“Murad!” The assembled called in return. And then, as if with one mind, they all filed silently out of the room leaving the dying man with his wives and sons. The quiet was frightening. To calm her nerves, Theadora, lashes lowered, glanced about her. Poor Anastatia stood staring vacantly. Nilufer, Christian-born, prayed quietly for the man she had loved. Halil shuffled his feet with nervous boredom.
Her glance moved on to Murad, and she swayed with shock to find that he was staring straight at her. Color flooded her face, her heart pounded noisily in her ears, yet she could not tear her eyes away from his face with its faintly mocking smile.
The sudden movement of the sultan broke the electricity between them. Orkhan sat straight up in his bed and said “Azrael, I come!” and fell back, the life gone from his dark eyes.
Murad reached over and gently closed his father’s eyes. Nilufer, putting an arm about Anastatia, led her from the death chamber.
Young Halil knelt before his brother, placing his small hands in Murad’s large ones and saying, “I, Halil Beg, son of Orkhan and Theadora, am your liegeman, Sultan Murad. I pledge you my total fealty.”
The new sultan raised his sibling up and, placing the kiss of peace upon the boy’s forehead, sent him from the room. Then he turned to Theadora and she trembled beneath his burning gaze. “You have a month to mourn your husband, madame. At the end of that time you will join my harem.”
She was astounded by his boldness. His father lay just dead, and the son lusted after her already. “I am a freeborn woman! I am a princess of Byzantium! You cannot compel me to be your wife, and I most certainly will not be!”
“I do not need your consent as you well know. And I have not asked you to be my wife. I have only said you will join my harem. The emperor would not dare oppose me in this. You know that, too.”
“I am not some slavegirl to be fawningly grateful for your favor,” she spat.
“No. You are not. A slavegirl has had a value put on her. So far, you have not proved your worth to me.”
For a moment she was speechless with shock. He had loved her once. She was sure of it. Yet now he seemed to want only to hurt her. His brutal barbs were aimed at her heart and her pride.
Sadly she realized that, against all sense, he held her responsible for what had been between her and Orkhan! He wanted her to be a soft and compliant female-yet he had expected her to defy his father! Did he truly not understand that she had been given no choice?
She did not intend to be torn apart. She intended to marry again and to marry a man who would love her and give her more children. Theadora would not spend the rest of her life fighting Murad’s ghosts. She fixed her amethyst eyes on him and said quietly, with great dignity, “Once you called me a Byzantine whore, but I am not-as you well know. You would treat me as one, but I will not let you, Sultan Murad. You insult me by telling me I must join your harem. I will not join it, even as your wife. You direct your anger at me over something I could not prevent, frail woman that I am.” She added this maliciously. “You will be happier if you put me from your thoughts and populate your harem with only untouched virgins.”
“Do you think I can ever forget you, you violet-eyed witch!” he hissed, stepping forward and grasping her tightly. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
She winced, almost crying out, but-refusing to give him that satisfaction. “I have lain naked in your father’s arms,” she taunted him cruelly. “He has known my body completely, in a variety of ways, as no other man ever has! It was his right as my husband!”
Suddenly he reached out and quickly wrapped a thick strand of her dark hair about his hand. Imprisoning her thus, he kissed her savagely, his mouth pressing brutally on her soft lips until he bruised them. Furiously, she brought her hands up from her sides and raked his face with her nails. Too late, she realized her mistake. The rage in his eyes was terrible to behold. She turned to flee him, but the hand holding her hair yanked her back. Their eyes locked in a wordless battle. He seemed nearly mad with his rage. He forced her back across the room until she felt the divan against the backs of her legs. With a horrified gasp she realized his intent. “My God, Murad! Not here! For pity’s sake, no!”
“He took you from me in his lifetime! Now let him know that I take you in his deathchamber, while his body is not even cold,” came the hoarse reply.
She fought him as one possessed, but her struggles were useless. She felt her robes pushed up about her waist-and then a brutal thrust into her dry, unready body that sent a shaft of pain racing through her. “No! No! No!” she sobbed over and over again, but he did not hear. Then she felt a familiar tension building within her and, with horror, renewed her struggles against him.
She could not be! Not under such a violent assault! But helpless against her own body, she yielded finally to the ecstasy sweeping over her and cried out at the moment of their mutual release. Releasing her, a cruel smile of satisfaction on his face, he pulled her up, led her to the door, and pushing her through it, said, “One month, Adora.”
The door to Orkhan’s deathchamber closed behind her, leaving her alone and trembling in the cold corridor. Slowly, dry-eyed, she stumbled back to her own apartment and sank wearily into a chair before the dying fire.
She had one month. One month in which to escape him. She didn’t know how she was going to do it, but she would find a way. She would have to leave her son behind. But this thought did not disturb her. Halil spent most of his time now at his own court in Nicea, and he was safe from harm because Murad loved him.
She must get back to Constantinople. John Paleaologi would grant her asylum even though Helena would rage. Though her brother-in-law was vassal to the Ottoman ruler, he would protect her.
Murad would do nothing about that, at least not openly. His Turkish pride would not allow him to go to war over a woman, and if he pressed the matter too hard, it could become public knowledge. Sultan Murad would be a laughing stock for pursuing his father’s reluctant widow when he might have any other woman.
The idea of outwitting him was irresistible, and she chuckled low in her throat. He would not expect it of her, of course. He had always underestimated her intelligence. She knew very well that he expected her, now properly cowed, to wait helplessly until he sent for her to come to his bed. For a moment, she sobered. Even now, after tonight, she loved him. She had always loved him. Widowed, she was finally free to be with him, to belong to him, to give him children. Why should she run from him? She loved him!
She sighed deeply. He was arrogant, stubborn…and he could not forgive her for not being a virgin. So she could not remain with him, for he would only hurt her. She would resent every budding houri who glanced at Murad. No, far better for her to return to Constantinople.
She went back to her bed and slept, awakening with a plan of action so simple that she wondered why she had not thought of it immediately. On the following day, after Orkhan had been borne to his tomb to the accompaniment of the mourners, his youngest widow visited the Convent of St. Catherine to pray for him.
Her litter moved easily through the streets of Bursa-quite unnoticed and free of guards. Each day that followed she spent part of her time at the convent church. Twice she sent the litter back to the palace, walking home alone, heavily veiled like other respectable women of the town. She let herself in through a little-used garden gate.
She had been correct in believing that the sultan assumed she would accept his decree. And he was far too busy now taking charge of his government to be bothered with her.
Theadora sent Iris off to Nicea to check on little Princess Alexis’ welfare. She was now safe from busybodies, and knew that she could be gone at least overnight before anyone thought to look for her.