A Tudor Turk

by Rehan Khan

  Gurkan shook his head. ‘Every time I lied, they somehow knew, and increased the pain. In the end, I had to be truthful. What good am I? I have failed my friends!’

  ‘It’s because you’re a good person, and you don’t lie that it was obvious when you were making things up.’ She stroked his hair. ‘Showing weakness in the face of cruelty does not make you a bad person, it makes you a human being.’

  The young Konyan thought about her words, before his eyes lit up with anguish once more. ‘Will. Most of all, they wanted to know about Will - where he was from, how he had ended up in the Janissaries, did he have any family. Rathbone asked so many questions, it drove me crazy, trying to answer.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Where he was from. His mother, where she lived. Will had spoken about her in conversations we had, described her in detail. I told them everything. They weren’t satisfied.’

  Awa knew that Will did not even know if his mother was still alive, let alone whether she was still living in the same place. He called it Smithfield Market, Awa recalled. Should there be a chance she was still there, then what Gurkan had disclosed would place the woman in danger.

  Though their own situation was dire, Awa had been consoling herself with the knowledge that Will had escaped - with the Staff. He would complete the mission by going to the East Mediterranean Company, then would collect Konjic from Meg and John’s farm and return to Istanbul.

  Now those hopes had collapsed. If Will was captured, the Staff taken . . . then all the sacrifices they had made were in vain.

  Oh Gurkan, what have you done?

  40

  CHANCERY

  WILL RODE THROUGH THE NIGHT, heading west along the trail towards London. Guilt tore at his heart, remembering the look on Awa’s face: there was no anger in her almond-shaped eyes, only the sorrow of parting, knowing they would never see each other again. He knew so little about her, yet he would miss her for the rest of his life.

  Will kicked himself for allowing Gurkan to jump down and fight alongside her, but he knew that Gurkan was right - as a Turk, he would stand no chance of making his way around London without attracting the wrong kind of notice. At least for Will there was the slim possibility of completing the mission before heading back to John Moor’s to rendezvous with the Commander.

  By the time he arrived in London, after a rest at an inn and a change of horses, the sun was rising behind him. He slowed his steed to a trot, for the streets and alleyways to the east of the city were already bustling and crowded. London was his natal home, Will thought, but to be honest, compared to Istanbul, this city was drab. Even the towers of St Paul’s, visible from the east of the city, were a poor imitation of the architecture of his adopted city. London had not yet discovered its Sinan, the Ottoman architect who built some 200 of the iconic structures of the city on the shores of the Bosporus. Still, Will didn’t care. He was back, and no matter how pitiful it seemed compared to Istanbul, London was home.

  He was itching to go straight to Smithfield’s and begin the search for his mother, but with the Staff of Moses strapped to his back, he knew his first duty was to contact the East Mediterranean Company. Their offices were on Chancery Lane, and after asking for directions he soon found the winding street which connected Fleet Street to Holborn. First though, he stopped beside a stall to break his fast with a meal of ale, bread and coddled egg.

  ‘Just got off the boat, son?’ asked the stall-owner.

  Will realised he was still dressed in his Ottoman attire.

  ‘Or are you one of them actors playing at the Rose over in Southwark?’

  ‘Actor?’ Will was bemused. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’ He had no idea what the Rose was, so decided to play it safe. ‘Matter of fact, I just got off the boat,’ he told the man. ‘Been overseas with a trading expedition. Returning home thought I’d surprise my old mum, with the clothes and all.’

  ‘God bless you, lad.’

  Will sat down across the road from where the offices of the East Mediterranean Company were located at number 12. It was an ordinary-looking building, half-timbered, its wooden frames lined with wattle and smeared with daub. In fact, it was similar to all of the other dwellings along Chancery Lane. After eating, Will went to hobble his horse in a stable nearby, then returned to the same spot to keep watch. As the morning wore on, workers started to arrive and enter the premises around it. Will waited patiently. Eventually a middle-aged gentleman, dressed smartly in doublet, breeches and hose and carrying a ledger, stopped outside the offices and removed a key from his pocket. Will dashed across the road.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  The gentleman turned to look at Will. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Are you with the East Mediterranean Company?’

  ‘No. Those are the fellows upstairs. We’re the bookkeepers on the ground floor.’ The man seemed to take in Will’s clothing for the first time. ‘I see you’ve just arrived from Istanbul. Here to see them on business?’

  ‘Yes. I work for the Balkan Trading Company.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve heard the fellows mention the name. Been waiting long?’

  ‘A while. Do you know when they’ll be in?’ Will asked.

  ‘They normally arrive soon after me.’ The man surveyed the street. ‘Tell you what, I’ll let you in and you can wait upstairs in their hall till they turn up.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I’d welcome it.’ Will followed the bookkeeper through the main door.

  ‘At the top of the stairs there is an open area, where you can wait till they show up. Just let them know Master Philpot let you in. Good day to you, young sir.’

  ‘Thank you and good day.’ As Will ascended the staircase, a great fatigue suddenly hit him. Perhaps there was a bench upstairs where he could take a quick nap. Unfortunately, the landing - wooden-floored, tiled at the edges and with a window overlooking the street, contained no furniture other than an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. As he went to sit down, mindful of the Staff upon his back, Will noticed that the door into the office was slightly ajar. Had they forgotten to lock up the night before?

  Knocking, then pushing the door open, Will closed it behind him and entered the dim interior. The shutters were closed and a pungent odour filled his nostrils. The hairs on the back of his neck rose: Will recognised the smell of death. Quickly, he crossed to the window and pushed the shutters open to let the morning light and fresh air stream in. Papers were strewn over the floor, he saw, files thrown from cupboards, wooden cabinets smashed. The East Mediterranean Company had been burgled. And worse.

  He heard flies buzzing in the office. Following the sound, he came to a cupboard made of oak, tall as he was, with a lacquered finish and brass handles. As he reached out and his fingers curled around a handle, a fly landed on his hand. He brushed it off, only for two more to arrive. A distinct low-level buzzing was coming from the interior of the cupboard.

  Will turned the handle.

  Something large fell out. A body, two bodies, covered in flies. He jumped back, close to vomiting, and knocked over a chair. Then he stood, transfixed, gazing in shock at the bloodied bodies of the officers of the East Mediterranean Company. These poor men were to have been his saviours. The ones who were going to get him out of his predicament. They would know what to do, how to return Konjic safely back to Istanbul with the Staff. By handing the Staff over to them, Will would be absolved of his duty and could slip away, find his mother and live happily ever after in London with her, reunited at last.

  Will stared at the faces of the dead men. They weren’t going to do anything for him. He began to mutter a prayer so they could rest in peace.

  ‘Is all well up there?’ It was the voice of the man downstairs. ‘You there, what was that crashing about? Not causing trouble are you, lad?’ Philpot started to ascend the stairs.

  Will scrambled up, glancing around him. The place was a wreck. There were two dead bodies. He could be implicated. He had to get out.
/>
  ‘Hello?’ Philpot was approaching the outer area.

  Will peered out of the windows. Below was a drop to a cobbled yard. There was an open cart with bales of hay piled up beneath, but it was a long way down. As Philpot pushed the door open, Will threw himself out of the window, dropping towards the cart.

  As he landed, he heard Philpot scream.

  41

  DEATH BEGUILES HIM

  ‘HE’S DYING!’ AWA SCREAMED. ‘HURRY!’ She hammered away at the bars of their cell. There was only an echoing silence in the dungeon, other prisoners choosing to remain silent, listening to her. Eventually her banging and shrieking drew the attention of a guard, who opened the iron gate at the far end of the corridor leading out of the dungeon.

  ‘What are you hollerin’ about, witch?’ the man growled.

  ‘Gurkan is dying, he needs help,’ Awa shouted.

  ‘What do I care if he dies? Nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘He has information Rathbone wants,’ said Awa.

  The guard hesitated. ‘What information?’

  ‘If he dies, Rathbone is going to be very upset.’

  The guard yelled at another behind him, asking the man to join him.

  ‘Look!’ Awa wept. ‘He’s stopped breathing. His eyes have rolled up inside his head.’

  ‘Did you put a spell on him, witch?’ said the other, ginger-haired guard, and sniggered fearfully.

  ‘He’s my friend,’ said Awa, racing over to crouch beside Gurkan, who lay motionless on the ground. She put her ear to his chest then glowered back up at the men. ‘You torturers - you are responsible for this! Now are you going to do something or not?’

  The guards shrugged. ‘If Rathbone wants him alive . . .’ said Ginger-head.

  ‘Yes, he does!’ said Awa.

  ‘Bring him over then, closer to the bars, so we can get a look at him,’ Ginger-head ordered.

  Awa bent over Gurkan, looping her arms under his and pulling him across. She had her back against the iron bars when one of the guards reached out, curling his arm around her waist, yanking her so Awa’s back hit the metal. He kissed her neck through the space in the iron railings. Her fingers became claws and she ached to attack him, but instead she let him continue kissing her, his filthy saliva on her neck.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Ginger-head, encouraging his companion. ‘We haven’t had one her colour before. We’ll take him out for you, witch - for a trade.’

  Awa knew precisely what they meant. Bracing herself, she said, ‘I’ll do anything,’ breathing deeply.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Ginger-head nagged the other guard. ‘Get the bloody door open then.’

  The guard slipped his hand away from Awa’s waist and she turned to give him an inviting look.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the guard, unlocking the door.

  ‘Me first,’ said Ginger-head, muscling past. He came through, leering at her. She shuffled back, towards the straw mattress. ‘Don’t get too comfortable, witch.’ He removed his sword belt, throwing it on the ground, as he approached her.

  ‘Leave some for me, Ginge,’ said his companion, clinging hold of the bars outside.

  ‘You wait your turn,’ the man snarled. Awa stared into his eyes, a tempting smile spreading across her lips. He started towards her, untying his breeches, grinning with excitement.

  Gurkan leaped up, grabbed Ginger-head’s sword from the ground, before lunging forwards and driving it through the chest of the guard outside the cell.

  ‘What?’ Ginger-head spun around.

  Awa was upon him, punching him in the windpipe, then elbowing him in the stomach, followed by a crippling kick in the groin. Gurkan threw Ginger-head’s sword through the air, Awa grabbed the hilt and with the flat of her blade, smashed it against the jailor’s head. The man was still.

  Gurkan came over to her, gripping her elbow. ‘It worked. I’m sorry you had to do these things.’

  ‘What - play the seductress? Let’s pray I won’t need to do it again.’

  Swiftly, they removed the keys from the slain guard, before shoving his body into the cell with Ginger-head and locking it behind them. They raced down the corridor to the dungeon’s gate. Turning the handle, they peered out. There were lamps shining outside. Beyond the lamplight the entire place was plunged in darkness.

  Gurkan led the way, stopping beside the recess where the guards sat and where their weapons were stored. They helped themselves to a weapon each before running up a flight of stairs to the ground floor. Reaching the top, Gurkan stared out.

  ‘Clear.’

  It was so good to feel the cold fresh air on their skin, after the reeking cage in an airless underground pit. Night engulfed them, a drizzle of rain coming down and making the stone courtyard glimmer. Slowly they edged themselves back towards the stables for another attempt to escape. They would need the beasts if they were to put distance between them and their captors. Leeds Castle was silent but for two guards perched on wooden stools close to the massive main gates. This time, the drawbridge connecting the castle to land was up. They would need to lower it.

  ‘Wait,’ whispered Awa, pointing to a room beside the stables. ‘There is the Armoury.’ She entered, light-footed as could be, Gurkan at her side. Awa tucked some daggers into her belt, before collecting a bow and a pouch full of arrows. She already had the jailor’s sword: Gurkan had taken the other. They were both well-armed now. ‘You get the horses. I’ll take care of the guards.’ Gurkan nodded.

  Once outside the armoury, they split up, Gurkan entering the stables, Awa remaining hidden in the shadows, finding a clear line of sight. She notched the first arrow, pulling back her bowstring. The guards were about twenty feet away. It would be a clean shot. Then a horse neighed.

  ‘What was that?’ One of the soldiers stood up.

  ‘Probably rats,’ said the other. ‘Horses don’t like ’em around their hooves.’

  This time there was another sound from the stables, the movement of shuffling hooves.

  ‘Someone’s in there,’ said the first guard, drawing his weapon.

  Awa fired, striking the man clean in the neck. The second guard shouted: ‘Attack!’ Awa notched her second arrow and fired, by which time the guard had rung a brass bell beside him.

  Gurkan emerged from the stables with two horses. ‘They don’t like me, these beasts.’

  Awa heard footsteps behind her. She whirled, firing off another arrow. It missed the soldier, who ducked for cover. ‘Prisoners escaping!’ he yelled.

  Gurkan was already in his saddle and Awa leaped onto the other horse. Soldiers spilled out of the barbican, screaming orders at each other.

  Awa dug her heels in, urging the mare forwards. The drawbridge was still up. No matter. Gurkan unsheathed his sword, and as they went through the small courtyard where previously they had been caught, he slashed the rope, which was wrapped around a bollard with the other end tied to a chain holding up the drawbridge. The rope broke and with an almighty crash, the drawbridge descended. Just as Awa and Gurkan shot through the outer gate, the portcullis which had previously blocked their way, thundered down.

  Awa and Gurkan tucked themselves low on their mounts and rode as hard as they could, rode like the wind towards the west – and London.

  42

  NEAR THE HEART

  WILL’S FALL WAS CUSHIONED BY the load of hay-bales. He was winded, but alive. He jumped off the cart then sprinted off down Chancery Lane as if his life depended on it. He might be in his home town, but he had no one to turn to. He ran, like a terrified rabbit, through the streets, turning heads, the Staff of Moses still strapped to his back, his weapons on his belt. The alarm would soon be raised – an armed killer, dressed as a Turk. He had to get out of these clothes, find a way to disappear, lie low. How on earth had Rathbone’s men found out about the East Mediterranean Company’s officers? The dead men were agents placed by the Grand Vizier in London, to pave the way for a future Embassy. It was a reconnaissance mission, which had now ended with
more deaths - all because of a Staff.

  Will scampered without direction, his only aim to get away from the crime scene. Before he realised it, however, he was heading for home, making his way towards Smithfield Market. Somehow he knew the route, even though he’d been a child of five when he was kidnapped. It must be a homing instinct: for when all else failed, it was home every person gravitated towards. He had longed for this moment - and now here he was, close to being reunited with his mother, Anne. The mother he had not seen for eleven years. Would she even recognise him? He pictured her face, her blue eyes, creamy cheeks and soft smile. He ran faster, then he skidded to a halt.

  There was a tiny open-air market behind Cock Lane, mainly selling second-hand clothes. He purchased without haggling a set of garments to replace his own, disappeared into an alley, stripped off and donned his new garb. To finish off, he jammed an old felt hat on his head, pulling it down as far as possible to cover his face. Taking one last look at his Turkish clothes, he stuffed them under a pile of refuse. Perhaps he would adorn himself with such fine clothing again one day, but not this particular day. Right now, he needed to blend in with the crowds. He re-joined the throng, this time sauntering at a steady pace as he approached Smithfield Market.

  Will Ryde was back in his skin: he was a Londoner again.

  The market was in full swing, with meat and fish stalls on the outside as he entered, and fruit and vegetables behind them. As he walked further into the market, he found tradesmen selling small animals and beyond that, clothes and metalwork. He passed through them all, till he came to Charterhouse. Here he stopped and took in his surroundings. Memories came back to him. He knew this place. They had lived over there - on the northern side of Charterhouse.

  Crossing the street, he recalled a yard with grazing cows. It was still there. In the mornings, the cows would be led over this section of the road and make their way out to fields in the east, before returning in the evening. His mother used to call it Cow-cross and they would have to be wary of animal dung as they traversed the road. The cattle weren’t there at the moment. In the fenced-off area where they kept the cows at night, Will spotted a spindly old fellow sitting inside the yard. His face seemed familiar too, but Will was in too much of a hurry to stop and speak with him. There was only one person he desired to see at this moment.