by Anne Herries
“I cannot do what you expect of me.
“I hardly know you, my lord,” Eleanor said. “I am beginning to
admire and respect you, but…I—I would be your friend if
you…”
“You would be my friend?” Suleiman’s gaze narrowed and he
appeared to be considering. “Why should I need a friend,
Eleanor? Do you not think I have many about me who would cal
themselves my friends?”
“Yes, my lord. Forgive me for my presumption. It was only that
we share an interest in ancient manuscripts. I enjoyed our talk
when you asked me to help you read them and I would like to
do something that would be of use to you. There are other
women more skiled in the arts of love. I think I would provide
poor sport for you.”
Suleiman nodded, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You argue
convincingly, my lady. Yet I wonder…”
ANNE HERRIES
Captive of the Harem
ANNE HERRIES
lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where
she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hils
that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue
ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the
restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter,
tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty
published novels.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Chapter One
‘I shal miss you, my teacher. The days wil seem long without
the benefit of your words of wisdom, Kasim.’
‘I shal be sorry to leave you, Suleiman—the years we have
had together have been truly a blessing for me, but the time has
come for me to prepare to make my peace with God, my lord. I
must go home to my own land to die…’
‘Yes, I know. I would not hold you. Go then…and may Alah
guide your footsteps to Paradise.’
Suleiman Bakhar felt the sting of the unmanly tears that would
shame him as the old man left and he knew that it was for the last
time; they would never meet again in this life.
He moved away to gaze down at the gardens of his
apartments in his father’s palace, his fierce, wild eyes lit by a
silver flame in their depths. His expression for those who dared
to look was at that moment much that of an untamed creature
frustrated by the bars of its cage. The palace of Caliph Bakhar
was a perfumed, luxuriously appointed cage—but nevertheless a
prison to the man whose spirit wished to soar like the hawks he
lavished with so much love and attention.
He was a strong, handsome man, though his features were at
times harsh, his mouth capable of looking as cruel as the sharp
beaks of his birds of prey. At other times his dark, mysterious
eyes could be bright with laughter, and his mouth, slackened by
desire, could look soft and deliciously sensuous—as was his
voice when he chose to entertain the court with his singing. Now
was not one of those times. He was bored, restless, and
conscious of a growing anger inside himself that he did not
understand. And he was losing the man who had been his
teacher for many years, a man he revered and loved almost as a
father. His life would be that much the poorer for the teacher’s
going.
Yet he would not have held Kasim for he loved him as dearly
as he loved his own father. He must seek elsewhere to fil the
emptiness the teacher’s going would leave in his life.
Fluttering about the scented walks of the gardens below, the
women of his harem twittered like brightly coloured birds in their
scanty clothes as they paraded through sunlit walks. Here and
there stone benches were placed in the shade, and the sound of
tinkling water from fountains echoed the laughter of the women.
They were al aware that Suleiman was watching them from his
windows above. He was making his choice and one of them
would be sent to his bed that night.
The favoured one would spend the afternoon being pampered
by the other women. She would be washed in soft warm water
in the baths of the harem, then perfumed lotions and creams
would be massaged into her body and hair so that her skin
would be smooth for the touch of her master, and finaly she
would be dressed in the finest silks…layer upon layer of
diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or
diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or
instruct her to remove as suited his whim.
It was an honour to be chosen by the Caliph’s favourite son,
and also a pleasure. Suleiman was young and virile, his body
honed to masculine perfection by hours of training in the
courtyards with the Janissaries. His love-making was legendary
amongst the ladies of the harem, and word had spread to the
other harems, some of which had less wel-favoured masters,
and there were many sighs as envious eyes peered at him from
behind pierced screens. It was forbidden for the ladies of one
harem to mix with those of another, of course, but it happened—
as other forbidden things happened in secret places: things that
could bring a swift beating or worse if they were discovered by
the eunuchs.
Sometimes, the ladies of the Caliph’s court were alowed to
watch Suleiman at sport in the great courtyard of the palace.
Suleiman delighted in trials of strength with the officers of the
Janissaries, and it was very seldom that he lost his bouts.
‘He wil choose me. I know he wil choose me,’ Fatima said
to Dinazade, who was her chief attendant. As Suleiman’s
favourite, Fatima had her own rooms and slaves to wait on her.
‘He always chooses me.’ She gave a satisfied smile as the chief
eunuch beckoned to her. ‘There, I told you so. Come with me,
Dinazade. I must be beautiful to please my lord tonight.’
Suleiman moved back from the window as his chosen partner
was led away. He had selected Fatima again because there was
fire in her. Most of the concubines had been given to him as gifts,
either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the
either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the
Caliph, and were too obedient to please him. He had dined too
much on honey and wanted something with more spice.
His features were set like iron, his mouth thinned to a severe
line. Sometimes he felt he would go mad if he were confined to
this idle life for many more years. He could fight, ride out into the countrys
ide beyond Constantinople with his hawks or spend the
afternoon pouring over his manuscripts—but none of these
pleasures held any real appeal for him that day. There was a
hungry yearning in his soul—but for what? Suleiman did not
know, unless it was simply to be free…to travel the world?
Such an idea was forbidden to him. His father had refused to
let him enter the Janissaries in case he might be injured in a real
battle—for his tussles with the elite guard could only ever be
play-acting. No one would dare to inflict harm on the Caliph’s
son for fear of the punishment that would certainly folow—not
from Suleiman, but from his father.
‘Your place is here with me,’ the Caliph had told him when
he had asked permission to leave and join the Sultan’s personal
bodyguard. ‘Together we are strong. I am getting older,
Suleiman. Soon you must prepare to take over from me.’
Caliph Bakhar was known for his wisdom and fairness
throughout the empire. It was he who dispensed justice and kept
the common people in order in the city for his royal master
Suleiman the Magnificent. The Sultan was the supreme ruler of
the great Ottoman Empire, and under his rule the empire had
reached new heights of power and splendour. Suleiman Bakhar
had been named for him.
had been named for him.
‘Forgive me, my lord.’ One of the eunuchs approached, his
slippered feet making no sound on the marble floors. ‘Your
honoured father, the great Caliph Bakhar, requests your
presence in his apartments.’
Suleiman’s eyes were very hawkish as he let them sweep
over the fleshy face of the eunuch. It was necessary to have such
creatures to guard the women of the harem, but he did not like
or trust them. They were sly, calculating creatures—especialy
this one.
‘Very wel,’ he said curtly. ‘I shal attend the Caliph.’
For a moment Suleiman thought he saw a flash of resentment
in the eunuch’s eyes. Abu was the child of one of his father’s
older concubines, and perhaps resented the fact that Suleiman
and he shared the same blood but were treated in very different
ways. Abu’s mother had been a Nubian slave and of very little
value, while Suleiman’s mother had been the daughter of an
English nobleman and the Caliph’s favourite wife.
Taken from a shipwreck more dead than alive, Margaret
Westbury had been presented as a gift to Caliph Bakhar. He had
found her fascinating and taken her as his wife, but after she had
given him a son he had offered to return her to her homeland.
Margaret had preferred to stay on as his chief wife, and though
she had been alowed little say in her son’s upbringing, she had
been alowed to see him twice a week in the gardens.
Yet another soft-footed eunuch with doe-like eyes conducted
Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fel on his knees before
Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fel on his knees before
the Caliph as was the custom, but was immediately told to rise.
‘The Caliph wished to see his unworthy son?’
‘Suleiman is a most worthy son,’ Caliph Bakhar replied after
the ritual salute. ‘I have a problem, Suleiman. The Sultan has
made it clear that he is displeased over certain disorders in the
city—there was a riot in the streets and the mob passed close to
the palace wals.’
‘The disturbance was swiftly queled by the Janissaries.’
‘But it should not have been alowed to happen so near the
palace,’ his father said. ‘I have displeased our master, therefore,
I must find gifts to regain favour in his eyes.’
‘What does my father have in mind?’
‘Something of rare beauty—an important piece of Venetian
glass, perhaps?’
‘Or a beautiful woman?’
‘She would have to be an exceptional woman. The Sultan has
many Kadins.’
The Kadins or Sultanas were women who had pleased their
royal master and were given their own luxurious apartments—
much as Fatima was favoured in Suleiman Bakhar’s much
smaler harem.
‘Of course.’ Suleiman frowned. ‘Does my father wish me to
visit the slave markets of Istanbul—or travel to Algiers?’
‘You are not to leave our shores,’ the Caliph said with a
frown. ‘We have too many enemies. Send word that we are
looking for something special. She must be lovely beyond price
and untouched.’
and untouched.’
‘It would be rare to find such a jewel,’ Suleiman replied.
‘Perhaps I should look for some other treasure that would please
the Sultan?’
‘It would be wise,’ the Caliph said, nodding. ‘And now, my
son—wil you hunt with your father? I have a new hawk I would
match against your champion.’
‘None can match Scheherazade—she flys higher, swifter and
her bravery puts al others to shame.’ His pupils were lit from
within by a silver flame as he spoke of his favourite hawk.
‘She is truly a bird to prize above al others. Find a woman as
beautiful, clever and brave as your hawk, Suleiman, and the
Sultan wil forgive me a hundred riots.’
‘If such a woman exists, she would be a prize above al
others,’ Suleiman replied. ‘I do not think we shal find this
woman, my father—though we search al the markets in the
Ottoman Empire!’
Eleanor stood at the top of the cliff gazing out towards the
sea. The view was magnificent—sparkling blue water, gently
wooded slopes and a dazzling variety of oleander and wisteria.
The wisteria had spread from the gardens of the vila behind her,
she thought, and inhaled its wonderful perfume.
Such a glorious day and yet her thoughts at that moment were
of the house they had left behind five months earlier. It would be
autumn in England now, the mists just beginning to curl in from
the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the
the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the
home she had shared with her father and brother for the first
eighteen years of her life, and she doubted she would ever see it
again.
‘Why so sad, Madonna? Does the view not please you?’
Eleanor turned to look at the man who had spoken, her deep
azure eyes seeming to reflect the blue of the Mediterranean sky.
Beneath the severe French hood she wore, her hair was long and
thick, the colour of ripe corn in sunlight. She kept it wel hidden,
even though she had thought herself safe from being observed
here, but wisps had escaped to tangle betrayingly about her face.
She could do nothing to disguise the loveliness of her classic
features, though she chose dark colours that did nothing to
enhance her beauty.
‘I was thinking of my home,’ she replied, unable to hide a
wistful note in her voice. ‘It wil be misty now and the fires wil
be lit in the library.’
‘You cannot prefer the cold damp climate of your country to
Italy?’
His eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘But perhaps there was
a lover…a young man who holds your heart in his hand?’
For a moment Eleanor was tempted to invent a handsome
fiancé, but she was an honest girl and did not wish to lie.
‘No, sir. I was thinking of my books. We were unable to
bring many with us. As my father has told you, we were forced
to leave in a hurry.’
Count Giovani Salvadore nodded, his expression
sympathetic. He was a man of moderate height, not fat but wel
built with rather loose features. His hair and smal beard were
built with rather loose features. His hair and smal beard were
dark brown, his eyes grey and serious. Eleanor supposed he
would be considered attractive, and his wealth made him an
important man in the banking circles of Italy.
‘It was an unpleasant experience for you,’ the Count replied.
‘Fortunately, your father had already placed much of his fortune
with the House of Salvadore for safe keeping.’
‘Yes, that was very fortunate,’ Eleanor agreed, hiding her
smile behind her fan. He was so pompous, so sure of himself!
Yet she should not be ungrateful. He had generously made his
vila available to her family until they should find somewhere they
wished to settle. Sir Wiliam Nash had spoken of this part of
Italy as being pleasant but Eleanor knew that he meant to travel on to Cyprus very soon. He had friends there: an English
merchant who had settled on the island some years earlier and
had offered both a home and an opportunity for Sir Wiliam to
join him in business.
‘Shal we go in?’ The Count offered Eleanor his arm. ‘Your
skin may suffer in this heat if you stand in it too long.’
Eleanor had come out to be alone for a while. The Count’s
mother and sister chattered like magpies al day long, and they
did not speak much English. She had hoped to escape for a
while, so that she could have a little time to herself—but he had
pursued her.
As she had feared, the Count was too interested in her for
comfort. At home in the west of England, she had been alowed
to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her
to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her
distance from any gentleman she had considered a threat to her
peaceful existence.
Eleanor had no wish to marry. She had become the mistress
