flesh of her waist and, when she did not react, moved it down to caress the soft curve of her hip. Still getting no response, he tentatively slipped it towards the dark triangle between her thighs.
Suddenly Babur felt that his young blood could be contained no longer. The tension of the day seemed to explode inside him, translating into a fierce physical desire that must be satisfied. He pulled himself on top of her and, with eager hands, grabbed clumsily at the soft flesh of her breasts. He tried to enter her but found he couldn’t. Beneath him her body was rigid and unyielding. Raising his head, he looked into her eyes, wanting her help, but found no warmth there, no willingness to respond to his silent plea or play any more than a passive role — only, or so it seemed to him, contempt for his inexperienced fumblings.
Goaded, he tried again and, pushing hard, finally succeeded in penetrating her. He could feel her tightness as he began to thrust and then, as she gave a single sharp cry, that entry was becoming easier. Panting, he pushed deeper and deeper, oblivious to everything until, at last, he collapsed, spent and sweating, on her supine body.
With his blood still roaring through his veins, it took Babur a moment to recover himself, to remember where he was and what had just happened. When he did, he pulled himself away from Ayisha, unwilling to meet her eyes. When, finally, he did look at her, she had not moved and her expression remained distant, inscrutable and unsmiling. He might have got himself a wife, but this was not how he had imagined it would be. Babur sat up and turned his back on her, barely noticing the small pool of blood that had seeped from beneath her to stain the sheet, which would in due course be exhibited to the general view to prove she had been a virgin on her wedding day and was now no longer.
Chapter 9
The hunting around Shahrukiyyah was good. Deer and fat squealing boar abounded in the dense forests while the coppices and pasture provided pheasants, hares and foxes enough for excellent sport. Babur narrowed his eyes as he pulled back his bow-string, then smiled as he watched his arrow cut through the air and hit its mark — the white throat of a young buck that staggered, then fell. Since his return from his marriage in Zaamin two months ago, he’d been spending a lot of time out hunting.
Now, with dusk falling, Babur turned his horse for home, his hawk again quiescent beneath its gilded leather hood, the deer slung from poles and rabbits and pheasants dangling limply from his huntsmen’s saddles. He felt a dark mood envelop him. Never before had he quarrelled with his grandmother, but Esan Dawlat’s interference was growing intolerable. She was actually keeping count of his couplings with Ayisha and complaining constantly. ‘At first you went to her twice a week. Now it is only every seven days — sometimes longer. . You are insulting her. Remember your duty to Ferghana,’ she had snapped this morning, oblivious both to his embarrassment and his anger. ‘You know no fear as a warrior, so why hide from a woman. .?’
Stung, he had yelled back, ‘You are not my commander, nor I your stud stallion required to service to order your choice of mare.’
He had not objected to the marriage, and understood the reasons for it, but he had not sought it either, and the cold disdain of his bride — apparent even on their wedding night — had persisted and hardened. She rarely spoke to him and, when she did, it was only to reply monosyllabically to his questions or requests. He had never seen her smile — not once. A smile might have softened her and, in turn, softened his feelings towards her. Instead, lying with her seemed almost like sleeping with a warm corpse — no response, no passion, no engagement, just those unblinking dark eyes seemingly focused on the middle distance as he spent himself in her unresisting body.
What was in Ayisha’s mind? Why wouldn’t she respond to him either physically or mentally he wondered, yet again, as he rode along a track green with the tender shoots of spring. Was the fault his or hers? Surely it was hers. What was wrong with her? At her request, she and her Mangligh attendants had their own chambers away from the rest of the women’s. Whenever he approached he could hear them speaking their strange language and sometimes laughing, but as he entered they would at once fall quiet. Ayisha would salute him with a formal bow of her head, then wait in silence, expressionless eyes downcast, for his bidding, like a slave rather than a wife. Except that a slave was humble and Ayisha was not.
It seemed to Babur that she wore her pride like a weapon against him. Her detachment goaded him. Sometimes when he made love to her, he became rough in spite of himself, trying with his sheer physicality to force a reaction from her — anything. But there was nothing, and although she did not resist, he was left feeling like a ravisher, a forcer of women, instead of her lawful husband. At other times he had tried to be gentle, caressing the soft lines of her body, cupping her breasts, kissing her nipples and her small rounded belly — just as he had treated the pliant women of his adolescent dreams — but unlike them Ayisha had not responded, remaining rigidly indifferent.
When, blushing and stammering, he had asked Khanzada — who had been so eager for the companionship a royal sister-in-law would provide and so generous with her carefully chosen presents — whether Ayisha had ever confided anything about him or his behaviour, she shook her head. She told him that immediately after the marriage she had often visited Ayisha but had found only the most formal and aloof welcome, no willingness to empathise or to unbend and share confidences — so she had ceased her unreciprocated visits. It was, Khanzada said, as if Ayisha wished she were somewhere else, and in her mind pretended she was.
Babur was still caught up in his thoughts as he and his men galloped into the jumble of mud-brick houses, wooden shacks and round hide tents that clustered beneath the walls of Shahrukiyyah. The poorly clothed inhabitants were squatting over smoking fires to cook their evening meals while their children played barefoot in the sloping alleyways, jumping over the little rivulets that carried sewage and other refuse down the hill. As they approached the stone gatehouse with its iron-bound doors, a small child — no more than two or three years old — suddenly ran out in front of Babur. His horse reared, neighing in alarm.
Pulling hard on the reins, Babur turned the chestnut so that its flailing hoofs missed the child, who was now standing wide-eyed, wailing and immobile with fear. A rider behind Babur was not so quick to react and it seemed he would ride the child down. But there was a shout and a youth dived forward, seizing the child, pulling it to the ground and shielding it with his body. The rider, cursing volubly as he fought to control his black horse, managed to jump over them but one of his horse’s rear hoofs caught the youth hard on the back of the head.
Babur dismounted and knelt by the unconscious young man whose arms were still round the child — a little girl, Babur could now see. She was whimpering, a thin trail of snot running down her upper lip. As one of his men lifted her out of the way, Babur turned the youth on to his back. He was about the same age as himself, Babur thought, with an aquiline nose, high cheekbones and a stubbly chin. He probed his head, with the expertise gleaned from many battles, and found beneath the dark hair a place that was spongy and sticky with blood. The youth, whose breathing was shallow, seemed deeply unconscious. He had taken a hard blow, risking his life for the little girl. It would be a shame if he didn’t live to know he’d saved her.
‘Bring him up to the castle. Let’s see what our
That night, Babur knew he should go to Ayisha. It would please his grandmother and his mother and perhaps, once she was pregnant, Ayisha herself might find some contentment. More importantly, the prospect of a grandchild might prompt Ibrahim Saru to honour his promise of crossbowmen to help Babur retake his birthplace, Akhsi. It was full spring now and high time for Babur to be moving against his half-brother Jahangir. Instead, each time he sent a messenger to Zaamin asking for news of when the crossbowmen would arrive, the reply was the same: soon they would come, soon. .
After he had bathed, Babur set out dutifully for his wife’s quarters, but when he saw the green, leather-lined double doors ahead, he stopped. No. As he had shouted at Esan Dawlat, he wasn’t a stud beast required to perform to order. He was a man who knew his own mind and would do as he pleased. Turning on his heel, he walked quickly away.
At least Babur’s pessimism about the youth proved misplaced. Six hours later, a servant brought word that he
