“I anticipate it, O Padishah,” the girl replied, and bowed, firstly to the Emir and then to her father, and was led from the room.
Mahomet snapped his fingers and gave a roar of laughter. “No wonder my mother had her whipped instead of sending her to my harem,” he said.
“Do you have the choice of every girl in your kingdom, O Padishah?” Anthony asked.
“A selection is made every year,” Mahomet explained, “of the most beautiful as well as the most talented. They are presented to the Emir Valideh, and she selects those she feels are suitable for the seraglio. These girls are the guizde; that means, literally, ‘in the eye’. But they are in my mother’s eye, of course. I have no choice at all, alas. The Emir Valideh is my mother in all things.”
He stared fixedly at Anthony, and Anthony felt a chill run down his back into his legs. Did he know? Could he know? But surely if he did, Anthony thought, I would already be done for?
“She even chooses who I will sleep with each night,” Mahomet went on. “These then become ikbal, or the favoured ones. But it is right that she should decide. There are so many — I could not possibly sleep with them all. There are women in my harem on whom I have never even set eyes — nor will I. Yet they are still either wives or concubines, and must be cared for.” He brooded. “It is a great expense to me.”
“Do you ever sleep with one girl more than once?” Anthony asked, agog.
Mahomet laughed. “Of course I have my favourites. I convey such thoughts to my mother, and the chosen girl becomes an odalisk. There is only one higher rank in the harem. The girl who first presents me with a son will have great honour heaped upon her, because she will one day be Emir Valideh herself.”
“Unless she dies,” Anthony said without thinking — and wanted to bite his tongue.
But Mahomet did not seem to notice his careless indication of knowledge of harem politics. “That is true. My own mother died too early. But in her place I have a better. She will be amused to know that you are married to one such as this Laila. The Emir Valideh is much interested in you, and your father.”
Anthony swallowed nervously, but Mahomet remained smiling.
“Be sure you whip your wife regularly. Women should be seen and not heard. Or is this not so in England?”
“It is not so in England, O Padishah.”
“A strange land,” Mahomet said, and linked his arm through Anthony’s. “Tell me more about English women, young Hawk. It may be that one day I shall possess one.”
*
“It is not right,” Mary Hawkwood declared. Now that she had regained her confidence and felt that she had a settled role to play in the community of Brusa, she was prepared to resume being a proper mother to her one remaining son. Besides, she could now speak some Turkish, and had even made friends amongst her female neighbours, spending long mornings in their principal relaxation of drinking coffee and gossiping. Her new acquaintances had not been slow to point out that the whole proceedings surrounding young Hawk’s betrothal had been highly irregular — or to remind her that the bride would become head of the household should John Hawkwood die.
“Some chit of a heathen girl,” she complained. “Why have we not been introduced to the parents?”
“In normal circumstances,” Anthony explained patiently, “the girl would have been your choice, Mother. But the Emir wished this arranged differently. He seeks, I think, to change the law in many ways. He moves through life to a definite pattern, but with caution. I can promise you that she is very charming.”
“A heathen Turk,” Mary grumbled. “She will not lord it over me, Anthony. Not a sixteen-year-old girl.”
“She will not expect to, Mother,” Anthony said. “She will expect you to lord it over her.”
But his mother’s reactions were not those he truly feared. And, sure enough, the Kislar Agha came for him again that evening.
*
This night the Emir Valideh was veiled, and her eyes glittered like flint.
“You have betrayed me,” she said.
As he had not yet been bidden to stand, Anthony remained kneeling at her feet. “I, Highness?”
“Who is this girl you have chosen? A girl who talks too much. One whom I have rejected, too. It is the gossip of the palace.”
“I did not choose the girl, Highness. Surely, as you know all things, you know that also. She was offered for my acceptance by the Emir — I could do nothing else.” Which was the truth, he reflected, though he had a notion he would never have rejected Laila, no matter who had presented her to him.
The Emir Valideh gazed at him for several seconds, then her yashmak inflated as she breathed out against it.
“Yes,” she said, “I do understand.”
Anthony wished that he did, himself.
“I had in mind to command you to forswear this girl,” Mara continued.
“Highness?” Anthony was aghast. To do that would be to make her brothers sworn blood enemies of him and his.
Mara smiled. “Yes, I had it in mind, but I will not do so. We shall let Mahomet play his little games. But be sure you whip her often. Be sure, too, you make her bring forth fine sons for you, young Hawk.” She released her yashmak. “But tonight I will exhaust you.”
“For the last time, Highness?” he asked, sadly.
Mara gazed at him. “Who can say?” she asked in turn. “Are not our lives and our lusts at the whim of God?”
*
The ceremony was a simple one, much less elaborate, than that of the circumcision. The two families sat and drank coffee together in Mahmun Pasha’s house, the elder Hawkwoods meeting, on this first and last occasion, Laila’s parents and family. The Turkish ladies were heavily veiled, but Mary refused to cover her face inside the house; as if she was determined to show her disapproval of the whole proceedings. There was a mufti who read from the Koran, while Laila sat alone, cross-legged on a cushion, shrouded in a variety of haiks and veils.
Then they ate sweetmeats, and Mahmun Pasha handed over gifts of cloth to Mary and weapons to John and Anthony, as well as the bag of golden coins which comprised Laila’s dowry.
Two notaries knelt between the families and counted the coins, and John Hawkwood pronounced himself satisfied. Then he produced his own gifts for Mahmun and his family, but these did not include money.
Laila was then led away by the female members of her family, and Mary was asked to accompany them. As the men waited, they drank more coffee.
When Mary returned, her cheeks were pink and she breathed heavily.
“Is the girl to your satisfaction, mother of young Hawk?” asked the mufti.
Mary swallowed. “She is to my satisfaction,” she said.
“And a virgin?”
“Yes, she is a virgin,” Mary snapped.
“Then do you accept her as your son’s wife?”
“I accept her,” Mary said resentfully.
The mufti bowed and clapped his hands. Mahmun’s womenfolk returned to the room.
“It is usual for the bride to be carried to her home by the brothers of her husband,” the mufti explained. “This is an ancient custom, and commemorates the days of our people when a bride could only be taken by force.” He smiled deprecatingly, to indicate that such things were far in the past. “But you have no brothers, young Hawk.”
“I will carry my bride,” Anthony said.
The mufti looked at Mahmun Pasha, who nodded his agreement.
“Then is the Lady Laila awaiting you, young Hawk,” the mufti said.
*
Laila stood in the antechamber by the door, still totally invisible beneath layers of clothing.
Anthony went up to her, and lifted her into his arms. “You are my wife,” he reminded her.
“Yes, Chelebi,” she agreed.
She called him lord. He was her lord. It was a strange feeling.
The family bowed as Anthony carried his bride out on to the street and set her on the saddle of his waiting horse. It was just
past dusk, for only at sunset may a bride be taken to her new home. The Hawkwood house was not far, but there was quite a crowd of people to be negotiated, all clapping and shouting, while small boys ran beside the horse trying to steal the sandals from Laila’s feet.
Leading the horse by its bridle, Anthony looked over his shoulder at her and felt a tremendous, unexpected stirring of sexual desire.
Because for the first time in his life he possessed a woman.
*
The Hawkwood eunuchs opened the doors for them, and Anthony lifted Laila from the saddle and carried her inside, the noise of the crowd subsiding behind them. He carried Laila up the stairs and into his bedchamber, which had been refurnished for this occasion, the principal innovation being a huge double divan. On this he placed her gently, then sat down beside her to lift the first of her veils.
Promptly she sat up. “I must pay my respects to your mother.”
“I doubt she has returned yet.”
“It is the law,” Laila insisted.
She very definitely had a mind of her own, and had no doubt been warned that this gaiour who was now her husband knew nothing of Turkish custom. Anthony had no wish to upset her on their first night together; besides, he could hear the sounds of voices downstairs. “Then go to her,” he said.
“You must be present,” Laila advised him, adjusting her yashmak.
Docilely Anthony followed her down the stairs to where his father and mother were being welcomed by the servants.
“My mother,” Laila said, and sank to her knees.
Mary Hawkwood looked dumbfounded.
“I think you need to accept her as your daughter,” Anthony suggested.
Mary hesitated, then placed both her hands on the girl’s head. “Welcome to our house, child,” she said. “I desire only that you make my son happy.”
“Your wish is my command, Mother,” Laila replied.
Anthony took her hand to raise her to her feet. “You’ll excuse us,” he said to his parents.
His desire was growing by the minute. Laila was clearly startled by his wish to undress her himself, but she submitted, and within minutes she lay naked on the divan. Here was no irresistible ripe beauty like that of the Emir Valideh, but the girl was compelling enough in her immaturity, in the slimness of her hips and the small mounds of her breasts. Her legs and arms were straight and strong, and her shaven pubes drew him to her in more haste than he had ever known. He was anxious because his penis was but recently healed, and he felt unsure of himself. Thus he made love to her as a Christian rather than as Mara had taught him, which appeared to surprise her, as no doubt her mother had prepared her for something quite different. But again she made no protest: he was her Chelebi.
Afterwards he lay on his back with his eyes closed. “I was too hasty,” he said. “Next time will be better.”
He knew he must have hurt her, but she had neither cried out nor winced. Now, to his surprise, he discovered she had left his bed.
He sat up, and saw her carefully examining his clothing — going through his pockets, removing the few silver coins she found there.
“What are you doing?” he asked, amazed.
She turned to face him without embarrassment, the coins clutched in her small fist. “I am taking my money.”
“Your money?”
“Of course,” she said. “When a woman lies with a man, she is entitled to whatever money he may have in his pockets.”
“Laila,” he said, “you are my wife, not a whore.”
“It is a wife’s privilege also,” she explained patiently. “It is written.”
*
“Splendid, splendid,” the Emir Mahomet commented as he inspected the twelve bombards, each several feet of iron cylinder, blocked at one end to retain the force of the explosion which would fire it, bound in leather strips for additional strength, and resting in chocks on a wooden carriage. “You have done great work, Hawk. And you are certain these cannon will knock down the walls of Constantinople?”
“They will certainly breach the walls,” John Hawkwood said, “if they can be placed close enough.”
Mahomet frowned. “How close do you require?”
“Within a mile.”
“Will that not expose us to the fire of their guns, in return?”
“That is so, O Padishah. As for the smaller guns” — he indicated the batteries of light cannon, man-killers more than wall-breachers — “they will only play their part should the Byzantines sortie against us.”
Mahomet stroked his beard. “This task grows mightier with every day,” he grumbled.
“That is why I have recommended using the fleet and arming the Janissaries with handguns. The artillery must be protected. But…I have also another solution.”
Mahomet gazed at him. “I am negotiating with Venice for the delivery of the handguns, and the new fleet is well in hand. So tell me of this other solution.”
“If you would come with me…”
Mahomet glanced at Anthony who was, as ever, in attendance upon his father, then followed the elder Hawkwood into the large wooden hut. The gate was guarded by two of John’s gunners, who stood to attention as their Emir approached.
As Mahomet stepped through the doorway — a diminutive figure between the two huge Englishmen — he stopped in consternation as he stared at the enormous weapon before him, twice as long as any outside, and twice as thick.
“By the beard of the Prophet,” he muttered.
“It has long been my dream,” John Hawkwood said, “to build such a gun.”
Mahomet went forward to stroke the iron monster. Its length was twice his own height, and when he stopped to peer into the barrel his head disappeared.
“That is twelve hands’ breadth in circumference,” Hawkwood said proudly.
Mahomet’s head re-emerged. “And what will it fire?”
Hawkwood indicated the rounded stone shot which lay beside the gun. “Four men are needed to lift that.”
Mahomet gazed at it. “What range?”
“It has not yet been tested.” Hawkwood thrust his fingers into the touchhole where the powder would be poured before lighting. It absorbed two of his stout digits. “It is a matter of very careful calculation and some experimentation. But I believe it will achieve more than a mile.”
“It will hurl that huge stone so far?”
“We will know when it is fired, O Padishah.”
“Then haste, Hawk. Haste!”
John Hawkwood bowed. “You understand that it will take many men to manoeuvre this gun? Many men and oxen.”
“You will have all the men and the oxen you require, Hawk.”
John Hawkwood drew in a long breath. “And all the iron, Padishah?”
“You wish to make another such as this?”
“One will suffice. I wish to cast a shot.”
Mahomet’s frown was back. “In iron?”
“Padishah, this stone ball — and it is my intention to make a number of them — could well breach the wall of Constantinople. Yet it will be stone meeting stone. If we could hurl an iron ball as heavy as that stone one, I do not think there is any wall in the world which could withstand it.”
“By Allah!” Mahomet cried. “You are a man amongst men! Cast me that iron ball and I will make you a pasha.”
“I will need more than one.”
“Then cast as many as you wish. I give you the right to requisition iron wherever it can be found. Keep me informed. Young Hawk, you will accompany me.”
*
They mounted their horses and, surrounded by their escort of sipahis, rode back through the streets of the town to the Emir’s palace. People stopped to watch them pass, and some applauded; Mahomet was a popular ruler, and they were used to seeing him as he went about every day, inspecting his troops, visiting the mosques, consulting with the muftis and imams. He had now been master of the Ottomans for over a year, and it had been a year of peace. This satisfied the wives and mothers — and t
he Janissaries were still happy to wait for the order to march: they were well aware of the enormous preparations taking place throughout the Turkish empire.
“But it is time to begin our campaign,” Mahomet told Anthony, as they sat together and sipped sherbet. He spoke Latin, which was known to few of his pashas. “Your father is doing wonders. I meant what I said: I will honour him above all other men.”
Providing that huge bombard does not explode the first time it is fired, Anthony thought.
“Now it is time for you to play your part,” Mahomet said.
Anthony felt his muscles tensing. He had seen somewhat less of the Emir since his marriage, and that had to be Mahomet’s will, since he could send for his English protégé whenever he chose. There had not been any apparent loss of favour, however, and Anthony had been very content to be one step removed from the exhilarating but dangerous proximity of the Emir, and to carry out his duties as his father’s aide-de-camp. Now he was not sure what to expect.
Mahomet had observed this slight shudder of apprehension, and smiled. “You have now been married six months. Is your wife not swollen?”
“Alas, I am not so blessed.”
Mahomet sighed. “Neither am I truly blessed. My son Bayazid does nothing but sleep. At four years old I was already playing with a sword, but not he. Yet he is my only son. And I have more material with which to work. These women are lazy. You should beat your wife — and take another. I will give you another.”
“As you wish,” Anthony agreed, although he was not sure what he would do with another woman. Laila might not yet have been able to conceive — indeed the fault might be entirely his — but she remained a most satisfying sexual partner, while even his mother had warmed to the girl’s strictly no-nonsense approach to life and her invariable good humour — although she also possessed a caustic wit she was not afraid to use. More surprising was the way she had adapted to her new surroundings. In the beginning she had been scandalised to discover that the Hawkwoods did not honour at least the fedjeur, the dawn hour of prayer, that their house contained no harem, and that she was expected to take her meals with both her husband and her father-in-law, and unveil before them both as well. Equally she had been amazed that Anthony intended to sleep with her every night, whether they had sex or not, and that he did not lock her away during her menstrual periods, when all Turkish women were regarded as dangerously unclean. But having discovered how the Franks lived, she had also discovered that it was infinitely preferable to anything she had expected, certainly from the point of view of a woman. He would hate to upset her new-found happiness by introducing another woman to the house — but if it was the will of the Emir…
Ottoman Page 12