Sultana: A Novel of Moorish Spain

by Lisa J. Yarde

  His brow deeply furrowed, he rolled with her on the bed. She surged against him but he soothed her with light kisses on her neck and shoulders. Her arms wound about his neck. When he joined their bodies at last, her eyes widened. He stared down at her, her image reflected in his eyes, which glowed like liquid pools of amber. Pleasure-pain filled her when he buried his face in her neck, teeth nipping at her skin. In his throes of their mutual desire, she surrendered.

  Chapter 22

  A Warrior’s Death

  Prince Faraj

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Rabi al-Awwal 674 AH (Granada, Andalusia: September AD 1275)

  The Marinid Sultan returned to Gharnatah at the end of summer, the rebellion against him quelled after five months. He declared the jihad against Castilla-Leon with renewed fervor.

  On the evening before Faraj left to join the army, he stood alone at the center of the indoor courtyard of his house. A luminous, full, moon shimmered between wispy cloud cover. In a small antechamber just off the courtyard, Fatima busied herself helping Amoda and Leeta make bandages and poultices.

  In the week since Fatima’s father had announced his army would join the ensuing battle at Istija, she had become subdued. She hardly spoke unless addressed. Faraj woke every morning to find her eyes puffy and swollen. He understood her sentiments and shared them. He did not wish to leave her behind either, but he did not speak of it.

  Through the arched entryway of the antechamber, he watched the twins washing their hands in a basin. They also whispered to each other, casting poorly concealed frowns of concern at his wife. Faraj approached and dismissed them with a wave. Fatima averted her gaze as she reached for the basin. He grabbed her but she smacked his hands away. “Would you prefer to smell like saffron and mint?”

  Despite her protestation, he dragged her closer. “I would rather we talked, beloved. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  He lifted her face for his inspection. Her tears tore at his heart, as they usually did. He pulled her tighter against him. She buried her face in his neck.

  His fingers caressed the length of her back along her spine. “You must not fear, beloved. Trust in God.”

  “I know I cannot go with you.” Her voice muffled against his skin, she clung to him. “I won’t make that old argument again.”

  He chuckled. “I thank you. I’d hate for us to quarrel on the eve of my departure.”

  “And I know you must go. I’ll worry for you, but I pray God shall return you to me.”

  “Then believe it.”

  “It is my second most important wish.”

  “What is the first?”

  “I hope, upon your happy return, that I may greet you with the news that I carry your child.”

  “God shall give us children when the time is right.”

  At night, in their bed, she clung to him in her passion, but a little sadness tainted her desire. He kissed her tears and held her throughout the night, stroking small circles on her pale skin. While she snored lightly, he never slept. He considered the events to come.

  Istija belonged to Doñ Nuño Gonzalez, the man whose father conspired with the Ashqilula to destroy Faraj’s legacy. Now he would join the Marinids and the Ashqilula, to destroy the Castillans and Doñ Nuño Gonzalez. He recalled how Fatima’s father once rightly said that circumstances often changed. How else could Faraj explain that he now allied with a former enemy to fight another?

  In the morning when Fatima awoke, she forced a smile. Her effort pleased him but he knew her true feelings and shared them. They ate dried figs and pomegranates, and drank mint-flavored tisane in his bedroom. Dawn filtered through the lattice windows, heralding the new day.

  He said, “I must ready myself for today.”

  Fatima nodded. She called for Leeta to remove the remnants of their meal and went to her prayer room, a small chamber directly next to her bedroom.

  Amoda helped Faraj dress. He put on a long shirt of black chain mail over his qamis, followed by a quilted leather tunic. When a link snagged the cotton material, she tugged and salvaged it. A sword belt studded with gold encircled his waist, from which a red leather scabbard hung, gilded along the hilt with diamond-shaped studs. Leather leggings bound the bottoms of his trousers. Tall leather boots replaced the sandals he had used during the summer. He slid a gleaming Damascus steel sword into its scabbard and put on his mittens, chain mail stitched on to the leather gloves.

  He said to Amoda, “Hand me the helmet on the stool.”

  His wife reappeared in the doorway, sniffling. Leeta bowed and left them.

  Fatima picked up the helmet, tracing the ornate swirling designs carved into the brass. A chain link covering hung from metal rivets. She tugged at it. “Does this offer enough protection for your head and neck?”

  He laughed. “I shall know very soon.”

  She did not share his levity. Her eyes watered as she gripped the helmet under her arms and breathed a ragged sigh.

  He opened his arms. She threw herself into his embrace, despite the chain mail covering him from his neck to his hips.

  He kissed her brow and lips. “I must leave. To delay further would anger your father.”

  She nodded and he took the helmet.

  When he exited the room, their household attendants lined the hallway leading out to the courtyard. He passed between them, acknowledging their bows and well wishes with nods.

  Marzuq waited at the center of the patio, holding a javelin and green-painted round shield decorated with tassels. “God be with you this day, master.”

  “May he be with us all today.”

  Fatima and her twin servants followed him to the entrance. A slave held the reins of his dun-brown Arabian stallion. He mounted the horse. A gelding followed the senior mount.

  Fatima stood framed in the horseshoe-shaped doorway, a veil covering the lower half of her face.

  Faraj gazed at her for a long time before he spoke. “You are in my heart, beloved, wherever I am.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes glittered with unshed tears. He kicked his horse into a canter and rode toward the company assembled in the courtyard of al-Quasaba.

  Istija, al-Andalus: Rabi al-Awwal 674 AH (Ecija, Castilla-Leon: September AD 1275)

  The Marinid Sultan, Abu Muhammad of Malaka and Crown Prince Muhammad, led the company that covered the plains in four days. As representative of the Sultan’s interests in the campaign, Muhammad had command of the entire Gharnati army.

  Faraj had charge of a detachment of cavalry. On the first morning of the battle, horns blared through the camp. He led his cavalrymen, riding the same stallion he had brought down the slopes of the hillside at Istija. The gelding remained with other horses at camp in case he needed a second mount. Eyes shielded with his hand, he scanned the scene. Behind the infantry, cavalry prepared to engage Gharnatah. The banners of military orders from the cities of Calatrava, Santiago and Alcantara fluttered above the valley floor. To counter the enemy’s armored knights and infantry, cohorts of Marinid and Gharnati units stood ready. Moorish infantrymen deployed at the front, crossbowmen in the rear, supported on three sides by the cavalry. The Marinids in their padded armor wielded two short spears, compared to the sole javelin or spear each mounted horseman of Gharnatah carried.

  Faraj’s horse nickered, restless in the lingering summer heat. He patted the beast’s head. Green, gold, white and red pennons and flags flapped loudly in the breeze. Tension reverberated through the ranks.

  Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub rode to the forefront of the Marinid cavalry, with his son Prince Abu Zayyan and his advisors at his side. His black stallion, festooned with gold, snorted loudly and other animals shied from the horse. Sunlight glinted off the gold pommel of the Sultan’s sword in its scabbard. He scratched at his heavy gray beard, while surveying the valley. He spoke often with his son and the commanders.

  Then Fatima’s brother appeared with his commanders on the battlefield. Abu Omar
, a minister of the Diwan al-Insha of Gharnatah rode with them. He looked a few years older than the Crown Prince did and though he wore simple brown robes and a shashiya covering his cropped brown hair, he rode tall and arrow-straight in the saddle. He looked down at the soldiers whom he rode past with narrowed, black eyes and sneered at those who did not bow in acknowledgement of him. A youth bearing a slave collar trailed behind the prideful Abu Omar.

  The minister dismounted gingerly with the aid of the slave and then brushed the boy aside with a claw-like hand. Abu Omar steadied himself on his clubfeet and bowed reverently before the Marinid Sultan and Muhammad, before offering his address.

  “Here lies the path. Is there one willing to enter it? Who dreads Jahannam’s flames, the torments of the damned and longs for the eternal bliss of Paradise, where cooling shades and fountains await? All you who are eager for victory in this our struggle for the Faith, obey the impulse of your heart! Go, armed with hope and confidence to meet salvation and since your cause is noble, there shall be success. Do not delay, for who can assure you of life tomorrow? We never know the time of death, but rest assured, none shall escape the payment of the debt from which no mortals are exempt. If not today, you yet must soon expect to leave this place. The journey before you is difficult and one from which there may be no return. Be up then and ease the hardship of the road! And recollect, the first and most important of pious works is this jihad; our sacred war for the maintenance of our Faith. Go at once to defend the soil of al-Andalus. For God loves and rewards all who dedicate themselves to such a fight!”

  Cheers erupted throughout the camp. Faraj wondered whether the men praised the orator or the fact that his verbose speech was over. Abu Omar bowed again and withdrew from the battlefield. Faraj did not regret seeing the last of him.

  He clutched blue-black prayer beads to his chest in a firm grip and whispered a prayer. “By the blessing of God, I beseech the Prophet, may peace be upon him, to guide my actions on this day. Let the Will of God and not my vengeance, determine this fight for the Faith. And if I should fall, may I greet my forefathers in Paradise.”

  Hours later in the heat of battle, one of the Castillan knights bore down on Faraj, his long sword held high. Faraj’s mount sidestepped the charge. He drove his sword deep into the enemy’s chest, while a Marinid infantryman impaled the horse with his spear. The beast’s hooves kicked out in a reflex move as it fell, catching Faraj’s mount, which tumbled and pinned him beneath it.

  A frisson of heat swept up his spine. He raised his shield in time to deflect a sword attack. The double-edged weapon cut deep into the leather. Its owner had a hard time withdrawing it. Faraj pushed back against him with his shield arm. The man stumbled backward with a grunt. Faraj scrambled from under the weight of his felled horse and struggled regain his footing without putting too much weight on his battered left leg.

  His adversary carried a kite-shaped shield half the length of his body. Familiar heraldic devices covered the red leather hide. The man’s eyes glittered like hard emeralds beneath his helmet, which partially obscured his face. With a guttural cry, he leapt on Faraj. They rolled together on the ground. Knocking him aside, Faraj sprang to his feet at the same time the other man did. His agility startled Faraj, for when they tussled on the ground, his adversary’s brass helmet came off and revealed thick, graying hair and a weather-beaten face Faraj recognized.

  Doñ Nuño Gonzalez said, “I’ll not be so easy to kill as the others you have fought. I have more to fight for than most, prince of Gharnatah.”

  The old Castillan threw the ball of dirt hidden in the palm of his right hand at Faraj’s face, while stabbing with his left hand. In a shower of dust, his blade bit deep into Faraj’s shoulder. Cursing, Faraj pivoted on his right leg, crying outside as the muscles in his left quivered. Then Doñ Nuño’s sword sliced across his back and Faraj screamed like a man possessed. The old man laughed and circled him, tossing his weapon from one hand to the other.

  Faraj rubbed his eyes and steadied himself. “Fight me fairly!”

  “Why should I do that?”

  With that, his enemy lunged forward again, but this time their steel swords clanged together. Doñ Nuño looked surprised for a moment, but continued his attack. He lunged to the right. Faraj blocked him. For an old man, he proved cunning and quick. In the clash of their swords, his blows had the power to shatter the arms of a much younger man. He drove Faraj back into the fray.

  “Is this enough for you, whelp?” he taunted.

  “Hardly,” Faraj muttered. Teeth gritting together, he dove at Doñ Nuño again. Driven backward, the Castillan did not see the dead body of a foot soldier lying prone behind him. He tumbled over, reeling backward in a crumpled heap, his sword knocked loose by the jarring motion. Faraj ripped off his helmet, towering over the warrior who glared at him.

  “I have awaited this day, when you would pay the price of your father’s folly. Now I dread it.”

  Doñ Nuño cursed and spat. “What you want does not matter. Our destiny was preordained when my father aided others in the killing of your family. We are enemies.”

  “We were not always so, my lord de Lara.”

  Doñ Nuño lunged for his discarded blade and held the sword high above his head. “The past is the past. Defend yourself, Prince Faraj. I shall not hesitate to kill you.”

  Faraj donned his helmet again. He and Doñ Nuño circled each other once more in a dance of death. Many emotions warred inside him. He faced a man with whom he had shared the kiss of peace in the past, yet whose father had procured an arrangement with the Ashqilula that resulted in his parents’ death. He kept the latter thought in mind, as he defended himself against Doñ Nuño’s powerful blows, delivered with the strength of a man Faraj’s age.

  Steel clashed together but the Castillan weapon wobbled slightly. Within minutes, Doñ Nuño tired, his breath coming in short, shallow pants.

  Faraj shouted, “Stop this now! I don’t want to kill an old man!”

  Doñ Nuño seemed past caring, while he rained down blows. Faraj’s sword arm grew weary in his defense. Doñ Nuño had the dexterity that allowed him to fight with both hands. He wielded his weapon in powerful strokes. A wheezing breath escaped his lips.

  Faraj drove him back, slashing at his arms. Bloodied, Doñ Nuño wore no mail underneath his tunic, just padding. Awed, Faraj marveled at the bravery of the old warrior he must kill.

  Doñ Nuño’s labored breathing continued. When Faraj brought his scimitar down in a ferocious movement, Doñ Nuño’s blade met the thrust, but his weapon warbled and bent. The old warrior threw down his shield.

  He sagged on his knees, crumpled hair falling over his eyes. “Do…not hesitate. I would not. Give me a warrior’s death. I have earned it.”

  One last time, Faraj swung his weapon in an arcing swoop. The blade sliced through bone and sinew. Doñ Nuño tumbled forward, his severed, grizzled head landing at Faraj’s feet.

  Sultan Abu Yusuf Ya’qub retired from the bloodied battlefield outside Istija at midday. His son Abu Zayyan ordered the heads of the Castillan dead cut off and counted.

  Faraj withdrew to his tent alone. He stabbed his sword into the ground, sank to the floor and wept. Doñ Nuño’s father had escaped punishment for his part in the murder of his parents, but Faraj took no pleasure in the death of the son.

  The call to prayer resounded through the camp. He roused himself from his torpor, completed his ablutions and performed the act of worship. He mumbled the words. For the first time, they did not comfort his wearied heart and head.

  In the evening, Crown Prince Muhammad summoned him to dine with the Gharnati commanders. Beforehand, Faraj saw the camp physician, who cleaned and bandaged his wounds as a barrier against infection. When Faraj arrived for dinner and stepped inside the tent, Fatima’s brother sat in the midst of his men. He grinned at Faraj and beckoned him forward. He pointed to a wooden box. “It is a present for the Sultan.”

  “What is it?”

&
nbsp; Muhammad laughed and threw back his leonine head. “Open it and see.”

  Faraj lifted the cloth cover. Heady camphor, saffron and pepper assailed him. Doñ Nuño’s sightless eyes came into view. He dropped the box, provoking more laughter from Muhammad, as the grayed head rolled out. Stumbling outside, Faraj held his belly and vomited.

  Chapter 23

  The Breach

  Prince Faraj

  Gharnatah, al-Andalus: Shawwal 676 AH (Granada, Andalusia: March AD 1278)

  The crackle and hiss of steam emanated from the brazier in Faraj’s bedchamber. The acrid scent from hot coals drifted through the room. Dim lanterns cast long shadows on the walls.

  In the darkness of the room, he stroked soft circles on his wife’s silken shoulder. Her arm encircled his chest. A mass of her curly hair blanketed him. Her sighs warned she was not asleep, though the water clock indicated it would be dawn in two hours.

  “You are deep in thought tonight, Fatima. Is something wrong, my beloved?”

  “No, husband.”

  He found her face in the gloom and cupped her chin. “If you mean to convince me, you do a poor job.”

  For weeks now, she appeared pensive and withdrawn. Whenever he questioned her moods, she dismissed his concerns.

  Now she rolled away from him. “For nearly three years, I have shared this bed with you. We have known every joy as husband and wife, except that of children. What if there is something wrong with me, which makes it impossible for me to have a baby? I am twenty years old now. My sister Muna in al-Jaza’ir is already a mother of twins and she’s younger than me.”

  Her words ended on a sob. He snuggled against her, somewhat relieved by the source of her disquiet. “We cannot despair, beloved. There is no reason to think we cannot have children. We must have faith that when the time is right, we shall have the child we both desire.”