Chapter 16
A s part of their shopping expedition, Fatima and Melody had bought Rat an ornate white djellaba with red embroidery on the edges of the hem and sleeves. To accompany this, they had bought one of the distinctive red velvet hats with a black tassel that was the usual formal headwear for men of the upper classes in Fes.
Looking at the outfit laid out on his bed, Rat worried that he would look absurd. He wished there had been time to get a more European suit of clothes ordered. It had been one thing to wear a djellaba to travel in; that had been practical. However, donning this outfit to visit the Sultan, of all people, felt inappropriate. He had brought one western suit of clothes with him to Fes, but it was hardly smart enough to visit a palace. It seemed that he had no choice at this point, so Rat dropped the djellaba over his head, slipped his feet into the soft-leather shoes that had been purchased for him, and put the hat on his head. Glancing at himself in the mirror, Rat thought he looked ridiculous, but there was no looking back now.
Walking down the stairs into the riad’s courtyard, he found Fatima and Melody already dressed and waiting for him. He might look ridiculous in local garb, but Melody looked beautiful. She carried herself in the caftan, headscarf and jewellery as if she was born to wear such an attire. As for Fatima, well she had never looked more elegant and unobtainable. There was something about seeing her in her native Moroccan attire for the first time that underscored just how foreign she really was and how absurd any hopes that he might harbour were.
Rat noticed that Omar had not changed. “Are you not coming with us?”
“No. I am not worthy of the presence of the Sultan, may God bless him,” the other man intoned very seriously.
“How will we find our way to the palace?”
“Three of Lahcen’s servants will lead the mules.”
Mules! Melody thought. She had hoped that her days in a saddle were over for a while. It seemed that was not the case.
Soon enough, the three of them were seated on asses and being led to the palace. The servants led them back the way they had come the previous evening to the market past Bab Ftouh. As their group moved past the market, Melody noticed the architecture changed. Now, the narrow alleyways were lined with whitewashed houses and had a distinctly different feel about them. She asked Fatima about the neighbourhood, who then, in turn, asked one of the servants.
“This is the Andalusian Quarter,” she repeated.
Looking to her left and right, Melody could now see the distinctly Spanish influence in the architecture. The houses had intricately carved wooden balconies and colourful awnings hung over the alleyways.
After some minutes of travelling through that quarter, they noticed the neighbourhood change again. Melody thought that the souq they were passing through looked familiar from their shopping expedition that morning. It was bustling with people and donkeys, the neighbouring tanneries emitting sharp, pungent smells that vied with the far more pleasant aromas of spices and perfume wafting off the surrounding shops and stalls.
As their guides expertly wound their way through the Lalla, the clattering of their mules’ hooves added to the clangourous cacophony of metalworkers beating brass pots, vegetable sellers hawking their wares, sharp-elbowed shoppers haggling for the best deal, and donkeys whose braying rang above it all.
The Medina’s streets were such a labyrinth, and Melody wondered how the men leading their mules were able to pick their way through the maze of narrow alleyways with such certainty. She was sure that she would be lost very quickly if left on her own.
Sitting on the mule with no idea where she was going, Melody allowed her mind to wander from contemplation of the raucous commerce going on all around her to consideration of the audience ahead of them. She tried to remember the conversations between Alessandro and Rat during the interminable ride from Tangier to Casablanca but couldn’t recall much. What she did know from the conversations in Casablanca was that the current ruler had taken the Sultanate by force from his brother a few years before. What kind of man did that? Then she thought about her own country’s long history of royal interfamilial tussles and realised that perhaps this was not so different after all.
As she tried hard to dredge some useful information from her memories of those half-listened to discussions, she remembered Alessandro mentioning that the struggle between the brothers was at least in part over the then Sultan’s perceived concessions to the various foreign powers jostling for influence in Morocco. Actually, she did remember the conversation. Her brother and Alessandro had talked about how the now Sultan Abdelhafid had managed to amass support behind him by capitalising on widespread discontent with the undue influence of the foreign powers in Morocco. Yet, if she had understood the various conversations that had swirled around her during their trek to Fes, it seemed that the current Sultan was now seen as cooperating with those same powers, particularly the French, that he had come to power denouncing.
Given this history, Melody wondered about the man they were about to plead Alessandro’s case to. Would they find brutal ruthlessness? Was he willing to do whatever he had to to seize and keep power, including overthrow his brother? Or was he a pragmatist caught between the idealism that had brought him to power and the realities of the colonial powers’ entrenchment in his country?
Melody was jolted out of her wool-gathering by the sudden change in her surroundings. It seemed they had left the dense, overcrowded Medina behind and emerged onto a street notable for its calm. Ahead of them, a vast, ornate gate was flanked by high, imposing walls. It seemed they had arrived at the palace.
The gate was guarded by intimidating-looking men in red, green, and white djellabas with matching turbans. The men carried rifles and looked ready to use them if necessary. They eyed the approaching group with wariness. Suddenly, it occurred to Melody that they might not be admitted into the palace despite the assurance of a private audience with the Sultan.
It seemed this concern was unnecessary. Melody sighed with relief as one of the servants accompanying them pulled out a letter, and after a quick perusal by one of the guards, the gate was opened for them to enter the Royal Palace of Dar al-Makhzen.
Just before leaving for Venice in May, Melody had taken part in one last event for the Season: a Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace. She had been impressed with the sheer scale of the palace and its grounds, but they were nothing to the vista that opened up before her. The Sultan’s palace could more accurately be termed a small village. The grounds stretched far before her with clusters of buildings dotted about. The King’s gardens had, of course, been perfectly manicured with nary a rose petal out of place. Yet, for all their pristine formality, they lacked the charm of the grounds they were moving through now. Heavenly scents of orange blossom and jasmine hung in the air, and everywhere Melody looked, there were roses. So many roses.
One of the guards had accompanied them as they made their way to their audience with the Sultan. He steered the three mules, their riders and the servants guiding them to a large building whose entrance was highly decorated with intricate patterns of mosaic. Enormous bronze doors were guarded by yet more men in the red, green and white robes. The guard who was accompanying them spoke to his comrades and one of the bronze doors was open.
The guard then said something in Arabic, which Fatima translated as a request that they dismount from their mules and follow him. As they walked down a long marble-floored corridor, Melody looked up at the ceiling, which was resplendent in its intricate, brightly coloured decoration.
The corridor ended at a large courtyard garden, which looked to have multiple fountains and even more orange and jasmine, as well as palm trees. In the middle of the courtyard was a seating area with a low couch covered in red silk and an equally low table with a mosaic top. Seated on a slightly higher chair facing the couch was a man in his mid-thirties dressed in a simple but very elegant silk djellaba with a matching turban. Melody assumed that this was Sultan Abdelhafid. While there were servants busy around the courtyard, it was surprising to find the Sultan sitting alone.
Hearing their approach, the Sultan looked up from the book he had been reading. He asked the guard something and nodded at the reply.
First, he acknowledged Fatima and said something briefly in Arabic before switching to English. “Cousin of my honoured wife, we are charmed to have you grace our court.”
“Moulaya Abdelhafid, I am humbled by your generosity in receiving me,” Fatima replied. “Might I introduce those I travel with?”
With a slight incline of the head, the Sultan indicated that she might continue.
“This is Miss Melody Chesterton. She is the ward of the Earl and Countess of Pembroke. She is accompanied by her brother, Matthew Sandworth, the ward of the Earl of Langley.”
If the Sultan wondered, as so many people often did, why the siblings were wards of different aristocrats, there was no indication in his expression. Instead, he said, “You are welcome. Please take a seat.”
They settled themselves on the low couch and, as if by magic, servants appeared carrying trays of refreshments. Of course, there was mint tea. Jugs of orange juice, whose colour was so vibrant that it almost seemed unnatural, were also placed before them, as were huge platters of fresh fruit, dates, and nuts.
The Sultan helped himself to a date and asked, “How do you find my country, Miss Chesterton?”
He was an attractive man with dark, soulful eyes that gleamed with intelligence but also mischief. There was something in the tone of his question that caused Melody to wonder if the man was mocking her. Nevertheless, she answered in as polite and formal tone as possible, “Morocco is a wonder, Your Majesty. I find my senses quite overwhelmed by its beauty and rich culture.”
The man nodded as if she had given the correct answer to what was perhaps a trick question. What on earth had he expected her to say?
Turning his attention to Rat, the Sultan asked, “And so you are to accompany your sister through her travels, Mr Sandworth? Are you not needed for more important tasks in London?”
If she had been in any doubt as to the hidden meanings behind the Sultan’s seemingly innocent words to her, Melody did not doubt that something else sat behind his questioning of Rat. What important tasks was he alluding to? How on earth would Rat answer such a question?
“Your Majesty, I believe that it is also customary in your country for male relatives to accompany women outside of their households. Certainly, in Britain, a young woman travelling alone is uncommon in the upper echelon of society.” Melody was very proud of how Rat answered the challenge with great politeness but also with a quiet strength behind his words.
“Indeed,” the Sultan answered. He then spoke some sentences in Arabic to Fatima, even though it was evident that he was fluent in English. Melody wondered if he spoke of family matters or if it was pertinent to Alessandro’s imprisonment.
Once a servant had poured tea for everyone and offered orange juice, the Sultan began to speak again. “I have heard that your English countryside is very green. Very unlike Morocco,” he observed.
“While that is true for the most part, during our journey, we passed through valleys and farmland that was not unlike the British landscape,” Rat replied.
Pivoting immediately, the Sultan said, “I hear that you have a new king. Perhaps that is for the best, given the stories I heard of the last one.”
Neither Melody nor Rat allowed themselves to be provoked by this seeming challenge. Instead, Rat decided to plunge straight into the reason for their meeting. “You Majesty, my sister and I, accompanied by Lalla Fatima, have made the long journey to Fes in order to plead the case for our friend who was arrested and brought here.”
The Sultan steepled his hands and lightly tapped the tips of his index fingers together as if pondering Rat’s words. Finally, he spoke. “Do you believe that a European who stands accused of a crime should be treated differently than anyone else, Mr Sandworth?”
Without considering the wisdom of her words, Melody pre-empted whatever Rat was about to say. “Is it usual for someone arrested in Casablanca to be brought to Fes and imprisoned within the walls of your palace, Your Majesty?” Almost as soon as the words had flown out of her mouth, Melody wished she could unsay them. Her challenge had been impertinent under any circumstances, but spoken to royalty by a young, foreign woman might cause them to be turned out of the palace before they could say any more. Or worse.
“I apologise for my words, Your Majesty,” Melody said quickly. “Yet, I do not apologise for my concern for my friend.”
The Sultan did not answer immediately, and from the inscrutable look on his face, it was unclear if he was about to erupt in a temper and order them arrested. Finally, just as the tension was almost unbearable, the man did erupt, but into laughter.
“You are; what is the word in English?” he turned to Fatima to help him, saying something in Arabic, to which she replied. He then continued, “You are plucky. Not unlike Lalla Fatima, in fact. You are correct; it is not usual to bring a prisoner to Fes. Even one who is accused of murder.” They all looked at the Sultan expectantly. “However, there is reason to believe that your friend’s crimes go beyond murder.”
Again, everyone waited for him to continue, but it seemed the man had said all he intended to for the time being.
Frustrated by the vagueness of the accusation against Alessandro, Melody looked over at Fatima and quirked her eyebrows. Whether or not the other woman understood the facial expression or merely had the same thought as Melody, Fatima said in a tone of voice that was almost flirtatious, “You Majesty, may Allah continue to grant you wisdom and strength in your rule. We do not wish to question that rule. We are merely concerned for our friend. Would it be possible for you, in your munificence, to allow us to see our friend and assure ourselves of his wellbeing?”
“Do you believe that he would not be treated well?” came the challenge. However, the words had no teeth and were followed by the concession, “You may visit your friend. However, you will be watched by one of my guards at all times.”
Once the Sultan had permitted them to visit Alessandro, Melody and Rat were both impatient for their royal visit to be over. They exchanged glances multiple times as they wondered how long the sovereign would prolong the meeting. As Rat endured more inane observations about his country, he wondered if their irritation was the point. The Sultan must have realised how agonising the situation was for them and was enjoying watching them have to grit their teeth and mask their frustration.
Finally, when yet another question about Britain’s incessant rain had been answered tersely, the Sultan seemed to decide that he’d had his fun and stood abruptly. “This has been an interesting conversation, Miss Chesterton and Mr Sandworth.” He then called a servant over and said something in rapid Arabic.
Had it been? Rat wanted to ask. As far as he was concerned, most of the conversation had been ridiculous.
The Sultan began to turn to leave, then reconsidered, looked directly at Rat and said, “Perhaps Britain should keep its colonial dominance for India and elsewhere and stay out of Moroccan affairs entirely.” Having uttered this enigmatic statement, he retired into an adjoining room.
Rat and Melody were unsure what to do next, but Fatima explained, “His Majesty instructed the servant to fetch a guard to take us to Alessandro.” As she said these words, the guard who had led them into the courtyard returned and indicated that they should follow him.
Melody wasn’t sure what she had expected a palace jail cell to look like, but it seemed that Alessandro was merely locked in a room in a small building adjacent to the main palace. The room was well-guarded but once they were inside, it wasn’t uncomfortable. There were three small windows high enough up to be useless for escape, but which gave the room some natural light. Glancing around as they entered, Melody saw a narrow bed with a small table next to it. Another larger table had books piled upon it and the remains of a meal. While the room was hardly opulent, she was relieved to see that it wasn’t the dank dungeon she had been imagining.
Alessandro had been lying on the bed reading when they entered. When he saw who his visitors he leapt up, relief writ large on his face. It was evident he hoped they were a formal rescue party.
This hope was immediately shattered when the guard said, in good enough English, “I will stay here for the visit, which will be no more than ten minutes. There will be no physical contact with the prisoner.”
Alessandro’s disappointment was evident, yet so was his gratitude for their presence. “How did this happen?” he wondered. “Casablanca is a long way from Fes, amore mio.”
In the sultry tones of a lover, Fatima replied, “There is no distance too great, cara.”
Was Alessandro making love to Fatima, there in front of her? Melody wondered in shock.
The woman then continued to say something in Italian in the same loving voice.
The guard noticed that they weren’t speaking English, but Fatima’s romantic tones were unmistakable, so he just raised his eyebrows at these foreigners and their ways and went back to staring at the wall.
Melody’s happiness at seeing Alessandro unharmed was immediately beaten back by her pique at the obvious romantic relationship between Alessandro and Fatima. If there had been any doubt in her mind that what was between the two of them was more than flirtation, it was gone now. She was tempted to storm out of the room and leave the lovers to their cooing.
She might have done just that if it were not for the following words Fatima said in Italian. In the same tone as her endearment, she said, “Now, tell me quickly what happened.”
Melody’s Italian was not good enough for her to follow their few hurried exchanges, which were all said in voices that would persuade any non-Italian speaker that they were amorous. However, she caught the word “recognised” and something about a telegram. Finally, she gave up trying to follow along; surely Fatima would tell them everything later.
It was apparent that the guard was beginning to take more notice of their continued conversation in Italian, and so they immediately switched back to English. “Do not worry, my love. We will do all we can to ensure your release,” Fatima cooed.
Alessandro turned to Rat and scolded, “You should never have let Melody come. It is far too arduous a trip.”
Before her brother could answer, Melody snapped, “I thought that it was now clear that no one, not even my brother, is able to force my actions. I go where I choose.”
Whatever Alessandro had been about to reply was forestalled as the guard said, “Your time is up.”
Melody doubted it had been ten minutes yet and was about to argue, but Rat quickly shook his head, so she said nothing.