Jawhara

I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED why my life unravelled the way it did, like loosening strands of a once beautiful baldachin curtain. At once beautiful, everything had fallen apart.

My childhood was not unhappy. Of course, each passing year brought both triumphs and disappointments, but such is the nature of life. Though my mother perished in childbirth, my baba was an honourable man who travelled across Iberia trading silk with Christian and Jewish merchants.

As was customary, my baba married two other women—Fathuna and Bahja, the latter of whom was also my mother's eldest sister—and provided a comfortable home for us in the heart of Granada, where I spent hours preparing sweet honey cakes and Baba's favourite Andalusian dishes like tarida.

Like the famous princess Wallāda Bint al-Mustakfi, Bahja hosted literary salons on our expansive patio, inviting the most brilliant mathematicians and writers and philosophers in all of Granada to share their knowledge with our growing family.

Unlike most girls my age, I was given the freedom to explore the vibrant bazaars with my brothers—spending many days weaving through the market stalls and mud-ridden streets until the moon rose over the starry horizon. I grew strong as I explored the rugged cliffs and mountaintops that surrounded our home with my siblings.

I also enjoyed the good reputation of my father. Whenever I bartered for spices and fabrics in the market, I was given the best price with vendors recognizing my status as the daughter of a benevolent and noble man.

I thought about my childhood as I held the next King of France in my arms.

My mistress—the dauphine—had spent countless hours in the throes of labour, her wails filling the royal bed chamber like the keening of a wild animal. After almost a year of waiting, an heir had finally been sired, eliciting a unanimous feeling of relief among the court.

It was a miracle such a beautiful thing could come from such pain.

The small prince's eyes shuddered open when he felt the smooth silk of my robe, his mouth latching around my finger as he searched for milk.

For a sliver of a moment, I imagined what it would be like to have a child of my own. I had not thought of such a thing since I was young. Though I had once been betrothed to a good young man—another merchant's son with eyes the colour of gold—I had long since forgotten my dreams of motherhood. I had reached my twenty-ninth year with my marriageable years far behind me. Besides, I did not know if my womb was even capable of carrying a baby.

Tears thickened at my eyelashes, but I wiped them away hastily, hoping the nursemaids milling about the royal nursery had not noticed my emotional display.

I had promised the dauphine I would simply find her son and ensure his safety since she was not permitted to leave her canopied bed until the physician declared her able.

"Why is the Moorish harlot holding the King's grandson?" A masculine voice arrested me.

Swiftly, I placed Louis back into his cradle.

Since I had been plunged into the French court, I had heard many crude words spoken about me, often decrying my heritage and former position as a slave. Perhaps they still believed I was a slave and not an official member of the dauphine's ladies, even though I had been given that role by the dauphin himself.

Regardless, I kept my head low and did not engage in the gossip and treachery that swirled throughout the castle's passages. Nor did I speak of my personal opinions. I had learned early on that speaking one's mind had severe consequences.

"Are you mute, woman?" The voice was thick with drink and malice. Instantly, I knew it belonged to the Bishop d'Évreux.

My fear was confirmed when his face emerged from the shadows, the silver braziers burning above us.

I wondered why the man lurked in the young prince's nursery when my mistress thought so little of him. Then again, he was the most powerful clergyman in the kingdom because of his connection to Charles of France.

"I am leaving." I dared to look him in the eye, taking a step backwards. It seemed the nursemaids had all fled and we were alone in the darkness of the nursery.

Though I was tall for a woman, the Bishop was much taller, allowing him to tower over me like a great citadel.

"I do not want you to leave." He said, his eyes tracing the outline of my gown. I was glad I had dressed modestly before venturing to the nursery. "I have never had a Moor before."

He leaned down to place his lips on my neck and I shivered, but not from pleasure. 

"Please unhand me!" I begged though I remained frozen—completely paralyzed by fear.

Nausea seized me as his hands grabbed my face urgently, then travelled down to my hips, forcing me to him. I tried to push him away but to no avail.

Memories of pain and blood and innocence stolen flooded my mind and I feared I would faint.

"By the saints, Pierre! What in God's name are you doing?"

The Bishop released me, clumsily stumbling backwards into the light of Francis of Aragon's beeswax candle. The nobleman was horrified, his dark eyes narrowed in disgust.

I wanted to embrace the welcome intruder for saving me from certain woe. I had endured the same misfortune many times, but that did not make it any less painful.

"I should ask the same of you." Pierre d'Évreux cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders to stand face-to-face with Francis.

"The dauphine ordered me to find the lady you are accosting and escort her back to the royal chambers. She feared Jawhara had been absent for longer than expected and suspected something might be amiss. Clearly, she was right to be concerned." Francis growled, standing protectively between myself and the Bishop.

The Bishop's eyes glowered. "I cannot believe you would defend a Moorish slave when your people are oppressed by hers."

Unexpectedly, the Bishop reached for the side of my face, tracing his fingers along my jaw. "Besides, she has already been with many men. Or perhaps you too are captivated by her foreign beauty and overlook her past?"

"That is enough. There is no need to insult the lady." Francis gingerly looped his arm around my shoulder, guiding me from the nursery and into the passageway that led to the dauphine's chambers.

I could not bear to look at Francis's face. In my time at court, he had been exceptionally kind, explaining the peculiar French customs and rivalries that characterized the royal family. He had treated me like an equal, despite our obvious differences in rank and birth. I did not want him to know about my past.

I felt a sharp ache crawl into my stomach.

The night I had tried so hard to forget devoured my mind. I remembered the bandits who had sacked my baba's wagon and stolen my purity.

I had begged Baba to take me with him, desperate to taste the sweet incense of Iberia and feel the waves of the ocean against my legs. He had promised he would show me the world of merchants before I married and acquiesced to my demands.

The men had come unexpectedly. Finding us asleep in our beds, they had raided our silks and taken all our foodstuffs, screaming at us in an unrecognizable language. Against five hulking strangers, Baba was powerless to prevent them from taking me with them. They had sold me to a cruel Spanish master—one who took advantage of my youth and forced himself on me.

I clung to Francis as my eyes clouded with darkness, fearing I would faint.

"Jawhara, you are safe."

Tears replaced the darkness in my eyes as I looked at him, willing myself to focus on the kindness in his gaze instead of the fear knotting my stomach.

"I am sorry," I whispered.

"You do not have to fear the Bishop. I will speak to the King to ensure his dismissal. His improper conduct has continued long enough and I am certain His Majesty would not want the actions of a foolish clergyman to ruin the reputation of the court," Francis offered me his cloak, perhaps mistaking the shiver in my arms for coldness. I accepted it gratefully, treasuring the warmth of the rich fabric.

Instead of continuing to the royal chambers, Francis escorted me to a small enclave with a window overlooking the Seine and the rest of Paris. After I sank into an upholstered chair, he perched himself on the one opposite from me, leaving enough space between us so that passersby would not sense anything improper.

"Before we join the dauphine, I wanted to ask something of you." Francis declared, his cheeks flushing.

"Of course, my lord. Anything you need." I responded anxiously. I knew that my position was tenuous and any incorrect action could lead to punishment.

"Well... I wondered if..." Francis smiled, his lips quivering in nervousness, "I wondered if you would take my hand in marriage."

I tried not to gasp.

Of course, I had noticed Francis's constant attention, but I had not imagined it was anything more than duty. I could not deny that I felt drawn to him in a way I had never imagined, but a marriage between us was impossible. I was no more than a slave and though Spanish, he was a nobleman.

"My lord, are you not already married?" I flushed, my heart quickening. All French and Spanish noblemen of his age were married. They needed to sire heirs to ensure their royal lineage.

Francis's smile dimmed, but only slightly. "I... I was married in Aragon. But my wife died in childbirth, as did the infant. It was not a pleasant marriage and I never wanted to remarry. But, I have grown so fond of you that I cannot imagine being apart."

"My lord, I do not believe you know of my past." I trembled, trying to extinguish the timid hope blooming in my stomach. Surely, such a man would not want me if he knew the truth. "I am not an innocent maiden. I am nearing my thirtieth year. If it is an heir you want, I am not certain you would have one by marrying me." 

Francis leaned over, clasping my hands. His eyes were soft. "If we do not have a child, I will be content to have you as my wife. I want to be with you, Jawhara, if you'll have me. I could provide a comfortable home for you in Aragon—far from the madness of the court—and you would never be in servitude to another master again."

I let myself imagine a life with Francis for a moment. I imagined being held in his arms and watching children play in golden fields, the sunshine on our backs. I dreamed of returning to Granada and finding my family with my husband by my side.

"I cannot marry you," I released my hands from his, "I would dishonour your name. The Bishop is right. I have been with too many men and seen too much pain to be a good wife to you."

I left him in silence.