by Jane Feather
The prospect of destroying the pleasure of the day, her pleasure in the treat he had so caringly contrived for her, and his pleasure that he so clearly took from hers, filled her with a deep melancholy. But there was no choice. She could not stay, not under the conditions Abul imposed; therefore she must leave him. She had only one topic that would ensure his angry departure, and she must use it, even though she now shrank from the prying, intrusive impertinence that it involved. It was not her business. Aicha and Boabdil were nothing to her. Abul’s difficulties, on the other hand, did seem to matter to her … if they caused him distress. But she was going to use that distress because it was the only weapon she had at hand. And for that Muley Abul Hassan was responsible.
Resolutely, she walked toward him, words on her lips to destroy his carefully constructed repose and harmony.
Chapter Eleven
Abul watched Sarita leave the court of the alcazaba with Yusuf in bristling attendance. He could not believe what had happened so suddenly on the ride back, just before they had reached the Gate of Justice. Until then, she had been a cheerful, amusing companion, offering not a hint of her customary challenge or disaffection, lulling him, as he now aridly realized, into a false sense of peace, even to hope that despite the denial she had imposed on them both that afternoon, she was coming to accept his presence and her position, to begin to see the good things that were possible once she allowed the harmony of mind and body.
Then, with no warning, she had turned on him, her eyes narrowed, her voice laced with scorn. She had attacked with no quarter, first picking the most sensitive area of his personal life—accusing him of denying a mother’s love, of mistreating an impressionable child. She had declared her open sympathy with his wife, her pity for the child, and had gone on to ridicule his belief that all was peaceful and well ordered behind the walls of the Alhambra. She had talked of disaffected wives, disgruntled women servants: information and impressions she said she had gained from her own attendants. She had told him that if he ever bothered to listen to the women of his world, instead of discounting them completely as individuals with valid opinions, he would learn things that would radically change his views.
He had not been able to stop her. Initially, he had been so taken aback by the low-voiced tirade he had simply sat his horse and listened. Then his anger had risen, fierce and powerful, but there was no way he could express it as he would wish on horseback and accompanied by a troop of soldiers. She had taken shameless advantage of his disadvantages, plowing on through every contentious issue she could come up with, attacking the very base of his way of life with all the blind arrogance of ignorance, making assumptions like the one she had made about the blind musicians in the baths.
He had never come across anyone whose voice, expression, and posture could so radiate insolence and contempt. But what hurt the most was the ignorance that informed her opinions. He had believed her sensitive, intelligent, curious, and adaptable, but she had exhibited the blind prejudice of the bigot and had not hesitated to wade into the most private territory about which she knew nothing.
Abul was stunned. Suddenly he felt he had made the most dreadful error. This woman who had become such an inextricable part of his waking thoughts and nightly dreams was a hostile stranger. He wanted to turn from her, put her out of his life and thoughts, yet he could not. To his dismay, he still wanted her, even as she sat her horse, flashing green-eyed contempt at him, tossing that unruly tangle of curls dismissively, pouring an unbeliever’s scorn on everything he held most dear. Even then, she was as powerful an obsession as ever, and the knowledge filled him with self-disgust.
He had said nothing to her, could not bring himself to look at her, let alone speak to her. He had simply handed her over to Yusuf when they had dismounted within the Alhambra, curtly instructing the man to return her to the tower.
Sarita had spun on her heel and marched off before Yusuf could catch up with her. She had pushed through the groups or soldiers in the court, her head high, shoulders back, ignoring them as if they were so many motes of dust in a sunbeam. And Abul could feel the muttering swell of indignation in her wake. A powerful need to humble her rose in his breast; to teach her that no one could speak to him in that fashion about such things with impunity. He could impose any punishment he chose, but he knew that he would not. If he exacted arbitrary vengeance for her words, he would simply be reinforcing the opinion of him she had just so graphically expressed.
Chilled by the revelations of the past hour, as chilled as he was confused by them, he went to his own apartments, certain of only one thing: he didn’t know when he would be able to face her company again with equanimity, let alone pleasure. Desire, yes; but that, he told himself, was simply lust for the so-far unattainable. Once he had possessed her, she would lose that appeal for him … now that he knew he had been mistaken and the person herself had no appeal. But how could he have been so wrong? Muley Abul Hassan was no more accustomed to making mistakes of judgment than he was to feeling confusion.
Sarita forestalled Yusuf and slammed the door of the tower in his face the minute she had stepped into the court. It was a pointless and ill-tempered gesture; nevertheless, it gave her some satisfaction, declaring that she was her own prisoner, not anyone else’s.
She leaned against the door, her arms crossed over her breast, shuddering with a dreadful revulsion, hearing her voice and the things she had said in hideous reprise in her head. She could see Abul’s shocked face, then the pain in his eyes, the bewildered hurt that she could be so wounding, then the fierce anger that he either could not or would not express. And she would never be able to explain to him that she hadn’t meant any of those awful things, would never, ever think of saying such things, wounding him so deeply, if there had been any alternative; that it was his own pigheadedness that had forced her to do such a despicable thing.
Slowly, the sick quivers in her belly died down. She had achieved her object, and there was no point repining over the methods used. She shook her head as if to banish obscuring cobwebs of emotion, leaving her mind swept free for the clarity of thought and purpose that would ensure her escape.
For the moment, she was alone … no sign of Kadiga and Zulema, but presumably they would be along at any minute, eager to attend her, chat with her, play chess with her. Unless Abul had decreed she be locked in again, alone and hungry, as penalty for her savage assault. She hadn’t heard Yusuf turn the key, and when she tried the door it swung open soundlessly. So she still had her spurious freedom within the compound.
She had to make a rope, but if she began now, she risked being interrupted by Kadiga and Zulema. They would be easy enough to get rid of, and she would start as soon as they had gone. In the meantime, she would reconnoiter and decide which articles she would use.
When the two women appeared, they found her distracted, irritable, and disinclined for company. She told them she had no wish for supper and wanted to go to bed early. Kadiga tentatively suggested that the lord Abul might send for her and she should be prepared. Sarita dismissed the suggestion with the declaration that the caliph had said he had matters to attend to and would not be requiring her. It was not far from the truth, she reflected, wryly noticing how the correctly couched statement satisfied them instantly.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some music?” Zulema offered. “I could play the lyre while you rest, if you don’t feel like talk or play.”
“No, I wish for nothing, only solitude,” she said impatiently, hoping to drive them away from her swiftly with a curt lack of friendliness. They looked at her with a mixture of hurt and surprise, quite unaccustomed to such treatment. Just as she was quite unaccustomed to meting it out, Sarita thought dismally … although she was getting a lifetime’s experience today in spoiling relationships with unkindness.
The two finally left her, and she stood listening to the silence of isolation. She had told them not to light the lamps, believing that darkness better suited the work at hand. She felt il
logically that if she worked in the dark, there would be less chance of discovery. It was still not full dark outside, although the first stars were pricking the sky, and the thin crescent of the new moon was a diffused shape on the horizon. A new moon would give poor light, throwing little illumination into the gloom of the ravine. Once she had reached the bottom, she would be safe from detection.
She was clearheaded now, all her thoughts concentrated on the implementation of her plan. She removed the key from the outside of the tower door and locked herself in. It would save her from a surprise visit, and she had already made clear her need for solitude.
She ran up to the gallery and began swiftly to gather the selected items. The sheets and coverlets on the divan offered the best possibilities. The silk was rich and strong, the material plentiful.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Sarita began to twist the silk into rope lengths. She worked deftly and with great concentration. Rope making was a skill she had learned in her childhood. She knew how to weave and braid the strands to make the material as strong as it could be, how to ensure that the knots wouldn’t slip. Finished, she shook out the length. It wasn’t long enough, would probably only take her to the middle of the rampart. The ottomans were covered with silk spreads; there were caftans on the rack in the embrasure. But the caftans were embroidered with jewels. Some learned thriftiness prevented her from using such material to make a simple rope. Fleetingly, it occurred to her that the jewels would be sound currency in the world outside the Alhambra. But theft was unthinkable. Using the materials of her imprisonment to effect her escape and leaving them behind was one thing; taking anything that didn’t belong to her was another.
The rope finally braided to her satisfaction, Sarita sat by the balcony she had chosen for her escape, waiting for the darkest part of the night. She knew she should try to sleep, but she was too jumpy to relax. Every little creak, every murmur on the night air beyond the window, set her pulses racing. She had no clear plan for when she was free of the Alhambra, except that she must make her way to the Castilian border. She knew Abul’s warnings had not been entirely self-serving: the kingdom of Granada was no safe place for a lone woman of any race, and the sooner she was out of it, the better. In the bazaar in Granada she might find a caravan of Spanish merchants she could join. She had silver pennies to pay her way and certain domestic skills she could offer in exchange for protection. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best she could come up with.
While she waited, a deep melancholy crept over her. Was it because the future was so uncertain? Was it the natural fear she felt, now that her preparations were made, now that there was nothing to do but wait? Or was it something else? Suddenly she could taste grapes on her tongue and her mouth tingled as if Abul had just moved his lips from hers. She saw his face as he leaned over her, his eyes bright with passion and laughter. She felt again that aura of sweetness, of gentleness, that flowed from him, intermingled with the quiet wisdom and the unmistakable confidence and authority that had their roots somewhere deep within him, in some dominion he had over himself, some certainty at his core. And then she saw his face as it had been when she had left him in the court of the alcazaba that afternoon: his eyes blank stones, his mouth a thin line of anger, his facial muscles drawn with shock, taut with the effort he was making to contain his rage.
Tears were rolling soundlessly down her cheeks, Sarita realized. Why? She wiped them away with the back of her hand. She didn’t really need to ask why she wept. Her hands played with the silken rope in her lap. But she had to go. She didn’t belong in a Moorish seraglio, one of the caliph’s playthings. However powerfully she responded to him, to the joyous promise of his body, to his warmth and humor, she could not endure the thought of subjugating her self to the rites and whims of the caliph’s world. If she yielded to him while he was imposing his will upon her in this way, she would herself be lost, just one woman among many in the Alhambra. And she would not be able to live with herself under those circumstances. She would suffer the slow death of the spirit even more than if she had stayed to be wedded and bedded with Tariq. At least in the tribe of Raphael, she would have had an acknowledged place, a proper function outside Tariq’s bed.
But she had not chosen that, just as she did not choose the life Abul wished to impose upon her. She was taking her destiny into her own hands. With sudden energy, Sarita sprang up and stepped out onto the small balcony. The ravine below was a dark wound. Clouds scudded across the sky, now and again dousing the brightness of starlight and the new moon’s delicate illumination. It was a perfect night for flight.
She fastened the rope to the balcony’s iron railing, checking and double-checking the knot, knowing that her life would literally be depending upon its strength. Then she went back into the darkened tower for her bundle, tying it to her waist with a silk scarf. The scarf and the leather hose she was still wearing were all she would take away with her from this place.
Without allowing herself to think, she tossed the rope over the balcony. It snaked downward against the stone of the rampart, falling about ten feet short of the base of the wall. It was a manageable drop. At least she thought it was. She’d find out soon enough.
She waited until a mass of cloud obscured the brightest of the stars. Looking along the wall to either side of her tower, she could see no movement, sense no sign of life. In the gardens behind her, torches flared, but here there was only the darkness and silence of the mountainside under a night sky. Throwing one leg over the balcony rail, she gripped the silk rope with one hand and gingerly lowered herself over the balcony, still holding the rail with her other hand until her feet and knees had purchase on the rope. Then she let go of the rail, feeling the sweat of fear gathering in her armpits and between her breasts as she hung motionless, waiting for the crack of the rail, the slipping knot, that would send her crashing to the bottom of the ravine. But the knot held.
Hand over hand, gripping strongly with her bare feet, grateful for the leather hose that protected her knees and inner thighs, she climbed down, her weight holding the rope steady against the wall. She didn’t dare look down between her feet to see how far she had to go. She just kept on, hand over hand, until suddenly her feet found no purchase. She had reached the end of the rope. Again without looking—there was no point, after all; if the drop was too far, she could do nothing about it now—she closed her eyes tight, prayed, and let go.
She landed with a jarring thud, lost her balance, and began to roll down the steep mountainside into the ravine. Desperately, she grabbed at a patch of scrub and hung on. Thorns dug into her hands and tears sprang in her eyes, but she didn’t let go until she had managed to dig her feet into the sparse soil and halt her downward progress. Her heart thudded in her throat and banged against her rib cage, her hand stung dreadfully, but she was out of the Alhambra, hidden in the dark shadows of the ravine’s opening.
The watchman, doing the rounds of the ramparts, brushed irritably at a swooping bat, raising his torch to scare it away. In the flare of illumination, he caught the faintest flicker of movement from the tower on his right and peered into the dimness. Something was fluttering snakelike against the wall. He held his torch over the wall. What he saw sent him hotfoot to the main watchtower, where his colleagues were reporting in from their patrols of other sections of the ramparts.
The officer of the watch hurried back with him, verified the report, and sent the watchman to check on the occupant of the tower. The man found the door locked from within, and his knocking and shouting received no response. The officer of the watch set off to the lord Abul, anxiously wondering how he could be held responsible for whatever had happened. The woman in the tower hadn’t been specifically placed in his charge. But the ramparts were his responsibility. They should offer neither access nor egress, and in his memory they had never before done so. But there was no denying the evidence of that rope dangling from the balcony.
Abul was at supper with the deputation from Haroun Kalim w
hen the officer of the watch was announced. The rigors of ceremonial hospitality had kept thoughts of Sarita at bay, and he was feeling relatively relaxed, talking amiably with his guests while a harpist plucked gently in the background.
The urgent appearance of the officer brought him instantly alert. Such a disturbance would be unthinkable except in an emergency. But he mustn’t give his guests any indication that something might be amiss in the Alhambra. Politely, he excused himself and went into the adjoining chamber with the man, who was apologizing profusely for disturbing the caliph, apologizing for his perceived negligence, although he couldn’t imagine how such a thing had happened …
“Get to the point, man,” Abul interjected into the confused torrent of half explanation and apology. “I cannot tell whether you are to blame when I do not know what has occurred.”
He listened incredulously as the man stumbled through his table. “The tower is locked, you say?”
“Yes, my lord caliph. I have set men to remove the lock, but I thought I should come—”
“Yes, yes, you did quite right.” Abul waved him into silence. Sarita had climbed down the rampart, down into the ravine. It was an astounding thing to do. It would never have occurred to him that she would even think of taking such drastic action, let alone be able to implement it.
But perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. He knew her to be resourceful and courageous. After the dismal failure of her previous attempt at flight, he had believed her resigned to her situation, although he knew she was still far from accepting it wholeheartedly. Obviously she had been playing a game with him, deluding him into believing her resigned when all along she continued to plot her escape.
