The Sultan's Wife

by Jane Johnson

  ‘It’s hideous,’ I say shortly, forgetting my manners.

  She trills with laughter, hits me mockingly with the magazine. ‘Men, what do you know of fashion?’

  ‘I’ve come to ask about your little page boy.’

  ‘Jacob?’ she looks surprised. ‘He was here a moment ago.’

  ‘Not Jacob, the other one, the small boy.’

  Her face clouds. ‘Oh, Miette? Jacob’s little cousin? He was such a dear but I’m afraid I have had to let him go.’ She leans towards me confidentially. ‘He has – how you say? Magpie tendencies.’

  I stare at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘Un voleur! A terrible little thief. Mes pauvres bijoux! I found three ropes of pearls and my best emerald brooch hidden away amongst his things yesterday afternoon. And so when I lost heavily at basset last night I decided the best thing all round was to sell him, finances being what they are. The agent, he gave me a very good price.’

  ‘Whatever he has offered I will double it!’ I cry. ‘Treble it!’

  ‘For that much, cheri, you can have Jacob!’ Louise pats me on the arm. ‘What is it coming to when a blackamoor wishes a blackamoor for a servant? La, the world’s turned upside-down!’

  Five minutes later I am running through the Tilt Yard and out into St James’s Park with a name and address in my pocket.

  *

  The turn for the worse in my luck continues: the agent, Mr Lane, is not at his home in Pall Mall, but at his offices in Cornhill. I do not even know where Cornhill is – it sounds disturbingly rural and distant – but I take note of the address from his servant and hail a hackney carriage. The driver agrees to a vastly inflated fare, but only if I ride up on the box alongside him. ‘Can’t be seen to take you inside the carriage,’ he says. ‘It’ll spoil my business with persons of quality.’

  I am tempted to walk, but swallow my pride, and there is, as it turns out, a benefit to the man’s prejudice, for the view from the top of the carriage is exhilarating, as we bowl through the busy streets of the capital, and soon I am even recognizing landmarks and streets: there is the river, and there where I walked with Mr Ashmole to visit Mr Draycott; there the junction with Chancery Lane, leading north towards the Royal Society’s meeting place. It is reassuring to gain some understanding of the geography of the city, its being smaller than I had at first thought. By the time we fetch up in Cornhill, I console myself with the knowledge that I could, if I have to, retrace the route on foot, without the need to prostrate my pride to London’s hackney-coachmen. Then I remember that I will have Momo with me, and that a small child’s legs may be a different matter. Well, I will climb that tree when I come to it, I tell myself, still full of optimism, paying the coachman his two-shilling fare.

  Nothing is simple. I scrutinize the address more closely. ‘Jonathan’s, Change Lane, Cornhill’ is what I have written, which seemed simple enough as I took it down; but the lane turns out to be a little kingdom in its own right, spawning alleys and bifurcations, all gloomy and canyon-like, for the sun does not penetrate their narrow compass. I walk along, dwarfed by the tall buildings that channel the loud conversations of the young men who pass me, too pleased with themselves and their discussions to take any notice of a lost foreigner seeking directions. I pass wig shops, pawnbrokers and taverns, but the overwhelming smell of the place is of coffee. I stop a lad carrying a sack across his shoulders. ‘I am looking for Jonathan,’ I tell him. ‘Jonathan Lane.’

  He makes a puzzled face at me. ‘Eh?’

  ‘An agent in slaves.’

  ‘I don’t know no Jonathan Lane, but Jonathan’s is there, across the alley.’ He indicates a large, colonnaded coffee shop. ‘That’s where the traders do business.’

  Jonathan’s is a huge and noisy cave full of earnest men in tricorn hats talking urgently at one another over close-crammed tables. I catch stray words as I stare around the room – ‘yield’ and ‘commodities’, ‘stocks’ and ‘margins’. It is the language of trading, but the only money changing hands appears to be for the food and drink being served in the establishment. I ask a lad in an apron carrying a tray of coffee-jugs where I may find Mr Lane, and have to shout over the hubbub. ‘Over there,’ he points to a far corner. ‘He’s with Mr Hyde, the Duke of York’s agent from the Royal African Company.’

  I make my way over to them with some difficulty and have to hover for several moments before either of the men takes notice of me, so intent are they on their business. At last, the one in a light brown periwig glances up. ‘No more coffee, thank you.’ He looks away again.

  His partner, a man in a blue velvet coat laden with expensive frogging, is regarding me now curiously. ‘He don’t work here, Thomas, not in that oriental get-up, not unless it’s some gimmick to sell a new brand of Turkish coffee. Perhaps he’s one of yours?’

  Thomas turns back, looks me up and down; frowns. ‘You’re not one of mine. What do you want?’

  I explain that I am looking for the child who till this morning was in the employ of the Duchess of Portsmouth.

  ‘Oh, Louise’s little blackamoor. What about him?’

  ‘I wish to buy him.’

  This has both of them laughing. ‘Are you setting up in competition, then? Selling your relatives?’

  ‘I’m with the Moroccan embassy. There has been an unfortunate misunderstanding: the child was sold by mistake.’

  Thomas Lane bridles. ‘There was certainly no misunderstanding; it was a very fair deal I gave her!’

  The other man, Mr Hyde, looks at me askance. ‘You’re not from Morocco, are you? Originally, I mean. Where do you come from?’

  I tell him and he smiles knowingly. ‘Ah, I was worried the Africa Company had missed out on a bit of a goldmine, with fellows your size to be come by. But no, we’ve got that region covered. Good to know.’

  I do not fully understand what is meant by this, but it smacks of slaving, which makes him a devil, and renders the agent doing business with him another trader in misery. The idea of giving either of them money is repellent, but I must save Momo.

  I turn back to Mr Lane. ‘Whatever the duchess gave you for him, I will give you more: you will make your profit.’

  He spreads his hands. ‘Too late, I’m afraid. I had a customer already waiting: I sold him this morning, to Mrs Herbert. She wanted something a bit special to show off at the premiere of The City Heiress this afternoon.’

  *

  An hour later I have managed to make my way back across London to the Dorset Garden Theatre, down on the riverbank to the south of Fleet Street. My poor luck holding, it started to spit with rain almost as soon as I stalked out of the coffee-house; by the time I arrive at my destination, my robes are plastered against my skin and my turban has doubled in weight. Under the shelter of some trees, I wring the wretched turban out and rewind it upon my head, watching the carriages roll up to discharge their passengers. Although it is only four in the afternoon, the flambeaux have been lit, for the gloom of the day is profound: by their leaping light I have a good view of the theatregoers. I ignore the ordinary hackneys, reasoning that a woman who would buy a black child as an accessory for the occasion is likely to turn up in ostentatious style. Despite the bad weather, the crowds have turned out for the play: soon the square outside the theatre is heaving with coaches, and I watch them all like a hawk, but there is no sign of Momo, just women in masks and gallants in powdered wigs. Then three golden carriages arrive at once, disgorging a collection of richly dressed passengers – all ostrich feathers and tabby silk – who head swiftly up the steps out of the rain and into the theatre. There is such a mêlée that I cannot see between all the wheels and the horses, and have to dodge out from my shelter. I think I catch a glimpse of the woman who sat next to ben Hadou at the duchess’s dinner: yes, there she is, and beside her the Duchess Mazarin, her striking face framed by the masses of black wavy hair that escape her hood, with her servant Mustapha, his crimson brocade vivid beneath a long black cloak. So struck am I by their
appearance that I almost miss the arrival of a particularly opulent coach-and-four, out of which issue two splendidly dressed servants wielding vast umbrellas, and three women, one in a dress as wide as a sofa. I am afforded a brief view of Momo, all done up in his gold lace suit; then he is ushered away by the women, and they all disappear swiftly into the building.

  Swearing to myself, I dash across the carriage yard and up the steps after them, but am stopped at the door and asked for my entrance fee. More seconds are lost as I sort through the unfamiliar currency, then lose patience and drop a handful of coins into the man’s palm. Inside, all is chaos: the lobby is pell-mell with people, and although I am a head taller than most, the ridiculous wigs, feathers and headdresses obscure my view. At last I spot Mustapha and push my way through to him. We look one another in the eye. ‘Senufo?’ he asks, head tilted assessingly.

  I nod. ‘Asante?’

  ‘Dogomba,’ he specifies. His tribal marks are little vertical lines that run down his cheeks, like tears.

  ‘Can you help me? I am looking for a woman called Mrs Herbert, she has a little boy with her.’

  An expression of contempt flickers over his face. ‘She has a box upstairs.’

  I thank him and turn towards the stairs, but he catches my arm. ‘Come up with us. Follow close behind when we go up with my lady in a minute. There’ll be quite a crowd: Mrs Behn is with us.’

  Mrs Behn is surrounded by a large group of folk come to pass on their congratulations and to be seen with the playwright; the Duchess Mazarin sweeps in like a galleon in sail and bears her away; and then we are moving up the narrow stairs into the gallery, and no one stops me as we make our way into the enclosed box. From this eyrie-like viewpoint, I can see the entire theatre – right across the gallery and the private boxes, down into the pit, where women in vizards mingle with the hoi polloi. The upper gallery is magnificently appointed, with plush seating and gilded cherubs everywhere; but all of this is taken in in a flash, for suddenly I spy Momo two boxes away with a vastly ornamented woman who must be Mrs Herbert, two thinner, younger versions of herself who must surely be her daughters and a pair of liveried servants. All Momo’s attention is on a little lapdog in his arms: the two wear matching diamond-studded collars.

  There is a fanfare from the musicians down below. As inconspicuously as I can, I detach myself from the duchess’s retinue and ease myself into the narrow corridor that gives access to the other boxes. I open the door of the second box and thrust my head in. At once a servant puts himself in my path, looking much alarmed. ‘I warn you, I am armed.’

  ‘I have some business with Mrs Herbert. It won’t take a moment.’

  ‘I tell you, sir, begone: the play is starting.’

  And so it is, I realize: four gentlemen in coloured clothing have come out upon the stage and struck attitudes; a footman lingers behind them, carrying a cloak. As they start to speak, Mrs Herbert’s servant cannot help but snatch a look, and, as he does so, I push past him. ‘Mrs Herbert—’

  One of the daughters gives a little yelp at the sight of me; but the general noise of the place carries it away, for already people are catcalling the players, booing the strict uncle, cheering the feckless nephew. The other daughter hides behind her fan.

  ‘Go away, you ruffian!’ cries Mrs Herbert. Her hands go to the jewels at her throat. ‘You shan’t rob me, not in full sight of all!’

  ‘Madam, I am no robber: I have come for the boy. The Duchess of Portsmouth sold him in error, and I have come to take him back.’ At the sound of my voice, Momo turns, his eyes and grin gleaming out of a face still as black as my own.

  ‘Lud, I only bought him this morning, and for a lot of money!’

  ‘I am instructed to pay you double what you paid for him.’ I show her the gold, but she shakes her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly: dear Fanny has taken such a liking to him!’

  ‘I will give more, to ease dear Fanny’s pain,’ I say desperately. Whoever Fanny may be. While Mrs Herbert deliberates, my eyes stray past Momo, towards the lit stage and the crowded populace below. Something has snagged my eye, perhaps a sixth sense at work: for down in the pit, amidst the mass of dark hats and cloaks, a single face is turned away from the stage, staring upwards, scanning the gallery.

  It is the English renegade Hamza. So he has escaped from prison, or, more likely bribed his way out thanks to Rafik.

  The moment my gaze lands upon him he sees me and our eyes lock. At once he starts pushing his way through the crowd.

  I dump the gold in Mrs Herbert’s lap, grab Momo by the hand and drag him away.

  ‘Fanny!’ one of the daughters wails, and ‘Thief!’ cries Mrs Herbert, and now the two servants rather unwillingly give chase.

  Wrenching the lapdog out of Momo’s grasp, I hurl it towards them. In their efforts to catch dear Fanny the servants fall over one another, and in doing so take down one of the girls, who in turn collapses into her mother, while the dog runs around and around barking delightedly, as if this is the best fun it has had in its life. I propel Momo through the door and into the corridor and then we are careering down the narrow stairs, into the lobby and out into the pouring rain, which at once begins to wash Momo’s dye from him, turning his face into a streaky horror.

  ‘Hoi, eunuch: stop!’ Hamza comes bowling out of the theatre. At the sight of Momo’s dissolving disguise his eyes flash in triumph. ‘I knew you were up to something!’

  Unceremoniously, I throw Momo over my shoulder and run, my feet slapping against the wet cobbles, desperation powering my muscles. Dodging parked carriages and stamping horses, I zigzag right, then left, into a maze of small streets behind the theatre, with no goal in mind other than to avoid our pursuer. My lungs are soon burning, but still I run, right, then left again, and straight on down a narrow alley littered with stinking refuse. By the time I realize this alley is a dead end, it is too late.

  Footsteps echo in the distance, and then suddenly there he is, the renegade, silhouetted in the entrance to the alley. I stare around, but there is no way out. Hamza comes on at a half-run now, a knife glinting in his hand. ‘You’ve led me a damned chase these past days, you fucker! But I’m feeling magnanimous, so put the boy down and walk away, if you know what’s good for you.’ Now he is just a few feet away, grinning demonically.

  ‘You’ll have to kill me,’ I tell him grimly.

  He just laughs. ‘Did they remove your wit as well as your balls? There’s no need for heroics. No one’s going to hurt the child: we’re just going to take him home to his papa, score ourselves a reward for bringing him back from the dead, since the fucking draper couldn’t be arsed to pay for him, and who can blame him? Look, what do you have to lose? Just hand over the boy and walk away. Take ship for America or some such: I hear there’s plenty of work there for a big negard like you!’

  I transfer Momo from across my shoulders to cradle him in my arms and he looks up at me, round-eyed. ‘Is the game over, Nus-Nus?’

  ‘I fear so, my dear.’ I put him down carefully, and as soon as his feet touch the ground I yell, ‘Run, Momo, run! Back to the theatre. Go!’

  I give him a shove and he takes off running, dodging neatly past the renegade, who swears foully and turns to go after him, his blade bright in the gloom. I launch myself at Hamza’s back and we both go down in the filth. He twists and rolls and grabs me, and somehow forces the knife to my throat and we struggle mightily down on the ground, amid the turds and vegetable waste. As we do, my turban unwinds itself and tangles his knife hand and he curses as he tries to free it. I reel the turban in and I butt him hard in the face, deliberately aiming for his broken nose. He howls and blood bubbles out, smearing us both, but still he does not let go of the weapon. Whipping my head back and sideways, I manage to escape the folds of cotton that are obscuring my sight and land a satisfyingly vicious blow on his arm. He cries out and the knife falls, spinning away in the gloom. I go after it, feeling a surge of joy as my hand closes on it; then Hamza’s fist smashes me
in the ear so that the world is roaring and red and I fall sideways and lose my grip on the hilt.

  In that unguarded moment his boot catches me in the guts, making me retch and gasp for air. Maleeo, that hurt! The pain is immense, but, as his foot comes at me again, I manage by luck to catch it and wrench and he comes crashing down beside me. But he is a tough man, and used to street brawling; and luck seems to be with him, for at once he is up, and again he has the knife in his hand. We scrabble to our feet and circle one another like fighting dogs, snarling, in our own languages, heaving for breath, covered in filth and wet through; and still the rain beats down.

  He casts the blade negligently from one hand to the other. ‘Throat or belly, eunuch?’ he rasps at me. ‘Fast or slow? I can’t deci—’

  Without finishing the word, he lunges at me and as I duck away from the blade I slip on some wet vegetable or worse and the knife catches me in the shoulder. I spin away, howling, but with an almighty leap he pins me up against the wall, the knife pressed against my ribs.

  His eyes bulge and blink at me through his mask of blood. ‘You stupid negard! Now I’m going to have to kill you, and all you had to do was walk away…’

  The knife slides through the fabric of my robe and I writhe and feel it slip chill, then searing, across my skin, a taste of death. A poor way to go, ignominiously, in a filthy London alley, far from home and help. He gets the blade square to me again and then lets out a shout and looks down, shaking his leg. Something darts away, a little demon with blood around its mouth. It grins, and its teeth are red, and for a moment I think it is Amadou, back from the dead to revenge himself on his murderer, but as it capers away in its gold lace suit I realize it is Momo. The next thing I know, a great shadow detaches itself from the gloom and sends the renegade and his knife flying in different directions. Hamza hits the wall hard and slides down it, his legs sticking out in front of him. He coughs and swears, tries to get up; but the shadow puts a foot on his chest, then bends and very neatly and deliberately slits his throat, stepping quickly sideways to avoid the sudden jet of blood. Then he wipes his knife clean on the renegade’s cloak, stows it in his belt and turns around.