***
Madelon slept throughout the hottest part of the day, awakening towards evening to find a tray of food had been left beside the bed. She drank the cup of cool sweet wine, but only nibbled at the platter of sweetmeats. Her encounter with Valentin Maratin had taken away her appetite. If his home was in the nearby range of mountains where she and Paco had been captured by Mahmud's raiders, it must be extremely close to the border and so she could understand why he chose to be friends with his Moorish neighbours, but his close relationship to Yusuf, regarding him as a brother, not hist a friend or ally ... this puzzled her. And the girl Yasmin. Why should he have sought a Moorish mistress when he was to marry his rich ward? And yet why not, she thought with sudden bitterness, he was a man. She had been a little girl of nine when she had come across her father entertaining a servant girl in his-bed.
Awakening from a bad nightmare she had run terrified to seek comfort from her mother and had found another in her mother's place, a faceless, cringing creature who had obeyed her master, not out of pleasure, or what she might gain from the liaison, but out of fear. Madelon was to learn what fear really meant in the weeks to follow. Her mother's fear which made her submit without a murmur, to every degradation heaped on her head by the man she had married, and the fear which kept her brother from voicing the disgust and hatred he felt every time he saw fresh bruises on his mother's face.
Madelon did not keep silent and her passionate outbursts in defence of the only two people she loved resulted in her sudden departure to a convent.
Valentin Maratin reminded her of her father. They were the kind of men who made their own laws, over-riding other people's human rights in pursuit Of their own selfish pleasures and lust for power. Paco was probably right, she thought, most likely both Valentin Maratin and his friend Rodrigo had mistresses in the encampment. She could not wait to be free of them and reach her cousin at Santa Maria de Carrion.
To her surprise she discovered a large chest at the foot of the bed which had not been there when she fell asleep. It was one of those containing her clothes. With a glad cry she fell on her knees beside it and threw back the lid, giving a thankful sigh to find the dresses inside had not been disturbed in any way. The search party must have found it. Had they found her poor serving women too?
With great care she took out the many unworn gowns and laid them across the bed, searching for something suitable to wear the following day. Nestled between the folds of one of them, she found the dagger her duenna had placed there and the sight of it brought a smile to her lips. They had never been friends, yet at the last, the old woman had still tried to give her some protection now she was alone in the outside world.
Beside the weapon Madelon found the ring she herself had carefully hidden. It was by far the most precious piece of jewellery she possessed. Her smile became sad as she sat back on her heels and watched the cluster of stones sparkling in the light of the taper above her head. Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, all mounted together in a heavy gold setting. The inside of the ring was highly polished and inscribed with Moorish inscriptions which she could not understand. She never knew how such a strange ornament came to be in her mother's keeping, and had taken it for granted that her father had brought it back from one of his many campaigns as a souvenir. It was not important. It was the only thing she possessed which had belonged to her mother. She had been given it on her tenth birthday - the same day she had been torn from her home for the first time, not destined to see it again for six long years.
The soft rustle of the entrance behind her being disturbed made her look up. She had the glimpse of wide brown eyes-foiling in terror and a tear-streaked face before the girl prostrated herself at Madelon's feet.
"Save me, save me," she cried in Arabic. "Oh, gracious lady, don't let the black executioner take me. Help me and I'll be your faithful slave. As Allah is my witness, I will worship you until the day I die."
"Enough! Get up and start again from the beginning," Madelon answered in the girl's tongue. It had been a long time since she had conversed in Arabic and she felt rather proud as her companion's dusky face lit up with hope.
"You understand. Oh, Allah has surely guided my footsteps here so that you may save me."
"From what?"
"Death, my lady. My master warned me what would happen if my loose tongue ran away with me again, but I forgot and when he ordered me to entertain him, I called him a pig and ran away. Now he has ordered my tongue and my eyes to be cut out and I am to be left behind to fend for myself when the camp returns to Telhan. Don't let them take me, I implore you."
Madelon stood up and helped the girl to her feet, studying her as she did so. She could not have been more than sixteen years old. Glossy hair hung thick and black over her dark brown shoulders. She was dressed in the usual flimsy garments Madelon was accustomed to seeing in the camp - a type of blouse which barely covered the bosom and left the arms and midriff bare and long, full trousers. This girl's costume was covered by a large amount of coins. A gold coin on a fine chain adorned the centre of her forehead and her wrists and ankles were weighed down with coloured bangles. She was a most colourful character, Madelon mused, and also a very frightened one. The next moment she discovered why.
The entrance to the tent was filled by a huge negro brandishing a deadly-looking scimitar which was pointed in the direction of the slave girL The latter gave a frightened squeal and ducked out of sight behind Madelon. In a flash Madelon had seised the dagger from the trunk.
"Stay where you are. How dare you enter without permission." Her authoritative tone, coupled with the fact she addressed the newcomer in Arabic, stopped that man in his tracks. He glared at her, his lips moving soundlessly, and then the scimitar was drawn back menacingly.
"Wait, Bula!" Yusuf appeared behind the negro, Valentin Maratin at his side. At the sight of Madelon defying the armed giant, the latter stepped quickly between them.
"Don't interfere," he warned quietly. "Let Bula take the girl."
"To have her blinded and her tongue cut out and then left to die? Never! I'll use this on the first man who tries to touch her," Madelon swore.
Valentin's eyes fastened on the dagger in her hand and the gleam which entered his eyes told her he was remembering the last time she had threatened him. He had disarmed her then, was he about to do so now? Suddenly behind him, Yusuf threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"By Allah! Did you ever see such a spirit in a woman? She is worth twenty, no forty slaves. Give her to me?"
"I cannot do that, old friend, much as I would like to at this moment. Let me buy this slave girl instead."
"I'll give her to you if you promise to let me feast my eyes on your golden savage some more."
"You will have that chance this evening. Dona Madelon has accepted your dinner invitation, have you not?" Valentin asked glaring at Madelon. She knew if she refused it would mean the death of the trembling girl behind her, but still she hesitated, her blue eyes blazing defiance.
Yusuf's hawk-like eyes flickered from the bronzed features of his friend to that of the girl confronting him. They were like soldiers measuring each other before a battle, silently calculating the enemy's worth and determined not to give way one iota. He sensed hidden strength in Madelon. She would not go lightly to the bed of any man who asked her, only to that of her husband, and Valentin had so far eluded the chains of matrimony. If it was his intention to make this girl his mistress and Yusuf could see no reason why he should not - he had after all saved her life, a little love in return would be a small price to pay - he would have a fight on his hands.
A stifled sob from Madelon's charge spurred her to take up the challenge.
"How can I, a mere woman, not be honoured by such an invitation? Of course I have accepted," she said softly.
Yusuf dismissed the negro with a curt nod of his head. Advancing to where Madelon stood he bowed before her, smiling broadly.
"I can hardly wait, golden one. As for you ....
" he fixed the little slave girl peeping under Madelon's arm with a frown that made both girls inwardly shudder. "Allah in his great mercy has given you another chance. You will serve the sitt faithfully or I will slit your throat myself and feed your remains to my dogs."
"My wayward tongue has been stilled, generous lord."
The girl prostrated herself before Yusuf and did not rise again until he had quitted the tent. Madelon thought her easy capitulation was going to earn her a sarcastic comment from Valentin Maratin, but he simply bowed politely and followed the Moor.
***
Madelon learned the name of the slave girl was Diya. Her mother had been a Persian dancer and her father a well-to-do Moorish merchant who had bought her in Valencia. Diya had been sold as soon as she was old enough, to a eunuch from the harem of the Sultan of Cordova. As she was barely twelve and not pretty enough for the harem, she had become a dancer. Luckily she had inherited her mother's talent.
"I am a good dancer too," Diya pouted, "but - alas -1 talk too much."
She had been sold three times. In each case it was because she had spoken thoughtlessly in front of her master or a tactless remark had been overheard by a servant eager to curry favour. A month before when the town where she lived had been raided, she was captured and sold in a local market to the man in charge of Yusuf's horses.
"He is a pig," Diya said after she had described her master. "Always he is drunk and he smells of sweat and horses. Ugh! Perhaps if I find favour in the eyes of my new mistress, she will tell the lord Yusuf what a good dancer I am."
"At the moment I am more concerned that I don't find favour in your lord's eyes," Madelon said with a grimace. There was a certain boldness in the way Yusuf looked at her and he had had the effrontery to ask Valentin Maratin to give her to hirn - as if she was a slave like Diya and the other women in the encampment. Suddenly she was afraid. Not the numbing fear that had overwhelmed her when she and Paco had been captured by Mahmud's raiders, but the fear of knowing she was desired by a man and helpless to do anything about it. In fact she was probably making matters worse by dining with him, but that was Valentin Maratin's fault. He had forced her into this predicament and if things became difficult, she would blame him.
"Are you not honoured the lord Yusuf has looked at you and found you pleasing?" Diya asked in puzzlement.
"I am not." Madelon looked at the dresses strewn across the bed. "I must wear something quite plain and not too revealing."
The little Persian gave a distressed cry at her words.
"Oh, no, mistress, you must dazzle him with your beauty. Make him unable to refuse any request you make. He must remember this night for the rest of his life, so that when you go you will leave a friend, behind, not a dissatisfied lover."
While Madelon looked at her in open-mouthed surprise, Diya sorted through the clothes on the bed until she came to the one dress Madelon had intended to wear on her first day at court. It was of cloth of gold, designed with great simplicity.
"Let me make you more beautiful than you have ever looked before," Diya pleaded, clutching the dress to her. "I will make every man who dares to look at you tonight your slave."
"Why not," Madelon laughed softly.
She was flattered by the compliments, although she did not believe a word. Diya would be right in one respect however, Madelon thought. To run away from Yusuf and the attraction he had for her - if indeed he was attracted to her and it was not her imagination - could only make matters worse. She would dine with him and be herself, talk to him as she used to with her old tutors, for she suspected a keen intellect lurked behind that lazy smile. No harm could come from that and if she made a friend of him, perhaps she would also gain another ally for her cousin Alfonso, despite his friendship with the two Castilians.
The gold dress moulded seductively to Madelon's figure as she turned to and fro in front of the mirror. She wore no jewellery against her white throat for it had all been stolen with her other clothes. Even the sapphire pendant Paco had given her on her departure from the convent had been lost in her desperate flight to avoid capture. After some hesitation she slipped her mother's ring on to her finger.
With various dyes and powders Diya used as a dancer, she skilfully accentuated the beautiful blue colouring of Madelon's eyes and smoothed a faint pink colour into the finely structured cheekbones. Brushing the long fair tresses until they shone, she arranged them in a thick coil on the top of her mistress's head. The added height set off the lovely face to perfection. She was a golden goddess, unaware of the power at her fingertips, of the men who would desire her or of the turbulent passions unawakened within herself which were to raise her to the heights of ecstasy and bring her to the brink of destruction.
It was growing dark as Madelon followed the scarlet tunicked negro sent to fetch her through the almost deserted camp to where Yusuf's blue and white striped tent stood several hundred yards away from the others, guarded by impassive-faced Moors, each armed with a deadly-looking scimitar. These were only four of the large army of bodyguards who accompanied Yusuf wherever he went, Diya whispered in her mistress's ear. She pointed to a smaller tent a few yards away, equally well guarded, and added that that was where the harem women were kept.
The entrance to the massive tent had been thrown back to allow the cool night air into the interior. It also allowed the many spectators gathered outside to have an unobstructed view of the entertainment which would accompany the feasting.
The crowd fell back allowing Madelon and her escort to pass. She stood on the threshold aware of the sudden lull of voices beyond. On each side of her, two and three deep, sat more than a hundred of the cream of Yusuf's fighting men in their crimson and blue robes. In front of them were long, low tables loaded with food and large copper bowls filled to the brim with wine. Before her was a raised dais covered with a Persian carpet. A long table, covered with a more sumptuous array of food than on all the other tables combined, stood in front of three velvet couches. Resplendent in blue and gold robes, a huge ruby glistening in the front of his turban, sat Yusuf, Sultan of Telhan, Shadow of Allah, with Valentin
Maratin and Rodrigo Diaz on his right and Abraham ben Canaan and Rebecca on his left.
The negro at Madelon's side stepped back so that she could approach the dais. As she did so she could feel hundreds of eyes boring into her back. Rodrigo Diaz turned his head and whispered something to his companion, but Valentin did not answer, his interest focused on the approaching figure enveloped from head to toe in yellow silk. Only a pair of tiny jewelled slippers showed beneath the cloak Diya had so meticulously wrapped around her mistress. Madelon could not take her eyes off Yusuf, the Moor. In his eyes she saw a look she had seen many times in her father's when he saw an attractive woman, servant or lady, the lusting glances were still the same.
Her steps faltered. She wanted to turn and run back to the sanctuary of her own tent, but it was too late. Yusuf had risen to his feet and was descending from the dais to greet her. His action was not without meaning in the eyes of many of his people and even Valentin Maratin was suddenly frowning.
To hide her apprehension, Madelon swept down into a deep curtsey, to show respect of his rank. As she rose Diya slipped off the cloak. It was a perfect piece of timing. She knew by the stunned look on Yusuf's face and the murmur which ran around the tent that she had kept her promise and made Madelon look more beautiful than ever before.
Slowly Madelon became aware her hand was being taken. As if she was a queen, Yusuf led her up on to the dais and seated her beside him.
"If I die tomorrow, Allah will receive a happy man," he murmured, bending his dark head towards her. She caught the perfume of roses about him and another, more heady, which she did not know. She blushed and heard him laugh as he saw the fierce colour flooding into her cheeks. "A woman of great beauty and modest too. This is unusual, but most pleasing. Have you found yourself one of the angels you Christians swear reside in heaven, Valentin?"
Madelon st
iffened. She had forgotten who was sitting at her side. His voice, like the hidden barb in his answer, had the taste of bitterness in it.
"Beware the angel of destruction, Yusuf. One hand outstretched in peace, the other clutching a knife."
The reference to the knife greatly amused both Yusuf and . Rodrigo Diaz who chuckled for an infuriatingly long time while Madelon sat seething.
"Enough! Let us show our guest some Moorish hospitality." Yusuf clapped his hands several times as a signal the feast was to begin.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was like a dream, Madelon thought. Only a month ago her evening would have been spent sitting in her tiny whitewashed cell sewing or reading. Her old duenna would be dozing in a nearby chair after their simple evening meal which would have consisted of broth, a few vegetables and a small piece of some kind of meat and plain bread, baked in the convent kitchens. No wonder she was thin. Until tonight she had forgotten how wonderful food could look and taste. On the table before her were roast chickens on golden platters, dishes piled high with pretty little sugared cakes, sweetmeats and fruit, oranges and lemons and grapes. Her plate had been covered first with chicken, then tender slices of roast mutton roasted in wine, both had been eaten with equal relish. A slave girl held out a tiny silver bowl containing water for Madelon to rinse her fingers before sampling the luscious grapes a black eunuch had just placed before her.
Yusuf clapped his hands and immediately the goblet at Madelon's side was filled to the brim with wine the colour of honey.
"Taste it and tell me if it is to your liking," he murmured.
Madelon sipped her drink, trying not to appear too cautious. Except for a strong herbal brew which she had taken for a severe chill the year before, no wine had passed her lips since the night of her betrothal ball. The wine not only looked like honey, but tasted very similar and was strongly spiced, but it went down well and left a pleasant taste in her throat.
Madelon Page 5