Ottoman

by Christopher Nicole

  Aimée stared at him and made an ineffectual tug at her hand, still imprisoned in his grasp.

  “But I have taken sacred vows, Holy Father. No man can release me from those.”

  “No man may, to be sure. But the Vicar of Christ is no ordinary man.”

  Still Aimée stared at him, realising that he was too powerful an antagonist to risk an argument. “What do you wish of me, Holy Father?” she asked quietly.

  “Why, my dear child, only that you be happy. Nothing more and nothing less. There is your happiness, awaiting you.”

  He beckoned, and William stepped from behind the curtain.

  Aimée gaped at him. “My God!” she whispered.

  “Is that all you can say?” Alexander demanded. “To your betrothed?”

  Colour flared into her pale cheeks. “My betrothal was terminated.”

  “A betrothal is never terminated. It is virtually the same as a marriage. Only the consummation remains to be accomplished. Now, will you not greet your husband?”

  She looked at William again, her mouth slightly open.

  “Greet your wife, William,” Alexander invited.

  William stepped forward, took Aimée’s other hand, and kissed the sweet-smelling palm. “I am overwhelmed,” he confessed. “After so long, to be with you again, my dear Aimée.”

  It was a poor speech, and brought a snicker from Cesare Borgia, but he could do no better at that moment.

  “You wish to marry me?” Aimée asked.

  “You are already married in the eyes of God,” Alexander explained. “It but remains to hold the ceremony, which I shall conduct myself. And then the consummation…and then, why, a life of wedded bliss lies before you.”

  Aimée’s self-control broke. “I am married to God!” she wailed. “No one can alter that.”

  “I have already done so,” Alexander reminded her patiently.

  “Can you permit this?” Aimée asked William. “Yes, I did conceive myself betrothed to you, as the Holy Father has said. But then I took a sacred oath. Signor Hawkwood, I beg of you… It would be a mortal sin.”

  Her lips trembled, and she was clearly on the verge of tears. She was not a woman ever to be forced.

  He looked at Alexander. “If the idea so repels her, Holy Father…”

  “What nonsense! I have never known a young woman not terrified by the thought of losing her virginity. Nor one who could get enough of it afterwards. Come along, our guests are waiting. The marriage will be solemnised immediately. It is my will.”

  Aimée cried out, “It will be a crime against God!” She looked from one to the other, and William wished he were somewhere else.

  “If you blaspheme again,” the Pope snarled, “I will have you whipped. Come along.”

  Cesare was waiting by a door which he now threw open to reveal a huge inner chamber. There was a table laid for a good score of people, all of whom stood awaiting them. At the sight of the bridal party they began to clap.

  “Take her hand, William,” Alexander commanded, “and follow me.”

  William clasped her right hand. She gave it a little tug, then let it rest in his.

  “I had supposed you a gentle man,” she muttered.

  He made no reply because he did not know what to say. His mind was spinning. It was his business to humour Alexander in everything, and here was something which had greatly appealed to him. He had dreamed often enough of possessing this girl. And there was clearly no alternative: he knew Alexander too well to suppose that he would ever be crossed. If he did not take Aimée for himself, she would undoubtedly be debauched by the Pope himself, or Cesare…he had seen how they looked at her. For all his youth, and his recent appointment as a Cardinal, Rome abounded with the tales of Cesare’s lusts and the total ruthlessness with which he pursued any woman with whom he became infatuated. There was still a rumour concerning a beautiful girl whose naked body, bound and gagged, was found floating in the Tiber three months after her fiancé had been murdered at her side and she abducted — to be the plaything of the Borgia until he tired of her.

  Surely, when all things were explained to her, Aimée would accept her situation, and love him in return. She claimed to have done so once.

  He heard little of the marriage service. He was too conscious of the girl standing beside him, of the feel of her hand in his. He remembered only that Alexander spoke sharply to her once when she would not respond, and then she repeated the words in a subdued voice.

  The feast which followed seemed no less unreal. A great deal of wine was drunk, a great many toasts offered. He did his own share of drinking, seeking courage for what would come later, while he listened to the bawdy jokes…and from time to time he glanced at his bride, who sat white-faced and tight-lipped, only allowing a goblet to brush her lips when required.

  “She is impatient for her bed,” the Pope declared. “Well, and should she not be, having waited eight years to be rammed?”

  There was a gale of laughter.

  “To bed,” they chanted. To bed!”

  The ladies surrounded Aimée, pulled her to her feet, and marched her off. The men similarly escorted William from the room. The air was filled with jocular obscenity.

  “Here, Holy Father?” William gasped. He had anticipated some privacy.

  “For this night, you will sleep under the roof of the Vatican,” Alexander declared. “There could be no more profound blessing upon a marriage than that.”

  *

  William was stripped of his clothing and bundled into an embroidered nightshirt, then marched along the corridor to the bedchamber. This was already crowded with women, who in turn surrounded him, kissing his face, thrusting eager hands at his body, feeling for him through the thin linen. Their deft attentions had him hard as rock in a moment, and they screamed their delight.

  On the bed Aimée sat, her back against the pillows. She wore a white linen nightgown and a white linen nightcap; no trace of her magnificent hair was to be seen. Her face was pale save for an angry flush in her cheeks.

  Howling like a pack of mad dogs, the wedding guests escorted William to the bedside, and Cesare whipped back the sheet. Aimée sat with legs straight in front of her, the nightgown down to her ankles. She made no demur when Cesare pulled it up to her thighs, and only shuddered when two other men seized her ankles to draw her down flat on the bed, the nightdress rising higher until it was round her waist.

  William had never hoped to see such beauty, and perhaps even the crowd agreed with him; there was a hush as they gazed at the narrow hips and perfectly formed legs, the pulsing belly…but then they were lifting him over her, and raising his nightshirt above his waist.

  The shouts grew louder as his circumcision was revealed.

  “A Turk!” the women screamed. “She is married to a Turk!”

  He was laid upon her, her legs pulled apart to accommodate his.

  “Decency! Decency!” declared the Pope. “Cover them up for the first thrust.”

  The sheet was thrown back over them, and William gazed down at that lovely, anguished face. He could feel the nipples of surprisingly large breasts through the thin material of her bodice.

  Then the cap slipped from her head, and he jerked in dismay. Her scalp had recently been shaven, and in place of the magnificent ash-blond tresses there was only light down.

  The crowd bayed their delight. “A nun!” they screamed. “The Turk is deflowering a nun.”

  “Her hair will grow more luxuriant than ever,” Alexander said. “Now come, William, play the man. You have sixty seconds, or we will have at her ourselves, eh?”

  Anything less like his first few moments with Sereta could not be imagined. He sought for her lips as he found his way into her, moving as gently as he could to avoid hurting her. She moaned and twisted her body, and tried to pull her legs together, but Cesare signalled to his friends and they caught hold of each knee to hold her helpless.

  Her mouth flopped wildly as her head turned again. His mouth was
next to her ear.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I do what I must. But Aimée… I do love thee so.”

  She gave a sudden gasp of horror and fear and pain — and he was surging back and forth inside her, exploding within seconds.

  Then the sheet was jerked away, and he was rolled on his back, and Aimée’s body pulled aside.

  “There!” Cesare shouted, pointing at drops of blood on the under-sheet.

  “A consummation!” they shrieked. “A consummation!”

  “A noble effort,” Alexander declared, and patted William on the head. “You are a worthy Turk. Now come along,” he shouted above the racket. “Let us leave the happy couple to themselves.”

  Reluctantly the excited crowd left the room, Alexander waiting until last. At the door he made the sign of the cross, and then closed it upon himself.

  “He is a devil,” Aimée panted.

  “Aye, he has his faults.” William raised himself on his elbow. “You will understand, my dearest, that I did what I must. It will not be so again.”

  She half-turned her head to stare at him. There were tears on her cheeks. “You have violated a nun,” she choked. “You are damned. I am damned. While that creature is Pope, we are all damned.”

  *

  Was there ever a Hawkwood blessed with happiness, William wondered. Or was the entire race, as Aimée had said, damned?

  His father no doubt would have gone at her again and again, raped her into subservience. In that, he was not his father’s son. He remembered too well the bitterness of his father’s house, the unending misery of his mother. Just as he remembered the pleasure with which Sereta and then Margherita, in so different ways, had come to his bed.

  Therefore he must again practise patience. Not without hope, though. She had wept and she had pleaded, but she had not become hysterical. And he could swear that immediately after the first thrust her hands had closed on his shoulders, perhaps involuntarily, but nonetheless it had seemed a gesture of possession.

  So when he told her, “I shall not lay a hand on you again unless you desire it,” he meant what he said.

  When next day he took her back to their lodgings, he gave her the use of the main bedroom to herself, and also hired her a maid.

  Being a Turk, Hussain was little surprised at these arrangements; men only went to bed with a woman when they wanted sex. No doubt the other servants gossiped, but William cared nothing for that. Because he also believed that, with kindness and understanding, Aimée would grow to accept her situation, and might even turn to him from sheer loneliness.

  He sat and explained to her again the story of his life, of what he had had to do. He told her of Constantinople where they would soon be returning, of the beauties he would show to her, of the house he would build her. But her face remained stony.

  “If your fate distresses you,” he said at last, “let us at least kneel together and pray for forgiveness.”

  “I can never pray again,” she told him. “I am damned.”

  *

  He was now anxious to leave Rome, and the following week he again attended the Pope — to receive the surprise of his life.

  Alexander was not in a good mood. “How now, Signor Hawkwood,” he began, “I have just received the following communication from your scurvy master. Here, read it for yourself.”

  William took the piece of parchment, recognising Khalid the Vizier’s handwriting.

  His eye skipped over the lengthy and flowery greetings until he found the crucial part of the text: “…Owing to the tranquillity and prosperity of his realms, the Sultan is pleased to inform His Holiness that the usurper and traitor known as Djem is no longer considered a threat to the peace and prosperity of the Empire. In these circumstances, the Sultan neither wishes the usurper and traitor known as Djem to be returned to Constantinople, nor is he concerned to have the said usurper and traitor confined at further expense. The Sultan therefore wishes to inform His Holiness that the subsidy of one hundred thousand pounds a year will no longer be paid…”

  The letter rambled on for some time, but William had stopped reading. He raised his head to stare at the Pope.

  “Your master cheats me,” Alexander growled.

  “I am as surprised as you, Holy Father,” William said, thinking, here have I wasted ten years of my life stalking the murderer of my wife and sons, and now…

  “What are you going to do?” Alexander inquired, ominously.

  “Why…there must also be a letter for me, with instructions.”

  “None came in this batch.”

  “Well, then…with your leave, Holy Father, I would deem it my duty to return to Constantinople with all haste.”

  “Ha! And what of this useless burden I have in my possession?”

  William hesitated. He knew Bayazid well enough to be certain that even if the Sultan decided Djem was no longer a threat to him, he would still not be pleased to have him let loose or returned. He could not guess what had caused Bayazid’s change of heart.

  “This man murdered your wife and children,” Alexander reminded him. “Ha! But now you have no interest in him either. You are as shallow as your master.”

  “Not so, Holy Father…”

  “I am disappointed in you, Hawkwood. Leave me. I will have to consider what shall be done.”

  *

  William returned to his lodging and gave his servants orders to pack up.

  “We are going home, my sweet,” he told Aimée. “We are going to Constantinople.”

  She sighed and made the sign of the cross. But this he found reassuring. She could not really believe she was eternally damned if she still performed this Christian gesture.

  *

  Three nights later, when everything was ready for his departure, he was summoned again to dine with the Pope.

  “I must attend,” he told his wife. “It will be in the nature of a farewell.”

  Alexander seemed in the best of humours, and greeted him affectionately.

  “To lose the pleasure of your company will grieve me greatly, dear William,” the Pope said. “But as you are resolved to leave me, I have determined that you shall have one last pleasant surprise.”

  As he was ushered into the same dining hall in which his wedding had been celebrated, William caught his breath in dismay.

  Standing before him was Prince Djem.

  This was the first time in more than eleven years that he had come face to face with the prince. Eleven years of captivity had played havoc with that once arrogant man. The prince had lost weight, yet his cheeks were puffy, and he had unwholesome jowls beneath his chin. His shoulders were hunched and, although only a year older than William, he looked an old man.

  And also a frightened man, as he gazed at William, and took a step backwards. “You told me I was to be freed!” he gasped.

  “And so you are, noble prince. You are free as of this moment,” Alexander assured him slyly. “I but thought that you might first like to come face to face with your old adversary.”

  “He will murder me the moment I leave the Vatican,” Djem declared.

  “Have I not promised you a safe conduct out of my dominions? And Signor Hawkwood is of my mind in all things. Besides, he has quite forgotten the past. Have you not, dear William?”

  “Indeed I am endeavouring to do so, Holy Father,” William replied in astonishment.

  “Splendid!” the Pope declared. “It is my joy to bring peace and harmony to mankind. Shall we now dine together?”

  William was placed on the Pope’s left, Djem on his right. Cesare sat beside the prince, and his elder brother, the Duke of Gandia, sat on William’s left. Only men were present.

  The meal proved as luxurious as any other entertainment given by the Borgias, and when it was over there were scantily-clad dancing girls to entertain them.

  “A touch of eastern promise,” the Pope said. He was in the most genial of moods. “Some more wine.”

  Instantly their goblets were replenis
hed.

  “There is an old Papal custom,” Alexander said, “of blessing the wine whenever an honoured guest is about to depart on a long journey. Will you permit me, both of you?”

  He was already extending his hands over Djem’s goblet, twisting the fingers together. “Pax vobiscum!”

  He then turned to William’s goblet, performing the same ceremony. William gazed at his hands and wondered where he had seen that unusual ring before.

  “And now a toast,” Alexander said, raising his own goblet. “To our Turkish friends who are leaving us, and whom we may never see again.”

  “To our Turkish friends,” said the company, rising together.

  As William brought his glass to his lips, he suddenly remembered where he had last seen that ring — on Borgia’s finger when he had stood gloating over the dead body of the merchant Sacorro. He felt a tingling throughout his body. He knew he was about to die.

  Or to live, if he had the courage of a true Hawk.

  He lowered his goblet and stared at Djem. The prince had drunk deeply, draining the dregs. He now set down the crystal goblet with a sigh of satisfaction.

  “You have not drunk the toast, dear William,” the Pope observed.

  “No, Holy Father. Forgive me, I am suddenly unwell. I would beg your permission to withdraw.”

  “Withdraw? But the night is young. No, no, sit down and drink some wine and you will feel better.”

  William had been studying his situation. Every guest at table had a dagger hanging from his belt, but not one of them wore a sword, and there were no guards in the room. He would be taking a great risk, of course, but no greater than drinking the poisoned wine. It was a question of whom to take hostage. Alexander himself was the most obvious, but William distrusted the hot-headedness of Cesare, even with the life of his father at stake. Whereas Alexander loved his second son more than any other living creature, save Lucrezia.

  “With respect, Holy Father, I must leave at once.”

  With tremendous speed, he tipped his chair backwards to the floor, stepped round and grasped Cesare’s arm, jerking him to his feet. At the same time he drew his misericord and presented the point to the young man’s throat.