The Sultan's Wife

by Jane Johnson

  At the back of the hall there are vendors mounted on the steps, the better to shout their wares, and gathered around each of them is a great press of onlookers, for the most part men. The first is offering a tincture of herbs ‘from the dark African continent, guaranteed to earn the gratitude of your wives! One dose a day and you’ll be going all night.’ He taps his nose and leans forward in mock-confidential pose. ‘She’ll never keep up with you: you’ll need to take a mistress or two on the side!’ He does brisk business. ‘Your king must have a good stock of such herbs,’ Mr Pepys laughs.

  ‘He have no need,’ Sharif says hotly, catching the imputation.

  The next mountebank is waving around something that looks remarkably like a bull’s pizzle, which is, it transpires, exactly what it is. He also has for sale the virile members of a lion, a tiger and a whale; and more mysterious African herbs, which look to me like common feverfew, betony and rue.

  A third offers ‘a universal pharmacopoeia’ including bezoar-stones, moss from the skull of an executed criminal, the saliva of a fasting man and the urine of ‘a pure boy’.

  The last mountebank has attracted a crowd of women. He holds up a glass jar containing a clear liquid that is, he claims, ‘pure May dew, collected beneath a mighty oak at dawn; nothing short of miraculous in restoring a perfect complexion even to those marked by the pox’. I cannot help but laugh aloud. Even in Marrakech, where we have our fair share of charlatans, you would not get away with selling plain water. He also has ‘health peas, for the losing of excess weight’. When I explain this to Sharif, he scratches his head. ‘You wouldn’t make much selling that in Morocco.’

  ‘In our country,’ I explain to our guide, ‘the women seek to be voluptuous. They eat a paste of bitter melon seeds and honey every day in order to gain weight.’

  Mr Pepys rolls his eyes. ‘Women. I adore them, but I don’t understand them now in my forty-ninth year any better than I did in my nineteenth.’

  ‘What those for?’ Sharif asks curiously, pointing at a cage of puppies beside the mountebank, tiny beasts, barely more than a few days old.

  Mr Pepys guides us away. ‘People will go to the most extraordinary lengths in the pursuit of a cure for their perceived defects and ills. I fear the poor fellows are destined to be boiled with wine, then pressed to extract their essential juices, which apparently whitens the skin.’

  We are turning to leave when I hear, quite clearly, the words ‘magical elixir’ and ‘return the patient to a perfect state’. I catch hold of our guide’s sleeve. ‘Wait!’

  ‘What is it, dear fellow?’

  ‘An elixir, someone said, but I cannot tell who.’ I scan the crowd, to no avail.

  He laughs. ‘You won’t find the Elixir of Life here! But if it’s scientific miracles you’re after, you should come along to one of our meetings.’

  ‘Meetings?’

  ‘The Royal Society, my good sir: the Invisible College, as was. There are fellows there performing all sorts of wonders.’

  *

  The next day a page comes with another invitation. I find myself foolishly hoping it may be to one of Mr Pepys’s meetings, but no: it is a grander invitation by far, to a musical performance that afternoon in the royal apartments.

  I am alarmed, as soon as we set foot in the chamber, to see Momo on one side of the Duchess of Portsmouth with Jacob on the other, all tricked out in a suit of gold lace, between whom Louise – in creamy white and pearls, her hair powdered with gold – fairly shines. They make a striking tableau, one that draws the eye. In some terror, I snatch a glance at Rafik, but his gaze is wandering over the rich trappings of the room, and when Momo looks up and sees me and grins like a loon, it goes blessedly unremarked.

  The king enters late, with Nelly on one arm and a statuesque, strong faced woman on the other. Behind her, a tall black man with wide cheekbones and tribal scars: so this, I surmise, must be Mustapha and the Duchess Mazarin. Her eyes sweep languidly over me and her mouth hitches up in a half-smile as she sweeps past.

  The music is sublime, combining as it does a stirring collection of stringed instruments and a harpsichord thumping out a powerful bass line that I can feel thrumming in my breastbone. When the castrati join their voices to the work, I feel as I did in the abbey the previous day, as if my spirit were soaring out of my body. Beyond my control, tears gather in my eyes. But when I look around to share the moment I see that the rest of the Moroccan contingent are sitting stiffly to attention in their best clothes, trying not to look too uncomfortable or bored; and that several of the courtiers, worse than unmoved, are talking amongst themselves. Such behaviour would be unthinkable at Ismail’s court: there would be blood, and screams, and heads rolling.

  At last the recital comes to an end and polite applause ensues. The harpsichordist stands and bows, evidently the author of the work, though a young man, solemn of aspect.

  ‘Bravo, Henry!’ Mr Pepys cries. ‘Another triumph!’

  As we all begin to file out, a page tugs at my sleeve. ‘The king wishes to speak with you.’

  Ben Hadou turns, eyes glittering. ‘I think you must mean me. I am the ambassador; this is only my secretary.’

  ‘No, sir, it is the big black fellow the king wants.’

  The Tinker glares at me. ‘I can’t imagine why he should wish to talk to you, but I shall make it my business to find out.’

  We are brought into the royal presence and I manage not to throw myself headlong in obeisance, having learned by now that the English court is a somewhat more casual place than the court at Meknes. The king’s regard sweeps over ben Hadou with little interest, then comes to rest on me, ‘Did you enjoy the music, sir?’

  Even though the question is not meant for him, the ambassador answers quickly. ‘Superb, your majesty, quite superb.’ He lies, I know, for he has no interest whatever in music. All the time the king’s dark eyes measure me: he seems amused. Then he steps between us and takes me by the elbow. ‘Do you play?’

  I freeze. The Tinker will skin me for this snub, I think. But what can I do? ‘I play a little guitar, sire, and the oud – an Arabic type of lute.’

  ‘Then we shall have a capital time of it.’ He gestures to the harpsichordist to attend him. ‘Mr Purcell, come with me. And you, Mr Pepys. Mr James, select your best violinists and bring them to the music room!’ He turns back to me, grinning like a boy. ‘Come, sir, we shall make some fine noise! I noticed you in the abbey: I swear I’ve never seen another mortal soul so moved by music.’

  *

  The king is a man of prodigious energy: it fairly radiates off him. In that he reminds me of Ismail: they share a similar restlessness of spirit and a quickness of foot. I have been told that Charles rises early each day to walk or play tennis; that he swims and rides, and hunts and dances (and no doubt beds his concubines) with the prowess of a man half his age. Certainly, I find it hard to keep up with him as he makes his way out of the audience room and down corridor after corridor, and yet my stride is as long as any man’s. Glancing back, I see the musicians lagging after us, hampered by their instruments, Mr Pepys and the young harpsichordist, closely followed by a suspicious ben Hadou. Is this my moment? I have been strictly schooled never to speak to the sovereign unless addressed, but this may be my only chance. ‘Sire,’ I begin, girding my courage, ‘I would speak with you on an important matter.’

  He darts a curious look at me. ‘Go on, sir.’

  ‘There is a lady, sire—’

  That makes him laugh. ‘Ah, there is always a lady. I see you have not wasted your time here.’

  ‘The lady concerned is in Morocco, at the sultan’s court. Indeed, within his harem. She is an Englishwoman of good family.’

  ‘I do believe Nelly mentioned such a thing to me. Continue.’

  I explain, concisely, the circumstances of Alys’s captivity.

  ‘And the name of this paragon?’

  ‘Alys, sire. Alys Swann.’

  ‘And where did you say she was fro
m?’

  ‘The Hague, sire: her father was a supporter of the Royalist cause and fled to Holland during the war.’

  His face goes very still; his pace slows and finally he comes to a halt. ‘I wish to hear no more.’

  Reckless now, I plough on regardless. ‘Sire, hear me out, I beg you. She asked me to give you this, sire, if ever I had the chance. She sewed it herself and closed it to keep it secret.’ I dig the scroll out and present it to him, shielding the action from the swiftly approaching on-comers with my body. When he hesitates to take it, I press it rudely into his hand. ‘Please read it, your majesty: three lives depend on your doing so.’

  For a moment we stand there with the rest of the music party bearing down on us and I think, ‘It is all over, and I have failed.’ Perhaps he sees my despair, for at last he takes it from me and thrusts it into his waistcoat. ‘I mislike intrigue, young man,’ he says shortly, before striding on. ‘But a man who loves music as you do must have an honest heart, so I have decided to trust you.’

  *

  I can hardly recall the details of what passed during the hour that followed, such an ecstatic mood took me with the accomplishment of my task. I do vaguely remember I played a duet with the king on the Spanish guitar, and that he was a far better hand with the instrument than I. And Mr Pepys played the flageolet, and I the lute, backed by a dozen stirring violins and Mr Purcell on the spinet; and the latter told me with shining eyes that North Africa was proving a great inspiration to him at the moment, in that he was writing a piece based on the love story of a Greek hero and a tragic Carthaginian queen, and he was really very delighted to have made my acquaintance.

  My exultant mood is soon chased away by ben Hadou, however. Taking me firmly by the arm as the party breaks up, he hustles me back towards our accommodation. ‘Are you determined to sabotage our mission? First you play the fool in the park, and now you attempt to hobnob with our host as if you are equals, rather than slave and king. I am the leader of this embassy, and if the king is to address anyone amongst us, it should be me. Now what did you speak about?’

  ‘Just music,’ I lie.

  He grunts. ‘And that is all?’

  I nod, not trusting myself to say more.

  *

  Just after midnight there is a quiet knock at my door. Bleary with sleep, I open it to find a page outside with a silver salver and upon it a note sealed with a lump of red wax bearing the royal seal. I take it and retire to my room, heart thudding. The letter, dashed off at an untidy slant, is somewhat difficult to decipher: I am not used to reading an English hand. It says:

  Birdcage-Walk, St James’s Park

  Tomorrow at dawn

  C. R.

  35

  4th February 1682

  I am up before dawn: for once, not for prayers, though I make God a great number of promises as I hood myself with my burnous and slip out into the dark mist of the morning. By the time I reach the place I believe to be Birdcage-Walk – for there is quite an aviary collected here, in and out of cages, mostly blessedly asleep still with their heads tucked beneath their wings – a rosy light is limning the clouds to the east and painting the still waters of the pleasure lake. I hunker down beneath the trees and wait, and before long a tall, lean figure wrapped in a cloak approaches at a fast clip. The gait is more than a clue, despite the tricorn hat. I step out into his path and am on the point of making my obeisance when the king’s deep voice commands me, ‘Od’s fish, man, don’t bow!’ He strides into the shelter of the trees where I had been crouched. ‘The boy she mentions, you brought him to London with you?’

  He regards me with incredulity as I explain the contrivances I have been forced to make to bring Momo safely out of Morocco and into the palace. When I come to the part about transforming him into a blackamoor, he chuckles loudly. ‘Well, I must say you are a resourceful fellow, Nus-Nus. Hiding the boy in plain sight shows great audacity; and placing him with Louise is a stroke of genius! I want you to bring him to me, tomorrow, after the couchée. Come up the Privy Stairs: Mr Chiffinch will have instructions to let you pass. Can you do that?’

  I nod. ‘Of course, your majesty. Thank you.’ I cannot help but fall to my knees and reach to kiss his hand in gratitude and relief, but he just laughs and walks away.

  As the sun comes up over the roofs of White Hall, I feel as if it is shining just for me and I thank every god I have ever prayed to. Tomorrow Momo will be safe in the king’s protection, and the ground will be laid for Alys to join him. I have done all that was asked of me: now I have only Zidana’s task to complete. Ah, Nus-Nus, you are a fortunate and capital fellow, I congratulate myself: audacious and resourceful, as the king said; and who am I to gainsay a king? I feel like crowing like a cockerel, so full of pride am I.

  I should have remembered that pride goes before a fall. The omens were all there for me to see. On the horizon, dark clouds gathering; a black cat that crosses my path as I enter the palace; the salt I spill as I procure a little breakfast from the small kitchen. There I ask the cook, a bad-tempered old woman, ‘Is Kate here?’ and she barks back, ‘No she isn’t, the lazy bitch, though it’s no business of a damned blackamoor where she might be!’ In disdain for my skin and the slave-bond in my ear, she gives me bread so stale to accompany my coddled egg that I crack a tooth on it, and am immediately transported back to the prison cell at Meknes all those years ago. That should have warned me too: danger lies around every corner, and death lurks on the edge of every pretty vista.

  As I slip up the stairs back to my quarters, I round a banister and am so distracted by my heady combination of elation and pain that I almost run into the back of ben Hadou, creeping barefoot up the stairs. I stop and let him continue ahead of me, blithely ignorant of my presence, and wonder where he has been at this hour, and without his shoes, when he is always so proper? Perhaps to bathe and then pray, I chide myself; or, like me, to seek an early breakfast. But it nags at me.

  The day brings a new invitation, for Mr Pepys has been as good as his word and arranged for the ambassador and myself to attend a meeting at the Royal Society.

  ‘It is members only, usually,’ he confides, as we take a carriage through the crowded streets later that morning, ‘but I have had a word with Sir Christopher and he will allow you to enter for the day as a special favour to me. Perhaps if you stay longer in London and would like it, we will be able to make you honorary members?’

  Ben Hadou is much taken with this notion and evinces a passion for science I have never suspected in him. He questions Mr Pepys thoroughly on the history of the society and its better-known members, and our host is happy to oblige. The unfamiliar names wash over me, leaving no trace. My mind is as serene as beach sand washed smooth by the ebb of a wave. I feel blessed by the world: apart from my wretched tooth. Even the city we pass through – with its grime and mud, its beggars and street-criers, its stink of fish and horse shit – seems a more benign place than it ever did before, even though the sky is visibly greying and a fine rain is starting to fall. I smile indulgently at a knot of men engaged in conversation on a street corner; but my quietude is soon shattered as they break into a brawl and abruptly there are knives flashing and a sudden spray of blood. Mr Pepys at once leans out of the carriage window and calls something to the coachman, who blows three loud blasts on a whistle. ‘That’ll bring the charleys running,’ he promises. ‘Please don’t concern yourselves overly, my friends: the constables will sort it out.’

  Gresham College, on the wide Holborn thoroughfare, is a tranquil place by comparison. We reach the meeting room via a colonnaded walkway bordering a lovely inner courtyard planted in an orderly fashion with grass and trees, and are greeted by twenty or thirty bewigged and solemn gentlemen, of whom I recognize five or six as court regulars. The president, Sir Christopher Wren, a supercilious-looking man in his middle years, bids us welcome, though his smile does not reach his eyes. ‘I hear your embassy is quite the social sensation of the year,’ he sneers, and turns awa
y to talk to Mr Evelyn.

  At this snub the Tinker looks much deflated, but rallies when he is introduced to Mr Deane, who compliments him on his riding and has observations to make about the shortness of the stirrup leather used with regards to torsion and speed.

  There is displayed a live scorpion found in an oil shop in London. Ben Hadou and I exchange glances: if this is the standard of wonders to be found here, we are going to have a dull day indeed. Several large pieces of amber containing insects are displayed: these, again, are nothing new to us. Zidana has a necklace in which a vast spider crouches, preserved for ever in the fragrant resin: it often sits at her throat.

  There follows a long discourse in Latin of which neither the ambassador nor I can understand a word, though it appears to involve the relative qualities of a number of different substances and objects, including gold and silver, water and fur, a bee and a leaf, which are then examined most thoroughly by means of an odd-looking instrument comprising a long, decorated tube and a round glass lens to which one places one’s eye. Ben Hadou is invited to look down the tube at the mouthpart of a bee, and at once leaps back, exclaiming in some horror at the monstrosity he has perceived, which causes considerable mirth. I choose rather to examine the leaf, which sits better with my mood, and am rewarded by a beautiful pattern of lustrous greens and yellows cut through with translucent veins. The experience is almost hallucinogenic; when eventually I come upright again I feel dizzy and overwhelmed, as if I have somehow been allowed a glimpse into a secret world hitherto unseen.

  By now recovered from his encounter with the suddenly-giant fly, ben Hadou insists on examining everything else on the table, including his own finger, and as the meeting wears on I allow my mind to drift off into pleasant fantasies of the future that awaits: Momo dressed in a fine blue silk suit beside his lovely mother in creamy satin. No need for powdered gold or poisonous ceruse to heighten the natural beauties of Alys’s porcelain skin or sunlit hair; no drops of belladonna required to widen that perfect regard. And I, in a fine coat and waistcoat of figured velvet, standing proudly behind them, with silver buckles on my shoes and a long black periwig to replace my turban, posing for the artist who paints the portrait that will adorn our new home. In one of these delicious fancies, I imagine Alys cradling a little girl – our daughter! my wayward imagination supplies – wrapped in a froth of lace, showing her off to a circle of court ladies. Such foolish nonsense! I catch myself up and chide myself silently. I am a eunuch: I can have no children of my own. More than that, I am a slave and she is a gentlewoman; I am as black as night and she as white as day; and never the twain shall meet.