Lost Love Found (39 page)

“You have rested well, I can see,” the Great Khan’s mother said to Valentina. “You are, indeed, a strong girl, for you did not catch an ague as I feared you might. Your clothing was absolutely soaking. Your disguise will be restored to you when you are ready to return to Kaffa. In the meantime, I assume you will not object to wearing the clothing of my people.”

“Your people? But you are French, madam,” Valentina said.

Borte Khatun looked surprised. “And how, my child, did you know that? It has been so long that I have almost forgotten that once I was a Frenchwoman. It has been sixty years since I saw France. I have lived all that time as a Tatar.”

“My mother told me you were French, madam.”

“Indeed, child.” Borte Khatun lifted a delicate eyebrow. “And how did your English mother, whom I do not know, know of my heritage? Who am I that a stranger should know of me?”

“It is a lengthy tale, madam, but I will try and be as brief as possible … if I may have your permission to speak,” Valentina said.

“Say on, my child! I love a good tale, and you have whetted my appetite with your arrival and your air of mystery,” Borte Khatun replied, her blue eyes twinkling.

“Long ago,” began Valentina, “my mother, an Englishwoman, was kidnapped from her homeland and brought to Algiers. There the Dey of Algiers claimed her as his portion of the booty brought in by the Barbary pirates who had stolen her. The Dey sent my mother to Sultan Murad as part of his yearly tribute. On the very same day that my mother arrived at the seraglio, she was chosen by the Sultan Valide Nur-U-Banu to be the sultan’s gift to the newly arrived ambassador from the khanate of the Crimea, Prince Javid Khan.”

Borte Khatun gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Suddenly, for just a moment, she looked every day of her seventy-five years. As quickly as she had reacted, the Great Khan’s mother recovered. Taking a deep breath, she ordered Valentina to continue. The color slowly returned to her face and she sat perfectly still, her blue eyes intent on her visitor’s face.

“My mother was, of course, terrified of what had happened to her. She longed for England. She longed for her husband. The sultan’s mother and his favorite wife managed to convince her that she would never again see either her homeland or her husband, that she must accept her fate. They urged her to begin life anew with the prince to whom she was being given. They gave her a new name, Marjallah.

“Prince Javid Khan accepted the sultan’s gift graciously, but although he was kind to my mother, he seemed distant. My mother soon learned that the prince had only recently suffered the great and tragic loss of his wives and children through the insanity of his jealous twin brother, a man as different from Javid Khan as day is from night. The fact that Javid Khan, too, had known terrible bereavement encouraged my mother to reach out to him. They fell in love, and the prince made my mother his new wife, formally freeing her from her slavery when they wed.”

Valentina paused a moment to catch her breath. She wanted to blurt out her question, but knew it was necessary to tell the whole story first. She was surprised to see that Borte Khatun’s eyes were filled with tears. “Are you all right, madam? Would you prefer that I stop for a while?” she asked the older woman.

“No, child, I must learn all of this now” was the answer.

Valentina took a sip of tea, then began again. “My mother’s great passion that autumn was the creation of a bulb garden at her little palace that was called the Jewel Serai. There were a great many Portuguese slaves that year due to their great defeat by the Turks at Alcazarquivir, and Mother had a great contingent of them as gardeners. She worked very hard herself on the gardens, for we English are a people of the soil. When spring came and the gardens burst into bloom, my mother decided to invite the donor of the bulbs to view all of that splendor. With her husband’s permission, she arose very early one morning and went into the city by means of her caique to fetch a guest. It was almost dawn when they returned, and drawing near to the Prince’s palace they saw that it was in flames.

“My mother ordered her slaves to the shore, but her elderly guest wisely counseled their return to the city, to seek help. There was nothing, she told Mother, that two women could do to help.

“Upon hearing my mother’s story, the sultan sent a troup of his janissaries to the prince’s palace. His mother and his favorite wife cared for my mother who was in deep shock. My mother was later told that Prince Javid Khan had been killed. The janissaries who chased after the raiders were said to have slain them all, but now I know that not to be true, for Temur Khan lives.

“My mother mourned Javid Khan greatly, but as she was widowed, she decided to return to England, to her first husband, and hope that he would accept her back. She was, after all, a free woman. The sultan, however, lusted after my mother and played a duplicitous game with her. He insisted that she was not a free woman, but still a slave. Since she had originally been his slave, he would claim her for himself. Mother argued violently, but Sultan Murad mocked her, demanding to see her papers of manumission, which she could not, of course, produce, for they had been burned in the fire at the Jewel Serai.

“Nur-U-Banu and Safiye Kadin both pleaded the sultan’s cause to my mother, but she resisted them. There was no choice however, and mother was brought to the sultan the Friday following the prince’s death. Murad forced himself upon her, raping her, using her in vile ways, driving her to the brink of madness. She quickly came to realize that her only escape from the sultan would be death, but she knew that Murad would not willingly release her, even to death if the choice was his. She attempted to kill him, and when she failed there was no other choice open to Murad but to execute her.”

Valentina then went on to explain how her mother was rescued by her husband, and had been saved from drowning. “And that” Valentina finally finished “is how my mother escaped from Turkey, my lady,”

Borte Khatun’s eyes were shining with delight. “What an absolutely wonderful tale, my child! It is as exciting as the stories of Haroun al Rashid’s beloved Scheherazade, but I still do not understand why you have come seeking me.”

“I have come, madam, because there is a chance that I … I may be the daughter of your late son, Javid Khan.” Borte Khatun gasped, and Valentina said, “Several months ago, I sat by the bedside of my mother’s aged servant, keeping the death watch. Through her ramblings, I learned that there was doubt regarding my paternity.

“When I questioned my mother and father, I learned that my mother had lain with Javid Khan, Sultan Murad, and her English husband within a short time. Although my parents admitted that old Mag’s ravings had substance, both declared that they believe me to be the child of my mother’s husband.

“The damage has been done, however. I could not wipe the old woman’s words from my memory. My mother is a sweet woman, but she does not have the beauty that I possess. Her husband is an extraordinarily handsome man, yet I do not look like him. I do not look like anyone in my family.

“Suddenly I could not be content until I had sought the truth of the matter. Everyone keeps telling me that only God can give me the answer to my question, and I know that is so. Still, I believe that, if I could see you, perhaps you would see your son in me, or see my resemblance to someone else in your family. If you do not, then I must seek out the Valide Safiye. Perhaps she will see something familiar in me, something that reminds her of Sultan Murad—although I hope not! You see, madam, I cannot rest until I know who my father really is,” Valentina concluded.

“My poor child,” Borte Khatun said quietly. She shook her head despairingly. Then she reached out and touched Valentina’s cheek gently. “I wish I could give you the assurances you seek, but I must tell you honestly that I see nothing of my son in you. Still, that does not mean Javid might not have fathered you. There is one way, one means only by which I can tell if you are my grandchild.

“Do you,” she asked, “have upon your body a small birthmark in the shape of a quarter moon? It can be anywhere on your body. If you do, then I may claim you as my kin. I bear that mark on my left shoulder. My mother and sisters all bore that mark. My daughters bear it, as do all my female descendants. Do you have that mark, Valentina?”

“I do not believe so, madam,” Valentina said slowly, “but then, I have never examined myself closely for such a mark.”

“Disrobe for me now then,” said Borte Khatun, “and I will inspect you for my family’s birthmark.”

For a moment Valentina hesitated, feeling shy, but then she drew off the quilted silk garment and laid it across the low table where they had breakfasted. Borte Khatun carefully perused the young woman, ordering her to turn slowly as she inspected Valentina’s creamy skin. There was no quarter-moon birthmark.

The elegant old woman sighed. “You are not my grandchild, my dear. I am sorry, for I should be proud to have such a granddaughter as you. Cloth yourself now, lest you catch another chill.”

Valentina pulled the robe on, saying, “You are certain, madam? You are positive that I am not your son’s child?” She lifted each of her feet in turn, looking to see if the mark might be on the soles of her feet, but they, too, were clear.

Borte Khatun shook her head reluctantly. “Nothing would please me more, child, but I cannot lie to you.”

“Then I must return to Istanbul and speak with the Valide Safiye,” Valentina said sadly. “Oh, how I pray I am not Murad’s daughter! To know that the blood of that monster flowed in my veins would be too dreadful to bear!” She shuddered.

“Yes,” the older woman said, “I can understand how you feel, child. I bore my husband five sons and four daughters. My daughters have been all a mother could wish for, but one of my sons is a monster beyond belief. You know of whom I speak, although his name has not passed my lips these past twenty-five years. When he so brutally destroyed Javid’s family and household, my husband would have retaliated in kind, but Javid would not let him. He pleaded that his brother’s wives, women, and children were innocents. When, however, my eldest son followed his twin brother and once again wrought destruction upon Javid, my husband could not be stopped. Because they were his kin, however, he was merciful. He poisoned our eldest son’s women and their offspring upon learning what had happened to Javid. He could not bear the thought of such bad blood continuing, tainting our family tree with its shame.”

“Yet surely,” said Valentina. “Temur Khan has not been celibate all these years. Certainly he has had other children.”

“No,” Borte Khatun replied. “His seed was never potent, strange to say, for the men of this family produce many male offspring, yet my eldest son had but one boy, a feeble child who would not have lived to manhood anyway, even if he had been allowed to do so. In the ensuing years, my eldest has taken many women to his bed, I am told, but he has never sired another child. Allah is indeed merciful!”

Valentina took Borte Khatun’s hand and kissed it. “You have been so kind to me, madam,” she said quietly. “I am sorry if I have revived sad memories.”

“Not at all, child,” the Great Khan’s mother reassured her. “I must face the fact of my eldest son’s evil, and I always have. Strangely, it is easier than denying it, and facing it has enabled me to live in peace with myself, for neither my husband nor I can be blamed. When Javid and his brother were born, the elder came squalling into this world, clutching tightly in his hand the umbilical cord of the other, which was wrapped about Javid’s neck. Had they not been born so quickly I might have lost Javid, who was always the better half of the pair.” The old woman forced a smile. “The day is very fair after such a nasty storm, child. Such fine days are rare here upon the steppes. It is usually either too hot or too cold. My servants will find you some fleece-lined boots and then you must go out and walk about the camp. Our people are very curious to see the girl who rode all the way from Kaffa dressed as one of the Ottoman governor’s soldiers. It is a feat worthy of a Tatar, and they are most admiring of you. Do not stray from the camp, however. The weather here can turn quickly, and you might easily get lost. My son and the hunting party will not return until tonight.”

Valentina thanked Borte Khatun again for her kindness before she prepared to leave the yurt.

“Be sure and stop at the yurt with the bright red door,” Borte Khatun told her as she pulled on the boots. “It belongs to my sister, Tulunbay, and she is anxious to meet you. We occasionally speak our native tongue, but Tulunbay says we have forgotten much over the years and she enjoys the opportunity to speak French with a European. I am sure you speak French.”

Valentina nodded that she did, asking, “Were you born in France, madam?”

“I was, indeed, born in France,” Borte Khatun replied. “My family and I were traveling in Hungary on our way to my wedding when we were attacked. Our parents were killed. Our brother escaped. My sister and I were taken as wives by the men who captured us. Tulunbay is my youngest sister. Our middle sister had planned to be a nun, and she killed herself several months after we were kidnapped, preferring death to what she believed was dishonor. It was, I feel, a foolish choice, but that is all in the distant past. Run along now, child, and enjoy yourself.”

With a smile and a wave, Valentina left the yurt.

Borte Khatun watched her go. Then she moved across the great structure toward a heavy curtain. Behind it was another yurt, cleverly hidden within the main structure. Lifting the heavy curtain, Borte Khatun pushed past the traditional felt doorway and stepped through. “Good morning, my son,” she said quietly to the man seated in a padded, thronelike chair.

The man’s stern features softened at the sight of her. “Good morning, Mother,” he replied.

“Did you hear and see everything?” she asked him.

“Everything,” he affirmed. “I would not have recognized her as Marjallah’s daughter, for my sweet jewel was hardly the beauty this girl is. Yet, when she disrobed! Ah, Mother, how the memories flooded back! Marjallah had the most perfect body I have ever seen on any woman, and her daughter’s body is the image of hers. I regret that she is not my daughter,” he said sighing, “for I should be proud to have such a daughter. As I listened to her speak, I could hear Marjallah’s voice. I thought the pain long done with, Mother, but it is not. I loved Marjallah as I have never loved any woman! Even my sweet Zoe and my wild Aisha. I have never forgotten her.” He had a faraway look in his eyes. “I shall speak with her daughter.”