Summary
Devastated by her father's imprisonment, a grieving Yaminah receives a letter from Sir Gwaine that stirs inner turmoil.
Chapter 25 The Letter
"Allah, be praised," Yaminah whispered with trembling voice, knelt in prayer in her chamber, arms elevated on her bed. "You are my shelter and strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble…. I beseech you now for courage to face the challenges ahead… and be not afraid."
A dying fire crackled in the small hearth; sweat beaded on her forehead as she repeated the prayer for strength. An hour now it had been, an ornate Coptic cross clutched in one hand, a crushed note in the fist of the other, and tears flowing unceasing.
"Allah, be praised…. You… are – my…" Her voice, sore and raw, faltered now as her body sank to prostate on the floor in wracking quivers. She could not move, the rupture of heart and ache of knotted muscles demanding their toll.
The visit to her father in the dungeon had crushed her, the conditions he must suffer while awaiting trial appalling. But the charges against him were fallacious. She'd heard no seditious words from his lips – only a truth that he believed. Though she held none of his notions on magic and sorcery, he should freely be able to speak his heart. He never meant to harm.
Struggling to rise on quaking legs, Yaminah left her private room and slowly paced the main chambers, muscles raging in protest and inner turmoil dizzying. Her hands ached too – wringing the note and the cross – it having imprinted upon her palm she'd gripped it so tightly.
She unfurled the note in her other hand, thrust upon her by her father – instructions during his absence. She'd resisted at first, fearful of the meaning behind it. His heartfelt plea compelled her – to honor his preparedness however dire. She could hear his voice as she skimmed the words through her tear-blurred vision – extend stay in Camelot with steward – manage household, financial matters – rely on Farouk and Ishka – send word to Youssef.
Youssef. She clasped her diamond pendant. He'd only just departed two days past to destinations not shared with them. It may be weeks before – if any – that he would send a letter.
And Gwaine. Father had also told her of his vow to protect her – though this had only intensified her ire towards the knight for his betrayal.
She squeezed her eyes shut, warring sentiments nearly forcing breath itself away. How to hold such caring words for a day then brutal treachery the next? This knight who stirred long dormant yearnings – did he harbor hearts both gentle and cruel? Fragments of tender moments stained by vivid memories of her adored father ripped from her by him... leaving her cradling Gwaine's worthless promises and her baba's precious instructions and nothing on which to hold.
Her eyes then roamed the chamber, catching the few religious symbols her father never traveled without: the graceful dove statuette, symbolizing the Holy Spirit; the glint of the scarab jewel, for its meaning of new life and resurrection; and delicate petals of lotuses from his gardens, their sacred symbol of purity. The ornate cross above the hearth of slowly dying flames… faith in the hope to come….
She drew a shuttering breath, tears once again welling in her eyelids. In the dim candlelight, shadows flickered eerie shapes of foreboding and dread upon them – the icons seeming hollow in her grief. She released the cross from her hand, its resounding clatter upon the stone floor ignored as she walked about idly. Her brother, her father, a knight she'd thought valiant – all abandoned her, the ground crumbling away where she had stood secure.
"Youssef," she wept through a blurry haze. "Where are you? Baba and I need you desperately."
The heat in the air could not warm her, a coldness shrouding her sense of loneliness. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself.
"Sir Gwaine…"
Yaminah crossed to the chaise. Even the whisper of her footsteps on the stone floor was overwhelming in the emptiness. Reclining on the plush furniture, she pulled the draped cloth from the backrest and covered herself. Closing her eyes, tears leaked from the corners, her father's note still clutched in her hand as the other drifted to the diamond pendant that soothed her somewhat.
"Gwaine…Walven…."
Why had Allah brought this man to stir such warmth, only to then abandon her to winter's bite? Had she been deceived by charming words, the carefree laughter that softened her poise? Or did insincerity dwell beneath the gallant surface? He'd returned to her door after imprisoning her father and begged an audience; but she forsook him, for he'd earned her full wrath. No words he could have offered to amend her anger nor mend her heart – despite the vow he'd promised her father.
A rap at the outer door startled Yaminah, drawing her shoulders rigid. But sinking again into melancholy, she knew it would not be Sir Gwaine, for he'd ceased his attempts to reach her by mid-morning. Still, if it were him again, she would not receive him. After a moment, her handmaiden appeared and curtsied.
"Who called, Ishka?"
The servant held out a sealed parchment. "A letter for you, Al-Sayyidah. From Sir Walven."
Yaminah's eyes dropped to the letter, then after a moment, a trembling hand reached for it. "Shokran," she thanked softly after another pause, staring at the letter grasped in her palms with her father's crumpled note. "Take supper now. I'll be all right."
Yaminah stared at the sealed parchment, her pulse quickening. Sir Walven.
Just his surname sparked turmoil. Many noblemen showed no respect or pride for carrying the family name, yet Sir Gwaine did – she admired that. His bold and provocative introduction had intrigued her from the start. And at the coronation dance – under the watchful eyes of her family – she and Gwaine had stirring conversations before his one and only waltz. But the next day, his playful banter for her favor, their day-long wanderings later – she remembered everywhere they'd roamed – he seemed truly earnest in word and deed. Worthy of future encounters.
Yet this was the same man who'd arrested her beloved father and showed little regard for her pain. The man who then begged audience at her door, supplicating apologies and professions that rang hollow to her ear. Hollow as his later absence after ceasing pursuit of her.
She drew an unsteady breath, warring with indecision as she traced the insignia pressed into the hardened wax. To break the seal would permit his words sway, his empty excuses perhaps kindling that treacherous flame she tucked away. She owed no graciousness to his pen now, no matter the honeyed phrases it may spin...
Yet hesitation stayed her hand from casting it into the fire, curiosity an insect needling her resolve. This was a respected knight, friend to king and queen, esteemed in the court of Camelot. Was he merely the callow rogue she deemed him... or could some truth dwell in his scrawled sentiments?
Taking deep breaths, she broke the seal and began reading not rushed or illegible words, but Sir Gwaine's elegant and carefully written script:
My Dearest Al-Sayyidah,
My heart breaks that we cannot speak in person, for I have been called away on a mission for the king and queen.
I was a fool, Yaminah. Know that I took no pleasure in your father's arrest. But not being able to comfort you during it rent my very soul, and it pained me to see you suffer. With all my failings, please forgive me. I wish for no other place to be than by your side.
His sincere words caused Yaminah to shudder, bumps rising on her skin and tears falling down her cheeks. His remorse showed clear humility for his actions and he admitted his own faults. Dwelling on his words, she cried a little longer before she could continue.
I cannot imagine the sorrow of having your father taken from you. However events unfolded, I know he must feel bereft, as must you. When I return, I swear to pursue his release. But wherever it may lead, please know, dear Yaminah, I will not ignore guilt, nor injustice, nor fail to stand by convictions I believe honorable.
Yaminah's hand fluttered to her chest, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks at his words. Could this be genuine care and determination she now heard in his voice? She yearned to cling to this kindled hope that his intentions aligned with honor and justice as he claimed.
Until then, keep faith that wiser minds will discern the truth. Allow me to be your comfort in spirit if not in presence. You are ever in my thoughts.
With Affection,
Your humble servant, Gwaine
Emotions now raging – so thoughtful, such humility, a plea for forgiveness – fear and doubt still skirted the edges of her mind – pretty phrases could hide uglier truths. The depths of her longing wished to trust that this gallant knight sought righteousness in his actions, not cruel indifference. She drew a shuddering breath, wavering over whether stark reality would reward such fragile optimism or dash it against the stones below.
Yaminah read the letter again, lingering on certain lines – certain words that pierced through her defenses. Had she judged him too harshly? Was he worthy of her trust again after his vile actions? His words seemed sincere in their intentions, his script written with care and precision….
Folding the letter and then standing with the poise and dignity her father had instilled in her, she tucked it into her dress pocket, fingers gripping it. She would cling to that hope until Gwaine's return and be courageous to confront him.
As her pendant glistened in the fire's glow, Yaminah's eyes dropped to her father's note in her other hand, clutching it even tighter. Until then, her father's legacy must be protected and she would follow his instructions – and then confront Youssef upon his return.