The Kadin - Bertrice Small [69]
Selim was astounded by her speech. “You are remarkably well informed for the cloistered wife of an Eastern prince, my love. I doubt that the biggest gossip in Western Europe has as much information as you do. What is your secret?”
“No secret, my lord. Politics interests me. Knowing this, Hadji Bey keeps me well supplied with information. How else may I help you if I cannot be your ears? You have so much to do.”
He put an affectionate arm around her while his other hand gently swept across the map of Europe. “If I allowed it, you would don armor and ride into battle at my side, wouldn’t you? What lucky chance brought me such an intelligent and brave woman?”
“It was ordained long before our time, my Selim.”
“By Allah, how I love you! There is not another woman anywhere to compare with you!”
Sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her passionately.
“This son of ours already interferes with me,” he murmured against her scented hair.
“My lord,” she chided him, “does not Firousi satisfy you? She loves you deeply.”
“Firousi is a charming confection and very dear to me, but it is a meal I crave, not sweets. Besides, the little turquoise may not be sharing my bed much longer. It is likely that she is with child.”
Mischievously, Cyra looked up at him. “Who next, my lord?”
“You are impudent” He scowled at her.
“I am realistic,” she countered. Then, suddenly jumping back, she cried out “Your son has kicked me most rudely!”
“Ho,” he laughed. “He warns you to keep your place, woman.”
She folded her hands over her rounded belly. “Hear me, my son. Whatever may come to pass, I am always your mother, and you are merely my son.”
Selim looked at her with admiring eyes. “What a sultan you would be, my love.”
“What a sultan you will be, my Sehm!”
19
SPRING HAD COME TO Turkey with a kiss that year. Never had the rains been so gentle, nor the countryside so lush and green. The faithful in their mosques thanked Allah for his bounty and for their noble sultan. Peace and business prospered, and Ottoman culture, under the benevolent guiding hand of Sultan Bajazet, flourished.
By mid-June, to Firousi’s delight, Selim’s amusement, and Lady Refet’s concern, the silvery-blond Caucasian girl was sure she was with child. Hadji Bey was hurriedly and secretly sent for. He arrived one glorious moonlit night, and was immediately taken to Cyra’s private garden, where Selim, his aunt, and the Scots girl were sitting about the blue mosaic fountain enjoying the first fullness of the Gold of Ophir roses.
“Greetings, my daughter,” said the agha, eyeing Cyra, who was now obviously heavy with child “I see it goes well with you.”
“I think I can take this small barbarian’s insults a bit longer,” replied the girl, patting her swollen belly.
“Insults?”
“He kicks, Hadji Bey. Not just gentle taps, but great and mighty kicks. I can assure you I am quite bruised from him.”
“You are sure, then, it is a son?”
“Oh, yes! No Turkish female of gentle breeding would behave in such a manner. Only a big boob of a boy would dare,” she said, smiling.
“She blooms like the roses, does she not, Hadji Bey?” asked Selim. “How is it possible for one already incomparable to become more so each day?”
The agha smiled. “Your joy brings me joy, my dear Selim, but surely you did not bring me here merely to share it.”
“It was I who sent for you,” said Lady Refet “You must help me before this vainglorious young cock is the death of us all. Cyra will give birth in less than two months, and not four months later the ikbal Firousi will also give