Page 41 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I sit with him and tell him all I can about Kella, about her life before she met Yusuf, about the moment when she threw in her lot with him, and how she came to leave this place.

I try not to accuse Zaynab, for I cannot risk Ali taking offence against her.

A young man might foolishly swear vengeance on such a woman, should he know the true story between her and his mother.

Instead, I say only that Zaynab was fiercely jealous, that Kella did not wish for Ali to grow up with such rivalry around him and that she was unhappy herself, unable to live alongside Yusuf as she would have wished.

That she made her way to a different life, that I know a good man went with her, along with loyal servants.

Throughout, I tell him how much she loved him, how distraught she was on the black night when she brought him to me and begged for my help.

I show him the string of silver beads, I show him the engagement necklace Yusuf gave her, and he holds them as though they were holy relics.

Some of his questions I do not have the answers to but again and again he embraces me and thanks me, calls me mother.

Our tears mingle and that night I retire to bed, exhausted from the emotions of two decades released in one afternoon.

The days that follow are filled with even more emotion.

Rebecca hears what has happened and spends time with Ali, telling him her own story.

Yusuf returns daily, speaking with Ali and embracing him constantly.

He kneels to me every time he sees me, thanking me over and over again for what I have done, offering me anything, anything I desire, to which I shake my head and insist he stands. But then the arguments begin.

“Council will be held,” Yusuf tells me while Ali is absent. “I will name Ali as my son. Once he has been accepted, I will name him my heir.”

I feel myself grow cold. “You cannot,” I say, too quickly.

“Why?”

I want to say Zaynab’s name, but I dare not, even here, alone with him. “Ali has not been raised to be your heir,” I say. “He has been raised to be a man of peace, not a man of war. Your empire is still so new, it will need a warrior to hold it.”

But Yusuf only beams. “I have created an empire,” he says. “Now it needs a man of peace to rule it, to create a land of plenty, a land filled with knowledge and goodwill amongst my people.”

“He –” I begin.

“I have known him all his life,” says Yusuf, interrupting me, still delighted. “He has been taught by the finest scholars, he is a man of knowledge, a man of the law. There is not one scholar who could argue with his knowledge of our religion and the law.”

“He knows nothing of military strategy,” I say.

“He has an army at his disposal,” says Yusuf, unperturbed. “He has experienced generals at his command. His brothers, my other sons, will guide him in these matters.”

“One of his brothers will expect to inherit your throne,” I say. “They will be angry at being passed over. Why should they help him?”

“The choice of heir lies in my hands,” says Yusuf. “Ali is my first son and the son of my first wife. And he has been raised by you,” he adds softly.

I cannot help myself. “Zaynab –” I begin.

“The decision is mine to take,” says Yusuf and from his tone I know it is useless to argue any further.

I am greatly fearful for Ali’s safety once Zaynab knows of his existence, but there is nothing I can do to change Yusuf’s mind and Ali himself glows when he is told what is to come.

He looks into the future and sees himself following in the footsteps of Yusuf, leading the empire into an era of peace and tranquillity, of stability.

“It will be like Cordoba,” he says to me, his eyes alight with joy. “It will be everything you said Cordoba once was, but greater. Muslims, Christians, and Jews sharing knowledge, an empire the like of which has never been seen before.”

I want to believe it is possible, that the vision he has for the future can come true, but at the same time I curse myself for having told Ali stories of the past that may be impossible to emulate.

Cordoba’s glory did not last long. I wish that I could consult with my own father, to ask him how Cordoba came to be and whether it is possible for this boy, this man, whom I think of as my son, to make such a time come alive again.

I think that if anyone can manage it, this child, son of a Muslim, raised by a Christian, suckled by a Jewess, could be the one to do it, but I am afraid for him.

“I will pray that you are successful,” I say. “I will pray every day of my life that your empire shines greater than Cordoba.

“We will go there together, you and I,” he says enthusiastically. “We will pray together in Cordoba that its light may shine out across this new empire again.”

I can only embrace him and nod, can only pray for his success and that he escapes Zaynab’s wrath.

“Council has been summoned,” Yusuf tells me. He has come to my house early; the dawn prayer was less than an hour ago. “You will attend with Ali,” he tells me.

“There is no need for me to attend,” I say quickly. “Ali is your son, I am not even his mother,” I add, forswearing my child in an instant, for the chance to avoid being in the same room as Zaynab when she hears this news.

“Zaynab was calm enough,” says Yusuf, knowing full well why I refuse to go.

“I do not believe that,” I say. “Does she know that you are about to name him your heir?”

“No,” he says. His tone is set, stubborn.

“Then I will not be there when you tell her,” I say. “How do you think she will react? She surely expects her own son to succeed you.”

“It is my choice,” repeats Yusuf. I give a tiny sigh and he frowns. “Surely you want Ali, the child you have raised, to succeed me?”

“It will be as you wish,” I say.

“Yes, it will,” he says, and sweeps from the room. “You will attend with Ali,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.

I have no choice. Guards are sent to accompany us.

Ali, dressed in his best robes, is glowing, although his demeanour changes a little as we come close to the Council chambers set within the palace.

I can see him growing nervous and reach out a hand to touch his shoulder as Yusuf comes to greet him with open arms, gesturing to me to follow them into the chambers.

I stand in the doorway, half hidden from the room, watching as Ali steps into the space.

I look beyond him, to Yusuf’s other sons, most born to Zaynab, two to slave women I do not know the names of.

They are so very different from Ali. All of them have broad shoulders, their forearms ripple with muscles.

These are men of war; they have been trained by the best warriors in Yusuf’s army.

They may have completed some studies, but they have not been held to their books day after day.

Instead, they have learned to fight, to command, to face the enemy in battle and ride out with courage in their hearts.

They carry swords on their hips, daggers in their belts.

Zaynab’s eldest son, Abu Tahir, sits next to her and he looks every inch a future amir, the man everyone expects to succeed Yusuf.

I swallow. Will he step aside and let Ali rule?

Or will he seek him out in some deserted backstreet and end my son’s life with a single stroke of the sword his hand is resting on?

Ali has joined the scholars, who are seated at the far end of the room, speaking with them, his back turned to the generals and governors that make up the rest of the room.

Yusuf stands and I brace myself.

“I ask the council to welcome my son, Ali. Child to my first wife Kella, now no longer with us.”

There is a murmur, a ripple of interest. The council members turn their heads, stare at Ali with curiosity. He stands, a little pale, but with his head held high, looking to Yusuf for his confidence.

“The woman who raised him will vouch for his birth,” says Yusuf. He gestures to me. “Isabella, join us.”

I step forwards, my stomach churning, vomit rising in my throat. One of the scholars is rising, no doubt to question me. I look towards Zaynab and see her face has grown white, her hands are clenched into fists at her side.

The scholar is old, one of Yusuf’s most important advisers. He begins to question me. I try to give my answers in a clear voice, without trembling.

“I swear that this man is Ali, son to Yusuf bin Tashfin and his wife Kella.”

“Do you know where Kella is now?”

“I do not.”

“Is she alive?”

“I do not know.”

“How did you come to have this child in your care?”

Zaynab leans forwards, her dark eyes darker still in her white face.

“His mother summoned me as a midwife when she birthed him. He was born into my hands.”

“Did she give him to you at once?”

“No. She came to me in great secrecy later that night. She claimed that the boy’s life was in danger, that he must be raised by another. She begged me to take him. I did so.” I swallow, trying to stop the tears that are welling in my eyes at the thought of that night, that request, that choice.

“From whom was he in danger?”

I do not let my eyes flicker towards her. I know that she is watching me. I know that she is waiting to hear her own name, preparing herself to fight. I shake my head.

“Give me a name,” the old man insists. I can feel the tightness in the chamber, can hear the Council members waiting.

“I cannot.”

There is a pause, while the scholar and the rest of the Council wait to see if I will relent, if there is any value to be had in continuing to press me for a name that I appear unwilling to give. Certainly, they know there is a name, but for now they have more pressing matters.

“Can you prove this story?”