The Sultan's Eyes (27 page)

All of my friends had someone; or somewhere to call home. Whatever might become of Willem and Suraiya, they had each other. Al-Qasim and Luis would grow old together. Valentina had family — she had an entire city. Venice was her home, her love. One day she would return there, I was certain of that.

But me? I had nobody and no place in the world that was mine. Willem, the dear
signora
, Al-Qasim and Luis were part of me, like my father and Master de Aquila. And I would never see them again.

I’d spent so long searching for a home, safety, a place of my own. It might have been anywhere: a city, a house, a cottage in the mountains, a palace pavilion, or a few rooms over a workshop. But I knew now that home is also the people around you; the people who live with you, eat, work, laugh, talk, even fight with you. Familiar faces who wave across the canal or smile at you on market day. It’s those few favourite books you must have within reach, a painting, a cat sleeping in the sunshine, a red rug, a glimpse of treetops. Perhaps it’s simply a hand holding yours.

It’s different for everyone, of course, and I’d always imagined that my home was a city in the sea or a house by a river. But as I stood there, under an autumn tree, I felt it somewhere deep in my belly, in my chest, in my very blood. I knew it with my heart and my head, realised that I had known for weeks but refused to look. Now I saw it clearly for the very first time. My home.

So I turned my face from the sky, the palace and the water, and ran down the hill to find him.

Justinian was reading in the library. At my knock, he slammed the book shut and ran halfway across the room to meet me.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Me,’ I said. ‘I’m the thing that’s wrong. I’m an idiot. Worse.’

He grinned. ‘You frightened me. Now I see it’s not panic on your face; it’s … what is it?’

‘For once, I can’t think of any words to describe it.’

‘Yet another extraordinary event,’ he said. ‘Please, sit. Compose yourself. Can I get you anything? Shall I call my father?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said, gratefully sinking onto a chair. ‘It’s you I came to see.’

Justinian pulled over a stool and sat opposite me, close. ‘What is it, Isabella?’

I looked around the library he’d made his own. There were books everywhere: lining the walls, in piles on the desk, on a footstool. The desk was littered with maps and papers, an ink bottle, an open journal.

I took a deep breath to try to calm the fear clenched in my chest. ‘I’ve never had a conversation like this before.’

‘Like what, exactly?’

‘But apparently everyone else seems to manage it.’

‘Isabella, I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘How could you?’ I stood up. ‘I was wrong to come. Forgive me.’

‘Mistress Hawkins.’ He looked at me sternly. ‘Sit down. Take a breath. Tell me what has upset you.’

‘Sorry.’ I perched tentatively on the edge of the chair. Everything had seemed so blindingly clear and certain in that moment on the hill, but now I felt sick with fear. Could I be wrong, yet again, about someone — about myself? Might I leave myself open to ridicule or disdain or, worse, pity? Was this how Willem had felt — or my mother, all those years ago? Was my world about to change, yet again, in ways I couldn’t comprehend?

‘Please, start at the beginning,’ Justinian said, ‘so that I can at least pretend we’re participating in the same conversation.’

‘I don’t really know when that was,’ I said.

‘Now you have me utterly mystified.’

‘If I’m to live here with you and your family,’ I said at last, ‘there must be no ill feeling between us.’

‘There isn’t,’ he said. ‘Not any more. Is there?’

‘I hope not. But there are things I need to explain.’

His face was wary.

‘Not bad things,’ I said. ‘At least, I hope not. But I want you to be honest with me. Don’t spare my feelings.’

‘Do I ever?’ he said with a rueful smile.

‘Yes, you do. I realise that now.’

‘I am discovered.’ He held my gaze. ‘The truth, then? Very well. It’s past time. Please, go on.’

My fingers clenched and unclenched in my lap. I hoped he couldn’t see how they trembled. ‘I was so vile to you at first. You reminded me of so much — of my father, Cambridge, everything I’ve lost.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘The odd thing is, I felt much the same about you. It was such a shock to find you here. I’d been so sure …’ He paused and closed his eyes for a moment or two while he found the words he needed. ‘I thought I’d never see you again. For all my noble declarations a few months ago, the truth is that I had to try very hard not to blame you for some of the things that happened to me.’

‘But it was all my fault! You were thrown in prison — tortured — on my account. If only I’d known.’

‘You were lost somewhere in Europe and grieving,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want you disturbed.’

‘That’s very chivalrous of you, you stubborn boy,’ I said. ‘You would have let your pride stand in the way of your freedom.’

He sighed. ‘Is that what you think? I see.’ He rose.

‘No,’ I said. ‘That was unkind.’

He stood, uncertain, in the centre of the room.

‘Please forgive me,’ I said. ‘My mouth speaks before my brain has finished thinking.’ I slumped forward, my face in my hands. ‘I always say the wrong things.’

‘You? Isabella Hawkins? The woman who speaks every language known to humanity and threatens to topple empires every second year? Ha!’

I glanced up. ‘And is that what you think of me? Really?’

He didn’t answer. I laughed aloud.

‘You have no idea,’ I said. ‘Nobody does. It’s true: words come easily to me. My father trained me well. But only for writing, for debate. Not for anything else — not to be truly part of the world. I can make fine speeches, but am clearly incapable of talking with people I love most.’ I choked on the bitter taste of those words. ‘I’ve tried so hard to be brave.’

‘And you have been.’

‘On the surface. But I spend much of my life so frightened I’m incapable of everything but speech. It erupts as anger, when all I want is …’

I stood up. There were tears on my cheeks, but there was nothing I could do about that. It was as if we stood facing each other across a stretch of blue water. One more word, one more sentence, might send us both plummeting to the bottom or heal the gulf between us. One more word.

‘Sanctuary?’ said Justinian.

‘How do you know that?’

He shrugged. ‘It is all any of us wants.’

‘You, too?’

‘Perhaps most of all.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘As of today, we put this behind us: your fear, my pain.’

‘They won’t vanish so easily,’ I said.

‘Perhaps not. But they will lessen over time if you and I cease rubbing salt into each other’s wounds.’

I smiled. ‘Is there anything else you have to tell me?’

‘Yes, but that’s enough for now.’

‘Agreed,’ I said.

‘Now we know the truth of each other.’

‘As does nobody else in this world,’ I said.

I put my hand in his, felt its warmth, its reassurance.

‘So we can be friends?’

‘That,’ I said, ‘would be a very good start.’

He raised my hand to his lips. We were still standing there, looking at each other as if for the very first time, when the janissaries came for us.

Constantine threw open the door.

‘It’s Orga,’ he said. ‘And in a foul mood. Father’s holding him off for a moment.’

Then he noticed Justinian holding my hand.

‘I do beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell him you’re too busy to be arrested just now?’

‘If you would,’ said Justinian.

‘Even better.’ Constantine limped across the room, grabbed one of Lady Elizabeth’s precious tapestries and drew it aside. ‘In here.’

Justinian led me to the tapestry and pushed down on the wooden panelling in the wall behind it. I heard a soft click, and the panel swung open.

‘You are not the only one with secrets, Mistress Hawkins,’ said Constantine. He gripped his brother’s shoulder. ‘See you in London, then, Justin?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘You’d better take this.’ He took a long curved dagger from under his jacket.

Justinian nodded and slid the scabbard through his belt.

‘I suspect we’ll all be on the next ship,’ said Constantine. ‘The Ambassador is no match for Colonel Orga in a temper, and he’ll be looking for someone to blame. But never mind. We’ll celebrate Christmas together.’

Justinian wrapped his arms around his brother. Constantine slapped his back, then held him at arm’s length.

‘God speed.’ He nodded to me. ‘Keep him safe.’

There was no time to thank him or say farewell. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Constantine grinned and let the tapestry fall. Justinian drew the secret door shut. Everything went black.

‘What is this place?’ I whispered.

‘It leads down to a street door.’

‘Then let’s —’

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I need to make sure he’s all right.’

It was odd to be standing in darkness, so abruptly after what felt like our first clear moment together in blazing sunlight. I felt desperately shy, relieved and terrified, all at the same time. I could sense the warmth of him next to me, heard the ragged breaths in his throat, and reached out to slip one hand under his arm. He drew me even closer.

We heard the library door bang.

‘Colonel Orga, can I help you?’

Constantine’s voice on the other side of the wall was muffled, but we could hear him well enough.

‘I have come for Mistress Hawkins.’

Constantine laughed.

‘You think it’s funny?’ Orga said.

‘Ironic, that’s all,’ said Constantine. ‘You see, once — a long time ago and in another country — I said and did much the same thing. Yet now here I am.’

‘Hiding her?’

‘Not at all. I have no idea where Mistress Hawkins is at this moment.’

That much was true. Constantine probably hoped we were racing through the streets of the city by now, not huddled in the dark, eavesdropping.

‘Then your brother?’

‘Alas, Justinian’s whereabouts are often a mystery.’

‘To you, perhaps,’ said Orga. ‘But not to us. We have followed him everywhere for weeks.’

Justinian swore softly in the dark beside me.

‘Then why do you ask me?’ Constantine said.

‘What do you know of your brother’s movements?’

Colonel Orga’s voice suddenly grew loud, as if he was closer to our hiding place. I held my breath for a moment.

‘Nothing.’ Constantine sounded further away, as if they were circling each other like duellists. ‘He is an enigma. Always has been.’

‘He walks,’ said Orga. ‘Why?’

‘He’s English,’ said Constantine.

‘You do not walk.’

‘I can’t,’ said Constantine. ‘Not any more. But when we were younger, my brothers and I walked for miles, all over the countryside. Inexplicable, I know.’

‘In the mornings, your brother goes on long and senseless trips into the woods along the Golden Horn. He does not collect plants or go fishing. What does he do there?’

‘I assure you, I have absolutely no idea.’

‘In the afternoons, he walks all over the city, even up on the old walls. Why?’

‘Again, I don’t know.’

‘You are spies,’ said Orga. ‘You, your father, your brother. This is well known.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Constantine. ‘Where’s your proof?’

‘Oh, we have it, do not worry. Your Ambassador is being informed of all our evidence at this very moment.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘This is your chance to confess,’ said Orga.

‘I can’t tell you anything,’ said Constantine.

‘What is the purpose of the warehouse at the docks?’

‘Don’t know it.’

‘What was in there?’ Orga’s voice was harsh. ‘Your brother goes there often. But we broke into it this morning.’

‘And?’

‘Empty, except for a few odd bits of machinery.’

I breathed out as quietly as I could.

‘What game are they playing, these friends of yours?’

‘Isabella Hawkins, a friend of mine?’ Constantine laughed again. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the man who arrested her father, who sent him to his death. My own father was a member of the Parliament that ordered his arrest. Why on earth would Mistress Hawkins be a friend to us?’

Colonel Orga’s footsteps sounded, walking away from us. ‘Is this so?’

‘When you find her, ask her. Believe me, she has very strong opinions on the matter.’

‘I will.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Constantine. ‘Go look. You will not find her here. Perhaps she is in the palace, with the Sultan.’

‘I doubt it. His grandmother has him under guard.’

I gripped Justinian’s arm.

‘Has he been deposed?’ Constantine asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Orga. ‘But perhaps soon. That depends on the Valide Sultan.’

‘She is a very powerful woman,’ said Constantine.

‘The Valide Sultan knows everything. Did you really think you could deceive her?’

‘Me? I have had no part in any deceit,’ said Constantine. ‘Nor has my father. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Your brother, then? And the Englishwoman?’

‘Anything they have done,’ said Constantine, ‘has been with the permission of the Sultan and his mother.’

‘That woman.’ Orga spat. ‘Turhan Hadice no longer has any authority. She has offered aid to the enemies of the Valide Sultan.’

‘And who might they be?’

‘Your Mistress Hawkins, for a start.’

‘Mistress Hawkins has a habit of making powerful enemies.’

‘And powerful friends, it seems,’ said Orga. ‘But no matter. Turhan Hadice has been confined to her apartments.’

‘The Sultan will not stand for that,’ Constantine said.

‘He’s eight years old,’ said the Colonel. ‘He will do what he’s told.’

‘You underestimate him. And his mother.’

‘You overestimate my patience,’ said Orga. ‘Where is your brother?’

I tugged at Justinian’s sleeve. ‘We must go,’ I whispered. ‘Now.’

‘What about my family? I can’t just abandon them.’

‘The Sultan will protect them.’

‘I’m not sure he can even protect himself,’ he said.

‘Come.’ I groped for his hand and together we ran, as fast as my skirts and the dim light would allow, along a hallway, down two flights of stairs and out into the gardens.

‘Through here.’ Justinian reached into the swathes of ivy that hung down the wall. ‘This is how I sneak out at night.’

‘On your mysterious walks?’

He grinned. ‘Not so mysterious. I just like walking.’

‘It’s just as Constantine said. Inexplicable.’

I peered through the curtain of ivy. Behind it was an ancient wooden door.

‘That doesn’t look like it’s been opened since the first Justinian’s days.’

He pulled at a great iron bolt with both hands and the door shuddered. ‘Good. If Orga comes snooping, he won’t suspect we’ve passed this way.’ He bowed. ‘After you.’

The door creaked open just wide enough for me to squeeze through. Beyond it was a small, deserted courtyard.

‘Nobody seems to be watching,’ I said.

He glanced around. ‘That’s what I’ve thought every day for months, but obviously I was wrong. Still, there’s nothing for it now.’

‘Except?’

‘Run for our lives.’

I raced after Justinian, down the hill to a hut by the water’s edge. He grabbed at an old sail and threw it aside. Hidden beneath it was one of the wooden fishing boats that filled the Golden Horn. He pushed it into the water while I fetched the oars and jumped
aboard. Justinian shoved off and leaped into the boat. I fumbled with the oars.