Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The sachaq was brought to Yasaman Kama Begum. Although she had been expecting it, she was not quite prepared for the generosity of Prince Jamal's family. The sachaq, prenuptial gifts to the bride, was presented to her on a variety of black lacquered trays decorated in bright, cheerful colors with flowers, fruits, animals, and other designs. One tray contained a selection of gold and silver bracelets and anklets. Another contained earrings in the same metals. A tray of pearl jewelry—necklaces, earrings, and hair ornaments—was followed by trays of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and one of prettily colored semiprecious stones. Even Rugaiya Begum was moved to amazement by this lavishness.

Tray after tray followed. One contained a stack of shabnam peshwazes, almost brilliant in their whiteness. Another was piled high with saris of the finest materials and in beautiful colors, some plain, some striped with gold or silver, some decorated with designs. A tray of rare oils and perfumes was presented to the princess, and a tiny tray with an alabaster pot of mehdi, festive red dye, was brought.

"I will not smear that awful stuff upon my person, tradition or no tradition," Yasaman declared firmly, and her mother laughed.

A tray of beautiful fruits was next: pomelos, custard apples, mangosteens, bananas, and coconuts, as well as rare oranges and an odd, prickly, oval fruit sprouting green leaves, which sat in the very center of the tray.

"What is that?" Yasaman demanded of the servant holding the tray before her. "I have never seen anything like it before."

"It is called a pineapple, gracious lady."

"Is it edible? Where does it come from?"

"When it is peeled, gracious lady, the yellow fruit within is juicy and both sweet and tart. I know not from where it comes, but it is a rare delicacy, I am told."

"My father brought one home from one of his voyages once," Adali, who had been overseeing the presentation of the sachaq, told them. "The fruit is grown on certain South Sea islands."

"Was it good?" Yasaman wanted to know.

"Delicious," he assured her.

Finally the last tray was brought. Unlike its black lacquered predecessors, this one was solid gold, and upon it, sitting most regally, was a small coal-black kitten wearing a dainty diamond collar. Even its whiskers were black, but its eyes were the color of clear, golden amber.

"Ohhh!" Yasaman breathed with delight, and reaching out, lifted the small beast off his tray. Gently she cuddled the little creature and was rewarded with a faint, barely formed purr. "Is he not beautiful, Mama Begum? What a wonderful gift!"

"I think Fou-Fou will be very jealous," Rugaiya Begum said. "She has never had to share you with another cat before."

"Jiinn will make a fine mate for her," Yasaman told her mother.

"Jiinn, is it?" Rugaiya Begum laughed. "And you are certain it is a male?"

"It is indeed a gentleman cat, gracious lady," the servant who had carried the tray spoke up in a singsong voice.

The kitten meowed, and Fou-Fou, in her usual indolent position upon a silken couch, was stirred to curiosity. Leaping from her perch she came forward. Yasaman set the kitten upon the cool tiles of the chamber floor. As if she were unable to believe her eyes, Fou-Fou stopped in her tracks, staring hard. The kitten meowed again, and the white female crouched and hissed. Undaunted, the black kitten launched himself forward and pounced on her. Flabbergasted by this sudden turn of events, the fat white cat tumbled over onto her back even as tiny Jiinn landed upon her fat belly and scampered forward up her furry length to press his dark nose against Fou-Fou's dainty pink one.

"Allah help us!" Rugaiya Begum cried, expecting to see the spoiled white cat turn angrily upon the bold kitten and kill it. But before their astonished eyes, an utterly besotted look came into Fou-Fou's lime-green ones. Lifting her head up, she began to vigorously lick the kitten, who started to purr quite loudly. Jiinn tolerated her adoration for a brief minute and then, squirming forward, he began to chew upon Fou-Fou's ear.

"They love each other!" Yasaman squealed, delighted. "I think it is a very good omen for my marriage, don't you, Mama Begum?" Then she looked up at the servant who had brought the kitten. "Is the prince handsome?" she asked him shyly.

"Very handsome, my lady princess," the servant told her with a grin.

Yasaman turned to her mother. "Why can I not see Prince Jamal before we are married, Mama Begum? You saw Papa before you were married. You even talked with him. Why can I not see the prince?"

"Your father and I were first cousins, Yasaman. We grew up together," Rugaiya Begum explained to her daughter for the hundredth time as Adali shooed the visiting servants from the princess's apartments. The steward didn't intend to allow them to remain and take back any juicy gossip to their own palace. "It isn't necessary or even proper that you and Prince Jamal meet until after the wedding ceremony is performed."

"When will that be?" Yasaman's heart was beating quickly with her excitement, and her color was high.

"First the Mehr must be agreed upon, and then the Nikah can be performed by the qazi," Rugaiya Begum said.

"Why do we need a Mehr? Surely Jamal Khan cannot divorce me. I am Yasaman Kama Begum, the daughter of the Grand Mughal. Wouldn't it be treason if he divorced me?"

"What if you and he cannot get on, my child? It is unlikely, but it could happen. Your father would not want you to spend the rest of your life in misery. The Mehr is a sum of money the bridegroom must pay you if your marriage is dissolved. His status and your status will determine the amount. I think Jamal Khan will strive very hard to make you happy, my daughter, for it would, I think, impoverish his family for several generations to come were he to divorce you. The Mehr is Islam's way of protecting a woman from an unscrupulous husband."

"I do not follow Islam," Yasaman said quietly. "I follow my conscience. There is much good in Islam, and much good in Christianity, Candra's religion, and Judaism as well. I have studied the teachings of Zoroaster, and the Buddha, and the Jain. I like the Hindu custom of not harming any living thing; but no one religion seems to satisfy me. Who's to know what is really right except, perhaps, God Himself?"

"Your bridegroom is of Islam," Rugaiya Begum reminded her daughter, "and he will raise his sons in its faith."

"But I will teach them what I have learned as well," Yasaman said. "They will make their own choice in the end, even as I will."

"Even Salim chooses Islam, despite Akbar and despite the fact that Jodh Bai is a Hindu," Rugaiya Begum said, and then wished she had remained silent, for she had not meant to mention Salim.

"Speaking of my brother, where is he?" Yasaman asked. "I have not seen him in the two days since he and you and Papa advised me to accept this marriage."

The older woman drew a deep breath. "Your brother has gone south to Mewar for your father on matters concerning the empire," she said calmly.

"He will not be here for my wedding?" The young girl's face was a mixture of outrage and disappointment.

Rugaiya Begum decided she would not argue this matter, and so she said, "Either your father had to go to Mewar, or Salim had to go, my daughter. I know how greatly you and your brother care for one another, but your father loves you too. Would you deny an old man the pleasure of seeing the last of his daughters married? Salim understood."

But Salim had not understood, and Rugaiya Begum knew it.

"I do not comprehend it," he said, close to open anger and defiance. "Suddenly Yasaman must be married, and it must be now," he complained to his aunt and his father. "You even waive your own laws to suit this matter. Why can I not be here to see my sister married? A day or two at the most. What can it possibly matter?"

"It does matter," Akbar said implacably. "There is trouble in Mewar. I need you to go, Shaikho Baba, and prevent the difficulties from spreading. You know the trial Mewar is to me. Is this how you will behave when you sit alone on my throne? Putting your own pleasures ahead of your duty to India and to the empire?"

"If it is so important, then you go," Salim replied rudely. Why, he asked himself, were they so anxious to see him ride away?

Akbar, however, pretended he was not offended by the insult and he laughed. "That is what old men have heirs for, Shaikho Baba! One day you will have the same advantage over Khusrau as I have over you."

"Why not let Khusrau go to Mewar," Salim said cleverly. "He is sixteen. It is certainly past time he learned his responsibilities. As the heir after me, he certainly can represent the Mughal every bit as much as I can, and then I may remain for my sister's wedding."

"As the next Mughal, you will have more authority than my grandson, Shaikho Baba, but your idea has merit. Take Khusrau with you," Akbar replied, "and teach him as I have taught you."

Rugaiya Begum watched the emotions playing swiftly over the prince's face. "We will miss you, my nephew," she told him. "May Allah protect you and Khusrau."

"I will see Yasaman before I go," Salim said, realizing that there was no escape from his father's will, save rebellion. It was not worth it. Not this time. Yasaman would be here in Kashmir for him whenever he wanted her. Besides, he would have this afternoon and this evening with her, and he would ensure it was a pleasurable time for them both.

"Please do not see my daughter, Salim," Rugaiya Begum said. "It will upset her to know you are going and that you will not be here for her wedding day. You know how very much she dotes upon you, but if you truly love her, you will leave her in peace."

"Your aunt is correct, my son," Akbar agreed. "It is better you go now while your sister is distracted with the preparations for her wedding."

He knew! His father knew!Salim was suddenly certain. But how? How could he possibly know? He couldn't! I'm imagining it, Salim decided. Akbar may be all-powerful, but there is no way under heaven that he could be privy to my secret thoughts. I have been very careful. No one saw me entering or leaving Yasaman's chamber the night of her birthday. No! He does not know. He cannot!

"If you would prefer that I not see Yasaman, then so be it, dear aunt, my father. I would not want to be the cause of my sister's unhappiness at a time when she should be happiest. Give her my love and tell her I wish I might be with her, but my duty rules otherwise." Salim bowed politely to his elders and then took his leave of them.

But Salim had certainly not understood, Rugaiya Begum knew, even as she lied to Yasaman. However, it did not matter any longer. He was gone! Yasaman was safe from his incestuous lust and would shortly be the wife of Jamal Khan. Salim would eventually lose interest if his sister was happily married and he rarely saw her. Their lives would proceed smoothly forward. Perhaps she would never even have to see her nephew again, Rugaiya considered. She saw no necessity to ever travel south now that her daughter was to be settled here in Kashmir. Yasaman's deep sigh drew her attention again. "Salim knew his duty, my daughter," she said.

"I know, Mama Begum," Yasaman agreed, "but I am still sad that my brother cannot be with me on so important a day."

"As is he," Rugaiya said with a degree of truth, "but fate has decreed it otherwise. You must always accept what fate offers you and make the best of it that you can."

"And fate," Akbar said, entering the chamber, "has decreed that tomorrow be our Yasaman's wedding day!" He put an arm around them both and chuckled benevolently. There was no mistaking the fact that the Mughal was vastly pleased.

"Tomorrow?" Yasaman cried. "It is so soon! Why tomorrow?"

"Because the Mehr has been agreed upon, and a most expensive young lady you are, my daughter." He chuckled again and then said, "My astrologer has carefully compared your natal chart with that of Prince Jamal. He declares tomorrow is the only day for the next several months that the signs are propitious enough for this wedding to take place. So tomorrow we will have a wedding."

Rugaiya Begum heard the qualifying note in her husband's voice, but she waited until Yasaman had gone to bed that evening to discuss it with him. "Propitious enough? What did your astrologer mean by that, my dear lord? What is wrong? Are they still ill-suited? I do not want Yasaman in a bad marriage even in order to allow her to escape Salim's advances."

Akbar sighed and, lying upon his back, his arms beneath his head, said quietly, "Ali says they are well-matched in every aspect. There will be no trouble in the mating, and there will even be love between them. There is, however, in Jamal's chart a hidden danger, but Ali could not say what it was. It is, he says, blurred, as if fate had not yet decided Jamal's kismet or did not wish to reveal itself."

"And Yasaman's chart? What does it say?" Rugaiya Begum asked nervously.

"Ali says there is great happiness in store for Yasaman, but tragedy as well. He says there are several children ahead for Yasaman. Rugaiya, my love, let us not think on the future tonight. Let us think on the present. Happiness. Tragedy. Children. Is that not all our fates?"

"Yes," she agreed.

"When will the prince arrive?" Akbar asked her, taking a lock of her silvery hair in his hand and kissing it.

"In late afternoon, my lord. We will have the Henna-bandi ceremony first, and then the qazi will perform the ceremony. Then the prince will be introduced to his bride. There will be feasting, and dancing and other entertainments. Then Yasaman and her husband will leave for his palace across the lake," Rugaiya Begum concluded.

"Hmmmm, that is good," he said absently, and she could hear the weariness in his voice.

"Go to sleep, my dear lord," she said softly. Rugaiya Begum knew that within a day or two of their daughter's marriage, Akbar would gather up his household and begin the trek south for Lahore and Agra. It was rare he remained in any one place for very long. She wondered if once she remained in Kashmir, she would ever see Akbar again in this life. Then she chided herself for being a foolish old woman. Nothing would keep Akbar from Kashmir and the grandchildren Yasaman would have. Yes, everything was going to be all right now, Rugaiya Begum thought. The Salim matter was settled, to her deep relief. She slept the sleep of a woman at peace.

Outside the small palace, the moon played upon the still, dark waters of the lake. The night air seemed perfumed with the thousands of flowers in the gardens. Yasaman had slipped from her sleeping chamber to walk upon the terrace. She knew that she should be sleeping, but she could not. Her mind hummed along like a hive of bees. Tomorrow she was to be married. It had happened so quickly. She was not really prepared for it, but her father was not well. Mama Begum had told her that quite frankly. Her father wanted her settled with a good husband. He wanted to see her children before he died. It was only natural, she supposed. Her father was known to be a very doting grandfather to the children of his sons and daughters.

Children. Yasaman knew how children were conceived and born. Every young girl did. There was no mystery about it. Was she expected to copulate with a stranger, she wondered, even if he was her husband? Would she be allowed time to get to know this stranger? Her father had not forced Candra to his bed, she knew. He wooed her and won her with passion and with deep love, Rugaiya Begum had told her.

Love. Another variable. Would she and Jamal Khan learn to love one another? Would they even like one another? Dear lord! She prayed they would. Her mind was filled with so many questions to which she had no answers.

She walked to the edge of the terrace and saw that Ali, the fisherman, was almost directly below. "Good evening, Ali," she greeted him. "Are the fish running well tonight?"

Looking up, he flashed her a smile. "Always in a bright, full moon, gracious lady," he told her.

"I am to be married tomorrow, Ali," Yasaman told her friend.

"Married?" The fisherman was surprised. He had heard no word of a royal marriage. The marriage of the Mughal's daughter should be a great time of rejoicing, not some secret ceremony as this obviously was to be.

"Yes, Ali," Yasaman continued. "I am to be married to Prince Jamal Khan. What think you of that?" Perhaps the fisherman would tell her something of her husband-to-be, who had also, like Ali, lived his whole life in Kashmir. Peasants lived for gossip.

"The son of Yusef Khan?" the fisherman asked.

"Yes," Yasaman answered him. "Is he handsome? Do people speak well of him? You must tell me what you know."

"Yes, my princess, I have seen the prince. He is taller than your father and very handsome, all the ladies think. I have heard nought of evil about him. He is an obedient son to his father."

"Oh," she said. That was not particularly promising. In fact, it was dull. She had hoped Ali knew some interesting fact that would help her to understand this stranger she was to marry tomorrow.

"Good night, Princess. May Allah bless you with many sons, gracious lady," the fisherman said, and he began to row away from her, eager to return to his village and spread the news.

"Thank you, Ali," Yasaman said forlornly, and moved back from the edge of the parapet. Stretching out upon a silken couch on the terrace, she gazed up at the full August moon, thinking a thought she had often had. Candra sees this same moon. Candra. The woman who had given her life. Her mother. No, Candra was not her mother, Yasaman decided. A mother was someone who stayed with her child no matter what. Rugaiya Begum, the gentle and loving woman who had raised her, who had always been there for her, was her mother.

But she had always been curious about the English woman, Yasaman admitted to herself. To the best of her knowledge they had told her everything that they knew, but it was so little. Yet there was still a tie of sorts between them. Candra's family had never lost interest in her.

Each year, her father sent the most beautiful, flawless pearl he could find to Candra's mother through the factor of her trading company in Cambay. Her English grandmother, Yasaman knew, also had yearly correspondence with her father. What would they think of this marriage? she wondered.

"My child, what are you doing up so late?" Father Cullen Butler was suddenly by her side, his dark robes making a slight breeze. "Are you troubled in some measure?"

"I was thinking of Candra, Father," Yasaman answered. She motioned him to a comfortable padded stool by her side. "Sit down, Father."

The priest seated himself, asking as he did so, "Do you think often of Candra, my dear lady?"

"Only sometimes," Yasaman revealed candidly. "I know that I have been told everything about her that my father knows; but sometimes I wish I knew more. About her family. Mama Begum says that Papa corresponds with my other grandmother. Yet never have I been shown one of those letters. What do they write about? Does my grandmother write about Candra? Does Candra ever ask about me?" She sighed deeply. "Now that I am to be married and will eventually, God willing, become a mother myself, this other part of me somehow seems more important than it ever has before." Then she laughed ruefully. "Alas, that you cannot tell me what I need to know, Father, but you were not here when my … when Candra was here."

For a moment it seemed as if the priest was debating something with himself. Then he said to Yasaman, "It is true that I was not here when Candra was, my lady, but I can shed some light on that which you desire to know."

"You can?" Yasaman sat up and, leaning forward, demanded, "Tell me what you know, Father! Oh, please tell me!"

"I have been privy to your maternal grandmother's correspondence with your father. As you know, the Mughal can neither read nor speak Candra's tongue. They communicated in French. Your grandmother de Marisco also writes to your father in French. But though your father speaks French, he cannot read it, and he does not wish his Jesuit friends to be cognizant of the letters. As you know, I am just a simple priest and not a member of that revered order of the religious. I read your grandmother's letters to him.

"Your grandmother, Lady de Marisco, is not English born. She comes from an island nation to the west of England called Ireland, but she has not lived there since her girlhood. Although of the noble class, she has a great natural instinct for the business of trading. Many years ago she went into partnership with a friend of her second husband. That gentleman is now deceased, but the company name remains the same. It is the O'Malley-Small Trading Company. Your grandmother has become very wealthy through it.

"Each year, as you know, she writes your father to tell him she has received the pearl he sends her. Sometimes she writes of Candra, who as you now know was reunited with her first husband. They have several sons now, which means you have other brothers. Lady de Marisco always asks after you. Are you pretty? How do your studies go? Do you look like your mother? Do you ever ask after them? Each year it is the same, and she ends the missive by sending her love to you."

"What does my father reply?" Yasaman asked, curious.

"Nothing, my lady," the priest said. "He will only send the pearl to your grandmother so that Candra will not worry about you; so that they know you are alive and that you flourish. Candra did not, as you know, wish to leave you. Because he loved her, the Mughal cannot bear the thought of her suffering needless anguish over your fate, which is why he maintains this tenuous contact at all.

"Why does Papa send the pearl to my grandmother and not to Candra?" Yasaman wondered aloud.

"If the Mughal sent it to Candra, it would but open old wounds between them. Then, too, you must remember that Candra is married. It is certain that her husband does not want to be reminded of that period in Candra's life when, thinking him dead, she wed another man and bore that other man a child. I have taught you the tenets of the Holy Mother Church, my dear lady. You know that a woman may only have one husband, as a husband must cleave only unto one wife."

Yasaman nodded and then she said wistfully, "I wonder if Candra ever thinks of me, Father Cullen. Do you think she would like me? I wish I could tell her of my marriage. If I wrote her a letter, would you see that it was sent off?"

"I do not think that would be wise, my dear lady," the priest replied gently, feeling absolutely wretched at the look of disappointment that came to the young girl's face. "I will personally see that your grandmother de Marisco knows of your happiness. Both she and Candra would be very proud of you, Princess, if they could know you, but, alas, they cannot. Better to leave things the way they are. You have never really been unhappy over the loss of the lady who bore you, for you did not know her. Rugaiya Begum has been a good and loving mother to you. You owe her respect, loyalty, and your love."

"She has it," Yasaman said. "Do you really think I will be happy, Father Cullen?" she queried him anxiously. "I wish this marriage were not so hurried an event."

"Dear child," the priest said, "you know that your father is not well."

"Is he dying?" she asked half fearfully. She could not really imagine Akbar dying. He was the Mughal. He was her father. He had always been there for her, and she assumed he always would be.

"We must all die eventually. The lord Akbar is of an age where life is shorter than it is longer. You are the last of his children. He wants very much to have you settled. That vanity in him that we all possess desires to see grandchildren of your union. Therefore, the sooner you wed, the sooner he will see those grandchildren." Cullen Butler chuckled. "All these many thoughts, my dear little lady! You are, I suspect, being attacked by a disease known the world over to maidens about to embark upon the road to marriage. They call this malady ‘bridal nerves.' Most young girls facing their wedding day are beset by them."

"I just wish I knew more about Prince Jamal, Father. Why, I have never even seen him!"

"Many brides, both here in India and in Europe, never see their bridegrooms before the wedding day. There is nothing unusual in it. It is the way of the nobility and the wealthier classes throughout the world. Marriage is a sacrament between two people, as I have taught you, my dear lady."

"Not in Islam," Yasaman said. "Marriage in Islam is a contract between two people. That is why the Iman cannot bless it until the Mehr is fixed. Papa says I am a most expensive bride. It is unlikely the prince will ever divorce me, for I would cost his family too much gold. Besides, I am the Mughal's daughter, and my brother, Salim, will follow our father as Mughal one day. Jamal Khan would not dare ever insult my family."

"That is true," the priest agreed, "and because it is so, my dear lady, I would beg you to allow me to marry you and Prince Jamal in the faith of Candra into which you were baptized. It would please her family very much, I know. Remember, I was sent here to India by Holy Mother Church to keep you on the path of the true faith. In this I have failed, I fear, for you are not truly devout; but if I can give you the sacrament of marriage, then perhaps I will not have failed entirely."

"I do not know, Father." Yasaman considered carefully. "I do not think it would be allowed."

"Why not?" the priest said with unaccustomed belligerence. "Has not your father married many of his wives in both the faiths of Islam and the Hindu? Did not your brother, Salim, celebrate his marriage to Princess Man Bai in both her faith and his? Why should it be any different for you? Man Bai was but the daughter of the Raja of Amber. You are the Mughal's daughter! Should your wishes be considered less than a daughter of Amber?"

Her pride pricked, it did not take Yasaman long to decide the matter. "You are right," she said, "and I know it would please Candra's family, Father Cullen."

"Indeed it would, my lady," the priest agreed, smiling to himself, pleased.

"Then so be it! I will speak with my father in the morning. The wedding will not be celebrated until the late afternoon. I suspect, however, that a Christian marriage will have to be performed in secret. Islam and the Hindu faith are natural to India. Christianity is not. Still, it matters not, does it? I will be wed in the faiths of those who gave me life. I think that most fitting, Father."

He nodded, content. She had studied the faith of her mother's family quite assiduously, but then, to his disappointment, she had also studied other faiths just as carefully. He was not really certain what she believed, and he dared not press her, lest he be sent away. It was important that he remain with her.

Yasaman suddenly yawned quite broadly.

"Good," Cullen Butler said with a small smile. "You are finally sleepy, my dear lady. Let me escort you into your chamber."

"Ummm," she agreed. Standing up, she allowed him to lead her into her sleeping chamber, but before she could lay aside her large, beautiful, soft shawl, her only covering, he bowed himself quickly from her presence.

Yasaman smiled to herself. Father Cullen, like all the priests she knew, was embarrassed by nudity. It was so silly. Tossing aside the Kashmir shawl, Yasaman fell gratefully into her bed, asleep almost before her head could touch the pillow. It was a dreamless sleep, and when she was finally awakened in the morning by her two body servants, Rohana and Toramalli, Yasaman felt wonderfully refreshed.

"Tell my father I want to see him," she instructed Adali as he entered her chamber to greet her.

"At once, dearest princess," the eunuch said.

"It is a perfect day for a wedding, my lady," Toramalli said with a broad smile. "The kitchens have been busy since before dawn with all the baking. There is to be wheat bread, honey loaves, and Rumali roti bread!"

"And both purple and green rice, as well as rice covered with sheets of beaten gold and silver!" Rohana chimed in excitedly.

"Do not forget the sacrificial lamb," Yasaman said mischievously.

The two sisters look puzzled for a moment, and then suddenly understanding the jest, they burst out laughing, rolling their fine dark eyes about most comically. When they were finally able to contain themselves, Toramalli asked, "Shall we prepare your bath, my lady?"

"No," she told them. "I will bathe before the wedding; but I should like to be sponged with jasmine water now."

Rohana hurried to fetch a silver basin into which she had ladled cool water scented with jasmine oil. Together she and her sister washed their mistress and then helped her to dress in a hyacinth-colored jaguli. The traditional high-waisted dress of the Mughal's had long, tight-fitting sleeves and a long flowing skirt. The hem of the skirt was decorated in a gold design, as were the cuffs of the sleeves. The embroidered opening at the neck of the gown revealed a modest glimpse of Yasaman's young breasts.

Toramalli began to brush the princess's long, black hair with a brush dipped in jasmine oil, freeing it of the tangles it had gained during the night. Watching from the entry to the room, Akbar thought how very much her lovely hair reminded him of his own when he had been younger. He remembered how surprised Candra had been to find his hair long, and dark, and soft. Their daughter had inherited that small bit of him along with the mole he had between his upper lip and his left nostril. On Yasaman, though the mole was very much smaller, it was without a doubt the mark of the Mughal. His father, Humayun, had possessed that mark, although none of his other children did.

Shaking himself free of his thoughts, he stepped into his daughter's chamber. "Good morning, my rosebud!" he said jovially.

"Papa!" Yasaman arose and, running to him, kissed him. Then turning to her serving women, she said, "Go! We are not to be disturbed by anyone."

Adali, who had returned with his master, bowed, surprised, but dutifully shepherded Toramalli and Rohana from the room.

"Ahhh," the emperor said, intrigued. "What is this, Yasaman? Secrets? What secrets can my innocent young rosebud have?"

"Yes, my father," she answered, looking directly into his dark eyes. "A secret of sorts."

"What is it, my daughter?" he asked her. "It must be important for you to dismiss your body servants. You know I will refuse you nothing within reason, especially on this, your wedding day."

"Jamal Khan practices the faith of Islam, does he not?" she asked.

Akbar nodded. "He does."

"And are we to be married officially in that faith?" she continued.

"Yes. I did not think you would object, Yasaman. Your mind is an open one, I know," her father said.

"Yet both you and my brothers have married in not only the faith of Islam, but in the faith of your brides as well when it proved different. I would have that same privilege, my father. I wish to be married first, privately, in my mother's faith. Candra's. The mother who bore me."

He was at first stunned, and then said, "I do not know if Jamal Khan will accept such a thing."

"You are the Mughal," she told him implacably, in a tone he recognized as his own. "It is your will, my father, not the will of Jamal Khan, which shall prevail in this matter."

"You do not practice Candra's faith," he reasoned cleverly with her,

"No, I do not," she agreed honestly, "but I was baptized in it, and I respect the Christian faith. I have never renounced Candra's faith. So under both the laws of Islam and the laws of Christians, I am considered a Christian. I wish to be married in that faith before I am married under Islam. It will please me, my father, because it will allow me to continue that small tie that binds me to the English half of me. I know it would please both Candra as well as my other grandmother when you write to them of my marriage, as I know you will. It will certainly make Father Cullen happy, and he will feel less of a failure with regard to my lack of piety."

Yesterday she had been a child, he thought. Now she was speaking to him as if she were a grown woman; and even if he still wasn't certain that she really was mature, he respected her for it. "How do you know I will write to your grandmother in England, Yasaman? I do not correspond with her. To do so would be futile."

"No," Yasaman answered him with a little smile, "you do not write to her, but I know that each year she writes to you inquiring after me. This time you will write to her when you send the pearl, won't you? If you do not, I will. I think Candra will want to know that I am married."

"Have you ever been unhappy, my child?" he asked her, curious, for she had never before shown such interest in the other half of her heritage.

"Never!" she responded honestly. "I would be no one but who I am. Yasaman Kama Begum, the daughter of the Grand Mughal and Rugaiya Begum, his first consort."

"And the wife of Jamal Khan?" he said.

"And the wife of Jamal Khan," she replied, "but only if I may be married first by Father Cullen."

"Candra was stubborn too," he told her.

"Was she?" Yasaman's eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Yes," he nodded, and then he said, "I will grant your request, my daughter. Jamal Khan will somehow manage to live with our decision."

Jamal Khan, however, was not in the least distressed by the revelation that he would first be married by a Christian priest. When he arrived for the wedding to learn this new fact from the Mughal, he said practically, "My sons will be raised in the faith of the Prophet, my lord. That is all I care about. If it pleases the princess to be married in both faiths, then it pleases me too."

He and his father were with the emperor in a small receiving room of Yasaman's palace. None were aware that the princess watched and listened from outside the window. Although reassured by his words, her eyes were riveted upon the young man who would shortly become her husband. They had not lied. He was very handsome, but more important, he seemed to be a reasonable man. She had seen enough. Quietly she slipped through the thick foliage and worked her way around the building to the terrace facing the lake.

"Mistress, where have you been?" Adali hurried forward and, taking her arm, escorted her to her bath.

"I wanted to get a look at the prince, Adali. Is it not natural that I be curious? We are to be married in an hour. Have my aunts and my sister, Aram-Banu, arrived yet? They must perform the Henna-bandi ceremony before the marriage can take place. Tradition must be observed, but ohh, I hate that disgusting dye! Do not even consider attempting to redden my hands and feet with it today, Adali, or I vow I will snatch you bald!"

The eunuch chuckled. "No, mistress, your views on the henna are well-known. There is none in the palace, save the pot the prince sent you, and it will be used to dye his hands. Come now and bathe. The guests will soon be arriving."

"There are no guests but family and a few of my father's honored generals who are with the court," she told him. "This is a most hurried affair, Adali."

Before he might reply, the door to Yasaman's chambers opened and Rugaiya Begum entered, accompanied by another lady.

"I have brought the lady Juliana, my daughter. She must examine you before you bathe that she may attest to your health to your bridegroom's family."

The lady Juliana bowed politely and smiled at Yasaman. She was a plump woman of medium height with wonderful white skin and black hair and eyes. She was an Armenian Christian, married to Philip Bourbon, a member of the royal house of Navarre. Her husband was an architect who had built India's first Christian church only last year in the city of Agra. The lady Juliana was a physician and responsible for the health and well-being of Akbar's zenana.

"I am perfectly healthy," Yasaman protested, annoyed. No one had mentioned this before.

"Indeed, Princess, I would be most inclined to agree," the lady Juliana replied, noting the girl's bright eyes and the fresh color of her skin. "Nonetheless, I have promised your father that I would examine you, and so I must. Show me your hands, child." She took Yasaman's hands and looked carefully at them. "As soon as you can, Princess, remove the ceremonial Mehdi. It seeps into the skin and I believe it a poison."

"I will not stain my skin with henna," Yasaman told her. "I never have. I dislike it intensely."

"Good!" the physician replied. "Now please open your mouth."

Yasaman complied.

"Her teeth are very sound," the lady Juliana said. "There is no rot nor betel stains, and her breath is fresh. She appears to be in good health, but we must check what we cannot see, eh? Come and lie upon your bed, child. Yusef Khan and his son will want me to swear to your virginity, and so I must. Sit first, however, and I will check to be certain that there are no cankers in your breasts." She began to gently palpate the girl's flesh.

Yasaman blushed deeply but said nothing. She was mortally embarrassed by the examination, but she knew she must submit as gracefully as possible.

A basin of water was brought. The physician washed her hands and then said, "Lie back now, child, and open your legs for me. You must not be frightened, but in order to attest to your purity, I must insert my finger into your yoni to be certain your innocence is honest."

"H-How can you tell?" Yasaman asked nervously, extremely uncomfortable at this unexpected turn of events.

"Before a girl becomes a woman, she has a small shield of thin skin blocking full admittance into her yoni. She becomes a woman when her husband's lingham pierces that shield, rending it asunder and removing her virginity forever. Then and only then can his seed find its way to her hidden garden and take root." The physician leaned forward, sniffing delicately, and then gently inserted a single finger into Yasaman. Her hand pressed carefully down upon the girl's belly. Finally she looked up at Rugaiya Begum and nodded, saying, "She is intact, my lady Begum, and very tight. She will give her husband much pleasure."

Juliana Bourbon arose and washed her hands again in the basin that Rohana presented her, drying them off on a towel Toramalli handed her. "Go to your bath now, Princess. You are, I am pleased to report, in excellent health, as I shall tell your father and the bridegroom."

Yasaman struggled shakily to her feet and said politely, "You will remain, my lady Juliana, as my guest at the wedding."

"I am honored, Princess," was the physician's equally polite reply, and she bowed low to Yasaman. Then, escorted by Rugaiya Begum, she departed.

Yasaman bathed in her bathing pool which was scented with jasmine oil, her namesake fragrance. In her father's household there was a perfumery, called the Khushbu Khana, that produced all kinds of oils, scents, and fragrances for the ladies of the royal house.

Exiting the pool, she was anointed with oil and her dark hair was braided with fine gold threads strung with tiny, glittering diamonds. Her wedding garments were then brought. They consisted of a red silk sari wrought with gold threads, over which was placed a cloth-of-gold angya-kurti, which was a jacketlike garment extending to the waist. The angya-kurti was heavily embroidered with gold and silver threads and diamonds. A necklace of diamonds and rubies was put about her neck, and earrings of the same gemstones hung from her ears. Thin bracelets of gold and silver were pushed up on her slender arms, and gold anklets with bells affixed about her ankles. Her gold slippers were embroidered in glittering little diamonds. The orhni, which was a mantle used as a head covering, was also wrought with gold throughout and had a wide band of gold along its hem.

Adali fastened a small veil across Yasaman's face. It was pale gold in color and quite diaphanous. "Come, my princess," he said, taking her by the hand. "Father Cullen will perform the Christian ceremony in your receiving room. He has set up a small altar there, but we must be quick, for we have received word that the Iman is on his way."

The priest awaited them and began the ceremony immediately. Yasaman did not dare to look at her bridegroom, but kept her eyes lowered modestly. There would be no mass, only the exchanging of vows and the blessing of the union. It was quickly over, and the prince, without even a backward glance at his bride, hurried from the room.

Yasaman was outraged. "How dare he not greet me!" she said furiously, her color high beneath her veil.

"He does not yet consider you his wife, my rosebud," Akbar said. "He accepted your wishes in this matter most gracefully, but in his mind you will not be his wife until the Iman has spoken."

"Then let us get on with it, my father!" she told him. "I have some things I wish to say to this prince! As I cannot say them until I am his wife in his eyes, we had best do the deed." She swept from the room, Rugaiya Begum running to catch up with her daughter, Akbar and Father Cullen following at a slower pace. The two men were highly amused. Yasaman's hot Mughal temper was not unfamiliar to either of them.

Yasaman's official wedding was to take place upon the wide terrace overlooking Wular Lake. It was the sunset hour, and the lake was still, the air windless. The Iman from the local mosque had arrived. He was astounded to have been asked to officiate at such an important event, and had been instructed by his two wives to remember everything. He jovially greeted Prince Jamal, whom he had known since childhood, and congratulated him on his good fortune.

"The princess is, I am told, a most beautiful and gentle lady, my lord. You are indeed fortunate." He lowered his voice. "It will be good to have our own royal family in Kashmir once again."

Jamal Khan nodded, saying, "But you must always remember, my good Abd Hassan, that Kashmir is now a loyal province of the Imperial Mughal Empire."

"Of course, my lord," the Iman replied smoothly.

Standing in the shadows of a terrace door, Yasaman observed her bridegroom. He wore white silk cuddidara pajamas and a full-skirted white silk tunic embroidered in diamonds and pearls. His patka sash was made of cloth-of-gold. He was bare-headed, but upon his feet he wore Persian-style high-heeled sandals called kafsh. They made him seem tall, although she suspected in his bare feet he would not be much taller than she was. She, however, was taller than the other women in her family.

"Have you seen enough now to satisfy your curiosity?" Rugaiya Begum whispered. "He has extremely fine eyes, I think."

"He is impressive in his fine feathers, but I wonder how impressive he will be without them," Yasaman said boldly. Still, for all her sharp words, she could see his limbs were straight and well-muscled.

"Men, my daughter, are more at a disadvantage without their clothes than women," Rugaiya Begum chortled, "but if his lingham is strong, you will not care, I promise you."

"It is time," Akbar said, coming up to them. He was garbed in white and gold and covered with diamonds. Together he and Rugaiya Begum, equally magnificent in cloth-of-gold and diamonds, led Yasaman out onto the terrace.

The Iman stood with his back to the lake. Jodh Bai, Salima Begum, Zada Begum, and the lady Waqi stood before him holding up a golden canopy beneath which Jamal Khan and his father, Yusef Khan, waited. The bride joined them, with her parents by her side.

The Iman intoned. "A contract of marriage has been agreed to between these two young people before us now. Prince Jamal, speak your vows."

"I, Jamal Darya Khan, take you, Yasaman Kama Begum, daughter of Mohammad Akbar, as my lawfully married wife before God and in front of this company in accordance with the teachings of the Koran. I promise to do everything to make this marriage an act of obedience to God, to make it a relationship of love, mercy, peace, faithfulness, and cooperation. Let God be my witness, because God is the best of all witnesses. Amen." He had not looked at her even once.

"Princess Yasaman, speak your vows," the Iman said.

Yasaman stared straight ahead, furious with this man who was almost her husband. Her voice was strong, however, when she spoke. She was the Mughal's daughter and would not be intimidated.

"I, Yasaman Kama Begum, take you, Jamal Darya Khan, son of Yusef Ali Khan, as my lawfully married husband before God and in front of this company in accordance with the teachings of the Koran. I promise to do everything to make this marriage an act of obedience to God, to make it a relationship of love, mercy, peace, faithfulness, and cooperation. Let God be my witness, because God is the best of all witnesses. Amen."

"They are married," the Iman pronounced, and he gazed out over the assembled guests. "Let us pay homage to Jamal Darya Khan and his bride. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!"

The family on both sides echoed the religious leader loudly. Then, in the company of her mother and the other women, the bride was led to her table for the feast while Akbar escorted the groom and his other male guests to their table.

"My child, I am so happy for you!" Jodh Bai, dainty and as charming as ever in a rose-pink sari, hugged Yasaman.

"You look young enough to be the bride yourself, dear aunt," Yasaman told her. "I thank you for your good wishes."

Jodh Bai beamed with pleasure at the compliment.

"A fine young man," said Salima Begum, resplendent in orange and gold. "He looks like he can give a woman much pleasure. You've read your Pillow Book, Yasaman, but until you've had a lusty young man love you, the pictures mean nothing. I can remember when your father was young and full of fiery juices. Aiiyeee! What a man he was in his youth! I wish you the same joy!"

"You have done well by Candra's daughter," Zada Begum said to Rugaiya Begum. The usually mousy little lady was quite elegant today in purple and gold garb. "Very well, indeed. She will be Kashmir's queen."

"I have done well by my daughter," Rugaiya Begum said stiffly.

"Oh!" Nervously, Zada Begum flushed bright red. "Yes, of course! How rude of me, Rugaiya Begum! I do beg your pardon."

Rugaiya Begum nodded coolly, and Zada Begum scurried quickly away to the opposite end of the table.

"She has always been such a fool," Salima Begum said to Rugaiya Begum, "but she means no harm, I know."

"She is your friend, Salima. You would understand her better than the rest of us," was the tart reply.

Salima Begum chuckled. "You are as prickly as a rosebush where that child is concerned, Rugaiya, but you need not be. You are her mother, the only mother she can remember, and nothing can change that fact. Yasaman loves you better than any, do you not, my child?"

"Yes, Aunt, I do!" Yasaman answered. She put her arms about her mother's neck and lovingly kissed her cheek.

A great feast was served to the wedding guests, beginning with cool lemon-flavored sherbets to cleanse the palate. Loaves of wheat bread, their tops glazed with egg yoke, were placed on the tables as well as round, sweet honey loaves, their tops black with poppy seeds; and silk handkerchief bread, called Rumali roti, made from wafer-thin sheets of wheat flour. This last was only served on very special occasions. There were bowls of herbal pickles, carrots, and pulses which were peas, beans, and edible seeds.

Rohana had been correct, there were several kinds of rice: saffroned, dyed a rich royal purple, as well as green and bridal red. Several bowls of rice were covered with thin sheets of beaten gold or silver. No expense had been spared, for this was the Mughal's daughter.

Roasted game birds cooked in clay tandoor pots were brought, as well as roasted chickens, sea tortoise, several varieties of fish, an especially hot curry of chicken, lambs' brains and testicles in a mustard leaf curry, roasted kids, and a lamb dish that had been cooked in red chili. The women ate as heartily as the men, but the noise from the men's tables was far greater.

When the main course was cleared away, fresh fruits, tiny pastry horns filled with honey and chopped nuts, pistachios, pine nuts, lychees, and candied rose petals were served, along with both green and black teas. The guests had the choice of flavoring their tea with cardamoms or cloves for added zest.

The sun had set in a marvelous blaze of rich colors as they ate. Torches were lit and they cast a warm light over the terrace as the dancing girls arrived to entertain the guests. First, however, a famous Kashmiri singer named Tahira, accompanying herself on a sitar, sang several ghazals, the classical Persian love songs so adored by the Mughals.

The air was still and warm for mid-August. Yasaman had picked at her food, her mind roiling with all that had happened over the last few days. Married. She was a married woman now, and she hadn't even said a single word to her husband, nor had he said a word to her. It was an interesting situation in which she found herself.

"My daughter," Rugaiya Begum said softly in her ear. "It is time for you to leave me now and go with your husband."

"Go? Go where?" Yasaman was startled. "Are we not to live here, Mama Begum?" This was something that had never been discussed with her.

Rugaiya Begum looked distressed as she realized Yasaman's dilemma. "My child," she said gently, "I assumed that you knew you would live in Jamal Khan's palace. It is just across the lake."

"Will you live with us, Mama Begum?"

"No, my daughter. I will remain here."

"I will not go! I will not live in some strange place with some strange man who has not even had the courtesy to speak a single kind word to me!" Her voice was beginning to border on the hysterical.

"Yasaman!" Rugaiya Begum's voice was suddenly stern. This was not the time, she knew, for softness. "It was indeed foolish of us to believe you understood everything this marriage entailed. I will not, however, allow you to embarrass your father, or Yusef Khan, or your husband, with a silly fit. Go with Jamal Khan tonight. His palace, I am sure, is lovely. If you wish to make changes, I am certain he will not object. If, my darling, you are truly unhappy there, then I am certain we can persuade your prince to come and live here. Now, go into your chambers. Do what you need to do before you leave. Toramalli and Rohana will join you in the morning. If you can do without Adali, I should like to keep him here with me, but you will know better about that tomorrow after you have inspected your new home. Remember, the next time you consider indulging yourself in a fit of hysterics, that you are the Mughal's daughter. Whatever a Mughal may feel, Yasaman, we mask it from the world lest they use our feelings against us."

Yasaman arose slowly, almost heavily, from her place. Then she drew a deep breath as if clearing away her emotions. "I did not understand, Mama Begum. I shall only be a moment."

Rugaiya Begum patted her daughter gently and watched her go, her heart aching at having had to speak so sharply to her. She could never remember having done so before.

"Why this great hurry to marry the child off?" Jodh Bai said softly to her old friend, "and do not tell me the official story about a betrothal having been made years ago as part of a peace between Kashmir and the empire. I know it to be a lie."

"Akbar is growing old, Jodh Bai," Rugaiya Begum began, but the tiny brown-eyed woman cut her off, raising her hand up in a signal to stop the older woman's speech.

"The truth, Rugaiya Begum. Not some tale that you and Akbar have concocted. Have we been so long apart that you cannot tell me the truth? This is the child that our sweet friend, Candra, bore our husband. The daughter that you have loved and raised with tenderness. Tell me the truth!"

"The truth would be a knife to your heart, Jodh Bai," Rugaiya Begum said. "I love you too much to be the instrument of any hurt that would strike you. Do not press me, I beg you!"

"The truth!" Jodh Bai insisted.

Rugaiya Begum sighed. She could indeed refuse to tell her friend, but Jodh Bai would not be satisfied. She would continue to press her, and she would certainly press Akbar. "It is Salim," Rugaiya Begum said finally, and she quickly explained before Yasaman returned and overheard them.

Jodh Bai's soft eyes filled with tears. "Ahhh," she said, "what are we to do with my son? That he would do such a thing fills me with pain."

"The matter is settled, my old friend," Rugaiya Begum told her. "Salim will now lose interest. Think no more on it, I beg you."

Jodh Bai nodded. "But Yasaman is so young to be married," she replied. "She does not even know this young man who is now her husband."

"His reputation is spotless, I assure you, dear friend," Rugaiya Begum said. "Even with such a threat hanging over my child, I would not let her go to someone unsuitable, but hush! She is returning." Rugaiya Begum rose to her feet and held out her hands to her daughter. "You are ready?"

"I am ready, Mama Begum," was the reply.

Discreetly, Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai, who had also gotten to her feet, escorted Yasaman across the terrace. They moved down a narrow flight of marble steps to the gaily decorated little boat, which was called a shikara, that awaited her. The boat was painted in red lacquer with beautiful designs in gold swirling across its surface. A brightly striped red and gold awning shaded the deep blue satin bench which was decorated with plump multicolored pillows. The boatman, who stood at attention in the stern of the little vessel, bowed low to the princess as the two older women helped her into the boat, each hugging her before they let her go.

"Your husband will join you in but a moment, my daughter," Rugaiya Begum told Yasaman. "May Allah bless your union and make you fruitful."

"Indeed, may you be the mother of many sons," Jodh Bai echoed Rugaiya Begum's good wishes. "I will come and see you before we return south."

"Thank you, Mama Begum. Thank you, my aunt." Yasaman looked straight ahead, not daring to make eye contact with them lest her fears suddenly overcome her again and she begin to sob. This marriage was becoming quite terrifying. She almost cried out when she heard their footsteps retreating up the staircase. Instead she concentrated upon Ali, the fisherman, who, with his sons and most of their adult family, were crammed into their fishing boats nearby. Shyly she waved to them, and was rewarded with a small cheer, their good wishes for her happiness floating across the quiet waters of the lake.

"They will capsize themselves in their enthusiasm," a masculine voice said. The boat tipped with his weight as he entered it and sat next to her. He knew the story of Ali's luck. Everyone on the lake did. It would appear the tale had not been an exaggeration.

"Would you have me be rude and ignore them?" Yasaman said sharply. She would not look at him. How easily he could converse with her, she thought. Yet he had still not formally greeted her. Oh, why did I agree to this marriage? she wailed silently.

"And is the Mughal's daughter never rude?" he gently mocked her. "Indeed, if it is so, then I have gained a true paragon for a wife."

"Ohhh!" Her head snapped about and she glared up at him. "You, my lord, are absolutely insufferable! Not once since our marriage vows were spoken have you had the courtesy to speak to me! Now you would give me a lesson in good manners? And mock me unfairly in the bargain? If the law allowed it, I should divorce you this minute!"

Jamal Darya Khan was overcome with a deep urge to laugh, but he manfully contained himself. The incredible turquoise-blue eyes blazing up at him were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. What was more, his sense of fairness forced him to admit that she was absolutely correct. It was he who had been rude to her by ignoring her totally.

He had been not just a little annoyed at the way his father and the Mughal had maneuvered him into this marriage; but that was certainly not the girl's fault. Allah only knew, the match was extremely advantageous to his family. His bride, too, had undoubtedly been coerced in some benign manner. She was very young, and so beautiful that even sitting here next to her, he could not quite believe that this incredible loveliness was now his.

"Princess," he said gently, "custom, as you know, keeps a bride and bridegroom separated on their wedding day." Reaching up, he undid her pale gold gauze veil to revel in her features fully. "Ahhhh," he sighed deeply, one hand covering his heart in an expressive gesture as the other hand delicately traced the outline of her jaw, "you are so extravagantly fair, my bride!"

A blush suffused her cheeks. She was unable to continue looking at him. Her black lashes lowered, brushing against her creamy skin, even as her anger melted easily away. She felt momentarily tongue-tied. She felt shy; suddenly gauche. None of it was comfortable for Yasaman, who was used to being in full control of her emotions.

He tipped her face up. "Look at me, my bride. I have never seen eyes as magnificent as yours are. I am totally overcome with your innocent beauty. Tell me that you forgive me. I would not have you angry with the man whose heart you have so quickly captured."

She caught his gaze in hers, thinking how meltingly beautiful his own velvet-brown eyes were. Then her mind began to function once again and she said, "You have me at a disadvantage, my lord. I am unused to such compliments and know not how to answer. Should I tell you that you are even more handsome than my brother, Salim?"

He smiled into her face, and she thought that his smile was a lovely one, his teeth so pearly and white against the pale gold of his skin. "I am happy that mine are the first lover's praises to be heard by your dainty, shell-like ears," he told her.

Yasaman giggled. She could not help it. "Shell-like ears?" She giggled again. "My lord, such an outrageous term for a less than beautiful feature of the body. I may be young, but I am not a fool."

Jamal Khan laughed aloud. "I swear," he told her, "I am so carried away by your beauty, Princess, that I begin to babble." Then he took her hand in his. "Can we be friends now?"

"I am not certain," she said quietly. "I do not know you yet, my lord. Indeed, I know little about you except that you are an obedient son."

"And I know as little of you, my princess, except that you were born to the Mughal and his English wife, but raised by Rugaiya Begum."

They sat silently for the next several minutes as the shikara was swiftly rowed across the lake. Then Jamal Khan spoke once again.

"Look, my princess! The moon is rising."

She looked in the direction that he was pointing and said, "It was full on my birthday, a few days ago. Alas, it has begun to wane."

"Even as my love for you begins to grow," he promised her.

Yasaman blushed again. His words were so wonderfully thrilling. She had never imagined that a man could say such lovely things, and what was more, he sounded so sincere. Perhaps, just perhaps, this marriage was not a bad thing and would work out. Still, she knew not what to answer him back. So she remained quiet.

He took her hand in his and squeezed it gently. Then, raising it up, he turned it over and placed a warm kiss upon her palm. "Such a dainty hand, my princess," he murmured low. "I am overcome with the thought that soon that hand will caress me."

The touch of his mouth upon her skin set her heart to leaping in her chest. "Ohhh," she gasped as the sensation suffused her body, leaving her weak with the simple pleasure his first kiss had created.

Now it was his turn to be silent. How old was she? he wondered, trying to remember. Thirteen! She had just turned thirteen, but she already had her woman's flow, he had been told. Allah in his heavenly garden! She was, it was quite obvious, so innocent; not that the knowledge wasn't pleasurable. He found himself suddenly overcome with delight that no other man had touched her, or complimented her, or kissed her lips as he soon intended kissing them.

She was a pure virgin, although she would certainly know what was expected of her; what was to come. She would have her Pillow Book, as all brides did. He had never possessed a virgin before. The few women he kept in his zenana were experienced in the arts of pleasing a man's sensual nature. There was nothing that he could teach them. Yasaman, however, was totally untutored, and it would be he who would instruct her.

The little boat lightly bumped the marble quay of his palace. The boatman sprang out and made the vessel fast. He then discreetly disappeared from view, leaving them alone. Jamal Khan stood up and stepped from the boat onto the quay, turning to draw Yasaman behind him.

"At present you will not find my … our home as fine a palace as your own. You have my permission to do whatever you so choose to make it a pleasant and happy place for us to live in, my princess. Buy what you will. The servants have been perhaps lax in their duties since my mother's death. They are now in your charge, as are all matters pertaining to this household."

"It will take me a few days to explore everything, to learn which of the servants is lazy, or simply negligent because of lack of guidance," Yasaman said. "My own body servants, Toramalli and Rohana, will be here tomorrow. Mama Begum would like Adali, my high steward, to remain with her, but I may need his services."

"Your chambers will have been prepared for you," Jamal Khan told her. "I left orders with the women in my zenana to do so. They should best know what pleases another woman. Come now, Princess."

"A moment, my lord," Yasaman said. "I must speak with you, but do not wish to be overheard by any."

"What is it, my bride? You have but to ask me and I will grant you your dearest desire," he vowed romantically.

"Perhaps not when you have heard me out, my lord," she said softly.

He looked curiously at her, but nonetheless said, "Speak."

"I am your lawfully married wife, my lord, but we do not yet know each other. I know that men will couple for pure pleasure with women unknown to them. I, however, as you know, have been gently raised. I find it repugnant that you would expect me to yield my body to you tonight, or any night for that matter, until some affection has grown between us. I do not know if you will understand this, but I must, nonetheless, appeal to you. I have been enjoined by my mother to accept my lord's decision in all matters, and so I will." She lowered her eyes modestly.

"And if I say I want you in my bed tonight, Princess, you will accept my decision in the matter?" he asked her.

"I have no real choice, my lord, do I? As an obedient wife I must, though it would grieve me greatly to find your lust far greater than your desire for relations between us to be pleasing and harmonious," Yasaman told him sweetly.

Jamal Khan laughed. "No girl your age should be so skilled with words, my princess. You are, I think, much too clever for a simple man of Kashmir as myself. Better you turn your talents to giving your husband a thousand and one nights of supreme delights. Still, I am of a mind to grant your request. Several days ago we knew naught of each other, yet now we find ourselves bound together for a lifetime. Should my lusts threaten to overwhelm me, the women in my zenana know well how to please me, as you will also in time. For now let us just be friends."

"Mama Begum says that the best marriages begin with the making of friends, my lord. She has never lied to me," Yasaman said.

"Come," he said, taking her hand once more. "Let me show you your new home. I am astounded that the servants are nowhere in evidence to welcome their new mistress, and the torches are not lit upon the terraces, or the lamps within the house."

He led her up the steps from the quay onto a lovely marble terrace similar to the one bordering her own palace. Here, however, she could see even in the waning moonlight that the plantings were obviously neglected, overgrown, or simply dying. Yasaman frowned. Here was something that would need her immediate attention. Gardens were most important to the Mughals. This year's growing season was almost done, but there was next year's to consider.

They passed beneath an arched entry into the building, and Jamal Khan said, "These are your quarters, Princess, but again I ask, why are there no lamps lit? I left orders your chambers were to be cleaned and made welcoming for you."

"The servants are obviously lax, my lord," Yasaman observed. "I must, I can see, take them in hand at once."

"Since my mother's death there has been little order here. I am a man and do not know what to do," he replied helplessly.

Yasaman laughed softly. "As long as you are well-fed and have clean clothes," she teased him, "you are content, eh, my lord? As long as you can hunt and there are pretty women to sing to you and tend to your more passionate nature, eh? But what of the ladies in your zenana? Is there not one amongst them who might have directed the servants?"

"It is not their function to direct servants," he said somewhat sheepishly. "Their duties lie elsewhere, as you surely know."

Yasaman's mother had always said that men, no matter their ages, were like little boys. Yasaman had had virtually no contact with men of any sort in her short lifetime, other than those comfortable gentlemen who belonged to her immediate family. She was certainly beginning to understand now exactly what Mama Begum had meant. As long as his personal needs were fulfilled and his life was not uncomfortable, Jamal Khan had been content to let his palace fall into disrepair, his servants run wild, and his women lie lazily about like fungus on a tree. These things were going to change, she thought grimly to herself, but right now she needed sleep. It had been an exhausting day.

"We must find someone to light us lamps," she told him in her most practical tone.

"The zenana is through that door," he said, pointing into the half gloom of the room. "This is the women's part of the palace.

Together they crossed the chamber. Jamal Khan opened the door, ushering his new wife into his zenana. Warm, golden light greeted them. The room was well-furnished with brightly upholstered couches, large floor pillows, low tables of ebony and brass, and fine rugs covering the marble floors. There were five women in the zenana. They looked up at the entry of the prince and his bride with fluttering cries of greeting. They arose to surround Jamal, totally ignoring Yasaman as they nudged her aside quite rudely.

"My lord, you have returned!" The speaker was a small, golden-skinned woman with long, straight, blue-black hair and slanted black eyes. She wound herself sinuously about Jamal Khan, looking adoringly up at him.

"Samira, why is the princess's apartment not prepared? Did I not tell you to direct the servants to do so?" He disentangled the clinging woman from his person.

"My lord! I am not some steward, or wife, to order servants to the cleaning of a house. I have been trained only to give my lord pleasure." She pouted up at him for a brief moment and then smiled winningly. "Would you like me to give you pleasure now, my lord? Is that why you have joined us? We are ready to do your bidding, are we not, ladies?" She glanced at her companions, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"Oh, yes, my lord! Let us offer you pleasure!" the others chorused obediently, clustering about him again, touching him intimately.

Jamal Khan was at a loss for words, embarrassed at the open rudeness his women were displaying, but before he might gather himself to act, Yasaman said coldly, "Who are these creatures, husband? If they are indeed the ladies of your zenana, they are obviously as ill-trained and as bad-mannered as your servants. I can see that I have my work cut out for me."

Four of the women wilted visibly beneath her scorn, but the one called Samira put her hands upon Jamal Khan's shoulders, pressing herself boldly at him. She looked into his face and said, "My lord! Will you allow this girl to speak to me thusly? Am I not your favorite woman? Chastise this stranger at once!" Samira stamped her little foot for emphasis, her long hair swinging about her.

Her outrageous words spurred him to action. The prince put Samira aside more firmly, now saying angrily, "It is you whom I will chastise, woman! On your knees, all of you! This is Yasaman Kama Begum, the daughter of the Grand Mughal. My bride. She is mistress here, not any of you. You knew I was to bring her back tonight. Yet you have deliberately disobeyed me when I requested that you prepare a welcome for her. You will be beaten, every one of you!"

The four quiet women threw themselves at Jamal Khan's feet, crying, "Mercy, my lord! We would have prepared the welcome as you bid us, but Samira would not let us!"

Now Samira wrapped herself about his feet, sobbing piteously. "They lie! How could I, one small woman, prevent them from doing their duty?" And then she said slyly, "Besides, my lord, if this is your wedding night, will not the princess be spending it with you?"

"Of course I will," Yasaman said quickly. "Let us end this, my lord, and tomorrow I will see that all is made aright. Show mercy, my prince. There shall be no beatings. I am tired now and would seek my bed."

"You will not get much sleep, Princess, if our master loves you as well as he loves us," Samira said boldly, smirking as Yasaman paled visibly.

Jamal Khan slapped Samira for her less than subtle innuendo, but she did not flinch, pleased to have gained his special attention once more. Turning from her, he gently led Yasaman from the zenana.

They were only halfway to the door when Yasaman pulled away from him and, whirling about, said, "You would do well to seek your beds, ladies. Your master will not need your services this night; and tomorrow a new regime will begin, altering life as you have known it here. I have little use for idleness."

"So," he said, as he led her through the little palace to his own quarters, "the little kitten I have married is, when aroused, a fierce tigress." He chuckled, amused. She had not only surprised him, but he found he had been rather pleased by her swift retaliation toward Samira's viciousness. Many a wife's life had been made difficult by a clever concubine. He could already see Samira would not have that advantage over Yasaman.

"You would do well to remember that I am the tiger's daughter," Yasaman said fiercely. "The woman, Samira, is rude beyond my bearing. There can be but one mistress in this house. I will not tolerate any further disrespect."

"You are indeed the mistress here, Princess," he assured her. "This house and all in it are yours to command. Know that I will not allow any irreverence to be shown toward you. You are not just the Mughal's daughter, Yasaman Kama Begum, you are my wife."

They entered his quarters, and again all was dark and there were no servants to be found. Still, the room was placed in such a manner that the moon lit it well enough for them to find their way.

"Where am I to sleep?" she asked him.

"The bed is there," he said, pointing to a large bed set upon a raised dais.

She walked to it and wearily sat down. "Where will you sleep, my lord?"

"There is but one bed here, Princess. We will share it," was his answer.

Yasaman quickly stood up. "You promised me that we …" She flushed and struggled for the right words.

Jamal Khan walked over to his young bride and tipped her face up that he might see it. "It is a promise I will keep, Princess," he told her seriously, "however, there is but one bed in this room. I do not intend to sleep on the floor."

"Then I will," she declared stubbornly.

"No," he said, "you will not. Lady, do I appear to be some lust-crazed monster, unable to survive the night without a taste of your sweet flesh? If you prefer," he told her wickedly, "I can return to the zenana and leave you in full possession of this chamber."

"No!" Yasaman squeaked. She would sooner die than allow those wretched zenana women to know what transpired, or did not transpire, between her husband and herself. And he knew it! "Do not be smug," she told him tartly. "Even here in the dark I can tell you are smirking."

Jamal Khan chuckled and began to remove his wedding finery.

"What are you doing now?" she demanded nervously.

"It is not my habit to sleep in my clothes," he said mildly, and he turned from her as he continued to slowly disrobe.

She stood silent and still for a long moment, and then began to undress herself. She hadn't realized how warm she had been until she removed her heavily embroidered angya-kurti. She laid it, along with her orhni, carefully upon a chair. To the pile she added her slippers, and her jewelry, and finally her sari. "I have nothing with which to brush my hair," she grumbled as she undid the bejeweled braid and ran her fingers through her dark hair. "Nor can we wash." She shook her head. "Never again, my lord, will you be subjected to such a poor welcome in your own house, I promise you." She lay down upon the bed and turned her back to him.

Jamal Khan watched her undress from beneath his thick, lowered lashes. To stare would have been rude and would have embarrassed or frightened her. He hadn't forgotten his glimpse of her in her bath. But that had been so brief. Just enough of a look, he thought, to whet his appetite, but not enough to allow him complete knowledge of her magnificent form. He was astounded by the lush curves and full breasts of the young girl who was now his wife. How easily, he thought uncomfortably, he had promised to honor her virtue; but of course that had been before he had seen her full beauty in his bed.

He lay down upon the other side of the bed, turning his back to her back. "Are you asleep?" he asked her softly.

"No," she answered.

"Before we sleep," he said, "will you do one thing for me?"

"What is that, my lord?" She moved just slightly.

"Will you say my name? We have been married for several hours now, and I have yet to hear my name upon your lips, Yasaman."

"Good night, Jamal," she replied. "God grant you a good rest."

"Good night, Yasaman," he murmured low. I do not think I will be unhappy being your husband, my proud princess.

They slept.