Chapter 11

T he coach that carried Michael O'Malley, the bishop of Mid-Connaught, from the French coast to Paris was a large and comfortable vehicle. Four strong horses guided by an expert coachman galloped along the snowy, midwinter roads that by virtue of the hard-packed snow were actually in much better condition than the rutted, potholed earth beneath. The landscape was mostly black and white, the leafless trees stretching their barren branches skyward, the smoke from occasional cottages and farms dark against the gray gloom.

Looking out through the coach's very expensive glass windows, the bishop shivered. He himself was quite warm and comfortable amid the dark green velvet upholstery, covered by a thick gray fox coverlet, a brazier of hot coals at his feet. Gold, he thought with a soft smile, certainly had its uses. Leaning forward, he drew the back of the front seat down and removed a willow basket from the niche there. Opening it, he took out a leather decanter of dark red Burgundy and filled the silver cup that was also in the basket. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the heady fragrance of the wine with a connoisseur's palate before taking his first blissful sip. Fitting the goblet between his knees, he recorked the decanter and, having replaced it in the basket, drew forth a little crock of goose-liver paté and a small, crisp loaf of bread, which had been wrapped in a rough linen napkin and was yet warm. Breaking a piece of bread off, he used it to scoop up a dollop of the paté and popped the entire thing into his mouth, chewing delightedly. The paté was excellent, and the bread had a wonderful crust on it.

The inn at which he had spent the night had been a charming one, and since they were still a half-day's travel from Paris, the innkeeper's wife had packed him the basket to tide him over. He had done her the honor of hearing her confession and pronounced only a light penance for her few but troublesome sins. Finishing his meal with a crisp pear, he packed the basket away behind the seat again and gazed back out the window. A light snow was beginning to fall, and Michael O'Malley did not envy either the coachman or the men-at-arms who escorted his coach. In the distance, however, he could see the spires of Notre Dame poking through the grayness. It would not be too long now.

He would be staying at the Paris town house of Adam de Marisco's mother and stepfather, the Comte and Comtesse de Cher, which was located in the rue Soeur Celestine on the Rive Gauche. It was a small house, having only six bedchambers, but the bishop would be quite comfortable and well taken care of by a staff of servants who had been sent up from the comte and comtesse's estate at Archambault in the Loire.

Michael O'Malley turned his thoughts to the task ahead of him. It would not be an easy one, and even though he would be dealing with an old friend, the utmost diplomacy would be required. The truth of the matter was that he understood the logic behind Father Ourique's actions. God help the man! Exiled from Europe and expected to work miracles of conversion for the holy mother church without, Michael wagered with himself, any monies sent him. Desperate to do well, to be brought to the attention of his superiors in Portugal, in Paris, and in Rome—and desperate, Michael suspected, to be brought home—the Jesuit had undoubtedly seen his future disappearing over the horizon in the same direction as Lord and Lady de Marisco. He had done the only thing he felt he could in taking Velvet hostage in exchange for delivery of the ransom. Michael believed, however, that Father Ourique had been unaware of the Portuguese governor's brooding desire for revenge. The whole matter was an unfortunate combination of bad timing and worse luck, with his niece the innocent victim. Poor little Velvet! The bishop's face darkened with his concern. What tortures was she enduring in what must be for so sheltered a lass a terrifying captivity? He sincerely prayed that she would survive to be released from her bondage.

The coach came to an abrupt stop, and, focusing his eyes on the outside world, Michael saw that they were already in Paris and, in fact, were awaiting the gatekeeper of Chez Cher to open the gates so that they might enter the mansion's courtyard. The snow was falling heavily now, and the bishop could just make out the shambling figure of the porter as he pulled open the entry. The coachman, eager to see the end of his journey, and doubtless thinking of a warm fire and a good pint, almost toppled the gatekeeper over as he hurried his horses into the courtyard and pulled up before the house's double doors, which swung wide magically. Two liveried footmen ran down the three steps and, opening the carriage door, pulled down the steps and helped Michael O'Malley descend.

"Merci, merci!" the bishop said, signing them with the cross in thanks, and then he moved hastily into the building.

A thin, spare man came quickly forward. "Bienvenue, Monsieur le évêque. I am Alard, the majordomo." He drew a tiny, plump woman forward. "My wife, Jeannine, who is the housekeeper and cook. We have been sent by Madame la comtesse to see to your needs, and we will try to make your stay a pleasant one. Is it possible that you can tell us how long you plan to be in Paris?"

"Not for more than a week or two at the most," Michael replied.

"Thank you, my lord bishop. Let me show you to your rooms now, and you must tell me if there is anything that we can do for you at this moment."

"I'll need someone to take a message to a friend of mine, Father O'Dowd, a Jesuit."

Alard bowed. "Of course, my lord bishop. As soon as you're settled, I'll send a footman to you."

The messenger was dispatched and returned within another hour. He had found Father O'Dowd, who sent back word that he would be delighted to see his old friend, and would the evening meal be too soon? When Michael passed this query on to Jeannine, the plump little woman smiled mischievously and, bobbing him a curtsy, promised an excellent dinner.

When Bearach O'Dowd arrived, Michael O'Malley could not help but think how little his friend had changed. Of medium height and plump of figure, Bearach O'Dowd had the round, innocent face of a choirboy. He was fair of skin with fat, pink Irish cheeks and deceptively bland light blue eyes with long sandy-colored lashes that matched his close-cropped sandy hair. He was dressed as a Jesuit, but, Michael noted, his robes were of the best materials and well cut.

"You've brought a bit of peat whiskey, Michaeleen?" was his greeting. "I've not been able to think of anything else since your messenger brought me word you were in Paris."

The bishop laughed. "Aye, I've got it. How else would two old friends toast each other, Bearach?" Walking to the library table, he poured them both a dram of the smoky whiskey and, handing his friend one, raised his own goblet. "Ireland!" he said.

"Ireland, God help her!" came the Jesuit's reply.

When the whiskey had been downed by both men, Michael led the way into a small dining room, and they sat down to the dinner table. True to her word, Jeannine had prepared a wonderful supper for the two clerics. Bowls of mussels, braised in white wine and garlic, with individual bowls of Dijon sauce de moutarde began the meal, which was served family style as there were only two diners. The broth surrounding the mussels was as delicious as were the delicately flavored shellfish themselves.

When the bowls containing the thoroughly pillaged shells had been removed, Alard directed the footmen to pass various platters and bowls. There was a lovely, fat duck, its skin burned black, its flesh rare, stuffed with apricots and prunes, and served with wild plum sauce. There was a fine savory ragout of beef, fragrant with red wine and fine herbs, and served with fluffy little dumplings; a bowl of tiny potatoes, another of onions, and one of celery and carrots. The last dish presented in this course was a small ham baked in a flaky pastry that had been glazed with egg.

Both Michael O'Malley and Bearach O'Dowd were men of great appetite. They handily finished Jeannine's offerings as well as a loaf of crusty bread and a crock of sweet butter from Normandy that had been placed upon the table. A large decanter of Burgundy from the Archambault vineyards was emptied as well.

Jeannine smiling from ear to ear at the priests' flattering appreciation of her culinary skills, served the sweet herself. It was a large tartlet of pears set within a delicate, cakelike crust that had been filled with a sweet custard. The goblets were refilled with a light, fruity white wine. Both clerics raised their goblets to Jeannine who, already flushed from the heat of her kitchen, turned a deeper pink in her pleasure.

Their meal completed, Michael and Bearach adjourned back to the library. Their glasses refilled, they settled themselves cosily before the fire. Outside the winter storm howled noisily, rattling the windows.

"What brings an Irish bishop to Paris, Michaeleen?" The Jesuit's curiosity was finally aroused.

" 'Tis a family matter," came Michael's calm reply, "and 'twas thought that since your aunt is an O'Malley and you're therefore a part of the family that you'd like to aid us."

"If I can," was Bearach's canny answer.

"Aye, you can."

"Well, out with it, man! Unless you're planning to keep me here all night." "You'll remember my sister, Skye," began Michael.

"And who could forget that beautiful creature?" demanded Bearach. "Has she outlived another husband, then, Michaeleen? Or is she still wed to that big man, de Marisco, was it?"

"Adam de Marisco, and, aye, they're still happily married. 'Twill be eighteen years this Michaelmas."

"Well, what's the problem, then?" asked Bearach O'Dowd.

"I'd best begin at the beginning," said Michael. "Several years ago my sister and her husband departed England for a voyage to the East Indies. As you'll remember Skye and her partner, Sir Robert Small, have had a profitable relationship for many, many years with a number of the island sultans. Their ship was damaged in a storm and blown off course. They ended up becalmed just off Bombay and were taken in tow by the Portuguese."

Bearach O'Dowd nodded, all the while thinking to himself that Skye O'Malley's destination had probably been India all along, and that she had likely been on an expedition for the English with an eye toward opening trade with the Grand Mughal himself. He doubted the Portuguese, and their Spanish masters, would have liked that.

"The Portuguese governor took my sister, her husband, and their ship and crew hostage, forcing my nephew, Captain Murrough O'Flaherty, to return to England in his own vessel to fetch the ransom demanded," Michael continued. "The governor was under the direct influence of, and guided by, his Jesuit advisor Father Ourique."

"Are you holding the Jesuit order responsible then for the irresponsible act of one man, Michaeleen?"

"Wait, Bearach, there is a good deal more. Hear me out, and then we will discuss our differences."

The Jesuit nodded, then listened intently as his old friend told the tale of Velvet's misadventures.

"Jesus Christus!" exploded Bearach O'Dowd when Michael had finished. He could now see what his old friend and playmate was getting at. The O'Malleys were holding the Jesuits responsible for the kidnapping of one of their own. Here was a fine kettle of fish! In their own small way the O'Malleys of Innisfana, though but a minor branch of the great seafaring family, had a certain amount of influence, and a great deal of money behind that influence.

Bearach O'Dowd's nimble mind scrambled to remember what he could of Velvet de Marisco. Her father was not of an important family, but de Marisco's stepfather, the Comte de Cher, was highly thought of by the French royal family, and despite the fact that there was currently a civil war raging in France over the succession, royal connections were not to be sneezed at. Holy Father! The girl's godmothers were Queen Margot herself and Elizabeth of England! Was it possible that the actions of one greedy priest could destroy the Jesuits' reputation and ruin their years of hard work?

Gathering his wits, Bearach O'Dowd said in a voice that belied his thumping heart, "How is it you think the Jesuits might help you, Michaeleen? I don't quite understand what it is you want."

Michael O'Malley hid a smile. Bearach, his old and good friend, was no fool. His position within the order was that of banker. He had a knack for increasing wealth through investments that endeared him to his superiors. That talent gave him a certain amount of power. "There are Jesuits at the Emperor Akbar's court, Bearach," he said. "The emperor, I am told, was born a Moslem, and my sister, Skye, who knows these things says that no honest Moslem will take unto his bed the wife of a living man. Skye, has sent me to you, Bearach. She holds the Jesuit order responsible for Velvet's plight, but she also believes that you can aid her, aid me in getting to Akbar's court to present our case before the emperor. The O'Malleys would be most grateful, Bearach."

"How grateful?" The two words were sharp and clear.

"Very grateful," was Michael's equally enigmatic reply, but the two men understood each other. The O'Malleys would not settle upon a price until they got what they wanted, but they would be very generous in the end.

"It is possible that we might be able to help you, Michaeleen, but mind you we cannot accept responsibility for the actions of one foolish priest."

"A Jesuit , Bearach. One of your own, not just some random priest. Otherwise I should be in Rome and not Paris," Michael O'Malley gently reminded him.

"Of course, old friend, and you have but to tell me what it is that you want."

"The Jesuits are welcome at Akbar's court, Bearach. I have even heard talk of his conversion."

Bearach O'Dowd snorted. "A dream of glory-seekers, but never say I told you so, Michaeleen. 'Tis my opinion that they'll never convert him, and that opinion is held by those in the higher strata of the order than I, but 'twill never be admitted aloud. Still, he welcomes us to his court and does nothing to hinder our conversion of the population."

"Then a letter of introduction from the Jesuits will obtain me an interview with the emperor, Bearach. It will keep the Portuguese from hindering me in my mission. I do not intend to land at Bombay at any rate, but rather I shall debark at Cambay. That port is under the emperor's control. After that it will be a journey of at least six weeks overland in order to reach Akbar's capital of Lahore."

"If he is in Lahore, Michaeleen. It is said that the emperor, like Elizabeth Tudor, travels his land regularly."

"I will find him, Bearach, and I will gain the release of my poor niece," Michael said quietly.

"Pray God that she is still alive, Michaeleen."

Michael O'Malley laughed aloud. "She's Skye O'Malley's daughter, Bearach, and if she's half the woman her mother is then she's survived. I've not seen her since she was eleven years old, but she was a winsome little lass."

"I will have to present this dilemma to my superiors, Michaeleen, but rest assured they will see the matter even as I do and be most eager to play their part in obtaining the release of this virtuous young Catholic noblewoman," Bearach vowed.

Michael hid a smile. The Jesuits were well served by Father Bearach O'Dowd, who did not admit to the order's duplicity in Velvet's plight, and at the same time made it sound as if they were doing the O'Malleys a great favor out of pure Christian charity and not because of the fine profit they would make. "Ah, Bearach, what would we do in this life if we could not rely upon our friends?" he said. "The family will be so relieved to learn of your aid in rescuing Velvet."

Rescue was the farthest thought from Velvet's mind. She was far too happy now, and as her memories of Alex had faded into the dark corners of her heart, her joy at the love that she and Akbar shared filled her soul. He loved her as no other man could ever love her. He shared more of himself with Velvet than he had ever shared with his other wives and concubines. He used her as a sounding board for his thoughts and ideas, which was something he said he had never done with anyone before. Velvet listened to her husband and learned a great deal about politics and strategy from him. Occasionally she even offered her own suggestions or disagreed with him, which no one had also ever done, but he listened to her, and if her reasoning was sound, he would take her advice. It was a love built upon mutual respect as well as passion, but the passion was certainly there as well. Akbar had never loved a woman as he loved Candra Begum, his English Rose, and their love was a fruitful one.

Yasaman Kama Begum was born in her mother's lakeside palace in Kashmir, which her father had built during the nine months she spent in her mother's womb, on August 9, 1590. Velvet had a relatively easy time and although normally the birth of the Mughal's child would have entailed the participation of the entire zenana, only Rugaiya Begum, Jodh Bai, Pansy, and Velvet's slave women were present. Most of Akbar's others wives were not welcome in her Kashmiri home.

The little princess was placed in her bejeweled cradle and guarded by two fierce female warriors. She was a strong, healthy infant from birth, which was a great relief to her parents. Each day that passed saw her growing and thriving as she suckled eagerly on her mother's breasts, anxious to extract every bit of nourishment that she could. Yasaman was an extraordinarily beautiful baby and had been from the moment of her quick entry into life.

She was not as fair-skined as her mother, but neither was she as bronzed as her father. Her skin color was that of very rich, heavy cream; her thick curls dark as her father's black hair, but with her mother's auburn highlights. Most startling of all her features, however, were her eyes, which went from a baby blue at her birth to a vibrant turquoise by the time she was almost six months of age.

In personality Yasaman was most decidedly her parents' child. Her mother's sweetness was quickly apparent in the normally sunny-natured infant; but when crossed she was quickly the imperial Mughal's adored daughter, screaming at the top of her tiny lungs until totally satisfied that her will had been done.

Most children have one mother, but Yasaman Kama Begum had three, for both the childless Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai, who had lost her only daughter several days after the baby was born, doted upon her totally. Little Yasaman was fortunate to have two such powerful allies within the zenana, for Akbar's other wives were jealous of both her and her beautiful mother. It was also in her favor that she was the light of her father's life, the rich harvest of his love for her mother.

It was hard for Velvet to imagine that it was winter once again in England. She had explained the twelve days of Christmas and the feast of Twelfth Night to Akbar once the month of December was well under way. He had found it an interesting custom and said, "Our little Yasaman comes from two such different cultures. She must know of them both as she grows up." Velvet agreed. She might be the wife of a powerful Eastern potentate, but she was still proud of her own heritage. She had already given her daughter the first link in the chain that was to bind mother and child.

It had been done quietly, of course, almost secretly. Akbar had enough difficulties between the Moslems, the Hindus, and the Buddhists without encouraging further rebellions. His youngest child had, therefore, been baptized by the Jesuits in her mother's house in the presence of only her parents, Pansy, who was designated her godmother, Rugaiya Begum, and Jodh Bai. Velvet had also taken the opportunity to have her tiring woman's son, now a year old, baptized, too. The two Jesuits who had performed the ceremony, one acting as godfather to both of the children, had been amazed to learn that Akbar had a Christian wife.

"My child," exclaimed Father Xavier, the elder of the two, a man with a kindly, worn face. "How is it you have come to this place? When did you last make your confession? When was the last time you received the sacraments? Do you not fear for your soul? Who are you? You have not the look of a peasant girl."

"Who I am is of no importance to you, Father," replied Velvet, "but to satisfy your curiosity I will tell you that in my own land I was a Catholic noblewoman. I was betrayed into captivity by those in high places and sent here to my lord Akbar. Those who sought to harm me, however, did me a great service instead. I have found true love and happiness as my lord's wife."

"But it is not a Christian marriage, my lady," fretted the priest.

"What does it matter in this land?" said Velvet. "Once, not so long ago, such things were important to me. I have since learned that it's what is in a person's heart which God judges him by, not by the way in which he worships."

The two Jesuits looked scandalized, but nonetheless they baptized the children, then went about their business sworn to secrecy. Velvet was well satisfied.

On the first day of Christmas Akbar gave his favorite a strand of bright green emeralds with matching earrings. On the following days he presented her with a chestnut-colored Arabian mare, a carved ivory box containing several strands of pink pearls, and a chess set with a board made from alternating squares of green and white marble with playing pieces carved from ivory and green jasper, each piece studded with multicolored gemstones. On the fifth day, he presented her with a beautifully decorated, gilded barge with crimson velvet cushions so that she might sail on the man-made palace lake. The sixth day brought a diamond necklace and earrings. The seventh morning saw a beautiful female elephant with cloth of gold trappings sewn with pearls and precious jewels standing beneath her windows, its graceful trunk raised in salute. On the eighth day of Christmas, Akbar presented his wife with the revenues from the lands upon which her palace in Kashmir stood; on the ninth day, a solid silver litter with purple cushions and mauve hangings with four slaves to bear it; on the tenth day, a necklace of priceless rubies and two gold and ruby bracelets were her gift; and on the eleventh day, a pair of spotted hunting cats. Finally on Twelfth Night Akbar gave Velvet the most opulent gift of all. She was weighed three times, the first time receiving her weight in silver, the second in gold, and the third time in precious gems.

"Lordy, lordy!" gasped Pansy. "You must be the richest woman in the world now, m'lady! They wouldn't believe this back home if we could show them!"

Akbar laughed when Velvet told him what her tiring woman had said. "It is I who am rich in your love," he said gallantly.

"And it is your love that means more to me than all of this wealth of gold and jewels," she replied, kissing him sweetly.

He pulled her into his arms. "You are my world, Candra! Before you I did not live. I existed." Gently his lips caressed her forehead, then moved to find her mouth.

I never grow tired of his kisses , she thought. He lifts me from the everyday world into a magic realm.

The kiss deepened as he explored the texture of her lips as if for the very first time. Her mouth was always warm and welcoming. He felt as if he were floating and from her little murmur of pleasure he knew that she was experiencing a similar delight. His hands moved downward over her nude form, caressing, stroking, cupping her willing flesh. He fondled her breasts, marveling at the texture of them. They were so wonderfully firm and silky, and full with the milk she fed their daughter. It gave him a marvelous feeling of deep physical enjoyment to gaze upon those twin globes of smooth, moonlight-colored flesh. He bent his head and nuzzled a dark pink nipple, already puckered with her own pleasure. A tiny bead of milk burst forth from it, and Akbar leaned over and caught it up with his quick tongue.

Velvet shivered and, falling back amid the pillows, drew him with her. He lay for several long minutes, his head pillowed against her heart, listening to its rapid beat, gaining an almost boyish enjoyment from being able to make her heart race when he slipped his hand between her legs to tease her little jewel.

His own breath caught in his throat as her slender fingers caressed first his dark head and then slipped beneath his hair to brush softly the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

"I love your hair," she said. "It is so incredibly soft. I never knew a man could have such soft hair. I hope our Yasaman's hair has such a texture."

"I want Yasaman to be like you," he insisted as, parting her legs, he entered her body in one smooth motion.

"Ah, my darling," she cried out softly, not from pain but rather pleasure. There had been little foreplay between them this night, but she had been ready for him. She was, she thought for a brief, lucid moment, always ready to make love where he was concerned.

Her legs were firmly between his thighs. Now he put his arms about her and drew her up against his chest. Together they rocked back and forth, their arms and legs now entwined, their tongues caressing one another in sweet embrace. Her breasts were pressed hard against his smooth chest, and his hands moved down to cup her buttocks, raising her up just slightly. Velvet cried out with delight as she found the first peak of pleasure. For many long minutes they sat face to face, their bodies entwined, making passionate love, each giving the other sweet, lingering moments of delight. Then came one flaming minute when the lovers soared together only to slide back finally to reality.

With a sigh Velvet lay her head upon Akbar's chest. With a matching sigh he slipped a loving arm around her. They lay together, slipping in and out of a light sleep for at least an hour, and then Velvet had the desire to make love again. Slipping from the bed, she fetched a basin of warm, perfumed water and several cloths. He grumbled at the sudden loss of warmth.

"If you would permit Rohana and Toramalli to attend us …" he began, only to be silenced by her.

"I want no one, even a slave, to be present during our most intimate moments. You may say what you wish about their powers of observation, but they are still human beings and cannot help but see and hear us even if they dare not acknowledge it. Our love is for us alone, my darling. I will not share my time with you!"

She carefully cleansed him free of all evidence of their prior lovemaking, handling his lingam now without any show of embarrassment, even when it began to rise and stir beneath her delicate touch. He watched as she then quickly bathed herself, and removed the cloths and basin. When she returned to him she was freshly perfumed with jasmine, now her favorite scent as gillyflowers were not grown here. It surrounded her like an invisible cloud, and he could see that her hair had been brushed with a jasmine-scented brush, for it was slightly damp and shining with fiery lights.

Velvet saw the desire in his dark eyes as she walked toward him, each step deliberately slow to entice and arouse him. It was a small trick that Rugaiya had taught her, and she had learned it well. She moved upon the balls of her feet, her body long, her buttocks tight, her breasts thrust forward.

Lying on his back amid the pillows, Akbar watched her. She was the most desirable and graceful woman he had ever seen. She almost slithered onto the bed, her slender hands sliding up his legs ahead of the rest of her. Her warm hands massaged first his feet, then his calves, and finally his muscled thighs. Swinging her body over his and leaning just slightly forward, she caressed his smooth chest, her fingers moving in a circular motion over his skin.

"Does this please you, my lord?" she murmured provocatively.

The corners of his mouth twitched just slightly, but he answered coolly, "It pleases me," and nothing more. He did not even look at her, his impersonal gaze staring over her shoulder.

Her hands moved upward to cup his face between them, and bending forward just a wee bit more, she covered his mouth with her own, running her little tongue over his lips and then thrusting it boldly into his mouth. She caressed his tongue with her own until he thought his blood would surely boil, and then she sucked upon it lingeringly. It took every ounce of willpower that he had not to take her then and there, but he was very much enjoying having her act the aggressor. Only since Yasaman's birth had she occasionally begun to make love to him, and he frankly enjoyed it. Still, he could not resist clasping her delectable bottom in his two hands and fondling the deliciously springy flesh of its twin cheeks.

Releasing him from the kiss, Velvet sat back just slightly but not quite enough to dislodge his hands. Then cupping her breasts in her own palms she began to play with them, fondling the sensitive flesh, teasing the nipples until a little moan escaped from between her lips. When he tried to release her bottom, she would not let him, seating herself firmly upon his hands and looking straight into his eyes while she continued to play with herself.

She could feel his lingam growing large and hard beneath her, and the very thought that he would soon possess her excited her further. Unable to help herself, she began to squirm slightly upon him. Bending forward again, she brushed the nipple of one breast over his cheek, a softly taunting smile upon her face. He was ready for her, however, when she rubbed the other breast over his mouth. Capturing the nipple in his lips, he encircled it with his tongue, licking the sensitive flesh until it tingled, and she shivered. It was then that Velvet raised her lower body and impaled herself upon his staff.

"Little bitch," he growled at her, loving the way her tight, sweet yoni encased his throbbing lingam.

At first her rhythm was excruciatingly slow and teasing, but gradually her pace quickened, and suddenly they were both lost in the fiery madness of their shared passion, flying together to that paradise known only to true lovers, never even remembering their descent from the heavens into blissful sleep.

In the days that followed, life took on an almost unreal happiness for Velvet. She could not remember ever having been so content, feeling so loved. Her parents had, of course, adored her, but even when she'd sat in one or the other's lap, she could feel them loving each other with their eyes, oblivious to her, or to anything else for that matter. How often had she been told of the great love that had led to her very existence? The love she now experienced, however, was that same kind of love that her parents had for one another, and she finally understood their constant preoccupation with each other. She hoped that little Yasaman would not feel shut out by the love she and Akbar shared, but she vowed to herself it would not happen.

She smiled. Akbar was really determined to spoil their daughter, but then she thought how fortunate it was that he loved their child so very much.

She had to take him to task, however, the very next day for bringing the baby along with him in his howdah when he went on a tiger hunt. When she scolded her husband, he looked quite hurt and replied, "Yasaman was quite safe with me."

"Safe?" Velvet cried. "Safe upon that rogue elephant you insist on riding?" She made a marvelous picture of outraged motherhood standing before him and clutching her infant to her breast.

"The elephant simply cannot tolerate anyone but me," he explained.

"Do not take my daughter from her nursery again without my permission," Velvet said. Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai agreed with her, chattering at Akbar furiously, one in Persian, the other in Hindi.

Laughing, Akbar held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I give up," he said. "I cannot argue with you all. Very well, Candra, my darling, I shall not take Yasaman tiger hunting until she is at least five."

It was at this point that Ramesh was granted entrance into the room by Adali. "My lord Akbar, so this is where you are hiding yourself. Have you forgotten the interview that you promised to give the traveling Christian father who has been brought to you by Father Xavier?"

With a sigh the emperor stood up, bid his wives farewell, and left them to return to the audience chamber of the main palace. It was a beautiful room, though not as grand as the great audience hall at Fatehpur-Sikri. The floors were made up of squares of red and gold marble, some areas of which were covered in magnificent red, blue, and gold rugs. The walls of the room were painted with scenes of triumphs in the emperor's life. There were tall gold censers burning fragrant oils on either side of the wide aisle leading to the raised dais with its golden throne, which was studded with sapphires, diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, beryls, and corals. Akbar had quickly dressed himself in the Persian fashion: white silk trousers, a matching coat embroidered with gold, diamonds, and pearls, and his usual turban with a huge pigeon's-blood ruby in the center. Seated cross-legged upon his throne, he made an impressive picture.

Michael O'Malley could hardly keep himself from staring. It was the most incredible room he had ever seen, and he longed to be able to examine more closely the wonderful paintings upon the wall. How Skye would love the thick carpets! They made what she had in London seem poor stuff indeed. Forcing his eyes back to where they belonged, he glanced from beneath lowered eyelashes at the emperor himself. Akbar's bearing is most regal, he thought. Put him at any civilized court in Europe, and no one would not recognize him for the king he is.

Father Xavier gave him a quick poke, and, realizing that the Jesuit was bowing low before the enthroned figure, Michael O'Malley did the same.

Akbar hid a little smile. He had not missed the tall Christian priest's overawed examination of the room. Languidly he raised his hand in signal to Father Xavier that he might speak.

"Most High Emperor, may I present to you Father Michael O'Malley, a bishop of the church. He brings with him a request from my superiors in Paris that he is to have a private audience with you. He is quite fluent in French."

A private audience? Akbar was most curious. Usually the Christian priests loved to make quite public their attempts at his conversion. "Clear the room," he commanded Ramesh. When only he and the tall man remained, he said, "Speak, priest. I am listening."

"My name is Michael O'Malley, and I am the bishop of Mid-Connaught, in the country of Ireland."

Akbar held up his hand. "What is a bishop?" he asked. "And where is this place you call Ireland? Why have I not heard of it before?"

Michael cudgeled his brain. Finally he said, "A bishop is a nobleman of the church, a man of some authority, usually responsible for a small territory." Akbar nodded in understanding. "Ireland," continued Michael, "is a captive country of the English, an island kingdom to the west of England."

Again Akbar nodded his comprehension. "Continue," he said.

"My lord, it has been brought to my attention that you are a Moslem."

"No longer," said Akbar. "I was raised in the faith of the prophet Mohammed but I was curious as to the other faiths of the world. I built in my former capital of Fatehpur-Sikri a place where I invited holy men of every faith to come and expound upon the virtues of their own way of worship. What I saw angered and saddened me. Men of religion, priests of every sect, squabbling and arguing amongst themselves as to which faith was best, which of them worshipped the true God, actually even coming to blows with one another. It was then I devised my own form of worship, taking from each what I deemed the best. It is my faith, and that of some of my closest friends. I do not expound my faith even among my own people, for I have decided that each person must find his own path to God's salvation."

"You say," said Michael, "that you have taken the best from each faith. Do you still believe it is against God's law to take the wife of a living man for your own?"

"Of course!" said Akbar without hesitation.

"Then, my gracious lord, I must continue. Some many months ago you received at your city of Fatehpur-Sikri a train of gifts from the Portuguese governor in Bombay. Among these gifts was a young Englishwoman, the Countess of BrocCairn, Velvet Gordon."

Akbar stared at the priest, his face and his eyes expressionless, but his heart was beginning to pound nervously. Suddenly he knew that the man before him was going to bring him great unhappiness. He wanted to shout at the priest to stop, but he knew that he could not. His own strong conscience forbade it.

"Lady Gordon," Michael continued, "is my niece, the youngest daughter of my sister. My lord, I beg you to tell me. Does she yet live?"

"Yes," said Akbar in a toneless voice.

"Praise be to God and his blessed mother, Mary, who have heard my prayers!" Michael said joyfully. Then he went on, "My lord, I have come to bring my niece home to England. Her family will pay whatever ransom you deem necessary."

"I am not holding your niece for ransom, Father O'Malley. Has it occurred to you that she might not want to return to England? Have you considered that perhaps she has found love and favor in my eyes?"

"My lord, her husband lives."

"I am her husband," said Akbar.

"No, my lord, I meant that her husband, the Earl of BrocCairn, is not dead as she believed, but alive and eager to have his wife returned to him. If you believe as you say you do, Most High, then you must release my niece to me so that I may bring her back to her rightful lord."

It was as if a hammer blow had been dealt to Akbar's heart. For what seemed like an eternity he could not draw his breath. His chest felt as if it were being crushed by several bands of iron. I am going to die, he thought, and it is better that I do so than to live without my beloved Candra. But then he found that he was breathing, and his head cleared, and he said, "First we must be sure that we speak of the same woman, priest. Come with me!"

Rising from his cross-legged position upon his throne, he led Michael O'Malley through a door hidden behind the throne. They were in a cool, well-lit but narrow stone corridor, and Michael had to hurry to keep up with the emperor though Akbar was much shorter than he was. Finally they stopped and the Grand Mughal drew Michael forward. To the priest's surprise he stood before a peephole.

"Tell me if you recognize anyone within the room, priest. Look carefully, for far more is involved than you know."

There were three women in the room, but Michael recognized her almost instantly. His hesitation was only caused by the fact that he had carried in his mind a picture of Velvet as he had last seen her at eleven years of age. She had been tall and leggy with an unruly mass of auburn curls then. Her face had just been beginning to change from a child's to a young girl's, and her body had been basically still formless.

The woman in the room was probably one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. In a strange way she surpassed even her own mother in loveliness. She was slightly taller than Skye, and the auburn hair was now totally under control, parted in the middle and drawn smoothly back over her ears into a chignon at the nape of her graceful neck. Her face was serene, and her nose had grown, he noted, from the little bit of flesh that it had once been into a straight nose of elegant proportions. The formlessness, too, had given way to a feminine shape of delightful proportions. He considered her turquoise blue and gold clothing most immodest, showing her legs through the thinness of the flowing skirt and at least half of her breasts due to the shortness of her blouse. Still, it was Velvet. Without a doubt, it was his niece.

"It is she," he said to Akbar. "The girl with the auburn hair." He thought he heard a sound, almost the groan of an animal in pain, but when he turned to the emperor, Akbar's face was an impassive one. Still, he could not help but ask, "Are you all right, my lord?"

"You have just told me that my favorite wife, the mother of my daughter, is another man's wife, priest. Were I not a moral man, were I not a man of strict conscience, I would kill you here in this secret corridor where we now stand."

Michael felt an icy chill run over him, for he saw the mixture of despair and anger that had suddenly appeared in the emperor's eyes. "My lord, this is a tragedy, I will grant you, but what can I do? I, too, am a man of morals and strict conscience," he said.

Akbar nodded. "Give me time to make certain arrangements, priest, and then I will have you brought to me again, and we will settle this matter."

Michael O'Malley nodded. He instinctively knew that he could trust this man. Together they exited the corridor, and then in the company of Father Xavier he left the palace. To his surprise he was recalled several hours later.

"They tell me you will not return to us," said Father Xavier who brought Michael back to the palace gates. "Can you trust these people, my lord bishop? We are, after all, responsible for your safety."

"Rest assured that I shall be safe, Father Xavier," said Michael O'Malley. "I am most grateful to the Jesuits here in Lahore for all their aid. Remember, however, that my visit must go unrecorded in your journals. That is the wish of Paris and Rome."

The Jesuit nodded. "Go with God," he said, and turned back toward his house.

Michael O'Malley was not taken into the main buildings of the palace. Instead he was brought secretly through the gardens to a smaller building where Akbar awaited him. There his escort disappeared, leaving him with the emperor.

"This is Candra's house," said Akbar. "Candra is the name by which your niece is known here. It comes from the ancient Sanskrit language and means ‘Moonlight.' I have told her only that I wish her to meet a visiting Christian priest. I have arranged that you will leave Lahore toward dawn. You will travel to the coast under my own personal protection as quickly as possible."

"You said there was a child …" began Michael.

"Our daughter, Yasaman Kama Begum," said Akbar.

"I am not sure about taking the baby, my lord. I do not know how Velvet's husband will take the news of another man's child."

"Do you think I would expose my daughter to your European bigotry?" thundered Akbar. "Never! My child remains here with me."

"How will my niece take such a plan?" Michael was worried.

"We will convince her, priest, you and I. Come now. Candra awaits us."

Seeing her close up, Michael was once more astounded by Velvet's beauty. Her creamy skin was flawless, and he could understand why the emperor had renamed her Candra.

"This is the priest I was telling you about, my Rose," Akbar said.

She looked up at him with her emerald green eyes, and then as recognition dawned her eyes widened with disbelief.

"Uncle M-Michael?"

"Yes, Velvet, it is I." Michael O'Malley held out his arms.

"Dearest uncle!" She flung herself at him. "I had never thought to see any of my family ever again! Oh, how wonderful that you are here!" She hugged him hard and then stood back to look up at him. "You are the answer to a prayer, Uncle! Now I can send my poor Pansy and her little son home! She has tried so hard to adjust, but she really misses her Dugald, and it isn't at all fair that he not know his son."

"Sweet child, I have come to take you home," said Michael O'Malley.

Velvet laughed merrily, and then, reaching out, she drew Akbar to her side. "No, Uncle Michael. I am not returning to England. When you tell my parents how happy I am they will understand, and I know that my lord husband will allow them to come visit me here at Lahore or at my palace in Kashmir. They must see their granddaughter. Pansy! Pansy! Come quickly!"

Another young woman hurried into the room, and Michael vaguely thought that she resembled Skye's Daisy. "Yes, m'lady?"

"Pansy, this is my uncle, Michael O'Malley, the bishop of Mid-Connaught. He is going to take you and little Dugie home! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Oh, m'lady, I can't leave you!" Pansy protested.

"Yes, you can! Oh, Pansy, you're not like me, widowed and beginning a new life. Dugald is alive, and you both have the right to your happiness together. Little Dugie has the right to know his father. You have tried for my sake, I know, but you are not happy here. I want you to go home with Uncle Michael."

"Oh, m'lady …" Pansy began to sniffle.

"She's Daisy's daughter," said Velvet to her uncle. "She is as loyal to me as her mother is to my mother. It will pain me to part with her, but it is for her own good. Her little boy does not tolerate well the heat of our summers."

"Velvet, my child, you have not heard me," said Michael O'Malley. "You, too, must return with me to England. Your husband is alive and anxious for your corning."

"My husband is by my side, Uncle."

"It is not this great king to whom I refer, Velvet, but to your lawful husband in the eyes of our church. It is Alexander Gordon who awaits you."

"Alexander Gordon is dead, Uncle Michael. He died two years ago. He wasted his life for the honor of a strumpet," Velvet said sharply.

"No, my child, Alexander Gordon is very much alive. He was only badly wounded, but in the excitement that followed his injury someone was heard to say he was dead, and your brother, Padraic, without verifying the facts, rushed to tell you that you had become a widow."

"No!" Velvet's hand flew to her mouth in shock. "No! He is dead! He is dead!"

Akbar caught her to his chest and held her close. "Don't, my beloved, do not make this harder than it already is. This man is your uncle, the brother of your mother. Has he ever been a man of deceit, of subterfuge? Would he lie to you about something so important?"

She shook her head and then, looking up at Akbar asked, "What does all this mean to us? I was only wed to Alex Gordon three months. I have been your wife for over a year. We have a child. I will not leave you!" Her eyes were filled to overflowing with her tears.

"I cannot take the wife of a living man for my own wife, Candra. You are no longer mine. You are his , and I must send you back to your own people, to your own land. I must do it though it be my death blow."

"No! No! No!" She shook her head violently, and her hair came loose, the pins flying in all directions. Clutching him, she slid to her knees, her arms about his legs. "Do not send me away, my lord. I will be your concubine if I cannot be your wife. I will be the humblest slave in your palace, but do not send me from you! I love you! I love you too much to be separated from you." Her eyes pleaded with him as eloquently as her voice did. "Ah, I cannot bear the pain!" She wept.

Once again Akbar felt the shortness of breath that had afflicted him earlier. She was breaking his heart, for he loved her above all other creatures in this world, even his own children. He did not know how he would survive without her, but he would have to, for God had decreed that she not be his. Gently he raised her up, brushing the hair from her face. Then signaling for Michael O'Malley to remain behind, he led her into their bedchamber where Yasaman lay sleeping in her cradle near their bed. He poured two goblets of fruity, sweet wine, and when he was certain she could not see him, he flipped a secret catch on one of his rings and dumped an instantly dissolving white powder into one of the goblets. Then, turning, he handed it to her. Drawing her down, they reclined together upon the bed.

Looking into her wonderful eyes, he toasted her, and they drank. "Fate has played us a cruel trick, Candra, but if we did not obey God's laws, then we should be no better than the animals, should we, my Rose? We must both be very brave, but you, my darling, will have to be the bravest, for I cannot let you take Yasaman."

"You cannot mean to separate me from my baby?" she whispered piteously. "She is not even six months of age yet. How will she know me if you take her away from me?"

"Think Candra! Your clever mind is the first thing about you that attracted me. What kind of a life would she lead in your England? Would your husband accept her? I think not. I have studied your Christianity, and my child would be considered a bastard in your land. Could all your love make up for the cruel taunts and the wicked whispers that would surround her all her life? How would your other children feel about a bastard sister? No, Candra. Yasaman has the right to grow up surrounded by love and security. She is an imperial Mughal princess, and I will raise her as one! I will allow no one to hurt her, and though I am forced to part with you, my dearest English Rose, I shall not part with the fruit of our love for one another."

She heard his words, and she understood the sense of them, but still her heart cried out for her child. "Do you not think I feel the same way? If I am to be torn from you, why can't I have our child to comfort me?"

"You will love again, Candra. You will learn to love your Alex again as you once did, and there will be other children of your body to fill that void in your life. There will be nothing for me, my beloved. Without Yasaman you would be only a dream to me. Besides, for the child's sake it is better that she remain with me." His tone was determined.

Velvet wanted to protest further, but suddenly she could not gather her thoughts into a coherent pattern. Gazing into her wine goblet, she saw dregs in its bottom and realized what he had done. Marshaling every ounce of her strength, Velvet pulled herself out of his embrace and slid her body off the bed. Her arms and legs were fast becoming leaden, and she could barely keep her eyes open. Still, she fought her way along the few feet separating her from the cradle where her infant daughter lay peacefully sleeping. Gaining her objective, she pulled herself up and stared down on the child.

Oh, Yasaman, you are so beautiful , she thought. I have been a good mother to you the short time I have had you, but you will never know that, my baby. I love you, Yasaman! I love you!

Then Velvet raised her eyes to Akbar and said distinctly, "I shall never forgive you for this."

He was by her side in an instant, his arms tight about her. "Remember that I love you," he said. "That has not stopped, nor will it ever."

"And I, God help me, love you, my lord Akbar." Her eyes were beginning to close. "Do not forget me," she whispered to him.

"Never!" he promised.

Her eyes fluttered open just a moment more, and she gazed at the wonderful design he had created on the wall behind their bed. Then she drew his head down to her lips. "Once the Wheel of Love has been set in motion," she murmured against his mouth, "there is no absolute rule." Then her lips touched his in farewell as she slid into her drug-induced sleep.

He sat for several long minutes holding her slumbering form, memorizing every line of her face and body. His sorrowing dark eyes went from her to their child. How like her the baby was. Would Yasaman forgive him someday when she learned that he had separated her from Candra, her mother? With a sigh Akbar stood, lifting Velvet in his arms. Slowly he walked to the door that Adali, who had been hidden in the shadows, hurried to open.

"When you return from Cambay, Adali, you will become head eunuch to Yasaman Kama Begum. You will have charge of her whole household."

"My lord is gracious," came the eunuch's reply, but Adali's face was sad as he opened the door, then took the precious burden that Akbar gave him.

"She is drugged into sleep," said Akbar to Michael O'Malley, who was waiting in the corridor. "This is Adali, her eunuch, who will accompany you to the coast. He is fluent in French. Go now before my heart overrules my conscience!"

"I will tell them of your greatness in England, Most High," Michael said.

Akbar allowed a small smile to break through his heartache. "Two last things, priest. Tell Candra that I have given Yasaman to Rugaiya Begum to bring up. It will ease some of her sadness to know her daughter is safe with her close friend. Then when you return to England, tell your queen that I will soon allow England to trade with my country. I grow tired of Portuguese arrogance."

"Thank you, my lord." Michael could scarcely believe the emperor's generosity and England's luck at such an outcome.

Akbar nodded, then gently touched Velvet's cheek a final time. "Farewell, Candra, my English Rose, my heart and my life." Then he turned and left them.

* * *

The Grand Mughal climbed to a tower room at the highest point of the palace, a room overlooking the coastal road to the port of Cambay, some several hundred miles away. There he stayed, watching as Velvet's caravan departed in the early, gray hours of first light. He watched until his eyes ached with the strain, imagining her fair form behind the gauze curtains of the litter, until finally the procession was no more than a puff of distant dust upon the horizon. About him the sky was golden with the promise of a new day, but Akbar saw it not. He remained alone, locked in the tower room without either food or drink for the next three days, coming out at last only so as not to encourage his sons to new rebellions. And when he reentered the world of the living, his long dark hair and his moustache had turned snow white, and he was suddenly an old man.