The Tenth Gift (23 page)

Now they were pulling at her shift. Alice began to weep. “No,” she pleaded. “No, no!” But there was no resisting them. Off came the
shift, leaving Alice pale and naked to their eyes. Desperately, she covered herself with her hands, drawing herself inward as if she would disappear. The captives stared at the floor, feeling Alice’s shame as keenly as if it were their own, knowing their own time for this ritual humiliation would soon come. Cat felt the little bag in which she kept her book and pencil pressing against her skin beneath the robe she wore. If they were to strip her, she would surely lose it.

“Murtafa-at,”
declared the slender woman, slapping Alice’s hands away from her breasts, and the patroona nodded vigorously. At the desk, the clerk scribbled away.

Alice was at last dismissed. Now the patroona took hold of Maria Kellynch. Seeing her mother move forward, Chicken detached herself from Matty, dashed across the distance between them, and fastened herself to Maria’s leg like a limpet. “Let go!” the patroona shouted, and tried to pry Chicken loose, but all the little girl would do was wail and grip tighter. At last the amina stepped between them. With surprising gentleness for someone who had but lately been lashing people with a switch, she ran a hand over the little girl’s hair and spoke soothingly into her ear. So amazed was Henrietta by this that she stopped crying at once and gazed up at the Moroccan woman with huge eyes.
“Eh-daa, a bentti.
Shhh.” The veil fell away from the amina’s face and Cat saw with surprise that she was strikingly lovely, with great dark eyes and arching brows, a long, straight nose and skin of a luminous olive hue. Then, with a practiced flick, the veil was at once back in place, as if she felt the weight of the other’s regard.

Now Maria was subjected to the same scrutiny as poor Alice Johns, the patroona and the slender woman poking at a fold of loose skin at her belly, the slight sag of her breasts. The patroona shook her head and called a word to the clerk, who added it to a column on the other side of the page.

Next came Nell Chigwine. Head high, she stared the patroona in the eye. “I shall disrobe without being ashamed of the body the good Lord gave me. I shall take off my garments and place them under my feet and tread on them, as Jesus did, and then shall you see a good
Christian who is not afraid of your heathen bullying.” She hauled off her ruined dress, shift, and drawers, flung them down on the ground, and stood there before them all, an awkward arrangement of angles and bones and tufts of pale hair.

Someone tittered. The patroona exploded into a whirlwind of sound, shrieking and battering at Nell with her hands. At last in a fury she bent, grabbed up the clothing, and threw it at her. “I not tell you disrobe!” she barked. “You no
murtafa-at
, no use, thin stick woman!”

Ann Fellowes, Nan Tippet, and Cat’s aunt, Mary Coode, were variously examined, and at last Cat was called forward. The woman in midnight blue regarded the djellaba she wore with interest, plucking at the sleeve and running the fabric between her fingers. Then the amina turned to the older woman and jabbered animatedly. The patroona made an assessing face, then nodded and responded at length. Cat’s heart began to pound. The book, she thought, they must not take my book. This suddenly became vitally important, as if within its calfskin cover resided what little was left of her identity.

“Off!” The patroona glared at Cat. “Take off!”

How to hide her book from their prying eyes? Cat stared at them, trying to win precious time in which to think. Then she shrugged the robe off carefully, so that the bag came into her hand, and as she stepped out of the folds of fabric, she dropped the bag softly behind her.

The slender woman pounced on the robe and shook it in front of the patroona as if making a point.

“Where you get djellaba?” the patroona demanded of Cat on behalf of the other woman.

“I was given it,” Cat said, covering herself as best she could with her hands and her long red hair. She felt like Eve, in the Garden, for the first time in shame of her body. “By the raïs, Al-Andalusi.” She watched the two women exchange outraged glances, then the slender one dropped the robe and flew at Cat, raining blows down upon her. Fire burned her skin as the flexible switch found its mark. The other
women looked on openmouthed, but no one dared come to her aid. Weakened by her confinement, Cat was slow to react; even so, she was taller and more sinewy than the Moroccan, and fueled by anger. Launching herself at her assailant, she managed to haul the woman’s veil from her and tangle hand and weapon in the fabric, but moments later the patroona and the clerk had her pinioned on the floor, adding bruises to the red weals on her pale, pale skin.

The midnight-robed woman adjusted her clothing, then spat accurately upon Cat’s exposed back, and to this insult added a barrage of invective.

What happened next would remain with Cat to her last day as a moment of supreme humiliation, for now the women forced her legs apart and minutely examined her private parts. Then they had what seemed a heated argument; at last the patroona turned Cat over on her back. “You virgin or no?” she demanded.

Eyes huge, Cat nodded, which started another storm of discussion. In the midst of this she pushed herself gingerly to her feet. There was the little pouch, lying on the stone floor. Some of the other women were staring at it as if expecting something monstrous to spring from it. Cat wished they wouldn’t: It was only a matter of time before they drew the amina’s attention. With a clever hand, she swept it up and turned to join her compatriots.

For a moment she thought she had got away with her deception, but the amina had sharp eyes. Cat heard the switch whistling through the air before the blow landed. Had she not turned, it would have fallen less harmfully on the back of her head, but as it was she caught the full force of the blow in the face, and in the shock of pain, she dropped the bag. In an instant, the amina had grabbed it up. She flourished the book at Cat. “What is?”

Tears were streaming down Cat’s face now, generated by a potent mixture of pain and rage and shame. She shook her head, unable to speak. The amina opened the covers and gazed inside. The patroona and the clerk joined her scrutiny. Together they puzzled over the strange diagrams, the pencil markings.

“It’s my prayer book,” Cat said at last, inspired.

The patroona frowned. “Prayer?”

Cat put the palms of her hands together. “Prayer.”

The three women conferred. “For your religion?” the patroona asked.

Cat nodded. Nell Chigwine made a choking sound, as if swallowing outraged denial. The amina flicked through the pages, stabbed her finger at one of the designs, and spoke urgently to the clerk, who nodded.

“Khadija say this blasphemy,” the patroona pronounced. “She not care it your religion, for your religion blasphemy, too. The robe you stole and the book will go to fire, as will your soul.”

After that, proceedings passed in a blur. What seemed an age later, after poor Matty Pengelly (but curiously not the aged spinster Anne Samuels) had also been subjected to the shameful inspection, they were all marched out of the room and herded by the patroona through a maze of cool, dark passages until they reached a door from which billowed forth great clouds of vapor.

Here, Jane Tregenna came to a halt. “Do they mean now to boil us alive?” she asked.

“Imshi
—move, get in!” In comparison with the older woman, the patroona was enormous. Cat was struck all at once by the gauntness of her mother’s face. She had till now tried hard not to look beyond that point, but a single glance was all that was needed to take in the knife-edge collarbones, ribby chest, sunken belly, and fragile limbs. Her mother had always cut a fine figure with her sweeping farthingales and the neat curves shaped by her tightly laced corsets, but now she looked old and defeated, a woman with one foot hovering over her own grave. Of them all, Cat suspected herself to be the only one not broken by the cruel voyage, for she had eaten while they had starved, had slept in linen while they wallowed in their own filth, and the flesh was still on her, hale and full. No wonder they had all—her own, and the Moroccan women—thought she was the pirate chief’s whore.

There was no resisting the patroona—there was no point, and nowhere else to go. One by one, they trooped into the steamy gloom, whereupon they were set upon by a quartet of young girls wearing tightly wrapped white robes and caps, who scrubbed them till their skin was raw. Had she been able to, Cat would have scrubbed hers harder still, till the blood came, and even then it would not be enough.

“I will never wear your vile Turkish garb!” Nell Chigwine, her graying hair in rats’ tails and her white skin blotched with unsightly red, folded her arms and glared defiantly at the patroona. “Bring me decent Christian clothing, or nothing at all!”

The others stared at her, some with reluctant admiration, some in fear, as if she might bring down punishment upon them all.

The patroona had heard it all before, in a dozen different languages. Captives had passed through her hands from Spain, from the Canaries, from Malta and France and Portugal. She had dealt with them all just as she did those unfortunates traded in tribal disputes and local wars—the captured Berbers of the bled and the mountains, the black-skinned women brought by camel-train from the hot lands to the south. Her community depended on the money raised by the auction of these prisoners. It financed not only the holy war carried on by the corsairs like her master—whom some called the Djinn and others the man of Andalucia—but also the rebuilding of the qasba, their houses and souqs, the schooling of their children in the fine medersa, and the maintenance of their shrines. It paid alms to the poor, the widowed, and the crippled. It kept them all alive in the hand of Allah. It was sacred work, and she did it with a vengeance.

All of this was clear in her tone, if not her words, as she railed at Nell Chigwine, but Nell also had righteous anger coursing through her tough old bones, and she pushed the patroona against the door-jamb. The patroona had eaten
well, not just today, when she had broken her fast with fresh bread and Meknes honey, with eggs and tomatoes and onion with cumin, but for all of her life. She had eaten well, and she had washed linen and hoisted baskets and pots and children till her forearms were as muscled as any man’s. When she pushed Nell Chigwine back, the older woman’s feet went out from under her instantly on the wet tiles so that she fell catastrophically, arms flailing for balance. She came down with a crash, her head striking the delicate zellije tiling on the wall to add a fifth color to the starry mosaic, an unwonted scarlet amidst the white and blues, and she lay there as still as stone.

U
P ON THE
auction platform that afternoon, Cat stared out at the throng who had gathered in the Souq el Ghezel. The market square was packed with would-be buyers, and with those curious to see the new slaves the Djinn had brought back from his latest foray into enemy territory. The majority were dressed in long robes, and many of them were bearded and turbaned, but through the crowd there strode others who reminded her of the Plymouth-born renegade who had turned Turk to become Ashab Ibrahim, lighter-skinned men in European dress who swaggered like lords at a feast, pushing their way to the front as if it were their due. Traitors, she thought bitterly. Men who had turned coat against their own, and all for money. Anger bubbled up inside her. How dare they come to mock and gloat over decent Christians treated so? Or worse, come to purchase a woman they would never have won honestly in their own country?

The women of Penzance were not the only chattels to be auctioned in the slave market this day. Strings of coffled male captives were being led around the other side of the square, paraded as proudly as studhorses at the spring fair. They wore nothing but a winding of white cotton about their loins, and their prices had been written in charcoal on their chests. Cat recognized none of them as being any of the captives from the hold. Evidently, other corsair vessels had returned from the oceans and shores of Christendom with their own cargoes of snatched slaves.

As they went, the dillaheen cried out the qualities of their charges, encouraging the gathered buyers to outbid one another for those best for the galleys, for private armies, or for hard labor in the fields. Some were proclaimed as shipbuilders, as sailmakers and gunners: These would fetch the highest prices. Most were fishermen, hardy men with weather-beaten faces and sinewy arms. Bidders felt the muscles of the slaves, prodded their chests and bellies, examined their teeth to be sure that the age the auctioneers claimed for them was accurate. Now came more women, their skin almost as dark as the flimsy robes they wore, and on their backs numbers had been chalked in white. Cat watched in horrified fascination as a man pulled the robe away from one woman and began to feel the fatness of her arms and legs. She had never seen skin with such an ebony sheen, but the would-be buyer seemed inured to such exoticism, and kept prodding merely to ensure the woman was fit and healthy. Was she pregnant? He touched her belly, and would have explored further had not the dillaheen pushed him away, not angrily but with a jest.

“We are no more than animals to them,” Jane Tregenna remarked in disgust. “They will select us for breeding or work us to death.”

“Perhaps the letter Cat had to write will save us and Sir Arthur will send the money to redeem us,” Matty started, but the older woman rounded on her.

“You have not the brains of a country mouse, Mathilda Pengelly! Do you really think the Master of Kenegie has money to spare for such as we? Or that if he did manage to raise such a sum, that these savages would not take it and keep us and laugh at him? Or that once we are sold into diverse places, they would concern themselves with finding us and returning us to our homes? And that’s if the letter even reaches him, which I severely doubt.”

No one said anything to this, for there was nothing to say. Already shocked by the death of Nell Chigwine, the women now felt a deeper gloom descend over them as they faced a new uncertain future, in which they might be sold to any man who bid for them for
whatever purpose pleased him, or sold on to another in who knew which godforsaken part of this strange world, in which they might live apart from their fellows among heathens who spoke no word of English and had no care for them save that they justify their cost.