by Sarah Hegger
Stiffening, Bahir shook his head. “That is not possible. Tell me what you need to tell her.”
Any notion of giving the information to Bahir first disappeared at that. “This news is for her to hear first.”
“It is not possible.” Crossing his arms, Bahir planted his feet apart as if he would stand as a human barrier between Henry and Alya.
“What is it?” Alya slid from behind Bahir, her beautiful eyes intent on Henry.
“I must speak with you.”
She gave a soft laugh. “You are speaking with me.”
“Alone.” Knowing he would cause it to end, her laughter shook him. Telling her of her father with the entire crew staring on was also not a possibility.
“No.” Bahir stepped between them.
“Come if you must.” Done with Bahir’s ridiculous guarding of Alya’s modesty, Henry shoved past him. “But she needs to know this.”
Alya’s glance flickered from him to Bahir and then Newt. “What is it?”
Henry motioned her to precede him belowdecks.
The air down here clung stuffy and damp to his skin, carrying the smell of tar, sweat and the caskets of precious spices.
Immediately Bahir positioned himself beside Alya, huge fists clenched.
Dear God, give him patience. Did Bahir think he would fall on her in a lust frenzy? Not with the news he had to impart now. Instead he desired to hold her and stand as a barrier between her and the pain he was about to cause. As Henry knew of no other way over difficult ground but at a gallop, he spoke quickly. “It is your father.”
“What of him?” She clenched her small hands together in front of her. “Tell me.”
“We heard in the tavern that he could be…dead.”
Alya stood, so still he could not be certain she breathed. Her eyes above her niqab bored into him as if willing him to unsay his words. She shook her head. “Nay.”
“Where did you hear this?” Bahir stepped up to him, and twisted a hand in his tunic.
“The two men we found.” Henry fastened his hand about Bahir’s wrist. He did not care for the manhandling but Alya concerned him more. “They mentioned him by name.”
“Dear God.” Alya swayed.
Bahir leaped back and caught her beneath the elbow. “We cannot know for certain it is so,” he said. “Men in taverns are drunk and they lie. These men are murderers and we cannot take their word as truth.”
“That is true.” Henry would agree with the devil himself if he could ease the torment from Alya’s face. Chest tight he stepped toward her. Her pain rippled through him as if it were his own. “But the news from Cairo is not good. There is a price on the head of all the Genovese merchants.”
She blinked at him. “Why?”
“I know not.” He held a hand out to her, then dropped it to his side. She was not his to touch. “People are angry. In their anger, they are not always mindful.”
Her breath hitched on a soft sob. “My father?”
“I am so sorry, my lady.” He wanted to say more. To tell her he understood the agony of losing those whom you loved. “If not already dead, your father has been targeted.”
Standing between them, Bahir glowered at him.
Alya crumpled.
Bahir caught her and hoisted her into his arms. “I will deal with this.”
Dismissed, Henry turned and stumbled up the ladder back into the daylight. Everything in him demanded he go back down and comfort her. Like a fresh gash through his chest throbbed the knowledge he had caused her pain.
Newt came up beside him. “Did you tell her?”
“Aye.” Reason shouted down his burning desire to be the one with her now. It was not his place. “Bahir is with her.”
“This is a bad business.” Newt shook his head. “And here we sit with a target on our foreheads.”
Not as long as he had breath. Henry strode to the railing. While his girl on the wall wept belowdecks, he could and would make sure nobody got near her.
* * * *
Alya sobbed but no tears fells. Tears might be a relief from the tearing agony within her.
Bahir continued to whisper that it might not be true. He would send a man to Cairo to find out for sure. Allowing herself a brief flicker of hope, she nodded her agreement at his suggestion.
“But we must sail with the tide.” Bahir assisted her out of her hijab and niqab.
The damp cloth clung to her wet face and nose, and made it impossible to breathe. Alya flung it away from her. “Then how will I know?”
“I will instruct him to follow us to Genoa.” Bahir picked up her hijab and smoothed it over a crate. “But it may be a while before he reaches us.”
In the meantime, her loss seeped, raw and angry within her. Her father. The man she loved above all others. Devoted, funny, loving, indulgent some had said, but her father.
And she had not allowed him to embrace her in parting. She had turned her back on him and climbed into her litter.
Another sob rattled through her. The pain grew so intense, Alya folded her arms about her middle and hunched over. It felt as if it would burst from her and tear her asunder.
Dear God. She should have turned and told him how much she loved him. Now she might never have the chance to do so again.
A long, low wail escaped her.
Bahir drew her to him, folding her in his arms.
Clinging to him with all she had, Alya dug her nails into his tunic. She pressed her face into his chest and cried.
* * * *
Despite Bahir’s protests, Alya spent most of her time on deck. Every morning she would wash as best she could with the water Bahir brought her, dress and go above deck. Huddling in the dark only made her more aware of the gaping hole inside her. She clung to the hope that Bahir’s man would deliver the news her father lived.
She kept her niqab in place but the temptation to throw it off and feel the cool sea breeze against her cheeks grew. The voyage forced her out of her worry for precious moments. The sea never looked the same any two days in a row. Going about their tasks with quiet competence, the sailors fascinated her. Coiling ropes, furling and unfurling the great, billowing sails, scrubbing down the deck. When not working, they sat in small groups, laughing and talking, some of them occupied with hand work, others playing games of dice and stones.
Then there was Henry.
Her gaze found him wherever he stood on the boat. The sun darkened his face, making his eyes appear otherworldly. Fine stubble covered his head now that he no longer shaved it. It caught the bright sunlight and glinted. Eyes of lapis and hair of gold, like the prized concubines in the sultan’s harem. She giggled a little at her own thoughts.
Her isolation wore on her. Glowering should anyone approach, Bahir stood always beside her. At home, she would have spoken with Nasira or one of the other maids, joined her friends at their homes for sherbet and gossip. Not that she had that many friends. She had always blamed Father for being overprotective, but now, perhaps, he’d had other reasons for keeping her separated. That he had been so hated because of his birthplace, she could not fathom. Her father was a good man, a kind one.
Stripped to a vest, muscle playing along his arms and shoulders, Henry coiled a rope at the front of the boat. Beside him, Newt perched on a barrel eating dried fruit. She had asked Bahir what a Newt was. A kind of lizard. What manner of man took his name from such a creature? As much as she would like to ask, she felt tongue tied around the Englishmen. They spoke often in their language, shutting her out of their world.
* * * *
Henry felt her gaze on him. She watched him often, striking eyes above the black of her niqab. Those eyes held shadows and he wanted to speak with her, enquire how she went on. Always, Bahir guarded her like a jealous dog.
Newt filled the long, warm days with news of home. It no longer felt like a part of him. He had left Anglesea as one man, and he no longer knew who returned to them. Willi
am had married a lady called Alice, and they lived in the north with their children. He tried to picture his middle brother as a father, bearing the responsibility of a demesne. A glib-tongued diplomat who eased his way through life with charm, William had been the carefree brother.
That Roger had married came as no surprise. Although Newt’s description of the fiery Kathryn whom Roger had wed had Henry shaking his head. Roger had married a woman who would rather be a knight than a chatelaine. He had pictured Roger with a serene, calm woman. Someone who could smooth the rough edges off his oldest brother. It seemed Roger had changed in the years since Henry left with his gut afire with visions of bringing the light of God to the dark heathens. What a naive boy he had been.
“Your father has stepped down from Anglesea in all but name.” Newt spat a date pip into the water.
Some things you could not change, and as much as he itched to cuff Newt for spitting, he did his best to ignore it instead. So far and no further Newt changed. The news from home Henry could not have predicted. That the father he had last seen as a strong, vital man, full of piss and vinegar had released control of his beloved Anglesea Henry could not fathom.
“Seems your mother wants to spend time visiting her grandchildren.” Newt chewed and spat his pip. “He’d thump anyone who suggested it, but I think your father was ready to hand over the weight of Anglesea.”
Perhaps. Father had been fighting one war or another since he was little more than a boy.
“Garrett functions as Roger’s right hand,” Newt said.
“Garrett.” Henry stopped and let that sink in. “Beatrice’s Garrett?”
“Aye.” Newt shook his head. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw it. They get on, those two.”
“Huh.” Last he’d seen, Roger and Garrett were at each other’s throats. “And they sent you to find me?”
Attention on Alya, Newt nodded. “Imagine telling Beatrice she had to wear that lot?”
Henry smiled. His sister Beatrice had a sweet but determined will all her own.
“Harry?” Newt frowned, and pursed his lips. Sure signs the man had something niggling in his mind. “Did I hear they are taking her to Genoa, to her father’s kin?”
“Aye.” Alya caught him staring and dropped her eyes. “They are all she has in the world.”
“That could be a problem.” Newt hopped off his barrel.
Henry took his meaning. “Aye.”
If her father’s family rejected her, Alya would be cast adrift with only Bahir. Not if he had anything to do with it. Henry dropped the rope and strode across the deck.
As he drew near, Bahir stiffened.
“Her father wanted me to teach her how to go on in Genoa,” Henry said.
Alya’s head came up. She glanced at Bahir and back at him.
Henry held Bahir’s glare. “She needs to learn.”
Finally, Bahir uncrossed his arms and nodded. “You will teach her.”
“Teach me what?” Alya’s voice had a slight husk, deeper than most women’s, and rich, with a rasp that brought to mind good mead.
He crouched in front of her. “Things are different in Genoa. Different to the way you were raised.”
She tilted her head and studied him.
“Your hijab and niqab.” He pointed. “They will find it strange. Women do not go about covered in Genoa.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am aware.”
He waited, giving her time to reach the inevitable conclusion.
First she removed her niqab. Slowly, she unwound the hijab from her head, then lowered it to the deck.
She bore the skin of her father’s people, a shade or two darker than his sisters’ but still pale as thick poured cream. Above a full mouth, her straight nose tilted up slightly at the end. Ringed by thick, dark lashes, her eyes tilted up at the corners. Whatever they made of her in Genoa it would not be because she lacked beauty.
Under his scrutiny, she went pink, ducking her head to hide her face from him.
He lifted her head.
Bahir stiffened and stepped nearer.
“You have no need to hide your face,” Henry said. “You are beautiful.”
“English.” Bahir’s deep rumble warned him away.
Henry dropped his hand, and not because Bahir bristled beside him, but more to conceal his reaction to her beauty. “We will need to buy you some other clothes when we reach Genoa.”
Alya nodded. “What else?”
Where to start? His mother, the perfect lady in all matters, had corrected, cajoled and, on occasion, nagged his sisters into proper decorum. When he said nagged, he meant Beatrice, because a simple correction had always been sufficient for Faye.
“The way you are sitting.” He indicated her cross-legged position. “Ladies always keep their…um, knees and ankles together.”
“Why?” Alya frowned down at her legs.
“Skirts.” Inspiration struck him in a dizzying wave of relief. “Skirts confine your movement and you will find you cannot keep your…um, knees parted.”
A low growl emanated from Bahir. If he believed the man capable of amusement, Henry might have called it laughter.
Shifting, Alya sat on her hip. Knees tightly pressed together, ankles stacked. “Like this?”
“Not exactly.” What had possessed him to give his vow to Alif? “Ladies, in general, do not sit on the floor.”
He read the question building, and dragged a crate to her. “They sit on benches and furnishings.”
Now Bahir frowned and stepped forward. “No cushions?”
How long would this voyage take? “Let us start at the beginning.”
Newt slunk closer, leaned against the mast, and smirked. A little help from that quarter might not go amiss, but Newt looked to be enjoying Henry flounder too much.
“Where we live—”
“Angle land?” Bahir said.
“Well, aye, but nobody has called it that for years, hundreds of years. Now we say England.”
“England.” Alya rolled the word slowly over her tongue.
The Good Lord knew how she did it, but somehow, she made it sound seductive.
“England is colder,” Henry said. “We built our castles…homes…first of wood, and then we replaced it with stone because of the winter.”
Bahir snorted. “Stone is cold.”
“Aye.” Henry shivered at the memory of his breath icing on the air through midwinter. “But it also keeps the worst of the chill out. And it’s safer against attack. Easier to defend.
Narrowing his eyes, Bahir appeared to think that over. Then he nodded. “Better against fire.”
“Exactly.” Henry saw his first glimmer of hope. “Anyway, as Bahir pointed out, stone is cold, so we do not sit on the floor.” Now came the part that made him cringe after all these years in Egypt. “Also, the floor is covered in rushes and dirty.”
Sucking in a soft breath, Alya wrinkled her nose. “Dirty?”
“From things people drop.” Henry waved an airy hand, not wanting to delve too deeply into that. “Animals.”
“You allow animals in your homes?” Bahir’s chest swelled. “To live where you eat?”
Alya looked a little sickened, but she said, “I am sure you bathe them before you allow them within.”
Newt threw back his head and guffawed loud enough a gull startled from the mast.
Mother and Nurse had always insisted on bathing within Anglesea, but some did not see the value in it. Indeed, most believed it to invite illness into the body. In Egypt, even the slaves bathed daily. Perhaps the Genovese had a different custom. He hoped for Alya that they did. “We do not bathe the animals.”
Her face fell.
“But the bigger ones are not allowed within the keep. The horses, the cows, and the sheep all live outside in barns and pens. Mainly we keep the dogs within the keep.”
“Dogs?” Bahir spat. “You allow filthy creature
s who eat their own waste in your homes?”
“They do not eat their own waste,” Newt said. “But they do eat the waste of everything else.”
Alya pressed her hand to her mouth as if she might be ill. “I do not think I will like England.”
“Which is fine.” Henry put some cheer into his voice. “Because you will be living in Genoa, and I am sure it is very, very different.”
“Actually—” Newt straightened from his slouch.
“Very different.” Henry glared his point home and held out his hand to Alya. “Now, if you will stand.”
Bahir growled.
“It is custom for a man to assist a woman to stand.” Henry kept his hand outstretched. “Skirts hamper the women’s movement.”
She stared at his hand. “Then why do they wear them?”
“Modesty,” Henry said. “Just as you wear your hijab for modesty, so they wear skirts.”
Nodding, Alya took his hand. Her small, soft palm fit his as if crafted just for him. Henry resisted the strong urge to curl his fingers about hers and hold on.
She gasped, glanced at their joined hands and then up at him.
Henry felt the jolt down to his toes. Their gazes locked and Henry lost himself in the sweet heat in her eyes.
Bahir cleared his throat.
With a blush, Alya dropped his hand and fell on the crate.
“Knees.” His voice rasped and he cleared his throat. “Keep your knees and ankles together. Also, when you have skirts you will sweep them to one side to make room on the bench.”
She shifted, looking up at him, a silent question on her face.
“Exactly.” His smile, rusty from disuse, creaked across his face. “Now, back straight, chin up, shoulders back.”
With a slight toss of her head, she complied. She peered at him from between her thick, dark lashes, a glint of mischief in her eyes.
And Henry laughed.
Chapter 7
The lessons with Henry enlivened her days and helped push back the heavy press of her father’s fate. He taught her many things, most of them strange, but he did not seem to mind her questions. Or even her laughter when she found something absurd.
