by Jane Feather
Thoughtfully, she turned back to the parlor. Boabdil had left her side as soon as his father had departed and was wrestling roughly with one of the smaller children. The younger child had begun to cry as his elder brother held his head in a fierce lock beneath his arm. Boabdil was laughing as if it were still a game. No one said anything … no one daring to chide Aicha’s son. The small child’s mother chewed her lip, wringing her hands in despairing frustration as her son’s cries grew louder.
“Enough, Boabdil,” Aicha finally said when the cries had reached a fever pitch.
“I am teaching him how to fight,” Boabdil declared, reluctantly loosening his grip. The child wriggled free and ran sobbing to his mother. “He has to learn, doesn’t he, Mother?”
“Yes … yes … and it is good of you to wish to teach him,” Aicha said. “But come with me to my apartments now. There are some things I would talk to you about.” The two left the chamber, Boabdil chattering, Aicha still distracted.
Her two-pronged attack was making a slow start. Her father had not yet responded to her message, and so far the Christian showed no signs of ill health. By now there should be some signs of weakness, some reduction in that robust energy she always exhibited. Perhaps the strength of the potion should be increased. But Aicha couldn’t afford to run the risk of discovery, and if the Spaniard’s debilitation became suddenly noticeable, questions would be asked. Even though she was preventing Kadiga and Zulema’s constant attendance on Sarita, Aicha was well aware of Kadiga’s shrewd watchfulness. The attendant missed little of what was said and done within the palace and brought an unusually intelligent analysis to bear in many cases. No … Aicha must strive for patience. Sarita was obviously stronger and healthier than she had bargained for. But she could not hold out against the insidious bane forever. Soon it would take its toll …
“So, have you missed me at all, cara?” Abul asked teasingly when their rapid progression had brought them to the seclusion of the tower.
“Oh, yes,” she said, turning to face him.
“Which part have you missed the most?” he asked, leaning back against the closed door, his eyes brightly observing her, taking in the slight flush of excitement on her cheeks, the green flames of desire flickering deep in her eyes.
Sarita put her head to one side, clipping her bottom lip between even white teeth. “Let me see …” She considered. “Many parts, I believe. This, for instance.” Standing on tiptoe, she touched his mouth with her lips, a butterfly kiss. “And this …” The tip of his chin came next. “And this …” She touched her tongue to the hollow of his throat, where his neck rose strong and golden from the collar of his tunic. “And this …” Her swift fingers unlaced his tunic and pushed open the shirt beneath, baring his chest so that she could lightly brush the small, hard nipples with her tongue. “And this …” One hand moved behind him, fingers insinuating themselves inside the belted waist of his riding britches, wriggling downward to the base of his spine. “And most especially this …”
Abul inhaled sharply at the insistent, intimate pressure, then felt the buckle of his belt loosening under the deft manipulation of her other hand; her flat palm warmed his belly as she reached for the upwardly thrusting shaft of his passion. He let the door at his back take the weight of his shoulders, his knees bending slightly as the wickedly erotic caresses continued, enveloping him in heated sensation that promised the soul’s drowning.
Very slowly, she withdrew her hands, and his eyes opened as a beatific smile came to his lips. “Yes,” she whispered, “I have missed all those parts, but most of all have I missed the sum of the parts: the whole man, Abul, querido.”
Abul stood straight, pushing himself away from the door, his breathing ragged as he brought himself back from the brink of bliss. Still smiling, he refastened his belt, then lifted Sarita in his arms. “I don’t think I’ll stand you against the door for my own naming of parts,” he murmured, and she chuckled, slipping her arms around his neck, pulling his head down to hers. He walked with her to the stairs of the sleeping gallery, his mouth still joined with hers.
Upstairs he bent to lay her on the bed, but she clung to his neck, her tongue suddenly pushing into his mouth, expressing abrupt, urgent demand. “Now!” she whispered against his mouth. “Right away, Abul.”
Her upsurge of unquenchable ardor spilled over him, sweeping him along with her as she wriggled and twisted on the cushioned divan, trying to free her legs from the confines of her robe even while she kept her arms around his neck, her mouth locked with his. He slipped one hand beneath her, turning her slightly on one side to release the skirt before pushing it up to her waist as she fell back again. If he had had the least inclination to deny her demand, to prolong the waiting, the softness of her skin, the sinuous curve of her hip, her legs as straight and as lissome as hazel wands, destroyed all possibility of control.
Kneeling on the bed beside her, he fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but she was quicker and defter than he and pushed his britches off his hips, a fingernail scraping his thigh in her haste. He was about to take off his boots but paused for an instant to look down at her as she sprawled in wanton abandon, her hips lifting unconsciously, her thighs parted, a sheen of moisture on the satiny inner slopes glimmering in the soft glow of the lamplight. He was lost, irretrievably, and with a shuddering breath came over her, sliding his hands beneath her to lift her to meet him as he entered her body in one deep, probing thrust. Sarita cried out, tears standing in her eyes with the joy of his presence within her, her body moving rhythmically with his, her gaze riveted to the dark pools of passion above her. There came the moment when their eyes widened simultaneously with the ever-magical realization that the supreme joy could always be repeated, always found again, and Sarita laughed and Abul laughed back as he drove to her core and the world dissolved.
It was much later when Sarita returned to her self in the galleried chamber. She had been content to drift in a dozy dream of satiation, her lower body still pressed to Abul’s, her robe twisted beneath her, his head resting on her breast. But the sounds of movement in the court below brought her back to her senses. The sounds did not disturb her. She had become perfectly accustomed in the past months to the quiet, uncommanded attentions of shadowy servants in the palace. The caliph’s whereabouts were always known to the vizier, his needs always anticipated. Presumably, it was now suppertime.
Abul sat up, his skin seeming to unpeel itself from Sarita’s. He stretched languidly before bending to drop a kiss on her freckled nose. “Content, Sarita mía?”
She nodded. “For the moment.”
He laughed. “Insatiable woman. I do not think I have ever before made love in my boots! But now I need my supper. I was in such haste to reach you by sundown that we didn’t break our journey to dine this day.” He pulled up his britches and strode to the gallery rail, calling down, “Make haste and leave.”
He turned back to the divan, where Sarita still lay sprawled half naked on the cushions. “There is a bath below. We will sup more comfortably after a soak in hot water.” Leaning over her, he pulled her into a sitting position and lifted the robe over her head, observing, “There is something wickedly seductive about a half-naked woman.”
“More than a completely naked one?” Sarita stood and stretched in her turn.
“Completely naked, you don’t seem quite so provocative,” he said thoughtfully. “Most beautiful and desirable, but not wicked. I find your wickedness most amazingly arousing.”
Sarita regarded him quizzically, pushing her fingers through her hair to release the wild curls. “I’ll try to remember that, should I ever need to arouse you when—” She broke off abruptly, her hand going to her throat.
“What is it?” Abul took her arm, alarmed by her pallor.
She said nothing for a moment, then drew a shaky breath. “It’s nothing, really. My heart’s beating very fast, but it will slow down. It’s happened several times just recently.” She sat down on the divan again, cradl
ing her stomach. “I feel weak and queasy, but it will pass.”
Abul frowned. She was still very pale, and he was unconvinced by her reassurances. “Perhaps you are with child.”
She shook her head. “No, I have been taking the draught Kadiga brings me, and I bled while you were away.”
Abul’s frown deepened. “Do you not wish to bear my child?”
Sarita looked up. It wasn’t the right moment to deal with such a subject, but she didn’t know how to answer with less than the truth. A circumlocution required more mental energy than she could at present muster. “Not in these circumstances, Abul.”
“What are ‘these circumstances’?” he inquired.
Sarita sighed and stood up tentatively. “Let us not talk of it now. We will only quarrel, and I don’t feel strong enough.”
Her color was beginning to return, but Abul, customarily sensitive, forbore to press her. “Lie down again,” he said. “Rest for a few more minutes.” He propped cushions up against the wall at the back of the divan and sat down, swinging his still booted legs onto the coverlet. “Come!” He patted the divan beside him imperatively. “Lie down here. The bath will wait.”
Sarita sank down with a half-smothered sigh of relief. He put his arm around her and drew her against his chest, smoothing her hair. “How often has this happened?”
She frowned, trying to remember. “Several times in the last days. I haven’t paid any attention to it, really.”
“What does Kadiga say about it? She has some understanding of bodily ailments, I believe.”
“She does not know of it. She and Zulema are rarely with me anymore. I understood that Aicha had need of them—”
“They do not come under Aicha’s jurisdiction,” Abul broke in vigorously. “Their primary task is to attend you whenever you have need. It is not for Aicha to alter that.”
Sarita shook her head against his chest. “Perhaps I misunderstood,” she ventured. “They did not exactly say as much … Besides,” she added, rather more strongly, “I do not need to be waited upon hand and foot. It is only that I miss their company on occasion. We had become friends.”
Abul said nothing. He could well imagine Aicha resenting such a friendship and doing what she could to break it. Alliances among the women of the Alhambra could be potentially threatening to her power and influence. Well, it would be easy enough for him to restore that friendship while he was in the palace. It was only in his absence that Aicha could work her malice.
“You must talk of these spells with Kadiga,” he said. “If they do not abate and we cannot discover the cause, then you must consult Muhamed Alahma. He is a physician of great gifts and skills.”
“A physician!” Sarita pushed herself upright. “What nonsense, Abul. My mother would give me a strong purge and I would be well again. I will ask Kadiga if she has the means to concoct such a thing.”
Abul pulled doubtfully at his chin. But he knew little of such matters and assumed women knew best how to heal themselves. “Are you easier now?”
“Perfectly at ease,” she said with a resumption of her usual vigor. “Let us go below, for if you are as hungry as I am, you could eat a camel.”
Abul followed her to the now deserted court and sat watching as she dipped into the tub of steaming water. “Now you may tell me why the circumstances make you unwilling to bear my child. We will not quarrel, I promise you.” His voice was calm, sounding merely curious, but Sarita was in no doubt as to the potential for hurt and acrimony in the subject.
Sighing, she rubbed the cake of soap between her hands and tried to explain. “I do not know what place I have here … or what place a child of mine would have, Abul. I know I am one of many women, and I can accept that … for as long as I remain here,” she added. “For myself, I can accept that, but I could not accept such an unsatisfactory position for my child. To bear your child, to see him grow up in the seraglio, a secondary child with no real role or importance in this world, would mean that I had accepted absolutely that I belonged in this world, that I accepted its constraints for myself and my child. And I cannot do that. I love you, Abul, but I do not belong here.”
“Why, then, do you spend so much time in the seraglio?” he asked. “You are always to be found with the other women, much as if you believe yourself to be one of them.”
“Sometimes I am lonely,” she said in simple truth. “And they are the only companionship available. Fadha is teaching me to speak Arabic.” She sat up in the bath, hugging her knees. “You do not like it when I am there, do you?”
Abul shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
He regarded her sharply. How to say that he wanted to keep her for himself, that he felt there was something indefinably unsuitable about her mingling with his wives? How to say that he did not trust Aicha’s potential influence?
“Because you are not one of them,” he said slowly. “You are not one of many. You know that there is no other woman for me, Sarita. Since you came, I have summoned none other.”
“Yes, I know that. But if that is to remain the case, what are you going to do about them?”
“Why must I do anything?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.
“But if they are not to lie with you, then they have absolutely no function at all,” she said. “Yet they are there, and because they are there, I cannot feel that you cleave only to me in the manner of my people, and therefore I cannot bear your child or agree to stay here indefinitely.”
“You wish to leave me?” He struggled for understanding.
“No … no, of course I do not. But I do not know what to do as things are,” she said with a frustrated groan. “I do not know who or what I am, and I have no sense of a future. I expect I could continue in this way. Indeed, I can see no alternative if we are to love as we have been. But I cannot be whole in such circumstances and without a sense of a future, and therefore I cannot give you a child, the embodiment of a belief in a future … Can you understand that, querido?” The explanation was very convoluted, but then, so was the issue, and this was the best she could do at untangling it. She stepped out of the bath and wrapped herself in a thick towel.
Abul sighed and began to undress, preparatory to dipping himself in the rapidly cooling bathwater. He didn’t understand. The only issue of any importance, it seemed to him, was the nature of the love they shared. “I think you make mountains out of molehills, Sarita. In all essentials it is as if I have only you for a wife. But I cannot cast off my other wives. If I returned them to their families, I would have civil war upon my hands.” He stepped into the tub. “Surely you see my difficulty?”
Sarita nodded. “Yes, I do. But you must also see mine. We have to continue as we are, and ask for no more.”
Abul knew that such a compromise would not satisfy him, but he did not feel confident enough to make such a declaration at this moment. He had no alternative to offer that she would accept.
Sarita knew that such a compromise would not satisfy her, but she also knew she had no right to insist on what she would accept. There were too many other people involved, and a whole world of custom and ritual that could not be turned upside down by one Spanish woman with her own expectations of the way the world should be.
Chapter Fifteen
Nafissa hurried along the Barakha gallery, the oiled skin rolled tightly in her hand and held against the folds of her robe. The messenger from the Mocarabes had sought her out in the servants’ quarters, as instructed to do, and she now carried the missive from the emir of the Mocarabes to his daughter, the sultana of Granada. She concealed the skin and walked swiftly, her eyes alive at every shadow, every fellow traveler in the porticos and courts that she crossed. But, in fact, Nafissa had no need to fear challenge. So far the caliph had no reason to suspect intrigue between his wife and father-in-law, and it had not occurred to him to alert the spy network within the palace to watch for any clandestine communications between Aicha and the apparently friendly visiting mission.
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Abul did what he could to anticipate and circumvent his wife’s manipulative dealings with their son, but beyond that he saw no need for watchfulness. He saw passivity and harmony in the seraglio, except for the disharmony created on occasion by Aicha, but that he regarded as women’s business, having to do with the domestic politics of the seraglio, an area in which he need not intrude unless it affected the smooth running of the Alhambra itself, or, as in the case of the withdrawal of Sarita’s attendants, Sarita’s and his own personal comfort. And what Sarita saw and believed, she kept to herself, as much because her suspicions were based on the flimsiest of impressions and therefore hard to define as because she was reluctant to reopen old wounds.
Nafissa reached the sultana’s apartments just as the impatient Aicha had shredded a third swatch of embroidery silk with anxious fingers. The news of the arrival of an emissary from her father to the caliph had left her quivering with nervous anticipation. There had to be a personal message for her among the courtesies, diplomatically pretended if they weren’t genuine. Had her father accepted what she had said? Had he decided to do anything? Had he, indeed, begun to do anything? And what part would he expect her to play?
“Well?” she said, jumping to her feet as Nafissa entered the chamber. “What have you discovered?”
