by Rehan Khan
‘Her Majesty,’ said the Chamberlain, ‘instructs the Earl of Rothminster, with a royal charter, to explore the lands of the East, beyond those of the Turk, to seek out new trade routes and to go forth in the name of England.’
The Earl received the papers. When he turned, his eyes locked with those of Konjic and he smiled. He was a beautiful man, yet his soul, as Awa knew, was ugly. Rothminster returned to his position and the ceremony continued with a few more announcements before drawing to an end, when they were ushered back into the Outer Presence Chamber. Lord Burghley said his farewells and returned to the Queen’s side.
When they were all back together, Gurkan spoke first. ‘How can he get away with it?’
‘He denied all involvement. He claimed Rathbone was acting on his own. As Rathbone is missing, he cannot be questioned,’ Konjic replied.
‘But we were kept prisoner in Leeds Castle, his castle!’ said Gurkan, flexing the fingers in his left hand, which had only just begun to heal.
‘The Earl has dozens of properties around the country. Leeds Castle is just one of them. Once again, he denied all knowledge. Since the matter did not affect the English Crown directly, Lord Burghley was not able to move against the Earl, despite Rothminster almost destroying all hope of an Ottoman-English alliance,’ Konjic said bitterly.
‘Why give him a royal charter to explore in the East?’ Awa asked.
‘If you have a political opponent, sometimes it is better to send them off to distant lands, where they can cause you less trouble than at home,’ Konjic replied.
‘Only to bring misery to those he meets in the East,’ Awa huffed.
Konjic tried to smile. He gripped the Staff in his right hand, slightly leaning on it. His injury was healing well. John Moor, who had operated on him and thereby saved his life, and his wife Meg, who had nursed him and cared for them all, had been rewarded despite their protests and would be his friends for the rest of his days.
‘Commander Konjic, I believe.’ It was the clear crisp voice of the Earl of Rothminster.
‘My Lord,’ Konjic acknowledged him.
The Earl pursed his lips. ‘You have a motley-looking crew, Konjic.’
‘It is an effective team.’
The Earl narrowed his eyes.
‘We have not had the pleasure of meeting before, my Lord,’ said Konjic.
‘No, we have not,’ Rothminster replied.
‘Though it seems by your very presence that we know each other well,’ Konjic went on.
‘Indeed.’
‘I must congratulate you on your charter,’ said Konjic.
The Earl scanned the piece of paper. ‘I believe I may be seeing more of you and your servants, Konjic.’
‘Perhaps.’
Rothminster surveyed Konjic with a penetrating gaze. ‘You strike me as a good man, Commander, but where the good are put in charge of the wicked, empires will be destroyed. It is when the wicked are given oversight of the good, does empire become strong.’
‘I would beg to differ with your kind of politics,’ said Konjic.
Rothminster took a step closer to him. ‘My type of politics leads to a clash of religions, a clash of cultures and a clash of races. Your type of politics unifies under an imperial cause. In the end I will win, because dividing and conquering is far easier than unifying the hearts of men.’
The Earl turned to leave, then briefly admired the Staff held by Konjic. ‘Impressive thing,’ he murmured, before spinning away, cloak flapping behind him, out into the gardens of Nonsuch Palace.
47
DUTY
SNOW COVERED THE LANDSCAPE OF Istanbul. It was now two months since Awa had returned from England. The winter was proving a perilous one for all the residents of the city, but more so for one who had never seen snow before. She wore a heavy coat of fur and a hooded robe, but somehow the chill still crept in. Songhai like Awa belonged to the sun, and the sooner she returned to it, the better.
‘Our friends are dead, but their memories remain. With care we can preserve them,’ said Gurkan, standing beside her, observing the Staff of Moses with a solemn expression. ‘Was it worth it? The death of so many?’
Like her he was well-wrapped up, but had less trouble adapting to the wintry conditions. Two guards patrolled at either end of the narrow corridor where the religious artefacts were kept in the Topkapi Palace. Further guards were also stationed in a hidden location, should anyone try to steal these objects once more. The Rüzgar unit of the Janissaries, under Konjic, had been given responsibility for safeguarding the objects. Captain Kadri had assigned some of his best personnel to the task. Awa and Gurkan had already done their own shift of standing guard; today was their day off, yet somehow, they were still drawn back to this spot.
‘The Staff means everything. It means nothing,’ said Awa.
Gurkan shook his head, confused by her statement.
‘It is a symbol of God’s power, so it means everything to those who are custodians. It is a piece of ordinary wood, which can be broken, so it means nothing.’
‘You’ve been reading al-Ghazali, haven’t you?’
Awa smiled.
In the distance, they heard the first faint sounds of the organ playing its inaugural concert for Sultan Murad III. Thomas Dallam, the organist sent along with the organ by Queen Elizabeth, had spent nearly two months rebuilding the instrument after it was damaged in the sea crossing. Finally, he was ready and tonight was the first performance. Awa and Gurkan walked out of the hall where the religious artefacts were housed to a terrace overlooking the courtyard. The organ music was clearer now they were outside. It was a haunting sort of sound, which made Awa think about tall spires and buildings full of gloomy recesses and dark spaces.
‘Will would have enjoyed it,’ said Gurkan, motioning towards where the music played.
‘He’s enjoying time with his mother.’
‘It’ll soon pass. Konjic gave him three months before resuming his duties.’
The Commander was a changed man since returning from their travels, more solemn and thoughtful than before. The loss of young companions had placed a heavy burden on him. Konjic agreed he would let Will return every two years to England to see his mother. Awa doubted any other Janissary commander would have been so accommodating.
Awa felt a closeness, almost a kinship with her unit, yet she knew it was never going to replace her true family. Nor did she want it to. She had sent letters to her father. No replies came back. When stories reached Istanbul of what the Moroccans had done to the Songhai nation, there was a mixture of responses: some could not believe al-Mansur had attacked his fellow believers; others blamed King Askia for having been naïve and not arming his people with the modern weapons of warfare. A small minority felt there had been a missed opportunity and said the Sultan should have sent an army and taken the riches for himself before the Moroccans arrived.
They descended into the stone courtyard. The organist was in full swing, notes rising to a crescendo.
The great iron door at the entrance of the Topkapi Palace swung open. Awa turned to see who was arriving at this time. A solitary figure walked through, the light behind him, illuminating his presence. His hood was up, shielding him from the elements. He paused, swung his gaze about and marched straight towards Awa and Gurkan. The stranger reached them and lowered his hood.
Will!
‘Awa. Gurkan. It is good to see you!’ Will gripped them both by the arms.
‘My God, what are you doing here, Will?’ asked Gurkan.
‘Where is Konjic?’
‘At the performance,’ said Gurkan.
‘Performance?’ Will echoed.
‘Thomas Dallam, the organist - he’s playing tonight,’ explained Gurkan.
‘Oh no! I’m too late!’ Will started to run in the direction of the music.
Awa and Gurkan followed behind. ‘What is it, Will?’ Awa called. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Assassins have been sent to slay the Sultan. I
was told they will strike on the night the Englishman first plays the organ.’
‘That means now!’ Gurkan blurted out.
‘Yes, now,’ said Will.
Awa, Gurkan and Will unsheathed their swords, striding towards the music as the haunting melody was carried away with the falling snow, out over the sleeping city of Istanbul.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Life is full of risks, but the biggest one is doing nothing at all. My own limited experience in the world has demonstrated this. Acting positively will always create a healthy momentum in life and I must thank both my parents for inculcating this belief in me.
This novel would not have happened without the support of Bill Samuel who, having read my two self-published novels, introduced me to my kind-hearted publisher Rosemarie Hudson of HopeRoad. When Rosemarie and I toyed around with the idea of my writing historical fiction, I remember coming away from our meeting at Foyles bookshop in Charing Cross Road in London with a list of ten ideas. The novel you’ve just read being one of these.
There are many others who thoroughly deserve a mention. Isobel Abulhoul, Director of the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature, and her marvellous team, deserve a big thank you for creating a literary haven for book-lovers and allowing budding writers such as myself to soak in the atmosphere of one of the world’s premier festivals.
Thanks once more to Lorna Fergusson, for being the first reader of the novel. Having worked with her on my Tasburai series, obtaining her advice particularly on the Tudor period was priceless. A big note of appreciation to Ellen Krajewski, whose insight allowed me to calibrate the narrative to the target readership. Joan Deitch, my editor, has been an absolute delight to work with. Her affectionate treatment of the text and the characters has only amplified the tale. Thanks also to James Nunn for producing a wonderful cover, and to all the other tireless workers who have made a contribution to this story.
Finally, I would like to recognise my two adorable and witty teenagers, Yusuf and Imaan. And of course, I give thanks to my enchanting wife and closest friend, Faiza - you always bring out the best in me and may you continue to do so.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Stories are out there, waiting to be picked from the Tree of Imagination. And so, I like to think that the story you have just read merely required a curious scribe to pluck it.
How the story ripened was a sequence of what appeared at the time to be a series of unconnected events. The first occurred when I myself gazed upon the Staff of Moses, housed in the Topkapi Palace, whilst on a family holiday to Turkey in 2014. I wondered how on earth this holy relic had ended up here. What had brought the Staff, from when Moses wielded it before Pharaoh, all the way to Istanbul?
The second event occurred the following year when, after a leisurely cycling tour of the grounds of Hampton Court Palace, I read that King Henry VIII was fond of striding around dressed as an Ottoman Sultan. People will always copy those who are powerful: even Kings imitate other monarchs.
Thirdly and finally, I came across a wonderful book called This Orient Isle: Elizabethan England and the Islamic World by Jerry Brotton. It explained the close ties between England - a Protestant Christian nation - and the Ottoman Turks, a Sunni Muslim empire. Upon delving deeper, I realised there were many indicators of Ottoman and Moroccan influence on the English court, in dress, jewellery, food and literature. What, I asked myself, would a quest story look like, with a multi-cultural cast of characters, set within the backdrop of sixteenth-century geo-political skulduggery?
Hopefully, something like A Tudor Turk.
* * *
Ultimately this is a work of fiction, but I have used a number of real historical events and characters to anchor the story. The fateful Battle of Tondibi, which led to the collapse of the Songhai nation, did take place in 1591, as did the opening of the new Rialto Bridge in Venice. Antonio da Ponte was the architect and Vincenzo Scamozzi his better-known professional rival.
Shakespeare gets a cameo at the end of the novel, but it’s unlikely he would have been invited to Nonsuch Palace to attend such a ceremony. Thomas Dallam was indeed an organist sent by Elizabeth I to the court of Sultan Murad III, but this didn’t happen until 1599. For the purposes of the narrative I’ve moved it to 1591. The Janissaries did have a tempestuous relationship with the Ottoman court, but the creation of the Rüzgar unit is purely imagined. The currency of the Ottoman Empire was the akçe. However, as the dinar will be more familiar to modern readers I have referred to this instead.
Though John the Moor is to the best of my knowledge fictional, there were individuals like him in Tudor England. A fine book by Miranda Kaufmann called Black Tudors: The Untold Story describes the lives of some of these men and women of African origin living in England during the period.
I have taken the liberty of assigning the ownership of Leeds Castle in Maidstone to the dastardly (and fictitious) Earl of Rothminster. It has such an amazing moat I felt compelled to put it in the story!
Ultimately the 1590s were a period of tremendous cultural exchange through trade and war. Unfortunately, it was too often the latter. I passionately believe that our differences are there so we get to know one another – marvel at our collective tales, our legends, poetry, language, technology, food and art. In so doing, we draw empathetically closer through the prism of compassion. Reason itself will guide us.
‘Show love to your brother and to your sister, for we are all travellers passing through this mortal realm.’
Rehan Khan
www.rehankhan.com
twitter.com/rehankhanauthor
By the same author
Last of the Tasburai
Scream of the Tasburai
HopeRoad Publishing
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First published in Great Britain by HopeRoad 2019
Copyright © 2019 Rehan Khan
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ISBN 978-1-9164671-2-5
Printed and bound by Clays Ltd, Bungay, Suffolk, UK