Their father walked with his head held high. He held aloft the hand of a beautiful woman, radiant in gold jewelry and yellow silk. Her smooth, dark skin and the column of her graceful throat evoked the epitome of beauty, pride and nobility. Long narrow feet peeked out under her garments. Her eyes were obsidian, set in a heart-shaped face with a short nose and a full mouth, framed by jet-black hair elaborately braided into twisting locks. She was somewhat plump and shorter than their father was. As they drew closer, Fatima realized she and the princess were the same height.

  Their father halted and the princesses bowed, as did the new Sultana of Gharnatah.

  The Sultan said, “My children, I present the princess Shams ed-Duna bint Abu Yusuf Ya’qub of the Marinids. I bid you welcome her to our home.”

  “The peace of God be with you,” Fatima and her sisters intoned.

  Their father turned to his prospective bride. “Before you stands my eldest, the princess Fatima and beside her, my daughters the princesses Nadira, Tarub, Azahra and Alimah. My second daughter, the princess Muna, resides in al-Jaza’ir with her husband. My other daughter, the princess Zaynab, is with her mother, my kadin Nur al-Sabah al-Muhammad.”

  Fatima thought his mention of his slave woman and her child seemed callous, however, no discernible change altered his new wife’s pleasant expression.

  Shams ed-Duna bowed again. “I greet all of you with the peace of God.”

  He continued, “Sultana Fatima has had charge of the harem since the death of my first wife, authority which shall become yours when our union is made official tonight. She shall show you to your apartments that you might rest.”

  Fatima bowed before the Maghribi princess and introduced Halah as the governess of the royal children. They led the Sultana to the newly constructed apartments, rooms fit for the Sultan’s queen. The rooms were four times the size Fatima had ever seen in any part of the palace, with Naksh calligraphy and foliage incised on the walls. Multicolored carpets covered the marble floors and a frosty winter breeze unfurled damasks and silk curtains hanging before latticed windows. Fatima dismissed Halah, who bowed and left them.

  Sultana Shams ed-Duna said in a quavering voice, “These chambers should give anyone pleasure…but I have no entourage to require such a large domain. All my life, I have relied upon one slave from birth, my governess. I do not even have her now. She died of fever on the journey here.”

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your honored servant. Know that the slaves here are at your disposal. You are mistress of this harem now.”

  Shams ed-Duna admired the striking vista to the south. “Your father told me that you were a child bride, but you shall be living in your husband’s house now. Do you like your husband?”

  “Yes, I love him very much. I did not always love him, but now it is different.”

  Shams ed-Duna’s eyes shone with pleasure. “Then you are fortunate. I have never cared for any of my husbands. The first was nearly eighty years old when we married. He could not give me children. The second was a commander of my father’s armies. Though he was young and vigorous, he refused to believe he could not sire children. He beat me and his other three wives every day for what he saw as our failures. He died two years ago. Now, I marry again.”

  Curiosity filled her face. “What of my new husband’s kadin? How long has she been the Sultan’s lover?”

  Fatima frowned. “Truly, my Sultana, this slave is of no concern to you.”

  The Sultana put her small, dark hand on Fatima’s forearm. “No, you misunderstand me. I do not care how your father feels about her. I wish to meet her, for if she has held the Sultan’s attentions and borne him a child, she must know how to please him. Will you arrange for me to speak with her?”

  Fatima hesitated. “Yes…if that is what you wish, my Sultana.”

  “Please, let us not be so formal. Do call me Shams.”

  “I shall, if you would call me Fatima.”

  In the evening, the Sultan wed his new bride. The guests celebrated their marriage afterward at the traditional feast. All the queens, princesses and honored concubines of al-Qal’at al-Hamra attended, except for Maryam Sultana.

  During the wedding feast, Fatima observed the easy rapport developing between her new stepmother and her father’s kadin. Shaking her head, she vowed not to worry for her father’s domestic situation anymore.

  Throughout the previous week, slaves had removed her belongings to Faraj’s home. At the conclusion of the wedding feast, while Hasan escorted Shams ed-Duna to his bedchamber, Fatima led Niranjan, Leeta and Amoda from the palace under a brilliant full moon, which marked their progress. Up ahead, her husband’s steward stood outside the door.

  “Good evening, my Sultana, the peace of God be with you.”

  “Thank you for your gracious hail, Marzuq.”

  They followed him into the house. Faraj waited, leaning against the doorway that led to his inner courtyard. Fatima interlaced her fingers with his. He kissed her hand.

  “Welcome home, Fatima.”

  A surge of elation filled her. Tucking her arm under his, Faraj led her forward.

  They dined with Marzuq and Fatima’s twin servants attending them. Niranjan stood at the entryway with his back to them, scanning the shadowy patio. Faraj eyed her quizzically but she shook her head.

  “My eunuch is ever vigilant. He does not doubt that you can protect me in our home. I have learned to trust and rely upon him, as my mother once did.”

  Niranjan glanced over his shoulder briefly. She nodded to him.

  At the end of the meal, Faraj went to the hammam, while Marzuq led Fatima to her room. He opened the door to a spacious chamber with a carved wooden bed at the center, draped in a silken coverlet. Two windows, covered by lavender damask curtains, faced east and opened on to a garden of fragrant bougainvillea. Between the windows, an inlaid stool stood on legs carved in the shape of a lion’s feet. Fatima’s chests and wooden jewelry boxes occupied the southern wall. Small torches glowed in brackets at the corners.

  A shadow fell over her shoulder. “A message has arrived from the Marinid Sultan for your father. Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub must return home. One of his sons has rebelled against him. We cannot continue without the Marinids.”

  Fatima turned to Faraj. The frustration at further delay gave an edge of impatience to his voice. His lower half wrapped in a long linen towel, he stood with a parchment crumpled in his hand. It must have been the message about the Marinids. The obvious tension inside him stirred other emotions within her.

  Soft wisps of dark hair curled on his chest and forearms. His lean muscled form glistened with water and smelled of rosemary. Though unprepared for the sight of him, she admired his form. Her heart pulsed in a steady rhythm.

  Behind him, Amoda asked, “Will you also bathe, Sultana Fatima?”

  Dragging her gaze from Faraj, Fatima said, “After we’ve talked. You may go.”

  Amoda nodded, and she and Marzuq left.

  Faraj said, “I have dismissed your eunuch. He stood stationed at the door. I shall not have him listening while we…are together tonight.”

  His words made her imaginings run rampant, already stirred by the sight of him undressed except for the towel. Her fingers itche
d to remove it and reveal him for her appreciation.

  He closed the door behind them. “Fatima, we must talk about something else. I need to tell you about the night my parents died.”

  New tension twisted in her belly. She breathed in a rippling sigh and gestured to the bed. He sank on it, while she sat beside him.

  “I’ve never spoken of this night to another. None of my sisters or half-brother knows the full truth of what I must tell you. I ask that you keep it a secret, for now.”

  She touched his chest, just above his heart. “Trust me, Faraj.”

  He grasped her hand for a moment and pressed it against his heated skin. “I do.”

  One of her satchels rested against the southern wall. She crossed the room, grabbed a towel and a vial, clambered onto the bed and patted his skin dry. He leaned back against her while she smoothed argan oil on his flesh.

  He said, “On that last night at Malaka, my mother came to my room after I had a bad dream. Before she left, she kissed me goodbye. At the door, she turned to favor me with another beautiful smile. I shall never forget how resplendent she looked in her jubba, the black and red silk robe trailing gracefully at her feet. A diadem of garnet stones held her hijab in place. Gleaming gold and garnet jewels completed her finery. This was how I always wanted to remember the Princess Leila of Ashqilula.

  “After my mother closed the door behind her, I listened for the tinkling melody of her bracelets as she left the harem to join my father in the dining hall. Eventually, weariness overcame me and I drifted again, only to experience another nightmare. Rough hands tugged me from my pallet. Bleary-eyed, I watched without comprehending, while my mother helped my younger sisters to dress. My half-brother stood at the side of his mother, the kadin Butayna. The sheer terror in her ice-blue eyes drew me to full understanding. The citadel was under attack.

  “My mother herded us before her, the kadin, and her son following, to an upper floor where the steward kept provisions. My mother and Butayna hid us carefully between the crates. Then the women took each other’s hands and moved to the door. Their sudden cries frightened us, but I cautioned my siblings to remain silent. We heard the women scream again. I peeked out behind the crates where we hid. Two men held my mother down, while another man rutted between her legs. One of the marauders entered the room. He said the Hud paid them to kill my father and his children, not rape a woman. They let my mother go and left with Butayna, whom they had also ravaged. When my mother was certain they were gone, she called to me.

  “I hesitated before taking her hand. She rose, commanding my siblings to remain where they were. I walked in silence behind our mother, stepping over the lifeless bodies of faithful servants; our steward, the cook, even our aged governess. My mother had been quiet while we moved through our ruined home, but she cried out when she entered the dining hall. I followed her gaze, to where they had slit my father’s throat. She killed herself after that. I vowed I would never be like her or my father, never surrender to the will and whim of fate. That is why I always tried to control my destiny afterward.”

  He bowed his head with a shudder. Her heart cleaved for him. She could only guess at how difficult it must have been for him to unburden himself. His naked pain and sadness overwhelmed her. He reached for her, pulled her onto his lap. She could hardly breathe. His arm snaked around her waist. Fatima kissed his brow, his cheek.

  He continued, “I needed to tell you this, so you might understand the sort of man you married. My lust for revenge has ruled me. For so long, I have lived only regain everything I lost that night, though I know I cannot. Not truly. Yet, for the first time, I want something more than vengeance. I want a life with you, to be always at your side. I want you to bear my children, to raise them in love and comfort. They must never know the pain I endured as a boy. Give me sons and daughters, Fatima, to heal my wounded heart. Love me and be my wife, always.”

  The first touch of his lips against her forehead made the breath catch in her throat. The second made her sigh. He trailed light kisses on her brow, his hand caressing the curve of her cheek. She closed her eyes. Their breaths melded together. She met the demand of his lips with fervent desire of her own, returning each kiss and caress with the same eagerness. Urgent hands smoothed down the column of her throat and went to the strings of her qamis, setting her blood aflame everywhere he touched. Her shirt slid down. She shrugged her arms free of it.

  Cool air stung her skin, before the warm wetness of Faraj’s kisses replaced the sharp tingle. A deep ache coursed through her belly. Her hands drifted between their bodies.

  “Oh, my Sultana! Oh, a thousand pardons, I beg you.”

  Fatima opened her eyes, glimpsing the edge of Leeta’s skirt, before she darted outside.

  Forehead against Faraj’s shoulder, she breathed a rippling sigh. She raised her head and looked at him. His gaze held steady. Desire fired his stare. Her body shook in response. He kissed her brow and held her close.

  “It’s your first night in our house. I’m sorry I ruined it with talk of death and betrayal.”

  She stroked his skin. “Don’t be. I know now how much you trust me, to have spoken with such candor about the past. My heart grieves for you, beloved.”

  He exhaled a harsh breath. “There’s something more I must tell you about the night my parents died. You heard what I said about the Hud?”

  She nodded. “Yes, they killed your parents. I know why. They were Grandfather’s enemies. He rebelled against them and seized power.”

  “They aren’t the only ones responsible. Others bear the guilt of my parents’ deaths.” He set her aside and stood, wrapping the loose towel around his waist. “When the Castillan rebels came to Gharnatah eight years ago, I met with Doñ Nuño Gonzalez de Lara in private. He wanted me to press your grandfather’s support of his rebellion. He claimed to know something of my parents’ deaths.”

  He paused and turned away. “He told me his father brokered an alliance between the Hud and Abu Muhammad of Malaka, who took the governorship when my father died. The Hud had reason to hate your grandfather. They lost Ishbiliya to the Castillans because of his help and saw their capital city reborn as Christian Sevilla. The Ashqilula wanted my father dead, because he was the governor of the richest territory in the Sultanate by virtue of the Sultan’s love for his brother. The Hud and the Ashqilula conspired to kill my family.”

  Fatima gasped and covered her mouth. “By the Prophet’s beard! Then it is true.”

  Faraj whirled toward her. “What are you talking about?”

  “After my mother died, I heard the chieftains Ibrahim and Abu Muhammad talking. Ibrahim said that if he had not helped Abu Muhammad, the old governor of Malaka would still have been alive. I realized later he meant your father.”

  When he reddened, she rushed on, “Forgive me, I should have told you, but I did not remember it until you spoke now.”

  “I understand. You had just lost your mother. You had your pain and loss to accept. What could you have known of mine?”

  She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, her cheek against him. “I know it now and it hurts me as much as my own loss. Your pains are my pains to bear. Your heart has been so burdened.”

  “It still cries out for vengeance. I have had no one with whom I could share this pain. I’ve buried it inside me.” He grasped her chin and raised it until their gazes met. “Now, you’re here.”

  “And I’ll always be by your side, loving you as you are.”

  His fingers trailed through the mass of curls spilling free down her back. She stood on tiptoe to kiss him again. She sought only to soothe him with caresses, soft and lingering. He returned her embrace with a silent plea, but she pulled back.

  “Fatima….”

  Her slim fingers trembled slightly, while she loosened the cord belting her trousers. Stepping out of them and her leather kid slippers, she interlaced her fingers with his. His eyes glowed in the lamplight, his expression candid.

  He cupped
her cheek. “Are you ready?”

  In answer, she removed his towel and drew him to her bed.

  In his arms, her heart thrummed with so many emotions. Though inexperienced, she became the aggressor. Her tiny hands roamed over his skin, sharp nails scoring his back while he trailed a line of kisses down the column of her throat. She pushed him on his back, draped her fleshy thigh over his hip and sought his lips again. He stayed her eager hands.

  “You understand because you are a virgin, this first time may be…difficult for you. I would be gentle with you…but I do not think I can be.”

  “Then do not. I won’t turn from you.”

  His eyes raked over her form, possessive. He kissed her again, as if he could not bear to be apart. His heart thumped steadily beneath hers while he caressed her pale breast. A ragged sigh escaped her throat. His fingers palmed her belly, taut with her burgeoning desire. When his dark, olive-skinned hand settled against her pale flesh, she marveled at the beautiful contrast in their complexions.

  “I want to have many beautiful sons and daughters with you, to see your belly filled with our children.”

  She drew him to her again.

  “Touch me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Do not be afraid.”

  Her hands skimmed the bunching muscles of his shoulders and torso, and trailed lower, then up to his arms again. He repeated the motion along the silken smoothness of her pale body. She trembled against him. She scored her nails across the planes of his chest. His fingers swept again to her breast, lingering there when she gasped. They caressed each other in kind. With each slow stroke of his hand, she grew feverish with yearning, marveling at the instinctive passion she possessed. She raised her leg higher along his hip. Her name was a whisper of pleasure on his lips.

  Her senses amplified, Fatima became aware of many things all at once – the erratic beating of her heart, Faraj’s short panting breaths. Beads of moisture glided down her back. The silken feel of Faraj’s lips as they shared long, drugging kisses that seemed to flow together, one after another. The hair on his forearms tickled her thighs.