by Jane Feather
Aicha walked back to the seraglio, debating her next move.
Abul stepped through the open door to Sarita’s tower into a whirlwind of housekeeping. Women were sweeping, straightening cushions, filling jugs with flowers. They stopped and lowered their eyes as he walked past them.
He went to the stairs, considered calling her, then decided on a direct approach. He went up to the gallery.
Sarita was alone, standing on the small balcony of one of the rear windows, her back to the room. Her body was rigid with a concentration that for a moment distracted him. What was she so intent upon, looking out over the ravine to the mountains?
“Sarita?”
She whirled. “Oh, it’s you, my lord caliph. And what do you want of me?”
His irritation faded as the familiar game began. “You know perfectly well what I want of you.” He approached, smiling, holding out his hands.
She sidestepped. “You seem to forget, my lord caliph, that the tower is filled with women. Or perhaps you consider them to be of no account and can therefore behave as if the place was empty.”
Thoughtfully, he nodded. “You could be right. But I see no one up here. Will you not bid me good morning in a more friendly fashion?”
“I see no reason to do so. You accorded me little civility earlier when I greeted you.”
Abul frowned and pulled at his chin. Then he sighed and abandoned the game in favor of honest revelation. “I was sadly out of temper, Sarita. My son was not behaving in a mannerly fashion, and I felt his mother was encouraging him.” He shrugged, hopefully putting an end to the conversation. “I ask your pardon if I seemed brusque and discourteous. May we begin the day afresh?”
“Why does your son behave in such a fashion?” For a moment, Sarita forgot the tensions inherent in this subject and asked the question with a natural interest. “Why would Aicha encourage him to do so?”
Abul felt a resurgence of irritation, but he forced himself to speak quietly. “I tried to explain last night that Boabdil’s mother doesn’t understand the need for her son, my heir, to develop the skills and wisdom for his future as caliph. I am obliged to force the issue.”
“But surely it would be better for Boabdil if he didn’t feel that you and his mother were fighting over him.” She spoke the logical truth as she saw it, genuinely concerned, forgetting her earlier decision to use this subject as a wedge between them.
Abul’s face closed. “You do not understand the ways of our people. I have no wish to be in conflict with Aicha, and indeed I am not. It is not possible for a man to be in conflict with a woman.”
“Is it not?” murmured Sarita. “And are we not in conflict, my lord caliph?”
He laughed suddenly. “No, indeed we are not. We simply play a game that will come to its conclusion soon enough.”
That was what he thought; that was all he considered the matter of her freedom: a game of conflict. Well, he was about to discover unplayful conflict with a woman. Sarita spoke with great deliberation, choosing the harshest words she could.
“I think you will find that a mother’s love for her son carries much more weight with the child than a father’s dominance. You are building a child’s hatred, my lord caliph, not his strength and maturity. I suggest you examine your motives and tactics a little more carefully.”
Abul stood stunned. She faced him calmly, her eyes quiet but direct. And then she laughed, softly insolent, and turned her back on him, to look again out of the window at the ravine that would ensure her freedom.
He left her. To let loose his anger as he longed to do would be undignified. Men did not lose control with women, but to his dismay and discomfiture, Muley Abul Hassan could imagine doing so with this woman. So he left her in haste and silence, conscious of a sense of defeat but for the moment unable to think of a way of snatching victory out of that defeat.
Chapter Ten
Zulema and Kadiga were stepping through the wicket gate as Abul emerged from the tower into the garden. They both faltered at the caliph’s forbidding expression and hastily bowed as he passed.
Abul barely acknowledged them at first; then, struck by a thought, he paused. “Why did you not accompany the lady Sarita on her walk this morning?”
“Oh, we did, my lord Abul,” Zulema said in hasty defense. “To lead her to the lady Aicha—” She broke off with a funny little sigh as Kadiga trod on her foot. Blushing fiercely, she struggled on. “We … we met up with the sultana, my lord, and our presence was not wanted.”
Abul’s earlier frown deepened as he regarded them both in silence. Neither of them moved, since they hadn’t been dismissed; both stood staring at the ground.
“You were instructed to bring the lady Sarita to the sultana, Zulema?” he clarified finally, putting his question to the woman he judged the more guileless.
Kadiga raised her head with betraying speed, her anxiety to speak clear in her eyes, but he ignored her, fixing his gaze on Zulema, who blushed and looked in appeal to her friend. But Kadiga was forbidden by custom to speak when she had not been addressed.
“Come, Zulema, it is a simple enough question,” Abul said impatiently. “Did the lady Aicha wish to meet with Sarita this morning?”
“Yes, my lord.” Zulema yielded with another nervous sigh. “She said she would be walking on the top path to the Generalife and wished us to direct Sarita to her.”
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Abul said, now nodding pleasantly. “A simple answer to a simple question. There is no harm in either.” With that, he continued on his way.
“How could I not tell him?” Zulema whispered, biting her lip. “And why was he not to know?”
Kadiga shrugged. “Some plot. You know the lady Aicha as well as I do.”
“She will be very angry if she discovers we have told the lord Abul.” Zulema shivered, tears starting in her gentle eyes at the prospect of the sultana’s wrath. She was a most unforgiving lady.
“Somehow,” Kadiga said thoughtfully, looking toward the wicket gate swinging in the wake of the caliph’s departure, “somehow I do not think she will discover it. I feel that it’s a piece of information the lord Abul will keep to himself.”
Something very puzzling was afoot, Kadiga was certain, but that was not unusual in the closed courts of the Alhambra. There was always some intrigue somewhere. On the surface there seemed no reason why the sultana and the caliph’s newest woman shouldn’t spend time together. There would be no rivalry between them; such a thing would be absurd. The lady Aicha was supreme in the seraglio, and only her husband could take that away from her. So why had the sultana instructed them to ensure that everyone, including Sarita, believed the meeting to be an accident? And why had the caliph found the information of interest?
Kadiga shrugged again. The answer was impossible to divine at this stage, but perhaps if she kept her eyes and ears open, the pieces would eventually form a pattern. It was always wise to keep one’s wits about one in this world.
“Let us go within, Zulema, and see how Sarita wishes to spend the hours until the caliph summons her again.”
“She will probably wish to walk again,” Zulema said, a touch glumly. “And the sun is getting high.”
Kadiga laughed. “Let’s see if we can persuade her to sit with us in the court and play chess instead.”
But they found Sarita in an abstracted mood, willing enough to sit with the chess pieces in the cool quiet of the inner court, but clearly her mind was elsewhere. The two women made no comment, however, keeping up a soothing flow of chatter that covered Sarita’s silence.
As Abul went about the day’s business, no one would guess from his demeanor the questions and speculations roiling within him. He listened to the reports of his envoys to the various courts of the other leading families in Granada; he read the report from his spy at the Spanish court across the border in Cordova; he listened to the reports of his spies sent to patrol the roads and towns of Castile; he listened to his vizier, to his cadi, to the chi
ef officer of the alcazaba. He listened, questioned, absorbed, and made judgments, stated opinions, as if he were not struggling to control his anger and bewilderment at the unknown. Never had he been challenged in the way Sarita had just challenged him; never had he been attacked on his most private ground by anyone, let alone a woman.
But as the morning wore on, his customary equilibrium reasserted itself. Wasn’t it, after all, Sarita’s potential to do all of those things that had first fascinated him and then drawn him to her so powerfully? It was that unique quality she had, that sense of the untamed, the uncompromising, that was the moon to his tide.
Aicha was the problem, not Sarita. Aicha was setting something in motion, and it was for Abul to discover what and why. And it was for Abul to ensure where Sarita’s loyalties lay.
“My lord, the ambassador of the Aziz wishes to know if he may take your opinion back to his emir.” The softly imperative voice of the vizier interrupted his musing, and he returned his attention to issues much less interesting.
“You may tell the lord Aziz that I approve the marriage of his daughter with the family of Hayzari. The alliance will strengthen all the families of Granada.” Rising, he smiled, inclined his head in formal acknowledgment of the assembled court, and left the hall, his one thought now to repair fences with Sarita. She would not again transgress the boundaries of his family privacy, he was convinced, as long as he saw to it that the subject did not come up. And he had a treat in mind that should heal all breaches and ensure her amnesia on the subject of Aicha and Boabdil and parental conflict.
His vizier received the caliph’s instructions impassively, saying only, “You expect to return by sundown, my lord? The deputation from Haroun Kalim has requested an audience at the supper hour.”
“Yes, I will be back by then. Have the escort gathered in the court of the alcazaba within the half hour.” Abul set off for Sarita’s tower with a spring in his step, filled with pleasant anticipation at the prospect of giving pleasure. He had put aside his earlier defeat at Sarita’s hands, discounting the harshness of her tongue as simply understandable reaction to his own curtness. She came from a different background, one where it was probably customary to return brusqueness with its like, even between men and women. He could accept that, just so long as they steered clear of those aspects of his private life that didn’t concern her and concerned him so dearly.
Sarita was wondering if she had succeeded in driving Abul away for the rest of the day and hopefully the night, when he stepped into the cool dimness of the court. Immediately, she developed an inordinate interest in the chessboard, seeming to debate her next move with the utmost concentration.
Kadiga and Zulema had risen from their cushions at the caliph’s arrival, and both tried to catch Sarita’s attention, since it didn’t occur to either of them that she could be deliberately ignoring the lord Abul. Presumably, she was so absorbed she had failed to notice him.
Abul, however, was under no such misapprehension. Amusement and annoyance warred. He stood in front of the board, his shadow, thrown by a ray of sunlight from the upstairs windows, falling across the squares. Sarita finally looked up.
“My lord caliph,” she said coolly. “For some reason, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Now, that was foolish of you,” he returned, amusement winning over annoyance as he looked down at the small face, dominated by those great green eyes, surrounded by the extravagant cloud of fiery curls. Her chin lifted in unconscious response to his scrutiny as she tossed her head.
“You interrupt our play, my lord caliph.”
“I do wish you’d drop this tiresome nomenclature,” he observed, bending over the board and moving the white queen to king four. “That seems the best move in the circumstances.”
Sarita folded her hands in her lap. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure, my lord caliph?”
“Absurd creature!” Abul burst into laughter. “This display of cold dignity isn’t convincing, hija mía. We both know you’d rather use your knee and your fists to express annoyance.” Leaning over the board, he caught her lifted chin with his thumb. “Stop this nonsense now, and come for a ride with me into the mountains.”
Her response was everything he had hoped it would be. She sprang to her feet, knocking over the board in her enthusiasm. “A ride? You really mean it? Out of here, on a horse?”
He laughed with pleasure at her delight. “Yes, I really mean it. I know how you dislike lying around eating apricots all day. If it’s activity you crave, then you shall have it.”
“Oh, I should like it of all things,” she said, forgetting the need to quarrel with him, forgetting even her plan of escape at the prospect of riding free and clear of the walls of the Alhambra, up in her beloved mountains where the breezes blew cool and fresh, and the scents of wildflowers and herbs filled the air. Then her face fell ludicrously as a ridiculous obstacle struck her. “But I cannot ride. I have no drawers.” She had left the simple linen garment in her mother’s wagon. She only wore it for riding and in her hasty flight hadn’t thought to pack it.
“You will find such things among the clothes upstairs,” Abul said, chuckling at her dismayed expression. “I have anticipated your every need. There are leather hose and a tunic for riding.”
Sarita frowned. “But then I must wear the clothes of your people.” She had absolutely determined that during the few hours she would remain in this place, she would not again don the garments of the seraglio.
Abul raised a quizzical eyebrow. “I believe you have but three options: you must forgo the expedition, or wear the clothes of my people, or ride …” He paused, as if searching for the most appropriate term. “Or ride … uh … unprotected.” He tapped out the options on his fingers. “Is the principle worth the discomfort and indelicacy of the latter, I wonder?”
A smothered choke came from behind him. Kadiga and Zulema covered their mouths with their scarves, trying to hide their giggles lest they seem disrespectful. The caliph, however, appeared unperturbed by the stifled disturbance. He stood, hands resting lightly on his hips, feet apart, watching the variety of expressions chasing one another across Sarita’s mobile countenance: obstinacy, disappointment, mortification, resignation.
She bit her lip as her own ready humor finally surfaced. Without a word, she turned to the stairs.
“We will help you,” Kadiga said hastily, moving behind her.
Sarita didn’t trouble to discourage them. It would achieve nothing, and besides, she was becoming accustomed to their attentions.
Abul, sensing that he had won a significant victory, decided not to push matters further and remained where he was, idly picking up the chess pieces and setting them up again on the board.
Sarita surveyed herself in the mirror, clad in the skin-tight leather hose that fastened at her waist. They were amazingly comfortable, the material the softest doeskin, and they would be most practical for riding, with no extraneous folds to flap and impede movement. But she still couldn’t help feeling they were vaguely indecent. However, they would be covered by the tunic that Kadiga was holding out for her. It was as richly embroidered as any of the garments in the wardrobe the caliph had chosen for her, the only difference being that the sides were split to the waist, and the cut was so generous that the splits would not be apparent to anyone but the wearer.
She was about to take the garment from Kadiga when it occurred to her that there was no reason she shouldn’t wear her orange dress over the hose. She wore it over her own drawers when riding, so why not over these leather leggings?
“No, pass me my own dress, please,” she said, with a quiver of satisfaction that she was going to be able to pull one small triumph out of the caliph’s victory. She could not possibly have forgone the treat he offered, not after two days and two nights of incarceration in his gilded cage, but being obliged to wear the clothes of the gilded cage would have detracted from her pleasure. This way, she could still make her implicit statement that she did not accept
her captivity, yet still enjoy the ride in comfort.
Kadiga and Zulema looked as if they would protest her decision, but she gave them a fierce stare that produced a shrug from Kadiga and a placatory smile from Zulema, who silently proffered a pair of soft leather slippers that Sarita did not reject.
Dressed, she ran back down the stairs. “Let us go, my lord caliph.”
Abul looked up from the board. A pained expression flitted across his dark eyes as he took in her dress. It came and went very swiftly, but Sarita saw it and felt that quiver of triumph again. “On one condition,” Abul said.
“Oh?” Sarita’s eyebrows lifted as she prepared for battle. “And what is that, my lord caliph?”
“That you stop calling me ‘my lord caliph’ in that nonsensical fashion,” he returned with a hint of a snap. “It grows tedious.”
Sarita put her head on one side, frowning slightly as if considering some request. Then she gave him a brisk nod. “As you wish, Abul. Shall we go?” She gestured to the door.
Abul began to feel as if his ordered world was tilting sideways and he was on the verge of plunging into some maelstrom of confused and unruly events, with emotions to match. One minute his desire for her threatened to overwhelm him, and the next he wanted nothing more than to wring her pretty little neck. She looked so smug at the moment, well aware that she had circumvented him, well aware that she was infuriating him, and perfectly prepared to continue doing so. And beneath that awareness was the other current, that rich, tangible current of arousal that was inextricable partner to her combative edge. He could feel it in himself as he knew it flowed in her. The recognition suddenly brought a smile to his eyes. It was a dangerous game she played. Abul didn’t believe she yet fully realized how dangerous. But he was more than happy to play it with her.
