The Love Slave (22 page)

“Thank you,” Zaynab said. “I have so much to learn.” Then, in Oma’s company, she returned to her own chamber, and naked, lay down to sleep in the afternoon heat.

“She will go far,” the bath mistress predicted to the others.

“Because she is beautiful?” the youngest among them asked.

“In part,” the bath mistress answered, “but mostly because she is wise, and kind, and has the breeding to thank those lower in rank than she herself. She is not puffed up, nor overweening proud as so many women of high rank are. This, as well as her beauty, will set her apart from the others and catch the caliph’s eye. Our lord, Abd-al Rahman, it is said, is a man of good judgment. He cannot help but love Zaynab. Aiiiyeee! What a bright future this Love Slave has. She will be the greatest of all those our master has ever trained.”

The object of their discussion fell into a deep, comfortable sleep. For a time she was without thought, and then she began to dream. Hands caressed her slowly until she was all a-tingle. Warm lips pressed kisses all over her body, sending a flush of heat racing through her veins. Zaynab sighed deeply, turning from her side to her back. Half awake now, her legs fell apart.
Warm. Wet and oh so warm
. She was being overwhelmed with
pleasure. Her half-conscious body shuddered, and suddenly she was awake!

His dark head was buried between her splayed thighs. He was teasing at the badge of her womanhood. She whimpered, and raising his head up for a brief moment, he gazed on her with lust-filled eyes before bending once more to complete his sweet work. Reaching out, Zaynab dug her fingers into his dark hair, encouraging him onward. Within moments he was raising his body up and sliding between her legs, his engorged manhood delving deeply into her flesh.
Seeking. Seeking. Seeking
.

It was wonderful! She was dying! “Ohhh, God!” she moaned, “Yesss, my lord!
Yessssss!
” How she had missed this co-joining of their bodies in their time at sea. Yet abstention had, if anything else, brought her this incredible heaven. “Please,” she begged him. “
Please!
” She wrapped her legs about him, and he slid deeper within her eager, hot sheath.

“
Allah! Allah!
” he groaned, lost in the sweetness of her. How could he have gone so long a time without her? How would he survive after she was gone? After he had given her into the keeping of another man? Deeper and deeper he drove himself into her. They were one. There was nothing else but this raging hunger.
This all-consuming passion!

Together they attained paradise; reaching it in a simultaneous burst of pleasure that left them breathless and eager for more. Still joined, he pulled them into a seated position, wrapping his arms about her, covering her face with kisses. They were both trembling with the force of their desire.

“You are magnificent,” he finally said. “You were born to be loved and to love, Zaynab, my flower.”

He was still within her, throbbing softly with his first satisfaction. “I cannot love you, can I?” she said low. The hair on his chest tickled her sensitive breasts.

“No,” he replied sadly, “you cannot. You must not.”

“Could you love me?” Her eyes searched his face.

“What man possessed of a healthy manhood, two good eyes, and common sense, could not love you?” he replied, skillfully evading her, keeping his face emotionless, his eyes blank and without feeling. Could he love her? He would never, Allah
help him, love anyone else! He cradled her gently, all desire suddenly gone, and withdrawing from her, he laid her back. “I have disturbed your rest,” he said with a small smile.

“I did not mind, my lord,” she answered him, and drawing him down, she kissed his mouth tenderly. She could not ever remember praying in her entire life, but she prayed now. Prayed for the demise of the caliph, Abd-al Rahman, so that she would not have to go to him. That she could remain with Karim forever. She would rather be the lowest of the low in his house than the favorite of this great prince. If only it could be!

His head now rested upon her breasts. She stroked his dark hair. He loved her. She sensed it even if he could not, would not, say the words. She understood. He was a man of honor, as she was a woman of honor. She would not burden him with the knowledge that she loved him; and if there was no other choice, she would go to this caliph gracefully. She would make Karim proud. She would bring additional glory to the name of Karim al Malina, the great Passion Master, even if it broke her heart
And it would
.

Cha
p
ter 7

T
here was so much to learn! Zaynab had had absolutely no idea what Karim had meant when he’d promised to make her the most accomplished Love Slave ever created. Now she knew. She had simply assumed being beautiful and accomplished in bed sport would be really all that was required of her, but it was not. Men, it would appear, liked interesting women. Karim assured her that there were even schools in cities called Mecca and Medina for educating women in intellectual and artistic pursuits.
Lessons! Lessons! Lessons!
Her day was filled with lessons. The learning of any kind that she had previously had was only in household matters, but even there she had not been greatly encouraged, for her fate was to have been the convent, not the castle.

A tiny old woman came each day to teach her the fine art of calligraphy. At first she thought she would never learn to use her bamboo pen, but she did. One day what had appeared as chicken scratches became exquisite script, much to her delight Although Zaynab soon excelled in the rounded cursive style of writing, she also practiced the angular kufic form as well. At the same time, she was learning to read. Once she had accomplished that, her tutor began to teach her how to compose poetry.

Karim taught her the history of al-Andalus, the rest of the known world, and its geography. An elderly eunuch was brought in to teach Zaynab music, for which she had quite a talent. Her voice was exquisite, and she learned to accompany herself upon three instruments: the rebec, which was played with a bow; a pear-shaped lute; and lastly, a qanun, a stringed instrument that was played by plucking.

Another old eunuch instructed her in Logic and Philosophy. A third educated her in the intricacies of Mathematics, Astronomy, and Astrology. A second woman of indeterminable age came to explain perfumes and their application, cosmetics, and the art of dress. Lastly, a stern young imam, the fiery light of religious dedication in his eyes, arrived to instruct her in Islam.

“You do not have to convert,” Karim told her, “but it will be easier for you if you do so, or like many, pretend to.”

“I have no beliefs,” Zaynab told him quietly.

“Are you not a Christian?” She had once again surprised him.

She thought a moment, and then said, “I know that I was baptized, but the priest at Ben MacDui died when I was very little. Sometimes a priest would come seeking shelter, and shrive us. The MacFhearghuis did have a priest, who drew up my sister’s marriage contracts and performed the marriage, but at Ben MacDui we went without the sacraments from one year to the next. I do not think it did us any harm. Do you believe in one God?”

“Yes, we do,” he told her.

She shrugged. “I am happy to learn about Islam. Surely it cannot harm me, my lord.”

“Then you will convert?”

“I will listen,” she responded, “and consider well on what the imam teaches me; but what is in my heart is mine alone. The small bit of religion I have is all that is left of what I once was. I am not certain I wish to relinquish it now, or ever, my lord Karim.”

He nodded his understanding. Just when he believed he had learned everything he might about her, she surprised him once again. What heights she might have attained if the caliph had been ten years younger than he was. The best she could hope for would be a child to cement her relationship with Abd-al Rahman and his family. The caliph was already the father of seven sons and eleven daughters, a relatively modest total considering his antecedents, most of whom had had between twenty-five and sixty children.

The autumn came, and with it the rains. They would fall
throughout the winter months, Karim explained. The rest of the year was dry, which was why they needed irrigation from the river. The weather grew cool in comparison to the summer months, but it was still not nearly as cold as Alba had been.

Two months after Zaynab arrived, she had a visitor. The lady Alimah had promised her son that she would visit, but she had chosen her time carefully. Karim had departed on a short trip into the mountains to buy the horses he would take to Cordoba in Donal Righ’s name. He wanted several months to make certain that the beasts he purchased were sound of limb. It would not do for them to arrive at the caliph’s court only to be discovered to be broken-winded.

Karim’s mother arrived in the same litter that had brought Zaynab and Oma to the villa. Mustafa hurried to greet his master’s mother.

“Welcome, gracious lady! You should have sent word of your coming. My lord Karim is away at this time seeking fine horses.”

Alimah alighted from the litter. Her blond hair had darkened somewhat over the years. She wore it in a small coronet of braids atop her head topped by a veil of deep blue shot through with silver. Her warm gown was of quilted silk of a matching color. Its neckline was modestly round, its sleeves wide and long, trimmed in soft white fur. Beneath her gown she wore crimson silk pantaloons, the ankles of which were trimmed in bands of silver thread and gold beads. About her neck she wore a gold chain with a single round medallion studded with diamonds. Diamonds also hung from her ears, and upon her hands were several beautiful gold rings dotted with precious gem-stones. Upon her feet were gold and silver kid slippers.

“I know where my son is, Mustafa. It is the Love Slave I have come to see. Tell me now, what kind of a girl is she?” Alimah’s blue eyes filled with curiosity. “The truth now!”

“She is different, lady, from any of the others, but I like her,” Mustafa responded slowly, considering his words.

“
Different?
How is she different, Mustafa?” Alimah’s interest was even more piqued. Mustafa, unlike so many of these
eunuchs, was usually a straight-spoken individual. It was not like him to beat about the bush like this. “Speak up!” she commanded him.

“She is obedient, lady, and yet I believe what she does is because she chooses to do it,” he told her. He shook his head. “I cannot quite explain it, lady, any better than that.”

“Will she bring honor to my son, and to Donal Righ, who is sending her to the caliph?” Alimah questioned him. Her gaze was sharp.

“Oh, yes, lady! The lady Zaynab is mannerly, and clever. She is probably the finest Love Slave my lord Karim has ever trained,” Mustafa enthused. “And her beauty! It is as the sun itself!”

“Very well then,” Alimah replied. “Take me to this paragon, my good Mustafa. Tell me, how does she amuse herself in Karim’s absence?”

“She studies, lady.”

“She is proficient in her studies?”

“Yes, lady. All her teachers are satisfied with her, even Imam Harun,” Mustafa responded as he led Alimah into the women’s quarters.

They found Zaynab seated by the pool in the day room, her qanun in her lap, plucking a tune and singing sweetly. Alimah waved the eunuch away and stood listening. The girl had a pure, sweet voice that would certainly please the caliph. She played her instrument nicely, and her voice was not simply adequate, it was excellent. Here was a piece of good luck. The caliph’s concubines were expected to be more than just beautiful and skilled in the erotic arts. They were expected to be clever in other ways. This girl had an outstanding talent that would stand her in good stead at the court.

“What song is it you sing?” Alimah asked Zaynab as she concluded her solitary recital.

The girl started, and almost dropped her qanun. “It is a song of my homeland,” Zaynab answered, rising politely, bowing to the handsome woman and putting her instrument aside. “It speaks of the beauties of the hills, the lakes, and the sky, lady. I like to practice some songs in my own language, for they will
be unique at the caliph’s court, and hopefully will please him. It also helps me to recall my own tongue, which I wish to do.”

“I am the lady Alimah, Karim al Malina’s mother,” she told the young girl. Allah, this Zaynab was beautiful! The gilt hair, the aquamarine eyes, the pale skin. She would bring a fortune in the open market. Why, she was fairer than a Galacian!

“Would you take some mint tea with me, lady?” Zaynab inquired politely, offering her honored guest a chair. How beautiful Karim’s mother was!

“I would, child,” Alimah answered. “And some of those delightful little honey cakes with the chopped almonds, if they are available.”

Zaynab’s eyes twinkled. “I believe we do have them, lady. Oma, to me!” When the young girl answered her call, she instructed her in their wants.

Oma bowed politely. “Yes, my lady, I shall see to it at once.” She hurried from the apartments.

“You have your own servant?” Alimah was impressed in spite of herself. Well, Karim had said she was a noble’s child.