Theadora was silent a moment, calming herself. Finally she asked, “Is this what you wished to speak privately to me about, Helena?”
“No! No! Who cares with whom the prince lies? It is my daughter. Please, Thea, be kind to her! I will do anything to insure your kindness toward Alexis. Do not take our quarrels out on my innocent child, I beg of you!”
“As I have often said, Helena, you are still a fool, and how little you know me. I have no intention of mistreating Alexis. She will be as my own daughter would be. I was never vindictive toward others, if you will remember.” Theadora rose. “Come, my sister, the others await our arrival to begin the feasting.” And she led Helena to the banquet hall within the harem, where Anastatia and the other women of the house waited.
There were the sultan’s daughters and their daughters. There were the sultan’s elderly sisters and cousins and their female offspring. There were his favorites and those who still hoped to catch his eye. There were the women of the Byzantine court who had accompanied the empress and her daughter. All in all, there were over a hundred females at the bride’s feast. Theadora presented her sister to those few important enough to merit an introduction to the empress of Byzantium. By the time she had finished, Alexis was being ushered into the room.
The little bride was led to her mother-in-law who kissed her on both cheeks before signaling the eunuchs to lift the child onto a table where all might see her. There, in the presence of the other women, the bride was stripped of her Byzantine clothes and dressed in Turkish fashion. Only then did the feast begin.
When it was over, several hours later, Prince Halil arrived with his father. Together with Theadora, they escorted Princess Alexis to the Convent of St. Anna where she would live for the next few years.
The following day Emperor John and his two sons Prince Andronicus and Prince Manuel knelt before Sultan Orkhan and renewed their vows of vassalage to their overlord. The Byzantines then returned to Constantinople and the Ottoman royal family went home to Bursa.
Chapter Twelve
Theadora lay in the shadow world between sleep and waking. She could hear the distant sound of running feet and a pounding on her apartment doors that grew louder and louder. Then Iris was shaking her shoulder. Theadora shrugged her off, grumbling sleepily, but Iris persisted.
“My lady, wake up! You must!”
Slowly the mists cleared, and she half-woke. “What is it, Iris?”
“Ali Yahya sends word, my princess. The sultan is very ill. Ali Yahya believes, though the doctors have not said this, that Sultan Orkhan is dying.”
Theadora was fully awake now. Sitting up, she asked, “Has he sent for me?”
“No, my lady, but it would be best if you were ready should the summons come.”
With Iris’ help Theadora dressed quickly. It was still dark as she paced restlessly about her antechamber. After the slaves laid a good fire in the tiled corner fireplace, she sent them back to their beds. Theadora preferred to keep her vigil alone. At last, Ali Yahya came for her and, catching up a sable-lined red silk cloak, she followed him silently to the sultan’s chambers.
The deathchamber was filled with doctors, the mullahs, and government and military officials. She stood quietly, holding the hand of Nilufer, Murad’s mother, in an effort to comfort her. Nilufer, the sultan’s wife all these years, truly loved Orkhan.
Anastatia, bent and broken since her son Ibrahim’s suicide of only weeks past, stood by herself, her gaze vacant. The two princes stood together by their father’s bedside, Murad’s arm flung about young Halil’s shoulders.
The women were brought to the bedside. The sultan lay quietly, obviously drugged and free of pain. The once mighty Orkhan, son of Osman, had shrunk to a frail scrap of his former self. Only his black eyes were lively as they moved from one to another of his family. He looked at Anastatia and whispered, “There’s one who’ll soon be joining me in death.” The gaze moved on to the other two women. “You were the joy of my youth, Nilufer. And you, Adora, the joy of my old age.” His eyes flicked to Murad. “Guard the boy! He’s no danger to you, and he’ll soon be valuable to you.”
“I swear it, my father,” said Murad.
Orkhan struggled to sit up. Slaves propped pillows behind him. He was racked by a fit of coughing, and his voice was noticeably weaker when he said, “Do not stop until you have Constantinople! It is the key to all! And you cannot successfully hold the rest without it. Halil’s supple mind will help you. Won’t you, my boy?”
“Yes, Father! I will be Murad’s most loyal right arm…and his eyes and ears as well,” the boy declared.
The ghost of a smile flickered on Orkhan’s lips. Then his eyes moved past his family to a place across the room. “Not yet, my friend,” he said so softly that Theadora was not sure she had heard him. The lamps flickered eerily, and the smell of musk, Orkhan’s favorite perfume, was overpowering.
The chief mullah made his way to the sultan’s bedside. “You have not yet confirmed your heir, Most High. It is not right that you leave us before doing so.”
“Murad! Murad is my successor,” gasped Orkhan, and another fit of coughing racked his fragile body.
The chief mullah turned to face the assemblage and raised his hands, palms up and outward. “Sultan Orkhan, son of Osman, Sultan of the Ghazis; Ghazi, son of Ghazi, has proclaimed his son Murad as his heir.”
“Murad!” The assembled called in return. And then, as if with one mind, they all filed silently out of the room leaving the dying man with his wives and sons. The quiet was frightening. To calm her nerves, Theadora, lashes lowered, glanced about her. Poor Anastatia stood staring vacantly. Nilufer, Christian-born, prayed quietly for the man she had loved. Halil shuffled his feet with nervous boredom.
Her glance moved on to Murad, and she swayed with shock to find that he was staring straight at her. Color flooded her face, her heart pounded noisily in her ears, yet she could not tear her eyes away from his face with its faintly mocking smile.
The sudden movement of the sultan broke the electricity between them. Orkhan sat straight up in his bed and said “Azrael, I come!” and fell back, the life gone from his dark eyes.
Murad reached over and gently closed his father’s eyes. Nilufer, putting an arm about Anastatia, led her from the death chamber.
Young Halil knelt before his brother, placing his small hands in Murad’s large ones and saying, “I, Halil Beg, son of Orkhan and Theadora, am your liegeman, Sultan Murad. I pledge you my total fealty.”
The new sultan raised his sibling up and, placing the kiss of peace upon the boy’s forehead, sent him from the room. Then he turned to Theadora and she trembled beneath his burning gaze. “You have a month to mourn your husband, madame. At the end of that time you will join my harem.”
She was astounded by his boldness. His father lay just dead, and the son lusted after her already. “I am a freeborn woman! I am a princess of Byzantium! You cannot compel me to be your wife, and I most certainly will not be!”
“I do not need your consent as you well know. And I have not asked you to be my wife. I have only said you will join my harem. The emperor would not dare oppose me in this. You know that, too.”
“I am not some slavegirl to be fawningly grateful for your favor,” she spat.
“No. You are not. A slavegirl has had a value put on her. So far, you have not proved your worth to me.”
For a moment she was speechless with shock. He had loved her once. She was sure of it. Yet now he seemed to want only to hurt her. His brutal barbs were aimed at her heart and her pride.
Sadly she realized that, against all sense, he held her responsible for what had been between her and Orkhan! He wanted her to be a soft and compliant female—yet he had expected her to defy his father! Did he truly not understand that she had been given no choice?
She did not intend to be torn apart. She intended to marry again and to marry a man who would love her and give her more children. Theadora would not spend the rest
of her life fighting Murad’s ghosts. She fixed her amethyst eyes on him and said quietly, with great dignity, “Once you called me a Byzantine whore, but I am not—as you well know. You would treat me as one, but I will not let you, Sultan Murad. You insult me by telling me I must join your harem. I will not join it, even as your wife. You direct your anger at me over something I could not prevent, frail woman that I am.” She added this maliciously. “You will be happier if you put me from your thoughts and populate your harem with only untouched virgins.”
“Do you think I can ever forget you, you violet-eyed witch!” he hissed, stepping forward and grasping her tightly. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
She winced, almost crying out, but—refusing to give him that satisfaction. “I have lain naked in your father’s arms,” she taunted him cruelly. “He has known my body completely, in a variety of ways, as no other man ever has! It was his right as my husband!”
Suddenly he reached out and quickly wrapped a thick strand of her dark hair about his hand. Imprisoning her thus, he kissed her savagely, his mouth pressing brutally on her soft lips until he bruised them. Furiously, she brought her hands up from her sides and raked his face with her nails. Too late, she realized her mistake. The rage in his eyes was terrible to behold. She turned to flee him, but the hand holding her hair yanked her back. Their eyes locked in a wordless battle. He seemed nearly mad with his rage. He forced her back across the room until she felt the divan against the backs of her legs. With a horrified gasp she realized his intent. “My God, Murad! Not here! For pity’s sake, no!”
“He took you from me in his lifetime! Now let him know that I take you in his deathchamber, while his body is not even cold,” came the hoarse reply.
She fought him as one possessed, but her struggles were useless. She felt her robes pushed up about her waist—and then a brutal thrust into her dry, unready body that sent a shaft of pain racing through her. “No! No! No!” she sobbed over and over again, but he did not hear. Then she felt a familiar tension building within her and, with horror, renewed her struggles against him.
She could not be! Not under such a violent assault! But helpless against her own body, she yielded finally to the ecstasy sweeping over her and cried out at the moment of their mutual release. Releasing her, a cruel smile of satisfaction on his face, he pulled her up, led her to the door, and pushing her through it, said, “One month, Adora.”
The door to Orkhan’s deathchamber closed behind her, leaving her alone and trembling in the cold corridor. Slowly, dry-eyed, she stumbled back to her own apartment and sank wearily into a chair before the dying fire.
She had one month. One month in which to escape him. She didn’t know how she was going to do it, but she would find a way. She would have to leave her son behind. But this thought did not disturb her. Halil spent most of his time now at his own court in Nicea, and he was safe from harm because Murad loved him.
She must get back to Constantinople. John Paleaologi would grant her asylum even though Helena would rage. Though her brother-in-law was vassal to the Ottoman ruler, he would protect her.
Murad would do nothing about that, at least not openly. His Turkish pride would not allow him to go to war over a woman, and if he pressed the matter too hard, it could become public knowledge. Sultan Murad would be a laughing stock for pursuing his father’s reluctant widow when he might have any other woman.
The idea of outwitting him was irresistible, and she chuckled low in her throat. He would not expect it of her, of course. He had always underestimated her intelligence. She knew very well that he expected her, now properly cowed, to wait helplessly until he sent for her to come to his bed. For a moment, she sobered. Even now, after tonight, she loved him. She had always loved him. Widowed, she was finally free to be with him, to belong to him, to give him children. Why should she run from him? She loved him!
She sighed deeply. He was arrogant, stubborn…and he could not forgive her for not being a virgin. So she could not remain with him, for he would only hurt her. She would resent every budding houri who glanced at Murad. No, far better for her to return to Constantinople.
She went back to her bed and slept, awakening with a plan of action so simple that she wondered why she had not thought of it immediately. On the following day, after Orkhan had been borne to his tomb to the accompaniment of the mourners, his youngest widow visited the Convent of St. Catherine to pray for him.
Her litter moved easily through the streets of Bursa—quite unnoticed and free of guards. Each day that followed she spent part of her time at the convent church. Twice she sent the litter back to the palace, walking home alone, heavily veiled like other respectable women of the town. She let herself in through a little-used garden gate.
She had been correct in believing that the sultan assumed she would accept his decree. And he was far too busy now taking charge of his government to be bothered with her.
Theadora sent Iris off to Nicea to check on little Princess Alexis’ welfare. She was now safe from busybodies, and knew that she could be gone at least overnight before anyone thought to look for her.
Arriving at the convent one day, almost a month after Orkhan’s death, she sent her litter back to the palace, telling her headman, “I intend to spend the night here. Return for me late tomorrow afternoon. I have already informed Ali Yahya of my plans.” The litter moved off down the narrow street as Theadora rang for the gatekeeper and was admitted. But instead of going to the convent church, the princess headed for her little house, which was always kept in readiness for her.
Alone, she moved silently to her old bedroom and, opening the little trunk at the foot of her bed, drew out the garments of a peasant woman. On the two occasions that she had sent the litter back to the palace, she had gone to a nearby market and bought the clothing and a few other items she would need in order to make her escape. Returning to this house, she had secreted them in the old trunk. Now she quickly drew off her own rich clothes and, folding them carefully, lay them in the trunk and covered them with a blanket.
She opened a small pot on a table and rubbed a light walnut stain over her entire naked body, being careful that even her ears and toes were well-covered. She was able to reach her shoulders and back by means of a long-handled brush wrapped with a soft piece of chamois. For a few minutes she stood shivering in the cool air, allowing the stain time to dry.
Finally satisfied, she pulled on her new garments and braided her hair into two long plaits. Wrapping the other things she needed into a kerchief, she placed them into a woven, covered basket.
Theadora slipped from the house. The convent grounds were deserted as the nuns were now praying in the church. Even the entry was deserted but for a horse and cart. The elderly driver was unlatching the gate. “Here, let me help,” she said, running up to him. Grasping the horse’s bridle she led it into the street while the old man closed the gate behind them.
“Thank you, little girl,” he said coming around to her. “And where did you come from?”
“In there,” she replied, pointing at the convent. “I’ve been visiting my sister, Sister Lucia. She’s a nun here.”
“Well, thank ye again. My name is Basil, and I am the convent’s fishmonger. If I can ever serve you—”
“But you can,” she said. “My sister said I was to ask if you would take me with you to the coast. I can pay you a bit for your trouble.”
The old man eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you go to the coast?”
“I come from the city. My name is Zoe, and I am the daughter of Constans the blacksmith whose forge is just outside the Gate of St. Romanus. I am newly widowed, and I came to visit my sister and make a religious retreat. Now I have received word that my twin sons are ill, and I cannot wait for a proper caravan. If I may travel to the coast with you I can take the ferry and get home to my boys quickly.” Her upturned face was the correct mixture of concern and sincerity.
“Come along then, Zoe, daughter of Constans,
” growled the old man. “Never let it be said that Basil the fisherman would not help a mother in distress.”
It was so easy. So incredibly easy! Old Basil and his wife insisted she stay the night with them in their cottage, for it was well past dark when they finally arrived at the coastal village. The following morning they took her to the ferry which quickly made its way across the Sea of Marmara into the harbor of Eleutherius. She felt a shiver of delight as she glimpsed again the city of her birth—the city she had not seen since she left it as the bride of Sultan Orkhan. Constantinople! The name itself evoked a thrill! She was safely home!
She didn’t even know she was smiling until a voice said, “A sane man would kill for you if you smiled at him like that, pretty girl. I don’t suppose you’ve time for a bit of wine with a sailor?”
Theadora laughed aloud, and it was a joyous sound. “Why sir,” she said in the common dialect of the city, “you turn a poor widow’s head. But alas I must hurry to my father’s house where my little sons lie ill.”
The sailor grinned back ruefully. “Another time,” he said, helping her down the gangplank and handing her her basket.
“Perhaps,” she said smiling at him again, and turned away into the crowd. While she walked she searched for something, and suddenly she found it. Placing herself in front of an imperial soldier, she said, “I am the empress’ sister, Princess Theadora, just escaped from Bursa. Arrange an escort for me and take me to the emperor—at once!”
The soldier looked down at the dark-faced peasant woman and raised his hand to shove her away.
“Touch me and you die! Fool! How many peasants speak the tongue of the city’s upper class? Take me to the emperor or I’ll have the skin stripped from your body and fed to the dogs!”
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