Adora

by Bertrice Small

  He continued as if she had not spoken. “Tomorrow night we shall proceed further. Your education as a woman is just beginning.”

  She sat up. “Tomorrow night? Are you mad? There will be no tomorrow night! I will never see you again! Never!”

  “You will meet me here in the orchard as long as it pleases me, Adora! If you do not, I will appear at the convent gate demanding to see you.”

  “You would not dare!” But her eyes were filled with doubt.

  “I would dare almost anything to see you again, dove.” He stood, drawing her up with him. Gently wrapping her cloak about her, he walked silently with her to the orchard door. “Until tomorrow night, Adora. Dream of me.” And then, vaulting up, he disappeared over the top of the wall into the night.

  With trembling fingers she unlocked the door, went through, relocked it, and then fled through the gardens to her own house. Within the comparative safety of her bedchamber she relived in her mind the scene in the orchard. She realized that, though he had kissed her most thoroughly, he had not touched her otherwise. And yet she ached! Her entire body ached with a longing she did not understand. Her breasts were swollen, the nipples sore. Her belly felt tight, and the secret woman’s place between her legs was throbbing. If this was being a woman, she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  But the greater problem was Prince Murad’s threat to appear at the convent gate. His rank would make the nuns obedient. Why should they refuse the sultan’s son permission to visit his stepmother? They might even believe that the sultan himself had sent him. When the truth was learned, the innocent little religious community would be punished and disgraced.

  If she refused to see the prince, and told Mother Marie Josepha the truth, then Murad might be punished—perhaps even killed for his boldness. Theadora did not believe she could live with a death on her conscience. She was trapped. She would meet him tomorrow night.

  Yet, as she lay in her chaste bed she remembered his deep voice saying, “My father will never call you to him. When he dies and I am sultan, I shall arrange for you to be my bride.” She trembled. Were men always so intense?

  Was it possible that he might be her lord some day? It was a tantalizing thought. He was very handsome—with his jet black eyes, dark, wavy hair, tanned face, and the white teeth flashing that impudent smile.

  She shivered again. The mere memory of his kisses made her giddy, and that was wrong! Very wrong! Even if Sultan Orkhan never called her to him, she was still his wife.

  She could not sleep that night, and in the morning she was irritable. She could not concentrate on her book. She tangled her embroidery threads and angrily threw the linen to the floor. Her slaves were astonished, and when an older woman questioned her, fearing she was becoming ill, Adora boxed her ears and then burst into tears.

  Iris, the slavewoman, was wise enough to pursue the matter. She was relieved when the princess sobbingly confided that she had not slept well. Immediately the woman prepared a warm bath for her young charge and, after Theadora had been bathed and massaged, Iris tucked her into bed. She was then fed a cup of warm spiced wine into which the slavewoman had put a mild sleeping potion.

  When Theadora awoke, the last rays of the sun were staining the western sky, and the purple mountains about the city were already crowned with faint silver stars. Iris brought the princess a small, roasted pigeon, the skin crisp and golden. The tray also held new lettuce, a honeycomb, and a carafe of white wine. Theadora ate slowly, her thoughts sorting themselves.

  The prince had given his word not to tamper with her virginity. And if he spoke the truth, she was not likely to ever see the sultan again. It was entirely possible that Prince Murad would one day be her true husband.

  The night darkened. Finishing her meal, Theadora washed her hands in a silver basin filled with rose water. Her good humor had been restored by the sleep. She dismissed her slaves for the evening. Unlike the majority of women of her class, she was capable of dressing and undressing herself. She despised the awful ignorance and the idleness of most women of rank.

  She slipped into a caftan of violet silk gauze with a row of little pearl buttons down the front. The color was meant to flatter her amethyst eyes, yet be dark enough that she would not require a cloak. Her feet were shod in matching kid slippers. Her dark hair hung freely down her back bound only by a silk ribbon.

  She slipped silently into the orchard and found her way to the tree they had sheltered under the previous night. He was not there. But before she could decide whether to return to her house or wait, the heavily laden branches parted with a rustle, and he was with her.

  “Adora!” He slid an arm about her tiny waist and kissed her, and she returned his kiss for the first time. Her soft lips parted willingly, her tongue darting like a little flame about his mouth. To her delighted amazement he shuddered, and she was filled with a triumphant awe that she, an inexperienced virgin, could rouse this sensual, experienced man! For the briefest moment it was she who held the upper hand.

  But then, cradling her with one arm, his other hand parted the topmost buttons of her caftan and his warm hand slid in to caress a breast. She gasped, catching at his hand.

  He laughed low. “Lesson two, my dove,” and pushed her hand away. She was trembling with a mixture that was half fright, half pleasure, though at first she could not identify the second sensation. His hand was gentle, tenderly stroking the soft flesh. “Please, oh, please!” she whispered, pleading. “Please, stop it!” Instead he rubbed the sensitive nipple with his thumb, and Adora almost fainted with the pleasure that swept over her.

  When his mouth covered hers once again, she thought she would surely die with the sweetness of it. He was looking down at her now, his jet black eyes tender. “Always remember, my little virgin, that I am the master.”

  “Why?” she managed, though her voice was ragged. “It is the woman to whom God gave the privilege of bearing new life. Why then, are we subservient to men?”

  He was startled. She was not the soft, complacent female he had first thought her to be, but that most rare and intriguing of creatures—a woman with a mind. Murad was not sure he approved. But, he thought, at least she will not bore me. And what sons she might bear me!

  “Did not Allah create woman second—and from a man’s rib?” he said quickly. “First came man. He must therefore have meant for man to be the superior, the master of woman, else he would have created woman first.”

  “That does not necessarily follow, my lord,” she replied, unimpressed.

  “Would you be my superior, Adora, and instruct me,” he asked, amused.

  “Do not dare to laugh at me,” she stormed.

  “I am not laughing at you, my dove, but neither do I wish to debate the logic of the superiority of men over women. I wish to make love to you.” And he felt her tremble against him as, again, he began to caress her soft breasts.

  The gentle hand undid the remaining buttons on her caftan, rendering her naked. The hand moved lower to touch her little mound of belly. Her skin was like the finest Bursa silk, cool and smooth, yet the muscles were tense beneath his skilled fingers. This further confirmation of her innocence pleased his vanity.

  He moved lower yet, one long, slim finger poised to touch her more intimately. And then, for a moment, their eyes met, and he saw her open terror. He stopped, and his hand gently touched her cheek. “Do not be afraid of me.”

  “I do not mean to be afraid,” she said in a shaking voice. “It is wrong, I know, but I want you to touch me. Yet, when you do I am afraid.”

  “Tell me,” he asked gently.

  “I feel I am losing control of myself. I do not want you to cease, though I know you must.” Swallowing hard she said, “I want to know everything about being a woman, even the final act of love. I am married, but I am not your wife, and what we do is wrong!”

  “No,” he said fiercely. “We do no wrong! You will never go to my father! You are nothing to him but a political necessity.”

  “But
when I am widowed I may not come to you either. If I belong to anyone I belong to the empire of Byzantium. Once your father is gone, my next marriage will be arranged for me, as this one was.”

  “You belong to me,” he said huskily, “now and always.”

  She knew that she was lost, whatever happened. She loved him. “Yes,” she whispered, amazed at her own words. “Yes! I do belong to you, Murad!”

  And as his mouth savagely moved against hers, she felt a wild joy flood her. She was no longer afraid. Hands passionately caressed her, and her young body rose eagerly to meet his touch. Only once did she cry out—when his fingers found their way to the sweet core of her. But he stilled her protests with his mouth. He felt her wildly beating pulse beneath his lips. “No, dove,” he murmured hungrily, “let my fingers have their way. It will be sweetness, my love, only sweetness, I promise you.”

  And he could feel her slowly relaxing in his arms. Smiling he teased the sensitive flesh while the girl beneath him moaned softly, her lashes dark smudges against her white skin, her slim hips writhing. At last, satisfied that she was ready, he gently thrust a finger into her.

  Adora gasped, but before she could protest she was lost to the sweet wave of delight that possessed her completely. She arched to meet his hand, floating weightless until the tightness building within her shattered like a mirror into a rainbow of flashing lights.

  Her amethyst eyes finally opened, and she asked, her voice soft with the wonder of it, “How can such sweetness be, my lord?”

  He smiled down at her. “It is but a taste of delight, my dove. Just a taste of things to come.”

  Chapter Three

  In Constantinople, the night was as dark as Emperor John Cantacuzene’s mood. His beloved wife, Zoe, was dead in a last futile attempt to give him another son. The awful irony was that she had given her last bit of strength to push twin sons from her exhausted and weakened body. Misshapen scraps of deformed humanity, they were joined at the chest and shared, so the physician claimed, a single heart. These monstrosities had been, praise God, born dead. Their mother, curse God, had followed them.

  If this tragedy were not terrible enough, his daughter, Helena, wife to the co-emperor John Paleaologi, was plotting with her husband to overthrow him, to take complete control of the empire. While her mother had lived Helena had been recognized only as wife to the young Paleaologi. Her mother had been recognized as the empress. Now Helena wished to be recognized as empress.

  “And if I remarry?” asked her father.

  “Why on earth would you remarry?” demanded his daughter.

  “To give the empire more sons.”

  “My son, Andronicus, is the heir. Next comes the child I now carry.”

  “There is no decree to that effect, my daughter.”

  “Really Father!”

  Every day Helena sounded more and more like her mother-in-law, the wretched Anna of Savoy.

  “My husband,” continued Helena, “is the rightful emperor of Byzantium, and therefore our son is the true heir. Surely you must realize that by now. God has spoken quite plainly. Your eldest son is dead, and my brother, Matthew, has chosen to follow the monastic life. In the last six years Mother miscarried five times of six sons. Now God has taken her from you—in obvious disapproval. What more do you want? Must the words of God’s will be engraved in clouds of fire over the city for you to accept it?”

  “The seer, Belasarius, has predicted that from my loins and my seed would spring a new empire out of Constantinople. How can this be if I do not have sons to carry on my line?”

  “Perhaps through me, Father,” said Helena smugly.

  “Or your sister, Theadora,” he snapped back.

  Helena glared and, without another word, left the room. John Cantacuzene paced restlessly. He would have more sons, but before he could take another noble wife he must make his position more secure. John Paleaologi must be disposed of, along with his snot-nosed offspring. Remarried elsewhere, Helena would forget. Perhaps he would offer her blonde beauty to Sultan Orkhan’s heir, Prince Suleiman.

  This thought reminded him of his youngest daughter, Thea. How old was she now? Thirteen? He thought so. Certainly old enough to be bedded, and to bear a child. He was going to need fresh military aid from the sultan—aid that was more likely to be given if Orkhan were enamored of his young wife. Especially a young wife who proclaimed her elderly husband’s virility with a belly full of new life.

  The girl was still within her convent, and the latest miniature he had of her showed a young creature beautiful enough to rouse a stone statue. Her only failing was that she had a mind. Mother Marie Josepha was forever writing him of the girl’s intellectual accomplishments. A pity she had not been a son. Well, he would write and instruct her to behave meekly, modestly, and quietly with her husband.

  He would also write to Orkhan tonight, reminding him that the marriage contract called for the consummation of the union when the girl was mature. She certainly was mature now. It meant, of course, that he would have to come up with the final third of Theadora’s dowry, and relinquish the fortress of Tzympe—but no matter. Opening the door to his private suite he summoned the monk who was his secretary.

  Several weeks later, in Bursa, Sultan Orkhan chuckled over the recently received correspondence from his fellow ruler and father-in-law. He was well aware of the reason behind the Byzantine’s sudden desire for his marriage to Theadora Cantacuzene to be consummated. John Cantacuzene was expecting another fight for his shaky throne and needed the Ottoman’s support. He offered his daughter’s virginity plus the rest of the gold from her dowry. Most important, he would finally turn over Tyzmpe to the Turks.

  Orkhan the Ottoman had grown sexually insatiable in his old age. Each night he was presented with a new and well-trained virgin. His appetite varied and it was rumored that he even occasionally amused himself with young boys. His young wife, Theadora, was a totally innocent girl. It would take months to train her so that she would be able to please her lord.

  But there was no time. Her father wanted her with child as proof of the consummation, and Orkhan wanted Tyzmpe and the remainder of her dowry gold. When great rulers plan together, matters can be arranged.

  The maiden’s moon cycle would be determined, and he would mate with her during her most fertile four days. He hoped her link with the moon would then be broken. If not, the process would be repeated again, and again—until the girl proved fruitful.

  He was not the least interested in Theadora. A political pawn, she had been forgotten and was now annoyingly thrust forward.

  He had experienced the emotion called love in his youth, with Nilufer, his second wife and the mother of his two favorite sons. Now that was all behind him. All that was left was the physical pleasures given him by the skilled, young slave girls and boys of his harem.

  He resented having to breed the maiden as a bull breeds a cow, and this resentment would probably communicate itself to Theadora. Perhaps the girl herself had encouraged her father to suggest this, in an effort to better her position. Well, he would see that she was treated with the respect due her rank. He would impregnate her as quickly as possible, and then he would have nothing further to do with her.

  And at the very moment Theadora Cantacuzene lay within the strong arms of Prince Murad. Their eyes adored one another. “I love you!” she said in a tremulous voice. “I love you!”

  “And I love you, my dove! Allah! How I love you!”

  “How long, my lord? How long must we wait before we dare to be wed when he is gone? I want to walk in the sunlight beneath the olive trees with you. I want the world to know that I am yours!”

  “I love my father,” he said slowly. “I would wish him no less a portion than is his. In his old age he is content and seeks only more gold and the sensual pleasures offered him. He will no longer lead our armies.”

  “Would you expand your kingdom?” she asked.

  “Yes! I would cross the Bosphorus, and rule from the city of
Constantinople itself. Would you like to return home, my dove, as queen of the city of your birth?”

  “Yes!” She said it so fiercely that he laughed.

  “You do not mind that I would displace your sister and her husband? What a little savage you are, Theadora Cantacuzene.”

  “Before I became the sultan’s wife, my sister loved to torture me with the fact that she would rule over Constantinople some day, while I would be sent into exile in the sultan’s harem. How I would love to return to the city as the wife of its conqueror!”

  “Even a Muslim conqueror?”

  “Yes, my lord. Even a Muslim conqueror. We both worship the same God, do we not? l am no fool, Murad, though I be a woman. Within the bounds of this kingdom a traveler may go safely at any hour of the day or night. Non-Muslims are permitted the freedom to worship as they choose. The law is administered fairly to all who ask judgement of the kadi, be they rich or poor. I am ashamed to say that I cannot claim these virtues for the empire and its rulers. I far prefer to live under Ottoman rule, as do many non-Muslims.”

  “What a marvelous creature,” he said admiringly. “Though I find it strange to talk so openly with a woman, I find your logic without flaw.”

  “I am my father’s daughter,” she said proudly. “He has a great mind and is a fine scholar. He always said I should have been a son.”

  The prince smiled. “He is wrong, dove. There is no more exquisite female alive than you,” and he drew her back into his arms, sighing deeply and burying his face in the cool, scented mass of her hair. “Ah, dove, how I love you!”

  Above them, the stars traveled across the sky toward the morning. It was almost dawn when Theadora returned to her house and fell asleep. Too soon, Iris awoke her.

  “Highness, forgive me, but the white chief eunuch is here from the palace to see you.”

  Theadora was instantly awake. Never, since she had arrived in Bursa as a child and been installed in this house, had anyone important come from the palace to see her. “Tell him I shall be with him presently, Iris.”