Page 31 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)

One night, though, I have no appetite, for I have idly eaten too many dates while I sit at my loom. When Adeola serves my food, I only pick at it. She looks worried but I reassure her that I am well, although this does not seem to give her much comfort.

Later, I understand why. It takes me a long time to sleep that night, far longer than it usually does. As I lie in my tent, I hear the sound I least wish to hear, soft moans coming from Zaynab’s tent. Disbelieving, I creep out.

The camp is quiet and dark, for it is very late.

I come closer to the large dark tent and hear, unmistakably, the sounds of lovemaking and Yusuf’s own voice as he groans with pleasure.

My legs shake and my breath seems to be stopped in my throat as I hear him cry out and then speak Zaynab’s name softly and her golden laughter answer him.

I return to my tent in a daze and find within it Adeola, her head bowed, a cup of the steaming drink from my first night in the camp in her hand.

I looked at her and then comprehend her earlier concern.

“The food you make for me each night…” I begin, feeling my way towards the truth, which I do not want to touch.

Adeola shrinks back a little. “To sleep,” she says, looking at me in fear. “Not to hear.”

I nod wearily. “Every night?”

She lowers her eyes, as though even to look at me is to add to my suffering. “Yes,” she says softly.

I take the drink from her and drink it in large greedy gulps. It burns my tongue and throat, but I do not stop until it is all gone. I let it fall to the floor with a clang and wave her away. She bends to pick it up and then leaves me alone to the coming gentle darkness.

***

After that I know the truth. I do not torment myself with it.

I eat all the food that Adeola brings me each night, taking large portions so that whatever herbs she is using to make me sleep will be sure to take effect.

I eat well and sleep well. My eyes grow bright, my skin grows polished, my curves grow more rounded and the men of the camp watch me pass with more interest. Adeola watches me and says nothing, but one day she comes to me when the sun is high and without speaking begins to undress me, then bathes me and perfumes my skin.

She pulls out my finest clothes and dresses me, adorning me with all my jewellery, taking especial care to leave aside Zaynab’s tenfuk pendant and to ensure all the jewellery Yusuf has given me can be seen.

“What are you doing, Adeola?” I ask her.

She smiles and shakes her head.

I let her have her way, for the days are long and often dull and my mind needs distraction from its old paths worn bear with my pacing.

By the time she has brushed my hair and hennaed my hands and feet it is growing dusk.

She leaves me sitting there in all my splendour, laughing at myself for allowing a slave to treat me as though I am her plaything.

Outside I can hear her putting the final touches to the cooking she started this morning.

I smell the good smells and lie back on the cushions of my bed, trying to enjoy the simple joys of being cared for by such a devoted slave.

Briefly I think of the old garrison camp and regret leaving it.

There I was a married woman, respected in my own right and cared for.

Here I feel like a child’s forgotten toy, discarded for sweetmeats.

“I hope I do not disturb you, wife?”

I sit up, shocked. In the doorway is Yusuf. I have not seen him close to for so long that I stare at him as though he is a stranger.

He smiles. “May I enter?”

I spring to my feet and throw my arms around him, pulling him into the tent. He chuckles, a deep rumble in his chest, making me weak with relief that at last I have him to myself.

Adeola comes and pours water over our hands before bringing in heaping platters of good food; well-made but not too elegantly prepared, for everyone knows that Yusuf prefers his food to be simple.

Yusuf smiles at her. “Your slaves are very devoted to you,” he says as he takes his first mouthfuls of food. “Your other slave… Aykron?”

“Ekon,” I say.

“Ekon, yes. He came to me today and said you had asked that I join you tonight to eat. I told him I was busy, but he was very insistent. He said that you would be very unhappy if I did not come to you.” He laughs, taking more food. “So here I am.”

I doubt it was so easy. I know that Ekon must have planned his moment and his words carefully, perhaps for many days, for he is a mere slave and cannot insist that Yusuf bin Tashfin, general of a great army, should come to me simply because he, Ekon, has asked him to.

I keep my eyes lowered for a moment so that Yusuf will not see the tears welling up as I think of Ekon and Adeola’s faithful attempts to make me happy again.

I say nothing. I have a night alone with Yusuf, and I hope that in spending time together he may remember our previous happiness and plans and that over time I may take back at least my own share of my husband.

I try to tell myself that he spent much time alone, and that he then spent time with Zaynab for many months, longer than he had even known me, in fact.

Perhaps it is to be expected that she comes foremost to his mind rather than a wife whom he has not seen for so long, who has not shared these important past months with him.

Tonight, I will try to be a loving wife, and we will rediscover the tenderness and partnership between us and then the future will not be so hard for me, for I will do my best to accept Zaynab, even as she must accept me as Yusuf’s first wife.

As we eat, I speak at first of daily things, the grazing of the many herds of goats and sheep that keep the camp supplied, the training of the horses that takes place every day on the plain, the storytellers, the craftsmen, the souks.

I seek to make him feel at ease, to enjoy the meal and our time together, to make him laugh.

I succeed, and after the meal, when Adeola has brought water to wash our hands, we lie propped on cushions on my bed, our faces closer together and talk a little of our time apart and of the time we had spent together when we had been first married, which makes him smile.

“Your face when your father told you I wished to marry you,” he chuckles. “I thought you would fall off your camel.”

“What kind of man proposes marriage after one camel ride together?” I retort.

“Ah, but you had already joined my men and ridden a great distance with us, you had proven yourself,” he says.

I am happy to talk of the time when we first met.

I do not press him to talk of the time since then, of the battles, the fear, the killing.

Nor do we talk of the future, of the battles yet to come, the difficulties of leading such a large army.

Abu Bakr’s absence weighs heavily on him, for they have worked well together and been of comfort and support to one another.

He talks of these things every day, carries them in his heart and in his prayers.

I want him to leave all of that outside my tent and to have only kindness and good memories with me.

A place to rest his body, but also his heart and mind.

We have lain together for a while when at last Yusuf takes me into his arms and begins to stroke and undress me. His movements are unhurried and gentle, as I remember from the past, and I close my eyes, my own hands reaching out to him.

We are interrupted. A sweet voice calls from outside.

In a moment Zaynab stands in the doorway of my tent, Adeola visible behind, attempting to stop her from entering.

Zaynab ignores her. In her hands she has a red wooden cup, which she holds out towards us.

I shrink back, pulling my clothes around me.

Yusuf frowns. “What are you doing here, Zaynab?”

Zaynab’s smile falters. “I brought this for you both to share. It is a recipe taught me by my mother,” she lowers her long lashes almost coyly, “for loving nights. I wanted to offer my sister a gesture of my love for her.” She looks up again towards me, her face gentle, hopeful.

“I know it is not easy to welcome a new sister as a wife to your own husband, but you have been so gracious, so kind to me.” She gestures uncomfortably.

“But I am interrupting, I am so sorry. It was not my intention.” She holds the cup out awkwardly, almost pleadingly.

I glance at Yusuf. He has lost his frown and is smiling, pleased, no doubt, that his wives are getting on so well, without much of the trouble that can often happen for a man caught between jealous wives.

I have no choice. I hold out my hands for the cup, my clothes slipping as I do so. Zaynab modestly lowers her eyes so as not to see my nakedness, places the cup in my hands and bows her head to both of us as she backs out of the tent. “May Allah bless your bed,” she says softly as she goes.

I sit back on the bed trying not to spill the cup, which is full to the very brim with a perfumed drink.

It smells of rose petals and honey, with other spices and herbs, which I cannot readily identify.

I look at it doubtfully, unsure that I want to drink any peace offering from Zaynab.

I do not fully trust her. I take a very small sip, barely wetting my lips, and look at Yusuf.

He smiles and takes the cup from me, then drains it in a few easy gulps. “It is a good drink,” he says. “Zaynab often makes it for me. She will not tell me what it contains, for she says it is her handmaid’s secret.”

I make an effort to smile and draw Yusuf back onto the cushions, for I am not about to spoil our night together turning over Zaynab’s strange actions in my mind. She has done nothing but bring a drink to her husband and speak peaceably to me. I lay my hand upon Yusuf and feel him stir in response.

***