The Kadin - Bertrice Small [104]
He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly, murmuring endearments. “There, my dove. Hush, sweet moon of my delight Don’t weep, my love, my incomparable love.”
She always amazed him. That she loved him and their children, he knew. That she put him and his interests first he did not doubt; but that she was capable of such deep emotion with regard to him, he had not realized. His cool, beautiful, competent kadin wept like a girl in the first flush of love; he had not expected it and it frightened him. Such loyalty made him weak, and he needed time to think, so he tried to cajole her out of this mood. He slid his hands beneath her thin night garments and caressed her smooth body. She sighed contentedly, but then stiffened.
“Selim!” Her voice sounded exasperated.
“Heart of my heart”—his voice was sheepish—“you frightened me. I have never seen you like this.”
The storm was past and her laughter rang clear in the dim, scented chamber. Relieved, he grinned, and his own laughter joined with hers. “Your proper kadin has returned to you, my lord. Don’t stop. Your hands are a healing balm.”
“Ill-mannered slave!” he replied in mock rage. “It is you who should strive to please me!”
She applied a skillful caress. “Like this, my lord? Or perhaps this, my lord?”
He looked at her through fierce, half-closed eyes. She returned the look and bending, placed a burning kiss on his waiting mouth.
28
WHEN PRINCE AHMED fled Constantinople, he went to the palace at Adrianople and declared himself sultan. Civil war broke out Most of the provinces, neither understanding the situation nor realizing how unfit Ahmed was to rule, supported him. The battle lines were drawn—Selim, the Tartars, and the Janissaries on one side, and Ahmed and the provinces on the other.
Now, two years later, the battle was over, and Hadji Bay, eager to give the news to the kadins, hurried down the corridor leading to the apartment of Prince Selim’s bas-kadin. Brushing past the slaves guarding the door, he entered the salon.
They were all there, seated about the fire, embroidery in hand. He wondered silently why women were considered the weaker sex. In his fifty-seven years on this earth he had observed their strength over men many times. Not necessarily physical strength (although after watching the act of birth he wondered if men could be that strong), but their great strength of will
It pleased Hadji Bey’s vanity these twenty years later that his choice of women to help his prince become sultan had been correct Not only had they produced among them nine fine sons, but they had accomplished a greater miracle in their unity and solidarity. Never in all the ages had four women shared one man without backbiting and betrayal. He wondered whether they could now maintain this serenity. He coughed softly. “Good day, my daughters.”
Cyra rose and came toward him, hands outstretched. “Dear Hadji Bey. What news?”
“It is over,” replied the agha. “Prince Ahmed is dead, and our Prince Selim is victorious!”
“Praise Allah!”
“Does the sultan know?” asked Zuleika.
“Not yet, my lady. He is having one of his bad days and would not comprehend. When his mind clears, I shall tell him.”
“How did Prince Ahmed die?”
“Badly, my lady Cyra.”
“This is no time for levity,” she said sharply. “You know precisely what I mean.”
“Yes, madam, but even in the sweetest victory it is wise to keep a sense of humor lest we become pompous and overimpressed with our own good fortune.”
Cyra blushed. “I stand corrected.”
The agha patted her gently and marveled silently at the blush. The woman before him was thirty-three years old, and the mother of four. She was sophisticated in the ways of the world, and yet she still had the good grace to admit a fault He had waited many years to