The Twentieth Wife (37 page)

“But, your Majesty, there are no servants here. Only me,” Mehrunnisa replied. She shifted Ladli’s head onto a pillow, rose, and went to the tray by Jagat Gosini’s elbow. The Empress shook her head and indicated the door, as if to say
get out.

Determinedly not looking at her, Mehrunnisa poured the wine and held it out to Jahangir.

Her heart pounded as Jahangir reached for the goblet, but he did so without giving her a glance. Their fingers touched briefly.
Look at me.
He did not, his attention still caught by the concubine. With great deliberation, Mehrunnisa let go of the goblet and stepped back. Jahangir had not quite gotten hold of the goblet, and it fell to the floor with a clatter, spilling the wine on the divan and staining the edge of the Empress’s
ghagara.
Mehrunnisa had stepped out of the way long before.

“Stupid girl! Don’t you know how to serve wine?” Jagat Gosini got up and shook off her
ghagara,
glaring at Mehrunnisa. Mehrunnisa stared back at her steadily, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Jahangir look at her briefly, and then turn to look with more interest.

“I apologize, your Majesty. It will not happen again,” Mehrunnisa said, a demure, innocent look on her face.

“It had better not. Go get some towels.”

“Wait!” The Emperor’s voice rang out through the room. He rose to his feet, stumbling as he did so. “Who are you?”

Mehrunnisa smiled at him, suddenly the consummate actress. In Bengal, Ali Quli ignored her and the coolies gazed at her stupidly. But here, among all these beautiful women, she, the mother of a child and old in the eyes of all men, could command the attention of the man who had everything. It was the best feeling in the world. “Mirza Ghias Beg’s daughter, your Majesty.”

Jahangir stared at her, his eyes drinking her in like a man who had long thirsted for water. She was here, right in front of him. The passing years seemed to melt away, leaving them in the corridor again. He knew who she was, of course, but he had to say something, and that was the first question that had come to mind.

He took a deep trembling breath. She had an aristocratic nose,
rosebud lips, and a slender frame. The court painters would die for a sitting. Her breasts heaved under the silk
choli.
She was blushing, the color lending her charm. She stood absolutely still, hands at her sides, fingers encircled with diamond and ruby rings.

Mehrunnisa raised her eyes to Jahangir’s face and was jolted by what she saw. What had started out as a game to annoy Jagat Gosini was turning into something more serious. The people around them melted away into the fringes of her consciousness. She wanted to touch him, just to hold his hand and feel the warmth of his skin on hers. With him, this man she knew only from afar, she felt protected, safe, as though she did not need to fight battles. He would do that for her, like a safe harbor where she could rest her thoughts. Suddenly, she felt tired from all these years of living, of wanting him, of wanting a child, of getting only one of her desires after such a long time.

“Your Majesty, I am drenched with the wine. Send her to get me some towels,” Jagat Gosini complained, trying to pull Jahangir back to the divan.

“Send someone else, my dear,” Jahangir said, pushing away her arm. “I want to talk to her.” He turned to Mehrunnisa with a gentle voice. “What is your name?” But he knew her name; he had said it to himself many times. He just wanted to hear her say it.

“Mehrunnisa.”

“Sun of Women.” Jahangir rolled the words around his tongue. He looked over her contemplatively. “Yes, you are.”

Mehrunnisa shifted under his gaze. She felt as though he were mentally stripping her of everything—her clothes, her emotions—and peering into her deepest secrets. Would he see the love? Would he see thirteen years of yearning? She saw that he had not forgotten her. That thought sent heat through her veins. It was easy for her to remember him; she had wanted him since she was eight. But for him to hold her in his memory . . . to ask her name even though he
seemed to know it . . . yet, he had made no move to seek her out since he became Emperor. What did this mean? How could she have known that she still had this much power over him? What would Jahangir do? There was no father to thwart his wishes now.

“Your Majesty, Mehrunnisa is wanted in the kitchens. She has to give instructions to the cooks.” Asmat Begam’s voice broke into the silence.

They all turned to see her standing next to them, a respectful but watchful look on her face.

All of a sudden Mehrunnisa did not want to go. She would play this out to the end. The Emperor had the power to give her so much; why should she not take it? Her back stiffened, and Asmat, seeing the gesture and recognizing it well, said quietly, “Please, your Majesty.”

“Send someone else, Asmat,” Jahangir said.

“I beg pardon, your Majesty. But”—Mehrunnisa’s mother hesitated—“my daughter is a married woman and—”

Jahangir turned and looked at Asmat, her words finally sinking in. He nodded slowly. “I understand. You are given permission to leave, Mehrunnisa.”

Mehrunnisa bowed and moved away. She was uncertain, wanting to stay, not wanting to leave. She dragged her feet out of the room, feeling Jahangir’s and Jagat Gosini’s eyes on her. She glanced back, and a shiver went up her spine. The Emperor was looking at her with lust, the Empress with implacable hatred.

She hesitated in the doorway. Asmat Begam put a firm hand on her back and pushed her out.

•   •   •

T
HAT NIGHT
M
EHRUNNISA
lay awake in her bed. Asmat had not said a word except to send her to the kitchens with spurious instructions. A few hours later, afternoon
chai
was served, and then the royal party had gone back to the palace. The family had retired to
their rooms early for some much-needed rest; there was no opportunity for conversation with her mother.

But Mehrunnisa could not sleep. Had she done right in trying to get Jahangir’s attention again? Her previous ploys to capture him seemed childish now, especially when the stakes were higher. There was more, much more to gain . . . and to lose.

Jahangir fascinated her. Gone was the petulant prince she had known. In his place stood a strong man, one possessed of much power, charm, and cruelty. All his life, Jahangir had been accustomed to getting what he wanted. No one had denied him anything before, and as Emperor, no one could deny him anything now.

Mehrunnisa shivered. She rose, pulled a shawl over her shoulders, and went to the window. She stood staring down into the deserted courtyard. It was dark except for the small pool of light from a lantern hung on the doorway of the stables. What would the Emperor do now? Jahangir’s sense of justice was legendary. People all over the country talked of his twelve edicts of conduct and the Chain of Justice. But equally legendary was his cruelty. The Emperor thought little of executing men en masse, inflicting on them the cruelest punishments and tortures. If Jahangir wanted Mehrunnisa, then Jahangir would get Mehrunnisa. But at what price? Mehrunnisa was a married woman and belonged to Ali Quli.

Mehrunnisa had tried not to give herself the luxury of self-pity at her marriage to Ali Quli, at their deteriorating relationship, at her childlessness for so many years, at the jibes and snickers because of it, or at having only a girl child at the end of it all. Now she thought that there were two parts of her: one for Ladli, whose every breath was precious to her, the other for Jahangir, the man she had dreamed of for many years. Neither precluded the other, and both, she realized now, were equally important. Neither could be denied, no matter how much she forced herself not to think of the Emperor.

She raised her eyes from the courtyard and looked over the walls
of the house. The city of Lahore was asleep, but lights twinkled in the darkness from the street lamps. In the distance, she could see the ramparts of the Lahore fort bathed in the golden light of torches.

The situation was difficult, too difficult. Mehrunnisa sighed, turned back into the room, and crawled into bed. As her weight settled on the mattress, Ladli moved in sleep to fling a leg over her mother. Mehrunnisa lay awake for a long while, then forced her eyes shut. She had to sleep soon, or she would not be prepared for the lecture her mother would give her in the morning.

•   •   •

G
HIAS
B
EG KICKED
his heels into the horse’s flanks to urge it into a faster pace. The Emperor had expressly sent for him. He was surprised and not just a little apprehensive about the summons. He mentally ran over the previous day’s events. Had he done anything to displease Jahangir? He did not think so. Everything had gone smoothly. The Emperor had seemed pleased and been very generous in his gifts to Arjumand.

Still wondering, Ghias presented himself at the reception hall. When he entered, he found Mahabat Khan and Muhammad Sharif standing on either side of Jahangir.

“Inshah Allah,
your Majesty.”

“Inshah Allah,
Mirza Beg. I was very pleased with the arrangements for the betrothal ceremony yesterday. The union between our two families will be advantageous to us both.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Ghias protested. “The honor is all ours, sire.”

“Yes, yes. But I have commanded your presence for another reason.” Jahangir looked at Ghias keenly.

But the
diwan
was completely in the dark. Asmat Begam had not mentioned anything to him the night before, believing the matter to be best left alone. He waited for his Emperor to speak.

“You have a married daughter?”

“Four married daughters, your Majesty, by the grace of Allah.”

“I am talking of Mehrunnisa.” Jahangir waved an impatient hand at his
diwan.
“She is married to Ali Quli.”

“Yes, your Majesty.” A little doubt crept into Ghias’s mind. He looked at Jahangir.

“Ali Quli is a dissident. He teamed up with my rebellious son Khusrau during my father’s reign in an effort to put Khusrau on the throne. I have magnanimously overlooked his faults and his disloyalty to me.”

“Your Majesty is very kind. My son-in-law was mistaken and fell in with mutinous people. He was misled into actions against your person, and I know he is greatly repentant.”

“Yes, yes, but nonetheless he has committed a great crime and must pay for his sins. Do you understand?”

“Your Majesty . . . I . . . Ali Quli is loyal to you now . . . ,” Ghias stammered. Where was this leading? What had Ali Quli done in Bengal?

“Your daughter Mehrunnisa is very beautiful and charming. I had an amusing encounter with her yesterday. She will grace any man’s household. In fact, she is fit to be a king’s wife,” Jahangir said distinctly.

Realization dawned upon the
diwan.
At last he understood the purpose for which he had been commanded to his Emperor’s presence. The Emperor wished to invoke the
Tura-i-Chingezi,
the law of the Timurs. In effect, Jahangir wanted Ali Quli to divorce Mehrunnisa so that he could marry her.

A troubled look came over the statesman’s face. The
Tura-i-Chingezi
was common enough, and it was a great honor for any man to be commanded to give up his wife to the Emperor. But Ali Quli was fractious and disobedient. Ghias had secretly heaved a sigh of relief when his son-in-law was sent to Bardwan, far from the imperial court, for he was sure to get into trouble if he stayed near the
Emperor. Now Jahangir wanted Ali Quli to give up his wife. Ghias shook his head. Things were happening too fast, without warning. Mehrunnisa to be the Emperor’s wife! That meant riches for the whole family, and prestige and reputation. And who knew—he might one day be grandfather to the next emperor. But Ali Quli . . . always Ali Quli . . . too late now to correct any mistakes. The
diwan
looked up and saw the Emperor waiting for an answer.

“Your wish has always been my command, your Majesty. I shall do everything in my power to ensure your—and my daughter’s—happiness.” There was little else he could say.

Jahangir nodded happily. “You may go now.”

Ghias left, and Jahangir fell into a satisfied reverie. Soon he would sleep next to the beautiful Mehrunnisa, and upon waking he would see that lissome form next to him . . . those gorgeous eyes would awaken him. . . .

“Your Majesty.” Mahabat Khan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I beg your pardon, but—” Jahangir turned to him. “Is Ali Quli’s wife really a good choice? She has lived for thirteen years with the man and doubtless harbors resentment against your Majesty for the punishment inflected upon her husband.”

“Your solicitousness for my well-being is gratifying, Mahabat. But if you could have seen her yesterday as I did: beauty, charm, and grace, all in one person . . . why, she is the essence of femininity and womanhood—” Jahangir stopped abruptly.

“Your Majesty,” Mahabat urged. “Please reconsider your wishes.”

But try as he would, Mahabat Kahn could not make Jahangir budge from his position. The Sun of Women, Mehrunnisa, had bewitched the Emperor, and he would not rest until she was his.

He too had lain awake last night thinking about her. When Jahangir had offered Khurram’s hand to Ghias’s granddaughter, he had thought to honor the
diwan.
But he remembered that Ghias was Mehrunnisa’s father and that she too would be honored by the
proposal. Somehow, the thought of seeing her at the betrothal had never crossed his mind. She was in Bengal, at the easternmost reach of the empire; yet she had traveled to Lahore for the ceremony. At the sight of her, a fire lit inside him, raging, consuming him with its intensity. All these years she had been a dream, a distant memory. Seeing her standing in front of him, he knew why he had fallen in love with her. Now there was no turning back. Ali Quli was disposable.

He had no regret at invoking the
Tura-i-Chingezi.
For unknown to even Mahabat and Sharif—and they did not know everything, although they thought they did—a letter had come to Jahangir a month ago. His spies recounted a tale told by a slave boy named Nizam. When Khusrau fled to Lahore, Ali Quli was prepared to join him. The
Sahiba
had stopped her husband.