Captive of the Harem

Chapter Two

Eleanor could not be sure how long she had lain in the stuffy, airless cabin. When she first came to herself, she had been aware of pain in her head and very little else. She lay in a state of semi-consciousness, drifting in and out of awareness. Hours passed before she felt her shoulder being roughly shaken and then found herself looking up into the bearded face of the man who had captured her. His fierce eyes snapped with what she thought was anger, sending a ripple of terror winging through her. She gave a moan of fear and shrank back, but instead of cruelly ravishing her as she half expected, he thrust a cup of water into her hand.

‘Drink, woman,’ he muttered in French.

‘You speak French?’ Eleanor asked in the same tongue. ‘Please—tell me what has happened to my brother. Is Richard alive?’

‘Be silent, woman. Drink now—food later.’

Eleanor sat up as the door of the officers’ cabin closed behind him. She sipped the water gratefully. It was cool, fresh and sweet on her lips, taking the taste of ashes from her mouth. For the first time she was able to think clearly and began to wonder how long she had been on board the galley—was it merely hours or days?

Gingerly, she put a hand to the back of her head and found that her hood had been removed, and that there was a patch of dried blood in her hair. Someone must have taken the headdress off while she was unconscious, probably to see what had rendered her that way. It was the blow to the side of her head as she fell that had done the damage, but she ached all over and wondered if she had suffered some kind of a fever. Perhaps the effects of the storm combined with the terror of the pirates attack had… Her father was dead! The pain of knowledge returned like the thrust of a sword in her breast.

Tears welled up in her eyes and fell in a hot cascade down her cheeks. She sobbed for several minutes as her grief overwhelmed her. It was hard to believe that the man she had loved so dearly was lost to her forever…but she had seen the blow that had felled him and believed he must have died of it.

What of her brother? Eleanor’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom of the cabin now, and she began to glance around her, trying to make out what the shapes were. There were no bunks or divans here, merely a collection of sea chests—one of which had caused her to have a nasty headache—and a table and stool pushed hard against one wall. Did these men never sleep? But there was a roll of blanket spread on the ground near her—perhaps that served as a bed on this war galley?

One thing was clear: she was alone. Her brother had not been thrown in here after her. Where was he? What had happened to him? Their captor had so far been gentle enough to her…but had Richard been treated differently? Was he still alive? The questions tortured her, increasing her own fear of what was to happen.

She tried to get up and found that she could stand, although her head was still spinning and she felt sick, but she kept upright and did not fall. After a moment or two she managed to walk towards the table on which were spread what she realised were charts and maps of the sea, also various instruments for calculating distance by the stars. Clearly the captain of this vessel was more educated than his appearance allowed, and with that knowledge came a lessening of her fear.

If he was intelligent she might be able to reason with him herself, to arrange for a ransom to be paid. Sir John often traded with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. A message could be sent to him…he would pay for her and Richard’s release. Perhaps all was not yet lost.

She finished her water and sat down to look at the charts before her. The captain had clearly been plotting a chart—and seemed to be heading for the great city the Christians still called Constantinople, though it had been renamed Istanbul by its conquerors, which lay on the shores of the Bosphorus Straits. She was being taken there to be sold in the slave markets! She had imagined the galley’s base would be Algiers, perhaps because the captain spoke French so well.

The French were more at home in these waters than most of the other Western countries. Some years earlier the Turks had signed an agreement that they would allow only the French flag to trade freely and safely in their waters, though of course there were other merchants who made individual agreements. There were also those who roamed where they would and took the consequences, as their kinsman’s ship had—but only the French had the protection of the Sultan himself.

Her fate would be the same wherever she was taken!

Eleanor shivered as the realisation hit her. It was easy to make the decision to be bold and demand she be ransomed, but why should the Corsair captain listen? He could quite easily sell her—perhaps to the Grand Turk himself—and then she would disappear into a harem, never to be seen again. She shuddered at the thought of what her life would be like in such a place.

The idea of being a man’s concubine appalled her. No! It must not happen. She would not let it happen. It was all a question of money. The Corsairs had taken prisoners to sell them in the slave market. What would her value be on the auction block? She had no way of knowing—but surely it could not be so very much? Her mother’s cousin would pay twice as much to have her back.

Eleanor had no doubts that Sir John would do his utmost to recover both her and Richard. If he had heard of the fate of his ship, he might even now be trying to trace them. Her head lifted, her expression proud and determined. No matter what happened to her she would fight—she would live as her father had bid her—and perhaps one day she would be returned to her family.

But where was Richard?

Mohamed Ali Ben Ibn frowned as he thought about the woman they had captured; she had lain in a fever for several hours after they had taken flight from the Spanish war galley and at first he had thought she might die. That would have been a great loss.

He had seen her quality immediately and ordered her taken as his personal share of the plunder from the merchant ship. Unfortunately, they had not managed to snatch much else of value before they were forced to abandon their prize.

There was the boy, of course. His delicate features would appeal to certain men in the slave markets of Constantinople, and another woman. She was young but not beautiful and would fetch a moderate price—but his woman was more of a prize than he had imagined when he first spotted her.

That glorious hair! He had been shocked when he removed the hood that covered it to attend to her wound, and at first was elated by the value of his prize. But now there were rumblings amongst the crew because their prize was so small. He had been determined to bring the woman to Istanbul at once—and he knew exactly what he was going to do with her—but the crew was dissatisfied with their share.

He must make sure that none of them got near enough to her to see what a beauty she was. Not a hair of her head must be touched—and she must not be violated, for then her value would be lost. He would take her to a certain house on the shores of the Bosphorus where she would be safe from prying eyes—and then he would begin his bargaining.

In the meantime he must find a way of pacifying the crew. He took out the gold ornament he had discovered tucked beneath the girl’s dress when he tried to loosen her bodice—Western women wore such ugly, restricting clothes it was a wonder any of them could breathe!

He saw that the little cylinder of gold was studded with precious stones, and noticed the stopper at the top. Opening what he had imagined was a scent flask, he discovered the tiny manuscript and drew it out. His face paled as he discovered what it was and he dropped it as though his fingers had been burned.

Mohamed Ali Ben Ibn was a Corsair by necessity, not birth. He had been educated in the best schools of his homeland before being captured by Spaniards, and forced to work in their galleys for long years before he had escaped, vowing revenge on the men he hated. Since then he had roamed the seas in search of prey—and he had been successful. He was now a wealthy man and owned a beautiful house, to which he would one day take a woman of his own beliefs, and make sons with her.

His brow furrowed as he looked at what he knew to be cursed. That manuscript was a part of the treasure of the Abbot of the Far Cross—and the legend was that anyone who sought to benefit from the sale of this treasure was doomed to a terrible death. The Saracens who had looted the Abbey and killed the monks had all died violently soon after and it was said that the treasure was scattered far and wide. How had the woman come by it? And why did she wear it around her neck like a talisman? Was she of the true faith and not a Christian as he had supposed?

He was a superstitious man. The treasure must be returned to the girl! Mohamed would find some other way of satisfying his crew. He would give them gold from his own coffers—and he would make sure he recouped his loss from the sale of the girl!

Eleanor was visited twice a day by the captain of the galley. He brought her food and water, and he returned her father’s treasure to her. She had not noticed its loss at first, and was surprised when he gave it to her.

‘Why have you returned this?’ she asked. ‘It is valuable. My family has money. My kinsman will pay a high ransom for me—twice my price in the slave market.’

He glowered at her. ‘Drink and eat, woman.’

It was all he ever said to her

She had begun to wonder if she had overestimated his intelligence. Perhaps they were the only words of French he knew? The next time he came she spoke to him in English, then Italian and finally she spoke the only words she could think of that might reach him.

‘Insh’allah…may the will of Allah prevail. And his blessings be upon you for your kindness…if you will ransom me and my brother to my family. My brother is Richard Nash…son of Sir William and—’

‘You speak too much, woman,’ Mohamed said harshly. ‘A woman should have a still tongue if she does not wish to be beaten.’

‘You are an educated man!’ Eleanor cried. ‘Why will you not listen to my requests? My family will make you a rich man if you ransom me to them. My uncle is Sir John Faversham of Cyprus—’

His look darkened to one of anger. ‘I do not trade with infidels! I kill them. You are not to question me, woman. Be thankful that I do not give you to my men for their sport.’

Eleanor shrank back, the fear writ plain in her face. ‘You would not…be so cruel?’

‘Thank Allah that I am not the barbarian you think me,’ Mohamed said. ‘I have plans for you, woman—but I may still beat you if you do not still your clacking tongue.’

Somehow Eleanor did not believe him. If he had meant to harm her, he would have done it by now. It was clear that he did not like to be questioned by a woman, but she would not give up. If she kept talking about a ransom he was bound to at least think about it…

Suleiman Bakhar was laughing. He felt exhilarated by the sport he had just had with the man he knew was considered to be the champion of the Janissaries. It had been a fierce fight that could have gone either way, pressing each man to the limit—and he had won!

‘Come, my friend,’ he said, laying an arm about the shoulders of the man he had vanquished. ‘We shall bathe, drink and eat together—and then I shall give you a woman for your pleasure.’

‘You honour me, my lord.’

Suleiman nodded, accepting that he was being generous in victory, but he felt pleased with himself. His astronomer had that morning told him that he was about to enter a new cycle of his life—one that would bring him both torment and pleasure.

‘You will gain your heart’s desire,’ the old man had told him after consulting various charts, ‘but only if you are prepared to learn and to suffer.’

‘To learn and to suffer?’ Suleiman’s expression had caused the astronomer’s pulses to race for a moment. ‘Explain your predictions.’

‘All is not yet clear,’ Ali Bakr told him. ‘I see only that a bright flame has moved into the heaven of your chart. This flame will burn you and yet it will eventually bring you all that you long for in the secret places of your heart.’

‘You speak in riddles as always.’ Suleiman dismissed the astronomer with a handful of silver. ‘Come to me when I send for you—and give me a clearer reading next time.’

Suleiman had dismissed the old man’s ramblings as a misguided attempt to please him. It had happened often enough in the past. Most of his kind were charlatans and liars, pretending to a knowledge they did not have—yet he had heard much good of this one.

Suleiman had trained and fought for most of the day, and now his body was free of the restless energy that so often plagued him. The afternoon would be spent eating and drinking the rich dark coffee he enjoyed, talking with the men he knew as friends. Then perhaps he would send for Fatima…and yet he had no real desire for her.

Perhaps he should visit some of the better slave merchants? The Circassian women were beautiful and much prized; if he were lucky, he might find one that tempted him.

It was as he was being massaged with perfumed, healing oils by one of the eunuchs that the news came.

‘There is a message from Mohamed Ali Ben Ibn, my lord,’ the slave said. ‘He asks if you will grant him the favour of seeing him.’