by Rehan Khan
‘We have a return voyage, my friend,’ Mikael reminded him innocently.
The harmless banter continued amongst the Janissaries, their Commander content to remain silent, listening to the camaraderie. They all seemed like genuinely nice people, Awa thought. Konjic was a good leader; she had never seen him behave in an arrogant or dismissive manner. If only this peaceful moment could last - but she knew the world did not work that way.
She noticed Will watching her, as though he could read her thoughts and shared them. Was he going to abscond if he found his mother? Awa wouldn’t blame him if he did. Who would? Blood was closer than all other bonds, Janissary or not, promises or not. Awa could not remember her mother, but her father had described her in intricate detail and always said that Awa bore a striking resemblance to her. If her mother were alive today, Awa too would long, like Will, to be reunited with her and to rest her head upon her lap.
The carriage sped away from Dover, rattling through villages, past farmers at work in the fields. Clouds hung heavy, wrapping the sky in a grey blanket. It was a depressing sight.
‘Will, how does it feel to breathe the air of England?’ Gurkan enquired.
‘Good,’ said Will, his grin wide.
‘Don’t get too used to it, we’ll be heading back soon,’ added Ismail.
Will nodded, catching Awa’s eye. Did the others know of his plan to run?
‘We will soon arrive in Canterbury,’ said Konjic. ‘Tomorrow, we journey to London, where we will meet with our associates at the East Mediterranean Company. We will maintain our roles as representatives of the Balkan Trading Company: Kostas the bookkeeper, Mikael the scribe, Ismail, Will and Gurkan, my apprentices. Awa, you get to wear your costly clothing once more and impersonate the daughter of a wealthy merchant from West Africa.’
‘Yes, Commander,’ said Awa, sighing at the prospect of donning restrictive European clothes again.
‘We are far from Ottoman territories. The Sultan does not have an Embassy here, for this nation is not yet mature politically and commercially,’ Konjic went on. ‘By coming here, we have entered the lair of the Earl of Rothminster. These are his people, many of them are likely in his pay, so wherever we go there will be spies and informants. We must remain vigilant, or we won’t be getting off this island alive. As your Commander, I remind you that we must work together, as what holds a unit together is trust, built on integrity.’ Konjic’s gaze rested for a moment on Will.
‘What of the Knights of the Fire Cross - should we expect to encounter them?’ asked Mikael.
At that moment, their coach veered violently right, before straightening once more. They heard the driver’s boots scrape against the iron plate fixed at the foot of the box seat. ‘Pardon me,’ he shouted out.
Konjic glanced behind him, to where the coachman was sitting, then leaned forward and spoke in a softer tone. ‘Like the Sicarii, the Knights are mercenaries for hire. I suspect through Rathbone, the Earl has procured their services. Whether we encounter them or not, the Earl will have his own bodyguards, which will make getting through to him difficult. What he plans to do with the Staff of Moses remains unclear. Whatever it is, it’s not in the interests of Sultan Murad III.’
‘Where do we find the Earl?’ Gurkan asked.
‘Most likely at his country residence,’ Kostas replied. ‘Our chances of taking back the Staff are much slimmer now. The Earl and his allies will have roads and paths to the ports guarded, and we could become stuck on this island for a very long time. After a short taste of the weather here, I’m not one for staying longer than we need to.’
‘What then?’ Mikael wanted to know.
‘We need to expose the Earl to his Queen for what he has done,’ Kostas suggested.
‘Why?’ asked Will. All heads turned in his direction, making him go red in the face. ‘What I mean is - don’t we risk incurring the wrath of the Sultan by letting the nobility here know how he has been robbed?’
‘It’s a moot point, Will,’ interjected Konjic. ‘You see, as we know, Queen Elizabeth is terribly isolated by the Catholics of Europe and is therefore anxious to create a working relationship with the Sultan. Her previous attempts were met with lukewarm reactions in Istanbul. However, since the defeat of the Spanish Armada three years ago, the reputation of the English Queen has soared. I even heard that the court scribe of the Moroccan ruler, al-Mansur, composed a poem in her honour, referring to her as Sultana Isobel, and saying it was God Who sent a sharp wind against the fleets of her enemies.’
Kostas looked to the Commander for permission to continue, then told them all: ‘The Queen wishes to strike a favourable deal with our Sultan. If we expose Rothminster to her, she can contain the situation before it gets out of hand. Our mission in England requires discretion. Will has a point: news must not leak to the English nobility of the Staff being stolen from the Topkapi, as it will reflect badly on the Sultan, particularly if people discover that former Janissaries were involved.’
They all thought about it for a moment.
‘Commander,’ Will said, his voice high, ‘we can’t just walk up to one of her palaces and ask to see the Queen. How are we going to get her attention?’
Konjic smiled at him. ‘Good question, Will. Lord Burghley, presently Lord High Treasurer to Her Majesty, has in the past been in touch with the previous Grand Vizier. I am aware of the correspondence between the two men. Burghley is a strong advocate of trade with the Ottomans. I will approach him when the moment is right.’
‘Commander Konjic,’ Awa interjected, ‘why would Sultan Murad be at all interested in establishing diplomatic and commercial ties with England, when this nation has so little to offer?’
‘I am not a man of politics, but the Grand Viziers are, and I have learned some matters of statecraft from them. Presently, who are the greatest enemies of the Sultan?’
Awa pondered the question. ‘The Catholics in Europe, closely followed by the Safavids in Persia and the Moroccans.’
‘Quite right,’ said Konjic. ‘And who are the most active enemies of the English Queen?’
‘The Catholics of Europe,’ Will answered for her.
‘So, in the estimation of the Grand Vizier, my enemy’s enemy is my friend,’ said Konjic.
‘I see,’ said Awa, and they all absorbed this information.
‘Exposing the Earl’s reckless behaviour, which runs contrary to the strategic goals of his Queen, will mean we gain her support. By returning the Staff of Moses to the Sultan, through discreet diplomatic channels, the Queen will gain favour with Sultan Murad, and her chances of signing attractive commercial agreements will only be increased. Whereas if it emerges that an English Earl has stolen the Staff from the palace of the Sultan . . . well, I imagine His Excellency will block all attempts by the English to trade in Ottoman lands.’
‘Just one more question, Commander,’ Awa said slowly. ‘What if, after we expose the theft by the Earl, Queen Elizabeth does not want to return the Staff of Moses. What happens then?’
32
MATTER OF TRUST
NIGHTINGALES SANG IN A COPSE close to their accommodation in Canterbury. The birdsong reminded Konjic of his home town of Konjic in Bosnia, a mountainous place of dense woodland. Outings with his parents and siblings beside the Neretva River were enduring memories, nourishing him through difficult times in the frenzy of Istanbul.
Konjic sat down on an old tree stump. Their stay in this ancient cathedral town was for one night only, before he took his unit to London. The Commander had never expected the chase to be such a protracted one when they set off from Istanbul, heading to Alexandria. Had he known their journey was going to bring them to England, he would never have brought Will. He knew what it felt like to return home after an extensive period away; the pull of home distracted from the work at hand.
A twig snapped and Kostas approached. The Greek was a reliable and resourceful number two, and Konjic would not have attempted this mission without him. He trusted all o
f his team, but he trusted Kostas most and needed to speak in confidence with him. He glanced around; the copse was deserted.
‘What is it, Commander?’ said Kostas, positioning himself on a rock, his back to the inn.
‘When we arrive in London, I will need you to take the team to the East Mediterranean Company’s offices in Chancery Lane. I am told it’s close to the centre of the city. Use discretion, arrive early, avoid crowds. Our men, Briggs and Furrows, are the officers,’ said Konjic.
‘Have you met them, sir?’
‘No, not personally, but they have been vetted by the offices of the Grand Vizier and their names appear on a register of agents provided to me. The Grand Vizier gave me a list of the names and details of all Ottoman operatives in territories outside of direct imperial control.’
‘I see,’ said Kostas. ‘If I may ask, where will you be going, sir?’
‘I am paying a visit to Lord Burghley, the Queen’s Lord High Treasurer. He has been an advocate of trade with Ottoman lands for many years. The briefing notes sent by the East Mediterranean Company state that he has accommodated all of their requests and is keen to secure a commercial and political alliance with the Sultan. As I mentioned previously, there has been some correspondence between Burghley and the previous Grand Vizier. My impression is that he will be very distressed to learn about the actions of Rathbone and Rothminster and the difficulties which may occur as a result.’
‘What if Rothminster is operating with the Queen’s approval?’ Kostas suggested, his voice low.
‘It is a possibility,’ Konjic shrugged, ‘and if that is the case, our mission will end in certain failure. For now, we must take the view that Burghley is advocating the wishes of the Queen, not Rothminster. Our intelligence suggests this, and the political situation confirms that the Queen is isolated by the Catholics of Europe. At such a moment, she will not want to invoke the Sultan’s wrath. I’m sure she will rather sacrifice one of her nobles, than a potential alliance with the Sultan.’
Kostas sighed, scratching his curly black locks. ‘Our opponents are always one step ahead of us, Commander. I feel as if we have been led by the nose along this journey, as when the wolf entices the sheep - before killing it.’
It was an interesting thought. Konjic did indeed feel that he was chasing, never quite catching up. ‘One more thing, Kostas,’ he said.
‘Yes, Commander?’
‘Keep a close eye on Will.’
Kostas gave him with a quizzical stare. ‘Sir?’
‘Rathbone has been trying to get to him, to use Will against us. Returning to England may trigger patriotic fervour in young Master Ryde. I know how it feels: the first time I returned to my home town of Konjic, I also felt a stronger affinity with those I had left behind, than the Janissary Order to which I had pledged my life. I don’t want to lose him. He is a good lad, his heart is in the right place, but the temptation to betray us may be deeper. I pray this is not the case, but with all of our lives in the balance, I can’t take any chances.’
‘Anything in particular you had in mind, Commander?’
‘No. Just watch him and . . . watch out for him.’
33
LAVENDER
LAVENDER LINING BURGATE LANE TRANSPORTED Will back to the time his mother took him from their humble dwelling near Smithfield Market, to the heath at Hampstead. The journey required an entire morning of riding on various carts, and walking on his short legs, but it was an outing he never forgot. His mother, Anne, had been there once before, and even though it was a good five miles to the north, she wanted young Will to run and play there in the sun, away from the dirty streets near their home. He remembered her instructing him to breathe in the scent of lavender planted on the heath, for there was nothing else in the world quite so uplifting. After eating a piece of the pie she had brought, he pocketed a few sprigs of lavender, but by the time they got home they had crumbled. Nothing lasts forever, his mother said, when she saw the tears in her little boy’s eyes. And then she cuddled him, and he smelled the lavender again; the scent had perfumed her skin.
When the crew entered Canterbury, the first thing he saw was the lavender along the Burgate. Inhaling its scent, he thought how close he was to being reunited with her . . . With luck, he could fulfil his obligations to the Janissaries before leaving them. But that didn’t feel right. What about loyalty? he asked himself. Their weeks on the road together had forged a lasting bond between them all; never could he betray them.
Lodgings belonging to the Cathedral extended down the Burgate; there was also a metalsmith, blacksmith, butcher, grocer and fishmonger. A sizeable stonemason’s workshop on the corner was crammed with headstones. Further into town was an inn with stables for horses. Despite his Ottoman clothing, folk approached Will with friendly nods; perhaps they considered he was a gentleman who had done well in the land of the Turks, and who was now returning home. It wasn’t that far from the truth - apart from the lack of material wealth. Still, what did that matter? He was on English soil, and it put a spring in his step. He sorely missed the sun, it was true - but he had missed England more.
‘Been to foreign parts, ’ave yer, sonny?’ a grey-bearded man said, leaning on a walking stick and looking ready for a chat.
‘Yes, sir. Land of the Turks,’ Will replied, stopping outside the metalsmith’s shop, where various swords, shields, a shaft from a carriage and numerous iron rings and other items were on display. The sight brought a smile to Will’s face and made him feel at home as he recalled his time in the workshop of Hakim Abdullah.
‘The Great Turk himself, eh?’
‘Yes.’
The old man stroked his beard. ‘Fella once told me they drink the brew of the devil there; it’s as black as tar, bitter as charcoal, can make a man lose his sleep and his faith. Is it true?’
Will chuckled. ‘The beverage you speak of is called kahava or coffee. Having drunk it on many occasions, I can safely say it’s quite delightful. The aroma is enchanting, the taste, though I admit it is bitter at first, grows pleasant on the palate. As for losing sleep, it can be useful when you need to keep active until late into the evening.’
The old man wrinkled his nose at Will, shuffling closer. ‘Are you one of ’em - you know, a believer of Mahomet?’
Will said patiently, ‘No. I am a Christian.’
‘Good. Well, don’t let ’em go converting you, my boy, or it’ll be damnation for your soul.’
‘There isn’t much difference in our beliefs . . .’ Will started to explain, but then saw the old man wave his stick to halt him.
‘The devil’s brew has glazed your tongue, lad.’ He patted Will kindly on the shoulder and lumbered along the road. Will watched him go, pondering why it was that people who had travelled the world and encountered other faiths were more tolerant, able to accept difference. He set off down the Burgate, the Cathedral to his right looming large, its enormous stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible.
When Will returned to their lodging, he found Awa sat on a stool out on the terrace behind the building. It backed onto an open field, where a herd of cows grazed. In her hand was a quill, and she was writing on parchment.
‘How does the lavender smell?’ she asked with a smile.
‘Just like I remember it, thank you. Here, I brought you a sprig to put in your clothes-chest. What are you writing?’
‘A journal. You see, all the travellers I have read about, such as Ibn Battuta, or Ahmed Ibn Fadlan, wrote journals of their adventures, first to remind themselves of what they had experienced and secondly to leave a body of knowledge for future generations. My people have been scattered from our homes, and I have travelled to cities perhaps no other Songhai has ever visited, so these are encounters to treasure, to conserve in a book.’
Will studied her handwriting. It was beautiful, the Arabic script flowing from right to left, as though an artist had painted the letters. ‘What have you written?’
‘I’ll read it to you somed
ay.’
But would that day come? Will wasn’t sure how long he was going to be with the Janissaries. Awa herself was committed to a three-year term, and by the manner in which she conducted herself, Will believed she would fulfil her covenant with Konjic. Will too had made a pledge, but the temptation to leave continued to gnaw at him. This was his country - he could disappear amongst its people, wait it out, let Konjic and the team return to Istanbul before he resurfaced. Konjic himself had said there was no formal Ottoman presence in England, so there was no one to check on him. Yet, watching Awa now brought something else into focus. He liked being a Janissary. Konjic was a valiant leader, the crew a hearty set of individuals who had made him welcome, made him one of them. What’s more, he had learned so much and been given extensive responsibility in a very short space of time. What kind of man was he, if after all they had done for him, he betrayed their trust?
Mother waits for me, whispered a voice in his mind.
‘I look forward to hearing it,’ Will said, before starting to move away.
‘Will?’ Awa delayed him.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you staying?’
Looking his friend in the eyes, Will murmured, ‘Inshallah.’ He knew that she understood his dilemma. Consigning his decision to the will of God was often a reason to say, ‘No.’
For their evening meal, Mikael booked them a table at the Stag, where the fare had been strongly recommended to him. The place was doing good business, particularly with fellows who had the weathered appearance of men-at-arms. This was surprising for a small town, pondered Will, who had expected such places to be full of farmers and the odd man of religion, not soldiering types.
The presence of so many men attracted a clutch of harlots, bright with powder and rouge, their necklines low. Roars of laughter erupted every now and then, as these women frolicked and drank with potential clients. The Stag was square in shape, with a large dining area in the centre containing some twenty tables, with several chairs around each one. A solitary candle was placed on each table. Drinks were served along a bar opposite the entrance. Kitchens were to the rear, and accommodation took up the first floor, where a balcony ran all the way around. Will lowered his gaze whenever one of the women took a leering fellow up the stairs and along the gallery to a room.