Pawn in Frankincense

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘I had an extraordinary feeling,’ said Lymond, ‘like a bat sitting in a cannonball tree, that I was going to be thrown on my own initiative. All this stirs one to ask why you troubled with Scotland?’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘It was ripe, then, for practice. This is ripe, now, for picking.… The Sultan, I believe, now awaits you.’

  Outside, under the splendid arcade, d’Aramon and the chief officials of the Embassy were already waiting, their Turkish robes dimly glittering with the reflected greens and golds from the ceiling, the sun and the trees; drawn up in form to walk round the remaining edge of the square to the Gate of Felicity. Behind them, two ushers waited to place Lymond’s robe, in turn, over his shoulders. By whatever delicate coincidence, it was of miniver, lined with a white brocaded silk flowered with castles and lions in faint gold embroidery. Turning, he waited for them to approach, and, slipping his arms through the short sleeves, allowed them to fasten it briefly. Then he turned back to Gabriel and bowed.

  ‘It is a matter of deep regret that I cannot kill you at this moment,’ said Lymond gently. ‘Because there are three children at the adventure of God I cannot address you either, as I should prefer. But I promise you failure. Whatever happens, I shall take the children and free them.’

  Gabriel smiled. ‘Believe it if you must. You cannot alter what is in store, or avoid the long appointment with pain which awaits you. My other friends will take heed from your … infelicity.… I bid you goodbye.’

  For a moment longer, encased like chrysalids in the plate-armour of ceremony, the two men faced each other in silence, and M. d’Aramon, watching apprehensively from the door, felt the tension already within the Divan tighten to a point beyond sound.

  He did not know that for one man at least the room had become filled with the scents of a night garden in Algiers; choked and overlaid with the stench of a hideous burning. He did not know that, in spite of what Lymond had said, Gabriel was at that moment all but a dead man, and the lives of Philippa Somerville and two unknown children all but destroyed. But he saw Francis Crawford’s hands spreadeagled suddenly, hard at his sides; and something inspired M. d’Aramon to say quickly, ‘M. l’Ambassadeur! We must leave.’

  Then Lymond turned abruptly from Jubrael Pasha and, without speaking, walked through the door of the Divan and joined the procession outside.

  It was the last fine day of that autumn. Glaring high from a lucid blue sky, the sun struck down from the studded rows of lead domes and lanced into the eye from the gold leaf and copper enriching the courtyard, and the silver-tipped staffs and the clothes of the Janissaries, the Kapici and Chiausi in their unmoving ranks. The silence was complete.

  Gold danced in the shadows of Bab-i-Sa’adet, the Gate of Felicity, as the French Ambassador’s train approached it through one of the flanking colonnades of verd-antique pillars. Below the high, dazzling soffit of its canopy a deep carpet had been laid before the innermost gate: the gate through which entry was forbidden to all but Suleiman Khan the Magnificent and the chosen members of the Inner Household and those whom, as today, he might receive in private audience in the Arzodasi, the Throne Room just inside its gates. Beyond that was the unknown: the state apartments, the harem, the quarters of the eunuchs and the little, painted pages locked behind the three gates of the outer courts, and the ranks of Spahi and Janissary and all the public officialdom of the empire.

  White eunuchs guarded the door: tall men of many races robed in gamboge and sable, stark and pure in their turbans as a cliff-face of gannets. Between them stood the Kapi Agha, the Chief White Eunuch and High Chamberlain, the head of the Third Court of the Seraglio. He bowed, hand on breast: once to the new Ambassador and once to the old; and then, turning, faced the high portico, wrought in panels of marble and wreathed with the golden calligraphy of the Qur’ân, which contained the Gate of Felicity: the great double-leafed doors of Bab-i-Sa’adet. He raised his hand, walking forward, his train of vermilion velvet brushing the carpet. And as Francis Crawford moved forward behind him, the doors opened slowly.

  They opened on flowers and birdsong: on a dazzle of white and gilt marble set in willows and cypress and boxtrees; on galleried walls of marthe and turquoise blue porcelain whose gilded Greek pillars were veiled in the spray of the fountains spaced down the long, sloping courtyard. Underfoot, the carpet continued over pale and formal mosaics, under the inner canopy of the Gate of Felicity and to the door of the Sultan’s kiosk, which faced it directly, and which was bedded, as a jewel in velvet, in the caissoned files of his household.

  They stood silent; slot upon slot of deep colour and quick shifting fragrance: the White Eunuchs in bright taffeta coats and loose trousers and slippers; the hundred dwarves, sullen and scimitared; grotesque in gold satin and squirrel fur. The Imams, in crimson. The two hundred Imperial Pages, in tunics of cloth of gold to the knee, their sashes of bright coloured silk; their boots of red Spanish leather, and the long locks of hair curling, under the cloth-of-gold caps, from the shaven heads of the Sultan’s own household. And the deaf mutes, their stiff elaborate hats in violet velvet, their robes of cloth of gold flashing as their hands moved: the only human beings in all that magnificent courtyard allowed, through affliction, to talk.

  The kiosk of Suleiman the Magnificent was three-sided, its marble sides inlaid with jet and porphyry and jasper and arched with legends in silver; its coloured windows laced with wrought gold. Inside, over all was the deep Indian yellow of leaf gold in shadow. Hangings of silver tissue, dimly sparkling on silver gilt columns; an icy crust of carved stucco; an enamelled glint of white and emerald tiling; a ceiling deeply inlaid and gilded, supporting a crystal-paned lantern of silver, its rim set with turquoise and opal.

  From the open, third side, a carpet of embroidered carnation satin led to a low dais, whose own carpet was worked in silver, turquoises and orient pearls. On it sat enthroned the master of all this magnificence: Suleiman, by the grace of God King of Kings, Sovereign of Sovereigns, most high Emperor of Byzantium and Trebizond; most mighty King of Persia, Arabia, Syria and Egypt; Prince of Mecca and Aleppo; possessor of Jerusalem: Sultan Suleiman Khan, the Shadow of God upon Earth.

  He wore cloth of gold, figured with deep, crimson velvet and edged, fluting on fluting, with a white fur pinned and studded with rubies. Rubies burned from the scimitar hung at his side, and in the cluster of pigeon’s-egg jewels set in gold which held the peacock plumes in his white turban and clasped the enchained jewels which lay swagged in its folds.

  The face was aquiline, bearded and dark. Not the face of a happy man; but a face of authority, thinned by indifferent health. More than thirty years Emperor, Suleiman, now nearing sixty, belonged to the age of England’s Henry VIII and the first King Francis of France: the age of magnificent despotism and supreme theological rule. He sat, a shadowy figure within his glorious casket, as still as the cipher; the symbol, which for this occasion was all he was expected to be.

  Behind the cloth of gold and the diamonds and the blank face of ceremony was a living, powerful emperor. Following the Kapi Agha and his successor to take his place, with his fellows, under the arcade opposite the wide throne-room door, M. d’Aramon wondered what hope Francis Crawford could sustain now of disrupting that sovereign calm.

  Standing still at the head of the gentlemen of his suite, Lymond’s face was unreadable above the stiff magnificence of his gown, black fur upon white, each lattice pinned with an ermine tail. Breathless under the weight of his own brocade, d’Aramon could guess at the malice behind the costly gesture, and admire the self-command which could ignore it. Then there was a movement behind them, through the arch of the Gateway of Felicity, and two by two, as they waited, the Ambassador’s pages filed into the court, and pacing slowly to the Sultan’s kiosk, displayed to their recipient the gifts of the Most Christian Monarch of France.

  To d’Aramon it was familiar. In so many countries had he stood and watched the wealth of his master lavished, like this, upon some petty king, some heret
ic figurehead: the bales of lawn and velvet and brocade; the vessels; the swords in their jewelled velvet sheaths; the furs and chains and belts and horse harness of silver; the hawks and greyhounds and thoroughbred stallions. Converted into luxury the produce of their fields and vineyards, the labourers’ sweat; the landowner’s taxes. The Baron de Luetz watched the file of pages bear their glittering burdens to the kiosk, and pause, displaying them, and wheel pair by pair to deposit each in its warehouse. On either side of the kiosk, the Kislar Aga and the Kapi Agha, standing motionless, made no gesture, and within, straight-backed on his throne, the Sultan made no sign until, their breathing coming hard in the silence, there came forward the four liveried servants bearing the litter with the last present of all.

  Within this bower of sunshine and extravagance, the horological spinet sparkled like a piece of bossed and wadded embroidery; a confection of gold leaf and sumptuous quartzes enthroning in white sapphire the bald face of time. Bending, the four sweating pages brought its litter to rest at the door of the kiosk and bowing, Georges Gaultier, choked in charcoal velvet, slid the spinet from its ivory drawer and touched the little spring above to set the automata alive. A shower of silvery chimes fell on the silence, and the casket of the spinet erupted into a blizzard of angular movement before the still ranks of its audience, like a dragonfly pinned to some page of a royal Book of Hours.

  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.