anything to insure your kindness toward Alexis. Do not take our quarrels out on my innocent child, I beg of you!”
“As I have often said, Helena, you are still a fool, and how little you know me. I have no intention of mistreating Alexis. She will be as my own daughter would be. I was never vindictive toward others, if you will remember.” Theadora rose. “Come, my sister, the others await our arrival to begin the feasting.” And she led Helena to the banquet hall within the harem, where Anastatia and the other women of the house waited.
There were the sultan’s daughters and their daughters. There were the sultan’s elderly sisters and cousins and their female offspring. There were his favorites and those who still hoped to catch his eye. There were the women of the Byzantine court who had accompanied the empress and her daughter. All in all, there were over a hundred females at the bride’s feast. Theadora presented her sister to those few important enough to merit an introduction to the empress of Byzantium. By the time she had finished, Alexis was being ushered into the room.
The little bride was led to her mother-in-law who kissed her on both cheeks before signaling the eunuchs to lift the child onto a table where all might see her. There, in the presence of the other women, the bride was stripped of her Byzantine clothes and dressed in Turkish fashion. Only then did the feast begin.
When it was over, several hours later, Prince Halil arrived with his father. Together with Theadora, they escorted Princess Alexis to the Convent of St. Anna where she would live for the next few years.
The following day Emperor John and his two sons Prince Andronicus and Prince Manuel knelt before Sultan Orkhan and renewed their vows of vassalage to their overlord. The Byzantines then returned to Constantinople and the Ottoman royal family went home to Bursa.
Chapter Twelve
Theadora lay in the shadow world between sleep and waking. She could hear the distant sound of running feet and a pounding on her apartment doors that grew louder and louder. Then Iris was shaking her shoulder. Theadora shrugged her off, grumbling sleepily, but Iris persisted.
“My lady, wake up! You must!”
Slowly the mists cleared, and she half-woke. “What is it, Iris?”
“Ali Yahya sends word, my princess. The sultan is very ill. Ali Yahya believes, though the doctors have not said this, that Sultan Orkhan is dying.”
Theadora was fully awake now. Sitting up, she asked, “Has he sent for me?”
“No, my lady, but it would be best if you were ready should the summons come.”
With Iris’ help Theadora dressed quickly. It was still dark as she paced restlessly about her antechamber. After the slaves laid a good fire in the tiled corner fireplace, she sent them back to their beds. Theadora preferred to keep her vigil alone. At last, Ali Yahya came for her and, catching up a sable-lined red silk cloak, she followed him silently to the sultan’s chambers.
The deathchamber was filled with doctors, the mullahs, and government and military officials. She stood quietly, holding the hand of Nilufer, Murad’s mother, in an effort to comfort her. Nilufer, the sultan’s wife all these years, truly loved Orkhan.
Anastatia, bent and broken since her son Ibrahim’s suicide of only weeks past, stood by herself, her gaze vacant. The two princes stood together by their father’s bedside, Murad’s arm flung about young Halil’s shoulders.
The women were brought to the bedside. The sultan lay quietly, obviously drugged and free of pain. The once mighty Orkhan, son of Osman, had shrunk to a frail scrap of his former self. Only his black eyes were lively as they moved from one to another of his family. He looked at Anastatia and whispered, “There’s one who’ll soon be joining me in death.” The gaze moved on to the other two women. “You were the joy of my youth, Nilufer. And you, Adora, the joy of my old age.” His eyes flicked to Murad. “Guard the boy! He’s no danger to you, and he’ll soon be valuable to you.”
“I swear it, my father,” said Murad.
Orkhan struggled to sit up. Slaves propped pillows behind him. He was racked by a fit of coughing, and his voice was noticeably weaker when he said, “Do not stop until you have Constantinople! It is the key to all! And you cannot successfully hold the rest without it. Halil’s supple mind will help you. Won’t you, my boy?”
“Yes, Father! I will be Murad’s most loyal right arm…and his eyes and ears as well,” the boy declared.
The ghost of a smile flickered on Orkhan’s lips. Then his eyes moved past his family to a place across the room. “Not yet, my friend,” he said so softly that Theadora was not sure she had heard him. The lamps flickered eerily, and the smell of musk, Orkhan’s favorite perfume, was overpowering.
The chief mullah made his way to the sultan’s bedside. “You have not yet confirmed your heir, Most High. It is not right that you leave us before doing so.”
“Murad! Murad is my successor,” gasped Orkhan, and another fit of coughing racked his fragile body.
The chief mullah turned to face the assemblage and raised his hands, palms up and outward. “Sultan Orkhan, son of Osman, Sultan of the Ghazis; Ghazi, son of Ghazi, has proclaimed his son Murad as his heir.”
“Murad!” The assembled called in return. And then, as if with one mind, they all filed silently out of the room leaving the dying man with his wives and sons. The quiet was frightening. To calm her nerves, Theadora, lashes lowered, glanced about her. Poor Anastatia stood staring vacantly. Nilufer, Christian-born, prayed quietly for the man she had loved. Halil shuffled his feet with nervous boredom.
Her glance moved on to Murad, and she swayed with shock to find that he was staring straight at her. Color flooded her face, her heart pounded noisily in her ears, yet she could not tear her eyes away from his face with its faintly mocking smile.
The sudden movement of the sultan broke the electricity between them. Orkhan sat straight up in his bed and said “Azrael, I come!” and fell back, the life gone from his dark eyes.
Murad reached over and gently closed his father’s eyes. Nilufer, putting an arm about Anastatia, led her from the death chamber.
Young Halil knelt before his brother, placing his small hands in Murad’s large ones and saying, “I, Halil Beg, son of Orkhan and Theadora, am your liegeman, Sultan Murad. I pledge you my total fealty.”
The new sultan raised his sibling up and, placing the kiss of peace upon the boy’s forehead, sent him from the room. Then he turned to Theadora and she trembled beneath his burning gaze. “You have a month to mourn your husband, madame. At the end of that time you will join my harem.”
She was astounded by his boldness. His father lay just dead, and the son lusted after her already. “I am a freeborn woman! I am a princess of Byzantium! You cannot compel me to be your wife, and I most certainly will not be!”
“I do not need your consent as you well know. And I have not asked you to be my wife. I have only said you will join my harem. The emperor would not dare oppose me in this. You know that, too.”
“I am not some slavegirl to be fawningly grateful for your favor,” she spat.
“No. You are not. A slavegirl has had a value put on her. So far, you have not proved your worth to me.”
For a moment she was speechless with shock. He had loved her once. She was sure of it. Yet now he seemed to want only to hurt her. His brutal barbs were aimed at her heart and her pride.
Sadly she realized that, against all sense, he held her responsible for what had been between her and Orkhan! He wanted her to be a soft and compliant female-yet he had expected her to defy his father! Did he truly not understand that she had been given no choice?
She did not intend to be torn apart. She intended to marry again and to marry a man who would love her and give her more children. Theadora would not spend the rest of
“Do you think I can ever forget you, you violet-eyed witch!” he hissed, stepping forward and grasping her tightly. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
