no sound on the marble floors. ‘Your honoured father, the great Caliph Bakhar, requests your presence in his apartments.’
Suleiman’s eyes were very hawkish as he let them sweep over the fleshy face of the eunuch. It was necessary to have such creatures to guard the women of the harem, but he did not like or trust them. They were sly, calculating creatures—especially this one.
‘Very well,’ he said curtly. ‘I shall attend the Caliph.’
For a moment Suleiman thought he saw a flash of resentment in the eunuch’s eyes. Abu was the child of one of his father’s older concubines, and perhaps resented the fact that Suleiman and he shared the same blood but were treated in very different ways. Abu’s mother had been a Nubian slave and of very little value, while Suleiman’s mother had been the daughter of an English nobleman and the Caliph’s favourite wife.
Taken from a shipwreck more dead than alive, Margaret Westbury had been presented as a gift to Caliph Bakhar. He had found her fascinating and taken her as his wife, but after she had given him a son he had offered to return her to her homeland. Margaret had preferred to stay on as his chief wife, and though she had been allowed little say in her son’s upbringing, she had been allowed to see him twice a week in the gardens.
Yet another soft-footed eunuch with doe-like eyes conducted Suleiman into his father’s presence. He fell on his knees before the Caliph as was the custom, but was immediately told to rise.
‘The Caliph wished to see his unworthy son?’
‘Suleiman is a most worthy son,’ Caliph Bakhar replied after the ritual salute. ‘I have a problem, Suleiman. The Sultan has made it clear that he is displeased over certain disorders in the city—there was a riot in the streets and the mob passed close to the palace walls.’
‘The disturbance was swiftly quelled by the Janissaries.’
‘But it should not have been allowed to happen so near the palace,’ his father said. ‘I have displeased our master, therefore, I must find gifts to regain favour in his eyes.’
‘What does my father have in mind?’
‘Something of rare beauty—an important piece of Venetian glass, perhaps?’
‘Or a beautiful woman?’
‘She would have to be an exceptional woman. The Sultan has many Kadins.’
The Kadins or Sultanas were women who had pleased their royal master and were given their own luxurious apartments—much as Fatima was favoured in Suleiman Bakhar’s much smaller harem.
‘Of course.’ Suleiman frowned. ‘Does my father wish me to visit the slave markets of Istanbul—or travel to Algiers?’
‘You are not to leave our shores,’ the Caliph said with a frown. ‘We have too many enemies. Send word that we are looking for something special. She must be lovely beyond price and untouched.’
‘It would be rare to find such a jewel,’ Suleiman replied. ‘Perhaps I should look for some other treasure that would please the Sultan?’
‘It would be wise,’ the Caliph said, nodding. ‘And now, my son—will you hunt with your father? I have a new hawk I would match against your champion.’
‘None can match Scheherazade—she flys higher, swifter and her bravery puts all others to shame.’ His pupils were lit from within by a silver flame as he spoke of his favourite hawk.
‘She is truly a bird to prize above all others. Find a woman as beautiful, clever and brave as your hawk, Suleiman, and the Sultan will forgive me a hundred riots.’
‘If such a woman exists, she would be a prize above all others,’ Suleiman replied. ‘I do not think we shall find this woman, my father—though we search all the markets in the Ottoman Empire!’
Eleanor stood at the top of the cliff gazing out towards the sea. The view was magnificent—sparkling blue water, gently wooded slopes and a dazzling variety of oleander and wisteria. The wisteria had spread from the gardens of the villa behind her, she thought, and inhaled its wonderful perfume.
Such a glorious day and yet her thoughts at that moment were of the house they had left behind five months earlier. It would be autumn in England now, the mists just beginning to curl in from the sea, swirling into the Manor gardens. The Manor was the home she had shared with her father and brother for the first eighteen years of her life, and she doubted she would ever see it again.
‘Why so sad, Madonna? Does the view not please you?’
Eleanor turned to look at the man who had spoken, her deep azure eyes seeming to reflect the blue of the Mediterranean sky. Beneath the severe French hood she wore, her hair was long and thick, the colour of ripe corn in sunlight. She kept it well hidden, even though she had thought herself safe from being observed here, but wisps had escaped to tangle betrayingly about her face. She could do nothing to disguise the loveliness of her classic features, though she chose dark colours that did nothing to enhance her beauty.
‘I was thinking of my home,’ she replied, unable to hide a wistful note in her voice. ‘It will be misty now and the fires will be lit in the library.’
‘You cannot prefer the cold damp climate of your country to Italy?’ His eyebrows arched in disbelief. ‘But perhaps there was a lover…a young man who holds your heart in his hand?’
For a moment Eleanor was tempted to invent a handsome fiancé, but she was an honest girl and did not wish to lie.
‘No, sir. I was thinking of my books. We were unable to bring many with us. As my father has told you, we were forced to leave in a hurry.’
Count Giovani Salvadore nodded, his expression sympathetic. He was a man of moderate height, not fat but well built with rather loose features. His hair and small beard were dark brown, his eyes grey and serious. Eleanor supposed he would be considered attractive, and his wealth made him an important man in the banking circles of Italy.
‘It was an unpleasant experience for you,’ the Count replied. ‘Fortunately, your father had already placed much of his fortune with the House of Salvadore for safe keeping.’
‘Yes, that was very fortunate,’ Eleanor agreed, hiding her smile behind her fan. He was so pompous, so sure of himself! Yet she should not be ungrateful. He had generously made his villa available to her family until they should find somewhere they wished to settle. Sir William Nash had spoken of this part of Italy as being pleasant but Eleanor knew that he meant to travel on to Cyprus very soon. He had friends there: an English merchant who had settled on the island some years earlier and had offered both a home and an opportunity for Sir William to join him in business.
‘Shall we go in?’ The Count offered Eleanor his arm. ‘Your skin may suffer in this heat if you stand in it too long.’
Eleanor had come out to be alone for a while. The Count’s mother and sister chattered like magpies all day long, and they did not speak much English. She had hoped to escape for a while, so that she could have a little time to herself—but he had pursued her.
As she had feared, the Count was too interested in her for comfort. At home in the west of England, she had been allowed to do much as she pleased, and it pleased her to keep her distance from any gentleman she had considered a threat to her peaceful existence.
Eleanor had no wish to marry. She had become the mistress of her father’s home when her mother died. She had been fourteen then, already a pretty girl but inclined to solitary walks and study. Lady Nash had spoken often of her lovely daughter’s future marriage, but after her death it had been forgotten. Eleanor liked it that way.
To be a wife meant servitude. As a much-loved and indulged daughter, Eleanor had a freedom she might lose if she married. Sir William was an enlightened man. He had taught his daughter to enjoy study for its own sake, and her intelligence delighted him. She spoke French fluently, a little Italian, and could read some Arabic and Latin, of course. Her main interest was ancient history, which she