Love Wild and Fair (63 page)

The old woman shook her head. “I never expected to meet another like Cyra Hafise. What do they feed you in that wild land of your birth, Incili, that makes its women so determined?”

Cat smiled slowly, the smile lighting her face with savage joy. “They feed us
freedom,
Esther Kira. Large doses of pure freedom, self-reliance, and independence! Now … when? When will I be able to shake the dust of this land from my slippers?”

“Patience, child! First we must smuggle your husband and his man into Constantinople. Then we must keep them hidden here, and wait for the right moment When it arrives you must come at once, bringing nothing but your servant What you need we will supply.”

“You will tell me when he is safely here, Esther?”

“No, my child, I will not. If you knew you could not play the part of the vizier’s loving second wife. I will contact you when it is time to make good your escape.”

Cat felt the tears prick at her eyelids, and she swallowed back the lump in her throat. “You are right,” she admitted. “I would not endanger him.” Then a thought struck her. “Esther, where did my great-grandmother live when her son became sultan?”

“In the Eski Serai, the old palace. But it is in disrepair, and damaged by fire. No one has lived there since the time of Selim II. Why do you ask?”

“Are the rooms in which my great-grandmother lived still there?”

“Yes, child. The rooms were sealed by order of her son at the time of her ‘official’ death. Twenty-four years ago there was a terrible fire in the Eski Serai, but her apartments were in the Forest Court, separated from the rest of the harem, and the fire never reached there.”

“I would go there, Esther Kira! In the rush of her secret departure, Cyra Hafise left something behind that was very precious to her. I know where it is, and I want it!”

The old lady’s eyes sparkled. “I will take you there myself, child. I have not seen the Eski Serai since the great fire, and I have not been in Cyra Hafise’s apartments in over fifty years. Once more before I die I would revisit my youth. Go into the garden and fetch Lateefa Sultan. We will never get away from the overvigilant Osman without her. Do you mind if she comes with us?”

“Not as long as she will agree that, should I find what I seek, it is mine.” “She will agree.”

When Lateefa Sultan heard of what Cat and old Esther Kira planned she clapped her hands enthusiastically. “I have never been in the Eski Serai,” she told them. “My grandmother lived outside it after her marriage, and my father was born in Guzel’s house, not the palace.”

“Who was your mother?” asked Cat.

“My mother was Aisha Sultan, the daughter of Cyra Hafise’s only daughter, Nilufer, sister to your grandfather.”

“Then we are doubly related,” said Cat, surprised. “Why did you not tell me? What I seek could rightfully belong to you as a great-grandchild of Cyra Hafise.”

“No, my cousin. Whatever you seek, you have the stronger claim, since you descend through the male line while I descend from the female. The right is yours, and besides—” the lovely turquoise eyes twinkled—"I somehow think Cyra would want you to have whatever it is. You are surely more like her than I am. Now let us go and fend off the diligent Osman so our visit may be a private one.”

In the courtyard of the house, Esther Kira settled herself comfortably in her own large litter while the bearers stood ready. In the second litter Cat sat listening while Lateefa ordered their chaperon to remain behind.

“Master Kira is supplying us with a dozen guards,” she told the eunuch. “Esther Kira and I would show Incili where my great-grandmother lived. There is no need for you to go. Stay and continue your visit with your friend, Ali.”

Torn between duty and the very pleasant time he was having with the Kira family’s head eunuch, Osman hesitated. As he did so, Cat slid from the litter, her leaf-green eyes narrowing dangerously above her gossamer veil.

“Insect!” she hissed at him. “How dare you disobey my lady Lateefa Sultan? If you do not return inside the house this instant I shall tell my lord Cica of your insolence towards his first wife. He will have you beaten to death for your rudeness!” And taming her back on him she smiled wickedly at Lateefa, who was struggling to hold back her laughter. The frightened eunuch turned ashen and then fled into the house.

As the two women settled themselves into the litter, Lateefa chuckled softly. “You may have been born a Scot, my Western cousin, but there is Ottoman in you. And it shows!”

“When the enemy hesitates, Lateefa, never give him a chance to regroup either his thoughts or his forces. ’Tis an old highland battle tactic.”

The two litters were swiftly carried through the noisy streets until, as the noise began to fade, Cat could feel the bearers straining uphill. Finally they stopped. Leaning over, Lateefa drew the curtains aside. Stepping out, she offered a hand to Cat, who quickly joined her cousin.

Before them stood the fire-racked ruins of the once-great palace which had long ago crowned one of Constantinople’s seven hills. Below them, sparkling in all its late-afternoon glory, was the Golden Horn. They saw the city itself and, off in the distance, both the Yeni Serai and the blue Bosporus. For a moment the three women stood transfixed, then Esther Kira said, “Come, my children, and I will show you the Forest Court where the great Cyra Hafise once lived.” She signaled to two of the guards to follow them. “They can hear, but are mute,” she said with a crafty smile. “They can say nothing of what they see or hear.”

They followed the old woman around the crumbling walls of the Eski Serai until they came to a small iron gate overgrown with weeds. Here Esther stopped and said to their escort, “Cut the growth just enough so that we may pass, but not enough to cause notice in anyone else passing by.”

“What if the gate is locked?” asked Lateefa.

“It should be, my dear, but I was entrusted with a key which will—after all these years—probably still work.” So saying, she stepped forward and carefully tried the cobwebbed lock. After a moment of jiggling the cranky lock turned with a creeking noise. The rusted hinges protesting, the gate slowly opened. “Remain here,” Esther commanded their mutes, and then she walked slowly into what had once been the garden of Cyra Hafise. The area was waist-high in ferns, weeds, and autumn flowers. They overran the once neat boundaries of their original beds and the mossy brick walks. The garden had been carefully tended until the fire of 1574. But now the hedges—untrimmed these last twenty-four years—stood like high green walls along the gravel paths. To the amazement of the three women, the fountains were still operable, and filled with not only water lilies gone wild, but enormous goldfish as well.

“Where does the water come from?” asked Cat.

“It is pumped underground from one of the old Byzantine or Roman aqueducts. This was originally an imperial palace when Mohammed the Conqueror took the city from the Byzantines. Ah, there is the Forest Court of Cyra Hafise.”

Cat shivered suddenly. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected to be in Istanbul, let alone in the very palace from which her great-grandmother—that imperious old woman—had secretly ruled an empire. This was one of the places where Cyra had been young, beautiful, and very much loved by a great sultan. Cat had never before thought of Cyra in this way, the memory of the old woman being too strong. Awestruck, she followed Lateefa as Esther Kira opened a door into the building and stepped through into a dust-covered, cobweb-laden room.

All was still. Cat shivered again, feeling about her the ghosts of the past. Beside her Esther Kira stood lost in memory.

As Cat’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, they sought and quickly found the tile fireplace wall. Walking over to it, she carefully looked for the thistle tile mentioned by her son. Finding it, she gently pressed the tile, and it fell into her hand. Without a moment’s hesitation she reached into the opening, smiling as her fingers found and curled about a hard object in a soft, rotting velvet bag. Drawing it forth, she opened the bag, drew the pendant out, and triumphantly held it high. “Do your old eyes recognize this, Esther Kira?” And she danced over to the old woman, holding the pendant out to her.

Esther Kira nodded and smiled with remembrance. “The pendant made by Selim I himself to celebrate the birth of his first child, Sultan Suleiman! Look on the back. Here is his tugra. Why did she not take it with her, Incili? She prized it above all her jewels.”

“In the rush of departure, young Ruth missed it. They did not even realize it was not among her things until they reached Scotland. My eldest son gave me a copy of the pendant this New Year’s. Since I am here, I thought I should like to retrieve the original. I would like you to keep it for me, Esther, or better yet send it to the Kira bank in Rome for me. When I escape I should not like to be encumbered with such a valuable jewel.”

“You are wise to trust me with it, Incili. If it were found among your things it would be difficult to explain. I will wager that the vizier does not give you enough pin money to account for such an expensive toy!”

“Let me see it,” asked Lateefa softly. And she reverently took it from the old woman’s gnarled hands. “It is beautiful! How much he loved her. He placed her above all women. How wonderful to be loved like that! So few of us ever are.” Sighing, she handed the pendant back to Esther Kira, who returned it to its bag and placed the bag in a pocket somewhere within her voluminous robes.

For a few minutes longer the women wandered about the imperial apartments of the long-dead Sultan Valide, Cyra Hafise. Cat could not shake the feeling that she was intruding. Replacing the thistle tile, she regretted that she had not thought to ask Susan along. Susan’s grandmother, Ruth, had spent her early years in this very palace.

Finally Esther led them back out through the garden again to their litters. As they returned to the Kira house, both Cat and Lateefa were strangely silent. In the courtyard of the house they hugged the old lady and thanked her profusely for the tour as Osman stood fussily by, wanting to hurry them but not daring to do so. Returning to the vizier’s palace, they talked softly of the secrets they shared, bound even more closely by the afternoon.

Cicalazade Pasha awaited them impatiently. His eyes were narrow, his expression sulky, and they should have been warned. But both Lateefa and Cat were happy, exhilarated by their outing.

“Where have you been?” he demanded. “I returned from the Yeni Serai to find my house deserted.”

“We have been visiting Esther Kira, my lord,” said Lateefa merrily. “She took us to the old Eski Serai, and we showed Incili where the great Cyra Hafise once lived. It was a delightful afternoon, and we thank you for giving us your permission to go.”

“I have spent the afternoon devoid of companionship,” complained the vizier.

“My lord Cica,” teased Lateefa, smiling winningly up at him, “you have the most famous harem in the empire—next to my cousin, the sultan. I cannot believe that you were bored other than by choice.”

Without warning the vizier’s hand shot out and slapped Lateefa’s face. Astounded, she gasped, her eyes filling with tears. Shocked, for he had never been known to beat his wife, the slaves stood impassive, scarcely breathing. But Cat flew at the vizier, furiously beating on his chest. “Don’t you dare touch her!” she raged at him. “She did nought to you! You are unkind and unfair!”

Truly frightened now, Lateefa tried to pull Cat away. “No! No! Incili, you must beg my lord Cica’s pardon,” and she attempted to draw Cat down to her knees.

Cat turned from the vizier and gently touched Lateefa’s cheek. A handprint showed white against the red. “Never! He had no right to slap you.”

“He has every right,” said Lateefa, desperately trying to stem the anger she saw burning in Cicalazade’s gray-blue eyes. “He is our lord and master. We are nothing but that which he makes us, Incili.”

“You can’t really believe that?” pleaded Cat.

Turning, Lateefa knelt before the vizier, her head touching the toe of his outstretched boot “Forgive me my insolence, my lord, and forgive her also. She is still new to our ways, and I know she meant no harm!”

Cicalazade Pasha put a gentle hand on Lateefa’s head. “I will forgive her for your sake, my dear. But she must still be punished, lest others in my house think I am a weak master.” He nodded curtly to two eunuchs, who grasped Cat by the arms. “Take her to the whipping post and prepare her for punishment,” he commanded.

“Oh, my lord,” sobbed Lateefa, raising a tear-stained face to him, “please do not whip Incili. She is my friend!”

The vizier again nodded to a eunuch. “Take the lady Lateefa to her apartments,” he said quietly. Afraid, Lateefa obeyed him.

The eunuchs dragged Cat into the center of the courtyard, where, after removing her jacket, they chained her between two posts. Her gauze blouse was ripped away entirely, baring not only her long, lovely back, but her full breasts. Slowly the vizier walked across the courtyard and stood silent beside her for what seemed an eternity. Then, cruelly grasping her tawny hair, he pulled her head back and said in a soft voice, “The punishment will be mild this time, Incili, but
never
defy me again—publicly or otherwise. I adore you, my jewel, but I will not be shamed. That is why I will personally mete out this chastisement. If you will beg my pardon I will cease. Otherwise you will receive the full twenty lashes.” He bent his head and kissed her fiercely, laughing softly.

She bit him on the lower lip, drawing blood.

“Little bitch.”

He loosed her head and she heard
him
walk back across the courtyard, where Osman waited with the whip. “Fool!” The vizier swore at a eunuch. “Ply the lash. I don’t want her
skin
marked like a crocodile’s!”

The suspense was terrible, and Cat felt her heart pounding with a mixture of fright and anger. The whip cracked several times as the vizier tested it, and her stomach heaved uneasily. Then she heard a sharp hiss, and the first blow touched her back. Her teeth bit into her own hp now, also drawing blood. The third blow drew a soft moan from her, the fifth a small cry. On the eighth she could bear no more. She screamed, unable to bear the cruel pain. For he was not being gentle. Her back was afire, and the pain grew worse with each blow, yet she would not beg his pardon. Finally, unable to endure any more, she fainted. But Osman was quickly there, waving a burnt feather beneath her nose, dragging her back to the terrible reality of consciousness.