it. It caught the bright sunlight and glinted. Eyes of lapis and hair of gold, like the prized concubines in the sultan’s harem. She giggled a little at her own thoughts.
Her isolation wore on her. Glowering should anyone approach, Bahir stood always beside her. At home, she would have spoken with Nasira or one of the other maids, joined her friends at their homes for sherbet and gossip. Not that she had that many friends. She had always blamed Father for being overprotective, but now, perhaps, he’d had other reasons for keeping her separated. That he had been so hated because of his birthplace, she could not fathom. Her father was a good man, a kind one.
Stripped to a vest, muscle playing along his arms and shoulders, Henry coiled a rope at the front of the boat. Beside him, Newt perched on a barrel eating dried fruit. She had asked Bahir what a Newt was. A kind of lizard. What manner of man took his name from such a creature? As much as she would like to ask, she felt tongue tied around the Englishmen. They spoke often in their language, shutting her out of their world.
* * * *
Henry felt her gaze on him. She watched him often, striking eyes above the black of her niqab. Those eyes held shadows and he wanted to speak with her, enquire how she went on. Always, Bahir guarded her like a jealous dog.
Newt filled the long, warm days with news of home. It no longer felt like a part of him. He had left Anglesea as one man, and he no longer knew who returned to them. William had married a lady called Alice, and they lived in the north with their children. He tried to picture his middle brother as a father, bearing the responsibility of a demesne. A glib-tongued diplomat who eased his way through life with charm, William had been the carefree brother.
That Roger had married came as no surprise. Although Newt’s description of the fiery Kathryn whom Roger had wed had Henry shaking his head. Roger had married a woman who would rather be a knight than a chatelaine. He had pictured Roger with a serene, calm woman. Someone who could smooth the rough edges off his oldest brother. It seemed Roger had changed in the years since Henry left with his gut afire with visions of bringing the light of God to the dark heathens. What a naive boy he had been.
“Your father has stepped down from Anglesea in all but name.” Newt spat a date pip into the water.
Some things you could not change, and as much as he itched to cuff Newt for spitting, he did his best to ignore it instead. So far and no further Newt changed. The news from home Henry could not have predicted. That the father he had last seen as a strong, vital man, full of piss and vinegar had released control of his beloved Anglesea Henry could not fathom.
“Seems your mother wants to spend time visiting her grandchildren.” Newt chewed and spat his pip. “He’d thump anyone who suggested it, but I think your father was ready to hand over the weight of Anglesea.”
Perhaps. Father had been fighting one war or another since he was little more than a boy.
“Garrett functions as Roger’s right hand,” Newt said.
“Garrett.” Henry stopped and let that sink in. “Beatrice’s Garrett?”
“Aye.” Newt shook his head. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw it. They get on, those two.”
“Huh.” Last he’d seen, Roger and Garrett were at each other’s throats. “And they sent you to find me?”
Attention on Alya, Newt nodded. “Imagine telling Beatrice she had to wear that lot?”
Henry smiled. His sister Beatrice had a sweet but determined will all her own.
“Harry?” Newt frowned, and pursed his lips. Sure signs the man had something niggling in his mind. “Did I hear they are taking her to Genoa, to her father’s kin?”
“Aye.” Alya caught him staring and dropped her eyes. “They are all she has in the world.”
“That could be a problem.” Newt hopped off his barrel.
Henry took his meaning. “Aye.”
If her father’s family rejected her, Alya would be cast adrift with only Bahir. Not if he had anything to do with it. Henry dropped the rope and strode across the deck.
As he drew near, Bahir stiffened.
“Her father wanted me to teach her how to go on in Genoa,” Henry said.
Alya’s head came up. She glanced at Bahir and back at him.
Henry held Bahir’s glare. “She needs to learn.”
Finally, Bahir uncrossed his arms and nodded. “You will teach her.”
“Teach me what?” Alya’s voice had a slight husk, deeper than most women’s, and rich, with a rasp that brought to mind good mead.
He crouched in front of her. “Things are different in Genoa. Different to the way you were raised.”
She tilted her head and studied him.
“Your hijab and niqab.” He pointed. “They will find it strange. Women do not go about covered in Genoa.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I am aware.”
He waited, giving her time to reach the inevitable conclusion.
First she removed her niqab. Slowly, she unwound the hijab from her head, then lowered it to the deck.
She bore the skin of her father’s people, a shade or two darker than his sisters’ but still pale as thick poured cream. Above a full mouth, her straight nose tilted up slightly at the end. Ringed by thick, dark lashes, her eyes tilted up at the corners. Whatever they made of her in Genoa it would not be because she lacked beauty.
Under his scrutiny, she went pink, ducking her head to hide her face from him.
He lifted her head.
Bahir stiffened and stepped nearer.
“You have no need to hide your face,” Henry said. “You are beautiful.”
“English.” Bahir’s deep rumble warned him away.
Henry dropped his hand, and not because Bahir bristled beside him, but more to conceal his reaction to her beauty. “We will need to buy you some other clothes when we reach Genoa.”
Alya nodded. “What else?”
Where to start? His mother, the perfect lady in all matters, had corrected, cajoled and, on occasion, nagged his sisters into proper decorum. When he said nagged, he meant Beatrice, because a simple correction had always been sufficient for Faye.
“The way you are sitting.” He indicated her cross-legged position. “Ladies always keep their…um, knees and ankles together.”
“Why?” Alya frowned down at her legs.
“Skirts.” Inspiration struck him in a dizzying wave of relief. “Skirts confine your movement and you will find you cannot keep your…um, knees parted.”
A low growl emanated from Bahir. If he believed the man capable of amusement, Henry might have called it laughter.
Shifting,
