The Kadin - Bertrice Small [139]
No words were said—no words were needed. The sultan’s stricken kadins knew in that one moment the sad and awful truth. Selim of Turkey was dead.
PART IV
Hafise
1520–1533
35
THE SULTAN WAS DEAD, and alt of Western Europe, heaving a sigh of relief, waited to sec what kind of a ruler his son would be. For now, however, there was time to breathe.
Thanks to the cleverness of Piri Pasha, the transition between sultans had been smooth, Selim’s grand vizier had managed to keep the sultan’s death a secret from his soldiers—and therefore from all of the empire—for almost six days. By that time, Suleiman, having been notified, and riding hard from Magnesia, had reached Constantinople and put on the sword of Ayub.
For three weeks Cyra lay on her couch, hardly moving. Marian and Ruth were desperate. Coaxing, they tried to feed her broth and soft white bread but for every three meals they brought her, she picked at one. Desperate for a solution, Marian went to the agha.
“You must help us, my lord Anber. For three weeks she has lain prostrate with grief. We cannot rouse her.”
“I will come and speak with her,” replied the agha. “I think I have the key to unlock her self-pity.”
Waddling into her bedchamber, he seated himself by her couch. “My lady, it distresses me to see you so. Especially when your help and wisdom are needed”
There was no response.
“I must know when you will be well enough to move to new quarters. The lady Gulbehar demands that you vacate these apartments now that she bears the title of bas-kadin.”
A flicker.
He continued “What a pity your son has not found the time to declare you the valideh. By right the title is yours, but alas, since you do not hold it, Gulbehar rules supreme in the harem.”
“What do you mean, Gulbehar rules the harem?”
“You know the etiquette, my lady Cyra. She is the sultan’s bas-kadin. You are merely the former sultan’s bas-kadin.”
She sat up. “Leave me. I would dress and see my son, who seems to have forgotten who made him sultan.”
“As you will, madam,” replied the agha, smiling archly. Entering the salon, he said to Marian, “Attend your mistress. She wishes to dress and see her son. I think our young sultan is about to lose his first battle. May it not be a portent of things to come.”
Cyra dressed carefully. She would never again wear the slash-skirted dress of a kadin. Instead, she put on the tunic dress of a valideh. Though she had lain for weeks in grief, her servants had not been idle. The tunic was of black brocade embroidered in gold thread and teardrop pearls. Her beautiful hair, still bright, was braided into a coronet and held with pearl pins. A sheer black silk veil edged in fine lace covered her head.
Carefully she outlined her eyes in kohl, lightly dusted her face with powder to accentuate her pallor, and then reddened her lips. The years have not changed me, she thought, carefully searching her mirror for signs of age. There were none. Though her first youth was long gone, she could pass for a young woman of twenty-five, and it pleased her vanity and gave her confidence.
She knew exactly where to find Suleiman. Sweeping into Gulbehar’s chamber, she glanced scornfully at the girl and commanded, “Leave us. I wish to speak to my son in private.”
Gulbehar, not quite sure how to react, and not wishing to face down her mother-in-law in Suleiman’s presence, hastily scrambled to her feet and slipped out
Cyra turned to Suleiman. “For three weeks I have lain ill with grief, and not once have you visited me!” Her voice was cold.
“There has been much to do, mother. I had no time.”
“You have time for Gulbehar!”
“Gulbehar is my kadin, and she is feeling frightened by her new position.”
“I am your mother! Without me you would not have had life. Without me you would not have had Gulbehar! Do not forget that, my young Hon—even in your high place. Now, why have you not declared me valideh? Is the harem to be ruled by a mere chit of twenty-two who wears garnet