This Heart of Mine (46 page)

“And now, Most High, a final item,” said Ramesh, the khan-i-saman of his household. “Today there is newly arrived a train of gifts from the Portuguese governor in Bombay. They were routed to your capital in Lahore, but learning that you were visiting here in Fatehpur-Sikri they came directly to you.”

Akbar raised his expressive, fine dark eyes heavenward. “Let me guess,” he said, somewhat wryly. “Several just passable horses, a few second-rate fighting elephants, at least one brace of moth-eaten hunting cats, another painting of some Christian saint or martyr,
and
a pouch of inferior gemstones.” He sighed deeply. “Why
do
the Portuguese insist on sending me bad fighting elephants and worse gemstones, Ramesh? They have absolutely no taste in either. Am I right, old friend?”

Ramesh, the lord high steward, smiled affectionately at his master. “You are correct, Most High, but this time the Portuguese have added two additional gifts. One should please you, but as for the other …” He shrugged.

“There is more?” Akbar was surprised, for Portuguese generosity
toward him was generally scant. The Portuguese were far more interested in what they could take from India than in what they could give to it. “Well, Ramesh,” he said, “what have the Portuguese added to their caravan of delights this time to please and amuse this barbarian king?”

“What will please you, Most High, is a jeweled clock that chimes the hour,” was the lord high steward’s reply.

Akbar’s eyes lit with pleasure, for he very much enjoyed mechanical objects.
“And?”
he queried.

Ramesh’s face grew concerned. “The Portuguese have sent you a woman, Most High.”

“A woman?”
The emperor was astounded. “Do the Portuguese think my zenana is not full enough?” Then he grew curious. “What kind of a woman, Ramesh? Have they sent me one of their dwarfs for my amusement or perhaps some other female freak of nature?”

“I think she is a European, Most High. She is certainly not of our land or from Cathay,” the lord high steward replied.

“What frets you about her, Ramesh?”

The lord high steward hesitated a moment, and then said, “I believe that the Portuguese meant to please you, but this woman is, I am absolutely convinced, stark, raving mad. I question that she has not been sent here to assassinate Your Majesty, and I fear for your safety.”

Akbar’s interest was piqued, and he found that he was much less bored. During this whole afternoon in the oppressive heat of the monsoon season he had sat patiently listening to various, long-winded complaints from his subjects and mediating delicate disputes between the many fiery factions, both religious and political, that made up his realm. He needed a diversion, and here, at last, was something different.

“Have the woman brought to me,” he commanded. “I would see her now.”

“My lord,” protested Ramesh, “I fear for you, and, besides, I promise you she is like the gemstones and the elephants, nothing special. Her skin is very white but for her hands, face, and feet, which have been sunburned in the trek from the coast. The Portuguese governor did not even think enough of her to provide her with an elephant or a camel or even a simple litter. I cannot make out the color of her hair because it is so dirty—I suspect it is filled with lice and fleas. Her eyes seem to be of a light hue. I have never seen anything like them before. She is an ugly creature. Let me send her to the kitchens. Perhaps they can make use of her.”

Akbar laughed. “I cannot send a gift from the Portuguese
to the kitchens,” he said. “At the very least I must see her, and then she shall be sent to my zenana. Now stop fussing like an old woman, Ramesh, and bring me this female!”

The khan-i-saman signaled to one of his underlings, who hurried from the audience chamber. A few moments later an unearthly shriek rent the air, startling all within the steaming chamber. They could hear a woman’s voice angrily raging, a sound that drew nearer and nearer until the double doors to the audience chamber burst open and two servants dragged in a naked, struggling creature who screamed and fought them wildly, her heavy, lank hair thrashing about her body.

“Take your filthy hands from me, you evil baboons!” she angrily shouted, but they no more understood her protests than she comprehended their sharp commands.

“Kneel, woman! You are in the presence of the emperor!” They attempted to force her to her knees, but the woman, in a most surprising maneuver, broke free and, snatching a cape from one of the servants who was trying to restrain her, attempted to cover her nudity. Then with her bare foot she kicked out at the other servant, catching him in a most vulnerable and tender spot.

“Arrrrgh!” cried the wounded one, falling to the floor and clutching at himself.

In the chaos that followed the woman bent and swiftly relieved her victim of his dagger, then, turning, she backed quickly into a corner, pointing the weapon outward toward her tormentors.

“Come near me, any of you, and I swear I’ll kill you!” she threatened.

“Aiyee!” wailed the khan-i-saman, rolling his head from side to side. “I knew this creature would bring disaster upon us all! She has the evil eye, I am sure! Call out the guard lest she harm the emperor!”

“Remain in your places, all of you!” Akbar sharply commanded. “Can none of you see? The woman is terrified.” He himself felt no fear. Watching the drama unfolding before him, he found he was rather fascinated and curious as to what the woman looked like beneath her many layers of dirt. He had never seen a European woman before, and he couldn’t tell a great deal at the moment about the filthy, crouching female. “Has anyone tried to speak reasonably with her?” he asked.

“No one can understand her barbarian tongue, Most High,” quavered Ramesh.

“How like the Portuguese not to teach her even a few words of our language,” murmured the emperor. “But then, knowing
their lack of subtlety of intellect, they probably assumed the simple Mughal would find no need to speak with the woman. He would simply fall upon her and sate his lust.”

“Do you think she is Portuguese?” wondered Ramesh.

Akbar shook his head. “It is doubtful they would send one of their own women to me,” he said.

“The holy fathers taught you their tongues, Most High. Could you not speak to this woman in them?”

“Yes, my old friend,” said the emperor. “I have learned two languages from the holy fathers. If this woman understands one of them, then perhaps we can calm her fears.”

“What can she possibly be afraid of?” fussed the lord high steward in a somewhat aggrieved tone of voice. “This is a civilized land. Our cultures—Moslem, Buddhist, even Hindu with its caste system—are ancient and venerable. Older, in many instances, than the Europeans, and certainly more civilized.

Akbar smiled. “Yes,” he agreed, “but do the Europeans know it, Ramesh?” He turned to the woman who was still crouched defensively in her corner. None of the others had noticed, but he could see that she was trembling slightly. Still, she gave no other indication of her fear and that intrigued him. Although he knew of brave women by reputation, he had never before faced one. Her eyes—intelligent eyes, he noted—had been following the conversation between himself and Ramesh as she attempted to ascertain some indication of her fate.

“Are you Portuguese,
senhora?”
he inquired of her in that tongue. She stared blankly at him.

“Êtes-vous français, mademoiselle?”
he asked, switching to the French language. He could see relief wash over her in that moment.

“Non, monseigneur, je ne suis pas français, mais je parle français comme ma grandmère est une Française,”
came the woman’s reply. Then uncontrolled tears began to slide down her oval face, making dirty runnels in her skin as they went. For a moment she was in a quandary as to what to do. One hand held the dagger, the other the cape that covered her. Finally she reached up with her weaponed hand and brushed her tears away with the heel of her palm, further smudging the dust on her face.

“Why do you weep?” Akbar asked softly, finding that desperate, feminine gesture both charming and vulnerable.

“Because,
monseigneur,”
she sobbed, “this is the first time
in weeks that someone has spoken to me in a tongue that I could understand. Your accent is heavy, but I can comprehend you. Have you any idea what it is like to be in a strange place, unable to communicate with the people around you, not knowing what is going to happen to you?”

“No,” he said quietly, “I do not, but if I found myself in such a position I think I would be afraid.” The emperor could see that the woman was near the breaking point, and not wishing to frighten her further he asked gently, “Would you like it if I sent all these people away,
mademoiselle?”

She nodded, saying, “Can you do that? Are you the lord of this place?”

“I am.”

“What are you called,
monseigneur?
How shall I address you?”

“I am Akbar, called the Grand Mughal. I am the emperor of this land,
mademoiselle.
Who are you?”

She drew herself up in a proud little gesture, and he was surprised by her height. “I am the Countess of BrocCairn,
monseigneur.
I am Velvet Gordon.”

“Are you hungry, my lady? Thirsty, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, my lord! I am both hungry and thirsty. It is so very hot.”

The emperor turned back to his people. “Leave us,” he said to them, “but, Ramesh, see that a servant brings cool wine and some fruit. This woman is not quite the villainess you imagined. From what I can gather so far, she is a noblewoman in her own land. I suspect treachery on the part of the Portuguese, and this poor creature has been their victim.”

“Is she Portuguese then, Most High?”

“No, my friend. I do not yet know her native land, but she is able to speak with me in the tongue of the Franks. I shall soon learn all, and you need not fear for me. She is no danger.”

Ramesh nodded. The emperor had a magic about him when it came to dealing with people. Had he not virtually single-handedly united this great land, which for years had been divided by warring factions that set family against family? Neighbor against neighbor? Was he not the first Moslem emperor to bring Hindus into the government and the army? Ramesh nodded again to himself and, leading the way for the others, he left the room.

Velvet relaxed a tiny bit now and quickly studied the man who sat calm and cross-legged amid colorful pillows upon the raised dais before her. She suspected that when he stood he would be of medium height for a man, and not a great deal
taller than she was herself, but then she was considered tall for a woman. He was beautifully dressed and jeweled. Beneath the sheer fabric of his tunic she could see his broad, smooth, muscled chest tapering down to a narrow waist. He had a golden complexion, and was clean shaven but for a closely trimmed, small, dark moustache. His brows were thin and black; his bright eyes were also black but despite their narrow shape, which revealed the Mongolian strain in his blood, they shimmered and danced in the light. His forehead was broad, his nose somewhat short though slender, and between the left nostril and his upper lip was a mole about the size of a small pea. The emperor’s mouth was a sensual one, but his expression was serene and full of dignity.

Akbar gave her a moment to collect herself, and then said, “I would reassure you, my lady, that no one here means you any harm. Will you come and sit on the steps beneath me here? You would be far more comfortable than you are now in that corner.”

“I will not give up my weapon,” she replied.

“If it will make you feel more secure, then keep it.” He smiled in a kindly fashion at her. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand.

Instinctively Velvet trusted him, though she knew not why, and so she slowly came forward from her refuge and sat gingerly upon a long comfortable pillow that was set on the marble step just below the emperor’s throne. “Thank you, my lord,” she said simply.

A servant silently entered the room bearing a tray upon which were two goblets of frosty wine and a plate of a juicy, sliced fruit that Velvet could not identify. Bowing low, he offered the contents of the tray first to Akbar and then to Velvet.

“What is that fruit?” she questioned him. It was pale orange in color and looked very good.

“It is melon,” Akbar answered. “It is very good and very sweet. I have these particular melons brought down from my capital of Lahore in the north. Try a slice,” he suggested and took one himself.

Following his lead, she took a piece and bit into it. It was delicious and, along with the cool, light wine, revived her spirits.

When she had eaten half of the melon and drunk part of her wine, he began to question her gently. “Tell me, my lady,” he began, “you are not Portuguese and you say you are not
French, though you speak that language. What then is your native land?”

“I am English, my lord,” she answered him, daintily licking the juice from the melon off her grimy fingers and suddenly becoming aware of just how dirty her hands were, particularly her nails.

Akbar was not a man to miss anything, and it amused him to see such a typically female reaction come over her in the midst of all her troubles. He could still not tell a great deal about her looks beneath the dirt and the mass of lank hair, but the one thing he could see as she glanced up at him was that her features were fine and that her eyes were the color of emeralds. “You are English,” he repeated, and she nodded. “I had some Englishmen here several years back. They brought me a letter from your queen. Does she still reign?”

“Yes, my lord, Queen Elizabeth yet reigns, and will continue to do so, God willing. The queen is my godmother, my lord! The expedition you speak of was that of Master John Newbery and Master William Hawkins. They and their assistants, a jeweler named Leedes and James Story, a painter, along with a friend of my mother’s, a London merchant named Ralph Fitch, left England when I was twelve. Nothing was heard of them after they landed in Goa. In England it was thought that they died,” Velvet told him.