by Jane Feather
“I’m just a puddle,” she said after a few minutes. “If I stay here much longer, you’ll have to wipe me off this slab with a towel or pour me into a jug.”
Abul slowly swung himself off the slab. “Come in the other chamber.” He steadied her as she stood up, her head spinning slightly as it had before. Then, in the small grotto next door, he poured jugs of cool water over her. Sarita luxuriated in the glorious cessation of steaming heat, offering him every surface of her body as her skin came vibrantly to life. Then she took up the next line of jugs standing ready-filled and performed the same service for him.
“You must bend down,” she said, laughing. “How can I pour water over your shoulders when they are so much higher than I am?”
Abul obliged, giving her his back, bending over so that she could douse him liberally. She moved suddenly behind him, clasping his waist strongly, nestling herself against his buttocks, sliding her hands around his body on a delicious trespass of her own. There was something exquisite in the feel of their cool, wet skins pressed together. The torpor of the first bath was long gone, the languor of satiation dissipated under the slow but steady return of arousal. Oh, yes, Sarita decided, the baths and lovemaking were most compatible partners.
Abul straightened slowly, turned, and caught her to him again. He kissed her with absolute concentration, holding her lightly by the upper arms, otherwise touching no part of her but her mouth, so that all sensation was concentrated on their conjoined mouths: the partnering tongues, the pliancy of lips, the warm sweetness within.
When they finally drew apart, the water had dried on their skins, the coolness replaced by natural warmth and the heated beginnings of passion. “I am going to oil you,” Abul said quietly, leading her into the Hall of Repose. “And use the strigil. Then you may do the same for me.”
Sarita nodded, entranced again by the grace and beauty of the hall, by the soft strains of harp and lyre drifting down from the balcony. It was as if the hall and its atmosphere deliberately created a lull in the spiral of passion … a spiral that would coil all the tighter for the lull.
She stretched out on the cushioned divan, letting her eyes close, inhaling the delicate scent of the perfumed oil as Abul warmed it over the spirit lamp. She felt his hands on her back, strong and smooth, kneading the oil into her skin, relaxing her yet also awakening her. Lazily she turned her head and suddenly remembered the last time she’d been here, when she had woken, turned her head, and come face-to-face with the caliph’s principal wife, watching her as she slept.
“How many women do you have?” she asked, artlessly enough. “In the Alhambra, I mean.”
The hands on her back stilled for a minute, then began their work again. “There are many women in the Alhambra.”
“No … but you know what I mean. How many do you have to serve you, if that’s the right term?”
If Abul had answered the question as simply as it had been asked, she would probably have ceased to be curious. It didn’t strike Sarita as at all an impolitic question. She knew the facts, after all. Abul, however, found the question both impolitic and unnecessary.
“Why would you want to know, Sarita?”
There was a closed note in his voice that seemed to Sarita to require a challenge. As usual, she rose to the challenge with a tingle of excitement. “Well, I’d quite like to know how large your stable is, and where I come in the order of preference— Oww!” She rolled off the divan with a reflex movement, leaping to her feet, glaring at him, one hand rubbing her bottom. “You meant that. That wasn’t playful!”
“No,” Abul said consideringly, wiping his oily hands on a towel. “No, I don’t believe it was. Although I took myself by surprise. But that was the most inappropriate, indiscreet remark you’ve yet made. And that, hija mía, is saying quite a lot.”
“Oh, is it?” She advanced on him, the light of battle in her eyes, and he chuckled, recognizing the signs of Sarita about to enter the lists. “Well, let me tell you, my lord caliph, that where I come from, women don’t have to compete with each other for the attentions of one man. And since I am in this strange place—”
“Through your own choice,” he murmured.
“Yes, through my own choice,” she concurred impatiently. “But since I am here, I think I’m entitled to know how and where I stand.” She gave him a little push in the chest in emphasis and then jumped back, daring him with her eyes, where sparked excitement engendered by a great deal more than indignation.
“So much for the Hall of Repose,” Abul mused, accepting the dare. He lunged for her, but her oiled body slipped through his grasp, and she was off across the court with a shriek of mock dismay. The sweet strains of music continued to drift down from the balcony as they dodged around the columns, Sarita enticing him with her body, turning this way and that to offer him glimpses of her small, firm breasts, of her backside, of the soft concavity of her belly, of the smooth, sinuous muscularity of her limbs.
He caught her when he decided to do so, taking her by surprise as he had done once before with a swift reversal of direction. “You should remember the lessons of the past,” he said, holding her firmly against him. Sarita drew a gulping, panting breath, but it was not as a result of the chase. Then, on a devilish impulse, she twisted in his hold, ducking her head beneath his arm, making a bid for freedom as she used her body as a lever. Abul laughed exultantly, brought his other hand around to improve his hold, and lifted her off the ground.
“So much for the Hall of Repose,” he reiterated, bearing her backward to the cushioned divan, his eyes heavy with anticipation, meeting the green, sparking, elated anticipation in her own.
Sarita fell back on the divan, but her legs moved of their own volition to clasp his waist. She was lost now in the spirit of pursuit and capture, in the physical exaltation of the moment, freed from all need to hold back, to deny her responses to the game or her need for its conclusion. She curled her legs around his waist, pulling him into the cleft of her opened body.
“I had intended a little more leisure,” Abul whispered, momentarily holding himself on the tender edge of her body. “But you seem to know what you want, Sarita mía. Are you sure you’re ready?” But he could see it in her eyes, feel it in her skin, and if he was still in any doubt, her feet pressed into his buttocks, driving him within.
With a low moan of joy, he entered her, feeling the soft velvety walls of her being enclose him, feeling her pleasure as her hips lifted to meet him, her hands moved to grasp his upper arms, her head shifted on the cushions.
“Love me.” The passionate demand whispered through the hall beneath the gentle plucking of the harp. “Abul, querido, love me.”
“With all my heart,” he whispered back, lost in her joy, in the affirmation of her words, in the knowledge that he had found something he had never realized he had been missing … something for which he would renounce everything if it were demanded of him … something he would defend with his life.
Chapter Fourteen
“The lord Abul comes. He is crossing the Court of the Lions.”
This information, breathlessly imparted by a small child peering through the jalousies of a window overlooking the court below, was greeted with much rustling of silken skirts and whispered excitement in the seraglio, only Sarita remaining apparently unmoved on a divan in a dim corner of the central parlor.
The woman with whom she had been conducting a painstaking conversation in halting Arabic smiled apologetically as she drew the language lesson to a close and rose, hastening over to a mirrored dresser where other women clustered, patting their hair, straightening ruffles at necks and wrists, smoothing out creases in their skirts.
Sarita watched the scene with amusement not unmixed with incomprehension. Even after six months, she still could not fully understand or accept the way the women of the seraglio viewed Abul. He was the supreme being in their lives, his visits eagerly anticipated, endlessly discussed. His physical health, state of mind, and humor were all
argued over, worried about, or seen as matters for self-congratulation. There was a degree of rivalry among them, but it rarely led to unpleasantness, and Sarita herself had been accepted with interest as a pleasurably different addition to their circle. The fact that she was their lord’s undisputed favorite seemed to trouble none of them. They lived their own lives in their own apartments, lives of leisure and indolence, enlivened by gossip, veiled excursions to the bazaars in Granada, long hours in the baths, music, games, their children, and, most of all, by the caliph’s visits.
All except for Aicha, Sarita thought, her eyes going to the tall, luxuriant figure of Abul’s principal wife. Aicha was sitting with her son, it being the hour after sundown, and at the news of the caliph’s impending arrival she had drawn Boabdil closer to her side, whispered something to him, smoothed his hair. It looked on the surface as if she were trying to comfort or reassure him, but the child, instead of taking comfort, appeared a great deal more alarmed than he had before.
Aicha was no passive recipient of the caliph’s favor and bounty. Sarita had realized this very early on in their acquaintance. Aicha had her own plans, her own ideas about the way she wanted things to be, and Sarita had decided that the lady had more than sufficient determination and ingenuity to succeed in fulfilling them. She professed friendship for Sarita, and Sarita accepted it without apparent question, although she steered clear of exchanges of confidence; and whenever Aicha brought up the subject of Abul’s treatment of Boabdil, Sarita resolutely changed the subject.
Aicha appeared unperturbed by this, continued to be friendly, but sometimes Sarita sensed undercurrents that made her uneasy. It was not so much what Aicha said, but some shadow lurking in her seemingly smiling brown eyes. Sarita was aware that the other women feared Aicha, and she was aware of the extent of the power the sultana wielded over the inhabitants of the seraglio. And occasionally, Sarita had the impression that that power extended beyond the seraglio. No, Aicha was quite unlike the other women. She certainly had her own sphere of influence and not least over her son—
Sarita’s musing was interrupted by the sound of Abul’s voice carrying from the hall below the jalousied gallery of the seraglio. As always, her heart leaped and an involuntary smile of anticipation touched her lips. She had been waiting for that sound since the bells from the alcazaba had heralded the caliph’s return from his two-week journey to Tangier. Two weeks was too long a separation, she had decided many times during the interminable fourteen days.
The other women began to move toward the doorway. Only Aicha remained where she was, although she rose to her feet. Boabdil clung to her skirt like a six-year-old, not at all like a tall lad well into his twelfth year.
Sarita stayed on her divan. When the bells had brought the news of Abul’s return, she had debated going to her tower to await him there, but a streak of stubbornness had kept her in the seraglio, continuing her language lesson with the amenable Fadha. She knew that for some reason Abul disliked her spending time in the seraglio with his wives. He had never said as much, but a flicker of displeasure would darken his eyes and his mouth would tauten whenever he came across her there or had to seek her out there. But she saw no reason not to enjoy the company of the other women, particularly in Abul’s absence. She had grown up in the gregarious circumstances of tribal life and found little pleasure in solitude. Kadiga and Zulema were good friends, but increasingly these days they had other duties that kept them away from the tower. Once, when she had laughingly complained of their neglect, they had both looked awkward and muttered something about the lady Aicha’s instructions. She had tried to press them, but Kadiga had firmly changed the subject and the more malleable Zulema had looked unaccountably frightened.
Abul was in the chamber now, and she listened to the musical resonance of his voice as he greeted the women clustering around him. His eyes lifted, ran around the chamber, found Sarita in her dim corner, and held her green gaze for a long, frowning minute, as if he could thus read her soul. She smiled and he nodded imperceptibly, as if satisfied, before turning to where Aicha and Boabdil stood, just outside the eagerly welcoming circle.
“Greetings, Aicha.” He came toward her. “And you, my son.” He held out his hand to the boy, who hesitated for an agonizing minute before taking it. As soon as he was released, he inched backward again behind his mother.
Aicha’s attempt to hide her satisfaction would probably convince most people, but not a truly observant watcher. A flash of exasperation crossed Abul’s face, and Sarita winced. She had watched similar scenes many times, but the subject was taboo between herself and Abul, carrying too many hurtful memories to be raised, so she kept silent. But one day she was sure she would be unable to maintain her silence with Aicha. She could not imagine what the woman hoped to gain by destroying all possibility of a relationship between father and son, but that she was doing so was as obvious to Sarita as it was to Abul.
Abul now spoke quietly to Aicha, ignoring the cowering Boabdil. Sarita could hear nothing of what was said, but she could tell by the way Aicha abruptly lowered her eyes to the floor that it was disagreeable. She had noticed how Aicha frequently hid her expressions, either by lowering her eyes or by turning away, and was convinced that the present lowering was to hide her annoyance rather than to express submission to her lord.
Finally, Abul turned from her. His eyes sought Sarita’s again, and she could feel the jagged edges of his customarily smooth surface. “Come,” he said shortly, beckoning her with the tips of his fingers. Turning on his heel, he left the chamber.
Sarita rose and followed, the other women falling back to make way for her. She paused deliberately to bid them farewell, to thank Fadha for her patience over the lesson, aware as she did so that they couldn’t understand why she was delaying when the caliph had summoned her. She didn’t really understand it herself, since both body and soul yearned to be alone with Abul, but she still seemed to need to make these statements of independence.
He was waiting for her in the Court of the Lions, a veritable monument of forbearance as he leaned against the massive head of a lion at the fountain, arms folded, gaze fixed languidly on the surrounding peaks as the residual flush of the sunset left them.
“You certainly took your time,” he observed as she emerged from the portico and slowly crossed the court toward him, the folds of her robe flowing gently from her hips as she walked. There was a glimmer of laughter in the eagle’s black eyes … laughter and unashamed lust as his gaze dwelt on the hinted lines of her body.
“I had to make my farewells,” she replied, reaching him, standing close yet not touching him, both of them relishing the prospect of touching, a prospect made all the more delightful by this willful restraint.
“I had hoped to find you in the tower,” Abul said. “Were you so uneager for my return that you preferred the gossip of the seraglio to preparing a welcome for me?” There was the faintest hint of reproach in his voice, momentarily banishing both laughter and lust.
Sarita shook her head, smiling. “No, indeed not, my lord caliph. But I thought to heighten the pleasure of greeting you by prolonging the wait.”
Abul’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder if that was the only reason.”
“Believe it to be so,” she advised. Her tongue touched her lips, and her voice dropped. “I am tingling all over just standing beside you, querido. If you do not touch me soon, I shall expire of unrequited wanting.”
He laughed, reached out a nonchalant hand, and lightly brushed the curls away from her forehead. “Not unrequited, hija mía. For the past three hours I have been able to think of nothing but the feel of your skin, the scent of your hair, the softness of your body. Every curve and hollow is imprinted on the palms of my hands; the taste of you is on my tongue; the absolute knowledge of your body is in my head and in my eyes.”
“Come,” Sarita said in her turn as desire jolted in the pit of her stomach, sending burning currents down her thighs. Unable to take her eyes off him, she began
to walk backward, her hand reaching for his. “Come,” she repeated, softly, urgently imperative. “Come, before I do something that must not be witnessed.”
Abul’s eyes flicked upward to the shuttered windows of the seraglio overlooking the court, and he grinned. “Had you been waiting for me in proper fashion, you would not find yourself in such difficulties.”
“If you would revenge yourself in this fashion, my lord caliph, I take leave to tell you that it shows a niggardly spirit.” Before he could respond, she suddenly picked up her skirts and set off at a most indecorous run out of the court, through the portico, not slowing until she had reached the cypress path to the tower.
Abul, laughing, followed at a fast walk, his blood singing with all the joys of anticipation.
Neither of them had been aware of the shadowy eyes of Aicha watching from behind the jalousie of an overlooking window. She hadn’t been able to hear anything of what was said between them, but she had needed no ears to catch the deep, sensual currents flowing between them. The power of that attraction was an almost palpable aura around them, and somehow she knew it was not just their bodies that yearned to be united. There was a deeper, stronger bond that joined them. And it was that bond that threatened the sultana’s future … that bond that must be destroyed.
It had been nearly two weeks since she had sent the message to her father, emir of the powerful Mocarabes family, telling him of her husband’s blind passion for a Christian captive, and of her fear that he was losing the power to govern, even as he talked wildly of repudiating his own true wife and heir in favor of the unbeliever. There was no truth in the latter accusations, but she knew they would inflame her father. He would spread the word among the other great families, and a challenge to Muley Abul Hassan’s right of kingship was inevitable. There would be dissension in the kingdom as the great families divided in allegiance, and even if Abul survived the challenge, he would be much weakened. It would be a significant first step in her long and lovingly plotted scheme to overthrow her husband. And such conflict in the Morisco-Spanish kingdom would be bound to attract the attention of the ever-watchful Spanish across the border, who would perhaps see an opportunity for interference, thus increasing the pressure on Abul.
