Sultan's Wife (34 page)

‘Where are the prisoners taken from Tangier?' Sir James demands, exasperated. ‘Over two hundred members of the garrison have been taken captive.'

Ismail spreads his hands apologetically. ‘Many have expired, I fear. From their battle wounds or other weaknesses. It seems the English are not as hardy as one might expect of such a warlike race. I gave those survivors I could spare to your messenger as a gesture of my goodwill and mercy.'

Sir James continues with characteristic bluntness: ‘And there are at least fifteen hundred men taken from our merchant fleet and other vessels over the past few years. Scores of our ships have been seized, and their crews have disappeared without trace.'

‘The seas around your coasts are known to be extremely stormy.' The sultan looks supremely uninterested. He is a good actor. I know full well where most of the English captives are: stashed away in the lightless matamore that runs beneath the Ambassadors' Hall. It is Ismail's idea of a joke. ‘Some others have accepted the true faith and are now living lives pleasing to Allah. They have taken good Muslim wives and are raising good Muslim children, as freed men in my realm.'

He has one such renegade brought forth, who gives his original name as William Harvey of Hull. I recognize him, even in his Moroccan garb, as one of the captives who hurled insults at me from the palace walls on that fateful day on which Sidi Kabour was killed by the man in the red knit cap now standing three feet away from me. Harvey, without any shame, tells Sir James that he is content with his lot, that he has converted of his own free will, that he has married a beautiful black woman who is far more willing
and cheerful than the wife he left at home, and that life here in Meknes is in a hundred ways better than his life as a member of his English majesty's navy.

You can see Sir James's face darkening throughout this eulogy, but he keeps his temper and eventually Ismail admits to having just one hundred and thirty English slaves, of whom seventy were taken from Tangier; and another sixty who are part of his retinue, servants to his functionaries, currently being trained in the ways of the court.

‘Your majesty, I will offer fifty pieces of eight to redeem each of them.'

The sultan laughs in scorn. ‘Two hundred for each man is the redemption price; more for my courtiers' slaves, if they choose to return.'

‘Two hundred pieces of eight? That is preposterous!'

‘I had thought England to be a rich country that valued its people highly.'

‘Sir, a man's value is beyond price. But two hundred pieces of eight –' Words fail the ambassador, who is now bright red in the face, and huffing.

Ismail is all charm. ‘Think upon it more, dear sir. I shall send cakes and sherbets to your rooms so that you may refresh yourself and consider the matter with a cooler head.'

If Sir James had hoped to beard the sultan at that night's banquet, he is to be sorely disappointed: Ismail rarely eats in public – to be seen indulging in such base human matters diminishes his status, he believes. But after my duties as the emperor's food-taster I am sent to sit beside the ambassador to answer his questions about the court and generally to keep my ears and eyes open, especially with regard to ben Hadou, seated on Sir James's other side, for whom Ismail has an equivocal regard. A week ago he threw a valuable Isnik pot at the Tinker's head, shouting, ‘Out of my sight, dog, son of a Christian woman!' The kaid ducked, the pot smashed, and it was I who had to clear up the shards. I forget what it was that put my master in such a temper – some days it does not take much – but the imputation that ben Hadou was the son of an infidel woman was fascinating to me. Perhaps it explains his ability with the English language. At any rate, he is seated on the ambassador's right, while I sit on the less favoured left. Of Samir Rafik, I am happy to say, there is no sign.

The table is spread most sumptuously: Malik has excelled himself. The centrepiece is an entire roasted sheep still on its spit, prepared with honey,
coriander, almonds, pears and walnuts. In a dish of beaten silver there is a stew of goat's meat in a sauce of fresh green coriander and cumin; on platters of gold, chickens roasted with saffron; a fragrant couscous of pigeon and chicken studded with almonds and raisins; hot pies of soft white goat's cheese and dates; fritters and sweet pastries flavoured with cinnamon and dripping with honey; little almond cakes in the shape of a gazelle's horns and crescents, filled with crushed pine kernels and pistachio nuts and perfumed with rose water. Earlier I have eaten just a handful or two of Ismail's staple food – his favoured chickpea couscous – and so I am more than happy to apply myself to this feast with the rest: for a long time there is no sound but that of eating and praise, praise and eating.

I wait until ben Hadou leaves the table to relieve himself, then say quietly to Sir James, ‘Please show no alarm at what I am about to tell you, sir: lives depend on our discretion.'

The ambassador is no stage-player: he stares at me in surprise. I bend my head to my food, as if engrossed by the task of separating meat from bone. I have noticed they have given Sir James and his retinue some newfangled eating implements, as if their two hands are not adequate. Still fiddling with the gristle, I say quietly, ‘There is an Englishwoman in the sultan's harem. Her name is Alys Swann. Her people came to The Hague during your civil war, her father a staunch Royalist who fled for his life. Alys was taken captive by corsairs as she sailed from Holland on her way to be married to an English gentleman. The corsair divan made a gift of her to the sultan four years ago; she has been here ever since. She had made no effort to be redeemed: she says her widowed mother is elderly and near-penniless, and she has never met her fiancé.'

I risk a glance and find I have his attention. ‘Why are you telling me this?'

‘Her life is in danger here: can you help to get her out?'

‘To pay her redemption price, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

He laughs. ‘Your sultan tried to charge me two hundred pieces of eight for a common slave: how much do you think he'd want for one of his harem-women?'

A fortune, I know. But I persevere. ‘She is an English lady: is it not a shame to your country that she should be here?'

He purses his lips. ‘Has she turned Turk?'

Such a coarse phrase. ‘Sir, only by form of words; never in her heart. If she had not accepted Islam she would long since be dead.'

‘Then I can do nothing for her, whether she turned renegado by duress or not.'

‘If you do not help her, sir, I fear neither she nor her young son is likely to be alive before the year is out.'

‘Well, I cannot help that. She is a Mahometan now, as is her brat. You must look to your own.'

‘That is most unchristian of you. Sir.'

His eyes turn to gimlets. ‘I am not used to having some bollockless nigger teach me manners!'

I try not to let my anger show. Instead, I reach across the table to a bowl of sweetmeats and offer it to him with a smile. ‘Forgive me. I overstepped myself. Let me make amends: I am sure these will be to your taste, sir, they are a great delicacy.'

Mollified, he spears one on his fork, cuts it in half and pops a piece into his mouth. ‘Mmm. Most delicious. What is it?'

‘Sheep's testicles cooked in five-year-old grease,' I tell him with some satisfaction, and watch him blanch and dab his thick lips. As ben Hadou returns, I excuse myself and take my leave.

The next day negotiations do not start well: the ambassador has left his hat behind in his quarters but has had the gall to bring his wig with him. Ismail makes no immediate comment about this deliberate insolence, but then spitefully declares that he cannot possibly do business with an infidel who does not even have the grace to remove his boots when in civilized company. The ambassador protests that Englishmen do not do business in their stockinged feet; but Ismail is adamant. And when the boots come off we can well understand why he wished to keep them on: Sir James's stockings are in a parlous state of disrepair, having gone to holes at toe and heel. For the rest of the interview he is evidently greatly discomposed by this fact and keeps trying to hide his feet.

The discussions about the future of Tangier look as if they will be fruitless,
for Ismail is in a truculent mood. At last Sir James, seeing that he is losing all chance of either peace or treaty, concedes the terms; but on one proviso. ‘Sire, then I would ask you to send an ambassador of your own with me to England to meet King Charles and his advisers to discuss the matter further.'

After some consideration, Ismail agrees to this, which surprises me. It seems to surprise the ambassador as well, who clearly thinks he may have won a point and decides to press his case about the English slaves. But on the subject of the redemption price, Ismail is immovable. ‘Two hundred pieces of eight for each man, or nothing.'

Sir James sighs heavily. ‘And then there is the matter of the Englishwoman in your harem.'

‘Englishwoman?' Ismail repeats, as if he is not sure he has heard aright.

‘An Alys Swann, I believe.'

Sitting beside the sultan, taking notes, I bend my head and shut my eyes in despair. These Englishmen are so blunt! Do they not know it is hugely impolite to go straight at a delicate subject like this, like a bull charging through a rose garden? But Ismail appears much amused. ‘In my palace's private quarters I have a thousand women, from every country in the world,' he boasts. ‘There are women here from France, from Spain, from Italy, Greece and Turkey; ladies from Russia and China, from India and the coast of Newfoundland. From the jungles of Guinea and Brazil and the ports of Ireland and Iceland. And yet you would single out a lone Englishwoman?'

‘She is my compatriot and I am told that her father was a staunch supporter of our king's late father. I am sure our sovereign would be most grateful to you if you would return her to us.'

Ismail does not even blink. ‘Gratitude costs nothing. But the White Swan … ah, the White Swan is beyond price. But even were we to agree a sum (which of course will never happen, for she is most dear to me), the lady herself has converted to the true faith and would not wish to leave her little paradise here; nor indeed her child. Our son Mohammed stands in the line of succession in this, his country; he can go nowhere without my blessing.'

‘I … see.' The ambassador is uncomfortable: he shoots me an accusing look. ‘Well, we are back to the subject of the male captives, then …'

The sultan waves his hand: he is bored by all this. ‘Come, Nus-Nus.' He turns his back on the Englishman, an unforgivable insult, and walks away without another word.

The next day Sir James Leslie and his retinue leave. I am one of those delegated to ride with them to the north road. As is Samir Rafik. It is hard to know who is spying on whom: even though the Tafraouti speaks little or no English, I see him watching me and ben Hadou and Kaid Omar and the ambassador whenever one of us utters a word. Sir James is curt with me and will not meet my eye. He blames me, I think, for yesterday's embarrassment. When I take my leave of him, English style, with a shake of the hand, I ask that he will pursue the matter further when he returns to England, but all he says in return is, ‘The book is closed on that matter,' and wheels his horse away to take his formal leave of the kaid and the Tinker.

‘What was that about?' asks Samir, his sharp face alight with curiosity.

I mask my disappointment. ‘Nothing that concerns you,' I tell him shortly.

‘He will never let you go, nor Momo either,' I tell the White Swan when next I have good reason to visit the harem. ‘I am sorry, Alys. I tried.'

Her eyes well up. Water gathers in them, then trembles and spills, making a runnel in her kohl. She dashes the tears away angrily, as if her body is betraying her just like the rest of the world. A black streak mars her perfect face. My hand itches to reach out and cup her cheek, but she is in a temper now.

‘Damn it! Damn them! Damn all men!' She looks up. ‘Forgive me, Nus-Nus. I do not include you in that.'

I do not know which makes me feel worse: to be included or exempted from the general category of men.

For weeks now, Momo has been suffering terrible nightmares; twice I have found him walking in his sleep. Last night, I woke to find him standing in the courtyard.

I have heard that when the French king was a child a craftsman called Camus designed for him a miniature coach and horses, complete with footmen, page and a lady passenger, and that all these figures were capable of exhibiting the most life-like movements. When I called my son's name and he turned towards me with the moonlight in his eyes, he looked like one of those ingenious devices: a perfect replica of a human being, but soulless, dead and empty inside.

‘Momo!' I called softly. ‘What are you doing?'

He answered me like an automaton. ‘I have to be ready.'

‘Ready for what?'

‘He is coming to kill me.'

‘Who is coming?'

He did not answer me, just kept staring with his white moon-sheen.

‘Darling, come with me, let me put you back to bed. You will be quite safe there.'

‘No one is safe.'

I cannot help but shiver.

I got him back to bed eventually and he went straight to sleep again and did not stir till morning, but I lay awake all the rest of the night. This morning as I dress him I ask, ‘How are you getting on with Zidan?'

He throws me a swift, dark look, his eyes almost black. ‘He is my brother.'

‘He has not done anything to you?'

His expression becomes guarded. ‘No.'

‘Are you quite sure?'

He nods but will not look at me.

‘And he has not threatened you in any way?'

‘Silly Mama. He is my friend.'

‘If he does, you must tell me, Mohammed. Do you promise?'