Adora

Chapter One

The Convent of St. Catherine in the city of Bursa was a small one, but it was rich and distinguished. It had not always been so, but the recent prosperity was due to the presence of one of the sultan’s wives. Princess Theadora Cantacuzene of Byzantium lived within the convent walls.

Theadora Cantacuzene was now thirteen, and quite capable of childbearing. Sultan Orkhan, however, was sixty-two and had a harem full of nubile females both innocent and experienced. The little Christian virgin in the convent had only been a political necessity after all. And so she remained there, forgotten by her Ottoman husband.

Had he seen her, however, even the jaded Orkhan could not have ignored Theadora. She had grown tall and had long, beautifully shaped arms and legs, a slender torso, firm, high, cone-shaped breasts with long pink nipples, and a beautiful heart-shaped face. Her skin was like smooth cream, for although she enjoyed the outdoors, she never tanned. Her dark mahogany-colored hair with its golden lights hung straight down her back to just above the soft swell of her sweetly rounded buttocks. The violet eyes were startlingly clear, and as candid as they had always been. Her nose was small and straight, her mouth lush with a full lower lip.

Within the convent grounds, she had her own house consisting of an antechamber for receiving guests-though none came-a dining room, a kitchen, two bedchambers, a bath, and servants’ quarters. Here she lived in isolated semisplendor-lacking nothing. She was well-fed, well-guarded, and very bored. She was rarely allowed to leave the convent grounds and when she did she was heavily veiled and escorted by at least half a dozen sturdy nuns.

In the summer of Theadora’s thirteenth year her life changed suddenly. It was a hot midafternoon, and all the servants lay dozing in the sticky heat. Theadora was alone, for even the nuns slept as she wandered the deserted, walled convent garden. Suddenly a small breeze brought to her the scent of peaches ripening in one of the convent orchards, but the door to the orchard garden was locked. Theadora was annoyed, and as her desire for a peach became overwhelming she looked for another means of entry into the orchard, and she found it.

Where the garden wall met the orchard wall along the street side of the convent property, there was a thick gnarled vine. Tucking up her simple lime green cotton tunic dress Theadora clambered up the vine to the top. Then, chuckling gleefully to herself, she walked carefully along the wall looking for a similar vine so she might get down into the orchard. Finding it, she descended, picked several of the plumpest fruits, and put them in her pockets. Then she climbed back up to the top of the wall.

The wall, however, was old, and worn away in several places. Its only traffic for many years had been the cats of the city who frequently courted the privacy of the convent gardens. Flushed with her success, Theadora did not watch her footing and suddenly she found herself falling. But, to her surprise, she did not hit the ground. Instead, she fell-shrieking-into the strong arms of a laughing young man.

The arms cradled her, gently but firmly, and seemed in no hurry to release her. Jet-black eyes looked her over thoroughly, admiringly. “Are you a thief? Or merely a naughty little nun?” he asked.

“Neither.” She was amazed to find she still had a voice. “Please put me down, sir.”

“Not until I learn your identity, violet eyes. You are not veiled, so you cannot be Turkish. Who are you?”

Theadora had never been this close to a man other than her father. It was not unpleasant. The man’s chest was hard, somehow reassuring, and he smelled of sunshine.

“Have you lost your tongue, little one?” he queried softly.

She blushed and bit her lip in vexation. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew what she had been thinking. “I am a student at the convent,” she said. “Please, sir, would you help me back up onto the wall? If they find me gone, I shall be scolded.”

Setting her down, he quickly climbed onto the wall. Leaning over, he pulled her up onto the wall. Then, leaping lightly into the convent garden, he held out his arms to her. “Jump, violet eyes.” He caught her easily and set her on her feet. “Now you won’t be scolded,” he chuckled. “What on earth made you climb the wall?”

Feeling more secure now, she looked up at him mischievously. Reaching into a pocket of her tunic dress, Theadora drew out a peach. “I wanted one,” she said simply, biting into it. The juice ran down her chin. “The gate was locked, so I climbed the wall.”

“Do you always get what you want?”

“Yes, but I do not usually want very much,” she answered.

He laughed. “My name is Murad. What’s yours?”

“Theadora.”

“Too formal. I shall call you Adora, for you’re a most adorable creature.”

She blushed, then gasped in surprise as he bent and kissed her. “Oh! How dare you, sir? You must not do that again! I am a married woman.”

The black eyes twinkled. “Yet, Adora, I will wager that was your first kiss.” She flushed again and tried to turn away from him, but he gently caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “And,” he continued, “I will also wager that you’re wed to an old man. No young man with blood in his veins would leave you languishing in a convent. You are quite outrageously fair.”

She raised her eyes to him, and he saw with amazement that in the sunlight they shone an amethyst color. “It is true that I have not seen my husband for several years, but you must not speak thusly to me. He is a good man. Please go now, sir. If you were caught here, it would not go well for you.”

He made no move to leave. “Tomorrow night begins the week of the full moon. I shall wait for you in the orchard.”

“I will certainly not come!”

“Are you afraid of me, Adora?” he taunted.

“No!”

“Then prove it-and come.” Reaching out he caught her to him, kissing her slowly with a gentle, controlled passion. For the briefest moment she yielded to him, and all the things she and her classmates had discussed with regard to kissing flashed through her mind, and she realized that they knew nothing of the truth. This was sweetness beyond belief, ecstasy beyond her wildest imaginings, and honeyed fire poured through her loins, making her weak.

Releasing her mouth, he held her gently to him Their eyes met for a moment in a strange understanding. Then, suddenly terrified by her response to him, Theadora tore herself free and fled down the neat gravel path. His mocking laughter followed her. She heard his voice. “Tomorrow, Adora.”

Gaining the sanctuary first of her house, and then of her bedchamber, she collapsed on her bed, trembling violently, ignoring the peaches that spilled from her pockets and bumped across the floor.

She had not known that a kiss could be so-she sought for the right word-so powerful! So intimate! That was certainly what it had been. Intimate! An invasion of her person. And yet-a little smile played about her lips-and yet she had liked it.

Murad had been correct in assuming that she had never been kissed. In fact, Theadora knew nothing of what happened between a man and a woman for she had spent all but four years of her young life behind convent walls. When she had been married Zoe had wisely refrained from discussing the duties of the marriage bed with a child years away from puberty. Consequently, the sultan’s youngest wife was a total innocent.

Now she wondered about the handsome young man whose strong arms had saved her from serious injury. Tall and tanned, she knew he was as fair as she, for where his black hair had been newly cropped, his skin was quite light. His jet dark eyes had been caressingly, even boldly, warm; his smile, which had revealed straight white teeth, very impudent.

Of course she would not see him again. It was simply unthinkable. Still, she wondered if he really would come tomorrow night. Would he actually be bold enough to climb the convent’s orchard wall again?

There was only one way to find out. She must hide herself in the orchard before dark and watch. When he came-if he came-she would not, of course, reveal herself. She would remain hidden until he left. But at least her curiosity would be satisfied.

She giggled, imagining his chagrin. He obviously thought himself quite irresistible if he expected a respectable girl to sneak out and meet him. He would soon learn differently.

Chapter Two

Murad had been amused by his encounter with the girl, Theadora. He was a grown man, experienced in the amatory arts. Her sweetness, her unaffected innocence, enchanted him.

Legally, she was his father’s third wife. But he felt there was virtually no chance that Sultan Orkhan would ever bring her into his palace, let alone his bed. The little princess was merely a political pawn. Murad felt no remorse over dallying with her. He was an honorable man and had no intention of seducing her.

Murad Beg was the youngest of the sultan’s three sons. He had a full brother, Suleiman, and a half brother, Ibrahim. Ibrahim’s mother was the daughter of a Byzantine nobleman who was distantly related to Theadora. Her name was Anastatia, and she looked with haughty disdain upon Murad’s mother, who was the daughter of a Georgian hetman. Anastatia was the sultan’s first wife, but Murad’s mother, who was called Nilufer, was the sultan’s favorite. Her sons were the most beloved of their father.

Murad’s half brother, Ibrahim, was the eldest of the sultan’s sons, but he had been dropped on his head as a baby and had not been right since. He lived in his own palace, lovingly tended to by his slaves and by his women, who were all sterile. Prince Ibrahim alternated between normality and periods of wild insanity. Still, his mother hoped he would follow his father as sultan, and she slyly worked toward this goal.

Prince Suleiman also kept his own palace, but he had sired two sons and several daughters. Murad had no children. His women were, by his choice, incapable of childbearing. The youngest son of Orkhan knew that his father’s choice for successor was Suleiman.

Though Murad loved his older brother, he intended to fight him for the empire when their father died. But there was always the chance that he might lose-and that would mean not only his own death but the deaths of all his family. So Murad chose not to have children until he was sultan and his sons could be born into relative safety.

Mere chance had brought him past the Convent of St. Catherine that afternoon. He had been visiting a charming and delightful widow who lived in a nearby neighborhood. He had passed the convent just in time to catch Adora. He chuckled. What a minx! She had wanted peaches, and she had gone after what she wanted. What a worthy wife she would be for some man. He stopped, a smile lighting his face. Muslim law decreed that a man might take any of his dead father‘s wives for his own, provided there was no incest committed. How much longer could Orkhan live?

The girl was safe-and unlikely to be called upon to serve her royal lord. Theadora Cantacuzene had been forgotten. And it was better that way, thought Murad grimly, for rumors had been circulating in the last few years about the sexual depravities practiced by his father in efforts to retain his potency.

Murad wondered if she would come the following night. She had scolded him for kissing her that first time. But she had yielded the second time, and he had felt the turmoil that swept over her before she fled.

The next day seemed to drag for Theadora. As it was midsummer the convent’s school was closed, and the daughters of Bursa’s wealthy Christians had repaired to their seaside villas with their families. No one thought to invite the emperor’s daughter to spend her holidays with them. Those sympathetic to her hesitated because of her position. The others considered her déclassé because of her marriage, though they would never have dared to voice such thoughts publicly. So Theodora was forced by circumstances to be alone at the very time in her young life when she needed a friend.

Sharp of mind, she read and studied everything she could. Still Theadora grew restless with a longing she could neither name, nor understand. There was no one in whom she might confide. She was alone, as she had always been. Her classmates were polite, but she was never with them long enough to be able to form any real friendships. Her servants were palace slaves, and they were changed thrice yearly since serving the sultan’s child wife in her convent was considered dull duty. Consequently the sultan’s wife was more innocent of the world and of men than any other girl her age. She was eager for adventure.

As the hot afternoon drew to a close, Theadora attended vespers in the convent church. Returning to her house she ate sparingly of capon, a salad of new lettuces from the convent’s kitchen garden, and the last of her stolen peaches. She drank of a delicate white wine from Cyprus.

Aided by her slaves she bathed in lightly scented warm water, which eased the heat. Then a short, white silk shift was slipped over her dark hair, which was unbound and brushed.

She waited for those few moments between sunset and dusk when she might slip unobserved into the peach orchard. She now possessed a key, having boldly asked the reverend mother for one and, to her surprised delight, received it.

“I am restless with the heat,” she told the nun. “If the orchards are open to me, I will have more space to roam in. May I eat the peaches?”

“Of course, child! What is ours is also Your Royal Highness’s.”

The convent was now quiet. The residential neighborhood about it was quiet too. Only the little twilight creatures, cheeping and chirping, broke the purple stillness. Theadora rose and drew a dark-colored, lightweight cloak about her nightshift. She left her ground floor bedroom by a window, then hurried along the gravel path toward the orchard. Her soft kid slippers made virtually no sound at all. The little key was clutched tightly in her damp palm.

To her relief, the small door into the orchard opened noiselessly. Closing it carefully behind her, she leaned against it, eyes closed, weak with relief. She had made it!

“You came!” The low, deep voice broke the stillness.

Her eyes flew open. “Wh-what are you doing here?” she demanded, outraged.

“Did we not agree yesterday to meet here tonight?” he asked. She could hear the laughter in his voice.

Oh, good St. Theodosia! What kind of a wanton must he think I am? she thought. Mustering all the dignity she could, she said severely, “I only came to tell you that you must not violate the sanctuary of this convent, of which the orchards are a part.” Her heart was hammering wildly.

“I see,” he said gravely. “I thought perhaps you had come early so you might hide yourself and wait to see if I came.” The silence that followed seemed eternal. “You’re blushing,” he said mischievously.

“H-h-how can you tell?”

His hand gently touched her face, and she jumped back. “Your cheek is warm,” he answered.

“The night is hot,” she quickly replied.

Again he laughed that soft laugh. Taking her hand, he said imperiously, “Come! I have found us a perfect place-toward the middle of the orchard, beneath the trees. We cannot be seen there.” She was pulled along until he ducked beneath the spreading branches of a large tree and drew her in after him. “Here we are,” he said. “Safe…and very private.” To his amazement, she suddenly burst into tears. Surprised, Murad put his arms about her. “Adora, my sweet, what is it?”

“I-I-I-I am afraid,” she stuttered, sobbing.

“Of what, dove?”

“Of you!” she wailed.

And then he realized how very innocent she really was. Gently he drew her down to sit on his cloak, spread on the grass. “Do not be frightened, Adora. I will not harm you.”

He held her tenderly, close against his chest, and the front of his shirt was quickly soaked. “I-I have never been with a m-man before,” she confided, her sobs lessening somewhat. “I do not know what I should do, and I would not have you think me ignorant.”

He swallowed his laughter. “Adora,” he said gravely, “I think it might help if you know who I am as I know who you are. Your Highness.” He heard her soft gasp. “I am Prince Murad, the third son of Sultan Orkhan. The gossips would have you believe I am a profligate. But I obey the Koran, and I would certainly never seduce my father’s wife-even if she is very tempting. And only a political pawn.”

For a moment all was silent. Then she asked, “Have you known my identity from the beginning?”

“Almost. When we met, I was returning to the palace after visiting a friend who lives nearby. There is no other way to go except past St. Catherine’s. When you told me your name it suddenly came to me that you were the Theadora.”

“And knowing who I was, you still kissed me? And made an assignation with me? You are despicable, Prince Murad!”

“You came, Adora,” he reminded her quietly.

“Only to tell you that you must not come here again!”

“No. Because you were curious, dove. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing.”

He took a gentler tone with her. “Curiosity is no crime, my sweet. It is natural for a young girl to be curious about men. Especially a girl as cloistered as you are. Tell me, when was the last time you saw a man?”

“Father Bessarion hears my confession weekly,” she said primly.

He laughed low. “I said a man, not the dried-up husk of an elderly priest.”

“I have not seen a man since I entered St. Catherine’s. The other students do not live here, and no one comes to visit me.” It was stated simply, mat-ter-of-factly.

He reached out and covered the slim little hand with his own large, square one. His touch was warm. He felt her relax. “Is it very lonely for you, Adora?”

“I have my studies, Prince Murad,” she answered.

“No friends? Poor little princess.”

She snatched her hand away. “I do not need anyone’s pity. Least of all yours!”

The moon had risen. It was very round and very full; its bright light cast a silvery glow on the fat, golden peaches that hung like perfect globes from the heavy branches. It touched the fair-skinned face of Theadora Cantacuzene, and Murad saw that her look was proud, though she fought to keep tears from filling her amethyst eyes.

“I do not pity you, dove,” he said. “I merely regret that someone as alive as you are should be wed to an old man and incarcerated in a convent. You were made for a young man’s passionate caresses.”

“I am a princess of Byzantium,” she said coldly. “I was born to the title, even before my father became emperor. It is the duty of a princess to wed where she may do her family the most good. It was my father the emperor’s wish that I wed the sultan. As a good Christian daughter it was not my place to question his wish.”

“Your filial devotion is to be commended, Adora, but you speak like the child you are. If you had ever known love you would not be so stiff and unyielding.”

“My family loves me,” she retorted, outraged.

“Do they? Your father bartered you into marriage with a man old enough to be your grandfather, simply so he can call upon the sultan’s armies to help him keep his stolen throne,” said Murad. “He gave your sister in marriage to his rival, the boy emperor. At least she has a husband only three years her senior. And should the young John overcome the old John eventually, your father‘s life would still be safe because his daughter would then be empress! But what of you? Do you know that your sister, Helena, recently gave birth to her first child, a son? She preaches a holy war against the ‘infidel’! Helena obviously has great love for you. She is aided in her endeavors by your half sister, Sophia, whose piety is second only to her sexual excesses, which are the scandal of Constantinople. When was the last time either of them communicated with you? And what of your brother, Matthew, who is now to become a monk? Has he written to you? These are the people who love you?”

“My father did what was best for the empire,” she said angrily. “He is a great ruler! As to my sisters, Sophia was already a woman when I was yet a child. I barely know her. Helena and I have always been rivals. She may talk of holy wars,” and here Adora’s voice became scornful, “but it will never be. The empire can barely defend itself, let alone do battle against the sultan.” Her grasp of that particular political truth impressed him. “My mother,” she continued, “keeps me fully informed. Though we have not seen each other since I left Constantinople, she writes to me each week. And my lord Orkhan has a special messenger, for me alone, who brings my letters directly from the coast and returns with my replies. My half brother John was killed in battle a few months after I came here, and she sent me word of his death immediately, so that I could pray for his soul. My mother cannot visit me. You surely know that travel is dangerous. And the wife of the emperor of Byzantium would make a fine prize for pirates and robbers! But I am very much loved, Prince Murad! I am!”

“You know nothing of love,” he said fiercely, pulling her into his lap, holding her firmly.

“You remember only the vague affection of a child for its family. No one has ever truly touched you, or stirred your proud, cold little heart. But I will, Adora! I will awaken you to life…to love…to yourself!”

“You have no right,” she spat angrily at him, struggling to break his grip on her. “I am your father’s wife! Is this how you honor the Koran? What of your promise not to seduce me?”

He smiled grimly. “I will keep that promise, my innocent little virgin. There are a hundred ways I can pleasure you without robbing you of your maidenhead. We will commence lessons now!”

But as he bent toward her, she put her hands against his chest to hold him off. “Your father…“

“My father,” he said, loosening the ties of her cloak, “will never call you to him. When he dies, Adora, and I am sultan, I shall arrange with whoever is emperor of Byzantium for you to be my bride. In the meantime, I will school you in the arts of loving.”

And before she could protest further he had found her mouth. She could not struggle, for he held her far too tightly. She could barely breathe. Her heart was thumping wildly and she could feel his, beneath the flattened palms of her bands, matching the rhythm of her own. She tried to turn her head away, but one hand wound itself within the scented, silken tangle of her hair. He held her fast.

The mouth on hers was warm and firm, but surprisingly tender. The kiss was more frighteningly wonderful than it had been the first time, and once again she felt her resistance wearing away. As she relaxed, his kiss deepened, and she felt herself growing weak. Her young breasts grew strangely tight and the nipples ached.

His grip on her eased, and he released her mouth from its sweet captivity. She was speechless and lay unresisting across his lap. Smiling down at her, he traced a gentle line down her cheek with his finger. Her mouth felt dry. Her pulse raced. Her head was giddy, yet somehow she managed to find her voice.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you,” he said quietly, and she trembled at the intensity in his voice. Again his mouth found hers, but this time he kissed not only her lips, but her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, forehead, and chin. These gentle kisses sent small shivers of hot and cold through her all at once. Eyes closed, she sighed with unconcealed pleasure.

His black eyes twinkled. “You like it,” he accused, laughing softly. “You like being kissed!”

“No!” Oh, lord! What was she thinking of to act this way! Again she tried to escape his grasp, but again he found her mouth, and now she felt his tongue running lightly over her tightly closed lips. Pushing insistently against her clenched teeth he murmured against her mouth, “Open to me, Adora. You cannot deny me, dove, or yourself.”

Her lips parted, and his tongue thrust inside. He stroked and caressed until she was close to fainting with the intensity of it. The feeling grew, and she trembled.

Removing his mouth from hers he held her tenderly, looking down at her through half-closed eyes. Her young breasts rose and fell swiftly, the nipples showing clearly through the thin silk of her shift like little buds. His heart beat fiercely with an exultation such as he had never before experienced. He longed to touch those tempting little peaks, but he refrained. It was much too soon to subject her further to her own sensual nature.

He had not believed such innocence existed. In his world a woman came to a man fully trained to please him. She might be a virgin, but she had been carefully taught to give pleasure and to receive it. Yet this lovely creature was untouched by man or woman. She would be his! He would allow no one else to ever possess her. He would mold her, teach her to please him. No one would ever know of her sweetness but him.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. Her face was very pale, and her beautiful eyes were like large violets in the snow.

“It’s all right, my sweet,” he said gently. “We have concluded the lesson for tonight.” Then he teased, “It pleases me, however, that you like my kisses.”

“I did not!” she hissed. “I hate you! You had no right to do that to me!”

He continued as if she had not spoken. “Tomorrow night we shall proceed further. Your education as a woman is just beginning.”

She sat up. “Tomorrow night? Are you mad? There will be no tomorrow night! I will never see you again! Never!”

“You will meet me here in the orchard as long as it pleases me, Adora! If you do not, I will appear at the convent gate demanding to see you.”

“You would not dare!” But her eyes were filled with doubt.

“I would dare almost anything to see you again, dove.” He stood, drawing her up with him. Gently wrapping her cloak about her, he walked silently with her to the orchard door. “Until tomorrow night, Adora. Dream of me.” And then, vaulting up, he disappeared over the top of the wall into the night.

With trembling fingers she unlocked the door, went through, relocked it, and then fled through the gardens to her own house. Within the comparative safety of her bedchamber she relived in her mind the scene in the orchard. She realized that, though he had kissed her most thoroughly, he had not touched her otherwise. And yet she ached! Her entire body ached with a longing she did not understand. Her breasts were swollen, the nipples sore. Her belly felt tight, and the secret woman’s place between her legs was throbbing. If this was being a woman, she wasn’t sure she liked it.

But the greater problem was Prince Murad’s threat to appear at the convent gate. His rank would make the nuns obedient. Why should they refuse the sultan’s son permission to visit his stepmother? They might even believe that the sultan himself had sent him. When the truth was learned, the innocent little religious community would be punished and disgraced.

If she refused to see the prince, and told Mother Marie Josepha the truth, then Murad might be punished-perhaps even killed for his boldness. Theadora did not believe she could live with a death on her conscience. She was trapped. She would meet him tomorrow night.

Yet, as she lay in her chaste bed she remembered his deep voice saying, “My father will never call you to him. When he dies and I am sultan, I shall arrange for you to be my bride.” She trembled. Were men always so intense?

Was it possible that he might be her lord some day? It was a tantalizing thought. He was very handsome-with his jet black eyes, dark, wavy hair, tanned face, and the white teeth flashing that impudent smile.

She shivered again. The mere memory of his kisses made her giddy, and that was wrong! Very wrong! Even if Sultan Orkhan never called her to him, she was still his wife.

She could not sleep that night, and in the morning she was irritable. She could not concentrate on her book. She tangled her embroidery threads and angrily threw the linen to the floor. Her slaves were astonished, and when an older woman questioned her, fearing she was becoming ill, Adora boxed her ears and then burst into tears.

Iris, the slavewoman, was wise enough to pursue the matter. She was relieved when the princess sobbingly confided that she had not slept well. Immediately the woman prepared a warm bath for her young charge and, after Theadora had been bathed and massaged, Iris tucked her into bed. She was then fed a cup of warm spiced wine into which the slavewoman had put a mild sleeping potion.

When Theadora awoke, the last rays of the sun were staining the western sky, and the purple mountains about the city were already crowned with faint silver stars. Iris brought the princess a small, roasted pigeon, the skin crisp and golden. The tray also held new lettuce, a honeycomb, and a carafe of white wine. Theadora ate slowly, her thoughts sorting themselves.

The prince had given his word not to tamper with her virginity. And if he spoke the truth, she was not likely to ever see the sultan again. It was entirely possible that Prince Murad would one day be her true husband.

The night darkened. Finishing her meal, Theadora washed her hands in a silver basin filled with rose water. Her good humor had been restored by the sleep. She dismissed her slaves for the evening. Unlike the majority of women of her class, she was capable of dressing and undressing herself. She despised the awful ignorance and the idleness of most women of rank.

She slipped into a caftan of violet silk gauze with a row of little pearl buttons down the front. The color was meant to flatter her amethyst eyes, yet be dark enough that she would not require a cloak. Her feet were shod in matching kid slippers. Her dark hair hung freely down her back bound only by a silk ribbon.

She slipped silently into the orchard and found her way to the tree they had sheltered under the previous night. He was not there. But before she could decide whether to return to her house or wait, the heavily laden branches parted with a rustle, and he was with her.

“Adora!” He slid an arm about her tiny waist and kissed her, and she returned his kiss for the first time. Her soft lips parted willingly, her tongue darting like a little flame about his mouth. To her delighted amazement he shuddered, and she was filled with a triumphant awe that she, an inexperienced virgin, could rouse this sensual, experienced man! For the briefest moment it was she who held the upper hand.

But then, cradling her with one arm, his other hand parted the topmost buttons of her caftan and his warm hand slid in to caress a breast. She gasped, catching at his hand.

He laughed low. “Lesson two, my dove,” and pushed her hand away. She was trembling with a mixture that was half fright, half pleasure, though at first she could not identify the second sensation. His hand was gentle, tenderly stroking the soft flesh. “Please, oh, please!” she whispered, pleading. “Please, stop it!” Instead he rubbed the sensitive nipple with his thumb, and Adora almost fainted with the pleasure that swept over her.

When his mouth covered hers once again, she thought she would surely die with the sweetness of it. He was looking down at her now, his jet black eyes tender. “Always remember, my little virgin, that I am the master.”

“Why?” she managed, though her voice was ragged. “It is the woman to whom God gave the privilege of bearing new life. Why then, are we subservient to men?”

He was startled. She was not the soft, complacent female he had first thought her to be, but that most rare and intriguing of creatures-a woman with a mind. Murad was not sure he approved. But, he thought, at least she will not bore me. And what sons she might bear me!

“Did not Allah create woman second-and from a man’s rib?” he said quickly. “First came man. He must therefore have meant for man to be the superior, the master of woman, else he would have created woman first.”

“That does not necessarily follow, my lord,” she replied, unimpressed.

“Would you be my superior, Adora, and instruct me,” he asked, amused.

“Do not dare to laugh at me,” she stormed.

“I am not laughing at you, my dove, but neither do I wish to debate the logic of the superiority of men over women. I wish to make love to you.” And he felt her tremble against him as, again, he began to caress her soft breasts.

The gentle hand undid the remaining buttons on her caftan, rendering her naked. The hand moved lower to touch her little mound of belly. Her skin was like the finest Bursa silk, cool and smooth, yet the muscles were tense beneath his skilled fingers. This further confirmation of her innocence pleased his vanity.

He moved lower yet, one long, slim finger poised to touch her more intimately. And then, for a moment, their eyes met, and he saw her open terror. He stopped, and his hand gently touched her cheek. “Do not be afraid of me.”

“I do not mean to be afraid,” she said in a shaking voice. “It is wrong, I know, but I want you to touch me. Yet, when you do l am afraid.”

“Tell me,” he asked gently.

“I feel I am losing control of myself. I do not want you to cease, though I know you must.” Swallowing hard she said, “I want to know everything about being a woman, even the final act of love. I am married, but I am not your wife, and what we do is wrong!”

“No,” he said fiercely. “We do no wrong! You will never go to my father! You are nothing to him but a political necessity.”

“But when I am widowed I may not come to you either. If I belong to anyone I belong to the empire of Byzantium. Once your father is gone, my next marriage will be arranged for me, as this one was.”

“You belong to me,” he said huskily, “now and always.”

She knew that she was lost, whatever happened. She loved him. “Yes,” she whispered, amazed at her own words. “Yes! I do belong to you, Murad!”

And as his mouth savagely moved against hers, she felt a wild joy flood her. She was no longer afraid. Hands passionately caressed her, and her young body rose eagerly to meet his touch. Only once did she cry out-when his fingers found their way to the sweet core of her. But he stilled her protests with his mouth. He felt her wildly beating pulse beneath his lips. “No, dove,” he murmured hungrily, “let my fingers have their way. It will be sweetness, my love, only sweetness, I promise you.”

And he could feel her slowly relaxing in his arms. Smiling he teased the sensitive flesh while the girl beneath him moaned softly, her lashes dark smudges against her white skin, her slim hips writhing. At last, satisfied that she was ready, he gently thrust a finger into her.

Adora gasped, but before she could protest she was lost to the sweet wave of delight that possessed her completely. She arched to meet his hand, floating weightless until the tightness building within her shattered like a mirror into a rainbow of flashing lights.

Her amethyst eyes finally opened, and she asked, her voice soft with the wonder of it, “How can such sweetness be, my lord?”

He smiled down at her. “It is but a taste of delight, my dove. Just a taste of things to come.”

Chapter Three

In Constantinople, the night was as dark as Emperor John Cantacuzene’s mood. His beloved wife, Zoe, was dead in a last futile attempt to give him another son. The awful irony was that she had given her last bit of strength to push twin sons from her exhausted and weakened body. Misshapen scraps of deformed humanity, they were joined at the chest and shared, so the physician claimed, a single heart. These monstrosities had been, praise God, born dead. Their mother, curse God, had followed them.

If this tragedy were not terrible enough, his daughter, Helena, wife to the co-emperor John Paleaologi, was plotting with her husband to overthrow him, to take complete control of the empire. While her mother had lived Helena had been recognized only as wife to the young Paleaologi. Her mother had been recognized as the empress. Now Helena wished to be recognized as empress.

“And if I remarry?” asked her father.

“Why on earth would you remarry?” demanded his daughter.

“To give the empire more sons.”

“My son, Andronicus, is the heir. Next comes the child I now carry.”

“There is no decree to that effect, my daughter.”

“Really Father!”

Every day Helena sounded more and more like her mother-in-law, the wretched Anna of Savoy.

“My husband,” continued Helena, “is the rightful emperor of Byzantium, and therefore our son is the true heir. Surely you must realize that by now. God has spoken quite plainly. Your eldest son is dead, and my brother, Matthew, has chosen to follow the monastic life. In the last six years Mother miscarried five times of six sons. Now God has taken her from you-in obvious disapproval. What more do you want? Must the words of God’s will be engraved in clouds of fire over the city for you to accept it?”

“The seer, Belasarius, has predicted that from my loins and my seed would spring a new empire out of Constantinople. How can this be if I do not have sons to carry on my line?”

“Perhaps through me, Father,” said Helena smugly.

“Or your sister, Theadora,” he snapped back.

Helena glared and, without another word, left the room. John Cantacuzene paced restlessly. He would have more sons, but before he could take another noble wife he must make his position more secure. John Paleaologi must be disposed of, along with his snot-nosed offspring. Remarried elsewhere, Helena would forget. Perhaps he would offer her blonde beauty to Sultan Orkhan’s heir, Prince Suleiman.

This thought reminded him of his youngest daughter, Thea. How old was she now? Thirteen? He thought so. Certainly old enough to be bedded, and to bear a child. He was going to need fresh military aid from the sultan-aid that was more likely to be given if Orkhan were enamored of his young wife. Especially a young wife who proclaimed her elderly husband’s virility with a belly full of new life.

The girl was still within her convent, and the latest miniature he had of her showed a young creature beautiful enough to rouse a stone statue. Her only failing was that she had a mind. Mother Marie Josepha was forever writing him of the girl’s intellectual accomplishments. A pity she had not been a son. Well, he would write and instruct her to behave meekly, modestly, and quietly with her husband.

He would also write to Orkhan tonight, reminding him that the marriage contract called for the consummation of the union when the girl was mature. She certainly was mature now. It meant, of course, that he would have to come up with the final third of Theadora’s dowry, and relinquish the fortress of Tzympe-but no matter. Opening the door to his private suite he summoned the monk who was his secretary.

Several weeks later, in Bursa, Sultan Orkhan chuckled over the recently received correspondence from his fellow ruler and father-in-law. He was well aware of the reason behind the Byzantine’s sudden desire for his marriage to Theadora Cantacuzene to be consummated. John Cantacuzene was expecting another fight for his shaky throne and needed the Ottoman’s support. He offered his daughter’s virginity plus the rest of the gold from her dowry. Most important, he would finally turn over Tyzmpe to the Turks.

Orkhan the Ottoman had grown sexually insatiable in his old age. Each night he was presented with a new and well-trained virgin. His appetite varied and it was rumored that he even occasionally amused himself with young boys. His young wife, Theadora, was a totally innocent girl. It would take months to train her so that she would be able to please her lord.

But there was no time. Her father wanted her with child as proof of the consummation, and Orkhan wanted Tyzmpe and the remainder of her dowry gold. When great rulers plan together, matters can be arranged.

The maiden’s moon cycle would be determined, and he would mate with her during her most fertile four days. He hoped her link with the moon would then be broken. If not, the process would be repeated again, and again-until the girl proved fruitful.

He was not the least interested in Theadora. A political pawn, she had been forgotten and was now annoyingly thrust forward.

He had experienced the emotion called love in his youth, with Nilufer, his second wife and the mother of his two favorite sons. Now that was all behind him. All that was left was the physical pleasures given him by the skilled, young slave girls and boys of his harem.

He resented having to breed the maiden as a bull breeds a cow, and this resentment would probably communicate itself to Theadora. Perhaps the girl herself had encouraged her father to suggest this, in an effort to better her position. Well, he would see that she was treated with the respect due her rank. He would impregnate her as quickly as possible, and then he would have nothing further to do with her.

And at the very moment Theadora Cantacuzene lay within the strong arms of Prince Murad. Their eyes adored one another. “I love you!” she said in a tremulous voice. “I love you!”

“And I love you, my dove! Allah! How I love you!”

“How long, my lord? How long must we wait before we dare to be wed when he is gone? I want to walk in the sunlight beneath the olive trees with you. I want the world to know that I am yours!”

“I love my father,” he said slowly. “I would wish him no less a portion than is his. In his old age he is content and seeks only more gold and the sensual pleasures offered him. He will no longer lead our armies.”

“Would you expand your kingdom?” she asked.

“Yes! I would cross the Bosphorus, and rule from the city of Constantinople itself. Would you like to return home, my dove, as queen of the city of your birth?”

“Yes!” She said it so fiercely that he laughed.

“You do not mind that I would displace your sister and her husband? What a little savage you are, Theadora Cantacuzene.”

“Before I became the sultan’s wife, my sister loved to torture me with the fact that she would rule over Constantinople some day, while I would be sent into exile in the sultan’s harem. How I would love to return to the city as the wife of its conqueror!”

“Even a Muslim conqueror?”

“Yes, my lord. Even a Muslim conqueror. We both worship the same God, do we not? l am no fool, Murad, though I be a woman. Within the bounds of this kingdom a traveler may go safely at any hour of the day or night. Non-Muslims are permitted the freedom to worship as they choose. The law is administered fairly to all who ask judgement of the kadi, be they rich or poor. I am ashamed to say that I cannot claim these virtues for the empire and its rulers. I far prefer to live under Ottoman rule, as do many non-Muslims.”

“What a marvelous creature,” he said admiringly. “Though I find it strange to talk so openly with a woman, I find your logic without flaw.”

“I am my father’s daughter,” she said proudly. “He has a great mind and is a fine scholar. He always said I should have been a son.”

The prince smiled. “He is wrong, dove. There is no more exquisite female alive than you,” and he drew her back into his arms, sighing deeply and burying his face in the cool, scented mass of her hair. “Ah, dove, how I love you!”

Above them, the stars traveled across the sky toward the morning. It was almost dawn when Theadora returned to her house and fell asleep. Too soon, Iris awoke her.

“Highness, forgive me, but the white chief eunuch is here from the palace to see you.”

Theadora was instantly awake. Never, since she had arrived in Bursa as a child and been installed in this house, had anyone important come from the palace to see her. “Tell him I shall be with him presently, Iris.”

The woman bowed out of her mistress’s presence and delivered the message to the chief eunuch. She was about to return when his voice stopped her.

“What is your name, woman?”

“Iris, master.” Her head was bowed.

“Do you deal well with your mistress?”

“Yes, master.”

“Does she confide in you?”

“Confide what, master?” Iris pretended stupidity.

“Anything. Little secrets? Girlish dreams and hopes?”

Iris raised her eyes and looked directly at the eunuch. “Master,” she said quietly, “my little mistress has been cloistered here since her childhood. The only one she ever sees is the elderly priest who is her spiritual advisor. She leaves the convent but rarely. What possible secrets could she have? She confides in no one since she has no one. The palace slaves sent to serve the princess are rotated on a three-month basis, which hardly gives her time to make friends. Most serve her only once, but I have been asked to come back several times.”

“Why?” He observed her from beneath his hooded eyelids.

“Because I would advance myself, master. I was not always a slave.”

“I will appoint you chief waiting-woman to Princess Theadora. In return, you will keep me fully informed about her life. She will go to the sultan soon. Now tell me, when was her last show of blood?”

The woman thought, then said, “Almost two weeks ago, master.”

“Exactly how many days from the first showing of blood, Iris?”

“Twelve, master.”

The eunuch frowned. “She must go today else we will be forced to wait another month,” said the chief white eunuch almost to himself. “Pack nothing for your mistress. All will be provided.”

“She is scholarly, master. She will want her books. She is not idle, like other women.”

The eunuch looked surprised. But he was not an unkind man. “Very well, Iris, I will see that the princess’s books are sent to the palace. But not today. We barely have time to do what must be done.” He reached into his voluminous robes and, drawing out two packets, thrust them at her. “Give your mistress the powders in the blue packet before you leave here. She is to have the other one at sunset.”

“Please, master,” said Iris boldly, “what are they? I would not harm her.”

“The powders are drugs to relax her and prepare her virgin body for her husband’s attentions this night. But you are presumptuous, Iris! Do not ask questions of me or I will withdraw your appointment.”

The door to the antechamber opened and Theadora entered. The eunuch quickly scrutinized her with a practiced eye. He was pleased. Her stature was regal. She was slimmer than his master liked, but the high, full, cone-shaped breasts more than made up for that. She had clear, fair skin and amethyst-colored eyes…or were they violet? The shining dark hair hung to her hips. She even had well-formed white teeth. These were all signs of excellent physical and mental health.

The eunuch bowed politely. “I am Ali Yahya, Your Royal Highness. You are the most blessed of women, my princess. Your lord husband-Sultan Orkhan, son of the sultan of the Ghazis; Ghazi, son of Ghazi; Marquis of the Hero of the World-has chosen this night to be your night of nights. Your marriage, celebrated when you were but a child, will be consummated this night. May Allah bless you, and may you be fruitful with my master’s seed.”

Theadora looked at him, blankly, for a moment. Then she turned deathly pale and crumpled to the floor. The eunuch looked down on her still form. She was very lovely. The sultan would be quite pleased. “Virgin vapors,” he pronounced to Iris who was kneeling by the girl, patting her wrists. “I will send a litter for you in one hour. Be ready.”

When Theadora came to herself she found her shoulders supported by Iris’ strong arm. A cup of wine was being forced between her lips. “Drink, my princess, and do not be afraid. Ali Yahya has appointed me your chief waiting woman. I will not leave you, and no matter what that fat slug may think, I will be loyal to you alone! Drink, my baby. It will help.”

Theadora gulped at the wine, her mind whirling. What had suddenly possessed the sultan? Could he have found out about Prince Murad? No! It was not possible. Why then?

“When are we to go to the palace?” she asked.

“The litter comes in less than an hour.”

Oh, sweet Jesu! There was no time to send for Murad and, once at the palace, she dare not communicate with him. Oh, God! This was to be her punishment. If she had not committed adultery in fact, she had certainly committed it in her heart and now God was punishing her. To be wife to an old man while loving his son! They would live within the same palace, possibly even see each other, and never be able to speak! Theadora began to weep violently.

Not understanding the true nature of her mistress’s grief, Iris tried to comfort her. “Do not weep, my baby. It was bound to come, and all women must accept their fate. I would, of course, wish that you had a younger husband, but they do say the sultan is still very potent-and a good lover.” Seeing that Theadora’s eyes were shut in her agony, Iris slipped the contents of the first packet into the wine. Then she watched as the girl drained it, unaware that it was drugged.

There was no time left. The nuns were in the courtyard, crowding about her to bid her Godspeed, farewell. “If you can help the Christian captives and slaves, Highness,” said Mother Marie Josepha, “please do. Their lot is so bad, and it is your duty. We stand ready here to aid you in all your charitable endeavors.”

Theadora nodded dumbly and allowed them to help her into the large litter. Iris climbed in after her, drawing the curtains shut, and they were away. The slavewoman looked at the pale girl opposite her. The princess said nothing, made no sound at all, yet the tears continued to pour down her cheeks. Iris was worried.

She had been a slave for only five years, but her knowledge of the world was greater than most. These were not the tears of a frightened bride. They were the tears of a broken-hearted woman. But what had she to be broken-hearted about? Iris knew that Theadora did not wish to become a nun, so that was not it. There was only one other possibility, and it was so farfetched as to be absurd. Still…looking back over the princess’s behavior during these last two months, Iris began to understand many things.

Iris took a deep breath. What she was about to do was very dangerous. She had no proof and, cornered, the princess could instantly order her death. Iris leaned forward and said, very quietly, “If we are to talk, Highness, it must be now. Once we are in the palace we will be constantly spied upon, not only by the chief eunuch’s underlings, but by those in the pay of the sultan’s other two wives-and God only knows how many of his favorites. They will all seek to discredit you in an effort to advance themselves. If you would unburden yourself and tell me what troubles you, it must be now. Please, Highness. I wish to remain your friend, and it is obvious to me that you weep for a man.”

The violet eyes that raised themselves to hers were so filled with raw pain that Iris nearly wept herself. “I will tell you,” said Theadora, “for I must tell someone, or I will go mad. If you betray me you would be doing me a kindness for I would as soon be dead now.” And slowly the tender little story came out, haltingly, until there was nothing left to say.

Iris sighed. It would not be easy, but having allowed her mistress to shift some of the burden to her own shoulders, she could now concentrate on preparing the girl for what was to come.

“I will try to speak with the prince myself,” she promised Theadora, and was rewarded by a smile that lit the girl’s whole being. “But, my lady, you must accept the fact that you are the sultan’s wife. Tonight he will consummate that marriage, and you must accept that as fact also.”

“I thought he had forgotten me, Iris. Never since he brought me to St. Catherine’s has he even acknowledged my existence. Why now?”

“I do not know, my princess, but I think the answers we seek are to be found at the sultan’s palace. A word of warning, however, my princess. You are so innocent, and do not know the wicked ways of people. At the palace you must trust no one but me. When we wish to speak privately we must do so out of doors only. There are listeners everywhere.”

“You have been in the palace, Iris. What is it like? Will I have privacy, or do all the women live together?”

“One section of the palace is set aside for the women, but the wives and the favorites have their own apartments and rooms within this section. The chief eunuch appointed me your waiting woman, but you will be assigned other slaves and eunuchs. Your rank demands it.”

“Can we trust them, Iris?”

“No! They will all be spies for someone or other. But we will tolerate them for now, until we can choose our own people. Do not fear, my princess, I will protect you.”

The litter stopped, the curtains were drawn back, and Ali Yahya was handing Theadora out into a tiled courtyard. “Please to follow me, Your Highness,” he said. They followed him through a maze of corridors until he stopped before a single carved door and, opening it, led them into a small room. “Your bedroom is through there, princess.”

Iris looked unbelievingly about her. These two small rooms for her mistress? She said a quick silent prayer that she would live to see the next day, and rounded on the chief eunuch. “Is my mistress some slavegirl that you insult her in this fashion? These rooms are not fit for a dog let alone an emperor’s daughter! Two tiny rooms with two barred windows overlooking an inner courtyard? Where is her garden? Where are her servants?”

“Your mistress has not yet found favor with my master.”

“My mistress does not have to find favor with your master,” answered Iris boldly. “She is the emperor’s daughter! Why, her servants at St. Catherine’s were better housed than this! How the sultan will enjoy his wedding night when his bride complains of her apartments, I do not know.”

Ali Yahya looked uncomfortable. He did not believe that there was any chance of this inexperienced girl pleasing his very experienced, jaded master. Still, it could happen. And if it did…

“You fill the position I assigned to you most admirable, Iris,” he said sourly. “This is but a place for your mistress to rest. It was imperative that we bring her to the palace today, but her apartments could not be made ready in time. In another hour they will be fit to receive the princess. I will send a girl with something to eat, and by then all will be perfect,” he concluded, and gathering the shreds of his dignity about him, he departed quickly.

“Humph,” sniffed Iris. “The only snake wriggled out of that one fast enough.”

“It does not matter,” said Theadora softly.

“Yes it does! Whatever happens, my child, you must never forget that you are Theadora Cantacuzene, Emperor John’s daughter. Hold your head up in this place, my lady, else you will be overcome by your inferiors.”

Within the hour they were brought to a spacious suite containing six large, airy rooms and its own beautiful walled garden with several tiled fountains and a view of the mountains. “My lady is well pleased,” said Iris loftily, noting the dozen slavegirls and two black eunuchs.

Ali Yahya nodded. “Take your lady to the mistress of baths immediately. It will take the rest of the afternoon to prepare her for tonight.”

Usually the harem baths were noisy and full of chattering women. This afternoon, however, the women of the sultan’s house were being entertained by an elderly Egyptian magician. The bath mistress greeted Theadora briskly and before the startled princess knew what was happening she found herself completely stripped and her nude body subjected to a most thorough inspection. Her most intimate parts were squeezed, pulled apart, prodded, even smelled for signs of disease. Theadora blushed to the roots of her hair and felt a helpless sense of outraged shame.

Finally satisfied, the bath mistress stepped back. “Your body is flawless and healthy, Highness. You are as fresh as a new rose. I am relieved, for the sultan dislikes blemish of any kind. We can proceed now.”

Theadora had the urge to laugh. They were all so seriously concerned about her pleasing the sultan, yet she herself didn’t care. All she wanted was to be back at St. Catherine’s convent, preparing to meet Murad in the orchard. Murad! Murad! She silently intoned his name over and over as the women spread a pink paste smelling of almonds over the haired areas of her body.

Unknown to Theadora, the men’s baths were on the other side of the harem baths. And while she stood, quietly submitting, Orkhan’s favorite sons, Suleiman and Murad, sat companionably talking within the hot room.

“What is there to the rumor that John Cantacuzene seeks our aid against his son-in-law?” asked Murad.

“It’s true,” Suleiman assured him. “That’s why the maidenhead of the Princess Theadora will be breached tonight.”

Murad felt a wave of dizziness assail him. Unknowing, his brother continued. “The old man might have left the girl in her convent, but her father insisted that all the terms of the marriage contract be fulfilled. Our father couldn’t resist the final third of the little Byzantine’s dowry. That includes Tyzmpe, and I am going to be sent to command the fort. Want to come along?”

“Is the princess here yet?” Murad hoped he sounded casual.

“Yes. She’s a pretty piece, though a bit too pale to suit my taste. I caught a glimpse of her when she arrived this afternoon. Probably scared, poor little girl. Well, by morning she’ll be well-tamed. Our father may be old, but he can still leave a woman begging for more. May we be as potent as long, eh brother?”

“Yes, yes,” said Murad absently, his whole heart going out to Theadora, his dove, his precious little love.

Suleiman chattered on. “The lady Anastatia says that the little princess probably put her father up to improving her position. She says all the Cantacuzenes are ambitious.”

“I’ve had enough steam,” said Murad, rising. Walking out into the tepidarium, he grabbed a basin and vomited into it. “Damned fish must have been tainted,” he muttered, shoving the basin into a slave’s hands. After rinsing his mouth with mint water, he donned his clothes and found his way to his mother’s apartments.

To his immense surprise Anastatia was with Nilufer. “Is it true?” he demanded brusquely. “Is the old satyr taking the Byzantine girl to his bed tonight?”

“Yes,” said Nilufer. She was a handsome woman in her mid-forties. Her wheat-colored hair still shone with golden lights, and her amber eyes were bright and wise. “Anastatia and I were just discussing this very unusual turn of events and how to meet them.”

“The girl is ambitious,” said Ibrahim’s mother.

“She is just like all the Cantacuzenes-greedy and venal. I should know. Is not the emperor my cousin? The girl obviously became bored in her convent and complained to her father. But after Orkhan’s had at her, she may wish she was back there.” Anastatia laughed cruelly.

Murad stared hard at this woman who had always been their enemy. She was ten years his mother’s senior, petite with steel grey hair, and the coldest blue eyes he’d ever seen. “What makes you two allies after all these years?”

“Your father’s new wife,” said Anastatia honestly.

“He married her years ago, and it didn’t bother you then. Nor did you and my mother become bosom friends over the matter.”

“But tonight he takes her to his bed. If she proves fertile and bears him a son-” She looked levelly at him.

“He would scarcely name an infant his heir over Suleiman or me, both grown men. Not at his age,” snapped Murad. “I hope, Mother, that you will have no part in a campaign of unkindness against this poor child. She will need friends here.” He angrily left the room.

Allah! She was here! Within this very palace, and he could do nothing. Whatever his mother and Anastatia said about Theadora’s ambition, he knew it was untrue. He knew her. They did not. How frightened she must be, poor child, and shortly she would be delivered up to that oversexed old man. He felt the nausea gripping his guts again. He had to get away from the palace. He could not remain here this night, knowing that her innocence was being violated on the altar of greed.

Suddenly, a heavily-veiled older woman glided out from the shadows. “The princess wants you to know that though this situation is not of her making, she will do her duty as she has been taught,” said the woman. And then she was gone.

He almost cried aloud at the swiftly retreating figure. Then Prince Murad made determinedly for the stables and called for his horse. He mounted, rode through the palace gates and headed the animal into the autumn mountains.

Chapter Four

Theadora had never been so clean in her entire life. She had thought they would scrub her skin away. Except for her eyebrows, lashes, and long tresses, she was completely denuded of hair. Her fingernails and toenails had been pared to the quick. Allah forbid she offend her lord and master by scratching-even inadvertently-his royal person! Her long, straight, mahogany-colored hair shone with its lovely gold lights. Her skin glowed with good health. The soles of her feet and the palms of her hands were tinted pink with henna.

But the amethyst eyes were worried, frightened. She did not understand all this haste, and when she tried to question Ali Yahya, he looked troubled, then brushed her question aside. “Princess, you have been married several years. Now that you have reached physical maturity the sultan wishes you to grace his bed. There is nothing odd in that.”

She was, he could tell, not satisfied by the answer. He felt more uncomfortable than ever, for he suddenly realized that she was innocent of deceit. She simply did not wish to bed with the sultan. He was sure that, had her father not insisted on this, the girl would have remained quietly at St. Catherine’s. The realization made what he must do even harder for Ali Yahya.

Precisely four hours after sunset Ali Yahya, accompanied by the lady Anastatia and the lady Nilufer, arrived at Theadora’s apartments to escort her to her destiny. The two older women, each dressed magnificently in silk garments heavy with gold embroidery and jeweled work, were a somewhat startling contrast to the young girl in her plain white silk robe.

Though tradition and good manners dictated that they speak politely to her, wishing her joy, neither said anything. Nilufer looked curiously at the girl. So, thought Iris, that is how it is to be! The mean old cats! The chief eunuch turned his head toward Iris and said quickly and softly, “Your mistress will be returned in an hour or two. Be ready! She will need you.” My God! What were they going to do to the child?

The litter moved with stately measure through the silent halls of the harem, finally coming to rest before two enormous bronze doors. Ali Yahya helped the trembling Theadora from the litter and escorted her through the doors-which slammed behind them with frightening finality.

It was a most luxurious room. Marble floors were covered lavishly with thick wool carpets. The walls were hung with exquisite silk tapestries. In each of three corners of the room was a tall, masterfully wrought gold censer burning with fragrant aloes. In the fourth corner was a large tiled stove burning applewood. Two silver and stained glass lamps hung from the dark beamed ceiling, casting soft light over a massive bed on a raised dais. The bed had rich, particolored silk hangings and carved posts. It was toward this bed that Theadora was led by Ali Yahya. From apparently nowhere, slavegirls appeared and removed her one garment.

“Please lie upon the bed, princess,” said Ali Yahya. She obeyed. To her shock he leaned over her and bound one of her arms to the bedpost with a soft silken cord. Her other arm was tied by a slavegirl and her long legs were pulled apart and secured in the same manner.

A wave of panic gripped her and she cried out. The eunuch clapped his hand over her mouth. “Be silent, Highness! No one will hurt you. If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?” She nodded and he lifted his hand from her face.

“Why am I being bound?” she asked in a shaking voice.

“Because the sultan has ordered it, my lady. When you were wed the marriage contract called for the consummation of the marriage when you reached maturity. The sultan, quite frankly, would have left you at your convent. But your father insists that the marriage contract be fulfilled.”

“My father?” she cried unbelievingly. “My father insisted? Oh, God! How could he?”

“He needs the sultan’s aid again, Highness. Your sister and her husband are proving troublesome. The remaining third of your dowry, which includes a gold payment and the strategic fortress of Tzympe-which my master desires greatly-will remain outstanding until you are with child.”

For a moment she was silent. Then she exclaimed bitterly, almost to herself, “For this I so carefully preserved my maidenhead! To be forcibly delivered up to an old man for a troop of soldiers, a handful of gold, and a fort!” She sighed, then turned her eyes to the eunuch again. “Why has my lord ordered me bound to the bed?”

“Because you are inexperienced in the ways of love. Lacking knowledge, you are apt to struggle and displease the sultan. There is a need for haste, and no time to teach you the things you must know. You were brought to the palace today because this is the first fertile day in your moon cycle. For the next four nights you will bed with the sultan. It is hoped that you will be proved with child within the next month. If not, you will be bred again until my master’s labor bears fruit.”

She was stunned by this terrible revelation. Perhaps if she had not known the sweetness of lovemaking with Prince Murad it would not hurt so much. How the sultan must hate her! And she silently cursed the father who had sacrificed her in this cruel manner.

And in that one moment of blinding understanding, Theadora Cantacuzene grew up.

Ali Yahya spoke again. He was obviously in sympathy with her. “You must be prepared for your master, my princess. Do not be afraid of what will transpire.” And at her puzzled look he went on. “Your body is not yet ready to receive a man.”

He clapped his hands and two pretty women appeared, each carrying a white ostrich plume. They settled themselves quietly on stools by either side of the bed and, at a nod from the chief eunuch, began to touch her breasts with the soft plumes.

Theadora regarded them with a frankness that soon turned to amazement as the gentle caresses began to rouse her body. Her young breasts began to swell and harden, the nipples grew pointed and tingling. She gasped softly, surprised at herself. The eunuch watched her for several minutes from beneath hooded lids, noting her every movement.

He clapped his hands once more and two young girls, children really, approached with a woman. Without a word the two girls positioned themselves on each side of her, bent over, and gently pulled her nether lips apart. The woman leaned forward and, drawing a long pointed feather from her sleeve, delicately applied it to the most sensitive spot. Theodora stiffened with shock at this frightening invasion but, when she opened her mouth to protest, it was quickly stuffed with a silk handkerchief.

The agony was exquisite, but Theadora was outraged. She was being treated like a mare led to stud.

She silently screamed as wave after wave of delicious feeling, similar to that which Murad’s supple fingers had worked on her, washed over her. Christos! Why would her hips not lie still!

There was another movement in the shadows, and a tall man in a brocade robe appeared by the bedside. Her eyes were glazed with fear and reluctant sexual stimulation, but she recognized Sultan Orkhan. The hair she had remembered as dark was now mostly gray, but the eyes-dear lord-were black like Murad’s. The sultan looked down on her dispassionately and remarked to Ali Yahya, “She is really quite lovely. What a pity there is no time to train her properly.” He spoke as if she were not even there. “Is she still intact, Ali Yahya?”

“I did not think to check, Most High. She has, after all, been safe within her convent.”

“Be sure! Girls are known to play lewd games.”

The eunuch nodded curtly to the woman with the feather who ceased her ministrations. Bending, Ali Yahya gently inserted a finger into the helpless girl. She strained wildly against her bonds. Withdrawing from her, the eunuch straightened and said to his master, “She is intact, my lord sultan.”

“I don’t want to bother with the business of breaching her maidenhead. Mara will be waiting for me when this business is over with. See to it that she is deflowered. I will be ready shortly for the mounting.”

Theadora could not believe her ears. If Orkhan did not deflower her, how was it to be done? But she had little time to wonder. The chief eunuch gave swift orders and, moments later, he bent over her holding a long, thick, smooth, highly polished piece of wood shaped like a phallus. “The pain will be but momentary, Your Highness,” he said apologetically and then, in a lower voice which only she could hear, “Forgive me, princess.”

She felt the cool, smooth wood against her shrinking flesh and silently wailed her shame. A swift thrust! A sharp and burning pain spread through her loins before gradually dying. Warm wetness trickled down the insides of her thighs. She wanted to faint, to escape all this, but she remained conscious. And now her attention was drawn away from herself to the sultan.

He had watched without emotion as she was deflowered. Now he spread his arms wide and instantly the slaves removed his loose brocade gown. She was surprised to see that his body was as firm as a young man’s, if somewhat thinner.

Theadora watched, mesmerized, as a naked girl with long, golden hair stepped forward, bowed to her master, and knelt before him, her beautiful hair tumbling about her as her head touched her master’s foot in the age-old gesture of subjugation. Still on her knees, the girl raised her body and rubbed her cheek against the sultan’s groin. Now she was taking his limp organ and caressing it with delicate, slender fingers, kissing it with quick, teasing little kisses. Theadora felt a wave of desire as the girl gently took the swelling organ into her rosebud mouth. Horrified at herself, Theadora turned her head away to meet the amused gaze of one of the girls who was stroking her hard, hurting breasts. Shamed color flooded her face, and she closed her eyes. The sensations were intensified now, but she made herself keep her lashes lowered.

The quick patter of running feet forced her eyes open. She was alone with the sultan. He moved across the room toward her, his manroot now enormous, its angry, red head glistening with moisture. He jammed a bolster beneath her hips to raise her, to make her body more easily available to him.

She was mounted like a mare and she felt his penetration-hard and brutal-as he thrust into her. He rode her smoothly, his hands crushing her breasts, pinching at the nipples. Cruelly, he forced her head forward so he might look into her face. Afraid to close her eyes now, she met his impersonal gaze steadily, silently screaming Murad’s name over and over again. Suddenly the man above her shuddered and collapsed on top of her. They lay quietly for a few minutes, then he climbed off of her. Loosening the bonds on her spread legs, he shut them and pushed them up. Then he said the only words he had spoken to her during the entire nightmare. “Keep your legs up and closed, Theadora, lest you lose my seed.” Turning, he disappeared back into the darkness and she heard the door close.

She was alone. Her whole body began to shake, and the pent-up tears poured down her cheeks. A few minutes later Ali Yahya emerged from the shadows and removed the silk from her mouth. Quietly he unbound her arms and gently rubbed her wrists. He brought forth a handkerchief from his robe and silently wiped her tears away. Then, helping her up, he wrapped her silk robe about her icy body and led her back into the corridor and to the litter. Soon Iris’ loving arms were about her and the slavewoman led her to her bed.

Ali Yahya waited in the antechamber of Theadora’s apartment, warming himself by the tile stove. Finally Iris emerged and stood before him questioningly. In his high soft voice he told her all of it. “It is up to you to see that the princess does not become melancholy,” he finished.

Iris laughed harshly. “And how am I to do that, master? The girl is young and has been gently reared. A wedding night is frightening to any young virgin, but,” she lowered her voice, “the sultan has brutalized my little mistress. And what is worse, she must endure the same treatment for the next three nights! Why? What has this child done that he would hurt her so?”

“It is not your place to question, woman.”

“If I am to keep the girl alive I must know all, Ali Yahya.”

“The sultan was angry at the princess. He thought she had induced her father to force compliance of the marriage contract and, thus, better her position. I believed that possible until I met the princess. There is no guile in her. And the two wives, Anastatia and Nilufer, have encouraged the sultan’s anger toward the princess. They are fearful of a third wife.”

“My princess is like a delicate flower, eunuch. You must convince the sultan to treat her gently these next few nights. If she goes mad and dies, to what purpose is this cruelty? Do you think the emperor will award your lord the remainder of my lady’s dowry when he learns what has happened to his favorite daughter? The Byzantine may have used the girl to his political advantage, but she is still his child, and he does love her.”

Ali Yahya nodded. “You are right, woman. I will see that the sultan’s heart is softened toward the princess. But you must see that the girl lives.” Without another word he turned on his heel and left.

Iris waited until the doors had closed behind him. Then she ran across the room into Theadora’s bedchamber. The girl lay on her back, barely breathing. She made no sound, but her beautiful face was wet with tears. Iris drew a stool up to the bedside and sat down. “Tell me what you are thinking,” she asked.

“I think that the humblest beast in the field is more fortunate than I,” came the soft reply.

“Do you wish to die, my princess?”

“Die?” The girl sat up. “Die?” She laughed bitterly. “No, Iris. I do not want to die. I would live to avenge this insult! How dare the sultan take me as he would some savage barbarian? I am Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium!” Her voice was bordering on hysteria.

“Hush, my princess. Remember?” And Iris pointed to her ears.

Theadora instantly grew silent. The slavewoman rose and poured out a goblet of rich red Cyprus wine. She added a pinch of herbs to it and handed it to her mistress. “I have put a sleeping draught in the wine, my princess. You must get a good night’s rest if you are to face tomorrow with wisdom and courage.”

The girl drained the goblet. “See that I am awakened by midday, Iris,” she said, and lay back down to sleep. The slave crept from the room. But Theadora’s amethyst eyes remained open and focused on the ceiling. She was calmer now, the worst of the shock having worn off. But she would never forget the insult.

Her innocent dalliance with Prince Murad had led her to believe that what happened between a man and a woman was always sweet. Her husband had robbed her of a perfect wedding night, but never again would she allow herself to be treated as she had been treated tonight. If her father-curse him!-wanted her to bear Orkhan a son, then she would do so. But she would make her husband regret this night.

He would desire her above all women, and when she had obtained his desire…she would refuse him.

When her jaded husband finally groveled at her feet for her favors-and he would-she would dole them out sparingly or refuse them, as her whim dictated.

Theadora now began to relax and allowed the sleeping potion to take hold of her. When Iris looked in later, the princess was asleep.

Chapter Five

Ali Yahya was in serious danger of losing his dignity. He gaped at the child before him, and she repeated in her piping voice, “My mistress, Princess Theadora, commands your immediate presence, sir. You are to come with me.” Tugging on the fat hand, the little girl led the amazed chief eunuch down the hall to Theadora’s apartments.

When Ali Yahya had seen Theadora last he had not been sure she would survive the night. But the ravaged creature of the night before bore no resemblance whatever to the young woman he now faced. And for the first time in his life, Ali Yahya understood the true meaning of the word “royal”.

Theadora had caused a small throne to be set upon a raised dais, and she received Ali Yahya there. Her long dark hair had been plaited into two braids, and looped on either side of her head. Her clothing was all silk, in shades of Persian blues and sea green. She wore no jewelry, for she had none.

The amethyst eyes looked gravely at the eunuch. Abashed, he bowed low, and was rewarded by a faint smile. She raised her hand in a regal gesture of dismissal to her slaves.

Alone with Ali Yahya she said quietly, “Tell my husband that if there should ever be a repeat of last night, I will inform my father, Emperor John. I am aware of my duties, and will produce a child as quickly as nature will allow. But the sultan must come to me alone in future, and accept my lack of experience as any Christian husband would do-with delight at that proof of my innocence.

“If he wanted me experienced in the arts of love, he should have had me tutored. I was available. I am not newly arrived in this land.

“I request of you teachers who can help me overcome my ignorance. For now, perhaps, the sultan will find it amusing to tutor me himself. It should be quite a novelty for him.”

The chief eunuch swallowed his surprise. “I will do what I can to plead your case, Highness,” he said gravely.

“I know you will, Ali Yahya. You alone of those I have met since entering here yesterday have remembered my position. I will certainly not forget your kindness. Thank you for coming.”

He turned to go, but she spoke again. “I had almost forgotten. Please arrange for Iris and me to visit the slave markets of the city tomorrow.”

“If you need more servants I shall be glad to supply them, Highness.”

“I need my own servants, Ali Yahya. Not spies. I will people my household with my own slaves, not those in the pay of the lady Anastatia or the lady Nilufer, or whoever is my husband’s latest favorite. Or you, for that matter. Do I make myself clear, Ali Yahya?”

He nodded. “It will be as you wish, Highness,” be said, and hurried off to seek his master.

He found the sultan in the company of one of his new favorites, a blond Circassian named Mihrimah. The girl was a credit to her harem schooling, a veritable model of good manners, total obedience, and advanced sexual training. Ali Yahya watched impassively as Mihrimah took a sweetmeat delicately between her lips and offered it to her eager master. The eunuch marveled that a man of the sultan’s years could still be so quickly aroused and perform so well. Disregarding his servant’s presence, Orkhan mounted the slavegirl, driving her to a sobbing surrender.

His hot lust sated, he looked to the eunuch. By a flick of an eyelid, Ali Yahya asked dismissal of the girl. Orkhan shoved Mihrimah with his foot. “Go!” She obeyed instantly, getting to her feet and running from the room. “Speak, Ali Yahya. What is it?”

The eunuch fell to the floor and, taking the sultan’s foot, placed it on his bowed head. “I have erred, my lord. I have erred in judgement, and I beg that you forgive me.”

Orkhan was intrigued. Ali Yahya had been his slave for some twenty-five years. He had held his office as chief of the white eunuchs for the last fifteen. His judgements had always been cool, impersonal, and correct. Never before had he asked forgiveness. “What is it, my old friend?” asked Orkhan kindly.

“It is the princess Theadora, sire. I have been wrong about the girl, and so have your wives. She is innocent of any intrigue to better herself. I knew it last night, but it was too late to stop-” He hesitated, allowing the sultan time to reconstruct the events of the previous evening. “This morning,” continued the eunuch, “she begged my ear, and pleaded with me to ask your forgiveness for her ignorance in the arts of pleasing you. She has also asked that I find her tutors to teach her so she may remedy this lack.”

“Has she?” Orkhan was interested. He would not have been surprised if the girl had tried to take her own life after last night. Then, he would not have cared. But now he was fascinated.

“Perhaps it would be a titillating novelty, sire, if it were you who acted as her first teacher. Who knows your desires better? She appears eager to learn, and she really is quite lovely, my lord.”

The sultan’s black eyes narrowed with remembrance and he chuckled. “So she is eager to learn, eh? Even after last night? And you think I should school the little wench?”

“It would be something different, my lord. I would not know, of course, but is it not dull, being continually catered to by the women of your house? As her tutor you could teach her what pleases you best. When she succeeds you will reward her. And if she is slow in her lessons, you will chastise her.”

The sultan’s eyes gleamed. He was known to occasionally enjoy whipping a slavegirl. “You are sure, Ali Yahya? You are sure she did not nag her father and force herself on me?”

“I am quite sure, sire. She would have sooner remained at St. Catherine’s. This was her father’s doing entirely.”

Orkhan smiled slowly. “She will soon change her mind, my old friend. I will teach her to crave my touch. Tell her she is forgiven her ignorance, Ali Yahya, and that tonight I will begin her lessons in love.”

The eunuch bowed himself out, barely able to contain his mirth.

With the princess, however, he would have to be completely truthful. Yesterday he had thought of her as only another girl, like thousands of others. Today, however, seeing her rise so strongly from her despair, he had-with a sure instinct for his own survival-revised his opinion. Ali Yahya was not sure what Theadora Cantacuzene was, but he knew she would be a power to be reckoned with.

Theadora was again bathed, creamed, and perfumed. But this time Ali Yahya brought her silk gauze night garments and simple jewelry. The pantaloons and open bolero were rose-pink, which heightened the creamy fairness of her skin. The anklebands were done simply in gold-thread embroidered flowers. The bolero was edged along the sides and bottom in tiny crystal beads. The chief eunuch had brought her several very delicate little gold chains of different lengths to wear about her neck. He himself put upon her slender finger a rough-cut deep-blue Persian turquoise set in heavy red gold.

“My gift to you, Highness.”

“Thank you, Ali Yahya. I shall treasure it.” Then she looked at him questioningly.

“It will be all right, Highness, I promise you,” he said as he helped her into the litter. He bent over her and fastened gold and crystal ornaments to each of her little earlobes.

She reached up and touched them, delighted. He smiled back at her. Though he sensed greatness in her, she was still a child. The earlobes sparkled prettily, fully visible as her dark hair was drawn back. It had been braided with pale pink ribbons and seed pearls. The sultan would be foolish to mistreat so delightful a morsel, thought the eunuch.

And that was most unlikely. Sultan Orkhan had thought most of the day of the novelty of teaching his young wife the amatory arts: he could barely wait for evening. He hoped she was passionate by nature. But even so, she was likely to resist him at first, her shyness overcoming her. Resistance! The thought excited him. He could not remember the last time a woman had resisted him.

The great double doors to his rooms were flung open, and he could see his new wife in the corridor beyond, being assisted from her litter. He watched with open approval as she moved gracefully toward him, her lovely head bowed modestly. She stopped-and knelt to prostrate herself before him in the gesture of humble submission.

“No!” he was amazed to hear himself say. “You are a princess born, my Theadora.”

“But you, my lord husband, are my master,” her low, melodious voice replied as she touched her forehead to his slippered foot. He raised her up and pulled her veil away from her face, tossing it to the floor. “Look at me,” he commanded. And she raised her head to him. The clear amethyst eyes did not waver under his dark glance. “Your manners are flawless, my young wife, but your beautiful eyes speak differently from your posture!”

For a moment her white teeth caught at her lower lip. She flushed becomingly, but her gaze did not falter. “I am,” she replied, “as Your Majesty has said, a princess born.”

The sultan laughed heartily. The girl had spirit. Surprisingly, he did not mind. She was a breath of cold, crisp air after an overheated, overscented room. “Leave us,” he commanded the waiting Ali Yahya and the other slaves. When they had gone, he turned to her. “Are you afraid, my Theadora?”

She nodded. “A little, my lord. After last night.”

He cut her short with a wave of his hand, saying fiercely, “Last night did not happen! We begin tonight!”

Remembering the rape by a wooden phallus she seethed but quickly said sweetly, “Yes, my lord!”

He drew her down to the pillows on the large divan.

“You are an unexplored garden of delights, my bride. For the present, I shall seek to please you.” He pushed the little bolero off her, and, cupping her breasts in his hands, kissed first one and then the other. “Your breasts are like unopened roses,” he murmured deeply against her silken, perfumed skin.

A streak of lightning ripped through her at his gentle touch, and she gasped with shock, instinctively raising her hands to fend him off. But he was too quick for her. Pushing her back amid the pillows he covered her bare breasts with hot kisses. His tongue lapped at her large nipples, sending wave after wave of shivers over her trembling body. Then his mouth closed over one hard peak, and sucked hungrily. “My lord,” she moaned. “Oh, my lord!” She was close to fainting by the time he finally stopped.

“Did you like it?” he asked. “Did you like what I just did to you?”

She could not answer, and he took her silence for maidenly modesty, which delighted him. What she could not tell him was that she had liked what he had done. She liked it as much as she had liked it when Prince Murad did it to her. This confused her terribly. Did she not then love the prince? Was love a different thing from the delicious feelings that rippled through her body when she was touched in this way? She did not understand.

What she did know was that she liked a man’s hands on her, and she was, after all, this man’s wife. So where was the harm? But as his arm encircled her and his free hand stroked her again, she remembered last night-when he had coldly ordered her precious virginity wasted upon a lifeless piece of polished wood so that he might not waste his time. He only wooed her now because of Ali Yahya’s intervention. Without that intervention, she would again have been bound to the bed and mated like an animal.

Her beloved Murad had never hurt her. He had touched her gently, with tenderness. He had wanted her for his wife, and she in turn had wanted him for her husband. She had wanted to please him. That had been love! Fragile, barely born-but love!

She did not love the sultan, but she did enjoy his attentions and, God have mercy on her, it was all she was going to get in this life. Princesses were not expected to enjoy their marriages.

Sighing, she gave herself over to his ministrations, delighting him by drawing his head back down to her breasts, and begging prettily that he do again what he had just done. He could feel his own desire rising fast, for she excited him greatly. It took all his strength to remember how very unskilled she really was. Like a green youth, he fumblingly drew her pantaloons down over her hips to where she might easily kick them off. His fingers eagerly sought for her mound of Venus, and found it already moist. Panting, he tore open his robe and flung himself on her, feeling with ecstatic pleasure her youthful warmth.

His fingernails scratched the insides of her thighs as he pulled her legs apart. To her amazement he was nearly sobbing his hunger for her. His eagerness astounded her. She had no fear of him. She wondered if she closed her eyes, and pretended he were Murad…

Moving provocatively, she whispered huskily, “Kiss me, my lord. Kiss me, my husband.” He quickly obliged her, and to her delight his mouth was firm, and strangely familiar. It was-oh, dear God!-like Murad’s. He kissed her deeply, passionately. First he was the aggressor and then, to their mutual surprise, she was. She allowed his mouth to sweep her into a purely physical world of sensual pleasures.

She was again in the orchard of St. Catherine’s. Again in the strong arms of the prince. It was his dear, familiar mouth that now possessed hers, his hands that swept over her smooth skin. With a will of its own, her young body moved voluptuously, instinct rather than experience guiding her.

Maddened with desire, Orkhan drove himself deep into the eager, willing body. He needed all of his self-control not to take his release immediately. Instead he guided her gently through a maze of passion, helping her to find her way until she thought she could bear no more.

At first Theadora fought against the force that took her higher, higher, and higher before sweeping her away with an overpowering sweetness that drove her to the teetering brink of unconsciousness. Then she stopped fighting. At last, bathed in a golden light, she felt herself shattering into a thousand little pieces. She cried out with a terrible sense of loss, and heard him cry out as well.

In the absolute quiet that followed she hesitantly opened her eyes. He lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, gazing down at her. His dark eyes were filled with admiration, and he smiled tenderly. For a moment she was puzzled. Where was Murad? Who was this old man? Then, as reality returned, she almost wailed aloud.

“You are magnificent!” the sultan cried. “That an innocent girl should feel so deeply! Be so passionate! Allah! How I adore you, my little bride. Thee-adora! Thee-adora! I believe I am falling in love with you!” He took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. His hands could not stop fondling her breasts, her buttocks…and he was quickly roused. Again he sought her warmth, and she could not deny him. Nor could she deny her own physical desire. She hated herself.

Afterwards he called for refreshments. “I will see to it that you have the finest teachers, my little one. You were made for love, and for loving.” He sipped a fruit sherbet. “Ah, my sweet wife, how you delight me! I must admit that. I did not expect to find such fire in you. You are mine, my adorable Theadora! Mine alone!”

In his voice she heard the echo of Murad’s voice, speaking nearly the same words. She shivered. He put an arm about her. “I am at your feet, my lovely Adora.” The name seemed to have slipped out, and when, shocked, she stared up at him his face was a mask of delight. “Adora!” he exclaimed. “Yes! You are my own Adora!”

“Why do you call me that?” she whispered.

“Because,” he said as he bent and kissed a plump breast, “because you are an adorable creature.”

She felt tears prick at the back of her eyelids, and quickly she blinked them back. How ironic that the father should be so like the son, even in the language of his lovemaking. She sighed. She was caught like a bird in a snare, and there was no help for it.

She was the sultan’s wife. She must put Prince Murad out of her thoughts. Her energies must be devoted to giving her husband a son and her father a grandson who would link John Cantacuzene by blood to Sultan Orkhan. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium, and she knew her duty. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, the sultan’s wife, and she knew her fate.

Chapter Six

Theadora sat quietly sewing by the bubbling, tiled fountain. The fantailed goldfish chased each other amid the sparkling, splashing water. About her the almond and cherry trees blossomed, and the flower beds, bordered with blue hyacinths, were filled with white and yellow tulips.

Next to her sat Iris, who now hissed, “Here comes the old crow and the dove on their daily visit.”

“Hush,” Theadora gently chided her. But she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Good afternoon, Theadora.”

“Good afternoon, Theadora.”

“And good afternoon to you both lady Anastatia and lady Nilufer. Pray be seated. Iris, see to the refreshments.”

The two older women settled themselves, and Martina drew from her flowing sleeves a piece of embroidery. Anastatia, having peered at Theadora’s large belly, commented, “Such a big child! And you with two more months to go. T’will be a wonder if you’re not torn asunder at the birthing.”

“Nonsense!” replied Nilufer as she saw Theadora grow pale. “I was enormous with Murad, Suleiman, and Fatima. And it was mostly the waters, for none of them was unusually large.” She patted the young girl’s hand. “You are doing just fine, child. Your baby is sure to be a lovely, healthy one.”

Theodora sent Murad’s mother a grateful look, then turned icy eyes on Anastatia. “I have no fears for either myself or my son,” she said evenly.

Iris, returning with a tray, heard enough to be angry. She stumbled and the pitcher she carried tipped, spilling its contents into Anastatia’s lap. The sultan’s first wife leapt up as the cold, sticky liquid poured over her, seeping through her rich clothing to her skin.

“Clumsy fool!” she shrieked. “I’ll have you beaten black and blue for this deliberate insolence!”

“You will do no such thing,” said Theadora coldly. “Iris is my slave, and this was an accident. Iris, humbly beg the lady Anastatia’s pardon.”

Iris knelt, bowing her head. “Oh, I do, my lady Theadora. I do!”

“There,” said Theadora calmly as if that settled everything. Then she called to her other slaves, “Hurry, girls, or Lady Anastatia’s gown will be ruined.” And she looked up to find Lady Nilufer’s eyes brimming with laughing admiration.

If Theadora could claim to have a friend other than Iris, it was the sultan’s second wife. Once Nilufer had met the Byzantine princess she immediately revised her opinions of the girl. She saw in Theadora a substitute for her own beloved daughter who was married to a prince of Samarkand and lived so far away that it was unlikely mother and daughter would ever meet again in this lifetime. Had it not been for Nilufer’s kindness, Theadora might have miscarried her child, for Anastatia took great delight in provoking her.

The slavegirls had managed to sop up the sherbet from lady Anastatia’s gown. Cleansing it with cool water, they spread it across her wide lap to dry. It was at this moment that the sultan and his two favorite sons chose to visit Theadora. Her feelings for Orkhan were friendly now that she did not have to endure his insatiable sexual appetite. For four months after her bridal night he had visited her five nights out of every seven; the other two nights were reserved by Koran law for his other two wives.

During these months Theadora’s education had been considerably broadened. True to his word Orkhan had sent her the best tutors available in the harem. These redoubtable ladies had lectured on and demonstrated the arts of love until Theadora thought she could no longer be shocked or even surprised. But her husband, praising her new skills, had taught her things not even hinted at by her teachers, and Theadora had found that she could still blush.

As he strode across her garden toward her she felt her heart lurch painfully. Murad walked on his left. She had not seen him since their last night together in St. Catherine’s orchard. He was not looking at her, but toward his mother. It seemed to her that he was making a great effort not to look at her. Seeing both her sons, Nilufer rose with a glad cry, her arms outstretched.

On the sultan’s right was his heir, Prince Suleiman. Theadora had met this young man on many occasions since her entry into Orkhan’s house. He was a tall, handsome man with his father’s olive skin and dark hair, and eyes like his brother’s. Unlike the rest of his family, he was open, charming, and merry. He treated his father’s youngest wife as he might treat a favorite little sister.

The trio had reached the women now and, as Suleiman and Murad bent to kiss their mother, Orkhan embraced Theadora. He then turned to Murad and said, “Come, my son, and meet my precious Adora. Is this not a sweet armful for an old man on a cold winter’s night?” He chuckled and gently patted her swollen belly. “Not so old, however, that I cannot still plant a good crop in fertile ground.”

“You are very fortunate, my father,” said Murad stiffly, bowing slightly to Theadora. As he rose and raised his eyes to her she saw that they were cold and scornful. “Are you so sure it is a son my father has given you, princess?” His voice was mocking, and for a moment she thought she would faint.

She drew a deep breath to steady herself and said proudly, “The women of the Cantacuzene always breed strong sons for their husbands, Prince Murad.”

A scornful little smile touched the corners of his mouth. “I shall eagerly await the birth of my half brother, princess.”

Nilufer looked at her younger son, puzzled. Why on earth had he taken such a dislike to Theadora? She was such a sweet girl.

Later, as Theadora relived the incident, she grew angry and furiously threw several pieces of crockery to vent her temper. Her slaves, all carefully chosen by her in the open markets of Bursa, and trained in loyalty and obedience by Iris, were quite surprised. How could he be so cruel, wondered Theadora. Did he expect her to commit suicide because his father was suddenly reminded of her existence? Did he think she enjoyed the lust-filled hours she spent at Orkhan’s mercy? She sighed deeply. Men, she concluded, were but fools.

When her son was born she would devote her energies to him alone. She hoped her husband would leave her alone. She had recently taken to shopping the better slave marts with Iris for the most beautiful virgins available. She had trained the girls to perfection and then presented them to her husband. If she could keep his interests directed toward others, she might escape him. The thought of his hands on her again sent a shudder through her.

She had endured the hours with Orkhan only by pretending that he was Murad. Now she could no longer do that. It was obvious that Murad despised her. Alone in her bed, the slaves dismissed, she allowed herself the luxury of tears, but they were silent tears, for not even dear Iris must suspect her sadness.

The child in her womb kicked vigorously, and Adora placed protective hands over her belly. “You are awake much too late, Halil,” she scolded lovingly. “I suppose you’ll be a rowdy, noisy thing like my brother, Matthew, refusing to go to bed until you drop where you stand.” She smiled at her memory of Matthew. He was the only little boy she had ever known, and they had been together for only a few years. Her position had robbed her even of a childhood.

She gave a watery chuckle. Her baby was not yet born, but she knew for certain that it was a son. How she knew she did not understand, but she was as certain as if she held the child now.

The sultan had said that his son would be called Halil after the great Turkish general who had defeated the Byzantines. Adora had already accustomed herself to the name, and was amused by her husband’s clever slap at her father.

Halil, unlike many royal children, was going to have a childhood. She was determined on that score. He would play with other boys his age, ride, learn archery, and how to use a scimitar. Most important of all, he would have his mother. For she did not intend that he be taken from her to be raised by slaves. He might be an Ottoman prince, but with two much older brothers there was very little chance of his ever ruling, and she would not allow him to be taken away to his own court where he would be debauched by the eunuchs.

It was comforting to think of her baby, but it still did not erase from her mind the look in Murad’s eyes. How he hated her! The silent tears began to flow again. He would never, never know how often she had relived the precious moments they had spent together. He would never know that each time Orkhan kissed her she pretended it was Murad. Her memories had kept her alive, and kept her sane. In one cruel look he had torn those memories from her, and she did not know if she could ever forgive him. What right had he to judge her so harshly?

Two months later, on a hot June morning, the sultan’s youngest wife, Theadora, gave easy birth to a healthy son. One month later the gold balance of the princess’s dowry was paid, and the strategic fortress of Tzympe was deeded to Orkhan.

The sultan was delighted by his little Halil and visited him often. His desire for Theadora, however, had waned during the months of her pregnancy. There were so many beautiful women in the palace, all willing to be his bed partner. Theadora was safe from him now and, once again, she was alone.