could stop herself, she began to laugh.
It was more hysteria than mirth, but even so, it enraged the girls. With one accord, they moved toward her, their eyes blazing with fury. The laughter died in Angeline’s throat. They were about to tear her to pieces, she was sure of it.
At that moment the older woman returned. She looked at the angry girls, snapped out an order that caused them to fall back, then grasped Angeline’s arm again and pulled her out of the room. Angeline was only too pleased to be out of there, but she would take no more of being pulled by the arm. She was beyond caring if the woman slapped her or not. She wrenched herself free. Then she forgot about that annoyance as another thought surfaced.
For what purpose had she been washed and prepared? For whom? She had heard stories around the campfires of the fearsome things that women captives of the heathen were subjected to. Now they flooded her mind in a sickening wave.
Chapter Four
The woman led Angeline down another corridor and then up a flight of stone steps. At the top she rapped on a door. A voice called from the other side. A female voice. Then the door opened.
To Angeline’s amazement a small child stood in the opening. A girl, probably about five or six years old, but tiny. She had long, dark hair that fell in ringlets about her face and over her shoulders. Her face was tiny as well, with a sharply pointed little chin. She stared with huge dark eyes at Angeline, one finger in her mouth. Her other hand still clutched the door latch.
Angeline looked past her to see the person who had called out sitting at a table by a window. She had a book open in front of her and a pile of what looked like very fine parchment beside it. Angeline felt herself pushed forward.
The woman stood up. Angeline was surprised to see how tall she was. She was obviously the child’s mother. The same dark, thick hair flowed loose upon her shoulders and she looked at Angeline with the same widely spaced, slightly tilted dark eyes. She said something in a questioning tone. Angeline had no idea what she wanted. Then the woman pointed to herself and said, “Ismi Zahra.”
Zahra. Zeid had said that was the name of the woman for whom she had been bought. The concubine. The woman repeated her question. It seemed she was saying what her name was and asking Angeline’s.
I won’t answer, Angeline thought rebelliously.
Zahra raised one eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. She waited.
Angeline could not hold out against her.
“Angeline,” she said, her voice as defiant as she could make it. “My name is Angeline.”
Zahra smiled. She pointed to the woman waiting by the doorway and said, “Samah.” Then she pointed to the small girl who still stared at Angeline. “Aza.”
As Zahra pronounced the child’s name, Aza pulled her finger from her mouth and ran to her. She clambered to be held and hid her face. Zahra pointed to the child and then to herself, gave the child a hug and said something else. Angeline supposed she must be saying that Aza was her daughter. Then Zahra laughed and held out her hand.
Angeline made no move to take it. Zahra dropped her hand, but did not seem annoyed. She motioned Angeline over to her. Angeline did not move. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut, aware that she looked sullen and stubborn. She wanted to. She wanted with every fibre of her being to defy this woman. To let her know that although she might think Angeline her slave, she was not.
No one can own me, Angeline told herself. I own myself. But again she was pushed from behind, this time not so gently. She stumbled forward.
Zahra cradled Aza with one arm and with the other, gestured toward the work on her table. Angeline could see now that she was copying from the book onto the parchment. Angeline had seen only one book before—the Holy Book that priests read from at Mass. She was astounded that a woman could possess one. And such a book! It was bound in soft leather, the
It was more hysteria than mirth, but even so, it enraged the girls. With one accord, they moved toward her, their eyes blazing with fury. The laughter died in Angeline’s throat. They were about to tear her to pieces, she was sure of it.
At that moment the older woman returned. She looked at the angry girls, snapped out an order that caused them to fall back, then grasped Angeline’s arm again and pulled her out of the room. Angeline was only too pleased to be out of there, but she would take no more of being pulled by the arm. She was beyond caring if the woman slapped her or not. She wrenched herself free. Then she forgot about that annoyance as another thought surfaced.
For what purpose had she been washed and prepared? For whom? She had heard stories around the campfires of the fearsome things that women captives of the heathen were subjected to. Now they flooded her mind in a sickening wave.
Chapter Four
The woman led Angeline down another corridor and then up a flight of stone steps. At the top she rapped on a door. A voice called from the other side. A female voice. Then the door opened.
To Angeline’s amazement a small child stood in the opening. A girl, probably about five or six years old, but tiny. She had long, dark hair that fell in ringlets about her face and over her shoulders. Her face was tiny as well, with a sharply pointed little chin. She stared with huge dark eyes at Angeline, one finger in her mouth. Her other hand still clutched the door latch.
Angeline looked past her to see the person who had called out sitting at a table by a window. She had a book open in front of her and a pile of what looked like very fine parchment beside it. Angeline felt herself pushed forward.
The woman stood up. Angeline was surprised to see how tall she was. She was obviously the child’s mother. The same dark, thick hair flowed loose upon her shoulders and she looked at Angeline with the same widely spaced, slightly tilted dark eyes. She said something in a questioning tone. Angeline had no idea what she wanted. Then the woman pointed to herself and said, “Ismi Zahra.”
Zahra. Zeid had said that was the name of the woman for whom she had been bought. The concubine. The woman repeated her question. It seemed she was saying what her name was and asking Angeline’s.
I won’t answer, Angeline thought rebelliously.
Zahra raised one eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. She waited.
Angeline could not hold out against her.
“Angeline,” she said, her voice as defiant as she could make it. “My name is Angeline.”
Zahra smiled. She pointed to the woman waiting by the doorway and said, “Samah.” Then she pointed to the small girl who still stared at Angeline. “Aza.”
As Zahra pronounced the child’s name, Aza pulled her finger from her mouth and ran to her. She clambered to be held and hid her face. Zahra pointed to the child and then to herself, gave the child a hug and said something else. Angeline supposed she must be saying that Aza was her daughter. Then Zahra laughed and held out her hand.
Angeline made no move to take it. Zahra dropped her hand, but did not seem annoyed. She motioned Angeline over to her. Angeline did not move. Instead, she clamped her mouth shut, aware that she looked sullen and stubborn. She wanted to. She wanted with every fibre of her being to defy this woman. To let her know that although she might think Angeline her slave, she was not.
No one can own me, Angeline told herself. I own myself. But again she was pushed from behind, this time not so gently. She stumbled forward.
Zahra cradled Aza with one arm and with the other, gestured toward the work on her table. Angeline could see now that she was copying from the book onto the parchment. Angeline had seen only one book before—the Holy Book that priests read from at Mass. She was astounded that a woman could possess one. And such a book! It was bound in soft leather, the
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