Bertrice Small - Adora

The sultan agreed to settle an allowance on Mara-but she must return to Constantinople. There was no place for her in Adrianople. Murad laughed to himself. Adora and his harem were solidly united for the first time since he had become sultan. Adora was well aware who had sent Mara and Cuntuz to Murad. And she was outraged that her own sister would try to replace her beautiful and bright little Bajazet with that horrible boy whose eyes had undressed her on the two occasions that they had met. Adora refused to believe that Murad had fathered such a son.

The other women of the harem simply wanted no additional competition. Adora was quite enough.

Cuntuz was to remain in Adrianople. There was always the possibility that he was Murad’s son, and Murad felt he owed the boy something if that were true. Cuntuz was to be educated in both academic and martial subjects. If he had talents, then perhaps the boy could be of use to the empire.

Cuntuz did not wish to remain. He wanted to return to Constantinople and pick up his life of drinking and wenching with his friend, Prince Andronicus. His mother quickly disabused him of the notion. “With the money your father is settling on me I can open my own house of pleasure,” Mara told her son. “I know what the rich men and women of Byzantium like, and I will cater to their lusts. There is no further place for you in my life. Remain with the sultan and your fortune is made. If you do not wish to do that you may return to your grandparents. I do not think you would enjoy it.”

“I can stay with Andronicus,” replied the boy. “He is my friend.”

“Do not be a fool!” replied his mother. “Do you think the empress will allow that association to continue if you are of no use to her? You have already served her purposes by coming here. It is either stay here or return to your grandparents.”

It was no real choice. Cuntuz remained. He hated it, for the sultan had given orders that he was to be treated like any boy in the Palace School. Thus, he was beaten for his errors, which were many. There rose in the already warped boy a blazing hatred for Sultan Murad and for the sultan’s acknowledged sons.

Cuntuz was forced to bide his time. He was young. But eventually he would have his vengeance.

The tsar of the Bulgars had died at a vast old age, leaving his three grown sons to squabble among themselves over his kingdom. To the northwest, Prince Lazar held sway. To the south, Prince Vukashin. Caught between them was their eldest brother, Ivan, who believed it should all belong to him.

On the other side of the Balkan mountains the sultan waited to see which of them would come to him for aid. When they all did, he carefully evaluated the positions of each and decided that when the time came for choosing he would side with the eldest, Prince Ivan. Vukashin was a poor general. Murad defeated him and quickly annexed the southern part of the late tsar’s kingdom.

Prince Lazar now found himself besieged by an army of Hungarian crusaders who, with the Pope’s blessing, sought to take over his kingdom. Two hundred thousand Bulgarians were forcibly converted by the Franciscans from the Orthodox to the Latin rite. The sultan marched and was welcomed by the persecuted Bulgarians as the savior who would restore their freedom of worship. And he did-under his usual conditions. The Bulgarians were too happy to be rid of the minions of the Latin Church to care that their sons were now open to the Janissary draft.

Tsar Ivan now found himself free of his rivals but faced with a formidable opponent. He would continue to rule-but only on Sultan Murad’s terms. Following the example of the emperors of Byzantium, Ivan became the Ottoman’s vassal. His daughter, Thamar, joined the sultan’s harem.

Knowing Murad’s devotion to Adora, Ivan took a leaf from the Byzantine’s book. Thamar’s dowry would be paid in gold, but only when the union bore fruit. There was always the possibility that his daughter might supplant Theadora. But failing that, she would at least have a child to console her.

Theadora was furious when she heard that Murad had agreed to the terms of the Bulgarian tsar, but she tried to hide her anger. The girl had the potential to become a serious rival. This was no ordinary harem maiden but a princess, like herself.

Adora looked into the Venetian glass mirror that Murad had given her when the twins were born. Her hair was still lustrously dark with its reddish-gold lights, her eyes their beautiful amethyst-purple, her fair skin clear and unlined. Still, she sighed, she was twenty-nine and the Princess Thamar was just fifteen. Dear God! Her rival was the same age as her son, Halil!

She could only hope that the girl was ill-favored. How else could she compete with youth? Adora had doubts. Murad, in his mid-forties, was approaching a dangerous age. Would he still love her after the nights he spent in the younger woman’s bed? She felt the tears splash down her cheeks.

Coming up behind her Murad saw the tears and surmised the reason. “No, my dove,” he said, turning her so that she was cradled against him. She protested faintly, trying to hide her wet face from him. “Adora,” the sound of his deep voice caressing her name sent a shiver through her. “It is a political arrangement. Tsar Ivan hopes to keep me at bay by using his daughter. I could hardly refuse the girl once she was offered.”

“Why not?” she muttered tearfully. “You have a harem full of women. Did you really need another?”

He laughed. “It would have been most ungallant of me to refuse the tsar’s daughter!”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “She is very young and very lovely. But she is not to my taste, nor is she my love. You are my only love, Adora.

“Nevertheless, I shall keep my word. I will take this maiden to my bed and I will keep her there until she swells with my seed. Then I will collect her dowry. We need all the gold we can gather, Adora. Building an empire costs money.

“I will need your help too, my dove. Do not make yourself Thamar’s enemy. You need not be her friend if you do not wish it, but be in a position to watch her for me, for I do not trust the tsar. I believe he sends his daughter to spy for him.

“So there will be no doubt about your position in my life or in my house, I have prepared a decree to be released on the day I accept Thamar into my house. It elevates you to the position of bas-kadin. I have already named your sons my heirs.”

She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. “Thank you, my lord! Oh, thank you! I do love you so, Murad!”

He grinned boyishly at her. “And I love you too, my dove,” he said. And he did. He had enslaved her, yet she would not be humbled. Like a flower after a storm, she always rose to bloom anew. She was his magnificently proud princess, and he wanted no mate but her.

Still, he was the Ottoman, and he would take Thamar of Bulgaria to his bed. Though he would return to Adora, Thamar would be a delightful diversion. His mind wandered back to the day he first saw her. He had entered Tsar Ivan’s capital city of Veliko Türnovo at the head of a large force. The message to the Bulgarians was clear.

It was during that visit that Ivan offered his daughter. Murad sat with Ivan in a small room in the tsar’s castle. The room was lit by pure wax candles that gave off a soft, flattering golden light. A girl entered, followed by an old woman. At first Murad could not see her face for her head was modestly lowered. They stood silently before the two men, and the tsar nodded. The old woman reached out and drew the velvet cloak from the girl. Thamar stood naked before her father and her prospective lord.

“She is flawless,” said the tsar roughly.

Murad’s eyes widened just enough to show his interest, but he said nothing. He was surprised that the tsar would hawk his daughter’s charms in such a manner. Obviously, Ivan wanted to place her in Murad’s house very badly.

“Look up, girl, and let the sultan see your face!” snapped Ivan.

Thamar raised her head, and Murad was suitably impressed. The girl’s face was oval in shape and fair in coloring, with rose-pink cheeks. Her eyes, fringed with thick dark-gold lashes beneath delicately arched golden-brown brows, were large and brown-gold. There was no expression in them. It was as if the girl had divorced herself from all that was happening to her. The nose was small and straight. The chin had a dainty cleft. The red mouth was generous and well-shaped.

She held her head high, and he followed the swanlike neck down to the small round breasts with their little pink nipples, hard and tight in the chill of the room, like closed buds. The navel was just faintly rounded, the waist tiny, the hips broad, the legs slim and well-shaped with slender, high-arched feet. Without spoken instruction the girl now slowly turned until her back faced him. It was a beautiful, long, smooth back that ended in small, plump, dimpled buttocks.

The old crone who attended the maiden loosened the girl’s hair, and it fell down her back to the floor. Now Murad was truly impressed. Thamar’s hair was the color of April sunshine, and the sultan had never seen anything like it before. It was thick and shining and fell in rippling waves. Unable to contain himself, Murad rose and walked over to the girl. He reached out and stroked the lustrous mass. Catching it between his fingers, he felt the incredible texture of it. It was as soft as thistledown, yet not too fine.

Damn! The tsar was a sly old fox! He would certainly never love the girl, but he now lusted to possess her and that fabulous hair. He heard himself say, “The girl is a virgin?”

Smiling, the tsar nodded. Irritated by Ivan’s show of superiority, Murad said brutally, “I shall require proof of my own. Just before I bed with the girl my own Moorish physician will decide the matter. Rest assured that I can tell a real virgin. No amount of weeping and feigning pain will fool me. So be sure, Ivan, that you deal honestly with me. If you or your daughter are lying to me, I will give her to my soldiers when I have finished with her.”

The girl paled, gasped, and swayed. Catching her before she fell, Murad was unable to resist caressing a small breast. Thamar shivered first and then reddened with embarrassment. It told Murad what he wanted to know. Though he would still have the physician check, he was certain the girl was innocent.

Now the day had come for Thamar to enter the harem of Sultan Murad. Since she came as a concubine, not a wife, her arrival was a subdued one. When she stepped from her litter she was greeted, not by the sultan, as she had expected, but by a beautiful, richly clad young woman.

“Welcome to the Island Serai, Thamar of the Bulgars. I am Theadora of Byzantium, the sultan’s bas-kadin.”

“I expected the sultan to greet me,” replied Thamar ungraciously.

“And so he would have if he were a Christian prince, or if you came as his wife. Alas, Muslim sultans learn different manners and we poor Christian princesses who are sent into political concubinage must learn to cope.” Laughing, she put an arm about the girl. “Come, my dear. I will wager you are tired, hungry, and perhaps even a little frightened. You are to have a beautiful, spacious apartment of your own in the harem. But first a bath to wash the dust of your journey from you and then a hot meal and a good night’s rest.”

Thamar shook the friendly arm off. “Where is Lord Murad? When will I see him? I demand that you tell me!”

Theadora took the girl firmly by the hand and half pulled, half dragged her to the privacy of her own salon in the Court of the Beloved. Releasing Thamar’s hand, she faced her and said firmly, “I think it is time you faced your situation honestly, my dear. You are not to be the sultan’s wife. You will be one of many concubines. Sultan Murad has no wife, nor will he ever have. He has a harem of women to suit his varied moods. And he has one kadin. A kadin, Thamar, is a maiden who has borne him sons and whom the sultan wishes to honor.

“I am my lord’s kadin. His only kadin. My sons, Bajazet, Osman, and Orkhan are Murad’s heirs. I would like to be your friend, for my lord’s happiness is my first duty. Make no mistake, however, Thamar, in the harem only the sultan’s word supplants mine.

“You will see our lord Murad when he so desires and not before. You may demand nothing. Only the sultan demands. My lord thought you would be weary and has ordered that you rest tonight.”

When the girl frowned in obvious annoyance, Theadora’s patience came to an abrupt end. “I had been told you were a virgin, but I have never known a virgin to be so eager for her lord’s bed,” she said cruelly.