The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "Ma'dan!" A compelling voice interrupted his thoughts. "Ma'dan. Mutajasur!" A man in caftan and headdress sat atop the wall of the arena and leaned over.

  De Wynter bowed his thanks for the Berber's kind words.

  The man smiled at this mujamala by a slave. "You speak Sabir?" the desert chieftain asked, the lingua franca uncomfortable on his tongue.

  "That or Arabic, whichever you prefer," de Wynter replied courteously. There was something about the hawk-faced man with his gray-tinged beard that inspired the same respect one accorded royalty.

  "Good. We will speak in Arabic. The horse—you fought it bravery. What do you think of it?"

  De Wynter looked down at the animal, its head cocked and slyly watching his every move. "A beauty in all but manners."

  The sheikh laughed silently, without showing teeth. "Agreed. But the silver-haired one may have met its match. We shall talk again. For now, I look forward to the contest tomorrow. May Allah look upon you with special favor." Even as de Wynter was replying in kind, the desert man rose and turned away in a swirl of robes, others similarly dressed, rushing to join him.

  If de Wynter had been surprised by this encounter, he was astonished by the rest of the afternoon. As he schooled the horse, many were the Berbers who abandoned their seats in the gallery and came down to the first tier to hail him, compliment him, give him advice, ask his advice—all pertaining to the horse he was working. Some of the onlookers, drawn by their almost fanatical interest in the Arabian, actually leaped lightly down onto the sand to look the horses over more closely.

  Although much of the attention centered about de Wynter, none of the others failed to get his share, for every horse represented a stable known for the purity of its lines and the beauty of its get.

  CHAPTER 37

  A very subdued Fionn returned to the cell beneath the arena. So dejected was he that he didn't notice the gloom within the cell, nor the absence of two of his companions. In fact, he never looked at the others,, instead going straight to his pallet and throwing himself down upon it, burying his face within the crook of his arm.

  DeWynter exchanged glances with the rest of the men, then went over and squatted down beside the son of his long-time friend. "Fionn, what's wrong? The work with the horse, did it go badly?"

  "No," came the muffled reply. "It went just fine."

  "Then what's wrong?"

  There was no reply for a long moment; then, Fionn heaved over onto his back and looked straight up into de Wynter's concerned blue eyes. "Jamie, I mean, milord" Fionn broke off in confusion.

  "No, call me Jamie."

  "Jamie," Fionn whispered, "do you remember the head they had on the pole? On the second day?" "Yes, all too well."

  "I saw dozens more like it. Outside the arena. Rotting arms and legs, too, lying in heaps outside one of the gates. The smell makes you sick. And Jamie, some of the bones had been gnawed on."

  De Wynter put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't think about it. The dead are dead. They have no care for what happens to their bones."

  Fionn ignored de Wynter's words, gripping de Wynter's arm tightly. "That's the point. I don't think they were all dead first.'' Horror permeated his voice, showed in his eyes. "And, Jamie, I recognized one of those heads." "Drummond's?" de Wynter asked.

  "No. He's probably there, too. But the one I saw had its forehead smashed in. I think—I swear I knew that face."

  De Wynter sighed, grimacing in pain. "Yes, it was Kenneth. They tell me he died instantly. Probably, he didn't feel a thing."

  Fionn said nothing, merely closing his eyes. De Wynter couldn't tell whether his words gave the boy any relief. Many times he had to remind himself that Fionn was so many years younger than the rest. His vast height was deceiving. Now it was de Wynter's turn to bring up a difficult, unpleasant subject, but he had to know. "Fionn, think back. The heads up there. Did you recognize another one?"

  Fionn searched his memory and shook his head. Then, the meaning behind the question struck home. "Who?" But be Wynter didn't have to answer. Fionn's searching glance had already discovered the missing face. "Cameron?"

  De Wynter only nodded.

  "Dead?" Fionn almost sounded hopeful.

  "We don't know. We hope so."

  "Jamie, tell me, do you think we'll survive this?"

  The others could not avoid overhearing, the cell was so small, the room was so quiet. In spite of themselves, they turned toward de Wynter and Fionn, as if by staring at the two, they would hear better.

  Normally, de Wynter would have weighed his words carefully, considering all positive and potentially negative reactions. But this time, he spoke with his gut, not his head: "Yes, Fionn. We'll survive. I can't tell you why or how I know. I have no logical reasons for saying so. But I know it. Tomorrow night, we'll be out of this cell and on our way, believe me. As sure as I am sitting here, I know this is the last night we'll spend like this."

  Fionn did believe him. He smiled tremulously. Then, realizing he had de Wynter's arm still tightly in his grasp, he grew confused. Releasing the arm, he would have apologized, but de Wynter wouldn't hear of it. As he had just said, tonight was their last night in the cell. He, for one, wasn't going to spend it despondently.

  Tomorrow was the last day of the games. Five days had they survived, against all odds. One more day and freedom!

  Carlby, as if reading his mind, smiled and asked softly, "What are you going to do when Ali sets you free?''

  "Can't you guess? Head for the nearest boat and back to England I go."

  "And the order? What of your vows to the order?"

  "Carlby, be reasonable. You know my vow, all of our vows were made under duress. Would you really hold us to them?"

  Carlby didn't answer directly. "You didn't get your men out of the Tower, the order did. Those vows saved all of your lives. Don't you think you owe the Hospitalers something?"

  De Wynter sighed. "Maybe so, but I'm tired of being obligated to others." At Carlby's disbelieving glance, de Wynter tried to explain.

  "You don't understand, John. I'm in love with an English lady. And she with me. That was a crime for which my friends and I were arrested and sent to the Tower. Should I have to pay for the rest of my life because I love the same woman the king does"

  "Anne Boleyn?"

  De Wynter nodded.

  Carlby rubbed his chin. "I don't know the answer to that, Jamie. I do know that Malta is the last bastion of Christianity, a haven against the barbarity of the Moslems whose cruelty we of all people know so well."

  "Tell me about Malta," Gilliver said. Carlby acquiesced quickly, as if as glad as de Wynter to end that conversation. Soon, urged on by Gilliver's real interest and enthusiasm, Carlby forgot all else but his description with love-blinded eyes of an essentially barren island.

  While those two pursued this mutually engrossing subject, the thoughts of the rest ranged far afield. Angus and Ogilvy argued about a new formula for the Scotch whiskey they planned to brew back in the hills. Fionn reviewed the tales he'd have to tell to his family. He could imagine the admiring looks Nelly and Devorguilla i would lavjsh on him... and the envious ones Dugan and Deny couldn't resist. Mostly, though, he savored the thought of Seamus putting an arm about his shoulders and saying, "Well done, son. You brought the earl home. I couldn't have done better myself."

  In de Wynter's thoughts, Anne Boleyn was all. Slowly, exquisitely, he undressed her... and kissed her... and caressed her... and knew her. When he did, she confessed her love for him, and begged to be his wife.

  It wasn't a new daydream. He had savored every moment of it many times. Of course, always it ended the same way—with an excruciating ache in his loins and an erection that refused to subside.

  Aisha, too, was thinking of the future. But not with anticipation or arousal. Nor was she to be left alone with her thoughts much longer. Aisha and her mother had spent two hours here at the baths, and now, their bodies soaked and oiled, their hair cleaned and pl
aited, their makeup applied and dried with an expert hand, they were ready to be dressed. Almost reverently the asiras came forward, carrying the garments upon their outstretched arms. Weeks, nay, months had seamstresses toiled over these costumes, embroidering and re-embroidering in spun-gold thread on the finest fabrics ever to be sold in a souk in Tunis. Only one night would they be worn—for the traditional feast of the relatives—and then, tomorrow, seamstresses would start in again, picking out each strand of gold thread for future use. The jewels, too, would be saved. The fabric itself put aside to be burnt the first morning of her married life. Supporting themselves by leaning on two asiras, each woman stepped into a pair of long, full drawers. Rami ah's were of thin, rose-colored damask brocaded with flowers and reaching down to her ankle. Aisha's were white but striped with thousands of minute chain-stitches of gold, and they were tucked into high white boots of the softest kid, absolutely plain except for their solid gold heels and soles. The queen's slippers were more modest, of red leather, gold bells on the toes. Over their heads, the asiras carefully slipped smocks of fine white silk gauze, edged with gold embroidery and closed at the neck with jewels as large as hen's eggs. Ramlah's was a ruby; Aisha's a tawny diamond close in color to the hair that an asira carefully lifted free of the smock and allowed to hang in one thick fall down the center of the amira's back. So thin were both smock and drawers that they veiled little and concealed nothing. Over these went still another garment.

  The queen chose a sleeveless full-length waistcoat, form-fitting and fastened at the waist with a pair of rubies made into a buckle. The skirts of the coat were so long, trailing three feet behind her, that two young blackamoors waited outside to hold the coattails from dragging. Aisha found such a coat too cumbersome, and so she chose an equally form-fitting robe that reached just to the top of her boots and fastened up the front, from hem to neck, with a procession of gold-set diamond solitaires. Over this went her girdle, about four fingers wide and so thickly embroidered with gold thread and diamonds that the fabric could not be seen. Within it, she concealed the small throwing knife she kept with her always; as part of her parure, she also carried a bejeweled curved dagger. Ramlah's hair, like Aisha's, was long, but she wore hers loosely plaited, with a string of pearls woven through the strands. Aisha's mane was left unfastened, confined only by a small cap of rich velvet, which she wore at an angle and held in place with a circlet of tawny diamonds about her forehead.

  Ramlah, looking at her child, caught her breath—the girl was a glittering vision in white and gold. "Your grandfather will be proud of you!"

  "And my father, will he be there, too?"

  "You know better. Not once since my wedding morn have my father and your father met. Be glad he won't be there. Tonight, you will be a Berber bride, not an Arab one confined to spend her night within the harem listening to the festivities through the tent hangings," Ramlah said, sipping from the petite coffee cup Zainab served her.

  "At least there's one thing I can thank him for," Aisha said, refusing the proffered cup.

  Ramlah rebuked her sharply. "There are many things you can thank your father for. To begin with for not exposing you on a mountain when an infant—as he had the right. Instead, he made you his heir."

  "He had no other, remember? He butchered every other possible one."

  Ramlah ignored her daughter's rejoinder. "He allowed you to be educated at the 'Prince's School—'" v

  "The graybeards were in need of someone to teach."

  "And to let you visit the tents and cities of your grandfather each summer—"

  "He was glad to get me out of the city."

  "He could have married you off to Barbarossa or some other man of his choice."

  "Never. I am a princess. I should have the same right to name my husband as did Marimah, daughter of Suleiman. She named hers. And he wed her not of his free will. Suleiman simply called him to the Sublime Porte one day and informed him that he was to marry the princess the following day, but that he must divorce his other wives first."

  "You sound holier than she," Ramlah said, growing irritated with her daughter. "Is what you are doing so different? Did you not make men divorce their wives—"

  "They didn't have to, they could have left. No one forced them to stay and compete.''

  "And what of the slaves?" Ramlah asked.

  Aisha couldn't meet her mother's eyes, butcshe tried to- bluff her way out "They, too, were given a choice—"

  "Indeed? Die or compete. What choice is that?"

  "It was Ali's idea—"

  "Don't blame that on your kinsman. He loves you, and you know it He sought only to find you a husband worthy of what he thinks you are."

  There was a long silence as Aisha paced the floor, then spoke, not looking at her mother. Her voice was quiet and questioning. "Am I truly not worthy, Mother? Am I less than he thinks I—"

  She never finished. Ramlah caught her child up in an embrace that said more than words what a treasure she thought her daughter was. Then, brushing a tear carefully from her daughter's face without disturbing the makeup, as Aisha did the same for her, Ramlah giggled. Girlishly. Aisha looked surprised.

  "I was thinking. If your father hadn't killed all those men, you would have had a proper wedding ritual like a proper Arab girl. Instead of taking your ease up there in the royal box and watching the games these five days past, you would have spent them underground."

  "Underground? You mean, buried alive."' "Not quite. The proper Arab ghi, just before her wedding, spends at least a week in a bridal cave." "What on earth for?"

  "To get the right unearthly paleness, a desirable state of complexion for a young girl. It shows she has grown up protected. Your cheeks, my dear"—and Ramlah tweaked one gently—"are much too golden and healthy-looking. Be glad you're part Berber."

  "Mother, do you ever regret marrying the Moulay?"

  "No. You made that worthwhile."

  "Didn't you ever wish I were a boy?"

  Ramlah laughed. "You should have seen the steps I took to make sure no boy was born. However, at times like this, I could wish I had had a son also."

  "Why?" Aisha signaled Zainab to refill Ramlah's coffee cup and bring her one, too.

  "To become a proper Arab mother-in-law to a proper Arab daughter-in-law."

  Aisha laughed. Ramlah proper? Impossible.

  "You laugh. I resent that. I would make an excellent mother-in-law to some docile Arab girl."

  "Really? Tell me more." Aisha was in no hurry to get to this feast of relatives. Let Ramlah talk instead.

  "Well, to begin with, once my son reached marriageable age, I would cast about among my proper Arab friends for suitable candidates for my son. I would even search the harems. And when I found just the right one, I would describe her to my husband, who would investigate the child's family as well.

  "Now, if all seemed satisfactory, I would arrange for a party to be held at the best public bathhouse I could afford—"

  "Why not the royal baths?"

  "You're right. We'll hold the party there."

  "And why are you holding this party?"

  "To inspect the child in the altogether, to make sure she has no physical defects to pass on to my grandchildren."

  "Of course, I should have realized. So, you hold a party, what then?"

  "You get ahead of yourself. Fust, I must prepare for that party.

  "The cooks of both families will be busy for several days before the bath party. And both families will be readying the grandest fashions we can assemble. Eventually, the great day comes. The girl wears her finest dress and arrives at the bath accompanied by her mother and all the women of her house and her servants. The presence of servants denotes wealth and eligibility, so many are on hand. I will be properly impressed.

  "Compliments abound. Food and drinks are served, and I attempt to draw information from the nominee. I probe her character. Question her tastes. Test her intelligence. When I am satisfied I have found out all I can, I su
ggest that she might like to take a bath. Naturally, she disrobes under my watchful eye. Then, she is wrapped in towels and escorted into the interior of the bath. Here the towels are removed, her hair unloosened—I check its length—and she seats herself on the marble floor, where her servants wash her head and body, liberally applying soap and washing off the suds with basins of water.

  "During all this time, I'll stay close at hand. If any facet of the nominee's body is flawed, including her teeth, her breasts, or her feet, I want to be sure to spot it so I can report dutifully to my husband.

  "Before leaving the baths, all of us dye our nails and palms with henna, as was done for you, my dear. To continue, the festivities move to a cooling room where the banquet is held. I seat the guests on a rug in a circle around a low table on which, one after the other, the serving dishes are placed. I even supply a long, continuous napkin of the finest linen for the laps of everyone in the circle. The napkin in common signifies unity and friendship."

  "Will we have that tonight?" Aisha asked, almost envious of this imaginary girl Ramlah was describing.

  "Of course not. This is a Berber feast. Now where was I? Oh, yes. The girl gets to taste each dish first, the others eagerly dipping their henna-dyed hands into the food immediately thereafter. For perhaps another three hours the party proceeds, before everyone parts with promises to soon renew the festivities. The future mother-in-law—that's, me—then dashes home to report to an eager husband.

  "If all is well, I contact the girl's mother within two days and suggest the marriage. No answer is given immediately. The girl's father must be consulted. Two days later, the girl's mother comes to visit me with her answer, which, if affirmative, paves the way for actual wedding plans." Ramlah smiled at the picture she'd painted in her own mind, then turned to Aisha. "Well, what do you think?"