The Tournament (10 page)

‘Michelangelo . . .’ he said. ‘Who is Michelan—’ I began.

My teacher was still peering out over the crowd, so Mr Giles answered me.

‘A genius of world renown,’ Mr Giles said. ‘Artist, painter, sculptor, architect. Some say he is more brilliant even than Leonardo. Once, Mr Ascham took me to see his
Pietà
in Rome. It brought tears to my eyes. Word is, he has just finished a painting on the ceiling of the Pope’s chapel in Rome that has no equal anywhere in the world.’

As the queue parted deferentially for it, Michelangelo’s party strode directly into the Sultan’s audience chamber, led by the master artist himself.

Cries of delight were heard from within the chamber moments later.

I looked at my teacher and he looked at me.

‘This event,’ he said, ‘is momentous.’

AT LENGTH OUR TURN
came to enter the audience chamber. ‘Just stay behind me,’ Mr Ascham said, ‘and let Mr Giles do the talking. And if you can, please stifle any gasps of shock this time.’

I nodded vigorously and we stepped inside.

A golden room greeted me—gold thread in the carpet, gold brocade on the walls, every mighty pillar was painted gold, and mounted on a golden podium in the exact centre of the chamber stood a magnificent golden throne shaded by a golden awning.

Seated on that throne, dressed in a dazzling high-collared golden gown studded with rubies, was Suleiman the Magnificent, the Lawgiver, Caliph and All High Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. It was said that the Sultan usually only appeared to his own councillors as a shadow behind a gauze screen but clearly that was not his intention today. Now, in front of the world, he was going to appear in all his formidable glory.

He sat in a commanding pose, legs apart, fists on his armrests, glaring down at us imperiously as a herald called in Turkish and then in Greek:

‘Sire, from England, representing that land’s most esteemed majesty, King Henry the Eighth, Mr Gilbert Giles and escorts.’

The men bowed. Elsie and I curtsied.

The Sultan cocked his wrist an inch, bidding us rise.

He had an incredibly severe face: downturned eyebrows, high pronounced cheekbones, a sharply hooked nose and a sizeable black moustache that framed his mouth like an inverted U. His dark eyes blazed with intelligence. He wore on his head a white turban with a jewel-encrusted brooch. The high collar of his golden gown glinted in the light of the oil lamps: veins of gold cord ran through its fabric like intertwining snakes.

Flanking the Sultan were a dozen men—the kind found in royal courts everywhere—ministers, advisors, clerics, plus a handful of esteemed European ambassadors based in Constantinople (one of whom was a silver-maned cardinal dressed in the scarlet robes of the Holy See, the local ambassador of Pope Paul III himself). The sadrazam stood at the Sultan’s right hand, while beside him stood a long-bearded Moslem mullah wearing the simple black turban of the Shiite sect: he was the Imam Ali, the senior cleric who I had been told despised the visiting Catholic cardinal.

And among all these men, there was one woman.

The queen.

Oddly, she was not of Persian appearance, but rather possessed the pale porcelain skin of a European. This was the famous Hürrem Sultan or, as she was known in Europe, Roxelana. Her rise from slave girl to concubine to first wife of the Sultan was the stuff of legend, a fairytale come true. She was originally from Ruthenia, but as a girl she had been captured by Tartar raiders and sold into the Sultan’s harem. Through beauty, wiles and a fearsome intellect, she now shared the bed and held the ear of one of the most powerful men in the world.

Upon the mention of Mr Giles’s name, the Sultan’s severe countenance transformed into a delighted smile.

‘Ah, so this is the famous Mr Giles!’ he said in Greek. ‘I have heard of you. A formidable player from the University of Cambridge. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my tournament.’

‘The honour is mine, Your Majesty,’ Mr Giles said.

As he said this, I suddenly saw an individual among the men gathered around the Sultan whom I recognised. I started, almost gasping out loud again, but this time I managed to stifle my astonishment.

It was the rat-faced fellow who had followed us from tavern to tavern in Wallachia. I saw him whisper into the ear of the sadrazam before he melted away into the background. Mr Ascham had been right: our shadow had been an agent of the Sultan.

It did not escape me that someone in the Sultan’s employ—perhaps someone in that very chamber—had most likely tried to poison Mr Giles on the way to Constantinople, and here was the Sultan delightedly welcoming him to his tournament. My thoughts, however, were cut off when the herald said loudly and formally: ‘Mr Giles! You warrant that you are here to compete in the Sultan’s tournament!’

‘I do,’ Mr Giles answered equally formally.

‘And you warrant that you are here freely and of your own volition!’

‘I do.’

‘And do you come here with an answer to the Sultan’s demand!’

‘I have that.’ Mr Giles stepped forward and handed the mysterious red envelope to the Grand Vizier.

While all this was going on, the Sultan’s gaze passed idly over the rest of our party—past me and Elsie (although I think he glanced at her a second time), before coming to rest on Mr Ascham.

‘You, sir,’ he said. ‘I am informed that you are Mr Roger Ascham, the famous English schoolteacher.’

Mr Ascham bowed low. ‘Your Majesty. I am. And I am humbled that you might know of me.’

‘A sultan must know many things,’ the Sultan said as his eyes turned suddenly and locked onto mine.

‘For if you are Ascham, then this young lady with the charming red curls must be your charge, Elizabeth, second daughter of Henry, born of Anne Boleyn, his second wife and the cause of Henry’s most unpleasant schism with the Roman Catholic Church.’ The Sultan threw a knowing glance at the nearby cardinal. ‘A schism, I might add, which I have followed with considerable amusement.’

He turned back to me. ‘But since then, this little one has been shunted down the line of succession by a half-brother born of Henry’s third wife. Welcome to my kingdom, Princess Elizabeth.’

I curtseyed.

‘It is an honour and a privilege to be here, Your Majesty,’ I said in Greek, trying to disguise my surprise that the Sultan knew so much about me.

I was thus doubly shocked when he proceeded to address me in German—a language that few others in that room, even the religious men, would know.

‘I have spies everywhere, young Bess,’ he said, utilising the shortened form of my name that only those at Hatfield knew and used. ‘It is a necessary evil of being a great king. Should you ever rule England, I recommend you avail yourself of a competent master of spies. Real knowledge of the state of the world is the greatest treasure any ruler can possess.’ He reverted to Greek and with an oily smile said, ‘I hope you enjoy the chess.’

And with a nod of dismissal, our audience was over.

Speechless, I was nudged by my teacher out of the golden room.

EMERGING FROM THE SULTAN’S
audience chamber—and have no doubt, I emerged quite unnerved—we stepped out into the third of the palace’s courtyards. This courtyard featured several wide rectangular lawns and was bounded by the Gate of Felicity—which led back to the Second Courtyard—and the south pavilion, where our quarters could be found, a lattice-walled arcade that led to a fourth and final courtyard, and on the final side, the Harem, the Sultan’s private wing.

For the evening’s welcoming banquet, this Third Courtyard had been transformed into a fantasyland of light.

A thousand lanterns suspended from criss-crossing ropes bathed the courtyard in a brilliant yellow glow, turning night into day. Twenty banquet tables stood in perfect rows open to the Turkish sky. Every utensil was fashioned from silver. Place cards marked every space with the guest’s name written in their native tongue.

The dinner that followed was like no other I had ever experienced. It was opulent, extravagant and everything in between: cheeses from Lisbon, olives from Florence, wines from France and Spain, grapes from Arcadia, but also delicacies of Moslem origin: the most mouth-watering spices from Morocco, the Indus River valley and Egypt, plus figs and delicious fruits I could not name but which I was informed came from the Bedouin Arabs who inhabit the harsh deserts to the south of Constantinople.

A hundred guests were waited on by as many servants, who hurried to and fro between the tables and the vast kitchens, the entrance to which was situated at the south-west corner of the courtyard. Musicians played, magicians performed, and there was even a stage on which huge muscle-bound wrestlers—their bodies glistening with oil—grappled with each other in exhibition matches. Many of the women in attendance at the dinner, Elsie among them, watched these giants with considerable interest. The largest of the wrestlers, the local champion who went by the name of Darius, had utterly enormous muscles, a very handsome olive-coloured face and long straight black hair that flowed down to his shoulders. Most of the women, Elsie included, eyed him longingly as they unconsciously bit their lips.

Speaking of Elsie, as the banquet progressed, she once again disappeared into the crowd, leaving me essentially alone, since Mr Ascham and Mr Giles were making conversation with some of our neighbours.

And so from our (very distant) table I gazed at the assembled guests: chess players from around the world, accompanied by ambassadors and dignitaries and, in some cases, their royal patrons themselves. There were not many children; only a handful who, I guessed, were royal ones like Ivan of Muscovy and myself.

I watched Michelangelo as he held court at his table. There was not a moment when someone did not arrive at the famous artist’s side to pay their respects.

It came as a great surprise to me then, when, just before the main course was served, Michelangelo abruptly stood, waved away the latest supplicant, gazed around the illuminated courtyard, spotted our table and walked directly over to us.

He arrived at our remote spot, smiled kindly at me, and then to my even greater surprise, sat down beside my teacher and said most casually, ‘Roger, it is so nice to see you again.’

‘And you, Michel,’ my teacher said easily. ‘You have many admirers these days.’

‘I know, I know,’ the great man groaned. ‘Fame, let me tell you, is most overrated. I spend so much time accepting praise from these people that I have less time to create the works they love. Oh, to have the splendid anonymity of my youth again.’

‘It is the curse of the brilliant,’ Mr Ascham said. ‘And you have always been brilliant. You were commissioned to create the chess set for this tournament?’

‘Two sets. And the Sultan pays handsomely. More handsomely than the Pope and more promptly, too.’

‘Are you pleased with your work?’

‘Oh, Roger, you know I am never completely pleased with any of my works,’ Michelangelo said. ‘I still look upon my David and sigh at his hands. And I wish I’d had more time on the
Doni Tondo
. The chess sets, however, are adequate.’

My teacher laughed. ‘Adequate for you means superlative for the rest of us, Michel. I cannot wait to see them.’

The great artist leaned close to my teacher. ‘I heard about that business with the Earl of Cumberland’s son at Cambridge. A most distasteful affair by the sound of it, but by all accounts you excelled yourself.’

Mr Ascham glanced at me, as if deciding whether or not I should hear about this matter. ‘Whatever the status of his father, that boy was disturbed, and even common prostitutes deserve justice.’

‘You’ll get a reputation,’ Michelangelo grinned. ‘I recall that time in Rome when you resolved the matter of those stolen chalices from the church of Santa Maria di Loreto. You proved that the local priest, far from being the victim of the crime, had sold the chalices to pay off his gambling debts. For a long time after you left, it was quite the scandal.’

Mr Ascham shrugged. ‘When all the facts were ascertained, the conclusion was inevitable. Something was done and it was done for a reason. Logic.’