was at the sight of his head raised on my spear that the Christian army fled.'
'King Ladislas is a formidable warrior,' Murad said. 'It is no small feat to have defeated such a man.' Mehmed smiled and nodded, happy to at last receive the praise that was his due. 'But a sultan must seek more than personal glory. Your tactics were clumsy, you wasted countless lives, and you were lucky not to have been killed. What does victory mean when it comes at the cost of so many lives?'
Mehmed took another drink. 'At least I am not afraid to fight,' he retorted. 'I did not stay cowering in the palace.'
The words were hardly out of Mehmed's mouth when Murad slapped him hard across the face. The blow stung, and Mehmed bit back tears.
'Watch yourself, Prince. Do not forget I have another son.' Murad's voice was hardly raised. 'Now, what is this I hear that you wish to make a common whore your favourite?'
'Gulbehar is no whore. She is an Albanian princess.'
'She is an Albanian whore who barely speaks Turkish, and you wish to make her the mother of the empire.' Murad shook his head. 'You should spend more time with your wife, Sitt Hatun. She at least is worthy of you.' Mehmed had married Sitt Hatun, the daughter of Suleyman Bey of Dulkadiroglu, over a year ago, but the marriage was an empty formality for both of them. Mehmed sometimes pitied his young wife; she was so beautiful, but was kept locked in the harem like a bird in a cage. He pitied her, but he would never lie with her, never allow Sitt Hatun to produce an heir. He would not give his father the satisfaction.
'I will decide who is worthy of me, Father. Gulbehar is my kadin and will have a place of honour in the harem. I love her.'
'Love?' Murad scoffed. 'You were not born to love, Mehmed. A sultan has no family, no friends, no lovers. You know that.' Murad sighed. 'Have this Gulbehar sent to me today. I wish to inspect her.'
'Very well, Father.'
'Good,' Murad concluded. 'Now, you have heard that the Greek emperor is dead?'
Mehmed nodded. 'With his death, Constantinople is vulnerable. I already have an army at my command. Let me lead it against the Greeks. I will win victory for you there just as I did at Kossova.'
Murad smirked. 'Kizil Elma, the red apple. It is a great prize. When I was your age, I too longed to take it,' he said. 'But this apple is sour, I fear. I laid siege to the city for months, but I put not a single dent in those walls. To take Constantinople requires planning, years of preparation, a fleet to block their supply ships, a huge army.'
Mehmed opened his mouth to protest, but his father held up a hand, silencing him. 'Still, you are right,' Murad continued. 'If there is civil war amongst the Greeks, then we would be fools not to take advantage of it. Keep your army, Prince Mehmed. Drill the men. Show me that you know how to make soldiers as well as how to destroy them. If I am pleased with your progress, then perhaps I shall allow you to attack Constantinople.'
Mehmed bowed at the waist, as low as he could while sitting. 'Thank you, Father.'
'Now, off to your wife,' Murad ordered. 'She has waited long for your return and must be eager to see her husband.' Sitt Hatun sat motionless amidst a profusion of silk cushions, waiting patiently while two jariye — female house slaves — applied her makeup, highlighting her dark, oval eyes and her small, full mouth. Sitt Hatun was accustomed to waiting. After her marriage to Mehmed, she had waited in vain, night after night, for him to lie with her. When Mehmed had been sent in shame to Manisa, she had waited for him to call her to him from Edirne. Then, she had waited for Mehmed to return from war in Kossova. Now, that wait was over.
Mehmed would be joining her soon. Murad would make him spend his first night in Edirne in her bed. But while he might allow her to pleasure him, he would not fulfil his duty as her husband. Mehmed had made it clear from the first that he was not interested in giving her a son. At first, his rejection had confused Sitt Hatun. Petite but with a curving figure, golden skin and slender limbs, Sitt Hatun drew envious stares from the other women of the harem, and before her marriage she had received her share of suitors. Even now, living in the harem where entry meant death for any man who was not a eunuch or of the royal family, there were men who had risked their very lives to make their interest in her known. Mehmed, however, was not interested. Sitt Hatun knew now that he preferred another type of beauty.
From the window of her chamber, Sitt Hatun had watched Gulbehar enter the harem. Tall and blonde, with fair skin and high cheekbones, Gulbehar was everything that Sitt Hatun was not. She was a nobody, a slave girl whose father was not even a born Muslim. Yet Mehmed had chosen her as his favourite, and there were even rumours that Gulbehar was pregnant with his child. As bas haseki — mother of the heir — Gulbehar would be entitled to honours that Sitt Hatun would never receive. Sitt Hatun would be sultana in name only, just as she was now wife only in name. Unless she listened to Halil…
'Wife,' Mehmed called out, snapping her from her thoughts. He was there, in the entrance room to her chambers. Sitt Hatun waved her attendants away and moved to greet him, gliding through her chambers in a transparent, silken gown.
'Greetings, husband,' she said and curtsied low before him, revealing her ample cleavage. 'I am overjoyed at your safe return.'
Mehmed took her hand and raised her up. 'You have been well, wife?' he asked, stiff and formal.
'As well as I can be, with my husband gone,' Sitt Hatun replied with a smile. Mehmed did not smile back.
'I am sorry to inform you that you will be moving to smaller apartments,' he said. 'You will have to reduce the size of your court.'
'But why? Have I done something to displease you?' Sitt Hatun prostrated herself, even though she knew she had done no wrong. 'If I have, then punish me.'
'No, you have not displeased me. Gulbehar will be taking your apartments. As mother of my child, she will need a large court.'
'I understand,' Sitt Hatun replied. So it was true. This Gulbehar already bore the child that should by right be Sitt Hatun's, and now she took her apartments as well. It was almost too much to bear. Sitt Hatun dug her nails into her palms as she struggled to control her anger. Finally, she stood and managed to ask demurely, 'Would you like to sit? Some wine?'
'No,' Mehmed said. 'I wish to sleep. I am tired.'
'Shall I give you a massage, to help you rest more peacefully?'
Mehmed gave her a long look — whether of desire, pity or both she could not tell — and shook his head. 'I wish to sleep, wife.'
In their large bed, with its silken sheets and elaborate canopy, Mehmed lay rigidly still, an arm's length from Sitt Hatun. She listened as his breathing slowed to the rhythmic cadence of sleep. She had hoped that tonight would be different, that his great victory would have changed Mehmed, allowing him to put aside his rivalry with his father. She still hoped that someday he would give her a child. Maybe he only needed some encouragement.
Sitt Hatun eased herself across the bed towards Mehmed. Gently, she placed her hand on his bare chest. He did not move; his breathing was still easy. She stroked his chest gently, and then moved her hand down slowly, slowly. Mehmed stirred in his sleep, but made no move to stop her. Sitt Hatun leaned forward and kissed his ear, moving her hand still lower, past his stomach.
Mehmed's hand caught hers, gripping it painfully. He was awake, his face right beside hers, his breath hot on her face. 'Wife,' he whispered, his every word a threat, 'you know the punishment prescribed in the Koran for taking that which is not yours?'
'Yes, husband.'
'Good,' Mehmed said. 'Then keep your hand to yourself if you wish to keep it.' He continued to look at her, and the anger faded from his eyes. He ran his hand along the length of her side and then stroked her black hair. 'But if you insist,' Mehmed continued, his voice altered, deeper now, 'then you may pleasure me.' He gripped her hair and forced her head down. Sitt Hatun grimaced in distaste as she placed the tip of his sik in her mouth. She knew better than to refuse.
Mehmed hardened immediately and arched his back, thrusting against her so that she gagged. Within minutes he climaxed and collapsed back with a moan of pleasure. Sitt Hatun turned aside and spit out his seed, wasted. When she turned back, Mehmed had already settled in to sleep, his back to her. Sitt Hatun lay back, tears in her eyes. It was humiliating to be treated as little better than a concubine, good only for pleasure. She knew now that Mehmed would never lie with her. Nothing would change that, not success at war, nor even his father's death. She would be locked away in the harem all her life, shamed and childless.
