It was the same aromatic burnt mud. Nostalgia poured in on her. She set her jaw and drank, as the Bektashi Baba smiled again and gently spoke. ‘Now, my child, you will tell me everything and I shall help you. Why you, an English girl, should travel alone with the Pilgrims, inquiring after a base-born child you have never met.… This is true, is it not?
‘Everyone keeps asking me that,’ said Philippa, peevishly. ‘It can’t be so very rare to find a child sent for tribute by mistake. I’m trying to buy it back before anyone gets into trouble, that’s all.’ She put down her cup. ‘You didn’t frighten me, but I just wondered how you knew my name.’ Attack, little flower, Kate had said calmly to a tear-stained Philippa once, after an inquisitorial visit from a much-hated aunt. Answer rude questions with naïve questions as near to the bone as you can get them.
On Bektashi Babas, the technique had no effect. Her companion merely raised bushy grey eyebrows and said, ‘From Míkál, naturally, I learn it. The matter interests the Beglierbey, for his information from the merchant Donati led us to believe that the child was a godson of a Knight of St John. You have told the Commissars this is not so. It is possible therefore that the child you seek is not the one brought from the merchant Donati.’
‘The child I seek,’ said Philippa with brittle clarity, ‘is between one and two years old, is called Khaireddin, and is branded with the mark of Dragut Rais, in whose harem he was placed when he was born. He was sent from Algiers to Mario Donati in Zakynthos when Dragut left Algiers to sail east in the autumn. He is the son of M. le Comte de Sevigny, the Special Envoy of France now in process of conveying a valuable gift from His Most Christian Majesty to the Grand Seigneur at the Sublime Porte. The boy is a love-child, but one by whom the Envoy sets great store. If anything were to prevent his purchasing the child, I am sure he would feel bound to mention it at court on his return.’
The Bektashi Baba smoothed his beard but his eyes, Philippa was furious to see, were indulgent. ‘I see. And the child you seek: did this boy have a nurse? Or was he in the care of his mother?’
Careful. Philippa said, ‘His mother’s dead now, but I don’t think she took much to do with him after he was born. He was looked after by a negress called Kedi.’
‘I see,’ said the Bektashi Baba again. He rose, and walking barefooted over the thick carpets, paced to the tall window and gazed out. Then, his frail fingers on the lattice, he turned and looked thoughtfully at Philippa. ‘Daughter, forgive me, but I must tell you that this is not the same child. The boy sent us by the merchant Donati was born in Zakynthos, and spent only some months in the household of Dragut Rais in Algiers before being sent back to the House of the Palm Tree. He bears the brand of Dragut, it is true, and his age could be as much or as little as you say. But he had no nurse with him when he arrived; and his present guardian calls him by the child-name he has always borne: Kuzucuyum. Also, all these arrangements I have spoken of, and all the instructions concerning his placing in the harem at the Sublime Porte, have come to the merchant Donati from Malta. Of a Comte de Sevigny there has been no mention till now.’
Philippa went scarlet. ‘Of course there hasn’t!’ she said; and scrambling up, to an unregarded rending of cotton, marched to where the Baba stood at the window. ‘Because Graham Reid Malett doesn’t want his father to have him! Don’t you see?’ said Miss Somerville, shoving the second veil back from her perspiring forehead, and glaring at the amused, bearded face. ‘They hate each other, Sir Graham and the child’s father. Sir Graham is only trying to hide the boy so that Mr Crawford won’t get him; and Signor Donati is helping.… It remains to be seen,’ said Philippa with sudden and awful dignity, ‘whether the Grand Seigneur considers the friendship of a Knight of St John or that of the kingdom of France better worth having.’
‘It is a grave dilemma,’ the Bektashi Baba agreed. ‘Too grave indeed to be quickly dismissed.… You say the putative father is to be in Stamboul directly. The merchant Donati should not find it impossible to convey the problem also to the putative godfather. Thus it may be legally settled at the end of our journey, and not hastily out of hand and insufficiently informed as at present.… You know where M. le Comte de Sevigny, for example, is at present?’
‘I think I can find him,’ she said. Like mice whipping cheese from a trap, thoughts flashed through her head.
‘With Míkál’s help, and perhaps the services of a Janissary, you will then be able to place the difficulty before the French Envoy too. An excellent solution, is it not?’ said the Baba. ‘And meanwhile we shall carry the child to Stamboul, where all will be settled.’
They were going to let her go. No, they probably wanted her to go, under guard, in case she tried to make off with the child. In any case, they were prepared to let her free into the Christian world with the information that a Knight of St John was in friendly communication with the Turks.
Which meant … which meant, thought Philippa quickly, that they either knew Graham Malett’s reign in Malta was reaching an end, or wished it to reach an end soon. They had found out perhaps that Gabriel’s spying had been discovered by Archie and Sheemy? Or perhaps he was simply outgrowing his uses in Malta, and they wished to have his interest in Constantinople? In any case, she wasn’t getting the child. They would take it to Stamboul … a journey of weeks at this rate. And meantime, unless Archie stopped him, Lymond would meet and kill Gabriel at this place called Zuara.
With Gabriel gone, the Turks had no reason to harm a child who might or might not be an Ambassador’s son. But Gabriel’s agents, whoever or whatever they might be, had their money to earn. If he died, the child was to die. And who would prevent it, if she were not there?
Philippa turned, her gaze falling past the Bektashi Baba on the little courtyard below. It was empty. ‘I understand it all,’ she said. ‘I have one favour to ask. Could I see the child?’
The black eyes did not move from her, but she could sense the faintest hesitation before the Baba spoke. ‘But of course, daughter,’ he said. ‘His guardian, alas, is ill; and he is with her here until her fate will be known.’
‘She is dying?’ said Philippa.
‘As the hand puts the candle to rest. Our Order says, She becometh the secret, she will become Real with the Real One. She is in here. The child is with her.’ And moving gently from the window, the Baba stepped down to the lower part of the room, slid his feet softly into his slippers, and led the way from the chamber.
The room where Kuzucuyum’s guardian lay ill was a small one: the carved lattice was shut, and only the display plates on their high cornice shelf reflected the sunshine filling the chistlìk’s gardens outside. There was a niche in the wall, in which sat some books, and a small cupboard on top of which bedding-rolls lay, and a blanket. Otherwise there was nothing at all but a tapestry mattress laid on the carpeted floor, and a still form, its head neatly wound with brushed black and grey hair, lying sheeted upon it. The Baba smiled and withdrew, closing the door, and as he did so, the head on the mattress stirred weakly and turned. It was Evangelista Donati.
If Philippa was astounded, the sick woman herself was at first paralysed by the shock of the encounter. Her black eyes, shining like agates, stared at Philippa; her cheeks, loose and yellow with illness, gathered in folds about the tight mouth; then with violence thrusting herself on one elbow she spoke, in the tones of the governess: the hard, precise timbre, inflected with Italian, which Philippa had heard her use, over and over, to Gabriel’s sister Joleta. ‘What are you doing here? Who sent you?’
Back in Scotland, as the duenna and confidante of the child-sister Joleta, Evangelista Donati had been a woman of power and maturity, though no longer young. The years spent with Gabriel and his sister had not been innocent ones; but they had filled her life with vitality; and with Joleta’s death at the hands of Graham Malett, her brother, more than a wicked, wayward, beloved creature had died. All Evangelista Donati’s purpose in living had gone.
And after she had denounced Graham Ma
lett; had told the world the truth about this great and gallant knight who was great only in vice, she had fled from the world, and from his vindictiveness, until, hiding in the house of her brother Marino Donati at Zakynthos, she must have met the child; and learned who he was, and have appointed herself, flouting Gabriel, the guardian of the boy whom he had sworn to degrade and had threatened to have killed.
So Philippa calculated. And so, looking at that anxious, malevolent face, she interpreted the cause of her distress and, walking forward, dropped on her knees by the mattress and answered immediately. ‘It’s all right. I’m from Mr Crawford. I’ve come to buy back his son.’
The sick woman sank back. The Baba had been right: Madame Donati had about her, like twilight, the climate of death. The handsome woman who had fascinated Peter Cranston, who had so irritated Sybilla, had gone, and here were only the material elements of her: the beaked nose; the thin, ringed hands. Madame Donati said, thinly, ‘They are afraid of Graham. They will not sell him.… Is Mr Crawford here also? How … how did you find the child?’
Philippa said, ‘Someone in France suggested I go to your brother’s house at Zakynthos. Mr Crawford didn’t know: he’s in Djerba, I think.… Look, you can tell them who Khaireddin is, can’t you? They won’t believe me. They pretend to think he’s Gab——Sir Graham’s godson or something; and they’re trying to send me away.’
The black eyes were contemptuous. ‘You are young, are you not? They do not care who he is, this child. They wish only to placate Graham. Give them what proof you will: it will make no difference to the Viceroy.’
‘But …’ said Philippa uneasily; and then decided to say it. ‘If Lymond kills Sir Graham, Khaireddin will die.’
The clever eyes in the dead face had noticed the hesitation. ‘Unless I, who am dying, was to have been his assassin? A natural thought from a Somerville. Unfortunately, you can dismiss it,’ said Evangelista Donati harshly. ‘I am here—I was here without Sir Graham Reid Malett’s knowledge.’
Philippa, her voice sharp, pounced on it. ‘He knows you are here now?’
‘He knows,’ said Evangelista Donati with irony. ‘And you know now, for certain, that the assassin is indeed with us in camp. I die of poison, Philippa Somerville; and after my death and your departure, the child is theirs to do with as they please.’
‘Unless,’ said Philippa, ‘I go in your place?’
There was a long silence. The sick woman said, finally, ‘I have been punished, Mistress Somerville, for my betrayal. I have also been killed because Sir Graham has no desire to see Khaireddin fall into friendly hands. You would have to guard yourself, as well as the child.’
‘I could try,’ said Philippa. And added, obstinately, ‘I’ll have to try.’
‘Or …’ said Evangelista Donati slowly.
‘What?’ said Philippa. She wished her heart would be quiet.
‘Unless you made yourself sacrosanct against even Graham’s designs. Then the child could be your full concern. And as soon as you reach Stamboul, you could give him proper protection.… Do not imagine,’ said Madame Donati bluntly, ‘that you will ever be permitted to hand the boy to his parent while Graham Malett is alive. While Sir Graham lives, he will be your charge and you cannot be free of him. Your life will be in Constantinople during that time; and although the boy may one day be free, you, Philippa Somerville, may end your days there.’
‘How?’ said Philippa; and folded her arms tight across her flat chest, crushing veil, robe and shift into final annihilation. ‘What would I do?’
‘You would go to the black eunuch who controls the girls among the Children of Tribute,’ said Evangelista Donati deliberately. ‘And you would place yourself under his care as a prize for the Grand Seigneur’s Seraglio.’
‘What?’ Philippa yelped.
It was one of her shriller sounds. Being rhetorical, it drew no further response from Madame Donati. But on top of the cupboard, where the bedding-roll lay beside the blanket, a certain movement made itself heard; a stirring and scuffling and some heavy breathing under stress, which resolved itself into the blanket rising into a caterpillar-like vertical, threshing briefly, and then unwinding to drop to the floor. On top of the cupboard there was revealed, peering over, a yellow satin oval of hair, topping the round sleepy face of a very young child, rudely awakened, but glad on the whole to be with everyone once again. ‘Hullo,’ said the child of the peach jam, in English, to Philippa.
‘Kuzucuyum?’ said Madame Donati. And at the sound, even Philippa dragged her eyes from the cupboard top and looked at the woman beside her; a woman soft-eyed and gentle in voice; putting into one single word the love and yearning stored in all these starved months since the death of Joleta. ‘My lambkin: this is Philippa. You must say Philippa Khátún. It is polite. She is going to give you dinner and put you to bed when … when I have to go away. Lift him down, Mistress Somerville.’
Slowly, Philippa rose, and walked over, and held out her arms.
He was square-built, and solid. There were dimples all over him: on every well-fed joint and pivot and haunch; but he was as firm as a hard peach; and on each calf the new walking-muscle had already started to swell. The face close to hers, laughing, was nothing but monstrous blue eyes, and a briefly nodal arrangement of gum and small rectangular teeth. ‘He has been called Kuzucuyum for so long …’ said Madame Donati. ‘It might be as well to continue.’
Philippa had forgotten her. She turned round, the child in her arms, and saw the yellow face on the mattress had gone grey, and the thin hands were wrestling together. Bending, she put the child on its feet. ‘Run,’ she said. ‘And kiss your …’
‘Aunt,’ said the little boy; and laughed, and scampered across the floor to throw himself on the sick woman’s chest. Philippa saw her gasp; and then draw the round head tight to her breast. Over it, Evangelista Donati’s black eyes made their only appeal and Philippa read it. ‘You meant,’ she said slowly, ‘that in the harem, or going to it, no one dare touch me? And that once there, no one could touch Khaireddin either?’
Evangelista Donati said, her voice only a whisper, ‘It is a terrible thing to do for a man … or a child. It is a school which will never end; a company you may never discard. More than that I can promise you. The Sultan is old: you will not suffer. You may choose to die in the Seraglio, or be married to the best blood in the land, for only these are given wives from the harem. But once committed, you will never escape.’
‘You risked death,’ said Philippa. Her throat was dry.
‘I have met death, and I am thankful,’ said Madame Donati. ‘And if you, you are to care for the child, I am glad. Because to Graham it will be a mortification I would die more than once to inflict.’
And upon the sight of the sick woman’s eyes, wildly glittering, and the sleepy roll of the bright yellow head, and the knowledge that hatred for Gabriel, more even than love for the boy, was the fuel which had powered this sick will and forced Evangelista Donati to the point of decision, Philippa heard herself saying, ‘Then I shall go. I shall take care of Khaireddin after you. I shall enter Topkapi with him, and look after him until he is able to leave. But,’ said Philippa, and an odd tear, infuriatingly, made its way down one sun-hardened cheek, ‘I don’t know what Kate will say when she hears.’
14
Zuara
It was hot, that August; and the wind blew from the desert, southwest; so the fleet of the Knights Hospitallers of St John of Jerusalem under Leone Strozzi, Prior of Capua, took a week, under oars, to travel from Malta to the African coast between Djerba and Tripoli, where lay the rich little town of Zuara.
Leone Strozzi was impatient. It was so near, this great prize for which he had laboured all winter. Under his guidance, Malta was fortified. Using Sicilian peasants and knights for his workmen, he and his friends had built two forts to shield the Knights from the continued assaults from the Turks. Built and paid for by the melted gold plate sent to him, with the chains from their shoulders, by the
Order’s Knights in Malta and overseas, they were the first commissioned since that domineering, avaricious old man de Homedes became Grand Master seventeen long years before.
But now Grand Master de Homedes was dying. Over eighty, warped and all-powerful still, there were signs that at last the strong heart was faltering, and the current of intrigue in that closed community of four hundred celibate Knights, vowed to poverty and chastity and obedience, was running faster and thicker as each day went by.
All that summer Leone Strozzi had worked at the fortifications, and had sailed the Mediterranean with his own two galleys, taking prize after prize. His had been the voice loudest in the Sacro Consigno; his had been the Langue with the best table, the finest entertainment, the liveliest talk. And he had only two rivals. Jean de la Valette, Grand Prior of St Gilles, was twenty years older than Leone Strozzi, and for all his brilliance and his dedication lacked the final, self-centred violence of purpose which could drive a Florentine forward. And for the other, Sir Graham Reid Malett, Leone had plans of his own.
All summer, Gabriel had been the one constant threat to Strozzi’s ambition. Gabriel the saintly, Gabriel the magnificent leader and strategist, Gabriel the seaman, Gabriel the priest. And it was sham. He knew it was sham, but none would listen to him. He had handed the proofs of it to the Council: the papers written by de Villegagnon accusing Graham Malett of betrayal and worse, and they had disappeared without a trace, into the hands of the Grand Master’s powerful Spanish circle of sycophants and then, he supposed, into the fire.
Pawn in Frankincense Page 30
