by Jane Johnson
*
Days pass in which we see neither skin nor hair of the English king, but only a succession of dull court officials, sent to take statements of intent regarding the matter of the Tangier garrison and its proposed rights and safeguards; then others to discuss the fate and possible redemption of certain named prisoners they claim are held by the sultan, none of whom either ben Hadou or I have encountered and are likely either to be dead or gone missing, or perhaps to have apostasized and adopted Muslim names.
When we do next see King Charles it will be at a private audience in his own state apartments. Is this to be my chance, I wonder? I tuck the embroidered scroll into the pocket of my robe in case a quiet moment presents itself. Ben Hadou preens anxiously in front of the mirror, concerned to make the best impression. He is a well-looking man, I will admit: fine-boned and fair of complexion (compared to me), with a good carriage and bright, intelligent eyes. He has trimmed his beard and moustache very close, the better to show his long jaw and full mouth; already I have noticed the ladies of the court paying attention to him, and I doubt not that he has noticed them too. This is his moment to present the gifts we have brought. These sundry items have been assembled in the vestibule below and are being brought up the long flights of stairs with great difficulty and, in the case of the livestock, with no little mess. The lions, at least, are safely left outside in a garden for the monarch to peruse at his leisure, otherwise I suspect there might be carnage.
‘Private’ turns out to mean a vast chamber stuffed with courtiers, including dozens of ladies crammed around the edges to watch the Moroccan contingent with avid eyes. First, we present the traditional gifts of spices, salt and sugar, the silks and brass sconces, perforated iron lanterns and hand-woven rugs from the Middle Atlas rendered up to the sultan as tribute by the Berber tribes. The king accepts all these with genuine gratitude and compliments the fine handiwork of the tribeswomen. I can see the Tinker’s chest swelling with pride but I cannot help but feel a niggling worry. Other than the king’s own little dogs, I have seen no animals wandering this elegant palace with its liveried servants, gilded chairs and expensive carpets…
‘And now,’ he intones, ‘a special gift.’ He claps his hands and in come the ostriches, bustling past their handlers, necks weaving, beaks snapping wickedly. One woman in a green silk gown is standing just a little too close, and the shriek she gives out as she gets nipped sets the entire flock booming and whooping, their hairy throats inflating alarmingly. Then they are beating their wings and stamping those great clawed feet, and pandemonium ensues. Courtiers flee through whichever door they can access: I even see one man fling back a drape and climb out of the window.
I look for the king, and find him roaring with laughter. He rescues one poor woman and shoos away the bird that is attacking her. At last guards are called for and the ostriches are corralled in an antechamber and thence removed to one of the royal parks, leaving behind them bespattered carpets, bitten limbs and a miasma of floating down. The reception is brought to an abrupt end.
Returning rather sooner than might have been expected to my room, I disturb a furtive figure outside the door. The figure turns, sees me and runs the opposite way down the corridor. But not before I have made out the sharp, unfriendly features of Samir Rafik. Heart thumping, I examine the lock: scratched but not otherwise damaged. When I fit the iron key into it, it opens smoothly. Inside the room, there is an eerie quiet. ‘Momo?’ I call quietly. ‘Amadou?’
A screech: then something launches itself at me from the top of the bed canopy and the monkey lands on my shoulder. A face appears over the top of the canopy, eyes solemn.
‘We were just playing.’ Momo swings himself over the edge of the bedframe and climbs as nimbly as a monkey himself down the post. ‘It’s boring being stuck in here, having to be quiet all the time. Why can’t I go outside? You said things would be different when we got to England. You lied!’
I sit down on the bed and stare at him unhappily. ‘I know. I’m sorry, Momo. It’s just for a little while longer. But you mustn’t make any noise, and you mustn’t open the door to anyone but me. You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Someone knocked on it earlier.’
‘It was probably a servant, come to clean the room. I told them I would do it myself and that it was best left closed, since my monkey can bite.’
‘I can bite too.’ Momo reveals his teeth, then giggles. ‘We can both bite, can’t we, Amadou?’
The pair show each other their teeth in a display of mock-challenge, gums bared, heads shaking, presenting a disturbing mirror image. I begin to fear that if I leave the boy here much longer with the ape it will be hard to tell them apart.
‘Open the door to no one,’ I reiterate. ‘Even if they pretend to be me.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘But just don’t open the door.’
‘But what if there’s a fire, or a flood or something?’
‘There won’t be.’
‘There might be. It’s not impossible.’
I sigh. ‘There might be. But it’s very unlikely. And if there is, I will save you.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘You promised we’d be safe when we got to England,’ he reminds me with impeccable logic.
‘Momo, I’m doing my best.’
But I must do better: he is right to prick my conscience so. With a sigh, I reluctantly retrieve the scrip of paper and peruse once more the address which Daniel found for me. It is not a task I relish, but it must be done.
With new resolve, that afternoon I seek out one of the servants and ask how I may send a letter. He looks at me sceptically, curls his lip. ‘For your master?’
I give him a hard look: clearly he thinks such a one as I cannot write. But maybe if he thinks it is for the ambassador it would be better. ‘Yes. To Golden Square.’
‘For a few coin I can send a runner with it; or you could take a sedan chair and deliver it yourself. It’s not far, only a mile or so.’
We are forbidden to leave the palace, but a mile – that would take no time to walk, ten minutes or so, and quicker with my stride than in one of those silly boxes. I could be back within a half hour, go during the time when ben Hadou and the others take their siesta. No one will know. I obtain directions from the serving man, then return to my room and change my court slippers for my old babouches and fling a dark burnous around my shoulders. With the hood up the mirror shows me a relatively nondescript figure, apart from the darkness of my skin, about which I can do nothing.
I walk quickly up the broad thoroughfare of King’s Street, and before reaching the Holbein Gate cut leftwards into St James’s Park, keeping my head down and my hands inside my cloak. Even so, I draw inquisitive looks from the people I pass, perhaps for the very speed of my progress, since they are all dawdling along, enjoying the elegant vistas, laughing at the birds slipping as they cross the ice on the lake to find open water. Gods, but it is cold! My breath issues out in great puffs of steam as my path leads me into a deer park. The animals, which have been bending their heads to the frost-crisp grass, raise them now and eye me warily. I imagine bowmen approaching quietly as I have done, to take one for the king’s table: it is no wonder they are cautious. If I make a sudden move, they will be off across the park like gazelles, I am sure of it. Walking slowly, I skirt the area, sensing a certain fellow feeling with the beasts: such perceived freedom is in reality no freedom at all. We both belong to powerful men, the deer and I, and our time may come to an abrupt end whenever they will it.
I come out on to a paved path that takes me through some pretty parterre gardens and thence on to a wide road thronged with carriages and other traffic. Dodging amongst the pedestrians, horses, sedan chairs and coaches, I reach the other side and continue north through narrower streets, as instructed. The area becomes dirtier and meaner, strewn with rubbish and stinking of ordure. Pungent liquid
s flow in the gutters: the acrid stench is unmistakable. The tanneries in Fez smell better than this, I think to myself; I must surely have missed my way. A groom is inspecting a horse for a thrown shoe at the junction. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say, and he straightens up, startled. ‘Can you tell me the way to Golden Square?’
He points towards an area of waste land much littered with rubble. ‘It is just to the north of So Hoe: keep going up James’s Street, past the old windmill and through Dog Fields, till you see much new building work, and you will find yourself there.’
A number of tall dwelling houses rise proudly amidst others half built and still others with barely the foundations laid. You can see that when the work is finished it will be an impressive sight; but for now it is neither golden nor truly a square but more like our Sahat al-Hedim. I find the address on the scrip and approach the door of Number 24. A brass bell hangs outside – a bad omen for a good Muslim – and this I ring. For a long time there is no response, then the door opens a crack and a face peers out. ‘Coal deliveries around the back,’ a woman says sharply, and shuts the door hard in my face. When her misunderstanding finally dawns on me, I rap loudly on the wood. This time the door opens wide and fast. ‘I told you once—’
Now I have my foot in the gap. She stares at me, confused, then looks down and sees my foot. ‘Get away, you black beggar!’ she shrieks in outrage.
‘Look, I have business with this gentleman.’ I show her the paper, which she stares at uncomprehending.
Then: ‘Help! Thief! Murder!’ she cries. Arms grab me from behind, am I am wrestled to the ground. My attacker tries to set a knee on my chest to keep me there, but I twist and roll away, catching his standing leg as I do and bringing him down heavily; then he swears and labours to his feet. We stand there, huffing in the chill air, regarding one another warily. He is barely more than a boy, though built like a bull. ‘I am no thief, nor any murderer. I am just seeking a Mr Andrew Burke.’
The woman comes out on to the step. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ She is red-faced and frowsty in a stained apron over a sturdy fustian gown. ‘This is Mr Burke’s house.’ She frowns, waves the boy away. ‘Off you go, Tom, there’s a good lad.’
Tom looks disappointed, as if he had been hoping for more fisticuffs.
‘And is the gentleman at home?’ I press.
‘Tell me what your business is.’
‘I’m afraid I can share that information only with Mr Burke himself.’
Her mouth folds in upon itself. ‘Wait here.’
Long minutes pass after she closes the door but at last a man comes out. He is not as I had pictured, being almost as fat as the grand vizier, and sporting a large black beard.
When he sees me, he too looks bemused. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks, then sudden comprehension strikes him. ‘Ah, you must be from the duchess.’
I shake my head. ‘I know no duchess.’
‘The esteemed Duchesse Mazarin?’
Again, I shake my head. I start to speak, but he cuts me off.
‘Extraordinary: you’re the spitting image of her blackamoor. You must be here for Mr Qallaah’s serge, then?’
‘No, I’m here—’
‘Not the Syrian merchant’s man come for his livery cloth either?’
I speak forcefully, before there can be further inquiries. ‘No, sir. I have come from Morocco on a more delicate matter. Perhaps we might speak inside?’
‘Morocco?’ He looks alarmed. ‘What business could some negard from Morocco have with me?’
‘I come on behalf of Miss Alys Swann.’
‘Who?’
This is not going quite as I had thought. ‘Your… ah… fiancée.’
Now he looks appalled. ‘Fiancée? Sir, I have no such thing, you are quite mistaken.’ A pause. Then: ‘Oh, the Dutchwoman. Of course, I never met her, and I believe the lady concerned was lost at sea.’
‘Actually, sir, she was not.’ I explain the bare facts, watch his mouth drop open.
‘How the hell did you find me? And what in God’s name do you expect me to do about it?’
‘The merchant Daniel al-Ribati gave me your address,’ I inform him stiffly.
His face changes. ‘Oh, the Jew, of course: we have done a certain amount of business over the years. A decent man, despite… Well, no matter, I am sorry for the poor woman, but when I thought her dead I sought and found another bride and we have been married now these past three years. We have two boys already.’ He spreads his hands. ‘So, as you see, Miss Swann’s affairs are no longer any business of mine.’
‘And her son?’
‘What would my new wife want with the bastard of some heathen king under her roof? This is no charity home for foundlings! Good day, sir.’
This time the door is shut for good.
*
I have to admit that my heart is unaccountably lighter as I retrace my steps to White Hall. Is it selfish of me to be glad that the graceless draper plays no part in Momo’s future? And as for the idea of Alys married to such a brute… Well, perhaps her life would have been easier than in the Moroccan court. But she would only have been a different kind of prisoner in this place.
Now what is to become of Momo? I am at a loss.
32
Days pass filled with ever more frustrating meetings with civil servants and politicians about Tangier. They are half-hearted and ben Hadou is evasive: it is clearly a waste of everyone’s time and it is all I can do neither to fidget nor to fall stone asleep: there is precious little of use to minute. One councillor even goes so far as to say that for all he cares we should keep the wretched place. ‘The king may insist it is the brightest jewel in his crown, but we cannot keep on fortifying such a far-flung outpost; it is a hotbed of Popery and a terrible drain on the country’s resources when the Exchequer is already overstretched. As it is, we are taking austerity measures: even the king is cutting down at his own table, and his wife and… ah… lady acquaintances.’
If I had hoped to see the king at one of these meetings, I was to be disappointed. After my initial chance meeting, I have spied him only at a distance, and now he has gone hunting, we are told. Ben Hadou is disappointed not to have been invited. When after several days of being confined to the palace he talks longingly of riding, one of the courtiers suggests that we might arrange to take mounts for the day from the king’s stable and ride in Hyde Park. The Tinker immediately sees an opportunity to make an impression. He invites the courtier and any others who might wish to accompany us to view a Moroccan ‘fantasia’. ‘We shall show them what real riding is all about,’ he says to me with relish, and sends me off to change into appropriate clothing.
I return wearing a white robe and cotton qamis and babouches, with my burnous over my shoulder. Ben Hadou comes down arrayed all in orange and red, a tight tunic worn over a huge-sleeved cambric shirt, an extravagant scarlet cloak, red leather boots, a jewelled turban. He looks magnificent, like a prince out of the Thousand and One Nights; and when he sees me he tuts. ‘For heaven’s sake, Nus-Nus, is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s all I have.’
‘Well, it’s not good enough. This is our chance to give the English a true taste of Morocco.’ He stands beside me: there is a good three inches difference in our height, but that does not seem to deter him and he sends a servant to fetch some other clothing. Soon I am turned out in blues and greens with a mass of gold embroidery, and looking most resplendent, though the trousers are uncomfortably tight.
For each of the six the Tinker regards as the best riders – himself, Sharif, two cousins of the sultan, Samir Rafik and myself – mounts are led out from the king’s stables. The horses are beauties: King Charles is clearly a man who knows his bloodstock. Hamza, dressed in more ordinary array, brings the lances, which ben Hadou must have packed and transported for this very purpose. It is discomfiting to see Rafik here: for a moment my stomach gives a lurch. At least, I tell myself, he is not left behind at the court to snoop abo
ut in my absence.
Hyde Park is a wonder: a vast expanse of green space in the midst of the city, filled with people walking and riding. By the time an area has been made ready for us, a hundred or more have gathered to watch, and we must put on a show. Back and forth we gallop, pushing the horses till they sweat, casting our lances at a target set up for archery practice, piercing it through the heart so often that the crowd cheers and cheers. Then we ride against one another in pairs, throwing and catching each other’s spears to great huzzahs from the spectators. It is good to do something physical after all the time cooped up in White Hall and I find myself riding with euphoric abandon, standing high in the stirrups, controlling the horse with my knees only as I brandish my lance with savage delight. When I turn to cast it, I find the formation has changed and that I am now facing Rafik, who bares his teeth at me and casts his lance a deliberate split second too early. The spear arrows towards my face and suddenly everything around me seems to slow and all I can think is what more perfect opportunity could there be for an accidental-seeming assassination, far from home in the course of an innocent fantasia?
Abruptly, all is chaos and the next conscious sensation I have is of hitting the ground with immense impact, and everything dark around me. I struggle to move and cannot, and everything hurts, and I think: is this how death comes – at play, in front of a foreign audience? There is a hubbub of voices: women screaming, men shouting, horses thudding and blowing. Then there is a ripping sound close by my ear and light blooms again. Ben Hadou stands over me, lance in one hand and my cloak in the other, torn through where the spear has pierced it, taking me off the horse and pinning me to the ground. ‘You’re a lucky man, Nus-Nus!’
