Adora

by Bertrice Small

  Adora

  by Bertrice Small

  Copyright © Bertrice Small 2015

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Butterfly Kisses Press

  Dedication

  This book is lovingly dedicated to my mother, Doris Steen Williams, who, like Adora, always knew who she was.

  Prologue

  Constantinople

  1341 to 1346

  It was early morning, and the mists, like shredded gray gauze, hung over the still waters of the Golden Horn. The city of Constantine slept, unaware that its emperor was dead.

  A lone figure—unchallenged by the guards—left the Imperial Palace and made his way across the vast, green park behind the Senate. The man who walked so purposefully toward the Mangana Palace was John Cantacuzene, for the last thirteen years the actual ruler of the crumbling Byzantine Empire. Behind John was Andronicus III, already lying in his funeral bier.

  Charming Andronicus had been inadvertently responsible for the murder of his younger brother and the subsequent early death of his own father. He had been forced to overthrow his furious grandfather, Andronicus II. The old man had sworn to kill him. In becoming emperor, Andronicus had been fully aided by his very good friend, John Cantacuzene one of Byzantium’s most brilliant minds.

  But Andronicus III, once he had gained his heart’s desire, found that he preferred hunting, festivals, and beautiful women to the burdens of state. Those dull matters he left to his trusted friend, Chancellor John Cantacuzene. The chancellor worked hard. The government ran smoothly. The emperor’s every desire was gratified.

  The emperor’s mother, Xenia-Marie, and his wife, Anna of Savoy, distrusted John Cantacuzene. They knew the chancellor was ambitious. Andronicus, however, refused to dismiss the friend who had served him so well.

  But now Andronicus was dead, and his heir was barely eleven years old. The royal family had triumphed over John Cantacuzene by obtaining a deathbed signature from Andronicus appointing the Empress Anna sole regent for the boy emperor. There would be civil war. John Cantacuzene did not intend for the child’s vengeful Italian mother and her priests to rule the empire.

  First, however, John had to get his own family to safety. The empress would not stop at murder. But then, smiled John, neither would he.

  His older son, fifteen-year-old John, would remain with him. Matthew, at six, could be placed in sanctuary at the monastery attached to the Church of St. Andrew, near the Gate of Pege. His second wife, Zoe, his daughters, and his niece would all go to convents. John could trust the devout Anna not to violate religious sanctuary.

  His first wife, Marie of Bursa, had died when their eldest daughter, Sophia, was barely three, and little John was five. He had mourned her for a year and then married a Greek princess, Zoe of Macedonia. Ten months later, Helena, now eight, had been born—followed eighteen months after by his younger son, and two years later by his youngest daughter, Theadora, now four-and-a-half. There had been twin sons, dead a year later in an epidemic. Zoe was again with child.

  Entering the Mangana Palace, he hurried to his apartments and was met by his manservant, Leo.

  “He is dead, my lord?”

  “Yes,” John answered. “A few minutes ago. Take Matthew to St Andrew’s—immediately. I will wake my lady and the girls.” He hurried to the women’s wing of the apartment, startling the eunuch guards who dozed by the doors.

  “Say goodbye to Matthew, my love,” he told Zoe. “Leo is taking him to St. Andrew’s now.”

  This was not the time for prolonged discussion. Moving on to the bedchamber shared by Sophia and Eudoxia, he shook them awake. “Get dressed. The emperor is dead. You go to St. Mary’s in Blanchernae for safety.”

  Sophia stretched languidly, her nightshift slipping to reveal a plump golden breast. She shook her jet black hair back, and her red mouth pouted. She reminded him more of her mother each day. If he couldn’t marry her off right now, then a convent was the best place for her.

  “Oh, Father! Why must we go to a convent? With a civil war there will be so many handsome soldiers about!”

  He didn’t stop to argue, but neither did he miss the look of lust in her eye. “You both have five minutes,” he said sternly, moving quickly to his other daughters’ bedchamber. Here he stopped, allowing himself the pleasure of viewing his two younger girls in sleep.

  His lovely Helena was so like Zoe, with her sunshine blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. Eventually, she would marry the boy emperor who was Andronicus’ heir.

  Little Theadora slept with her thumb in her mouth, the sweet line of her innocent little body visible through the thin cotton shift. She was his mysterious one. He often marveled that, of all his children, she was the one with his quick, intuitive mind. Though barely out of babyhood, Theadora seemed much older. Her features were delicate, as his mother’s had been: she would grow into an extraordinary beauty. Her coloring was unique in this family. Her skin was like heavy cream, her cheeks faintly touched with a soft apricot pink. Her hair was dark, the color of rich polished wood, and it gleamed with golden lights. Outrageously long, dark lashes tipped in gold hid Theadora’s amazing eyes—eyes that changed from amethyst to deep purple. He was suddenly startled to find those eyes open and upon him.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  He smiled down at her. “Nothing to fear, chick. The emperor has died, and you, Helena, and your mother are going to St. Barbara’s for a while.”

  “Will there be war, Papa?”

  Again she startled him, and he surprised himself by answering plainly. “Yes, Theadora. The empress got a deathbed signature. She is sole regent.”

  The child nodded. “I’ll wake Helena, Papa. Have we much time?”

  “Just time to dress,” he said. He left the room shaking his head at her quick grasp of the situation. If only she’d been a boy!

  Theadora Cantacuzene rose from her bed. Calmly pouring water into a basin, she washed her face and hands. She then slipped a simple green tunic dress over her shift and pulled a pair of outdoor boots over her little feet. Refilling the basin with fresh water, she lay out a pink tunic and another pair of boots.

  “Helena,” she called. “Helena, wake up!”

  Helena opened her beautiful blue eyes and looked at her little sister irritably. “It is barely dawn, brat. Why do you wake me?”

  “The emperor is dead! We go to St. Barbara’s with Mother. Get dressed, or you’ll be left behind for old Xenia-Marie’s torture chamber!”

  Helena scrambled out of bed. “Where are you going?” she shrieked.

  “To find Mother. You had better hurry, Helena!” Theadora found her mother bidding Matthew goodbye outside the palace. She and her brother were but two years apart and had always been close. Now they clung to each other, and Matthew whispered, “I am afraid, Thea. What will happen to us?”

  “Nothing,” she soothed him. Lord, he was such a gentle boy, she thought. “Father puts us with the church for safety. We’ll be back together again soon. Besides, it should be fun for you—escaping from all us women!”

  He took heart from her words and, hugging her, turned back to their mother. He kissed her, mounted his horse, and rode manfully off, with Leo close behind.

  Next to go were Sophia and Eudoxia, escorted—to their delight—by a troop of Cantacuzene’s household guards. The girls preened and giggled, deliberately bumping the young soldiers, rubbing their bobbing breasts against young male arms and backs. Zoe spoke sharply to them. They gave her sour looks, but they obeyed. She was a good stepmother, more liberal than most, and both girls knew it.

  John Cantacuzene would escort his wife and two younger daughters. He had cleverly scattered his family in various locations, the better to conceal their whereabouts. Matthew’s monastery was near the Gate of the Pege at the
western end of the city. Sophia and Eudoxia’s convent was near the Blanchernae Gate in the northeast part of the city. Zoe and the little ones would be at St. Barbara’s on the Lycus River, outside the old wall of Constantine, near the Fifth Military Gate.

  John helped his pregnant wife to settle beside Theadora and Helena in their litter. It was almost dawn, and rainbow colors sifted through the gray and gold clouds, dappling the waters of the Golden Horn.

  “It’s the most beautiful city in the world!” sighed Theadora. “I never want to live anywhere else.”

  Zoe smiled at her little daughter. “You might have to, Thea. Someday you could be wed to a prince whose home is elsewhere. Then you would have to leave here.”

  “I would sooner die!” declared the child passionately. Zoe smiled again Theadora might have her father’s brilliant mind, but she was still a mere female. Sooner or later she would learn to accept that. Someday she would meet a man and then, thought Zoe, the city would matter very little.

  They passed St. Theodosia, and though still in the city the landscape became more suburban with comfortable looking villas built amid lovely landscaped gardens. They crossed over the bridge that spanned the river Lycus, and left the Triumphal Way to follow an unpaved dirt road. After a mile or so, another right turn took them up to the great bronze gates set within the whitewashed brick walls of St. Barbara’s Convent. Entering, they were met by the Reverend Mother Thamar. Kneeling, John Cantacuzene kissed the ring on the thin, aristocratic hand extended to him.

  “I ask unlimited sanctuary for my wife, my daughters, and my unborn child,” he requested formally.

  “Sanctuary is granted, my lord,” answered the tall, austere woman.

  He rose, helping Zoe from the litter, he introduced her. At the sight of the children, Mother Thamar’s face softened.

  “My daughters, Princess Helena and Princess Theadora,” John said quietly.

  So, thought the nun. That is how it is going to be! Well, his family has a right to those titles, though they have rarely used them.

  Taking his wife aside, John Cantacuzene spoke quietly with her for a few moments, then kissed her tenderly. Then he spoke with his daughters.

  “If I am a princess,” asked Helena, “then I must marry a prince. Mustn’t I, Father?”

  “You are a princess, my pet, but I mean for you to be an empress some day.”

  Helena’s blue eyes widened. Then she asked, “And shall Thea be an empress also?”

  “I have not yet chosen a husband for Theadora.”

  Helena shot her little sister a triumphant look. “Why not marry her to the Grand Turk, father? Maybe he likes purple eyes!”

  “I would never marry that old infidel,” exclaimed Theadora. “Besides, Father would never do anything to make me unhappy. And that certainly would!”

  “You would have to marry him if Father said so.” Helena was unbearably smug. “And then you would have to leave the city! Forever!”

  “If I married that old man,” countered Theadora, “I should see that he brought his army to capture the city. Then I should be its empress instead of you!”

  “Helena! Theadora!” scolded Zoe gently, but John Cantacuzene laughed heartily. “Ah, chick,” he chuckled, ruffling Theadora’s hair, “you really should have been a boy! What fire! What spirit! What a damned logical mind! I shall find you the most advantageous husband, I promise you.”

  Bending, he kissed his two daughters, then strode back out through the gate, mounting his horse, he waved and rode off, confident that his family was safe. Now he could begin his battle for the throne of Byzantium.

  It was not an easy war, for the population of Byzantium was torn by loyalties. Both the Paleaologis and the Cantacuzenes were old, respected families.

  Should the people support the young son of their late emperor or the man who had actually been running the empire for years? Too, there was the deep suspicion, kept alive by the Cantacuzene faction, that Empress Anna of Savoy intended to lead Byzantium back to hated Rome.

  John Cantacuzene and his eldest son left the city to lead their forces against young John Paleaologi. Neither side would harm their beloved city of Constantine. The war would be fought outside the capital.

  Though Cantacuzene preferred diplomacy to warfare there was no choice. The two dowager empresses sought his death, and what should have been a quick victory turned into a war of several years’ duration while the fickle Byzantines constantly switched sides. Finally, John Cantacuzene sought aid from the Ottoman Turks who ruled on the other side of the Sea of Marmara. Although the mercenary soldiers of Byzantium fought well, Cantacuzene could never be sure how many he might lose to a higher bidder. He needed an army he could depend on.

  Sultan Orkhan had already had a request for aid from the Paleaologi side. Unfortunately, they had offered only money, and the sultan knew their Imperial treasury was empty. John Cantacuzene offered gold, which he really had; the fortress of Tzympe in the Gallipoli peninsula; and his little daughter, Theadora. If Orkhan accepted the offer, Tzympe would give the Turks their first toehold in Europe—and without shedding a drop of blood. It was too tempting to refuse, and the sultan accepted. Six thousand of his best forces were dispatched to John Cantacuzene and, together with the Byzantine forces, they took the coastal cities of the Black Sea, ravaged Thrace, and seriously threatened Adrianople. In short order they were besieging Constantinople, to which the young emperor had fled.

  Safe behind the walls of St. Barbara’s Convent, little Theadora knew nothing of her impending marriage to a man fifty years her senior. But her mother knew, and Zoe wept that her exquisite child should be sacrificed. Such was the lot, however, of royal princesses, whose only value was in a marriage trade. Zoe actually believed that the sultan had helped John simply because he desired Theadora. Zoe was a devout woman—and the church kept alive the stories of the infidel’s evil ways. It did not occur to the anxious mother that Tzympe was what the sultan was really after.

  It was Helena who maliciously broke the news to her younger sister. Four years older than Theadora, she was as beautiful as an angel with her golden hair and lovely blue eyes. But she was not an angel. She was selfish, vain, and cruel. The gentle Zoe had no influence over Helena.

  One day when Mother Thamar had left the girls to practice a new embroidery stitch, Helena whispered, “They have chosen you a husband, sister.” Then, without waiting for Theadora to ask who, Helena continued, “You are to be the old infidel’s third wife. You will spend the rest of your days locked up in a harem…while I rule in Byzantium!”

  “You lie!” accused Theadora.

  Helena giggled. “No, I don’t. Ask Mother. She weeps often enough about it these days. Father needed soldiers he could depend on, and he offered you in exchange for troops. I understand the Turks love little children in their beds. Even boys! They…” And Helena lowered her voice while she described a particularly nasty perversion.

  Theadora paled and slowly crumpled to the floor in a faint. Helena regarded her curiously for minute, then she called for help. When questioned by her mother she blandly disclaimed any understanding of why her sister had fainted—a lie that was quickly exposed as Theadora returned to consciousness.

  Zoe rarely chastised her children physically, but this time she angrily slapped Helena’s smug face several times. “Take her away,” she told the servants. “Take her from me before I beat her to death!” Then Zoe gathered her youngest daughter into her soft arms. “There, my little one. There, love. It is not so bad.”

  Theadora sobbed. “Helena said the sultan likes little girls in his bed. She said he would hurt me! That when a man loves a woman it hurts her, and with little girls it is worse! I am not yet a woman, Mother! I will surely die!”

  “Your sister is deliberately cruel, and she is also badly informed, Theadora. Yes, you are to marry the sultan. Your father needed the aid Orkhan could give him, and you were not yet betrothed. It is the privileged duty of a princess to serve her family by an a
dvantageous marriage. What other good is a woman?

  “However, you will not live in the sultan’s house until you have begun your womanly show of blood. Your father has arranged it that way. If you are lucky Orkhan will die before then, and you will come home to make a good Christian marriage. In the meantime, you will reside in your own house, safe within the walls of St. Catherine’s Convent in Bursa. Your presence there will guarantee your father Ottoman aid.”

  The child sniffed and nestled close to her mother. “I do not want to go. Please don’t make me, Mama. I would sooner take the veil and remain here at St. Barbara’s.”

  “My child!” Startled, Theadora looked up into her mother’s shocked face. “Have you heard nothing I have said?” exclaimed Zoe. “You are Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium. You have a duty. That duty is to aid your family as best you can, and you must never forget that, my daughter. It is not always pleasant to do one’s duty, but our duty separates us from the rabble. They exist merely to satisfy their base desires. You must never shirk your duty, my dearest daughter.”

  “When must I go?” whispered the child.

  “Your father now besieges the city. When it is taken, we will see.”

  But Constantinople was not easily taken, not even by one of its own. On the land side, the walls—twenty-five feet thick—rose in three levels behind a moat sixty feet wide and twenty-two feet deep. Normally dry, the moat was flooded during siege by a series of pipes. The first wall was a low one used to shield a line of archers. The next wall rose twenty-seven feet above the second level and sheltered more troops. Beyond lay the third, and strongest, bulwark. The towers—some seventy feet high—held archers, Greek fire machines, and missile throwers.

  On the sea side, Constantinople was protected by a single wall with towers set at regular intervals which also enclosed each of its seven harbors. Across the Golden Horn was stretched a thick chain, which prevented unwelcome ships from sailing up the horn.

  And across the horn the two sub-cities of Galata and Pera were also well-walled.