The Seljuks had been the first wave of Turks to come riding out of the steppes to challenge the might of the Byzantine empire — at a time when the Byzantines had still been thought to possess the greatest army in the world. The Seljuks had triumphed.
Several of their sultans were buried in Erzurum, their mausoleums, as with the Ottomans at Brusa, dominating the city, but overlooked by the dome of the Great Mosque.
More interesting to William were the high, strong walls and the central citadel.
Riders had been sent ahead to warn the garrison that a new commander was arriving, so the troops had turned out on parade. There were not many: one regiment of Janissaries and one of sipahis — the same size of force Djem had been given to garrison Brusa, before he had started recruiting.
There was no artillery.
“To bring cannon into these mountains would be an impossible task,” Hawk Pasha growled.
“And the Persians have none,” pointed out Walid, the acting commander of the garrison, a small, slight, dark man who looked more Arab than Turk. But he had fought under Hawk Pasha, and Anthony knew him to be a good man.
“Has there been much hostility?” William asked.
“Border raids. Those will never change.” Walid pointed at the mountains which rose sheer in front of them at only perhaps ten miles’ distance. “It is not possible to march an army of any size through those without hardship. Genghis Khan and Timur did it, but the Persians have sufficient problems at home.”
*
“Are you pleased?” Anthony Hawkwood asked his son. “You are far removed from Constantinople and any interference, so up here you are very much the ruler of your own little kingdom.”
“Remembering always that the Padishah is still your master,” John Hawkwood advised.
“I am not likely to forget that,” William said. “But I will be content here, and do my duty until I am called to better things. My only wish is to have my wife here with me.”
“I shall attend to that as soon as I return,” Anthony said, “now that we know all is peaceful. But it will be a long and difficult journey for her.”
“She has made long journeys before, Father. But I fear it will be a long and difficult return journey for you.”
“Nonsense. One would think I was a babe in arms the way you have been fussing over me.”
“But you will rest before leaving,” William insisted.
“I will remain here a week,” Anthony agreed.
*
It was on the fourth day of that week that the messenger arrived. The Hawkwoods stared at each other in horror as they heard what he had to say.
“Can this be true?” Anthony demanded.
“I have told you what the lady Giovanna bade me say, my lord,” the man repeated. He belonged to Anthony’s own household.
“It has taken you this long to reach us?” John growled.
“It has been most difficult, my lord — and for the lady Giovanna, too. When the lady Aimée disappeared, it was said that she had been murdered by footpads, especially after the discovery of her maidservant, Gislama, floating in the Bosphorus. Her throat had been slit from ear to ear. My lords, the Sultan himself was most concerned. He gave orders that every itinerant in the city was to be arrested and tortured. But none confessed. The lady Giovanna did not know what to do. She sent a messenger immediately to inform you, my lord.”
“We have received no messenger before you,” Anthony Hawkwood said.
“Bayazid must have been watching,” John said.
“Go on,” William told the servant. His brain seemed frozen.
“This is what the lady Giovanna feared. It was not until several months had passed, my lords, that, as she had received no reply from you, she realised some mishap must have overtaken her messenger. It was at that time she heard a rumour of the white-haired woman in the Sultan’s harem, who was kept in a separate apartment from the rest of the women. Only then did the lady Giovanna understand the truth, my lords. She was nearly prostrate with anxiety, grief and fear. But then she despatched me, secretly at night, to find you and tell you what she suspects. My lords, I have ridden day and night to bring you this news.”
“You have done nobly,” Anthony Hawkwood assured him. “Now go and rest, and be sure that you will be rewarded. But, Malik, no word of this must pass your lips again.”
Malik bowed. “I understand, my lord.” He left the room.
William was on his feet. “We will leave tomorrow.”
Anthony Hawkwood looked at his youngest son. “With what in mind?”
“You cannot expect me just to accept this, Father.”
“I expect you to act with common sense. A great crime has been committed. And the criminal is the Sultan, the all-powerful. His crime will be condemned by the imams and the muftis, when they know of it eventually. For you yourself to act rashly would enable to Sultan to strike you down without hesitation. And leaving a military command without his permission amounts to rebellion.”
“My God, Father! You expect me to sit here while Aimée is forced to embrace that monster? You do not know her. She has spent all her adult life in a convent. She will die of shame.”
“I grieve for you, but dying is no way to right a wrong. Leave it with me. On my return to Constantinople I will consult the Grand Mufti, and together we will decide what is to be done. I promise you, not even the Sultan can thus break the law and hope to escape unpunished. At the very least he will be forced to let her go… I will send you word. John, we leave tomorrow at dawn.”
*
William knew his father’s advice was sound; it was always sound. The moment he appeared in Constantinople without the permission of the Sultan, he would be outlawed and chased to the ends of the earth, as he himself had pursued Djem to destruction.
And Bayazid had broken the Anyi. He would suffer for it — by the will of the people. But until that, he would do with Aimée as he wished. That thought made William physically sick.
And, as had so often been his fate, there was nothing he could do save wait for fate itself.
He could, however, keep busy. And more: he could set about attaching at least this garrison, this city, to his own person. The soldiers, and Walid, were already devoted to the name of Hawk: the famous battleground of Otluk-Beli lay only a few miles to the southwest. They were pleased to have the youngest Hawk as their commander, however lacking in either years or experience. William set out to raise that respect and admiration for his famous name into respect and adoration for himself personally.
When, as the summer sun melted the snows, it was necessary to send patrols into the mountains as far as the Persian border, he led them himself. He even led raids across the border, bringing back booty and slaves that pleased the Janissaries. By exposing himself recklessly, he also earned their plaudits. Soon his name spread even into Persia.
He led raids to the north as well, over the mountains into Armenia and Georgia and Circassia. On the last of these raids, for the month was September, Walid appeared before his tent, dragging by the hair one of the captive women. She had been stripped of her clothing and her hands were tied behind her back.
“It is not good for a great soldier to live without women, my lord,” Walid said gruffly. “I have heard how your wife was the most beautiful woman in the world; how her hair was like fine-spun gold. But she is dead, so will you not accept a substitute?”
Like everyone else in Erzurum, Walid had no inkling of the truth.
She was Circassian, her skin pale and her eyes blue. Her hair, tumbling in wild disorder down her back, was brilliant gold. She was not pretty, but there was a symmetry about her features which was most attractive, and there could be no denying the voluptuousness of her figure.
And suddenly he wanted a woman with desperation, if only to work out some of the passion that was consuming his soul.
“Her name is Golkha,” Walid told him. “I would recommend you leave her hands bound until you have tamed her.”
> There was no surrender in Golkha’s hate-filled eyes.
Nor in her mouth. William had to gag her simply to avoid being bitten whenever he came too close to those snapping teeth.
He used her well, if roughly. She had breasts to be fondled, buttocks to be slapped, long, strong legs to be parted, and a great deal of warmth between them. He lay with her all night and sated himself time and again.
She would at least be his companion for the winter, because there was no hope of news from Constantinople until the spring. It began to snow before they had even regained Erzurum, and within a week of their return the city was entirely cut off from the outside world, surrounded by a glistening white wonderland which spelt death to anyone who wandered into it.
One could either sit and weep at one’s misfortune, or one could take one’s pleasure and look forward to better times.
Golkha gradually learned to speak Turkish, for she quickly realised that since this was her fate, she had better make the most of it. She ceased to snap and kick, and indeed began to love him with an earthy determination which was heart-rending because it reminded him so much of Aimée.
By the spring she was pregnant.
As soon as the roads were clear he sent down to Trebizond to discover if there was any word from Constantinople. The messengers returned empty-handed. As the weather warmed up, he and Walid could go hunting for bear, but his mind remained in turmoil. If he continued to lead his men in raids over the border, his heart was no longer in it. Eighteen months had passed since his father and brother had set out on their return journey. Eighteen months was too long.
He knew he could wait no longer to learn of their fate, yet there was the birth of his child to be anticipated, and the certainty that once he left Erzurum for Constantinople he was throwing down the gauntlet. Would even his own men follow him on such a dangerous adventure, much as they now adored him?
But in the late summer, as the leaves began to fall, and before he had made any decision other than to accept that he would now have to wait for the following spring, three horsemen were seen approaching — not from the north, and Trebizond, but from the mountains of the south-west.
William and Walid stood together on the gate tower to inspect these strangers.
“By Allah,” Walid commented, eyes narrowed. “Is that not the man Malik?”
“With two women,” William said, and commanded the gate to be opened for them.
He hurried into the courtyard to greet them. Giovanna almost fell from the saddle into his arms. Her maidservant was carrying John’s little boy, Harry Hawkwood.
***
Giovanna’s face was burned by sun and scorched by winter wind. She would not appear in front of William before she had bathed thoroughly.
Her travel clothes were in rags, but she had an extra gown in her saddlebag, and this she donned to take dinner with him. It was a black gown.
He already knew that she must be the bearer of terrible news. Or she would not have risked coming virtually alone over the mountains.
Understanding her distress, he must wait for her to tell him in her own time. It was clearly what he had always feared. Now it had happened, it remained to learn the details, and make his plans.
She sipped heated goat’s milk, and shivered. He had sent away the servants, and they were alone.
“Tell me,” he said at last.
She shivered again. “Your family is no more. My husband is dead. Your family is no more.”
“Tell me,” he said again.
“I do not know how.”
“Tell me from the beginning. My father and my brother left here in the spring of last year. Tell me what happened in Constantinople.”
Giovanna sighed. “They returned in the late summer. But your father was ill. When he arrived in Constantinople he could hardly sit upon a horse.”
“He seemed ill when he left,” William said, “but he would go.”
“He had to take to his bed, and there was little we could do. When it was realised that he would not rise again, my husband felt it necessary to act on your behalf. He consulted the Grand Mufti about the abduction of your wife. The Mufti was shocked, and went to the Sultan. Bayazid denied any knowledge of your wife. He did what no Sultan has ever done before: he took the Mufti into his harem and let him study all the women. There was not one yellow-haired woman between them, save for a few who were obviously Circassians.”
“Then he has put her to death.”
“Nobody knows. But not even the Grand Mufti could call the Sultan a liar. He was forced to proclaim that John Hawkwood had falsely accused the Sultan.” Another sob. “My husband was executed that same day in the palace. Strangled.”
“And my father?”
“The executioners came for him too, but I begged the Vizier to intercede and spare the life of a great man and loyal servant who was in any event dying. This they agreed, with the proviso that none of us should ever leave the Hawk Palace again. I sat with your father until he died. I could not tell him of John’s execution, but told him my husband had been sent on a military mission. His mind was wandering and he could not reason. He accepted my words.”
“And died,” William said sadly.
“His last words were of you,” Giovanna said. “And my next thoughts were of you. I am no Turk: I have no affinity with them. And I was condemned to be a lifelong prisoner in my own home. Besides, I knew that Bayazid would seek to be rid of me before long. Thus I planned my escape with only my son and a single maidservant, and our faithful Malik.
“I was well supplied with money, but I knew the Sultan would send soldiers behind me the moment he learned I had left. Thus I did not dare take the coast road, so went into the mountains. I have been travelling a year to come to you, young Hawk.” She paused, staring. “I had nowhere else to go.”
William clasped her hand. “Here you will be safe.” He gave a twisted smile. “For as long as I myself survive.”
William got up, walked to the window, and gazed out at the mountains.
“Do you think Aimée is dead?” he inquired at last.
“I am sure of it. He had his way with her, and then…no doubt a sack tossed into the Bosphorus. Is that not the way with unwanted concubines?”
“Yes,” William said. All of that beauty and grace drowned in a sack. After being debauched in a manner even the Borgias would not have known existed. So much wasted. So much to be remembered — for as long as he lived. Because he had to live until he could settle his account.
“Then she must be avenged,” he said, his voice icy calm. “As also my father and my brother. All of my family are laid at the door of this accursed Sultan, and his brother.”
“Can you oppose his might?”
William remembered Djem, and Omar, and the encounter in the hills outside Brusa. He also remembered his father’s advice: that he should use his head rather than lose it.
“No,” he said. “I cannot lead an army sufficient to meet that which Bayazid could range against me. But I do not believe he can bring an army against me here so long as my men will support me. I have been forced to practise as great deal of patience in my life. A few more months, years even, will not hurt me. So I will wait, because in time Bayazid must fall. He is a man who makes more enemies than friends, and he earns contempt rather than respect. He must fall eventually.”
“And will your men support you?”
William gave a grim smile. “That must be my first charge.”
*
He assembled his men the next day and told them what had happened: how his wife had been abducted by the Sultan, and his father and brother executed.
The news that Hawk Pasha was dead brought a greater gasp of dismay than learning of the Sultan’s sexual crime.
“Can we serve such a man?” William asked. “Need we fear him? If he comes at us in these mountains we will destroy him, and he knows that. And if he does not come, we may live our lives here without fear. I do not ask you to forswear the House of
Othman, but there are good and bad in every family. This Bayazid is the false bearer of a famous name. Can he truly be the son of the Conqueror? Has he ever led an army into battle? He prefers to sit in his harem, but can such a man truly call himself the descendant of Othman, or the son of Mahomet the Conqueror?
“I promise you this. I will lead you, and we will prosper. We will take what we wish from the north and from the south, and we will grow rich. We will hold the border in the name of Othman, until the day a true member of that house sits upon the divan, and then resume our allegiance. That is all we can do, as we are honourable men.”
There was a brief silence when he had finished, then Walid said, “Hawk Pasha is dead. But there is a new Hawk Pasha, chosen by ourselves.” He drew his scimitar. “Hawk Pasha!” he shouted.
“Hawk Pasha!” the Janissaries and the sipahis shouted together.
Watching from the window of the governor’s palace, Giovanna wept.
*
It was the following spring that the messengers arrived from Constantinople. They had travelled the usual route and wintered in Trebizond.
William received them in the doorway of the governor’s palace.
“My master the Sultan,” said Abdul Pasha, “sends greetings to young Hawk, beylerbey of Erzurum and the Taurus. He wishes to know if young Hawk has learned of the sad news of his father’s death.”
“I have learned of it,” William said briefly.
“My master the Sultan grieves, and consoles you. Now he commands you to give up your post here and return with me to Constantinople, so that he may have you at his side.”
How the years rolled away. It could have been Henry standing in front of him, in Brusa.
He took a long breath. “Return to your master the Sultan. Tell him that he is a murderer and adulterer and a stealer of men’s wives. Tell him that we shall defend Erzurum to the death, and that we shall await the time when so false a Sultan will tumble from his divan, and grovel on the ground like the snake he is. Tell him these things, from Hawk Pasha.”
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