Page 44 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

I laugh out loud. “There is not enough gold in the world to forget all that has happened to me,” I tell him.

We sit in silence for a little while, then I kneel by his bedside and clasp my hands together.

“What are you doing?”

“Praying for your soul,” I say.

“To which god?” he asks, his voice full of laughter.

“It does not matter,” I say. “Be quiet and let me pray.”

When I have finished, I stand and look down on him, at the dark eyes, thick brows, the sharp nose. I put my hand to his face and pull away his veil, so that I can see his lips.

“Are you afraid you will forget my face?” he asks. He is teasing but his eyes grow serious when he sees the look on my face, how I hold his gaze.

Slowly, I bend down, close my eyes and feel our faces touch, forehead to forehead, nose to nose.

I breathe in his breath and he breathes in mine.

Our lips meet, one moment of temptation given into, all the past years of longing and desire distilled into this one touch, this one moment.

When I straighten up, I keep my eyes on him a moment longer and then I turn and leave the room.

The corridor is full of men, who part before me as I leave Yusuf’s palace for the last time and make my way home, where I kneel by the fountain and weep until a messenger comes to tell me that Yusuf is gone.

When he does, I send a message of my own to Imari.

I spend the days before my departure comforting Ali, who mourns his father but thrills with the thought of ruling an empire.

“Don’t go,” he begs me.

“I have to return home, to fulfil my vows,” I tell him. “And you are a grown man; you have no need of me. You will be a great ruler.”

“I am – afraid,” he admits.

“There is no shame in fear,” I tell him. “Rule by your heart. Be good to your people. They deserve peace after all these years of war.”

He is excited by this thought, nodding keenly.

“And Rebecca is still here,” I say. “She is your mother as much as I.”

“I have had three mothers,” he says earnestly. “And I will honour each of you.”

“You have been a blessing in all our lives,” I say and embrace him again and again, thinking of Kella and how she found it impossible to let go of him, how she clung just a little longer to the feel and scent of him.

Rebecca weeps and begs me not to go, but I hold her tightly.

“Ali is close by, you have your children, your husband,” I say.

“My life has changed beyond recognition, thanks to you,” she says.

“Thanks to your good heart,” I remind her.

“I never thought the pain of life’s path would bring me to call a Christian my sister,” she says, wiping her tears and mine with a corner of her robe.

I must laugh. “Nor I a Jewess,” I say. “But you are indeed my sister.”

“And I?” says Aisha.

“Both my sisters, God be praised,” I say.

“I will not ask which god,” says Aisha. “That much at least I have learnt from you.”

We laugh through our tears, the three of us embracing while Imari waits with our camels.

“Send him home safe to me,” says Aisha.

“You know I will,” I say.

“Do not forget us,” calls Rebecca, watching me mount an irate camel who will be my steed until we reach the sea.

“I cannot forget my sisters,” I call back, steadying myself in the saddle and pulling my robe about me against the morning chill.

I look back only once, see their hands raised in farewell. I raise my own hand so that they can see it, hold it aloft until I know I am no longer in their sight, then use it to wipe my eyes of the tears that will not stop falling.

The journey I make now, retracing the steps of long ago, is entirely different.

Escorts of soldiers follow us from encampment to encampment, in every city I am treated as a guest of honour, lavishly fed and bedded, bowed and scraped to by the nobles and warriors that make up each city’s rulers.

I am almost grateful for the quiet days, when Imari and I travel mostly alone, when our food is something simple, bread and dates eaten under the shade of a tree.

I watch the landscape change, watch the mountains fade away and the coast approach.

When we reach the docks, I stand for some time in the market square, watching a slave auction being prepared.

I allow the merchant, a different one now, to make his opening speech, to display all his wares, before I step out of the crowd and speak with him, my lips close to his ear, his eyes wide and startled.

He stands by as every slave sees their names written out in my own hand, the gold passed over to buy their freedom and the coins in heavy leather pouches they each receive so that they may make their way in the world as free men and women, their children safe by their sides.

I know more slaves will come tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, but at least today’s slaves are free.

I hope that amongst them is a girl like Catalina, now destined for something better than a rich man’s plaything.

Imari watches me with a strange half smile. “If someone had bought your freedom when you were sold,” he says, curious, “would you have been grateful not to have lived the life that came after you were bought?”

I smile back. “There are not many slaves whose lives beyond today would have brought them what my life here has brought me,” I say.

He nods at the truth of what I say and goes about finding a ship we can board, an easy task. There is no shortage of captains willing to be paid in gold for a simple voyage with a small cargo.

I do not know where in the dark waters Sister Maria died.

I do not know which part of the sea received her body, nor where her spirit went.

But when the stars are bright above us on our last night of sailing, I throw dried rose petals onto the waves beneath us and hope that my too-late tribute reaches her in some form.

I think of her ready smile and her love for the world in all its forms, her kindness to others and her fear of what might happen to her when we were taken, how the darkness of our future must have been too much to bear.

I think of what it must have taken for her to look into a different kind of darkness below and how cold the water must have been around her as she died.

We took such different paths, she and I, each of which might be condemned, and by each of which we might have been blessed.

It is dawn when we land, still half-dark.

I am not bound. I am not pushed, or pulled, lifted without my permission.

Strong hands hold mine with courtesy, I am lifted gently and with all due care and respect for both my age and status, into a little boat which will take us to the shore.

Again, I am lifted and now my feet touch the soil of Galicia.

I bend down to touch it, lift the sand and let it run through my fingertips. I am home.

We brought two horses with us and they are helped to swim to shore. Imari sees me comfortable in the saddle; I am given the reins to my steed. We look out to sea to see the ship already setting sail.

We ride the short distance along the coast to A Lanzada. I think of Catalina’s family still living close by but there is no news I could give them that would bring them happiness. Instead, I make my way to the hermitage while Imari waits on the beach with the horses.

The tiny chapel is very quiet. I have not been in a Christian church for two decades and it is both familiar and strange to me. I touch the pews, make my way to the altar and kneel.

I pray for Catalina, wherever she may be. She would be in her mid-thirties by now, as I was when we were taken. I hope that she has made some kind of life for herself in the Maghreb, that her destiny turned out better than I feared, as mine did.

I give thanks for my own safe return, the miracle I prayed for all those years ago now accomplished. I feel I have been sent on a pilgrimage of sorts and now I give thanks for the wisdom received, for the kindness I have been shown along the way.

When I return to the beach, I stand for a moment looking out to sea, watching the waves rippling against the sand.

I wonder if the barren women of the area still make their way here once a year and stand in the moonlight while nine waves wash over them.

I say a small prayer that those who do will be blessed with the children they so long for.

“Are you ready, my lady?”

I hesitate. Am I ready? Am I ready, to return to a world I had thought lost to me forever?

But this is the moment I have thought about for years, it is a sign of God’s blessing on me that he has brought me home.

“Yes,” I say, my voice so quiet that Imari has to tilt his head to look at my face, for he has not heard me.

I nod and he nods in return. He helps me back into the saddle and then mounts his own horse.

I take the reins in my hands, take a deep breath, and dig in my heels.

The convent is only a few days’ ride away, even at a leisurely pace.

Day of Judgement, Galicia, 1106

Set me as a seal upon thine heart.

Song of Solomon 8:6

I hear footsteps coming to the heavy wooden door, and fastenings being undone.

I know that I will be welcomed here, that the fortune which Yusuf left to me will elevate me to a place of honour in a short space of time.

I may even end my days as a Mother Superior, for memories are short and money speaks, even within holy walls.

I will miss my son. For he will always be my son, no matter that I pray in a convent and he in a mosque. For me, Ali will always be the baby whose hand took my finger and whose smile changed my heart.

This is a place where I can end my days in peace. I will not be stolen nor bought; I will fear neither man nor war. Here I will be able to rest, to speak with my God in the last years left to me, live without looking over my shoulder for watching eyes.

I could have wished for a different path of course, for a simple life, to have remained all my years in this protected place.

I would have been spared fear and humiliation, pain and persecution.

Had I lived here I would not have had to raise a son in another’s faith, nor have loved and been loved by a man who could never be my husband.

But I know now that I would have been a lesser woman.

I look back over my shoulder for the last time. Imari waits, patient as always, to make certain that I have entered the great door, returned to a place of safety.

“You will care for my sister,” I call to him, my voice breaking a little.

“And love her,” he replies, placing one hand over his heart.

I nod and turn back to the door as it opens.

When I stand before my God on the great Day of Judgement there are those who will charge me with having abandoned my calling, indeed my faith.

They will accuse me of lusting after a heathen Moor and forgetting my holy vows, with raising a child to rule an empire whose people are set against my own, with consorting with both a Jewess and a Muslim as though they were my sisters in Christ. They will ask what I did with my life, to atone for such sins.

I will look my God full in His terrible face and I will say, “Lord, I learned to love.”

And He will understand.