In memory to those who participated in the largest land battle the U.S. Army ever fought in unimaginable conditions which began 75 years ago.
HW Coyle
Dawn brought no relief from the cold that caused each and every paratrooper in Company A to shiver, as much from what he knew what was coming as from the cold. Those who could not resist doing so peered over the lip of his foxhole and out across the small clearing toward a tree line not more than fifty yards off that was occupied by the enemy. All night they’d listened as the sound of Germans tanks and halftracks carefully picked their way forward, settling into positions from which they would jump off once the dark leaden grey sky had lightened enough to allow them to launch another attack.
This attack would be heralded as all the others had been by a short but vicious barrage, one the soldiers feared as much as the prospect of facing German tanks, for the enemy shells often detonate long before they reached the ground. These tree bursts were proving far more deadly than the shellings the paratroopers had endured during previous campaigns, for instead of throwing off razor sharp shrapnel in a fan like patter along the ground, the incoming rounds went off high among the trees. The splintered remains of shattered trees were proving to be just as deadly as the chucks of metal that rained down on the hapless paratroopers, tearing at unexposed flesh and bone with all the cold efficiency of a butcher’s cleaver.
Within the confined of the foxhole he’d scrapped out with the help of another medic, Jerald Webb didn’t bother looking across the snow covered field. He was too busy inventorying the merger contents of his aid bag. This didn’t take long, for he’d received no resupply since they’d left Camp Mourmelon in France and headed north into Belgium. Even when he added what he had found in his fellow medic’s aid bag with his after his friend had been struck down in midstride by a stich of machinegun fire while responding to a pitiful cry for help, Webb knew if the attack they were all bracing for was as vicious as the last one, he’d not have enough to help those who would need his attention.
Having done all he could to prepare himself for the coming ordeal, Webb closed up his bag, slung it over his shoulder and eased back against the frozen wall of his foxhole, looking up as he did so at a tangle of tree branches high above him, wondering as he did so what kind of odds he would have of being able to crawl out of his hole if a German shell just happened to go off in their midst. In an effort to keep himself from dwelling on this, Webb pulled a glove stained with the blood of men whose lives he’d fought to save off his right hand by clamping down on the tip of the glove’s middle finger with his teeth and pulling his hand out. With his free hand he grasped the glove and tucked it away in a pocket of his field jacket least he lose it.
Bringing his right hand up to his mouth, he blew on fingers already growing numb from the bitter cold in a vain effort to warm it. Then, ever so carefully, he reached into his field jacket, snaking his fingers about until they lit upon the right breast pocket of his fatigue shirt. When they touched upon what he was looking for, he grasped a corner the small plastic pouch and ever so carefully pulled it out of his pocket.
Like a child unwrapping the most precious and wonderful Christmas gift he’d ever been given, Webb pealed away the edges of the plastic wrapping he used to protect a photo he’d carried with him into Normandy and throughout the campaign in Holland. Cupping the photo in his hands, he looked down at the image of a young woman wearing an innocent little smile who was shyly returning his gaze.
As it had always done in the past, the memory of the day on which the photo had taken succeeded in taking Jerald Webb back to a time and place that was, for him, filled with nothing but happiness. The hope that he might one day be able to set aside all that he had seen and been trough since that day and once more recapture the beauty of that moment was the only thing that kept him going, enduring the horrors that filled his days and haunted him as he slept.
“You never have told me who she is,” a voice called out, catapulting Webb back to the grim reality of the snow filled Belgium wood.
Craning his head around, Webb saw the company first sergeant crouching down on the edge of his foxhole behind him. Fumbling about like a child who’d been caught by a parent looking at dirty postcards, Webb flipped the photo over in his hand before hurriedly rewrapping it in the plastic he used to protect it.
The first sergeant suddenly regretted disturbing what would probably be the only moment of true peace Webb would be able to enjoy that day. “She must be very special to you,” the first sergeant muttered in an effort to fill the awkward silence as he watched the young medic go about returning the photo to his breast pocket, the one closest to his heart. “Is she your girl?”
“No,” was all Webb muttered as he went about pulling the glove he’d stuffed in his pocket out and slipping his right hand into it without bothering to look back over his shoulder at the first sergeant least that man see the blush rising in his cheeks.
“Well, if she’s not, whoever she is I expect she will make some man very happy one day,” the first sergeant replied as he slowly rose to his feet.
“She already has,” Webb whispered to himself as he recalled the day his friend had taken the photo of him.
Deciding it would be best not to press the medic on the matter, the first sergeant turned his attention to the reason he’d stopped by Webb’s hole. “I expect you’re going to have one hell of a day,” he opined as he took to scanning once peaceful woods already brutally scared by war. “I hope you’re ready.”
“I am,” Webb replied softly as he patted the spot on his field jacket covering his photo.
"I'll Be Home for Christmas" is a Christmas song recorded in 1943 by Bing Crosby who scored a top ten hit with the song. "I'll Be Home for Christmas" has since gone on to become a Christmas standard.
The song is sung from the point of view of an overseas soldier during WWII, writing a letter to his family. In the message, he tells the family that he will be coming home, and to prepare the holiday for him including requests for "snow", "mistletoe", and "presents on the tree". The song ends on a melancholy note, with the soldier saying "I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams."
On 16 December 1944 the Germans attacked American forces defending a stretch of the front in the Ardennes Forest. In what would become known as the Battle of the Bulge, 610,00 Americans participate in the bloodiest battle fought by the US in World War II, resulting in 19,000 dead and 70,000 wounded. The 101st Airborne Division was surrounded in Bastogne, Belgium from 20 December until 27 December. Of the 11,000 men of the division who went into the fight, more than 2,000 became casualties during those eight days.
Genoa
1525
Unable to look at his daughter, Don Riccardo Doria simply stood at the window of his villa staring out across the bay. “You are sure it was the Frenchman,” he finally asked gruffly without bothering to look back at her or hiding the disappointment he felt over the news his daughter had brought him.
“It was the Scot,” the frail young woman replied in a whisper as she continued to stare down at her feet.
“Did he force himself upon you?” Doria asked, betraying a hint of hope that his daughter was not entirely at fault.
Before answering, Alessandra Doria took a moment to reflect upon the time she had spent with Robert Stuart, Lord of Aubigny and Captain of the French King’s Garde Ecossais. As much as she wished she could clutch the straw her father was offering her, pretending she had been raped, she could not. She had willingly given herself over to the red haired Scotsmen who had marched into Italy with the army of Francis I of France. Already well aware her immortal soul was in the balance, she had no wish to add to her sins by lying about a matter as important as the one under discussion. “No, Papa, he did not” she finally admitted mournfully.
Closing his eyes as he absorbed the pain this admission was causing him, Doria drew in a deep breath and held it before slowly releasing it as he turned his attention to weighing his options. There was but one way to avoid a stain on his family’s honor and, perhaps in time, find a suitable match for her, a man’s whose discretion could be bought off with a sizable dowry. But in order for the desperate plan gelling in his mind to succeed, he would need to move fast and, above all, in secrecy, ensuring the fewest possible number of people became of Alessandra’s indiscretion.
“Find your mother and have her come to me,” he finally snapped without bothering to look back at a girl he had once pinned such high hopes, one whose marriage to a man with title and position, a prominent citizen who would have further the family’s position and fortune.
Unable to leave without first discern what was to become of her and the child she was carrying, Alessandra slowly dragged her gaze up from the spot on the floor before her and over to where her father was standing. “What is to become of me, Papa?”
“You?” he growled as he slowly swiveled his head about in order to peer over his shoulder at her through narrow, angry eyes. “You will be sent off to Ferrara where you will stay until the child is born. After a suitable period of time has passed and a suitable match has been found, I will send for you.”
“And the child?”
“The bastard is of no concern to you once he, or she, is born.”
“What will become of it?” Alessandra ventured tentatively.
No longer able to contain his anger, Don Doria pivoted about on his heels and briskly marched up to where his daughter was standing. “Your concern for the child’s welfare is sadly misplaced,” he thundered. “Other than bearing it to term, you have no need to trouble yourself with what becomes of it.”
No longer able to stand there before her enraged father, Alessandra spun about in and fled the room, leaving Don Doria alone to ponder the very question she had posed. What would become of the child was important, but one that could be set aside for the moment. First he would need to conjure up it a plausible excuse that would justify his daughter’s prolonged absence. As to the child, that would have to wait until she had given birth and its sex was known. Only then would Don Doria be able to decide how best to turn what was, at the moment, a crisis to his advantage. Properly educated, a boy could prove to be useful, even one who was a bastard whose blood was tainted by a man who was, in Don Doria’s opinion, little more than a savage.
“A Scot,” he muttered dismissively under his breath while slowly shaking his head. “What hope can there be for a child sired by such a creature?” Having no need to answer that question for the moment, he turned his attention instead to dealing with matters that demanded his immediate attention. The fate of the child, if it survived its birth and prospered, could wait.
Edinburgh
Present Day
Having been forewarned the notorious English property developer seated at the far end of the table made no effort to check his temper when he felt he was being messed about, the young civil servant chosen to present his departments proposal hesitated when he saw Guy Tinsdal look at his watch for the second time in as many minutes before twisting about in his seat, giving the door leading out of the conference room a quick, sideward glance. Convinced he was on the verge of losing the very man the Minister of Enterprise, Energy, and Innovation had personally courted and persuaded to come up to Edinburgh to invest in the what he was trumpeting as ‘the next silicon glen’, the young Scotsman frantically took to looking about the room, hoping as his gaze skipped from one worried face to another someone would save him by interjecting a comment that would calm Tinsdal. Unfortunate, all of his colleagues were just as clueless as to why the Englishman was reacting as he was to what they believed was a perfectly reasonable proposal that was being flawlessly laid out.
If truth be known, Tinsdal had already made up his mind to pass on the opportunity before he had arrived at Edinburgh airport that morning. The idea that he, a man who many said made Donald Trump come across as a piker, would invest in the pipe dream of a politician to the tune of several million pounds was laughable. The only reason he had bothered to even show up at the government offices was to keep on the good side of someone who at first sight appeared to be an up and coming politician, someone potentially worth courting in the future. Concluding that even this modest goal was a wash, whilst the flustered civil servant was still floundering through his final slides, Tinsdal turned his mind to the real reason he had made the trek north.
When Guy Tinsdal wasn’t sniffing about the real estate markets of the world, seeking properties he could snatch up at bargain basement prices and turn around for a handsome profit, he fancied himself as something of a connoisseur of the arts, a man who had a talent for finding rare treasures he could either add to his personal collection or, like the properties he speculated in, make a quick profit by selling them to someone who was willing to pay far too much for something they thought was more valuable than it was really was.
On this day he had his sights set on the estate sale of an elderly lady that was rumored to include a private collection once owned by a family line founded by a Scottish soldier of fortune who had served under Francis I of France during the Four Years War. Suspecting the Scotsman, as well as those of his line who followed in his footsteps, had availed themselves of every opportunity to add to their personal fortunes by liberating works of art from the estates they were billeted in while campaigning in a foe’s homeland, Tinsdal decided to have a look to see if there was something that struck his fancy. That he would find something was, at best, a long shot. But then Tinsdal knew when it came to speculating in art, like real estate, those who weren’t even willing to step up to the table and toss the dice had no chance at all of rolling a hard six.
When he noticed the young civil servant had finished and the man’s ministerial master hadn’t even bothered to show up, Tinsdal decided the time had come to put an end to this farce. In addition to the castle where the collection was being auctioned off, there was a well known whisky distillery he had heard of along the way where he wished to stop and sample their offerings after he’d finished at the estate action. It was a stop he would never make.
Present Day
Having spent the entire afternoon at the National Gallery trying her best to impart her knowledge of art to a group of American tourists she was convinced would never be able to tell the difference between a Monet and Manet if their life depended on it, Megan Ellsworth gave up. After seeing them on their way and checking in with her supervisor, she headed off to her cubical to gather up her things before heading out for her flat where her plans didn’t go beyond enjoying a nice cuppa while devoting herself to nothing more ambitious than enjoying some serious alone time.
Unfortunately, that plan quickly went by the wayside within minutes of arriving home when she made the mistake of pausing at her desk on her way to her flat’s kitchenette, bent over, and clicked on her computer. Mixed in with the usual gut of inner departmental memos and routine traffic was an email from her old mentor labeled ‘MOST URGENT!’ Since Clive Barrow, a noted art historian who’d retired from the Gallery, was not the sort who readily gave himself over to hyperbole, Megan pulled out her well worn swivel seat, settled down at her desk, and opened the email, wondering what her former department head wanted from her now.
The idea that he wished her to do some research for a book he had thrice set out to write caused her to groan. Since his retirement as the director of the National Gallery’s Sainsbury Wing, he had become quite determined to complete a definitive work on Renaissance art on his own. In part this new resolve was due to the way people he had worked with had taken to joking about the way he went about throwing himself headlong into a fresh draft of what he hoped would be a testament to his encyclopedic knowledge of Renaissance art only to abandon it when he came to appreciate there was nothing at all new or unique about the way he was approaching his subject. Even Megan, who greatly admired a man who had helped her when she was just starting out at the gallery, could not help but chuckle whenever he informed her he’d suddenly realized someone else had already written extensively on the subject he’d been hoping to base his own work on.
Upon opening the email Megan was further amazed to find the body of the message was as just crisp and cryptic as the subject line had been, for Barrow tended to use a hundred words when a dozen or so would have done the job nicely. “Call me, ASAP,” Megan muttered to herself as she eased back in her chair and took to wondering what was so hell fire important that he needed her to get back to him without delay. “Well, we’re not going to find out what’s got his knickers in a twist by sitting here staring at the screen, now are we?” she asked after turning her attention to a grey female cat that had silently crept up next to her computer screen and was now staring at the young woman with a steady, sphinx like gaze.
Any thought of brewing up a cup of tea before foraging about in the fridge to see if there was anything worth eating that was not yet on its way to evolving into a higher life form before giving Barrow a call was set aside. ASAP was, in his world, ASAP. Ignoring the way her cat took to angrily swishing her tail about as she fished about for the mobile the feline was perched upon, Megan scrolled through its directory for Barrow’s number and pressed it.
“Dr. Barrow, it’s Megan.”
“Oh yes, right, Megan,” the voice on the other end declared as if he was surprised to hear her voice. “Something has come up that you might be interested, an opportunity I find myself unable to take advantage of.”
Like a boxer raising his hands higher in order to protect himself from a blow, Megan mentally prepared herself for what she expected would be the sort of opportunity a sane person ran away from, for Barrow was notorious for fobbing off anything he either considered to be below him or entailed many, many long and laborious hours of leafing through dryer than dust records and historical accounts that all too often led nowhere. “What sort of opportunity is it?” she asked doing her best to tamp down her dread.
“Are you by any chance familiar with who Guy Tinsdal is?”
“Who isn’t? When it comes to land and property, what the Queen doesn’t own, he does.”
“He is also the proud owner of an art collection I dare say would rival Her Majesty’s,” Barrow added. “Which is why he called me.”
“Did you tell him you no longer have the keys to the Kingdom, or that the Crown frowns upon selling off the nation’s treasures?”
Ignoring Megan’s sarcastic remark, and in a manner that struck Megan as being uncharacteristically brief, Barrow got right to the point. “It would seem the man has acquired a painting he claims was painted by Da Vince at an estate auction. Unfortunately, it’s unsigned and lacks any sort of provenance whatsoever that would support his hunch.”
“His hunch?” Megan blurted. “A man who the Daily Telegraph dubbed the shrewdest corporate predator in the EU bought an unsigned work of art on a hunch?”
“Megan, dear girl, men like Tinsdal might like to think they possess divine gifts that separate them from common plebs like you and I, but in truth, they go about tending to their affairs and making decisions in much the same way you and I do.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Megan muttered derisively. “I’m willing to wage you it’s been awhile since Tinsdal descended into the bowels of the earth in order to spend some quality time with the likes of you and I.”
A clear, audible sigh was all it took to warn the young art historian that Barrow was tiring of this pointless chitchat. “Be that as it may, Tinsdal wishes to have someone to look at the piece and see if it really is a Da Vince.”
The temptation to respond with a snide remark along the lines, ‘And naturally you thought of me,’ was tempered by a desire to do a little freelancing. Even if the piece did turn out to be nothing more than an effort by some unknown artist who had tied to copy the man who embodied the spirit of the Renaissance, both the experience and the chance to make some useful contacts she could tap later, when she set out on her own, would be worth the effort. “Okay, I’m in, provided I can call on you if I need some help.”
“Excellent,” Barrow declared, making no effort to hide the relief he felt at having pawned off what both he and Megan assumed was a fool’s errant. “Drop by tomorrow during your noonday break and I’ll pass all the relevant contact information off to you.”
That Barrow expected her to give up her lunch hour in order to trek halfway across London in order to retrieve information that could have just as easily been given over the phone came as no surprise to her. The man, she expected, was like all retirees, eager to take advantage of any opportunity that came their way to enjoy a little company. The idea that she would, in all likelihood, one day find herself doing the same thing kept Megan from suggesting an alternative. Besides, after being all but disowned by her own family, Clive Barrow was now the closest thing she had to a father, a sad state of affairs she found herself dwelling on for the remainder of the evening.
Historical Notes;
Portrait of a Young Fiancée, also called La Bella Principessa ("The Beautiful Princess"), is more than the inspiration of this story and the cover art used at its beginning. The efforts by Peter Silverman to establish this portrait’s provenance served as a guide our modern day protagonist follows. A book by him entitled Leonardo's Lost Princess: One Man's Quest to Authenticate an Unknown Portrait by Leonardo Da Vinci, as well as a PBS documentary, Mystery of a Masterpiece, tells of the real life search for the identity of the woman in the portrait and its creator. Martin Kemp, Emeritus Research Professor in the History of Art at the University of Oxford, also wrote a book on the subject entitled La Bella Principessa. The Profile Portrait of a Milanese Woman.
As an aside, the portrait was purchased for $19,000.00 when it was thought to be the work of a 19th Century German. Today it is said to be worth $100,000,000.00.
From Wikipedia;
Portrait of a Young Fiancée, also called La Bella Principessa ("The Beautiful Princess"), is a portrait in colored chalks and ink, on vellum, of a young lady in fashionable costume and hairstyle of a Milanese of the 1490s. Sold at auction in 1998 as an early 19th-century German work, it has since been attributed to Leonardo da Vinci by some experts, including Martin Kemp, who, in 2010, made it the subject of his book La Bella Principessa. The Profile Portrait of a Milanese Woman - The Story of the New Masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci. Evidence discovered in 2011 accounting for its provenance has strengthened the case for it being by Leonardo. The attribution to Leonardo da Vinci has been disputed. Most of those who disagree with the attribution to Leonardo believe the portrait is by an early 19th-century German artist imitating the style of the Italian Renaissance. The current owner purchased the portrait in 2007.
The House of Medici was a powerful family who dominated the politics and economic life of the Republic of Florence from the 15th to the 18th Century. Four popes, (Leo X, Clement VII, Pius IV, and Leo XI), were selected from its members.
The German heretic referred to in the text is Martin Luther, (1483-1546)
Íñigo López de Loyola, (1491 – 1556), was the founder of the Society of Jesus, better known as the Jesuits.
Ancona
1535
Taking his time, Brother Antonio considered how best to answer his young charge’s question as the two slowly made their way around the enclosed garden that was the centerpiece of the monastery. “Often times a person can derive the correct answer to a problem using an approach that may not be obvious to another, or they might considered to be inappropriate,” he finally replied, taking care to do so in a tone of voice that was not dismissive of the way his fellow brothers went about teaching the boys placed in their care. Despite being orphans, castoffs, or bastards, as Brother Antonio himself had himself been, most were being groomed to serve either the Holy Mother Church or, as was the case of the child currently at his side, the scion of a prominent Genoese nobleman and a ward of the de Medici Pope.
This was not the only reason why the monk needed to exercise a degree of care and discretion when dealing with the clever red haired boy with an inquisitive mind who many thought needed to be reined in. Whereas any other boy would have accepted the elderly monk’s answer without question, Paolo Alesandro d’Aubigny was not any other boy. To say he was bright was, in Brother Antonio’s opinion, a gross understatement. Which was why the monk was not at all surprised when Paolo slowed his pace and lowered his gaze as he also took his time to weigh the answer to his question. Only after he had done so without understanding why he had been told the solution he had used to solve a complex mathematics problem was wrong did the boy once more look up at Brother Antonio with an expression that warned the monk he was not completely satisfied with his answer. “I expect that might be true in questions of theology, but not mathematics” he declared with an air of authority that even Brother Antonio found to be inappropriate for a child of ten. “Is not a correct answer still a correct answer, regardless of how it was derived?”
As with most of the questions Paolo put to him, there was no easy answer. Finding one that made sense to the boy without disparaging his fellow cleric compounded the problem. Again, Brother Antonio took his time before answering, turning his eyes up toward the blue, cloudless sky as if seeking divine inspiration. “In time you will come to appreciate it is not always possible to consider all the ways that exist to deal with a problem you find yourself confronted by,” he explained carefully. “Often people find they are faced with a situation that does not permit them the luxury of examining all possible solutions before selecting a solution that is, to them, the best suited to address it.”
Once more Paolo lowered his gaze as he took to staring down at the garden path before him while he mulled over Brother Antonio’s reply. It did seem to make sense, he finally concluded by relying on the logic of a boy who lived under the tyranny of a tightly structured life in which his days were neatly divided between classroom work, study time, chores, and, of course, prayer. As a monk living under a very different, but no less demanding regime, Paolo imagined Brother Phillip also had to make choices concerning problems he had to deal with, leaving him little time to come up with all the possible answers to the problems he presented his students in class. “Yes,” the boy finally admitted grudgingly. “I understand.”
The chiming of the chapel bell, calling Brother Antonio to prayer and Paolo to his studies, prevented the boy from asking another question, a blessing the monk silently thanked God for. As rewarding as it was to have a student who possessed a keen analytical mind and an unquenchable thrust for knowledge, providing the necessary guidance the quiet, unassuming boy of ten needed in order to mold him into a useful instrument of God and, by extension, his patron, was proving to be a challenge that Brother Antonio feared he might not be up to. As he did each day since being given the task of seeing to the boy’s education and providing him with spiritual guidance, he would need to seek inspiration from the Lord, asking that He bless him with the wisdom, the patience, and the strength needed to shoulder the burden he had been given.
From the window of the office from which he oversaw the running of the monastery, the Abbot watched as the frail boy with flaming red hair, who Pope Clement VII himself had placed in his care, leave the side of Brother Antonio and run off toward the library. No doubt, the Abbot thought, the boy would squander the balance of the day filling his head with novel ideas and concepts that all too often went counter to the teachings of the Church.
Like Brother Dominique, the monastery’s choir director, the Abbot wished he could honor that man’s request and place him under his tutelage and not in the care of Brother Antonio who was, in the Abbot’s opinion, far too lenient with the boy. Such an arrangement would allow Brother Dominique to nurture the child’s clear, sweet singing voice in order to better serve their blessed Lord and the Monastery’s patron. Were it not for the Pope’s mandate that the boy be educated to serve the Holy See as a member of the diplomatic corps and, by extension, the interests of the de Medici household, the Abbot would have given into the choirmaster’s request long ago. Unfortunately, Ancona was a part of the Papal States. Were the Abbot to deviate from the Pope’s mandate concerning the boy’s education, he suspected he would be replaced, for scions of the House of Medici was not noted for being lenient to those who crossed them.
The only consolation the Abbot could latch onto was that Popes did not live forever, and that the power and influence the great families wielded over the affairs of the Church ebbed and flowed like the tide. For now he had no choice but to do what was expected of him. That, and pray for guidance as he did each day that his young charges would not be corrupted by the growing secularism that was as much a threat to the Church as the evil German heretic and the vile blasphemies he spread. With this thought in mind, he turned his back on the scene below and made for the chapel where he would lead his supplicants in prayer and contemplation.
Without any thought given to the Greek text he had been told to translate into Latin, Paolo made his way back to the stacks where he had found a rare copy of Johann Albrecht Widmannstetter’s lecture concerning the universe and copies of Cardinal Nikolaus von Schönberg’s lectures. That he might not find them where he had left them the day before was always a possibility. Brother Gregorio, the monastery’s archivist, had a habit of moving such material around the small but well maintained library the monks and students used. Whether he did so in order to make room for new works or, as Paolo suspected, he wished to save the monastery’s students’ immortal souls by keeping them from filling their heads with ideas that were, in the minds of some of the monks, heretical was unimportant. Those works, and others like them, could always be found if one was tenacious.
Besides, Paolo mused as he began his search, not only was it great fun seeking such works, by doing so he very often stumbled upon something that equally captured his imagination and opened a new and exciting opportunity to learn more about the world that lay just beyond the walls of the monastery, walls that held him, but not his imagination, captive. That was how he had stumbled upon the copies of Widmannstetter’s writings concerning the Ottoman Empire. The breadth and depth of that man’s knowledge impressed Paolo, which was why he imagined the Pope had appointed him as his secretary, leading the boy to believe that if he followed Widmannstetter’s example, he too could one day take his place at the side of the Pope himself. Being a bastard was not an impediment to such ambition, provided of course, the aspirant possessed the knowledge, the cunning, and the determination that achieving such a lofty goal demanded. That he would also need to be ruthless was a trait Paolo did not factor in. That was an attribute that only experience could instill in a child who had spent his entire life safely coddled in a place apart from the brutality that governed the world which lay just beyond the walls of the monastery, and of course protected by the unseen, but always present, hand of a powerful patron.
A smile lit up Paolo’s face when he finally found what he was looking for. Ever so carefully he removed the folder containing copies of the works he wished to study from under an account of Íñigo López de Loyola’s appeal to the Pope to lead his companions as emissaries to Jerusalem. Whether Brother Gregorio intentionally hid the works Paolo favored under such material was something the boy gave no thought to. He was far too interested in the material he was seeking. That, and his naivety prevented him from understanding the path he had set out for himself was strewn with hazards and obstacles his fertile imagination was, as yet, unable to conceive.
In truth, the only reason Brother Dominique impatiently took to tapping the edge of the choir director’s stand with his baton, stopping his young charges in the middle of a hymn they had been performing flawlessly was entirely selfish. Like the Abbot, the monk took advantage of every opportunity that came his way to listen to the clear, angelic voice of one boy, a boy who possessed a voice all who heard it proclaimed was a gift, one bestowed upon the boy of ten by God himself. That the boy took no pride in it, nor had any interest in developing it, did not matter in the least as Brother Dominique closed his eyes in order to fully enjoy listening to Paolo d’Aubigny sing a hymn once sung by the Florentine nuns of Santa Chiara, a hymn entitled Jesu Corona Virginum. It was not the words of the hymn that mesmerized Brother Dominique. Nor was it the tribute the hymn paid to the martyred virgin who had dedicated herself to the blessed Lord Jesus that lifted his spirits as nothing else here on earth could. Rather, the monk’s entire being was overcome by an unworldly rapture that was almost sinful as he gave himself over the ethereal, dulcet tones of the boy’s voice.
Even as the last soft note of the hymn was still lingering high above him like a cloud, gently drifting across a windless blue sky, Brother Dominique told himself, as he often did at moments like this, that it was his duty to preserve such a precious gift. Opening his eyes, he took to studying the boy who was its keeper. That God would waste such a gift on Paolo d’Aubigny, a boy who all too often neglected his obligations to the Holy Mother Church in order to run off to the library and read books filled with ideas the devout brother believed went against the teachings of the Church, was a mystery the monk simply could not understand. There had to be a reason, one he had given much thought to. That God had done so in order to place before him a challenge, an obligation to do something to ensure this treasure was saved from the ravages of maturity was a thought that Brother Dominique found himself dwelling upon more and more with each passing day. He had even taken up the matter with the Abbot who, without the need to say so, had obviously agreed with him. And were it not for the patronage the current pope showered upon the boy, Brother Dominique was convinced the Abbot would have blessed his plan to geld the boy.
Well, the monk found himself thinking as he stood there, meeting the boy’s steady, unflinching gaze, the Abbot was right. Popes did not live forever. Perhaps the next one would see the light and allow him to carry out what was, in Brother Dominique’s mind, a God given mandate.
Myths About Red Heads
Historically, prejudice and suspicion has always greeted the redhead, along with the belief that they were fiery and hot-tempered. This image - wrong or not - most likely stems from the fact that the Scots, with their high percentage of red haired people, are descended from the Celts, notoriously violent warriors. It is this perception that spawned many strange and fantastical beliefs and ideas about red hair.
The myths do seem to permeate all cultures. The ancient Egyptians couldn't make up their minds, typical of the super superstitious Egyptians of the time. They covered all their bases with a god for every purpose and situation. Sort of a god grab-bag. On the one hand, they believed that red haired animals and people were associated with the god 'Set', and many of their pharaohs had red hair. That included Ramses who was the most powerful baddest dude of all the pharaohs. Conversely, they also regarded the color red as unlucky and many red haired maidens were burnt to death to wipe out the tint. Talk about a makeover. Stories still persist that redheads were buried alive.
The Greeks, not to be outdone (the Greeks were never to be outdone as they were sore losers and it really got their sacrificial goat), believed that redheads would turn into vampires following their death. Aristotle - philosopher, student of Plato, teacher of Alexander the Great, and all-around smart guy and occasional ass - described redheads as being emotionally un-housebroken. I don't know what that means but whadda ya say you and I step outside, Tots?
Roman historian Deo Cassius described British Warrior Queen Boudicca (or Boudicca the bodacious) as " tall and terrifying in appearance [with] a great mass of red hair." Incidentally the ancient Romans also paid a premium for red haired slaves.
During the Spanish Inquisition (one of the fairest and justified of all inquisitions) flame colored hair was evidence that it's owner had stolen the fire of hell and had to be burned as a witch. Apparently, stealing the fire of hell is a crime and crime doesn't pay. In Corsica, if you pass a redhead in the street you are supposed to spit and turn around. It is unclear if that is supposed to bring good luck or because redheads leave a bad taste in your mouth. During the Middle Ages, red was seen as the color of the Devil, and it was thought that a child born with red hair was conceived during "that time of the month". Is that a little too much menstruation information?
Johann Albrecht Widmannstetter (1506 in Nellingen/Blaubeuren near Ulm – March 28, 1557 in Regensburg), was a German humanist, orientalist, philologist, and theologian.
Widmannstetter studied law, theology and oriental languages in Tübingen. After 1527, he continued his studies in Italy, in Turin, Naples and Rome, focusing on Syrian and Arabian. In 1533, Widmannstetter became secretary of the pope, first Pope Clement VII, then Pope Paul III. In the same year, he delivered a series of lectures in Rome, outlining Nicolaus Copernicus' theory to the pope and the cardinals.
The rest of his career was focussed on orientalism, to which he contributed a lot, collecting hundreds of manuscripts in Hebrew and Arabic. Widmannstetter is considered to be a founder of European orientalism.
In 1533, Johann Widmanstetter, secretary to Pope Clement VII, explained Copernicus' heliocentric system to the Pope and two cardinals. The Pope was so pleased that he gave Widmanstetter a valuable gift. In 1535 Bernard Wapowski wrote a letter to a gentleman in Vienna, urging him to publish an enclosed almanac, which he claimed had been written by Copernicus. This is the only mention of a Copernicus almanac in the historical records. The "almanac" was likely Copernicus' tables of planetary positions. Wapowski's letter mentions Copernicus' theory about the motions of the earth. Nothing came of Wapowski's request, because he died a couple of weeks later.
The first thing that struck Megan as she was led through Guy Tinsdal’s palatial home was the eccentric, almost haphazard, way he had arranged the works of art he had decorated his walls with. His failure to organize them into anything resembling a theme or by era vexed a person whose entire life revolved around the history, preservation, and presentation of such art.
The arrangement of portraits, landscapes, and still life paintings that greeted her when she entered the room where Tinsdal was waiting for her was no better. The only thing that kept her from gawking wide-eyed at the inept manner with which he chose to arrange his art was an intriguing portrait set upon tripod in the middle of the room a scant two meters from an overstuffed leather chesterfield sofa Tinsdal had been sitting in before coming to his feet and offering her his hand.
“Right on time,” Tinsdal declared crisply by way of a greeting as he gave Megan’s hand a gentle squeeze and shake.
Megan paid no heed to the way the notorious entrepreneur continued to hold onto her hand as he took advantage of this opportunity to study her. Unable to help herself, she all but ignored Tinsdal as she tilted her head to one side in order to look past him at the portrait that had captured her attention.
Far from being offended, Tinsdal smiled as he studied the tall, plainly attired art historian. “Intriguing, isn’t it,” he remarked softly.
As if awoken from a sound sleep, Megan blinked, gave her head a quick shake that caused a few strands of her hair to pull free of the small, delicate ears that had served as their moorings, and turned her full attention back toward Tinsdal. Only then did she realize he had been holding her in something akin to a predatory gaze that reminded her of a hawk. “Um, yes, quite,” was all she managed to stutter as she quickly pulled her hand away from his. Bringing it up, she swept the loose strands of hair back behind her ear even as she was dropping her chin a smidge in a vain effort to hide the crimson hue of acute embracement that colored her cheeks.
That he had managed to set the young woman onto her back foot did not upset Tinsdal in the least. Gaining an advantage over someone he was meeting for the first time was a habit he found difficult to set aside, even when he had no wish to do so. That he was able to do so as easily as he had with the young woman concerned him, causing him to wonder if she was up to the task he was about to set before he.
Megan quickly disabused him of that notion as she took advantage of the gap she’d managed to open between them by focusing her full attention back on the portrait, ignoring the way Tinsdal eyes continued to follow her every move.
In the span of a few seconds, all hints of shyness fell away, replaced by an expression that told Tinsdal her mind was already dissecting the same unique aspects of the portrait that had caused him to snatch it up at the estate sale in Scotland. The ease with which she was able to recover from his efforts to intimidate her by having her meet him in a setting that was unfamiliar caused Tinsdal to smile to himself. He had no use for people who wasted time his time and theirs by engaging in the sort of banal social chitchat they felt was necessary during introductions. Nor did he have any interest in dealing with professionals who didn’t have their priorities in order, people who relied on their social skills or personality to compensate for a lack of expertise. While some would consider the way the young woman was behaving as being rude, the way she had been able to set aside her shyness and taken to assessing whether or not the portrait he had acquired was what he thought it was pleased Tinsdal.
Satisfied that she had passed his first test, Tinsdal eased up next Megan and turned his attention to the portrait. “Are you familiar with the story behind da Vinci’s La Bella Principessa?”
In a manner common to people who are so passionate about their chosen profession to the near exclusion of all else Megan merely grunted without taking her eyes off the picture. “Who hasn’t?” She remarked off handedly. Whilst many would have been insulted by her ill manners, Tinsdal saw her response for what it was. Megan was not being snobbish or condescending. She was simply being herself.
Tinsdal’s question did, however, have an impact on her as the reason behind his asking about an unsigned portrait that had once been thought to be a Nineteenth Century German work and not an unsigned work of Renaissance Italy’s greatest master suddenly occurred to her. Understanding what he was hinting at, Megan forced herself to take a step back, both physically and mentally, as her mind went where Tinsdal’s had when he had first laid eyes of the portrait of a young, red haired woman.
Despite her wish to keep from getting ahead of herself, Megan could not help but wonder what the odds were of making a similar find. In an effort to downplay her own excitement, she wasted no time in rattling off reasons to discount the importance of the painting she could not take her eyes off of. “You do appreciate that da Vinci’s style has been copied by countless art students attempting to impress their instructors, not to mention legions of forgers hoping to dupe an unschooled speculator.” Only after the words had left her mouth did Megan realize what she had just said, causing her to snap her head about and take to apologizing even as a blush once more began to enflame her cheeks.
Having already decided that the tall, plainly dressed art historian with dirty blond hair, a boyish figure and a forgettable face was the right person for the challenge he was about to charge her with, Tinsdal abandoned any further attempts to sound her out. Instead, he turned to putting her at ease before presenting her with his proposal. “Would you care to join me for tea?” he asked as he set aside his predatory nature and slipped into the role of host.
Before she replied, Megan once more turned her attention to the portrait. She knew what the man next to her was hoping for. The mere mention of the portrait of Milanese noblewoman da Vinci had painted in the 1490s told her that. She also knew the odds of this being another undiscovered work by the great master were astronomical. And yet, as she stood there, the opportunity to delve into the history of such an exquisite piece that no one had ever examined before, discovering its true origins and the stories behind both the artist and the subject was simply too enticing. To say no to a chance to take a break from the almost mind numbing routine her life had become by setting out on a quest that would challenge her to use every bit of her knowledge and skills as an art historian was simply too tempting.
Drawing herself up, she took one long, last look at the painting before turning to face Tinsdal and answering both the question he had just put to her and the one she expected he would over tea. “I would love to.”
It came as no surprise to Henry Hackett that, after throwing open the door of his flat and stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of his phone’s message light flashing. He could guess who the message was from. Only Guy Tinsdal and a handful of trusted people knew when he would be back from Afghanistan, and of them, only Tinsdal would have a reason for calling him.
The only questions the exhausted reserve officer had was what that reason was, and, just as importantly, when the notorious real estate developer wanted him to see him. After taking a moment to draw in a deep breath before releasing it with a loud sigh, Hackett threw his military bergan off to one side and took to undoing the zip of his MTP camouflage field shirt as he headed off to the bathroom of his small flat. Returning his boss’s call could wait. Taking a long, hot soak in a real bath, to wash away the dust of a month in Afghanistan playing high stakes tag with Terry Taliban couldn’t.
There were precious few people in the world Guy Tinsdal could be at his ease with. Henry Hackett was one of them. In part this was due to the ability of the former Irish Guards officer to know when he could freely speak his mind, and when it was best to simply salute and get on with whatever task Tinsdal had just handed him. Hackett was also a man he could rely on to handle the sort of odd jobs for which there was no formal education, assignments that not only fell outside of the job description one usually associated with that of a personal assistant, but very often required a high degree of finesse, creative thinking, discretion, and sheer bloody doggedness. When told he could find Tinsdal in his study rather than the office of his Belgravia estate, Hackett knew whatever it was his boss had in mind for him was one of these.
“Well, home is the hunter,” Tinsdal murmured by way of greeting when he saw Hackett enter the room.
“Um, yes,” Hackett replied as he made straight for the sideboard where a selection of whiskies stood and poured himself a drink. “The only question I have is for how long.”
“Why must you Irish always suspect the worst from we English?”
“Because that’s usually all we get from your lot,” Hackett shot back before taking a sip of his whisky. He was in the process of savoring the taste of a thirty year old Black Bull scotch when his gaze fell upon the portrait. Using the index finger of the hand holding his glass, he pointed at it. “I see you’ve found a new piece to add to your collection. Who painted this one?”
“I’m not at all sure,” Tinsdal mused distractedly as he turned his gaze back toward the portrait.
The answer to his question almost caused Hackett to gag as he was taking another sip of whiskey, for Guy Tinsdal was not the sort of man who spent money on something unless he knew everything there was to know about the item he was about to purchase, whether it be an office building in the heart of the City, or a work of art.
Amused that he had been able to get a raise out of his otherwise unflappable aide Tinsdal rose from his seat, made his way over to where Hackett was standing, and poured himself a drink to match Hackett’s. He waited until Henry had refilled his own glass and took a slow sip in a thinly veiled effort to organize his thoughts before explaining. “I came across this piece during my recent trip to Edinburg,” he intoned as he quietly stepped closer to the portrait.
Never having had the time or the inclination to study the arts, Hackett joined Tinsdal as he too took to studying the picture. “While I can see it is intriguing, after a fashion, may I ask what compelled you to buy it?”
“A hunch.”
“About?”
“That, dear boy, is for you to find out,” Tinsdal replied as he gave Hackett a quick, sideways glance.
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“Oh, this is no joke,” Tinsdal murmured as he took a seat in on the sofa still facing the portrait.
After taking one last look at the portrait up close, Hackett came about and settled into a seat kitty-corner to Tinsdal. “I do hope you appreciate I know more about the far side of the moon than I do about art.”
“You’ve no need to know a thing about Renaissance art or artists in order to play your part in this adventure. I’ve hired an art historian who’ll be tending to that.”
There was no need to ask if this expert was any good. Hackett knew Tinsdal only hired the best and brightest. Instead, he turned his attention to the more practical aspects of his charter. “So, what part do I play in unraveling the mystery of the portrait?”
“Besides availing yourself to some well deserved time off after doing your bit for Queen and country, I need you to look after my interests.”
“And those would be?”
“If I’m right, that one picture could be worth upwards of fifty million quid.” Tinsdal whispered in a wishful tone of voice that was so out of character while nodding his head in the direction of the portrait.
Fortunately Hackett hadn’t been sipping his drink this time, otherwise he would have spat out whatever he had had in his mouth. “Oookay,” he slowly muttered after regaining the use of his vocal chords. “Who do you have looking into this for you.”
“A young woman who comes highly recommended from someone I know, a noted curator and art historian who worked at the National Gallery before he retired. I expect you’ll find the young woman I’ve engaged just your type,” Tinsdal added.
“I didn’t know I had a type,” Hackett muttered half under his breath as he stared down at his drink and gave it a gentle swirl before taking a sip.
“Every man has a type. You just haven’t taken the opportunity to find her yet.”
“That’s probably due to the fact you keep me from spending too much time trolling the pubs and clubs looking for that lucky lady,” Hackett grunted derisively.
After the two men enjoyed a good laugh over this exchange, Tinsdal once more took to gazing at the portrait. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with this charming young woman,” he murmured softly.
Whether Tinsdal was talking about the art historian or the subject of the portrait didn’t matter to Hackett, for his mind was already occupied with fleshing out a plan of action using the same well honed methodology he had learned while serving with the Colours.
1536
It was not the warm summer sun streaming through the narrow window of the barren room where Paolo lay that woke him from his fitful sleep. Nor the melodic chiming of the chapel bell calling the monks and boys who had once been his peers to morning prayer. Rather, it was the sudden slamming of a door somewhere beyond the locked door imprisoning him that startled the boy, throwing him back into the waking nightmare from which there was no escape. Wide-eyed and shaking, he watched and waited, listening for the sound of a key being inserted into the lock of the room’s door, a door that both confined him and protected him, for as long as it was closed and he was alone, he was safe.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Paolo was able to tamp down his fear when the sound of footfalls echoing off the barren walls of the long corridor beyond the door began to fade. This relief was brief, not more than a few heartbeats, for it was quickly replaced by a return of the unbearable agony emanating from an unhealed wound that would do more than leave an indelible scare. No one needed to tell him the removal of his genitals, whole and complete, would make him unfit to take his place at the side of great and influential men. Men like his former patron did not take boys who had been butchered as he had been in their service. Those who would be interested in him would have little need of his knowledge. To them he would be nothing more than a rare song bird, a thing to be used to entertain his new master’s guests with a voice that would never mature, or as a convenient vessel he could use for his personal pleasure when his wife or mistress was otherwise indisposed. All that was certain, all Paolo could count on, was that the death of his patron and Brother Dominic’s ambitions had done more than rob him of his manhood. His life, such as it was, would be one of servitude, degradation, and pain, pain made all the more terrible by an appreciation he had no hope of ever escaping it.
With clenched teeth, eyes screwed shut, and a death grip on the rough hewn sides of the bed he had been confined to for countless days, Paolo struggled to fight his way through the agony that robbed him of breath and paralyzed every conscious thought save one; pain.
Slowly, ever so slowly the burning pain would subsided, but never completely. It would be enough, however, for Paolo to turn his mind to other thoughts, thoughts that no longer included why. He already knew that. The thesis penned by Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli Paolo had read had been quite clear that in order for a man in a position of authority to achieve his goals he had to be ruthless and, if need be, commit acts that went against the teachings of Christ and violated the very laws of God himself. What Paolo could not understand, what he found himself often dwelling on as he lay there alone in a monk’s cell, was why that God allowed such behavior. It made no sense to the boy who embraced the teachings of some of the greatest thinkers of his time. How, Paolo wondered, could there be a natural order to the universe over seen by a merciful and all powerful God when that same God allowed men to behave in ways that contravened good sense and the laws of God Himself? Chaos and a barbarism that border on being animalistic, and not order, science, nor a dedication to the Lord God Jesus were the governing principle that determined the fate of God’s creatures. If that was so, Paolo reasoned, what use was it to pray to God, a God who did nothing to stop that pain despite his pleas, or who did nothing to punish the men who had been the cause of it. In time, both the ever present pain and the appearance of Brother Dominic at his bedside led Paolo to appreciate the God he had been taught to love and celebrate with prayer and song was not listening to him.
With deliverance from the hands of his tormentor no longer possible, and divine retribution increasingly unlikely, the boy who could no longer think of himself as such decided it was up to him to punish those who had, for their own selfish reasons, taken away more than his dreams. For unlike the mythical figure who had unleashed all the ills the Greek gods commanded onto the world, Brother Dominic and the very church he represented had allowed even hope to slip away. For that, Paolo resolved, they would pay, all of them. How and when he would visit retribution upon them for the horrors and suffering they had subjected him to were questions that would have to wait to be answered, for a fresh wave of pain once more gripped Paolo, leaving him unable to do more than claw at the thin coverings draped over his frail, mutilated body.
1537
The Abbot made no effort to mask his anger as he shot Brother Dominic a scathing glare from where he was seated before once more turning his attention to the boy who continued to stand mute before the assembled host of dignitaries the Abbot had invited to the monastery in order to hear what he had proclaimed was the voice of an angle. What they were being treated instead was a strained silence, broken only by an occasion cough of an impatient guest, the sound of fine silk and satin vestments rustling as those guests nervously shifted about in their seats, and the whispered threats Brother Dominic was uttering to in a vain effort to coerce Paolo into singing.
The boy, however, would not. He had no intention of doing so, for this was a very moment he had been waiting for. With a deliciously cunning deviousness that would have brought a smile to Signore Machiavelli’s lips, Paolo had made a great show of openly bending to the will of Brother Dominic, tolerating the taunts and insults leveled at him by the other boys, and behaving in a most exemplarily manner during chapel services and when rehearsing for this, his debut as the monastery’s lead vocalist. Only at night, or when the abbot and all of his supplicants were gathered together in the chapel to pray did Paolo deviate from this act, retrieving whatever book or manuscript Brother Antonio had managed to smuggle into his cell when no one was about and continue his studies of politics, diplomacy, governance, and philosophy. That there was still one monk who took into account his needs and desires did nothing to dissuade him from his single minded quest to extract vengeance upon those who had so brutally crushed his dreams by condemning him to a life he suspected would be spent in a cloistered cell no different than the one he had been taken to after being castrated. That he would be prevented from joining a world he longed to be a part of, a world that lay so tantalizingly close but was, for someone like him, forever out of reach, was to be his lot in life, one he intended to make those who had condemned him to it pay dearly for what they had done.
When he had had enough of this farce, the cardinal who had endured the arduous early winter trek from Rome just to hear a voice the Abbot had raved about came to his feet. “I thank you for your hospitality and ,” he snarled sarcastically. “I must be off early tomorrow if I am to make it back to Rome in time to be present for the gathering of cardinals His Holy Father has called for.” Then, without waiting for the Abbot to reply, the cardinal turned his back on him, Brother Dominic, and a very self-satisfied child of twelve.
“You filthy little cur,” Brother Dominic growled as he dragged Paolo along the corridor leading back to his cell. “Do you know what you have done?” the enraged monk spat as he threw open the door of the cell and shoved the boy onto floor. “Do you?”
Paolo did not answer, at least not verbally. Instead, after gathering himself up, he came to his feet, turned until he was facing the monk, and grinned, a wickedly smug smirk that sent Brother Dominic over the edge.
Having lost the last vestige of self-control, what the monk did next was done with an almost animalistic cruelty driven by a blind rage. Stepping up to Paolo, Brother Dominic lifted the boy off his feet, spun him about, and threw him face down onto the bed. Paolo had expected this. He had all but goaded the monk into whipping him. What the boy had not counted on was what actually happened next.
In a frenzy that left no time for Paolo to do anything to fend the monk off, not that the frail child could have, Brother Dominic grabbed Paolo’s neck with one hand, shoved the boy’s face down onto the straw mattress and, with his free hand, yanked Paolo’s trousers down about his knees. “If you will not give yourself over to the will of God, then you will learn to submit to men,” the monk growled. Without releasing the grip he had on the boy’s neck, the monk proceeded to assault him in a way even a boy who possessed a mind as fertile as Paolo’s had thought was unimaginable.
Thus began a spiral of vengeance and retribution as Paolo’s determination to deny the Abbot the gift he so craved was swiftly punished by abuse at the hands of a monk who sought to humble and denigrate the boy by reminding him in a most brutal manner he was, and never would be, anything more than a vessel to be used by men for their pleasure. It was a vicious, barbaric cycle that came to dominate Paolo’s life, leaving him little opportunity to do anything more than snatch brief snippets of escape by losing him in the books Brother Antonio continued to smuggle into the boy’s cell. It also blinded him to events unfolding outside the walls of the monastery, events that were to upend the serene orderliness of a place that had become more than a prison in a way that was, in Paolo’s mind, little different than the way Brother Dominic dealt with him.
The frantic din of a church bell in the town ringing out at an odd hour of the day, followed by others was the first warning those who called the monastery their home had that the town was under attack.
Rumors of raids carried out on towns and cities along the coast of the Adriatic Sea belonging to the Papal States by the Turk on behalf of their French ally had managed to drift over the walls that separated the monks and their young charges from the cares of the outside world. That those same walls would be enough to protect them from this new threat was one Paolo put no faith in. If anything, the boy knew a monastery such as the one that had become his prison was a magnet to brigands and raiders who fell upon the weak and unprotected like wolves on a hapless lamb. Whether the Abbot and the monks understood this as they rushed madly about the grounds of the monastery, gathering up their students and herding them into the chapel was a question Paolo gave no thought to. Instead, he decided that if he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be among the very men who had made his life a living hell, pleading for deliverance from a God who had turned a deft ear to him in his greatest time of need.
In the ensuing chaos, Paolo decided to seek refuge in the one place where he felt safe, a place where he could lose himself in a world so very different than the monastery that had become, for him, a dungeon of unspeakable depravities and pain. If he was going to die at the hands of the Turk, the boy reasoned, he would die where his spirit and mind had been free to visit places he would never see.
His chance to break free of the painful grasp Brother Dominic had on his arm came when the monk stopped at the door of the chapel, turned, and watched in horror as the courtyard gate finally gave way to the battering ram. Horrified, Brother Dominic found himself unable to do little more than stand on the steps of the chapel, gapping open mouth and wide-eyed at he sight of Turkish soldiers pouring into the courtyard. Paolo didn’t bother to look back to see if the monk had noticed his precious treasure had slipped away. With the same determination and clarity of purpose he applied to his studies, Paolo paid no heed to the wailing and cries that assaulted his ears as he ran toward the library. When he reached it, he flung the door open, scurried inside, and slammed the door behind him, never once thinking that a foe who could smash down the monastery’s heavy wooden gates as easily as the Turks had would have no problem storming the library.
There was but one thought racing through Paolo’s head as he made straight for the shelf where he had left the copy of Francesco Guicciardini’s ‘Ricordi.’ For once, as if the Fates themselves had meant him to find the work, Brother Gregorio had not hidden it. After pausing but a second in order to snatch up the heavy tome, Paolo spun about and hurried over to the ill lit alcove flanked by over burdened shelves he hid in whenever he wished to study a text he was forbidden to read he had happened across that was too big to smuggle out of the library. Once there he turned, flattened his back against the cool stone wall and, ever so slowly eased down onto the floor, tightly clutching the book he had sought to save in his arms as he made himself as small as possible by curling up into a ball. Only then did he stop and wonder what would become of the two of them.
The boy who had had his world turned inside out by men who daily dropped to their knees and loudly professed their love of a merciful God but were deaf to his pleas didn’t have long to wait. With a bang that reverberated off the unadorned walls of the library, Turkish soldiers threw open the unbarred door and rushed in. With the same well-honed discipline the monastery’s monks relied on as they went about their daily chores, the Turks took to prowling the stacks like ravenous wolves seeking fresh prey. For the first time that day Paolo was afraid as he found himself unable to keep from peeking over a pile of loose manuscripts and watch as a gaudily dressed Turk holding a drawn sword dripping with the blood of people Paolo had lived with for as long as he could remember grew nigh. That the Turk with a flaming red beard wasn’t at all what he had been taught to expect came as no surprise to Paolo, for he had read about the Janissaries, elite soldiers recruited from Christian slave boys and trained to serve the Sultan.
Having no wish to see more, Paolo once more pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes as he prepared to meet his death. No thought was given to uttering a prayer. There was no point in doing so, for the God he had been taught to honor had never answered any of his other prayers. Why should He do so now, the boy reasoned as he tightened his grip on the only thing he found he could trust, a book penned by a man who put his faith in had he saw and heard in a world that lay just beyond the walls of the monastery, a world Paolo knew of, but would never see.
A gruff exclamation, followed by an order barked out in a foreign tongue, caused Paolo to open his eyes. Looking up, he saw the red breaded Turk standing before him. For the longest time the Turk did nothing more than study him as if surprised by what he were seeing. Oddly, the fear that had gripped Paolo was now gone as he gazed up at a face blackened by the smoke of fires and streaked with rivets of blood that had spattered the Turk and his uniform as he had butchered those he had already come across.
This impasse only came to an end when another Turk drew up next to the red bearded one. This Turk, whose stature and placid expression did not impress Paolo as much the first, immediately took to asking him questions. “What are you doing here?”
Not having expected this, Paolo blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “Saving this book,” he replied with a calmness that seemed to surprise both Turks. When the one who spoke Italian translated for the benefit of the red bearded one, the latter let out a loud, belly shaking laugh before asking, in Turkish, what was so important about this particular book that made it worth saving.
In a tone more befitting the way he would respond to a teacher in a classroom than before the man he expected would soon butcher him, Paolo replied. “It is a discourse on political philosophy that builds upon Machiavelli’s earlier works on the subject.”
This time, when the Italian speaker passed on what Paolo had said, the red breaded Turk’s eyes narrowed as his brow became creased with furrows. Then, after a long moment in which nothing but the screams of monks and boys being slaughtered outside the quite confines of the library drifted through the open door, the red bearded Turk reached down with his free hand, griped Paolo by the arm, and pulled him up onto his feet even as he was barking a new order to the Italian speaker. “You are to come,” the Italian speaker passed on without any further explanation.
Whether he was about to meet his end or be taken away were questions Paolo did not bother asking. He was too focused on clutching the book he held against his chest in an effort to keep from losing it. An appreciation that it, and not the God the Abbot and monks who had been the source of so much pain and suffering were devoted to had been his savior was not lost on Paolo. It was a point he told himself he needed to pay heed to as he was dragged across the courtyard, now strewn with the bloody corpses of those who had not been as fortunate as he, through the arched entryway of the monastery, and out into a world so very different than the one he was leaving behind.
The practice of castrating young boys was more widespread then is generally believed and the methods were quite universal. In the middle ages and up until the end of the 1800s it was common to find eunuchs in what was then the Ottoman Empire, China, and other parts of the Orient.
During the Classical era, in which Palo lived, castrated Eunuchs were classified as follows;
Castrati – Clean-cut, with both penis and testicles removed
Spadones – Testicles removed by means of dragging
Thilibiae – Testicles bruised and crushed
Black slaves that were being taken to serve in the Ottoman Empire were castrated while in route by either Egyptian Christians or Jews, for Islam prohibited the practice, (but not the by-product). Since desert sand was considered the most effective balm, newly castrated boys were buried up to their necks until their wound was healed. Boys who survived this, and a great majority did not, became luxury items.
Sir Richard Burton, (no, not the actor), listed two types of castration practices used in the Orient.
Sndali, or clean-cut in which the genitals are swept off by a single incision of a razor. A tube was then inserted into the urethra, the wound cauterized with boiling oil, and the patient planted in a fresh dung-hill and fed a diet of milk.
Eunuch, similar to Thlibiae, rendered sexless by removing the testicles with a stone knife or by bruising, twisting, or searing.
Readers are reminded this was all done without the benefit of anesthesia, pre-operative prep as we know it, modern antibiotics, or tender post-operative care. One practice used to tend to newly castrated boys was to shove a pewter needle into the urethra and have the boy walk around the room held up by two ‘knifers’ for two to three hours, after which the boy was allowed to laydown. The boy was not given anything to drink for three days. At the end of three days, the needle was removed. If the boy then urinated satisfactorily, he was considered to be out of danger, congratulated, and sent on his merry way. If, however, he could not make water, it was deemed his urinary tract had become swollen, which meant certain death after a protracted period of agony.
I guess the moral of this story is, if you hear a newly post-op girl constantly complaining of discomfort, with a straight face you can remind them it could always be worse.
Between 1494 and 1559 eight wars involving the Hapsburg Emperors of Austria, the Valois Kings of France, and most of the Italian city-states brought to an end the Italian Renaissance and heralded the rise of the great European empires that would dominate world events for the next four centuries.
In the Prologue mention was made of the French army. Their presence in Genoa and Northern Italy was part of the First Italian War, or King Charles VIII’s War.
In attack on the monastery described in this chapter is part of the Italian War of 1536-1538. A notable aspect of this war was the alliance between Francis I of France, (1494-1547), and the Ottoman Empire, then ruled by Suleiman I, (1494-1566), known in the West as Suleiman the Magnificent and in the East as Suleiman the Lawgiver. Since the Papal States, of which Ancona was part, was aligned with the Hapsburg Empire, it was open to raids by the Ottoman Empire.
As an aside, Henry VIII (1491-1547) was the King of England at this time. Ivan IV, known as the Terrible, was six years old and the Grand Prince of Moscow. In China the Imperial Palace in Beijing reached its current splendor under the Ming Dynasty, (1368-1644). St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest continuously occupied European settlement in what is now the United States, was not founded until 1565 by the Spanish.
Present Day
The decision to meet the art historian hired to unravel the mystery of the portrait in the home offices of Tinsdal’s firm was an easy one for Henry Hackett. Like his boss and the senior officers he served under while with the colors, he always sought to gain a home field advantage when meeting someone he’d be working with for the first time, making the setting as intimidating as he could it in order to test the person without making it too obvious that was what he was up to. To this end he didn’t display the portrait in plain sight as Tinsdal had at his home. Hackett wanted to see just how long it took Ms. Ellsworth to ask where it was and when she could get started, for he was no different than Guy Tinsdal when it came to getting down to business. Small talk, insipid social chitchat, and the people who wasted his time engaging in it bored him to tears.
Having come to expect the offices of Tinsdal’s firm to match the oversized ego she imaged such a man possessed, Megan was quite surprised to find everything about Easley House was quite modest. Even more astonishing to a woman who often had the need to deal with self proclaimed patron of the arts whenever a special event was held at the National Gallery was the way the female receptionist and security guard posted at the reception desk greeted her. In addition to being delightfully amiable, when she informed the receptionist she wished to see Henry Hackett, the female cocked a brow before turning to the security guard stationed behind a waist high glass barrier behind her. “Don’t tell me Henry V is back and already on the clock?” she asked jokingly.
“There’s no rest for the wicked,” the security guard chuckled even as he warily eyeing Megan rummage about in the oversized leather messenger bag she had slung over she shoulder searching for her driver’s license.
As often happened whenever she surrendered her license to someone like the receptionist who proceeded to verify her identity by accessing a computer program connected to the internet, Megan held her breath as she waited to see how they would react. Despite knowing that not every security program spewed out her entire life story, she appreciated one didn’t need to dig too deep into her past to come across things she wished she could put behind her, but had come to accept she never could.
Ignoring the worried look with which Megan was regarding her, after handing her a day pass, the receptionist informed her how she could find the office Hackett was working out of that day before buzzing her through the gate leading to a lift the security guard had to key in a code in order to access it. This, together with the security measures that struck her as being a wee bit over the top for a firm that dealt with commercial real estate, should have clued her in that the deceptively easy going manner of the pair at the reception desk had been something of an act. At the moment, however, her thoughts focused entirely on going over each and every step she would need to take in order to discover whether the unsigned portrait of a young woman known only as the English Courtesan was what Tinsdal thought, ignoring as best she could the inbred skepticism a professional like her harbors when they came across something that seemed to be too good to be true, but hoped it was.
When the doors of the lift opened, Megan was once more taken aback by what she saw. Rather than the modern, almost sterile decor found in the corporate headquarters of most London businesses, the corridor she stepped out into bore a striking resemblance to Guy Tinsdal’s Belgravia mansion. Even after coming to the conclusion she was on the floor where the offices of the firm’s senior executives were located, she found herself impressed by the works of art that were hung along its full length in the same haphazard manner those Tinsdal kept at his home had been. As she made her way toward the office she’d been directed to, Megan had to force herself from stopping and taking a moment to study each and every one she passed. Still, she could not help but swivel her head from one side to the next and back again, doing her best as she went to determine if they were originals or damned good fakes. Only her desire to hurry along to where she expected she’d be at liberty to spend more time examining the portrait she’d be researching kept her from tarrying before some of the more intriguing pieces.
Upon reaching a suite of offices at the end of the corridor, she was whisked along by a comely young woman seated behind a desk in a salle d'attente who greeted Megan with a smile and a wave of her hand. “Henry’s waiting for you in there.”
‘In there’ turned out to be an office that was, like everything she’d come across since taking up the challenge Guy Tinsdal had presented her with, not at all what she had expected. Rather than a place where business was conducted by the sort of no-nonsense men Megan imagined a corporate pirate like Tinsdal would hire to handle whatever dirty little jobs he, himself, had no time for, the office resembled a private room in gentleman’s club. This impression was reinforced by the sight of a man she assumed was Henry Hackett seated in a leather bound chair off to one side rather than at a desk, casually leafing through a book on his lap.
When he perceive the woman he’d be chaperoning for the next few weeks was near enough, he made a great show of giving his head a quick shake and blinking as if he were surprised by her presence. After snapping shut the book in his lap and setting it aside, he came to his feet and offered Megan his hand. “Right on time,” he declared brightly.
Unlike her meeting with Tinsdal, Megan was not near as self conscious, for Henry Hackett was a worker bee, not the über boss. As such, in her eyes they were equals. Still, she could not completely let her guard down, for dealing with men in a one-on-one situation like this was still a bit awkward for someone like Megan who had not quite managed to master all the rules governing how men and women working together were expected to follow. When she reflexively averted her eyes to escape the fixed, searching gaze Hackett was holding her in, they fell on the cover of the book he had set aside. Unable to help herself, she smiled. “I see you found Peter Silverman’s book.”
“I didn’t exactly find it,” Hackett countered, pleased that she had spotted the book Tinsdal had given him. “I was all but ordered to read it by the boss.”
Megan nodded as she pulled her hand away. “Be that as it may, I expect you now have a good idea what my efforts will entail.”
“As good as anyone who’s never done something like this can, I expect,” he replied in an offhanded manner as he used this opportunity to study the woman before him. She was taller and much younger than he had expected. While she was not what anyone would consider pretty, the hint of makeup she was wearing nicely highlighted her best features, which in Hackett’s mind were her grey eyes that almost matched the color of the blazer she wore over a white blouse with a notched collar festooned with delicate white embroidery. Her otherwise drab attire was counterbalanced by an amber pendant hung from a silver chain and an amber butterfly pin in a silver setting fastened to the lapel of her blazer.
For her part Megan found herself somewhat underwhelmed by the man before her, for she had expected someone who held a position she had been led to believe Henry Hackett held need to be… Well, she concluded when she couldn’t quite put her finger on the words she was searching for, if he was going to be of any help to her, he needed to be more than what see was seeing.
This perception, and the conclusion it led to, was something Hackett took great pains to cultivate, for unlike the men he worked for, either as part of Guy Tinsdal’s personal empire or when in the service of Queen and country, he had found it was always best if the people he need to deal with underestimated him, at least in the beginning. Having come across far too many men in positions of authority who failed to measure up to their own hype, Hackett adhered to the dictum set forth by von Moltke the Elder that stated a staff officer should appear less than he was. And if Henry Hackett was anything, he was a good staff officer, which made him invaluable to Tinsdal.
Having spent as much time sizing up the man she’d be working with as she felt she needed to, Megan turned her attention to the next item on her agenda; examining the portrait of the English Courtesan which was, she quickly realized, no where to be seen. “Well, unless there is something you feel we need to go over, if you don’t mind I would like to get started.”
Pleased the woman he’d be responsible for was eager to get on with it, Hackett nodded. “Yes, of course. How would you like to proceed?”
Intimately familiar with the established protocol used when dealing with a case like this, steps that would have been obvious to people who were just as passionate as she was when it came to the history and preservation of fine works of art, Megan found herself confused by Hackett’s question. After blinking, she gave her head a quick shake, then took to staring at him quizzically. When he did nothing but return her stare as he waited for her to reply, ever so slowly she came to the sad conclusion his question had been a serious one, causing her to sighed. This, she told herself, wasn’t going to be easy. “If it’s at all possible, I would like to examine the portrait.”
The grin that lit up Hackett’s face was due as much to an expression of exasperation the young woman made no effort to mask as an appreciation she was as Tinsdal had described her, an eager, no-nonsense young woman. “Ah! Yes, of course. Right this way Ms. …”
It took a moment for Megan to realize the man who was supposed to be helping her had either had forgotten her name or, even more disconcerting, didn’t know it. Once more she didn’t bother trying to hide her frustration she felt over being saddled with such a dolt. “Ellsworth,” she snipped in a haughty, dismissive tone. “My name is Megan Ellsworth.”
“Yes, I know. What I was hinting at, Ms. Ellsworth, was how would you prefer I address you?” Hackett explained in an offhanded manner.
Yet again, Megan found herself caught off guard. Was this man being serious, she wondered as she returned the fixed stare he was holding her in as he waited her answer.
When she didn’t respond straight away, Hackett chuckled. “Meaning no disrespect, Ms. Ellsworth, I think it would make working together far easier and, I dare say, more enjoyable if we were on a first name basis.”
“Um, yes. Right,” Megan stammered as she again averted her gaze in an effort to avoid the manner with which Hackett was regarding her. He was right, of course, she concluded as he led her out of his office to another room where she hope the portrait was. Even Clive Barrow, a man everyone at the National Gallery referred to as ‘The Prof’ behind his back because of the manner with which he dealt with his underlings allowed her to use his first name, a rare privilege that not only made working with him easier, but alerted others at the National Gallery that she ranked among ‘The Chosen Ones,’ young art historians he considered to be gifted, trustworthy, and loyal to a fault. “Megan, if you wish,” she finally muttered as she gave Hackett a quick glance out of the corner of her eyes.
“Too bad,” Hackett shot back. “I was hoping for something more creative, like Mags or Meggie.”
“Megan will do nicely, thank you,” she sniffed as they continued along.
“Megan it is,” Hackett declared crisply as he was opening the door leading to a small, private conference room located at the opposite end of the building from the one Megan had first been directed to. So caught up in her own thoughts and thrown off her game by Hackett’s manner, she never suspected this arrangement, like the setting where she had met the man next to her, had been engineered to provide him with an opportunity to find out just what kind of person she was before she became lost in her quest to find out if the portrait was what Tinsdal hoped it was.
The scene that greeted her had been staged with the same meticulous forethought and preparation with which Henry Hackett did everything. The works of art normally found in the small conference room adjacent to Guy Tinsdal’s office had been removed, least they proved to be a distraction to Ms. Ellsworth. The lighting had also been rearranged so as to draw attention to the portrait, which was set upon a tabletop easel in on the center of the small conference table from which the chairs had been moved away, save one. Even the room’s lighting had been changed out. The usual cost effective, energy efficient florescent lights had been replaced by blubs with a color rendering index rated to provide illumination that was more natural, akin to daylight.
Hackett’s efforts had not been for naught. The moment Megan stepped into the room and laid eyes on The English Courtesan, she came to a full dead stop. Gone was the look of exasperation over the way things had played out so far that morning she had made no effort to hide. In its place was a cool, steady gaze, one that told Hackett the young woman at his side had slipped into what his mates in The Regiment referred to as target lock.
Having accomplished all he had hoped to during his initial encounter with the tall, plainly dressed art historian, he decided the time had come for him to step aside and let her get on with the task at hand. To that end he stepped back and took a seat in one of the conference room chairs set against the wall.
Megan took no notice of what Hackett was doing as she stood there, forcing herself to evaluate the portrait as a whole rather than rushing right up to it and studying the fine details she hope would betray its creator.
Following her first viewing of the portrait at Tinsdal’s mansion, she had spent hours in the achieves of the National Gallery as well as the Rewley House Library in Oxford where she not only studied up on da Vinci’s techniques, but also went over the record of all portraits attributed to him. While doing so, she had drawn up a timeline of his life in her notebook, an old style wire bound note book that required the use of a pen set to paper, for Megan was very much a traditionalist like her mentor, a man who had never been able to master the intricacies of battery powered notebooks. Her timeline was more than a litany of where da Vinci had lived and the length of time he was in residence at each, it included a full listing of the great master’s patrons and all known apprentices he had mentored during his life. Thus prepared, she believed she was more than ready to see if The English Courtesan measured up to the great master’s exacting standards few have ever equaled.
Ever so slowly, she moved closer to the portrait, one half-step at a time, pausing every so often whenever an aspect of the work that had caught her eye demanded she take a moment to study and mentally catalog it before proceeding. Only when she could move no closer because she had bumped into the edge of the table did she take a moment to absentmindedly slide her oversized bag off her shoulder, set it on the table, and fish out her notebook and a magnifying glass. Never once did she take her eyes off the portrait as she was preparing to examine it in greater detail, for she was just as intrigued by the subject of the portrait as she had been at Tinsdal’s home.
The serene expression of the young woman known only as the English Courtesan betrayed a quiet confidence the artist had been able to capture with such incredible accuracy that Megan found herself waiting for the subject’s chest to rise and fall as she, the subject in the portrait, took in a deep breath, held it, then slowly let it out as an untutored model sitting for art students often did. It was a silly thought, yes, but one only a great master, one such as da Vinci himself, was able to evoke in Megan.
“Who are you?” Megan whispered to the young woman in the portrait as she found herself forgetting for the moment that it was the name of the artist, and not the subject of his work of art, that she was supposed to be looking into. Never once did Megan bother to look behind her to where Henry Hackett was sitting, watching her every move, asking himself the same question of the young art historian seated across the room from him.
The book mentioned in the text by Peter Silverman is Leonardo's Lost Princess. It Chronicles the efforts to uncover the mystery behind the portrait known as La Bella Principessa and served as a guide in the telling of this story.
1536
Nothing was playing out as he had expected it to, Paolo mused distractedly while gazing out the window of his room at one of the many spacious gardens within the high walls of the Topkapı Palace. Except for those walls, everything, from the room he’d been taken to, to the richly embroidered robes of silk and satin he had been carefully dressed in by a slave that morning were at odds with what he had imagined. For rather than descending ever closer to an earthly purgatory more frightening than the one described in Dante’s Devine Comedy, the world he had been taken to stood in stark contrast to the filthy, rat infested monastic cell in Italy that had been both prison and refuge.
Within the span of two short weeks, Paolo had found his expectations and fears repeatedly being overturned by the manner with which he had been treated after he had been dragged off by the scruff of the neck from the monastery’s library by the red bearded Turk. The events that followed in quick succession had been more baffling to the boy than frightening, causing him to wonder if everything he’d been told about the Turks had been lies. That this just might be the case came as no great surprise to the boy. After all, the repeated abuse he’d suffered at the hands of Brother Dominic had made it clear the supposition that all those who dedicated their lives to the Church were saintly servants of God had proven to be nothing but a vicious fabrication created to hide the true nature of the Church of Roman and those who served it.
The journey east aboard a sleek galley had left Paolo ample time to dwell on this and other matters, due in large part to whatever it was the willowy Italian speaker had said to the ship’s captain even as the red headed janissary had been leading him aboard at the end of a leather strap tied about his neck. And though he was left alone after that, separated from the other young boys who had been taken from the monastery and all but ignored by the crew unless he got underfoot, the iron collar that been slapped about his neck was left in place as a warning and a reminder.
Not that it was needed. With nothing but time on his hands as the galley majestically ventured toward the east and an uncertain future, Paolo could not help but ponder if there even was a God. And if there was, he wondered, was He the one the Old Testament spoke of, a cruel, vengeful deity as personified by Brother Dominic, or a kind, loving creator no different than Jesus or Brother Antonio?
Unable to come to any meaningful conclusion, and having no interest in wasting any more time dwelling on this ethereal question, Paolo turned away from the deceptive serenity of the palace garden just beyond the window he was standing before. Casting a fugitive glance over his shoulder at the ornately carved doors of his bedchamber, he instead turned his thoughts to other, more immediate concerns. At the moment this centered on steeling himself as best he could, in what little time he had left, for whatever ordeal his new masters were so carefully preparing him for.
Upon entering an ornately appointed and brightly lit room with high ceilings, a room filled with objects and pieces of art painted in riotous colors and hues so unlike the somber bleakness of the monetary, Paolo slowed his pace, then stopped. Captivated by the opulence all around him, it took him far longer than it should have to notice a man swaddled in brightly colored robs of fine silks perched upon a divan leafing through the book he, Paolo, had been clutching when he’d been discovered in the monastery’s library. This, the boy realized with a start, could only be Lütfi Pasha, the Third Grand Vizier and the man he had been told had summonsed him.
For his part the Vizier made no effort to acknowledge Paolo’s presence. Not knowing what to do once the guard who had led him to the room had withdrawn and closed the massive door behind him, Paolo stood there, waiting for the Turk to address him.
“I am told you speak Latin,” Lütfi Pasha stated in the language used by the monks during mass without looking up from a page he had been reading.
“I do, Effendi,” Paolo replied in Latin, adding an honorific he had heard several of the Turkish soldiers use during the voyage whenever they were being addressed by a superior.
Upon hearing this, the Vizier looked up from the book, affecting an expression that told Paolo he was pleased. “Do you know any other languages?”
The temptation to answer in the language Brother Antonio had been tutoring him in before he had fallen under the domain of Brother Dominic was stifled by an appreciation it would not only smack of unseemly pride, doing so could very well prove to be impolitic, given that he did not know if the Vizier spoke French. He therefore continued to use Latin. “Yes, Efendi. I was being taught French before…”
When the boy suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, dropping his gaze to the floor as he scrambled to come up with an inoffensive word to describe his seizure, Lütfi Pasha closed Francesco Guicciardini’s book, sat up, set the book upon his lap, and folded his hands on top of it. For the longest time he said nothing as he used this opportunity to study the frail child standing there before him. “Tell me, why did the monks geld you?” the Vizier finally asked in French.
This simple question, one Paolo had given much thought to, had no simple answer. The excuse the abbot had used, an explanation artfully couched in Biblical terms that somehow involved the saving of Paolo’s immortal soul, was the sort of thing the boy expected a man in his position had no choice but to rely on in order to justify such a heinous act. The truth was, or so Paolo had come to believe, was his emasculation had been a political statement by Brother Dominic, an act meant to demonstrate to Brother Antonio and the other monks that upon the death of Paolo’s patron, the faction in Rome Brother Dominic sided with was now in the ascendancy. Though he expected the Vizier would understand such a reason, Paolo decided to rely the same one that had been used to convince the physician hired to deprive him of his manhood that doing so was sanctified by the Pope himself. “I was made a castrati in order to better serve God, Efendi,” Paolo whispered mournfully without looking up.
“Was it a dream of yours to serve God in that manner?”
To be asked such a question was, in Paolo’s mind, akin to being slapped in the face. Unable to keep from doing so, he snapped his head back, glared at the Vizier, and spat out his answer. “No!”
The sudden flash of anger that caused the boy’s face to glow as red as his fiery mane, the fierceness in his eyes, and the sharpness of his answer pleased Lütfi Pasha for reasons he wished to keep to himself. Instead, he eased back on his satin covered divan. “Were you to be at liberty to roam through the towns of this land, you would find small scraps of paper wedged in the nooks and crannies of even the most humble of dwellings, for the Turkish people hold paper in great reverence.”
Just as quickly as it had come, Paolo’s anger was replaced by an expression that betrayed his confusion over the Vizier’s seemingly curious statement, just as Lütfi Pasha had expected. “The teachings of Allah, as revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, were recorded by his followers on whatever scraps of paper were at hand when the Prophet recited them,” Lütfi Pasha explained. “Because paper can be used to record the name of Allah as it was then, and is now in the Qur’an, the Turks hold paper in great reverence. To them, simply stepping on it is a sacrilege.”
As he was listening, Paolo came to appreciate the man was telling him this story for a reason. As if to confirm this notion, with a wave of his hand, the Vizier motioned toward a cushioned stool.
When the boy was seated, Lütfi Pasha tapped the book in his lap, the one Paolo had been clutching when he had been discovered by the Turkish solider. “Tell me, why this particular book?”
Sensing the Vizier was seeking to draw him out for some as yet unknown reason, Paolo set aside the cautiousness with which he had responded to the Turk’s questions thus far and did something he had not been free to do for many months, he spoke his mind. “While both Guicciardini and Machiavelli consider man to be a central element in history and agree on several other important issues, the two stridently disagreed as to what form of government is ideal. Unlike Machiavelli, who considered Rome and its politics to be the model upon which a state should be governed, Guicciardini believed a republic, such as his native Florence, was bettered suited for the Italian city states and their people.”
“And you?” Lütfi Pasha asked searchingly. “Who do you believe is right?”
This question, Paolo realized, was a trap. Not knowing what the right answer was, if indeed there was one in the mind of the fourth most powerful man in the Ottoman Empire, he decided to avoid responding with an answer that was definitive. “I am but a child, Effendi. There is much I do not yet know, which is why I take advantage of every opportunity I am afforded to study the works of men such as Guicciardini.”
For a child, the boy possessed uncommon wisdom, Lütfi Pasha concluded. Properly tutored, he could be molded into a useful instrument. As a eunuch he would have unfettered access to the Harem, a place that was now ruled by a woman whose ambitions and influence were threatening the status quo and, by extension, his influence. To have someone who was beholden to him able to move freely between his apartments and those of the Hürrem Sultan, thus bypassing the Kizlar Agasi, or Chief Black Eunuch, a half man who jealously guarded his position by limiting what passed between the Harem and the outside world, Lütfi Pasha believed he would be able to better manipulate court politics to his advantage. Believing the boy before him was ideal for this task, Lütfi Pasha allowed himself something of a knowing smile. It was one Paolo was quite familiar with, for it was an echo of Brother Dominic’s.
“You are to receive special schooling,” the Vizier declared as he set the book in his lap aside and drew himself up. “In the morning you will receive religious instruction which will prepare you to be a faithful servant of Allah. In the afternoon, Bilgin Tilki will see to your secular education.”
Wishing to find out just how open minded the Vizier was, Paolo decided to challenge the man. “What if I do not wish to convert to Islam?”
Seeing the boy’s question for what it was, Lütfi Pasha leaned forward, fixing Paolo in a steady, unflinching stare. “Do you wish to die for your faith?”
It wasn’t the memory of how the Turkish janissaries had slaughtered the monks that decided the issue. In the young boy’s mind, death could not possibly be any worse then the hell he had already endured at the hands of Brother Dominic. Rather, it was the opportunity to continue his education, building upon the foundation Brother Antonio had so carefully crafted that led Paolo to submit to the Vizier’s dictates. It did not matter to what end that education would be used. Enlightenment, the banishing of ignorance through learning was, for Paolo, enough of a justification to renounce a religion that had brought him nothing but misery and, in its place, accept Allah as the one, true God, provided, of course, there was a God.
Like Lütfi Pasha, the man who was to be his teacher was not a Turk, causing Paolo to wonder if all of the men who served Suleiman I, known to all as Suleiman the Magnificent, were foreigners taken as he had been, and educated as he was about to be.
“I am, or I should say, was a Ukrainian,” Bilgin Tilki informed Paolo during their first meeting. “Like you I was brought here as a boy, where I converted to Islam and took up the study of states craft in order to prepare me for service in the Sultan’s diplomatic corps.” Pausing at that point, Tilki had taken to studying the frail young boy whose education he was now responsible for, wondering what the Third Vizier had in mind for him. Having been deprived of his manhood, Tilki knew the boy would never grow a beard or be able to speak with a voice that commanded the respect of other men, traits that all who served as representatives of the Sultan in foreign courts, or when dealing with representatives sent by their princes, needed in order to effectively carry out their duties. Just why he been tasked to prepare the boy before him for service in the diplomatic corps was a question the Ukrainian could not help but ask himself as he gazed upon a child whose smooth, unblemished milky white complexion would change little with the passage of time.
As quickly as that thought had come to mind, Tilki cast it aside, for he had come to appreciate the intricate court politics practiced by the Sultan’s chief advisors in order to gain influence with their master made such speculation a waste of time. Instead, he turned his full attention to doing what all underlings who lived and worked within the walls of the Topkapı Palace who wished to keep their heads firmly attached to their shoulders did, he carried out his orders. “I am told you speak Latin and French.”
“I do, effendi,” Paolo replied in a the deepest tone of voice he could manage, one that only served to confirm Tilki’s belief the boy would never be of use as a representative of the Sultan.
“In time we will sharpen your skills with those languages,” Tilki announced as he turned away from Paolo and made his way of to a table cluttered with books, manuscripts, and loose sheets of paper he had been writing on when Paolo had entered the room. “But first you will be taught to read and speak Ukrainian until it comes to you as natural your native tongue.”
Taken aback, Paolo blinked. “Why Ukrainian?”
Not used to being challenged, especially by a child, Tilki was tempted to respond with a sharp rebuke, informing him it was the wish of Lütfi Pasha and, as such, a command. To have done so, however, would have caused the boy to recoil, stifling his curiosity and teaching him to accept everything he was told without question, habits, that if allowed to take root, would retard the education he, Tilki, was expected to oversee. Instead, he took a seat at the table and, in the same manner no different than the Vizier had done, indicated Paolo was to take a seat across the desk from him with a mere flick of his hand.
“I am a direct descendant of Vladimir Sviatoslavich the Great, a prince of Novgorod, Grand Prince of Kiev, and ruler of Kievan Rus,” Tilki explained in a tone of voice that spoke of the pride he still felt at being associated with such a man. “Before I was brought here, as you have been, my name was Alexander Andreyevich, one I am expected to forsake but cannot, just as I am unable to forget the proud heritage my esteemed ancestors forged with blood and steel.”
Pausing, Tilki fixed his gaze on the eyes of the boy across from him, wondering if he could be trusted with the real reason he wished to teach him his native tongue. Just as quickly as this question reared its head, Tilki dismissed it as foolish. Given what the child was being groomed for, it would be unwise to put his faith in his discretion. It would take time, months, perhaps even years, before he would know for sure if the boy could be trusted to keep secrets. Long before then, he would need to establish an open and unfettered dialogue with him, conditions a thorough and meaningful education in the art of diplomacy demanded.
“By passing onto you the language of my ancestors, I will be able to keep their memories from fading into the mist of time,” Tilki explained, relying on an explanation that had the ring of truth to it. “It is a foolish notion, I expect, but one I cannot let go of. In a small way, by speaking Ukrainian I keep their memories and their legacy alive.”
Having wondered about his own heritage, Paolo accepted this without question. The rational the man across from him was putting forth was no different than the one Brother Antonio had used when he had justify why it was important for him to learn French. “I am told your father was a Scottish nobleman who is in the service of the French King,” the monk explained. “Perhaps, God willing, one day you shall meet him. If that day should come, I think it would be beneficial if you and he could speak to each other.”
When Paolo asked why, if his father was Scottish, was he not teaching him that language, the monk was unable to keep from laughing. “I am told many Scots speak either the ancient language of the Celts or English, neither of which are easily mastered. French, on the other hand, is a courtly language. Besides, it is the only foreign language I know,” Brother Antonio had added as he was chuckling to himself.
“It would be an honor and a privilege to learn the language of your ancestors,” Paolo stated in a voice that was both lyrical and sweet.
Pleased he had managed to side step the truth so easily, Tilki smiled. “Good. Then let us start.”
Historical Notes;
Lütfi Pasha (1488 – 27 March 1564) was an Ottoman statesman and grand vizier of the Ottoman Empire under Suleiman the Magnificent from 1539 to 1541. In 941/1534-5 he became Third Vizier. By this time, he had, by his own account, served in Selim I's wars against the Safawids in Eastern Anatolia and against the Mamelukes in Syria and Egypt. Under Suleiman I, he took part in the campaigns of Belgrade in 1521 and Rhodes in 1522. He wrote 21 works mainly on religious topics but also on history, 13 of them written in Arabic and 8 in Turkish. Two of his works are the Asafname, a kind of mirror for ministers, and the Tevâriḫ-i Âl-i ‘Os̱mân, dealing with the Ottoman history and including his own experiences in the reign of the sultans Bayezid II, Selim I and Suleyman I.
Vizier – In the Ottoman Empire, a vizier was a high-ranking political advisor or minister, with the Grand Vizier being the equivalent of the Prime Mister in the U.K.
Effendi – An Ottoman title of nobility meaning Lord or Master.
Vladimir Sviatoslavich the Great (958 – 1015) was a prince of Novgorod, grand prince of Kiev, and ruler of Kievan Rus' from 980 to 1015. Vladimir's father was prince Sviatoslav of the Rurik dynasty. After the death of his father in 972, Vladimir, who was then prince of Novgorod, was forced to flee to Scandinavia in 976 after his brother Yaropolk had murdered his other brother Oleg and conquered Rus'. In Sweden, with the help from his relative Ladejarl Håkon Sigurdsson, ruler of Norway, he assembled a Varangian army and reconquered Novgorod from Yaropolk. By 980 Vladimir had consolidated the Kievan realm from modern-day Ukraine to the Baltic Sea and had solidified the frontiers against incursions of Bulgarian, Baltic, and Eastern nomads. Originally a follower of Slavic paganism, Vladimir converted to Orthodox Christianity in 988 and Christianized the Kievan Rus'.
Present Day
The ability to judge a person’s reliability and competence was more of an art than an acquired skill that could be taught, one Henry Hackett considered himself to be quite good at. As a young subaltern he had often found himself having to decide on the fly if an officer or an NCO he was meeting for the first time, often under the most trying conditions, could be counted on. It was more than a talent he relied on when preparing to sally forth into harm’s way. Like all good soldiers, Henry knew the man who was to his left and right, or was watching his back, were important keys to success and a long, healthy life. There were occasions when he did get it wrong, leading him to take care to keep a wary eye on his mates in case his instincts failed him at a critical moment. But in the case of Clive Barrow, within minutes of meeting the man, he had little doubt he was pretty much spot on as to what sort of man the retired art historian was.
His opinion of the man took a major hit even before he laid eyes on him. It began when Barrow insisted that the portrait Megan wished him share his thoughts on be taken around to his flat. His less than favorable opinions were further reinforced when Barrow asked her to stop along the way and to tend to a personal chore. “Do be a dear, Megan, and before you come up, stop by the shop on the corner and fetch me a package of tea,” he requested over the speakerphone in Henry’s office in a manner that was clearly not a request. The very idea a man of his reputed reputation would think of asking someone carrying a work of art that could be worth millions to pop into a street corner shop told Henry all he needed to know about the retired curator and his relationship with Megan Ellsworth, for she acquiesced to his demand without batting an eye.
Upon arrival at Barrows’ flat with the portrait and a box of PG Tips tea in hand, Henry saw right off he had no need to amend the personality profile of the man he had been putting together in his head. While no one who enjoyed the rare privilege of being invited up to his flat would accuse him of being fastidious, at least Henry knew what bookshelves and trash bins were for. Of course, he told himself as he followed Megan in, wondering where the man expected him to display the portrait, Barrow was an art historian, a breed of professionals who most people assumed were, by their very nature, a tad bit different than the general population and very much apart from it.
“It’s so good of you to drop by, my dear,” Barrow declared in a manner that came across as if this were a social visit even as she was looking about for an uncluttered surface upon which she could set her black, non-descript messenger bag before handing him the sack containing the box of tea. “Ah, bless you,” he murmured gratefully as he took the tea, turned, and headed toward the kitchen. “I used the last of my tea last night and haven’t had a chance to run out and buy some,” he muttered as if to himself even as he was walking away from her.
Standing just inside the flat, holding the padded leather carrier containing the portrait, Henry found himself wondering what had prevented the retired curmudgeon from going down two flights of stairs, walking thirty paces or so, and going into the same shop he and Megan had stopped in to buy his own tea. It was clear man certainly hadn’t been rushing about the flat sorting it out in preparation for their arrival.
“Would you and your friend wish to join me in a cuppa?” he called out from the kitchen.
Before she answered, Megan glanced over at Henry. He could tell by her pained expression she was embarrassed by her former supervisor’s behavior, a man she had taken great pains to talk up.
“Hello? Are you two still there?” Barrow called out.
“Oh, yes. We’d love some,” Megan replied without bothering to ask Henry.
Seeing no point in standing about, wasting time while Barrow puttered about making tea, Henry took to looking for a suitable spot where the portrait could be display. When she realized what he was doing, Megan did likewise. “Over here,” she suggested as she made her way over to a chair on which a stack of books was set. After removing them, she repositioned it so that the morning sun, streaming in from a window that hadn’t seen a cleaning rag in ages would hit the portrait at an appropriate angle once it had been set on the chair.
By the time Barrow emerged from the kitchen holding a tray on which three mismatched cups and a simple tea service was set, he acted as if he were surprised to see the portrait. “Ah, you brought it.”
It took every bit of will power for Henry to keep the snide little comment that was threatening to roll off the tip of his tongue in check. That, and Megan’s effort to introduce him, kept him from giving it free rein. “Clive, this is Henry Hackett.”
After carefully balancing the tray he’d been carrying on an uneven stack of books that caused the creamer and sugar bowl to slide precariously close to the edge of the tray, Barrow looked over to where Henry was unzipping the carrier and beamed. “Ah yes, your assistant.”
Again, Megan found herself unable to hide her embarrassment as her gaze flicked back and forth between Barrow and Henry who had stopped what he had been doing in order to look over at the askew tray as if waiting to see if everything on it would tumble off and onto the floor.
“Mr. Hackett is Guy Tinsdal’s assistant,” Megan declared even as she was springing up out of her seat and reaching for the tray in order to prevent the calamity that was in the offing. “He’s just helping me with this project.”
“Yes, of course,” Barrow muttered off handedly he watched Megan lift the lower end of the tray up, deftly snatch a book off another stack that was behind her, and placed it under the tray in an effort to level it out before turning her attention to serving each of them tea without being asked to do so by their erstwhile host.
With the tea tray now secure, Henry turned his full attention back to taking the portrait out of the carrier and balancing it on the arms of the chair before stepping back, taking the cup of tea Megan was holding up to him, and wedging himself on a divan between the stack of books Megan had taken off the chair. In the silence that followed, as each of them enjoyed a tentative sip of their hot tea, he watched as Barrow moved around the room until he stood several paces in front of the portrait in much the same way Megan had back at Easley House.
At first the former curator regarded the portrait with a critical distain he made no effort to hide, telling Henry the man had already determined the piece could not possibly be another long, lost work by da Vinci. This all changed when, after several long minutes, Barrow set his teacup aside without bothering to look where he was placing it, leaned forward, and begin to ever so slowly inch his way closer to the portrait.
Like an expectant child seeking her father’s approval, Megan all but held her breath as she watched him, hoping to detect a sign that would tell her if he agreed with her initial assessment, or if this quest was stillborn.
It didn’t take very long for Henry to realize she had no need to worry, for Barrow’s eyes were madly darting about, just as Megan’s had, checking off the same tiny details she had pointed out to him that had led Tinsdal to suspect that it was, in fact, a da Vinci.
“I can see why you’re so taken by this, dear girl,” Barrow muttered without taking his eyes off the portrait. “The artist has a marvelous sense of the way various materials and anatomical features respond to tension as witnessed by the slight indentation in the subject’s hair where the band comes to rest on the back of her head. And the eyes,” he continued as he took a half step closer, leaned over further until he was bent over double. “You can almost see the way the subject is trying to keep her focus to the front, but cannot help but glance over to where the artist is, or I should say was, out of the corner of her eye.”
It was Megan’s eyes, as well as Barrow’s, that Henry was watching. In hers he could see apprehension giving way to hope, tinged with the satisfaction a student allows herself when she has rendered a correct answer in class. The look in Barrow’s eyes, on the other hand, were at war with his expression, for despite himself, he was being drawn into the mesmerizing allure of the portrait in the same way Tinsdal, Megan, and even he had been.
Completely captivated by the work of art before him, Barrow was all but oblivious to the other people in the room, though he continued to quietly utter a running narrative as he turned his attention from one aspect of the painting to the next. “The artist is left handed,” he proclaimed with certainty, speaking of the person who had created the work as if he were still alive which, in Megan’s mind, he was, for the portrait he had created was there, in front of them. For her it was a living testament, not only to the man’s skills, but to the beauty of the subject, as real and as fresh now as they had been the day when the two had come together to create the piece. “These lines, something most people wouldn’t pay a jot of attention to, are proof of that.” Turning to Henry, Barrow swept the fingers of his left hand an inch away from the lines he was referring to as if holding an invisible brush. “In making these strokes, a left handed artist will go in this direction without giving what he is doing a second thought. A right handed artist, on the other hand, would have great difficulty creating such smooth, evenly spaced lines that angle off in the direction these do.”
Never having paid much attention to the works of art Guy Tinsdal was in the habit of buying on a whim, Henry found Barrow’s observation, as well as what Megan Ellsworth had pointed out to him the day before, fascinating. As a man who appreciated the work of others who were masters at their chosen profession, whether it involved running a global business as effortlessly as Tinsdal did, or possessed the ability to flawlessly execute an operation in the field under the most trying conditions, understanding what separated them from their middling counterparts was important to Henry. While he was of the age where he was being to suspect that he would never be anything more than a high ranking and trusted subordinate, he never passed up the opportunity to learn something new and useful that would allow him better meet the needs and wished of those he served.
“What I find most fascinating about this particular piece, however, is the subject’s hairstyle,” Barrow continued as he turned his attention back to the portrait a moment before glancing over at Megan. “You said it’s called the English Courtesan?”
“That is what the family who have owned it for several centuries claim the proper title is,” Megan replied flatly.
Furrowing his brow, Barrow stepped back as he took to staring at the portrait. “The girl’s hair, even her gown, are not at all what you would expect an English courier to wear. They not only have an unmistakably Italian flavor to them, they are the sort of thing you would expect a member of the nobility to wear.”
For the first time Henry spoke out, putting forth an opinion based on his sketchy understanding of history. “I was always under the impression women who were courtesans dressed in fashions similar to those worn by the people of noble birth or high station.”
Megan took to responding before Barrow had an opportunity to formulate a more biting retort. “While that might have been true in some cases, especially if the woman were a cortigiana onesta, an educated intellectual rather than a cortigiana di lume or common prostitute, few would have bothered to have wasted their time commissioning a portrait such as this one. Besides, the subject of this portrait does not strike me as being a courtesan in the classical sense of the word,” Megan murmured in a hushed, distracted tone as she set aside her teacup, rose from her seat, and made her way over to where Barrow was standing without ever taking her eyes off the portrait. “There’s a shy innocence and modesty you wouldn’t expect to see in a woman who followed that profession.”
As if he were taken aback by how the woman he had mentored was behaving, Barrow turned his attention away from the portrait and took to staring at her. After a long pause, during which his expression ever so slowly morphed from one of confusion to incongruity over the very notion she would interrupt him, Barrow gave his head a quick shake. Then, dismissing what she had said without comment, he did his best to resume his running narrative where he had left off before she and Henry had so rudely interrupted. “Yes, well, be that as it may, as you can see here, the details around the eye are most impressive.”
As impressive as they might have been to Barrow, Henry found his mind wandering as he tuned out what the retired art historian was saying and, instead, took to glancing back and forth between the young woman he was assigned to chaperon and the image of the one in the painting, for the same shy innocence that had struck Megan Ellsworth as being notable was, for him, her most distinguishing features. It was if there was an affinity between the woman who had taken up the challenge of uncovering the truth about the portrait and the very subject of the portrait itself. If that were true, Henry concluded, than finding out all he could about the latter would help him learn all he wished about the former.
“The shading, especially here, along the back of the subject’s neck, is most impressive,” Barrow droned on, never once realizing neither of the woman standing next to him or the man seated across the room were no longer paying any attention to what he was saying.
1539
After dismissing the Italian boy he had entrusted to the old Ukrainian, Lütfi Pasha came to his feet, made his way over to the balcony, and stepped out onto it. Without being told, Tilki knew he was expected to follow. The two stood there for the longest time as the new Grand Vizier gazed out over the opulent courtyard of a palace in which he was now second only to the Sultan himself while the boy’s tutor awaited to hear the man’s decision on how he was to proceed now that he had fulfilled his initial charter.
“You have done well,” Lütfi Pasha declared without bothering to look back at Tilki.
As comforting as those words were, the Ukrainian appreciated the Grand Vizier wasn’t in the habit of spending time personally testing the knowledge of students such as the Italian boy, not without some reason he had yet to reveal.
“Tell me, how is his command of Ukrainian?”
“Though he still betrays a hint of an accent, particularly when being pressed to respond quickly, or it has been a long, trying day and he is tied, the boy’s command of the language is impressive.”
There then followed protracted silence, stirred only by the faint sound of a nightingale’s song. “Can the boy sing?” the Vizier finally asked.
Taken aback by the question, Tilki frowned. “I do not know. It is something I have had no need to delve into.”
Coming about sharply, the Vizier regarded the tutor but for a moment before making his way over to the divan he sat upon when holding court. “You are to teach him songs of your homeland,” he commanded once he was settled.
“What kind of songs?”
“Songs that will bring tears to the eyes of a young woman who longs for a home and family she has not seen for a very long time.”
Like a thunderclap, the old Ukrainian understood all. The diplomatic missions the Italian boy would be sent on did not involve voyages to foreign capitals or meetings here in the place with the representatives of other nations. His purpose in life would be that of worming his way into a world no man worthy of that title was allowed to enter. The boy was to serve as a ambassador through which the newly appointed Grand Vizier would be able to sound out, and perhaps influence Roxelana, the Hürrem Sultan herself who, like Tilki, was a Ukrainian who had been taken from her homeland as a child.
This revelation brought a song to Tilki’s heart, for he was being drawn into in the great games that were played between two of the most important centers of power within the court of Suleiman the Magnificent. Success in preparing the boy properly would be rewarded, failure…
He would not fail, Tilki concluded as he gave his head a quick shake in order to vanish the gruesome images that suddenly flashed before his mind’s eye. The boy would learn to sing like the nightingale perched just below the Vizier’s balcony. Of that, the old Ukrainian was sure as he bowed and slowly backed away from a man who harbored the very real fear his voice would not be heard, drowned out by the whispers of a rival he would never be free to confront.
Standing before the Carriage Gate, Paolo stopped and watched as the young eunuch who often tended to his needs stepped aside. That boy could go no further. Though he was a European like Paolo, when the boy had been castrated he had been left with some semblance of his manhood, a distinction that separated Paolo from the other white eunuchs being trained to serve the Sultan. In the eyes of those who mattered, this made him unsuitable to be of use on this side of the portal that separated the Harem from the rest of the Topkapı Palace. Black sandal, African eunuchs who had had all their genitalia removed were the only males allowed though the Carriage gate, past the Tower of Justice, and into the Harem where countless women lived their entire lives, from the day they were taken through these very gates until they died and were unceremoniously carted away through another few bothered with.
The more he thought about the task Lütfi Pasha had commissioned him with and Tilki had prepared him for, the more Paolo found himself wondering if he was truly ready for what lay behind the ornate gates. What he knew of women was derived solely from the writings of men who spoke of their role in society and, from time to time, brief, fleeting glimpses of those who were invited to attend services in the monastery’s chapel or spied through tiny cracks he and the other boys had found in monastery’s wall that separated them from the world outside. Even that limited exposure to a segment of the human race that was as alien to him as the American Indians Spanish explorers were encountering in the New World did precious little to prepare him for what he expected he would actually find. If anything, it added to the mystery and, in turn, his apprehensions.
The black eunuch who stepped forward to lead Paolo regarded him but for a second. The man’s expression was all Paolo needed to see to know his new guide knew more about him than he did of the world that lay just beyond the gates he stood before and the woman he was being taken to. It’s not that he was totally ignorant of Haseki Hürrem Sultan. There were, after all, no real secrets in the Topkapi Palace, a place where everyone of power and position, as well as those who served them, sought to advance their own position by listening carefully to everything that was said by those they considered to be their rivals or, like Paolo, had come to the attention of the men who were players in the Great Game. That was why, he imagined, the black eunuch he was following had taken the time to study him. The man, such as he was, was doubtlessly curious as to what he was doing there. For his part Paolo had no need to ask such a foolish question. As it had been at the monastery, he was nothing but a pawn being moved about by a man he was beholden to.
The slow, deliberate pace with which they proceeded, mirroring the way everything within the walls of the palace was done, gave Paolo’s imagination an opportunity to run riot. Despite the moniker Hürrem, which in Turkish meant the laughing one, the woman also known as Roxelana he was being taken to was held in great awe by those who revered her and feared by her many enemies. Paolo understood there was good reason why men like the Grand Vizier distrusted a woman who had been taken by raiders, much as he had been, sold in a slave market, and brought here to the Harem. In what was for the Turk a shockingly short period of time, she had risen from being little more than an odalisque, an ordinary female slave, to being one of the most influential advisors to the Sultan. Not only had she been able to convince Suleiman to break two hundred years of tradition by marrying her, the former Ukrainian slave had usurped control of the Harem from the Sultan’s own mother, stunning the empire’s ruling elite by convincing him to send both his mother and his first born son off to a distant province, thus demonstrating the totality of her power and influence for all to see. Because of this, Paolo was able to discount the stated reason Lütfi Pasha was sending him to her. Merely amusing the Haseki Hürrem Sultan with folk songs and music was something any number of slave girls could do far better than he ever would be able to. His true mission on this day, the boy concluded as he waited to be led into the room where he was expected to perform, was as opaque as the delicately fashioned lattice work that was found throughout the palace, beautiful works of art used by those who wished to observe without being observed.
Despite being painstakingly groomed by his tutor and an entire troop of music teachers to make the subterfuge Lütfi Pasha was counting on credible, nothing during his training leading up to this moment had prepared him for what he found as the door to the room he had been led to was finally opened and he stepped forward into the light.
It was a library, but unlike any library Paolo had seen before, either in Italy or here, within the Palace. Books and scrolls were not crammed together on dark shelves reaching up to the ceilings with little regard to their relative importance. Instead, manuscripts with covers as ornate and colorful as the art that graced the walls of the room were carefully arranged in small groups on low tables, or sat nestled in alabaster alcoves as if each was being accorded the respect it so richly deserved. It took all of Paolo’s considerable will power to set aside his wish to examine several works that caught his eye and focus on the reason he had been brought there. It was during this struggle that his eyes fell upon Roxelana.
Nothing could have prepared him for this moment. While the scene before him bore some similarities to the manner with which he had been introduced to Lütfi Pasha, there was no comparing the two. The woman was seated before a tall window open to the sun, allowing the morning breeze that caught her unbound coppery red hair and causing it to gently flutter and glow as if aflame as she casually leafed through a book in her lap.
Paolo stood there spell bounded. All the salutations he had been taught and rehearsed until he had thought them second nature were forgotten as he gazed upon the woman whose calm expression and self-satisfied smile spoke of a tranquility so at odds with the power and influence all on the other side of the Carriage Gate attributed to her. Only when she looked up from her page and fixed him in a steady, penetrating gaze that caused his heart to skip a beat was he able to recall the instructions his tutor had drilled him in. Dropping to his knees, he did his best to recover from his momentary lapse as he paid obeisance to the most powerful woman in the world.
Everything about the boy before her, from the way his eyes had lit up on entering her library, to the desperate struggle he was in the throws of as he stumbled his way through a greeting he’d been taught by rote brought a small smile Roxelana’s lips. Unable to stick to the script she had been adhering to up until that moment, she set aside her original thoughts on how to manage this new ploy the Grand Vizier had introduced to the game of power he had foolishly entered into and instead, beckoned him to rise.
When the young boy with hair as red as hers and downcast blue eyes that shone as brightly as sapphires stood, Roxelana found herself inexplicably dumbstruck, recovering her pose only when she saw the way his eyes flickering towards the book on her lap. With the same unhesitant decisiveness she relied on to navigate the political maze that lay at the center of the world’s greatest empire, Roxelana took to chartering a new course for the gift that had unexpectedly fallen into her lap. “Come child, I would have you read to me.”
Paolo paused uncertainly. His mission, as he had been told repeatedly, was to sing and entertain the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, not read to her. Yet, as he looked into her eyes, he found he could not ignore the woman. It was not her title or the power she wielded that caused him to abandon his charter without a second thought. Rather, it was the kindly smile he saw on her lips, the inviting gaze with which she held him, and the book being held out towards him.
Hesitantly he received the book from her hand, noting the beautifully tooled leather binding of the cover and the milky white paper on which it had been printed. He scanned the page that Roxelana’s finger had held open, instantly recognizing the work with a surge of excitement as Machiavelli’s ‘Dell'Arte della Guerra’, a book he knew the monks would never have allowed to grace their shelves.
“Sit child,” Roxelana commanded in a way that did not come across as being such. Again it was the small smile that caught his attention and compelled him to obey without hesitation as Roxelana patted a pile of cushions at her feet.
Once settle, Paolo started to read aloud, his clear, sweet voice at odds with the dry military discourse. Occasionally Roxelana interrupted to asked for his views on the ideas that Machiavelli had proposed.
Paolo was at first dumbstruck, shocked that anyone would bother to ask his opinion on this, or anything else, let alone solicit it. At first he was took his time as he weighted his answers, searching for what he hoped was one that would please the enchanting woman before him. Only when she accepted each response he rendered with little more than a reflective nod did his answers come more readily and with greater honesty.
For her part Roxelana found she was content to simply allow the boy to revel in the joy he felt for the text he was reciting even as her mind took to weaving possible uses for the clever child the Vizier had so thoughtful delivered into her hands.
Having become so lost in a book he had never read before, Paolo barely noticed the lengthening shadows creeping across the pages before him until he found himself straining the read. With a start, Paolo looked over his shoulder toward the window behind them. Upon seeing the sun dropping behind the palace walls, he panicked. Hastily he slammed the book shut and set it aside before dropping to his knees once more, apologizing as he did. “My lady, I beg you, forgive my presumption and neglectfulness. I was ordered to entertain you.”
“You did, child,” Roxelana murmured softly as a small secret smile lit lips. “Your efforts this afternoon were far more delightful than the maudlin songs I expect you were tutored in by the servants of your master.”
In that instant Paolo realized that she not only knew exactly what the Lufti Pasha had planned, she understood far better than he the game that was being played.
“You will return to me tomorrow, here, in the library, and read, should you wish it,” she continued as this realization took hold.
She watched, quietly amused, as the shock and longing that warred with each other was betrayed by child’s unchecked expression. It was obvious to her no one had ever bothered to given him an opportunity to chose before. This appreciation was the key she would use to bind him to her.
Paolo’s reply, when he was finally able to make one, was little more than a whisper. “I would like nothing more than to serve you, my lady.”
“Good.” Roxelana declared crisply before coming to her feet as the last slivers of the sun once again caught her hair to set it ablaze in copper and gold. She paused when she saw the boy was still on his knees, staring up at her as if lost in a trance. A raised, quizzical brow caused him to avert his gaze. Once more his voice was little more than a gentle whisper. “Forgive me, my lady for staring so, but your hair, it’s… beautiful.”
Surprised and delighted at the child’s heartfelt compliment, Roxelana laughed, a liquid chime of pleasure that amply showed why she had been given the moniker ‘the laughing one.’
“And so is yours little red, so is yours,” she proclaimed brightly as she reached out and playfully ruffled his own coppery curls affectionately.
With so many thoughts swirling about in his head, sleep was not possible that night. His attempt to lose himself in the books and manuscripts he was allowed to keep in his well appointed chamber proved to be just as futile. Unable to remain in bed, tossing and turning, or sit for more than a few minutes at a desk piled high with books, Paolo took to pacing, going over in his head, again and again, the events that had led up to a most troubling day and the way it had played out.
Stopping in front of an open window that overlooked one of the many gardens scattered throughout the palace’s grounds, Paolo gazed up at the waxing moon that shone brightly in the clear night sky, then down at the garden below. Its light, though pale and weak in comparison to the sun that would soon banish it from sight, made all it fell upon clearly visible. It was the shadows created by the brightly lit trees and scrubs that drew his attention, for they were a perfect analogy for the way the men who had thus far dominated his life went about manipulating him in much the same way a master plays a pawn in chess. That which is so clearly visible in the inescapable brilliance of the moon’s light hid what lay behind it in an impenetrable darkness. That the Haseki Hürrem Sultan also used the brilliance that was as natural to her as that cast off by the moon to hide her true purposes had become painfully obvious to Paolo in the short time he had spent with her.
The question Paolo found himself returning to as he once more looked up at the moon, was how best to respond to the way he was being played by both a woman who was tempting him and a man who, for the moment, held dominion over him. Only slowly did it begin to dawn on the boy that the answer actually lay in the question itself. For when the dawn of a new day began to make its presence known, casting aside the shadows that had hidden so much from him, Paolo began to appreciate he was no longer a hapless waif adrift on a storm tossed sea, blown hither and yon by forces he had no control over.
As he took to rolling out his prayer rug and kneeling upon it, rather than muttering words that had little meaning to him to a God who had brought nothing but misery and pain to him, Paolo began to plot how he could turn the opportunity that was now within his grasp to his advantage. It would be dangerous to play the Grand Vizier off against the Haseki Hürrem Sultan by doing his best to create the illusion he was bending to the wishes of each. Of course, doing nothing, simply allowing others to push and pull him about in whatever direction they wished in order to serve their purpose had proven to be no less dangerous. At least if he failed, he finally concluded as he touched his head to the floor as he had been taught by an imam who was as uncompromising in his demands that he bend to the will of the scriptures he put his faith into as Brother Dominic had been, his demise would be the result of decisions he had had a hand in making. For if Paolo had learned nothing else from his studies of Machiavelli, it was that a man was either a hammer or a nail. Having endured the poundings of others for as long as he could remember, he decided the time had come for him to become the driving force in his life.
Historical Notes;
Roxelana, also known as Hürrem Sultan, was the favorite and later the chief consort and legal wife of Ottoman Sultant Suleiman the Magnificent. She became one of the most powerful and influential women in Ottoman history and a prominent and controversial figure during the era known as the Sultanate of the Women, influencing the politics of the Ottoman Empire through her husband and playing an active role in state affairs of the Empire.
Present Day
Megan was livid, and rightly so, when she found out Hackett had invited another art historian to look at the portrait and render an opinion on it without first discussing the matter with her. Storming into his office with all the fury and rage of a rogue North Sea wave, she marched up to Henry who had come to his feet and moved out from behind his desk. “It was my understanding that I was setting the agenda,” she growled as she all but shoved her face into his.
Rather than recoiling, Henry was both pleased and more than a little amused by the young woman’s antics, for up to that point he had viewed her as being a wee bit too timid and callow. The sudden burst of anger he was being treated to gave him hope there was far more to her than he had thus far seen.
Never having worked with a man like him, Megan was taken aback by his response to the righteous indignation she felt over the way he had gone behind her back. Unable to think of something to say that would wipe the smirk off his face, she found herself having to settle for simply glaring into his eyes for a long moment before pivoting about sharply on her heels and marching to the small conference room where she had first seen the portrait that had since been set aside as an impromptu office for her use. Once there she all but threw herself in a chair, crossed her arms tightly across her chest, and took to muttering to herself under her breath. While Henry, who had followed her at a safe distance, could not make out what she was saying, he had no doubt they paled in comparison to what his squaddies tossed his way whenever he was passing out orders they were not thrilled to hear.
The silence that followed once Megan had managed to rein in her anger continued until Henry’s assistant entered the room, followed by a tall, raven haired woman in her early fifties. The woman, impeccably attired in a black designer dress tastefully trimmed with a white rolled collar open at the neck and white French cuffs affected a warm, heartfelt smile the second she saw Henry. “Enrico, you scoundrel. How wonderful to see you again,” she purred huskily as she opened her arms and drew him into a hug, during which she kissed his cheek.
“As always, the pleasure is all mine, dear Silvia,” he replied in a suggestive manner that caused the woman’s eyes to twinkle in a way that led Megan to believe the two of them had been intimate. This supposition was reinforced when she gave one of the arms she was still holding a light, playful tap before stepping back and turning her attention to the portrait he had set out on a desktop easel.
“Ah, now I see why you invited me to that dreadfully room you insist on calling an office,” she declared as she made her way to the table and took a moment to study the portrait from afar. “Guy has taken on another lover.”
“Yes, yes he has. A very mysterious one, I might add.”
Rather than respond, and paying no heed to the younger woman across the room who was wearing an expression that reminded her of a spoilt child, Silvia Mollini settled into the seat Tinsdal usually occupied that Henry had placed before the portrait. Reaching out, she ever so carefully lifted the portrait off the tabletop easel and took to reverently holding it at arms distance. Gone was the smile that came as easily to her as the natural beauty that caused men of all ages to stop and watch as she glided along as if walking on air. In its place was an expression that told Henry she was, for the moment, lost to the world. It was the same expression Megan had worn when she first laid eyes on the portrait, a cool, unflinching focus that told him Silva was carefully studying every detail of the portrait, clicking off items from a mental checklist one by one.
Shock, followed by the painfully familiar apprehension Megan always experienced when someone from her past suddenly reentered her life slowly morphed into curiosity as she began to wonder not only what woman was thinking, but how she was going about evaluating the piece, for unlike her mentor, the comely Italian woman was keeping her own council. It was during this silent interlude that the last of the ire she had met Henry’s announcement that he had asked another art historian to render an opinion on the portrait was replaced by an appreciation he not only had every right to do so, not to have had a second opinion from someone he and Tinsdal knew and trusted before going any further would have been foolish. That they were able to call upon Silvia Mollini, the curator of the art gallery that was part of the Sforza Castle Museum in Milan and a guest lecturer on Renaissance art at major universities throughout Europe impressed Megan, doing much to take the sting out of the slight she felt Henry was guilty of.
It was close to an hour before another word was spoken. After drawing in a deep breath, Silvia tenderly replaced the portrait on the easel, rose, and went over to where Henry had taken a seat, never once looking away from it.
Coming to his feet, Henry waited until the woman was before him and, with greater effort than such a simple act required, tore her eyes off of the portrait and gazed up into his. “I shall like to think on this,” she murmured in a voice that told him her mind was elsewhere. Then, after giving her head a quick shake, the same smile she had been wearing when she entered the room returned. “Perhaps over dinner?”
The grin with which he replied, and the way he took her hand to his lips and lightly kissed it told Megan the two had shared a history that had nothing to do with art. “Seven?” he asked cocking a brow.
“You forget, my dear Enrico, I am very Italian. Eight.”
Unable to help himself, Henry snickered, reminding Megan of the way the wolf behaved in childhood stories. “Eight it is.”
“You could have at least told me who this outside consultant was before she showed up,” Megan snipped as she and Henry sipped their wine while waiting for Silvia to arrive.
“Would it have made any difference if I had?” he countered without skipping a beat.
The temptation to reply that it would have was checked by an appreciation that not only would it be a lie, the man seated across from her was the kind of person who would know it was. If they were to establish an effective working relationship, Megan concluded, she would have to be honest and open, attributes she had learned after joining the staff at the National Gallery were all too often in short supply among the art historians on the staff, each of whom jealously guarded the tiny fiefdoms they had staked out for themselves. With that thought in mind, she took to staring at her wineglass as she spoke. “All I ask of you is that in the future you discuss any thoughts over how we should proceed before you up and spring something like you did this afternoon.”
“Fair enough,” Henry replied smoothly. Then, as he was taking up his glass, he continued in a most casual, nonchalant manner. “Provided, of course, it’s determined there’s a there there and we do go ahead with this snipe hunt.”
Caught off guard by his response, Megan glanced up at Henry in surprise. She was about to say something when Silvia Mollini appeared at the table as if by magic. “I am so sorry, Enrico, but I have forgotten just how awful traffic in this city of yours is at this time of night.”
Coming to his feet, the two greeted each other with a hug and a kiss on his cheek before Henry grasped the back of a chair between he and Megan, pulled it out, and waited for the woman to take her seat before bending over and whispering in her ear loud enough for Megan to hear. “You cannot fool me, my love. I’ve spent far too much time in Milan to know relying on traffic as an excuse to justify your tardiness is nothing more than a cover to explain away all the time you waste sitting at your vanity, trying to improve upon perfection.”
For a brief moment Megan caught a glimpse of a girlish twinkle in the woman’s eyes and a hint of color rising in her cheeks. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were replaced by an expression that showcased the woman’s timeless beauty an artist like Leonardo would have had difficulty capturing.
When she noticed how the young woman who was seated to her right was studying her, Silva smiled even as she was offering Megan her hand. “I do not think we have been introduced. I am…”
Suddenly aware of how she had been staring, the blush on her cheeks and the haste with which she took the woman’s hands betrayed her embarrassment. “Yes, I know, Signora Mollini. I had the privilege of attending your lectures when you were at Oxford several years ago.”
“Ah, bene!” Then, with a slight tilt of her head, the woman took to regarding Megan with a stare that caused her to become noticeably uncomfortable.
“I like to pride myself in never forgetting a student of mine,” Silvia murmured. “Unfortunately, I am sorry to say I cannot recall your name.”
The idea of telling the woman she was seated next to she had been quite different then quickly flashed through Megan’s mind, but was just as quickly dismissed as she took her hand, returned the light squeeze she felt, and swiftly withdrew it. “Megan, Megan Ellsworth.”
Having watched this exchange, Henry rushed in to fill in the awkward silence that followed by turning toward Silvia. “Well, shell we eat first and then discuss your thoughts on me lordship’s latest acquisition?”
“You have changed, my love,” Silvia purred seductively as she lightly toyed with her wineglass. “There once was a time when your priorities were, um, shell we say quite different.”
Megan was not at all surprised that the man she was condemned to be joined at the hip with was not in the least bit unsettled by the way the woman had answered. He was, she had already concluded, someone who was quite adept at keeping his thoughts and feelings to himself, a trait she was quite familiar with.
While they waited in the lounge of the hotel Silvia Mollini was staying at for her to return to her room to retrieve her notes, Henry felt the need to justify his decision to ask Silvia to render an opinion on the portrait before going any further now that he and the young art historian were speaking to each other again. “In addition to taking care of some of the little chores Guy does not have the time to tend to himself, part of my charter is to root about into the background of people, companies, and properties that come to his attention in order to keep him from investing in a venture that is not in his best interests, might prove to be a monetary black hole, or result in the sort of bad press a man like the boss does not cared for.”
Suspecting she already knew the answer, Megan didn’t bother asking the self assured man seated across him if he consider his current assignment as one of those afore mentioned little chores. Nor did she expect she needed to ask if he had been rooting around in her background. He didn’t strike her as the sort who would simply salute, come about, and madly charge off after being given an order. As she was taking a sip of her drink, she regarded him with the same penetrating gaze he was doing his best to keep her from seeing. No doubt, she imagined, behind the urbane facade he presented to the world there was a cold, calculating mind that saw all and betrayed little. Instead, she turned her attention to finding out how he had come to know a woman who was as renowned in the art world as Silvia Mollini was.
By way of response, he snickered to himself as he paused a moment to stare down into his drink as if recalling a scene from his past. Then, peeking up at Megan out of the corner of his eye, he grinned. “A gentleman does not go about making all his secrets public, particularly when they involve a woman like Silvia. You of all people should appreciate that.”
Megan was still trying to parse exactly what he meant by his last statement when Silvia came up to where they were seated. As before, Henry sprang to his feet. “Would you care for a drink before we get started?” he asked as she was settling in.
“Of course, dear boy,” she cooed breathlessly as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes while sporting a mischievous smile. “The usual will do nicely, I think.”
“Your wish is my command,” he replied as he bowed deeply, took up her hand, and lightly kissed it.
To Megan’s surprise, instead of beckoning for the waitress who had been tending them to come over to their table, he headed over to the bar. The reason for this became clear the moment he was gone, for Silvia turned her full attention on her. “I have been told you are one of Clive Barrow’s’ star protégées.”
“Was,” Megan corrected the woman. “He retired last autumn.”
“Ah! I hadn’t heard.” After tilting her head slight as she gave this bit of news some thought, Silvia eased back in her seat and fixed Megan with a steady, unflinching stare. “Now that he has so much free time on his hands, I expect the poor dear has set about finishing that book he has been working on for, oh, the past ten, fifteen years now.”
Whether the woman’s comment had been meant as a slight didn’t matter in the least bit. To Megan it was a put down, for everyone who knew Barrow was familiar with his efforts to write a book on the history of art in the Western world that would, as he himself often proclaimed, be his legacy. That he had never gotten much beyond sketching out a rough outline led those who were Megan’s peers at the National gallery to openly joke about the Prof’s Magnus Opus in waiting.
Eager to put any ill thoughts Silvia’s comment had evoked behind her, Megan turned to asking her how she and Hackett had met. This question was met with a shy smile as she averted her eyes. “It was actually quite funny,” she murmured.
“What was funny?” Henry asked as he came up behind her with her drink and a fresh round for Megan and himself.
“I was about to tell this young woman how you all but stumbled on me that night in Venice during carnival.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Henry replied in a playfully menacing tone as he was handing her the drink. “I would be very cross with you if you were to share that story with another.”
“Oh, as if you haven’t already done so, countless times I imagine, with your chums in the regimental mess or some other ghastly place where boys such as yourself gather in order to tell tall tales of their latest conquests.”
“Hmm, yes, well, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether,” he muttered as he was taking his seat. “We do need something to talk about as we go about getting merrily sotted.”
Listening in on this playful, sexually charged banter left Megan feeling like a voyeur watching two lovers engage in foreplay. As embarrassing as it was to sit there in silence as the two carried on as if she were not there, the young self-conscious art historian found herself intrigued by the way a woman who was at the panicle of her profession was able to engage in such an exchange with what struck Megan as total abandon and joy.
When she noticed the way Megan was watching them, and deciding she and Henry had had as much fun as she cared for at the moment, Silvia took a sip of her drink before setting it down, and took to leafing through the notes she had laid out before her if for no other reason than to collect her thoughts. Only when she was ready did she turn toward the young woman whose cheeks were tinted with a charming shade of red brought on by embarrassment. After fixing Megan with a stare that alerted her she was ready to settle down to the business at hand, she began to speak with a tone of voice that was unmistakably authoritative without coming across as being patronizing. “I can say without any doubt that the portrait is not by Leonardo.”
Her statement caused Megan to flinch, for Henry had made it clear when he had informed her he had engaged an outside consultant to render an opinion on the piece he had not shared with that person the hope Tinsdal held that the piece had been painted by da Vinci.
Unable to keep from doing so, Silvia allowed herself a hint of a smirk before continuing. “While there is no disputing the artist’s technique is most masterful, and the subject bares a striking resemblance to Leonardo’s La Bella Principessa, it was not painted by him. I would stake my reputation on that conclusion.”
For a woman who was a renounced connoisseur of art to pass such a definitive judgment on the portrait was far more devastating to Megan than she had thought it would be, causing her to wonder if she, like Guy Tinsdal and Clive Barrow, had been so swept away by their hopes that she had lost the ability to see something that wasn’t there. While Tinsdal’s error on this matter could be easily excused, those of her former mentor could not. He was, after all, a man who had spent his entire life dedicated to unearthing and preserving the true history of the works of art given over to his care.
Appreciating the impact her statement had had on the young art historian seated across from her, Silvia hastened to soften the blow by pointing out the portrait was not without merit. “To find such a piece, one that rivals the skill of the Master himself is of great importance. Such an artist had to have done more than simply study da Vinci’s work. I would not be surprised if he stood at Leonardo’s shoulder as he was at work, listening to him describe each and every brush stoke he was making and why it was so important to the piece. Not only would it be worth the effort and expense it would take to find out who this unknown genius was, the chance of finding other works of his we have not yet identified, pieces that, if found, would hold a place of honor among the greatest of the great would be an occasion to celebrate. Were I not otherwise engaged, I would leap at the opportunity to join you in such a quest. Since I cannot, I will do what I can to share with you my thoughts on this piece, assist you when I can, and put you in contact with people who you need to show this work to.”
Buoyed by what she was hearing, Megan took advantage of this opportunity to listen to a woman who was more than ready to give her what amounted to a personalized, one-on-one master class in art history.
As he often did at times like this, Henry eased back in his seat and faded into the background, listening to a woman he knew so very well lovingly share her knowledge with another he had set his mind to knowing better.
1540
It did not take very long for the odalisques who tended to the Haseki Hürrem Sultan to take a keen interest in the most unusual boy their mistress was spending an ever increasing amount of time with. They curiosity led to a desire to learn all they could about him. It began innocently enough one day when Paolo was met at the Carriage Gate by a young fair-haired girl instead of the black eunuch. “I shall take you to the Haseki Hürrem,” the girl declared brightly in Turkish with an accent that betrayed her Hungarian origins. “I am called Ceren,” she informed Paolo as they made their way through the Harem. Having become fascinated by the manner with which slaves were named, he could not help but compare the girl’s name, which in Turkish meant gazelle. Graced with a slim, graceful figure, made all the more obvious by the litheness with which she moved. He could easily see how she had earned that moniker.
At first Ceren did nothing more than meet Paolo at the Carriage Gate, lead him to the room where he was either free to study on his own or spend time with the Haseki Hürrem Sultan when she was not otherwise occupied. With an ever increasing frequency which Paolo did not take note of, the same girl appeared as if by magic whenever there was the need to tend to a minor errant for the Haseki Hürrem while he was there, bring refreshments or fetching a book that was not readily at hand. Both the girl’s cheerful nature, pleasing demeanor, and openness soon led to brief, spirited exchanges between the two as she was escorting Paolo about the haram, during which she referred to him using the same moniker Roxelana did, Alev Yanan Saç, or, more often than not, simply Alev.
Whereas Paolo was always on his guard when in the presence of the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, reminding himself constantly of the great game she and the Grand Vizier were engaged in which he was but minor player, the time he spent with Ceren was most enjoyable. She was quickly becoming something he had not had in a very long time, a friend, a person he enjoyed being with who was not interested in using him to further some personal or political agenda. What little time they did have together, mostly when she was leading him to and fro, was spent engaging in light banter, touching upon seemingly trivial matters of no great importance and gossip that was, none-the-less, of great interest to Paolo, for they acted as a counterweight to the great issues and topics Roxelana dwelt on when he was with her.
That he was being skillfully steered onto a carefully plotted course by the graceful fair-haired young Hungarian girl never dawned upon Paolo. Not even when she started taking him to a room where she and other odalisques gathered when not needed rather than taking him straight back to the Carriage Gate at the end of the day did he suspect there was more at play than a simple desire on Ceren’s part to spend more time with him chatting.
At first Paolo felt apprehensive and decidedly ill at ease in the presence of Ceren and other women who served the needs of the Haseki Hürrem. While he did not know where, exactly, he belonged within the highly regulated structure that governed life within the Topkapi Palace, he suspected it was not where Ceren was taking him. What kept him from refusing to follow along the path the enchanting Hungarian girl was ever so skillfully leading him along was twofold.
Foremost was a very human need to emotionally and spiritually connect with someone, a need she was ever so carefully cultivating without truly appreciating what she was doing or taking the time to consider the consequences of her actions. Not that it would have mattered if she had, for Paolo eagerly embraced her friendship. It was unlike any he had ever had before. On those rare occasions when he took the time to reflect upon his growing relationship with the girl, the boy who did not know his parents found he was unable to keep from seizing every chance to enjoy a friendship he was fast beginning to cherish that came his way.
Yet just as important as this was, the opportunity to spend time with females who were not much older than he, studying their ways and manners with the same focused attention to detail he applied to the texts Haseki Hürrem enticed him with was irresistible for a boy with a voracious appetite for knowledge. There was nothing untoward or unseemly about this curiosity. The years he spent cloistered away in a monastery, isolated from women and their ways all but made this desire to learn all he could about them while he could inevitable. Surprisingly absent was the idea of treating Ceren, or any of the women he came in contact with as Brother Dominic had with him was, to Paolo, repulsive for a child who had come to believe love as depicted by the poets was but a fantasy, a cruel stratagem used to lure naïve young girls into engaging in brutal acts no different than those he had experienced at the hands of a man who claimed to be a devoted servant of God.
Well aware of the power she had over the Italian boy all within the Harem had taken to calling Alev, and with a skill that mimicked that which she saw other girls using to endear themselves to Haseki Hürrem, Ceren took to enticing and beguiling him. Her reason for doing so began innocently enough. Like all young girls coming of age, she wished to practice the charms she would need to use in order to advance her position both in the Harem and, God willing, the Sultan himself just as Haseki Hürrem had. It was her mistress, a woman who prided herself in seizing ever opportunity that came her way, who turned Ceren’s budding friendship with Paolo and the girl’s wish to put her feminine wiles to the test to her advantage.
Relying on the same beguiling subtleness with which she had used to seduce the Sultan and achieve influence within the Empire that was, for a woman, unheard of, Haseki Hürrem encouraged Ceren to foster a closer, more caring relationship with Paolo. She was wise enough to leave it up to the young Hungarian girl as to how she would do so. Not that Ceren had any need for detailed instructions. Already fascinated by the solemn Italian boy, a child so very different than anyone she had ever known, Ceren eagerly took up this challenge.
“I have been told you have a beautiful singing voice,” she declared one afternoon as she was leading him to the room where the odalisques gathered.
Unable to help himself, Paolo blushed, more out of shame than modesty, for in his eyes his voice was a curse that had led to his castration, an act that condemned him to a life that would always be separate and apart from others.
Taking advantage of what she took to be a sudden bout of shyness, Ceren latched onto Paolo’s arm, slowed her pace, and turned to face him. Leaning forward until her lips were but inches from his ear, she cooed wistfully. “I would love to hear it.”
Already unnerved the girl’s behavior and her proximity, Paolo to agree, if for no other reason than to move past this most awkward moment. “Yes, if it would please you,” he stuttered as his cheeks burned with an intensity that betrayed his discomfort.
Pleased with herself for reasons he could not fathom, Ceren smiled brightly. “This will be great fun,” she exclaimed gaily as she tugged at his arm and quickened her pace, all but dragging him on.
Having come to view singing as a cruse that had led Brother Dominic to mutilate him in a manner that still haunted him at night, Paolo was far less enthusiastic than his friend. It was a feeling he clung to until he saw the effect he was having on the gathering of odalisques Ceren had hurriedly assembled to listen to the songs Tilki had taught him that the Haseki Hürrem had never heard. Seated upon satin cushions or languidly draped across plush divans, each and every one of the young girls listened attentively to Paolo as he sang.
When he was finished with the song, one that spoke of a young peasant girl who was bidding her family and former life farewell forever, the girls erupted in a chorus of pleasing oohs and aahs before imploring him to sing another. Caught up in the moment, and not wishing to disappoint his friend who had taken to appealing to him with her enchanting eyes, he gave into their piteous pleas and sang another song, then another, and another until, without knowing it, the sun had settled in the west and night had fallen.
Only when he realized the shadows had grown long and one of the girls had felt the need to light a candle did Paolo realized he had far overstayed his visit. Leaping to his feet, he frantically took to glancing about the room as if trying to determine how best to escape. “I must go,” he blurted to Ceren.
Doing her best to appear to be as caught off guard by the lateness of the hour as Paolo was, Ceren blinked, then gave her head a quick shake as she turned her gaze toward a window behind Paolo. “The sun has already set,” she exclaimed doing her best to sound as if she was as startled by this sudden realization as Paolo was. “The gate will be closed.”
Stunned, Paolo stared at her for the longest time before he was able to find his voice and asked how he would get back to his own apartment.
“You can’t,” one of the older girls replied with a knowing snicker as her eyes darted from Paolo, to Ceren, and then back to him. “It would seem you have no choice but to stay here, with us.” The urge to add, ‘where you belong,’ was tempered by an appreciation that revelation was one the Haseki Hürrem Sultan would wish to make known to a boy they all knew as Alev herself when she saw fit to do so.
Like a cat creping cautiously into a room it had not been in before, Paolo eased into the outer chamber of the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s personal apartments, a place he had visited before, but not dressed as he was at the moment. As difficult as it had been to make himself comfortable in the small apartment Ceren had led him to the night before, the manner with which she had treated him that very morning was as puzzling as it was disconcerting.
Upon entering the room where he’d spent a sleepless night, Ceren clapped her hands. “Come,” she chirped brightly. “We must bath and dress for the day.”
The word ‘We’ rang in Paolo’s ear like a warning bell. Not knowing if it had been nothing more than a slip of the girl’s tongue, or if she really meant she and he were going to bath together was a question still running through his mind when Ceren held up a silk robe and ordered him to remove the dressing gown she had given him the night before to sleep in. “If we do not hurry, we shall be late. The Haseki Hürrem Sultan wishes to see you this morning.”
Paolo’s concern turned to shock, for he had never before been brought to the Harem in the morning, a time of day that had been set aside for his religious education. Even more disconcerting was a sudden realization that the Haseki Hürrem knew he was there, in the Harem. Did she know he had been there all night, he wondered? She had to, he concluded as he Ceren stepped up before him and placed a gentle hand against his smooth, unblemished cheek her eyes met his. “There is no need to be shy,” she cooed in a soothing manner he had become accustomed to. “You are among friends.”
All thoughts of what was about to transpire disappeared as he returned Ceren’s gaze, one that told him nothing leading up to this moment had been an accident. The girl before him, a person whom he had assumed had been nothing more than a kindred spirit, was but another player in the great game he had become a part of.
The look on the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s face when she entered the room and saw him told Paolo all he needed to know. She seemed to be pleased to see him standing there dressed in a manner that was no different than her other odalisques.
The Haseki Hürrem Sultan was more than pleased as she studied Alev. From the scent of the same floral fragrance many of her odalisques preferred, to the delicate manner with which Alev’s eyes were lined and lips colored was most becoming. His appearance, as well as his shy, submissive demeanor confirmed a supposition that had taken root not longer after she had met the most unusual boy before her. Yes, she told herself as she took a seat on a divan and indicated with a pat of her hand the lovely creature dressed in ornately embroidered trousers and chemise of the finest linen was to take a seat next to her.
Obediently, Paolo stepped up before the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, who had taken up the same book she had had him reading from the day before, and stopped. With his head bowed low and his gaze averted in a vain effort to hide his shame, he simply stood there waiting for her to look up at him again.
When she did and saw the child’s expression, the Haseki Hürrem set the book on her lap aside. “You are troubled by this?’ she asked as if surprised by his hesitancy.
Lifting his eyes without raising his head, Paolo gazed into the woman’s eyes before asking the question that had been swirling about in his head all morning. “Why?”
The child’s plaintive tone and downcast expression demanded a serious answer, one the Haseki Hürrem was prepared to render with a question of her own. “Tell me, where do you belong?” she asked him while regarding him with a penetrating gaze.
Not know what was behind her question, Paolo took a moment to weigh his response before replying with one he hoped was safe. “I am but an instrument of Allah, the most merciful. My life is in his hands.”
The Haseki Hürrem was not at all disappointed in child’s answer, for it showed he was able to think under circumstances that would have rattled a lesser being. After taking a moment to stifle a smirk, she once more asked him the same question. “Where do you belong?”
Having failed to satisfy the woman before him with a stock reply that would have brought a smile to the face of the imam who was responsible for his religious education, Paolo decided to go with the obvious. “I belong with my tutor, in the apartments set aside for the boys being trained to serve the Sultan.”
This time Roxelana made no effort to check her smile as she reached out and took Paolo’s hands in hers. Rising from the divan she had been seated upon, she guided him toward a mirror on the far side of the room. Maneuvering him about until he was standing before it and she, behind him with her hands on his shoulders, the Haseki Hürrem asked him the same question for a third time. “Where do you belong?”
This time Paolo thought long and hard before he answered as he took his time to study the image he saw in the mirror as he reflected upon a question he had often asked himself, the very same one the Haseki Hürrem Sultan had put to him. Where did he belong?
Only when she judged she had given the child sufficient time to dwell on her question did she return to the divan, child in hand. Once seated, she peered up into Paolo’s downcast eyes. “I expect by now you have come to the conclusion you will never be anything more than a pawn the Grand Vizier sends forth to draw me out and to those who serve him, an oddity, someone they do not see as an equal despite the promise you have amply demonstrated to all who have bothered to take the time to engage you in conversation.”
The Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s words struck Paolo with a forcefulness that caused him to look up into her eyes. Perhaps for the first time he came to appreciate she not only understood the great game in which he was but a piece, being moved back and forth between her and the Grand Vizier, she knew of the underlying tensions that existed between him and the other boys who resented the preferential treatment he was being showed with, treatment they felt was not only unwarranted, but wasted on someone who was as flawed as he was. While he had little doubt he could survive shuttling back and forth between the twin pillars of power that stood at the center of the Ottoman Empire, providing information to each about the activities and intentions of the other, it was a game that was as odious and stressful to him as it was dangerous. Besides, Paolo concluded, simply seeking to survive in a world bereft of roots or the sense that those around him cared for him as a person held little hope or the promise of a better day.
Coming to his feet, he walked back to the mirror the Haseki Hürrem had stood him before and took to carefully studying his image. Was this so bad, he asked himself? Would giving himself over to the wishes of the Haseki Hürrem Sultan be intolerable? No, he finally concluded as he thought back to where he had come from and of parents whose names he didn’t even know.
Drawing in a deep breath, Alev, for he now knew it was she, and not a forlorn little boy who had once sought refuge in a library, that held the key to his future.
Coming about briskly, Alev made her way back to the divan, settled down next to the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, and took up the book she had set aside. Opening to where she had left off the day before, Alev began to read, keenly aware of the self satisfied smile on the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s face.
Never having stayed at a hotel such as the Hotel du Louvre while visiting Paris, or any other city for that matter, Megan found herself unable to tear herself away from the window of her corner suite, one that overlooked the Rue de Rivoli and, less then a hundred feet from where she was standing, the Louvre itself. Whether she’d been given this room to impress her, or people who worked for Guy Tinsdal expected this degree of luxury whenever they were traveling abroad on business did not matter. She intended to relish this rare opportunity for as long as she could. That doing so would have to wait until later was unfortunate, but necessary. “Business before pleasure,” she sighed wistfully to herself as she took to going over the day’s agenda in her mind.
The first order of business was a visit to the Louvre where she and Hackett were scheduled to meet with the curator of the museum’s Renaissance collection. It was the prospect of taking a peek into the inner workings of that revered institution that motivated her to step back and away from the window. That, and an appreciation the man she’d been saddled with was a stickler for promptness led Megan to conclude it was best not to keep him waiting. After all, she mused as she pulled on the only blazer she owned, took up the well traveled canvas messenger bag that served as both purse and carryall, and headed for the door, its not wise to piss off the golden goose, not unless there’s a damned good reason to do so.
Despite all she’d seen of Hackett to date and the way he went about his affairs, the ease with which he breezed up to the museum’s information desk, informed a young female receptionist he had an appointment with Gérard Caron in an assertive, no-nonsense tone of voice, and took to making something of a show of being impatient as he waited for an escort should not have surprised her. But it did. The man had brass, she told herself as they were being led through a portion of the museum she’d never been, peeking into offices they passed as they went along in an effort to see what distinguished the men and women who worked here from her. That she was different in one very significant way did come to mind, but was quickly set aside, as it often was, if for no other reason than she hated to dwell on what was, for her, an inconvenient truth she had come to appreciate would never be able to fully put behind her.
The person they were introduced to as being Gérard Caron made a great show of welcoming Henry. Leaping up from his chair and briskly coming out from behind his desk, he offered his hand to him. “Ah, Monsieur Hackett, ever since we received Madam Mollini’s email I have been on pins and needles,” he declared without taking a breath. “It is rare day, indeed, when we have an opportunity to set our eyes on a new find, provided of course, it proves all she claims it to be.”
Having no idea what Silvia Mollini had said in her email to Caron, Megan didn’t know what to say. Not that she had any need to say anything, for Henry returned the Frenchman’s handshake and smile as he reassured him he had every confidence the portrait was all she had said it was, and, perhaps even more. “As you well know, Silvia is not in the habit of giving herself over to flights of fancy or hyperbole,” he replied. “I have no doubt there is something about the piece that has captured her unerring, well schooled eye. If nothing else, Monsieur, you and the members of your staff shall have an opportunity to put your vast knowledge and resources to good use,” he added with a casual air of authority that was, in Megan’s mind, not in the least bit justified.
“True, true,” Caron muttered in a reflective manner. “I have never known Madam to be wrong.”
Henry pulled back ever so slightly and arched a brow. “When it comes to Renaissance art, I, for one, would not wish to tell Silvia even if she was, Monsieur.”
It suddenly dawned upon Megan as the Frenchman was chuckling politely he and Hackett were engaged in a polite game of measuring each other’s doder. Because of his relative position in the art world in comparison to Silvia Mollini, Caron felt compelled to refer to her as Madam Mollini. By freely using her first name, Hackett let it known there existed a degree of trust between himself and one of the most reverted experts in the art world. By doing so, he was putting Caron on notice he was in no mood to be messed about with in a manner men like Clive Barrows often did when dealing with someone who was not part of the tightly knit art community who looked down on amateur dabblers like Guy Tinsdal.
“Ah, well, in that case, let us get to it, shell well?” Caron muttered as he lowered his gaze in a subconscious act of submission before shifting his attention to the padded carrier Hackett was holding in his left hand.
“Of course, Monsieur. That’s why we’re here.”
Eager to push beyond a momentary awkwardness and see what had excited Silvia Mollini, Caron led Hackett over to a worktable that had been cleared of everything. That she was being ignored did not surprise Megan in the least. No doubt, she told herself, the Frenchman was assuming she was nothing more than Hackett’s assistant, someone he had no need to bother with.
Having gained an appreciation for the young art historian’s sensitivity to such things, Henry did his best to correct this oversight as he was unzipping the carrier with a deliberateness that was quite intentional. “Monsieur, I do not believe you and Mademoiselle Ellsworth have been properly introduced.”
With his attention riveted to what Henry was doing, Caron didn’t even bother looking back over his shoulder at Megan as he spoke. “A pleasure, mademoiselle.”
Had she been back in London at the National Gallery, Megan would have said something. But she wasn’t. In addition to being in the employ of a man who was a noted patron of the arts and was underwriting this project, the last thing Megan wished to do was to prejudice the Frenchman’s opinion of the piece and any help he might be in finding out who the artist was by treating him to a dry, sardonic response. Instead, she remained silent but did avail herself of the opportunity to shoot Henry a quick glance that alerted him she was not at all happy with how things were playing out.
The young art historian’s righteous ire was quickly forgotten as the carrier’s flap was dramatically flipped aside and the portrait revealed. Unlike Silvia Mollini, when Caron laid eyes on it, he made no effort to hide his enthusiasm. “Yes, yes,” he muttered as he gingerly lifted the portrait from its protective carrying case. “I can see why Madam was so excited. It is…it is…”
Unable to find a suitable word to describe the piece, not until he and select members of his staff had taken their time to study it more closely, Caron didn’t finish his statement. Instead, he lapsed into silence as he slowly settled down in a chair, lost to the world around him.
“I am not at all comfortable with leaving the portrait here,” Megan groused brusquely as soon was they were out of the museum and making their way through the Tuileries Gardens.
“Ms. Ellsworth, it’s the Louvre, not the Gare du Nord baggage room,” Henry replied with a cavalier tone that was beginning to annoy her. “Besides,” he quickly added in a low voice before she could respond, “it wouldn’t be a good idea to take that with us, not where we’re going next.”
“First off, it’s Megan, if you please,” she growled.
Unfazed by the young woman’s tone of voice, Henry chuckled. “Alright, provided you drop the Mister Hackett and call me Henry.”
Having the way she’d been addressing him thrown back in her face caused Megan to cringe. “Yes, of course,” she replied sheepishly before doing her best to return to the topic at hand. “Where is it you said we were going?” she asked, doing her best to regain the initiative in this exchange by making it clear she was miffed by once more being caught off guard by something he had arranged without first consulting her.
“ I didn’t say.”
Only when he saw the young woman next to him snap her head about and regard him with a scathing glare that warned him she was about to go off on him did Henry stifle a snicker and continue. “We’re off to pay a visit to the studio of Monsieur Andre Perret.”
“Who?”
“Andre Perret. According to Silvia, he’s something of a legend in the art world.”
Looking away from Henry, Megan cocked her head to one side as she took to searching her memory in an effort to recall if she had ever heard of the man. After concluding she hadn’t, she shot a quick glance at Henry as they waited to cross the Quai Aimé Césaire and onto the Pont Royal. Having come to the conclusion he was, once more, messing with her, she sighed. “Okay, you win,” she muttered. “Who is Andre Perret?”
Sensing he’d had enough fun at her expense for the moment, Henry waited until after they’d crossed the busy thoroughfare and were on the bridge. He used this interlude to weight just how much he should tell Megan, looking out over the river as he was doing so. This effort was disrupted by the sight of a boat crammed with garishly clad tourists who scurried about, going from one side of the boat to the other in an effort to take pictures of everything and anything that stuck their fancy before posting every one of them, no matter how bad they were, to personal websites no one ever visited. The sight reminded him of a blight of ravenous locus busily despoiling the otherwise serene beauty surrounding them.
Turning away from a scene that encapsulated what passed as cultural enlighten in the Twenty-first Century, Henry took to answering Megan’s question. “Andre Perret is a contemporary of your Mister Barrow and a former instructor at the École des Beaux-Arts here in Paris.”
“I take it he’s retired,” Megan stated after waiting for Henry add to his rather superficial description of someone he felt they needed to visit.
“Not quite.”
“What do you mean, not quite?”
“Rather than cause a major brouhaha that would have cast the school and its faculty in a most unfavorable light, several years ago he was politely asked to leave,” Henry carefully explained as they reached the end of the bridge and turned left, following the river along the Quai Voltaire.
Drawing upon her own experiences and memories, Megan assumed his departure was due to misconduct. “Caught fiddling about with his students?” she ventured.
The temptation to remind Megan this was Paris, where such behavior was thought to be so common that those who did not engage in an occasional tryst were considered the odd duck was dismissed without a second thought. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and grunted. “Not quite.”
Peeved by his evasiveness, Megan made no effort to hide it. “Well?”
“He’s a forger, a very good one I’m told,” he replied in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
Stunned, Megan stopped dead in her tracks.
Coming about, Henry could not help but smirk as he stared at the young woman standing there, wide-eyed and slacked jaw. Realizing he needed to explain why he felt the need to pay a visit to a forger, Henry sidled up to her, took her by the arm, and led her on, explaining as they went. “Silvia thought it would be a good idea if you saw with your own eyes just how easy it was to reproduce a work of art.”
Still reeling from Henry’s revelation, Megan asked how a woman like Silvia knew a man like Perret. “She was one of his students, back in the day.”
“And she has stayed in touch?”
“According to her, they’re great friends.”
Shock turned to incredulity. “Friends?” Megan stammered.
Taking great care, Henry attempted to make a point he often found himself having to wrestle with himself as he went about his duties, both in the service of Guy Tinsdal and as an officer of the Queen. “Sometimes it is necessary to step into the shadows, consorting with people who you wouldn’t ordinarily chose to associate with. I dare say in my lifetime I’ve found myself working side by side with people who, if it was known I had, would be cause enough to justify locking me away in a dank basement cell in HMP Wakefield forever and a day.”
Suspecting that the man next to her was unconventional in the way he went about his business was one thing. To have him admit as much, well, that was more than unnerving to a person who had spend most of her life sequestered from the darker side of life, first in private schools and university, then all but cloistered within the safety of the National Gallery among like minded people who considered tossing a plastic water bottle in the street a crime against humanity. Yet as disturbing as this was, an appreciation an icon such as Silvia Mollini consorted with known forgers was almost too much to accept.
In an effort to snap the young woman at his side out of the mental tailspin she was in, Henry wandered over to the wall overlooking the river. There he paused, resting his forearms on it as he took to gazing out over the river. Troubled by her thoughts and all but lost to the world, Megan followed. Turning her back to the wall, she leaned up against it, crossed her arms, and took to gazing down at the street before her.
“Disappointed?” Henry asked without bothering to look over at Megan.
“Something like that,” she whispered.
“Welcome to the real world.”
Not at all sure how best to answer, Megan simply stood there, wondering where this journey she was on was going to take her. It was a question she was not at all sure if she wanted to have answered.
Stereotypes and preconceptions can be very powerful. They can also be very wrong. This proved to be the case when Henry and Megan entered the private studio of Andre Perret. “Ah, bon,” a man who bore far too many similarities to Clive Barrow for Megan’s liking exclaimed cheerfully as he greeted them. “After receiving Madam Mollini’s call, I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
Unable to share that sentiment, Megan returned the Frenchman’s smile with a weak one of her own and a brief, limp handshake.
“Come, please, sit,” he offered in an overly effusive manner, causing Megan to suspect he was excited to have guests. “I have just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care for some? Or would you rather tea?”
Suspecting Megan would demure, Henry answered for both of them. “Coffee will be fine, Monsieur.”
For once Megan was quite happy Henry was taking the lead, for she was not at all sure what to say or do. The very thought of simply being in the presence of a known forger rebelled against her sense of propriety.
If he was aware of the way the drably dressed young woman was fidgeting, Perret ignored it as he took to muttering even as he was serving the coffee and placing out a plate of delicate pastries. “Technology and new methods in forensics is making the task of reproducing a passable copy more difficult by the day. It’s not at all like it was back in van Meegeren’s day.”
“Who’s van Meegeren?” Henry asked as he was about to take a sip of the rich café au lait he had been served.
“Hans van Meegeren is, perhaps, the most renowned forger that has ever lived. His copies of Vermeers bearing van Meegeren’s signature are themselves considered to be of great value in their own right.”
As much as she found the term renowned forger to be something of an oxymoron, Megan was intrigued as she listened to Perret recount how, in the aftermath of the Second World War, Meegeren had to prove his innocence of the charge of treason by creating a forgery in front of reporters and court-appointed witnesses. Unable to help herself, Megan spoke for the first time. “Treason? For being a forger?”
Pleased that the young woman had managed to set aside her shyness and come out of her shell, Perret’s eyes twinkled as a grin lit up his face. “During the war, one of Meegeren’s agents sold a work of his, Christ with the Adulteress to be exact, to a Nazi art dealer who, in turn, sold it to Herman Göring for one point six million Dutch guilders, or roughly five point three million Euros. Well, naturally the Dutch government felt the sale of a national treasure was a high crime that could not go unpunished.”
“Naturally,” Megan muttered in a manner that left Henry wondering if she was being sarcastic or felt the same way the Dutch had.
“He never did create another forgery after that,” Perret mused sadly.
“Pity,” Megan grunted before taking a sip of her coffee.
“Yes, the art world lost a great man that day,” Perret sighed. Then, after lingering on this thought for a moment, he set aside his coffee, all but leapt out of his seat, and grinned as he looked down at Megan. “Well, enough with these pleasantries. Madam told me you were interested in seeing how it’s done.” When he saw the quizzical look on Megan’s face, he winked. “A forgery, dear girl, one that could pass muster in even the most discerning gallery.”
Without another word, he headed off into his studio, a well appointed modern workplace that would have been the envy of any artist. Despite her better judgment, she too set aside her coffee and followed.
“As I was saying, modern forensic techniques used to detect forgeries make it harder with each passing day to produce a piece that is marketable to the sort of discriminating customer I like to do business with,” he declared as he set about mixing paints in the same manner da Vinci and his contemporaries had. “All too often the forger betrays himself by using a technique that can be linked back to him and not the artist who painted the work he is copying. Some of the less talented ones even use styles of dress, hair, or background that is not at all appropriate for the period during which the original work was painted.” Pausing, he scraped up a bit of paint with the antique palette knife he’d been using to mix paint and held it up to his nose, sniffing it before offering it to Megan to do likewise.
Curiosity finally trumped the last of the trepidation she had been clinging to as she leaned forward and sniffed. When he saw her brow furrow, Perret grinned. “That is what oglio cotto, or paint created with cooked oil smells like,” Perret beamed. “It was introduced to Italy by the Dutch and improved upon by Leonardo, who heated the oils he used at a lower temperature and added a slight amount of beeswax. By doing so he was able to reduce the degree of craquelure, which is another problem most forgers have replicating.”
Though she was familiar with the terms he was throwing out, and knew beforehand what went into making oglio cotto, the scent of the freshly mixed paint she had watched him prepare was unlike any of the modern oil paints she was familiar with. Having the opportunity to actually smell it alone was worth the time she and Henry was spending here in the presence of a man she should have found repulsive.
Pleased with himself, Perret turned toward a canvas he had set on an easel upon which the early afternoon sunlight was falling. There was already the sketch of a head etched on it with what Henry took to be a pencil or charcoal. “Creating paint using the same compounds and techniques the great masters did during the Renaissance would be for naught if the canvas didn’t hold up to carbon 14 dating or other, more definitive methods used these days to date organic materials such as wood, canvas, or vellum. This particular canvas belonged to a painting of questionable worth I purchased for a ridiculously low price from someone who had no idea what the true value of the material was. As you can see, after cleaning it off, I sketched an outline of the subject I will be painting, taking care to include several corrections here and there in a manner da Vinci did when he was creating the original I shall be copying. By using a canvas that dates back to the period, I will be able to deceive anyone who takes the time to have it properly tested.”
Having overcome the last of her apprehensions, Megan stepped closer to the canvas, bending over and sniffing it. “What about the traces of residue from the solvent you used to clean away the old portrait. Aren’t you concerned they would show up in a test?”
Realizing he had drawn the young woman in, Perret allowed himself a hint of a smile as he gave her a quick, sideward glance out of the corner of his eyes. “Yes, that is a concern, which is why one must use a solvent that an artiest would have used then,” he informed her as he turned his full attention back toward the canvas.
From where he stood, Henry could not help but smile to himself, for it was obvious the young art historian was absolutely fascinated by what Perret was showing her. Once more he realized Silvia had been right, leading him to conclude a suggestion she had made to him concerning the young woman’s presentation was also spot on. Tending to that chore, however, would have to wait, for it was clear to him that they would be there, in Perret’s studio, until well into the evening and, even then, he figured it would take him, a crowbar, and a boy to pry her way from it.
The next morning Megan found Henry to be his usual cryptic self. With everything she felt they needed to accomplish in Paris checked off her list, she asked if he had any plans for the day. In response, Henry shrugged. “Might I suggest we enjoy a leisurely breakfast for a change?”
Something in the man’s expression and the way he was behaving put Megan on guard. “And after that?” she asked warily.
“Why don’t we meet in the hotel lobby at ten and take it from there?”
The experience of the previous day, which included a visit to a known forger, left Megan wondering what new ‘Adventure’ he had planned. Her apprehensions ratcheted up a few ticks when, at five minutes to ten, Megan came out of the lifts and saw Henry at the concierge’s desk picking up a slim FedEx envelope.
When he spotted her standing across the lobby regarding his cautiously, he flashed her a broad smile, strolled over to where she was standing, and, taking her by the arm, guided her to a cluster of ornately gilded armchairs in a quiet alcove to one side of the lobby.
“Do take a seat, we have a few minutes yet. Would you care for tea? Coffee?” he asked even as he was looking about, trying to caught the eye of a waiter.
Megan frowned questioningly. “Errm, tea would be nice. Thank you.”
She waited until after the waiter had taken their order before rounding on Henry. “Okay, what’s up?”
Settling back in his chair, Henry rested his elbows on the armrests and grasped his hands before him. “I need to tend to some other business whilst we are here in Paris.”
Megan tilted her head to one side and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “More dubious dealings with nefarious Persians?”
Henry chuckled “Oh worse, far worse. Parisian property developers, possibly even an occasional French lawyer. Guy called me last night. There’s a situation he needs taken care of PDQ, and since I’m already here…” He shrugged apologetically.
Megan felt a pang of disappointment tinged with irritation but for a moment before reminding herself business deals and the such like the one Henry was having to tend to that morning were the reason Guy Tinsdal could afford to pay for her to do a job she was fast coming to adored. With a carefully schooled smile on her face, she nodded. “Well, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy back up in the room,” she mused as Henry took a moment to serve the tea that had arrived. “Notes to go through and the such,” as she added as she was accepting a cup of tea from him.
“Don't tell me you intend to spend the day locked away in your room?” Henry asked in feigned horror. “You’re in Paris.”
“What more is there to do? We’ve accomplished all we came here to do, and then some.”
“You could always go shopping.”
Megan laughed. “Yeah, right. Me, waste my time shopping in Paris. Whatever for?”
“A few items for your wardrobe, perhaps.”
Megan gave Henry an Are you kidding looked over the lip of her teacup. “Mr. Hackett, in case you haven’t noticed, haute couture is not high on my list of priorities. Besides,” she added after taking a sip of her tea. “Even if I were something of a cloths horse, what the shops in this town have to offer aren’t within my budget.”
Upon hearing this, Henry smirked. “That’s a pity. Silvia was so looking forward to taking you round some of her favorite shops.” He leant back with his cup in hand and a sly smile. “It’s not as if you couldn’t afford to do so.” Pausing, he to took a sip before regarding her with furrowed brow. “You did read the contract you signed, didn’t you?”
Uncertain where the conversation was going, it was Megan’s turn to frown. “Of course. While quite generous, it wasn't that extravagant. If I recall, it was more than enough to cover my travel and accommodations plus a day rate of two hundred and fifty pounds.”
Henry’s smile grew broader. “Megan, that two hundred and fifty pounds was your per diem, to be used to cover incidental expenses. The actual salary and bonus was on the third page.”
Megan’s eyes snapped wide in shock. “Who on earth needs two hundred and fifty pounds a day for incidental expenses!” She spluttered. “What could you possibly spend it on?”
“Well, for one thing, shopping in Paris.” With a grin that went from ear to ear, Henry set aside his cup and tore open the FedEx envelope, from which a shiny new gold credit card dropped. With a flourish, he handed it to Megan. “They did get the spelling of your name right, didn’t they?”
Megan stared in disbelief at the embossed gold lettering ‘Ms. M. J. ELLSWORTH’ whilst Henry scribbled four numbers down on a notepad, then tore off the sheet and handed that too across. “Your PIN. The card is good for ten thousand euros.”
For a long moment Megan stared dumbstruck at the card as a cascade of thoughts and questions chased each other around her head. “But…” She shook her head before trying again. “But, its Guy Tinsdal’s money.”
“And at the moment you’re working for him. In his world the way we underlings present ourselves reflects on his reputation, something he takes very seriously,” Henry smoothly replied. “Look, as you’ve already been on the payroll for just over three weeks, by my reckoning that come to about seven thousand euros.” Henry watched amused as Megan tried to come to terms with what he had said before pressing on. “That means you've got some very serious catching up to do, and Silvia Mollini is the very person who can help you with that.”
“But why would a woman like her want to go shopping with someone like me?”
Rather than answer, Henry rose from his seat with a welcoming smile to someone approaching from behind the shell-shocked young art historian.
“Because I adore shopping, not to mention an opportunity to show off one of my favorite cities,” Silvia cooed as she drew up next to Megan. “That, and because Enrico asked me to,” she added while regarding Henry with a knowing smile as she was taking Henry’s seat.
With nothing more to do here and a room full of Gallic suits waiting for him to show up, Henry offered the two women a mock bow before heading off towards the hotel entrance with a cheeky, “Ladies, bonne chance.”
Silvia wasted no time taking charge. “Before we head out, my dear, we need do some planning. Have you finished your tea? Wonderful,” she continued without giving the dumbstruck girl a chance to reply. “Now let’s head up to your room and check your wardrobe.”
Once alone and in her suite, Megan was shocked to see the elegant and renowned Silvia Mollini cast aside her cool, urbane manner as she took to behaving like a bubbly teenager who’d just been handed the key’s to her daddy’s car. Without bothering to ask, she took to rummaging through Megan’s limited wardrobe.
Standing aside, Megan found herself unable to do anything but watch as Silvia pulled out jackets, skirts, trousers, and blouses to hold up to the light, glancing back and forth between the article of clothing and her. Taking advantage of this opportunity, Megan managed to pluck the courage needed to ask the woman a question that had been bothering her ever since she had first breezed in to the offices of the Tinsdal Group. “You remembered me from the lecture in Oxford, didn’t you?”
Silvia didn’t bother looking away from a blazer that Megan had thought rather smart when she bought it, but was now apprehensive as Silvia made as face that put Megan in mind of the way her mother had frowned whenever she had come home with a bloody nose or shirt torn during a schoolyard fight. “There were twenty seven students in the audience,” she replied in an even, matter-of-fact manner. “You were in row two, second from left, wearing a pony tail that needed trimming, which I’m glad to see you've done, by the way,” she added casting a quick glance and smile at the befuddled young woman. “I never forget a face, especially one blonging to a promising young student.”
“So you know?”
“That you need an appropriate wardrobe in order to be taken seriously? Absolutely my dear! Now, about this blazer, I think that you would look better…”
Without thinking, Megan bristled at Silvia’s comment and couldn’t help herself from interrupting. “I am taken seriously!” She exclaimed in a tone of voice that bordered on being petulant. “I’ve had eleven peer reviewed articles and spoken at, oh, it must be dozens of conferences.”
For the first time since entering the room, Silvia stopped, turned, and gave the young woman her full attention. Rather than being upset at the young woman’s outburst, she smiled. “Megan, my dear girl, you signed up for this ride you and Henry are on, so it’s time to face up to the truth.” With a sigh, she watched Megan stiffen as if withdrawing within herself.
Setting the blazer aside, Silvia reached out to take Megan’s hands in her own, wishing someone had had the sense to deliver the lesson she was about to long before this.
“In this world a woman’s brains, her skill, and her experience have always come second. As unfair as it is, you will always be judged first and foremost by your looks and presentation,” she murmured as she squeezed Megan’s hands to emphasize her point. “And worst of all, your greatest critics will be other women, especially when you have the absolute effrontery to be younger and prettier than they are.” Pausing, Silvia watched Megan to see if her message was gaining purchase. Only when she felt the young woman finally relax, did she offer up a wicked grin. “Now my dear, let us see just how much wear and tear we can put on that shiny new card Enrico has given you.”
1542
A day that began as tranquil as any other quickly rapidly degenerated into chaos, leaving the Harem in an uproar, the Haseki Hürrem Sultan in a foul mood, Alev banished to her apartments, and wild rumors flying. It all began as most things in the Harem did, with little more than an innocent whisper. On this day the source was Ceren, who let slip that she was looking forward to accompanying Alev on their coming journey as she was dressing a girl who all knew was not truly a girl, yet accepted as such least they incur the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s wrath.
Alev’s response to the revelation that she would soon be exiled from the palace was immediate and reflexive, little different than the way a body involuntarily responds when a raw nerve has been touched. Horrified by the very thought of leaving, she pulled away from her maid and in a swirl of satin and silk, spun around. Realizing what she had done, Ceren instinctively dropped to her knees before Alev, blowing so rapidly that there was an audible thud when her forehead hit the floor.
“Forgive me,” the fair-haired repeatedly implored between sobs. “Forgive me.”
Regaining some semblance of reason, but not much, Alev appreciated it would be pointless to question the pathetic wretch groveling at her feet. Only one person would tell her why she was about to be sent away from a place that had become more than a sanctuary for her. Without first waiting to calm herself and think, Alev flew from the private apartment she’d been given, through the length of the Harem, and into the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s presence without bothering to seek permission to enter, be announced, or render due obeisance.
Having clawed her way to a position few women had the courage to aspire to and the cunning to achieve, Hürrem was ever vigilant, for she knew it was not a question of if, but when a day of reckoning would come. Still, both she and the black eunuchs who guarded her were caught off guard when a red-haired fury stormed into her presence.
Startled by this sudden intrusion, Hürrem’s eyes shot up from a letter she had been writing. She was astonished as much by this most unusual breech of decorum as she was by the sight of the red faced girl rapidly advancing on her, paying no heed to the way a pair of stone faced guards stepped out of the shadows with swords drawn.
With fists so tightly clenched at her side that her nails were drawing blood, Alev did her best to hold back her tears as she stared at Hürrem who returned the girl’s pitiful expression with one that betrayed a mix of astonishment and anger. “What have I done?” Alev took to pleading in a most pitifully manner before Hürrem was able to recover from her shock. “Why am I being banished?”
In an instant Hürrem understood what was behind this most heinous breach of decorum. Without bothering to look behind her, she threw up a hand in order to check her guards. Only when she’d heard the sound of swords being sheathed did she turned her attention to setting aside the indignation she felt at being interrupted in such a manner by someone she had treated with nothing but kindness and favor. Rising slowly from the table she’d been seated at, Hürrem made her way to where the girl was standing, using the time this took to formulate an appropriate response.
Appreciating lashing out at the girl would only serve to further aggravate passions that were already enflamed, Hürrem sought to calm the girl by speaking in a low, soft voice. “Let me explain,” she murmured.
Having been used as if she were of no account time and time again by others, Alev was unable to check the rage this latest act of betrayal had incited. “What have I done to be punished so?” she growled menacingly through clenched teeth.
Realizing any attempt to discipline Alev by treating her as if she were a common odalisques would only enflame an already enraged girl, leaving in its wake a schism that could very well doom all her well laid plans. Ever so slowly, with more caution than such a simple gesture required, Hürrem reaches out and pried Alev’s hands away from her side. “You have done nothing,” she declared as calmly as she could manage.
Having no wish to pass through the Carriage Gates, for she knew what the world that lay beyond them could do to those who did not conform to the dictates of culture and the wishes of those who governed the day-to-day affairs of men, Alev pressed Hürrem for an answer. “Then why are you sending me away?”
Knowing a well thought out answer, one carefully coached in logic and her designs would not do in the heat of the moment, Hürrem allowed herself to do something she only did with those she trusted, she spoke openly of her own feelings and desires. “As long as I draw breath, I shall never leave this place. My eyes will never behold the many wondrous places we have often spoken of. I shall not dine in the Wawel Castle, mingle with the artisans who freely roam the streets of Venice, or behold the many wondrous sights travelers along the Amber Road have described in the chronicles and journals they kept. But you can,” she declared, emphasizing her point by giving by gently squeezing the hands she was holding.
Looking up, Alev met Hürrem’s steady gaze.
“You will be my eyes,” Hürrem continued once she saw she had Alev’s full attention. “You will go where I cannot, speak to people of note I will never meet, and explore a world I wish to reach out to.”
Having gained a degree of control over her emotions, Alev was able to put forth her next question in a manner she hoped was not accusatory. “Am I to be your spy?”
Unable to help herself, Hürrem laughed.
Thrown by the woman’s response, Alev pulled away from her, dismayed that she had, once more, been betrayed, this time by a person she had not only put her unguarded faith into, but had followed her every dictate, without question, by assuming a role that was at odds with her true nature.
Realizing she had erred by responding as she had, Hürrem let go of Alev’s hands, taking her by shoulders in an effort to keep her from fleeing. “You know better than most how tenuous my position is,” she explained as quickly as she could in a manner she hoped the girl would understand. “There are many within the walls of this palace who would be glad to see me brought low, if for no other reason than to advance their own petty ambitions. In order to maintain the precarious perch I occupy, I must prove my worth to the Sultan by whatever means I can each and every day. One way I have been able to do so is by advising him on matters of state. I am able to do this wisely and in a timely manner because I have sources that keep me informed of what is happening in the world that lays beyond the walls of this palace.”
The bewilderment and shock Alev had felt upon hearing she was to be banished subsided enough for Hürrem to release her hold on the girl and continue in a more measured tone. “As I said, I cannot leave this place,” she stated in a voice that betrayed a hint of sorrow. “But you can. You can go where I cannot, mingle with foreign princes and their advisors, listening in on what they are saying, what they are planning and, perhaps even sway their decisions in ways that will be of benefit to the Empire and, by extension, me. Your letters to me that inform me of all you see and hear will be invaluable.”
The look on the girl’s face, and the sense she was mentally withdrawing into herself, told Hürrem logic alone was failing. When she reached out this time, she grasped one of Alev’s hands between hers and gave it a squeeze, causing Alev to look up. “As important a those services will be to me, you shall be doing so much more,” Hürrem murmured reassuringly. “You shall be the guardian of my spirit and soul, taking it where I long to go and, through your letters, returning them to me, bit by bit.”
It was not so much the words she was hearing that convinced Alev of the true nature of her charter. Rather, it was what she saw in the eyes of the Haseki Hürrem Sultan. For a brief moment, Hürrem had pulled aside the mask she used to hide the only thing she had total domain over, her soul.
As much as she would miss what she had found here, within the confines of the Harem, and fear of what she would need to endure once she had passed back through the Carriage Gate, Alev knew she could not say no. Besides, despite the manner with which she had been treated, she did not belong here. Like the assumed persona and attire she used to mask all traces of her past, the belief she did was just that, an illusion that would never hold up in the naked, bright light of day.
As the last of her anger slowly ebbed away, Alev dropped her gaze. “I will pray each morning, and again in the evening, that my courage will match the trust you are placing in me,” she whispered mournfully.
Pleased and relieved, Hürrem smiled as she released Alev’s left hand in order to gently place cup upon the girl’s unblemished cheek in her. No further words passed between the two for the longest time. There was no need for them. All that needed to be said, and all that needed to be understood, was conveyed with that touch and the gaze with which each held the other.
Alev was far less forgiving of Ceren than the Haseki Hürrem Sultan had been with her. It was two days before anything resembling a coherent conversation passed between the two of them. The only time the fair-haired Hungarian girl who attended to Alev’s every need did break this strained silence was when she entered Alev’s apartment bearing a sheaf of letters. “Hürrem has instructed me to inform you she wished you to study these,” Ceren declared in a voice that barely rose above a whisper.
By way of acknowledgement, Alev pointed toward a table covered with books and writing material, indicating that was where she wished Ceren to leave the letters before dismissing the girl with a simple, contemptuous flick of her hand. Having no wish to linger and risk reawaking the wrath of a girl who was now her mistress, Ceren bowed deeply and took a step back before pivoting about on her heels and quickly scurrying out of the room.
As much as Alev wanted to ignore the collection of letters the girl had left by going back to a book she’d been trying to lose herself in, she couldn’t. At sixteen she was no longer a child. Behaving like one was not only unseemly, but a poor way or repaying the kindnesses and privileges Hürrem had so freely lavished upon her she’d done nothing to deserve. Still, the very thought that she was about to be cast out of what had become, for her, the first safe haven she had known since…
Well, since she could remember, Alev concluded as she closed the book she’d been reading, set it aside, and sat upright on the divan she’d been lounging on. Even when she’d been under the benevolent tutelage of Brother Francis he, like the other monks, had done nothing to keep the boys they were responsible for in check when they’d been left to their own devices. It wasn’t as if Alev had been singled out for the sort of abuse that came naturally to young males eager to demonstrate their growing physical prowess or dominance within the pack they were associated with. She had been just as quick to join in as any of her peers had on those occasion when they found it necessary to make an example of one of their own, another child no different than she who had either strayed too far from the unwritten code they lived by, or was seen as being far too different to be tolerated, pummeling the offender with their fists, or pelting him with mockery and scorn. Even now she did not regret having done so, for her actions had been necessary to survive, just as her acceptance of the strange role in which she had been cast had become.
This caused her to wonder what she would need to do in order to survive the new, coming ordeal, one she had no wish to embark upon despite Hürrem’s efforts to present the coming journey as an unrivaled opportunity. With this thought in mind, Alev rose from her divan, and made her way to the desk. Standing before it, she took to leafing through the stack of correspondence and reports Ceren had left behind. All concerned Poland and the court politics surrounding its rulers. With a sigh, she set aside her stubbornness, accepted the inevitable, and settled down at the table where she began to study material she hoped would prepare her for the next chapter in her life.
It was a further two days before Hürrem sent word that Alev was to present herself to her. Having conducted herself in a most shameful manner the last time she had appeared before her benefactor, Alev took great care to properly prepare for this coming audience. After being bathed, Ceren took to removing every vestige of hair, save that on Alev’s head. It was a ritual that was practiced universally within the Harem that always left Alev unsettled and humiliated, for it reminded her in a most personal way she was different than the women around her, and always would be.
It wasn’t until she had been dressed in an apple green chemise and crimson pantaloons and while she was having her hair arranged by Ceren that Alev was able to set aside her embarrassment and do something she had needed to do for days, apologize to the fair-haired Hungarian. “I am sorry for the way I have behaved toward you of late,” she stated with a sincerity that caused the girl to stop what she’d been doing.
“You have no need to do so,” Ceren blurted once she’d managed to recover from her surprise and find her voice. “It is I who should be begging you for your forgiveness, my lady.”
It was not the heartfelt words of contrition that caused Alev to look over her shoulder and stare at Ceren questioningly. Rather, it was the honorific the girl had used.
When she saw the expression on Alev’s face, Ceren realized she had inadvertently erred again, causing her to quickly step away, drop to her knees, bow her head until it touched the floor, and take to pleading in a most pitiful manner. “Forgive me, my lady. Forgive me.”
“Why do you keep saying my lady?”
Ceren hesitated for the longest time as she wondered how best to answer Alev. Finally, after screwing up her courage, she peeked up at her. “It would be best if Hürrem explained,” she replied plaintively.
Deciding there was no point in pressing the girl who had once more let slip something she should not have for further clarification, Alev sighed. “Yes, I expect that would be best. But first, you need to finish. It would not be wise to keep Hürrem waiting, not today.”
At the appointed hour, Alev presented herself before the Haseki Hürrem Sultan. With a well honed grace that now came as easy to her as breathing, she took to formally playing homage to the Sultan’s wife and lover by dropping to her knees and touching her forehead to the floor, just as Ceren had done earlier. And, like the fair-haired Hungarian girl, took to pleading for forgiveness.
Hürrem understood the red-haired girl’s behavior was more than an effort on her part to let it be known she was keenly aware she had behaved in a most disrespectful manner earlier that week. The elaborate display of contraction was the girl’s way of letting her know she was submitting to the fate she, the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, had been ever so carefully preparing her for. Satisfied, but determined not to let on least the girl conclude all was forgiven, Hürrem ordered her to rise. Even after Alev had come to her feet, Hürrem said nothing for the longest time. When she finally did, she did so in a tone of voice bereft of the amicable intimacy the two had shared on previous occasions. “What have you learned from the accounts concerning the Polish Kingdom I sent to you to study?”
The sharpness of Hürrem’s voice and the way she had framed her questions alerted Alev this was a test meant to see if her acceptance of her fate was sincere. Determine to meet the challenge as she had so many others, Alev drew herself up and began to put forth her thoughts in the same manner she had used to respond whenever her former tutors had felt the need to test her knowledge. “The Kingdom Poland is a land besieged by many problems, a fair number of which are due to the way it is governed.”
With nothing more than a nod, and without letting on that she was pleased Alev had managed to set aside her anger and taken on the task she’d been given, Hürrem indicated she was to continue.
“Poland has few natural barriers that protect it from its enemies. To the southeast are Tartars, the people who took you and sold you into slavery. While they are not a threat to Poland’s heartland, their raids cannot be ignored. The Russians are an entirely different matter,” Alev continued when she was sure Hürrem was satisfied with the way she was proceeding. “In addition to Russia’s interest in controlling Livonia, an area Poland and Lithuania both consider to be key to their interests, Ivan IV, who has declared he was appointed to rule by God himself, has, by his actions, made it clear he intends to continue expanding his holdings westward once he has secured his southern frontier by defeating the Kazan Khanate, either through intrigue, relying on the Qasim Tartars as they did in 1540, or direct through military action.”
“As you can see, unchecked the Russians can easily become as much a threat to us as they are to the Poles,” Hürrem pointed out when Alev paused.
Nodding in agreement, Alev continued. “At present we are of greater concern to the Poles. If our current war in Hungry is a success…”
“When,” Hürrem interjected crisply.
“Yes, of course, forgive me. When our current war in Hungry succeeds,” Alev stated, making it clear by her tone of voice she had not misspoken.
The temptation to make it known she was not pleased by this show of defiance was reined in. The tasks she would be setting the young woman to, for that is how Hürrem had come to think of her, would require someone who was confident, resolute and self assured, qualities she herself had relied on to achieve her current position.
It was Alev’s turn to check an urge to smirk when she saw Hürrem was not going to lash out at her for the manner with which she had corrected herself. Instead, she continued with her assessment of Poland’s strategic concerns. “At present, Sigismund I, the Polish King, favors the Holy Roman Emperor’s efforts to keep Hungry from being defeated, if for no other reason than to keep the Hapsburgs from casting their gaze north. Unfortunately for Charles V, Sigismund is old and rumored to be senile, leaving the Queen, the daughter of Glan Galeazzo Sforza of Milan and very much opposed to the Hapsburgs, to pursue a policy that has the potential of being favorable to us.”
This time Hürrem made no effort to hide the pleasure she felt over the way Alev was ever so gently hinting at her understanding of what her real mission would be.
“Only to the west and north is Poland safe from a major threat,” Alev pointed out as she continued. “The fragmented nature of Germany present little danger to the Poles. If anything, it is from there that many of the artists, skilled artisans, and intellectuals that are the underpinning of the Polish Renaissance come from. Though they are, to some degree, being supplemented by Italians the Queen has brought to Kraków, the Germans still dominate the cultural development of the Kingdom.”
As she had when being examined by Tilki in order to allow him to ask questions concerning her response, Alev paused, waiting for Hürrem to either comment on her assessment, or indicate she was to continue.
Realizing the girl was waiting for her to say something, Hürrem drew herself up. “You stated that the greatest danger Poland faces is from its own institutions. Explain.”
“As daunting as the external threats to Poland are, it is my belief the greatest danger they face is from those who govern it, for they are not only distracted by internal squabbling between factions, the nobles who comprise the sejm, a parliament that must approve all laws proposed by their King, are all too often unable to overcome their own petty concerns and interests. This, in itself, hampers the ability of the King to rule effectively. The King’s authority is further undercut, not only by the onset of senility, but by a queen who is at odds with the nobility. They view her as being too autocratic and…”
For the first time Alev found herself needing exercise care in what and how she made her point. Like many of the Polish nobles, men who held a western view as to the roles men and women were expected to adhere to, there were many within the Topkapi who felt that the influence the Haseki Hürrem Sultan wielded was a threat to the Empire. Badly stated, Alev suspected her own words could easily put an end to a relationship she had come to cherish.
An appreciation of the girl’s dilemma by Hürrem spared her from having to explain any further. Coming to her feet, Hürrem made her way toward the entryway that led to her private garden, indicating Alev was to follow with nothing more than a wave of her hand. Only after they’d gone for a while, enjoying the crisp, fragrant air of the garden did Hürrem speak. “A woman who seeks to rise above her station follows a precarious road, one filled with dangers and pitfalls. She must be ever vigilant, taking care that she keeps one eye on the path before her and the other on her goal. Losing sight of either leads to certain ruin.”
Alev listened intently as they slowly made their way along a familiar path that she would soon be leaving behind. In Kraków there would be no dank cell she could hide in as she had at the monastery. Nor would she be protected by a tutor in the way Tilki, then Hürrem had, governing her every move. For the first time in her life she would be on her own, set upon a path not of her choosing. It was one that was made all the more precarious by the fact she would always need to remain on her guard, for she was something very different in a world where being different was more than a curse. It, in itself, was all too often the only excuse needed to punish the offender.
The look on Alev’s face alone told Hürrem the girl had understood what she was saying. Having maintained the pretense she had struggled to keep thus far, and in need of some lighthearted entertainment, she reached out and took Alev’s hand. “Come, let us find the storyteller. I wish to hear him tell of the Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems.”
For the first time in days’ Alev was able to relax, though she didn’t completely let down her guard. Having come to appreciate the hazards of doing so, she instinctively found herself wondering if there was a reason Hürrem was so keen on hearing the story of Adam and Eve, one both Christians and Muslims often used to justify the way women were treated. Having come to appreciate a person like the Haseki Hürrem Sultan never did anything without first weighing consequences against gain, Alev followed along with her eyes wide open.
Historical Notes;
The Amber Road - The Amber Road between Northern and Southern Europe was an ancient trade route for the transfer of amber from coastal areas of the North Sea and the Baltic to the Mediterranean Sea. As an important raw material, sometimes dubbed "the gold of the north", amber was transported from the North Sea and Baltic Sea coasts overland by way of the Vistula and Dnieper rivers to Italy, Greece, the Black Sea and Egypt thousands of years ago, and long after.
Sejm - The parliament of Poland for four centuries from the 15th until the late 18th century. It had evolved from the earlier institution of wiec. It was one of the primary elements of the democratic governance in the Kingdom of Poland and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. The sejm was a powerful political institution, and from early 16th century, the Polish king could not pass laws without the approval of that body.
Duration and frequencies of the sejms changed over time, with the six-week sejm session convened every two years being most common. Sejm locations changed throughout history, eventually with the Commonwealth capital of Warsaw emerging as the primary location. The number of sejm deputies and senators grew over time, from about 70 senators and 50 deputies in the 15th century to about 150 senators and 200 deputies in the 18th century. Early sejms have seen mostly majority voting, but beginning in the 17th century, unanimous voting became more common, and 32 sejms were vetoed with the infamous liberum veto, particularly in the first half of the 18th century. This vetoing procedure has been credited with significantly paralyzing the Commonwealth governance. In addition to the regular sessions of the general sejm, in the era of electable kings, beginning in 1573, three special types of sejms handled the process of the royal election in the interregnum period. It is estimated that between 1493 and 1793 sejms were held about 240 times.
Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems - An historical account in Arabic of the beginning of the world starting with Adam and Eve up to and through the late Abbasid Caliphate by medieval Baghdadi historian Masudi. Written in the "new style" of historical writing of al-Dinawari and al-Ya’qubi, Meadows of Gold is composed in a format that contains both historically documented facts, sayings from reliable sources and stories, anecdotes, poetry and jokes that the author had heard or had read elsewhere. Due to its reliance on and references to Islam this style of history writing makes up an example of what constitutes Islamic Historiography in general.
Present Day
Her pained expression, the way she had toyed with her uneaten breakfast, and the notebook she scribbled her notes in left unopened sitting next to her plate told Henry all he needed to know. Megan Ellsworth was nearing her wits end. Having dutifully assisted her as best he could in checking items off the list she’d drawn up before setting off on this quest without answering any of the questions surrounding the unsigned portrait they’d been seeking, he expected the young woman had finally come to a conclusion he had some days ago. While it had all been good fun and something of an education for him, he suspected the time had come to let Tinsdal know the game was up.
Doing so, however, could wait until he’d finished his breakfast. Having spent the better part of a month subsisting off rations packaged in a cardboard box that all too often tasted as if the same material used to manufacture those boxes had been used to season the food found in them, Henry was keen to take advantage of the hotel’s lavish buffet breakfast. Ever so slowly, he pushed himself away from the table, taking care to make sure in doing so he didn’t derail the young art historian’s train of thought. Pausing briefly after coming to his feet, he studied Megan for a moment as she continued to stare blankly out the window at an unseen object in the distance. Her vacant expression alone led him to believe she’d come to the same realization he had. As intriguing as the portrait was, without the sort of verifiable provenance that would stand up to the close scrutiny it would be subjected to if its discovery was ever made public, it had little value to anyone other than a person like Guy Tinsdal who, despite his acumen when it came to spotting a promising piece of real estate, lacked the necessary background and knowledge needed to make informed decisions when purchasing a work of art that had struck his fancy.
In the time it took Henry to walk over to the buffet, pile his plate high with hot scrambled eggs, breakfast sausages, warm toast, and return, the young art historian who’d been lost to the world was gone, replaced by a woman who was frantically leafing through her notebook, flipping pages so fast her own fingers were tripping over themselves. “We’ve been going about this all wrong,” she muttered without looking up from the pages her eyes were racing over.
Taken aback by what he was hearing, Henry found himself unable to do anything but stand there, plate in hand, wondering what Megan was going on about. Dumbfounded, he cocked his head. “We’ve missed something?”
“No,” Megan shot back without bothering to look up at him as she continued to rapidly skim over her notes. “We’ve done everything that is all but mandated by art historians around the world when dealing with a situation like this. To have done other wise would…”
Pausing in mid-sentence, she took a moment to carefully read something she’d written. When she determined it was not the note she’d been searching for, she resumed both her frenzied search and the thought she’d left hanging. “To have pursued this willy-nilly like a pair of amateurs would have doomed the project before it got out of the blocks,” she continued without bothering to look over at Henry as he resumed his seat and began to dig into his second helping of breakfast without taking his eyes off of Megan. “There are procedures, a protocol of sorts, an art historian is expected to follow when delving into the history of a work of art.”
For the first time since he’d returned to the table, she stopped scanning her notes and glanced up at Henry. “Failure to check off a single box is often enough to discredit both efforts being made to authenticate a work of art and the competence of person involved in the project. It takes but a single misstep, intentional or not, to discredit an art historian who’s spent years, if not decades, building a reputation. One made when dealing with a matter that has the potential of making as big a splash in the art world as this one is even more devastating. . “Failure to check off a single box is often enough to discredit both efforts being made to authenticate a work of art and the competence of person involved in the project. It takes but a single misstep, intentional or not, to discredit an art historian who’s spent years, if not decades, building a reputation. One made when dealing with a matter that has the potential of making as big a splash in the art world as this one is even more devastating.
“So, what have we missed?”
“Nothing,” Megan declared crisply as she closed her notebook and took up her coffee cup.
“Ooo-kay,” Henry mouthed slowly as he took to staring across the table at her.
Realizing he was waiting for her to say something, Megan could not resist savoring the feeling of having finally managed to catch Guy Tinsdal’s personal dogsbody on his back foot.
Only when he saw a twinkle in her eye and the way the corner of her lips were ever so slightly curling up did he realize what she was doing. “You win. I give.”
After giving the mischievous little grin she’d been struggling to keep in check free rein, Megan put her cup down, pushed aside her half eaten breakfast that had long since gone cold, and leaned forward, placing her forearms on the table before her and clasping her hands together. “We’ve been going about this all wrong.”
Unable to help himself, Henry gave his head a quick shake and blinked. “Excuse me?”
“We started this effort based on the assumption the artist was either Leonardo da Vinci or one of his students, someone who was able to accurately ape his master’s technique. In doing so we handicapped our efforts by focusing our full attention on the artist.”
Henry found it difficult to ignore the manner with which she was liberally tossing about the word ‘we.’ While it was true he had brought Silvia onboard and dragged Megan all but kicking and screaming to a well known forger, she had had the lead when it came to determining who they saw and what they did. “Excuse me, but what do you mean WE’VE been wasting our time.”
Not understanding what Henry was really asking, Megan took to regarding a man she was finding hard not to like. “What we’ve done to date has not been a waste of time. As I said, we needed to do everything we have in order to pass the smell test people like Clive Barrows, Monsieur Caron, and Silvia would subject it to.”
Thoroughly confused, Henry set his knife and fork down, folded his hands on the table before him, and leaned forward. “Sorry, it seems I’m being a wee-bit slow on the uptake this morning. Am I missing something, or simply being particularly dense?”
While he had couched his question in a manner that was tinged with a touch of self-deprecating humor, the unflinching gaze with which he held her should have been enough warn Megan he was not at all pleased by what he had just heard. Whether she was willfully ignoring this warning, or was even slower on the uptake than Henry claimed to be, she continued. “I’ve come to the conclusion we’re not going to find out who painted the portrait until we’ve figured out who the subject was.”
Grudgingly, Henry set aside the indignation that had been welling up within him as he eased back his seat. Having been intrigued by that very question almost from the beginning, he found himself wondering why Megan had not considered that approach until now. The answer, he quickly concluded, was self-evident. She was a professional. As she had pointed out, she was constrained by the methodology art historians, such as Silvia, Caron, and the others who had examined the portrait, followed. That there would be art historians who would question whatever conclusion she came up with was a given. There was always someone who sought to discredit the efforts of another, if for no other reason than to pull the spotlight off the person presenting them and draw attention, instead, to themselves. So rather than give them something they could use against whatever her findings were and, by extension, her suitability to be counted amongst their number, Megan had had no choice but to slavishly adhere to tried and true, dutifully following the steps established the investigative protocol art historians relied on.
“Okay, now what?” Henry asked as he took up his fork and went back to working his way through his second breakfast.
“Whoever commissioned the portrait not only took great care in finding someone who was as talented as our unknown artist was, they also went to great pains to portray the subject in the most favorable light possible. I believe everything depicted in the piece, from the setting to the way the subject sat for the portrait was staged in order to either convey a message or tell us, the viewer who is removed from that event by centuries, something about the subject. By focusing our attention on what the subject of the portrait is wearing, the items that are scattered about the room she is in, and the background, all of which the artist spent a great deal of time replicating, we just might be able to discover what the subject was trying to tell us. Once we are able to understand the story the artist was able to capture in such minute detail, we should be able to identify the subject, if not her name, than her title. We should be able to tell when the portrait was painted, what the occasion was, and maybe even the setting. With that information in hand, it should be relatively easy to determine who the artist was, for this portrait was not the work of a dabbler who just happened to get this one so right.”
Now it was Henry’s turn to mentally step back as he took to mulling over what Megan was proposing. “Assuming there are clues in the portrait that are worth pursuing, how do we proceed?”
“Simple,” Megan beamed as she sat upright, pulled her plate back in front of her, and dug into the fare she’d neglected until then. “We follow her journey, one that should tell us how it was that a woman, who is dressed in Italian attire came to be known as the English Courtesan.”
Still not sure if he would be able to convince Tinsdal this new approach was worth pursuing, Henry was tempted to ask her just how that information would help them discover who the artist was. He stopped, however, when he noticed the forlorn expression she’d been wearing when they’d sat down for breakfast not more than an hour ago was now gone. In its place was one he was quite familiar with. It was a look he was quite familiar with, one that told him she was once more fully in the game, ready to take on dragoons and storm mighty keeps if need be in order to complete a task that had become, for her at least, a quest.
Having no wish to spoil this moment, Henry decided to put off telling her he’d yet to decide if he was going to recommend to Tinsdal that they pull the plug on their search. The idea of attempting to track down the name of someone who’d been dead for over five hundred years based on nothing more than an image and clues that might not be anything more than random trinkets an artist had included in a portrait he’d been commissioned to paint struck him as being an even bigger waste of time than their original charter. What did keep him putting an end to this snipe hunt was the prospect of spending more time with a woman he was finding to be just as fascinating to him as the one depicted in the portrait was to her. It was a rather lame reason for going on, but one Henry found himself considering it as he turned his full attention back to enjoying his breakfast. He was, after all, human, a failing that all too often caused people to do things that defied logic and common sense.
The decision to set out in this new direction turned out to be far easier to make than deciding where it would begin. Henry had expected they would do so at the hotel using the images of the portrait created by Lumiere Technology Megan had uploaded on her laptop. When she made it known this was a nonstarter, Henry was a bit taken aback. “You do appreciate the reason you have the suite you do is to give you a place where we can work, going over what you’ve come across and deciding what to do next in private,” he pointed out. “Yours is not the only reputation at stake here. Mr. Tinsdal has a fair number of detractors who use everything and anything, true or not, to embarrass him. I can see it all now,” he went on, looking up as he took his right hand and traced an invisible banner headline tabloids favored in the sky. “From slums to forgeries, real estate mogul invests in fake da Vinci.” Dropping his gaze, he fixed Megan with a look that had, on occasion, caused lesser beings to wither. “Until we know what we’ve got here, Mr. Tinsdal is adamant that we keep a tight lid on this.”
As compelling as his arguments were, Megan stood her ground despite the risk of incurring the wrath of the man who was underwriting her efforts. It’s not as if she didn’t have good reasons for insisting they examine the portrait in search of clues that would help them identify the subject in a place that was far more public than a hotel room, some of which she was freely shared with Henry. “As good as the laptop Mr. Tinsdal provided me with, it cannot match the quality of the monitors Lumiere has,” she pointed out when they were discussing why she couldn’t work out of her suite. “We need to examine each and every item in the minutest detail, something best done using the most advance technology available to us. Not only are the means and the facilities necessary to pursue this investigation in the manner we need to are available at Lumiere, doing so there rather than a locked hotel room will add legitimacy to our efforts.”
Not familiar with the firm. , Megan filled him in as she checked the content of her messenger bag to ensure she had all she would need. “Founded in 1989 by Pascal Cotte and Jean Penicaut, when dealing with a work of art, Lumiere Technology uses a multispectral camera capable of analyzing both the layers and colors of the piece without damaging it. The resulting image consists of 240 millions true pixels using twelve instead of the three primary colors. This technology, and its importance to the art world, was demonstrated in 2004 when Cotte used it to analysis da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Without needing to move the piece from where it was hung in the Louvre or leaving a mark, the results allowed art historians to view that priceless work as da Vinci had seen it the day he’d stepped back, set aside his brush and palette, and declared it to be finished. It’s the sort of technology that makes what Andre Perret does all the more difficult.”
Pausing, she looked about the room to make sure she’d not forgotten anything.
“If we’re going to find the clues we will be relying on to guide us, we need to make sure we are seeing them exactly as the artist did when he was creating the portrait,” Megan pointed out. “The slightest little thing, whether it be the color of her amber jewelry or a seemingly insignificant detail of the gown she is wearing could very well provide us with a clue that could be of use. After all, an artist did not waste either his time or material obsessing over a trivial item he was replicating unless it was important,” she added. “Lapis lazuli, the pigment da Vinci used to paint the sky in the background of the Mona Lisa doesn’t didn’t come cheap. A single kilogram of that pigment can cost as much as 13,000 quid at today’s prices.”
Unable to find fault with her reasoning, Henry made the necessary arrangements, never suspecting the real reason she wished to conduct their examination of the portrait at Lumiere Technology had nothing to do with the state of the monitors and computers they employed. It was the setting itself. The idea of spending countless hours in a hotel room, even one as spacious and well appointed as hers, side by side with a man like Henry Hackett was more than a little daunting to someone as Megan.
It wasn’t as if she was afraid he would take advantage of the situation. Despite displaying most of the telltale signed of being a classic Alpha male as Megan had come to understand the type, Henry was every inch a gentleman and professional, polite, considerate, and dedicated to a fault. What she was worried about was her own feelings. Since graduating from university, Megan had been at the National Gallery. With the exception of a small break to tend to a personal issue she’d been putting off for far too long, her whole life had revolved around that place and people like her. Just when she had come to the conclusion that while a man like Clive Barrow made a wonderful mentor, he was not the kind of man she wanted to spend her life with for reasons she could not quite put her finger on. As interesting and knowledgeable as he was, Barrow and the young men at the Gallery who were following in his footsteps lacked a certain something, a quality that would have allowed her to see them as more than what they were to her, a mentor and coworkers.
Henry Hackett was all together different in a way that was as unsettling as it was beguiling. It was something she’d found herself dwelling on more than she thought to be prudent. Having dismissed the notion that his habit of gazing at her far longer than she thought necessary when they were together was due to her unconventional background, she began to suspect his reasons for doing so might not be all that different than hers. Yet as much as she wished to discover what those reasons were, as well explore her own feelings on a very important, and very personal issue, she was determined to do so in a setting and time of her own choosing. At the moment, with so much riding on the success of the enterprise she was engaged in, the last thing she wished was to become distracted by something she had convinced herself could be put off. What the young art historian had not factored into this cold, well thought-out approach was hers was not the only vote on the matter.
Seated at a table with a smaller monitor in front of each of them, Henry and Megan started their search by considering the image of the portrait, displayed in its entirety, on a massive 8K ultra high definition monitor. With four times the horizontal and vertical resolution as a standard 1080p HDTV, yielding sixteen times more pixels, the image of the English Courtesan was as close to the day it was finished as current technology could achieve. Only having the woman depicted in the portrait itself seat before them would have been better. Since that was not possible, the two had to settle for what the artist had managed to cram into a painting that was as detailed as it was captivating.
“Well, where do we start?” Henry asked as he sat there, waiting for Megan to say something.
Good question, she thought to herself as her eyes darted from one thing to another. Grouping the various elements of the portrait into subcategories that made sense to her had been easy. Deciding which ones were important and prioritizing them in a manner that would allow them to hunt down the various clues each would yield in a logical and cost effective manner that would be palatable to Guy Tinsdal was a different matter altogether.
Right off she discounted the importance of a high, narrow window through which a patch of sky could be viewed. The odds that the building it was part of was an extant structure were almost as infinitesimal as finding it was. The title of the book the subject had both hands resting on, clearly visible on its spine, while helpful in fixing the approximate date the painting was executed, did little else. As to the clothing and woman’s hairstyle, at the moment they did more to confuse Megan than assist. “The portrait is entitled The English Courtesan,” she muttered as she thought out loud, breaking the silence and alerting Henry she was ready to begin. “And yet, as Silvia pointed out, her gown and manner in which her hair is dressed is unmistakably Italian and easily pegged to a definitive epoch.”
Having found himself wondering if she was going to take the lead, or wait for him to do so, Henry was relieved when Megan broke the silence. He was also pleased she had taken to using Silvia Mollini’s first name. This seemingly trivial detail alerted him that her self-confidence had grown considerably in the short time he had known her. In the presence of her old mentor, Clive Barrow, neither had been able to overcome the relationship they had been accustomed to when he’d been her immediate superior by virtue of his position at the National Gallery. It was a habit Henry imagined the man relied on to maintain his dominance over her. Her instinctive deference to someone she was in awe of, or at least admired, had been much the same when Megan first met Silvia. That she had managed to overcome whatever lack of confidence she had been harboring in her own abilities, as evidenced by the way the two women were now getting along, was, in Henry’s mind, an important step in Megan’s evolution. It also added to his opinion of her, an opinion that had nothing to do with the project the two were working on.
“This jewelry she is wearing is quite distinctive,” she continued. “A woman who was a courtesan was careful to wear items that informed all who saw her of her status and wealth. Her choice of amber as opposed to other stones might also be a nod to either her origins or the source of her wealth.”
“That could very easily explain the ring on her left hand,” Henry pointed out. “If I’m not mistaken, the best source of high quality amber at this time was the Baltic.”
Having studied the rings and determined the one bearing a raised butterfly and the Latin words video et taceo were of little importance at the moment, Megan focused on the one Henry had mentioned. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I looked up the image. The crest and the crown are the same as on the Grand Coat of Arms of the Kingdom of Poland.”
“I don’t expect that was something someone was free to go about wearing unless they were entitled to,” Henry added.
Megan sniggered. “No, not unless they wanted to lose the hand it was on.”
“So that tells me our English courtesan, who prefers Italian fashions, is somehow connected to the Polish court.”
“No doubt,” Megan muttered distractedly as she continued to sort through the numerous, but unrelated clues. “So where does that lead us?”
“I would think that’s self-evident,” Henry replied after giving her question but a moment’s thought. “We follow the white eagle.”
Historical Notes;
The White Eagle is the oldest of Poland's national symbols. It is its emblem and its coat of arms. Its origins are both legendary and historical.
Well over a thousand years ago, the three legendary brothers: Lech, Czech and Ruś, leaders of their Slavic tribes, were wandering in Central Europe looking for a place for permanent settlement. Czech became the founder of the nation and state of the Czechs. Ruś went east and became the founder of the nation and state of the Ruthenians.
Lech went further north. One day, he and his tribe stopped for a rest at the edge of a great forest. Looking around Lech spotted a large white bird, majestically circling overhead.
The bird landed on a nest in a large oak tree. Lech took the presence of the white eagle and its nest to be a good omen. He turned to his Lechitians and said: "Here will be the place of our permanent settlement which we shall call Gniezno (the old Polish word for nest) and the White Eagle shall be our symbol." The declaration was enthusiastically acclaimed and accepted by all the Lechitians.
The name is significant for Gniezno, today a town of over 70,000 inhabitants some 30 miles east of Poznań, is generally credited with having been Poland's first capital.
Historically, the employment of the White Eagle as a symbol goes back to the formative period of Polish statehood.
The first crude effigy of the White Eagle, the emblem of the Piast dynasty, is to be found on the silver denarius of Bolesław Chrobry, the first crowned King of Poland. He was the son of Mieszko I, the first historical ruler of the Piast dynasty, who, in 966, had accepted Christianity on behalf of his subjects. The coronation of Bolesław Chrobry in 1025 gave recognition to the Polish state and raised his personal prestige.
The next 200 years was a period during which Poland became divided into various provinces, each ruled individually by dukes of the Piast line. However, the White Eagle, that ancient sign of strength, power, majesty, and royalty, was retained by most of them, including the dukes ruling Kraków, as their personal coat of arms. This fact played an important role in the reunification of the divided nation. Also, it was during this period that the White Eagle became refined into the heraldic form we are familiar with today.
1544
Understanding something, being able to intellectually accept and incorporate new ideas, new ways of doing things, and new experiences was not the same as being ready. This truism became self-evident as the cortege Alev’s small party was part of waited before the portico of Wawel Castle, residence of the King of Poland and, if the story the Haseki Hürrem Sultan had carefully crafted held up, Alev’s home for the foreseeable future.
With the same ruthless attention to detail with which Hürrem conducted all of her affairs, Alev had been prepared as best she could be prior to leaving the Topkapi Palace. Sending her off as a vassal of Sulyman the Magnificent, a man who was a threat to both the West’s territorial integrity and its religion to the court of a Christian monarch would have doomed the enterprise before it had even set out. While Alev would have been received with all the honors and courtesies due a personal representative of the Haseki Hürrem Sultan, she would have been kept at arms distance and carefully watched by those charged with protecting the Crown, its secrets, and the church it paid homage to. Success in carrying out her charter depended upon Alev’s ability to come and go as she wished within the close-knit social fabric the King’s court wrapped itself in. Achieving this required the creation of a legend that was not only credible, but verifiable. It was toward this goal that much of the time set aside preparing Alev was dedicated.
“As you well know, at present we are at war with the Kingdom of Hungry. The focus of that war is the control of the Danube,” Hürrem pointed out as she traced her finger along a map stretched out on a table. “From its source in the Swabian Jura in the Duchy of Württemberg, it flows through the heartland of the Hapsburg Empire, the Kingdom of Hungry, and onto our western provinces before emptying into the Black Sea. It provides whoever controls it a pathway into Europe that can be used for commerce in times of peace, and a means of moving soldiers, cannon, and supplies during war. At present our ability to use it for either purpose is blocked by the Hungarians and, of greater significance, Vienna.”
Pausing, she lightly tapped the intricate drawing of a heavily fortified city printed on the map that represent Vienna with the tip of her index finger as a thought she did not share with Alev distracted her. After but a moment, she gave her head a quick shake and continued. “Once we are free to use the Danube, the Sultan’s army will be able to move the where-with-all needed to reduce Vienna and open the way for further expansion into Western Europe.”
Alev knew better than to inform Hürrem that she was well aware of the river’s significance. There was no need to. The woman already knew she did. What Hürrem wished to do was to incite and excite her protégé by playing up her role in the great game of war and conquest rulers engaged in.
“The Polish Queen has no love for the Hapsburgs,” Hürrem pointed out when she continued. “Neither do many Hungarians. Unfortunately, they find themselves caught between our goals and the ambitions of the Hapsburgs. Being a Christian nation, the Hungarians naturally choose the devil they know.”
Hürrem ignored the sideward glance Alev regarded her with when her mind finished the old saying her mentor had drawn upon to make her point as she moved onto her next one. “Within Hungry there are a number of men who think themselves shrewd by trying to find a third way or, failing that, by pledging their support to one side while currying favor with the other. One such man is an important magnate whose holdings in the Eastern Hungarian Kingdom share a border with both our lands and those of Poland. He is currently engaged in a particularly dangerous three way game. While loudly proclaiming his fealty to his monarch, he parleys with us, pledging he will not raise his hand to stop us when the time comes for us to move north. At the same time, he is seeking protection from the Polish crown.”
Unable to help herself, Alev could not keep from making her views on the behavior of the man Hürrem was speaking of known. “Surely he does not expect such a stratagem to go unnoticed or unpunished. He must know that in time his perfidy will be discovered by one party or another.”
Smiling, Hürrem reached out and placed a gentle, caring hand on Alev’s unblemished cheek. “Never presume to know what men think they know, and never underestimate the ability of a man to delude himself. It is a weakness we women are often able to capitalize on in order to advance our own agendas.”
Having been so conditioned to think of herself as female, Alev saw nothing odd about the way Hürrem had referred to her. Instead, she turned to the matter at hand, wishing to impress Hürrem by cutting to the chase. “Am I to assume this Hungarian magnate will serve as a bridge that will see me safely into the Kingdom of Poland?”
The smile in Hürrem’s face grew wider. Yes, she told herself. This child is ready to serve me. At the time, Alev had shared that belief. It was not one that did not last very long.
The time spent as guests of the Hungarian magnet who was in league with Hürrem was barely enough for the small party that had set out from Constantinople to shed the last vestiges of their origin and allow Ceren, who continued to see to Alev’s personal needs, and the three Hungarian janissaries sent along as an escort and guardian to once more become comfortable with their native tongue. It also allowed that trio, augmented by hand-picked members of the magnet’s personal retainer they had met at the border between Christian and Muslim lands, to intercept and waylay a party of Italian merchants making their way north. That every one of them, to include a young woman of noble birth, was slain during that brief but vicious ambush was dutifully noted in the first dispatch Alev sent back to Hürrem, but otherwise forgotten as Alev turned her thoughts to other, more immediate concerns.
The stay in Eastern Hungry was not near long enough for Alev to do anything more than recover from the cultural shock she found herself reeling under as her party, now encumbered by the carts, merchandise, and pack animals taken from the Italians, set off for the Royal city of Kraków. “You need not worry yourself,” Ceren reminded Alev whenever she noticed her mistress’ mounting anxiety became too much for her to mask, darkening her expression and leaving her sullen and withdrawn. “All save the Hungarian lord who was our host and those who took part in the attack believe your story. No one in Kraków will be any the wiser.”
Any thought of confiding in Ceren, telling the young fair-haired Hungarian slave that it was not the legend Hürrem had taken such great care to fashion that had her on edge. Telling her anything of importance was dismissed out of hand. The girl and her lose tongue could not be trusted any more than the three janissaries who stood watch over Alev’s door at night and followed her wherever she went. Having watched the way they had laughed and chattered amongst themselves as they were cleaning Italian blood off their hands, Alev had no doubt they would not hesitate a jot to shed hers if they suspected she was straying from her appointed task.
Unsure just how ready she really was, fearful of sharing her concerns with another, and feeling more alone than she ever had, Alev kept her own council as they passed through the well defended portico of Wawel Castle. The lies she would need to use in order to convince the Poles were as convincing as was her presentation. It was her ability to behave as if they were true, conducting herself in a manner that matched, what was for her, her fourth reincarnation that troubled her, leaving Alev wondering how and when, not if, this strange journey of hers would end.
Following a brief respite during which Ceren could do little more than brush off the oppressively heavy, western garments her mistress was attired in, Alev was led from the guest apartment located on the first floor of the castle’s residence to the Chamber of Deputies. There she waited on the covered arcade over looking the Italian inspired open courtyard to be announced.
With her attention focused on rehearsing in her mind the obeisance she would need to perform when called forth into the presence of the Polish monarchs, Alev did not immediately advance into the room when the marshal of the court called out the name she was now using, Alessandra d’Este, who was a grandniece to Bona Sforza, the wife of Sigismund I, and Queen of Poland. It took a less than subtle clearing of a throat from the young page escorting her to alert her she had been announced.
With a start and a quick shack of her head, Alev drew herself up before quickly stepping off, advancing at a stately, well measured pace into the spacious chamber toward the King and Queen seated at the far end. Being familiar with the way women of the Harem were in the habit of whispering to each other or giggling loud enough to be heard whenever she entered a room, Alev was able ignore the hushed murmurings courtiers gathered in the crowded chamber exchanged. It was the sound of her own footfalls on the marble floor, tapping out a steady cadence like the beating of a drum, the fluttering of her skirt’s hem being kicked about by the toe of her shoe, and the fixed, questioning gaze with which the Polish Queen held her that Alev focused on.
Bona Sforza was the only person in all of Poland that mattered. Win her over, convince her of the legend the Hürrem had taken such care to craft, and all would be well. Fail, and… Well, Alev told herself as she came to a stop and sunk into a deep, western style curtsy, failure and the punishment that followed couldn’t possibly be any worse than the torment she’d suffered at the hands of Brother Dominic.
“Rise, child,” Bona Sforza commanded with a sharpness that caused Alev to respond without hesitation. Lifting her eyes, she briefly met the Queen’s gaze in an effort to gauge how best to proceed. Unlike Hürrem’s, eyes that were a weapon she wielded with great skill and effectiveness, Bona Sforza’s steady, unflinching gaze reminded Alev of the way a large, predatory cat fixes its pray before pouncing.
“I was distraught when I heard of your misfortune,” Bona Sforza declared in a tone that was as cold and hard as the tile floor Alev was standing on. “I trust no harmed befell you during the time you were held captive.”
Which time? Alev found herself thinking. During my childhood at the monastery where all hope of a promising future had been brutally crushed in order to serve the needs of a few ambitious men? When I was taken by others for no other reason than to honor the needs of their masters? Or in the years following that pivotal and very bloody day as I went from being an object of curiosity in one part of the Topkapi to another where I better fit, but did not belong? Alev had learned suffering came in many forms that were not always visible or be forgotten and captivity was more than a physical state of being.
Dropping her gaze to the floor, Alev took a second to banish her untimely reflections. Only when she was ready did she once more look up and reply in a manner that informed the Polish Queen and distant relative to the girl whose place she had taken that she had not been violated or dishonored in any way, at least not by the imaginary brigands who had waylaid the caravan Alessandra d’Este had been traveling with. For the girl whose place she’d taken, that much was true. The janissaries had wasted little time with her. They just killed her.
“I was untouched by my captors,” Alev whispered in a small voice she hoped would come across as she expected a girl her age would respond if forced to answer such a question before the assembled lords and ladies of a kingdom.
“His lordship, Stephen Grabski will be pleased,” Bona Sforza declared crisply.
Now was the time, Alev told herself as she drew in a deep breath, dropped her gaze ever so slight, and prepared herself to deviate from the script the assembled courtiers expected. Drooping her shoulders and bowing her head, she allowed her hands to fall listlessly to her side as if the strings that had been holding her erect had just been cut. She waited until she heard a fresh wave of mutters sweep through the crowd as the members of the Polish court took to speculating amongst themselves what had caused the Italian girl to suddenly break form.
After allowing this muttered gossip to reach a level Bona Sforza could not ignore, Alev peeked up at her. She was more than pleased when she saw the Queen was struggling to keep from smiling, for it meant the woman understood what was afoot and was prepared to play her role in this staged piece of play acting.
“Is there something you wish to say?” Bona Sforza asked as she took to the game.
Before responding, Alev made a great show of looking to her right, then to her left, warily eyeing the courtesans who were watching her every move. “Your majesty, I…I…”
Again, Alev lowered her gaze as she lapsed into silence that alerted the gathering the subject was either too difficult or too delicate to broach in such a public setting, an assumption reinforced by the blush rising in the Italian girl’s cheek.
All eyes quickly shifted from Alev to Bona Sforza when she rose to her feet, bringing their speculative chatter over why the Italian girl was behaving so to an end as they now turned their full attention to their queen, waiting to see how she would respond to this most unexpected departure from the script all had come to witness.
“Come. We shall continue our discussion in private,” Bona Sforza declared without bothering to seek the King’s permission to leave his presence.
For the first time since coming into his presence, Alev took a moment took study the King, the titular head of Poland. His eyes, dull and half closed, were fixed on something on the far side of the room, an object his mind did not embrace. The stories were true then, she concluded. Sigismund the Old was a doddering shell of a man, a king in name only who was no longer able to command the respect or homage his high office demanded from his subjects. Bona Sforza, a woman like Hürrem whose power and authority far exceeded the traditional mandate governing the conduct of a queen was the true head of state.
Without further ado, Bona Sforza stepped down from the dais and swept past Alev without waiting for a response from her.
Alev did not follow, not immediately as her eyes lingered a bit longer on Sigismund, realizing for the first time that everything Hürrem had done to date were but a prelude, preparation for the day when Suleyman, known in the west as the Magnificent, lost his grip on the instruments of state as Sigismund had. Would she be able to wield her hard won authority as freely as Bona Sforza did? Or would she be reduced to remaining in the shadows, playing puppet master to a son she had taken such care to groom for that role?
All were questions that were of no importance at the moment as Alev turned and took to following in the wake of the Queen.
“What became of the girl?” Bona Sforza asked in Italian after a servant withdrew, closing the door of the private study she had led Alev to.
Hesitating, Alev warily eyed the massive tapestries covering the walls of the room, wondering if they, like the intricate lattice of the Topkapi, were used to conceal the eyes and ears of a trusted lieutenant.
“We are quite alone,” Bona Sforza informed Alev as she was taking a seat behind a desk.
Turning her attention toward the Polish Queen, Alev drew herself up and tilted her head back ever so slightly. “Dead, your majesty,” she replied in the language of her mother’s people.
There was a momentary hesitation as Bona Sforza averted her gaze and took to mulling something over in her mind. “Just as well,” she finally murmured without looking up from a spot on the desk.
There was no need to ask the woman what she meant by that comment. Alev was well aware of stories concerning the cruelties and horrors that awaited Christians sold to the Turk as slaves. No doubt, she thought as she took a seat the Queen motioned toward with a wave of her hand, the woman believed them. Not that this was a bad thing. Belief that the people Alev was representing were a cruel and barbaric lot would serve as a warning that need not be verbalize and, by extension, was not to be taken lightly.
Bona Sforza waited until Alev was settled before turning to the subject at hand. “Have you a message from your mistress?”
“The Haseki Hürrem Sultan sends you her greetings,” Alev declared crisply as she easily slipped into a role Hürrem had been preparing her for. “She wishes to inform you Padeshah, the King of Kings, the Unique Arbiter of the World’s Destinies, the Master of Two Continents and the Two Seas, and Sovereign of East and West has no interest in the lands the Kingdom of Poland claim as their own.”
“For now,” Bona Sforza snipped.
Unable to help herself, the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “Only Allah, the master of all men, is able to see what the future holds for we, His humble servants.”
Alev’s rejoinder, delivered without hesitation and with a warning that was mistakable served its intended purpose. It informed a woman who shared Hürrem ambitions that the young woman seated across the desk from her was a representative of the most powerful empire in the world driven by an aggressive ideology that demanded its followers spread their faith to all who did not embrace it. Drawing back ever so slightly, Bona Sforza raised an eyebrow as she took to reconsidering her approach to what was, for her, a very delicate matter, one that was at odds with her husband and many of the Polish nobles who viewed her and her activities with increasing suspicion. While her husband was no longer in control of his own faculties, and thus not a concern, the nobles who had a say in national policy could not be ignored. It was what they would do to her if they discovered she was dealing with the infidels, and not the threat of eternal damnation for betraying her faith, that forced Bona Sforza to rely on subterfuge and deceit in order to advance her self-serving goals.
“What are your mistress’ intentions?” Bona Sforza asked cautiously.
“The Haseki Hürrem Sultan wishes only to honor the wishes of the Sultan, our one, true master,” Alev declared in a tone of voice that bordered on being a touch imperious.
“Which are?”
Both the Queen’s manner and the tone of her voice told Alev she no longer had the need to assert her status as a representative of Hürrem as she had been. She therefore eased back in her chair and gently laid her hands on the chair’s armrests as she took to laying out as much of Suleyman’s intentions, as explained to her by Hürrem, as she was at liberty to.
Once Alev had finished, Bona Sforza took to carefully weighting her options and the words she would use to lay them out before speaking. “What does the Sultan offer in return for my pledge to keep Poland from interfering with his war in Hungry?”
In effort to test just how serious the Polish Queen was in her desire to treat with a representative of Hürrem, Alev suddenly rose to her feet. “It has been a long and tiring day, your majesty,” she declared before Bona Sforza, taken aback by Alev’s sudden move, was able to recover her poise. “With your permission, I wish to withdraw and refresh myself before we discuss that, as well as how you intend to deal with the man Alessandra d’Este was betrothed to.”
Though she was caught off guard by the young woman’s manner and angered by the girl’s insolence, Bona Sforza recognizing it for what it was. “Of course,” she replied through clenched teeth. “I look forward to discussing that, and other matters later, after you have had an opportunity to rest and we have dined with the King.”
Stepping back toward the door, Alev curtsied. “I look forward to both.”
Whatever satisfaction Alev had been able to carry away over how she had acquitted herself in the presence of the Queen evaporated that evening as she discovered just how unprepared she was to deal with an aspect of culture she’d never been exposed to; the social interplay between men and women. It was only in retrospect that she appreciated this was a problem she should have anticipated. After all, she’d spent the first ten years of her life as a boy sequestered away within the walls of a monastery. The years she spent at the Topkapi under the tutelage of Tilki had, if truth be known, been little different, for he continued to live as a boy in an all male world. And while the time he spent in the Harem learning to behave as a female had been instructive, lessons learned there were proving to be of little practical use in King Sigismund’s court, where male and female courtiers freely mingled.
At dinner that night Alev found herself seated at a table between a boisterous nobleman who made no secret of his intention to become better acquainted with her, and a young courtier who could not have been much older than she judging from the fine down sprouting from his chin. Hard as she tried to ignore them, neither allowed her a moment’s peace as each did their utmost to draw her out as course after course of rich, fatty foods the likes of which she had never seen before, were placed before her.
The conclusion of dinner brought no relief as the entire court rose as one and moved back into the Deputies Chamber where a small quartet played music to which men, escorting ladies of their choice, stepped out into the center of the room and took to dancing. An invitation by the young Pole who had been to Alev’s left during dinner was easily parried, for he came across as being just as unsure of himself as she was. The older noble was a different story altogether.
Cocksure of himself to the point of being insufferably arrogant, he refused to believe Alev did not know how to dance. “You cannot tell me they do not dance in Italy. The Queen, whose upbringing cannot be all that different than yours, is quite proficient when paired with a suitable partner.”
“The Queen is familiar with the dances members of this court enjoy,” Alev countered.
“I expect she wasn’t when she came to Kraków. Such things must be learned, and who better to teach them than a Pole who is as masterful on the dance floor as he is in the saddle,” the loutish nobleman proclaimed even as he was attempting to pry Alev’s hand away from her side.
The sudden appearance of a young woman with fair hair interrupted the nobleman’s efforts to drag Alev out into the swirling crowd of dancing men and women. “Ah, I have been hope to have a chance to speak with you,” the woman beamed.
Releasing the grip he had had on Alev’s hand, the nobleman bowed. “Your highness.”
The fair-haired girl briefly acknowledged the nobleman’s salutation, but otherwise paid no attention to him as she snaked her arm through Alev’s. “I am Catherine, daughter of King Sigismund and Queen Bona.”
“And I am…”
“I know very well who you are,” Katherine replied before Alev could finish. “I have been looking forward to hearing all about Italy, a place I dream of but, if the Queen has her way, I will never see.”
Despite having no idea what she would be able to tell the young princess about a land she had not seen in years, Alev was quite happy to be led away by her. There would come a time when she would have to deal with someone like the loutish nobleman if she hoped to maintain a pretense that was fast becoming reality. But not tonight.
Historical Notes;
The House of Este is a European princely dynasty. It is split into two branches; the elder is known as the House of Welf-Este or House of Welf (Guelf or Guelph), and the younger is known as the House of Fulc-Este or later simply as the House of Este. The elder branch of the House of Este included the dukes of Brunswick and Luneburg (1208–1918) and produced Britain's Hanoverian monarchs and one Emperor of Russia, Ivan VI. The younger branch of the House of Este included rulers of Ferra (1240–1597), and Modena and Reggio (1288–1796).
Bona Sforza was born into the powerful and wealthy Italian Sforza dynasty who had ruled Milan since 1447. Although her father belonged to the authority of the Duchy of Milan, he was ousted by his uncle Ludovico Sforza, known to history as "Il Moro". He exercised power on behalf of the young prince, until his death in 1494 at the castle in Pavia. Shortly afterwards, the Princess Isabella, together with her daughters, went to Bari. To regain political significance and their former possessions, Isabella had to find a husband for Bona (her surviving daughter). Her first attempts were unsuccessful due to the unfavourable political situation at the time but due to the support of the House of Habsburg she succeeded in marrying Bona to the widowed Polish King Sigismund I the Old. The marriage ceremonies and Bona's coronation were held in Krakow on 18 April 1518.
In her youth, Bona obtained a good education. Her teacher was Crisostomo Colonna, a member of the Academy of Pont, who supervised her education along with Antonio Galateo. She received instruction in history, law, administration and theology. She was thrifty, economical, and she also had the ability to influence people. She demonstrated this skill in all her activities.
Almost from the beginning of her life in Poland, Queen Bona tried to gain a strong political position. She began to form her own cabal and also benefited from the support of the king. She also supported by Piotr Kmita Sobieński, Andrew Ladislaus and Piotr Gamrat, taking them to her offices and creating the so-called Triumvirate. She managed to also get Pope Leo X to decide on the appointment of fifteen ecclesiastical benefice of very high importance.
Bona came out of the belief that one of the most important things needed for the effective implementation of policies and plans for strengthening royal authority is access to appropriate high finance. Therefore she set herself the objective of magnification and the assembly domain of dynastic wealth as much as possible, which would give the Jagiello family financial independence. The family gained numerous estates in Lithuania, and finally in 1536-1546 they took over the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. This generated huge profits.
In 1527, as a result of a fall from a horse, the queen gave birth prematurely to her second son Albert, who died at birth. After this event, the Queen could not have any more children. Bona, wanting to ensure the continuity of the Jagiellonian dynasty on the Polish throne, decided to make the nobles and magnates to recognise her only son, the minor Sigismund Augustus as heir to the throne. First, the Lithuanian nobles gave him the ducal throne (ca. 1527-1528). Then, in 1529 he was crowned Sigismund II Augustus. This led to huge opposition from Polish lords, which led to the adoption of the bill that the next coronation would take place after the death of Sigismund Augustus, and that it would do so with the consent of all the noble brothers.
From the outset, Bona was wary of the growing power of the Radziwiłł family and was later accused of poisoning her daughter-in-law Barbara Radziwiłł.
In foreign policy, she was a fierce opponent of the Habsburgs and a supporter of a closer alliance with France. In Hungary during the wars that took place after the Battle of Mohacs in 1526, supported by János Szapolyai against the Habsburgs. Bona also sought to maintain good relations with Sublime Porte and contacts with Roxelana, the most important wife of Suleyman the Magnificent. Bona was also a spokesperson for connecting Silesia to the Crown in return for her hereditary principality Bari and Rosano, but Sigismund the Old did not support the idea and the whole project collapsed. Bona managed to also carry out tax reforms in Lithuania and agricultural products (including uniform duties of the peasants and a unit of area measurements).
In 1539 Bona Sforza had presided, reluctantly, over the burning of 80-year old Katarzyna Weiglowa for heresy, but this event ushered in an era of tolerance, and her confessor Francesco Lismanino assisted in the establishment of a Calvinist Academy in Pińczów.
In 1544, Sigismund II Augustus was given independent authority in Lithuania, and he moved there. It was the cause of a significant weakening of power in the queen, who did not want his departure. The pair had originally entered into a conflict over her son's marriage to Barbara Radziwiłł.
On the 1 April 1548, Sigismund I the Old died, leaving Bona a widow. Their son succeeded him. After the death of the King, Bona moved to Masovia and stayed there for eight years. Then she moved back to her native Bari.
Present Day
Somehow the idea that the curator of the Wawel Castle’s museum professionalism would be on par with the standards Clive Barrow adhered to, or Gérard Caron’s urbane demeanor was one Megan was disabused of even before introductions were complete. To say Jan Peszke came across as imperious to the point of being insufferable would have been overstating things, but not by much.
Henry was able to put his finger on the nub of the problem right off when, upon being shown the portrait, Peszke harrumphed. “It is, indeed, a very pretty picture,” he announced in heavily accented English following a cursory examination. The man, Henry concluded, was a purist of the worse sort, the kind who considered art historians to be separate and apart from True historians. As if to prove this point, if any further proof was necessary, after being asked about the ring the subject in the portrait was wearing, Peszke proceeded to lecture them as if they were first year university students.
“Even when this ring was created, it was quite rare,” Peszke informed Megan and Henry as the two sat side by side across a small conference table from him. “Only people who were in the service of the King were given them, for they told all who saw it that the wearer was a representative of the King, a trusted agent who had had the authority to act in the his name.” Henry, as well as Megan, already knew this. They also knew the design of the ring predated the founding of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth, a subject Peszke felt the need to delve into even though it had no direct bearing on the purpose of Megan and Henry’s visit.
“The idea that a Polish king would give such a ring to a foreigner, as you claim, is laughable,” Peszke concluded with an air of confidence.
“And yet he did,” Megan countered in a tone that alerted Henry her patience with the Polish historian was wearing precariously thin.
“Other than this pretty picture of yours, what proof do you have? By your own admission, you do not know who the woman in it is.”
“It’s obvious she’s not Polish.”
“Why obvious?”
“I doubt the artist named the portrait The English Courtesan simply because he didn’t feel calling the Polish Courtesan had the right ring to it,” Megan countered sarcastically.
Rather than being put off by Megan’s growing belligerence, a grin lit up Peszke’s face. “Surely as a woman you appreciate just how important it is to follow fashion trends least other women look down upon you as being hopelessly out of touch by wearing a styles that are passé. I expect women who were members of the English court were no different, wearing Italian inspired fashions when they in vogue, then switching to French when Anne Boleyn became queen. Even here in Poland female members of the Polish court took to wearing Italian inspired gowns for no other reason than to curry favor with Bona Sforza when she married Sigismund I in 1518.”
Unable to contest his point, Megan found herself reduced to doing little more than glaring at the self-assured Polish historian who, believing he had prevailed, took to smirking. Henry, who had kept clear of the exchange up to this point, decided the time had come to intervene, if for no other reason than to keep Megan from saying something that was inappropriate and highly unladylike.
“We appreciate both your time and efforts,” he intoned, causing the two antagonists who had been eyeing each other as if bracing for a fresh go at each other to turn their attention to him. Megan, who was on the verge of abandoning all efforts to reign in her ire, glared at him sporting an expression that all but asked ‘who the bloody hell asked you for your opinion?’ Peszke, on the other hand, was quite pleased the male half of the pair he had spent the afternoon with had finally decided to assert himself by taking the tiresome young woman in hand and allow him to get back to tending other, more important matters.
An attempt by Megan to inform Henry she was not quite finished was cut short without affording her an opportunity to voice her objections to his meddling. Coming to his feet, Henry slipped the portrait back into its padded carrier even as he was thanking Peszke for taking the time out of his busy day to chat with them. “If you happen to come across anything you think might be of interest to us, you can reach us at the Bonerowski Palace hotel where we’re staying, or at this number,” Henry informed Peszke as he was handing him his card. Then, without waiting for Megan to say anything, or more correctly before she had a chance to, Henry took up the carrier the portrait was in, turned to Megan, and cocked a brow. “Shell we?”
Peeved, but very aware there was no point in pressing the matter, Megan huffed. “Fine.” With that, she stood up and marched out the door of Peszke’s office.
Henry said nothing as they made their way out the gates of Wawal Castle and headed toward the Rynek, the center of the old city. Along the way the crisp fall air, brisk pace, and old world charm of Kraków managed to work its magic on Megan who had all but stormed out of the Castle’s museum. It wasn’t until they were in the middle of the city’s market square that she bothered to glance over at Henry. “Why did you do that?”
The temptation to pretend he had no idea what she was talking about was dismissed without a second thought. He had little doubt she was in no mood to be messed about. Instead, he took to looking about as if wondering how best to answer her. “I think if you set aside your pride, which that sorry sod was taking such delight in trampling on, you would have to admit we’d pretty much accomplished all we set out to achieve there.”
Unwilling to concede the point, Megan grunted. “So says the voice of reason and experience.”
“So says the voice of someone who knows when to break contact and withdraw from a fight he has no hope of winning.”
This less than subtle reminder there was a very dark side of the man she was walking next to he had yet to share with her caused Megan to look over at him, wondering whether he was speaking metaphorically or if he had actually found himself in a position where he’d had to flee from a fight before being overwhelmed by a bloody minded foe. Deciding this was not the time or place to delve into that particular subject, she turned her attention to other, more immediate concerns. “Okay, so we know our English courtesan, who probably wasn’t really English at all, was here in Kraków, or at least knew someone who was a member of the Polish court.”
“An important member of the court who had direct access to the King,” Henry added.
“Or Queen,” Megan added. “Even that odious, sanctimonious, little git we wasted an entire morning listening to had to admit Sigismund was never a strong leader, that Bona Sforza was a force to be reckoned with, especially in the 1540s during Sigismund’s declining years.”
With nothing more than a nod, Henry conceded Megan’s point.
“Which tell us what?” Megan asked wistfully.
Before answering, Henry steered Megan toward an open air café where they settled at a table, ordered coffee, and took a moment to collect their thoughts in companionable silence as they watched tourists and residents mingle under the statue of Adam Mickiewicz, a noted nineteenth century Polish romanticist and notorious philanderer. Eventually, when he’d determined the young art historian had calmed down and was ready to listen to an idea he’d been mulling over, Henry turned to the question they had left hanging, the ‘what now?’ of this odd quest they were on.
“What if we’re all wrong about the woman in the portrait? What if she really wasn’t a courtesan, but something else, something very different?”
Not sure where Guy Tinsdal’s faithful dogsbody was going with this, Megan frowned. “Like what?”
Satisfied she was willing to hear him out, Henry eased back in his seat and took up his coffee. “Oh, I don’t know. A spy perhaps?”
“Excuse me?”
“A spy, or at the least an agent for someone who had an interest in knowing what was going on in Poland, England, and Italy, places where our mysterious Renaissance woman seems to have visited.”
The temptation to dismiss such an idea out of hand was forgotten almost as quickly as the thought crossed her mind. Having come to appreciate Henry Hackett was more than an errant boy, Megan was prepared to hear him out. “Okay, I’m listening.”
Henry did not answer right off, turning his attention instead to where an elderly couple, tourists by the way they were dressed, were trying to find someone to take their picture with their camera, a very expensive one by the looks of it, in front of the monument to Adam Mickiewicz, a man who had never been in Kraków. ‘I hope you don’t try that in Italy,’ Henry thought to himself as a scruffy young man took the camera from the elderly couple and fiddled with it while the couple began to argue over where they should stand.
With a loud, audible sigh and shake of his head, Henry turned his attention back to Megan. “Give me an hour or so to mull a few things over, do a little research on the web, and collect my thoughts.”
Not having any better ideas at the moment, and needing some serious alone time, Megan shrugged. “Sure.”
“We’ll discuss this tonight, over dinner.”
“Are we dinning in the hotel again?” Megan asked as Henry was trying to catch their waiter’s attention.
“Yes, but not ours.”
“Oookay,” Megan intoned warily as she regarded him over the lip of her coffee cup as she was preparing to take a sip.
With his mind already wrapping itself about the task ahead, Henry cut to the chase. “The Copernicus. We have reservations at nineteen thirty.”
“Is it fancy?”
“Well, it most certainly isn’t a McDonald’s, if that’s what you mean.”
Realizing she wasn’t going to get a straight answer from him, at least not one that would help her decide what to wear, Megan decided to do a little research of her own. Not having had the opportunity to put some of the advice Silvia Mollini had shared with her, she decided this just might be the perfect time to try something she’d been considering, but had yet been able to muster the nerve needed to try.
With that settled, she watched as Henry settled the bill, stood, and turned his attention to her. “Ready?”
Megan smiled. “Oh yes.”
The moment she stepped out into the lobby of the hotel where they were staying and spotted Henry seated near the entrance, the confidence that had driven her on earlier in the day and as she was dressing evaporated faster than the morning mist. The only thing that kept Megan from pivoting about and beating a hasty retreat back to her room to change was the realization Henry had spotted her and the appreciation a graceful, quick about face was impossible while wearing heels that made her feel as if she were walking on stilts. With no alternative but to press on, Megan gathered up the collar of her coat about her throat, took in a deep breath, and stepped off, muttering under her breath as she went, “Half a league, half a league, half a league forward.”
“I was about to dispatch a search party,” Henry proclaimed as he came to his feet.
“Sorry. I sort of lost track of time.”
“A likely excuse,” Henry snickered. “Well, if you’re ready?”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Megan whispered to herself as she swept past him without meeting his gaze and out the door being held by open for her.
It wasn’t until they had arrived at the restaurant and he was helping her off with her coat that the meaning of her statement back in the lobby became clear. Having become accustomed to her less than spectacular taste in clothing, Henry was quite taken aback when, free of her coat, Megan slowly turned and faced him.
Working for Guy Tinsdal often times required Henry to mingle with a class of people a man with his background and no nonsense, workaday tastes would not have associated with if given a choice. So the sight of a woman in a little black dress was nothing he hadn’t seen before. What made him pause was the shy innocence the art historian before him radiated. Everything about her, from the way she stood there, waiting for him to say something, to the way her eyes nervously darted nervously about in an effort to avoid meeting his steady, unflinching, gaze was inexplicably captivating.
Already self-conscious, Megan could not help but cast a quick glance to her left, then her right in an effort to see if their behavior was causing a scene before turning her full attention back toward Henry. “Ah, Henry. Is something wrong with this?” she asked indicating her dress with a quick flick of her hand.
Ever so slowly, he shook his head. “Not – one – single – thing,” he replied as a Cheshire Cat grin lit up his face.
Feeling like Little Red Riding Hood must have while being eyed by the Big Bad Wolf, Megan cleared her throat. “Well then, shell we?”
“Most definitely, we shall.”
It took a full glass of wine and an overly protracted perusal of her menu to calm Megan’s jangled nerves. Even then, as soon as their waiter had taken their order and she had downed the better part of a second glass of wine, she still felt like a cat someone had set down on a hot stove. “So,” she chirped in an effort to snap Henry out of the trance he seemed to be lost in as he stared at her across the table as if he was seeing her for the first time. “Ready to share your thoughts on why you think our courtesan is a spy?”
Suddenly aware of just how obvious his staring had been, Henry blinked several times. Taking up his own glass of wine, he used the time it took to gulp it to collect himself. “Yes, well, as I was saying earlier today, I’ve come to the conclusion our English Courtesan, if in fact she was English, was so much more.”
Devilishly pleased with the way she had been able to unnerve the here-to-fore unflappable Henry Hackett and embolden by the wine, Megan decided to try something she’d seen in an old Audrey Hepburn movie. Ever so gracefully she planted her elbows on the table and clasp her hands together before gently laying them against the side of her cheek. Sporting a half smile and an attentive, owlish gaze, she stared across the table at Henry. “I’m listening,” she cooed huskily.
Convinced she was toying him, but not knowing how to put an end to it, or even if he wanted to, Henry decided to do his best to ignore Megan’s little act and press on. “I am convinced the items the subject took great care to be depicted with, and the detail with which the artist replicated them were not only meant to inform the viewer who she was, but to communicate a message.”
“What sort of message?” Megan asked with an affected breathiness.
‘Not the sort you’re trying to send,’ Henry thought to himself as he paused to refill their wine glasses before continuing.
“I believe our girl is attempting to tell the people she was working for, controllers in modern parlance, here is where I have been and what I have accomplished.”
“How?”
Having regained his footing, Henry was able to lay out his case in much the same way he did when putting forth his justification for lunching a raid on a terrorist stronghold when Queen and country found themselves in need of his services. “As your dear friend in the Wawel Castle pointed out, the ring bearing the crest of the Kingdom of Poland makes it clear our girl was able to not only get close to the King and Queen, one of them trusted her. If she had been given a specific task to accomplish by her handlers, once she had she would need someway of telling them she had succeeded.”
Fascinated by the case Henry was laying out, Megan dropped her little act. Easing back in her seat, she took up her wine glass. “Go on.”
“The books, the one sitting on the table, was printed in 1553 and the one she’s holding open in her lap not only tells us where she has been, but when.”
Unsure of what those tidbits of information hinted at, Megan tilted her head to one side and frowned. “Of what use could that be?”
“The book in her lap was first printed in Venice at a time when the various powers struggling for supremacy in the eastern Mediterranean were enjoying a rare and uneasy peace. In addition to recovering from their last go at each other, everyone with an interest in the region would all want to know who their foes during the next round would be, which allies could be relied upon when called on, and what everyone was doing to prepare for it.”
“Why Venice?” Megan asked as she was raising her glass to her lips she’d taken such great care to accentuate with an alluring, kissable red lipstick.
“What better place than a seaport like Venice to work from, where ships from all around the Med and Black Sea put in, bringing news, rumors, and ideas from all corners of the world. And then there were the publishing houses, owned and operated by men who were free to print books written by some of the most important and influential people of the day without the heavy hand of a repressive church or suspicious autocrat censoring them. In the mid 1500s a full quarter of all the books in circulation in Europe were published somewhere in the Venetian Republic.”
“And the other book, the one published in England?”
Realizing he had the upper hand in this strangely seductive exchange for the first time that evening, Henry allowed himself something of a grin as he reached out for his wine glass. “The date the book was published is what is important.”
Unable to come up with anything resembling a guess, Megan frowned. “What’s so important about the date?”
“Edward VI, an avowed protestant died that year.” Pausing, Henry too a sip of wine. “When Henry VIII died in 1547 Edward was nine years old, which meant a regency council established to rule until the boy reached his majority. Edward Seymour, 1st Duke of Somerset was named Lord Protector of England and head of that council. His appointment set in motion a conflict between him and his brother, Thomas Seymour, Lord Admiral of the Royal Navy. This power struggle was exasperated by a series of rebellions. The most serious were those fueled by religious zealots seeking to achieve dominance for their chosen faith. Others were minor uprisings motivated by peasants either seeking agrarian reforms or attempting to stifle them. And of course, there were foreign wars.”
“Of course,” Megan cooed seductively as she took advantage of a slight pause to mess about with Henry. “We mustn’t forget those.”
Try as hard as he could, Henry found himself unable to ignore the way Megan was behaving. Whether she was simply having fun at his expense, or there was more at play here than he was prepared to deal with at the moment was impossible to tell. What was crystal clear to him was the young woman he’d met but a month ago was evolving.
“Um, yes, of course,” he muttered. “Well, as you can well imagine, this all created a period of unrest and chaos in England, particularly when Mary, Katherine of Aragon’s daughter became queen and set about doing her best to undo the religious reforms Henry VIII and Edward VI had set in motion, earning her the moniker of Bloody Mary. This continued well into the reign of Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen.”
As she listened, it began to dawn upon Megan there was so much more to what they were doing than simply trying to find out who had painted a portrait Guy Tinsdal had purchased on a whim. She was so taken in what Henry was laying out that the sudden appearance of their waiter with their meal caught her by surprise.
As if by mutual consent, both Megan and Henry decided to set aside the business of the day and devote themselves to enjoying their meal and, in their own way, each other’s company. For Henry, this meant using every opportunity that came his way to glance across the table at a woman who was becoming more intriguing with each passing day. Megan, on the other hand, found herself recalling an old joke a friend of hers had shared with her concerning how one goes about letting someone of the opposite sex know they were interested. It started by asking how two porcupines mated. The answer, her friend had declared brightly, was obvious. Very carefully.
Sleep did not come easy to Megan that night. As she was shedding her dress and removing her makeup, she found herself dwelling on the way Henry had behaved earlier that evening. Despite not having been a date, not in the conventional sense, everything about the way she had acted and he, much to her own surprise, had responded told her dinner, and the walk back to their hotel afterwards, had been more than another meal shared with a coworker. The question she could not answer at the moment, one that was bedeviling her, was whether this was simply a one off affair of no lasting import and that everything would go back to the way things had been between the two of them before this evening or…
Unable, or more correctly, unwilling to finish that thought, Megan turned her mind to other things. After pulling on a well worn, unadorned light grey cotton nightdress that came to her knees, she settled down at the desk in her room, fired up her laptop, and began to make notes, detailing some of the points Henry had made during dinner. When she was finished with that, she pulled up the outline they had been using as a guide in organizing their efforts and began to merge the new ideas with previous notes she had made.
Sometime just after midnight, when she was finished with this, she paused to look over her efforts. It was then that what had been nothing more than a checklist she had been dutifully following suddenly took on an entirely different appearance. Rather than a roadmap used to guide their efforts, the outline was beginning to become something very different. But what?
Easing back in the straight back chair, Megan crossed her arms as she took to staring at her computer screen. Glancing over to where the portrait was sitting as it sat every night, propped upright on a collapsible tabletop easel, her eyes fell on the books that Henry had mentioned. The books were no longer stuff thoughtlessly included by the artist in order to add a little color to the piece. They were keys, hidden clues that he was convinced would unlock the door to discovery, discovery of who, and in the artist’s mind, what the woman in the portrait was.
As if struck by a bolt of lightening, Megan sat upright. The outline on her computer screen wasn’t an outline, not any more. It was a table of content to a book, a book that had yet to be written, a book she realized she needed to write. Lurching forward, she took to beavering away, opening a fresh page and reordering bullet points into well defined chapter headings. Once finished, she turned her attention to the notes she had reworked, using them to sketch out a brief description of what would be in each chapter.
With an urgency that bordered on being manic, she labored away through the night, stopping only when the pale light of a fresh, early fall dawn began to peek through the partially open curtains of her room. She was about to finish up by saving what she had done when she realized she had one more thing to do. Moving the cursor to the top of the first page, she typed out a title, one that drew upon a comment that had irritated her a scant twenty-four hours before but now, seemed to sum up the very point she would try to make.
Slowly, almost reverently she tapped each key. When she was finished, she smiled the smile of a confident and very content professional as she read to herself what she had just written;
1545
No one needed to tell Alev why it was necessary to deceive the Polish noble she, in the guise of Alessandra d’Este, was not a suitable match for him. The chosen method Bona Sforza had chosen to convince the man it was in his best interests to break the contract between the d’Este family, not so much.
For the third time in less than half an hour, Alev sat bolt upright in her bed with eyes bulging and cheeks puffed out as she fought to hold back a fresh wave of nausea boiling up from a stomach that refused to give her a moment’s rest. Alert and ever attentive, Ceren shoved a clean basin before her mistress, holding it out at arms’ length in the hope the coming torrent would not splatter her as previous eruptions had. Lady Katherine, Bona Sforza’s youngest daughter, was less circumspect as she reached out with both hands and gathered up Alev’s hair, least its ends cascade down about her face and fall into the soon to be filled basin.
Oblivious to all but the need to rid herself of the vileness welling up from the pit of her stomach, Alev paid no heed to the presence of Bona Sforza and Stephen Grabski as the two watched from just inside the room. For her part the Queen said nothing as she watched the red haired girl who was the Haseki Hürrem Sultan’s representative violently convulse and heave. As pleased as she was by the way the draught she had given the girl was working, the impact it was having on the nobleman at her side was even more gratifying.
Repulsed by what he was seeing and what this meant to him was reflected by the disgust and horror his expression betrayed. “How often is she stricken like this?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“Not often,” Bona Sforza replied with a casualness so at odds with the scene playing out before them. “Seldom more than once a week.”
Shocked, Grabski slowly turned to face his Queen. “Once a week?”
“Yes, provided she’s not been exposed to too much excitement and has been allowed to rest,” Bona Sforza replied calmly as she glanced over at him. “Is that a problem?”
The Polish nobleman’s mouth opened, but no words came forth as he stared, wide-eyed at a woman whose imperious manner and ambitions caused him and his fellow nobles to despise and distrust her. Unfortunately for Grabski, the King’s inability to rule as he should, and his habit of deferring to his Italian born wife left the nobleman little choice but to seek her assistance in renegotiating his betrothal to one of her blood relatives. Bowing his head, he dropped his gaze. “Your majesty, I cannot marry that girl,” he muttered under his breath.
“But you must,” Bona Sforza counted without hesitation. “You have already accepted the dowry which, if my sources are to be believed, has been put to good use by you,” she stated firmly as she made something of a show inspecting his richly appointed attire.
Unable to help himself, Grabski met Bona Sforza’s steady, unflinching gaze. The temptation to say something was checked by the knowledge the Queen would never had said what she just had if she had any doubt as to the validity of the information her sources provided her with. Besides, he would need her assistance and blessing in renegading on his betrothal to the wretched young woman who was, at that moment, violently emptying the content of her stomach into a basin splattered with vomit.
“The girl is of no use to me, not if she is unable to shire children,” he declared as assertively as he dare.
“We do not know that yet, my dear lord.”
Unhinged, as much by the ungodly sounds his bride-to-be was making as she heaved uncontrollably as the prospect of being saddled with such a pathetic creature, Grabski did something he was loathed to do, he took to pleading with Bona Sforza. “There must be something you can do that would spare me without bringing dishonor to my family’s revered name.”
With well practiced ease, Bona Sforza was able to stifle a smile as she turned to the nobleman and nodded. “Perhaps there is,” she murmured as if considering Grabski’s desperate plea. “Come, let us adjourn to my chambers where we can discuss the matter in private.”
At the moment the gratification Grabski felt had nothing to do with the prospect of being free of the sickly Italian girl. It was the thought of escaping the stench of fresh vomit and the sounds his soon to be former betrothed was making that caused him to scurry out of the room as if the Devil himself was nipping at his heels. That the price he would need to pay to break his engagement would be steep was a given. When it came to such things, Bona Sforza heart was as cold and unfeeling as the very rock upon with Wawel Castle was built. But after being privy to spectacle he had just borne witness to, any price was acceptable, even one set by the Devil’s own daughter.
“I envy you,” Katherine murmured longingly as she gently mopped Alev’s brow with a cool, damp cloth. “You are free to go back to Italy where, God willing, you will find a man who loves you for who you are, not what you can bring to the marriage.”
Far too exhausted from her earlier exertions and still not feeling well, Alev made no effort to respond as the Queen’s youngest daughter ever so carefully touched on a subject she often brought up whenever the two of them were alone. Unable to do little more than focus on her own efforts to keep what little remained in her stomach from coming up, Alev simply lay there, eyes closed, half listening as the foolish young woman seated on the edge of her bed prattled on.
“The thought of marrying someone for no other reason than it is politically advantageous to my parents is distressing beyond words,” Katherine opined as she dipped the cloth she had been using to mop Alev’s brow in a basin set on the bed. “I crave to be loved as Bradamante was by Ruggiero, the founders of your noble house.”
Even if she had the strength to inform Katherine that the two lovers in Orlando Furioso, an epic poem written by Ludovici Ariosto, were as fictitious as the hippogriff Ruggiero slays, Alev would have demurred. Of Bona Sforza’s daughters, Katherine was both the youngest and most passionate. She was also closest thing to a friend Alev had ever had. To tell her the secretive rendezvous she engaged in with a young courtier was as foolish as it was dangerous was not something Alev thought to be her responsibility. The girl would learn just how cruel life could be in time, if not from her mother, than at the hands of men who saw her as nothing but chattel, to be bartered and traded as they would a horse or a cow.
It was close to a week before Alev felt well enough to discuss her future plans with Bona Sforza. As with all such meetings, they took place in the Queen’s private chambers in an atmosphere that was as chilled as the early fall air. “I have received instructions from Haseki Hürrem Sultan that I am to proceed to Venice,” Alev declared after the briefest of preliminaries had been concluded.
While she was well aware of the messages Alev sent and received using the Hungarian Janissaries who had accompanied her, Bona Sforza’s minions were unable to break the code Ceren used to encrypt her mistress’ outgoing dispatches and decrypt responses to them. Not that it mattered. The Polish Queen had long ago concluded that every possible benefit that could be derived by keeping her at court had been wrung from her. With the Polish nobles becoming increasingly hostile to her efforts to subvert their prerogatives and authority, the discovery that she was harboring an agent of the Turk was fast becoming a risk that far outweighed its benefits.
Her joy at hearing the girl would soon be going was short lived as Alev informed her she expected the Queen to turn over the amber Stephen Grabski was sending in lieu of Alessandra d’Este’s dowry. “By what right do you claim it as yours,” Bona Sforza demanded.
Alev paid no heed to the Queen’s strident tone. “Does not the dowry belong to Alessandra d’Este?” she replied with a calmly.
“Alessandra d’Este is dead,” the Queen shot back. “You yourself told me as much.”
“That cannot possibly be true, your majesty. I am here as you guest, am I not?”
The anger Bona Sforza felt over this unexpected and highly inappropriate impudence was checked by an appreciation the girl would not dare challenge her in such a manner unless she was doing so from a position of strength. Before dismissing Alev’s claim to the amber Grabski was using to repay his debt, Bona Sforza needed to find out just what the girl thought she knew by issuing a warning. “You do appreciate I can see to it you share that girl’s fate.”
Alev nodded. “I expect that is true. But then, so could you, your majesty.”
At this, Bona Sforza sucked in a deep, audible breath as she drew herself up. “You dare threaten me?”
“Yes.”
Unused to being challenged in such a manner by a girl she had, until that moment, thought was little different than one of her own daughters, Bona Sforza was not at all sure what to do.
Taking advantaged of the tense silence that followed her crisp response to the Queen’s threat, Alev put forth an idea that would make her demands palatable. “In exchange for the amber, I will render a service to you that I am uniquely qualified to handle.”
“What possibly could you do for me?”
“There is a young courtesan who has designs on your daughter that run counter to your majesty’s best interests.”
Bona Sforza was well aware of the young man Katherine was fond of, a courtier who was the eldest son of the Marshal of the Sejms. As much as she wished she could, she could not lift a hand against the boy, not without risking providing the nobles, who were already at odds with her, with another reason for moving against her. “What of it?” she asked cautiously.
“I expect it will be necessary to send an emissary with me to Italy, a representative of the King to explain in person to the d’Este patriarch why a member of his house has been rejected by the man she was betrothed to.”
“That would be expected,” Bona Sforza replied warily.
“Travel along the Amber Road is hazardous, particularly when a great deal of amber is being transported south to Italy, is it not?” Alev asked as she cocked a brow.
A glimmer of understanding suddenly up ended Bona Sforza’s frown. “Yes, it can be very hazardous. Many have perished along the way.”
“Then we understand each other,” Alev offered without further explanation.
“Perfectly.”
Alev waited until they were out of Poland, had passed through the Moravian Gate, and were in the mountains of Noricum before asking the young Polish noble if he would ride on ahead with two of her Hungarian escorts to secure lodgings for the night. Having done so several times before, the Pole thought nothing of it. An affable young man who spoke of nothing but his love for the Queen’s daughter with Alev in the belief she was Katherine’s trusted confidant, a belief Alev happily encouraged, complied without hesitation. The only difference on this night was the instructions Alev gave to the pair of janissary she sent along with him. The first, who went by the name János, was directed to make his way back to Constantinople with her latest dispatches after he and Kristof, a hard, humorless veteran of many wars and the most senior of Alev’s three Hungarians, had taken care of another, more pressing matter. “It is important that you bring me back the ring bearing the Royal seal,” Alev reminded Kristof as he was preparing to ride off. “It is the key that will open many doors to us in Venice.”
“And the rest?” Kristof asked cautiously.
‘The rest,’ as the gruff Hungarian put it, were the numerous bobbles and jewels the young Pole wore on his person or carried in his baggage and the bulging purse he’d need to cover the expense of a return journey he would never make. Knowing the best way to keep soldiers like Kristof content was to permit them to share in the spoils of war, Alev shrugged. “I am only interested in the ring. Whatever else the boy possess belongs to you and János by right of battle.”
The gleam in Kristof’s eyes and his humorless smile served as a reminder to her that the trio of Hungarians had been hand picked by the Haseki Hürrem Sultan. While they obeyed her every command without question, she had little doubt their loyalties were with their true mistress, a woman who would not hesitate to dispose of anyone who was a threat to her ambitions.
With that chore taken care of, Alev was able to turn her full attention to how she would go about returning to her homeland, a homeland that, due to a childhood cloistered within the confines of a monastery, was as foreign to her as Kraków had been. Whether life there would be as cruel as it had been when she had been a child remained to be seen. She hoped this would not be the case. She hoped the city so many held up as the jewel of the Western world was everything those who had visited it claimed it was. Alev was ready, or as ready as she could be, to open a new chapter in her life, one she and she alone would write. Yet she was not foolish enough to expect it would be to be any different than those that had preceded it. Hope, she had come to discover, was a pretty bobble used to entice the unwary and the naïve and not a foundation upon which one could build a meaningful life. For that, you needed to rely on a heart as cold and unfeeling as the stones men like the King of Poland used to build the fortresses needed to protect his holdings and Bona Sforza relied on to keep from being used by men like him.
Present Day
No one who knew Henry Hackett would ever think of accusing him of being a coward, at least no one who was in the same the room with him when they did so if he wished to leave it under his own steam. That doesn’t mean there weren’t times in Henry’s life when the found himself tempted to put off walking into what promised to be a contentious meeting in favor of finding a secluded corner where he could enjoy a nice hot cuppa. This very thought was running through his head as he stood before the door leading into Guy Tinsdal’s office, going over in his head for the umpteenth time two very different arguments. One was for continuing with the effort to unravel the mystery of the English Courtesan. The other was for putting an end to what had always been, in his opinion, something of a bootless errand.
Of them, the latter was by far the strongest and, by far, the easiest to make. Even before leaving Paris, he had come to the conclusion the effort required to find out who the person in the portrait was not only daunting, the cost of doing so would likely yield nothing more than an interesting piece of historical trivia, the kind university profs take such delight in quibbling over with their peers in the comfort of their university club. That he had gone to Kraków despite this had been a willful act he would be unable to justify if Tinsdal decided to make an issue of it. He wouldn’t of course. Tinsdal never questioned his judgment, which was why the argument for pressing on with the effort to uncover the history behind the portrait that Henry had been mulling over would be so difficult to make, for it had very little to do with the portrait itself.
The idea that he, Henry Horatio Hackett, was even thinking of allowing personal considerations to influence his judgment was astonishing, bordering on being downright shocking. Having based his entire professional life upon the sole guiding principle that a person’s wishes, desires, and needs were secondary to the accomplishment of his assigned task, whether it be in the service of Queen and Country, or Corporate Britannia, Henry could not believe he was even thinking of doing so now. And for what? He asked himself as he stood there before the door to Tinsdal’s office? To put a name to some woman who live and died over four-hundred and fifty years ago?
Bowing his head he mentally stepped back, letting out an audible sigh as he corrected himself. It wasn’t the woman in the portrait who had inexplicably captured his imagination. It was another whose past, while not near as intriguing as the English Courtesan’s must have been given her times, was doubtlessly no less difficult.
After watching Henry for several minutes without making a move to open the door in front of him as if trying to decide whether or not to go in, Tinsdal’s executive assistant chuckled. “If open sesame doesn’t work, you might try the door handle.”
Suddenly aware of just how long he’d been standing there, debating what he would tell Tinsdal, Henry gave the woman a weak smile as he was reaching for the door handle. “Ah, yes, why didn’t I think of that?”
From somewhere inside his flat, Megan heard Clive Barrow call out through the closed door. “It’s unlocked.”
Before grasping the door handle, she hosted the strap of her Elizabeth and James shoulder bag a little higher, carefully draped her Burberry raincoat over her forearm, and gave a quick glance down at the full, stylish midi-skirt and chic boots she was wearing. Ready, she drew herself up, opened the door, and went in.
“Megan. So nice of you to stop by,” Barrow called out after looking over his shoulder but a second to see who it was. “I just put the kettle on,” he muttered even as he was turning his attention back to the computer screen he was seated in front of. “Do be a dear and pour me a cup.”
Having expected Barrow to react as Henry had at dinner that one night in Kraków, Barrows’ failure to take note of how she was dressed left her deflated. Stifling her disappointment, Megan made her way to the kitchen where she took to picking through the stack of dirty dishes sitting in the sink and washing out a pair of cups and saucers. Having worked for Barrow for close to ten years, she should have expected as much. Still, the idea he couldn’t stop what he was doing for a second and take the time to greet her with a friendly hello was disheartening. Perhaps the Greeks had it right, she concluded as she took up a threadbare dishcloth and dried the clean cups. A leopard cannot change its spots. Clive Barrow, she opined, would always be Clive Barrow, a person who never had felt the need to alter a single thing in a life that was, for him, comfortable and safe.
The sound of Megan shifting a stack of books sitting near the edge of his desk with her elbow in an effort to find a space to set his cup of tea down caused Barrow to cast a quick glance away from the computer screen. “Careful,” he muttered.
“Sorry,” she replied reflexively.
Without another word, he turned his attention back to the computer screen even as he was carefully groping about with his right hand, searching for the handle of his teacup. “I’ve decided to try a something different,” he called out to Megan who was standing behind him, looking about the room in search of a place to sit. “Instead of spending a great deal of time recounting the early years of each artist’s life before going into their achievements, I thought I would focus on their works, adding whatever personal information seems necessary as I go along. The first rough draft of the chapters on the Dutch masters is over there, on the side table next to the sofa. Do be a dear, take them with you when you leave and go over them in order to make sure there aren’t any typos or misspellings.”
Up to this point, Megan had been content to patiently wait until her old mentor had finished up what he’d been working on when she had come in to bring up the reason she’d dropped by. She wasn’t even surprised he was asking her to go over the draft manuscript he was writing, or more correctly re-writing for what had to have been the sixth time. Or was this the seventh, she found herself wondering. Having lost track, Megan gave her head a quick shake. No, she concluded as she watched him while slowly sipping her tea. What was really irking her was his failure to ask her what she’d been up to. Deciding to tear a page out of Henry Hackett’s book, she decided to seize the initiative. “I stopped by in the hope you might do me a favor.”
“A favor?” Barrow muttered without looking over to the settee she’d settled after shoving a pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels aside.
“Yes. I was wondering if you could give Connie a call and see if you could convince her to grant me a few more weeks to follow up on the background of the portrait Guy Tinsdal has asked me to look into.”
For the first time since she’d arrived, Barrow stopped what he was doing, spun his desk chair about, and took to staring at Megan over the top of his reading glasses. “Don’t tell me you’re still working on that?”
It wasn’t the question that caused Megan to flinch. Rather, it was the way he had spit out the word ‘That.’ Setting her teacup on top of the draft chapters Barrow had mentioned but a few moments earlier, she folded her hands on her lap. “I am,” she replied evenly.
“I thought you sent me an email a week or so ago that said everyone who’s seen the portrait agreed that it wasn’t painted by da Vinci.”
“I did.”
“Then why on earth are you still wasting your time with it?”
“I had something of an epiphany, Dr. Barrow,” Megan began slowly as she looked down at her clasped hands nestled in the folds of her skirt. “I suddenly realized there is more to the portraits we care for and preserve.” At this point, she glanced up, meeting his questioning gaze with an expression that was calm, self-assured, and determined. “As fascinating as the techniques and materials the artist used to create them, the subject of each and every work has a story which the artist and the subject wish to share.”
“Megan, dear girl, you’re an art historian, nothing more,” Barrow declared in a tone that was familiar. It was one he had often relied on in the past to remind her or another one of his minions that he and he alone knew what was best, or that a novel idea they had been foolish enough to bring to his attention wasn’t worthy of a second thought.
“I’m sorry, but I believe you’re wrong. There is a story, a history hidden beneath the paint and brush strokes. The woman in Guy Tinsdal’s portrait, the so called English Courtesan, was a real person who not only lived at a time when Europe was emerging from the darkness of the Middle Ages, she bore witness to the events that are the foundation of our modern world. I would not be surprised in the least if she even met and rubbed shoulders with the very people who helped shape that world.”
Having heard others like the young woman seated across the room from him go on like she was many, many times before, Barrow couldn’t help but chuckle. Even when he saw the look on her face, one that betrayed a rage she was having difficulty reining in, he continued to snicker. “Whatever it is you think you’ve discovered has nothing to do with what we’re about. Do yourself a favor, Megan, leave the writing of history to the people who deal with that sort of thing for a living and go back to the Gallery where you belong.”
‘Where you belong.’ Such a simple concept, rendered by Barrows without a jot of hesitation of serious reflection, was not so simple for a person such as Megan, who’d spent much of her life trying to find just where she did belong. As a child, she’d dutifully followed the well charted path her parents and her teachers laid out before her, a path filled with pitfalls and dead ends only she was able to see. At university her peers had encouraged her to explore the world around her, which she did, only to find that world, the one that existed within the ancient walls of Oxford, was but a bubble, a way station in life that bore little resemblance to the one they would soon find themselves. Even the Gallery proved to be nothing more than a place where she was free to indulge her passion for art, but little else, for while it was true her coworkers treated her with all the respect a gifted art historian was due, she did not fit in any of the comfortable niches they retired to when they hung up their smocks at the end of the day and left the Gallery.
Unable to trust what she might say by way of response, Megan came to her feet and took up her shoulder bag. “Thank you for the tea and your time,” she snipped crisply. Then, without waiting for him to bid her goodbye, she pivoted about and left.
The temptation to get up and chase after the girl in order to remind her she had forgotten to take the copy of the opening chapters of his book he’d asked her to look over was dismissed. She’d be back, he told himself before turning his attention back to what he’d been doing. After all, where else did she have to go?
Even from across the room, the look on Megan’s face and the way she made her way over to where he’d been waiting for her to join him for lunch was enough to tell Henry she was royally pissed. Just what had put a burr under her saddle didn’t matter. What was important was finding a way to smooth her ruffled feathers before informing her of the results of his meeting with Tinsdal earlier that morning.
When she was but a few feet from the table, Henry came to his feet, but said little more than, “Megan,” by way of a greeting. Best, he told himself, to allow her to settle down, enjoy a sip of the wine, and place their orders. What he had to tell her could wait.
Henry’s pity greeting suited Megan just fine, for she was in no mood for the lighthearted banter Henry seemed so fond of engaging her in before settling down to business. Taking her seat, she did her best to avoid making eye contact with him. Even when he filled her wine glass, a quick, muttered “Thanks,” was the best she could muster by way of showing her appreciation. After placing her order with a crisp curtness that warned the waiter she was in no mood to listen to him blithely prattle on as waiters often do, she did little more than hold her wineglass before her, staring into it as if trying to decide if she wished to share with Henry whatever it was that was troubling her.
Concluding his wait-and-see strategy wasn’t working, Henry decided it was up to him to take the lead. “I spoke to Tinsdal this morning.”
Well aware he had gone off to meet with his boss while she had headed over to the National Gallery to plead her case with hers, Megan stared at him quizzically. “And?” she asked when he didn’t continue.
“I gave him a quick rundown on our progress.”
“That must have taken all of, oh, two minutes,” Megan grumbled before taking a long sip of wine.
“I also told him about the theory you and I discussed in Kraków.”
“And?”
“He’s just as intrigued by the possibility as we were.”
“How intrigued?”
“Intrigued enough to consider following that up, provided you’re game.”
“Oh, I’m game,” Megan snipped without giving the idea a whit of thought. “I expect I’m even more eager to see where this leads than either you or your Mr. Tinsdal are. Unfortunately, Connie Mulberry refuses to grant an extension to my leave of absence.”
“Have you gone to Barrow and asked him if he would plead your case to your current boss like you were talking about?”
Megan’s immediate response was a quick, sharp glare through angry, narrow eyes, informing him Henry Barrow, and not Mulberry at the National Gallery, was the source of her foul mood. Deciding it might not be a good idea to ask Megan what had transpired between her and a man she held in such high esteem, he turned his attention to determining where that left them.
Megan didn’t give him a chance to do so. “I have been handed an ultimatum,” she groused as she again took to staring down at the content of her wineglass. “Connie made it quite clear to me that unlike Indiana Jones, I won’t have a nice, comfy position to come back to if I persist in yomping about Europe, higgledy-piggledy with Conan the Barbarian, searching for the Holy Grail.”
Were it not for the sharpness of her tone of voice, Henry would have laughed. Still, he could not resist having a spot of fun. “Was it your boss who called me Conan the Barbarian, or you?”
Suddenly realizing what she’d said, Megan cringed. “It was me,” Megan replied sheepishly as she peeked up at Henry through her lashes.
“When? At the National Gallery?”
“No, just now. Have you not been keeping up with current events?”
Not sure if he should laugh or be concerned, Henry remained silent as he watched Megan drain her glass, set it on the table, and slid it toward him. “Thank you sir, I’ll have another.”
The timely arrival of their meals kept Henry from pressing her any further. It also allowed Megan an opportunity to mull her options over before committing herself to a definitive course of action.
Sensing they were both in need of some time to sort out the results of their efforts earlier in the day, Henry suggested they take a stroll through Hyde Park, a place he often went whenever he needed to take a break from his responsibilities or to think his way through a particularly knotty problem.
Megan readily agreed. Prior to embarking on what she and Henry had taken to calling The Quest, the idea of setting aside the tasks her supervisors at the National Gallery heaped upon her in order to wander about a park was one she never would have given a thought to. And while she had become fond of the walks Henry insisted on, her reasons seldom had anything to do with clearing away mental fog and cobwebs or noodling over a problem that was bedeviling them.
The sight of two mothers quietly chatting with each other as they pushed their modern, sophisticated, multipurpose prams along caught her attention. With all thoughts and concerns pleasantly dulled by the wine she had enjoyed during lunch, her mind swerved away from any thoughts concerning the English Courtesan and onto something very different, one she did her best to avoid. What would her life be like, she found herself wondering as she watched the mothers and prams go by, if she could have a life no different than theirs? Would she be happy being a mother? Could she do what a friend of hers at the National Gallery had done when she had discovered she was pregnant and serve notice she would be leaving as soon as she had began her third trimester?
Such a question, she had concluded long ago, could not be answered relying on logic alone. Drawing up a checklist, enumerating the pros and cons and weighting the sum of each in an effort to discover which course of action was most favorable did not apply when matters of the heart were involved. Being at peace with yourself, content with who and what you were was not the same as being satisfied with a job well done. One was rewarding, the other, satisfying in ways that defied description.
Unable to help herself, Megan glanced over her shoulder as the mothers and their prams continued along the path. There was more to the satisfaction the two women seemed to be relishing than a child alone could bring. Both struck Megan as being intelligent, sophisticated women who needed more than just a child to give meaning to their lives, something that for her, was little more than a dream. Ever so carefully she took to looking over at Henry out of the corner of her eyes.
The idea that a man like him could be the key to making that dream a reality was one she did her best to avoid. There had always been a reason for putting off exploring that possibility. Now, however, not only did the quest she was engaged in provide her with the opportunity, the man who she was paired with was very much the sort she had often found herself contemplating.
“Before I tell you what Tinsdal decided,” Henry declared out of the clear blue without looking over at Megan, “I think you should know I recommended we put an end to this effort.”
Thrown on her back foot by the abruptness with which Henry had broken the companionable silence she had been enjoying and the sudden need to shove aside her untimely musings, it took longer than it should have for what he had said to register. “You did what?”
Unable to look Megan in the eye, Henry continued to stare straight ahead. “I said, I told Tinsdal I did not believe it was in his best interests to pursue this effort any further.”
“Great, fine,” Megan huffed bitterly as she looked down at the path before them as she scrambled to figure out what this meant to her, an effort that didn’t take all that long. For her it would be back to the National Gallery where she would resume her duties. In a week, if that, everything she’d seen and done during this foray into the exciting world few art historians ever have a chance to visit that she’d been introduced to would be but a memory. She could almost smell the distinct odor of the subway she took each morning, and again in the evening, as she shuttled back and forth between her small, one room flat and the cubical she worked out of at the National Gallery.
It took Henry far longer than it should have to appreciate just how his statement must have sounded to the young woman next to him. “For once Tinsdal disagreed.”
Snapping her head about, Megan took to staring at up at him. “And?”
“Just when I think I’ve got a that man figured out, he up and does something that throws me.”
The long pause that followed this statement, and the look in Henry’s eye, left Megan wondering what would mean to her. What was so startling to her was not the realization continuing on would mean she’d lose her job at the National Gallery. Rather, it was the way her heart skipped a beat when she realized this would mean she would be able to spend more time with the man at her side. This caused her to quickly turn her head away, least Henry see the way her cheeks were glowing.
If he noticed, Henry made no effort to let on as he continued. “Guy seems to think the idea of finding out who the woman in the portrait was is well worth the effort and the expense. While he didn’t bother to go into much detail with me why he feels that way, I suspect he found the idea that we might be onto something that has some historical significant to be just as captivating as you do.”
Pleased Henry was either oblivious to the way she’d reacted to his announcement, or was being a gentlemen, Megan forced herself to set aside her untimely feelings and turn her attention, instead, to more immediate and practical matters.
Connie Mulberry wasn’t the kind of woman to make idle threats. As much as she had gone out of her way to repeatedly tell Megan she would miss her, Megan knew Connie would have no qualms about replacing her with another, fresh young face, one she would be able to mold in the same way Clive Barrow had her. God knows, Megan told herself, there were enough well qualified art historians, fresh out of university, who’d eagerly beat down Connie’s door once word got out there was an opening at the National Gallery, a door that would be bolted shut to her when she finally did finish the quest to learn all she could about the mysterious woman known only as the English Courtesan.
Eventually, when she finally was able to look back up at Henry, she realized the reason she had decided to throw caution to the wind and see this quest of theirs through to the end had nothing at all to do with art history or the story the young woman in the portrait had to tell them. Having risked all once in order to fulfill on dream, the time had come to venture out into the uncharted waters that lay beyond the safe harbor she’d been hiding in. This time that journey would not be a lonely one, or at least she hoped it wouldn’t be.
“Can we count you in?” Henry asked as he cocked a questioning brow.
“Oh, I’m in.” Hopefully, she whispered silently to herself, you are too.
1545
The long winter months Alev spent in Kraków as a guest of Bona Sforza had been put to good use, shedding the last vestiges of the East whilst becoming accustomed to the manner Western women behaved, both in public and when custom dictated the women withdraw to their own secluded world. This aspect of her acculturation was not all that difficult, for while there were differences, particularly in the way female members of the Polish Court looked after their personal hygiene, having lived in a harem, Alev was well acquainted with the way women behaved when off on their own. Even the nature of their chatter, gossip, and cattiness was accustomed to. It was when there was the need to mingle with men that Alev found herself to be very much a fish out of water. Not only did she have to learn how to comport herself at such times, she needed to overcome the uneasiness she felt whenever a man expressed an interest in her, for she was haunted by memories of the way Brother Dominic had used her.
Odd as it seemed to Alev at first, it was her habit of pulling back whenever approached by a man in a social setting that emboldened them to persist in pressing their interests in her, for they saw her skittishness as comportment befitting a shy, modest young lady who was, as yet, unacquainted with the ways of the world. At first Katherine thought Alev was putting on an act in order to entice the men at court. When she complimented Alev on her performance one night after successfully evading a particularly noisome courtier who had pursued her with all the tenacity of a dog sniffing out a bitch in heat, she quickly disabused the Queen’s daughter of that notion. “I can assure you, it is no act.”
Realizing the young newcomer to court was as innocent as she appeared when it came to the interplay between men and women, Katherine could not help but draw back. “One would think you were raised in a convent by nuns.”
“Yes, that is so,” Alev blurted without hesitation, for both the monastery where she had spent the first ten years of her life and the harem she had only recently left had much in common with what she knew of Christian convents.
A pang of sympathy caused Katherine to reach out and place a gentle hand upon Alev’s forearm in much the same way Haseki Hürrem had often done in order to draw her out of the dark place she tended to retreat to when the shadows of the past fell across her mind. This simple act, and the need to latch onto someone who could help her master the intricacies of Western culture led to a friendship Alev repaid during her journey along the Amber Road to Venice by honoring Bona Sforza’s request and ordering the murder of a boy Katherine professed to be in love with.
As useful as the advice Katherine shared with her was, the most important lessons Alev took away from the time she spent as a guest of the Polish Queen came from watching how that woman was able to assert herself, pursuing her goals in a male dominated world while creating the illusion of adhering to the strictures of Western culture. It was a balancing act that required Alev to always be on her guard, conscious at all times of the consequences that would befall her if someone pierced the cloak of secrecy she had rapped herself in by straying too far from what was acceptable behavior for a woman, or by entering into a relationship that would either lead to her downfall or encourage a male courtier to cast aside the veneer of civility and seek to take her as Brother Dominic had. Either would be fatal and, at least in the short term, brutally painful.
Hand in hand with this need for vigilance was the requirement to assume a series of guises that would allow Alev to move freely among the people who were privy to the secrets and plans of the nation states arrayed against the Ottoman Empire. With commerce between east and west growing despite wars the various powers engaged in came an ever increasing flow and access to information, news, ideas, and rumors merchants and sailors took in and exchanged as they plied their trade. This made it critical that the adopt guises Alev assumed were credible, difficult to verify, and just as important, allowed her to freely and frequently associate with the people who were the custodians of the secrets and information Haseki Hürrem sought.
In Kraków Alev had passed herself off as Alessandra d’Este, a niece of Bona Sforza. The readiness with which the Queen had embraced Alev upon her arrival stifled the curiosity of courtiers and guardians of the state alike. Unfortunately, as successful as that guise had been, it could not be used in Italy where Ercole II d'Este was the Duke of Ferrara, a land that shared a border with the Republic of Venice. It was therefor necessary for Alev to once more shed one persona and assume yet another. Her journey south, along the Amber Road provided her with the time and opportunity with which to cast off that name in the same way she had set aside her Turkish attire before arriving in Krakow The new name she assumed and the legend that went with it was Aleksandra Sobieski, the niece of a Polish noble and the personal representative of Bona Sforza, the Queen of Poland and daughter of Gian Galeazzo Sforza, the Sixth Duke of Milan.
The first part of this transformation began just outside of Ljubljana, a Slovene city within the Holy Roman Empire. Arriving well after dark, Alev and Ceren quickly settled in an inn while Kristof paid off the Polish men-at-arms, teamsters, hostlers, and attendants who had made the journey thus far and set about replacing them with locals who neither spoke nor understood Polish, the language Alev and her immediate retainer now used. Come morning, when they set out once more, the only people who knew the young woman who went by the name Aleksandra Sobieski was not Polish was Ceren and the three Hungarian Janissaries. The same procedure was followed before entering Udine, the first major town within the borders of the Republic of Venice. There the Slovenians were replaced by Italians, none of whom spoke or understood a word of Polish.
It was in Udine, where Alev lingered while Kristof went on ahead to Venice to secure suitable lodgings that she became aware of just how little she knew about her native land or its people. This realization hit home one day as she was wandering through the city’s market place accompanied by Ceren and János, one of Alev’s ever mindful watchdog. Turning to her young Hungarian maid, Alev sighed. “I am Italian, at least my mother was. And yet these people are as foreign to me as were the soldiers who took me captive.”
“Does this sadden you?” Ceren asked cautiously.
Alev shrugged before stopping to take up an orange, hold it to her nose, and sniff it, relishing the fresh, clean tanginess of its scent. “It should,” she replied guardedly as she informed Ceren to pay for the orange with nothing more than a glance and a flick of her head. “Yet it doesn’t,” she continued in a more strident tone of voice as they moved on. It was, after all, an Italian who’d set in motion the chain of events that had turned her into a freakish curiosity others sought to use in their quest for power, prestige, and personal gain.
“Surely returning must bring some happiness.”
“Why surely?” Alev asked sharply as painful memories darkened her expression.
“I did not tell you this before, for fear you might punish me, but while we were passing through Hungarian lands, a day did not pass that the thought of slipping away and return to my people did not cross my mind.”
Having expected to lose at least one member of her entourage to this temptation, Alev asked what had stopped her.
Before answering, Ceren took a quick glance over her shoulder. A small smile brightened her face when János met her gaze and returned her smile. “I…well…”
It was not her otherwise talkative attendant’s words, but rather the tone of the girl’s voice, the longing look in her eyes, and the way a man who was both guardian and guarantor of Alev’s fidelity to the Haseki Hürrem Sultan met her gaze that provided her with the answer. It all reminded Alev of the way Katherine behaved whenever she and the young Polish boy she had been infatuated with saw each other. That Ceren’s infatuation with János had escaped her notice until it had been brought to her attention in this way was not near as troubling as the fact that it had, warning Alev once more the roles she would need to assume required more than simply dressing and acting the part. There were aspects of being a woman that were still very much a mystery to her, strange and uniquely feminine ways women went about their affairs and viewed the world around them she was not at all sure she would ever be able to master, even is she wished to.
As capable as Kristof had proven to be as the leader of Alev’s small entourage, it was his abilities as an organizer and expediter that Alev came to appreciate and respect. This was especially true when it finally came time to bring their journey to a close by entering Venice. At Aquileia on the River Natiso he once more replaced the men he had hired to oversee the handing of the amber and baggage after it had been loaded onto a galley. “Venice is a city wed to the sea,” he explained when Alev asked why he was going through the trouble of hiring on a ship instead of simply continuing on overland. “To sneak up on the city overland through the marshes and swamps that surround it would be seen as an insult to that mistress by those you wish to charm and beguile.”
The logic was sound, something Alev could not deny. It was the way the Hungarian Janissary had chosen to make his point that troubled Alev. The Haseki Hürrem Sultan, Bona Sforza, and even young Katherine were able to use their feminine wiles to entice and cajole, secure in the knowledge that even if they misjudged, they could pay the price with little more than a blemish to their honor and a wounded pride. An error such as that would cost Alev, as well as the members of her small entourage whom she was now responsible for, their lives.
With that thought foremost on her mind, Alev redoubled her vigilance as the galley carrying them slowly picked its way through the congestion of the Grand Canal, for the red sails of the galley and the Polish flag Kristof had insisted on hoisting drew a fair amount of attention. Yet despite a need to be on her guard, Alev could not help but be seduced by the riotous cacophony of sights and sounds that bombarded her from every side. No matter where she looked, there was a flurry of activities as ships little different than hers moored to quays fronting palatial homes crawled with sailors and dockhands, loading, unloading, or preparing to make their way back to the open sea and distant ports of call.
Towering above this frenzy were stately buildings lining both sides of the canal, structures that were as functional as they were elegant. Each was a study in contrast. The ground floor, dedicated to commerce, belonged to the master of the house where he oversaw teams of workers. The upper floors were realms populated and governed by the women of their household, some of whom could be seen watching the comings and goings on the canal from the balconies overlooking the canal or chatting among themselves as women in the Harem did when there was nothing else to busy them.
That the galley conveying Alev, her entourage, and the cargo she would use to buy her way into the circles she needed to gain access to was the topic of many of whispered conversations was obvious as Alev took note of women emerging from the darkened interiors of their homes to watch as her galley picked its way through the congested canal. Naturally she was at the center of this attention, just as Kristof had intended. How could it have been otherwise, Alev reasoned as she stood at the forefront of the galley with her hands resting on the gunnel and her face set in an expression of calm indifference. Her flaming red hair would have been enough to draw the attention of all her saw her. But it was the gown Ceren had dressed her in that morning, a rich green ensemble of satin, velvet, and silk that fluttered in the light breeze their forward progress created in the otherwise stifling confines of the canal that caught the eyes of all who saw her. Kristof had been right, she concluded as a man of some importance, judging by his attire and portly stature, looked away from a group of laborers he had been addressing and took to watching her as the galley continued along.
“We’re here,” Kristof declare, catching Alev by surprise. She had just enough time to look away from the man she had been watching and tighten her grip on the gunnel before the galley gently bumped up against the mooring posts set in front of a stately palace.
“To whom does this home belong?” Alev asked as she gazed up at the ornate façade of white.
“It is yours, mistress.”
Bona Sforza had told her she would see to it Alev would have suitable lodgings. That she had more than delivered on her promise brought a smile to Alev’s face. It was a gift that would serve as a daily reminder of just how eager she was to curry favor with Haseki Hürrem Sultan and, through her, the Sultan. It was all a deliciously Machiavellian stratagem, Alev reasoned, for Bona Sforza was confident she would make mention of the extremes with which the Polish Queen had gone to see to it she had fulfilled her end of the agreement she had struck with Haseki Hürrem.
Turning to Kristof, she proffered her hand, which he took as she stepped up and across a gap between the galley and the quay. “Well, let us see what awaits us inside.”
With Kristof left on the quay overseeing the transfer of the galley’s cargo into the ground floor warehouse and Ceren scurrying about, inspecting her mistress’ quarters and making it known to the Italian household staff she, and not the matronly Italian woman who had introduced herself as the housekeeper, was in charge, Alev was free to wander out into the small but well tended courtyard garden. Alone for the first time that day, and free to let down her guard, she took a seat on a stone bench, closed her eyes, and did nothing but breathe.
The sweet fragrant of the flowers and fauna about her, and a stillness disturbed only by muted voices of servants drifting through open windows and doors allowed Alev to forget the pungent odors and riotous chorus of sounds that had assaulted her senses while traversing the Grand Canal. Many trials lay ahead, challenges that would require her to combined audacity with prudence. In the months and years ahead she would need to be on her guard, ever mindful of the role she had been cast in was one she had not been born to, one she was not at all sure she would be able to master in the same graceful manner women such as Bona Sforza and Haseki Hürrem were able to. They, after all, had learned how to advancing their personal agendas while publically remaining safely within the bounds of propriety from birth. Her education had been intense, brief and, Alev feared, incomplete, a fact that tended to blindside her with an annoying frequency.
Whether she would be able to fill in those gaps or pass over them as gracefully as she had quayside was a question that could wait. At the moment she wished to enjoy the quiet solitude and serenity of the courtyard’s small but well tended garden and something she had never known, something that would make the trials she would need to meet head on and master well worth the risks she would need to run; freedom. Here, in Venice, when not pursuing the goals set before her by her mistress, she would have the freedom to pursue her interest in the arts, philosophy, and, above all else, be the master of her own fate. Though she would need to do so in a manner that bore no resemblance to the way she had thought she would when she had been a wide-eyed child of ten, she had learned from women who had dreamed as she had then that freedom comes at a price, a price she was willing to pay.
An FYI; Alev learned the trick of frequently changing the porters belonging to her caravan to protect her identity from the Dread Pirate Roberts.
Having shown I could still best Fort Campbell High School’s star running back, I decided to cut him some slack. He was, after all, my brother. Slowing my pace, I waited until I could hear his labored breathing and oversized feet pounding the ground behind me before glancing over my shoulder. “You’ve been slacking off,” I sneered as he was drawing up to me.
“No fair, Runt,” Craig, the younger of my two brothers, shot back between hungry gasps of air. “Those tooth picks you call legs… They only need to move what… Ninety-eight pounds… If that.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“Okay… How much… do you weight?”
Coming to a dead stop, I watched as Craig shot past me. When he realized I wasn’t with him any more, he came to a screeching halt, turned and bent over. Planting his hands on his knees, he took a moment to suck in air like it was about to be rationed before looking up to where I was standing, staring at him with my hands resting on my hips. “Didn’t Couch Pulaski teach you anything while you were staying with him, like etiquette or at the very least, common sense?” I snipped.
Confused, he cocked his head to one side. “Yeah, sure. Why?”
Dropping my arms to my side, I rolled my eyes skyward before making my way up to where he was and continued on, but at a leisurely pace, more of a trot than a run. After falling in on my left, I took to explaining myself. “For one thing, I would have thought you would have learned by now you don’t go around asking a girl how much she weights.”
“Well, you don’t count,” he replied without thinking.
Having picked up a few tricks on how to deal with troublesome boys from Grams during the time I had spent with her, I responded to Craig’s comment by giving him one of those telling looks girls are so good at, you know, the one they cast out of the corner of their eyes that informs the male carbon unit beside them they’re about to cross a line only she is aware of. “Oh?”
Realizing he’d stepped on it again, Craig winched. After mentally regrouping, he made a desperate stab at regaining his verbal footing. “I’m your brother,” he finally shot back. “I’m authorized to talk to you about things like that. In fact,” he quickly added, “as your ‘older’ brother, it’s my job to look out for my ‘little’ sister.”
Ignoring the emphasis he put on the words older and little, I found myself strangely pleased he was now able to refer to me as his sister without gagging on that word. Once more I slowed my pace, this time settling into a walk. Doing likewise, Craig looked over at me. When he saw my expression, he up and turned serious. “Look Rache, you’re going to have to give me some time to get used to all of this. I mean, you can’t expect me to suddenly go from treating you like I have our whole lives to dealing with the way you are now. I mean damn, I’m only human.”
Not wishing to see one of my moods, an annoying feature of the new me, spoil the last day we’d have together before Craig left for West Point, I tamped down the maudlin reflections that bubbled up at times like this as best I could and instead, turned my full attention to coming up with a wickedly witty retort. “Is that how Brookie sees you now that you’re just another shit for brains plebe, nothing more than a wretched mortal to be pitied?”
Realizing what I was up to, and just as eager to push past the latest round of awkwardness we had veered into despite our best efforts to pretend all was as it had always been, Craig grinned as he glanced over at me and winked. “Oh, Brooke is too smart a girl to make that mistake. She sees me for what I am.”
Unable to resist, I returned his stare, cocking a brow as I did so. “And what’s that? A skinny ass jock who can’t even keep up with his little sister?”
Naturally Craig couldn’t let that stand. Game on.
Now in my family, populated as it is by two older brothers, creatures who had emerged from the depths of Lake Testosterone, a person like me doesn’t stand a chance unless they adopt some very basic survival skills like running fast or being able to deftly dodge a sib bent on extracting vengeance. I’d no sooner finished taking a verbal swipe at Craig the Jock than he turned and lunged in an effort to tackle me to the ground and tickle me until I peed. Fortunately, the slick moves he used to stymie defensive linemen were no match for the fancy footwork my older brother Steve, the Snake Eater, had taught me. With an ease that left Craig grabbing nothing but thin air, I managed to evade him and break into a dead run before he had managed to recover. Laughing, I couldn’t resist the urge to shout back at him even though he was now in hot pursuit. “Wait till the General hears Hudson High’s newest acquisition can’t even take down his kid sister.”
“Kid sister my ass,” he shouted out as he was closing on me fast. “You’re, you’re…”
And there it was, again. What exactly was I?
The General in this story is Major General Thomas Shaw, a second generation Airborne Infantry officer and a proud ring knocker. Yet despite a reputation that caused the soldiers in his division to refer to him as ‘The Chain Shaw’ behind his back, he’s a pretty cool character, at least as far as Steve, Craig and I are concerned. If he weren’t, odds are I’d still be in traction instead of beating feet back to my maternal grandmother’s Wyoming home in an effort to escape the clutches of my brother. You see, I didn’t always go by the name Rachel, the third and by far the puniest of the General’s three children. Until recently, I was known as Richard Shaw, or as Craig and Steve call me, ‘The Runt.’
Backstory alert!
I have no living memory of my mother, for she died of breast cancer when I was four. At least I don’t think I have any real memories of her that matter. Whether the images I have filed neatly away in my mind are derived from the little time I actually had with her or are drawn from the photo albums my father keeps in the bottom drawer of the china closet doesn’t matter. I can honestly say I do not recall what it felt like to be touched by her or to hear her unrecorded voice. They, like my curiosity of what life would have been like had we lived in one place during my entire childhood instead of moving from post to post every few years are something I think about from time to time but do not dwell on. Sentimentality in the Shaw family, while authorized, is seldom displayed in an overt, simpering, huggie, kissy manner. I mean geez, with a father who could give Rambo a run for his money, one brother who was Special Forces and another who was hell bent for leather to be all he could be, for things to be otherwise would have been way too much for a mere mortal such as myself to ask for.
Which leads many to wonder how it came to past that I managed to slip in under the wire and become a part of this family. While Craig and Steve have concocted all sorts of exotic and off the wall theories on this subject, some of which are quite creative thanks to my brother Craig’s warped sense of humor, at the moment they are of no concern to this narrative. Suffice it to say, even before I decided I needed to pole vault over the gender line I was something of an outlier. Where as my brothers were pretty much cookie cutter versions of the General, even before I started down the path I was now trotting along, I looked as if I had been left on the doorstep of my parent’s quarters by the German milkman. That’s how I wound up being saddled with the nickname ‘The Runt,’ a natural enough moniker seeing how my father and brothers all stand well over six feet tall, dwarfing my five foot eight frame that gives a whole new meaning to the term puny. Hooah!
For those who have never had an opportunity to spend time with folks like The General and my brother Steve, Hooah is a term they and everyone in and associated with the Army use for just about anything save no. For example, it can mean I heard what you said and understand, all right!, thank you, say what?, outstanding!, that's cool, or simply okay. Hooah can also be used as a cheer, one heard all over the post whenever a gathering of soldiers have been informed by their first sergeant they’re about to enjoy a rare good deal or they’re scheduled to spend the next eight hours crawling through the obstacle course’s perma-mud. Often it is used sarcastically, especially when someone is in the midst of something that is particularly unpleasant, like cleaning the barbecue grill at the beginning of Spring after one of my brothers put it away the previous fall without bothering to scrape off the old grease and clingy bits and pieces of burnt burger before doing so. At the time, I thought that was about as hooah as you could get. Well surprise, surprise. I was wrong.
Had my pathetic physical presentation been the only distinguishing characteristic setting me apart form the rest of the Shaw clan, things would have been very different and this story would have been a heck of a lot shorter. Unfortunately, there was more than vertical disparity separating me from Dad, Bro One and Bro Two. Despite enjoying many of the same things they did, I did not have what one could call a positive self image of myself. It wasn’t until I was in middle school that I realized it had nothing to do with my failure to physically measure up to my brothers. Rather, as I watched by peers begin deal with the trials and tribulations of being teenagers, ever so slowly I became aware I the wrong side of the great divide.
Check Fire!
Let me rephrase that. What I meant to say was the physical me was sadly out of sync with the primary circuits of my brain housing group, the ones that should have been proudly proclaiming, ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.’ Instead, the signal traffic they were passing onto my psyche were confusing and, I dare say, more than a little scary. At first I thought I was gay, which I guess would have been a relatively minor issue for most normal people. Unfortunately, I did not live with normal people. At the time this all came bubbling up to the surface, Dad was an assistant division commander of an airborne division, Steve was a cadet captain in West Point’s corps of cadets and Craig was lighting up the scoreboard of the post’s high school by bulling through defensive linebackers as if they weren’t there, scoring on and off the field.
Having been raised as part of a military family bereft of a female parental unit, the pearls of wisdom and advice that flowed from Dad’s mouth sounded more like they were lifted from FM 3-31, the Joint Forces Land Component Commander’s handbook and not Dr. Spock’s ‘Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care.’ It wasn’t really his fault, not when you consider his father, known throughout the Army as ‘No Slack Shaw,’ raised him to be a soldier. I guess that was why Dad never attempted to influence any of his own sons by steering us toward a military career. That Steve, followed in time by Craig chose to go that route was due to their own choice, not his.
Still, Dad didn’t escape his own upbringing unscathed. Nor was he able to set aside his well honed approach to dealing with people when it came to raising what he lovingly called the Three Stooges. Many of the same policies he used to govern his conduct on duty seamlessly lapsed over into the home. Among them were his admonishment that we bring him solutions and not problems. This caused me to fall back on a much quoted maxim of his when I finally came to the conclusion something was rotten in Denmark. In the Shaw family, at least our branch of it, instead of being told to look before you leap, we were always reminded time spent in reconnaissance was time well spent. With this thought in mind, I set out on a journey of self discovery, an odyssey I ever so slowly came to appreciate I could not avoid even if I had I wanted to.
The only thing I can imagine that could possibly be worse then having a father who was a compulsive planner is being one yourself. In his case, this is a good thing. I mean, who would want to go into battle being led by someone who was in the habit of making things up as they went along. I know I wouldn’t. Not that being overly obsessive about plotting your every move is the mark of an exceptional leader. Having spent my entire life surrounded by military types, I’ve had the opportunity to meet a fair number of officers I wouldn’t follow to the bathroom, let along go into combat with. As with any profession, you have the good, the bad and the certifiably dumb.
The down side of doing nothing until you have every little detail nailed down is all too often you find yourself putting off doing anything for fear of having missed something. Dad has been able to push past this quirk only because he had the good fortune to serve under officers who believed in the philosophy that a good plan today is better than scathingly brilliant plan tomorrow. And though this bit of wisdom was added to the usual rotation of fatherly advice, its significance wasn’t driven home with the same force Dad’s superiors used to pound that point home.
Thus, by the time I finally felt I was ready to discuss my problems with Dad it wasn’t a good time for him, or anyone else for that matter. You see he was slated to deploy to the sandbox with the bulk of his division. For anyone who’s ever been involved in such an event, you can appreciate the strain this puts on a family. During the day the military member is harried by a thousand and one details that need to be looked after before they were wheels up and winging their way over to Southwest Asia. At night, when they finally are permitted to set aside their labors, they return to a home where everyone does their best to pretend as if it’s just another day. This enforced domestic normalcy can be just as wearing as the stress and strain a soldier experiences while on duty. So I punted.
Okay, stay with me. This backstory is leading to a point. Promise.
Unlike previous deployments, when it came time to head off to my maternal grandmother’s, I went alone. Craig, who was entering his senior year in high school managed to talk Dad into allowing him to stay with the family of his football coach. Mind you, that wasn’t a hard sell for either man. Coach Pulaski jumped at the opportunity to keep his star running back for another year and Dad, with his heart set on seeing Craig play for the Black Knights the following year, was anxious to do whatever he could to ensure Craig stayed in shape and out of trouble, tasks he expected Coach could handle with ease.
As much as I hated the idea of spending my freshman year in Wyoming, it was infinitely preferable to the alternative, a point Dad made every time I was foolish enough to complain. All he needed to do to shut me up was to remind me his parents would be more then happy to have me. Not that I think he would have actually left me to the tender mercies of No Slack Shaw. Though he never openly criticized his father, at least not to us kids, we all knew there were some seriously unresolved issued between Dad and his father that would, in all likelihood, remain unresolved. Which is why when I finally did muster up the chutzpah to tell Dad I was playing for the wrong team, he took it in stride and heard me out. But I digress. Back to the backstory.
As Army aviators tend to say in lieu of once upon a time, there I was, exiled to Wyoming, a state that beats out Alaska when it comes to population density, but just barely. Rachel Fleming, whom we all called Grams, lived in a suburb south of Cheyenne. Fortunately for me, she was anything but your typical old lady. Though retired, she kept herself busy by teaching several classes in accounting and business administration at the local community college. While I’m hard pressed to think of anything duller than those two subjects, by staying engaged Grams maintained what Dad would call a keen edge. It also kept her in touch with young people and the real world problems they face, giving raise to my plan B.
When I told her I was having issues with my gender, which is how I phrased it since it wasn’t possible for a Shaw to admit he, or is it she, is a transsexual. For her part Grams was neither shocked nor surprised by what I told her, leading me to wonder if she had spotted something in me I had only recently become aware of. Nor did she hesitate to do something about it. With an alacrity and sure-footedness that would have impressed Dad, she took the information I had accumulated to support my position and did her own research. When she was satisfied I wasn’t pulling her leg, that I really was screwed up when it came to the boy-girl thing, she made a series of appointments with medical doctors and shirks who knew a good deal more than simply how to spell transgender.
Ever so slowly we, Grams, me and Dr. Jeannette Wheeler, a psychologist in Cheyenne, began to get a handle on the situation. Physically I was every bit a normal, healthy fourteen year old male. No big surprise there. It was the mental aspect of this dilemma that proved to be difficult to get sorted out. I mean, I wasn’t effeminate by any stretch of the imagination. With one brother who liked to use me as a tackling dummy, another who thought he was doing me a favor by teaching me hand-to-hand combat when he wasn’t otherwise occupied biting the heads off of snakes and a father who prescribed to the notion that anything that didn’t kill you made you stronger, for things had been otherwise would have been unimaginable. Nor was I drawn to the sort of thing one would expect a teenage girl to get all giddy over. Like my brothers, when it came to fashion all my taste was in my mouth, which is why I think they opted to pursue a career where they didn’t need to worry about what to wear in the morning. Going about with a cell phone glued to my ear, gabbing incessantly with my friends or pouring my heart out to them was something I never understood. I mean, just how interesting can the day to day routine of the average teenager be? Besides, though I had a working knowledge of multi-syllable words and put them to excellent use while in school, in a home ruled by a grunt and shared with a jock, they were carefully rationed. And when it came to the sex, Justin Bieber did nothing for me. But then neither did Taylor Swift.
I’ll not bore you with a long winded discussion of how we came to the conclusion Mother Nature had played a cruel trick on me. Not will I dwell on the many nights I spent tossing and turning while reenacting my very own version of Macbeth’s ‘to be, or not to be,’ soliloquy in my head. At the moment all you need to know is that by Christmas of my freshman year, whatever doubts I still clung to on the day I told Grams about my issues were gone. Equally important, both Grams and the shrink were not only onboard, both thought it might be a good idea if I start taking steps to see if playing for the other team was right for me.
By now I expect a fair number of you are no doubt saying, “Wait a minute. How does a normal teenage boy raised in an almost exclusive male environment who’s not a fairy decide becoming a girl is right for him?” That’s an excellent question. As soon as I have an answer that makes sense to me, I’ll break into the story and tell you. All I did know for sure that Christmas in a way that defied my ability to explain was it was the right call.
With this in mind, Grams and I spent the next few days discussing what we, or more correctly I should do. For starters, the idea of informing Dad, at least while he was deployed down range was dismissed out of hand. I mean, I might be royally screwed up when it comes to the gender thing, but do give me a little credit. The idea of sending a man like my father an email or letter informing him a son of his wanted to become a girl while he is in the middle of a shooting war is beyond dumb. Telling either or both of my brothers was also out of the question. Steve was preparing for another deployment to Afghanistan and Craig was in the midst of enjoying his senior year. Besides not being in any position to do anything for me other than try to convince me I was few beers short of a six pack, which was something I was already painfully aware of, one or both of them would inform Dad in the misguided belief they were saving me from myself.
Grams, on the other hand, was perfectly positioned to help me get the ball rolling. With Dad on the other side of the world, she was my legal guardian, armed with a general power of attorney that gave her all the legal authority necessary to follow through on Dr. Wheeler’s recommendations. When we finally sat down to discuss what to do, she made it perfectly clear to me she had no reservations about helping me, provided of course that was what I wanted to do. Knowing full well Dad would not be at all happy with the way we pressed on without bothering to inform him, I asked her if she was sure she wanted to get involved. With a kindly, grandmother sort of smile on her lips, she reached out and placed a gentle hand on my cheek. “Your father’s a good man. He’ll understand. Besides,” she quickly added while chuckling, “I’m already up to here in this,” she pointed out while holding her hand over her head. “As they say, in for a penny, in for a pound.”
I expect a fair number of you are probably saying to yourself, “Yikes! Transitioning in Wyoming? Poor girl.” Well, I am here to inform you things could not have gone better. First off, I did not do anything overt or over the top, at least not at first. While I continued to see Dr. Wheeler and go to school in my male mufti, under Grams watchful eye I ever so slowly dipped a toe in to test the waters. For those who have gone the M. Butterfly route, you know the drill, so I’ll not bore you to tears with long, drawn out descriptions of the shopping trips Grams insisted we take in order to buy a wardrobe suitable for a teenaged girl or how I managed to make a fool out of myself during my first public appearance in female battle rattle. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe these initial forays out and about as Rachel.
And yet, and yet, in a weird way that was absolutely baffling to me even to this day, I came to appreciate what I was doing was more than right. It was necessary. Had I not come to that conclusion, I never would have found the courage to sit down with Dad and tell all when, upon completing his latest round of God and Country time in Never-Neverland he made his way west to police me up.
I cannot think of any greater fear a child harbors than to be rejected by a parent. For a boy, to have a man you admire above all others look down at you with an unfettered look of disgust is perhaps the most devastating thing imaginable. I know there were times when I had wished Dad would have up and slapped me silly rather than see him avert his eyes and shake his head while letting out a slow, well measured sigh. So, when I sat down with him on the front porch of Gram’s home to inform him about my gender issues, I could not look him in the eye. Instead, I gazed off in the distance as I ever so carefully explained things to him. Even when I finished without him once interrupting me, I could not look as he stood up and slowly walked away without uttering a single word. It was his way of dealing with his children when they disappointed him or, in this situation, dumped a massive ‘S’ bomb on him he needed time to absorb before responding.
Round two came later that evening after a meal he, Grams and I sort of enjoyed in utter silence. When he was sure everyone was finished, he looked across the table at me for the first time sporting a deadpan expression that would have reduced a lesser mortal to tears. Now I’m not saying I’m some kind of demigod or supernatural being, unless of course you’re one of those who think people like me are a twisted version of Satan’s spawn. No, I simply understand dear old Dad and his moods. Having uploaded and processed the data I had provided earlier in the day, he was ready to discuss the matter in a clam, reasonable manner. At least I hoped that was what he was getting ready to do. Given he was a general officer who had just come back from dealing with people who had no idea how to spell Geneva Convention, I could not totally discount the possibility I was on the verge of finding out just what the term rendition meant.
Okay, back to the story.
Needless to say, I didn’t get a chance to play soccer with the All Islamic Jihad team at Club Gitmo. Nor was there any need to dust me off to the nearest trauma center. Instead, Dad informed me if I was really serious about what I was doing and Dr. Wheeler could convince him she knew what she was talking about, he would leave me in Wyoming with Grams over the summer, during which I would assume the role of Rachel 24/7. Though Dr. Wheeler thought this might be a bit premature, she saw no harm in it. In the meantime, my father would return to Fort Campbell alone where he would get on with the business of handing his division over to his replacement as scheduled before moving onto his next tour of duty at Puzzle Palace on the Potomac. At the end of the summer, when he was settled into his new assignment, he promised he’d return to Wyoming, sit down with me and discuss what he called ‘this gender thing’ once more. If, during that time I had come to the conclusion the girl thing just wasn’t for me, I promised I would drop the matter and never mention it again. If, however, the opposite was true, he made it clear he’d take his daughter home with him and see this thing through to the end, consequences be damned.
Hooah!
This is the second time around for this story. Having finished ‘The World Turned Upside Down,’ which by the way is available on Kindle and Lulu.com, as well as a collaborative effort with my favorite Anglo-Irish co-writer even as I am going back to finish ‘Caitlin’, I decided I needed to spend sometime writing something that was a wee bit more lighthearted than revolution and world wars.
Besides, I have been taking advantage of Erin’s kind indulgence by using this website to promote and advertise all my other books, (which, in case I haven’t mentioned, are available on Kindle and Lulu.com). I figure it’s time for a little payback. So I am reposting ‘The General and the Butterfly’ with the intent of finishing it.
Hopefully those of you who read it, even if it is a second time, enjoy the story.
Nancy Cole
a.k.a. HW Coyle
“Those who are about to die salute you.”
The sound of footfalls descending the steps caused my heart to skip a beat. Pausing, I closed my eyes, sucked in my breath and held it, steeling myself as I did so for what promised to be fresh round of close scrutiny. This would be followed, no doubt, by a less then subtle litany of carefully worded ‘Fatherly’ advice. Mind you, it could be worse, far worse. As Craig likes to remind me, things are always darkest before they go totally black.
Putting the cereal box down, I stepped away from the counter and for the umpteenth time that morning, looked down at the uniform I was wearing. The crisp white, short sleeved cotton blouse was snuggly tucked into my pleated plaid skirt.
We will interrupt this story for a brief panic attack.
God! My skirt! I was wearing a skirt, a skirt that was mine, all mine. “The horror. The horror,” Colonel Kurtz muttered as napalm lit the pre-dawn darkness.
But I digress. Back to the story.
So there I was, standing at the kitchen counter with nothing to defend myself with except a box of cereal, a spoon and my wits as the Lord High Executioner himself drew nigh. Though I expect the General would have preferred it if the afore mentioned skirt was a longer, its hem fell exactly where the school’s guidelines required it to. Mind you, he was anything but old fashioned. He left that to his father, the Prince of Darkness in this narrative. Nor was Dad a newly converted adherent of those precepts of Islamic hijab governing female attire. I am of the opinion that quite the opposite is true judging from the amount of time it took him to dispose of the girly magazines he routinely confiscated from under Craig’s mattress. The answer was far more basic. You see, the General was even less used to seeing me in a skirt than I was wearing one.
It wasn’t until I arrived in Virginia that I gave any serious thought to how much of an impact my actions would have on Dad and his career. Until then, I had been so focused on dealing with my own concerns that I all but forgot just what this would mean to a man like him. You see, not only did the General have to come to terms with what I was doing as any primary parental unit facing this sort of thing must, he would have to deal with the opinions of superiors, peers and subordinates. With precious few exceptions, they were fellow warriors, Alpha males who believed an officer’s true measure was reflected by everything he did, on duty and off.
This philosophy was especially true when it came to an officer’s children. He never told us as much, at least not directly. The General was far too subtle for that. He preferred to use the indirect approach, or as Craig put it after reading one too many articles in Military Review, ‘Asymmetric Parenting.’ Whenever he felt the need to remind us our behavior reflected upon him over dinner or during long drive he’d find a way of telling us how Colonel so-and-so’s son had screwed the pooch, causing his father all kinds of problems, or how humiliating it was for the post commander whenever his daughter got it in her head to go parading about in outfits that left precious little to the imagination. Naturally Dad always ended these tales of dependents gone wild by relating how a friend of his told him if the boy or girl in question was his, they would A – ground the miscreant for eternity plus six, B – ensure they wouldn’t be able to sit down for a month or C – find themselves spending their Christmas vacation learning how to walk again. Now whether these friends Dad spoke of were real, or simply a way of allowing us to have a glimpse of a side of him that earned him the reputation as being a real piss-bringer was something those of us who comprised his household troop were never able to discern. What we did take away from these morality tales was the message they were meant to impart; i.e. don’t mess around.
I expect had I been stricken with an incurable form of cancer or had suddenly developed an extreme case of tourettes, no one would have thought any differently of the General. Unfortunately, in the eyes of an institution that was still struggling to come to terms with its transition from a lean, mean fighting machine to a bastion of cutting edge political correctness, being the father of a son who wanted to be a girl ranked right up there with having a child graduate with honors from a Pakistani madrassa. Having become something of a self centered twit since proclaiming ‘I am woman, hear me roar,’ all of this only became painfully clear to me as I was being in-processed at Fort Myer where, due to his duty assignment we, Dad and I, were assigned quarters.
Throughout that nerve-racking ordeal no one said anything, at least not to our faces as Dad walked me through the chore of having a new dependent ID issued to me using my new name. They didn’t need to. I could see it in their faces as they went about scanning the paperwork before them. Without fail, their eyes would come to a screeching halt when they realized Richard needed to be changed to Rachel. In the same way a person finds they are unable to take their eyes off a train wreck, I would watch as they re-read the documents before them just to make sure we hadn’t inadvertently made an error when filling out the paperwork.
Next came ‘The Look.’ You know the one. First they’d glance up at me to see how they failed to miss spotting what they now suspected was Tinker Bell’s big sister, or brother, or whatever. Next they would turn their attention on Dad as if trying to figure out how an officer like him could possible allow his son to do such a thing. As was his wont, the General returned their gob smacked expression with one Steve, Craig and I had grown up with, one that asked ‘Is there something you’d like to say?’ in a tone of voice that made it clear we didn’t dare do so if we wished to see another sunrise. When it finally became clear they weren’t doing double duty in the Twilight Zone, the admin puke would once more turn their gaze onto me.
As unnerving as it this all was for me, I could not even begin to imagine what it was like for Dad, for he knew how the Army rumor mill worked. His love for me had not changed, not one bit, a point he reassured me of whenever he saw my spirits begin to flag. Unfortunately, there was little I could do or say that would boost his spirits when, after a long day, he returned home and found I was still there, budding perky little breasts that not even one of Steve’s size gigantic airborne Tee shirts could hide. Like him, I knew word of what I was doing would radiate out like ripples in a pond. It would not take long before everyone who mattered to Dad was aware his youngest son was now a butterfly. In time this news would reach the furthest shore before being reflected back to us in ways neither could predict.
That was why I was standing there at the counter, holding my breath while the General slowly made his way downstairs, along the hall and into the kitchen of the four bedroom quarters we were living in. Though we had each did our best in our own ways to deal with the stress my actions had resulted in by whistling our way past the graveyard, we both were natives of Realville. We knew it would be a long, long time, if ever, that something approaching what had once passed for normal in our lives would be restored.
When I heard the footfalls stop, I couldn’t keep from looking over my shoulder to where Dad was, standing in the doorway staring at me. When he realized I had caught him doing so, he averted his own gaze in a vain effort to hide the ruddiness rising in his cheeks. Not knowing what else to do, he scratched the back of his head before making his way over to the coffee maker where he took up a mug I had dug out of the cardboard packing box they’d been shipped in and poured himself a cup.
Having a father who was an infantry officer did have its advantages, particularly when it came to cooking. So long as it was warm and relatively free of dust, Dad would eat just about anything I put before him, which was good since making coffee not exactly my strong suit. As far as he was concerned, it only needed to be black, hot and plentiful.
Hoorah!
Deciding I needed to do something to break the tension, I drew myself up and spun around, which turned out to be a mistake, for it caused my pleated skirt to flare out, causing him to wince. In the week I’d been here I had gone out of my way keep from flaunting my new found femininity in his face. If truth be known, this wasn’t all that difficult. Despite Gram’s efforts to mold me into a fashionable and demur young girl, the best she was able to achieve in what little time we had over the summer was something that came across as a socially awkward tomboy. On those rare occasions when she felt I needed to make the effort to publically sprout my new found butterfly wings, it took a fair amount of brow beating and more than a little cajoling on her part to get me into a skirt or dress, items she had purchased for me which somehow always managed to find their way to the back of my closet, a location she had taken to calling the Bermuda Triangle.
Dad, bless his Kevlar coated heart, didn’t even make the effort, not at first. In the beginning he was content to allow me to dress myself in a manner that was pretty much nondescript. The first time I did make an exception to my self imposed policy of wearing things that were gender neutral after arriving in Virginia was when he and I went to Saint David’s to enroll me in school. Believe me when I tell you, on that day I felt like an unwanted dog who’d been dumped in a Chinese neighborhood on market day. Judging by the way he kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, I expect the same applied to the General.
Rather then sending me to the public school in Arlington, we had both come to the conclusion on our own that it would be best if I attended a private school. It was an idea I had initially broached while we were hashing out the details of how we were going to make my whole boy to girl thing work. Without batting an eye, he fully embraced the idea since it would minimize my interaction with the children of other military personnel and provide me with what he hoped would be a safer, more secure environment. Expense was not an issue. With Craig now safely tucked away at West Point, the money Dad had socked away for his education was now available for my high school education. What was an issue, not surprisingly, was my current status, seeing how for the foreseeable future physically I would be neither fish nor foul.
Back to ‘Rachel does St. David’s.’
Dad and I went flat out in assembling my scholastic resume and preparing for the mandatory interview with the school’s admissions officer. Together we dissected the school’s web site and admission standards, gathering up all the documentation they required and then some. Included in this package were signed copies of letters from both the physician I had been seeing in Cheyenne and Dr. Wheeler, notarized documents that attested to the fact that I was a certified, grade A, government inspected transsexual. By the time we had finished it was all very Hooah, impressive and, as it turned out, very necessary.
Academically I passed muster with ease. Even if there had been a problem in that department, I expect my father’s rank would have been sufficient to earn me a provisional bye, for St. David’s, the school we had settled on, made a point of boosting on its web site and in its literature to the parents of perspective students it recruited the best the brightest who just so happened to include the pimply faced spawn of senators, congressmen, foreign diplomats and senior government officials. It was when our discussions with the admissions official turned to my ‘unique’ circumstances that we both expected things would become a wee bit dicey.
With that in mind, the day we went for my interview I wore an outfit that was similar to the prescribed uniform female students were required to wear. The only difference was instead of knee socks and Mary Janes, (eww), I wore stockings and a pair of dressy black flats Grams had insisted I buy. I also skipped the makeup. While Dad thought I did it for his sake, if truth be known at this point wearing make up weirded me out, big time.
Still, despite my efforts to keep things toned down, I couldn’t help but notice the look on my father’s face as he stood in the foyer waiting for me to finish dressing and messing with my hair on the day of the interview. As I was descending the stairs, he followed my every move like acquisition radar tracking a target. Not that I can blame him. After all, this was the first time he was seeing his youngest son in a skirt. My shy, innocent response to his scrutiny didn’t help either, for when I finally came up to him and stopped, the redness in my cheeks, the manner with which I averted my eyes and the way I took to nervously fidgeted with the strap of my shoulder bag only served to accentuate the fact that I no longer was his son in the classical sense.
One of the hallmarks of a man like the General is that he instinctively knows what to do in difficult situations. On that occasion, my father reached out, placed the crock of his index finger under my chin and slowly tilted my head back until I was looking up into his eyes. With the best smile he could scrounge up under the circumstances, he asked if I was ready for this.
I may not have been a cookie cutter replica of the General, but I was his child in every way that mattered to the two of us. Returning his forced smile with one of my own, I replied no, but since we were both dressed and had nothing else planned for the rest of the afternoon, we might as well go and see what the good folks at St. David’s had to say.
Hooah!
If the General was harboring any reservations going into the interview with the school’s admissions officer, he kept them to himself. Instead of being skittish, he conducted himself as if having a son who was in the process of becoming his daughter was the most natural thing in the world. This became quite evident whenever the admissions officer paused, hesitated or took to squirming in her seat as people who find themselves in an awkward situation tend to do. Without skipping a beat, at moments like that the General would give her one of those, ‘Is there a problem?’ looks he’s so good at.
Once, when the woman tried to explain the school might not be able to accommodate all my special needs, he opened the manila folder he was holding in his lap, took up one of the school’s slick brochures and turned to a dog-eared page. Without preamble, he began to read from it. “St. David is a school dedicated to serving the needs of all its students regardless of their race, gender, color, sexual orientation, national or ethnic origin.” Looking up from the brochure, he pinned the admissions officer to the spot with a stare that would have made Darth Vader flinch. “While I will be the first to admit I am still coming to terms with my daughter’s condition,” he continued, “I am quite familiar with equal opportunity policies as well as state and Federal laws governing discrimination. So, unless there is something in my daughter’s academic record or her past conduct that disqualifies her, I don’t see any problems. Do you?”
Whether it was my father’s implicit threat or the look on his face as he leaned forward and fixed the admissions officer with a glacial stare, the poor woman capitulated faster then a Frenchman who’d just heard a band strike up ‘Deutschland uber Alles.’
I was in.
After taking a seat at the kitchen table and enjoying a long, lingering sip of coffee while doing his best to keep from looking over to where I was pouring milk over my cereal but failing miserably, Dad broke the awkward silence. “Why so early?”
I waited until I’d taken my place across from him before answering. “New student orientation, remember?” I muttered wistfully without looking up from my bowl of cereal.
“Oh yeah, right,” he mumbled in response before turning his attention back to his coffee while madly scrambling for something to say that would keep us from once more lapsing into another protracted silence. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drop you off?” he finally asked, peeking up at me.
“I’ll be fine, Dad. Really. Besides, do you think for one minute I’m going to pass up the chance to drive Craig’s car every chance that comes my way?” I quickly added in an effort to lighten the mood.
Pausing with his cup halfway to his mouth, he grunted. “Just make sure you don’t do anything dumb that gives the post’s MPs or any of Arlington’s finest an excuse to pull you over. That restricted driver’s license from Wyoming you managed to talk your grandmother into allowing you to apply for may not impress them.”
Unable to help myself, I gave my father a wink. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“You be careful, you hear?”
“What? And spoil my first day at school?” I replied glibly.
That’s when it happened. Out of the clear blue the General set his coffee cup down, reached across to me, and placed his hands over the one I had on the table next to my cereal bowl. Giving it a gentle squeeze, he gazed in my eyes for the longest time. “Rachel, promise me you’ll be careful.”
He was no longer talking about my driving. Whenever he was bidding Steve farewell before he shipped out and, I expect, as Craig was preparing to head off to West Point, Dad would grasp their shoulder. With a whispered intensity that spoke of a deep-rooted love for his departing child, he’d tell them to be careful. Nothing more needed to be said. And while the sentiment he was expressing to me at the moment was no different, it was the manner with which he was doing so that caused me to wonder if, in his own way, he was blessing the journey I was about to embark upon.
Now if that turned out to be the case, it was most definitely hooah, all the way and then some.
Nancy Cole
a.k.a. HW Coyle
St. David’s, St, David’s. Now what can I say about St. David’s?
What I really mean, is what can I say about St. David’s that can be published here. Hmmm… Let me think on that one a minute.
Okay, for now let’s just stick with the basic 411. St. David’s was a private Catholic school founded in the year something or other for the expressed purpose of keeping good little Catholic boys and girls from being corrupted by the wickedness of the secular world around them. Using the current the crop of students I found myself thrown in with as a measure to judge the success of that goal, I’d have to give the holy fathers and reverend mothers who founded the school deserve a big, fat goose egg on that count.
Before going any further, let me make one thing perfectly clear. I’m no plaster saint, not by any stretch of the imagination. Granted, military brats like me live in a unique bubble, one apart from the very society our parents are charged with defending. That doesn’t mean we’re isolated from its influence or protected from the trials, tribulations and temptations all kids experience as they grow up. If anything, due to the nature of the beast we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, (and sisters), develop unique skills and street smarts at an early age. We have to if we’re going to survive the trauma of moving every two to three years and all that entails. On top of having to say goodbye to one group of friends and go about surrounding ourselves with an entirely new batch in a different state or country, kids who have a father like mine need to find a way of dealing with the ever present fear of hearing the phone ring in the middle of the night, a clarion call to arms men like the General answer without hesitation or reservations, at least none they ever shared with their families.
It was the ever present threat of seeing our father pack up his go to war kit and ship out more than the need to adapt to our new surrounds that left Steve, Craig and I little choice but to grow a thick hide, a quirky sense of humor and a mature outlook on life far in excess of our years, allowing us to deal with just about anything. I guess this is why I wasn’t as freaked out as I imagine I should have been as I sat in the parking lot of St. David’s in Craig’s vintage Subaru wearing a skirt I was beginning to wish was longer and a bra that was irritating a pair of newly discovered nipples that had sudden decided to burst onto the stage at the most inopportune time.
It goes without saying I did need to take a minute to muster up the courage I would have to call on in order to see me through this day. I was, after all, about to venture forth among strangers, kids like me, but not like me, teenagers who would become my friends, my rivals, my detractors, my bitterest enemies and my salvation until, once more, some twit in MILPERCEN whom I would never meet decided I was becoming way too comfortable with my surroundings and issued a new set of orders sending dear old Dad to a strange new place.
To use a phrase military aviators rely on to begin their stories in lieu of once upon a time, there I was, sitting in the Craig-mobile when out of the clear blue a voice cut through my mental fog. “Are you okay?”
I did not hit the ceiling of my brother’s car, although that would not have been all that difficult. My startled expression, however, must have amused the tall, blond haired, blue eyed Hitler Youth stunt double to whom the voice belonged, for he stood there staring down at me through the open window wearing a shit eating grin. It was the kind of smirk cute boys tend to sport when they’ve succeeded in shaking some poor girl’s tree.
Oh – my – God!
What am I thinking? Cute boys? (Note to editor; strike all after ‘shit eating grin’).
Okay, where was I? Yeah, right.
So there I was, sitting in the toasty warm Craig-mobile doing my damnedest to be as cool as I could be in the late summer heat but, based on the expression on The Voice’s face, not doing a very good job of it.
“Are you okay?” The Voice asked once more.
“Yes, fine, great,” I replied as convincingly as possible as I struggled mightily to keep myself from telling him what I was really thinking.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” the Voice asked.
The temptation to inform him of just how new I was did cross my mind, causing me to smirk. Fortunately, that thought was trumped by my wish to behave as normal as possible. (Cue ‘Mission Impossible’ theme). “Yes, I am,” I replied in an even tone, taking care to keep from doing anything that would allow him to think I was being taken in by his lame efforts to strike up a conversation. While he very well could have been interested in making sure I wasn’t a damsel in distress, having played for the other team and seen my brothers in action, this possibility was dismissed out of hand.
“Well if that’s the case, let me show you around,” The Voice volunteered in a tone that was far too eager and cheerful. Since I couldn’t think of a graceful way of turning down an otherwise innocent offer and my IFF, (Identify Friend or Foe), wasn’t up to speed at the moment, I nodded. “Sure,” again taking great care to keep from doing or saying anything that would encourage The Voice.
Of course, with him being a boy and me coming across at the moment as an easy mark, short of regaling him with my well hone repertoire of obscenities or fleeing like a hemophiliac at a vampire convention, I didn’t need to do a bloody damned thing to encourage him other than breathe.
“My name is Todd, Todd Lowe. I’m a senior here,” The Voice informed me once I’d gathered up my backpack and exited the car, taking care to ensure my skirt, (there it is again, ‘My Skirt’), didn’t ride up and give The Voice a show.
“Rachel Shaw,” I volunteered once I had collected my things and locked the car.
“I take it you’re a junior,” he ventured as we began to make our way across the parking lot, me with my head bowed slightly as he watched me like a ravenous hawk eyeing its next meal.
Knowing how seniors felt about freshman and sophomores, I allowed myself something of a grin. “A sophomore, actually.”
That seemed to do the trick, for he blinked as the wheels behind those blues eyes of his began to spin, trying to piece together how a kid in her second year of high school could be driving, not to mention the need to assess whether the stigma of being seen with a sophomore was worth whatever gain he was hoping to derive by striking up a friendship with a social untermenchen such as me. Unfortunately, he quickly overcame whatever reservations he had and pressed on. “Where are you coming from?” was his next question, one I could have answered in any number of ways, some of which were quite creative. But instead of being a smart ass as was my wont, I chose to keep it simple and straightforward. “Wyoming.”
“Wyoming? What were you doing in Wyoming?”
The temptation to answer that question truthfully by telling him I’d been busy becoming a girl was countered by my wish to keep from coming across as ‘T’ Girl, the transgendered caped crusader whose mission was to enlighten my fellow students as to the joys and wonders of pole vaulting across the gender line. Everyone would know what I was soon enough. My hope was they would see me as a person first and accept me as such before ‘That’ came up, no pun intended.
“I was staying with my grandmother while my father got settled in here,” in informed The Voice.
“I see. What does your father do?”
Once more I needed to check myself, least I respond with a snappy comeback that would alienate the boy. Though I had no great desire to befriend The Voice, I knew if I came across as being unfriendly, in no time flat I would have a reputation. While I expected the fact that I was something of a smart ass would eventually become common knowledge, like the gender thing, I had no wish to rush things. So once more I rendered an honest, straightforward answer. “He’s in the Army.”
“I see.” Again a pause as The Voice processed this information. “My father is with State,” he offered.
Not being the sort of kid who felt the need to use their father’s rank or position in order to define who they were, I found The Voice’s need to resort to such a ploy in order to either impress me or, heaven forbid, keep this stilted dialogue going as we made our way along to be a wee bit annoying. This time I made no effort to check my tongue. “How interesting,” I chirped brightly. “What state?”
As expected, by question caused The Voice to blink. “Excuse me?”
“What state is your father with? No, don’t tell me,” I quickly added before he could answer. “I’ll bet he’s with Virginia.”
Not sure if I was being serious or if I was having some fun with him, The Voice regarded me with furrowed brow for a moment before replying. “He’s with the State Department.”
A flat, nondescript ‘Oh,’ served to inform him I was not impressed, causing him to scramble about in an effort to come up with a new line of attack. Fortunately, we reached the building where we parted, but not before he stepped out in front of me, causing me to come to a full dead stop and look up into those blue eyes of his. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around,” The Voice volunteered.
The temptation to reply. ‘Thanks for the warning,’ was checked once more by my desire to keep from alienating him. That, I suspected, would happen soon enough.
No first day of a new school year would be complete without a welcoming assembly during which the principal, assistant principal, the assistant to the assistant principal and all the usual suspects proclaimed how much they were sooo looking forward to making this the most successful and challenging year of our young lives, how important our time here would be to our future, how eager our teachers were to help us navigate our way through the long, long, long, zzzzzz….
Oh, sorry. Where was I?
Yeah, right. Immediately following a small scale reenactment of the Bore War, everyone scattered to their homerooms where individual teachers would once more welcome us, call the roll and go over some of the more salient rules of engagement with which they would govern our time in homeroom. In the process of moving from the school’s auditorium to our assigned homerooms, returning students clustered together, creating jabbering little knots of friends newcomers and social outcasts binged off of like free electrons. At the moment I was quite happy to be one of the former, a condition I wished to cling to as long as possible before I was reclassified into latter.
It wasn’t until I entered the classroom which would serve as my academic forward operating base that I found myself having to make my first major decision of the school year; where do I sit? Sitting up front was ruled out. I mean, duh! Who in their right mind would willingly allow a potentially hostile force to occupy their six. Sitting in the middle was almost as bad. That location offered no tactical advantage whatsoever. To the front would be the nerds and the kiss asses. Behind me would be the academically impaired and the smart asses, which also lead to my decision to avoid taking a seat there as well.
That left the flanks. I was in the process of trying to decide if it would be best to grab a seat close to the door or one near the window when a red haired girl who was also sizing up the room as well sidled up next to me. “It’s always a tough call picking you seat, isn’t it?” she said as her eyes took in lay of the land.
Turning, I gazed into the girl’s eyes as she flashed a quick smile. “I’m new here as well,” she informed me without my having to say a word.
Whether it was her English accent or the way she was able to peg me as another lost soul, I knew without having to give the matter the sort of thought such things often demanded this girl and I were destined to become fast friends. “Over there, by the windows,” I blurted. “There’s two seats we can take if we hurry.” The smile on Red’s face and twinkle in her eye told me she agreed with my assessment, both as to where we should sit and the matter of friendship.
As former friends used the chaos settling in entailed to catch up on things, Red introduced herself. “I’m Katie, Katie Lyttle with a ‘Y’, not an ‘I’” she declared merrily in a light, lyrical voice I envied. “It’s a quirk my Welsh ancestors insisted on clinging to.”
After tucking my backpack under my seat, I thrust my hand out. “Rachel Shaw.”
“Like the playwright?” Katie asked.
Her question caused me to chuckle. “Not even close.” Unfortunately, before I could explain, a quick series of sharp cracks silenced the room.
“Okay people, summers over,” a booming voice declared in a tone that reminded me of the way the General spoke when he was in no mood to be trifled with. “Settle down and take your seats.”
This voice belonged to Mr. Keith Halverson, a very tall man with a linebacker’s build. In time I would come to learn he had played football at the University of Virginia. At the moment, however, I, as well as everyone else in the room was only interested complying with his dictate.
When everyone was settled and he had our undivided attention, Halverson wasted little time with the preliminaries, skipping over the ‘Great to see you all back’ blather. Instead, he took to ticking off the rules governing his classroom in a manner that would have brought a smile to the General’s face. Everything about the man told me he was not the sort of person you screwed about with. As if to confirm this supposition, I noticed how all the returning students sat upright in their seats with their eyes riveted on him as he slowly paced back and forth in the front of the room as he spoke. Not even the back of the room crowd did anything that smacked of ridicule or derision.
When he was finished posting his orders for the day, delivered in a crisp, no nonsense monotone, Halverson stopped, turned to where Katie and I were sitting and fashioned what I assumed passed as a smile for him. In that instant I realized my well crafted strategy of maintaining a low profile, of letting people get to know me before they got to know about me was about to be undone by a man who thought he was doing me a favor. Closing my eyes, I slumped down in my seat, bracing myself as best I could for the verbal hammer blow coming my way.
“We have a rather unique addition to our class this year,” Halverson declared. While unique wasn’t exactly the way I would describe my current status, I imagine it was far better than some of the words he could have used.
“The young lady’s father, and I do mean lady, is newly assigned to the Pentagon.” Unable to help myself, I cringed.
“Miss Lyttle, would you please stand up.”
Wait a minute! Did he say Lyttle?
Opening my eyes, I glanced over at a very red faced girl who was, at the moment, doing her best to be as calm and gracious as she could. Naturally she was failing miserably, almost as badly as I expect I would have had Halverson outted me.
“The Honourable Katherine Diana St John Lyttle Fairfax is the daughter of the Viscount Sir Jeffery Lyttle, an officer of the Queen who is currently the Chief Defense Staff Liaison Officer for the United Kingdom to the US Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Halverson continued as he blissfully ignored the way the poor girl stood next to her seat, eyes downcast as if searching for a hole in the floor she could crawl into. “As this is her first time in the U.S. I hope the rest of you will take the time to welcome her as well as help her navigate her way about what passes as culture here in the former colonies.” If this last comment was meant to be funny, the humor was lost on Katie.
Mercifully, the bell alerting us homeroom period was over brought a quick end to Katie’s suffering. Gathering up her things, she darted for the door as gracefully as she could, ignoring the gawking stares and whispered comments from our fellow students. Following, I managed to catch up to her in the hall. “That was mean,” I snapped when I saw she was aware of my presence.
Flashing me a wan little smile, she dismissed the entire incident as best she could. “I should have expected something like that,” she sighed. “My mother warned me my plan to simply blend in was a foolish notion.”
Struck by the fact she had been hoping to do the same thing I was attempting, I hastened to express my empathy for her plight. “If it’s any comfort to you, I know exactly how you feel,” I opined. “My father’s in the Army as well, a general no less.”
As expected, this revelation caused Katie to perk up. Upon seeing this, I shared a few quick stories of how awkward things had been for me in the past when I’d been singled out as she had been. Unfortunately, I was way too eager to do so, allowing my tongue to seriously outpace my brain’s ability to properly prescreen what I was saying. “It’s not easy being one of the crowd when everywhere you go people point at you and whispers there goes the general’s son.”
Totally unaware of the fact I’d just inserted both of my size nine wide paten leather Mary Janes in my mouth, I continued to blissfully babble on, sharing with Katie a few of the more embarrassing moments of my young life. If she had been thrown by my accidental revelation, she didn’t show it. Quite the opposite turned out to be true, for in our next class she steered me toward a pair of seats next to the windows. “It might be best if we kept things simple,” she advised as we were settling in. “I expect we’ve both had more than our fair share of changes in our lives as of late without having to remember which seats we’re suppose to take in which class.”
Flashing her a smile, I replied with a southern drawl you could have cut with a knife. “Honey child, you’ve said a mouth full.”
Fortune seemed to with me that day, for Katie’s schedule was a mirror image of mine. The only deviation came toward the end of the day when she turned to head to the gym and I started off for the library. At the time it didn’t strike me in the least bit odd she didn’t ask me why I wasn’t joining her. Instead, I merrily trooped off on my own, satisfied for the moment that the fabric of the universe had not unraveled because of my decision to abandon the SS Testosterone. Even more important, I had found a friend. Just how good a friend she would turn out to be was something I would find out far faster than I could have ever imagined.
Nancy Cole
a.k.a. HW Coyle
P.S. I have finally finished 'Caitlin,' a story about a young Irish officer during the First World War. It will be available on Amazon Kindle sometime before St. Patrick's Day.
The exceptionally good mood I was in after saying goodbye to Katie at the end of what I thought was an incredibly successful day at school begin to take some serious hits the moment I opened the front door, which I found to be unlocked. Unlike the good old days, before the General was the General, when it had just been him, Steve, Craig and little ‘ole me we didn’t need to worry about bumping into members of the entourage that hang around general officers like stray puppies and hungry cats. At present this mewing, simpering gaggle consisted of an aide-de-camp, which is French for boot licking lackey, an enlisted aide who ‘aided’ the General whenever he held a service related function at his quarters and a driver. Thus far I hadn’t met any of the current crop. This was about to change.
Since the aide-de-camp was habitually attached at the hip to the General, I suspected it was the enlisted aide who I heard rummaging about in the kitchen. After tossing my backpack onto a bench in the foyer, I made my way to the back of the house, hoping as I did so this one was a wee bit more switched on than the last one my father had picked. While Sergeant Timothy Kline had been a nice enough guy, he didn’t impress Craig or I was the sort of person you’d want providing covering you with fire in a firefight. Tiny Tim, a nickname Craig saddled him with, had far too much, ‘Yes Sir, General Sir. Right away, Sir,’ in him and not near enough ‘Hooah’ for either us.
This one, on the other hand, was something entirely different. Upon my entering the kitchen she continued inventorying the china until she reached a point where she could stop without losing track of her count. When she did, she turned sharply, drew herself up and introduced herself. “I am Sergeant Maria Burgos, the General’s enlisted aide.”
Both her snappy, staccato delivery and the look in her eye told me this was a woman no sane person wanted to mess with. Physically, she was not all that impressive, standing half a head shorter than me. It was her demeanor, a self assured expression and the way she filled out her ACUs that impressed me as being the kind of woman who could knit a tank out of steel wool. “I’m Rachel,” I replied doing my best to match Burgos’ confident, self-assured manner.
“Yes, I know,” she replied in an even tone that betrayed nothing.
Feeling a wee bit awkward, a sensation that was fast becoming my default response to moments like this, I blurted out the first thing I could think of. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“No. I have everything in hand,” she replied, again in a tone that was punctual without being curt.
‘I’ll bet you do,’ I thought to myself.
“I do have a message for you from the General,” she quickly added. “You will being dining out tonight. He directed me to inform you that you were to wear something appropriate.”
I didn’t bother asking Sergeant Burgos if she knew what the General had in mind. Fact was, I seriously doubted if he had any idea what was appropriate attire for his newly acquired teenaged daughter. Instead I asked the good sergeant what time I needed to be ready. “Eighteen hundred hours,” she replied. Since the General operated on Vince Lombardi time, I knew I needed to be ready to roll not later than 17:45 hours, which gave me a little less than two hours to change and get myself ready.
It goes without saying, (although I am going to say it anyhow just so you can all keep up with things), I was of two minds. Part of me wanted to have some fun at the General’s expense by dressing in something totally inappropriate, like my ‘Team Infidel’ Tee shirt and a pair of ratty jeans. To have done so, however, would not only have incurred his righteous wrath, it would have been an undeserved slap in the face. My father, after all, had gone out of his way to do all he could to help me though the ordeal I had brought on. I had little doubt he had already endured a great deal of grief, both overt and covert, because of what I was doing. And though he never even hinted at it, I owed him big time for all he had done and suffered as he did his damnedest to make my journey on the Genderland Express as painless as possible.
So I settled on a white shift dress with colorful flowers on it. Grams had insisted on buying it for me. “You’ll be needing something nice every so often,” she told me when she saw the expression on my face as she held it up to me in the store. “You can’t go about looking like a cross between a Tom boy and a member of a grunge band all the time.” She was right of course. I knew she was. Still, this was the first time I’d managed to muster up the chutzpah to wear it. ‘Well,’ I thought to myself as I pulled the dress out from the dark recesses of my closet where I’d hung it. ‘Here goes.’
It was only as I was cutting off the tags I’d never bothered removing before that it occurred to me there was more than one way to yank the General’s chain. With an evil grin on my face, I set about doing exactly the opposite of what I imagine he expected.
Hooah!
I stayed in my room when the General arrived home. When he stopped by and rapped on the door with his knuckles before asking if I would be ready soon, I didn’t open the door, calling out in the sweetest little girl voice I could manage that I was almost finished. Even when he came back by my door and informed me in the tone of voice meant to warn me his patience was wearing thin we needed to be going I told him I’d be down in a minute. In the past, such a response would have been akin to calling for fire on your own position. At the moment however, the General was treading lightly when it came to me, either because he was sympathetic to the way I thrashed about from time to time dealing with my new normal or, more likely than not, he was absolutely clueless as to how to deal with a daughter. Regardless, being the devious little toad I could be when I put my mind to it, I took full advantage of the kinder, gentler General in order to have some fun.
Only when I was absolutely ready, which was about thirty seconds before I imagined the General lost his temper, I slowly made my way down the stairs to where he was waiting. My deliberate pace was not due to any attempt on my part to make my grand entrance any more dramatic than I expected it would be. Rather, the two-inch heels I was wearing for the first time demanded I take my time least I tumble down the stairs.
Whatever canned lecture on the need to be punctual the General had been preparing to serve me was forgotten when he looked up and saw me. It takes a lot to unhinge a crusty old cur like him, and believe me, the effort I needed in putting myself together for this moment was, for me at least, a lot. Makeup, hair, dress, stockings and heels all blended together nicely to create an image I found myself having to admit looked pretty damned good. By the expression on the General’s face, he seemed to agree, for he forgot about the time as well as his wish to admonish me and instead, simply watched with mouth slightly agape as I approached him wondering, no doubt, if he should be pleased or appalled by what he was seeing.
With more confidence than I felt, I trooped up to the General, clasped my hands behind my back and puffed out my budding little boobies as far as I dare. “Well, do I pass muster, Daddy?” I asked sweetly.
If my cutesy little voice and use of the term ‘Daddy’ did register, the General didn’t show it. Instead, he simply stood there, scrambling to find something appropriate to say.
When he didn’t say anything, I did the coy thing I’d seen girls at school pull on male teachers, dropping my chin a smidge and looking up at the General through lashes coated with mascara. “If you’d like, I can go back upstairs and change.” As if awakening from a trance, the General blinked and gave his head a quick shake. “No, don’t,” he sputtered. “You’re a… What I mean is what you have on is a…” “Fine?” I chirped. “Yes.” “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t sure if this would prove to be a little too dressy for a trip to Micky D’s.” Finally realizing I was yanking his chain, the General grunted. “We need to be going,” he muttered brusquely. Having been so caught up in my own little mind games, it wasn’t until that moment it dawn upon me the General was up to something. “Do we have reservations or something?” I asked calmly. “Hmm, something like that,” he replied as he regarded me out of the corner of his eye while sporting a devious little smirk, the kind that causes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. ‘Oh shit.’ My efforts to wean any useful information out of the General during our drive into Old Town Alexandria was frustrated as he wrestled the initiative from me by asking how my first day at school had gone. Besides knowing full well the odds of finding out what he had up his sleeve were nil, I was eager to tell him about Katie, especially the way Mr. Halverson had embarrassed the poor girl. “I soooo wanted to crawl under my desk and hide when he was building up to his introduction. I was sure he was going to tell everyone about me,” I informed the General. “Would it had been all that bad if he had?” the General countered. “Well duh, Captain Obvious! What do you think?” “I think you’re playing a dangerous game,” the General countered. “You know as well as I do people are going to find out about you sooner rather than later. When they do, I expect some are going to feel they’ve been lied to. While I expect most will understand why you didn’t tell them right off, those who don’t could very well turn on you in an effort to extract some revenge.” One of the General’s most annoying habit was his knack for being right. And though I knew what he said needed to be said, I still felt miffed over his timing. Folding my arms tightly across my chest, I took to pouting, another useful girly expression I was still working to prefect. “Way to go, Dad. Nothing like raining on my parade." He chuckled. “Hey, what are fathers for?” The II Porto Ristorante in Old Town is a top notch Italian restaurant with tons of ambiance. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to enjoy it for very long as the General and I were led to a table already occupied by a young couple. I had no need to ask or even guess who they were. The high and tight buzz cut of the male component of the pair as well as the way he all but popped up out of his chair and stood at attention as if he’d just heard the opening strains of ‘Hail to the Chief’ when he saw us approaching told me he was the General’s new dog robber. Aide de camps are not always selected for their smarts, at least from what I have observed. Rather, their pedigree is often determines their suitability. As best I could tell, the General’s criteria for selecting his last aide was; One - He was a member of the West Point Protective Society, a derisive term often used by non-West Point officers and me when I felt like annoying the General and my older brother Steve, who Craig and I had taken to calling ‘The Captain’ due to the way he had lorded over us as we had been growing up. Two - He was airborne ranger, complete with scrape marks on his knuckles from dragging them on the ground and a perchance for grunting hooah at the most inopportune times. Three - He had managed to complete a tour in the Sandbox as a company commander without embarrassing himself or his battalion commander. And four - He was neither a smart ass like Craig and I or a kiss ass like Steve. It seemed brains and the ability to use them for purposes other than keeping his head from collapsing in on itself were a plus, but not mandatory. As the senor officer present, the General began by introducing me. “Rachel, this is Captain Brandon Pepper, my aide. Captain Pepper, this is my daughter, Rachel.” Having suspected during the drive into Old Town the General was up to something, I not only succeeded in dealing with the situation in a calm, nonchalant manner, I was able to use the opportunity to extract a bit of revenge for the way he’d set me up. Flashing a broad, toothy smile, I tilted my head to one side as I offered Captain Pepper my hand. “I am sooo pleased to meet you,” I cooed sweetly. “It’s always such a thrill to meet the people Daddy works with.” Naturally I ignored the dirty look the General gave me as Cee Pee, the nickname I quickly settled on for Captain Pepper turned to introduce his wife, a demure blond named Debbie who, I was quick to discover, was a native of Savannah, Georgia and damned proud of it. As much as I hate the way the politically correct Gestapo enjoy purging the English language of some it its most colorful and useful terms, I will admit there are a few words and phrases I’d like to see added to that list. Chief amongst them is the phrase, ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ one Debbie greeted me with as she placed her limp, dead fish hand in mine. Now, before I go any further, please don’t go getting me wrong. Debbie Pepper was without doubt a dear, sweet lady, the kind who I could not help but imagine had been a cheerleader in high school, volunteered every Thursday afternoon at the local Red Cross, fed stray cats and went from collecting Barbies to Hummels. She was pretty, too. Once the introductions were complete, our orders had been placed and menus collected, there followed a brief but very awkward silence as Cee Pee and Dee Pee took to nervously eyeing each other and the General in an effort to see who would take the lead in filling the void with appropriate and acceptable chit chat. I could only assume the General had made it clear to his new aide shop talk during occasions such as this was vorboten. It was a general rule the General lived by, no pun intended. Most military parents who were committed to maintaining an enjoyable domestic life apart from their official duties did their best to leave the day’s troubles and tribulations in the office when it came time to pull pitch and head for the barn. Being a single parent, the General was even more wed to this concept. Adding to the stress both Captain Pepper and his wife were under was the appreciation they were being tested. Unlike most professions, military spouses are considered to be an important element of an officer’s overall suitability to be an officer. In addition to running the officer’s household and ensuring the officer’s children did nothing that would adversely reflect upon him and, by extension, the unit he is assigned, when forward deployed the officer’s spouse was expected to look after the welfare of their subordinates’ families. While a wife who does not measure up to the high standards some commanders place upon them seldom impairs an officer’s ability to close with and destroy the enemy by the use of fire, maneuver and shock effect, she could easily prove to be an embarrassment to her husband and sound the death knell of his career if she showed up at the annual military ball sporting tats of fire breathing dragons up and down her arm, pink spiky hair and a vocabulary that would make a trucker blush. Then there was me, sweet, innocent little ‘ole me. At the moment I was enjoying the show, behaving myself as I surreptitiously watched Cee Pee squirm and Debbie glance from one person to the next while the General eyed them both as if he were studying a pair of lab rats frantically scurrying about a maze. When Debbie realized her husband, who like most airborne rangers possessed all the social graces of a socially awkward Neanderthal, wasn’t going to step up to the plate and take a swing at opening an acceptable line of discourse, she took the initiative. I will give the woman credit for knowing some of the more common opening gambits needed to be avoid, questions like, ‘Rachel, what do you do for fun,’ or ‘Tell me all about yourself.’ To my surprise, she started by asking me if I enjoyed riding. Whether she was better informed than I had given her credit for or if she just happened to hit upon something I did enjoy didn’t matter. It allowed me to gracefully play the part the General expected me to in this little social experiment of his. “Yes, I do, Mrs. Pepper,” I replied smoothly. “My grandmother in Wyoming owns several horses I ride every chance I get when I’m staying with her.” “How lovely,” Debbie cooed, pleased with herself at having managed to save her husband and finding something we the girls had in common. “Do you compete?” “I’ve done some barrel racing,” I replied, not realizing her idea of suitable forms of equestrian completion was poles apart from mine. “Have you ever competed in hunter-jumper events?” she asked, betraying more about herself as she did so than I suspect she imagined. Rather than responding with something more akin to what I ordinarily would have responded to such a question, I simply shook my head. “No ma’am.” Upon hearing this, Debbie regaled me with a warm, home grown southern smile. “I’d wish you’d call me Debbie, Sweetie,” she declared. “Why, I expect we could almost be sisters.” Instinctively I glanced over at the General out of the corner of my eye. When I saw him eyeing me with his Darth Vader glare, I once more set aside the first response was on the tip of my tongue and instead informed Debbie doing so was out of the question, though I did manage to sneak in a quick jab. “Oh, no ma’am, I couldn’t. Daddy would never stand for such familiarity or unladylike behavior from me when dealing with my elders.” Having been blessed with a vivid imagination, I could almost feel the General’s invisible hands closing about my throat. The temptation to pretend I was gagging as Craig and I often did at times like this was dismissed. I expect I was already sailing precariously close to the wind as it was. “I see your father is very much like mine,” Debbie continued while glancing over at the General and giving him a wink. ‘Oh! She’s good,’ I thought to myself. As it turned out, she was too good by half. When the General said nothing after we left the restaurant and headed home, I knew I had nothing to worry about. Had he been displeased with my behavior he’d have laid into me the moment we were alone in the car. So I felt no trepidation when I asked it was that was bothering him. At first he didn’t answer, which told me he was still mulling whatever was troubling him over in his mind. It was the look he gave me out of the corner of his eye while we were stopped at a red light that clued me in there was something he wasn’t quite ready to share with me, something, I suspected, I wasn’t going to be thrilled to hear. But before he got around to sharing his thoughts with me, my next opportunity to excel in a seemingly endless parade of challenges needed to be dealt with. HW Coyle
Squirming into pantyhose – Ten minutes
Carefully walking down stairs in heels – Five minutes
Causing an airborne ranger to blush – Priceless
Unfortunately, when she saw me dressed as I was and on my best behavior, despite knowing I was currently betwixt and between genders, she automatically assumed I would find what she found interesting and enjoyable just as exciting. As if!