Ignoring the somewhat mocking light in the luminous gray eyes that slid toward him, he heard Dolores say, "She fares well, or so it seemed when last I saw her; we do not pass many words when we chance to meet. She has decided to accompany the Infanta to Lisbon for the Portuguese marriage and will remain there for a while. But she seemed a bit—oh—lovelorn is the word, I imagine. Does that make you happy, Francho?"
Why should he hide his love for Leonora from Dolores? "To know she may be thinking of me? Yes. Nor does she languish alone. I miss her desperately."
Dolores murmured, "Ah, but it is so different for a man. You can console your longing temporarily, at least with the physical needs men must satisfy. Azahra, for instance..."
He had seen no reason not to tell her about his little house in the Albayzin, and Ali and Azahra. From any other woman but Dolores he would have been shocked with her indelicacy. Now, as he thought back to another conversation, he realized mentioning Azahra had been a mistake.
Dolores had asked, at the beginning, "But if she was a bond slave of the proprietor of this wine shop, the Golden Horn, how came she to you?"
"He mistreated her. I offered to hide her from him, and someday when the wars are over I will see she and Ali find a good home."
"What is she like, this Azahra?" came the innocent question.
"Oh, a sweet, gentle child, not pretty but appealing in her own way. She was a dancer at the inn, a fine one, so uniquely skilled in using her body to hold the customers' eyes that the proprietor would not sell her."
"Oh?"
That was when it occurred to him he might have said too much. Dolores's "oh" was a complete indictment of his motives. "Don't be a ridiculous goose, doña. Azahra is merely a child, thirteen at the most."
"Children don't dance in public houses," Dolores observed sweetly. "And Moorish females mature quite early, I hear. Not, of course, that I am surprised you might take a concubine; one can be lonely surrounded only by enemies..."
He had gotten angry then. "Azahra is not my concubine —and if she were that would in no manner concern you. Ay, María, Dolores, when will you learn to mind your own affairs? Leonora does not need you to inquire into my constancy. Azahra is a friend, nothing more. And since you are so curious, learn then that the physical needs, as you put it, are easily controlled when the dearly loved woman is absent."
A shadow of hurt innocence crossed her face, and she stared at him wordlessly. He regretted his outburst and wished he could take back his last remark about controlling desire in the absence of love. Ay de mi, why did this woman always make him sound pompous?
***
Dolores was curious about the legendary Alhambra, and when Francho's time was free he enjoyed guiding his veiled and properly demure concubine through the public rooms of the palace, entertained by her grumbling at having to walk with eyes downcast and three humble paces behind him.
"This fine plaza is named the Court of the Lions because of the twelve stone beasts supporting the basin of the fountain over there."
"Lions?" Dolores sniffed. "I hardly think much of Moorish sculptors. They look more like small dogs."
"The Moorish sculptors do not lack art, Karima," Francho informed her, calling her for practice by her Arabic name, which had made him grin appreciatively the first time he heard it. "It was deliberate that they carved only vague likenesses of the maned cats. The Koran forbids representations of humans or animals, which is why most Arabic decoration, as you see all along here on the walls and ceilings, is scroll work and arabesques and script." He smiled, pleased by her interest. "The Moors of Spain are very lax in following some of the Prophet's commands, but I think the artists hoped to lessen their sin here by avoiding a true likeness."
She tilted her head, the better to see an inscription. "But Arabic writing is so odd, it looks like chicken tracks. Can you read it? Then what does it say, this writing over the archway, for instance?"
He read it off to her. "Blessed be He Who gave our ruler a mansion that in beauty surpasses all other delightful mansions. On our ruler be the constant blessings of Heaven; may he restrain the extravagancies of his subjects and subdue all opposers!"
Her admiration was wide-eyed. "Cielo, Fran... master, I am astonished that you can really read those squiggles. And the expert way you play the lute and sing! I am truly amazed with you." It was obvious her praise was genuine and that his unexpected abilities intrigued her.
Francho looked down into her shining eyes and tried to keep his smile modest. "You flatter me, Karima. It is merely all part of my work...." But in spite of himself his shoulders squared themselves back a bit prouder.
He exhibited to her the splendid Hall of the Ambassadors, where the Sultan held audiences, and the little garden of Lindaraxa, with its melancholy legend. They walked through the domed Hall of the Two Brothers used for state banquets and examined again, in the Court of the Lions, the brown splotches on the wide tiles which would not rub out, said to be the accusing bloodstains of the Abencerrage knights Boabdil's father had murdered there. They visited the zoo where the Sultan kept the wild animals sent as gifts by foreign potentates, and strolled amid the peacocks and crested African cranes in the gardens. And from the square-towered battlements they viewed the white and airy grace of the Generalife Palace situated upon a neighboring mountain, the cool summer residence of Granada's rulers.
Dolores listened with pleasure to the legends he repeated, able now to exclaim at the glowing, Oriental beauty of the halls and galleries and to enjoy from the battlements the breathtaking views of the tiered green, white, pastel and red-roofed houses below. Whenever they relaxed in the tiny, flower-scented garden attached to his chamber, he was both surprised and pleased at her intelligent questions on the history of the Moors and the Koran and the Moslem religion, and where was Damascus, and was it difficult to learn Arabic, and how did those funny waterclocks work? Although he twitted her that women did not have need of such knowledge, he found himself teaching her necessary phrases in Arabic and started to instruct her in speaking the language. He was delighted with her constant inquiry and quick comprehension.
As the weeks passed into late spring he found an unexpected and pleasurable release in reminiscing to her about Mondejar and his years of study in preparation for his present mission; about hearty Von Gormach and seldom sober Pedro Nunez; and about Pietro di Lido's fussy tutelage. She often asked him to play the guembri or the lute for her, and he was never too tired to comply, sometimes making her the first to hear one of his new compositions. She recalled to him the lewd ditties he had plunked away at in Ciudad Real, and merrily they remembered together old adventures and pranks, even touching briefly on the last moments they had together before he was taken away, but so lightly one could think that the boy and girl involved had been two other people.
There was no denying Dolores immeasurably brightened his life, filling the dulcet spring evenings with her vivacious presence and beauty, and dulling the ever present ache for Leonora. It was exciting and good to know that she would be waiting for him in his chamber when his duties were finished.
Good, and not so good, for constancy to Leonora and his determined words aside, he was a man, and to have the seductively clothed and perfumed Dolores/Karima constantly before one would have tried a holy anchorite. In Toledo and Seville he had already been exposed to her power to disrupt him; his solution then had been to avoid her. But now, since she was his responsibility, her days and nights were unavoidably intertwined with his. Of course, he had every intention of treating her with scrupulous respect, but she made it difficult to sustain an arm's length camaraderie, wafting under his suffering nose the jasmine perfume he had unwittingly supplied money for, reaching for a fig in such a way that the neck of her gauzy blouse gaped and disclosed the smooth, warm valley between her breasts, acting demure but gazing at him with beckoning cat's eyes and moist pink lips parted to show the gleam of even teeth...
To preserve the illusion of her concubinage, she slept
in his chamber until the morning guards came to collect her. One soft spring evening she had loosed her thick hair from the confining braid and ribbands and was shaking her head to free the crimped auburn waves when she realized he was watching her from the garden portal. Her glance was artless from beneath her eyelids as she murmured, "Sometimes they pull the plait too tight and it hurts."
He continued to watch her as she combed through the long, thick strands with her fingers, her back arched, her eyelids half-shut in voluptuous pleasure, and he could not prevent himself from softly marveling out loud, "By Allah and all the Saints in Heaven, hermanita, how beautiful you are. It is no wonder the Duke so jealously guards you. Your hair recalls the reddish embers of a fire where bright sparks sometimes leap up. A man could yearn to twine his fingers in its thickness, and with no care of being burnt..." He broke off abruptly as he realized his thoughts were running away with him, and chewed the inside of his lip.
"Why, I thank you, master. I didn't think you had noticed," she answered demurely.
Hadn't noticed! But he was heavily annoyed with himself for allowing such words to slip out and giving her cynical soul another chance to gloat over the male susceptibility he had so virtuously repudiated.
She stretched luxuriously and then nestled back into the heap of pillows on the divan, the light fabric of her pantaloons outlining the alluring curve of her hips. She tilted her head playfully, as if she were contemplating him from several angles. "Do you know, Francho, strangely enough I like that forked beard on your face," she declared, complimentary in her turn. "Yes, it does truly become you. It is so strong-looking and as black as your eyebrows. In fact, you're very dashing as a Moor. All the women of the harem, poor slaves, are jealous of me. They ask me constantly are you a kind and satisfying lover, and they will not give me rest until I make up stories...."
Desperate for peace from the subject he turned his back to stare scowling out into the fragrant garden. From behind him she seemed to have taken the hint and continued in a different vein. "Francho? Do you like it here in this heathen Court of the Alhambra, with all that you have attained?"
He moved his shoulders. "Yes, I like it. Temporarily. My position is pleasant enough, my duties are not onerous, I have had some successes in my mission. But it is not real. It is like the dream which comes between sleeping and waking, almost tangible but illusory stuff nonetheless."
"Well, I like it," she admitted softly. "I thought my life was over when I was driven through the gates of Granada. I was going to kill myself. Yet these past six weeks have been happy ones for me—full of so many impressions but— peaceful, I suppose. The quirks of life are so strange, aren't they?" He heard a fluid rustle, and she was padding over to him in her flat sandals, the little bells on her ankles tinkling. She stood close, looking out with him at the purple serenity of the garden. Her voice was husky. "For instance, it should have been Leonora who got herself captured rather than me, shouldn't it?"
When he refrained from answering she placed her hand on his arm as if to call back his attention, then seemed to change the subject again. Looking into the distance she called out, "Ah, see that great streak of lightning!" There was gay delight in her voice. "There must be rain in the mountains. I wonder shall we hear the clap."
He grunted a reply. Beneath the fabric of his flowing cotton robe his skin tingled under the pressure of her fingers on the muscle of his arm. Yet he did not move. She slid closer to him, and there was no mistaking the soft pressure of breast and hip and thigh against his side. He glanced down, wound tight as a spring, and she was smiling at him, lips parted, inviting, challenging—
Suddenly she was very transparent. He twitched away from her, his expression hard. "Does it amuse you to bait me, Dolores? Does it amuse you to see how long you must tease me before I reach out for you and breach my loyalty to Doña Leonora? You have no liking for Leonora and I know it, but not through me will you ever have the chance of wounding her heart."
She tried to look injured. "You have completely misunderstood my actions."
"No I have not. Who knows your ways better than I? Well, you need not trouble yourself, doña, I am not interested in your games or your kisses. No matter how you try you cannot reduce my constancy to my lady."
"Your lady!" she snorted. "Leonora is—" Her mouth snapped shut, biting off the words, and she shook her head as if warding off a buzzing fly. Expelling her breath she continued shrewishly, "Then how do you answer for the common dancer you keep so cozily in your house, my moral, parfit knight?"
"Be quit of Azahra, Dolores!" he flung out. "I've kept you from Reduan's harem, I treat you with the courtesy due a lady and shelter you so you may return to your Duke unharmed and inviolate, and you return my chivalry with mockery. Have you no gratitude?"
"But certainly I am grateful. And wouldn't one expect a gentleman of your birth to treat a lady with honor?" He saw she was drawing indignation around her like a shield.
"And so we shall continue," he ordered, turning and striding toward the divan, "with formality, and honor, whether you care for it or not." He extended the carved wooden screen behind which she usually disrobed and slept. "I'm going to snuff out the lamps. I need some rest."
Holding her head high and haughty with the insulted pride of one who has been falsely accused, Dolores stalked behind the screen.
The night was too warm. Francho could not sleep. He pulled his loose lounging robe over his head and lay bare-chested on the pillows, in his brief loincloth. He glared into the darkness. Why did she have the facility to irk him so? In fact, what was there about Dolores that set him to protecting his chastity so determinedly? He should have ignored her or laughed at her, ridicule would have put a spike through her game. Or even grabbed her and made her suffer the results of her despicable teasing and then indifferently set her aside to prove how easily disassociated is the flesh from the heart.
He shifted angrily as even the thought of possessing her caused a tightening in his loins. A fine way that would be to treat a helpless Christian woman he had chosen to protect. But curse it, she knew he adored Leonora de Zuniga and that no one else mattered. Couldn't she respect that? If she hated Leonora for some slight or injury, enticing him was the wrong way to reach her. Women!
He heard rustling from the screened divan across the room as Dolores sighed and shifted her position. He squeezed his lids shut, desperately trying to get the image of her cozening, luminous eyes and glowing, satin-skinned visage out of his mind. Unfortunately, all that took its place was the way the clinging silk of her pantaloons outlined her round bottom as she sauntered with swaying hips before his helpless, starving eyes.
Chapter 23
Unused to riding, Francho shifted his haunches uncomfortably in the high-cantled Moorish saddle as his mount followed along in the strung out column of soldiers negotiating the rocky mountain path and silently cursed for the hundredth time the bad luck that had snatched away victory and plunged him into the depths of defeat.
It had appeared easy to foil the Sultan's feverish quest for heroics. But the continuing acclaim of the people acted like a powerful drug, finally dazzling Boabdil into suddenly ordering preparations for a surprise attack on Alcala la Real itself, in punishment for the marauding Christian squadrons that constantly swooped down, burned, pillaged, and left the vega a blackened, smoking ruin. And the Sultan was inspired to announce he would lead the vengeance strike himself!
As soon as he could get free from the royal presence, Francho had quickly headed to the Albayzin, where, ostensibly, as the palace snoops had contented themselves with learning, he kept another concubine, and there he sent off a detailed warning to Tendilla. Much of the Count's garrison would have already been added to the full army Ferdinand was gathering, but Francho felt confident his message would provide Tendilla with time to call in enough reinforcements from the other fortresses under his command even to launch a counterattack. Accordingly, Jamal ibn Ghulam complacently strummed for his royal patron, on the eve
of departure from Granada, one lusty ballad of Moorish victories after another and poured honey into the receptive ear by praising the masterful tactic that with one surprise blow would sever the head of the ravaging Christian beast from its body.
By this time Boabdil considered Jamal ibn Ghulam a human talisman, for surely the ruler's ill fortunes had reversed themselves when this great-shouldered troubadour with the rich voice and magic fingers had appeared. So now the Sultan cocked his head thoughtfully and commanded that his Head Musician accompany him on the foray.
Francho was not about to take sword in hand against his own people. "I shall delight to be present at your victory, if it please you, Excellence. But—I have made a holy vow which cannot be broken without sin, that these hands would lift no other weapon than this guembri, which Allah preserved unscathed in Malaga as a sign of His will for me."
Fondly Boabdil clapped him on the back. "Fear not to break your vow, ibn Ghulam, I have many capable warriors but only one fine minstrel. I would not allow you to go into combat. If Allah has willed you your music as a sword, he has also presented you to me as a buckler: a shield in the confusion and a clear voice to strengthen my resolve." The ruler's mild eyes smiled into Francho's own. "You shall ride with me in a place of honor, but when we reach our objective you will remain in the rear."
"O Sultan, I fear I shall appear coward to the others, and when the heat of battle rises my hand will itch to drive a scimitar into the guts of the Christian dogs who may have been those who murdered my kin." It seemed to Francho he would gain more by staying put in Granada so he could carefully monitor the rumbles of Boabdil's numerous enemies.
But the Sultan was not to be held off. "Pah, what do you care for the regard of others when the exalted Abu Abdullah of Granada calls you friend?" he insisted. The daring expedition was exciting him, so Boabdil shrugged and with good humor threw up hands shimmering with jewels. "And who can know the secret ways of Allah the Almighty? Perhaps one day your guembri shall prove more puissant than ten legions of swords."
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