Anne Herries - Captive of the Harem

“I hardly know you, my lord,” Eleanor said. “I am beginning to admire and respect you, but…I—I would be your friend if you…”

“You would be my friend?” Suleiman’s gaze narrowed and he appeared to be considering. “Why should I need a friend, Eleanor? Do you not think I have many about me who would call themselves my friends?”

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me for my presumption. It was only that we share an interest in ancient manuscripts. I enjoyed our talk when you asked me to help you read them and I would like to do something that would be of use to you. There are other women more skilled in the arts of love. I think I would provide poor sport for you.”

Suleiman nodded, a faint smile curving his mouth. “You argue convincingly, my lady. Yet I wonder…”

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lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Malaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty published novels.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

‘I shall miss you, my teacher. The days will seem long without the benefit of your words of wisdom, Kasim.’

‘I shall be sorry to leave you, Suleiman—the years we have had together have been truly a blessing for me, but the time has come for me to prepare to make my peace with God, my lord. I must go home to my own land to die…’

‘Yes, I know. I would not hold you. Go then…and may Allah guide your footsteps to Paradise.’

Suleiman Bakhar felt the sting of the unmanly tears that would shame him as the old man left and he knew that it was for the last time; they would never meet again in this life.

He moved away to gaze down at the gardens of his apartments in his father’s palace, his fierce, wild eyes lit by a silver flame in their depths. His expression for those who dared to look was at that moment much that of an untamed creature frustrated by the bars of its cage. The palace of Caliph Bakhar was a perfumed, luxuriously appointed cage—but nevertheless a prison to the man whose spirit wished to soar like the hawks he lavished with so much love and attention.

He was a strong, handsome man, though his features were at times harsh, his mouth capable of looking as cruel as the sharp beaks of his birds of prey. At other times his dark, mysterious eyes could be bright with laughter, and his mouth, slackened by desire, could look soft and deliciously sensuous—as was his voice when he chose to entertain the court with his singing. Now was not one of those times. He was bored, restless, and conscious of a growing anger inside himself that he did not understand. And he was losing the man who had been his teacher for many years, a man he revered and loved almost as a father. His life would be that much the poorer for the teacher’s going.

Yet he would not have held Kasim for he loved him as dearly as he loved his own father. He must seek elsewhere to fill the emptiness the teacher’s going would leave in his life.

Fluttering about the scented walks of the gardens below, the women of his harem twittered like brightly coloured birds in their scanty clothes as they paraded through sunlit walks. Here and there stone benches were placed in the shade, and the sound of tinkling water from fountains echoed the laughter of the women. They were all aware that Suleiman was watching them from his windows above. He was making his choice and one of them would be sent to his bed that night.

The favoured one would spend the afternoon being pampered by the other women. She would be washed in soft warm water in the baths of the harem, then perfumed lotions and creams would be massaged into her body and hair so that her skin would be smooth for the touch of her master, and finally she would be dressed in the finest silks…layer upon layer of diaphanous materials that he would either remove himself, or instruct her to remove as suited his whim.

It was an honour to be chosen by the Caliph’s favourite son, and also a pleasure. Suleiman was young and virile, his body honed to masculine perfection by hours of training in the courtyards with the Janissaries. His love-making was legendary amongst the ladies of the harem, and word had spread to the other harems, some of which had less well-favoured masters, and there were many sighs as envious eyes peered at him from behind pierced screens. It was forbidden for the ladies of one harem to mix with those of another, of course, but it happened—as other forbidden things happened in secret places: things that could bring a swift beating or worse if they were discovered by the eunuchs.

Sometimes, the ladies of the Caliph’s court were allowed to watch Suleiman at sport in the great courtyard of the palace. Suleiman delighted in trials of strength with the officers of the Janissaries, and it was very seldom that he lost his bouts.

‘He will choose me. I know he will choose me,’ Fatima said to Dinazade, who was her chief attendant. As Suleiman’s favourite, Fatima had her own rooms and slaves to wait on her. ‘He always chooses me.’ She gave a satisfied smile as the chief eunuch beckoned to her. ‘There, I told you so. Come with me, Dinazade. I must be beautiful to please my lord tonight.’

Suleiman moved back from the window as his chosen partner was led away. He had selected Fatima again because there was fire in her. Most of the concubines had been given to him as gifts, either by his father or merchants wishing to gain favour with the Caliph, and were too obedient to please him. He had dined too much on honey and wanted something with more spice.

His features were set like iron, his mouth thinned to a severe line. Sometimes he felt he would go mad if he were confined to this idle life for many more years. He could fight, ride out into the countryside beyond Constantinople with his hawks or spend the afternoon pouring over his manuscripts—but none of these pleasures held any real appeal for him that day. There was a hungry yearning in his soul—but for what? Suleiman did not know, unless it was simply to be free…to travel the world?

Such an idea was forbidden to him. His father had refused to let him enter the Janissaries in case he might be injured in a real battle—for his tussles with the elite guard could only ever be play-acting. No one would dare to inflict harm on the Caliph’s son for fear of the punishment that would certainly follow—not from Suleiman, but from his father.

‘Your place is here with me,’ the Caliph had told him when he had asked permission to leave and join the Sultan’s personal bodyguard. ‘Together we are strong. I am getting older, Suleiman. Soon you must prepare to take over from me.’