The Kadin - Bertrice Small [107]
“You speak as if you were born a Turk.”
“My lord, I lived only thirteen of my years in Western Europe. The greater part of my life—and all of my happiness—has been here with you.”
He sighed. “If any other woman spoke to me thus, I should call it flattery or guile, but not when you do, my incomparable one. Your truth has been both my joy and my sorrow. Come, kiss me, beloved.”
Her lips met his, and, as always, he felt the storm of desire sweep over him. He marveled silently at his need for her. Never did he grow bored or disillusioned with her, and never could he get enough of her perfumed body.
With Zuleika his lovemaking was always savage. Never could he forget that he was to be sultan, and never could she forget she had been a princess of Cathay. Their love was a battle of wills, and never had she shown herself vulnerable until today, when he had told her of their son’s death.
With Firousi he could laugh, for although the Caucasian girl obviously adored him, she found the rather awkward positions of lovemaking amusing, and rarely could she control her mirth. He had on several occasions threatened to beat her, but instead of fearing him, his beautiful kadin had turned her gorgeous turquoise eyes up to him, lips twitching, and promised solemnly to behave. Then it would be he who would end up laughing.
Sarina, strangely enough, was the shyest of his wives. Afraid of displeasing him, she had always done exactly as she was taught When it finally occurred to Selim that she was a bit frightened in their physical relationship, he, the sternest of warriors, had become the gentlest of lovers, and had won Sarina’s undying adoration. He secretly wondered if this fear of Sarina’s had prevented her from conceiving a child for so long.
With Cyra it was none of these things. She was, he had known from the beginning, his only true soulmate. It was to her he came to talk over his ideas and hopes, and although he would never have admitted it—and she would never have suggested it—Cyra often advised and guided him with great wisdom
The night had grown cool, and she slept now, instinctively aware that for the moment he no longer needed her. Selim gently drew a cover over her and rose from their bed. The pain that had gnawed at his stomach these past two years seemed to be worse tonight Walking onto the terrace, he thought of the task ahead of him, and his mouth composed itself into a grim line.
His father had rebuilt Constantinople after the earthquake, and it was much for the better; but the sultan had done title to expand and strengthen the empire. Bajazet encouraged literature and the arts, but his provinces were near rebellion and unprotected from the nomadic tribes that of late bad grown bolder. There could only be one sultan in Turkey, and as Cyra said he must be strong—not a sick old man of sixty-five. So Selim would ride in a few days’ time to the tomb of the soldier-saint Ayub, and put on the sword which symbolized the leadership of the house of Osman. Bajazet would retire with his three kadins to a quiet serai on the sea where the old man would receive the best of care.
His younger brothers had conveniently died natural deaths while he had battled Ahmed There were no loose ends now. He would be sultan, and after him his son Suleiman would take up the reins of a stronger and more secure Turkey. As he stood watching the muted colors of the early dawn unroll across the sky, he heard Cyra stir behind him.
“Is it the pain again, my lord?”
He nodded.
“Have you taken the medicine the doctor prescribed?”
“It only makes me feel worse, my love. It eases the pain but addles my brain and makes me sleepy. If I must choose between pain and witlessness, then I choose pain. Should I show the least sign of weakness, there are those who lurk in the shadows only too ready to pounce upon me and bring the House of Osman tumbling down.”
Cyra sighed but said