The Kadin - Bertrice Small [145]
“Who is that girl?” she asked her daughter.
“Which one, mother?”
Cyra pointed impatiently. “That one!”
“Oh. Russalanie. She’s one of the Tartar captives who came in as tribute last year. Suleiman always sends me a few to supplement my staff. I never seem to have enough slaves.”
“I want that girl,” said Cyra, drawing a ruby ring from her finger and handing it to Nilufer. “She isn’t worth the price yet, but one day—or I miss my guess—shell be worth ten times more.”
“What on earth do you want her for?” Nilufer’s eyes widened at her mother’s look. “Surely not to tempt Suleiman? His harem is overflowing with several hundred lovely girls, and there are a dozen maidens here in my own household with more beauty than Russalanie. She is a savage!”
“You are young, my daughter, and can see only the obvious. Besides, the girl can be trained. I’ll take her with me.”
“In your palanquin? Really, mother! I will send her to the serai tomorrow.”
“And have everyone who watches wondering why I, who have more slaves than I need, have brought one from my daughter’s house? Gulbehar would waste a month’s slipper money trying to buy information. No! The girl comes with me today. Then I can control the situation.”
Nilufer flung up her hands. “You are impossible!”
“I am your mother, and I will thank you to remember it. Now I see why your sons lack manners. You have obviously forgotten everything I ever taught you. See that the girl is told and is ready for my departure.”
Shortly afterward, Nilufer stood on the portico of her palace and watched as her mother’s palanquin disappeared from sight The valideh’s conveyance was a magnificent thing. Built of solid oak, it was covered with thin sheets of hammered gold encrusted with precious jewels in a floral design, and hung with midnight-blue curtains lined in pale-yellow silk. Eight perfectly matched coal-black slaves, wearing green satin pantaloons, leopard skins across their shoulders, and heavy gold collars, carried it
As the bearers wended their way back to the palace, Cyra coolly observed the girl, who huddled in the corner farthest from her. Finally the valideh spoke.
“They tell me your name is Russalanie.”
“The other women called me that because I come from the plains of Russia. My name is Roxelana.”
“How did you become a captive?”
Roxelana smiled mischievously. “I did not run fast enough,” she said.
“You wanted to be caught?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Each year the Tartars raid the villages in our region for virgins for their tribute to the Grand Turk. Look at me! I am tiny, yet what more was there for me in my village than for any other girl? Marriage. Babies. Hard work in the fields. I am too small to do my share, and besides, I hate farming.
“We had a priest in our village who could both read and write. He taught me. I read the few books he owned, and learned there was more in the world than my village could offer. Then one day a peddler came, and he had been in Constantinople. He told wonderful stories of how the girls in the sultan’s harem lived Uves of great luxury and ease. Of course the other girls thought it was a wicked, ungodly life, but I didn’t.
“So, when the Tartars came last year and all the women ran to hide, I waited until the last moment to run. Naturally, I was caught.” She shrugged and laughed. “And look at me now! Instead of being pampered in the sultan’s harem, I am the humblest of slaves in his sister’s house. I would have been better off in my own village!”
“You are an absolute barbarian and are not fit to enter my son’s harem now, but perhaps someday you will be. You will not return to my daughter’s home. You have a great deal to learn before I can even consider allowing my son to see you.”
Roxelana’s eyes flashed at the valideh’s words, but she said nothing. Good, thought Cyra. They have not broken her spirit, but she is wise enough to hold her tongue. Aloud, Cyra said, “You read and write your own language. I see you have learned Turkish, too, though your accent is atrocious. This is