But it was not a blessing for all of them. When finally the wind abated and the seas subsided, it was to find himself with two ships instead of three.
They were not short of food after all they had plundered from the English village, but their water casks were running low, and the French girls secured in the hold were suffering terribly. Harry had them brought up, stripped and doused in sea water. They shrieked and shuddered and pleaded, but undoubtedly it did them good.
Felicity, tied to her bulwark throughout the gale, and soaked time and again by spray, gazed at them with sombre eyes. Clearly she assumed they were all going to die.
Sometimes he suspected that himself, but he refused to be downhearted. As soon as they could, they stood in for the shore, and came upon a little village on the south coast of Portugal. This they pillaged, but only half-heartedly, for all they really needed was water, and to be safely home in Tunis. They passed through the Straits of Gibraltar four days later, aided now by the current, and at last debouched into the Mediterranean.
Instantly their spirits rose, and the men began to smile. The captive girls were allowed on deck for the first glimpse of the sunlit paradise that was to be their future home. It was late July and the sun was at its hottest.
Even Felicity shrugged away her blanket and turned up her face to the life-giving warmth, and the balmy breeze. Harry even released her from the rail, no longer fearing she would throw herself overboard.
They passed close by Algiers, but although there was only a little water remaining in their barrels, they preferred not to stop. Tunis was only a couple of days away. The fort above Algiers flew all manner of pennants, and Harry responded. They even fired cannon from the shore to attract his attention, but he merely saluted in return.
At dawn two days later the two ships crept round Cape Bon and into the Gulf of Tunis. Men scampered into the rigging for a first sight of their home — and stared in horror.
For Tunis burned.
15
Roxelana
There was no sign of the Ottoman fleet, nor was the fort manned. Harry steered his ships with reduced sail up the narrow channel, gazing at the smoke still rising, the torched buildings now blackened ruins, and the scattered people signalling to him. He dropped his canvas altogether and went up to the docks under his sweeps.
“Hawk Pasha, you must leave this place,” they told him, clustering around. “The Dey, Mulai-Hussan, marches upon us with a great army to regain his lands. A Spanish army.”
Harry stared at them; few of them were Turks, and they were all old. “Who did this?”
“The Genoese fleet and their Spanish allies, great Pasha.”
“But what of Barbarossa?”
“No one knows. There was a mighty battle within sight of our shores, but then the wind blew, and the seas grew rough. The galleys of the great Admiral were sore beset. The Genoese had galleons as well as galleys, and these rode the storm better. When the wind dropped, the Admiral and his ships had vanished.”
Harry could not believe his ears. “Sunk, you mean?”
“We do not know, great Pasha. They have not been seen since. You must make haste to leave this place.”
“I must go to my home.”
“The Spanish sailors were put ashore to sack the town, before they went to sea again in search of Barbarossa. But we have lost our families and our possessions — and now we will be enslaved by Mulai-Hassan.”
Harry strode through the smouldering streets. He could see that the enemy had done a thorough job; corpses lay scattered in the midst of the discarded booty. Dogs feasted, and snarled at the intruders.
Barbarossa defeated, perhaps dead? Harry found that impossible to accept. Because if Barbarossa was dead, then surely Tughluk also had perished. His brain rejected what he knew he was going to find at the end of his quest.
His palace also had been burned; every possession he had ever prized was looted or destroyed.
Except for the possessions he had prized above all: those had been left for him to see. Out in the courtyard, where the flames had hardly reached, he found the bodies of his family. Tutush had been hanged, after castration. His sister had been spitted with a lance, which still protruded through her body. Tressilia had been beheaded. Sasha had been gutted. Yana’s breasts had been cut off, leaving her to bleed to death. Undoubtedly they had first been raped, horribly.
Diniz had found his own family also murdered. He stood beside Harry, quivering. “Were these men?” he sobbed.
“Oh, indeed,” Harry said. “Men who consider us as beasts. We must be sure to repay the compliment.”
Diniz could discern the raging anger which seethed in his mind, in his very soul.
“What will we do first, master?” he asked.
“Build ourselves another fleet — in Constantinople.”
*
They rekindled a fire and burned the tortured bodies of their loved ones. They refilled their water casks and took on board what food was available. Then they set sail that afternoon: two feluccas which were the sole remnants of the once-proud Ottoman fleet led by Barbarossa and Hawk Pasha.
But there would be another fleet, and then revenge.
From on board ship, Felicity Martindale could tell that something horrible had happened. She had stared at the burning city with appalled eyes. On the south coast of England they might have grown used to French pirates, but she had never seen a city burn.
She could not prevent herself feeling sorry for this tall red-bearded man who had snatched her away from all the happiness she had ever known. She could tell how he suffered by looking into his eyes. She shuddered and wrapped herself in her blanket, sitting in a corner of the deck.
*
It was a Saturday, the Muslim holy day which begins on Friday at dusk. Just after dawn, the two feluccas slipped quietly from the Sea of Marmara, round Seraglio Point, and into the Bosphorus.
Felicity stood on deck to gaze at this wondrous city of which she had heard so much, holding her blanket close against the dawn breeze sweeping out of the sea.
Beside her Harry leaned on the steering oar. He was pleased to hear the sudden intake of breath at his shoulder. They had scarcely spoken on the fortnight’s voyage from Tunis. No man in the fleet had much to say; all had left wives and families dead behind them.
Yes, if Constantinople was to be Felicity’s new home, she must learn to love it.
Right now she was absorbed by the sheer size of it — and its beauty. The city looked perhaps more beautiful at dawn than at any other time of day. The sun rising out of Anatolia to the east reflected from the burnished domes of mosques, highlighted waving banners above the walls, even reflected pinpoints of light from the helmets and spears of the guards.
Its very surroundings were also beautiful, thrusting as it did between Marmara and the Strait. As the little ship rounded the point, the Golden Horn came into sight as well as the red roofs of Galata. Rising high amongst these was the roof of the Hawk Palace.
“That will be your home,” he told her.
Her mouth dropped open in awe.
*
As the two feluccas slipped alongside the dock, people came over to stare at them.
“Hawk Pasha,” one whispered, almost in disbelief
The cry was taken up. “Hawk Pasha! Hawk Pasha has returned.”
“Did you suppose me dead?” he asked.
Apparently they had.
There was a great deal to be done, and Diniz was left in charge of unloading their booty and the captives. The poor French girls were more dead than alive, so he gave instructions for them to be taken to Hawk Palace and there tended carefully for a week or so, before they were placed on the auction block.
In the portico of the Hawk Mansion servants stared at Harry as if he were a ghost, then prostrated themselves before him.
Aimée stood at the head of the great staircase and gazed at him, looking as entrancing as always.
“Harry?” she whispered? “Oh, Harry!�
�� she then screamed — and ran down to throw herself into his arms. “They said you were dead. Khair-ed-din said you were dead.”
“Khair-ed-din is here?”
“He has been here nearly a month, replenishing his fleet. It was badly damaged in a storm.”
Harry felt an overwhelming sense of relief. As long as Barbarossa lived, Tunis would be avenged.
“Then Tughluk is also here?” he said, scarce daring to hope.
“Tughluk?”
Harry stared at her, his heart seeming to slow. “Tughluk was with Barbarossa.”
Aimée sank on to a divan. “I have not spoken with Barbarossa,” she said. “I only know what is the rumour. He has not been to see me.”
Harry frowned at her. “How long has he been back?”
She shrugged. “Two, three weeks. I did not know Tughluk was with him, or I would have sought him out…”
“Does he know of Tunis?”
“Yes. All Constantinople knows of it. The Emperor has sent ambassadors to boast of the destruction of the pirates. I assumed Tughluk was there, or with you.”
Aimée bit her lip — then looked past him at Felicity.
“Treat her kindly,” Harry said. “She is very young and very afraid.”
Aimée stood in front of the girl.
“She is also very lovely,” she said, glancing at him. “Your mother would have approved.”
“My mother?” For the second time in a few minutes Harry’s heart seemed to constrict.
Aimée frowned, then turned quite pale. “My God! I sent the message to Tunis…”
“Tell me now,” he said.
“Dear Giovanna died in the spring. Her last words were of you, Harry.”
Harry’s shoulders sagged. “Where is she buried?”
“Beside your uncle and your father.”
“I must go to her grave. Then I must also go to the Sultan. And to Barbarossa. There is a great deal to be done, Aunt, so I must leave my young wife in your care.”
“Wife?” Aimée asked.
“That is my intention. She has much to replace.”
Aimée nodded. “I will see that she is ready for you. It is a pity she does not speak French.”
“I do speak some French, madam,” Felicity intervened.
Aimée clapped her hands in pleasure.
“Then you understand this lady will take care of you until I return,” Harry told her. He changed to Turkish. “I do not wish her shaved, Aunt.”
Aimée inclined her head.
*
Tired as he was, Harry left the house as soon as he had been bathed and changed his clothing. When he took the ferry across the Golden Horn, local people greeted him to left and right as his tall, red-bearded figure was recognised. But he was in a hurry; it was the Sultan’s custom on Saturdays to attend the new mosque he had built, the Mosque of Suleiman — greater and more splendid even than St Sophia — and Harry hoped to reach the palace before he set out.
But he was too late, and the processional route was already crowded, with armed Janissaries lining the way. Harry could only push his way to the front of the throng. Not even Hawk Pasha could disrupt the ceremonial procession of the Sultan.
The enforced delay gave him the opportunity to pause and put things in perspective.
He had almost felt his world had come to an end with the sack of Tunis, and the destruction of everything he had built up throughout his life. The death of his mother and now the almost certain death of his eldest son Tughluk were but extensions of that tragedy. Yet here, all around him, was a world of vibrancy beyond any other he had ever seen.
Not least was the architectural beauty by which he was surrounded — much of it so new he did not recognise it. He remembered tales of the smouldering ruin that had been this city after the sack of 1453, and of the slow and hesitant rebuilding undertaken by Mahomet the Conqueror. And Harry himself remembered the earthquake which had all but levelled the walls in 1508. Years ago, when he had ridden here with Selim the Grim, the scenes of devastation had still been widespread.
Selim had shown no interest in rebuilding cities; but Suleiman had turned Constantinople into the most beautiful city on earth, through the genius of his chief architect, Sinan. Hardly a trace of those earlier devastations remained in the area around old Byzantium.
More than ever Constantinople had become the meeting-place of the world, in which men of every race, colour and creed enjoyed peace and prosperity under the rule of the Ottomans. This too was largely Suleiman’s doing. If Mahomet had permitted the conquered Greeks to reinhabit their city, and had thrown it open to all who sought to trade, under him and his two successors the only law obtainable in the empire had been that of the anyi, which catered solely for Turks. Suleiman had spent many hours with the muftis and the imams, and other experts in Islamic law, labouring on ways to broaden the laws to include even infidels, and so had drawn up his own elaborate code. Nowadays everyone was protected by the law, and for all his military achievements, Suleiman was better known as “the Lawgiver” by his subjects.
He was by far the most popular of the sultans, because he revealed himself to his people in a manner no sultan had done since the days of Mahomet. But, unlike the Conqueror, on such occasions he was attended by a pomp equalled by no sovereign on earth.
The procession was now approaching. First came the Janissaries, white horsehair plumes rippling as they marched, yellow boots clattering on the cobbles. Their eyes flashed to left and right, daring any man to challenge their prowess. Then followed the sipahis, sitting their magnificent horses with all the superb panache of which they were so proud.
After a space came the royal party, preceded by two officials in fur-trimmed robes who carried silver staffs with which they struck the ground as they advanced. Five yards behind them came Ibrahim, clad in cloth-of-gold and with a conical, gold-ringed turban of office on his head. Harry gave a sigh of relief to see that his friend remained in power.
Behind the Grand Vizier marched the lesser officials of the Sultan’s court, from the Head Cook to the Head Gardener, every man in his best robes and wearing his official hat or carrying an official staff. Resplendent among them was the Kislar Agha of the Sultan’s harem.
Suleiman himself was surrounded by the members of his divan, and they in turn were surrounded by the Sultan’s personal guards, wearing huge feathered headdresses which half-hid their master from watching eyes.
Harry frowned at this. In the days of William Hawkwood, Suleiman had needed no such close protection.
The crowd grew excited as the procession came closer, people jostling Harry as they tried to obtain a better vantage point. He found himself shoulder to shoulder with someone he recognised as a Venetian.
“What did I tell you?” the Italian demanded. “Is it not the most splendid sight you ever saw?”
“It is indeed,” acknowledged his companion. “Truly do they call him Suleiman the Magnificent.”
*
When the procession had passed, Harry presented himself at the palace. He waited patiently in the Porte with several ambassadors from Western countries.
A eunuch approached him and bowed. “There is one would speak with you, great Pasha.”
Harry frowned at him. “Who?”
“You must come with me.”
Harry hesitated, then followed the African down a series of corridors until he entered a room reminiscent of an outsize Catholic confessional; one entire wall was composed of fine trelliswork.
The door closed behind him, and he was left alone, but not for long. From behind the trelliswork came a voice.
“Tell me of my sister, Hawk Pasha,” Roxelana said.
“She is dead, alas.”
“How did she die?”
“She was slain by the Spaniards when they captured Tunis.”
There was a moment’s silence, then she spoke again, her voice tinged with anger. “Then why are not you dead beside her?”
“I was not there.”
/> “You stole away and left my sister to die?”
“No, I was absent on a raid when the assault took place. I knew nothing of it until too late.”
“Nonetheless, you let my sister die. Will you avenge her?”
“That is my intention, if the Padishah will grant me the means.”
“You will have the means. Avenge my sister, Hawk Pasha — die yourself.”
He waited, gazing at the trellis for a few seconds, until he realised that she had left.
A Russian slave girl threatening a pasha of the Ottoman empire! But a Russian slave girl who held the Sultan in the palm of her hand.
*
“Hawk Pasha! Harry!” Suleiman held out his arms to embrace him as he entered the private chamber. “They told me you were lost at sea.”
“I bring you no good news, Padishah.”
“I have heard it all from that scoundrel who calls himself Barbarossa. He has lost me the western Mediterranean, after all his proud talk!”
“I am told that he has returned here?”
“Yes. I have placed him under arrest.”
“For losing a battle, O Padishah? I understand that was due to the weather.”
“Well…” Suleiman stroked his beard. “I have a mind to let the rascal out again. Allah alone knows what he will do now.”
“We will seek your permission to rebuild our fleet, so as to reconquer what we have lost. Algiers still holds out — and this time we will conquer.”
Or die, Harry thought, remembering Roxelana’s words.
“And suppose I need you here, Hawk Pasha? I am beset by enemies.”
“You, Padishah? The Porte is crowded with ambassadors from every nation of Europe, seeking your alliance. They speak of you as Suleiman the Magnificent.”
But the Sultan did not seem interested in what the Europeans called him. “I do not speak of infidels. Them I can chastise as is necessary. My enemies are here in Constantinople, in my very Seraglio…”
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