Pawn in Frankincense (67 page)

It lasted a long time. Towards the end, d’Aramon could see the mutes’ hands fluttering and saw, by Gaultier’s face, that the performance had been all that he had hoped. He bowed, and within the kiosk, in a dry voice which hardly penetrated outside, the Sultan spoke to his dragoman. The interpreter, moving from his side, stepped out and addressed the designer. ‘My lord commends thy artefact and is pleased to bestow this sign of his pleasure. I am to ask if the spinet also makes music?’

Georges Gaultier’s fingers, receiving the small leather bag, left black marks where he gripped it. ‘Not by itself, Monseigneur. It requires to be played.’

There were no further questions. The Kapi Agha raised his hand and as the dragoman stepped back into his place, the four pages lifted the litter and moved, with Gaultier following, to deposit it. Beside him, d’Aramon felt Lymond move and saw, turning, that the Chiaus Agha, staff in hand, was standing before him. Then, wheeling, the Usher walked, with the new Ambassador following, his robe brushing the smooth mosaic, to the mouth of the kiosk. There, bowing, the Chiaus Agha left him, and turning, Lymond began to pace to its door, just as the Chief of the White Eunuchs and the Chief of the Black left their posts and approached him.

They fell into step beside him, one on each side. They grasped his long, hanging sleeves; and twisted their hands in the folds; and between them pinioned his arms hard and flat at his sides.

Lymond made no resistance. To d’Aramon, the steadiness with which he conducted himself through all the ceremonial was a cause for profound satisfaction. Walking behind with the six other gentlemen to be presented, he saw Lymond, in the grip of the Aghas, walk in step through the open wall of the kiosk and into the Presence.

If there remained any curiosity in Suleiman’s soul, none of it showed in his eyes. He remained motionless as the new Ambassador was brought forward: his hands on the arms of his throne did not move, nor did he stir, as Lymond, kneeling between the two eunuchs, kissed first his knee and then the hanging sleeve of his robe; and then, still in the same double grip, was taken backwards to stand to one side against the kiosk’s glittering wall. Then, releasing him, the Kapi Agha and the Kislar Agha returned to the door and, laying hands on d’Aramon, brought him and similarly his six other companions to make their salute. Only when all eight had made obeisance and stood silent within the kiosk did the dragoman move slowly forward and, receiving from the Capi Agha the sealed papers already entrusted him, unfold and read the terms of the Ambassador’s commission.

He ended; and the sallow, fine-bearded face turned with indifference to where Lymond stood. Suleiman Khan said, ‘It is to our satisfaction. May His Excellency convey to our dear friend and brother of France our delight with these his expressions of amity, and
with the continuing bond thus illumined. We are pleased to welcome his Ambassador, and to bid our Treasurer increase by one-half the present allowances of meat, firewood and money accorded his household. May his acts honour his master.’

It was the moment. The translation ended, and into the silence, bowing, Lymond said in French, ‘The most humble servant of the Sultan Suleiman Khan and of the Prince Henry, monarch of France, I beg leave to speak.’

So he was going to make his petition, thought d’Aramon. He had, after all, nothing to lose. It was a pity that the touchstone, the measure of Turkey’s present regard for her ally of France, should be a boy-child and a girl.…

‘Très haut, très puissant, très magnanime et invincible prince …’ Lymond was speaking French, his manner unexceptionable; his voice even and clear. His measured phrases, echoed by the translator, spoke of the glorious alliance between France and the Ottoman Empire; of the liberal blessing of trade; of the success of Turkey’s captains and generals in the western shore of the sea, despite the grasp of the Emperor Charles …

‘Despite,’ went on the even, articulate voice, ‘those servants of Charles who, under whatever guise, never cease to attempt to drive asunder my lord’s kingdom and yours. There is an issue now standing, an issue of no political significance but of great personal import to Henry my master. I am told, although I cannot believe it, that malicious tongues have already coloured with impropriety His Grace’s modest request. From this and His Grace’s natural desire for restraint, some confusion has occurred among the most innocent. I beg therefore to make my prince’s mind clear and to free from misunderstanding the benign bond that unites our two countries.… I refer, my lord, merely to the return of two children, who find themselves by mishap within Your Grace’s Seraglio, and whom I am empowered to recover for Henry my master, at whatever price you desire.’

He finished, with care; although the Kislar Agha was already at the side of the Sultan, his murmuring words too low to hear. The Sultan’s black eyes, lifted to Lymond, sharpened a little. The dry voice said, ‘I am told that the two children you mention are in fact an English girl of some sixteen years and a young child newly arrived from the House of Donati in Zakynthos. The Kislar Agha will recite you their names.’

The Kislar Agha did, correctly. ‘Are these the persons?’ asked the dry voice. And awaiting Lymond’s assent in translation, went on without emotion. ‘There is indeed, as you say, cause for confusion. The girl, you do not dispute, is from England and therefore of no concern to your master of France. The child, I am assured, belongs neither to France nor to England, but is the son of our Vizier Jubrael Pasha. You will do me the courtesy to say to our brother of France
that until his claims on our goodwill are more lucid, I fear we cannot help him. You will further say that he should provide himself, I advise, with an honest ambassador. We hear you have sought this child before, and not in the name of your master.’

He had indeed made his petition. He had abused his credentials, and he would suffer for it. Regret, in d’Aramon’s mind, was mixed with dismay at his presumption. It was with something near disbelief that he heard Lymond say gently, ‘My lord, it is true. For how could I make a brigand, a thief or a corsair aware that he harboured the son of Henry of France?’

The Baron de Luetz stood stiffly, his face pale with anger, listening to question and answer: frank answers, steady and circumstantial. A child born to a Scotswoman, Janet Fleming … acknowledged a bastard of France. Stolen in mistake for another—hence the confusion with Jubrael Pasha. If Jubrael Pasha could prove this his son, the Ambassador would waive any claim. But the King, on the other hand, possessed clearest proof that the boy was his bastard.…

‘And the girl?’ the dragoman mentioned.

‘Belonged to the English Border and for long has had a relationship with the Scots court. Lady Fleming herself dispatched her to care for the infant.’

The Sultan murmured. ‘You say there is proof,’ said the dragoman. ‘Where is your proof?’

Lymond spoke softly. ‘With such a hostage of Fortune one does not carry proof, nor does one make such a quest public except between men of honour. On the child’s return to his home the King will furnish ample proof, together with the concrete expression of his joy and goodwill. Between allies, a word is enough.’

There was a small silence. For a girl and a child, thought d’Aramon, a nation was going into pawn. For a girl and a child, if he stood silent before these untruths, his own career, already finished, was finished in ignominy. He could claim, perhaps, that he believed what the Ambassador said to be true. He knew it was not.

Then Suleiman spoke and d’Aramon knew that although he waited, head bent in deference, for the translation to end, Lymond had understood every word. ‘Between France and Turkey,’ the Sultan had said, ‘as you say, one word is enough. Between thyself and Turkey, who knows?’

Lymond’s voice, answering, was infinitely sober. ‘My lord, none. You have seen my credentials. You may only put the matter to test. It places an incredible value on two valueless lives.’ He paused. ‘The enemies of the Ottoman Empire are cunning. That this circumstance might divide the Sultan from his allies did not seem to me possible. Rather was I concerned that the princess Khourrém Sultán would suffer a loss from her household which might discommode her. Whether she does so or not, and whatever Your Grace’s decision, I
pray you to allow me to add to the gifts of King Henry my master a personal gift from myself to the princess your wife. I can envisage no other happiness than to have it accepted.’

Already, d’Aramon had noted the long, silk-bound packet in the discreet hands of the Ambassador’s page. The Kislar Agha received it, and drawing off its purse of white satin, presented for the inspection of Suleiman the long filigree casket thus revealed.

The pale face did not change. But light in a shimmering band slid over the delicate cheekbones and aquiline nose and lit the dark recesses of the unwinking eyes. The negro moved, and the Baron de Luetz, catching sight for a moment of what the casket contained, drew in his breath. Then Suleiman Khan, dismissing it, said dryly, ‘We thank you. Whether she will accept them is a matter for the princess my wife. Should she suffer no loss, she may desire no compensation. For my part, my reply is quite clear. What the King of France asks, instantly he shall have. Bring me this offer in your master’s own seal and holograph. Prove to me that the boy in my Seraglio is the son of King Henry; or prove to me merely beyond doubt that he is not the son, as is claimed, of my Vizier Jubrael Pasha. And he is yours, without payment, to leave when you will, and the girl also.’

The shut casket shone on the dais. For a long moment, pale gold and white fur, the wilful emissary of France stood still, silenced by failure. Then he said, simply in English, ‘Be it so,’ and making the proper obeisance of courtier to Emperor, waited for the approach of the white and black eunuchs, and, in their grip, moved back from the audience.

It was finished. Outside the kiosk d’Aramon and his six gentlemen moved in order behind him, and in turn the servants and staff, Gaultier and Onophrion Zitwitz, until once more the cortège was complete. With a rustle of plumes, a bending and unbending of colour, a flashing of jewels, the ranks of the Household saluted them. The Gate of Felicity opened, and led by the Chiaus Pasha, in silence, the Ambassador’s column filed out, the gates closing behind them.

Still in the court of the Divan, the Janissaries and Spahis stood silent; the robed officials gathered under the canopy bowed as they moved past; the shadows of the cypress trees lay like bars on the paving and the willow-fronds danced.

The Gates of the Ortokapi opened, and closed.

Outside were their horses; the bright-harnessed mares from the Sultan, held ready for mounting, and the vast horse-parade of the Janissaries with company after company drawn up, their salute like a wave of the sea. The Sublime Porte, the great doors to the Topkapi Seraglio, opened, and closed, and the Ambassador of France, his head high, his eyes seeing little, rode out into the dust and the stench and the noise of Constantinople.

Many years later, understanding it all, the Baron de Luetz, who survived, used to tell how that day they left the Sublime Porte to the measure of the Chorea Machabaeorum, the Danse Macabre, the Danza General de los Muertos. They stepped from the high throne of Suleiman the Magnificent, and under the dark aegis of Gabriel.

Lymond knew it. He acted through the whole elegant masquerade: rode to the shores of the Golden Horn and, taking his leave of his escort, crossed it and remounting climbed the packed streets to the Embassy with metallic precision: careless of the amazed and whispering tongues and the curious glances from those in his train. As they rode side by side through the shops and buildings of Pera, d’Aramon, unable further to govern his temper, burst into low speech. ‘I thought you a man of honour, professing to hold me in friendship. You told me you had an honourable petition to present. I have heard you present a tissue of lies, prostituting the name of France to gain your own ends. I cannot hope that you have considered the figure I shall cut, returning home after a lifetime of service, of knotting this friendship between Turkey and France. I have stood by today and seen a rogue snap it asunder.’

Lymond’s face remained schooled to a hard kind of patience. He said, ‘France will disown me: you will not suffer. Give me a few days only, until I have the Sultan’s final reply. Then you may repudiate me.’

The crowd pressed in. The Baron de Luetz smiled and nodded, his face livid, and a moment later went on, in the same low, sharpened tone, ‘You already have his reply. He has refused.’

‘I have his public reply. He is concerned to keep his new Vizier’s loyalty, and less to fulfil a problematical demand from the French. I have offered him another way, if he esteems it at all worth the trouble.’

How much had those diamonds been worth, in the casket sent to Roxelana Sultán? With justice the Sultan might, if he chose, tell his Vizier that Roxelana, pleased by the jewels, had let it be known that she wished to keep them, and to return the boy and the maiden instead. He might even claim, if he wished, that his wife had ordered their release without his, Suleiman’s, knowledge. The Baron de Luetz said, harshly, ‘You plot well. Perhaps you will even succeed, with so many innocents dragged in to your aid.’

Lymond turned in the saddle. Light on the reins, his jewelled gloves were held low and half-curled before him. The snowy fields of his ermine, spread round him fold upon fold, were spiky with damp; and
sweat misted all the spare planes of his skin. He said—and there was savagery in the soft voice—‘The Devil is Graham Malett’s already. Who is left, their riper age rotten in all damnations, but the innocent?’

The blood came coursing down the hill towards them just after that: smooth as rosewood in the white dust. Between the doorposts, on the Embassy’s high wrought-iron gates, they found the dismembered bodies of the Ambassador’s porters, carved hot like young lamb, and spitted there among the dark flowers.

It was the beginning: the first of the unholy incidents which none could explain: for which no culprit could be found, although the Sublime Porte, expressing unqualified horror, tripled the Embassy’s cordon of Janissaries and agreed by return to Lymond’s formal request that all his staff might henceforth carry weapons.