Desert Rake

He spoke, a rich rumble of words, and the man standing to his side translated. ‘His Majesty the Sultan Mahmud, Commander of the Faithful, Lord of the Golden Horn, bids you welcome.’

‘I am deeply honoured by His Majesty’s gracious condescension in receiving me.’

‘His Majesty wishes to know what brings you to Constantinople.’

‘I desire to visit his beautiful city and his great lands, and to learn from what I see, should His Majesty be so gracious as to grant me a firman.’

The jet-black eyes regarded her steadily, then Mahmud spoke again.

‘Where is your husband?’ the translator asked.

‘I am a widow, Majesty.’

‘Of what years?’

‘Twenty-six years, Majesty.’

Silence. She forced herself to stand without fidgeting, her eyes modestly lowered. The Sultan raised a hand and a man stepped out of the shadows behind the throne. Caroline glanced up, and for a moment almost lost her composure. Then she realised she must be mistaken. She did not know him, although this man was black-haired, tall and broad-shouldered. He moved with a grace that reminded her of a big cat—and of a fantasy who had proved to be only too real.

But this was no Englishman: this man wore robes—yet another variation of the Ottoman court dress she saw all around her. His tall frame was clad in a silver-grey brocade robe, trimmed with black fur and worn over full black trousers; he was bareheaded and his black hair fell loose to his shoulders. It was not—of course it was not—the man from the ship.

He was stooping respectfully next to the Sultan, answering some question. Perhaps he was the official who had been dealing with her application? With a low bow he withdrew back into the shadows, and Caroline forced her attention back to the Sultan.

‘What man protects you?’ the interpreter asked, making her jump. He must have assumed she failed to understand him. ‘You have no husband; who then has you in his protection?’

‘No one!’ Idiot, he does not mean a lover. He means a bodyguard. ‘I mean, I shall hire such guides and escort as I require when I travel, Your Majesty.’

‘What garment is it that you wear now?’

‘It is described as a half-dress gown, Majesty. I thought it proper to dress as I would for an audience with my own sovereign.’

‘You do not then dress in men’s clothes, as your countrywoman does?’

‘Lady Hester, Your Majesty? No. I do not.’ Was that a bad thing, or good? Was she appearing dangerously inexperienced, or reassuringly respectable?

‘His Majesty graciously grants you your firman. May you travel safely, if the Prophet wills it.’

Yes! I have my firman—now all I need to do is to get out of here. ‘Your Majesty is most gracious.’ Caroline curtseyed, backed away, curtseyed again and finally found herself outside the door, Ismael mopping his brow at her side.

‘Oh, my goodness, what a relief that is over.’ Her hands were trembling, she realised. ‘Do you think we could sit down for a moment?’

‘No, my lady, we must go back to the carriage by the most direct way.’ A slight movement of his head towards a turbaned figure with the inevitable curving sword waiting behind them underlined the point. Ismael began to walk, pausing only as a man with a black panther on a chain crossed their path. The beast’s green eyes swivelled to examine Caroline. She held her breath, then it responded to a tug on its jewelled collar and padded on.