Hawk Pasha gave a brief nod. John left his brother’s side and went out into the courtyard, to return a moment later leading Aimée by the hand. If she was alarmed, she gave no sign of it.
“Uncover your face, woman,” the Sultan ordered.
“With respect, Padishah,” William protested.
Bayazid smiled. “You are a jealous husband.”
“I am a husband.” He gestured around at the fascinated throng.
“Ha! Then she shall do so in privacy.” The Sultan rose slowly, owing to his bulk. “Bring her here.” He went into the inner chamber.
“It were best to humour him,” Anthony Hawkwood said in English. “His temper has grown uncertain.”
“Nonetheless it is against the law and an insult to our family,” John Hawkwood said.
“Humour him,” Anthony commanded. “He is our lord. It is his misfortune that he is besotted by the thought of woman. Humour him, and be done with it.”
William took Aimée’s hand. “Courage,” he said.
“I am not afraid of that fat old man,” she said.
The pashas and viziers were now muttering amongst themselves. Certainly Bayazid was wantonly breaking the anyi by showing such interest in another man’s wife.
William led Aimée into the private chamber, where Bayazid had already seated himself upon the divan, having sent his guards away.
“Reveal your face,” William instructed.
Aimée hesitated but a moment, then unclipped the yashmak and let it fall.
Bayazid stared at her, with unconcealed lust.
“By Allah, she pleases me. Can there be a more beautiful face in all the world?”
“The Padishah is most kind,” William said stiffly. “Will you permit us to withdraw?”
“But I have heard that her hair is even more beautiful than her face,” Bayazid said.
Aimée reached up and slipped the haik from her head. Her ash-blond hair had regained some of its youthful length.
“By Allah,” Bayazid said, “it is like spun gold.”
The Sultan continued to stare at Aimée, his gaze drifting up and down the haik-shrouded body.
“You are to be congratulated, young Hawk,’ he said at last, as Aimée covered herself again and withdrew. “But now to your future. I am concerned to give you a position commensurate with your talents. I have decided you will take command of the garrison of Erzurum, with the rank of beylerbey.”
William stared at him in delight mingled with consternation: Erzurum was a great command, but it was also the farthest outpost of empire, situated in the Taurus mountains at the very border of Ottoman rule, where Turk and Persian glowered at each other perennially. It was a post of honour which could bring either fame or disaster.
And it was several months’ journey from Constantinople.
“It is a distant post,” Bayazid continued, “and one which requires great ability. I know you possess that, young Hawk, but you are young. Therefore I will send your father and brother with you, with a force of sipahis and Janissaries so that the frontier will know my strength. When they have established you, they will return here, and you will be left in sole command.”
“I am overwhelmed, O Padishah.”
“Then see to it. You must leave soon.”
*
“I do not like it,” John Hawkwood declared.
The two brothers sat with their father on the porch of his house, and looked down upon the Golden Horn. Their women sat inside, gossiping. All Constantinople was gossiping about Bayazid’s behaviour with the wife of the youngest Hawk.
“Nobody likes it,” Anthony Hawkwood agreed. “The imams are deeply disturbed. But he is the Sultan, and there is an end to it. Is it not better for us to look on the bright side — on William’s advancement?”
“I only fear for him. William, have you ever commanded an army?”
“No,” William acknowledged.
“Yet you are suddenly appointed to a post of great military responsibility.”
“The Sultan has an eye for talent,” Anthony Hawkwood argued.
“No doubt. But the important thing is that we will be gone from Constantinople for a year, while our two wives remain here.”
Anthony Hawkwood glanced at him and frowned. “You could hardly take them with you on a campaign.”
“Agreed. Yet we are being sent on an unnecessary campaign, all within a week of William’s return here…with his wife. Perhaps the most beautiful woman the Sultan has ever seen.”
“What you are suggesting is impossible,” Anthony Hawkwood declared. “Not even Bayazid would dare to break the Anyi to that extent. Is not adultery the gravest sin a Muslim can commit?”
“Amongst Muslims,” John pointed out. “Does the Anyi really apply to gaiours?”
“It could never happen,” Anthony insisted, and got to his feet. “It is time we ate.”
*
William held Aimée in his arms for a last time. His escort, including his father and his brother, awaited him, as did the galley that would ferry them across the Bosphorus. Parting from her was grieving; he had only so recently found her again. He was a man who had never loved until now. Now he loved in a fashion he would not have thought possible.
He fondly stroked her hair — like fine-spun gold, the Sultan had said.
“I will send for you the moment I have made the frontier safe,” he said.
“I shall await your summons.”
He stood away to look at her. “You will be happy here.”
“I am sure I shall be, for Giovanna is a splendid companion. But I will be happier when I can come to you.”
He kissed her a last time, before striding from the room.
It was not done for a Turkish soldier to display affection in public. Aimée therefore stood at the window to watch the horses disappear down the roadway to the harbour — a group of men dominated by the huge Hawkwoods.
She pondered the strangeness of her life. She had been brought up to the arrogance of great wealth; thus money and possessions had never meant much to her. She had accepted that she would probably be married to an impoverished nobleman who had been promised advancement by the King, and she had come to understand that her sons could well rise far above her own station.
As the daughter of a king’s favourite minister, she had not feared the future, had indeed anticipated it. Her only impatience was to become a woman. With reason, for she had early been aware of her physical desires. Perhaps she was a born sinner. She dreamed strange dreams, and they always concerned men, and the bodies of men, even when she had no idea of what to expect. Only in marriage, and in the constant attentions of just one man, could she ever hope for salvation.
All those years ago, the King’s choice had surprised and delighted her as much as it had horrified her parents. For here was a stranger from a heathen land who must be considered very much of a heathen himself. She had overheard her family speak of him in anxious tones, wondering how he would misuse her body, and to what unknown countries he would take her.
But William Hawkwood had been a young man — and a handsome one. And gentle, too. She had not feared him or anything he might do to her. Rather had she wanted to be his wife the moment it was possible, and so begin to live her real life.
The sudden termination of her betrothal had been a shock to her and a delight to her parents. They had been overjoyed to be able to reject the Turk, especially when the Dame de Beaujeu designated one of her political favourites as the future husband of this richest and most beautiful girl in France. But the princess’s choice was a widower; to Aimée he seemed old and weakly, and her sexually romantic imagination had always craved good looks and sound health. A man such as William Hawkwood, in fact.
But rather than be debauched by a man who looked old enough to be her grandfather, she had doggedly affirmed that she would not marry at all. This had been totally perverse of her, and she knew it, even while suffering for her decision. Both her father and her mother had flogged h
er; the princess had lectured her. They had painted grim pictures of the dreadful existence she would endure as a nun, while if she married their choice, within a few years she would probably be a widow. But even this prognostication could not change her mind; the Count might live to be a hundred, or he might leave her encumbered with a dozen unwanted children.
Having made her decision to take the veil, she was determined to stand by it. Her inheritance, and the proposed marriage with it, befell the lot of her more biddable younger sister. And no doubt Aimée had been fortunate in her Mother Superior, who allowed her access to suitable books and in all ways acted with a kindness she had seldom received from her own mother. The convent had been a contented period of her life, if not a particularly fulfilling one. But she had become sincere in her devotions, had truly felt that she was now the bride of Christ, and in her new-found piety had suppressed her physical yearnings.
And then, without warning, her life had again been turned upside-down.
To be sent for by an eminent cardinal might have suggested unexpected advancement in her new calling, had not Mother Superior wept so bitterly as she set off for Rome. No doubt the good woman already had some idea of the character of her new patron. And yet the journey itself, the astonishing sights and sounds and smells, had provided the most exciting experience of her life…until the sudden, terrible revelation.
She had been genuinely horrified at being told she was no longer to consider herself a nun, when with no more than a snap of the fingers her eight years of determined chastity was ended — though some devil within her had given her a sudden frisson of anticipation. And if she still shuddered when she considered the hereafter, it was easy to believe that her husband was right, and that she had been given this special path to tread by God. And if, in so doing, she found an unbelievable happiness, then she had best enjoy it while she could, for she would surely have to pay for it in the end.
Meanwhile she could dream of the great joy of motherhood. Surely it would happen the moment they were reunited.
*
“They are a noble family.” Giovanna spoke at her shoulder. “Even if they do fight for the anti-Christ.”
“They are a noble family,” Aimée agreed, preferring to leave it at that.
She was anxious to explore this delightful palace, and to learn something of its management. Giovanna was very much the lady of her father-in-law’s household; her forceful personality had led her to supplant John Hawkwood’s servile Turkish wife, and even Anthony Hawkwood’s two concubines bowed before her.
The palace was a treasure house of unusual objects and views and delights, but soon Aimée wanted also to explore Constantinople. She felt like a bird the door of whose cage has suddenly been allowed to swing open. All of her life she had been confined, first within the protective walls of her father’s house, then within the walls of her convent. Now she was free. Perhaps more free than she would ever be again, with as yet no children to be responsible for.
Giovanna never ventured into the city unless accompanied by her husband; she had too many unpleasant memories of the slave market there. But she made no demur when Aimée wished to see it for herself, only insisting that she be accompanied by one of the female servants.
Several weeks after the departure of the three Hawkwoods, Aimée ventured out with Gislama the maid, both totally concealed beneath their haiks and yashmaks like any Turkish women, and took the ferry across the Golden Horn to wander about the old city and mingle with the crowds. Most of these were Greeks, the women unveiled and noisy, and all made way for the Turkish lady and her servant.
Aimée even went to the slave market, trying to imagine what Giovanna must have felt standing there, her body all exposed…and experienced a curious weakness in her knees as she watched naked men and women being carefully examined and herded about as if they were prize cattle.
Instead she hurried off to visit the old hippodrome, which had been converted into a large garden, since the Turks had neither the time nor the taste for organised games.
They were on the point of leaving the hippodrome when Gislama muttered, “We must hurry, lady. We are being followed.”
Aimée paused and looked behind her. There were three men walking behind them, and she thought she had seen them earlier outside the house in Galata, when they had been first setting off for their walk. They had clearly been followed ever since then. Thus these men must have been waiting, perhaps for days, for her to leave the safety of the house.
Then Gislama gasped. Turning round, Aimée saw there were also three men in front of them, barring their way. All were Negroes.
Aimée felt a lightness in her chest. There were other people about, but they were carefully moving away now from the little group in the gardens.
In panic she pointed to an alleyway, and hurried towards it. Then she realised her error; the alleyway was dark and deserted.
As she turned back again, the eunuchs were upon her, so suddenly that she did not even have time to cry out. A sack was thrown over her head, and fell below her waist. The mouth of the sack was corded, and before she could raise her arms, the cords had been pulled tight and secured, leaving her helpless, her hands constricted against her thighs.
Hands scrabbled for her legs, and she tried to kick, but that too was futile. With other hands gripping her shoulders, she was lifted bodily from the ground, and lowered into another sack. The neck of this was also secured, and, thus wrapped up helpless, she was hoisted on to someone’s shoulders and carried away.
She had been abducted in broad daylight, in the middle of Constantinople, and no one had raised a finger to help her. But she was the daughter-in-law of the great Hawk Pasha. Who would dare commit such a crime?
Who, indeed? She was suddenly seized with a violent understanding.
Her uncomfortable journey was fairly brief. In place of the sun’s heat she felt shaded cool; in place of the city’s noise there was silence. Then she was lifted down from the shoulder of her captor.
The sacks were torn away and she could breathe freely. She sank to the stone floor on which she had been placed. When her breathing was back under control, she discovered herself surrounded by the eunuchs who had kidnapped her — and another. Her original abductors were richly dressed, but this creature was positively resplendent, his tunic decorated with gold thread. And his face wore the look of one used to authority.
“My lady will rise,” he commanded harshly.
Aimée stared at him and did not move.
“My lady will rise,” he repeated. “I am the Kislar Agha. My lady will obey, or she will be caned.”
Realising he meant what he said, Aimée scrambled to her feet. But she knew she must not give way to the terror which was tearing at her mind now that she understood what was to be her fate. Besides, she told herself, what is there to be afraid of? This Bayazid may be fat and disgusting, but is reputed to be supremely sensuous.
What terrible thoughts for the wife of young Hawk!
And surely she would be avenged.
Certainly she had no intention of being frightened by these poor half-men: they could do no more than bruise her body. And that too would be avenged.
“Where is my servant?” she demanded as forcefully as she could manage.
“My lady has no more use for that servant.” The Kislar Agha stepped forward and removed the yashmak from her face. She made herself keep still.
“My lady is indeed as beautiful as the moon,” the Agha said.
Aimée tossed her head. “I am the wife of young Hawk,” she said. “Do you not suppose Hawk Pasha will avenge me?”
“Hawk Pasha is far away,” the Agha said. “My lady will accompany me now.”
To another interview with the Sultan, no doubt. Could one refuse a sultan?
The antechamber in which she stood was devoid of windows or furnishings, and lit only by two torches in sconces on the wall. She had no real idea where she was, although she was sure it was somewhere within the royal palace
.
The Agha had already opened an inner door, and this she stepped through to find herself in a corridor filled with a delightfully fragrant scent. This gave way to another chamber, where there were several divans, and a thick carpet on the floor.
By now Aimée was aware of feminine sounds from all around her. She must be in a harem.
“My lady will disrobe,” the Agha said.
Aimée’s head jerked up. “Are you mad?”
“You must disrobe to be examined,” the Agha explained. “If my lady is blemished…”
“I would be released?” She had been unable to resist the question.
“There is no release from the harem, save in death,” the Agha said.
Aimée stared at him, fear again threatening to overwhelm her. This could not be true. Had she escaped the prison of the convent to be incarcerated in some sultan’s palace for the rest of her life?
“My lady will disrobe,” the Agha said again.
“Before you? Never.”
“My lady,” the Agha said patiently, “I have power of life and death here. My master desires you, but should you be damaged or tarnished in any way, he will not receive you. Then I must tie you in a sack and drop you into the Bosphorus. Now, obey me, or my people here will strip you. In doing so, they may well damage you.”
To her consternation, Aimée found she was already tearing off her clothes. She could not doubt the truth of what he had said. Now the mixture of apprehension and excitement which had filled her mind since her abduction was replaced by real fear.
She gathered the haik and threw it on the floor. She wore only a linen tunic beneath, and this she threw after the haik.
The Agha’s eyes seemed to devour her. As he came towards her, her knees seemed about to turn to water. If he touches me, she thought…
But she stood quite still as he did touch her. He stroked the line of her jaw, her neck, then each breast in turn, cupping them from underneath as if weighing them.
That done, he made her turn round, to examine her shoulders and back. Then he knelt.
“My lady will spread her legs,” he commanded.
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