Angeline (8 page)

The boy’s head jerked up. He stared at her, his eyes suddenly bright.

“Ma mère?” he demanded. “You saw my mother?” Then he caught himself, embarrassed, and a flush stained his dark cheeks.

“Je m’excuse.” He rose quickly, trying to recover his dignity. “Excuse me, it is late. I must be going.” He scrambled his papers together and almost ran out of the room.

Angeline stared after him, open-mouthed. She turned a questioning look on Father Martin.

“He has not seen his mother for some time,” Father Martin explained. “He is too old now to live in the women’s quarters—he lives with his father.”

“Does he not visit her?” Angeline asked, incredulous.

“No. He is allowed to, but he is a prideful boy and feels that it shows weakness.”

“So that is why she waits for me,” Angeline said. “She must know that I see him every week. She must have been asking me about him.”

If only I could talk to her, she thought. And with that thought came a determination. I know a few words of their language already, she told herself. I’ll learn more. Zahra will teach me. I’ll learn enough so that I
can
talk to her.

And perhaps I can do something to change Habib’s mind, as well, she thought. I will have to be wary. He waits for me to come, but he does not like it if I speak to him. She mulled the problem over for a moment, then suppressed a sly smile.

There is nothing to stop me from saying what I wish to Stephen and Father Martin, she thought, and would it be my fault if he overheard me? No boy should slight his mother so—not even a prince.

The next day Nusaybah was sitting on her bench as usual when Angeline crossed the garden. She waved Angeline over to her, but did not speak. Instead, she contented herself by patting Angeline on the arm again, then she rose to leave. As she walked away, Angeline heard her sigh.

When Angeline entered the classroom, Habib was still there, but almost immediately he gathered up his books and started to leave. Angeline sat down at the table and made a great show of settling to her work.

“I saw the prince’s mother again today,” she said to Stephen in an off hand manner, as if the words were of no importance at all. “She seemed so sad. I think she might have been weeping.”

Habib made no indication that he had heard her, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw him hesitate for a brief moment before going out the door.

As they worked together that afternoon, Angeline found herself distracted. For some reason she could not concentrate on her tasks. Beside her, Stephen bent over his papers, his brow furrowed with concentration. She could smell the faint aura of his sweat. It was familiar to her. She realized that she would be able to recognize Stephen anywhere, even if blindfolded, by that smell.

On the crusade they had forged a bond, but friendship it had been, no more. How could it have been otherwise? Stephen’s passion had, indeed, been all for his mission. He could think of nothing else. And she had thought of him only as their leader. But now? She saw the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, so fierce and determined. Astray lock of hair fell into his eyes. Without meaning to, she reached out to brush it away. Then she realized what she was doing and drew her hand back, shocked. To her relief, Stephen had not noticed.

Whatever had possessed her to do such a thing?

One morning Angeline awoke to find a light rain falling. She realized that it was the first time it had rained in the months since she had arrived in Egypt. When Zahra arose from her bed she shivered and asked Angeline to fetch her a light woolen shawl.

“It is so cold,” Zahra complained, but to Angeline it seemed as if the weather were just finally becoming bearable.

Angeline’s efforts to learn the language were succeeding. She was understanding more and more of what people were saying to her andthat helped to make life a little easier. When she and Samah went to the suq now, she could often pick out words from the babble surrounding her. Zahra encouraged her and was a patient teacher. Angeline, on her part, enjoyed forming the strange symbols and learning what they meant.

Angeline learned from Aza, too. Mostly the words for sweetmeats or treats, but once a word that Aza was punished for saying. Shocked, Zahra had forbade the child any cakes for a week. It must have been a very bad word that Aza had overheard somewhere, probably in the cooking place, but Angeline had no idea what it meant. She tucked it away in her mind to use on Anka and the other vexatious girls the next time they tormented her.

Angeline’s lessons with Father Martin were also going on apace. Habib was usually there when she arrived and she often managed to speak of Nusaybah within his hearing. He never made any sign that he had heard, but she noticed that he was getting slower and slower to leave every day. Angeline waited. One day, surely, he would ask about his mother.

The next time she saw Nusaybah sitting on her bench, on an impulse, Angeline crossed over to her and without permission, sat beside her.

“Ibn habdritik bekhier wa saeed,” she said, haltingly, searching for the words with difficulty but determined to speak.
Your son is well and happy.

Nusaybah responded with a torrent of words, none of which Angeline understood, but she had no trouble hearing the longing in the woman’s voice. She made certain to report it to Father Martin in Habib’s hearing.

Finally the day came when Angeline entered the classroom to find Father Martin beaming. Habib, too, seemed happier and more lively than Angeline had yet seen him.

“The prince has asked to see his mother,” the priest announced as soon as Habib was out of the room. “I am relieved that the poor woman will have some comfort.”

The following week, Nusaybah rose and embraced Angeline the moment she set foot in the garden.

“Shukran, binty,” she said.
Thank you, my little one.

Angeline felt very pleased with herself. And Father Martin had expressed sympathy for Nusaybah—a third wife! Could it be that he was becoming more tolerant?

Angeline’s days were full and busy; there were times when she almost forgot she was a slave. Stephen, however, seemed to be sinking further and further into despair. Rarely now did he smile. Angeline found herself growing impatient.

“Stephen, did you not tell me that King Philip himself thought you had been deluded by some priest?” she demanded one afternoon when Father Martin, who was feeling ill, had left. Stephen had been so depressed that he had not joined in their work at all, and Angeline was exasperated with him in spite of herself.

He did not answer, would not even look at her, only stood staring out the window.

“If so,” Angeline insisted, “and even if that priest
meant
well, the guilt lies with him, not with you. Father Martin has said that you have only to make your confession to him and God will forgive you.”

At that, Stephen whipped around to face her.

“Can you not understand?” he burst out with such sudden violence that Angeline drew back, shocked. “Can you not understand?” he repeated. “I do not
want
God’s forgiveness! God abandoned me and all those who followed me. What I want is the forgiveness of those whom I led to death or slavery, and that is impossible. You, Angeline … How can
you
forgive me?”

“There is nothing for me to forgive,” Angeline answered. Her voice shook. “I followed you of my own free will,” she said. “As did all of the others.”

“But I failed you.” Stephen’s voice broke. He reached out and took Angeline’s face in his hands. “It is my fault that you are here—that you are a slave. You, who stayed by me when so many others abandoned me. When I look at you I cannot bear what I have done to you.”

“Yes, I stayed by you.” Angeline’s face burned with the heat from his hands. “And I will stay by you here, too, if you will but let me.”

Stephen dropped his hands. “I am not worthy,” he said. He turned and, before Angeline could stop him, left the room.

The next morning Zahra gave Angeline to understand that she and Samah were to take Aza with them to the suq. At least, that was what Angeline thought. But when they left, with Samah heavily veiled as usual, they did not take the now-familiar route to the market. Instead, they wound their way through different streets until they reached a small mosque. Angeline followed Samah warily. She had no idea what this meant. Aza, however, seemed excited andbounded along beside them, babbling all the while.

Samah led the way around to the back of the mosque. There, in an enclosed courtyard, were assembled several other girls of about Aza’s age. A robed man sat on a platform in front of them. Samah gestured to Angeline to wait while she took Aza up to him. She exchanged some words with the man, then Aza, never one for shyness, plopped herself down eagerly in the very front row. The man began to speak and Angeline realized that he was a teacher. This was a school for girls—probably for daughters of the servants and slaves who lived in the neighbourhood. Samah and Angeline left Aza there and went to do some errands at the suq. They returned to fetch her after an hour or so.

They followed this pattern nearly every day from then on, either filling the time while Aza learned by going to the suq, or just sitting outside the mosque, waiting. Finally, Zahra gave orders that Angeline should take Aza on her own.

One day, when Zahra did not have any errands for her to run, Angeline decided to use her free time to explore a bit. She was comfortable enough by now with the city and with the language to walk by herself, and Zahra had allowed her the freedom. As a young slave girl she was largely ignored, but never in any danger. She ambled aimlessly amongst the crowds for a while, then turned down a cobbled street that looked quiet and cool. There were houses along this street, with second-floor balconies enclosed by wooden screens. Once she heard giggles coming from behind one and she caught a flash of brilliant material through the latticework. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Well-born ladies, no doubt, such as the Emir’s wives, peeking through to observe the street activity. Women who could not go out unveiled or without attendants. Being a slave did have its compensations. Then she swore as she stepped in a puddle of filth—that word Aza had been punished for saying did have its uses—and began to pay more attention to where she was placing her feet.

The street made a sharp turn and she followed it. At the end, she saw a church. A Christian church! Its cross stood out tall against the sky. Intrigued, she drew near to it. The door stood open and the interior beckoned, dark and cool; silent—no Mass was being said at that time. She tiptoed in, then stopped, awestruck. This was not like any church she had ever seen before. The church of her village was small and rough, with a crude altar and rushes on a dirt floor. She supposed that the great cathedrals of the cities they had passed through in Francemust have been wondrous, too, but she had had no opportunity to enter them. Here, in this church, the ceilings arched high above her, supported by pillars sheathed in gold that glimmered in the light of many candles. The floor was paved with smooth stones. In the centre of the church stood a massive pulpit made of intricately carved wood and lavishly decorated. Paintings of Jesus covered one wall, more paintings hung on the others. She stood, lost in wonder, then jumped as a figure who had been kneeling at the side of the pulpit rose to his feet. She had not noticed him there. It was a boy about Stephen’s age. He asked a question in a tongue she could not understand. When she shook her head helplessly, he repeated the question in Arabic.

“Mun unti? Ma dha tuf ali huna?”
Who are you? What are you doing here?

He did not sound angry or annoyed that she had interrupted him, just curious.

“Ismi Angeline,” she replied tentatively.

“Are you a slave?” he asked.

“I am,” she replied. “I am Zahra’s slave, in the house of the Emir Abd’al Haseeb.” She searched for the correct words with difficulty but he seemed to understand her.

He looked at her closely. “You are not Arab,” he said.

“No, I am a Christian,” she replied. “From the Frankish lands.”

“Ah, a Franj,” he said, peering at her with more interest. “I have heard much of you people. “None of it good,” he added.

“Why not?” Angeline asked, not certain she had understood the boy correctly. “Ismak eh?”
What is your name?

“Ibrahim,” he answered. “I am Christian, too. But I am Egyptian. A true Egyptian. We Copts are the only people in Egypt who are descended from the ancients.”

Angeline’s head was swimming. She could make no sense of this. At that moment she realized that it would most certainly be time for Aza to finish her lesson. She could not be late. In a panic she blurted out, “I have to go. Ma’as salama!”
Goodbye!
Then she turned and ran.

The next time she met with Father Martin she was full of questions.

“These Egyptian Christians,” she burst out. “How are they different? Why do they dislike the Frankish people?”

Father Martin made the same sour face that he had made when they had seen the Christian riding through the street the day they arrived.

“They are Coptic Christians,” he repeated. Seeing that Angeline still looked puzzled, he explained. “We in the Western world believe the Copts to be misguided,” he said. “Misguided to the point of heresy. They do not believe in the dual nature of our Lord Jesus. They acknowledge him to be Divine only, and not a man as well. They ignore all who try to bring them back to the true religion. Their churches here are not true Christian churches at all.”

Angeline felt it might be best not to mention that she had been in one of those churches and had spoken to one of those Copts, but she saw Stephen looking at her. She determined to tell him of her meeting with Ibrahim at the first opportunity. Perhaps this might be something that would interest him. She would grasp at any opportunity to pull him out of the grief that seemed to weigh him down so implacably.

The opportunity came that very afternoon. Father Martin again declared himself to be feeling unwell and retired early to his room. Angeline wondered briefly if he were annoyed with her questions and only seeking an excuse to take himself away, but the priest did seem pale and tired.

When Father Martin had left, however, Angeline found herself suddenly shy. She and Stephen had not been alone since the afternoon of Stephen’s outburst—there had been an awkwardness between them ever since. Stupidly, she found herself flushing at the memory of the touch of his hands upon her face. She turned away to hide her flaming cheeks. It seemed as if Stephen, too, felt ill at ease. They both fell silent. Then, to Angeline’s relief, he spoke.

“Why were you asking about the Egyptian Christians?” he asked. “How do you know they do not like the Franks?”

Angeline turned back eagerly. This she could talk about.

“I met one!” she answered. “A boy. About our age. His name is Ibrahim. He told me that the Copts don’t like the Franks, but he did not seem to dislike me.”

“But where did you meet him?” Stephen asked. “How?”

“At a church,” Angeline replied. “A Christian church. A Coptic Christian church I suppose it must be, but it was glorious, Stephen! So beautiful!” She rushed on. “I have never seen anything like it before. I cannot believe such a church to be as dreadful as Father Martin feels it to be. I take Zahra’s daughter, Aza, to her lessons every morning. While she is there I sometimes wanderthe city. One day I found this church and Ibrahim was there.” A sudden thought struck her. What if she were to arrange for Stephen to meet Ibrahim? Might that not help him?

“I go in the mornings,” she said. “Would you like to go with me one day?”

“I work in the garden with Kareem at that time,” Stephen answered. “It would not be possible.” He shrugged. “It is of no interest to me in any case.” He turned back to his work.

Angeline grew silent but she was not about to give up. She would grasp at anything that might spark Stephen’s curiosity. Father Martin would surely disapprove, of course, but he need know nothing about it. If it would help Stephen …

Angeline determined to go back to the church as soon as possible, but Zahra kept her busy with errands for the next few days and she had no time. Then Aza had a holiday from her lessons, and they resumed their mornings in the harem. One day, while Angeline was helping Zahra dress, Zahra began to talk about her past.

“I was no older than you, binty,” she said, “when I was sold to the Emir as a concubine. My family thought it great good fortune for me. Iwas one of his favourites right from the beginning, but I was not happy here. I was frightened. Just as you were when you first arrived.”

Angeline started to shake her head in fierce denial.

“Oh yes you were, binty. You could not hide it.” She went on. “It was Samah who took care of me then and comforted me.” She laughed at the disbelieving expression on Angeline’s face.

“Yes, Samah. She has a good heart, but she keeps it well hidden.”

Zahra waved Angeline aside and walked over to the window. She stared out at the garden below, then turned back to Angeline.

“When Samah finally got me to stop feeling sorry for myself, I began to think about how I could better my life here. I asked the Emir if I could be tutored in the art of copying and he agreed. That was how I learned to read and write. And that was how I made myself more important than those other useless women in the harem,” she said with a sly smile. Then she added, “You will find your place here too, binty. I am certain of it.”