Raiders from the North

Chapter 8

Esan Dawlat looked satisfied as with her thin, veiny little hand she smoothed the parchment on which Babur’s scribe had sketched an outline of Ferghana. The drawing was crude, depicting the Jaxartes flowing on a straight east-west axis instead of showing how its cold waters curled through wide valleys and down rolling hills as they flowed from the snow-tipped mountains in the northeast. But that was irrelevant. What mattered were the pleasing numbers of towns and villages, marked with dots of vermilion ink, that Babur now controlled.

Two years of confinement had not dulled his grandmother’s knowledge of the political alliances of the nobles of Ferghana, their weaknesses and ambitions. Esan Dawlat still knew all there was to know about the complex blood lines and loyalties. But, above all, she seemed able to see into men’s minds, to understand their foibles, vanities and weaknesses and how best to exploit them. With her guidance, Babur had developed skills in persuasion, not to say manipulation, that he’d not known he possessed, coaxing several important chieftains to his cause. Others, sensing how the balance of advantage was shifting, had followed, calculating that even if Babur could not reward them immediately, the time would come when he could and richly.

With his burgeoning political acumen and his increasing armies, Babur had been pushing steadily eastwards. Over the last six months, the fortresses of Sokh, Kassan and Karnon had all fallen to him, the latter two without a fight, and at last he was closing in on Akhsi. It wouldn’t be long before he could depose Jahangir and once again call himself King of Ferghana, he was sure of it. But he must curb his impatience until winter was over, he told himself, biting his lip as he considered the map. Little moved on the frozen landscape — only the odd fox or deer darting hither and thither in search of food and kites hovering in the icy skies as they kept watch for an unwary mouse. It was no time for campaigning, with icicles hanging from the battlements and the air so cold it hurt a man to breathe.

‘Babur, pay attention. There is something I need to discuss with you. Your mother and I are agreed that it is time you were married. You are seventeen years old. But, more important than that, the right match will strengthen your position.’

Esan Dawlat was looking at him triumphantly. ‘It has all been arranged — in principle, at least. Your mother and I started to plan while we were captive. As soon as we were freed, I began to sound out potential alliances for you, and two days ago a messenger brought me good news. The offer of marriage that, above all, I hoped would prosper has been accepted. If you are content — and I can’t think of a reason in the world why you shouldn’t be delighted — you may ride to claim your bride as soon as the snows begin to melt.’

Babur stared at her, open-mouthed, unable to think of any response — not even to ask who the girl was that his masterful grandmother had so thoughtfully obtained for him.

The air was still cold, but the patches of bright green beyond the walls of Shahrukiyyah were growing bigger as winter retreated. The excitement in the women’s quarters was unbearable — Khanzada in particular could talk of nothing but his coming marriage, Babur thought moodily, as he walked across the courtyard from the stables where he had been inspecting his horses. Their winter feed had left them thin and irritable. The hoofmarks where they’d kicked at the wooden slats penning them in showed their impatience to be galloping over the hills again. Babur sympathised. He felt exactly the same.

In fact, he felt more than impatient. He was angry. Members of royal houses married for political, not personal, reasons and alliances were important — he had known that since boyhood. Even as a baby, potential betrothals had been spoken of for him, some even formalised. But with his father’s death and the ebb and flow of his fortunes, they had fallen away. Since then, he had assumed that when the time came to take a wife he would settle matters for himself. Instead, his grandmother and mother were treating him like a callow youth, not a king, arranging things slyly between themselves and presenting him with a fait accompli. Esan Dawlat seemed to expect to be congratulated whereas, much as he loved and respected her, he felt like wringing her neck.

But seeing his mother’s quiet joy, after all she had been through, and listening to her explain that her marriage with his father had been arranged solely for political reasons but had turned into a perfect union, Babur couldn’t see how he could protest. And at heart he knew he shouldn’t. The two women were right: he needed the extra support a strong alliance sealed by marriage would bring. The pair had, as all his advisers insisted, chosen and negotiated well, even if they had taken his name in vain in the process. Wazir Khan’s smile and lack of surprise when Babur told him what was planned betrayed more than a hint that he, at least, had been consulted at an early stage.

In just a few days, he would have to set out for the province of Zaamin, seven days’ ride to the south-west on the southern borders of Ferghana, where the marriage was to take place. The bride they had found for him was Ayisha, eldest daughter of Ibrahim Saru, the leader of the Mangligh clan and ruler of Zaamin. Ayisha was two years his senior. What would she look like? Would she have the fine-boned grace of the grand vizier’s daughter, or had they found him a foul-breathed camel? Babur shrugged. The important thing was that Ibrahim Saru was a powerful chieftain who, until this moment, had shrewdly taken no side. From now on his troops — especially his renowned crossbowmen — would be at Babur’s command in his campaign to revive his fortunes. In view of that, as Esan Dawlat kept telling him, it mattered little what the girl looked like. His young blood would allow him to fulfil his nocturnal duties more than satisfactorily and, of course, he could take more wives or concubines later.

As Babur entered his mother’s apartments, there was no sign of either Kutlugh Nigar or Esan Dawlat but Khanzada was on her knees, picking through some trinkets she had tipped from a little wooden casket on to the floor. ‘Shall I give these to Ayisha? Do you think she’d like them?’ She held out a pair of long filigree earrings, the fine gold wire studded with tiny red rubies and, at the bottom, a row of pearls that trembled.

‘As you wish.’ Babur shrugged. His own gifts to his bride — rolls of flowered silk, sacks of spices, a set of heavy gold necklets and armlets that had belonged to the royal house of Ferghana for centuries — had been selected by his mother and grandmother and sent to Zaamin three weeks ago under escort. To his prospective father-in-law he had sent gold coins, a fine stud ram and a pair of perfectly matched black stallions with white fetlocks that had cost him a pang to part with.

The bride price Babur had paid was all he could afford in his current circumstances. It wasn’t much for a chieftain of Ibrahim Saru’s standing. Babur wondered again why he had agreed to the marriage. He must believe that Babur would not be long without a throne. Doubtless he would like to see his daughter a queen and to be grandfather to Babur’s heirs. And who could blame him? Ambition was a fine thing.

‘Or perhaps these?’ Khanzada’s dark hair tumbled around her as she continued to search through her jewels.

Suddenly Babur was ashamed of himself. Khanzada had had little to enjoy in recent times, it should please him to see her so happy for him — and so generous and open-hearted. Also, she was older than Ayisha — they should be thinking about a husband for her. When he was again King of Ferghana he would arrange a good match for her, he promised himself, and consult her about it more than he had been consulted about his own marriage.

Two weeks later, Babur watched as, wrapped in fur-lined cloaks against the still biting winds, Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and Khanzada climbed into a high-wheeled, covered bullock cart. It was well lined with cushions and sheepskins, while crimson leather hangings screened them from public view. The horns of the four white bullocks pulling it had been gilded, and the yokes above their broad, muscular necks were painted blue and gold.

Babur mounted his favourite horse, a dark-maned chestnut, which, sensing the excitement, skittered and pranced. It felt good to be in the saddle again and Babur gave the horse an affectionate slap on its shining neck. He had ordered Baisanghar to remain at Shahrukiyyah with a strong garrison while he took Wazir Khan and an escort of five hundred well-armed men with him. News of the wedding would have spread and eyes — some hostile — would be observing their progress as they passed southwards towards Zaamin. But with a force of that size and teams of scouts and outriders, Babur was satisfied there was little risk of an ambush.

Wazir Khan had been exchanging some final words with Baisanghar on the wall above the gatehouse. Now he began to make his way down the steep, uneven stairs to the courtyard, where a groom was struggling to keep hold of his horse as it stamped and snorted with pent-up energy. With what difficulty Wazir Khan was moving compared to even a year ago, Babur thought. He would take that limp to the grave.

At last, with the bullock cart trundling behind, Babur and Wazir Khan rode slowly down the castle ramp and out into the meadow beyond, where the escort was already waiting with the supply wagons drawn by mules carrying the tents, food and the equipment they would need to make camp. And, of course, the chests of wedding clothes and yet further gifts for his new wife’s family, including a yellow-eyed hawk for his father-in-law.

As the procession wound its way slowly south, it was some time before the farewell salute of the drums on the battlements of Shahrukiyyah finally faded to be replaced by the creaking of wood, the rumble of wheels, the jingling of harnesses, the grunting of pack animals and a new rhythm of many hoofs thudding on soft spring turf.

Every day, the cordon of warriors posted by Wazir Khan around the convoy kept careful watch, but nothing stirred in the quiet valleys and meadows except flocks of sheep, the ewes swollen-bellied with the lambs that would soon be born. Sometimes, restless at the slow pace and nervous at what lay ahead, Babur galloped off with a small escort.

He enjoyed the sting of the wind on his face. He hadn’t felt this free since before his father had died. At this moment, the loss of Samarkand, the betrayal in Ferghana didn’t seem to matter so much. The burden of his responsibilities — his obligations to others, duties to be fulfilled and ambitions to be achieved — which at times oppressed him — seemed to roll away. It was like the coming of spring when, after months of being enveloped in heavy sheepskins, he could shrug them off and feel the warm sun on his back. Crouching low over his horse’s neck, Babur allowed his mind to go blank, blotting out all the things that — at this moment — he just didn’t want to think about.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, when Babur was again riding sedately beside the bullock cart and they were approaching the lower slopes of a hill, a line of dark-robed riders appeared on the skyline. At once Wazir Khan raised his leather-gauntleted hand to signal a halt.

‘What do you think, Wazir Khan? Is it them? The Manglighs?’ Babur squinted, but couldn’t make out any distinguishing features — no banners no flags. The riders were sitting very still, just watching.

‘Probably, Majesty. We must be approaching the borders of their territories. But we should see what our advance guard report.’

‘Yes. Also, send out further scouts and draw the convoy into a defensive position.’

Babur watched the dozen warriors picked out by Wazir Khan gallop off, swords at their sides, battleaxes strapped to their saddlebags but within easy reach, and left arms thrust through the leather straps of their round shields that, till now, had been tied to their backs. The last two were also carrying spears. It was as well to be prepared. Realising that the women must be wondering what was going on, Babur trotted over to the bullock cart and, leaning from his horse, thrust his head inside the leather curtains. ‘There are riders ahead, probably Ibrahim Saru’s men but we must be certain. We are waiting for our scouts to return but in the meantime we are making ready to defend ourselves.’ His mother and Khanzada were dozing but Esan Dawlat, bright-eyed and alert, nodded. ‘It is well. Take no chances.’

In a matter of minutes, Wazir Khan had sent archers to conceal themselves behind trees and rocks, had the supply wagons drawn in a circle around the bullock cart and had positioned the remainder of the troops in a defensive perimeter around them. But, as they waited, time seemed to pass so slowly. Babur strained his ears, trying to catch any sound borne on the wind. There was nothing until a discordant jangling of bells announced the arrival of a herd of shaggy goats on the hillside above them. The boy driving them took one horrified look at what he had stumbled on and, waving his staff, hastily kicked and drove his goats out of sight again.

At last Babur’s men came galloping back. Behind them were the dark-clad riders, faces swathed against the wind. All must be well. As the riders came closer, Babur saw on one of their pennants the red hawk that was the symbol of the Manglighs. He rode a few paces forward, then reined in his chestnut and waited for the strangers to approach.

‘Greetings, Babur of Ferghana.’ The leading rider bent forward in his saddle by way of salute. As the powerfully built man unwound his black face-cloth, Babur saw his thick dark beard, wide cheekbones and above them a pair of penetrating, very long dark eyes, strangely flecked with amber. He looked about forty. ‘I am Ibrahim Saru, chieftain of the Manglighs. I bid you and your family welcome. Today you are my guests and tomorrow, Babur, you will become my son.’ Though he spoke Turki, the language of Babur’s people, his accent made the words sound strange. The Manglighs had originally come from Persia — perhaps Persian was still their native tongue.

Babur returned the bow. ‘Thank you. You honour us.’

‘Our encampment is two hours south from here. We have been waiting and watching for you. I came in person because I wished to be the first to greet you.’

Babur bowed again and kicking his horse followed Ibrahim Saru slowly up the hill.

The round tent in which he had spent the night was quite well furnished, Babur thought critically, his gaze wandering over the red and blue woven hangings that covered the ten-foot-high walls of stitched, cured hides. Candles burned in brass holders cast to resemble coiled snakes, their bases set with chunks of gold-speckled lapis-lazuli. The soft dark blue cushions on which Babur was resting his head were embroidered with thick gold thread that tickled the back of his neck, and his mattress was a sumptuous bag of what felt like duck down, covered in a thick, slippery brocade. The tent floor was spread with furs.

It was crude, of course, compared with Samarkand, but Ibrahim Saru had gone to great trouble to set up such an elaborate camp to which to welcome his guests. The night before, as they had ridden in, the lines of tents — pennants in the yellow of Ferghana flying from those set up for Babur’s men and, in their centre, his own much larger ceremonial tent — had been an impressive sight. No doubt exactly as Ibrahim Saru had intended.

From the light creeping in through the entrance flaps, closed with engraved metal clasps, Babur guessed it must be well past dawn. He thought back to last night’s feast of buttered rice, lamb, root vegetables and heady liquor in Ibrahim Saru’s tented audience chamber with its elaborate awnings and carpeted walkway leading to the entrance. Babur would much rather have spent the evening with Esan Dawlat, Kutlugh Nigar and his sister in the women’s tents but, of course, that had been impossible. Instead he had politely watched the antics of jugglers, fire-eaters and supplelimbed acrobats, and the gyrations of a troupe of plump dancing girls whose eyes had looked boldly into his as they shook their full breasts and hips. Later, he had sat smiling as his own and Ibrahim’s men had danced and sung together, pledging each other’s health as the brothers-in-arms they were soon to be, until eventually, fuddled with wine, they had slumped to the floor to sleep.

Babur, who could usually drink as much as any man, had drunk little, hoping that Ibrahim Saru would talk to him of their coming alliance. There was much to discuss. With his father-in-law’s help, he could storm Akhsi and regain his throne in weeks, not months, he was sure. Then there was the small matter of throwing his cousin Mahmud out of Samarkand. But Ibrahim Saru had made only polite small-talk and Babur deciding it would be discourteous to talk of war on such an occasion had reluctantly curbed his tongue.

Throwing back the fur coverlet, beneath which he had slept only fitfully, Babur got up. At this thought of what lay ahead he allowed himself a quick sigh. He felt impatient with himself as well as with his situation. At this moment he’d have given anything to be leading his men into combat rather than having to marry an unknown young woman. But he was a king, a conqueror, a warrior, and he was also now a man. How often during his wild days had he not lain at night on hard ground beneath cold skies thinking of the soft, warm bodies of women?

Why had he not summoned one to him? He couldn’t say for certain. Perhaps it was the prudishness of an only son who lacked a father. Perhaps a disinclination to father a child in his circumstances? Perhaps a consciousness of his dignity preventing him associating with the available women or a wish not to let such women get close to him — other princes before him had been ruled and ruined by unsuitable women. But tonight he would finally discover how it felt to hold and possess a woman. He should be glad.

Babur clapped his hands for the four attendants his father-in-law had pressed on him as a courtesy. This was his wedding day and he must observe the proprieties. He could already hear them murmuring outside the tent, and at his signal they entered, throwing back the tent flaps and letting the sunlight stream in.

Babur’s wedding clothes — trousers of soft doeskin, a tunic of yellow silk, belted with the heavy gold chain his father had worn on his wedding day, and a long coat of bronze brocade — had been unpacked the night before and were draped over a dome-lidded chest. A high, dark blue velvet cap, sewn with tiny pearls by Khanzada and with a crest of eagles’ feathers was on a nearby stool.

Two hours later, after bathing in water heated over hot stones in the bath tent and allowing his attendants to rub his body down with bundles of fresh herbs, brush and perfume his long hair and dress him in his finery, Babur was ready. As he stepped into the sunshine, the eagle feathers in his cap sent long shadows dancing over the ground as he moved.

Suddenly shrill cries rose from the other side of the encampment. ‘From the women’s quarters, Majesty,’ said an attendant, seeing Babur’s puzzlement. ‘They are bidding farewell to the bride, just as in a few hours she must bid farewell to her virginity.’ The women’s voices gathered intensity, becoming almost a screech. It wasn’t a pleasant sound — not at all like the joyous singing heard in the villages of Ferghana when a marriage was taking place. It was more like a lament.

Babur was glad to see a finely dressed Wazir Khan duck out of the low entrance to his tent pitched beside Babur’s. ‘Greetings, Majesty, on your wedding day.’ Wazir Khan’s one-eyed gaze was warm and Babur felt grateful he would be at his side. ‘Have you eaten, Majesty?’

‘I’m not hungry. I’ve just drunk some water.’

Babur saw understanding in Wazir Khan’s expression.

‘Our guard will soon be here to escort you to the wedding tent.’

‘Wazir Khan. .’ Babur wasn’t sure what he wanted to say and before he could even think, the sound of drums and trumpets filled the air, drowning the women’s eerie wailing, and he saw Wazir Khan’s men approaching in a double line, wearing the bright yellow of Ferghana and preceded by his own musicians. A groom was leading Babur’s chestnut horse, splendidly caparisoned with a yellow saddlecloth, yellow ribbons woven into its mane and tail and a bridle set with yellow tiger’s eyes.

Babur climbed into the saddle and allowed his men to lead him to the same tented chamber in the centre of the camp where, last night, he had feasted and where Ibrahim Saru and his daughter now awaited him. As Babur dismounted, the black-clad Mangligh guards outside the tent saluted him. Slowly, and in a blare of trumpets, he made his way to where Ibrahim Saru, dressed in dark purple velvet, was waiting to greet him.

To one side, separated off by a three-foot-high latticed wooden screen, were the ladies of Ibrahim Saru’s court. The lower halves of their faces were veiled but above the filmy gauze, their dark eyes, elongated and thickly lashed, were examining him with frank curiosity. In their centre, in places of honour, he saw his grandmother, mother and sister. Esan Dawlat was sitting very erect, a blue shawl embroidered with gold stars clasped tight round her head and shoulders. Kutlugh Nigar, in a loose yellow silk tunic and with several long strands of pearls hanging round her neck, was looking proudly at him while Khanzada’s eyes — far rounder than those of the Mangligh women — were shining.

In the centre of the vast tent, seated on a golden cushion on a maroon-carpeted dais his bride was waiting. A brazier of charcoals scented with incense was burning in front of her so she was concealed not only by the heavy cream veils, falling from beneath a cap of golden cloth, but by wisps of smoke spiralling into the air, drawn upwards by the open flap in the roof. As Babur walked up to her, Ayisha remained motionless, betraying no awareness that Babur, so soon to be her husband, was standing before her. He wished he could see her expression.

The trumpets faded, and for a moment there was complete silence.

‘Ayisha!’ At her father’s voice, the girl rose. She was tall but whether fat or thin, gracefully proportioned or clumsily built, Babur couldn’t tell, though he caught a brief glimpse of long feet elaborately hennaed in diamond patterns.

‘Come.’ Ibrahim Saru motioned to Babur to step on to the dais and face his bride. Next, he gestured to his daughter to give him her right hand from beneath her veils. Taking it, he placed it in Babur’s right hand. Ayisha’s hand was cool and dry.

A tall, black-clad, white-bearded mullah stepped forward and in a deep, resonant voice half sang, half spoke what Babur assumed must be prayers or benedictions. Though he listened carefully, he couldn’t recognise the tongue in which the man was speaking. It must be Persian. As the priest finally came to an end and stepped back, prayer book clasped to his chest, Ibrahim Saru flung a fistful of grain over the young couple. A chorus of roaring male voices rose, filling the tent, and fistful after stinging fistful of grain was suddenly flying through the air. The Mangligh women began to ululate, high and piercing, like a flock of birds in flight.

Ayisha turned to Babur. He smiled and hoped for some sign from her, but after a moment she pulled her hand from his and stepped down from the dais. At once the Mangligh women rose from behind their screen and surging forward swooped on Ayisha. To Babur’s astonishment, shrieking with merriment, they began pulling her cream veils from her, spinning her round and round and ripping at the fragile cloth.

What were his family and his chiefs making of all this? Babur saw Wazir Khan standing near the entrance to the tent, his expression as nonplussed as Babur knew his own must be. Still seated decorously behind the screen, Khanzada had allowed her jaw to drop in frank amazement while Esan Dawlat and Kutlugh Nigar were gazing fixedly ahead, as if too well bred to notice such bizarre happenings.

Ayisha was still half cocooned as musicians, with long brass pipes, cymbals, bells and taut-skinned drums, suddenly struck up. The women stepped back from her and began to sing, clap and stamp, beating out the rhythm with their hands and feet. Babur realised that the men had drawn right back against the walls of the tent and that the women had formed a human barrier around the bride so that she was visible only to him and to her father. Now Ayisha started to dance, sinuously twisting and turning until the last of her draperies, except the veil concealing the lower half of her face, fell away.

Babur saw a pair of coal-dark eyes flicker over him. Her hair, instead of hanging free, was plaited and coiled round her small head. Her long body, in dark purple trousers gathered at the ankles, a tight-fitting bodice that left her midriff bare and a long, filmy coat that fastened at her breast, looked slim and muscular. A dark gem — an amethyst perhaps — sparkled in her navel.

‘Take her. She is yours.’ Ibrahim Saru shoved Babur towards her. ‘The wedding couch waits — go. Enjoy her, then the feast. .’

Seeing his startled expression, his father-in-law laughed. ‘Don’t the princes of Ferghana have fire in their loins?’

Babur flushed and took Ayisha’s hand. Ibrahim Saru flung a cloak around his daughter, clapped twice and the musicians rose. Still playing their wild music, they formed up into two rows.

‘They will play you to your marriage bed. My nobles and I will follow you.’ Ibrahim Saru was beaming broadly.

Babur’s head throbbed as the caterwauling musicians led the wedding procession out of Ibrahim Saru’s magnificent tent into the sunlight. The wedding tent, pitched close to the women’s quarters, was gaudy with flags and pennants in the yellow of Ferghana and the black and red of Zaamin. Not a pleasant combination, Babur thought.

The musicians fanned out, taking up positions at either side of the entrance. Attendants in red and black knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground as Babur led Ayisha inside. The large tent was sumptuously carpeted but barer than Babur had expected. At its centre was a thick mattress covered with a pale, flowered silk sheet that glimmered in the light shed by two huge candelabra on either side. Over the mattress was a rectangular wooden frame hung with curtains lined with squirrel fur which could be pulled all the way round to screen the bed. And that was all. No chests, mirrors or stools.

Babur barely had time to take it in before giggling women were leading Ayisha to the mattress and drawing the curtains around her so that she was hidden from view. A moment later and male attendants were pulling at his clothes. Babur fought the impulse to lash out at the eager, questing fingers lifting his cap from his head, untying his coat and tunic, unfastening his trousers and drawing off first one boot, then the other. In a few moments he was naked. The attendants draped a silk robe round him, then began to call out. Babur couldn’t understand what they were saying but guessed they must be speaking to the women who hastily came out from behind the curtains and, eyes averted, hurried from the tent. The male attendants followed, closing the tent flaps tightly behind them.

He and Ayisha were alone. For a moment he hesitated. Then, letting the robe drop to the floor, he approached the mattress and pulled apart the curtains. Ayisha was lying naked, her hair still tightly bound but the soft curves of her body fully open to his view. Her slender arms and long, slim legs were decorated with the same elaborately hennaed patterns Babur had glimpsed on her feet. Her nipples had been painted crimson and ringed with circles of henna. She was eyeing his own nakedness with what seemed to Babur unnerving coolness. What was she thinking? His scars at least showed he was no mere boy but a warrior who had shed blood.

Babur lowered himself beside her and lay so that their bodies were close but not quite touching. After a moment — saying nothing because he was unsure what to say — he placed a gentle, exploratory hand on the warm 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.