Sultana's Legacy (3 page)

The horse clopped across the white sand and bore him steadily toward the citadel. Faraj shook his head at the Castillan prince’s vain ornamentation of the animal. Surely, such rich finery would only encumber a horse in the coming battle.

Muhammad sputtered in confusion, “I don’t understand how this is possible. Here comes Prince Juan, but why is he carrying the white flag of peace tied to his spear?”

His voice trailed off as Faraj pointed. “Look behind him. Look at the boy.”

“Bah! A boy, likely his page…” before Muhammad’s voice faltered.

Faraj’s gaze narrowed, trained on the figure behind the prince’s mount.

A small child stumbled across the sand. The warhorse’s momentum dragged him forward. Someone had tied the boy’s hands with rope and attached the length of it around the horse’s neck. With his long arms stretched before him and waves of yellow hair clinging to his brow, the child kept pace. Even the distance could not obscure the wetness clinging to his cheeks or the ugly slice across his face encrusted with congealed blood.

Faraj clutched his throat at the sight of him. The boy could hardly be older than his second son was, a child who bore his grandfather the Sultan’s cherished name.

Faraj cuffed Muhammad’s arm. “What man do you know ties his own page to his horse?”

Prince Juan halted at the midpoint between the encampment and the citadel. He thrust his spear through the thick air. The white flag fluttered on a crisp breeze.

Movement and shouts echoed from the battlements. Soon, a dark-haired figure appeared on the wall in a cuirass of leather scales. His leathery, sunburned complexion drained of all emotion and color. The veins underneath his skin stood out in livid ridges. Bands of perspiration glistened on his forehead. Deep wrinkles gouged lines across his brow beneath a fringe of black hair, which almost covered his eyes.

Then a woman appeared beside him. She laid her slim fingers on his shoulder. Her companion covered her hand with his own. Wind whipped the folds of her sky blue mantle, ripping thick tresses like molten gold from the confines of her hood. She stared in stark silence before she fainted. The man caught her up in his arms and glanced over the wall, before he disappeared.

A prickling sensation crept up Faraj’s spine. The couple had recognized the little boy. The woman and the child shared the same hair color. What relationship did the child bear her that caused the woman such fright?

The black-haired man reappeared on the rampart. In a voice that Faraj could not overhear at such lengths, he issued instructions. Footmen dispersed along the wall and stood shoulder to shoulder.

The dark-haired man shouted across the distance in his native Castillan tongue. “Traitorous dog! What cruelty is this that you should bring my son before me in such a state?”

Faraj sagged, as his worst suspicions became reality. He looked at the pitiable boy. The child’s head drooped and his shadow cast a dark blot across the shimmering sand.

Prince Juan answered, “Indeed, Doñ Alonso, I am pleased you recognize your firstborn, Fernan Alonso. If you wish to see him leave this battlefield alive, surrender Tarifa to the forces before you. Otherwise, I shall kill Fernan. I give you until midday to send word that you mean to withdraw. If you give up the citadel, I shall return your son unharmed.”

Faraj’s gaze remained on the child and he shook his head at the cruelty of the Castillan prince. Prince Juan relied on the same brutal tactic he had once employed against Zamora. Many years ago, he forced the capitulation of that fortress by similar means. He had promised death to the young son of the woman who held the castle in her husband’s stead. Clearly, he expected a similar result at Tarif.

“My son was a page at court where he nobly served your brother, the rightful King of Castilla-Leon, Sancho.” Doñ Alonso’s strident voice held no warmth or spark of life. “By what treacherous means have you brought him here?”

Yet when Doñ Alonso looked over the wall to his young son, his darkened face betrayed the agony within him. Faraj’s heart wrung with pity, as he cast aside all he had said earlier to Muhammad regarding the defeat of an enemy.

This was no longer a contest between equals, not when the Castillan prince intended to force the capitulation of his adversary by foul means. Faraj thought of his own two sons, whom he would do anything to protect. He knew and understood the love of a father for his children. Had he been in the Castillan commander’s position, his choice would have been clear. No fortress, not even his beloved home at Malaka, would be worth the life of either of his sons. Yet, he was not Doñ Alonso.

The little boy raised his hands as if in supplication. Doñ Alonso shook his head. The boy sank on his knees. He covered his face with his hands.

Prince Juan shouted, “Until midday, Doñ Alonso. Do not delay or the consequences shall prove deadly, for your son especially.”

As he jerked the reins and the momentum of his horse forced the boy through the campsite, a din of conversation buzzed among various pockets of the Marinid soldiers. Those who understood the Castillan language, as Faraj did, spoke of the scene that had transpired. News of it spread through the encampment like wildfire.

Each man, from Marinid warrior to Castillan cavalryman offered his opinion on what had just happened. Some felt the Marinids forces should withdraw. Prince Juan could not gain the victory by unfair and dishonorable means. Others, especially the mounted horsemen supporting Prince Juan, believed Doñ Alonso should surrender and reclaim his son, though they were in the minority of opinions.

Faraj watched the walls of the citadel. The woman reappeared at Doñ Alonso’s side, her eyes red-rimmed. Her gaze held the same stark fear as that of the man next to her. Yet, Faraj also recognized strengthening resolve in the firm line of her mouth and her unwavering stare, which followed the child’s progress.

Although they could not have been more different, her bravery reminded him of Fatima’s strength. He did not doubt what his own wife would have done if one of their sons faced such danger. She was a lioness where their children were concerned. He knew she would sacrifice everything for their lives and safety. Their sons and daughters had nothing to fear, safe behind the stout walls of Malaka, not like the son of Doñ Alonso.

The woman cupped Doñ Alonso’s cheek. He turned and met her gaze. He bent slightly and pressed his forehead against her pale brow. Then she kissed his lips tenderly and withdrew.

“We cannot allow this, my prince.”

Faraj turned at the voice of
al-Shaykh Khassa
Khalid of al-Hakam and witnessed his grim expression.

Five years after Faraj had claimed the governorship of Malaka, a band of bedraggled refugees appeared on the shore, fleeing pursuit by Christian forces from Mayurqa. Among them were Fatima’s younger sister Alimah with her family, which included her brother by marriage, Khalid. Now, he served as commander of the garrison at Malaka’s citadel. 

A younger and much more solemn man than his elder brother Abu Umar, who had been prince of the pirates at Mayurqa, Khalid stood tall and thin with a scar that bisected his face. A deep furrow gouged a reddened streak from his forehead, across his nose and into his pale cheek, a reminder of his narrow escape from the long sword of a Castillan mercenary.

Faraj inhaled deeply, drawing the smell of saltwater into his nostrils. “What would you have me do?”

Khalid thrust his scimitar in the direction of the citadel. Sunlight caught and traipsed along the sharpened edge of the blade. “You are a father. Can you countenance this action? Would you stand by and allow your own sons to be used in such ways by a coward?”

Faraj glanced at Muhammad, who shook his head. “If you abandon this campaign, brother, you risk our master’s anger. You may be the husband of his daughter, but if you disgraced him on this battlefield, the Sultan would never spare your life. He is determined to occupy Tarif again. He knows he cannot do it without the Marinids. Do not stir his wrath.”

Faraj clapped a hand on Khalid’s lean-muscled shoulder. “You should have married, my friend. Then you would have had a wife and children, someone who longed for your return home.”

“Even with my ugly scar?”

“It does not frighten the women of Malaka, who favor bold warriors. I have seen how they regard you, scar and all. Even my children’s governess, Amoda favored you.”

Khalid said, “Amoda favors me still.”

His stone-faced visage relaxed in the semblance of a smile that showed his even white teeth. Then he sobered and his brow furrowed deeply, the edges of the puckered skin around his scar slightly raised.

“If I had married, my wife would have wanted children. What right do I have to such happiness? I have slaughtered too many of the sons of others to deserve my own.”

Faraj shared his grim expression. “I may call upon your sword soon.”

Khalid bowed his head. “You shall always have it.”

Muhammad cautioned, “Faraj, let us wait until noon. The Castillan commander may still make the right decision. What else can he do, when faced with such a burden?”

Faraj forced a chuckle. “Castilla-Leon has had the good fortune to produce worthy and admirable men, who also make excellent opponents. I suspect Doñ Alonso shall do what he must.”

Khalid said, “Gharnatah has no shortage of men of the same ability. I am grateful to serve a prince such as you.”

Faraj nodded in silent thanks.

His gaze strayed to the south again. The migrating birds flying across the Straits of Jabal Tarik were a speck on the horizon. “If only our escape could happen so easily.”

***

At midday, Prince Juan and his beleaguered captive returned to just below the ramparts of the citadel. Although the Muslim call to prayer sounded across the shoreline, no one observed it. Faraj stood with Muhammad and Khalid at either side of him again. The sun blazed across the sky, beating down upon their heads mercilessly. He longed for the evening when the sky in its myriad colors ranged above. However, today he felt hollow and suspected the view would not provide the same enjoyment as it had in the past.

An abrupt silence descended. Even the wind had calmed, leaving the air brittle. Doñ Alonso returned to the battlements. He strode toward the wall with his men at-arms following him. Faraj’s gaze swayed to the tower window to the right. Guzman’s woman stood there. Her sharp nails gripped the ledge. She stared down at the child and waited to hear his fate.

Suddenly, a fierce coastal breeze reared up again, whipping about Doñ Alonso’s short, red cloak. His gaze resolute on the boy below him, he withdrew a dagger from his belt, its handle covered with spinel and bloodstone. Christians believed gemstones carried certain properties that aided the bearer. Spinel improved character. Bloodstone, a form of jasper, strengthened the will. The cutting edge of Doñ Alonso’s dagger caught the sun’s rays. Prisms of light danced across the blade.

Doñ Alonso began, “Fernan Alonso de Guzman y Coronel is my firstborn son. No parent ever felt so much pride as when my wife and I first beheld him. No father has ever felt the satisfaction in a son as I feel today. Now, Prince Juan would have me choose between the pride of my heart and the honor of my family. I did not father a son to be a pawn against the country I love and the land I call my own. I fathered a son who, in my stead, might have one day fought against the enemies of Castilla-Leon, be they Moorish or Christian.

“Prince Juan has by his actions, by his treason, made himself an enemy of Castilla-Leon. I shall never yield Tarifa or betray the mantle of trust that King Sancho has placed upon me, not even to save my own son. If this rebel prince, who is little more than a dog, should put my son to death, he shall affirm my honor as the loyal defender of his sovereign, King Sancho. He shall ensure my son’s place in heaven as a martyr of the Christian faith, who died doing his duty before a faithless lord. He calls down eternal shame on himself in this world and the everlasting wrath of Christ Jesus after death. If Prince Juan wants to test my resolve, if he needs a weapon with which to murder my son, he may have my blade for his cruel purpose!”

Doñ Alonso flung his dagger over the wall. The weapon spiraled before it landed with a heavy thud, a short distance from where the Prince sat mounted. Doñ Alonso nodded to his weeping son, bowed his head and turned away.

His shoulders stiff, he strode across the battlements. His steps never faltered. As one, those who ringed the ramparts bowed their heads as he passed them.

Faraj did the same to honor the noble but tragic sacrifice the adversary of Gharnatah had chosen. His heart tore inside his breast for his enemy’s sake.

Prince Juan leapt down from his horse and now brandished Doñ Alonso’s dagger. He dragged the kicking and squealing child against him and forced his head back, exposing the boy’s tender neck. With a snarl directed toward the battlements, he pressed the glittering blade against the pale flesh. Tears flooded the boy’s face. In a swift motion, Prince Juan sliced a deep cut from ear to ear. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc across the glittering sand. Shouts of dismay and horror flowed from those assembled on the citadel walls.

As the thick redness gurgled and spilled down the dying child’s throat, he sagged against his captor. Prince Juan pushed him forward into the sand. The mutilated child fell at the feet of the horse. The stallion nickered and sidestepped the body. A crimson line ran from the dead boy’s wound and pooled on the sand beneath his nearly severed neck. The Castillan Prince tucked Doñ Alonso’s dagger, still stained with blood, into the empty sheath fastened to his belt. He wheeled his horse around and dragged the lifeless body behind him.

No one within the Marinid encampment spoke. Some turned their faces away from Prince Juan, who stared straight ahead. Even the wind stilled.

Faraj sought out Doñ Alonso again. He had halted at a doorway, though he did not turn around. Someone gripped his arm and spoke with him. Doñ Alonso’s shoulders slumped for a moment and he bowed his head. Then he nodded and re-entered the citadel. He never looked upon the grisly, ruby-red trail leading across the white sand.