Captive of the Harem Read online

  “I cannot do what you expect of me.

  “I hardly know you, my lord,” Eleanor said. “I am beginning to

  admire and respect you, but…I—I would be your friend if

  you…”

  “You would be my friend?” Suleiman’s gaze narrowed and he

  appeared to be considering. “Why should I need a friend,

  Eleanor? Do you not think I have many about me who would cal

  themselves my friends?”

  “Yes, my lord. Forgive me for my presumption. It was only that

  we share an interest in ancient manuscripts. I enjoyed our talk

  when you asked me to help you read them and I would like to

  do something that would be of use to you. There are other

  women more skiled in the arts of love. I think I would provide

  poor sport for you.”

  Suleiman nodded, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You argue

  convincingly, my lady. Yet I wonder…”

  ANNE HERRIES

  Captive of the Harem

  ANNE HERRIES

  lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where

  she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hils

  that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue

  ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the

  restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter,

  tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty

  published novels.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  ‘I shal miss you, my teacher. The days wil seem long without

  the benefit of your words of wisdom, Kasim.’

  ‘I shal be sorry to leave you, Suleiman—the years we have

  had together have been truly a blessing for me, but the time has

  come for me to prepare to make my peace with God, my lord. I

  must go home to my own land to die…’

  ‘Yes, I know. I would not hold you. Go then…and may Alah

  guide your footsteps to Paradise.’

  Suleiman Bakhar felt the sting of the unmanly tears that would

  shame him as the old man left and he knew that it was for the last

  time; they would never meet again in this life.

  He moved away to gaze down at the gardens of his

  apartments in his father’s palace, his fierce, wild eyes lit by a

  silver flame in their depths. His expression for those who dared

  to look was at that moment much that of an untamed creature

  frustrated by the bars of its cage. The palace of Caliph Bakhar

  was a perfumed, luxuriously appointed cage—but nevertheless a

  prison to the man whose spirit wished to soar like the hawks he

  lavished with so much love and attention.

  He was a strong, handsome man, though his features were at

  times harsh, his mouth capable of looking as cruel as the sharp

  beaks of his birds of prey. At other times his dark, mysterious

  eyes could be bright with laughter, and his mouth, slackened by

  desire, could look soft and deliciously sensuous—as was his

  voice when he chose to entertain the court with his singing. Now

  was not one of those times. He was bored, restless, and

  conscious of a growing anger inside himself that he did not

  understand. And he was losing the man who had been his

  teacher for many years, a man he revered and loved almost as a

  father. His life would be that much the poorer for the teacher’s

  going.

  Yet he would not have held Kasim for he loved him as dearly

  as he loved his own father. He must seek elsewhere to fil the

  emptiness the teacher’s going would leave in his life.

  Fluttering about the scented walks of the gardens below, the

  women of his harem twittered like brightly coloured birds in their

  scanty clothes as they paraded through sunlit walks. Here and

  there stone benches were placed in the shade, and the sound of

  tinkling water from fountains echoed the laughter of the women.

  They were al aware that Suleiman was watching them from his

  windows above. He was making his choice and one of them

  would be sent to his bed that night.

  The favoured one would spend the afternoon being pampered

  by the other women. She would be washed in soft warm water

  in the baths of the harem, then perfumed lotions and creams

  would be massaged into her body and hair so that her skin

  would be smooth for the touch of her master, and finaly she

  would be dressed in the finest silks…layer upon layer of

  diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or

  diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or

  instruct her to remove as suited his whim.

  It was an honour to be chosen by the Caliph’s favourite son,

  and also a pleasure. Suleiman was young and virile, his body

  honed to masculine perfection by hours of training in the

  courtyards with the Janissaries. His love-making was legendary

  amongst the ladies of the harem, and word had spread to the

  other harems, some of which had less wel-favoured masters,

  and there were many sighs as envious eyes peered at him from

  behind pierced screens. It was forbidden for the ladies of one

  harem to mix with those of another, of course, but it happened—

  as other forbidden things happened in secret places: things that

  could bring a swift beating or worse if they were discovered by

  the eunuchs.

  Sometimes, the ladies of the Caliph’s court were alowed to

  watch Suleiman at sport in the great courtyard of the palace.

  Suleiman delighted in trials of strength with the officers of the

  Janissaries, and it was very seldom that he lost his bouts.

  ‘He wil choose me. I know he wil choose me,’ Fatima said

  to Dinazade, who was her chief attendant. As Suleiman’s

  favourite, Fatima had her own rooms and slaves to wait on her.

  ‘He always chooses me.’ She gave a satisfied smile as the chief

  eunuch beckoned to her. ‘There, I told you so. Come with me,

  Dinazade. I must be beautiful to please my lord tonight.’

  Suleiman moved back from the window as his chosen partner

  was led away. He had selected Fatima again because there was

  fire in her. Most of the concubines had been given to him as gifts,

  either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the

  either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the

  Caliph, and were too obedient to please him. He had dined too

  much on honey and wanted something with more spice.

  His features were set like iron, his mouth thinned to a severe

  line. Sometimes he felt he would go mad if he were confined to

  this idle life for many more years. He could fight, ride out into the countrys
ide beyond Constantinople with his hawks or spend the

  afternoon pouring over his manuscripts—but none of these

  pleasures held any real appeal for him that day. There was a

  hungry yearning in his soul—but for what? Suleiman did not

  know, unless it was simply to be free…to travel the world?

  Such an idea was forbidden to him. His father had refused to

  let him enter the Janissaries in case he might be injured in a real

  battle—for his tussles with the elite guard could only ever be

  play-acting. No one would dare to inflict harm on the Caliph’s

  son for fear of the punishment that would certainly folow—not

  from Suleiman, but from his father.

  ‘Your place is here with me,’ the Caliph had told him when

  he had asked permission to leave and join the Sultan’s personal

  bodyguard. ‘Together we are strong. I am getting older,

  Suleiman. Soon you must prepare to take over from me.’

  Caliph Bakhar was known for his wisdom and fairness

  throughout the empire. It was he who dispensed justice and kept

  the common people in order in the city for his royal master

  Suleiman the Magnificent. The Sultan was the supreme ruler of

  the great Ottoman Empire, and under his rule the empire had

  reached new heights of power and splendour. Suleiman Bakhar

  had been named for him.

  had been named for him.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord.’ One of the eunuchs approached, his

  slippered feet making no sound on the marble floors. ‘Your

  honoured father, the great Caliph Bakhar, requests your

  presence in his apartments.’

  Suleiman’s eyes were very hawkish as he let them sweep

  over the fleshy face of the eunuch. It was necessary to have such

  creatures to guard the women of the harem, but he did not like

  or trust them. They were sly, calculating creatures—especialy

  this one.

  ‘Very wel,’ he said curtly. ‘I shal attend the Caliph.’

  For a moment Suleiman thought he saw a flash of resentment

  in the eunuch’s eyes. Abu was the child of one of his father’s

  older concubines, and perhaps resented the fact that Suleiman

  and he shared the same blood but were treated in very different

  ways. Abu’s mother had been a Nubian slave and of very little

  value, while Suleiman’s mother had been the daughter of an

  English nobleman and the Caliph’s favourite wife.

  Taken from a shipwreck more dead than alive, Margaret

  Westbury had been presented as a gift to Caliph Bakhar. He had

  found her fascinating and taken her as his wife, but after she had

  given him a son he had offered to return her to her homeland.

  Margaret had preferred to stay on as his chief wife, and though

  she had been alowed little say in her son’s upbringing, she had

  been alowed to see him twice a week in the gardens.

  Yet another soft-footed eunuch with doe-like eyes conducted

  Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fel on his knees before

  Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fel on his knees before

  the Caliph as was the custom, but was immediately told to rise.

  ‘The Caliph wished to see his unworthy son?’

  ‘Suleiman is a most worthy son,’ Caliph Bakhar replied after

  the ritual salute. ‘I have a problem, Suleiman. The Sultan has

  made it clear that he is displeased over certain disorders in the

  city—there was a riot in the streets and the mob passed close to

  the palace wals.’

  ‘The disturbance was swiftly queled by the Janissaries.’

  ‘But it should not have been alowed to happen so near the

  palace,’ his father said. ‘I have displeased our master, therefore,

  I must find gifts to regain favour in his eyes.’

  ‘What does my father have in mind?’

  ‘Something of rare beauty—an important piece of Venetian

  glass, perhaps?’

  ‘Or a beautiful woman?’

  ‘She would have to be an exceptional woman. The Sultan has

  many Kadins.’

  The Kadins or Sultanas were women who had pleased their

  royal master and were given their own luxurious apartments—

  much as Fatima was favoured in Suleiman Bakhar’s much

  smaler harem.

  ‘Of course.’ Suleiman frowned. ‘Does my father wish me to

  visit the slave markets of Istanbul—or travel to Algiers?’

  ‘You are not to leave our shores,’ the Caliph said with a

  frown. ‘We have too many enemies. Send word that we are

  looking for something special. She must be lovely beyond price

  and untouched.’

  and untouched.’

  ‘It would be rare to find such a jewel,’ Suleiman replied.

  ‘Perhaps I should look for some other treasure that would please

  the Sultan?’

  ‘It would be wise,’ the Caliph said, nodding. ‘And now, my

  son—wil you hunt with your father? I have a new hawk I would

  match against your champion.’

  ‘None can match Scheherazade—she flys higher, swifter and

  her bravery puts al others to shame.’ His pupils were lit from

  within by a silver flame as he spoke of his favourite hawk.

  ‘She is truly a bird to prize above al others. Find a woman as

  beautiful, clever and brave as your hawk, Suleiman, and the

  Sultan wil forgive me a hundred riots.’

  ‘If such a woman exists, she would be a prize above al

  others,’ Suleiman replied. ‘I do not think we shal find this

  woman, my father—though we search al the markets in the

  Ottoman Empire!’

  Eleanor stood at the top of the cliff gazing out towards the

  sea. The view was magnificent—sparkling blue water, gently

  wooded slopes and a dazzling variety of oleander and wisteria.

  The wisteria had spread from the gardens of the vila behind her,

  she thought, and inhaled its wonderful perfume.

  Such a glorious day and yet her thoughts at that moment were

  of the house they had left behind five months earlier. It would be

  autumn in England now, the mists just beginning to curl in from

  the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the

  the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the

  home she had shared with her father and brother for the first

  eighteen years of her life, and she doubted she would ever see it

  again.

  ‘Why so sad, Madonna? Does the view not please you?’

  Eleanor turned to look at the man who had spoken, her deep

  azure eyes seeming to reflect the blue of the Mediterranean sky.

  Beneath the severe French hood she wore, her hair was long and

  thick, the colour of ripe corn in sunlight. She kept it wel hidden,

  even though she had thought herself safe from being observed

  here, but wisps had escaped to tangle betrayingly about her face.

  She could do nothing to disguise the loveliness of her classic

  features, though she chose dark colours that did nothing to

  enhance her beauty.

  ‘I was thinking of my home,’ she replied, unable to hide a

  wistful note in her voice. ‘It wil be misty now and the fires wil

  be lit in the library.’

  ‘You cannot prefer the cold damp climate of your country to

  Italy?’
His eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘But perhaps there was

  a lover…a young man who holds your heart in his hand?’

  For a moment Eleanor was tempted to invent a handsome

  fiancé, but she was an honest girl and did not wish to lie.

  ‘No, sir. I was thinking of my books. We were unable to

  bring many with us. As my father has told you, we were forced

  to leave in a hurry.’

  Count Giovani Salvadore nodded, his expression

  sympathetic. He was a man of moderate height, not fat but wel

  built with rather loose features. His hair and smal beard were

  built with rather loose features. His hair and smal beard were

  dark brown, his eyes grey and serious. Eleanor supposed he

  would be considered attractive, and his wealth made him an

  important man in the banking circles of Italy.

  ‘It was an unpleasant experience for you,’ the Count replied.

  ‘Fortunately, your father had already placed much of his fortune

  with the House of Salvadore for safe keeping.’

  ‘Yes, that was very fortunate,’ Eleanor agreed, hiding her

  smile behind her fan. He was so pompous, so sure of himself!

  Yet she should not be ungrateful. He had generously made his

  vila available to her family until they should find somewhere they

  wished to settle. Sir Wiliam Nash had spoken of this part of

  Italy as being pleasant but Eleanor knew that he meant to travel on to Cyprus very soon. He had friends there: an English

  merchant who had settled on the island some years earlier and

  had offered both a home and an opportunity for Sir Wiliam to

  join him in business.

  ‘Shal we go in?’ The Count offered Eleanor his arm. ‘Your

  skin may suffer in this heat if you stand in it too long.’

  Eleanor had come out to be alone for a while. The Count’s

  mother and sister chattered like magpies al day long, and they

  did not speak much English. She had hoped to escape for a

  while, so that she could have a little time to herself—but he had

  pursued her.

  As she had feared, the Count was too interested in her for

  comfort. At home in the west of England, she had been alowed

  to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her

  to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her

  distance from any gentleman she had considered a threat to her

  peaceful existence.

  Eleanor had no wish to marry. She had become the mistress