Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  He was popular with the ladies, especially as his French improved. He was distinctly unpopular with the men, at least the courtiers. Here was an upstart heathen Turk, for so they considered him, arriving in their midst and immediately becoming the King’s boon companion. William soon realised that only the King’s favour stood between him and a challenge, and much was made of the refusal of the King to allow him to enter the lists: tourneys where knights in full armour charged at each other behind couched lances.

  The King’s reason was obvious: William had no knowledge of such combats, and for a foreign ambassador to be hurt or perhaps killed on being unhorsed would be a sorry affair. William regretted that he was not allowed to chance his arm; he had no doubt he was a better horseman than any French knight, and would very soon master the art of wearing armour. Yet the idea of fighting in such weight and heat — the knights had to be hoisted from the ground on to their saddles by a crane, and if they were dismounted they could only lie on their backs like stranded whales, quite unable to move — was ludicrous, and a waste of time. There was no armour ever made would protect against a cannon ball.

  This last was the ostensible reason for the King’s friendship. William was shown what cannon the French army possessed, invited to lecture the gunners, and to recommend improvements. This he was quite prepared to do; like Louis, he regarded the possibility of a French army ever opposing an Ottoman in the field to be utterly remote. Equally, he was prepared to accept the King’s claim that warfare between England and France was ended. Besides, the French cannon were greatly inferior to those his father commanded. Thus he readily instructed the gunners in tactics and manoeuvres, especially with regard to massing their pieces, for like all other European artillerists the French custom was to place one gun in front of each infantry brigade or tercio, rather than concentrating the fire at a given place, as Anthony Hawkwood had learned during the siege of Constantinople.

  Needless to say, William’s obvious expertise and the delight King Louis revealed in his prowess endeared him even less to the French nobility, who did not approve of cannon anyway. Their antagonism was now headed by the King’s eldest daughter, Anne of Beaujeu. Anne was one of the very few women at the French court who had not taken a liking to the man from the East, and she made that very plain. She could never of course succeed to the throne, because of the Salic Law, but it was disturbing to see how she influenced the Dauphin, Charles. Here was a sickly and slightly deformed young man of twelve years, of low intelligence and very easily swayed. He would most certainly be the next King of France, however, and his enmity was not to be taken lightly.

  The royal family’s disgust with the situation was increased when the King, feeling more ill than ever with the onset of winter, and growing bored with the life at court, retired to his country home of Plessis-les-Tours in the rolling green countryside of Touraine…and took his favourite with him. But so long as the King lived, these were more remote fears than the anticipation of news from Constantinople. When Christmas arrived with no word, William was in despair: he had now been at the French court six months.

  “Patience, my boy,” King Louis said. “Patience. It is the greatest of virtues. News will come eventually. But if not…why, here will be your home. Were you to make the decision in any event, I would be much pleased.”

  “Your Grace is too kind,” William muttered somewhat apprehensively.

  “You fear the future,” Louis said. “Suppose I were to make it secure for you?”

  “Sire?” William had no idea what he meant.

  Louis merely smiled then, but a week later revealed his plan.

  *

  Although absent from Paris, the King was far from absent from his post as ruler of France. Despite the appalling weather, where often the snow lay several feet thick on the roads, relays of horsemen constantly arrived at the chateau, bringing all the information the King required. His principal ministers, also, were required to leave their shops and offices and journey down to see him with great regularity. Often they were accompanied by their families, as it was necessary for them to spend several days, or even weeks, if the weather was unusually severe, before they could return to their homes.

  Their comings and goings were so continuous that their different faces were hardly noticeable. But on this day Louis drew William to a window overlooking the courtyard, and there showed him a group of men and women dismounting from their horses, their cheeks pink from the cold and their cloaks bespattered with the snow which was falling lightly.

  “That is Jacques Ferrand and his family,” Louis explained.

  William had of course met Ferrand, who was a member of the King’s Council. He was not aware that the merchant had any family, however; the wives and daughters of the middle classes were not received at court.

  “Ferrand is, I should guess, the wealthiest man in my kingdom,” Louis continued. “Perhaps even more so than myself.”

  William frowned.

  “Now study the fourth figure from the right,” Louis suggested.

  William’s frown deepened. The fourth figure from the right was extremely small, and suggested hardly more than a child.

  “Aimée is twelve years old,” Louis agreed. “But watch.”

  The party approached the steps leading up to the guest apartments. In doing so they came under the overhanging eaves, and threw back their hoods as they gained shelter. William had no eyes for either Ferrand or his wife, or the two smaller girls; he gazed at the one called Aimée, at a head of the most perfect pale gold hair, so pale indeed as to be almost white, at a complexion no less flawless, and features sculpted into a chiselled beauty, heart-shaped face, small retroussé nose, wide-set eyes, generous mouth, and pointed chin, such as he had never seen before.

  “Is it not remarkable how to the wealthiest man in the kingdom is also given the most beautiful daughter in the kingdom?” Louis observed. “Aimée is Ferrand’s senior heiress. To her beauty will be added untold wealth. The possessor of that need fear no man. It would of course be necessary for her husband to live in France.” He glanced at a thunderstruck William. “But think on this, William: should your master be agreeable to my proposals, and Prince Djem be returned to Constantinople to receive his punishment, your family will be safe. But your wife and sons are dead. Is there really any reason for you to return to that heathen land, when honour and prosperity indicate that you should remain here?” He paused to let his words sink in, then said, “I have already spoken with old Jacques, and he is agreeable to my proposal.” He gave a cynical smile. “Especially since I have offered to ennoble him. Now, come, would you care to meet your future bride?”

  *

  I should refuse, William thought. Because I am a heathen, and a man of strange customs and stranger configurations. Will this charming child not faint at the sight of such an alien? Will she not vow suicide rather than submit her body to the hands of a Turk?

  But the glittering prospect was irresistible. He accompanied the King into the guest apartments and was there presented to Madame Ferrand, and then to the girl.

  She gazed at him from sombre blue eyes, yet smiled as he kissed her hand.

  “Papa has spoken to me of you, monsieur,” she said.

  In what respect? he wanted to ask.

  “I am honoured to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle,” he said.

  Aimée Ferrand gave him a little curtsy. “The honour is mine, monsieur.”

  She and her sisters were removed by their mother, and William now faced Ferrand.

  “Aimée is very young,” Ferrand commented.

  “Agreed,” said the King, who stood between them. “But not too young to be betrothed. Is she at puberty?”

  “Yes, sire, but still young. I would fear for her health, in childbirth.”

  “Of course. The betrothal will last for two years. The marriage will take place on Aimée’s fourteenth birthday. Is that satisfactory to you, monsieur?”

  Ferrand bowed.

  “And to
you, young Hawkwood?”

  I am overwhelmed, William thought. And I should be suspicious and aware. This man is binding me to him for at least two years. But the picture of the girl — and her wealth — floated in front of him…

  William bowed.

  ***

  Then it was truly just a matter of being patient, of waiting for Aimée to grow up and, even more important, of waiting for news from Constantinople.

  He was allowed to visit the Ferrand mansion in Paris once a month, when he would sit and sip wine with Madame Ferrand and Aimée, and play games with her two young sisters, and talk about this and that.

  Aimée was a remarkably well educated girl. She could speak Latin fluently, and was well acquainted with the politics and the economics of western Europe. She had a lively mind as well as a happy one, and sought ever to broaden her horizons. Her immediate wish was to have him speak of Constantinople and the world of the East, but this he preferred to do only in the most general terms. For, as winter softened into spring, and spring reached into summer, and he had now been absent from his family for eighteen months, he had to assume them already dead and himself an utter outcast — save for this girl and the King. And if the one was his gaoler, he had absolutely no idea about the other’s feelings.

  Save in one respect. She looked at him, at his hose and his codpiece, with a frank interest which was perhaps indecent in a young girl but suggested an earthiness that promised the utmost delights. To imagine sharing with such beauty the pleasure he had shared with Sereta was to drive himself half mad with desire. But was he deluding himself? Did she not perhaps look at every man like that? Aimée always seemed pleased to receive him, but at no time did she ever indicate that she felt more for him than the respect due to the man she had been told would be her husband.

  How could she feel otherwise; he asked himself, since she was but twelve years old.

  His loneliness grew.

  Until, one day, the messenger arrived. He had been forced to wait long in Constantinople for Bayazid’s decision, and had been further delayed on his journey, but now he was here. And the news he brought was all that William could desire.

  The Sultan was pleased to open negotiations for an alliance with the King of France, one of the conditions being the return of his brother. More, the Sultan was pleased to congratulate his ambassador, young Hawk, for having carried out his duties so effectively. Now the Sultan only waited to hear the King’s concrete proposals, in order to substantiate his own thoughts.

  These negotiations, William thought, could take several years. Years in which he would be married to Aimée, and enjoy the life of the French court. As for spending the rest of his life in France…the rest of his life seemed a very long time.

  Years in which the burden of worry would be lifted from his mind. For the messenger also brought a letter from Anthony Hawkwood, assuring William that they were all well, and greatly relieved at the news from France. Anthony had been restored to his military command, and John to his.

  William decided he must be the happiest man in the world.

  The King was also delighted with the news. Perhaps too much so, because only a month after the return of his messenger, he died on 30 August 1483 in his bed at Plessis.

  9

  The Cardinal

  William had been in Paris, on a visit to the Ferrands, when the King died. He had spent the afternoon with the family except Jacques, who was attending to his business, and had already returned to his lodgings when a messenger came hurrying for him, summoning him back to the Ferrand house.

  He returned at once, to find the ladies in a state of great agitation as they listened to the news Jacques had brought them.

  “It must mean a great change,” he said gloomily. “The Lady of Beaujeu will hardly wish to perpetuate her father’s men, and she has a most hearty dislike for me. I pray to God that I will be permitted to merely abandon politics and go about my business in peace.”

  “What of me?” William asked.

  “I should think you will be perfectly safe. You are an accredited ambassador of a foreign power, and negotiations for an alliance between our two countries are under way.”

  “Should I call on the Lady?”

  “I would wait a while,” Ferrand said. “By French law, King Charles is of an age to govern, although he is only thirteen. As to whether he will wish to assert his prerogatives, or will be allowed to do so… In any event, my young friend, I suggest that you practise some more patience, and wait until the Court is ready to do business again.”

  “And Aimée?”

  “You are betrothed. She will be waiting for you.” Ferrand smiled as he spoke, but it was an uneasy smile and William’s heart gave a sudden lurch. It was impossible to suppose he had fallen in love with a girl barely half his age, with whom he had never spent a moment alone. Yet over the past six months he had grown very fond of her, had come almost to feel they were married already, with all the pleasure of it still to come. Young as she was, she had revealed to him a very lively mind gifted with both wit and imagination, while her already transcendent beauty seemed to grow with every day. And those inquiring eyes promised so much…

  Or was it the thought of the wealth attached to her name?

  But now he was suddenly conscious that it had all been part of a bargain; and the progenitor of that bargain, the man who would have raised Jacques Ferrand to the nobility, lived no more. Where was the value in a heathen ambassador now?

  *

  However unhappy he was about his new situation, there was nothing William could do save follow the merchant’s advice. And for the next few months very little business was done by the French court, as the King was solemnly laid to rest and the entire country went into mourning.

  This was terminated early in order that Christmas might be celebrated; William got the impression that the court was heartily glad to be rid of the Universal Spider, and had only been going through the rituals of mourning for appearance’s sake. Christmas meant very little to William — he had never celebrated it in his youth — so he remained in his lodgings during the festivities. But he spent his time chafing, and immediately put forward his name for an audience with the new King. It was another several weeks before this was granted.

  Equally disturbing was his inability to see Aimée. She had apparently come down with some kind of distemper, and had been forbidden by her doctor to receive even her betrothed. Greatly alarmed, William then tried to see Ferrand but was informed that the merchant had been called away on business.

  The whole thing made him uneasy, and he was more uneasy still when finally he was ushered into the new King’s presence and found the boy, sitting hunched and sullen on his throne, with his sister and her husband standing one to each side.

  William bowed and offered his congratulations upon the accession. The boy merely stared at him, without replying.

  “We are cognisant of your reasons for being here, Monsieur Hawkwood,” the Lady of Beaujeu announced. “I must inform you that your passports await you with His Majesty’s secretary.”

  William frowned at her. “Passports, Your Highness?”

  “It is our assumption that you will now wish to return whence you came,” the Lady told him. “We no longer have any desire to detain you here. No doubt you will inform your master of this decision.”

  William attempted to suppress the waves of panic crashing in his mind. “But there is a negotiation at present being conducted between the court of France and that of my sovereign. Surely it is my duty to remain here in Paris until this is brought to a successful conclusion?”

  “His Majesty has summoned you here today, Monsieur Hawkwood, to inform you that these negotiations are terminated as of now. It cannot be the policy of a Christian monarch to form an alliance with a heathen. This decision you must communicate to your master.”

  William felt physically sick. “The Prince Djem…” he stammered.

  “The Prince Djem is no longer here. He has been sent t
o asylum elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere, Your Highness?”

  “The prince is now in Rome, where he is a guest of His Holiness the Pope.”

  William gasped. All without a word being said to him! That a Turkish prince should be offered asylum by Pope Sixtus VI seemed impossible to accept. Clearly Djem had been sold, in the coldest of blood, to the highest bidder — to one of the men most concerned to bring damnation to the Ottomans.

  He managed a smile. “Then, Your Highness, as the welfare of Prince Djem is my particular responsibility, I must take myself to Rome. But as to the matter of my betrothal to Mademoiselle Ferrand…”

  “That also is terminated.” The Lady of Beaujeu stared at him coldly. “It is equally against the principles of His Majesty to permit the marriage of one of his subjects to the servant of a heathen.” She paused to let the words sink in. “You have fourteen days to find yourself beyond the boundaries of this kingdom, Monsieur Hawkwood. On pain of outlawry.”

  *

  Totally stunned, William returned to his lodgings. That magnificent world which Louis XI had suggested might be his had now been crumpled up like a piece of paper; it had no more substance. Perhaps it had never had done. Obviously Aimée’s supposed illness had been a ruse of the crown.

  And he himself was helpless. Now he could only forget her and her money, and flee the country as rapidly as possible, his very life and those of his family forfeit.

  There was but one saving grace: he had been ordered to communicate the termination of negotiations to his master personally. Thus if he did not do so immediately, it could be some considerable time before Bayazid learned of the true situation.

  Unless the Pope immediately sought to make capital out of the possession of Prince Djem.