by Jane Feather
“I will not go,” Sarita declared.
“You will.”
“You cannot compel me to do so.”
“I can.”
“How?”
“I could have you bound and gagged and conveyed across the border with little difficulty.”
She sensed a flicker of humor beneath the words and allowed a glinting smile to show in her eyes. “Yes, I do not deny that. But that is not what I meant. You cannot compel me to leave you.”
“I can say to you that by remaining here you are impeding my ability to do what I must.”
The flat statement lay between them, and she heard its truth. She did not have the right to hinder him. But maybe she could use this to some good purpose. Her shoulders lifted above the water in a creamy, infinitesimal shrug that could have been stating acceptance.
“How am I to travel, then? If I am not to be bound and gagged. The roads are dangerous even if the passes are still held by those loyal to you.”
“Dressed as a lad,” he said. “With Yusuf as escort. A pair of peasants will draw little remark.”
“I see.” She fell silent as a germ of an idea took root.
“This time will pass,” he said.
“And what will come in its place?” Her eyes met his frankly through the wreathing steam of the bath. “If you do not win, Abul, you will die in the attempt.”
He made no effort to contradict her. Sarita nibbled her lip, allowing the germ to flourish. “Those against you are growing in strength? They are winning support from the undecided?”
He sighed. “It seems so.”
Sarita closed her eyes as if in sorrow and resignation, but really to hide from him the spurt of energy and excitement as she began to put words to the idea. If one of the leaders of the opposition were to be persuaded that the original cause for complaint had been a fabrication on the part of an ambitious woman and her equally ambitious father, then perhaps that coalition could be shaken. And if the heads rocked, then the tails would most certainly follow suit.
“When am I to leave?”
“At dawn. Yusuf is skilled at such journeyings. He will convey you safely.”
She allowed a half smile to lift the corners of her mouth. “But does he relish such a task? I do not think Yusuf enjoys being my nursemaid.”
Abul chuckled. “I have not asked his opinion of my orders.”
They could make gentle jokes and push aside the grim recognition that this could be the last day they would ever spend together. But Sarita was infused by the vigor of possibility. Suddenly she saw something she could do. It was dangerous, but there was a smidgen of hope that it would work. She would have to deal with Yusuf, but that was a minor detail. She was not going to walk out of Abul’s life without a murmur of protest, leaving him to fight and lose his lonely battle.
So she acceded to his plans and pretended that she believed him when he reiterated that he would come for her in Cordova when all was settled. And if Abul felt the slightest dismay at the ease with which she accepted the necessity for their parting, he didn’t allow it to show. She was behaving as he wished … but somehow he had expected Sarita to have fought him tooth and nail … to have insisted that she share his fate …
And if she had not seen a possibility for her own involvement, she would have done exactly that. There were no circumstances that would have forced her from his side except the belief that away from him there was something she could do to alter things.
That night was not one for sleeping. They talked. They loved, fiercely and gently. They dreamed aloud of the time they would spend in the palace above the sea at Motril, when all this was over and the world was on its axis again. In the hour before dawn, Kadiga and Zulema came in. They were solemn and said little as, under Abul’s watchful eye, they wound a strip of cloth tightly around Sarita’s chest, binding her breasts so that the shirt that went over the cloth hung loosely over the flat frame of an adolescent boy. The britches posed no problem, and the tunic concealed what curve there was to her hips. Over all went the hooded burnous, and beneath the hood they wound a turban, hiding every flaming strand of her distinctive head.
Sarita regarded herself critically in the glass. She could not see herself full length, but from the waist up she looked most unlike herself. “Do I look like a boy?” She turned to Abul, one eyebrow raised.
“Most amazingly,” he said. “And a very attractive one, too. You had better not stray from Yusuf’s side until you can resume female garb.”
She looked at him, wondering if he were serious, then saw that he was. “Oh,” she said with a wryly comprehending grimace. “One would think one had enough potential dangers to anticipate without that.”
“The burnous will leave little of you on view,” Kadiga said. “And if we smear dirt on your face, and some burned cork, no one will look too closely. They’ll see only a grimy goatherd.”
“A good thought, Kadiga,” Abul said, trying to hide his misery, to infuse a little humor, to turn the deadly reality into an amusing game of dressing up.
The makeup completed, Sarita subjected herself to the scrutiny of Abul and the two women. She felt strange, as if she were inhabiting some world that was not her own. As if they were all indeed playing some game of make-believe.
She found she could not bid Abul a proper farewell, because to do so would be to admit the possibility that there would be no future greeting, and she would not entertain that thought. When he drew her close, his mouth seeking hers, she kissed him lightly, pulled back, and said cheerfully that she would see him within a few weeks. The instant of puzzled hurt in his eyes was immediately followed by comprehension. He answered with the same cheerfulness, telling her teasingly to keep a careful eye out for men who might find such a pretty boy appealing, pinching her nose in familiar fashion.
She tried to bid a similarly light, insouciant farewell to Kadiga and Zulema, who had become such important friends in the past months, who had stood fast to her through so much danger and dismay. But tears stood out in their eyes, and she could feel the pricking behind her own and swallowed hard. Tear tracks would play havoc with the careful streaks on her face.
Yusuf awaited them in the dawn light of the court of the alcazaba. He gave Sarita an all-encompassing glance, then nodded and swung astride a barrel-chested pony. Sarita, as befitted her lowlier status in this twosome, had a mule to ride. Both animals had laden saddle packs: Sarita’s contained her women’s clothes, hairbrushes, combs, ribbons, soap, tinder, flint; everything she would need to return herself to herself. Unbeknownst to her, they also contained a pouch of gold ducats sewn into the lining of a velvet mantle. Yusuf had weapons, food, cooking pots, a canvas tent, a lantern, and candles; all the necessities for a relatively comfortable journey.
Sarita turned to Abul, saw the deep, haunting wretchedness in his eyes, touched his lips fleetingly with the tips of her fingers, then climbed onto the mule’s broad back.
She did not look back as she and Yusuf left through the Gate of Justice, her mule refusing to make the slightest attempt to keep up with the pony’s livelier trot. Would she ever see the Alhambra again? Did she even want to return to that gilded cage? But Abul and the Alhambra were inseparable. If the only loving life she could have with him was behind those bars, she knew she would accept it … had accepted it in her heart many weeks ago. It was for that reason that she was now about to risk everything on a gamble to ensure the continuance of that loving life.
They rode in silence for an hour, upward through the passes that led to the Spanish border and the city of Cordova. Sarita knew that the palace stronghold of the Abencerrajes lay close to that border and bided her time as they rode through the early April morning, the air soft with the scents of spring, the breeze gentle. When she was sure they had reached a point of no return, she spoke.
“Yusuf, how close are we to the palace of the Abencerrajes?”
He looked surprised, hearing her relatively smooth Arabic, and shrugged. “Not so close that
you need have fear.”
“I am not afraid,” she said. “But I wish you to guide me there.”
He dragged on the bridle of his pony, and the beast came to a halt, lips snarling over the tight-drawn bit. “You would join—”
“No, of course I would not,” she said impatiently. “Don’t be a fool.”
Yusuf half rose in his stirrups, glaring angrily at this brusque and thoughtless castigation. Hastily, Sarita tried to soothe him with an apology.
“I did not mean to offend, but I love your lord Abul. How could you imagine I would wish him harm?”
“Then what do you mean?”
“I would go to the emir of the Abencerrajes,” she explained, feeling for the words, wishing she had had longer to become familiar with Yusuf’s language. “I would tell him the truth of the lady Aicha and of myself. I will tell him that I pose no threat to the old order. I will never become wife to the lord Abul. I know as well as does the caliph that it would be against all the customs and beliefs of your people, and besides, I do not wish for such a position.”
Yusuf said nothing, but his eyes were both wary and interested. Sarita struggled on.
“It is only the Mocarabes who have much to gain by deposing the lord Abul. If the Abencerrajes can be brought to believe that they are being used to further the political ambitions of the caliph’s enemies, then maybe they will withdraw their support. If they can be persuaded that the caliph has no intention of offending his people, that this is a tale put about by those who wish for his downfall, then maybe they will rethink their position. At least it might give them pause … food for thought.”
“And what makes you think they would believe such as you? A woman and an unbeliever?” demanded Yusuf.
“It is for those very reasons that they will listen to me,” she said. “What reason but the truth would I have for exposing myself to danger?”
Yusuf pulled his short, pointed beard. “And why would you not want to be wife to the caliph? Who will believe that any woman would reject such a position?”
“I am not a woman of your people,” Sarita said quietly. “I do not see life in the same way. I do not wish for the life of the seraglio.”
“Maybe not. But while you share the caliph’s bed, you will be seen as wielding the power of the favorite. That is where the threat is perceived.”
Sarita had not thought of that. It was, of course, true. Proximity to Abul conveyed power. It was that proximity that she had taken from Aicha, and for that reason, Aicha had sought to remove her finally. “You are saying that I must renounce the caliph completely to make any difference?”
Yusuf nodded. “For as long as you remain at his side, the Mocarabes can maintain that the issue stands fundamentally unchanged.”
Sarita sat her mule and stared upward into the bright blue of the sky. Could she make such a promise with conviction? She thought of Abul without the Alhambra. She thought of the eagle without his aerie, without the land over which he soared, master of all he surveyed. She thought of clipping the eagle’s wings … and knew it to be unthinkable.
“If that is what I must do, then so be it.” She would try to mean it, even though she knew Abul would not accept her renunciation. He would come and find her, once the dust had settled. But she must act as if she meant it, because only in convincing them lay any hope. And afterward, if she kept away from the center of power, the hub of the kingdom, then maybe she would no longer pose a threat. She could live discreetly in his palace by the sea, and he would visit her when he could. Half a loving life was better than none at all.
“I will do it,” she said firmly, meeting Yusuf’s questioning eye, telling herself that if she could convince this man, she could convince anyone. For a long time he stared at her; then slowly he nodded.
“They could as easily kill you as listen to you,” he observed.
“I am prepared for that. Will you take me there?”
“The lord Abul will have my head,” he said.
“You will not tell him.”
Yusuf winced. “Lie to the caliph?”
She shrugged. “If you must, Yusuf. Take me to within a mile of the palace, then sleep soundly, with your head turned from me.”
“I should accompany you within.”
“They will kill you, where they may not kill me.”
It was an indisputable truth.
“You will return to the lord Abul and tell him only that I would not permit you to accompany me over the border. You will tell him that I made my own way into Cordova and await him there.”
Yusuf sat frowning for a very long time. “It is just possible you might convince them. The Abencerrajes and the Mocarabes have always had an uneasy alliance. If you can persuade the emir of manipulation, then …” He shrugged. “Then it is just possible.”
“So you will take me.”
“I will take you.” Without another word, he kicked his pony into a trot, turning aside from the track. Sarita urged her mule in pursuit, and they trekked across the mountainside until Yusuf found a narrow path, barely wider than a strip of ribbon, threading its way through the scrub and rock of the mountain.
At noon, they stopped by a stream. Yusuf shot a partridge with his crossbow, plucked it, and lit a fire. They ate in silence. It was a silence heavy with their private thoughts, and Sarita was aware that Yusuf also risked much in this enterprise. He risked being caught by the Abencerrajes and most certainly executed as a spy … and he risked the great wrath of the caliph for disobeying his orders and listening to the importuning of a woman. She rather suspected that his own concern lay more with his having listened to such importuning than anything else. It was hardly consonant with masculine consequence in Yusuf’s frame of reference.
They saw a few peasants and goatherds, none of whom took more than a passing interest in such ordinary travelers. Once, they were hailed by a small patrol of foot soldiers, but were permitted to go on their way when Yusuf told them they were visiting his father in a neighboring village. By nightfall, they were on the Abencerrajes’ land. They made camp in a scrubby olive grove, and since Yusuf would not light a fire, they ate cheese, olives, and dates and drank water from the skin Yusuf carried in his saddlebags.
When it was full dark, she followed Yusuf out of the thin cover of the trees. They climbed some way up the hill until pinpricks of light showed on the plain immediately below.
“The fortress of the Abencerrajes,” Yusuf said. “About two hours’ walk from the grove.”
Sarita nodded. “It would be easier to approach from here; I will not lose sight of it.”
Yusuf merely grunted and turned back the way they had come, Sarita again followed him.
They lay down wrapped in blankets beside the tethered animals. Sarita felt as if they ought to say something, even if it was just good night, but Yusuf’s silence was somehow forbidding, as if he had already cut himself off from her presence. He rolled onto his side facing away from her, and she lay looking up through the tattered leaves dangling from the tortured branches of the olive trees to the sharp glitter of stars in the dark canopy of the night.
After a while, she slid out of the blanket and stood up. The still bundle of Yusuf remained motionless. The pony whickered, the mule shuffled, as she pulled a handful of dried apricots from the saddlebags. Hunger seemed an inappropriate reaction while she prepared for her walk into the lion’s den, but she could think of no other explanation for her violently churning stomach. She checked the knife at her hip beneath the folds of the burnous. It slipped with reassuring ease in and out of the sheath. Whether she would have time to use it if confronted was questionable. Whether she could do any damage with it was equally questionable. But its presence comforted her.
Her bare feet made no sound as she left the grove and took the path she had taken earlier with Yusuf, chewing on an apricot, suddenly, vibrantly, reminded of that long-ago morning when she had eaten apricots and defied the caliph, only to learn the sensual joys of the baths despite her defi
ance …
She descended the mountainside, surefooted from long experience with such terrain. The lights on the plain had been all but extinguished, but the darkness of night was graying as she reached flat ground and wondered how to make her approach. There would be a gatehouse, sentries, an officer of the watch. Would they take any notice of an apparent goatherd? Presumably the emir of the Abencerrajes did not grant audiences to goatherds.
Her approach across the plain was watched closely from the ramparts of the alcazaba. It was a goatherd with no goats, appearing from nowhere out of the fading darkness of the night, walking with clear purpose. In these troubled times, any unorthodox arrival was regarded with suspicion, even when it was seemingly as inoffensive as this lone, slight figure. Three soldiers were dispatched to apprehend the arrival and bring him within the watchtower.
Sarita’s heart drummed against her ribs at the approach of the armed riders. They looked businesslike and as if that business was war. They hailed her and she tried to answer bravely, but her tongue wouldn’t move easily around the Arabic phrases while fear and a sense of absolute vulnerability rose to clog her throat.
“I have business with the emir of the Abencerrajes,” she managed.
“From where?”
She struggled to swallow. “From the Alhambra.”
That certainly caught their attention. They circled her, menacing with their helmets and shields and fierce spurs, their massive steeds nudging her, huge hooves too close to her bare toes.
“Please,” she said, standing desperately still. “I mean no harm. I have a message for the emir.”
One of the men leaned down, caught her arm, and hoisted her upward, her shoulder screaming its protest as it took her weight. Then she landed on the high saddle in front of him. She held her body away from him, petrified that he might sense something feminine despite the enshrouding burnous, the pulled-down hood, and the grime on her face. But the man made no attempt to touch her, leaving her to manage her own balance as best she could as the trio galloped toward the gates of the Abencerrajes’ fortress.
