Sultan's Wife (41 page)

Hyde Park is a wonder: a vast expanse of green space in the midst of the city, filled with people walking and riding. By the time an area has been made ready for us, a hundred or more have gathered to watch, and we must put on a show. Back and forth we gallop, pushing the horses till they sweat, casting our lances at a target set up for archery practice, piercing it through the heart so often that the crowd cheers and cheers. Then we ride against one another in pairs, throwing and catching each other's spears to great huzzahs from the spectators. It is good to do something physical after all the time cooped up in White Hall and I find myself riding with euphoric abandon, standing high in the stirrups, controlling the horse with my knees only as I brandish my lance with savage delight. When I turn to cast it, I find the formation has changed and that I am now facing Rafik, who bares his teeth at me and casts his lance a deliberate split second too early. The spear arrows towards my face and suddenly everything around me seems to slow and all I can think is what more perfect opportunity could there be for an accidental-seeming assassination, far from home in the course of an innocent fantasia?

Abruptly, all is chaos and the next conscious sensation I have is of hitting the ground with immense impact, and everything dark around me.
I struggle to move and cannot, and everything hurts, and I think: is this how death comes – at play, in front of a foreign audience? There is a hubbub of voices: women screaming, men shouting, horses thudding and blowing. Then there is a ripping sound close by my ear and light blooms again. Ben Hadou stands over me, lance in one hand and my cloak in the other, torn through where the spear has pierced it, taking me off the horse and pinning me to the ground. ‘You're a lucky man, Nus-Nus!'

I sit up slowly. My head is ringing: it is hard to think straight. I look down, see no blood. I move each leg, each arm: nothing broken. Gingerly, I get to my feet and stand there, swaying slightly, my turban cloth unravelling around my face.

‘Lud, what a monster!' one woman cries.

‘Is it a snake?'

‘'Tis a very Leviathan!'

They howl like a pack of hyenas, and then they are crowding in towards me, all laughing and shouting at once.

Ben Hadou thrusts the burnous at me. ‘Cover yourself, man!'

Shamefaced, I gather the cloak to me and hide the nakedness the split breeches have revealed.

Suddenly, the Moroccan embassy is the talk of the town. Women giggle into their fans when they see us, men seize us by the hand and congratulate us on our performance. We are bombarded with invitations – to luncheon, to dinner, to the theatre, to card parties, all of which ben Hadou turns down with cool politeness. He shows me a handbill someone has left lying around: a bawdily rendered cartoon of the fantasia, showing us exotically arrayed in robes and turbans, five with lances at the ready, the sixth armed only with his enormous black prick … ‘What do you think Sultan Moulay Ismail would say to this?'

I stare at it glumly. Such a question requires no answer.

I have already told the Tinker of my suspicion that Rafik tried to kill me and he scoffed. ‘In plain sight of the English court? You simply weren't paying attention and now you have made laughing stocks of us all. The only blessing is that the king was not here to see such a vulgar display.'

I open my mouth to argue that his own vanity led, indirectly at least, to the predicament: had I not been forced to wear clothes too small for me … But there is no point in pursuing the argument.

Later that afternoon there comes another invitation. ‘The Duchess of Portsmouth invites us to dinner,' he declares with satisfaction. ‘This is what I have been waiting for. Louise de Kéroualle is the king's chief mistress and has great influence not only here but in the French court too. Without doubt, the king will attend.'

So the refusal of the ever-escalating invitations appears to have been a ploy, after all; and now we are like to dine with the King of England.

We gather the next evening at the duchess's extravagant apartments within the palace. Left in the antechamber to await our introduction, we gaze around at walls papered with hand-coloured flowers; at the swags of giltladen plaster and the elaborately painted ceiling; at the Chinese lacquer cabinets, intricately fretted screens, Venetian glass mirrors and vases of wrought plate, the tall French clocks and statues of naked figures clutching scant morsels of drapery to their loins. ‘Not much sign of austerity here,' I say to ben Hadou and the corner of his lips tilt upward.

But if the antechamber is richly appointed, the huge dining room into which we are shown by the liveried slaves is breathtaking in its opulence. Damask-covered chairs, arms and legs brightly gilded; tapestries glowing upon the walls; a dozen massive branching candlesticks in solid silver; gold-framed paintings; thick Turkey carpets; crystal goblets and decanters; gold platters; mirrors, sconces, crystal chandeliers bearing a hundred blazing candles. And the women … Jewels sparkle in their high-piled, powdered hair, at their ears and throats and wrists, between their fabulously plumped-up breasts.

It is hard to know where to look without impropriety, so I turn my attention to the men, sporting more sober plumage – dark crimson suits with white openwork collars and cuffs – but these turn out to be the musicians: French, just come from Louis XIV's court at Versailles to play, they explain, the latest creations by M. Marin Marais, court musician to the Sun King, not yet published and quite the newest thing.

Ben Hadou works his way around the room, ever at the side of a fair
woman with melancholy eyes and a substantial figure decked out in diamonds and pearls and the entire contents of a draper's shop, whom I take to be our hostess, the Duchess of Portsmouth. I watch as the musicians settle in the alcove with their oboes and a number of seven-stringed wooden instruments somewhere between a large Spanish guitar and a Moroccan
rabab
. Their leader draws a melancholy note from his instrument with a languid sweep of his bow, and they strike up a powerful melody whose deep bass notes resonate in the bone. The oboes and a harpsichord swell the sound, and I find myself quite transported, it is such a rousing noise. I am almost shocked out of my skin when a hand is placed upon my forearm and fingers gently squeeze the muscle. ‘You shall sit with me, sir.'

I turn to find the woman who had accompanied the king in the great salon where I had been admiring the painting of the Virgin on the first day of our visit. She grins up at me impishly and steers me towards the end of the table furthest from the hostess.

‘No, no!' this lady calls. ‘He is to sit here, between myself and Lady Lichfield.'

‘God's truth, Louise, you can't sit the fellow next to little Charlotte: the poor love won't know what to do with him. But I shall take great good care of him.' She puts her arm through mine, squeezing it close against her.

The Duchess of Portsmouth pouts. ‘You will spoil my table setting, Eleanor!'

‘Oh, figs for that!'

Over Eleanor's shoulder I see our hostess's plump face crumple before she summons her social reserves and with forced gaiety calls her guests to table.

I bow to my companion. ‘It will be a pleasure to sit with you, Eleanor.'

‘You bet your life it will be. But for God's sake call me Nelly:
I'm
not one for pretension.' She regards me inquiringly.

‘Oh, Nus-Nus, court eu— ah … courtier to Sultan Moulay Ismail of Morocco.' I drop my voice. ‘I do hope we haven't given offence to our hostess.'

‘Don't worry about Squintabella.'

‘Squintabella?'

‘The Venetian ambassador fawned all over Louise when they first met, called her
bella, bella. More like Squintabella
, I said, maybe a bit too loudly. She and I don't see eye to eye.' She giggles at her own witticism and leans in close. ‘I'm afraid it's stuck, and serves her right, snobby cow. She's over here as a spy for the French king, you know. Still, Charlie likes a bit of French, if you know what I mean.' When I stare at her uncomprehending, she rattles on. ‘And she gets well paid for it too, as you can see.' She waves a hand airily. ‘As far as Madame la Duchesse is concerned you're just a passing curiosity: we don't get to see too many blackamoors all dressed up fine and invited to supper, but I've never been one to judge others by appearance. As my Mam always used to say,
At doomsday we shall see whose arse is blackest! I
say a touch of the tarbrush makes a man more handsome: you've only got to see Charlie for proof of that. Now, Hortense (that's the Duchess Mazarin to you) has got a big chap like you – but Mustapha's so far beyond the pale he rarely gets to sit with us, more's the pity. As for Hortense, she's a bit of a character shall we say? She's already had two of the people in this room (and neither of them men!) as well as the king, and I'm pretty sure she has Mustapha too from time to time (Lord knows I would), even though it's said he's a eunuch.' She makes a snipping scissors of her fingers, in case I have not taken her meaning.

‘A eunuch? How can that be possible?' I say faintly.

Nelly gives a throaty chuckle. ‘Blimey, you don't know much, do you? It ain't balls as makes a man, and there's more ways to skin a cat than the bleeding obvious. 'Sides, you can get remedies for everything nowadays, if you know the right quack.'

‘Quack?'

‘Well, they're all the same, ain't they? Doctors, chirurgeons, charlatans, mountebanks, quacks: name depends on how much you're paying them, I reckon.'

‘And there are doctors in London who profess themselves able to cure … ah, impotence?'

‘Course there are, luvvie, though I can't imagine why you need to ask, big man like you. Word's all around London about your endowment.'

Her peal of laughter draws the attention of ben Hadou, who stares at her, then at me, disapprovingly.

‘My, ah, queen has charged me with seeking various remedies for her while I am in London, so if there is anyone whom you might recommend?'

‘What sort of remedies?'

‘Well, she is concerned about ageing too quickly …'

Nelly scoffs. ‘Best cure I know is a good laugh and a lively romp: it's them as turns their nose up at such things as gets to look like wrinkled old apples.'

I can't help but grin; her bluntness is refreshing. ‘I think the empress would not be happy with me were I to return to Morocco armed only with
that
piece of advice.'

‘You better get in with the scientist fellows. Go and talk to Mr Evelyn there.' She points out the long-nosed gentleman who suggested riding in Hyde Park to ben Hadou. ‘Or my good friend, Mr Pepys, now he knows how to enjoy himself.' A jolly fellow, roaring with laughter at something the woman beside him has just said.

She points around the table telling me the names of the others present, and a tit-bit of information about each of them to root them in my memory. The lady seated on the other side of the ambassador is Mrs Aphra Behn, a writer for the theatre and one-time spy for the Dutch; the little boy is Louise's son, Charles, Duke of Richmond; the pretty young woman in the emeralds is Anne, Lady Sussex, daughter to the king and the Duchess of Cleveland, who had an affair with the Duchess Mazarin and is now embroiled with some diplomat in Paris; the next man is the French ambassador, Paul Barillon d'Amancourt – ‘a great charmer with the ladies'; and so on, till my head is spinning. There appear to be a number of the monarch's children present, and I presume to ask my companion about the nature of his harem, which amuses her considerably.

‘What, you think Charlie needs to coop 'em up like hens? They're queuing up on the Privy Stairs for the King's Touch: it's all Mr Chiffinch can do to keep 'em out!'

‘Then how does anyone keep track of his issue?' I explain some of my duties regarding the couching book, which sends her off into trills of delight.

‘How many wives do you say he has, this sultan?'

‘Well, concubines rather than wives: I believe at last count a thousand or so.'

She claps her hands in delight at such excess. ‘Whoo! He keeps you busy, then. And these ladies: what are they like? Are they all dusky beauties?'

‘Many are; but there are some Europeans too. And one English lady.'

Now she is agog. ‘An Englishwoman? How does she come to be in the harem?'

I tell her about the corsairs' trade in captives, about the palace works at Meknes driving the need for slaves; and about the high value of white women in our markets, though I do not choose to share with her the emperor's dream of breeding a vast army to take back Muslim lands from Christendom.

‘There's some as'd be shocked that women should be bought and sold thus, but I ain't one of 'em,' Nelly avers. ‘We're all trade goods in this life, one way or another: you trade up or, if your luck's bad, you trade down, and fate's a fickle master. Still, poor lady: does she not want to return to these shores?'

The temptation to blurt out my mission to her is strong, but I manage to hold my tongue since her own is so free. But perhaps there is a chance to advance part of my goal. ‘The lady sewed a gift for his majesty,' I tell her. ‘A pretty thing that I have promised to put directly into his hand, had I the opportunity.'

‘Well, he said he'd drop in: I'll make sure you get the chance.'

‘I had rather it were in private.'

‘I hope you ain't planning on doing any harm to my Charlie.'

I assure her not and rather wish I had not mentioned it at all.

Sometime later, ben Hadou stands and blesses our hostess for her kind invitation, and says he prays for God's favour to her little son, and gives thanks on our behalf for such a fine dinner, and then we are away. In the antechamber the ambassador rounds upon me angrily. ‘Whatever were you thinking, carrying on in such a shameful fashion with the king's mistress?'