Bertrice Small - Adora

“Mother.”

She looked up at him. “My lord sultan?”

He was amazed at her calm, her correct behavior in the face of her tragedy. “It is time to let him go, Mother.” Bajazet held out his hand to her.

“He wanted to be buried in Bursa,” she said quietly.

“So be it,” answered Bajazet.

Slowly she released her hold on Murad’s body, and allowed her son to help her up. He led her from the tent. “Yakub?” she asked him.

“My half brother died in the battle, they tell me. He will be buried with honor, along with our father. He was a fine soldier and a good man.”

“It is good,” she said to him. “There can be only one sultan.”

“I have already avenged my father, mother. We have slain almost all of the Serbian nobility. I have allowed only one of Prince Lazar’s sons to live. The Serbs are no longer a threat to us, and it will be better if one of their own governs them. I will need their troops to defend the Danube Valley against the Hungarians.”

“Which of Prince Lazar’s sons is it, and what terms have you made with him?”

“Stephen Bulcovitz. He is but sixteen. He will pay us as an annual tribute sixty-five percent of the yearly revenues from the Serbian silver mines. He must command a contingent in my army, and send me Serbian troops whenever and wherever I need them.”

She nodded. “You have done well, my son.”

“There is more,” he said. “Stephen Bulcovitz has a sister. Her name is Despina, and I will take her to wife.”

“Prince Lazar’s daughter? Thamar’s cousin? Are you mad? You would marry the offspring of the man responsible for your father’s death?”

“I need the alliance, Mother! Zubedya binds me with Asia, but I need a European wife as well. The Serbs will trouble us no longer, and Despina will serve my purpose. Father would have approved.”

“Do not speak to me of your father! He is not cold yet, and you would wed with his murderer’s daughter!” He tried to comfort her, but she pulled away from him. “Dear God! I am surely cursed! Your father loved me, but you do not love me, and neither does your wife, or your children. Now you will wed with Thamar’s cousin, and once again I will be alone.”

“Meet with the girl, my mother. I do not have to wed with her if she displeases you. You are a fine judge of character, and I trust your opinion. If you feel that this Despina is not suitable then I will look elsewhere for a European bride. After today there will be plenty of noble Christian widows seeking to placate me with their nubile daughters.”

Prince Lazar had been married twice, and it was his second wife, a Macedonian noblewoman, who had produced his youngest son, Stephen, and his youngest daughter, Despina, who was fourteen. The girl was spirited, but she was not proud, and she had an open and sweet nature. Her features were fine. Her skin was fair, and her long hair dark auburn. She had a small waist, nicely rounded hips, and came just to Bajazet’s shoulder. Though Theadora had expected to dislike the girl, she could not.

Despina was shy with Theadora for awhile, but as her confidence grew, her concern for the older woman’s loss became paramount. “You have had your own loss,” said the sultan’s mother.

A shadow passed over the girl’s face, and then she said quietly, “I loved my father, madame. He was always good to me, and there will never be another like him in my life. However, God has blessed me in my grief by sending me your son to love. Though I am but his second wife, I shall endeavor to make him happy.”

Deeply moved, Theadora put her arms about the girl. “I think, my child, that it is my son who is blessed.”

To Adora’s delight, there was true love between the two young people. The wedding was celebrated quickly and quietly as they were all in mourning. Bajazet was content to stay with his beloved bride much of the time. And within less than a year, Despina had given him a son. He was called Mohammed.

Bajazet then went back to war. Adora approved her son’s return to the battlefield, for Murad had left his plans for conquest written down in several parchment scrolls. These were now in Bajazet’s possession. The new sultan had only to follow his father’s plans and success would be his.

Despina, with a wisdom and generosity far beyond her years, understood how desperately Theadora needed someone to love. Recognizing, too, her mother-in-law’s superior knowledge in all things involving the raising of rulers-to-be, the girl stepped aside, leaving the care of her son to Theadora.

Despina concentrated all her energies on Bajazet; Theadora gave all of herself to Mohammed.

Seeing the baby’s alert black eyes and broad brow, Theadora envisioned Murad. She saw her own renewed purpose in living. It would never be as it had been with Murad, but this life would afford her much. Theadora prayed that the boy would be the Ottoman to finally take Constantinople, and she recalled the prophecy, “And Mohammed shall take Constantinople.”

Theadora of Byzantium was delighted. She had plans again, visions of the future. She would not be just another widow, honored but entirely forgotten. She was still in the center of history.

Bursa

December 1427

The orchards of St. Catherine’s convent lay quiet in the cool December sun. The bare branches of the trees rustled softly in a faint breeze. Though the original convent and its orchards had been destroyed when Tamerlane the Tartar took the city some twenty-five years before, they had been rebuilt by Princess Theadora, matriarch of the Ottoman family. In the center of the new orchard there had been built a small marble tomb. This would hold the old woman when she finally released her firm grip on life.

She was now ninety years old. She had outlived Orkhan, Alexander, and Murad. She had outlived her children, all of them, and even her grandson, Mohammed. She had made peace with herself and with her memories, except for the memory of her son Bajazet. For Bajazet had, in his growing arrogance, destroyed the empire Murad had so carefully assembled. Bajazet had been responsible for many deaths, including the death of the gentle Despina and even his own at the hands of the great Tartar warlord, Tamerlane, who had conquered the young sultan and his armies.

Theadora remembered all too well the day Tamerlane and his army had entered Bursa. They pillaged, looted, raped, and burned their way through the city. They had stabled their horses in the mosques! Tamerlane had not cared for public opinion. He would show them who their new master was.

He had divided the empire as he saw fit, and had surprised Theadora by applying to her family the same logical measures Murad had once used to control the Paleaologis. The khan had laughed at her anger, saying, “Let Bajazet’s cubs fight one another for their empire. It will keep them out of real mischief, and I can return to Samarkand knowing there is no knife at my back.”

Theadora could not allow him a victory over her. “You have set the empire back fifty years,” she said, “but we will triumph in the end. In ages to come our empire will endure and thrive. But Tamerlane, if he is remembered at all, will be recalled only as one of many troublesome Mongol raiders.”

The barb found its mark.

“Woman, you have the tongue of an adder,” he said. “It is no wonder you have outlived most of your family. It is your own poison that keeps you alive.” Then, grudgingly, he admitted, “You are not like any female I have ever known. You are too strong to be a mere woman. Who are you, really?”

Theadora walked to the door of the room. Turning slowly, she said, “You have never known my like before, nor will you again.” Her glance was a proud and mocking one.

“I am Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium. Farewell, Tartar.”

And then she was gone.

The old woman sighed. There had been so many years of strife, of civil war. She had heartened when her grandson, Mohammed, took over and restored the government to a firm and stable one. Then he had died suddenly, and his son Murad II had been forced to meet his younger brother in battle and kill him before he could begin to organize his lands. Like his namesake, the young Murad II had brought his empire together. Peace now reigned in that empire. The fact was that, once again, the Ottomans were ready to move toward Constantinople.

Theadora was removed from the workings of government now. She had left the Bursa Palace when Mohammed died. All her old friends were long gone, including Iris and Ali Yahya. So she had returned to her little house within the walls of St. Catherine’s. She was deferred to, of course, and greatly respected, but she was lonely. There was nothing left for her but memories, and she wanted to be where those memories were strongest.

This afternoon she walked slowly through the silent orchards. Though her hair was silver, her carriage was still proud. She had shrunk a little with the years, but her violet eyes had not faded. Behind her walked two young nuns whose job it was to help care for her. She resented their presence, but the sultan had ordered it.

She would not, however, allow them to intrude on her memories. Since they were both meek creatures they spoke only when spoken to by their crusty mistress. To them, the orchards were a barren winter place. Shivering, they pulled their black cloaks about them.

To Theadora it was midsummer, and the trees were heavy with ripening golden peaches.

“Adora!”

She stopped and looked up, startled by the sound of his voice after all these years. He stood before her as she had first known him, tall and young and handsome. His black eyes twinkling, he laughed at her surprise.

“Murad!”

“Come, dove,” he smiled, holding out his hands to her. “It is time for you to go.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I have waited so long for you to come for me,” she said. Reaching out, she took his hand.

“I know, dove. It has been a long time, but I shall never leave you again. Come now. It is not far.”

And without question she went with him, pausing only a moment to gaze back at the two nuns who, with fluttering cries, were now bent over the crumpled body of the silver-haired old woman.

On May 29, 1453, Constantinople fell to Mohammed II, son of Murad II.

NY Times bestselling author Bertrice Small, known as “Lust’s Leading Lady”, is the author of 43 novels and novellas. She writes primarily in the Historical Romance genre, but has also done erotic contemporary and has a popular fantasy series. She is the recipient of numerous awards for her work. She lives on eastern Long Island.