Captive Of The Harem

“I hardly know you, my lord,” Eleanor said. “I am beginning to admire and respect you, but…I—I would be your friend if you…”

“You would be my friend?” Suleiman’s gaze narrowed and he appeared to be considering. “Why should I need a friend, Eleanor? Do you not think I have many about me who would call themselves my friends?”

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me for my presumption. It was only that we share an interest in ancient manuscripts. I enjoyed our talk when you asked me to help you read them and I would like to do something that would be of use to you. There are other women more skilled in the arts of love. I think I would provide poor sport for you.”

Suleiman nodded, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You argue convincingly, my lady. Yet I wonder…”

Captive of the Harem

Anne Herries

MILLS & BOON

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ANNE HERRIES

lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty published novels.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Chapter One

‘I shall miss you, my teacher. The days will seem long without the benefit of your words of wisdom, Kasim.’

‘I shall be sorry to leave you, Suleiman—the years we have had together have been truly a blessing for me, but the time has come for me to prepare to make my peace with God, my lord. I must go home to my own land to die…’

‘Yes, I know. I would not hold you. Go then…and may Allah guide your footsteps to Paradise.’

Suleiman Bakhar felt the sting of the unmanly tears that would shame him as the old man left and he knew that it was for the last time; they would never meet again in this life.

He moved away to gaze down at the gardens of his apartments in his father’s palace, his fierce, wild eyes lit by a silver flame in their depths. His expression for those who dared to look was at that moment much that of an untamed creature frustrated by the bars of its cage. The palace of Caliph Bakhar was a perfumed, luxuriously appointed cage—but nevertheless a prison to the man whose spirit wished to soar like the hawks he lavished with so much love and attention.

He was a strong, handsome man, though his features were at times harsh, his mouth capable of looking as cruel as the sharp beaks of his birds of prey. At other times his dark, mysterious eyes could be bright with laughter, and his mouth, slackened by desire, could look soft and deliciously sensuous—as was his voice when he chose to entertain the court with his singing. Now was not one of those times. He was bored, restless, and conscious of a growing anger inside himself that he did not understand. And he was losing the man who had been his teacher for many years, a man he revered and loved almost as a father. His life would be that much the poorer for the teacher’s going.

Yet he would not have held Kasim for he loved him as dearly as he loved his own father. He must seek elsewhere to fill the emptiness the teacher’s going would leave in his life.

Fluttering about the scented walks of the gardens below, the women of his harem twittered like brightly coloured birds in their scanty clothes as they paraded through sunlit walks. Here and there stone benches were placed in the shade, and the sound of tinkling water from fountains echoed the laughter of the women. They were all aware that Suleiman was watching them from his windows above. He was making his choice and one of them would be sent to his bed that night.

The favoured one would spend the afternoon being pampered by the other women. She would be washed in soft warm water in the baths of the harem, then perfumed lotions and creams would be massaged into her body and hair so that her skin would be smooth for the touch of her master, and finally she would be dressed in the finest silks…layer upon layer of diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or instruct her to remove as suited his whim.

It was an honour to be chosen by the Caliph’s favourite son, and also a pleasure. Suleiman was young and virile, his body honed to masculine perfection by hours of training in the courtyards with the Janissaries. His love-making was legendary amongst the ladies of the harem, and word had spread to the other harems, some of which had less well-favoured masters, and there were many sighs as envious eyes peered at him from behind pierced screens. It was forbidden for the ladies of one harem to mix with those of another, of course, but it happened—as other forbidden things happened in secret places: things that could bring a swift beating or worse if they were discovered by the eunuchs.

Sometimes, the ladies of the Caliph’s court were allowed to watch Suleiman at sport in the great courtyard of the palace. Suleiman delighted in trials of strength with the officers of the Janissaries, and it was very seldom that he lost his bouts.

‘He will choose me. I know he will choose me,’ Fatima said to Dinazade, who was her chief attendant. As Suleiman’s favourite, Fatima had her own rooms and slaves to wait on her. ‘He always chooses me.’ She gave a satisfied smile as the chief eunuch beckoned to her. ‘There, I told you so. Come with me, Dinazade. I must be beautiful to please my lord tonight.’

Suleiman moved back from the window as his chosen partner was led away. He had selected Fatima again because there was fire in her. Most of the concubines had been given to him as gifts, either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the Caliph, and were too obedient to please him. He had dined too much on honey and wanted something with more spice.

His features were set like iron, his mouth thinned to a severe line. Sometimes he felt he would go mad if he were confined to this idle life for many more years. He could fight, ride out into the countryside beyond Constantinople with his hawks or spend the afternoon pouring over his manuscripts—but none of these pleasures held any real appeal for him that day. There was a hungry yearning in his soul—but for what? Suleiman did not know, unless it was simply to be free…to travel the world?

Such an idea was forbidden to him. His father had refused to let him enter the Janissaries in case he might be injured in a real battle—for his tussles with the elite guard could only ever be play-acting. No one would dare to inflict harm on the Caliph’s son for fear of the punishment that would certainly follow—not from Suleiman, but from his father.

‘Your place is here with me,’ the Caliph had told him when he had asked permission to leave and join the Sultan’s personal bodyguard. ‘Together we are strong. I am getting older, Suleiman. Soon you must prepare to take over from me.’

Caliph Bakhar was known for his wisdom and fairness throughout the empire. It was he who dispensed justice and kept the common people in order in the city for his royal master Suleiman the Magnificent. The Sultan was the supreme ruler of the great Ottoman Empire, and under his rule the empire had reached new heights of power and splendour. Suleiman Bakhar had been named for him.

‘Forgive me, my lord.’ One of the eunuchs approached, his slippered feet making no sound on the marble floors. ‘Your honoured father, the great Caliph Bakhar, requests your presence in his apartments.’

Suleiman’s eyes were very hawkish as he let them sweep over the fleshy face of the eunuch. It was necessary to have such creatures to guard the women of the harem, but he did not like or trust them. They were sly, calculating creatures—especially this one.

‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘I shall attend the Caliph.’

For a moment Suleiman thought he saw a flash of resentment in the eunuch’s eyes. Abu was the child of one of his father’s older concubines, and perhaps resented the fact that Suleiman and he shared the same blood but were treated in very different ways. Abu’s mother had been a Nubian slave and of very little value, while Suleiman’s mother had been the daughter of an English nobleman and the Caliph’s favourite wife.

Taken from a shipwreck more dead than alive, Margaret Westbury had been presented as a gift to Caliph Bakhar. He had found her fascinating and taken her as his wife, but after she had given him a son he had offered to return her to her homeland. Margaret had preferred to stay on as his chief wife, and though she had been allowed little say in her son’s upbringing, she had been allowed to see him twice a week in the gardens.

Yet another soft-footed eunuch with doe-like eyes conducted Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fell on his knees before the Caliph as was the custom, but was immediately told to rise.

‘The Caliph wished to see his unworthy son?’

‘Suleiman is a most worthy son,’ Caliph Bakhar replied after the ritual salute. ‘I have a problem, Suleiman. The Sultan has made it clear that he is displeased over certain disorders in the city—there was a riot in the streets and the mob passed close to the palace walls.’

‘The disturbance was swiftly quelled by the Janissaries.’

‘But it should not have been allowed to happen so near the palace,’ his father said. ‘I have displeased our master, therefore, I must find gifts to regain favour in his eyes.’

‘What does my father have in mind?’

‘Something of rare beauty—an important piece of Venetian glass, perhaps?’

‘Or a beautiful woman?’

‘She would have to be an exceptional woman. The Sultan has many Kadins.’

The Kadins or Sultanas were women who had pleased their royal master and were given their own luxurious apartments—much as Fatima was favoured in Suleiman Bakhar’s much smaller harem.

‘Of course.’ Suleiman frowned. ‘Does my father wish me to visit the slave markets of Istanbul—or travel to Algiers?’

‘You are not to leave our shores,’ the Caliph said with a frown. ‘We have too many enemies. Send word that we are looking for something special. She must be lovely beyond price and untouched.’

‘It would be rare to find such a jewel,’ Suleiman replied. ‘Perhaps I should look for some other treasure that would please the Sultan?’

‘It would be wise,’ the Caliph said, nodding. ‘And now, my son—will you hunt with your father? I have a new hawk I would match against your champion.’

‘None can match Scheherazade—she flys higher, swifter and her bravery puts all others to shame.’ His pupils were lit from within by a silver flame as he spoke of his favourite hawk.

‘She is truly a bird to prize above all others. Find a woman as beautiful, clever and brave as your hawk, Suleiman, and the Sultan will forgive me a hundred riots.’

‘If such a woman exists, she would be a prize above all others,’ Suleiman replied. ‘I do not think we shall find this woman, my father—though we search all the markets in the Ottoman Empire!’

Eleanor stood at the top of the cliff gazing out towards the sea. The view was magnificent—sparkling blue water, gently wooded slopes and a dazzling variety of oleander and wisteria. The wisteria had spread from the gardens of the villa behind her, she thought, and inhaled its wonderful perfume.

Such a glorious day and yet her thoughts at that moment were of the house they had left behind five months earlier. It would be autumn in England now, the mists just beginning to curl in from the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the home she had shared with her father and brother for the first eighteen years of her life, and she doubted she would ever see it again.

‘Why so sad, Madonna? Does the view not please you?’

Eleanor turned to look at the man who had spoken, her deep azure eyes seeming to reflect the blue of the Mediterranean sky. Beneath the severe French hood she wore, her hair was long and thick, the colour of ripe corn in sunlight. She kept it well hidden, even though she had thought herself safe from being observed here, but wisps had escaped to tangle betrayingly about her face. She could do nothing to disguise the loveliness of her classic features, though she chose dark colours that did nothing to enhance her beauty.

‘I was thinking of my home,’ she replied, unable to hide a wistful note in her voice. ‘It will be misty now and the fires will be lit in the library.’

‘You cannot prefer the cold damp climate of your country to Italy?’ His eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘But perhaps there was a lover…a young man who holds your heart in his hand?’

For a moment Eleanor was tempted to invent a handsome fiancé, but she was an honest girl and did not wish to lie.

‘No, sir. I was thinking of my books. We were unable to bring many with us. As my father has told you, we were forced to leave in a hurry.’

Count Giovani Salvadore nodded, his expression sympathetic. He was a man of moderate height, not fat but well built with rather loose features. His hair and small beard were dark brown, his eyes grey and serious. Eleanor supposed he would be considered attractive, and his wealth made him an important man in the banking circles of Italy.

‘It was an unpleasant experience for you,’ the Count replied. ‘Fortunately, your father had already placed much of his fortune with the House of Salvadore for safe keeping.’

‘Yes, that was very fortunate,’ Eleanor agreed, hiding her smile behind her fan. He was so pompous, so sure of himself! Yet she should not be ungrateful. He had generously made his villa available to her family until they should find somewhere they wished to settle. Sir William Nash had spoken of this part of Italy as being pleasant but Eleanor knew that he meant to travel on to Cyprus very soon. He had friends there: an English merchant who had settled on the island some years earlier and had offered both a home and an opportunity for Sir William to join him in business.

‘Shall we go in?’ The Count offered Eleanor his arm. ‘Your skin may suffer in this heat if you stand in it too long.’

Eleanor had come out to be alone for a while. The Count’s mother and sister chattered like magpies all day long, and they did not speak much English. She had hoped to escape for a while, so that she could have a little time to herself—but he had pursued her.

As she had feared, the Count was too interested in her for comfort. At home in the west of England, she had been allowed to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her distance from any gentleman she had considered a threat to her peaceful existence.

Eleanor had no wish to marry. She had become the mistress of her father’s home when her mother died. She had been fourteen then, already a pretty girl but inclined to solitary walks and study. Lady Nash had spoken often of her lovely daughter’s future marriage, but after her death it had been forgotten. Eleanor liked it that way.

To be a wife meant servitude. As a much-loved and indulged daughter, Eleanor had a freedom she might lose if she married. Sir William was an enlightened man. He had taught his daughter to enjoy study for its own sake, and her intelligence delighted him. She spoke French fluently, a little Italian, and could read some Arabic and Latin, of course. Her main interest was ancient history, which she could discuss at a level above most men of equal rank, and she had thought that when the time came for them to leave England, she would enjoy seeing the places of which she had only read.

Indeed, she had enjoyed her visits to Venice and Rome, drinking in the beauty of old palaces and wonderful scenery. It was only since they had come to the villa that she had begun to feel restless.

Count Giovani Salvadore was too attentive! He made Eleanor feel as if he were trying to smother her with his generosity and his compliments caused her to be uneasy. She was afraid he meant to ask for her hand in marriage. Eleanor was almost sure Sir William would consult her in the matter, but she could not be certain. She would not feel comfortable until they were on the ship taking them to Cyprus!

‘There you are, Eleanor! Father sent me to find you.’

Eleanor saw her brother coming towards them and went forward eagerly to meet him. At fifteen, he was slight and fair, a merry, happy boy—and she loved him dearly.

‘I am sorry if I worried you, Dickon.’

‘Father wants to talk to you,’ Richard said, his smile shy and engaging. ‘He has something to show you—an illuminated manuscript. He wants you to help him decipher it.’

At last! Eleanor felt her spirits lift. She had missed working with her beloved father on his collection of old manuscripts. He was beginning to build them up again. When they had their own house, everything would be as it always had been. Sir William would not force her to marry. He cared for her too much!

She glanced at the Count and smiled. ‘Forgive me, signor. I must go. My father waits for me.’

‘Oh, Father!’ Eleanor cried as she saw the manuscript for the first time. ‘I do not think I have ever seen anything quite as lovely.’

The manuscript was tiny, and when rolled could be stored in a space no larger than the handle of a woman’s fan. Its container was made of pure gold and inlaid with emeralds and pearls, and there was a loop to suspend it from a chain or a ribbon so that it could be worn on the person.

‘It is writ in Arabic,’ Sir William said. ‘But my eyes are not good enough to make out the words.’

The script was very small, though the decoration of gold leaf, rich crimson and deep blue was as clear and bright as the day it had been painstakingly inscribed.

‘It is a part of the Qur’an,’ Eleanor said. ‘Or the Koran, as the Western world would name the Muslim’s holy script. But there is an introduction…it praises the goodness of Allah, and asks for his blessing…’ She paused. ‘I think it says for the Abbey of the Far Cross…surely that cannot be, Father? I do not understand—would an Islamic prayer ask for Allah’s blessing on a monastery?’

‘Yes, that it is correct,’ her father said and she saw the gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘It is the work of Abbot Gregorio. He was a very learned man who lived at an Abbey on an isolated island in Greek waters some three centuries ago. The monks were a silent order, but they had many secrets and there were legends of their fabulous wealth—though where it came from no one knew. According to the story, the Abbot believed that all religions stemmed from the same source and it is said that he was very interested in Islam—but his great wisdom did him little good. Not long after this manuscript would have been created, the Abbey was burned to the ground by Saracens and all the monks were slaughtered. No one knew what had happened to the treasures of the Abbey. They were thought lost…’ Sir William’s excitement was intense. ‘This was discovered in an iron pot in the ground on Cyprus—on our land, Eleanor. Who knows what more we may find hidden away?’

‘No, indeed, if the story be true—we might find untold treasures.’ Eleanor caught her father’s excitement. ‘It is very intriguing,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘This must be worth a great deal in itself. Did Sir John send this to you?’

‘He writes that it was discovered when the gardeners were working near to the house he purchased in my name. Knowing of my interest in such things, he sent it with his warm wishes for our speedy arrival.’

‘Does that mean that we are to leave Italy soon?

‘Yes. It pleases you that we are to leave this house?’ Sir William’s eyes were a faded blue, his hair silvered by age but showing traces of the gold it had once been. ‘Have you not been happy here, daughter? The Count has been kind…’

‘Very kind, Father—but I shall be happier when we are in our own home and may begin to gather our things about us again.’

‘My poor daughter,’ Sir William said, tenderness in his eyes. ‘You miss your books, I dare say. It was a pity we could not bring more of them with us.’

‘We dare not seem to be packing everything,’ Eleanor replied, a flicker of fear in her eyes as she recalled the way they had been forced to flee in the night. ‘You were likely to be arrested at any time. Your life is more important than books—however precious.’

‘England is a dangerous place for a man who was known to be a friend to Cranmer,’ Sir William said. ‘Queen Mary senses treachery in the actions of any man not of her own faith.’

‘But you took no part in any plot against her.’

‘No—yet I knew those who did,’ Sir William said and shuddered. ‘Several of my friends had been seized and put to the torture. I was warned that the same was planned for me. Had it been myself alone…but I had you and your brother to consider, Eleanor. Better a life in exile than a painful death. Fortunately, I have long traded with the merchants of Venice, and much of my fortune was safe in Italy. We have good friends here and in Venice—and Cyprus. But it is there that I believe we should settle. Sir John is brother to your mother and a good, kindly man. If anything should happen to me, he would take care of you and Richard.’

‘Pray, Father—do not speak of such things,’ Eleanor begged him. A chill wind had seemed to blow across her heart as he spoke and she was afraid, though she saw no reason for it. ‘You are safe from those who would see you burned.’

She shuddered as she thought of the cruel deaths suffered by the Archbishop Cranmer and others—and all done in God’s name. She did not believe that the God she knew in her heart would demand such wickedness—for it was surely wicked to kill a man simply for worshipping in his own way. She thought that she quite liked the ideas of the Abbot, who had embraced both Christianity and Islam, though of course she would never dare to voice those opinions aloud. The question of religion had caused fierce fighting all over this region of the Mediterranean for centuries, Christian against Muslim, west against east—and, indeed, she could not condone the culture of the Eastern potentates!

‘Yes, we are all safe, child,’ Sir William said and smiled at her. ‘So you do not wish to marry Count Salvadore? You know that he means to ask you before we leave?’

‘Please do not allow it,’ Eleanor pleaded. ‘Tell him that you wish to settle in your own home before you consider the question of my marriage.’

‘Very well, Eleanor.’ He was not displeased by her decision, because there was no hurry for her to marry. Sir John had a son of twenty years. It was possible that the two might please each other. ‘We leave the day after tomorrow. Sir John has sent his own ship to carry us to our new home. It is a stout vessel and will have a precious cargo of rare treasures. Sir John trades much with the ruler of the Ottoman Empire and he has spent some months collecting pieces he thinks will tempt the Sultan.’

‘Surely my mother’s brother would not trade with such a man? From what you have told me, the Turks are barbaric! To keep others as slaves for their benefit is a terrible sin, Father.’