Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  William goggled.

  “I would estimate that the sum of one hundred thousand crowns would be acceptable, to be paid annually for as long as the prince is our guest.”

  “One hundred thousand crowns,” William muttered in disbelief.”

  “It is surely a trifling sum for the Sultan. And there is also the matter of a gift.”

  “A gift?” William cried in alarm.

  “The money is solely for the prince’s upkeep,” Borgia explained patiently. “It would assist me to gain the ear of His Holiness, were the Sultan to present His Holiness with a gift.”

  “A gift,” William muttered. On top of one hundred thousand crowns a year?

  “It would have to be something of unique value,” Borgia went on.

  William sighed as he was reminded of the saying that those who sup with the devil need a long spoon. “You will have to tell me what you have in mind.”

  “Well…” Borgia appeared to consider. “I have heard it said that when the Conqueror took Jerusalem, he found there the Holy Lance, the spear thrust into the side of Our Lord at the crucifixion. Is that true?”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” William gritted his teeth.

  “Well, I think that would be a most appropriate gift. Your Sultan can hardly find anything of interest in a Christian relic. Such a gift would convince His Holiness that the Sultan truly wishes to be his friend. And once that also is received, I can give you my word there will be not the slightest risk of Djem ever escaping from the Vatican.”

  *

  Once again William was obliged to write to Constantinople to explain the situation — and once again to wait in dread for a reply. Surely Bayazid’s patience must be wearing thin?

  But yet again a reassuring reply was received, agreeing to pay one hundred thousand crowns annually until Djem could be obtained, and sending the Holy Lance with every sentiment of esteem for the Pope.

  Even more reassuring was a letter from Anthony Hawkwood, revealing that he and the Sultan were again on good terms. Turkey and Egypt were on the verge of war over long-standing disputes, and Bayazid needed his great pasha to command his army.

  “We must accept the fact,” Anthony wrote, “that our new master has little of Mahomet in his make-up. I think I am right in saying this will be the first time a Turkish army will take the field against a foreign foe without the Sultan at its head. But Bayazid prefers the company of musicians to soldiers, and enjoys the harem more than the divan. This is of course to our advantage, but is nonetheless disturbing in its implications for the future of our empire.

  “As for yourself and your mission, the Sultan’s indolence is even more to our advantage. I believe he does not actually wish Djem to be returned for execution. He is quite content that he should be imprisoned far away, forgotten by everyone and a nuisance to none.”

  Emboldened by this, and anxious to fight at his father’s side in the coming war, William wrote back begging permission to return. He pointed out that both Cardinal Borgia and Pope Innocent, while undoubtedly two of the most treacherous men who ever lived, preferred money even to betrayal, and that as long as one hundred thousand crowns were regularly paid, they would most certainly keep Djem in custody.

  But permission was refused. The Grand Vizier replied in turn, pointing out that Prince Djem remained William’s responsibility; that it was his business to see the prince at regular intervals to ensure that he was indeed still in custody and the Papacy was not collecting money under false pretences.

  Borgia readily agreed that once a month William be admitted into the Vatican and allowed to look down from a small window into the courtyard garden where Djem would take his daily constitutional.

  William had once supposed that he hated the murderer of his wife and children more than any other human being on earth. But his adventures of the past few years had done much to soften the memory of those poor strangled bodies, and now he almost felt sorry for the unhappy prince condemned to a lifetime of imprisonment which could only end in death, whether from natural causes or the executioner’s bowstring.

  “But death is the ultimate fate of us all,” Borgia would point out. “The important thing is to live while one can. Djem does not do too badly. He may pine and lose weight, but not for want of feeding. We have introduced him to the delights of the wine bottle, and he is now an accomplished toper. And once a week he is allowed the company of two whores for a whole night. After all, he is a Turk.” He laughed.

  *

  It seemed that he had been exiled from Constantinople forever. Weeks became months, months became years, and the Eternal City pursued its merry way, with Pope Innocent enjoying the fruits of his power, and Giuliano della Rovere and Rodrigo Borgia each jockeying for position when the next election should be due.

  Under della Rovere’s influence, Innocent duly proclaimed a crusade against the Turks. This could have been a serious matter, as the news from the East indicated that the assault on Egypt had not proved the simple affair supposed by both Bayazid and Anthony Hawkwood. The Ottoman fleet and army were both totally tied up, and would remain so for some time yet.

  But, as Borgia had predicted, the crusade turned out to be stillborn. Perhaps the age of the crusades was long past, and men were more anxious to dabble in their own affairs than risk life and limb for a religious ideal.

  So life went on. William had a pleasant house in Rome, procured for him by Borgia, where he and Hussain lived in great comfort, looked after by a bevy of servants. He had all the food and all the drink he could wish — and a regular income paid by the Sultan. He even had the use of Margherita whenever he wanted. The spritely courtesan satisfied all his wants, and he remained chary of the better-born Roman ladies who eyed him with interest.

  And also he seemed to enjoy the devoted friendship of Rodrigo Borgia. William had come to understand his patron very well, and realised that the Cardinal did nothing in life without carefully calculating the possible benefits to himself. Therefore he must assume the friendship was as false as every other emotion Borgia pretended to. Nevertheless William Hawkwood was Bayazid’s ambassador, and there could be no doubt that Borgia’s great plans for his papacy, when that day arrived, included a close relationship with the Porte.

  “I meant what I said when I explained that an alliance between the Vatican and the Porte would be impossible,” he said, “for it would rend Christendom in two. But that is no reason why we should not have an understanding between us. We share a common enemy: the empire of the Habsburgs. It abuts your territories and hovers around mine like a greedy vampire bat, dreaming only of its own aggrandisement. If your master ever went to war against Vienna, it could prove greatly to both our advantages. I would have you put this to your master.”

  William did so willingly. Yet the more he saw of the Cardinal the more he distrusted the man. Borgia possessed every vice imaginable, and perhaps a few which were difficult to imagine. As an accepted visitor in the Cardinal’s household, William spent many a tumultuous week at Tivoli. There he watched the Cardinal’s five children growing up, and was amazed at the intimacy they shared with each other and with their father.

  Arriving one day unexpectedly, he found the Cardinal and Vanozza romping in the garden with little Lucrezia. Neither female wore much in the way of clothing, and from their heated cheeks and embarrassed departures, he could not avoid the impression that the horseplay had been partly sexual. Well, true, Vanozza was Borgia’s mistress. But Lucrezia was his own daughter! And she was only eight years old!

  She remained a laughing, happy child, but the same could not be said of her favourite brother, Cesare. As he moved through his teens he became a most handsome boy, and most winning, too. He could be charm itself when he chose, but there were unguarded moments when William watched him regarding one or other of his father’s guests with his eyes glittering like a snake’s. No doubt he would grow up to be a true son of his father, William supposed.

  William was present at supper one evening when one of a
considerable party of guests was taken violently ill. Instantly all was confusion, the Cardinal shouting for servants and doctors, and giving a magnificent display of astounded grief that such misfortune should happen at his table.

  Nothing could be done for the unhappy guest, who died after several hours of agony. As the party broke up in mutual melancholy, and the other guests found their way home, William lingered to offer his patron some condolences on the tragedy. He found Borgia standing in an antechamber to which the body had been removed, staring fixedly at the corpse. Its face was already beginning to blacken horribly, suggesting poison rather than death from natural causes.

  The Cardinal was twisting his fingers together as if in mental anguish — playing with one particular ring of most unusual design. The expression of delight on his face was terrifying to behold, although it disappeared rapidly when he realised he had company.

  “Poor Sacorro,’ he said. “His has been a most unhappy life. And he was one of the wealthiest men in Rome! Do you know he lost his wife but a few months ago, and before that his only son. In his despair he rewrote his Will, leaving all his possessions to the Holy Church. And now he has gone to join his family. Ah, well, I have no doubt he will be much happier there than he ever was on earth.”

  “And his property is now yours,” William observed.

  “It belongs to the Church, William. To the Church.”

  *

  Even if it was difficult to accept that this prospective pope had actually had a guest poisoned, his transparent delight in the death revealed him to be a devil. But a friendly devil at least as regarded those he considered could be of use to himself — and William ranked high there. He was also a devil with whom the world would soon to have to deal. For after a reign of some eight years, Pope Innocent VIII died. Whether he was helped on his way by the Cardinal, William had no means of knowing. Perhaps the Pope’s overindulgence had helped him into his grave at the age of sixty.

  Having long anticipated this event, both Cardinal Borgia and Cardinal della Rovere had marshalled their forces. It was supposed that the election of the new Pope would be a matter of lengthy discussion and debate, which would result in yet another nonentity controlled by one or other of the factions. To the amazement of all Rome, however, and the dismay of a good many, the election was settled in a single day, Rodrigo Borgia being chosen as Pope Alexander VI. He had clearly taken the precaution of bribing more cardinals than had his rival.

  *

  However sorry he might feel for Rome, and indeed for all Christendom, William was delighted. He had now been absent from his home for ten years. In that time his mother had died, no doubt cursing her fate to the end, and his father had victoriously concluded a long and bloody six years’ war with Egypt. Now at last he would surely be able to complete his mission and return to Constantinople.

  The new Pope was deeply immersed in the business of assuming all the prerogatives he had anticipated for so many years, and it was more than a week before he could spare the time to grant William Hawkwood an audience.

  William had to admit that the new honour, the greatest to which any Christian could aspire, sat well upon Borgia’s brow. His bearing was positively regal as he extended his finger for William to kiss, and then bade him sit nearby.

  “You see a man who has at last achieved his just desserts,” he said. “This will be the beginning of a new era — the greatest the Church has ever known. But I will not forget my friends, William. I have obtained for you the greatest gift in the world, as a mark of my approbation. Come.”

  He led a bemused William from the audience chamber and along a corridor to a window overlooking one of the many private courts of the Vatican.

  My God, William thought: Djem has died.

  “Look there, dear boy, and tell me what you see,” the Pope invited.

  Cautiously William stood against the window and looked down. And frowned in puzzlement. Instead of Djem’s body he found himself looking at three nuns who walked in deep conversation. When they turned and faced the window, it was all he could do to prevent himself from crying out. The centre one of the three was Aimée Ferrand.

  10

  The Harem

  Pope Alexander pulled William back from the window.

  “I am bound to say she is a most entrancingly beautiful creature,” he remarked.

  Far more beautiful than he even remembered, William realised.

  “I do not understand,” he stammered.

  “It is very simple — and very touching. Your Aimée loved you truly. At least, she certainly considered herself betrothed to you. Thus, when informed by her father that you were banished from France, and that she must now be betrothed to another, she utterly refused. Not even floggings, or weeks confined to her room, or an interview with the Lady of Beaujeu herself could change that staunch little mind. She was finally given the option of being married to a man of the Lady’s choice or of taking the veil. Whichever way, others would take control of her fortune.”

  “Noble Aimée,” William said. “But what is she doing here?”

  “Having discovered her fate, it was a simple matter for me to discover her convent,” the Pope explained. “It was not so simple to remove her from it. It caused me a great deal of bother.”

  “And you never confided in me?”

  “I did not wish to raise your hopes, as I could not be sure of my influence with the French. However, that is behind us now. She has now been in Rome for some time, in a convent where the Mother Superior is beholden to me. She is unaware of your presence here, of course, or of her purpose in being here. Now that I have been elected to the Supreme Office, I have been able to bring her to the Vatican — and there she is.” He peered at William. “You are sure you still love her? To enter the Church she had to renounce all her worldly goods, that is to say, her inheritance. From being one of the richest heiresses in France, she is now the poorest.”

  “Of course I still love her, Your Holiness,” William protested — and at that moment he had no doubt that he did. The sight of that utterly beautiful face… “But of what significance is her presence here to me, since she has taken holy vows?”

  “Tush,” Alexander said. “That might have been a problem when I was a mere cardinal, but the Pope has the dispensatory power to let a nun abandon her vows.”

  “But will she?”

  “Of course she will,” the Pope declared. “I did not go to all this time and trouble to be gainsaid by the foolish whims of a young girl. No, she will be released from her vows, and I will marry the pair of you myself. Will that not be splendid? In return, you will continue to put my concrete proposals before your master.”

  “As I have already done, Holy Father.”

  Borgia smiled.

  *

  As always, William found himself carried along by the Pope’s enthusiasm, and by his bland confidence that whatever he decreed should be done, must be done, and would be enjoyed by all concerned. But for all that he felt an unusual degree of nervousness when informed, a week later, that Alexander would receive him in the Vatican for supper, together with his prospective bride.

  During that week he had refused to see Margherita, much to her annoyance. As a consequence of their lengthy relationship she had come to regard herself almost as a wife; notwithstanding that she insisted on being paid for her services, and that she continued to offer those services elsewhere when William did not require her. Thus he felt very much the chaste bridegroom as he entered the papal apartments to find Alexander waiting for him with his favourite son, Cesare, a tall, handsome youth of seventeen, now Bishop of Valencia. He could only be grateful that young Lucrezia was absent.

  “I anticipate this evening with great pleasure,” Alexander announced silkily, “because I am going to give great pleasure, and that always pleases me. Now, brace yourself. The Signorina Ferrand is still unaware of your presence, and the poor child is sufficiently confused already. Stand over there behind that curtain, and await my summons.”r />
  William obeyed anxiously, gazing through the folds at the inner doorway. A few moments later it opened to admit Aimée, alone. She had discarded her nun’s habit for the height of Roman fashion: a patterned gown with ermine trimming, which flowed to the floor; the skirt, raised in her left hand, exposed a dark green underskirt, which was also revealed at her bodice, for both gowns were cut in a square if modest décolletage. Her head was concealed beneath a black velvet hood which rested on her shoulders, and she wore jewelled lappets and a gold chain round her neck.

  She was much taller than William remembered and her figure, perfectly delineated by the gown, had filled out elegantly. She was of course twenty-one years old — and the loveliest woman William had ever seen.

  She looked around the room in some confusion, and then dropped to her knees to kiss the Pope’s ring.

  “My dear girl,” Alexander spoke in Italian, a language she had obviously learned during her sojourn in a Roman convent. “My dear, dear girl.”

  He held her hands to raise her, and she curtsied to Cesare in turn.

  Cesare’s eyes devoured her.

  “And now I have a great and welcome surprise for you,” Alexander confided.

  “Surprise?” Aimée breathed, also in Italian.

  It was the first time in eight years that William had heard her speak, and he was taken aback by the way her voice had deepened and strengthened. “These last few days have been one long surprise, Holy Father. And I am so confused. Mother Superior has told me that I am absolved of my vows. How can that be? And now these clothes in which I have been instructed to dress…”

  Borgia took her hand and guided her to a waiting couch. “It is very simple really, my dear. You imagined that you had been called to the service of God. Well, so are we all. But we are each required to serve God in different ways. How would the world survive were all men priests, or even sailors or soldiers? Or if all women were nuns? That would not do. You were mistaken when you assumed God had called you to a life of chastity. It is my pleasure and duty to release you from that life.”