Free Sultan's Wife by Jane Johnson Page B

stand propped against the door. Behind me, Hassan and the other guard are discussing a woman one of them has glimpsed in the mellah. As it is the Jewish quarter, the balconies there face out to the world and she wore no veil and was apparently a peach. The guards of the outer courts are not always castrated unless they seek promotion to the inner courts: their banter is bawdy.
    â€˜Are these yours, sir?’
    In his hands he holds the bloodstained Fassi slippers I buried out there. You can feel the glee boiling off him. Then, like a man performing a piece of theatre, he unrolls the bloody footprint again and places the right babouche upon the stain. It is, of course, a perfect match.
    â€˜And what do you have to say about this?’
    Calm, Nus-Nus. Calm. I am careful to maintain silence, rather than saying anything that would incriminate me further.
    â€˜Remove your babouches,’ he orders me, and when I have done so he indicates the ruined slippers. ‘Put them on.’
    The blood has dried and crusted on them. They were already tight: I pray they will be more so now, but the treacherous things go on, at a pinch.
    Cocksure now, the officer retrieves the discarded patten, makes a great show of placing it on the ground before me. ‘Now place your foot in the overshoe.’
    I do as he says. The fit is perfect, of course. I am lost.
    â€˜Court official Nus-Nus,’ he announces with pompous triumph, then pauses. ‘Do you have no other name?’
    I shake my head: none that I will give to such as him.
    â€˜Court official Nus-Nus, these guards bear witness to the fact that we are arresting you on suspicion of killing the herbman, Sidi Hamid Kabour.’
    â€˜It is not me you should be arresting: there was someone with Sidi Kabour when I arrived, a shifty-looking young man, thin in the face, witha southern accent. He was still there at the stall when I left, when the herbman was still alive. That’s the man who must have killed him, not me!’
    The younger officer sneers. ‘The defence of the desperate! The man of whom you speak is a gentleman of impeccable character, well known to the qadi. He came forward as soon as he heard of Sidi Kabour’s death and has been extremely helpful in our inquiry.’
    â€˜He said it was
you
he left with the herbman,’ the older officer says, and I can tell by his tone that he no longer believes a word I say. They bind my hands and take me away.

PART TWO

6

2nd May 1677
    â€˜My name is Alys Swann and I am twenty-nine years of age.’
    â€˜No, I have no children: I have never married.’
    â€˜Yes, I am still a maid.’
    I answer their questions with my head held high. I am not ashamed of my estate. So I look the foreign picaroon in the eye with all the courage I can muster and speak out clearly. Had our circumstances been different, some of those present would probably have sniggered, but since we are all in fear for our lives they have other more pressing matters to concern them than my spinsterhood and long-preserved virginity.
    My captors’ scribe takes down these details for his record in a script that reads from right to left. That, in conjunction with his dark skin and cloth-wrapped head, suggests to me that we have been boarded by Turks. Behind me, I can hear Anouk and Marika, my maids, sisters hired to accompany me on the voyage from Scheveningen to England, snuffling and gulping, and feel a brief moment’s pity. They are barely more than children, and, although sullen and unbiddable, they do not deserve to meet an early death. Poor dears, they are just starting out, full of the dreams I had at their age – of young men and marriage, of babies and laughter. They have spent most of the voyage giggling and making sheep’s eyes at the crew; but now many of those handsome lads lie dead on the deck of our ship, or in chains aboard this one.
    â€˜Do you think they will rape us?’ Anouk asks me, her eyes