Bertrice Small - Adora

“If you were not so fat with my son, impudent slave, I should beat you,” he growled. But his eyes were merry and his hand on her rounded belly was gentle. Then his voice roughened, and he said, “You are misshapen with the child. Your nose is too long, your mouth too small. Your hair is lank. And yet, you are the most beautiful, exciting woman I have ever seen! What sorcery is this that you practice on me, Theadora of Byzantium?”

Her violet eyes glittered, and he was not sure she wasn’t holding back tears. This touched him, for she was such a proud little creature. “I practice no sorcery, my lord,” she said softly, “unless there is something magical in my love for you.”

“Little witch,” he said low, catching her hand and kissing the palm.

Her marvelous violet eyes caught his, and for the briefest, eeriest second he believed she could read his thoughts. But then she took his hand and placed it on her belly. “The child moves, my love. Can you feel him?”

Beneath his fingers he felt first what seemed a gentle fluttering, but then suddenly the center of his palm was kicked hard. He started, staring down at his hand in wonder, almost as if he expected to see a footprint. She laughed happily.

“He is surely your headstrong son,” she said.

He tenderly drew her into his arms and stroked her swollen breasts.

“Don’t!”

He looked sharply at her, and she blushingly confessed, “It makes me hunger for you, my lord, and you know that it is now forbidden me.”

“I hunger for you too, Adora,” he answered gravely. “Be patient, my dove, and soon we will share a bed again.” And he held her close until, safe in the warmth of his arms, she fell asleep. Only then did he lower her carefully to the pillows. Rising, he pulled the coverlet over her.

He stood for a moment gazing down at her. Then he walked slowly from the room and sought the spyhole that looked down into the common room of the harem. It was early, and his maidens were still up and chattering. They were, he mused, a nice collection. He must remember to compliment Ali Yahya’s good taste. His eye fell on two girls in particular. One was a lovely, fair-skinned, little blonde from northern Greece with large sky blue eyes. Her pretty, round breasts had saucy pink nipples. The other was a tall, dark-skinned beauty from beyond the Sahara Desert.

Watching his women secretly amused him, and he wondered what they would say if they knew he observed them. Nothing, he answered himself. They would say absolutely nothing. They would giggle, pose, and preen, but they would say nothing for there was not half an intelligent thought among them. Their main aim in life was to attract his attention first, and then please him. Why that did not delight him he did not understand.

A beautiful, complacent female offered no challenge. Adora had certainly spoiled him for other women! He had, he chuckled to himself, grown quite used to being fought with-verbally, mentally, and physically-even up to the very moment of surrender. And he found it far more exciting than mere sexual skill. The maidens of his harem cared if they pleased him, fearing not to. Adora loved him, but she feared him not a whit.

He felt a familiar stirring, and acknowledged his need for a woman. No, by Allah! No simple woman but Adora satisfied him anymore. He would send for two maidens, the black maiden and the golden Greek girl. Perhaps together they could quench the fire in his aching loins.

He signaled a slave and commanded him to fetch Ali Yahya. The chief eunuch arrived quickly, and the sultan instructed him. Face impassive, the eunuch bowed low from the waist.

“It shall be as you wish, my lord,” he said. All the while he chuckled inwardly, knowing his plan to gain power was working. Murad was unhappy because the princess was denied him, and he sought to sate himself with two women. Ali Yahya entered the harem knowing full well that, above him, the sultan observed him through the spyhole.

Murad watched carefully, observing the reactions of the two women he had chosen. Their reactions would give him an indication of their characters. The blonde, as he had guessed, was shy. She blushed a pretty pink, her hands flying up to her cheeks, her small mouth making a little “O” of surprised delight, and her blue eyes widening with just a touch of fear.

The dark girl, on the other hand, looked haughtily up at Ali Yahya and smiled seductively. Flicking a scornful glance at the Greek, she said something that caused the other to flush beet red. The chief eunuch tapped the dark one lightly on the cheek in an admonishing gesture, but the black girl simply laughed.

The sultan’s lips drew back in a wolfish smile. A soft kitten and a fierce tigress, he mused to himself. Perhaps the evening would not prove disappointing after all.

The two maidens were brought to him, and the eunuch disrobed them so he might gaze upon them. Side by side they were magnificent-ebony and ivory together.

He looked to the dark girl. “Pleasure me, Leila.” Lying back among the cushions of the bed he allowed her to open his robe and fondle him. The dark girl bent her head and took him in her mouth, her tongue tracing sensual patterns until his root began to swell and fill her mouth.

“Aisha!” The little blond started. “Come!” And the Greek girl lay near him. He spoke again. Leaning over him, she placed a full breast in his open mouth. Sucking on the soft flesh, conscious of the pleasure the dark girl was giving him, he willfully pushed all thought of Theadora from his troubled mind. It was her duty and her privilege to bear his child. It was his right to sate his desires with other women. It was the way of their world, had been since the beginning of that world, and would be until the end of time.

The Court of the Beloved was finished, and Theadora’s bedroom was the most talked about room in the entire harem. Every woman envied the princess her quarters, her pregnancy, and the sultan’s love.

The bedchamber was paneled halfway up the wall in squares of dark wood. Above the paneling the wall was painted a deep yellow-gold color, and topped with a plaster molding of flowers painted in scarlet, blue and gold. The floors were highly-polished wide boards of dark-stained oak. The ceilings were beamed, the beams painted to match the moldings.

Centered on one wall was a large yellow-and-blue-tiled fireplace topped with an enormous conical copper hood covered in sheets of beaten gold. The tiled fireplace apron was raised and extended several feet out into the room. The walls on either side of the hearth were hung with beautiful silk hangings, one of which depicted the flowers of spring and early summer, the other the flowers of late summer and autumn.

The wall facing the fireplace contained a raised, carpeted platform holding a large bed. The bed had carved and gilded posts and was hung with coral silk hangings, all embroidered with flowers, leaves, and vines. The embroidery was done in gold thread, seed pearls, and jade. There was a matching coverlet.

To the right of the head of the bed the wall was windowed with long, tall, mullioned casement windows. The glass had been blown by six Venetian glassblowers unfortunate enough to have been in a section of Adrianople that resisted the Turks. The sultan had promised them full pardon and coveted Turkish citizenship as well if they blew the window glass and decorative glass for his palace. Until then, they remained in bondage to him. The windows in Adora’s bedroom had a very faint golden hue. They looked out onto her private garden. The draperies were the same coral silk as the bed-hangings.

The thick, luxurious rugs had gold, blue, and white medallion designs. The wardrobes that were cleverly incorporated into the walls of the room were lined with cedar and held sliding trays for her clothes.

There were large round tables of beaten brass on ebony stands; a thronelike chair with carved arms, legs, and back, and a gold brocade cushion; small ebony side tables inlaid in mother-of-pearl; and stools of velvet and of brocade. Hanging lamps swung from silver chains, casting amber, ruby, and sapphire shadows and scenting the room with perfumed oil. Pure white beeswax candles burned in gold candlesticks. It was a room of beauty and serenity-perfect for lovers.

Now, however, the time had come for Theadora Cantacuzene to give birth to Sultan Murad’s child, and before the walls of the bedchamber would hear the soft voices of lovers it would hear the agony of the childbearing woman who was restlessly pacing the floor.

“Lie down and rest, my princess,” fussed Iris. “You behave as if this were your first child.”

“Halil was important only to me, Iris. He had older brothers. This baby is very important to the entire empire. He will be the next sultan.”

“If you bear a son, my princess.”

Theadora shot her a venomous look. “It is a son I birth, old witch,” she said, gritting her teeth at the contraction that tore through her. “Fetch the midwife now!” As Iris hurried off, Theadora lay down on the bed and rubbed her belly with her fingers, using quick little circular motions. This, the midwife had told her, would ease the pain.

The midwife was a Moor, and Moors knew more about medicine than anyone else did. Theadora had personally chosen Fatima for her skill, her excellent reputation-she had never been known to lose a mother-and because she was clean. Fatima now entered the room and made her way to the bed.

“Well, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “How goes it?” And washing her hands quickly in a basin held by a slave, she pushed Theadora’s caftan above her raised knees and examined her patient. “Hmm. Yes. Yes. You’re doing very nicely. Anyone can see you’re meant to be a breeder. We have almost full dilation.”