by Toombs, Jane
"Confucius has told us we must keep ourselves awake with poetry," he told her. "I have always tried, but little did I imagine I would find words for a fan-qui."
Romell did her best to ignore what he was doing. "You’ve written a poem for me?" she asked, looking at him.
He smiled at her.
"I must translate my poem into Dutch for you to understand. A pity to lose some of the meaning." He began to recite:
"It is late autumn. The lotus has no flower. The rains have passed. You come, bringing fire. Tempting my wings. Beware, O flame! Not all fliers of the night are moths."
He stopped, watching her.
Romell was silent for a moment. "I'm not certain I understand," she said at last. "Your words are haunting and, somehow, sad."
"You describe yourself. But I weary of talk." He raised up and, spreading her legs, pulled her to him.
She resigned herself. She was more than her body, she had a mind as well. And a heart. Her thoughts blurred. He was a clever lover and was doing his best to create a response. She did her best to master herself, glad when Nicholas pulled away from her.
"I have decided you must ask for what you want," he said huskily. He touched her with featherlight fingers. "Tell me, my pretty fan-qui. Tell me."
She was close to wanting him, but would never let him know that. Romell clenched her fists and remained silent.
Nicholas poised above her, his sex pushing gently at her, teasing. "Tell me," he whispered.
Romell bit her lip. No. Never.
Nicholas pushed her hard, shoving her over the edge of the bed, and she slid to the floor.
"You will return to the women's quarters." he said.
She stared up at his flushed face, feeling triumphant.
"Shall I send Poo Li to you once I get there?" she asked.
He rose. For a moment she thought he would strike her. Slowly he subsided, gazing down at her.
"English women are rash," he said. "Can Englishmen be as foolhardy? I would suspect so, yes." He smiled. "Get up and dress. Go to your rooms and prepare for tonight. There will be a sword contest." He turned away and reached for his robe.
"Your wish is my command," Romell responded, rising and slipping on her robe.
"You will enjoy the swordplay," he said, still smiling.
Romell shrugged. "I'll be there."
"You and Poo Li. Which of you will enjoy it more, I wonder?"
Romell glanced at him curiously. What was he up to now? Was he warning her that she could be given to the victor tonight if she didn't mend her ways? Telling her that her position as palace favorite was in danger?
No, she thought, he hasn't conquered me yet, and he won't be through with me until he has. If anyone was to leave the palace, it would be Poo Li. Poo Li was the only remaining concubine beside Romell, and Nicholas hadn't called the Chinese women to him since Romell had been brought to the palace.
"Until later," Nicholas said.
She left his rooms and was escorted back along the corridors by one of the black guards.
After she'd bathed and put on a fresh robe, Romell sat beside the lotus pond in the woman's courtyard. Water cascaded from the mouth of a bronze fish, and the lotus pads lay like green stepping stones across the pool. There were no blossoms. It was late autumn, November. The lotus bloomed in the summer.
"The lotus has no flower."
What did Nicholas's poem mean? A warning, she was sure, but of what?
Golden carp flicked among the lotus pads. A frog as green as the lotus poked his head above the water, rolled an eye at Romell and ducked under again. The perfume of the red ginger flowers sweetened the air.
Romell stretched languidly. Best not to try to fathom Nicholas's reasons. Best to think only of each day as it came, lest she lose heart. Living one day at a time had kept her alive in Southland among the natives, and Nicholas's palace was only another form of captivity.
Something plopped into the water beside her, spraying droplets over her arm. Romell jumped and looked up. On the other side of the pond stood a stocky young man, younger than she was. He had no beard and wore his hair cut to his shoulders, much like a Dutchman.
After a moment, she remembered seeing him before. The first day she had arrived at the palace Nicholas had called this young man to the dais. He looked even less Chinese than Nicholas. Was he the eldest son?
"You are the English woman," the young man said, speaking acceptable Dutch.
"Yes," Romell replied, straightening up to sit primly on the tiled rim of the pond. No man except Nicholas was permitted here in the women's quarters. Still, if this was Nicholas's son. ...
"I've never talked to a woman fan-qui before," he said.
Romell decided she must speak up. “I don’t know if I should talk to you," she told him. "I don't know your name, or if you should be here."
"I'm Cheng," he said. "Cheng can be wherever he chooses."
"Then you must be Cheng Iquan," she said. "The number one son."
He smiled at her, a charming, boyish smile. "Do you learn the language of Chung-Kuo?" he asked.
Romell knew the Chinese called their country not China but Chung-Kuo, The Middle Kingdom.
"Your language is most difficult to master," she said. "I learn a word only to find that it has four or five different meanings, depending on the tone of the voice I fear I will never be proficient."
He inclined his head slightly. "You are a woman and cannot be expected to be a scholar, of course. Although you do seem different from most women. I saw you when Ying brought you here, and I knew I must meet you as soon as I returned from the College."
The intensity of his gaze, lingering on the swell of her breasts, made her uneasy but, she reminded herself, he was quite young—no more than sixteen or seventeen. Still, she pulled her pale blue silk robe over her ankles to conceal them.
"Are you a scholar?" she asked, ignoring the slighting reference to women. It was, after all, how men felt, no matter what country they lived in.
"Of Confucius," Cheng said proudly. "At the Imperial College." He sounded quite like a schoolboy. He moved around the pond until he stood beside her. "Our word for fire is huo." His fingers touched her hair, lingering to caress her neck. "That is the word for your hair. Huo."
Romell rose and began to move casually toward the open wall leading into the women's quarters. Son or not, she knew Nicholas would never approve of this. Cheng caught her arm and drew her close to him. "You haven't been given my permission to leave."
She looked directly at him, feeling his hardness against her body. "I was under the impression that I was to obey only your father."
His hands fell away. "You defy me, fan-qui?"
"I defy no one," she stated firmly.
He scowled at her.
Romell thought quickly. At some future time she might need Cheng's help. Summoning a smile, she said, "Perhaps someday we can be friends. Now, it is not wise."
His brow cleared. He reached out as though to touch her hair again, hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing through a door on the far side of the courtyard. She heard a key click and knew the door was once again locked, as it had always been before.
So he's afraid of his father, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Although not worried about her ability to handle Cheng, she was frightened of Nicholas's reaction if he should hear that Cheng had touched her. It would be she, not Cheng, who would get the worst of whatever punishment was meted out.
Poo Li stood by the open wall as Romell entered the room, and Romell knew the concubine had been watching them by the pond. How many other unseen eyes had observed that scene? Nicholas would surely find out.
Poo Li wasn't quite an enemy, but certainly not a friend. Romell, upon discovering the secret of the concubine's "lily" feet, hadn't been able to hide her horror when she saw Poo Li's terrible deformity. The girl had been bathing, and the sight of her toes turned grotesquely under so they touched the soles of her feet caused
Romell to turn away, sickened.
When Romell had later asked Nicholas the reason for binding women's feet, he told her lily feet were beautiful to men, even arousing.
"A girl's feet are bound as soon as she learns to walk so that they may grow into lilies," he said.
"It must be very painful."
"Pain suffered to create loveliness is worthwhile," he had replied.
Poo Li had seen Romell's expression that first time and now never exposed her feet in front of Romell. Neither did she offer any friendliness.
"Cheng Iquan," Poo Li said to Romell, then added the word for wife, and a woman's name.
Cheng was married? At sixteen? Romell shrugged. It was undoubtedly the custom. An official wife acquired early and after that however many concubines a man was able, or cared, to support. Cheng certainly wasn't planning to take her as a concubine when he knew she literally belonged to his father.
"Swords tonight," Poo Li said, in Chinese. "We go." She sounded excited.
Romell had come to deplore this senseless shedding of blood, this fighting for the sole purpose of Nicholas's enjoyment. At the same time, she couldn't help but welcome the diversion in the monotony of her life.
"Ying?" she asked, hoping she might see Fatima again.
"No. New man." Poo Li glanced slyly at Romell. "Fan-qui."
Another Portuguese, Romell supposed. She had seen several of them among the pirate crew, looking and acting the same as any other pirate.
After they had eaten, she and Poo Li were escorted to the latticed porch by a servant. When Romell had settled on the seat next to Poo Li, there was a stir of activity and a bevy of women servants fluttered in. Romell watched as they led the young woman in their midst to a seat apart from Romell and Poo Li.
"Wife of Cheng," Poo Li whispered.
The new arrival was so swathed in bright blue and gold brocade and silken scarves that Romell couldn't be certain, but she thought perhaps Cheng's wife was far along with child.
Her speculations diverted her, and the gong had sounded and the first fight had begun by the time she glanced down at the torch lit arena. Two men, both naked to the waist, circled one another warily. One had lighter skin, a curly black beard, and a blue scarf tied about his head. He must be the Portuguese, Romell decided, since the Chinese grew only straight and sparse beards. His Chinese opponent wore a red head scarf.
For a time, the Portuguese appeared to be getting the worst of the fight, retreating, not forcing his opponent, and Romell thought him outmatched. Then she noted that he was unmarked, despite a monumental amount of lunging and thrusting on the part of the Chinese swordsman. Romell sat a little straighter, her interest aroused.
Blue scarf glided beneath red scarfs blade. He turned about his adversary again and again until red scarf, exasperated, lunged. Blue scarf sidestepped and countered, nicking his opponent's shoulder. With a howl of anger, the Chinese attacked, but the Portuguese with the blue scarf parried the thrust, changed his ground, and counterattacked, surprising the Chinese.
Blue scarf’s sword slipped under his opponent’s guard and sliced in the man’s arm. Red scarf’s sword dropped from his hand. He sank to his knees, grasping his nearly severed arm. Blood dripped into the dirt.
She heard Nicholas call for the next contender as two men stepped forward to help the injured Chinese from the arena.
The man with the blue scarf threw back his head, breathing deeply, and Romell stiffened in shock.
No, she thought, dazed, no, it can't be! I'm imagining Adrien's face. No, he can't be here.
A moment later, he'd turned toward his new opponent, and she could no longer see his features. Romell clenched her hands tightly together in her lap, fighting an almost uncontrollable urge to leap to her feet and scream Adrien's name. It was Adrien! She recognized his style of swordplay now, the familiar grace. How could she not have recognized him from the first?
But how could he be here?
I must do nothing to show I know him, she warned herself, giving a look from the corner of her eye at Poo Li, then the other way toward Cheng's wife and her servants.
When she glanced toward Nicholas, she saw him watching her. Romell swallowed. Is that what he had meant earlier today? That Adrien was here? Of course it was. She couldn't believe Adrien would be so rash as to mention her name, so Nicholas must only suspect that the two fan-qui, both English, knew one another.
Romell turned her attention back to the arena and fell into an agonized frenzy when she saw the huge Chinese who was Adrien's next challenger. She dared not let a sound pass her lips but her fingernails cut into her palms when the two men crossed swords close to the hilts and stood firm, glaring at one another.
Adrien broke free, uninjured, and resumed his turning, feinting attack. But the giant who opposed him waited him out, refusing to be drawn into a contest of futile lunges. Adrien slowed, seeming to move more and more awkwardly. He's tiring, Romell thought, her body tense with the effort to appear unaffected, for she was certain that Nicholas watched her every move.
"Drin!" a man's voice called out from the semicircle of spectators.
Adrien straightened. Then, as though he could no longer hold his sword in position, his right arm sagged, the sword drooping. Instantly, the Chinese plunged forward, attacking, and Romell couldn't stop the moan that slipped past her defenses. Cheng's wife cried out at the same time, a sound such as a wounded bird might make, but loud enough to mask Romell’s cry.
Adrien twisted and dodged, almost avoiding the man's strike entirely but the tip of the man's sword just touched Adrien's face and a line of blood appeared on his cheek. Adrien circled, circled again around the giant, who stayed in one spot, slowly swiveling to face Adrien.
Romell wanted to shout at Adrien that his tactics wouldn't work with this man, that he'd exhaust himself before the Chinese tired.
Again, Adrien seemed to lose heart and began backing away. After a moment the Chinese moved cautiously forward and began circling Adrien, who appeared barely able to turn to face him. The Chinese sprang in for the kill, slashing at Adrien, but the Englishman leaped nimbly away. In a flurry of thrusts, Adrien attacked from the side, jabbing the giant in the chest and dancing away.
The Chinese stood stock still, placing his hand over the blood that bubbled from his wound. Even from where she sat, Romell could see the shock on his face when his knees buckled and he went down.
Romell sprang to her feet, hardly aware of the tug at her sleeve. Adrien had won! At last she became aware that Poo Li was speaking to her.
"You tell me quick," she said. "Do fan-qui be as other men?"
Adrien gulped air, standing over the wounded Chinese. With luck, the man might live—he'd tried to miss the heart. Still an alarming amount of blood bubbled from the chest. Adrien felt the sting of his own minor wound and touched his cheek. His hand came away bloody. You're slowing down, Montgomery, he told himself. He turned his head toward Nicholas, waiting. How many more men would he have to fight?
To his surprise, Nicholas walked toward him, smiling. "Chi tells no lies," the pirate chief said. "You are a wily opponent. Drin, Chi calls you but I believe you should call yourself the fox, for that is how you fight. I look forward to Ying's return, to see you matched against him. If I call you a fox, he is a wolf. Yes, it will be worth waiting for."
Adrien smiled tightly but said nothing.
"Now, you must come with me," Nicholas said, "for I have your reward." He gestured toward the latticed porch and Adrien glanced up.
His heart lurched in his chest when he saw Romell's face between the squares of lattice work. For a timeless instant she met his gaze, then turned away.
"I give you my concubine," Nicholas said. "You have won her, and she is yours."
Adrien turned a wondering stare toward Nicholas. "Thank you, Your Excellency," he managed to say. "I didn't expect—"
"It is my custom," Nicholas said.
Adrien was escorted to his room by one of the blacks who pol
itely, but firmly relieved him of his sword, telling him it would be cleaned and kept for him until the next fight. Adrien knew resistance was futile, but he wondered why he had been allowed to keep the sword in the first place.
In his room he bathed and lay on the bed, waiting. Despite his eager anticipation, the lack of sleep from the night before and the physical effort of the two swordfights made him drowsy. Romell, he thought drowsily. Romell. . . .
He didn't hear the door open, didn't rouse when the candles were extinguished one by one, but when the soft fingers touched him intimately he groaned and pulled the willing body to him.
Romell paced back and forth in the women's quarters. The black servants had come for Poo Li, and Romell was positive the concubine had been taken to Adrien.
She drifted into the dark courtyard to sit on the tiled rim of the pond. The overpowering sweetness of night-blooming jasmine clogged her nostrils as she tried to push the picture of Poo-Li woman in Adrien's arms out of her mind.
What was Nicholas up to? Would he send for her tonight, make love to her while she thought of Adrien? Or was he hatching some devious scheme to destroy Adrien?
A tiny scrape of metal against metal brought her head up. Romell stared across at the locked door, hidden by the darkness. She rose. Could it possibly be Adrien? She felt a surge of excitement that shifted into a pulse of apprehension. Is this what Nicholas intended? To see that Adrien was given the key so that he might be trapped inside the women's quarters? She'd heard of the unfortunate concubine and her lover who had lost their heads when Nicholas found them together. Is that what he planned for Adrien and her? She saw a wedge of light, quickly extinguished, and the outline of a dark figure. She took a step backward. That stocky figure was not Adrien, it could only be Cheng.
How foolish of Nicholas's son to risk them both by such a visit! She began to retreat. Surely he'd not dare to follow her into the lighted rooms. Her foot scuffed against a pebble which rattled against another pebble and she heard the pound of footsteps. An arm shot out and grasped her robe. She turned, reached out to feel Cheng's beardless face.
"Let me go!" she hissed, keeping her voice low.
