Malik was satisfied that his blood would be spilled in a just cause that would survive him.
His only concern was Amelia. He had made promises he couldn’t keep, had led her to believe there was a future for them that now would never be. She was not the type to get over him easily; she might never get over him at all. He couldn’t bear the thought that he had ruined her life, that she would grow old and embittered, grieving her lost love, denying herself the comfort of marriage and children because she had given her heart away in her youth. His final hope was that she could recover from her experience with him and go on with her life.
Malik closed his eyes, trying not to think about the implications of this wish. Another man would make love to her, hold her in his arms as they slept, father her children. Malik wasn’t selfish enough to want Amelia to spend her life in mourning for him, but as long as he still breathed the thought of someone else claiming her as he had would curl his fingers into fists.
He shifted his mind from that subject; it produced an impotent fury that only drained his strength. He was not dead yet, so he directed his thoughts toward escape. He had been formally sentenced that morning. His move to the jail near the docks was imminent. He knew he would be heavily guarded, but he was also more resourceful than any soldier the Sultan employed.
There was always a chance.
He remembered how he had been taken, surrounded by a force of ten armed men as he arrived at Yuri’s house for his horse. He had yielded in order to live and possibly fight another day; to have resisted would have meant his death right there. He assumed he had finally been betrayed. Most of the Sultan’s subjects were so poor that the only surprise lay in their ignoring the lure of the reward so long. Malik knew poverty from personal experience, he knew what its rigors could force a person to do.
He understood only too well what had happened.
He shifted position in the straw, wondering how Amelia had learned of his arrest and what she was thinking now. He hoped that she wouldn’t do anything foolish or dangerous, but he knew how impulsive she could be. Her courage was mostly a reckless determination that had to be channeled effectively, but in these circumstances she could easily go wild.
He heard the guard coming and quickly closed his eyes again, feigning sleep.
When he was alone again, he would make plans.
* * *
Amy heard the horse’s hooves on the drive in the late afternoon and came out of her room. She had been waiting for five days to hear from Sarah, five days of agony spent gleaning whatever information she could about Malik from newspapers and gossip. She stopped on the landing and watched Beatrice answer the door, then come back inside with a letter in her hand.
Amy walked down the stairs, restraining herself from running with an effort. She didn’t want to look as if she were expecting to receive something.
Beatrice looked up and said, “This is for you, Amelia. It was just hand delivered by a rider in Shah livery. It must be from Sarah.” She gave Amy the envelope.
Amy folded it into the sleeve of her dress. She was dying to tear it open, but didn’t want to read it in front of Bea and subject herself to questions.
“The Imperial postal service is no longer in operation?” Beatrice asked mildly, looking at James, who had just arrived home from his office and was hanging his hat on the rack in the hall.
“Sarah probably sent the rider on an errand to town and just asked him to drop this off,” Amy said dismissively. She went into the library and got a book, pretending that was the reason for her sudden appearance, then went into the parlor.
Beatrice looked after her and murmured to James, “You don’t think Sarah could be helping Amelia pursue...” she stopped short, amazed at what she was thinking.
“I’m sure Sarah is far too responsible for that,” James said briskly, not sure at all. “Besides, Bey is incarcerated. His official condemnation was in the paper today. What can happen? Don’t worry about it. Come up with me while I change for dinner. Are we having the mutton or the pork roast?”
Amy waited for Beatrice and her husband to go up the stairs, then ripped open the envelope.
“Permission has been granted,” Sarah had written. “Kalid and I will be by for you at two on Friday the 15th.”
Amy refolded the letter and pressed it to her lips, closing her eyes. The 15th was the next day.
Amy took the letter up to her room and destroyed it the same way she had destroyed the long letter she had written to Sarah. She tore it into small pieces and then charred each fragment with a candle flame until there was nothing left but a pile of ash, which she swept into the fireplace. Then she selected a dress which would be easy to change out of, draped it over a chair to air it for the next day, and went down to dinner.
It was a quiet meal, with all three participants absorbed in their own thoughts.
“Sarah has offered to take me on a tour of the old city tomorrow afternoon,” Amy finally announced as dessert was being served. “She’s coming by for me around two.”
James and Beatrice exchanged glances.
“That’s nice, dear,” Bea said, pouring caramel sauce over her slice of flan. “Is that why she wrote you?”
Amy nodded. “It was a last minute decision for Sarah and Kalid to come to the city. Kalid has some business, and Sarah thought I might like to visit a few of the historical spots. I really haven’t seen much beyond Pera since I’ve been here.”
“Will you be back for dinner?” James asked.
“I’m sure I will be,” Amy replied.
“Do you think Kalid and Sarah will want to stay here for the night?” Bea asked.
“They’re staying at the American Embassy,” Amy lied hastily. “Kalid is meeting with Secretary Danforth.”
Her relatives seemed to accept this, and Amy suppressed the familiar twinge of guilt she felt at lying to them.
Nothing was more important than getting in to see Malik.
Nothing.
* * *
Amy was waiting in the foyer when the Shah carriage pulled into the Woolcott’s street the next afternoon. Kalid was mounted on his horse, riding behind the coach. He came to the door, observed the formalities with a characteristically reserved Beatrice, and handed Amy into the coach.
“I don’t know how I let Sarah talk me into this,” he muttered to Amy as she released his arm. “But then, she’s been talking me into things for years.”
“You won’t be sorry,” Amy said to him as she sat across from his wife.
“I’m already sorry,” he said, looking meaningfully at Sarah. “If anything happens to either one of you I will hold myself responsible.”
“If you were in Malik’s shoes, wouldn’t you want to see Sarah?” Amy demanded.
Kalid looked at her a long moment, then nodded.
“I guess that’s why I’m doing this,” he said, and shut the carriage door.
“Is he angry?” Amy said to Sarah.
Sarah shook her head. “He’s worried, and not just about this afternoon. He’s involved in some plot against the Sultan, I’m not supposed to know about it but of course I do. He thinks he’s protecting me by not telling me about it, but I have my own sources.” She picked up a bundle from the seat next to her and said, “Hurry and change, I have some things to tell you before we arrive.”
Once Amy was attired in Sarah’s Turkish ensemble and veiled to the eyes, Sarah said, “The guards at the jail will know Kalid by sight, of course, and they will assume that you are me, since they have been instructed to admit the Pasha of Bursa and his wife. I will tell the driver to pull away so they don’t see me sitting in the carriage, and then come back for you in ten minutes. Don’t say anything, to Kalid or anyone else, until you are inside with Malik. The guards will undoubtedly remain with you during your visit, so make sure that you behave appropriately. You are supposed to be a friend of Malik’s sister-in-law, not his lover, so bear that in mind.”
Amy nodded.
“Do you
have any questions?” Sarah asked.
“No.” Amy folded her hands together in her lap; they were like ice.
“I am trusting you to be circumspect,” Sarah added pointedly, looking at Amy.
“I promise I won’t make a scene,” Amy replied softly. “I can’t thank you enough for your help in arranging this visit.”
Sarah turned her head to look out the window. “While I was in the harem at Orchid Palace Kalid was wounded in a bedouin raid, and for a while it looked as if he might die. I have always remembered how I felt then; it must approximate how you feel now. I want to help you, but I don’t want you to do anything foolish. Be careful.”
“I will.”
The driver turned off the crowded main street and down a cobbled alley which ended at the water. Even from a distance Amy could see the Sultan’s halberdiers, outfitted more elaborately than Kalid’s, standing at attention, two on either side of the main door. As they got closer to the low stone building she could see the janissaries armed with pistols perched in lookouts stationed at regular intervals on the surrounding wall. It was a forbidding place, made all the more so by its lyrical name, Pamukkale, or “cotton castle,” for the rock formations which formed a natural barrier between the prison and the bay.
The coach came to a stop before the prison and the halberdiers immediately presented their truncheons. Amy looked across at Sarah nervously.
“It’s all right,” Sarah said, moving back from the isinglass window. “That’s just procedure. Kalid will tie up his horse, then he’ll come to get you.”
A short time later Amy’s door opened and Kalid said quietly, “Come with me. Don’t say a word.”
He looked quickly at Sarah, who whispered the words, “Good luck.”
Amy descended from the carriage, and as soon as her feet touched the cobbled street, it pulled away, the horses’ hooves clopping with a hollow sound on the paving stones. She looked after it, wondering if she and Kalid were both mad to have left its safety for the perilous encounter ahead of them.
Kalid took Amy’s arm and steered her past the halberdiers, who stared straight ahead, and into the office of the jail, which was a bleak windowless room containing a desk and a chair and a series of scarred wooden cabinets. A turbaned man in a gray uniform bowed to Kalid and said something in Turkish. Kalid replied curtly. The man bowed again, snapped his fingers, and two soldiers with rifles moved from the corners of the room to flank Kalid and Amy.
This, apparently, was their escort.
The turnkey removed an iron ring from the heavy belt at his waist and led the way down a dark hall where none of the outside sunlight penetrated; it was illuminated only by a flaring taper set into the flaking stone wall. The little group reached a massive oak door, double barred and double bolted, which the warden proceeded to unlock with a succession of keys. Finally he shifted the crossbars and the door swung open creakily, admitting them to a square, stone paved room which contained four individual cells. Each cell featured a tiny, barred window near the ceiling and a narrow linen cot. Only one cell was occupied.
Amy sucked in her breath as she felt Kalid’s steadying hand on her shoulder. Malik was lying face down on his cot, his back to them, identifiable by his broad shoulders and thick black hair. The only other thing in his cell aside from the cot was a bucket on a wall peg.
“Has he been beaten?” Amy whispered, alarmed by Malik’s slack posture.
“Not before a public execution,” Kalid replied. “The Sultan would not want anyone to see the marks.”
The warden rapped the bars on Malik’s cell with his nightstick and said something in Turkish. Malik ignored him.
The warden spoke again, more sharply, and when Kalid saw that this would also be ineffective, he said in English, “It’s Kalid Shah here, Malik.”
Malik turned his head, and when he saw Kalid he sat up. Then his eyes moved to the woman standing next to Kalid.
Kalid said something in a soothing tone to the warden, and the turbaned man withdrew. He went through the door to his office, leaving the two guards and their rifles behind with the visitors.
Malik rose from the cot and came to stand facing Kalid, his hands gripping the bars. His cheeks were covered with beard stubble, his hair uncombed, his tunic ripped and stained.
“Amelia?” he said to Kalid. “How is she?”
Kalid looked at Amy, who lowered her veil just enough for Malik to see her face.
Malik’s reaction was not what she had expected. He looked at her incredulously, then at Kalid.
“Why did you bring her?” he demanded of Kalid in English, his expression anguished. “I don’t want her to see me like this!”
“Malik, I’m here!” Amy said, reaching her fingers through the bars. “You just asked for me, and I’m here!”
He turned away. “Go home, Amelia. This is no place for you.”
Amy put her hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “Please, Malik, this is our only chance. Don’t send me away.”
One of the guards barked out an order behind them.
“He says we must speak in Turkish,” Kalid translated.
Malik looked back at Amy, who put her hand over his on the bars and mouthed the English phrase, “I love you.”
Malik closed his eyes.
Kalid said something to him in Turkish and Malik replied quietly. They exchanged a few phrases and then the guard who had spoken stepped forward and thrust the saber on his rifle in front of Kalid.
Kalid looked at Amy, who was staring at Malik, her fingers gripping the bars, tears streaming down her face. Kalid jerked his head toward the door, indicating that their time was up.
Amy gestured to Malik, who wouldn’t look at her. Then, just as she was turing away, despondent, he reached through the bars and seized her hand. He said something in Turkish, his eyes fixed on hers, then released her, stepping back.
The guard prodded Kalid toward the door with the tip of his saber.
Kalid lost patience and seized the saber, ripping the rifle from the guard’s hand and smacking him in the head with its butt. The guard sprawled on the floor, unconscious, and as his companion turned to train his rifle on the visitors Malik thrust his foot through the cell bars and tripped him.
When both men were prone, one insensible and the other distracted, Kalid faced Malik and whispered something quickly in a language Amy didn’t understand. She saw Malik’s face go blank with surprise, then change expression with lightning speed.
Before the second guard could rise the warden burst through the door from his office at the commotion, pistol in hand. Kalid faced him down with the first guard’s rifle, saying something surly in Turkish, kicking the guard’s leg derisively with his boot.
The warden slowly lowered his pistol. Then he gestured for Kalid and Amy to walk past him, speaking sharply to the second guard, who put down his rifle and bent to lift his insensate companion.
Amy looked back at Malik, who was watching her. She put her closed fist to her chest, then opened her hand, in a Yuruk gesture he had taught her which meant, “I give you my heart.”
Malik pressed his lips together and looked down, struggling for control.
Kalid grabbed Amy bodily and shoved her through the door before the warden changed his mind. She lifted her veil to cover her face, standing next to Kalid, trying to absorb all that had happened so quickly.
Kalid then entered into a fierce debate with the warden, complete with hand gestures and disgusted glances. Kalid simmered down only when the warden’s tone turned conciliatory, then apologetic. The pasha finally ushered Amy out of the jail, propelling her down to the street before saying, “Are you all right, Amelia?”
Amy shook her head, unable to speak.
He put his arm around her and said, “I know, that was very difficult for you. There was no way to make it easier.”
“I’ll never see Malik again,” she murmured, her face ashen.
Kalid said nothing.
“I was so fr
ightened when you got into that fight,” she added, shivering.
“That arrogant bastard needed correcting,” Kalid said tightly of the guard, as his coach came toward them down the street.
“Why didn’t the second guard fire?” Amy asked.
“He was afraid to shoot the Pasha of Bursa, as I thought he would be,” Kalid replied.
“What did you whisper to Malik?” Amy asked. “What was that language?”
“The language was Arabic, and never mind what I said,” Kalid replied shortly.
The shattering experience suddenly seemed to overwhelm Amy, and she began to shake harder, her knees sagging.
“Steady,” Kalid said, his grip tightening. “Your ride is nearly here.”
The coach glided to a stop and Kalid lifted Amy almost bodily onto her seat.
Sarah took one look at the girl and said to her husband, “This was a mistake.”
“She’ll be all right,” Kalid said. “She’s strong, like you.”
“I can’t send her back to Beatrice like this,” Sarah said, glancing at her husband anxiously.
“I’ll tell the driver to take you to the Trakya Hotel and I’ll follow you there,” Kalid replied. “I’ll book a suite and Amelia will have time to recover.”
Kalid moved to withdraw from the coach and Amy grabbed his hand.
“What did Malik say to me?” she inquired, finally asking the question she’d been avoiding. “When he spoke in Turkish before we left, what did he say?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.
Kalid glanced at Sarah, who nodded that he should reply.
“He said that he still meant everything he had ever told you, and that he would love you forever. If fate was not kind you should go on with your life, but to remember him, as he would always remember you,” Kalid said quietly.
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