Authors: Tasha Alexander
5 April 1892
Darnley House, Kent
My dear daughter,
I hope that you and your husband are enjoying fine health and learning to adjust to the many challenges of married life. Your father and I are exceedingly happy for you, despite your unorthodox and, frankly, unacceptable wedding.
What’s done is done, so I will say nothing further on the subject. Do not, however, expect the queen to offer the chapel at Windsor again. Your children will have to be baptized elsewhere.
On that subject, your friend Ivy has continued to prove a most agreeable houseguest, and I will confess to finding more pleasure in taking care of her during this time than I would have expected. I’ll be more than ready to do the same for you when the time arrives—and I hope you are not impeding your husband’s efforts to bring this about. A lady must graciously accept her duty.
Be careful of the food in Constantinople. I hear dreadful stories everywhere about it. Not to be trusted, these foreign locations.
I am, your most devoted mother,
C. Bromley
I woke before the sun, roused by the haunting and spiritually seductive voice coming from the nearest mosque. As the muezzin called the faithful to prayer, I lay, still and silent, absorbing the sound—at once comforting and eerie—as it trembled through my body. When it fell quiet, I stretched and reached for Colin, who was as eager as I to take full advantage of the myriad daily benefits of married life.
The time passed quickly, and too soon we were up and dressed, both of us headed for appointments. I’d applied to Perestu, the valide sultan, asking that I be allowed to come to the harem and begin interviewing Abdül Hamit’s concubines, in particular Roxelana, who had discovered Ceyden’s body. Although I knew well the dangers of assumption—of following baseless instinct—I could not help conjuring up any number of romantic scenarios surrounding the girl, namesake of the most famous—infamous—of harem women. In the sixteenth century, a stunning and intelligent concubine, Roxelana, had seduced, cajoled, and influenced Suleyman the Magnificent, eventually persuading him to take her as his wife. It was the first time a sultan had married; no one before had risen above the rank of favored concubine, and Roxelana wielded no small amount of power over her husband.
My Roxelana was an entirely different beast. She met me, waiting on a bridge made from rough-hewn logs in one of the gardens attached to the harem at Y?ld?z. Her burgundy gown was the latest Western fashion—high collar, fitted waist, skirts flowing gently over her hips—her dark hair upswept and held in place by a comb encrusted with rubies. Enormous pearls bobbed on her ears, and she parted her full lips, licking them to glistening perfection as she started to speak once I’d introduced myself.
“I don’t see how I can be of any possible use.” Her voice, thinner than her beauty suggested, shook as she spoke.
“I know well how awful what’s happened has been for you,” I said. “I lost a friend last year in Vienna. He was murdered and I found his body. It affects you in unimaginable ways, and I’m so terribly sorry you’re suffering for it.”
While working the previous winter to clear Robert Brandon in the death of Lord Fortescue, the most odious human I’d ever met, I’d become tenuous friends with a man who was both an asset to me and an adversary. Mutual enemies had brought us together, and he’d ended up aiding my investigation. Finding his brutalized body in Vienna’s beautiful Stephansdom cathedral was worse than any nightmare, and I hoped never again to witness such a violent scene.
“Then you do understand,” she said. “Everyone wants me to push the memory aside, but no matter what I do it comes back in my dreams.”
“There are some things that never leave you entirely.”
“I wish this would,” she said. “I can’t bear seeing it over and over.”
I reached for her hand. “I know. There’s no real comfort to be had, but perhaps helping us find Ceyden’s murderer will bring some small measure of relief.”
She pulled her hand away. “Nothing will make this better.”
“I won’t disagree,” I said.
Her eyes were hard. “What do you want from me?”
“Tell me what you saw that night.”
“The courtyard in which Ceyden was . . . that courtyard is one of my favorites. I like to read there on a comfortable bench near the fountain.”
“Were you reading that night?”
“No. It was already dark. I only meant to say that it wasn’t unusual for me to go there. That’s all.”
“Was Ceyden there when you arrived?” I asked.
“Of course she was.”
“Did you see the attack?”
“No! Wouldn’t I have told the sultan? Or the guards? Why would you ask such a thing?”
“You might have been afraid, Roxelana,” I said. “It would be understandable.”
She stared at me, her eyes still hard, but curves returning to her lips. “I nearly tripped over her.”
“And she was dead?”
“I suppose so. I was scared and ran off screaming at once.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why didn’t you assume she’d fallen or fainted?”
“Everything about her pose looked wrong. Nothing seemed natural, and I could tell at once something terrible had happened.”
“But you didn’t know she was dead?”
“No.” Her pupils were tiny dots. “Instinct told me it was bad—which is why I went for help.”
“Was there anyone else in the courtyard?”
“Not that I saw,” she said.
“But you’re not certain?”
“It was dark. I imagine it’s not impossible that someone was hiding in the shadows. Is that what you’d like me to say?”
“I’d like you to say the truth.” I bit the inside of my cheek, frustration pushing against me. “Do you have a reason not to want to?”
“No one ever wants to tell the truth in the harem,” she said. “But in this case, I’ve nothing to hide. I wish I’d seen something more.”
“Do you have things to hide in other cases?”
“You know nothing about the harem, do you?”
“Not enough. Enlighten me.”
She looked at me for a measured moment, then threw a short nod before starting to walk back towards the palace. “The sultan moved to Y?ld?z because he fears for his life and believes that Dolmabahçe was not secure.” Dolmabahçe was one of the palaces Colin had cited as being partly responsible for the decline of the Ottoman treasury. Its elegant cut-stone façade with rows of vaulted windows on both floors rose above the Bosphorus, the waters lapping below gleaming white wrought-iron fences. Its interior, designed partially to impress Western diplomats and visitors, was ornate and luxurious, a perfect exercise in excess.
“Why is that?”
“Because he is seized with unfathomable paranoia, and the palace’s location on the Bosphorus made him feel vulnerable. Of course, there is not much that does not make him feel vulnerable.”
“Are you close to him?”
“I have been noticed,” she said, turning away as hot color crept up her cheeks.
“Handkerchief dropped in front of you to alert you that you’ve been chosen for the night?” I had read more than my share of fantastical novels set in the seraglio and found the rituals of harem life fascinating.
“I hate to disappoint your Western romanticism, but that is not how it happens. Reality is much more prosaic. Most of us never have any contact with the sultan. We see him—from a safe distance—on formal occasions. It’s not so easy to catch his attention, though. Some manage, of course, but it takes a not inconsiderable effort.”
“How did you do it?”
“I didn’t. The valide sultan selected me for him.” I felt my face tighten as she spoke. “Barbaric, isn’t it? But there’s no handkerchief dropping. The
k?zlar aas?
—chief black eunuch—informs you that you’ve been chosen, and you’re off to the
hamam
to prepare. Generally the sultan sends a small gift.”
“Had you never spoken to him before you were summoned to him?”
“I’d never even seen him. Had done all I could to keep from drawing attention to myself. If I must be here, I will have a quiet life of contemplation. You do not understand in the slightest how I am tormented.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I could not imagine the horror of being sent to the bed of a man I knew not at all.
Barbaric
did not even approach a strong enough word.
“Most of the time, no one pays attention to me. My religious beliefs have kept me from becoming close to those around me.”
“You are not a Muslim?” I asked.
“And now, Lady Emily, you have discovered what it is that I need to hide. I’m a Christian. And every day—every night—that I spend with the sultan puts my soul in mortal danger. Have you any idea what it is to know that you are forced to live in sin?”
“Are you allowed—forgive me—to be Christian?” I asked.
“I do not speak of it to others. No one knows. I kneel in the direction of Mecca during times of prayer but recite my own words.”
“As a fellow Christian, I can assure you that if you are forced to do things—”
“The martyrs had the strength to stand up for their beliefs. I am not so brave, nor so virtuous. Now that I’ve spent the night with the sultan and am a
gözde,
I have better quarters and more privacy. If I am elevated further and become an
?kbal,
or
kadin
—an official consort—my position would be better still. But I ought not be tempted by privacy and should have refused to go to him in the first place, regardless of the consequences.”
“What would the consequences have been?”
“I don’t know, but can well guess. No one rejects the sultan. The punishment would be unspeakable.”
“How did you come to your faith?”
“I have lots of time to myself here and fill most of my hours reading. One day I came upon a volume of Aquinas. . . .” She sighed. “No, I must be honest with you. I asked for it—one in a long list of books I requested. One of our maids is a Christian, and I’ve heard her speak of the comfort it brings her—a comfort for which I have great need.”
“Why Aquinas?” I asked.
“She suggested his
Summa Theologica
to me. I devoured it and then moved on to every other of his works,” she said. “ ‘To convert somebody, go and take them by the hand and guide them.’ It was as if he spoke to me and took my hand in his own. And now, lacking the courage to refuse my sin, I have no option but to flee. Perhaps years of penance will compensate for my weakness.”
“You’re too hard on yourself,” I said.
“I will promise to aid your investigation in any way possible, but, please, please, Lady Emily—I implore that in exchange you help me find a way out of here.” We had reached the harem building, where a eunuch guard pulled open a door to let us in. “We can say nothing further of it now. Everything spoken in these walls runs through channels you can’t even imagine.”
“Shall we return outside?”
“Not with that man watching us,” she said. “Did you not see him in the trees?”
“No, I—”
The voice that interrupted me was not sharp, but startling regardless as it meandered, all soft bounces, through the stone corridor in which we stood.
“You would be in great danger were he not watching you.” The valide sultan, in a golden kaftan over pink-and-silver billowing Turkish trousers held in place with a diamond-encrusted girdle, slipped out from a doorway and took Roxelana’s arm, gripping with white knuckles. “It is time for you to go to the
hamam
. The sultan expects you tonight.”
Roxelana blushed crimson, the sides of her eyes crinkling as tears welled. “Yes, madam.”
“I have laid out clothing in your rooms. The servants will see to you in the
hamam
. Do not disappoint me.”
If Bezime had intimidated me, Perestu terrified. Her face possessed the calm smoothness of marble as she watched Roxelana walk away from us, but something in her eyes—a shot of calculating manipulation—shook me, and a pervasive feeling of dislocation swam through as I considered the reality of what I’d just witnessed. Bezime might have had her share of power, could believe in hope, but nothing in the context of this world was better than a prison. A beautiful setting, servants, and fine clothing could not make up for freedom—real freedom. English society was full of restrictions, particularly for the fairer sex, but women were not forced into such reprehensible situations with no possibility of ever escaping. I recalled Bezime’s claim that here, there was hope. She was right in her way, but that hope extended only to women whose goals fit into the most narrow of passages.
I was well acquainted with the difficulties faced when one’s happiness depended upon living a life that did not fit into the standard view of what was acceptable. Roxelana’s plight distressed me, and while I wished for an elegant and simple solution to her problems, I knew there was no such thing. The only sensible thing would be to dismiss the ideas mucking up my head. I could not assist her in any meaningful way, not so long as I was working for the Crown. But then again, it was not right—not moral—to leave her an unwilling slave. There had to be a way, subtle but radical, to save her.
“I am not certain of the best way to offer my aid to you.” Perestu’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “I will, of course, instruct the concubines to speak openly to you, but can make no promises that they will be forthcoming.”
I did not much believe her. She was the valide sultan; surely the concubines would do whatever she told them. “If you could perhaps start by telling me everything possible about Ceyden,” I said. “Was she a favorite of the sultan’s?”
“No, no.” She led me to a low sofa built along the outside wall of a charming room, stars painted on the ceiling. “Ceyden was not someone I thought fit for the sultan.”
“And what of his opinion?”
“Men’s opinions are oft en not worth considering.”
I could not help but laugh at this. “Does he know you feel this way?”
“I make sure of it,” she said. “For a very long time, the girl was not happy here. As a child, she was skittish and unpredictable. I understand this is to be explained by the violent manner in which she was taken from her parents, but we knew nothing of that until Sir Richard told her story after the murder. I am sorry for what she suffered, of course, but her inability to rise above it confirms I was correct about the flaws deep in her character.”
“She saw her mother murdered and was then kidnapped.”
“Yes. And was then taken extremely good care of and brought to the most spectacular palace to be found on earth. She was pampered, doted on, educated, given every luxury.”
“Did she have any memory of what she’d been through?”
“Not at all. We think she was around five when she came to us—a gift from a noble family. They’d bought her from traders, I suppose, and had her in their household for at least two years. It is not unheard of to present the sultan with such a girl—it is an honor. She didn’t speak English until Bezime taught her, and if I remember, she had a difficult time of it. It was strange—she seemed to have an affinity for languages, but English always troubled her. She all but refused to speak it.”
I pressed my lips together hard, thinking of the little girl pulled away from her dying mother. “Surely that was because she remembered something of her past?”