Theadora winced. “Try,” she said through clenched teeth, “not to crow too loudly to your half brother about your wife’s state. Your place in life is still partially dependent on my favor with Murad. It is difficult enough to cope with a silly girl of sixteen without you telling my lord that I am to be a grandmother! My God, Halil! I am not yet thirty. My little sons are but five and three-and-a-half. Thank heavens you are in Nicea and not here in Adrianople. At least I need not be reminded daily of your perfidy.” Then, seeing her son’s woebegone expression, she relented. “Oh, very well, Halil! When is the child due?”

“Not for seven months, Mother.”

“Good! By that time I shall have borne my lord another one. I shall tell him of your child while I nurse my own. It will not seem so bad then.”

Halil laughed again. “So you carry another lad, eh?”

“Yes! I birth only sons,” she said proudly.

It was not to be, however. This time Adora gave birth on an unusually cold and rainy summer’s dawn. It was a daughter. Worse, the child came feet first, and only the skill of Fatima the Moor saved both mother and baby. The birth was, as usual, witnessed by the women of the harem. When the sex of the child finally was announced Thamar smiled triumphantly and folded her hands complacently over her belly. Weak as she was, Adora felt the strong urge to rise from her bed and rake her fingernails down her face.

Afterward, they tucked her into her bed and brought her daughter to her, but she would not even look at the baby. “Get a wetnurse for it,” she commanded. “I give suck only to princes, not female brats!” The infant whimpered as if sensing the rejection. Theadora’s face softened. Slowly she lifted the blanket and gazed on the face of her new daughter. It was a smooth, heart-shaped face with two large and beautiful blue eyes fringed in thick lashes. The child had a headful of thick, shining dark-brown curls, a rosebud mouth, and high on her left cheekbone an unusual birthmark: a tiny dark crescent above which rode a little star mole.

Iris, Fatima, and the other slaves watched Adora expectantly.

“She may have given a bit of trouble in the birthing,” said the midwife quietly, “but she’s the loveliest babe I’ve seen in many a day, my lady. Your three boys will spoil her terribly.”

“And so will her proud father.” Murad had entered the room unobserved. He bent and kissed Adora. “Once again you have done the thing that pleases me the most. I wanted a daughter!”

“But I wanted to give you a son,” she said softly.

“You have already given me three, my dove. I wanted something of you, and now I have it. My daughter will be called Janfeda. Only the noblest Muslim prince will be good enough for her when I finally bestow her hand, many years from now.”

“You are not displeased then?”

“No, my dove, I am delighted.”

When he had left she wept with relief, and there was no wetnurse for Janfeda until after her mother’s time of purification, as it had been with Theadora’s sons.

Almost three months later Thamar bore a healthy son who was named Yakub. Called from the sultan’s bed to be a witness to the birth, Adora had her small revenge on her rival. Her body had regained its youthful form and she had a delicious, flushed, and tousled look about her. Her amethyst eyes were languorous, and her mouth softly bruised from Murad’s kisses. All this was quite obvious to the women of the harem.

Thamar was not having an easy time. She was small, and her baby was big. She had refused to have the midwife, Fatima the Moor, because she was Adora’s “minion”. She could not, Thamar claimed, feel safe under such circumstances. The insult was uncalled for and Murad was angered. But Adora shrugged and sighed.

“She may be endangering not only herself but the child also, my lord. But if you force Fatima upon her, the result of the fear might be worse. She is young and healthy. She should do well.” Theadora did not believe for one minute that Thamar was afraid of her. This was probably the start of a campaign on the Bulgarian’s part.

The result of Thamar’s attitude was that, in the end, Fatima had to be called to save both mother and child. The midwife pulled the baby from the exhausted girl’s body, but the delay cost Thamar further children. She was badly torn. Only Fatima’s skill prevented her reluctant patient from bleeding to death.

Following the birth, the Court of the Blue Dolphins became an armed camp with entry practically impossible. Thamar had taken some of her bridal allowance and bought herself two dozen fighting eunuchs who allowed only the sultan free access to the Bulgarian. Those serving Thamar had either come with her from Bulgaria or were newly purchased. They were allowed no contact with the rest of the inhabitants of the Island Serai. Food for the court was purchased daily by the old crone who had been Thamar’s nurse.

Three days after the birth Adora arrived at the Court of the Blue Dolphins laden with gifts for the new mother and her child. The gifts were taken from the sultan’s bas-kadin, but Adora was refused admittance to the court. Furious, she sought out Murad. “She is attempting to make it appear that I would harm her or her child,” said Adora. “It is a terrible insult to cast such suspicion on my good name!”

The sultan agreed. There had been peace in his house until Thamar had come. He now regretted having been overcome with lust. He did not intend to allow her to harm his beloved Adora by innuendo. Taking his favorite by the hand, he walked with her to the Court of the Blue Dolphins. The eunuchs quickly opened ranks to admit them.

They found Thamar settled comfortably on a couch in her garden, the child in his cradle by her side. Her look of joy at seeing Murad quickly disappeared when she saw Adora.

“How dare you refuse admittance to the woman who rules this harem?” he thundered.

“I am your kadin too,” quavered Thamar, “and this is my court.”

“No, you are not a kadin. I have not given you that honor. I am the master in this house, and I have made Adora the mistress here. She has been more than kind, even begging this court for you. In return you attempt to slander her unjustly.”

“It is not unjust! Because of her I can have no other children. Her evil Moor saw to that! No doubt the witch would have strangled my son as well had not the entire harem been present!”

“My God!” gasped Adora, whitening. “You are mad, Thamar! The birth has addled her wits, Murad.”

“No,” said the sultan, his black eyes narrowing, “she knows exactly what she says. Now hear me, Thamar! Your own stupidity and stubbornness has rendered you sterile. It was a miracle you did not kill the child. Fatima saved your life. Your child is my fourth acknowledged son. There is very little possibility of his ever ruling. Adora has no reason to fear you or your child and is no danger to either of you. To suggest such a thing is slanderous and unforgivable. If you persist in this charade I will remove Yakub from your care. My kadin will always be allowed immediate entry to this court. Do you understand me?”

“Y-y-yes my lord.”

“Good,” said Murad firmly. “Come, Adora. We will leave Thamar to rest now.”

But the battle lines had been drawn, and Adora now faced two enemies within the house of Osman: Thamar and the evil Prince Cuntuz. For the present, she left the Bulgarian alone. She hoped a time of quiet would alleviate Thamar’s fear. Thamar was not devious, so her fear was real enough, though unjustified.

Prince Cuntuz was a different matter. He learned to read and write in the prince’s school, but higher learning escaped him. The one thing he had inherited from his father was his ability with weapons. He quickly became skilled with knife and dagger, sword and scimitar, lance and bow. He swam and wrestled well and was an excellent horseman. But his lack of intellect prevented his ever being a commander, for he could not grasp tactics. It was yet another cause for bitterness in Cuntuz, who did not mellow as the years passed.

Though he was treated like a prince, though he was reputedly the oldest of Murad’s sons, his mother’s reputation was costing him his rightful place in history. Or so be believed. If his four younger brothers were out of the way, his father would have to turn to him. There would be no other choice.

Cuntuz set about to make friends with Adora’s sons, who were now ten and nine.

Generously he helped to teach his younger siblings horsemanship and weaponry. Adora watched Bajazet, Osman, and Orkhan nervously, for some instinct warned her against Cuntuz. But as she had no proof to back up her fears, she pushed them away. Tall, slender boys with dark hair, fair skin, and black eyes like Murad’s, her sons were so handsome. If only they weren’t so enamored of Cuntuz! But with nothing to put her finger on, she had no grounds to destroy the relationship. Murad was pleased that Cuntuz finally seemed at home. The sultan even began including him in family evenings.

Here was the one area where Adora and Thamar agreed; neither liked Cuntuz. Once when Murad had been momentarily called away by a messenger, Adora turned back into her dimly lit antechamber and found Cuntuz blocking her way. When he made no move to step aside, she said quietly, “I would pass, Cuntuz.”

“You must pay me a toll,” he leered.

Adora felt the anger well up in her. “Step aside!” she hissed.

He reached out and grasped her right breast, squeezing it so tightly that she winced. Adora’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Take your hand from me,” she said coldly, forcing herself to remain still and straight, “else I tell your father of this incident.”

“Your sister, Helena, liked it when I did this to her,” he murmured low. “In fact, she liked it when I…” And here Cuntuz began a catalogue of perversions so foul that Adora almost fainted. Instead she made herself stand very still. And when he had finished, inquiring lasciviously, “Would you not like to taste such delights?” she fixed him with a cold stare. For a moment their eyes remained locked. Then Cuntuz released her.