Page 35 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I look about me when I walk through the city and when I see a girl, sitting begging for alms, instead of passing by or giving her a small coin, I bring her back to the house, and offer her work as my servant, which she gladly accepts.

She is an ill-favoured girl, being hunched in one shoulder, her back bent forwards and to one side, as well as having a twisted mouth from birth.

I use ointments on her and teach her exercises to stretch and relieve the aches she feels from her twisted back.

There is nothing I can do for her looks, but now that she is fed and dressed well, has a safe warm bed to sleep in at night and a household to be part of, her face seems prettier, for she smiles more often, and her gaze brightens.

She was born to a slave woman who died, and her master, seeing no possibility of selling her and disliking her looks, cast her out into the street.

Her name is Fatima, name of the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad and considered here a virtuous woman to be emulated, as women of my own faith might emulate a saint.

She proves to be a hard worker and of a cheerful disposition, once she comes to trust me and to believe that she will stay with us, that she will not be cast out again.

She watches me when I work with plants and begins to ask their names and uses, which I gladly share with her.

I think that in this way she might learn a useful skill which she may use throughout her life and perhaps even have as a source of income, should she ever leave us.

I tell her that she may have been born of a slave, but if her master abandoned her, she should consider herself a free woman.

And as such, that she may create her own life and make it a happy one, despite her base origins.

A servant bangs on the gate and Rebecca comes to me, her face anxious, to tell me that I am summoned to Zaynab.

“Why?” I ask, trying to ignore the drop in my stomach. Why should Zaynab summon me? How does she even know I exist? Does she know, has she found out about, Ali?

The servant shrugs. “The order was to bring you to her. At once,” he says.

“I will come in a moment,” I say, trying not to let my voice shake. I pull Rebecca to a corner with me. “You know what to do if anyone comes here, if I do not return?” I ask her.

She nods. “Hide Ali, take him elsewhere if needs be. If anything happens to you, seek Yusuf’s protection.”

I look beyond her to where Ali plays in the sunlight, dipping water from the fountain into a little pail and back again, immersed in the games small children play.

I want to embrace him, in case this is the last time I see him, but I do not want to startle him or frighten him, nor do I want to draw attention to him if the servant has not seen him.

I raise my hand a little, make the sign of the cross over him and slip through the gate.

I follow the man through the streets to Zaynab’s rooms, the grandest within the palace that has been built for Yusuf.

Servants are everywhere, the courtyard and rooms are large, although I can see Yusuf’s restraining hand on the decorations that have been used.

The plasterwork contains only calligraphy praising Allah, the courtyard relies on plants rather than overly elaborate tilework, even the many guards and servants we pass are plainly dressed, considering they serve an amir and his queen.

Guards stand at the entrance to Zaynab’s rooms. At a nod from the servant, they spring apart and allow us entry.

The room into which I am shown is very large.

A rich powerful perfume fills the air, the perfume of a queen.

Most of the room is taken up with a bed, on which Zaynab is sitting, looking down at maps spread out across her lap.

Zaynab’s bed. I recognise the carvings. Now it is draped with every kind of silken coverlet, with blankets of such fine wool they are more like gauze, all in reds and golds, yellows and oranges, as though it were aflame.

The lustful carvings are polished so well that they seem to glow with life.

This is the bed in which Zaynab lies with Yusuf.

I swallow. It should not bother me, and yet it does.

Zaynab has looked up from her maps and is watching me. My heart is beating fast, but I stand in silence. Whatever accusations she makes, whatever she knows, I will only refuse to speak until the end, will deny all knowledge of Ali’s birth and even of his very existence. It is all I can do.

“I suffer with great sickness from this pregnancy,” Zaynab says. “I have need of your healing powers.”

I wonder if this is a trick, if she intends to somehow catch me out, but I am not sure how, I am not sure what trap she is laying.

“I do not have powers,” I say at last, as it becomes clear that she is waiting for an answer.

“I only have knowledge of herbs and I pray to my God for His guidance.” It comes out more sharply than I intended, I sound as though I am defying her.

She stares at me in silence and I wonder whether in fact I have misjudged this meeting, whether she is indeed asking only for my help.

I know that Zaynab suffers greatly from nausea with her pregnancies, everyone knows this and now that Hela is dead perhaps she is truly only asking for herbs that will help her.

Certainly, she is very thin and pale, her beauty watered-down.

“What have you tried?” I ask cautiously.

She lists various remedies: eating acrid things such as capers, not eating such things, avoiding rue and all legumes especially chickpeas, the use of fresh air, gentle walks, wool placed over her stomach. Various wines, either diluted or added to. A range of amulets.

The relief I feel at her listing such commonplace remedies makes me light-headed.

I shake my head a little to try and dispel the feeling.

“I will make you a syrup,” I say, hoping that by promising this I can quickly leave her presence.

“Take it when you feel the sickness and at least twice a day even if you do not. Eat small meals and often.”

“I can barely eat anything but unleavened bread,” she says pitifully. Her voice sounds as thin as she is. “Everything else I vomit.”

I shake my head again. I do not want to feel pity for this woman. “I will send the syrup,” I say, already beginning to move towards the door, eager to leave.

“You must tell me what is in it,” she says sharply, as though she is suddenly distrustful of me, having sought my help.

“Pomegranate syrup with yarrow, stinging nettle, comfrey root, cinnamon, turmeric and bentonite clay,” I say.

The list comes quickly, I have made the remedy so many times, for one woman or another who had called on the convent for our help, even for ladies of the local nobility.

It is an effective remedy; I have never not known it work.

She nods slowly, as though my quick recital has comforted her. “Send it to me,” she says.

Rebecca nearly cries when I return. “I was afraid you would not come back,” she says, embracing me.

Ali has barely noticed my absence, he has moved on to water the plants, using a battered old ladle I gave him, dripping most of the water all over the tiles of the courtyard. He beams at me when he sees me and continues his task, earnestly over-soaking each plant.

I gather the ingredients I need and mix a syrup for Zaynab, take it to the palace gates and give it to one of her servants.

A few days pass and I am summoned again. I wonder whether this is the moment when a trap will spring but now the guards bow when they see me and Zaynab looks up as soon as I enter the room.

“Did the drink work?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. There is a little more colour to her cheeks. She nods to a servant, who hands me a large leather pouch. It is weighty with coins. I grasp it, dumbfounded.

“You will continue to send the drink throughout my pregnancy,” she says. “You will be well paid for your service.”

The leather pouch sits heavy in my hands.

I should bow, perhaps, should thank her, but I am too shocked at what has happened, at finding myself somehow serving a woman whom I despise, a woman I believe to be a handmaiden of the devil.

Am I, too, serving the devil, through my healing skills?

“I can tell your servants how to prepare it,” I say, trying to sever the bond she is creating between us.

“No,” she says. “I want you to prepare it.”

I nod and step away, hoping to leave as quickly as possible. I dare not refuse to make the syrup, nor her payment, but I wish to leave her presence.

“Wait,” she says.

I stop and wait. Is this the moment when she reveals all of this has been a pretence, that she knows everything?

“You could work for me,” she says. “My own handmaiden Hela has passed away and I have need of a healer in my service. Will you be my handmaiden?”

“No,” I say instantly.

She frowns. “Why not?”

The words spill from my mouth, as though they have been waiting to be said, as though a higher power has taken over my body. “I do not wish to serve you,” I say. “I cannot serve a woman who has such darkness inside her.”

Without asking her permission, I turn and leave the room, walk through her palace and back to my own home, all the way fearing a hand on my shoulder, all the while burning as though an invisible light is inside of me.

This, I think, this is how Our Lord felt when he refused the devil’s temptations, when He looked out over all the kingdoms that he might command and refused such earthly wiles, holding true to His given purpose.

I cannot even speak with Rebecca when I return home, only tell her that I must pray.

I spend all night on my knees and when dawn comes, I wake to find I have fallen asleep at prayer, that Rebecca has draped me with a woollen blanket while Fatima makes breakfast for Ali.

My knees cramp when I try to stand but for now, it seems, we are safe.