by Jane Feather
“A missive, lady.” Nafissa extended the oiled skin. “I was summoned from the kitchen to receive it from the hands of one of the grooms accompanying the emissary.”
Aicha made no response, merely waving the handmaid into silence as her fingers, fumbling with impatient excitement, broke the seal and opened the document.
After the customary formal greetings from father to daughter, the message was simple: Be alert. Be watchful. Use the usual channels to keep those close to you informed of all developments. Be not afraid. All is in hand.
Aicha drew a deep breath of satisfaction. Her father would be moving in the ways he knew best, creating doubts among those willing to doubt, gathering the support of the disaffected, the mistrustful, and the power-hungry for a push against Muley Abul Hassan. All she had to do was to keep stoking the fires.
“I will send a return message,” she said. “You can find the messenger again, Nafissa?”
“I said I would leave any answer under the great stone of the rose garden in the Myrtle Court, my lady,” Nafissa replied. “He will pick it up before dawn, when they are to return to your father’s house.”
Aicha nodded. “Then there is no hurry. You think nimbly, girl. I will give you an answer this evening.”
Turning from the handmaid, she went to a lacquered chest in the corner of the chamber and lifted the lid. An array of vials, skin containers, and ceramic pots lay within. Without hesitation, she put her hand on a small vial of blown green glass. “You may tell Kadiga or Zulema that if they wish for a further supply of the draught against conception for the lady Sarita, they may come to me here. I will make it up for them.”
Nafissa disappeared soundlessly on her errand. Aicha took out the vial, careful not to shake its contents, and gently placed it on a low table before fetching other objects: a small pouch of what looked like dried herbs, a vial of clear liquid, and an empty skin container. Into the skin container she began to measure and to mix from the vial of clear liquid and the pouch of herbs. Once satisfied, she reached into the chest again and drew out a pair of fine kid gloves and encased her hands before, with the utmost gentleness, she removed the chased silver stopper from the green glass vial. A slight vapor rose from the contents of the vial. Holding her breath, Aicha tipped the vial toward the neck of the skin container until four bright silver drops fell into the mixture therein. She restoppered the green vial and replaced it in the chest, together with the gloves, then mixed the contents of the skin container with a slender silver skewer until she had a thick paste: the paste Kadiga would mix with water to produce the viscous draught that Sarita now swallowed with scrupulous regularity.
Aicha was known as a skilled apothecary, and it had caused no remark when she had offered to supply Sarita with a particularly efficacious draught for the prevention of conception. It was a service she performed for many women within the Alhambra. What went into the container she supplied to Sarita’s attendants was known only to the lady Aicha.
Aicha had not imparted to her father her plan to rid the Alhambra of the Christian intruder. Partly, her reticence sprang from the only half-acknowledged truth that contriving the woman’s death was a matter of private revenge, a private soothing of hurt pride. Oh, the sultana could support her rival’s murder on political grounds: the caliph’s obsession with the unbeliever was destroying his ability to govern wisely and with the single-minded purpose he had always exhibited, and such lack of attention placed the entire kingdom of Granada at risk. The emir of the Mocarabes would applaud his daughter’s reasoning and see her action as entirely appropriate. However, Aicha also felt that if her father believed the woman to be the only problem and that the problem would soon be removed, then he might delay making his moves to undermine Muley Abul Hassan with the other Morisco-Spanish families in the kingdom. And Aicha needed that widespread dissension if Abul was to be irrevocably weakened.
She drew the string tight at the neck of the skin container and held it up to the February sunlight pouring through the window, envisioning the malign contents, a slight smile quirking her full lips. There was no doubt that the bane was now slowly but surely beginning to affect the Spaniard, who was finding it harder to conceal her general fatigue and debilitation—at least from Aicha, who was on the watch for it.
Sarita was paler, her eyes rather large and heavy, more like green stones than the bright, sparkling rock pools of summer they had been previously, but she still tried to behave as if she felt perfectly well, particularly with Abul. Last evening, Aicha had been concealed in the north mirador of the Generalife, looking down on the lovely central court with its long rectangular pond studded with water lilies. Sarita and Abul had emerged laughing from one of the arched galleries of the courtyard, and Sarita, in clearly provocative humor, had initiated a game of chase through the galleries. From her laughter and the speed of her movements no one would guess the effort involved. Only the hidden watcher had seen how distressed she was when, out of Abul’s sight for a minute behind a myrtle hedge, she had stopped, doubled over, her slight frame heaving as she grabbed wildly for air to drag into her tortured lungs.
But by the time she was forced to admit the severity of her condition, it would be too late to avert the end. That was the beauty of this particular venom. Correctly administered, it killed by inches, almost imperceptibly, with symptoms that could be attributed to any number of ordinary, everyday causes. Until, finally, the victim was utterly enervated, unable to draw breath, unable to swallow. Even if someone guessed poison at that stage, there would be no proof and no way of being certain.
No, Aicha was quite safe. Even if Abul suspected her of having a hand in Sarita’s death, without proof he could do nothing that was not already done. She knew that he would never come back to her now, even when the Christian was dead. There was more to his disaffection than the bond he had with another woman. She was still unsure exactly what she had done in the beginning to create his irreversible animosity. She could trace it only to the early argument over Boabdil, but if that were all, the breach would have been healed with time and her apology. However, she knew its continuance was exacerbated by her now open subversion of their son. But months ago, she had decided that since she was no longer an influence in his bed, she had nothing further to gain by attempting to recapture his favor and had turned her attentions instead to advancing her plans by other means.
That advancement was now progressing apace, and for this she had the Christian to thank. Without that catalyst she would have had no immediate excuse to involve her father and the other families of the kingdom. Now it looked as if there was a real chance to implement her long-term plan and bring it to a rapid conclusion. Abul would soon be beset on all sides, and the emotional upheaval attendant upon the death of his beloved Christian captive would leave him ill-equipped to deal with the enemies from without and within. Aicha was on the whole very satisfied with the way things were working out.
Abul smiled politely at his wife’s uncle, emissary from the emir of the Mocarabes, and wondered what was the point of the visit. The two men were sitting in the Hall of the Ambassadors, surrounded by courtiers and soldiers, as befitted the reception of such a familial and honored guest; and in the hour since the audience had begun, only pleasantries had been exchanged over goblets of sherbet. The courtesies were obligatory, of course, but by now Abul would ordinarily have expected some inkling of the true purpose behind the visit. However, Ahmed ben Kaled offered only an impassive countenance and small talk, and Abul perforce responded in like manner.
“My niece is well, I trust,” Kaled said, taking a stuffed date from a chased silver platter proffered by a small slave child whose turban seemed too big for his head.
“The lady Aicha is well,” Abul responded. “You will wish to meet with her, of course. I am sure you bear messages from my lord of the Mocarabes to his daughter.” Did the other man stiffen slightly? Was that a flicker, as quick and darting as a snake’s tongue, in his dark eyes, embedded in his well-bearded face, b
eneath the rich silken folds of his turban? But why would his host’s so natural remark cause such a reaction?
However, the emissary was bowing and agreeing that indeed he hoped for an audience with the lady Aicha, and he bore messages of goodwill from her father. Abul dismissed the strange impression as a figment of an overextended imagination and forced himself to concentrate, to try to discover the underlying purpose of the visit.
“I would be honored to meet also with your son, the prince Boabdil,” Kaled now said. “The emir is most anxious to hear how his grandson grows and how his education is progressing.”
It was not a strange request, yet Abul felt something was being withheld. However, he bowed his head in acknowledgment and turned to his vizier. “Have Boabdil and his tutor brought here.” Turning back to his visitor, he said, “You may find the boy rather timid. But he will grow out of it.”
Ahmed ben Kaled moved his beard-entrenched mouth in what might have passed for a smile. The lady Aicha had been most specific in her catalog of the caliph’s sins when it came to the treatment of the child, whose spirit was being ruthlessly, systematically crushed by his father’s harshness. If Boabdil were not speedily removed from that sphere, he would be ill-equipped to take on the power and responsibilities of caliph when his turn came, and thus would the Mocarabes lose their substantial foothold in the caliphate. Kaled had been most specifically instructed to see the boy and judge for himself.
When Boabdil and his tutor arrived, Abul greeted them with his usual soft-voiced courtesy. “Boabdil, make your reverence to your mother’s uncle,” he instructed, rising from his carved chair, where slanting sunshine caught the glister of gold leaf, the blood-red glow of rubies. He reached for the boy’s hand.
Kaled watched as Boabdil perceptibly pulled back from his father, although he allowed his hand to be taken. The boy’s eyes shifted sideways as he was presented to his relative. His feet shuffled, and his greeting was a rustling murmur. Kaled reached out and took the lad’s chin, tilting it so that Boabdil was forced to meet Kaled’s eyes.
Kaled saw a touch of fear therein, but he read more of calculation than alarm. How much of this retiring timidity was an act? he wondered. The child’s mother had exhibited similar traits, he remembered, thinking of Aicha as a girl. She had always been adept at hiding her true feelings and reactions, which made her a powerful enemy as well as a most useful ally in the enemy camp.
“I bring you greetings from your grandfather,” he said to Boabdil.
“You lack manners, Boabdil,” Abul said sharply when the boy made no reply. “Ahmed Eben has surely instructed you in the correct greetings.”
The tutor hurried forward with a dismayed humming sound of mingled agreement and disclaimer, and Boabdil shrank from his father, lifting a hand as if to ward off a blow, although neither Abul nor the tutor had made a threatening gesture in his direction. His eyes, however, darted for a second toward Kaled, as if assessing an audience.
Kaled glanced at Abul. The caliph’s lips had thinned, and a muscle twitched in his suddenly drawn cheek. He cut short the tutor’s confused protestations and self-recriminations with a dismissive gesture and said wearily to his son, “Return to your apartments, Boabdil. You shame me before our visitor.”
“Ah, no, indeed.” Kaled spoke up hastily. “The lad is timid, and I take no offense. If I could perhaps walk a little with him in the portico … ?”
Abul found himself strongly reluctant to grant such an understandable request. He did not know exactly why, but the fact that his visitor came from Aicha’s family made him unaccountably uneasy. There was little Kaled could do to worsen the situation between Boabdil and his father … but then, Abul thought dismally, he was probably reluctant for such a tête-à-tête because he was ashamed of the truth of that relationship and wished to keep it from outsiders.
“Let us all go down to the mews,” he said. “I have there a falcon I intend as a gift to the emir of the Mocarabes when she is trained. I would have your opinion on her, Kaled. And Boabdil may show you his sparrow hawk, if he has now remembered his manners.” He went through the arched doorway opening onto the portico, his ceremonial robe of black silk embroidered with gold thread flowing fluidly around him in a rich, jewel-sparking current.
Kaled in politeness could do nothing but accept the suggestion with every indication of pleasure. He smiled at Boabdil and suggested the boy should walk beside him and tell him something of his studies. Boabdil hardly looked as if the prospect thrilled him, but he fell in beside his mother’s uncle, a couple of paces behind his father, already striding around the gallery toward the Myrtle Court.
Abul kept his ears peeled to catch the conversation behind him, but it barely qualified as a conversation. Kaled asked questions, made observations, and was answered in muffled monosyllables. Boabdil was displaying an embarrassing degree of social ineptitude, but at least he was neither advertently nor inadvertently revealing any family skeletons, and Abul allowed his mind to roam over pleasanter subjects, like the journey he was planning to a pretty palace in the hills above the sea at Motril.
Sarita was in need of a change of scene, he had decided. The sea air would surely restore the bloom to her cheeks and the spring to her step. She had been kept too long confined in one place for one in whose blood ran the open road. In the past few weeks, the routine of the Alhambra, for all its luxury and sensual delights, seemed to have sapped her energy, and he remembered how she had told him once that she was not made to lie around in silken robes eating apricots. In the glories of their lusting tumbles and their ever-deepening love, he had allowed himself to forget that she had other needs, required variety for true all-round happiness. Now he had hit upon the surprise journey as the perfect solution.
He rarely used the seaside palace. His father had built it for Abul’s mother as a holiday villa when the summer’s heat became too much for her, even here in the mountains of the Alhambra. It had no facilities for the administration of the kingdom and only the smallest reception hall, so it could be visited by the caliph only when he could safely leave business behind in the hub of Granada. Abul had decided that now was such a time, and he looked forward to telling Sarita of his plan. He loved giving her pleasure, loved the way she would jump on her bare feet and her eyes would widen with delight, her lips part in that ready joyful chuckle; the way she would unconsciously run her fingers through that fiery, unruly tangle of curls; the way she would stand on tiptoe to kiss him, her mouth warm and pliant on his, the delicate fragility of her body pressed against his own height and breadth …
He saw her as he turned onto a path lined with bushes of rosebay. Kaled saw her at the same moment. She was sitting on a carved stone bench a little way along the path, facing the morning sun, her face tilted to its warmth. Two veiled women sat on either side of her.
Kaled’s first reaction was of shock. He had never seen such a woman. Although she was dressed conventionally in a robe of amber silk beneath a light cloak hanging open from her shoulders, her face was brazenly exposed to all passersby, and her hair, brightly burnished, deep fires flaring in the sun’s rays, clustered unconfined around that small, pale face and spilled over her shoulders.
He realized who she must be the instant before Abul raised a hand in greeting as she turned her head at the sound of footsteps on the path. So this was the unbeliever: the woman who had drawn Muley Abul Hassan into a morass of intrigue that Kaled believed would prove his downfall. He glanced at the caliph and saw the eager light in the piercing black eyes, the involuntary lift of his mouth.
“You have a Christian concubine, my lord Abul?” he murmured in feigned surprise.
Abul paused, frowning. It was not a word he would choose, yet he could find no other that his guest would understand. He shrugged as if in affirmation.
“Is she slave or captive?” inquired Kaled.
“She is a slave!” This from Boabdil with sudden, suppressed venom. “She is my father’s slave, and when he has tired of her, she wil
l be cast out.”
Anger darkened Abul’s face and filled his eyes with a fearsome blackness that quenched the eager light of before. “You dare to talk in such fashion!” His voice was low so that the women could not hear, but it was audible to Kaled.
Boabdil took an involuntary step backward, and it was clear to Kaled that his alarm on this occasion was no affectation. “My … my m-mother says so,” he stammered. “She says she will cast her out into the stews of the city when … when …”
“Enough!” Abul spoke sharply but without the passion of before as he realized how much of this was to be laid at Aicha’s door. Why, he thought in astonished self-contempt, had he not realized how Aicha would truly react to Sarita? He had thought her sufficiently indifferent to Sarita’s arrival to cause no trouble. But her malice must have been spreading far and wide if she had been foolish enough to communicate it to the boy. Was its recipient aware of it?
Sarita was coming along the path toward them. Her feet were bare on the gravel, he noticed. She continued to reject shoes, except when it was very cold, and he had long given up trying to convert her to the soft soles of the Alhambra. Her feet were an inextricable component of the person he loved. But now his anxiety rose that she might be humiliated by Boabdil or by Kaled, who was staring, frankly scandalized, at the approaching woman.
Her gown fell in softly fluted folds from beneath her breasts and, to Abul’s anxiously assessing eye, seemed to accentuate her fragility, the sense he had been developing recently of a parchmentlike quality to her frame, as if she could be blown away on a puff of wind. But she was smiling as she came up to them and greeted him in her newly learned Arabic.
“My lord caliph. I give you good morning.” Turning to Boabdil, she offered him the same greeting with the same smile. The boy stared with undisguised hostility, but he was sufficiently alarmed by his earlier misstep to mutter a response.
Kaled did not converse with slaves, and most particularly not with unbelievers who so flagrantly flouted the rules of womanhood. Yet he could not take his eyes off her, and he began to have some faint inkling of the power she exerted over the caliph.
