Page 32 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I wake to shouts in the streets, hurry to the windows, afraid of what such commotion means, but see smiles on people’s faces, hear chants of celebration.

Fes has fallen. Yusuf now holds an important city in the north.

Any amirs across the breadth of the Maghreb whom he has not yet conquered must tremble in their shoes today, knowing their time will come soon.

A few, lying close to Fes, surrender immediately, bowing to the inevitable moment when Yusuf will claim their territories.

Better to be his tributes and allies and keep their lands than suffer the consequences of defying him.

Rebecca and I are grateful for his success, for our continued safety and prosperity.

“Yusuf’s first wife seems happy for a woman who has so recently lost her child,” says Aisha.

She has taken to visiting me each day, her own baby girl and Ali lying side by side on a mat beside us, gurgling, beginning to wave their arms and legs about, occasionally succeeding in rolling over for a different view of the world.

Her older son toddles about the courtyard, poking at my plants and attempting to befriend the neighbour’s cat, who has until now considered my tiny courtyard a good place to rest peacefully in the sun.

Rebecca sits with us, sewing. There is a peaceful feeling to these days, a comfort in seeing these small children explore the world around them, their desires so simple, so easy to grant.

“In what way?” I ask, my ears pricking up at the mention of Kella. I have never confided in Aisha about Ali’s parentage, although when she first saw him, she cast me a look which suggested that she did not quite believe my story of him being Rebecca’s child.

“I saw her in the marketplace,” says Aisha. “Shopping for more goods than she can possibly have need of, laughing and bartering with the traders as though she had no cares in the world.”

I ponder this. I wonder if Kella intends to leave, and shudder at the idea that she might return for Ali, take him with her somewhere else.

That night I wrap myself in a heavy cloak and leave Ali with Rebecca, making my way through the streets until I reach Kella’s house.

I stand outside it in the darkness, wondering whether to make myself known to her, to ask her how she does.

But I am not brave enough, I fear she will ask for Ali’s return.

I return several nights in a row. Each night I turn away, always uncertain whether my own questions will prove our joint undoing.

On the fifth night, I am about to turn away when I see a side gate open.

A cloaked figure leaves the house. It is Kella, I am sure of it.

I step forward to speak with her, but there is something about the way she moves, hurried and secretive, that makes me stand back in the dark and let her go her own way, wherever that is.

I hear a tiny chink , as of something metal striking the ground and see her head turn, but she does not stop, only walks swiftly away in the direction of the stables where Yusuf’s personal steeds are kept.

When she has gone, I retrace her steps and see something on the ground, the tiny glint of metal I heard fall.

I pick up the object and retreat to a street corner where a lantern bobs.

In the flickering light I see a tiny necklace, the shape of which, I know, is a betrothal necklace amongst Kella’s people, a simple thing for such a weighty promise, made up of tiny black beads interspersed with silver, and dangling triangles.

It must be the betrothal necklace Yusuf gave her when he took her as his bride.

It lies in my hand, tiny, insignificant, yet loaded with the past. I am certain from her behaviour that Kella is leaving Murakush, but I do not raise the alarm, nor chase after her.

She knows better than I what risks Ali may face in his life and she is taking steps to mitigate them.

I trust her judgement and besides, I am relieved that she is not taking Ali away.

My oath to her still stands, indeed it is strengthened by her absence.

I place the tiny necklace in a little casket in my own room, which already contains the string of silver beads she gave me with which to prove Ali’s parentage. Perhaps, should the day ever come when such proof is needed, this necklace will only strengthen his claim on Yusuf.

News spreads fast that Yusuf’s first wife has disappeared.

Scouts are sent everywhere, but there is no word of her, it is as though the desert has swallowed her up without a trace.

There are rumours and gossip everywhere.

It seems she left with a man from her own tribe, perhaps a childhood sweetheart.

That she left with slaves whom she had already set free.

That her favourite camel from when she was a child has also disappeared from Yusuf’s stables.

Ludicrously, there are rumours that Zaynab spoke with the djinns of the desert, who magicked Kella away.

I await a visit from Yusuf, dreading the lies that I must tell, but he does not seek me out.

This news has come at a time when he must plan for military success, it is too easy for Zaynab to claim to have searched for her everywhere and failed.

Myself, I doubt she looked very hard. Zaynab never wanted Kella here, it is surprising enough that she did not kill her off in person.

There are rumours of that as well of course, spoken more quietly in darker corners, for everyone knew that Zaynab was jealous of Kella being Yusuf’s first wife.

I choose to believe that Kella, adventurous as Yusuf described her, ever seeking a life of freedom, thought it best to seek out the life she longed to lead and in so doing lend protection to her son.

I pray that she is safe and happy, but I also allow myself to look at Ali sleeping and pray that I may keep him with me and bring him safely to manhood, that I may know the joys of motherhood through him, however selfish that may be.

Aisha comes to me, her face doubtful at the message she is bringing. “The Queen’s handmaid Hela is ill. She has asked to see you,” she says. “Do you wish me to make your excuses?” she adds, as though to protect me.

“I will see her if she has asked for me,” I say. I follow Aisha back to the palace where Yusuf and Zaynab live, noting the shuttered empty house nearby that used to be Kella’s, still sitting empty without her. It would seem Yusuf has not yet given up hope of seeing her again.

Aisha knows her way through the palace, so that I do not need to risk meeting Zaynab. She leaves me outside a room with a pattern of flowers painted over it. I nod to her, then slip inside.

The room is very dark, I stand for a moment blinking, trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom.

“You came,” says a voice. I barely recognise her, her already deep voice now rasps, wheezes with the effort of speaking.

I think of Sister Rosa, of her last days and swallow.

“You do not need to be afraid,” she says. “I will not harm you.” She pauses for a moment. “Nor die in your presence, if that is what you are afraid of.”

“How did you know?” I ask.

“I felt it,” she sighs. “Do you not know what I can do by now, Isabella?”

“I do not know all you can do,” I say, unnerved by the sound of my childhood name in her mouth. “Nor would I wish to.”

“So certain of yourself,” she says, almost sounding amused. “After all this time, after all you have been through, still so certain of yourself, of your religion, your vows, your holiness.”

“I can only pray for holiness,” I say. “I have never felt so far from God.”

“Surely that depends on how you define being close to God?”

I do not wish to speak with her of such matters. “You sent for me,” I say. “What do you want?”

“Learn from me,” she says. “Open up your life, do not close it down to nothing. You help no one that way. Your skills as a healer are valuable, use them for a greater good, learn more.”

“I have been an apprentice and a healer for more than twenty years,” I say. “I doubt I have much more to learn.”

Her laugh turns into a coughing fit. When she has finished, she breathes heavily for a few moments. “You know almost nothing,” she says. “Have you studied the medicine that we practice here? That is practised across the Muslim world?”

“No,” I say. “It can hardly be that different.”

She closes her eyes, as though what I am saying is exhausting. “You have no idea,” she says. “I have seen your herbals. They are laughable. There is so much more medical knowledge of which you are unaware.”

“Such as?”

“So much,” she repeats, but she begins to cough again.

I stand waiting. When she has recovered herself, she looks me over again, her breath still coming with difficulty.

“I know how you feel for Yusuf,” she says. “How you still burn for him.”

I say nothing.

“He is drawn to you,” she says, as though it were an insignificant thing to say.

I feel my heart beat harder, swallow at the rush of heat in my cheeks.

“Oh, did you not know that?” she says. “Of course he is. I was surprised when he did not bed you before the marriage with Zaynab. The drink I gave him… It was intended to increase his desire for Zaynab. Which it did, of course, she is a hard woman to resist. But it almost went the other way. I could see him watching you. I could see his desire growing for you, I had not realised before, that he already cared for you, that it would take so little to turn that into love.”

I think of the night when Yusuf knelt by my bed, how his hand brushed my cheek. “I must go,” I say.

“Take my advice before you do that,” she says.

“Why should I trust you?”

“I have nothing to lose now,” she says. “I am dying.”

“You serve Zaynab,” I say. “And that makes me distrust you.”