The Mer- Lion
Page 67
Deftly, she cut the bird's throat, and let its blood spill over her consort-couchant and run convincingly down onto the sheepskin below.
De Wynter stirred and pleaded with the girl in his dream, "Anne, I love you. Don't cry. Please, Anne, no more tears."
Tears there were, but they were Aisha's. For the bird, for Ramlah, for herself, for all of them. But they did not keep her from milking the bird of its last bit of blood, then throwing the corpse to the cheetah, whose patience was finally rewarded with one crunch and a satisfied gulp. Then, blinking the tears from her eyes, Aisha dipped a finger in the gore and smeared the insides of her thighs with the final, absolute proof of the consummation of her marriage.
As she lay down beside him, her fingers seeking under the pillows he talisman she kept there, she realized that her tears were not just For herself but for mat unknown girl of whom de Wynter dreamed, tad who had lost him now forever. But if that Anne thought she night some day regain him, she was wrong, Aisha vowed. Anne might have his dreams, but Aisha had his body, and she had proved his night that she could control it. Eventually, she knew, Anne's nemory would fade before the reality of her own warm body and hen Aisha should possess him in his entirety. The thought was bittersweet but had to suffice.
When the asira stole into the tent later with word of Fionn's (wakening, the tent was quiet. Aisha slept, her head pillowed on the amad ja'da's chest and a small scrimshaw carving of a Mer-Lion ested within the curve of her outstretched black-painted palm. Two heads turned as the girl entered. Two pairs of eyes studied her eriously. The brilliant blue gaze of the man caught and held her breathless; the green yellow slits of the cheetah, accompanied by a coarse cough of warning, sped her departure.
"He was awake, you say, yet lying quietly?" Ramlah asked her spy when the girl came next to the queen's tent. "And what of your mistress?"
"Sound asleep, her body pressed against him, her head upon his chest."
"Could you see the sheepskin?"
The girl shook her head no, but quickly added, "However, I saw him." "And?"
"He was dark with blood."
"You are sure it wasn't hair?"
"Yes, mistress, I am sure. I saw him earlier, he was shaved clean."
Ramlah smiled sadly. Her daughter had found and secured herself a man, but at what price? Now, Aisha, the jamad ja'da, Ali, Ramlah herself, were in danger from the Moulay. Yet Ramlah would not have had her daughter otherwise. Ramlah knew far too well what price was paid in a loveless marriage. Bending down, she patted the asira upon her hps. "You have done well, my child. Now, seek you your bed."
The asira hesitated a moment, wondering, then deciding against telling the queen that besides the bloodstains on the jamad ja'da's body, she had seen tear streaks upon the Amira's face. Aisha had cried herself to sleep.
Poor proud, purposeful princess.
So ended the last day of the Great Games of the Amira Aisha on the 17th Jamad II, A.H. 939.
Epilogue
On that same day, the last day but six of the first month of the year of our Lord 1533, Thomas Cranmer was called upon to officiate at the marriage of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. The only witnesses were Anne's immediate family, including her brother Rochford and her malicious sister-in-law, and also her family priest.
"She looked," Lady Rochford later cooed, "absolutely terrible. Her face was swollen; whether from fat or bloat or crying, I'll never know. But Henry was excited and grinning like a cat that drank the clotted cream. Believe you me, in less than nine months, we can expect a new heir to the throne of England.
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