by Jane Johnson
‘There’s no one here.’ Hamza sits heavily on the bed. ‘So what have you done with him, eh?’ A crafty expression settles in his eye. ‘Tell us and we’ll keep the secret, split the redemption money three ways: the sultan will never know a thing.’
Rafik rounds on him angrily. ‘That’s right, add treason to your greed and apostasy, infidel! The sultan is my lord: we have to find the boy and take him back. But we’ll cut this bastard’s throat first.’
‘Calm down, man. This fucking palace is massive: he could’ve stashed the brat anywhere – even smuggled him into the city. I told you, he’s already been out making inquiries. You’re going to have to keep him alive or we’ll never find the kid.’
In answer, Rafik presses his little knife deeper into my neck. I feel the skin tighten there, then give with a scarlet, rushing agony. Like alchemy, the pain transmutes into blind fury, and with a bellow I throw Rafik off me and lumber to my feet, ready to make a fight of it. He falls back against the table and the japanned tray and everything on it goes crashing to the floor, making a terrible din. The thought pounds through my head: I will have to kill them both, for if they send word back to Morocco, Alys is a dead woman. The terror this idea generates lends me even greater strength. I clutch Rafik’s throat with one hand, his knife hand with the other. Bang! We stumble against the armoire, a huge and solid piece of furniture. Under the force of our bodies, one of its great doors flies open and hits the onrushing Hamza full in the face. Swear words pour in a torrent from his bubbling mouth. What with the noise of that and Rafik’s defiant threats I am hardly aware when the door to the chamber breaks open and armed guards run in. Two of them drag me off the Tafraouti, whom they disarm; another secures the renegade. Behind them, in the corridor outside, I see the maid, Kate, clutching her hands. Then I remember Amadou.
His head lolls when I pick him up. His neck is broken, and I cannot help but wail.
The girl is beside me at once. ‘You’re bleeding!’ she cries, which is rather a statement of the obvious. Then she looks down. ‘Oh.’ She backs away. ‘Ugh.’
I cannot blame her for her disgust: poor Amadou looks as if he has been savaged by eagles, for I have bled all over him.
*
Ben Hadou is fetched and after a long delay he arrives, looking flushed and hectic. He glares first at Rafik, then at me, as if he would like to stab us both on the spot for having him dragged unwilling from dinner at the king’s table, and explains to the guard captain that there has long been bad blood between Rafik and me and that he will personally vouch for our good behaviour from now on. ‘As for Hamza: the man is an apostate, but as an Englishman he is subject to your laws. Take him away and do with him as you will.’
When we are alone again, ben Hadou demands: ‘What’s all this about?’
There is a long, strained silence. Surely now is the time for Rafik to revenge himself on me for good and all? I wait for him to accuse me: to wave the scroll in front of the Tinker and demand the palace be searched for the sultan’s son, but the Tafraouti surprises me by keeping his mouth shut. He is well aware of ben Hadou’s loathing for him and must consider me greatly preferred in the ambassador’s eyes, and there has already been the incident in Hyde Park… But maybe, I realize, he does not have the scroll, and without that he would appear to have made a lunatic charge. Is it burned, along with my bag, or does Hamza still have it? In any case, I cannot accuse him of the theft.
With both of us mute we are at an impasse, and eventually ben Hadou vents his spleen on the pair of us, telling us that if there is further trouble we will be dispatched back to Morocco on the next ship, with orders for severe punishment at the other end. He marches Rafik outside. At the door, he turns back. ‘You’d better get that seen to,’ he says, indicating the wound on my neck. ‘Ask one of the servants for a chirurgeon.’ He digs in his pouch, takes out some coins and hands them to me. ‘That should cover it.’
He is gone before I look down. In my hands are three gold pieces. Enough to buy a chirurgeon. And his daughter, and the family dog as well. Well, maybe I exaggerate. But he must be feeling guilty: perhaps it was the sight of the poor monkey that did it.
I wash the blood from Amadou and wrap him in a piece of cloth. Momo will be heartbroken when he finds out. Then I sew up the wound on my neck myself – wincing and yelping – and cover the untidy repair with a bandage of my own making. At last I go down to the kitchens, where I find the maid, Kate, warming her feet by the stove. I thank her profusely for bringing the guards and give her one of the gold coins. She stares at it silently for a long time, then hands it back. ‘I can’t take it, really I can’t.’
‘It would please me if you did.’
But she shakes her head. ‘I was only doing what was right. How is your neck?’
‘It was a scratch, no more.’
‘A scratch? It was gushing. Let me look.’
She tuts over my handiwork, touches the place gingerly. ‘It’ll scar.’
‘And mar my beauty?’ I laugh. ‘I’ll add it to my collection.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘There are too many to recount,’ I say, a bit too brusquely. ‘I have another favour to ask.’ For a moment her eyes brighten and I realize too late she was hoping I might have changed my mind about her unspoken offer: so now I have insulted her with money and spurned her twice. Truly, I have no gift with women. Blundering on, I ask, ‘Where would the guards have taken the Englishman who was in my room, the renegade named Hamza?’
She tells me and I make her a solemn bow and leave before I can entangle either of us further. The cells are down in the undercroft. I bribe the man on guard with a piece of gold to allow me ten minutes with the prisoner.
‘Just don’t mark his face, is all I ask,’ he says, and wheezes with laughter.
Hamza looks up hopefully when he hears our footsteps, but his expression darkens when I come into view. His nose is a clot of black blood: the armoire door must have broken it. ‘What do you want, eunuch?’
The insult comes out as ‘you duck’ and the guard doubles up. ‘Let me know if you want any more help roughing him up,’ he offers, once the hilarity has passed. He lets me in to the cell. I wait till his steps retreat, then turn to the renegade. ‘So, where is it, then?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘The satchel you took from my room.’
‘Wasn’t me took it.’
‘You’ve seen it, then?’
He looks crafty, scratches a mole on his cheek. ‘Why’re you asking, exactly?’
‘I need it back.’
He smiles: a chilly sight. ‘Sorry about your monkey.’
I can see he is not. I show him a coin. ‘Tell me where it is.’
He looks puzzled. ‘That old bag? Piece a rubbish: you can buy another hundred of them from the Fez tannery for that. What, you got a never-ending stream of gold you can’t wait to give away or something?’ He leans forward. ‘Look, we can cut Rafik out of this – I know the two of you don’t see eye to eye. You could use me, you know; I know my way round London and am quick on my feet – enough to follow you to the merchant’s house without you seeing me. Heard every word you said. We’d make a good team, I reckon. Shake hands on it and we’ll ransom the boy and split the dividends and I’ll make sure Rafik meets a nasty end in an alley, all right?’
So that was how they knew. The relief I feel is fleeting: I must still make sure there is no evidence. ‘You have an easy choice, Hamza: tell me where the bag is and take the gold for your trouble, or I walk away now and leave you the poorer.’
He shrugs, and tells me. I should keep my end of the bargain and walk away, but I am afraid I give in to baser instincts, and kick him hard in the balls.
‘That’s for the monkey!’ I tell him with savage glee.
*
Twenty minutes later the satchel is in my hands, none the worse for wear other than for a strong smell of horse shit: not surprising, since it has been buried in the stables’ midd
en. The bright moonlight illumines my poor stitching, undisturbed: the scroll is where I left it, sewn into the lining. I rip it out of its hiding place and stash it inside my robe, against my beating heart.
I will probably have to kill the renegade now, and Rafik as well; but at least while the boy is safe they have no proof. Now I must get Alys’s message to the king; or destroy it and take Alys’s and Momo’s fate into my own hands.
*
I bury Amadou beneath some rose bushes in one of the courtyard gardens. It is a tranquil spot. When next I see roses bloom, I will think of him.
34
On Candlemas Day the embassy is invited to visit the great abbey at Westminster and watch a candelight procession to symbolize the entry of Christ, the Light of the World, into the Temple for the first time, forty days after his birth. Ben Hadou declines politely. He is a devout Muslim, he explains, and for Mahometans Christ is no more than a prophet: revered as a bringer of God’s word, but a mortal man nonetheless.
‘I hear it is an architectural wonder, this abbey,’ Sharif says. ‘And I am sure that it does no harm to bear witness in this house of God if we do not take part in their rituals. Besides, if we all refuse their invitation it will appear rude.’
‘Very well, Nus-Nus will go with you.’
I open my mouth to remonstrate – I had been hoping to visit Momo in the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments – but then I think, the king will be at the abbey, and who knows what opportunity may present itself? So I shut it again. The scroll is with me at all times: I even took it with me into the baths at Charing Cross when I finally got fed up with washing in a bowl of lukewarm water carried up three flights of stairs from the kitchens, and was greatly stared at, even though I kept my qamis on; but a conjunction of king and scroll has not presented itself in over a week, and I am beginning to despair.
*
The procession would be a spectacle anywhere in the world; but the abbey itself is a wonder, with its towering pillars and fabulously vaulted ceiling, though the effigies of the dead wherever you look, gilded and lifelike, lurking in their alcoves, are eerie indeed, for sometimes in the flickering light of a thousand candles it seems as if they move.
If ben Hadou had hoped that Sharif and I would be inconspicuous, he is likely to be disappointed, for within moments of our taking our places amongst the press of folk a court official bustles his way through to us and tells us space has been made for us where we shall have a better view of the proceedings, and, after much pushing and shoving and treading on people’s toes, we are finally seated in the pews set aside for the sovereign’s guests, within sight of the king himself.
Of the ceremony itself I shall say nothing save that it is as fine and solemn as theatre, but when the music begins, I am lost in awe, for the notes of the vast organ fill the space, even to the soaring roof, and at times it is like the roar of a lion, at others like the trill of a bird; and when the sweet notes of the choir meet it, it is as if angels speak, or as if the abbey channels the voice of God himself. I am transfixed, not even aware of the tears that roll down my face, until Sharif jogs my arm and mimes with some alarm that I should wipe my cheeks.
‘If our sultan comes to hear that you have been moved by this heathen display, we will all be in trouble,’ he whispers fiercely in a lull.
There is, of course, no chance to approach the king. I watch him swept along in the adulation of his people, who press forward hoping for a word or touch, to which they seem to accord an almost magical quality. I cannot help but muse that our sovereign emperor’s contact with his subjects is generally somewhat less beneficial to their health.
As we turn to leave, a voice beside me says, ‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ and I turn to see one of our fellow guests at the Duchess of Portsmouth’s fine dinner. When he smiles I remember Nelly’s description of him and just in time his name pops into my head. ‘Good day, Mr Pepys, a pleasure to see you again.’ I introduce him to the kaid, whose English is basic. Sharif inclines his head and bares his sugar-rotted teeth.
‘Are you heading straight back to White Hall, or could I perhaps escort you to the Candlemas market at Westminster Hall, which is quite a sight to behold?’
I translate for Sharif. ‘An English souq? That I would very much like to see.’
Mr Pepys leads us through the cloisters and into the monastery garden behind the abbey to avoid the crowds. It is a pretty, tranquil spot lit by pale February sunlight, filled with herbs and vegetables and the bare trunks of fruit trees. I crouch to examine the silver-green fronds of a plant by the pathside. ‘We grow this in Meknes,’ I tell our guide. ‘We call it sheeba, but I think you may better know it as artemisia, or wormwood.’
Our guide bends to peruse the herb better, and as he does so something swings clear of his collar. He tucks it back in quickly, but not before I have glimpsed fur and claws. He catches my eye, looks embarrassed. ‘A hare’s foot, to ward off the colic. I have a tendency to overindulge.’
I smile. ‘You would do better to take some of this in a tisane: the emperor enjoys a pot of wormwood tea from time to time. It is a known stomachic.’
‘Are you a medical man, sir?’
‘I served for a while with a doctor from Aberdeen and learned a little of the human anatomy and its failings.’
‘I cannot imagine a strapping fellow like you’ – he indicates my general size – ‘should know much of physical fallibility.’
Sharif, when I translate, laughs. ‘He is eunuch,’ he says loudly.
Mr Pepys is visibly taken aback. ‘Good God, really?’
I nod unhappily.
‘Is it for the singing? There are some wonderful castrati. I have often wondered whether the famous treble, Mr Abell, is in full possession of his… ah, faculties.’
I assure him it has nothing to do with singing, and he regards me with a sort of appalled wonder. ‘I can’t think of anything worse.’
We walk in silence for the few minutes it takes us to reach the great hall, a massive lump of architecture bolstered by huge buttresses of stone. Already the hubbub from the as-yet-unseen market is such that our guide must raise his voice. He asks if there is anything in particular we might wish to purchase, and the kaid admits he would dearly love some confectionery, and I say that if there is good writing ink to be had it would be most useful, at which Mr Pepys smiles. ‘Ah, the Tangier discussions: all those minutes.’ He shakes his head. ‘I was on the committee for years: a wretched business, always one step forward, three back. I should imagine you’re fully at loggerheads over it, for I can see no easy solution. You must remember it is not a simple matter of logic: there is much emotion and irrationality involved.’
I smile. ‘On both sides, I am sure.’
‘As in all human dealings. The colony costs us a fortune to support, more than we can in all honesty afford, but the king feels he would be letting his wife down to let it go – it came as part of her dowry, you know – and as he has failed her in much else, he stays firm on this. Then of course there is the matter of the poor Earl of Plymouth.’
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
‘Charles’s son – illegitimate of course, but a son nonetheless. Gave him the command of the King’s Own Regiment, made him up to colonel. Off he went to Morocco in the summer of ’80, died of the flux four months later. Only twenty-three, poor lad: Charles took it hard.’
‘How many children has king?’ Sharif asks.
Mr Pepys laughs. ‘At last count a baker’s dozen, but only ten extant, though none to his good wife, more’s the pity. He likes the ladies – and who can blame him? What think you of our English women, Nus-Nus: they’re a saucy lot, aren’t they?’ He stops suddenly, recalling my condition. ‘I am sorry, sir, I meant no offence.’
‘None taken. I am still able to appreciate the aesthetics of a painting, even if I cannot wield a brush, and the ladies of your court are most delightful.’
‘Our king have five hundred child!’ Sharif says loudly, interruptin
g.
Our guide grins, evidently not believing a word of it.
‘And thousand wife!’
I nod. ‘Ismail boasts he has a woman from every country known to man.’
‘La, that’s quite the collection! I have to say one’s quite enough for me. Now, here we are, stay close: there are pickpockets everywhere these days.’
The interior of the hall is impressive: I am surprised such a magnificent space should be used for a mere market and say so. ‘The Law Courts operate here the rest of the time,’ Mr Pepys bellows back. ‘See those grim baubles above?’ He points to where three black, unidentifiable objects hang from one of the huge hammer beams. ‘Those are the heads of the traitors who sentenced the king’s father to death in this very chamber – Cromwell and his generals, Ireton and Bradshaw. They’re left there as a reminder of what happens to those who rise against the Crown.’
I grin. ‘Our sovereign does the very same thing.’
‘Eight hundred head on walls of Meknes,’ Sharif expounds gleefully.
‘Eight hundred?’ Mr Pepys catches my eye. ‘Five hundred children, eight hundred heads and a thousand wives: what a bountiful country is Morocco!’
Stalls are set up throughout the hall selling all manner of goods. Vendors pass through the throng of customers bearing trays of sweetmeats, combs, oranges, knives. I spy a man selling notebooks and inkhorns and make a purchase. After much deliberation, the kaid avails himself of a large bag of gingerbread. A man selling domestic fowl scores points against the competition by displaying a sorry-looking peacock on a string; another vendor offers hot ass’s milk. Mr Pepys makes a beeline for a stall selling ladies’ accoutrements and spends as much time eyeing the pretty clients as they pore over the goods as he does the goods. I watch as he exchanges words with one, and see the way she colours and walks quickly away from him. He shrugs, then returns to us. ‘Come, see the mountebanks: they’re always amusing.’
