Bertrice Small - Adora

“He would scarcely name an infant his heir over Suleiman or me, both grown men. Not at his age,” snapped Murad. “I hope, Mother, that you will have no part in a campaign of unkindness against this poor child. She will need friends here.” He angrily left the room.

Allah! She was here! Within this very palace, and he could do nothing. Whatever his mother and Anastatia said about Theadora’s ambition, he knew it was untrue. He knew her. They did not. How frightened she must be, poor child, and shortly she would be delivered up to that oversexed old man. He felt the nausea gripping his guts again. He had to get away from the palace. He could not remain here this night, knowing that her innocence was being violated on the altar of greed.

Suddenly, a heavily-veiled older woman glided out from the shadows. “The princess wants you to know that though this situation is not of her making, she will do her duty as she has been taught,” said the woman. And then she was gone.

He almost cried aloud at the swiftly retreating figure. Then Prince Murad made determinedly for the stables and called for his horse. He mounted, rode through the palace gates and headed the animal into the autumn mountains.

Theadora had never been so clean in her entire life. She had thought they would scrub her skin away. Except for her eyebrows, lashes, and long tresses, she was completely denuded of hair. Her fingernails and toenails had been pared to the quick. Allah forbid she offend her lord and master by scratching-even inadvertently-his royal person! Her long, straight, mahogany-colored hair shone with its lovely gold lights. Her skin glowed with good health. The soles of her feet and the palms of her hands were tinted pink with henna.

But the amethyst eyes were worried, frightened. She did not understand all this haste, and when she tried to question Ali Yahya, he looked troubled, then brushed her question aside. “Princess, you have been married several years. Now that you have reached physical maturity the sultan wishes you to grace his bed. There is nothing odd in that.”

She was, he could tell, not satisfied by the answer. He felt more uncomfortable than ever, for he suddenly realized that she was innocent of deceit. She simply did not wish to bed with the sultan. He was sure that, had her father not insisted on this, the girl would have remained quietly at St. Catherine’s. The realization made what he must do even harder for Ali Yahya.

Precisely four hours after sunset Ali Yahya, accompanied by the lady Anastatia and the lady Nilufer, arrived at Theadora’s apartments to escort her to her destiny. The two older women, each dressed magnificently in silk garments heavy with gold embroidery and jeweled work, were a somewhat startling contrast to the young girl in her plain white silk robe.

Though tradition and good manners dictated that they speak politely to her, wishing her joy, neither said anything. Nilufer looked curiously at the girl. So, thought Iris, that is how it is to be! The mean old cats! The chief eunuch turned his head toward Iris and said quickly and softly, “Your mistress will be returned in an hour or two. Be ready! She will need you.” My God! What were they going to do to the child?

The litter moved with stately measure through the silent halls of the harem, finally coming to rest before two enormous bronze doors. Ali Yahya helped the trembling Theadora from the litter and escorted her through the doors-which slammed behind them with frightening finality.

It was a most luxurious room. Marble floors were covered lavishly with thick wool carpets. The walls were hung with exquisite silk tapestries. In each of three corners of the room was a tall, masterfully wrought gold censer burning with fragrant aloes. In the fourth corner was a large tiled stove burning applewood. Two silver and stained glass lamps hung from the dark beamed ceiling, casting soft light over a massive bed on a raised dais. The bed had rich, particolored silk hangings and carved posts. It was toward this bed that Theadora was led by Ali Yahya. From apparently nowhere, slavegirls appeared and removed her one garment.

“Please lie upon the bed, princess,” said Ali Yahya. She obeyed. To her shock he leaned over her and bound one of her arms to the bedpost with a soft silken cord. Her other arm was tied by a slavegirl and her long legs were pulled apart and secured in the same manner.

A wave of panic gripped her and she cried out. The eunuch clapped his hand over her mouth. “Be silent, Highness! No one will hurt you. If I remove my hand, do you promise not to scream?” She nodded and he lifted his hand from her face.

“Why am I being bound?” she asked in a shaking voice.

“Because the sultan has ordered it, my lady. When you were wed the marriage contract called for the consummation of the marriage when you reached maturity. The sultan, quite frankly, would have left you at your convent. But your father insists that the marriage contract be fulfilled.”

“My father?” she cried unbelievingly. “My father insisted? Oh, God! How could he?”

“He needs the sultan’s aid again, Highness. Your sister and her husband are proving troublesome. The remaining third of your dowry, which includes a gold payment and the strategic fortress of Tzympe-which my master desires greatly-will remain outstanding until you are with child.”

For a moment she was silent. Then she exclaimed bitterly, almost to herself, “For this I so carefully preserved my maidenhead! To be forcibly delivered up to an old man for a troop of soldiers, a handful of gold, and a fort!” She sighed, then turned her eyes to the eunuch again. “Why has my lord ordered me bound to the bed?”

“Because you are inexperienced in the ways of love. Lacking knowledge, you are apt to struggle and displease the sultan. There is a need for haste, and no time to teach you the things you must know. You were brought to the palace today because this is the first fertile day in your moon cycle. For the next four nights you will bed with the sultan. It is hoped that you will be proved with child within the next month. If not, you will be bred again until my master’s labor bears fruit.”

She was stunned by this terrible revelation. Perhaps if she had not known the sweetness of lovemaking with Prince Murad it would not hurt so much. How the sultan must hate her! And she silently cursed the father who had sacrificed her in this cruel manner.

And in that one moment of blinding understanding, Theadora Cantacuzene grew up.

Ali Yahya spoke again. He was obviously in sympathy with her. “You must be prepared for your master, my princess. Do not be afraid of what will transpire.” And at her puzzled look he went on. “Your body is not yet ready to receive a man.”

He clapped his hands and two pretty women appeared, each carrying a white ostrich plume. They settled themselves quietly on stools by either side of the bed and, at a nod from the chief eunuch, began to touch her breasts with the soft plumes.

Theadora regarded them with a frankness that soon turned to amazement as the gentle caresses began to rouse her body. Her young breasts began to swell and harden, the nipples grew pointed and tingling. She gasped softly, surprised at herself. The eunuch watched her for several minutes from beneath hooded lids, noting her every movement.

He clapped his hands once more and two young girls, children really, approached with a woman. Without a word the two girls positioned themselves on each side of her, bent over, and gently pulled her nether lips apart. The woman leaned forward and, drawing a long pointed feather from her sleeve, delicately applied it to the most sensitive spot. Theodora stiffened with shock at this frightening invasion but, when she opened her mouth to protest, it was quickly stuffed with a silk handkerchief.

The agony was exquisite, but Theadora was outraged. She was being treated like a mare led to stud.

She silently screamed as wave after wave of delicious feeling, similar to that which Murad’s supple fingers had worked on her, washed over her. Christos! Why would her hips not lie still!

There was another movement in the shadows, and a tall man in a brocade robe appeared by the bedside. Her eyes were glazed with fear and reluctant sexual stimulation, but she recognized Sultan Orkhan. The hair she had remembered as dark was now mostly gray, but the eyes-dear lord-were black like Murad’s. The sultan looked down on her dispassionately and remarked to Ali Yahya, “She is really quite lovely. What a pity there is no time to train her properly.” He spoke as if she were not even there. “Is she still intact, Ali Yahya?”

“I did not think to check, Most High. She has, after all, been safe within her convent.”

“Be sure! Girls are known to play lewd games.”

The eunuch nodded curtly to the woman with the feather who ceased her ministrations. Bending, Ali Yahya gently inserted a finger into the helpless girl. She strained wildly against her bonds. Withdrawing from her, the eunuch straightened and said to his master, “She is intact, my lord sultan.”

“I don’t want to bother with the business of breaching her maidenhead. Mara will be waiting for me when this business is over with. See to it that she is deflowered. I will be ready shortly for the mounting.”

Theadora could not believe her ears. If Orkhan did not deflower her, how was it to be done? But she had little time to wonder. The chief eunuch gave swift orders and, moments later, he bent over her holding a long, thick, smooth, highly polished piece of wood shaped like a phallus. “The pain will be but momentary, Your Highness,” he said apologetically and then, in a lower voice which only she could hear, “Forgive me, princess.”