Wild Jasmine (17 page)

“Dear child,” the priest said, “you know that your father is not well.”

“Is he dying?” she asked half fearfully. She could not really imagine Akbar dying. He was the Mughal. He was her father. He had always been there for her, and she assumed he always would be.

“We must all die eventually. The lord Akbar is of an age where life is shorter than it is longer. You are the last of his children. He wants very much to have you settled. That vanity in him that we all possess desires to see grandchildren of your union. Therefore, the sooner you wed, the sooner he will see those grandchildren.” Cullen Butler chuckled. “All these many thoughts, my dear little lady! You are, I suspect, being attacked by a disease known the world over to maidens about to embark upon the road to marriage. They call this malady ‘bridal nerves.’ Most young girls facing their wedding day are beset by them.”

“I just wish I knew more about Prince Jamal, Father. Why, I have never even seen him!”

“Many brides, both here in India and in Europe, never see their bridegrooms before the wedding day. There is nothing unusual in it. It is the way of the nobility and the wealthier classes throughout the world. Marriage is a sacrament between two people, as I have taught you, my dear lady.”

“Not in Islam,” Yasaman said. “Marriage in Islam is a contract between two people. That is why the Iman cannot bless it until the Mehr is fixed. Papa says I am a most expensive bride. It is unlikely the prince will ever divorce me, for I would cost his family too much gold. Besides, I am the Mughal’s daughter, and my brother, Salim, will follow our father
as Mughal one day. Jamal Khan would not dare ever insult my family.”

“That is true,” the priest agreed, “and because it is so, my dear lady, I would beg you to allow me to marry you and Prince Jamal in the faith of Candra into which you were baptized. It would please her family very much, I know. Remember, I was sent here to India by Holy Mother Church to keep you on the path of the true faith. In this I have failed, I fear, for you are not truly devout; but if I can give you the sacrament of marriage, then perhaps I will not have failed entirely.”

“I do not know, Father.” Yasaman considered carefully. “I do not think it would be allowed.”

“Why not?” the priest said with unaccustomed belligerence. “Has not your father married many of his wives in both the faiths of Islam and the Hindu? Did not your brother, Salim, celebrate his marriage to Princess Man Bai in both her faith and his? Why should it be any different for you? Man Bai was but the daughter of the Raja of Amber.
You are the Mughal’s daughter!
Should your wishes be considered less than a daughter of Amber?”

Her pride pricked, it did not take Yasaman long to decide the matter. “You are right,” she said, “and I know it would please Candra’s family, Father Cullen.”

“Indeed it would, my lady,” the priest agreed, smiling to himself, pleased.

“Then so be it! I will speak with my father in the morning. The wedding will not be celebrated until the late afternoon. I suspect, however, that a Christian marriage will have to be performed in secret. Islam and the Hindu faith are natural to India. Christianity is not. Still, it matters not, does it? I will be wed in the faiths of those who gave me life. I think that most fitting, Father.”

He nodded, content. She had studied the faith of her mother’s family quite assiduously, but then, to his disappointment, she had also studied other faiths just as carefully. He was not really certain what she believed, and he dared not press her, lest he be sent away. It was important that he remain with her.

Yasaman suddenly yawned quite broadly.

“Good,” Cullen Butler said with a small smile. “You are finally sleepy, my dear lady. Let me escort you into your chamber.”

“Ummm,” she agreed. Standing up, she allowed him to lead her into her sleeping chamber, but before she could lay aside
her large, beautiful, soft shawl, her only covering, he bowed himself quickly from her presence.

Yasaman smiled to herself. Father Cullen, like all the priests she knew, was embarrassed by nudity. It was so silly. Tossing aside the Kashmir shawl, Yasaman fell gratefully into her bed, asleep almost before her head could touch the pillow. It was a dreamless sleep, and when she was finally awakened in the morning by her two body servants, Rohana and Toramalli, Yasaman felt wonderfully refreshed.

“Tell my father I want to see him,” she instructed Adali as he entered her chamber to greet her.

“At once, dearest princess,” the eunuch said.

“It is a perfect day for a wedding, my lady,” Toramalli said with a broad smile. “The kitchens have been busy since before dawn with all the baking. There is to be wheat bread, honey loaves, and Rumali roti bread!”

“And both purple and green rice, as well as rice covered with sheets of beaten gold and silver!” Rohana chimed in excitedly.

“Do not forget the sacrificial lamb,” Yasaman said mischievously.

The two sisters look puzzled for a moment, and then suddenly understanding the jest, they burst out laughing, rolling their fine dark eyes about most comically. When they were finally able to contain themselves, Toramalli asked, “Shall we prepare your bath, my lady?”

“No,” she told them. “I will bathe before the wedding; but I should like to be sponged with jasmine water now.”

Rohana hurried to fetch a silver basin into which she had ladled cool water scented with jasmine oil. Together she and her sister washed their mistress and then helped her to dress in a hyacinth-colored jaguli. The traditional high-waisted dress of the Mughal’s had long, tight-fitting sleeves and a long flowing skirt. The hem of the skirt was decorated in a gold design, as were the cuffs of the sleeves. The embroidered opening at the neck of the gown revealed a modest glimpse of Yasaman’s young breasts.

Toramalli began to brush the princess’s long, black hair with a brush dipped in jasmine oil, freeing it of the tangles it had gained during the night. Watching from the entry to the room, Akbar thought how very much her lovely hair reminded him of his own when he had been younger. He remembered how surprised Candra had been to find his hair long, and dark, and
soft. Their daughter had inherited that small bit of him along with the mole he had between his upper lip and his left nostril. On Yasaman, though the mole was very much smaller, it was without a doubt the mark of the Mughal. His father, Humayun, had possessed that mark, although none of his other children did.

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, he stepped into his daughter’s chamber. “Good morning, my rosebud!” he said jovially.

“Papa!” Yasaman arose and, running to him, kissed him. Then turning to her serving women, she said, “Go! We are not to be disturbed by anyone.”

Adali, who had returned with his master, bowed, surprised, but dutifully shepherded Toramalli and Rohana from the room.

“Ahhh,” the emperor said, intrigued. “What is this, Yasaman? Secrets? What secrets can my innocent young rosebud have?”

“Yes, my father,” she answered, looking directly into his dark eyes. “A secret of sorts.”

“What is it, my daughter?” he asked her. “It must be important for you to dismiss your body servants. You know I will refuse you nothing within reason, especially on this, your wedding day.”

“Jamal Khan practices the faith of Islam, does he not?” she asked.

Akbar nodded. “He does.”

“And are we to be married officially in that faith?” she continued.

“Yes. I did not think you would object, Yasaman. Your mind is an open one, I know,” her father said.

“Yet both you and my brothers have married in not only the faith of Islam, but in the faith of your brides as well when it proved different. I would have that same privilege, my father. I wish to be married first, privately, in my mother’s faith. Candra’s. The mother who bore me.”

He was at first stunned, and then said, “I do not know if Jamal Khan will accept such a thing.”

“You are the Mughal,” she told him implacably, in a tone he recognized as his own. “It is your will, my father, not the will of Jamal Khan, which shall prevail in this matter.”

“You do not practice Candra’s faith,” he reasoned cleverly with her,

“No, I do not,” she agreed honestly, “but I was baptized in
it,
and
I respect the Christian faith. I have never renounced Candra’s faith. So under both the laws of Islam and the laws of Christians, I am considered a Christian. I wish to be married in that faith before I am married under Islam. It will please me, my father, because it will allow me to continue that small tie that binds me to the English half of me. I know it would please both Candra as well as my other grandmother when you write to them of my marriage, as I know you will. It will certainly make Father Cullen happy, and he will feel less of a failure with regard to my lack of piety.”

Yesterday she had been a child, he thought. Now she was speaking to him as if she were a grown woman; and even if he still wasn’t certain that she really was mature, he respected her for it. “How do you know I will write to your grandmother in England, Yasaman? I do not correspond with her. To do so would be futile.”

“No,” Yasaman answered him with a little smile, “you do not write to her, but I know that each year she writes to you inquiring after me. This time you will write to her when you send the pearl, won’t you? If you do not, I will. I think Candra will want to know that I am married.”

“Have you ever been unhappy, my child?” he asked her, curious, for she had never before shown such interest in the other half of her heritage.

“
Never!
” she responded honestly. “I would be no one but who I am. Yasaman Kama Begum, the daughter of the Grand Mughal and Rugaiya Begum, his first consort.”

“And the wife of Jamal Khan?” he said.

“And the wife of Jamal Khan,” she replied, “but only if I may be married first by Father Cullen.”

“Candra was stubborn too,” he told her.

“
Was she?
” Yasaman’s eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Yes,” he nodded, and then he said, “I will grant your request, my daughter. Jamal Khan will somehow manage to live with our decision.”

Jamal Khan, however, was not in the least distressed by the revelation that he would first be married by a Christian priest. When he arrived for the wedding to learn this new fact from the Mughal, he said practically, “My sons will be raised in the faith of the Prophet, my lord. That is all I care about. If it pleases the princess to be married in both faiths, then it pleases me too.”

He and his father were with the emperor in a small receiving room of Yasaman’s palace. None were aware that the princess watched and listened from outside the window. Although reassured by his words, her eyes were riveted upon the young man who would shortly become her husband. They had not lied. He was very handsome, but more important, he seemed to be a reasonable man. She had seen enough. Quietly she slipped through the thick foliage and worked her way around the building to the terrace facing the lake.

“Mistress, where have you been?” Adali hurried forward and, taking her arm, escorted her to her bath.

“I wanted to get a look at the prince, Adali. Is it not natural that I be curious? We are to be married in an hour. Have my aunts and my sister, Aram-Banu, arrived yet? They must perform the Henna-bandi ceremony before the marriage can take place. Tradition must be observed, but ohh, I hate that disgusting dye! Do not even consider attempting to redden my hands and feet with it today, Adali, or I vow I will snatch you bald!”

The eunuch chuckled. “No, mistress, your views on the henna are well-known. There is none in the palace, save the pot the prince sent you, and it will be used to dye his hands. Come now and bathe. The guests will soon be arriving.”

“There are no guests but family and a few of my father’s honored generals who are with the court,” she told him. “This is a most hurried affair, Adali.”

Before he might reply, the door to Yasaman’s chambers opened and Rugaiya Begum entered, accompanied by another lady.

“I have brought the lady Juliana, my daughter. She must examine you before you bathe that she may attest to your health to your bridegroom’s family.”

The lady Juliana bowed politely and smiled at Yasaman. She was a plump woman of medium height with wonderful white skin and black hair and eyes. She was an Armenian Christian, married to Philip Bourbon, a member of the royal house of Navarre. Her husband was an architect who had built India’s first Christian church only last year in the city of Agra. The lady Juliana was a physician and responsible for the health and well-being of Akbar’s zenana.

“I am perfectly healthy,” Yasaman protested, annoyed. No one had mentioned this before.

“Indeed, Princess, I would be most inclined to agree,” the lady Juliana replied, noting the girl’s bright eyes and the fresh
color of her skin. “Nonetheless, I have promised your father that I would examine you, and so I must. Show me your hands, child.” She took Yasaman’s hands and looked carefully at them. “As soon as you can, Princess, remove the ceremonial Mehdi. It seeps into the skin and I believe it a poison.”

“I will not stain my skin with henna,” Yasaman told her. “I never have. I dislike it intensely.”

“Good!” the physician replied. “Now please open your mouth.”

Yasaman complied.

“Her teeth are very sound,” the lady Juliana said. “There is no rot nor betel stains, and her breath is fresh. She appears to be in good health, but we must check what we cannot see, eh? Come and lie upon your bed, child. Yusef Khan and his son will want me to swear to your virginity, and so I must. Sit first, however, and I will check to be certain that there are no cankers in your breasts.” She began to gently palpate the girl’s flesh.

Yasaman blushed deeply but said nothing. She was mortally embarrassed by the examination, but she knew she must submit as gracefully as possible.

A basin of water was brought. The physician washed her hands and then said, “Lie back now, child, and open your legs for me. You must not be frightened, but in order to attest to your purity, I must insert my finger into your yoni to be certain your innocence is honest.”