God Wills It! A Tale of the First Crusade

As she spoke, her eyes glowed with a fire that lit another fire of mingled desire and rage in the eyes of Iftikhar.

"Hearken, Star of the Greeks!" and he again stepped toward her. Mary stood calm as a statue; only her eyes shone yet brighter.

"I have heard you often, master; but I will listen."

"I command you, style me no more 'master,'" raged Iftikhar, feeling he had conjured up a demon that greater power than his must chain.

"I can style you no otherwise," was the reply; "for so you are. Punish my disobedience. I can bear much."

There was a little table at hand; on it stood a rock-crystal goblet and a silver cooler filled with snow-water and rose sherbet.

"Mary Kurkuas," said Iftikhar, controlling himself by a great effort, and holding up the goblet, "think not I seek the deeds of mad passion and violence. My power? The might that flashes in your eyes were a myriad times more! Love? Yes, truly; I would have your lips seek mine, as two doves flit to the same nest. See! A pledge!—by the great angel Israfil, at whose trumpet the dead shall spring for judgment, I swear: I will do you no hurt! nothing! I will teach you to love me, until Constantinople, and Sicily, and France shall be as a forgotten dream, and of your own free will you shall be mine own, till Allah cut us asunder."

He held high the goblet.

"To Mary Kurkuas, fairest of women!" he cried, drank, bowed low, and was gone, leaving Mary with Hakem the eunuch.

The heavy tapestries in the doorway closed noiselessly. Mary stood gazing half stupidly at Hakem and the maids. Then at last the eunuch spoke, his imperturbable smile swelling to a fulsome grin.

"O my little birdling, what friends shall we not become! How sweetly shall we pass the days together!"

Had his words been hot irons, he could not have affected Mary more. In a trice she had sprung toward him, her eyes flashing flame. She was in poise and voice the great princess of the house of Kurkuas, born to rule. "Toad!" came across her teeth, "did I bid you speak? Out of my sight, you and these wenches, or as I live—"

"Mercy, gracious Citt, gracious mistress!" began Hakem, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes, for he knew that he faced his match. "You are travel-worn; your dress—"

Mary took a step toward him, snatched him by the shoulder, whirled his face toward the door in an instant.

"Away!" was her command; "or if Iftikhar did not mock me, the next word I have for him is to ask your head!"

Hakem shuffled out of the room like a whipped hound. To the maids Mary gave not a word—simply pointed toward the passage. The flash in her eyes sufficed. They were gone; and the Greek found herself alone—oh, bliss!—alone!

The room was large, high-domed; the walls covered with gold and colored enamel in fantastic arabesques. Here and there an inscription from one of the poets in silver mosaic. On the silken carpet the feet moved noiselessly. The light trickled through the piercings in the dome, and spread a restful twilight around. There were divans of priceless Chinese silk, an ebony table whereon lay silver and crystal cups and coolers, fruit and honey cakes. Upon the divan lay ready a dress, silk also, plainly prepared for Iftikhar's new favorite, gold lace, jewel embroidery: in France worth a count's ransom; even in Constantinople worthy of the Empress herself. It was very still. Mary sat upon the divan beside the table and rested her face on her hands. She was more weary than one may tell. Despite the care of Iftikhar, the journey had been no easy one. And now this was the end! Here was the golden cage in which the bright bird was to be kept fast! Mary shed no tears now. Iftikhar had given her a pledge. She felt sure he would be patient within reason. But in time? Mary knew herself well enough and Iftikhar well enough to be sure that both were made of mortal stuff. After all, she was his slave—to be sold in the market if he chose. She had taken her vows touching Richard Longsword while life lasted. But was he not dead to her? Perhaps dead to all the world? Did men only die to one another when they stopped eating, talking, and sleeping? She could struggle, could put on her majesty, could say "No" a score of times; but in the end!—what end could there be saving one! So Mary sat in her revery, her thoughts as dark as the ebony table beneath her eyes.

Suddenly, as if awaking from a dream, she heard laughter,—laughter musical as a little stream, but with a mocking, angry tinge that left a sting. Mary lifted her eyes, raised her head. More laughter—louder, still musical. The Greek almost started. Could she not even have sorrow in peace?

"Have I not bidden you all begone?" was her cry, and at last the tears were not far from her eyes; for this defiance was the last drop to her cup of sorrow.

"No," came back a voice, clear and melodious as a zithern note; "no, you have commanded me nothing."

"Then now I say 'away'—leave me alone!"

"How sweet to see you angry! I will not leave you. See! I enter. I wish to look at you face to face."

The curtains at the farther end of the room opened. As they did so a score of little bells upon them tinkled, and Mary saw a woman standing in the mild half-light. Instantly the Greek rose, and the two looked into each other's eyes.

Morgiana was dressed in a manner only possible to one who felt the vulgar eye far removed. She wore loose green silk trousers that gathered a little below the knee; her feet were hid only by white slippers, where the gem-stones were flashing, and white silken stockings; arms and neck were bare; a gauzy Indian shawl, white also, was wrapped about her; on her girdle shone the gold chain work, another gold chain around her neck; the abundant black hair streamed loosely over the shoulders from under a jewel-set fillet. The two women stood facing one another for a long moment. Then each broke forth in one breath, but the Arab first.

"How beautiful you are!—I hate you!"

"How beautiful!—I wish to love you!"

The two sentences blended into one; and instantly Morgiana burst again into laughter.

"So this is the Star of the Greeks! I give you joy; you are worthy of Iftikhar Eddauleh! Ya; were you a peri of the deep, you could not be fairer!"

Mary bowed her head. "Lady," was her answer, "who you are I know not; but this I know, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and if Iftikhar possesses you, God alone knows why he casts eyes on me!"

Yet again Morgiana laughed. "God alone knows?" was her cry; "verily, I doubt it. Were He knowing, and yet able to change the world, wicked He must be to suffer the deeds of men! You think me a stranger. Well, Morgiana the slave of Iftikhar greets Mary the slave of Iftikhar, and Morgiana adds that she will kill Mary, as surely as the evening follows the morn!"

"Pray God that you may have your wish full soon!" answered the Greek, looking down. Her words seemed to have touched a new spring in Morgiana. The Arab threw her hands on high.

"Cursed are you, O Greek! Cursed your beauty! Cursed all who look in love upon you! Let the jinns of the abyss swallow you! Let Eblees, Lord of Darkness, have mastery of you! May your bright eyes be turned to blindness, your white skin scorch, your smooth arms wither—" But here Mary interrupted, humble no longer now, her own proud fire flashing in turn.

"Silence—madwoman! It is you the evil powers will curse! Do I need maledictions from you to make my lot less darksome, my cup less bitter? Curse Iftikhar Eddauleh, if you will, whose sin and passion blast your joy and mine! Curse him, not me!" And at this Morgiana broke forth fiercely:—

"No, no, not Iftikhar Eddauleh! Were he tearing me with tortures, yet would I bless him. Were he foul as the rebel angels, his kiss were honey. Dwelt he in parching Gehennah, to be with him—paradise! No word against him, or here and now I slay you!"

Mary made no immediate answer. Morgiana's face was aflame with passion; as she spoke she swayed in half frenzy. Under her breath the Greek murmured, "She is mad!"

"As Allah lives!" cried Morgiana, her mood veering swift as the flight of birds, "I have frightened you! Unjust, cruel, my heart is half ice and half fire. I have given you arrows instead of tears. You are blameless, wretched, helpless,—what may I do for you?"

And she had caught Mary's hands within her own, and was drawing her close and kissing her forehead.

"They do well to call you star and flower of the Greeks! Mashallah! how could Iftikhar and all the world fail to give all to gain you! From Cairo to Samarkand there is none like you!"

Mary did not answer. To her Morgiana was fury, houri, and angel all in one moment. She knew not what to think, and so kept peace. But the Arab ran on: "I saw you at Palermo. It came to my ears that you were very beautiful. I saw you ride to church once with your father. I, of course, was veiled and guarded by Hakem; and when my eyes lit on you, I said, 'She is not over-praised.' Yet there was a throng, and you were not near. But now, face to face, I say, 'Not all the poets from Imr ul-Kais to An-Nami could paint in verse your beauty; no, nor all the angels who sing about the throne of Allah!'"

"Praise it not," cried Mary, finding her tongue; "it is, as you say, cursed,—cursed for me, at least; please God, not for those who have loved me! I say naught of Iftikhar; let God judge him, not I!" Morgiana bowed her head in turn.

"You say well. Let the Most High judge Iftikhar. And now"—raising her eyes—"tell me; shall we be friends?"

Then and there the two kissed one another, cried on each other's necks, and swore—so far as spirits like theirs may—to be friends and sisters. For the burden of each was great. When they had ceased crying and could talk once more, Morgiana led Mary to the divan, exclaiming:—

"Wallah! But you are all travel-stained and weary. Where are Hakem and the maids?"

"As you love me," protested the Greek, "do not call them. I will not see that sleek eunuch's face again. I sent them all away."

"Hakem!" repeated Morgiana, with a sniff; "he is a harmless lizard, after you grow accustomed to seeing him trail his nose around. His teeth look very sharp, but they must not frighten you. Nevertheless, if you will not—" Mary shook her head.

"Then I will play the tiring maid!" cried the Arab; and she laughed when she drew the pins from Mary's hair, and let it fall over her shoulders, a shining, brown mass.

"Wallah! How beautiful you are!" Morgiana repeated again and again. She led Mary into a bath, where the air was heavy with perfumes of saffron and date-blossoms, then put on the Greek the Eastern dress which had been made ready. Mary's heart was very full when Morgiana laid aside the Frankish bleaunt; for in that mantle she had ridden beside Richard Longsword over the weary road to Constantinople; he had given it to her on their wedding day. But when the Arab wished to draw the little silver ring from her finger, the Greek shook her head.

"Silly!" commented Morgiana, "it is not worth a dirhem; I will bring you a casket of a hundred—ruby, onyx, beryl—"

"My husband set it there," replied Mary, thrusting back her hair and looking full into the Arab's face. "It was to remain there till I die." Morgiana tossed up her head. "Your husband? Richard Longsword, that boorish Frank, who has a bull's strength with a baboon's wits? How dare you love him, when you may have the love of Iftikhar Eddauleh!"

"Nevertheless," said Mary, very slowly, never moving her gaze, "Richard is my husband. I love him. Do not speak ill of him, or our friendship dies the day of birth."

"I have a very cruel heart!" cried Morgiana, kissing the Greek again; and the ring was left in its place.

They had completed the toilet. There was a long silvered mirror in the room, and Mary saw herself dressed after the fashion of the East, from the mother-of-pearl set upon her yellow shoes, to the gold-spangled muslin that wound above her flowing hair. "Holy Mother of Pity," she whispered, looking down at the little ring, "but for this, I were already become an infidel!"

The next moment the voice of Iftikhar demanded entrance, and the two women stood before him.

"Bismillah!" he exclaimed, smiling, and looking more handsome and lordly than ever, "I see two of the houris! You are friends?"

"We are sisters," replied Morgiana, a little defiantly. "I fled out upon the lake that I might not meet you when you returned,—but now!" and she took Mary by the hand.

"I will wait on you no more to-day," said Iftikhar, bowing in most stately fashion. But when he had gone, Morgiana gave a bitter cry:—

"Allah pity me; Allah pity you also! His words were for us both, but his eyes on you alone! I have lost him, lost him forever. The Most High keep me from some fearful deed!"

"I do not dread you," said Mary, gently.

"No," came the answer, "you need dread nothing. Christian you are, and Moslem I; but one God hears us both. Oh, let us pray,—pray for His mercy; for lesser help may not avail!"

Mary slept that night in the same chamber as Morgiana, an airy, high-vaulted room, in an upper story of the palace. Through the tracery of the lattice came the warm breeze, bearing the narcotic scent of those tropic gardens. But Mary was long in falling asleep on her soft pallet. In the darkness she heard the trumpet-voiced muezzins in the distant Aleppo, calling the midnight Oola: "Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar! I testify there is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is the prophet of Allah! Come to prayer! Come to prayer! Prayer is better than sleep!"

The words pealed out in the night like voices from another world. Mary stirred and kissed the silver ring. "Dear Mother of God! Dear Christ who suffered for us all, give me strength to bear all, to resist, to endure! Keep my own heart true to Richard Longsword and our love. Save me utterly, if that may be, and if not, be merciful and let me die; for the temptation will be very great!"

Morgiana started in her sleep; the curtain above her bed rustled. "Dear sister," she said softly, "go to sleep. The day has troubles enough, without letting them steal peace from the night."

So Mary kissed the ring, folded her hands, and at last was dreaming.

CHAPTER XXX

HOW THERE WAS FESTIVAL AT ALEPPO

After the winter rains were past, and when all the birds were singing in the groves about El Halebah, Mary Kurkuas could see that Iftikhar Eddauleh was waxing restive in soul; both on her account and on account of something which was stirring in that great world which lay beyond the palm trees, the lake, and the silver Kuweik. What those events without were Mary could scarce guess, for had she been transported into another planet, she could not have seen less of what passed in the realm of armies, and princes, and battles. The moment the enchanted groves of the palace closed about her, all beyond had been blotted out; she saw no men save Iftikhar, Zeyneb, and Hakem with his fellow-eunuchs, if these last were indeed men. Once she had asked Hakem whether the Crusaders had been driven back when they strove to cross Asia Minor, and whether the expedition to Jerusalem had been abandoned. The sleek creature had only salaamed, and smirked deprecatingly.

"O Rose of the Christians, my ears are deaf, my eyes blind to all beyond the precincts of El Halebah!" was his sole reply. Zeyneb she loathed from the depths of her soul. The dwarf saw her seldom, although he affected to seek the company of his foster-sister. Mary induced Morgiana to ask him to tell of the outside world, and was met by a blank refusal. "Let him twitter once, and Iftikhar would lift his head from his shoulders!" As for Iftikhar, when Mary demanded to know the success of the Crusade, he replied with one of his flashes of mingled authority and passion: "Soul of my Soul! ask me nothing. My lips are sealed, save when I speak of the love that burns me and of the brightness that blazes from your eyes!" And no appeal could draw from him more. Once during the autumn Mary thought she saw from the uppermost balcony a squadron of armed horsemen riding furiously from Aleppo. That day too she heard one negro eunuch say to a fellow, "Allah grant that they come no nearer!" and the other, "As you love life, breathe nothing to your own soul! If the Citt, Mary, should hear!" But this was all. Day sped into day. No change in the monotonous ease and routine of the harem. Mary had grown wonted to the unending round. She no longer lay awake to hear the muezzins. Sometimes she wondered if she would forget her Greek and her French, hearing only Arabic, save when she talked with Eleanor.

Eleanor had been held as captive by Iftikhar, not because he had any unwonted passion for her, or grudge against her; but she was beautiful, and he liked to feel that he held one of the Longswords in his harem. The young Norman had long since bowed her head to her fate. After a manner she had been kindly treated. Less full of energy and unquenchable vigor than the Greek, she had grown content to stay all day in the harem, bathing in the perfumed waters, embroidering, drinking sherbet. Morgiana, seeing she was not likely to become a rival, had patronized and protected her against the insolence of the eunuchs. Mary had been greeted by Eleanor rapturously, as if she were an angel. As for Morgiana, the "maid of Yemen" was alternately to her sister and fury. For days together she would have never a word for Mary save an occasional malediction or threat; then without warning she would repent in tears, implore forgiveness, become gentle, loving, clinging as Eleanor; and so until the next cloud of jealousy came over her.

It was one day in the early springtime when the eunuchs spread canopies on the palace roof. Here, with the green groves stretching on every hand, the three women had idled out the warm, sweet afternoon. Mary was aiding Eleanor over her embroidery frame. And now it was that Morgiana told what she had never told before—the story of how she fell into the hands of Iftikhar. "Know, O sweet sister," said she, laying down the guitar on which her long, shapely fingers had been wandering, "that I am the daughter of Jaafar bin Shirzâd, who was the Hajib, that is, Lord Chamberlain, to the Commander of the Faithful, Al Muktadi the Abbasside, and that I was born in my father's palace which lay by the Tigris in Bagdad. My father had four wives and many fair female slaves, fair as moons; but most of all he loved my mother, Kharka, who was peerless among the women of Bagdad. She was the daughter of Abu Ahmed, emir of the free desert tribes of Yemen. From her I gain my name; from her my blue eyes, which are found sometimes among the Arabs of the great waste. My mother was brought up after the fashion of her people; not pent in harems, guarded by eunuchs, but free as youth—would to Allah this were the custom in all Islam! From her love of freedom comes my own proneness to rush to unwomanly things. At Bagdad my mother pined for her native sand plains, and died when I was young, leaving me to my nurse,—mother of my accursed foster-brother, Zeyneb. Then came the direful day when my father lost his head by demand of Melik Shah, the arch-sultan; and I and all his harem were plunged in slavery. I was sixteen when I and Zeyneb stood in the slave market at Damascus. At Iftikhar's first sight of me unveiled, the love sprang to his eyes as flame leaps on a torch. He bought us; and for years he and I were to each other as two souls in one body; the thought of him, joy! sight of him, joy! touch of him, joy! So he to me. And in love for me he cast all the other women from his harem. Then—luckless day!—he went to Sicily to find service among the Christians. There at Palermo I was mother of his child; merciful Allah! why couldst Thou not spare my little Ali? But he died—sorrow passing words! After that I saw that Iftikhar was drifting away from me. First he bought other slave women, though still he gave me chief place, and love of the lips. Then on a day"—and Morgiana's eyes seemed fiery daggers searching Mary's very soul—"I heard Hakem, chief eunuch, speak of the beauty of Mary the Greek; then I first heard your name, and learned to curse you! Aye, curse you, as I have a thousand times since. Since that hour, day by day, despite my wiles, and my beauty, and my sorrow, unceasingly he has drifted from me farther and farther; and now he has you—your body already, when he wills; your soul, too, full soon. And I have lost him; have lost him forever!"

Mary raised her head to reply; but Morgiana swept on: "Oh, it is not the pain of seeing another mistress of El Halebah; of knowing I am second when I should be first; of feeling, 'One whisper from the Greek, and at her wish Iftikhar would slay me.' But I love him. To possess him, though clothed in rags and loaded with fetters—enough! To hear him say, 'I love you,' as once he did, and know that it was not tongue but eyes also that spoke—that were my paradise!"

Morgiana bowed her head, and broke into wild sobbing. The Greek put her arm about her.

"Dear sister, I, like you, am the slave of Iftikhar Eddauleh—at his mercy, his toy, his sport for an idle hour—but never fear that I will love him. Till I know Richard Longsword sleeps with the dead—"

Morgiana lifted her face angrily. "Why speak of Richard Longsword? Who dares compare him to Iftikhar Eddauleh? Is he not a boorish Frank? And Iftikhar?—were it not there is but one Allah, would I not call Iftikhar a god!"

"You worship him; yet you are his slave?"

"Yes! what shame? Do I wish to be free? Are not all mortals slaves of Allah? And is not Iftikhar to me in the place of Allah? Let men bow down to a God; but what God may a woman own save a strong man, whose love is her all—her all!"

The words of Morgiana sank to a sob. She flung her face in Mary's lap and wept.

"Oh," she cried, "I see well enough how it is with you. I have eyes, and wits. On the first days you were here you loathed Iftikhar as if he were a snake. But he knows his game. He has drawn his net about you. Each day you note his dark Eastern splendor, so unlike the West; his speech like music, his professions of love; and each day you say, 'I hate him.' But you do not say it with the sting of months ago. Richard Longsword is becoming very dim before your eyes; Iftikhar Eddauleh, very real. The change is slow; yet I am not wrong. By Allah, I am not wrong! For I see two fires in your cheek, another on your forehead. You do not shudder, as you once did, at thinking, 'All my life I must spend in a golden prison like El Halebah.' It will be very pleasant. Iftikhar is to become the lord of all Islam, if naught fails. The Ismaelians will overthrow Sultan and Kalif, and Iftikhar is declared heir of Hassan-Sabah. So much I know, though we hear so little. And you will reign with him—Sultana! Empress!"

"As you love me, speak no more!" Mary found voice to beg.

"Love you!" cried Morgiana, in her mood; "do I not hate you with fury passing death? Last night, when Iftikhar spoke to you soft and low, I could see your eye following his as a weaver's the shuttle. You are yielding, yielding; soon—"

But Mary had clapped her hand upon the Arab's mouth. "Love me or hate me, do not torture! What can I do?" was her plea. "Day and night I call to Our Lady, 'Save me, or let me die.' And I am growing weak, weak! I cannot fight the will of Heaven much longer. How easy to defy Iftikhar the day he bore me hither! How easy to feel my will each day growing more helpless to resist! God is angry with me; some sin that I have forgotten, yet that must be very great. Oh, pity me, for I am only a weak girl!"

So they comforted one another, those two, whose hearts were too full for words. While they yet sat side by side, Iftikhar came upon the balcony. Splendid he was, in his jewelled turban, golden belt, and dress of izar—the gold-embroidered cloth of Mosul. He made a profound reverence to Mary, then spoke.

"O Star of the Greeks! I your slave have remembered that perchance even the charm of the halls of El Halebah may grow weary. Deign, I pray you, to be dressed this evening in such a dress as I have commanded Hakem to provide; for to-night all the daughters and maidens of Aleppo have been bidden to make free in these gardens, and there will be festival, such as Bagdad has seldom seen since the great feast of Moktader."

"I thank your lordship, I obey," said Mary, bowing. The emir's face lit with pleasure.