Pawn in Frankincense - Dorothy Dunnett [207]
Obedient as one of the mutes, Philippa summoned all her hard-won training and glided too, without mishap, over the carpets. The brown eyes were shrewd; the clothes rich but neat: the three-foot train tucked into the wide jewelled sash; the slippers curled, and of a skittish red satin. Khourrém had a neat ankle, and knew it.
She was being asked to bring sherbet. Philippa bowed, hand on heart, thought strengtheningly of Kate, and turned smoothly, to catch the eye of the small page, who already had a jug in his hands. Keep at it, and head eunuch for you, thought Philippa to herself, and grinned at him, accepting the jug, while he brought her a tray and cups to go with it, trotting behind with a towel. He might have been twelve.
The cups were solid emerald. She filled one for Roxelana and one for Kiaya Khátún who had seated herself, on command, by the steps of the throne. The page brought a table and Philippa laid the sherbet tray on it, restraining herself from a mad desire to drain the whole jug. ‘Now, the lute,’ said Kiaya Khátún. ‘Khourrém Sultán desires you to play for her.’
No shortage of helpers. The eunuch brought the lute: the pageboy arranged a pile of cushions for her to sit on.
Someone had presented the instrument: it was made western-style, with an inscription in Latin. It was quite out of tune.
No Gideon, now, to chaff her and give her an A. Get it wrong now, dearie, said Philippa to Durr-i Bakht; and they’ll stitch your mouth shut and tip you into a jar. She tuned, quickly, and got her strings at least in the proper relationship before wondering what on earth she was expected to play. Kiaya Khátún saved her the trouble. ‘I have told the Sultana,’ she said,’of the song “The Knight of Stevermark” I encountered on shipboard. Play this, if you know it. Even better: if you know the words, sing.’
Philippa stared at Kiaya Khátún. Then she drew a long breath. ‘I know the tune. The words are not very … I know only one version.’
‘There is only one version,’ said Kiaya Khátún. ‘If you know it, sing it. I shall translate.’
And she did, very adequately, Philippa thought, singing her way doggedly through fifteen verses and all the double-entendres.
Roxelana enjoyed it. She began to smile half-way through, and by the end had broken into open-mouthed laughter. Then, summoning Philippa, she pulled off and gave to her a jade pin from her robe. Philippa, who yearned above rubies for one swig of the sherbet, thanked her stiffly in Turkish, and drew a smile and a word of dismissal. The page came for the lute. Philippa bowed, backed and fled.
Later, Kiaya Khátún summoned her. ‘You did well. Your work was acceptable: Khourrém Sultán finds you witty. Next time you will be alone. You will perform for her only classical works: you will find she has a taste for them, and is perfectly knowledgeable, so she will demand a high standard of playing. But you will notice also that she enjoys laughter. Your invention must suggest what you do.’
‘Clown?’ said Philippa, without further surprise. Here, lunacy flowed with the fountains.
‘With grace. Always with grace,’ said Kiaya Khátún warningly. ‘Khourrém Sultán makes a powerful friend.’
It had been a long day. ‘… If I can go?’ said Philippa pleadingly. ‘I promised him bubbles if he behaved in his bath.’
‘I suggest,’ said Kiaya Khátún gravely, ‘you restrict your use of the personal pronoun. Misunderstandings occur. And in Topkapi, the sentences are irreversible.’
20
Constantinople: Topkapi
‘Let us be common,’ had said His Excellency the French Ambassador, sitting at his desk in the Embassy in the days prior to his ceremonial presentation to the most high Emperor and mighty king, Sultan Suleiman Khan. ‘Our clothes wrought upon goldfully, glorious as Assurbanipal with a dab