"Wait.” Laihla cautioned, assisting Merri back into a more comfortable position. “Let us speak of this after the physician has left,” she suggested.
Merri nodded in weary consent, finding she really did need to rest for the few minutes they had left before Anera returned with the thin eunuch who dispensed medical care to the women of the Seraglio. Right now, she cared about nothing so much as the promise of getting rid of the pain in her head. She'd worry about the master of the girls later. Besides, she had faith Laihla would be able to give her the advice she needed.
The physician came and went after administering a much-needed headache powder as well as a thorough physical examination of the patient. Merri was embarrassed, as usual, at having to expose her body to a male doctor, yet while she would never be totally comfortable about it, the experience was fast becoming less alarming as she grew more accustomed to dealing with the non-men who inhabited the Seraglio alongside the captive women. And this particular eunuch's unusual thinness fascinated her.
"Laihla,” Merridyth asked as soon as the doctor had left the room, a contemplative frown on her face, “why do you suppose that physician is so thin? I thought all eunuchs grew to be, well ... fatter after their ... ah, uhm ... operation."
"Abla tells us he retains his pre-eunuch size due to his drinking the urine of pregnant women."
"Eeuuww. How disgusting. Surely you jest. You love to shock me, is all."
"No, no! I swear it is true."
Merri's mouth twisted as if she had tasted something extremely nasty. “I should rather waddle all my days than resort to something so foul.” An arrested look came over her features and she froze.
"Ugh. He touched me with his urine hands.” she cried.
Laihla laughed in outright enjoyment. She fell over and rolled across the pallet in unrestrained hilarity. Merridyth was not amused. With narrowed eyes, she contemplated kicking the convulsing woman, but rose above the provocation. Moving gingerly over to the table that held a pitcher of water and its matching basin, Merridyth took up the pitcher and poured water into the basin laving her hands with some of the soft soap contained in a glass dish.
"I can assure you,” she said grimly, “he will never attend me or mine again.” She meant every word. She firmly ignored Laihla's renewed laughter as she continued to wash and dry her hands. Furthermore, she determined she would wash everywhere that eunuch had touched her at the earliest opportunity.
For the next two hours, Merri listened as Laihla instructed her on the proper etiquette of attending the Mistress, the Agasi or the Sultan. She carefully noted all the do's and do not's in the potentially deadly dance of court appearances. During the lecture, Laihla repeatedly reduced her to uncontrollable bouts of merriment. Despite the seriousness of her situation, she found it almost impossible to contain her laughter, which in turn set Laihla off. Biting her generous bottom lip, the dark beauty would persevere, fighting against the urge to giggle until she caught Merri's eye. The two women finally calmed enough to complete their business, but when Merri returned to Susan and Seana, the lightness of shared laughter buoyed her steps.
The excellent advice she had received from Laihla notwithstanding, Merri found her hopes for an immediate interview with the Mistress dashed. The woman had disappeared. No matter how many people she asked, Merri couldn't get a single person to open up about her whereabouts.
The Kislar Agasi also refused her request. Underground gossip had him cowering in his apartments, wanting nothing further to do with a situation that had brought the Sultan's searing anger down around his head.
Chapter Twenty-five
In his sumptuously appointed quarters, the Kislar Agasi paced angrily, smarting at being forced to even acknowledge Merri's appeal for an audience with himself or the Sultan. Though he had refused to see her, he dared not simply ignore the request the dark-haired one had sent through one of the harem guards.
The gossip machine would certainly carry the tale to the Sultan, and if anything occurred to either of the remaining women while under his charge, he would suffer the ultimate punishment. The tongue-lashing he had received from the Sultan had terrified him since the Sultan was not known for his patience or fairness. His temper was unpredictable, and he was as likely to order a hanging or drowning as he was to order the kind of lashing meted out to the former mistress of the girls.
Despite his anger over this situation, the Agasi was not willing to jeopardize his position. He had amassed a battalion of enemies during his years in power, and he knew they were watching from the sidelines, licking their lips, waiting for him to falter. He clenched his fists thoughts worrying at the problem before him. There had to be a way to circumvent this English thorn in his side. The Sultan had ordered that Simsiyah Gül be treated with extreme carefulness.
Well, he mused, rubbing his hands in anticipation of the debacle he would doubtless soon be privileged to observe, let her take her demands directly to the Sultan. He will quickly depress her pushy, unwomanly pretensions. His belly shook from the force of the laugh that thundered out of him as he envisioned a meeting between those two. He gleefully sent a eunuch with a message relaying the girl's request of an appointment with the Sultan to Tubal, the court's Major Domo and the eunuch in charge of vetting the sultan's appointments.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Sultan was enjoying himself. While the Kislar Aghasi's messenger was hurrying towards the public divans, Selim was holding a luncheon in his private apartments to celebrate the return of his son. When the meal was finished, he planned to tell Jamal of the three women. Selim frowned, recalling the flame-haired one's attempt to take her own life. She was now nothing but an empty shell, and thus no longer considered eligible for his son.
A renewed rush of anger filled him as he contemplated the disaster that might have occurred had it been the black-haired woman. Selim had long since uncovered her importance to Jamal. Upon first hearing her name, he had rushed to re-read Emily's letters. As he'd suspected, he'd found the girl written of therein. Allah had vindicated his plans by placing within his grasp the only woman his son had ever shown a serious interest in. Still, the incompetence of his staff in this matter was intolerable.
When Tubal appraised him of the unstable situation, he had taken quick measures to ensure the other two women did not follow in the steps of their companion by assigning guards to watch over each of them. One woman was destined for his son ... and he had enjoyable personal plans for the other. He'd always been partial to the sunny coloring of the traditional blonde-haired English woman.
Selim looked to where his son sat leaning against a plush purple cushion, talking with the Bey of Seyhan and idly picking over the variety of foodstuffs before him. Jamal looked to be enjoying his conversation with the Bey.
It had been a long time since he'd conversed with someone so learned, sophisticated and well traveled. He was especially interested to learn the Bey had recently completed a trip to England. Though the Bey was somewhat older than he was, Jamal was glad to find they held many opinions in common. Of course, they also differed diametrically in some areas, which was okay. Their differences added spice to their conversation.
Currently, the Bey—Emil, he had been invited to call him—was expounding on the role of women in the Islamic culture, and Jamal could hardly wait for him to finish his sentence before rebutting.
"Surely, as an educated man, you cannot believe that women are soulless. We men have souls, and we are of the same species as women. We men sire daughters as well as sons. Shall one child be soulless and another, not? Or how then can it be that a soulless creature would bring forth that which is not within itself?"
Emil smiled. “You make a good point, young Emir, yet you overlook the power of Allah. He is able to overrule nature, that his plans be made perfect. However, you mistake our stand. Of course women have souls. It is not living women, we call soulless. We speak of the houris that await the just in paradise, those exquisite females designed to provide unend
ing sexual pleasure for those males attaining the highest reward.” Emil reached for a black, plump fig, examining it for imperfections. Finding none, he bit into it, closing his eyes at the tart taste of the seedy fruit.
"Yes, our women have souls, but they are like small children, needing the guiding hand of one concerned for their welfare and safety. Males are responsible for protecting their women from themselves. The Koran tells us that women are natural seducers, seeking to turn a man from his devotions to Allah, and lead him astray in the valley of lusts. This is why we keep our women sequestered in harems. Behind veils and private walls, they cannot tempt men and they are kept safe from their own in-born tendencies to wander in un-godly paths.
Jamal shook his head. “You make a woman sound like she has nothing in her head but air. I know several women who are just as you have described, yet I know many more that are quite capable of running their own affairs; my mother being a prime example."
Emil nodded. “It is a sad but true fact that where women have not been nurtured as they deserve, some have had to take on the roles usually reserved for the male. While they have obtained some small measure of success in these endeavors, they have lost sight of the more important goal for their lives—"
Jamal leaned forward studying Emil's earnest expression with deep attention. “And that is...?"
While he waited for Emil to finish chewing the morsel of food, he pondered the man's arguments. How fascinating that a highly intelligent man could actually seek to defend the belief of women having inferior minds. Then again, he ruefully acknowledged to himself, there were many men in England who held those same beliefs. The difference was that most English men would not dare voice that opinion except in the privacy of their clubs.
His own opinions had been formed by observing several strong females during his formative years: Grandmother Tyson had been a regal old martinet ruling her family with an iron hand after the death of her husband. His fathe—Randolph—had often said Granny had a better grasp of political matters than the inept politicians of her day who had mangled England's foreign policy programs.
Then there was his mother. Jamal knew Her Grace, Emily Elaine Barrington Tyson, Dowager Duchess of Wyndmere, to be one of the most intelligent, self-sufficient human beings it had been his pleasure to associate with.
"...to be the penultimate woman!” Rapping the table for emphasis ... and to draw Jamal back from his inner musings, Emil elaborated. “There is no greater or higher work for a woman than that she give succor to her master and bear him sons. That she be meek and obedient to his commands and submissive to his will."
Jamal threw back his head and laughed. “Where is this paragon hiding?” he asked jokingly. “For I tell you, I have never seen such a woman. Nor do I ever expect to."
"You are young, yet my son.” The Sultan's voice was a reminder that the two men, so deeply involved in their discussion, were not alone at the table.
Jamal inclined his head. “May I say,” he said, a smile lighting his eyes, “if the two of you hold such beliefs, you are both younger than I took you to be.” They all laughed, though the Sultan looked momentarily stunned.
Jamal ate his full as the conversation flowed back and forth. The three men talked of many things ... and nothing in particular. Belly pleasantly stuffed, Jamal drowsed in the warm afternoon heat, resting back on his hands as he listened to the voices of his father and the Bey. Content and relaxed, he allowed his mind to wander to the events of the evening before...
Jamal, accompanied by six young nobles, had ridden into the palace courtyards at dusk. After turning his three small ounce cubs over to a grounds-man with orders to find them milk, Jamal had retired immediately to his quarters to indulge in a hot steaming bath, read the latest packet of letters from his mother, and endure the fawning attentions of his servant, Seuliman.
The silence of his apartments was a Godsend after the past several weeks of having to listen to, and often arbitrate between, his garrulous hunting companions. While the outing had been opportune—and the hunt had actually been exciting at times—Jamal, lazing under the soothing waters of the bath had just been thankful it was over.
There was also the added relief of having his quarters all to himself. Seuliman had met him at the entrance to his apartments with the news that Elba was gone. Instead of being sent home his servant had arranged for her to be gifted, in Jamal's name, to a wealthy, widowed merchant who'd been in the market for a new playmate. Both were happy with the situation. The merchant relished the prestige of owning a beautiful woman trained in the harem of the Sultan. Elba rejoiced that she now had a wealthy master who delighted in pampering her and treated her as she deserved to be treated, lustily seeking her out at every opportunity.
Tiredness and the hot water combined to melt his cares away and Jamal had drowsed in the tub, the sheaf of letters falling from his hand. What seemed like seconds later, he yawned lazily and looked up to find Seuliman hovering over him, a large linen bath sheet folded over his arm.
"I must have fallen asleep.” He sat up, anxiously looking over the edge of the brass bathing tub. A relieved sigh escaped him at sight of the papers lying scattered on the floor. “I was afraid I'd dropped my letters in the drink—"
Seuliman looked confused. “Master had no drink—” The eunuch looked even more confused when he burst out laughing. Jamal could almost hear him thinking about the strangeness of the man he was forced to serve, but the eunuch stoically extended him the drying cloth. “Please Effendi, allow your humble servant to assist you..."
Jamal stood up, still chuckling. He'd taken the sheet from the man, waving him away before wrapping it securely about himself.
"No need, Seuliman. I can manage.” He vigorously toweled his dripping locks of hair before patting the moisture from his skin. “Tell me what has been occurring here while I was away.” He knew Seuliman thrived on gossip ... and the retelling of it.
By the time the garrulous servant was through, Jamal had learned all about the recent happenings in the harem: about the new women—Sounds as if they might be English, he'd mused, thinking he'd have to check into that. About the punishment of the harem's Mistress of girls over some woman trying to hang herself; and sundry other court matters that should never have been discussed outside the legal divans. The palace was always a hothouse bed of intrigue. It seemed his servant had managed to be at the heart of the gossip, as usual...
Chapter Twenty-seven
I heard from a friend in the war department that a request to reexamine your court transcripts had been submitted with the view to reopening your case. I was not surprised, as I knew you had been one of the best operatives the war department had ever trained, and they will need all the good men they can get to counter the threat of Napoleon regaining control of France. Imagine my shock when I learnedit was none other than Robert Townesend behind the requests. No one knows what he is about, and we may never know as they eventually denied his requests. The department felt it would be a mistake to reopen the case after so long with no new information to consider. Jason says Robert has been very unpopular among the set you used to run about with. He thinks it may be a ploy to get your friends’ regard back. I confess, I do not see how he could think anything might help him in this, what with the way he so totally betrayed you—Mum
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jamal shook his head, his mind worrying over the few details he had managed to garner about the three new additions to his father's harem. Something about the situation bothered him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.
He frowned, sighed heavily, and looked up to find both the Bey and the Sultan staring at him. “What? What is it?” He questioned them. “Why are you both staring at me?"
The two Eastern princes exchanged a puzzled glance. “We cannot fathom why he suddenly stopped participating in our lively exchange and began frowning and muttering to yourself."
The Bey frowned at Jamal. “For a few minutes we entertained the dread notion you mi
ght be having a seizure; however, you soon disabused us of this by calmly examining the foods on the laden table and selecting an interesting tidbit, which you popped into your mouth, chewing vigorously, all the while, continuing your internal conversation."
The Sultan leaned forward, studying his son. “We have called your name twice, oglan, and received no answer. What troubles you to the extent that you speak out loud—but not to us—and do not hear our words and respond?"
Jamal leaned back, wrapping his arms about his folded legs, his relaxed pose in juxtaposition to his inner tensions. He hesitated to reply, knowing his next words would bring dissension ending this peaceful interlude of conversation and food.
His father was aware of his views on the eastern practice of abducting women and holding them in virtual slavery, as he was equally aware of his father's views. There could be no middle ground for them on this issue. Over the last two years, they'd had numerous, heated discussions that inevitably broke down into acrimonious arguments. He was about to introduce a subject that would herald the beginning of another such argument...
"I was pondering the news I've recently heard about your having acquired new slaves for your harem, Sir. Three new English slaves—” He was unable to keep the censure out of his voice.
"Who dared to spoil my surprise?” The Sultan roared as he rose from his seat, his turbulent anger sparking the air about him. Startled, Jamal's mouth fell open as he watched his father explode into molten wrath. The sultan's rage was like an animal out of control. His eyes burned with fiery heat and his jaw clenched, the picture of anger loosed and on the prowl.
The Bey had also risen, and now approached his Sultan. “Be calm, O great one. Palace gossip has always been ripe. The eunuchs—"
Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 17
