Angeline (7 page)

They had embarked in seven ships from Marseilles, Stephen once more alive with hope and faith after the shock of his failure to part the sea.

“God has answered our prayers in His own way!” he had cried. “Behold, our faith in Him has been answered. We
will
go to the Holy Land. We
will
restore Jerusalem to the true faith. God wills it! Those who deserted us will hear of our triumph and they will regret their faithlessness to their dying day.”

Never would she forget the feeling of standing beside him on the heaving, rolling deck that first morning as they faced the east together, braced against the wind. The sun had shone down upon them; the waves danced and glittered. Seabirdsswooped and called as the great ship’s sails billowed and cracked above them. The oarsmen shipped their oars. They were on their way! Angeline had been filled with joy. Stephen’s arm around her had been firm and strong.

Everything had seemed possible.

But then they had been crammed below decks and the hatch locked down. The ship had seemed huge to her, but even so there was not room enough for the hundreds of children who had been crowded into the hold. They were packed in so tightly there was barely room for each child to find a space to sit. Here below the deck, the motion of the ship was a horrible, rolling wallow that threw all of them against each other. It was not long before the children began to vomit …

She could not stop the memories that crowded into her mind now, one upon the other.

That night and the day after were the worst she had ever spent. Worse, even, than the most terrible day of their journey. They were given no food, no water. There was barely any light and no room at all to move around. The heat beat down on them in a smothering blanket. It was almost impossible to breathe. Children vomited continuously. Pots had been provided for them, but they were soon overflowing and most children just relieved themselves where they sat. To Angeline’s shame, she was in no better state than any of the others. Even Father Martin soiled himself. They avoided each other’s eyes.

“At least we are on our way,” Stephen had said, his faith still strong. “This will not last forever and, when it is over, we will have reached the Holy Land. We will have reached Jerusalem.” He tried to preach, but the children were too sick to hear him.

Two days out of Marseilles a terrible storm struck. The ship began to roll even more wildly. Angeline could still hear the noise of the wind screaming in the sails. The waves battered against the side of the ship and filled her with terror. At any moment she had expected to see a breach open up in the hull and the water pour in through it. The children had been in even worse straits and she had forced herself to try to help them, but there was little she had been able to do. She had staggered from one to another, trying to reassure them, but they could not be comforted. Then she had found two who would not respond at all, and she realized they were dead. She had called to Father Martin to help. He said a blessing over their bodies, then he and Stephen managed to carry them to the foot of the ladder. Stephen beat on the hatch and called to the sailors, but there was no answer.

It was not until the morning of the fourth daythat the storm subsided. By then, three more children had died. When the hatch was finally raised, no one reacted for several moments, so stunned were they by the daylight and fresh air. A sailor’s face had appeared at the opening, grimacing at the stink that rose to greet him.

“There are dead children down here,” Stephen called. “You must send someone down to take them up.”

“Bring them yourselves,” the sailor yelled back. His face disappeared.

Stephen had dragged himself to his feet and lifted one of the bodies. Angeline summoned what little strength she had left and bent to help Father Martin with another. Between them, they carried the dead up to the deck and gave them into the care of the sailors. To Angeline’s horror, the sailors took hold of the small bodies and hurled them overboard one by one.

Then Stephen had looked around at the still-angry sea.

“I count only four other ships,” he cried. The wind was strong and it snatched his words away. “There are two missing!”

“Foundered in the storm, they did,” a sailor yelled back. “On the rocks of San Pietro. It was only by the grace of God that we did not follow them.”

Angeline turned away from the stars shining so steadily through the window. She buried her face in her pillow.

God’s grace had saved them from drowning—but not to set Jerusalem free. They had been saved instead to be brought to Egypt. To where the slave traders awaited them.

“We cannot question God’s purpose,” Father Martin had said.

But Stephen did.

And she?

She did not know.

Angeline could not be certain that she would be allowed to return to Father Martin, but she waited impatiently all the next week, hoping that she would. So eager was she to see Stephen again and start learning to read and write that she could almost ignore Anka when the girl deliberately tripped her on the way back to the harem from the cooking place. She managed to regain her balance without dropping the tray she carried for Zahra, and contented herself with throwing Anka a withering glance. Perhaps, she thought, she could ask Stephen to find out some swear words in Arabic for her to use on the pestilential girl. Surely the gardener must swear a lot—Stephen had said he was bad-tempered and he certainly looked it. She smiled at the thought, but Nabeela, who was tittering behind Anka, believed her to be mocking them and took offence. She reached out and pinched Angeline hard on the arm. This time Angeline nearly did drop the tray. Angered now, she aimed a kick at the girl, but Nabeela avoided it easily. Angeline glared after her.

Zahra raised her eyebrows at the scowl on Angeline’s face when she finally managed to get the tray of juice and sweetmeats to her. She asked a question, but Angeline just shook her head and forced her features into a blank expression. There was no use complaining to Zahra about the girls, even if she could.

She went about her duties in a fever of anticipation for the next week. Then, one day when the afternoon rest was over, Samah returned, heavily veiled again and exuding, if possible, even more disapproval. Angeline leaped up from where she had been mending a scarf of Zahra’s—she may have hated sewing when she was younger, but the skill was useful to her now. She was at Samah’s side in an instant, only barely remembering to look to Zahra for permission to leave.

They took the same route through the small garden at the back of the house. This time Angeline clearly saw a woman disappear into the doorway. The woman paused to glance back over her shoulder. She caught Angeline’s eyes and held them for the briefest of moments, then she melted into the shadows beyond. Samah saw the woman at the same time and, with a hiss of fright, she pulled Angeline back and held her there until the woman was gone. Angeline was instantly curious. Who was this woman and why was Samah so fearful of intruding on her privacy? She must be a person of great importance, Angeline thought, then she pushed the matter out of her mind in her hurry to get to Father Martin.

“I’m back!” she exclaimed as she entered the classroom, then she stopped short. Father Martin and Stephen sat at the table, but a young boy was there also. He was in the process of gathering up some books and writing materials. He was small and very slim, dressed in a rich, shimmering green robe. He wore soft leather boots and a gold-coloured turban. Angeline noticed his hands especially—he had fine, long-boned, graceful fingers. He drew himself up with a haughty air when he saw Angeline and stared at her with disapproval, but Angeline could believe that she saw interest there as well.

“Qui es-tu?” he demanded in a strangely accented French.
Who are you?

This must be the young prince, Habib. Father Martin had said that he was only nine years old but she panicked for a moment. Young or not, he was a prince. Should she curtsy?

“Angeline,” she replied. “Your Highness,” she added quickly. Was that the proper way to address him? She made a quick sort of bob, but her foot tangled in her long skirt and she stumbled. She thought she saw the prince’s mouth twitch with a quickly suppressed smile. Without thinking, she smiled back. Instantly, his face fell back into an arrogant stare. He wheeled around and left the room by a doorway that led into a different part of the house from the women’s. Samah was sputtering behind her, then she too turned and almost ran from the room.

For the rest of that afternoon, Angeline worked with Stephen and Father Martin. She was amazed at how much Stephen had learned already, and pleased to see that the work brought him out of his sorrow a bit. She was determined to catch up to him.

“Enough for today,” Father Martin finally said, as the sun’s rays slanted low into the room. “You have done well, my child.”

Angeline sat back and sighed. Her head felt stuffed with new information, new thoughts.

“Does Habib learn quickly?” she asked.

“He does,” Father Martin replied. “But Stephen even more so.”

Angeline cast a sideways glance at Stephen. He had not spoken much, but seemed more at ease today, even though he had still not joined in the prayers. He, too, leaned back and stretched. She could believe that Stephen learned quickly. He had begun the crusade as an ignorant shepherd boy, but he had quickly learned the ways of leadership and power. Too well, she had sometimes thought. He had not been loathe to take on the trappings of a leader—riding in a banner-strewn cart while the others walked, and surrounding himself with the noblest of the boys who had joined them. Two of them, clad in mail and bearing swords, had ridden one on either side of him on magnificent horses. They were sons of one of France’s most noble families and Stephen had been mightily proud of them. They had been amongst the first to desert him when the sea did not part at Marseilles, of course.

“Habib is a bright boy,” Father Martin continued, “but a wilful child. He is too used to having his every wish granted, I think.”

“He is still young,” Angeline said. She could not help thinking of Marc and Yves. They had not been privileged as was Habib, but they, too,had been headstrong little boys. The memory was painful, however. She pushed it away.

“Am I to be allowed to come every week?” she asked instead.

“You are,” Father Martin replied. “Zeid has arranged it.”

“He seems a good man,” Angeline said. “I wonder where he comes from?”

“He comes from a land far to the south of here,” Stephen answered.

Angeline looked at him in surprise.

“He was captured in a raid when he was very young and brought here as a slave,” Stephen went on. “He served the Emir all his life and was finally made steward.”

“He is a slave?” Angeline asked, incredulous. She could not imagine such a dignified man being a slave.

“He was. The Emir gave him his freedom and allowed him to marry some years ago when he converted to Islam.”

“He is wed?” Angeline asked again. Somehow she had not thought of Zeid as having any life of his own.

“He is wed and has four sons,” Stephen answered. “I have met them. The eldest is almost my age.”

“Are they slaves as well?” Angeline persisted, her curiosity in full bloom. She had not yetdetermined who in this household were slaves and who were servants.

“No, they are not. They were born after he was freed. The eldest is being educated to be a secretary to the Emir.”

“But how is it that Zeid speaks French?” Angeline asked.

“He was not much more than a babe when he was captured and brought here,” Stephen said. “Another slave took him under her care and nursed him until he was old enough to fend for himself. She was French. She had been captured in a raid on a French merchant ship.”

“She must have been Christian then!” Angeline exclaimed. “Perhaps that is why he has been so kind to us. Do you know what happened to her?”

“She died, Zeid told me,” Stephen replied. “He sorrowed for her as much as for a mother. Indeed, she was the only mother he ever knew.”

At that moment Samah appeared. Angeline followed her back to Zahra’s room, mulling over Stephen’s words. It was hard for her to believe that Zeid had been a slave.

From such a harsh beginning, he has done well for himself, she thought.

Zahra was generous and often allowed Angeline, accompanied by Samah, to go to Father Martin after she had finished her day’s work. On those days Zahra would put her quill down with a sigh of relief, stretch, and call Aza to her, then she would take Aza to a small secluded garden at the back of the concubines’ quarters to play. Angeline had caught sight of them once when she was fetching some food from the cooking place and, her mind on other things, she had taken a wrong turn. Zahra had been chasing the child in and out of the bushes and laughing as if she were a child herself. Angeline had not been able to resist stopping to watch them. But when a cat, angry at having its peace disturbed, streaked by and Aza seemed as if she would chase after it, Angeline drew quickly back out of sight and hurried off to complete her errand. It was a private moment—Zahra would not want her intruding upon it, she was sure.

Sometimes during their afternoons with Father Martin, Stephen talked and worked with Angeline. Other days he sat by the window, sunk in gloom, and would not speak at all. Nor would he ever join in Father Martin’s prayers. One day, to Angeline’s consternation, he was not there.

“Where is Stephen?” she asked when she entered the room.

“Kareem said he had need of him today,” Father Martin answered. “It is not a Christian thing to say, but I think the old man is jealous of the time Stephen spends here with the young prince and invents tasks for Stephen in order to keep him away.”

Disappointed, Angeline settled to her work, but after only a few moments she laid her quill down.

“What is it?” Father Martin asked. “Are you not well?”

“No—I am well enough,” she answered, “but I worry about Stephen. What can I do to help him, Father? I cannot bear to see him so anguished.”

Father Martin stroked the tattered cover of the Bible from which he had been reading. He rubbed his forehead with his other hand.

“I know not what you can do, my child. I have tried without success to give him comfort. It pains me, as well, to see him so tormented. I am certain our good Lord means not for him to suffer so. He acted only in faith. If he was misled—if I and all the others were misled—it was only through our belief that God had truly spoken to us through the Christ Himself.” He stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Angeline bit her lip. “Will he recover, Father?” she asked. It was little more than a whisper.

“I know not,” the priest replied. “We must trust in God.”

I
will
trust in God, Angeline thought, but I will also try by every means
I
can to help him.

She missed the vibrant and forceful boy she had known and come to care for so deeply. She missed
Stephen.

After a few weeks Angeline was allowed to go see Father Martin and return by herself. It seemed that she had regained Zahra’s confidence, and she resolved not to do anything to lose that trust again. It still surprised her how much Zahra’s loss of faith in her had troubled her. And it had frightened her.

I am not a child anymore, she thought. There is no one here to take care of me as my mother did. Certainly Zahra, kind though she may be, will not. I must tread carefully here. I must take care of
myself.

She was, however, becoming more and more intrigued by the mysterious woman she kept catching glimpses of in the small garden on her way to Father Martin’s classroom. Could it be that the woman waited for her on purpose? Italmost seemed so, but what could that purpose be, and why did she not make herself known to Angeline? Who was she? Angeline had seen enough of her to realize that she was dressed as finely as Zahra, if not more so, and she was veiled, but she could not be a concubine. The concubines were not allowed out of the harem.

Another oddity. Several times Habib was still with Father Martin when she arrived. He had not spoken to her again, but every time she saw him he seemed to look at her with more curiosity.

“I believe he tarries on purpose to see you,” Father Martin said with a smile one day. “I think him to be fascinated with you. Aside from his sisters, you are probably the only girl he has ever met. And I am certain that you are different indeed from them.”

“How many sisters does he have?” Angeline asked. She was as interested in the little prince as he was in her.

“Several,” Father Martin answered. “Habib is the eldest son of the Emir’s youngest wife.” His mouth quirked with disapproval when he spoke the word “youngest.” “He has two brothers, one a mere babe in arms, the other not much older. The Emir’s other wives have only daughters. I know not how many.”

“How many wives does the Emir have?” Angeline asked, astounded.

“Three. It is the custom here to have several.” The tone of his voice left no doubt as to what he thought about that.

Three, Angeline thought. And many concubines. Father Bertrand would have perished from the shock of it! She could not suppress a small, secret smile but she hid it from Father Martin.

Then one day, to Angeline’s surprise, when she entered the garden the mysterious woman was sitting on a bench and did not dart away.

“Taaly huna ya bint,” she said, and beckoned to Angeline.
Come here, girl.
Angeline knew enough Arabic by now to understand that phrase.

Stunned, and not a little apprehensive, she approached the woman cautiously.

The woman said a few words more. Angeline stood helplessly in front of her.

“Ana mish fahema,” she faltered.
I don’t understand.
That was a phrase she had learned early on and had need of often.

“Ismi Nusaybah,” the woman said.
My name is Nusaybah.
That much Angeline could also understand. But then she added, “Ana umu Habib.”

Angeline could make out the word “ana,” which meant I, and the name, Habib. Then she caught her breath. Could she be saying “I am Habib’s mother?”

Nusaybah spoke again. Her voice was soft andlilting, but overlaid with sadness. Angeline could only shake her head helplessly. Nusaybah’s words meant nothing to her.

Nusaybah realized that Angeline could not understand her; she stopped speaking. She stood, reached out a bejewelled hand, and gave Angeline’s arm a light pat. Then she turned and made her way inside the house.

She
was
Habib’s mother. She had exactly the same fine, slim hands as he.

Angeline burst into the classroom.

“I saw Habib’s mother!” she cried, then stopped short as she noticed the prince sitting at the table next to Stephen.