The Kadin - Bertrice Small [165]
In her suite, Khurrem Kadin received regular reports. The valideh was pale and wan. She vomited her food and grew weak. She was now complaining of shooting pains in her head and her chest
Khurrem prayed for her antagonist’s swift demise and thought with chagrin of her two aborted murder attempts. She was extremely hard pressed to conceal her joy when word came that the Cyra Hafise, seeing the Angel of Death near her bed, had called for her coffin.
On the evening of the eleventh day of the valideh’s illness, Khurrem and her children were sent for to bid the mother of Suleiman a last farewell. Entering the bedchamber, Khurrem thought the older woman looked strangely well, but then she was not the doctor. What did it matter, so long as Cyra died? Khurrem knelt by the bedside and felt a hand upon her head.
“My daughter,” came the familiar voice—it was quite weak, the Russian noted with satisfaction. “My daughter,” the valideh repeated. “You have far exceeded my ambitions for you.” Was there a hint of mockery in the words? “But whatever our differences during these last years, I forgive you. You have been a good wife to my son and a good mother to his children. I know you will continue to be.”
For a moment Khurrem felt a twinge of regret for this woman who had lifted her from obscurity, but when her eyes met the valideh’s, she could not conceal her naked triumph, “I shall not change my ways, my mother,” she said solemnly.
Cyra almost laughed. She had been sure that Khurrem would not change her ways. Recovering herself, she turned her attention to her grandchildren. She blessed them all, beginning with her son’s heir, Prince Mustafa, who had come from Magnesia. Pulling him close to her, she whispered, “Do not trust Khurrem Kadin under any circumstances. Remember my warning. It is the only legacy I can leave you.” He nodded.
Next came Selim, still fat and nasty. He was his mother’s son and would never change. Of all her grandchildren, he was the only one she had failed to get close to. Then came Bajazet, his eyes full of tears. A good boy. He was very much like her husband. He was followed by Princess Mihrmah, silent and overawed by her part in this drama. Last was little Jahangir, whose lower lip trembled as he said, “My monkey thanks you for healing him, grandmother.”
Then they were gone, and she was left to say her final words to Suleiman in private. The sultan was visibly shaken. Grasping his sleeve, she drew him down to her, and the sound of her voice had its firm authoritarian ring.
“Listen well, my lion. These are the last words I shall say to you. Trust Mustafa and guard him well. Do not be misled by any accusation that Khurrem may make. The boy loves you and will always be loyal. If, Allah forbid the heir should die, name Bajazet, not Selim. Selim is weak and warped He is easily led by Khurrem. Bajazet is like his grandfather and Mustafa. He is wise enough to placate, but not to be influenced by Khurrem. Remember! Bajazet, not Selim. Watch over Jahangir. He is a good boy. When she is old enough, marry Mihrmah to someone who will be of use to you. A daughter is valuable in her own way. Allah’s blessings on you, my Suleiman. Now go!”
“Mother—”
“Gol”
Tears pouring down his cheeks, he left her, giving orders to her staff that when the time came, the coffin should be sealed by her two faithful slaves, Marian and Ruth. He had as his dying mother had requested, given them their freedom. They would leave the serai immedately following the valideh’s death and return to their native land.
Cyra’s servants were desolate. The valideh had been a good mistress, and they loved her. Earlier in the evening, she had called them to her one by one and had given each a small purse. Everyone connected with the sultan’s mother, from the humblest kitchen slave to the agha kislar himself, had been remembered. To each of her maidens she had also given a small piece of her own jewelry.
Within the bedchamber of the valideh, the “dying” woman arose from