Dissent: Love Vanquishes All, #2

PART ONE

Détente

One

The Senegal River Valley

The Jolof Kingdom

West Africa

1565

Five small boats navigated up the slow-moving river to their inland destination. Huralt, a royal envoy from the court of French monarch Charles-IX, sat in the middle craft, guarded fore and aft by armed compatriots in the other four. His mind raced and refused to calm itself as flashes of past, real events tussled for dominance with future, imagined ones on its busy canvas. The foray into establishing trade directly between France and this land had been in the making for quite some time. The venture had been the dream of Henri-II but had died as he had when he’d succumbed to injuries inflicted during a jousting tournament five years earlier. Then the surprise death of his successor and eldest son, François, months later, halted all negotiations. Huralt blinked as he relived witnessing the horrific accident, the drawn-out, painful demise of his sovereign, and then the unexpected passing of his heir.

The dead monarch’s queen, Catherine de’ Medici, who’d become governor of France and regent for the next in line to the throne, the royals then ten-year-old minor son Charles, had finally shaken off her mourning after many years and had decided to resume anything left undone at the time of her husband’s death. Her first task had been the brooming of his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, from her sight. She removed the duchesse from the fairytale-like château Chenonceau to the feudal fortress of château Chaumont. Other tasks had involved arranging advantageous marriages for her many children. Being regent had granted her sweeping powers, which she still tried to exert, even though her regency had ended two years prior. She’d eased her grip on her son a bit, now that he was fifteen years old and king in his own right. Together they turned to the final task – the revival of trade talks with an African sovereign amenable to their building of an outpost in his land. It was a move that would be a tribute to her husband and a way of signaling France’s might to neighboring European kingdoms that had already made lucrative inroads into commerce there.

Portugal led the pack with Spain, the Netherlands, and England following. All had trading companies and/or forts in the region and competed so fiercely that they were always butting up against each other and fighting. France was woefully behind and playing catch-up would not be a lark.

Huralt’s mission was to reopen dialogue. He crossed himself. Thanks to the intrepid, multi-lingual clergy of those other countries, there was a Wolof interpreter, and convert to Roman Catholicism amongst these people who knew his language - the Wolof. At least they were not the Serer, a people who were known to slay any outsider, on the spot, who set foot on their land, let alone anyone daring to seek discourse. The Portuguese had learned their lesson the hard way years before and completely avoided the Serer now. That population remained unmolested for the moment as Portugal’s needs were safely being met by others.

The second scene playing in his head was of himself, overly dressed, sitting in an audience trying to bargain, through a go-between, with an obstinate ruler in the sweltering heat. He’d done it once before and dreaded re-enacting the scene. The initial journey here had been hellish and had gotten no better this time around. What would be an ideal end to this pending meeting? An agreement of course with this king. Huralt had heard from other European countries’ agents that this king hungered for a trade arrangement too, having lost stature and wealth in a recent war. Huralt hoped he might be easy to sway. But anything could happen, and a less positive outcome could result. He shuddered and crossed himself again. He did not want to even consider having to return for a third round of talks.

Heavenly Father! Grant this endeavor a perfect end, he mumbled. Or at least end my part in it. I beseech Thee.

The spent Frenchman glanced up at the sun and frowned. He mopped the sweat from his face and neck with a lace-trimmed square. Regarding the soaked mess, he shrugged and then tossed the useless item over the side of the boat into the murky water. Mesmerized, he watched as the impractical fabric was gobbled up by the current. Breathing out in a slow, exaggerated measure, he raised an arm, drew a more absorbent, sleeve across his forehead, and relaxed, letting the river carry him toward his country’s next triumph or folly.

Having ridden to the city on horses provided at the boats’ debarkation point, the French envoy and his escorts, accompanied by members of the Jolof king’s cavalry, gained the settlement. It was situated in the middle of a vast, dry, sandy savannah dotted with baobab trees and drought-resistant greenery, a mostly flat terrain with the occasional low hills conducive to raising cattle. The site had been chosen for its position near the river. It was comprised of over three hundred households. As this settlement housed the king and was the political and religious hub of the nation, in addition to its ruler, it also housed the nobility. A nobility who were raised to serve, and to live for, their Buur ba but were, in turn, served by a sea of servants and slaves who catered to their every need. The simple task of fetching water and gathering wood for cooking for a household took a small, organized army.

Approaching the site this second time still amazed Huralt. The city was surrounded by, and protected against attacks by, an immense, high, thick wall of sunbaked mud, nearly sixty thousand meters long, and was reinforced with wood supports. As the galloping riders neared the gate, the gatekeepers in the towers on either side of it, raised it using a pulley system. Not built to impress but instead to bar, it was of simple design. The gate was so huge that it was immeasurable to Huralt’s eyes as he passed under it. Composed of solid planks of the hardest African rosewood, it was built to deter intruders but also to tire them out, as hacking through it would take considerable time and effort. Several more gates of this construction were at points on the wall around the city and inside the city itself.

Now beyond the first gate, the group trotted through an endless maze of streets and passageways that separated the individual compounds of each noble house. As this was a sizeable city, this layout was duplicated many times over in a checkerboard grid. At times a passageway would open onto a bigger path that in turn would open into a courtier’s courtyard with its cadre of necessities. This pattern repeated itself so many times that as the parade snaked deeper and deeper into the fortress, Huralt almost fell asleep in the saddle. They crossed the threshold at one last gate, this time tended by the Royal Guard. Everyone was ordered to dismount at one of those guards’ commands. The regular cavalry remained behind with the horses. Huralt and his men now followed members of the Royal Guard on foot. Weaving through two more walled galleries adorned with mahogany and ebony carved masks, the stalwart crew reached their destination – the royal enclosure. Shielded from unworthy eyes by a fifteen-foot-high fence fabricated of braided elephant grass and propped up by poles fashioned from fig trees, the gigantic square boasted the palace, the royal wives’ quarters, a market serving those living there, servants’ quarters, storehouses, and a shrine.

Huralt squinted, and then sighed with relief when he caught sight of a familiar figure. The person was standing in front of the open-air receiving chamber in the shade of an ancient, majestic palaver tree. Setting his sighting on him, Huralt bid his comrades be at ease and then strode rapidly toward the man, right hand outstretched in greeting.

We meet again, the Frenchman said to the familiar face acknowledging him. It seems like an age since we last spoke.

Greetings. Your mind is not playing tricks. Much time has passed, his Wolof counterpart replied in French while shaking the man’s hand.

If my memory serves me correctly, you are Lord Yoro?

Yes, I am. And if I recall, you are Monsieur l’Ambassadeur Huralt?

Yes, I am. We can recall each other’s names, so it has not been too long, and we are not too old. Huralt pulled at his cloying doublet and set it more presentably. I am prepared.

Before we proceed, I must alert you of a change of heart on my ruler’s part.

Huralt felt his stomach twist. A change of heart? What sort?

My king says if you want to do business with this realm an open-ended trial period is required.

The diplomat saw Huralt’s eye twitch as if someone were poking the man in a tender spot with a stick.

Yoro waited on the man’s reply. He was as weary as the visitor. A Wolof of the freeborn, elite class, Yoro was from a prominent lineage and had been pressed into diplomatic service as an interpreter due to his skill in foreign tongues. He was a tower of a man with the physique of a warrior; he was the darkest brown in hue, with eyes to match, bearded with black, elaborately groomed long ropes of hair. Having been assigned the tasks of learning all he could about the foreigners who’d sail to their land, he’d immersed himself in mastering their languages. He’d even followed instruction in Roman Catholicism, all of it taught by the Jesuits who’d accompanied the Portuguese traders and had been the few clerics tolerated by the royals here. Yoro had excelled in his studies and naturally handled all foreign trade queries coming their way. He stood, reliving in his mind when he’d first tried to bargain with the envoy before him, but the deal had dissolved. Then there had been a war in this land. A battle waged to maintain his country’s hold on the surrounding subject-states.

The war had taken its toll. And having been on the losing end of the conflict, his land - the defeated Jolof Empire - had lost its powerful grip on at least five subject-states and had been reduced to the land-locked Jolof Kingdom. The formerly dependent subject-states had gained much, especially the Kingdom of Cayor. It was situated downriver, one of its borders being the Atlantic Ocean. The position of this formerly friendly state hindered the inland-situated Jolof Kingdom’s access to frequent European contact and trade. The new power was, literally and figuratively, an obstacle to their ability to prosper. When the Jolof Kingdom had been the Jolof Empire, it had built wealth by collecting tribute from its former subject-states. That income was no longer forthcoming; the Kingdom needed additional revenue streams to replenish its treasury and to regain some degree of glory. So, the Buur ba Jolof was keen to rekindle talks with France but was proceeding with caution and conditions.

Trial period? Huralt’s voice rose a register. Why?

Because we have never dealt with you before. You would be a new venture. We see how others from your part of the world conduct business. Sometimes not in a mutually satisfying way. Agreements are not always honored. We need to be able to end an arrangement when it is no longer advantageous.

A rapid, loud exchange broke out between the aged, but sturdy, ruler seated on the ceremonial throne and the court griot next to him.

Pardon me, Yoro said. I am needed.

The younger man turned and entered the three-sided chamber and approached his elders. The three engaged in terse dialogue with Yoro nodding his head in tight, brief dips.

Huralt took a seat on the ground before the heat knocked him there. His escorts crouched and looked quizzically at each other while listening to the envoy.

Dear comrades, I do not know why we are here. It appears as if the concept of negotiation was never considered. I have been handed a demand instead. This king is demanding an open-ended trial period. That does not bode well for us. We could linger here, debating about a permanent deal. But if we acquiesce to this sort of demand, who knows how long it will take for our country to establish a tangible presence here?

Hearing that, I fear the same, said one of Huralt’s countrymen. I say we wait. See what the terms are. If they seem implausible…Then we must gird ourselves to find a more willing kingdom with which to do business.

You speak the truth, Huralt replied while shooing away a buzzing insect.

The Buur ba ended his conversation abruptly with a single, loud syllable. The griot seconded with a similar sound. Yoro bowed, back stiff, jaw tight, and returned to the visitors.

The king is adamant. A trial period or nothing.

While pondering the demand, Huralt eyed the monarch, who sat with arms crossed against his chest, looking self-satisfied. No matter the heritage, monarchs are the same everywhere. The Frenchman stood, shook out his legs, and hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I must say I feel quite incidental here. Seems I am simply here to receive the specifics. So, let me hear what this trial period will consist of while we, for want of a better term…woo one another?"

Yoro laughed and slapped Huralt’s shoulder. Impatient suitor, are you? Well, to start, you’ll receive the yield from our gum trees. Some precious metals. All leading up to your true goal - the selection of land for an outpost. Do not deny it. That is what they all want who travel here. But that will be discussed in due time. We expect commodities from you. Firearms to begin with. And all that goes with them.

What else? Huralt asked. From the animated nature of your exchange with your sovereign, something else was discussed. And you looked none too happy about it.

Yoro sputtered a bit. You do know our language?

Only a few words, but I am familiar with that crackle in the atmosphere when a sovereign is making a decree. What has yours decreed?

Yoro swallowed.

"I should have known it would come to this as I am the most qualified. My king has decided that when you depart, I go with you. I am to assess your land, your court, and see if this new bond would be truly worth our effort. Pass all the criteria, then and only then, will your most coveted desire be fulfilled."

Ha! escaped Huralt without care. "Now that is novel. I call tell you right this instant before you set foot on the ship that will not settle well on the shoulders of my monarch and his mother."

"It is the only way it can proceed. Remember. You sought us out."

Huralt ran a hand back and forth across his chin. His compatriots grumbled, rose, and paced behind him. True. He sucked his teeth. What is the proposed length of this trial period, might I ask? Huralt casts a humorless smile at the Jolof rule, then refocused on Yoro. Competing companies abound in your land. France has tarried too long. She lags.

Reject the offer and she will lag even more, Yoro said confidently. "Think. This is your second visit here. Who can say when the chance will present itself again? Do you believe you can woo another king in this region to even entertain you with an audience? People from your corner of the world are stumbling over one another, if not outright killing each other, to secure a place here. And as for the length of the trial period? The length will be for as long as it is not a bother for my country."

Low-level snorts issued from the seated sovereign and his griot.

Deeper grumblings broke out amongst the Europeans.

This king comprehends all. We are being toyed with.

What are we to do?

Leave!

Return empty-handed? No!

Finally, Huralt’s voice broke through the discontent. He motioned Yoro to the side away from his cohorts.

Lord Yoro, these negotiations, if one can call them that, have come to an end. For as much as my queen might like it, I do not relish extended bouts of haggling. You are right. I do not know when a chance would present itself again. He inhaled. But the same holds for you. I know that this realm has lost its luster. I know your king needs this treaty as much as my monarch.

How do you know this?

That is not important. What is important is that we dispense with posturing. Neither of us has time to waste. Exhausted and exasperated, Huralt groaned. "They are not the best terms but tell your king I accept them. Then you and I shall act like the diplomats we are and smooth out any rough edges during the voyage back to France. Agreed?"

Agreed, Yoro replied.

I shall need your sovereign’s mark upon a document I carry.

Leave it with me, replied Yoro, a slight relaxing of his previously drawn features evident. I shall review it.

It is the usual, dense, wordy document. Take your time.

I have seen enough of them in several languages. I am a quick learner. If I require your aid, I shall seek you out.

Huralt laughed and snorted raucously. A quick learner? You will require that skill at the French court. And patience. They are requirements. He looked Yoro up and down, inspecting the man’s thin, but ornately embroidered, cotton attire. You will also require a proper wardrobe. Your present clothing is inadequate.

As is yours I’ve noted, Yoro said. I’ve heard about the clime from which you come. Cold. Snow. Interesting. Yoro reseated the cloth draped over a shoulder causing his silver bracelets to clank and his silver armbands to glint in the light. I shall need wardrobes for my family also. And for those traveling with us.

And how many will that be?

Not many. A score possibly.

A score? Goodness, man! How many wives do you have? Huralt thought of the sea voyage and winced. They’d sailed through some rough conditions. "Blankets will have to do on the ship to fight the cold. Once in France, you’ll be fitted for suitable clothing. And you will pay for it. Huralt winced again. Possibly a score more on board! Also, you must bring as many additional non-perishable foodstuffs as possible to augment the ship’s food stores. We are stretched as is."

I’ve made a note of that. Yoro frowned. The open sea. What is it like?

Perilous. Invigorating. You have concerns?

Yes. And to answer your question, I have but one wife and two children. I am worried about how they will fare. They have only been in a small craft on a river.

Can you not leave them here? Must they accompany you?

They must come with me. I do not know how long this mission will last. I would not leave them behind.

Very well but they will be your concern.

Yoro fixed on his French counterpart. "That is quite dismissive. I would like to believe my concerns would be France’s concerns."

Have I given offense?

No. None taken. I shall take note of your comment though.

Huralt didn’t break the hard stare sent him by the towering tribesman and added, We depart before the month’s end for France. A matter of weeks. Make ready.

He sidestepped Yoro and approached the Buur ba’s throne. The elder’s guards fell in around him.

I mean no harm, Huralt explained, hands aloft. I know you understand me. He bowed to the sovereign. We have an agreement.

The monarch remained silent but signaled with a wave of his hand.

Huralt comprehended the universal royal dismissal and backed away. Sensing he was nearing the exit to the enclosure, he turned and marched through it; his bedraggled, but relieved, compatriots, shadowing him.

Two

But why, my love, why?

Because I have been commanded.

"No. Feign sickness. Feign insanity. Feign anything. I do not want to live in some cold, faraway place. If our Buur ba wants to barter with these people, it can be done without us going there. You are from a noble family. You cannot be ordered about like a pet. Let these people sail here as all the others have. Why must we go?"

I am to be our ruler’s eyes and ears. Yoro stroked his wife’s cheek. He grazed a hand over the closely cropped hair on her head. Dropping his hand to her slender neck, he fingered the stack of gold circlets there. Rama, I know my lineage. I am bound by it. I see it as service. This duty brings honor to our families. Initially, I did not want to go but I had a change of heart. I take pride in standing for our land at that foreign court. I do not know how long my presence will be required but I know that I need you and Awa and Babacar with me. Please understand. He watched her face and marveled that he still felt like a clumsy youth when he gazed into her luminous black eyes. Married nearly fifteen years, the lush, Rama was his confidant, his lover, the mother of his two children, and his only wife. The latter was his preference, besotted as he was with her, and the only possibility since his conversion to Roman Catholicism.

From a sitting position on her heels at his feet, Rama gracefully rose to her knees to press her forehead against his temple and then sat back again, a knowing curve to her lips.

Foolish of me to think you’d shirk a duty. You never have. Never. So why would you start now? Foolish of me yes? But as a wife, as a mother, I had to try. Still, she huffed her distaste. "This, this France…It is so distant. These opened-ended trade terms. Yes, there will be some exchange of goods, Yoro, but it truly is not firm. Our mission could be endless."

"Until, and when, it is seen as beneficial for our people. Rama, our land needs this. We lost much status, much of our wealth with the last war. That is why I am going. We are going."

Yoro, I miss this land already and I’ve yet to depart. I do not know how I shall stand it. Oh, God! She crossed herself absentmindedly, something she’d absorbed from being a convert to Roman Catholicism. Rama was still making her way through that new maze of rituals; there were times she resented it. In times like these, she relied chiefly on the old way of calling on her ancestors for guidance and then would add this new gesture to her prayers when it seemed to serve the occasion. I worry for the children! Especially Awa. They are young. How will they manage?

As we all shall manage. I shall protect you all. He bent and pulled his wife to him. Have no fear. We will be together.

When do we depart?

Within the month. Weeks.

Much to do. Many goodbyes to bid. Rama’s voice trailed off. Tears formed in the inner corners of her eyes.

A temporary goodbye. It will not be forever. This is our home. We shall return. He rubbed his temple against hers and lifted her to her feet. The month’s end will be upon us before we know it. Go now. Prepare for the voyage and send Awa to me as soon as you can.

Hours later, Yoro, seated at his writing-table, was engrossed in the wordy trade document stretched out before him. The desk and chair had been a gift of thanks from Huralt for being the go-between in their first go-round of talks years before. At the sound of footsteps, he lifted his head from the papers to be greeted with the life-brightening smile of his daughter Awa. She fidgeted in the doorway of the room’s cool interior, waiting to be granted admittance.

There you are. He made a welcoming gesture with his hand. Come, dear one. He put aside the document and extended his arms. Awa executed an off-balance curtsy and then rushed into them. Yoro hugged her tightly and arranged her on his lap. What have you been doing all day?

Awa yanked at the slipping knot of her garment with a typical child’s agitation.

Yoro waited patiently.

Having shut out her father’s question until she was sufficiently satisfied with her attire, she then looked up. Watched Mama give orders. Heard Mama give orders. Saw people jump at Mama’s orders.

Yoro tried to stifle a laugh but failed. Yes, your mother is good at that. He quieted for a bit and observed his spitting image. Awa was a tiny, mahogany-toned ball of energy. Deep-brown, quick eyes, a pursed mouth in an oval-shaped face returned her father’s gaze.

Papa?

Oh, yes. Yoro brushed a palm over her nap of black hair. Awa, you like adventures, do you not?

Yes, Papa. Oh, I know. I forgot. Babacar and I went birding today too. It was fun but I let them go.

Why?

I don’t like trapping things that should be free.

Since that adventure has ended would you like to go on another one?

What kind?

On one across the ocean. Our king wants me to go talk with people who live far away.

Why?

To make new friends.

Why? Is he lonely? Doesn’t he like his old friends?

Yoro tickled his girl and bounced her. Ah! My issue is witty! He eased her off his lap and set her on her feet. Awa, you make my heart sing.

Papa?

Yes?

The ocean is bigger than a river?

Correct.

I do not like a lot of water. The ocean is a lot of water. I do not know if I want to go.

But we would be leaving on a grand ship. It can endure much. I, your mother, several people you see every day will be coming with us too.

But how many I see every day will not be coming? Will Babacar come? You did not mention him. Her face dropped a bit, striking out miserably at masking a frown.

Now, now. No long faces. And of course, Babacar is coming. He is your brother!

Attempting a brave aspect, the girl lifted her head and refocused on her father.

Think of it as another adventure, Awa. The sooner we take it; the sooner it will be behind us. Right?

Still not warming to the news, but feeling better at hearing her father’s comforting tone, she responded. Yes. And Papa?

Yes?

I love you.

I love you too, my girl. Yoro grabbed her to him again, squeezing tightly. Now go tell your brother to come here and then help your mother give more orders.

Yoro walked the dusty paths near his home one last time before leaving. The weeks had rushed by like the river bordering the settlement and he, his family, and assembled retinue departed tomorrow. The first leg of the trip would be to navigate downriver in several gaal, practically a fleet of them. Once at the embarkation point, their contents would be loaded onto a moored ship on the coast. After several hours, out they’d go with the tide. And then months at sea. Yoro ticked off the stages in his head as he strolled but was distracted by every sight and sound, he knew he’d not encounter ever at his destination. He’d been keeping up a façade for his family, but deep inside he mourned leaving his country.

Lost in thought, Yoro was shaken from his daydreaming by a pair of boisterous warriors on horseback speeding across the huge square into which he’d ambled. He also found himself face-to-face with an elder courtier. The man, a squat, thick soul in a long, loose white kaftan, had planted himself, along with his attendant, in his path.

So, you leave us tomorrow to go vet those people? inquired the man who resembled a finely worked piece of black leather, and who stood leaning on a walking stick, peering up into Yoro’s face.

Yoro bowed to the older man and felt a fool because he’d not been paying attention and had jumped at his sudden appearance. Straightening, he replied, Good day. Yes, we sail tomorrow.

I hope you do not startle that easily when one of them comes near you. You must stay alert. Use reason. Logic. They respond to that.

No, I do not startle that easily. I was lost in thought, but I shall remember your advice.

The older man abruptly divorced himself from their conversation and turned to his servant. Pointing to the sky above him, he indicated, There. The sun is there.

The previously daydreaming servant quickly tilted the woven grass parasol to block the glare. Apologies, my Lord.

The elder shifted his walking stick and smiled. Much better. Tapping the ground at his feet with the end of his staff, he swiveled back to Yoro, I know you have much on your mind about this mission but please come into my house. Make the time now. Rama will understand. I have nothing tangible to offer you as a going-away present, but I have advice you will find as valuable as gold to take with you on your journey when dealing with those people. Will you come?

Not wanting to insult an elder, not wanting to disgrace his house, Yoro nodded. How could I refuse? He fell in line next to the crabbed man while the servant hoisted the parasol high to shield both their backs as they ambled toward the elder’s dwelling.

Yoro swayed on the deck of the monstrous ship. With its three masts, the wind-powered nef christened L’Obstinée was living up to its name. Riding low in the water and laden with cargo and passengers, it endured severe pitch and yaw. He gripped the overhead rope hold for dear life, grieving the disappearance of the shoreline. With a grave breath out, Yoro turned to face his entourage. His boy, Babacar, sat cross-legged at his statue of a mother’s feet, a look of wonder and dread on his face as he tracked the actions of the sun-burned, hairy crewmen rushing around the planks. Little Awa clutched Rama’s hand tightly and stood close to her. The rest of the retinue were already hurrying to the side to get their footing. This early into the voyage two were already dry heaving. The sight confirmed to Yoro the idea to bring a healer along had been wise. Looking around, he surveyed the organized chaos of the ship. Every crew member was deep into his assigned task, running to and fro, barking commands and fulfilling those commands with grunts and oaths and straining limbs.

Huralt came up behind him and tapped his shoulder.

We should all go below and let the crew do what they must. You and I can converse more civilly instead of shouting over this din.

Agreed.

Huralt zig-zagged away to prepare a space.

Yoro’s rich voice sounded out over the noise. There. Go through there. He waved an arm indicating for his group to exit the deck through the companionway. Watching as they vacated, he wrapped his robes about him and pondered aloud.

At least three months on this vessel. Scant room for all aboard. Bad weather is a certainty. How we shall be received once at our destination an uncertainty. I might have been mistaken. How will it all work?

A day at a time, my love, said Rama who’d found her footing, and her voice, and now stood before him.

But how, Rama? How? I have taken on much.

As I said. From one sunrise to the next. Besides, you are our ruler’s agent. Not our ruler. You can only convey his will. She handed Awa off to him and guided Babacar to the hatch by a firm hand on his shoulder. Now let us get the children below.

Le Havre

France

Le Havre. Port city at the mouth of the Seine in Normandy. Yoro had heard of this place from the traveling priests who’d come to his land. Nearly four months. It had taken the ship that long to reach here. Standing on the dock, he stretched and observed his surroundings. His first impressions? It had the similarities of his continent’s port cities. The scent of fish confirmed that. It also had the sight of sea-faring vessels being attended by bustling hordes of seamen, the babel of foreign tongues, and the sounds of commerce. The differences were the strong winds agitating the edges of his clothing and its bite. And the scores of captives. Black captives from the kingdoms of Africa, chained together, being herded like the goats at home. One chained group of men, women, and children sat on the dock not far from him. The women! The children! All of them! From where Yoro stood, he could see from their tribal markings and/or their grooming that some were Igbo, Yoruba, Fulani, and Hausa. As much as he’d complained about how unrelenting the sun could be at home, he wished it would shine its constancy on them now.

There were three types of slaves in his country. What kind were these to be? Where were these souls being taken? What was their purpose once they got to their destinations? If for servitude, were they going to be treated as junior members of a household as at home? Were they going to be given land, and be able to profit from working it? Were they going to be allowed to marry and raise families too? If chosen to serve a royal household somewhere, would they be treated like the royal slaves at home? The slaves at home who demonstrated bravery and skill were sometimes absorbed into the nobility. Sometimes due to their power and worth, they could even play a role in choosing the next Buur ba.

But something nagged at Yoro. It whispered to him that these souls were not going to be any of the above. Something told him their lot was going to be permanent. Humans used for whatever purposes, never to have freedom again or to be seen again. The taking of prisoners after waging war was standard for all nations. That he knew. He had never been a part of dealing in it. He knew former allies with the Jolof Kingdom were amassing wealth rapidly due to augmenting basic trade goods with the trading of war captives. They believed the European traders dealt with war captives the same as they did, therefore the realms had no problem turning over the captives. All they knew was that it was sure income as wars were never-ending. Whatever the truth was, he wanted no part of it. And he feared the day his king would tell him to broker such deals in a bid to boost his nation’s coffers faster. Yoro knew he’d say no. Beads of cold sweat broke out on his brow and he wagged his head to clear it.

A cry went up from the chained ones when one of the Yoruba males managed to escape his bonds as he was being changed out of his shackles. He fought off his jailers and hurled himself into the harbor’s waters. Yoro watched as the man did not resurface, as air bubbles pierced the water’s surface and then stopped.

Go after him, you fool! the head jailer shouted to one of his crew.

Why? one keeper replied. He is gone. I am not risking catching my death for a captive who wanted to die. Besides, there are plenty more where he came from.

Insubordination! I’ll have you removed.

You can but you will not. You have scant takers for this job. You need me to do this work. And I do it well. You want that already dead man? Get him yourself!

The head jailer weighed the man’s words and formed his mouth to answer but stopped himself. He knew the defiant worker spoke the truth; he shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to the remaining chained ones.

Get them better secured. Lose another one and I will reduce your payment, and your ration, next time we go to sea! Round them up. Now!

The defiant keeper smirked in return and began hauling the howling captives up from the dock and lined them up with the aid of the other jailers.

Stupefied, Yoro waved an arm, signaling his group to move closer to him. Pray for the lost one. Pray for them all. It is all we can do. He drew Rama, Babacar, and Awa nearer.

Weaving his way through stacks of cargo on the dock, Huralt reached Yoro and his group. Slightly out of breath, he began haltingly, There… you are… my friend. Catching himself, he bowed to Rama and continued. Carriages will take us to the château de Blois. Several days of travel. Along the way, lodgings have been acquired for all. Once at the palace, there will be a day’s respite to refresh ourselves before our audience with Madame Catherine. Afterward, I shall personally escort you to the residence chosen for you to reside in while here. All has been made ready. It is but a short way from the palace.

Many thanks, Huralt. I pray transport comes soon.

You are welcome, replied the envoy. Looking up the dock at the sound of horses’ hooves on wood, Huralt gushed, Wonderful. Our transport arrives.

Château de Blois

Blois, France

The journey overland was significantly shorter than the sea voyage but took more time than Yoro could tolerate. He and his entourage were tired of conveyances and were close to collapsing. The bobbing ship. The bobbing carriages. The shock at the port. Stopping at inns along the way. The strange, new environs. The demeanor of the people. The children were visibly shaken. Stalwart Rama was exhausted from overseeing everyone to relieve her husband’s load. Arriving at the palace after days on the road, and after his group had been made comfortable in temporary accommodations, Yoro dispensed with protocol and demanded of Huralt to be seen immediately by the queen.

"My friend, this is not done. Madame Catherine is aware that you are here. You have a scheduled time for your formal meeting. A sovereign cannot be…summoned. It is just not done."

If your sovereign wants to see me, she will see me now. I am ready. It will be a short audience. A simple introduction. And then I shall be on my way to my appointed residence. Besides, we know that the real business happens between you and me. Not to be deterred, Yoro took a seat on a bench in the crowded hall outside the audience chamber. I shall wait.

All I can do is request. Huralt mopped his brow and fussed with the pommel of the sheathed rapier at his side.

Please do.

Huralt pushed to the head of the line of courtiers, braving shouts of indignation.

Yoro heard the envoy raise his voice at the guards at the doors and then saw him admitted to the chamber. Yoro sat back and watched noblemen parade by and stare at him. A few retraced their steps to stare again. He closed his eyes and sighed. Time seemed to crawl. He fell asleep and then suddenly, he was being shaken.

"Lord Yoro! Lord Yoro! Madame will see us. Hurry!"

I am ready, the groggy man said, standing and shaking out his robes. Lead the way.

The Salle-des-États-Généraux was the center of all formal activity at the château de Blois. The early afternoon sun streamed through the chamber’s mullioned windows, illuminating the stone-and-brick interior and its crimson, royal blue, and gilt embellishments and the tapestries covering the walls. The two men entered the heavily guarded receiving room as composed as possible and approached the throne.

The Queen Mother, Catherine de’ Medici, was seated in one of two elevated, ornately carved chairs. Her son, King Charles was absent. A corpulent, energetic woman now eternally swathed in black since her husband’s death, Catherine had a dusky complexion, thick brows, bulging eyes, and an ample nose. This daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici was acknowledged for her indisputable intelligence and cunning and not her comeliness. Her mind and her resiliency had served her well on her ascent from princess to dauphine to a queen. And as the two before her bowed, she turned that mind to the business matter at hand.

"Eager, are you not, Lord Yoro? Not at court a day and you must absolutely speak with me. I do not know whether to be offended or flattered.

Yoro stepped forward. Your Majesty, if I may speak.

Is that not why I was summoned?

"Your Majesty, I bring greetings from my Buur ba. He is most eager to proceed with the talks that had been initiated by your late husband, King Henri."

"Proceed with talks. Proceed with talks? Lord Yoro, you do amuse us. From the details I’ve scanned in the altered documents, hurriedly thrust at me by Monsieur Huralt, your Buur ba has bypassed that stage and gone directly to terms. Specific terms. Yes?"

Correct. But they are reasonable terms, I assure you.

Reasonable for whom?

Huralt visibly flinched but interjected, Your Grace, I stand by this man’s word. The terms are sound as to the new wording of the documents.

I hold you to it, Huralt. You stand for this man and his sovereign. I shall honor my part, but if upon closer inspection, anything is not to my liking, I shall change it.

Yes, Your Grace.

Madame Catherine, may I speak again? inquired Yoro.

Yes?

If we agree on all points – your goods for our goods - this should proceed smoothly. This should not require my presence at your court for a great period. Am I correct? We both are aware of our lands’ needs.

Lord Yoro, you are in too much of a rush. You have just landed in this country, and you have not ceased looking homeward. Catherine sat up straight in her chair, the fingers of her right hand drumming the armrest. As crucial as our dealings may be, I shall not be carried along by a current of rashness. Power moves at its own pace. This trade agreement will take all the time it needs to, as you say, proceed smoothly. And your presence will be required every step of the way. This realm has other matters besides this one to address. I suggest you seek calm and acquaint yourself with your new surroundings. Madame Catherine cleared her throat. This audience is ended. Lord Yoro, you shall be taken to your new lodgings. It is quite a beautiful little place not far from here. The château Cher. I like to have those in my sphere close. Good day.

Good day to you, Your Grace, Huralt chirped back. He placed a cautioning hand on Yoro’s forearm, bowing as he stepped backward.

Yoro remained silent and tense, executed the shallowest of bows, turned, and walked out of the chamber.

Once in the corridor, Huralt’s words rushed out. Please refrain from confrontation. One never knows what the consequences will be.

"Friend, I say this without malice. I shall do my part to make all of our dreams come to fruition, but I am here to plead what is best for my nation always. Yoro nodded toward the room from which he’d been shooed. It would do well for everyone involved to keep that in mind. Rubbing his protesting gut, he asked, May we now be on the road? I need to get my family settled and fed and myself familiar with this society."

Château Cher

Blésois region, France

The château Cher was a lovely Gothic keep surrounded by a moat and a low, outer wall. Comprised of a single, five-story tower that acted as the frame for all the rooms attached to it, it sat in the middle of a meadow and had an unfettered view of the countryside. Its five stories held kitchens on the lowest level, the great room and private family spaces on the next two; the fourth and fifth floors were for the other members of Yoro’s retinue and storage.

After a tour of the château, and bidding Huralt adieu, Yoro and Rama found themselves back in the sizeable great room. Rama sought refuge in an upholstered chair with wide armrests that Yoro had pushed close to the sizzling fireplace. The source of warmth in the room spanned more than half of its south wall. From his position behind the chair, Yoro dropped a fur-lined cloak around Rama, a sumptuous gift that she’d found spread across the bed in their chamber along with some woolen hosiery. Rama grasped his hand before he stepped away.

Yoro, I am beginning to feel as overwhelmed as you did on the ship. How will we ever navigate this landscape?

He bent over the back of the chair to speak in her ear.

What? My wife is doubting my mission? Where is the woman who said we’d manage by taking it a day at a time?

No. Not your mission. I am not doubting your ability to carry out your mission. I doubt that you will be able to carry it out, unhampered. Especially after you related the outcome of your audience with this queen. From what I can deduce, that woman plans on keeping us in this prettily decorated cage until she sees fit to release us. Rama settled back in the large seat and folded her legs under her, legs that were both chilled and itchy from her new wool stockings.

You are in a foreign place. It is natural to feel disconnected.

Rama rubbed her hands together. I am freezing. Does it not get warm here?

The fire was just lit. Give it time to build.

Yoro surveyed the chamber closer. The brick floor was covered with scattered Persian rugs. Heavy tapestries hung end to end on the chestnut-paneled walls, and sturdy, upholstered furniture filled the room. All were crafted, and arranged, to seal in the space’s heat.

Rama, we shall be gone from this place sooner than you think. This is the dance sovereigns perform to size up one another.

She ceased watching the flames and tilted her head back to fix on her husband. And we are caught up in it whether we know the steps or not. Rama stood and trudged to the window. Unlatching it, she pushed the stained glass open and called to her children who were in the fallow garden.

Awa, Babacar. Stop running. Stay bundled up. Stay out of the servants’ way. Stay near. We shall eat as soon as the cook can organize something suitable.

Yes, Mother, they answered together and then switched to overturning rocks to reveal squirming insects and to poke at them with sticks.

Rama closed the window and turned from it. So much to unpack. So much to resolve. She continued to wrap and unwrap her cloak as she walked into Yoro’s embrace.

Seeing the agitation on his wife’s face, and feeling how chilled she was, he emphasized his stance. "Duty fulfilled without discomfort is possible."

At that moment, yelling in the garden filtered past the closed window into the room.

The sky is cold! Babacar shouted.

The couple raced to the portal. Upon opening it they saw Awa and Babacar standing still, heads thrown back, mouths gaping wide, tongues stuck out.

It had begun to snow.

Château de Blois

1566

A year into his mission, Yoro, to Rama’s consternation, had started taking the children to court when he was to meet with Madame Catherine. The year had passed swiftly. Fourteen-year-old Awa was blossoming and sixteen-year-old Babacar was sprouting taller by the month. Yoro towed them along to acquaint them with the atmosphere there, and to witness the game of diplomacy. Their bonne, Ngoné, accompanied them and kept an eye on Awa and Babacar while their father was otherwise engaged. Though admired, their popularity at court was not shared by all. They had detractors amongst the nobility’s offspring they’d befriended. Those in their circle who’d flock around them during visits were the same ones who’d gossip about them later. Others who could not abide their presence were incapable of hiding their dislike for them even with all their breeding.

Solange, be kind. It costs you nothing, remarked the brown-haired, blue-eyed youth to his cousin.

Why? I care not for the little she-darkling, the russet-haired girl replied. There is no harm in voicing the truth. Keeps me honest and her in her place. She adjusted her attifet and preened in a small mirror suspended from a chain around her waist. Only you find it necessary to humor her.

Quiet, Solange! She and her brother approach. And regardless of what you profess, I’ve seen your eyes linger on her brother a moment too long. Remember what I said and do not disgrace our good name. Now I must leave. Can you hold your tongue?

I shall try. Where are you off to?

I am needed elsewhere. I shall see you at the evening meal. The young man took his leave.

I hate you, cousin, the girl mouthed as she watched him work a path away from her through a crowded hallway.

The brother and sister strode up to the girl just as she pivoted.

We meet again, Mademoiselle Solange, Babacar remarked.

Fated, I suppose, Glancing at Awa, Solange needled, What’s that you say?

Awa recalled her mother’s advice on how to squash a potential tiff. After mentally counting to ten, she scuttled it and responded. There is no need for me to say anything to you, Solange. Why tax yourself, and me, with small talk?

Sister! Do not be rude!

Never rude, dear brother. Forthright. Awa continued to eye Solange. She and I know how we feel toward one another. Do we not?

We do, Solange replied. Heavens me! We’ve found common ground. Is it possible I could tolerate you?

That would be testing the Fates. Let us not.

We agree again. Frightening. Good day. The red-headed girl glided away on a cloud of self-importance.

Babacar turned to his sister. What am I to do with you?

Awa unfolded her arm from her brother’s. Nothing. I am perfectly fine the way I am. I propose we escape our chaperone and rip and race around these gardens as we’ve always done when here.

I like that. Soon, we shall be too old.

Awa scoffed. Never me, brother. But you? You are old already. A game of hide-and-go-seek instead? Loser has to care for the winner’s horse for a week.

The pair exited the palace. Once in the gardens, they broke into a run for places to hide.

How many times have I told you? Ngoné bellowed, voice carrying across the clipped hedges, topiaries, and still fountains. You cannot shake me. I saw you. Cease tearing about before you land in a half-frozen fountain!

Awa and Babacar spread out farther into the landscape, ignoring her. As Awa hid behind a box hew in anticipation of jumping out at her brother, a hushed voice spoke from out of the blue.

So, you’ve seen a lion?

"O-O-Ow!" escaped Awa in a rush as she rubbed the smarting knee she’d banged on the planter from being startled. Turning to face her questioner,