Desert Rake. Louise Allen
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as she could think. ‘I must go and tell my maid, and decide what we are to wear.’
‘Your maid is not included, Lady Morvall. To take her would imply a lack of faith in the protection His Majesty is able to extend to a visitor.’
‘Oh.’ One could only hope that in 1817 keeping female visitors was not considered an acceptable way of filling vacancies in the harem. ‘Well, I had better choose a gown and practise my court curtsey, Mr Hamilton.’
CHAPTER THREE
BUMPING down the hill to the dockside, taking the Embassy caique to the far shore and then climbing into the Embassy’s best coach, which had been sent over the night before, Caroline tried to recall if she had felt this nervous before being presented at court in London. She rather thought not.
There had been the towering and hideously expensive ostrich plumes in her coiffure to manage, and the long-outdated hooped skirts to worry about, so, really, making her curtsey and dealing with the Prince Regent’s rather broad compliments had seemed a positive anticlimax.
Now she had neither hoops nor feathers to distract her—simply her very best half-dress gown and a bonnet which she could remove to display an elaborate coiffure suitable for Charlton House in the afternoon, if not the Topkapi Palace in the morning. She had been far too nervous to eat any breakfast, or do more than sip distractedly at a cup of coffee. If she made a poor impression, and the firman was refused, she would have made this journey for nothing, and her gesture towards William’s memory and his dream would end unfulfilled.
Opposite her sat the translator and guide the Secretary had given her, introducing him simply as Ismael. He was tight-lipped with nerves, obviously wondering what he had done to deserve having to guide a mad Englishwoman to the very steps of the Sultan’s throne.
‘We arrive, my lady,’ he said, twitching the lowered blinds back for a moment. ‘As part of the Ambassador’s household we may drive through the gate into the first court: it is a great honour.’
Caroline removed her bonnet and patted her hair into place. The carriage stopped, the door was opened and the steps let down. Hardly knowing what to expect, she stepped down into a large courtyard, bustling with people. All were men; she felt as conspicuous as if she was wearing a placard.
‘The Court of the Janissaries,’ Ismael whispered. ‘See?’ She followed the direction of his gaze and saw the groups of tall men in belted robes, their strange headdresses falling in long flaps of cloth behind. She noted the swords pushed through their belts and averted her eyes.
An official, his head swathed in a white turban of infinitely intricate folds, approached, spoke to Ismael and gestured for them to follow, barely sparing her a glance. It occurred to Caroline that, although she was the only woman in the courtyard, anyone could be behind the myriad of shuttered windows, watching.
‘The Ortakapi—now we enter the Second Court.’
Caroline tried to move with dignity across the seemingly endless space, managing her skirts, attempting not to start in surprise as a gazelle bounded out from behind a bed of roses, chased by a scolding peacock.
‘The Gate of Felicity and the Third Court.’ Ismael seemed steadier now he was working. ‘The Audience Chamber is before us.’
Caroline knew she should be making mental notes, that she should fix all this in her memory so that she could write it up as soon as she got back to the Embassy, but it was rapidly becoming a blur. The Prince Regent would faint with excitement at what she was seeing: the Pavilion at Brighton was a pale shadow of this confident sophistication.
They moved through a great portal, heavy brocade curtains were opened, and she was in a lofty square chamber, every surface decorated in marbles, vivid blue tile, ornate carving. And in the centre at the back stood a wide golden throne, half-chair, half-bed, covered in massed cushions.
An attendant in a sweeping fur-trimmed caftan thundered some announcement she could not understand. On the throne the man sitting cross-legged lifted his head from the document he was perusing, and at her side Ismael fell to his knees and prostrated himself.
Control, Caroline murmured, sinking as slowly as her shaky knees would allow into a deep curtsey. She held it for a long moment, then rose again, took six steps forward, sank again, rose and took a final six steps, sinking into the deepest curtsey yet, holding it until her thigh muscles screamed. She rose to stand before the Sultan.
The man regarding her with piercing black eyes was broad-shouldered in his purple brocade robes, black-bearded, and gave the impression of holding himself in stillness by sheer will-power. He was younger than she had expected, handsome. And he exuded a kind of virile, ruthless power that did not have to be expressed to be perfectly understood.
He spoke, a rich rumble of words, and the man standing to his side translated. ‘His Majesty the Sultan Mahmud, Commander of the Faithful, Lord of the Golden Horn, bids you welcome.’
‘I am deeply honoured by His Majesty’s gracious condescension in receiving me.’
‘His Majesty wishes to know what brings you to Constantinople.’
‘I desire to visit his beautiful city and his great lands, and to learn from what I see, should His Majesty be so gracious as to grant me a firman.’
The jet-black eyes regarded her steadily, then Mahmud spoke again.
‘Where is your husband?’ the translator asked.
‘I am a widow, Majesty.’
‘Of what years?’
‘Twenty-six years, Majesty.’
Silence. She forced herself to stand without fidgeting, her eyes modestly lowered. The Sultan raised a hand and a man stepped out of the shadows behind the throne. Caroline glanced up, and for a moment almost lost her composure. Then she realised she must be mistaken. She did not know him, although this man was black-haired, tall and broad-shouldered. He moved with a grace that reminded her of a big cat—and of a fantasy who had proved to be only too real.
But this was no Englishman: this man wore robes—yet another variation of the Ottoman court dress she saw all around her. His tall frame was clad in a silver-grey brocade robe, trimmed with black fur and worn over full black trousers; he was bareheaded and his black hair fell loose to his shoulders. It was not—of course it was not—the man from the ship.
He was stooping respectfully next to the Sultan, answering some question. Perhaps he was the official who had been dealing with her application? With a low bow he withdrew back into the shadows, and Caroline forced her attention back to the Sultan.
‘What man protects you?’ the interpreter asked, making her jump. He must have assumed she failed to understand him. ‘You have no husband; who then has you in his protection?’
‘No one!’ Idiot, he does not mean a lover. He means a bodyguard. ‘I mean, I shall hire such guides and escort as I require when I travel, Your Majesty.’
‘What garment is it that you wear now?’
‘It is described as a half-dress gown, Majesty. I thought it proper to dress as I would for an audience with my own sovereign.’
‘You do not then dress in men’s clothes, as your countrywoman does?’
‘Lady Hester, Your Majesty? No. I do not.’ Was that a bad thing, or good? Was she appearing dangerously inexperienced, or reassuringly respectable?
‘His Majesty graciously grants you your firman. May you travel safely, if the Prophet wills it.’
Yes! I have my firman—now all I need to do is to get out of here. ‘Your Majesty is most gracious.’ Caroline curtseyed, backed away, curtseyed again and finally found herself outside the door, Ismael mopping his brow at her side.
‘Oh, my goodness, what a relief that is over.’ Her hands were trembling, she realised. ‘Do