Sultan's Wife (43 page)

Back in the embassy's quarters, I find my fellows long gone with ben Hadou to show off their horsemanship. Since those who were not riding must have gone as spectators, even the garret is empty. I take the opportunity to search it thoroughly, but an hour later come away empty-handed. They will have hidden the money somewhere else; the jewels too. The satchel is no doubt long gone, burned or otherwise disposed of, Alys's embroidered scroll along with it. Mastering my despair, I make an effort to concentrate on the practicalities of the present. In the kitchens I charm a maid into giving me bread and cooked meat, and repair to my room. ‘Amadou, it is only me!' I call out, in case anyone is spying, and a moment later I hear the sound of the chair being dragged away from the door. Inside, Momo and the monkey fall upon the victuals with the appetite of those oblivious to fear, while I turn over and over in my mind what to do.

When the knock comes I leap up in surprise. I put a finger to my lips, then lift Momo up on to the bed's canopy. Flinging the door open, I find Jacob outside, his arms full of fruit and cakes, no doubt looted from the duchess's apartments. Amadou at once elbows past me, more interested in the food than the visitor. He pulls himself up on to my shoulder, the better to peruse the treasures, then quick as a blink snatches an apple and an iced cake and makes a vast leap up on to the canopy, to consume them before I can snatch them back, chattering in self-congratulation. With a great ripping sound, the canopy tears clear across at the force of his landing and down plunge monkey, boy, treasures and all. Gold spills across the floor: Momo looks guilty, for a short moment, then begins to giggle at the expression on my
face. It must be the gold Zidana gave me to effect her purchases: Rafik and Hamza will surely be disappointed in their theft of the bag.

‘Oh, Maleeo!' I pull Jacob inside and slam the door before any curious passer-by can see in. Then I take the tray from him, set it on the table and, going down on a knee, look the lad in the eye. ‘Jacob, did you love your uncle Ayew?'

He drags his gaze from the sight of Momo and Amadou sprawled in the wreckage, and nods.

‘Then you must not breathe a word of what you have seen here. Swear by Maleeo and Kolotyolo and the spirits of your ancestors.'

His eyes grow wide. ‘I swear.' He touches his forehead, then his breast.

‘Good. Come here, Momo, meet my cousin Jacob.'

Momo solemnly wipes cake icing off his shirt and extends his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.' They regard each other in delight, forming an immediate bond as children often will, while I collect up the gold with some relief. It is not all here, but maybe that is to the good, or Rafik will be wondering why I should be making such a fuss about an old leather bag. ‘Is there any more, Momo?'

He shakes his head emphatically. ‘I was just playing with it. I was a king and Amadou was my slave.'

We clean the room and reattach the canopy as best we can, and I explain some of our situation to Jacob, whose eyes shine to be a party to our conspiracy. He proves to be a resourceful lad.

An hour later, we admire our handiwork.

‘We can't do anything about your eyes,' Jacob says critically, ‘and your hair is very fine despite its new colour.'

I find a spare headcloth and show Momo how to wind a turban from it. After the third attempt he has the knack perfectly. Not yet four, I think wonderingly: it took me months, and I was nineteen …

Momo is thrilled by the game. He admires his reflection in the mirror, posing this way and that, compares the new darkness of his skin first with mine, then with Jacob's, and proclaims himself well satisfied. ‘No bathing, though!' I say fiercely. ‘Or the walnut stain will come off.'

He laughs happily. ‘I
hate
bathing!'

‘Look at the floor rather than at people: a black page with blue eyes stands out.'

‘It would be better not to speak,' Jacob adds. ‘Your English is too good.'

Momo casts longing eyes upon Amadou, eating the last of the scraps from the corner I have swept them into. ‘Can I take him with me?'

I shake my head. ‘I'm sorry: he's too well known and we can't risk your being connected with me. It's not for long, I hope, this disguise.'

For a moment his lip trembles, then he squares his shoulders. ‘It is a good game,' he declares, as if trying to persuade himself of the fact. ‘I shall pretend I am mute. Like Old Ibrahim.'

‘Perhaps you would like me to cut out your tongue for best effect?' I say gravely, and make to snatch it as it protrudes from his mouth.

He shrieks in mock-terror, and after some rough and tumble is in better spirits.

Jacob has his own cabinet in the Duchess of Portsmouth's apartments, which extend to over twenty rooms. ‘Momo will be safe here. I will tell madame he is my cousin, sent to work in the palace. I doubt she will ask too many questions: to have a black boy on either side of her will set off the whiteness of her skin; she is always looking for advantage against her rivals for the king's affections.'

It is not a perfect solution, but it will have to do for now. Momo takes his leave of me manfully enough: I hug him fiercely, tell him to behave himself, and have to walk quickly away before he sees the water welling in my eyes.

Amadou scolds me furiously when I return alone, mightily annoyed to have his playmate taken away.

Ben Hadou and the rest of the embassy staff return in late afternoon in high spirits. The fantasia has been a great success, the king most admiring of their feats. ‘He asked after you – “the fellow with the split breeches” – and I told him you were unwell,' the Tinker says breezily. ‘So I'm afraid you can't attend the dinner tonight.'

I cannot say I am greatly disappointed: the artifices of the day have proved wearing and I had little sleep last night. I find a manservant in the corridor
and ask whether food might be sent to my room. He looks me up and down and tells me, ‘In this country slaves are not waited on by honest men', and stalks off, muttering, ‘Fucking negard.' A maid is passing, a homely-looking girl with a mass of honey curls escaping her cap. ‘He's like that with everyone, Thomas,' she says. ‘Pay no heed to his rudeness, I beg you. I'll fetch you something myself, if you like.' She turns to leave, then turns back. ‘You'd better say what you eat – I'm not sure what your people like.'

‘What, black people?'

She colours. ‘No, sir, Mahometans.'

It is my turn to be ashamed.

‘It's just that there's a pig roasting downstairs, and I wasn't sure you'd want that.'

I find out her name is Kate, apologize for my rudeness, and gratefully accept an offer of roasted chicken, bread and strong cheese.

‘But no ale?'

I grin. ‘I'd love some ale, Kate.'

She is as good as her word: shortly after, there is a knock at the door and she is there with a japanned tray laden with food and a large earthenware jug. When I thank her for her generosity, she blushes prettily. ‘Big man like you, I'm sure you have quite an appetite.' She holds my gaze for a moment too long, her colour deepening all the while. I am not so foolish as to mistake her meaning, but for both our sakes I pretend to, and merely take the tray and bid her farewell.

It is not the tranquil dinner I had hoped for, for Amadou is out of sorts and keeps stealing morsels of food and then casting them on the floor and demanding more until I could cheerfully throttle him, and am contemplating doing just that when another knock comes at the door. Keeping the jug of ale to one side, I gather the rest of the dinner things on to the tray, dig out a small coin for the girl and open the door with a smile.

The next thing I know I am flat on my back with Rafik's foot on my chest and a knife at my throat. ‘Close the door,' he hisses, and in comes Hamza too.

From his perch on top of the bed, Amadou screeches wildly.

‘Shut that bloody monkey up!'

Hamza lashes out, and Amadou goes flying across the chamber and hits the wall with a dull thud. I hear his little body drop like a stone.

‘Where is he, then?' the Tafraouti demands.

‘Who?'

‘The boy. The sultan's son.'

Shock slows my brain. How can they possibly know? ‘The sultan's son? He has so many, I don't know which one you mean.'

‘Don't play the innocent.' Hamza kicks me in the ribs. He is wearing shoes of hard English leather and it hurts. ‘The one everyone thought was dead and buried: the Englishwoman's boy. We know you've got him, just didn't know why – but now we know that too.' He leers down at me, makes a gesture with his fingers. ‘Thought you'd make yourself a fortune in London, did you?'

This time the blankness of my expression is unfeigned. ‘Let me up: I don't have a clue what you're talking about.'

He kicks me again and the air huffs out of me. I can taste the ale coming back up my gullet in a rather less pleasant fashion to the way it went down.

‘Stop kicking the bastard and search the room!' Rafik says angrily. He drops to one knee. ‘It's your fault my uncle was lashed to those mules and driven through the wilds till the flesh was stripped from his body and his bones snapped like twigs. So I'll not hesitate to slit your black throat if I have to: call it an honour killing. Now where's the brat? I know he's in here somewhere: there was no one else could have seen me take the bag – I made damned sure of that. Apart from the wretched monkey, and it's not talking.'

Well, that clears up one part of the mystery, but how did he know the observer was Momo? With a sudden dull sensation, it strikes me: Alys's scroll – she must have written of her son in the scroll, and Rafik must have been more thorough in his search of my satchel than I had thought. He must have found it and had Hamza read it for him. I go hot, then cold: what a fool I have been.

‘There's no one here.' Hamza sits heavily on the bed. ‘So what have you done with him, eh?' A crafty expression settles in his eye. ‘Tell us and we'll keep the secret, split the redemption money three ways: the sultan will never know a thing.'

Rafik rounds on him angrily. ‘That's right: add treason to your greed and apostasy, infidel! The sultan is my lord: we have to find the boy and take him back. But we'll cut this bastard's throat first.'

‘Calm down, man. This fucking palace is massive: he could've stashed the brat anywhere – even smuggled him into the city. I told you, he's already been out making inquiries. You're going to have to keep him alive or we'll never find the kid.'

In answer, Rafik presses his little knife deeper into my neck. I feel the skin tighten there, then give with a scarlet, rushing agony. Like alchemy, the pain transmutes into blind fury, and with a bellow I throw Rafik off me and lumber to my feet, ready to make a fight of it. He falls back against the table and the japanned tray and everything on it goes crashing to the floor, making a terrible din. The thought pounds through my head: I will have to kill them both, for if they send word back to Morocco, Alys is a dead woman. The terror this idea generates lends me even greater strength. I clutch Rafik's throat with one hand, his knife hand with the other. Bang! We stumble against the armoire, a huge and solid piece of furniture. Under the force of our bodies, one of its great doors flies open and hits the onrushing Hamza full in the face. Swear words pour in a torrent from his bubbling mouth. What with the noise of that and Rafik's defiant threats I am hardly aware when the door to the chamber breaks open and armed guards run in. Two of them drag me off the Tafraouti, whom they disarm; another secures the renegade. Behind them, in the corridor outside, I see the maid, Kate, clutching her hands. Then I remember Amadou.

His head lolls when I pick him up. His neck is broken, and I cannot help but wail.

The girl is beside me at once. ‘You're bleeding!' she cries, which is rather a statement of the obvious. Then she looks down. ‘Oh.' She backs away. ‘Ugh.'

I cannot blame her for her disgust: poor Amadou looks as if he has been savaged by eagles, for I have bled all over him.

Ben Hadou is fetched and after a long delay he arrives, looking flushed and hectic. He glares first at Rafik, then at me, as if he would like to stab us both on the spot for having him dragged unwilling from dinner at the king's table,
and explains to the guard captain that there has long been bad blood between Rafik and me and that he will personally vouch for our good behaviour from now on. ‘As for Hamza: the man is an apostate, but as an Englishman he is subject to your laws. Take him away and do with him as you will.'

When we are alone again, ben Hadou demands: ‘What's all this about?'

There is a long, strained silence. Surely now is the time for Rafik to revenge himself on me for good and all? I wait for him to accuse me: to wave the scroll in front of the Tinker and demand the palace be searched for the sultan's son, but the Tafraouti surprises me by keeping his mouth shut. He is well aware of ben Hadou's loathing for him and must consider me greatly preferred in the ambassador's eyes, and there has already been the incident in Hyde Park … But maybe, I realize, he does not have the scroll, and without that he would appear to have made a lunatic charge. Is it burned, along with my bag, or does Hamza still have it? In any case, I cannot accuse him of the theft.

With both of us mute we are at an impasse, and eventually ben Hadou vents his spleen on the pair of us, telling us that if there is further trouble we will be dispatched back to Morocco on the next ship, with orders for severe punishment at the other end. He marches Rafik outside. At the door, he turns back. ‘You'd better get that seen to,' he says, indicating the wound on my neck. ‘Ask one of the servants for a chirurgeon.' He digs in his pouch, takes out some coins and hands them to me. ‘That should cover it.'

He is gone before I look down. In my hands are three gold pieces. Enough to buy a chirurgeon. And his daughter, and the family dog as well. Well, maybe I exaggerate. But he must be feeling guilty: perhaps it was the sight of the poor monkey that did it.