Summary
Yaminah prepares for her father's trial and bears witness to Camelot's judicial court proceedings.
Chapter 42 My Father's Trial
Yaminah's eyelids fluttered open, consciousness seeping in like a slow tide. The first pale light of day slowly invaded her vision, each blink a measured effort against the pull of exhaustion. Today her baba would stand trial, his fate in the hands of the lord magistrate and King Arthur.
As she stirred to wakefulness, fear unfurled within her, its tendrils reaching into every corner of her being. The days since her father's arrest and Sir Gwaine's departure had blurred together, marked by sleepless nights and meals left untouched. Youssef's silence too only deepened her isolation.
She willed herself to move, her silk robe whispering against her skin as she rose, feet carrying her to the chamber windows. Beyond, Camelot lay hushed, the early morning light now bathing the citadel towers, the day's secrets yet to unfold.
Questions darted through her mind, elusive as shadows. Where was Youssef? Had word of their father's plight reached him, or did he wander unaware, a traveler oblivious to the storm at home? When would Sir Gwaine return from his mission? And yet, how would she meet his gaze after all that had transpired? What fate lay in store for her baba, trapped in the dungeons below? Would he be condemned to live out his final days in that dark pit, awaiting the executioner's blade?
Her eyes traced the brightening sky, seeking answers in the clear morning air. Her lips moved in silent supplication, each prayer a fragile hope cast into the new day. She implored Allah to soften King Arthur's heart, to plant the seeds of mercy in ground that seemed so unyielding.
With a deep sigh, Yaminah turned from the window to perform her daily ablutions. She carried out the ritual cleansing with care, finding a moment's respite from her troubled thoughts in the familiar motions. After completing her prayers, she made her way to the main chamber where Ishka had set out bread and dates. Though anxiety dulled her appetite, she forced herself to eat a few bites.
"Al-Sayyidah," Ishka's voice reached her as if through a veil, pulling Yaminah back from her somber contemplation. She turned to her maiden, reality settling around her like a heavy cloak. "Come, mistress. Let us prepare you for the day ahead."
At her vanity, Yaminah sat motionless as Ishka's gentle hands unwound her braids, loosening hair into thick, cascading waves. The mirror before her reflected a stranger – a woman whose once-unshakeable confidence had eroded like ancient stones worn smooth by relentless winds. She had believed her strength unyielding, her resolve unbreakable. Now, isolation revealed hidden fractures, exposing vulnerabilities she had never acknowledged.
Drifting in uncharted waters, her once steady ship now at the mercy of unpredictable currents, Yaminah finally acknowledged her need of the men she had relied upon – her father, Youssef, even Sir Gwaine for a short time. Their memory lingered in the ache of her broken heart, a constant, underlying pain that flared with each reminder of the gulf between them. The past five days had brought a raw clarity, illuminating how deeply she cared for them all. Now, the void left by their separation was more keenly felt than their presence had ever been.
Ishka lined her eyes with kohl, applied a tint of crushed berries to her lips, and dusted her cheeks with a fine powder of ground ochre, each line and stroke made with care and precision. "Beautiful, Al-Sayyidah," she said.
Lost in her thoughts, Yaminah neither heard the words nor noticed Ishka's initial smile. Only when she turned her sober gaze upon their reflection did she catch the gentle curve of her handmaiden's lips. The familiar ritual felt hollow, a futile attempt to paint over the cracks in her world. Yet, even as grief threatened to pull her under, Ishka had been an anchor since that fateful morning. More than a servant, she had become a lifeline, creating moments of calm amidst the storm of Yaminah's emotions.
As Ishka continued to tend to her, Yaminah's mind raced ahead to their palace in Aethelmearc, Qasr Al-Zafar – Palace of Victory. The name now seemed a bitter irony, its grandeur ringing hollow in the absence of her family. What victory could there be in halls echoing with emptiness? The castle and all it represented loomed on the horizon – a bastion of their family's power and influence, now overshadowed by the loneliness awaiting her in those vast, silent chambers. If the trial went poorly, she would need to steel herself not only for the arduous journey north, but also for the daunting responsibility she had never truly prepared to bear.
Ishka and Farouk had been instrumental in carrying out her father's contingency plans. They'd dispatched letters to Qasr Al-Zafar's steward, the marshal of the nearby garrison, and several other great houses of Aethelmearc. Yaminah knew the importance of informing these key figures of recent developments. As the Zahirs were the lords of the land, these allies and vassals needed to be prepared for potential changes in leadership.
Ishka retrieved a traditional ensemble from the wardrobe – layers of finely woven cotton and linen in rich, muted hues. As her maiden carefully arranged the flowing fabrics, draping her in the loose-fitting thobe and adorning her with an intricately embroidered abaya, Yaminah regarded her reflection with a distant gaze. Once, she had reveled in such finery, taking pride in her beauty and dress. Now, this adorned version of herself seemed a stranger – a gilded facade concealing a fractured core. What use was outward splendor when her spirit lay in ruins? A tremor coursed through her body, threatening to unravel her composure.
Yet, as Ishka gently placed the soft, patterned shayla over her hair, framing her face, something shifted within Yaminah. For Baba, she would enter the court not as a broken daughter, but as the noble heir of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir. She drew herself up, shoulders back, chin lifted. Her dignity and courage would be her true raiment, as commanding in presence as her father's had always been.
A sharp knock at the outer chamber door shattered the fragile quiet. Ishka moved to answer it, stepping into the spacious antechamber. Yaminah followed, her posture straight and composed as Ishka ushered in her escorts. Farouk entered first, his face etched with concern, followed by young Ahmed, the stalwart Coptic warrior.
"Al-Sayyidah," Farouk said, his voice low, "it is time to make for the great hall."
Their small procession moved through the castle corridors with measured steps, an island of silence amid the bustling keep. Farouk led the way, with Ishka at Yaminah's side and Ahmed guarding their rear. Despite their efforts to pass unobtrusively, their presence drew attention like a lodestone. From shadowed doorways and alcoves, courtiers and servants paused to watch their passage. Whispers and furtive glances followed in their wake, but failed to pierce Yaminah's carefully constructed composure.
Each step through the public spaces of the castle was a testament to her resolve. Though exposed to curious and often judgmental gazes, Yaminah remained unbowed. Her rich Arabic garb, a symbol of her heritage and strength, set her apart not as an outsider, but as a woman of noble bearing. She kept her gaze resolutely forward, each breath steady and controlled. Those who watched could never truly comprehend the depth of her determination. Their stares and ignorance of her plight were mere pebbles against the fortress of her will.
Farouk guided them into the throne room, now transformed into a solemn court of law. As they entered, Yaminah drew a deep breath seeing the empty thrones upon the raised dais, looming ominously ahead. The familiar hall, stripped of its vibrant pageantry and heraldry, felt strange and foreboding. The air itself was smothering, each step bringing them closer to the moment that would decide her father's fate.
As they progressed down the aisle amid the sea of bodies gathering for her baba's trial, people and servants peeled off into rows on either side. With no benches or seats, the standing assembly obscured Yaminah's view as she moved closer to the front.
Through gaps in the crowd, she caught sight of a diminutive figure with wild, greying hair seated behind a large table and offset to the left of the raised dais. If this was indeed the lord magistrate, his blue silk robes, richly adorned yet rumpled, seemed incongruous with his solemn duty. He surveyed the room through eye lenses perched upon his nose, his presence, small yet commanding. On the table before him, a large round stone rested next to candles flanking an array of scrolls and books – tools of judgment for the proceedings about to unfold.
"That is Lord Magistrate Aldred?" Yaminah murmured to Farouk as they edged through the crowd. She had immersed herself in preparation, struggling to comprehend the intricacies of law. Farouk's knowledge had been invaluable, but now she clung to the hope that Allah's grace would guide them through this ordeal.
"Yes, Al-Sayyidah," Farouk confirmed softly. Then he and Ahmed fell back, joining other servants at a respectful distance somewhere behind her and Ishka.
As they neared the front, Yaminah's gaze finally fell upon her father off to the far right of the dais. Her breath caught, the sight of him in chains striking her core. Baba stood flanked by Sir Percival and two guards, his proud stance unwavering despite his bonds.
It was she who faltered however, her steps suddenly leaden. Ishka's hand at her elbow steadied her, gently urging her forward. Yaminah's heart splintered, a maelstrom of emotions threatening to breach the walls of her self-control. Ishka guided her to the front row, choosing spots closer to the aisle and the magistrate's table rather than nearer to her father and the guards.
Yaminah couldn't tear her eyes from his face, drinking in every detail as if to memorize it anew. The commanding presence of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal remained undiminished – freshly attired in kaftan and traditional tunic she had ordered Ahmed to deliver, crisp and clean. Time slowed, the courtroom's bustle fading to a distant hum as Yaminah's world narrowed to her father's stoic figure. Despite having her loyal servants nearby, an overwhelming sense of isolation engulfed her – Youssef and Baba so far from her side.
As if sensing her gaze, Baba's eyes met hers. In that brief moment, a flicker of warmth softened his stern features. His subtle nod conveyed a world of unspoken comfort and strength, a silent reassurance that transcended their physical separation. Yaminah felt a surge of resolve, drawing courage from her father's unwavering spirit.
Only the piercing call of trumpets finally broke her trance, snapping her attention back to the unfolding spectacle around her. A hush fell over the assembly as all eyes turned to the grand doors. King Arthur, resplendent in his royal raiment, entered with Queen Guinevere at his side, her elegant crimson gown a beacon of color in the somber atmosphere.
Yaminah sank into a deep curtsy along with the others paying respect to their sovereigns, her movements fluid and graceful. As she rose, her chin lifted slightly, her posture a testament to the inner strength she'd drawn from her father's gaze. Her eyes followed the royal couple's progress, her resolve suddenly giving way to a wave of bitterness.
King Arthur's tender gesture – offering his hand to Queen Guinevere and guiding her gently to the ornate throne upon the dais – struck Yaminah like a barb. The loving look they exchanged before the king took his seat sent a surge of resentment through her heart.
Once, she had admired their pursuit of equality, their vision of a just Camelot. Now, watching them preside over her father's trial, that admiration curdled into anger and disappointment. How could they speak of justice and equality while deeming her baba's freedoms a threat to the kingdom?
Is this Camelot vaulted justice? No trace of regret upon their faces? she wondered silently, her faith in the realm's fairness flickering like a candle flame in a draft. The stark contrast between the royal couple's open affection and her own heart, starved of her father's presence, only deepened her sense of betrayal.
The lord magistrate turned to the king, his quill poised expectantly. King Arthur's solemn nod set the wheels of justice in motion.
"Step forward, Lord Badawi," Magistrate Aldred called, his voice carrying across the hushed hall.
The muscles in Yaminah's jaw tightened as her father moved. Each clink of his chains pierced her like a dagger, yet she forced her face to remain an impassive mask. Any flicker of emotion, any tear shed, might be seen as weakness – or worse, bring shame to her baba.
Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, to offer comfort and reassurance. She longed to embrace him, to whisper promises that all would be well. But as her father came to stand before judge and throne, uncertainty coiled tightly in her chest. The space between them seemed to stretch, a chasm of protocol and circumstance that left her father isolated. Yaminah stood rooted, torn between duty and desperation, watching as the man who had always been her pillar of strength now faced his accusers alone. She swallowed hard, pushing down the lump forming in her throat.
The magistrate unfurled a scroll with deliberate slowness, the parchment's crinkle piercing the silence. His quill scratched against the surface, each stroke seeming to echo in Yaminah's ears. Without raising his gaze, Lord Aldred began to read, his voice carrying the same dreadful charges Sir Percival had delivered in private five days prior.
Each word carved deeper into Yaminah's soul, reopening wounds barely scabbed over. The litany of accusations dragged forth memories she'd struggled to suppress – knights uninvited into their quarters, Gwaine's averted eyes – anguished and reluctant, baba's dignified silence as they led him away. She clutched Ishka's hand, seeking that anchor in the storm of emotions.
The magistrate's voice droned on, each charge more damning than the last. Yaminah willed herself to stay strong, but as Lord Aldred neared the end of the list, tears burned behind her eyes, straining against the dam of her resolve.
"... And seeking to undermine harmonious unity among all subjects under crown jurisdiction."
The final words settled over the court like a shroud, stifling the rising buzz of murmurs. Yaminah's gaze drifted to Queen Guinevere, unexpectedly meeting the royal's eyes. Though the queen's face remained a mask of regal poise, Yaminah caught a fleeting shadow of sympathy in that steady gaze. In that brief connection, the true magnitude of her father's predicament – and its implications for their entire family –crashed over her with renewed force.
The magistrate's gaze pierced over his ocular lenses, his voice ringing clear in the silent hall. "Most serious. How do you answer these charges, Lord Badawi?"
Baba straightened, his voice steady. "I spoke truths, lord magistrate, nothing more."
"Truths that eventually led to Viscount Pierrefonds' demise," Lord Aldred countered. "Numerous witnesses recount your words against magic and sorcerers in taverns across Camelot."
"I did not advocate violence, my lord."
The magistrate hummed with disbelief, his fingers rustling through the scrolls before selecting one with deliberate care. "On June 11, at the Red Lion, you were heard saying: 'Do not allow soft hearts to welcome evil within the gates—within your homes. Do not be deceived. Magic corrupts utterly. Its very existence is a plague upon the righteous and just.' Do you recall uttering these words?"
"I cannot shy from truth because wicked men may abuse it. Am I culpable for another's actions?"
The magistrate's frown deepened, a low grunt of disapproval escaping him. "Lord Badawi, you maintain no accountability for your words, yet during the council meeting held on –" he rifled through his papers again, impatience evident in his movements "—Friday, June 6 – did you not quote scripture expressing intolerance? Shall I read it back to you as recorded by the scribes?"
"I am familiar with the passage, lord magistrate," Baba said, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly.
The magistrate's eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into Baba with unmistakable irritation. He leaned forward, fingers gripping the parchment before him. "Some of us are not, sir." He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense silence. "'Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them. I am the Lord your God.' – Leviticus 19:31, as it is written." He looked up, his face a mask of stern disapproval. "Rather inflammatory words, Lord Badawi, that portrays those with magic as something vile to avoid. Hardly the tempered speech to expect from someone not inciting strife."
Yaminah stared at the magistrate, indignation rising within her. She knew this verse well, having heard Baba quote it often as a guide for personal morality. To her, it represented the essence of their faith and cultural heritage. Its use against him now, stripped of context and twisted into something sinister, filled her with dismay.
Baba drew himself taller, though she glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "I spoke truth from holy scripture, as my faith compels me. This passage offers spiritual guidance and protection, not incitement. I sought not to inflame, only to warn against practices my religion deems harmful. It is a matter of personal conscience and religious freedom, not a call to arms."
King Arthur leaned forward, his knuckles white on the throne's arms as he addressed Baba. "Your words undermine peace, and you refuse to temper rhetoric I've deemed dangerous." His face hardened in lines Yaminah had never seen on the king's handsome visage. "Your 'truth' brings violence and instills fear amongst many of my subjects, Lord Badawi." As he sat back, his icy blue eyes darkened, sending chills careening through Yaminah. Baba's gaze remained unrepentant, yet questions began to swirl within her at the king's bitter accusations.
"Lord Badawi," the magistrate continued, his voice taut with barely contained frustration, "we have numerous accounts of you holding meetings with families grieved by magical incidents, inciting mobs, and whispering of sedition in taverns and other public places." Lord Aldred's fingers curled around several scrolls, his knuckles whitening and eyes flashing with growing impatience.
As he read more witness testimonials sealing Baba's fate, a cold dread seeped into Yaminah's bones. Murmurs rippled through the hall, but she barely heard them over the pounding of her own heart. She knew well her father's opposition to Camelot's magic edicts – his impassioned reasonings often echoed among his allies. But had zeal obscured wisdom, clouded judgment? Had his quest for truth jeopardized peace? The dreadful statements of witnesses rang in her ears – what scripture could absolve one who condemned magic so thoroughly and who, directly or indirectly, bore responsibility for civil strife?
Voices swelled through the hall, a tide of rising whispers and gasps. Lord Aldred's hand shot out, grasping the large round stone on his table. He brought it down with a resounding thud that silenced the room instantly. In the sudden quiet, his voice rang out, sharp and final.
"Lord Badawi, on this day of our Lord, June 16th, in the year 699, I, Aldred, Lord Magistrate of Camelot, do find you guilty of treason against the realm." The words fell like a hammer on an anvil. Lord Aldred's gaze bore into Baba, both triumph and exasperation evident in his stern features.
"No," Yaminah uttered, the word escaping her lips unbidden. "It cannot be so." Her heart pounded in her ears, disbelief warring with the harsh reality before her.
Lord Aldred turned to the king. "Sire, as monarch, I invite you to formally pass whatever sentence as you see fit."
The king's gaze found Yaminah – her heart seized – her grip on Ishka's hand tightened to the point of pain. Those blue eyes, ever discerning, seemed to pierce her very soul.
"I take no pleasure in this judgment," King Arthur said, his gaze shifting to her baba, his voice laden with somber authority. "But a monarch must safeguard stability and order, even when decisions grieve us." Pausing, his face hardened again. "Unchecked dissent threatens the very fabric of our realm. Therefore, in accordance with the lord magistrate's judgment and for the protection of our people, I, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, do hereby sentence you, Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir, to five years imprisonment in the castle dungeon."
The pronouncement sank like a stone in her belly. She stifled a cry as her vision blurred, her knees threatening to give way. Faithful Ishka braced her, her touch grounding Yaminah in the midst of her distress. King Arthur stood, signaling Sir Percival and the guards to approach.
Baba turned to her, his shackled hands reaching out before they seized him. "Be strong, Yaminah," he urged, his fingers grasping at air as they led him away. "Allah watches over us."
Tears welled in her eyes as she watched him go, her father's form blurring as she turned towards the throne. Queen Guinevere accepted the king's extended hand and rose. As they drew closer, Yaminah's heart raced. She stepped forward, dipping into a graceful curtsey despite her inner turmoil.
"Your Majesties," Yaminah began, her voice remarkably steady, "I implore you to reconsider. My father has served Camelot faithfully for many years. His words, though perhaps misguided, came from a place of devotion to this realm and its people. I beseech you, mighty King Arthur and gracious Queen Guinevere, in your wisdom and mercy, see the truth of his intentions. Please, do not separate us."
King Arthur's face softened, but his eyes remained resolute. "I understand your pain, Al-Sayyidah. Truly. But the judgment stands. I'm sorry."
Queen Guinevere's gaze met Yaminah's, a flicker of empathy returning in her eyes. Her hand briefly touched Yaminah's arm, a gesture too subtle for most to notice. Her voice was low, meant only for Yaminah's ears. "Have faith, child. Even in darkness, hope endures."
The words offered little solace to the ache gripping Yaminah's heart, yet the queen's small kindness stood in vivid contrast to the harshness of the day's events. 'Hope'? Yaminah wondered bitterly. What hope was there for her to grasp in this maelstrom of loss and uncertainty?
As the royal couple disappeared from view, the full weight of her new reality settled upon her shoulders. A sudden, chilling thought struck her: execution could have been her father's fate. Even as this realization sent a shudder through her, a wave of conflicting relief washed over her. Five years of imprisonment was cruel, but at least Baba would live. Perhaps, in his own way, the king had shown mercy after all.
The bustling courtroom faded to a distant hum, the world narrowing to the loyal faces of Ishka, and now Farouk and Ahmed who had joined them. Her voice, barely above a whisper, still carried authority in her decision.
"Farouk, begin preparation for our journey north," she said calmly, "but the Sabbath approaches swiftly, and we must also prepare for the Lord's Day. Our efforts to pack and settle affairs here will likely press us and extend to next week. Ishka, send word to Aethelmearc of our anticipated arrival in about three weeks' time."
Even as she spoke, a part of her heart clung desperately to a faint glimmer of hope that the queen promised. Perhaps Sir Gwaine or Youssef might appear before her departure, offering some reprieve from the loneliness that threatened to engulf her. Yet the rational part of her mind cautioned against such wishful thinking. She could not rely on their return, no matter how fervently her heart yearned for it.
As Yaminah steeled herself for the tasks ahead, her thoughts raced between the immediate preparations required and the uncertain future that awaited her at Qasr Al-Zafar. The coming days would test her resolve, but she was determined to face them with the dignity befitting her father's daughter.