Feathers in the Wind: The Cygnets Page 3

  Hiding his smile, Selim watched as his son lowered his head, right hand working at the knotted tension in his neck. He took a deep breath and held it. “Yes,” he finally admitted, “I imagine I would expect any child of mine to take up the position I have been forced to vacate. Sir, I mean no disrespect, but such a child—a Muslim child—would never be accepted by the Ton."

  Selim nonchalantly tossed the denuded peach pit to the floor beside his throne. He paid no attention to the servant who quickly darted over to retrieve the small stone and dispose of it.

  "For the past twenty-four months you have moped about as though you had no future, as if you would escape the reality of your situation. This is painful to me. I do not bear pain well, nor for long. Since you have taken no efforts to see to your life, I have done so for you."

  "I would not call it moping, exactly” Jamal demurred. He hastened to explain. “I have been learning your language, and getting to know more about this country."

  Selim heard the guilt in his son's voice. He obviously realized mopping was indeed what he had been doing. “Yes,” Selim agreed, “As though you planned to finish out your life here."

  "I cannot return to England,” Jamal retorted emphatically. “I had thought to do some exploring of the Americas and other lands. However, before I expose myself to such precarious plans, I will need to secure my title."

  "And how do you intend to find a cultured English woman here in Ankara?” Selim raised a well-formed brow in question.

  "You had no problem finding an English woman,” Jamal sniped, bitterly.

  Selim could understand his son having extreme difficulty accepting that his mother had been his bed-mate. She had conceived Jamal here, in Turkey. Returning to England, she'd fooled everyone, including Jamal, concealing from him the true facts of his heritage. His mother, who had instilled in him a strict code of honesty, had betrayed everything he held dear.

  "How could she have withheld such vital information from me? I hated learning my entire life had been a lie. I've even wondered if my fath—if Randolph Tyson died believing me to be his true son ... or if he, too, had been in on the deceit."

  "To this day, you deeply resent having had to learn the truth of you origins from me, your real father. But tell me, how could discovering you are of princely blood be so devastating? Even a Duke is not as high in social ranking as that."

  "How can you not understand that my entire life has been based upon a lie? One I never knew until I landed here. Upon first arriving in Turkey, I was taken to the summer palace in Istanbul, where I was told the Sultan currently held court. I was treated like a visiting prince, my slightest wish or desire anticipated, which only made me more suspicions of my companions."

  "After all, I'd been accused of dealing with Turkish nationals. I suspected the true traitor was in cahoots with these Turks, and between them, meant to do away with me at some distant, private spot."

  He paced up and down the hall, his boots ringing on the marble tiles. “Imagine my shock when I finally stood before His Serene Sultan, Selim Jamal Abdullah, third of that name. To give you your due, you too had also obviously been kept in the dark. I could only gaze upon you with wonder. It was like gazing into a looking glass."

  Selim nodded. “The resemblance was marked."

  "You can say that, again. I had always known I did not take after father's family; the portraits on the walls of castle Wyndmere bearing witness to that fact. I had thought mother's family lent me my dark, hawkish looks since my cousin also bore them, but one discerning glance at you consigned those long-held beliefs to perdition."

  "Your shock was great, as was your anger. I feared you would succumb to a brain fever."

  "How would you feel if you discovered something like that? As an observant child, I had often wondered over the foreignness of my fourth name. When I questioned my parents about it, they informed me I bore the name in honor of a family friend. Standing in the throne room of the summer palace, I learned the only thing I had inherited from my mother's family was their more-than-average height. My looks, my name, and especially these damned tiger-amber eyes were the gifts of the man I now recognize as my true father."

  Selim watched as Jamal struggled with his inner thoughts. The father in him was proud over how his son had adapted to life in the palaces. Jamal had studied hard and diligently to learn the difficult language, even accepting the use of his Turkish name to facilitate assimilation. He was kind and patient with his younger cousins who occupied the women's quarters in the royal harem, especially to the young Mahmud, the son of the widowed Sultana Aimée, often bringing him news from outside the confining harem walls and taking him riding through the countryside.

  Yes, Jamal was a fine man, and a worthy son. If he were only a father, he would have no complaints. Alas, he was not. He was Selim Jamal Abdullah, Sultan; Final Voice and Supreme Authority in the Ottoman Empire with more responsibilities than the simple ones of fatherhood. Jamal might think to content himself with traveling and exploring, but Selim had come to know him better.

  When he had arrived in Istanbul almost two years ago, his son had been an angry young man—unjustly condemned, and publicly humiliated. The Sultan knew that one day soon, Jamal would again burn to right the wrongs against him. Wrongs he'd been unjustly sentenced for. He would want to expose and punish the person truly responsible for disrupting his life and tarnishing his honor in the eyes of his peers.

  Selim was prepared to help his son achieve his goals. He just happened to have the wherewithal to implement them now, and he had no need to wait until Jamal inevitably realized what he must do. Having experienced the stubbornness and determination Jamal was capable of, the Sultan had prepared a diversion to keep his son off-balance until the real trap he constructed reached completion.

  "We will not speak of your mother now, I think,” Selim said in a quietly stern voice. “You do not know the entire story, and your attitude towards her is lacking in respect. Your behavior is hurtful to her. You do not even read her letters. You should write to her and let her know you are well. At the very least, answer her letters to you..."

  Jamal frowned. “No."

  "Well, let that be for now,” he allowed, waving the suggestion away as he caught the cold glint that had entered Jamal's eyes, the steel that hardened his jaw. How Emily has hurt our son, all unintentionally.

  "Let us rather speak of you,” he hastily suggested. “As my recognized heir, you are no longer confined to the guest halls. I have ordered a suite of rooms prepared for you and your belongings have already been moved. Beginning tomorrow, and continuing every second week until you choose a bride, a young virgin slave will come to your chambers. You will spend the evening being entertained by her. If her conversation and appearance pleases you, you may allow her to ascend to your bed. She will then enter your harem, becoming eligible to be your first Kadin."

  Jamal distractedly ran his hands over his hair. “I refuse to believe you are serious about this. How can I get my firm objections through to you when you will not listen?"

  "On the contrary, my son,” Selim reached for another fruit, “I am listening all the time. I have spoken. So shall it be.” Selim spread his hands in a dismissing gesture.

  Jamal refused to take the less-than-subtle hint to absent himself from the august presence of the Sultan. He obviously objected to his abrupt dismissal. “I will refuse to see any of your candidates,” he threatened quietly.

  Selim sighed. “Should the female return from your presence in less than an hour, I shall assume she did nothing to attempt to please you. That would be disobedience to my will, and her punishment shall be severe. Should she fail a second time, she will be disposed of."

  Jamal jerked to his feet, face contorted in horrified disbelief. He tried twice before he could speak. “I cannot believe this of you,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper.

  "You would do well to believe, ogul,” the Sultan replied, his tone hard, his bearing that of one long accustomed to r
ule without question. “Something must be done, and I have initiated it. Your body-servants inform me that you do not partake of the females available to the men of the household. There is some talk that you prefer men. I took such steps,” he informed Jamal, noting with inward thankfulness the distaste written on his son's face, “that I do not think we will hear any more such talk."

  It was not that Selim himself so much objected to the practice of sodomy, for he was very accustomed to it, having been the victim of sodomy during his precarious youth. But it would not do for his son. Jamal would be returning to England eventually. The cold-blooded English did not look upon such vices lightly. He clapped sharply for an attendant, and again addressed Jamal, who still stood tense and straight before him, radiating censure.

  "You have thirty years. It is a true thing that all men have the needs of the flesh put upon us by Allah. If, indeed the way of the Catamite is not yours, why do you reject the women I have sent you?"

  "To be honest, Sir, they are not much to my taste."

  "Taste. What taste? What is lacking in them? Come. Be open with me."

  Jamal pursed his lips, probably considering how truthful he should be. “Sir, the majority of the women you've sent me barely have the years to claim that title. I cannot work up an interest for schoolroom aged girls. Frankly, the idea of bedding a child leaves me totally cold. Too, the women are ... hairless, so that those few who are old enough still look as though they are too childish to even grow pubic hair."

  "You wish your women to be bushy?” The Sultan attempted to hide his reaction from his son, but he was too shocked and disgusted to succeed. “This is not hygienic. My son, the smell of ... of woman is trapped in such places, difficult to remove if one does not remove the hair. Even then, the Koran instructs us to wash immediately after indulging with a female. Surely this is to ensure the smell of woman lingers not on our male organs. How is it that you find the presence of such hair pleasurable?"

  A slight sensuous smile crossed Jamal's face. “As you stated, a bath after sex can solve that problem. Besides ... I like that woman smell.” Jamal laughed when the Sultan grimaced. “I find something exciting about delving through the soft curls that veil a woman's ultimate secret. The sight alone of delicate pink lips winking through their fleecy covering is enough to bring my member to attention and—” he broke-off, shrugging at the look of disgusted disbelief on his father's face. “It is what I am accustomed to. To each his own, my Lord,” He stated firmly. “I was not raised here in the East, so you cannot expect me to conform totally to your ways. Many of them are still strange to me."

  Jamal left off his explanation as a tall, thick man in flowing robes slid gracefully to his knees before the Sultan's throne. He remembered his father signaling for a servant earlier, and listened as the bowing man asked, “My Lord commands—?"

  "Ah. kul. This is my son, Jamal, the “Emir of Promise". You are now assigned to him exclusively. Escort him to the peacock suite, and see that his every need is met. Your life is now linked with my son's. Should anything befall him—” The Sultan's face hardened. He narrowed his tigerish eyes and gave a feral growl. “Let Us just say ... I expect nothing will befall him as long as you draw breath."

  * * * *

  Jamal silently shook his head, deploring the heavy-handed manipulations his father used so freely. He turned his gaze back to the poor slave who remained kneeling, quaking in his soft slippers. He couldn't help thinking the man's assignment to him was but another of his father's maneuvers to control him. Planting this spy in his quarters was an obvious move; one Selim did not even bother to hide. Ignoring the man who now crawled over to cower at his feet, Jamal found himself pondering a course of action that would allow him to slip out of the trap his father was fast laying for him.

  Jamal grimaced. He knew the palaces had buzzed for months over the mystery of the Englishman. Now, in the presence and hearing of the servants in the throne room—the worst gossips of the Seraglio—the Sultan had declared him, a foreigner, to be the heir-apparent to the Ottoman throne.

  "What is your name?” he asked the eunuch.

  "May it please my Lord, it is whatever you wish it to be."

  Jamal sighed with impatience. “What have you been called in the past?"

  "I was Seuliman,” the slave answered, trembling. “I am well trained, Lord. I have been in palace service since my entry into the ranks of the “hairless” at the age of six. I will serve you well, Master. Only command me—"

  Jamal hadn't expected to be able to detect Seuliman's true feelings; the servant knew better than to betray any emotion in response to anything his masters might decree. Yet Jamal found the fawning of the man somewhat disconcerting. Also, knowing the palaces to be hot-beds of intrigue, information brokering, and positional jockeying, it disturbed him that Seuliman would have all the other eunuchs fawning over him for tidbits of information concerning his master. Jamal disliked the idea of his private affairs becoming more public than they already were.

  Slanting a wary glance towards the Sultan, who was watching the scene before him with unalloyed interest, Jamal issued his first edict. “I will not have my personal life made a public spectacle. Is that clear?"

  Seuliman nodded vigorously.

  "Because if I hear of any gossip circulating the palaces concerning my private activities,” he continued, “I will promptly dismiss you."

  Jamal watched as the man went gray, not understanding why a threat of dismissal would so terrify him. He glanced up at the Sultan, his eyes questioning.

  "A slave is only dismissed through death.” The Sultan smiled softly, saying, “This one knows that should he prove unsatisfactory, he will be disposed of."

  His confusion cleared. It angered Jamal that in forgetting the barbarous way these Turks dealt with those dependent upon them, he had frightened the man without cause.

  "I trust such drastic measures will not be necessary,” he contented himself with saying. “Get up. I do not like to see my servants groveling about on the floor.” He waited until Seuliman had risen, then turned to confront his sire.

  "This discussion is not over, Sir,” he warned quietly. Bowing deeply from the waist, he honored his father. Turning sharply, addressing his newly acquired bodyguard, he ordered, “Direct me to my new quarters."

  Seuliman bowed deeply. “If master will follow his humble servant—?"

  Without looking back, Jamal strode from the throne room on the heels of his father's spy.

  * * * *

  As soon as his son left the throne room, the Sultan summoned his own personal servant. Frustrated, and unaccustomed to suffering a delay of gratification, Selim petulantly addressed the eunuch as soon as the non-man scurried into the room, barely giving the slave time to complete his obeisance.

  "Tubal, what of the mission I assigned to the Bey of Seyhan? Has there been any word of progress? Why has he not yet arrived? Must I be always surrounded by incompetence?"

  "Most Excellent Sire, have patience,” Tubal urged as he had numerous times before. “The journey is a long and dangerous one. Secrecy slows any operation, and you have given certain requirements that must be closely followed. The woman you seek is so rare as to possibly be nonexistent."

  The servant cringed at the frown that darkened Selim's brow. “Sire, think. A woman of eighteen years or more who is comely, highly learned, and pure—” Tubal spread his hands helplessly. “That alone, not regarding she must be of noble birth...” He shook his head, unable to calculate such phenomenal odds. “The Bey and his men are searching diligently, my Lord. They will not return without what you have commanded."

  "They must hurry, Tubal. Time is short. I must maintain this false position between my son and nephew and you know the dangers of the palaces. I fear that Mustapha, or his mother, will launch an attempt to remove Jamal before my plan can bear fruit. Mustapha will follow me on the peacock throne, but for now, all must think differently. Jamal must truly believe that he is being groomed for the seat
of power until after his is safely married to one of his own kind."

  "All is in progress, my Lord,” soothed the faithful servant. “Let my Sultan's and Allah's will be done."

  Salim eyed his longtime servant indulgently. A devout Muslim was never to place a mere man before Allah, but Tubal was first the hand of the Sultan, and a Muslim second. His sole purpose in life was to do the will and grant the slightest wish of Selim III, which was as it should be.

  Chapter Four

  Selim, I do not know that I agree with your plans for our son. He should have the right to choose a bride for himself. I question your methods of finding a suitable girl. I know how women are procured there, and I know you are ruthless when it comes to getting your way. Remember, I know how it feels to be enslaved, whisked away from all that is familiar and safe. Even should your goals be admirable, I fear Jared is too much like you. You both harbor a certain stubbornness in your natures. He will object just to be contrary. At any rate, I have little information for you. Jared was always very close-mouthed about his preference in women. I know he was always attracted to full-figured females, and he once stated he did not care for women who were all bust and no brains. Randolph was always after him to marry and set up his nursery. Jared told him he would be glad to marry when he found a girl that interested him outside the bedroom as well as in. I recall that girl who caught his attention at his trial. He seemed so taken with her that I made an effort to find the family so as to keep tabs on her. Her name is Merridyth St. John-Smythe. Unfortunately, she seems to have dropped out of the social scene. Oh, well. Whomever you seek must be good mother material, willing to have any number of children, as Jared always lamented the fact that he was an only child. I think she must be adventurous, too, as Jared is an explorer at heart. When he was five, he built a rickety old raft and informed us he was sailing to the new world. He promised to return with rich jewels to lie at my feet. Ah. That was when he loved me.—Emily