Chapter 13

T HE T ATARS STRUCK AT DAWN . S WEEPING ACROSS THE BESSARABIAN border to the west, they surprised the helpless inhabitants of Prince Alexei Cherkessky’s slave-breeding farm. The Tatar raiders encountered no resistance, for no one here was foolish enough to resist the Devil’s Horsemen, as they had always been called. Hearing the commotion, Miranda rose as quickly as her condition allowed. Sasha was rushing into her room.

“Tatars!” he gasped. “I don’t understand! The prince is half-Tatar. They have never bothered us before.”

Miranda didn’t bother to mention that the other half of the prince was Russian, and that the Russians had been the ones to murder all of old Prince Batu’s direct male descendants. “What will they do?” she asked.

“The slave markets in ’Stanbul,” was the chilling reply, sobbed by terrified Sasha.

Damnation! Just when it had all been going so well. “Sasha, you must help me!” she said.

“How, Mirushka? How?” he gasped.

“Since I don’t live in the quarters they will not know my situation. Say that I am the married sister of the English Ambassador in St. Petersburg, offered the prince’s hospitality because I could not face another winter in St. Petersburg in my delicate condition. Tell them they can get a fine ransom for me from the British.”

“But who will pay it?”

“The English Ambassador in ’Stanbul will pay. I have told you that my husband is very wealthy, but what I did not tell you is that he is also very good friends with Lord Palmerston, the Minister of War. Please, Sasha! Your loyalty to Alexei Vladimirnovich at this moment would be misplaced! Did he not betray you and exile you with no thought of your love?”

The pain leaped into his dark eyes, and he looked at her closely.

“Please!” she begged him. “Please!” She could hear the Tatars moving toward the villa. It was the longest moment of her life.

“I will do it, Mirushka!” he said. “I owe you at least a chance. But remember, it may not help.”

“I understand,” she said. “Hurry, we must tell old Marya!”

Together they hurried to the salon. Marya was already there, surrounded by Vanya and the housemaids. Quickly Sasha explained the plan to save Miranda. “She is a great lady in her own land, and the prince was wrong to steal her from her family. We must try to make it right for her now,” he finished, and the frightened group all nodded eagerly, happy that one of them might be spared, glad it was to be Miranda, who had always been kind to them.

The main door to the house was suddenly kicked in, an unnecessary gesture since it had not been locked. The room filled with Tatar warriors. The terrified servant girls shrieked in fright, for the Tatars were a fearsome sight. Their skin had a yellow tone, which contrasted dramatically with their short black hair and slanted dark eyes. Dressed in dark baggy pants that ended at the knee where their boots began, they wore colorful shirts belted in the middle with metal links, and pillbox-shaped dark felt hats with long side flaps.

The raiders were extremely well organized, quickly separating the young servant girls and Vanya, stripping the girls naked and hustling them from the room. Old Marya refused to budge from Miranda’s side, which seemed to amuse them. They ignored Sasha for the moment, scornfully eyeing his red silk dressing gown. But they were extremely solicitous of Miranda, insisting she sit down, patting her belly with broad grins and murmurs of approval.

They all snapped to attention as a slim, fierce-looking man entered the room. Walking up to Sasha, the man spoke in guttural but understandable French. “I am Prince Arik, last surviving grandson of Prince Batu. Who are you, and who is the woman?”

Sasha drew himself up proudly. He knew his fate even if Miranda didn’t. “I am Pieter Vladimirnovich Cherkessky, called Sasha, son of the late Prince Vladimir Cherkessky.”

“You are the current prince?”

“No, my mother was only a serf. I was raised, however, with my half-brother, Prince Alexei.”

“Is the woman his wife? His mistress?”

“No, Prince Arik. This woman is Lady Miranda Dunham, sister to the English Ambassador in St. Petersburg.”

“What is she doing here?” demanded the Tatar chief.

“Her husband, who now fights a war for his king across the great western ocean, left her with her brother. Her doctor in St. Petersburg believed she could not take the severe winter there, and so Prince Cherkessky, my master, offered her the hospitality of this estate. He is a great good friend of the ambassador.”

Prince Arik whirled on Miranda. “When is your child due, madam?”

“A week or two,” Miranda lied.

“When did you come here?”

“November. A month after my husband left for the Americas, and I was lucky to get here with all the snow in the north. It was terrible!”

“Why were you in St. Petersburg in the first place?”

“We were visiting my brother before Jared was due to depart,” Miranda answered, and then she drew herself up as haughtily as her pregnancy would allow. “How dare you question me, Prince Arik! I was under the impression that Prince Alexei was the late Prince Batu’s only grandson. Sasha, are you sure this man is not a fraud?”

Prince Arik laughed. “Yes,” he said, “this lady is most definitely English. They are always so arrogant. In answer to your question, my fine lady, Prince Batu had five sons who lived here on this estate. His only daughter wed a Russian. He had thirty grandchildren. Three were his daughter’s half-breeds. There were twenty-two other grandsons and five granddaughters all pure Tatar.

“He was dying, and the Russian soldiers came and massacred the entire family. No one was spared. I saw my mother and my aunts raped over and over again. In the end I think the soldiers coupled with dead bodies, for they all died under the assault. I was just ten, and knocked out by a blow on my head. I was covered over by the bodies of my brothers and cousins. They thought me dead too, but I was determined to survive.

“After the slaughter they all repaired to my grandfather’s wine cellar to get drunk. When I was sure it was safe I escaped to my mother’s family in Bessarabia. I have waited a long time for the chance to revenge myself on the Russians. Today, I shall!” He stopped and looked closely at Miranda. “The question is, my fine lady, what to do with you?”

“I assume you will go to ’Stanbul to sell Alexei Vladimirnovich’s slaves, Prince Arik.” When he nodded, she continued, “Then take me with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I will bring you a fat ransom. The English in ’Stanbul will pay very well for my safe return.”

“You cannot travel in your condition, my fine lady.”

“Of course I can,” she quickly answered. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving the pregnant slaves behind?”

“No,” he said.

“Do you think that breeders in a place like this are any less pampered than I am, Prince Arik? I most certainly can travel!”

He pretended to consider the matter, although he had every intention of taking her. “Very well,” he finally agreed. “I will take you to ’Stanbul.”

Prince Arik’s second-in-command asked in the raiders’ dialect, “Will you ransom her?”

“Of course not,” chuckled the prince, “but let her believe that, so there will be no trouble on the journey. She will bring a hell of a lot more on the block than the English can pay, Buri, my friend. Look at that hair! Those eyes! With a child to prove her fertility she will make us a fortune. Take her outside while we dispatch these two.” He turned to Miranda. “Go with Buri, my fine lady. He will take care of you.”

“Prince Arik!” Sasha’s voice was sharp with urgency. “It has been my duty to care for this lady while she was under Prince Cherkessky’s protection. May I bid her farewell?” The prince nodded, and Sasha moved close to Miranda. To her amazement, he spoke in swift, clear English. “Don’t trust the Tatars! They mean to sell you in ’Stanbul. The English Embassy is at the end of a small street called Many Flowers near the Sultan Ahmet Mosque, which is by the old Hippodrome. God go with you, Miranda Tomasova. I ask your forgiveness for the suffering I have caused you.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “For your own safety, show no closeness to me.”

“I forgive you, Pieter Vladimirnovich,” she said. “What will happen to you?”

“Go now,” he said, switching to French.

She gazed at him closely, and suddenly she knew. “Oh God!” she whispered, horror dawning.

“Get her out of here!” Sasha appealed to Prince Arik, and the Tatar captain Buri took Miranda firmly by the arm and led her from the room.

“Please,” she cried, “I want to get my boots,” and she pointed to her bare feet.

He understood and followed her back to her room, but he refused to give her any privacy, standing in the open door watching her. She took two caftans from the wardrobe, and put them both on over her thin gauze sleeping gown. She had managed to wheedle a decent pair of boots out of Sasha several months before, explaining that the dainty house slippers they had given her were too flimsy for her long walks. Since the prince had said she might have anything within reason, Sasha had had the farm’s elderly cobbler fashion her a pair of red leather boots. They came to her knees, and were lined in soft lambswool. She pulled them on and took up her dark brown light-wool cloak. Taking a small carved bone hairbrush from the dressing table, she stuffed it into the inside pocket of the cape. “I am ready,” she said. Buri quickly took her from the house.

The spectacle that assailed her outside made her blood run cold. The half-grown fields had been fired and the vineyards trampled beyond redemption. Where orchards had once stood were piles of newly felled trees. Every building except the villa was in flames. She could see bands of riders driving off the livestock and squawking poultry hanging from saddles. But most terrifying of all were the sobbing women and children, every one of them naked, huddling in frightened groups. She scanned them, but she could not see Lucas. She saw none of the men.

“Where are the men?” she asked. Buri looked blankly at her and she realized she had spoken French. She tried the local dialect that Lucas had taught her. “Where are the men?”

“Dead,” he answered.

“ Dead? Why?”

“What would we do with them? We couldn’t sell them anywhere, for Prince Cherkessky’s studs are too well known. Even in ’Stanbul they are known. Prince Arik wants this land totally destroyed. It is cursed, and only when what once was is no more can the souls of the Batu family rest, fully avenged.” He asked slyly, “Why should you care about the men?”

“Because they were beautiful animals,” she answered quickly, lest she betray herself. “I dislike waste, especially of good bloodstock.”

“Ah, you English,” he laughed. “So bloody cold, except with your animals.”

Prince Arik and the rest of his men emerged from the villa carrying all the valuables they had found. They were piled into a two-wheeled cart. Behind them she could see fire beginning to spread through the villa, and she shuddered.

“Get into the cart, woman,” he commanded.

“I can walk,” she said, “and with your permission I would like to do so.”

He nodded curtly. Grasping the mane of a black and white pony, he pulled himself into the saddle.

“Please, Prince Arik, must the women and children go naked?”

“Yes,” was the curt reply. Then, kicking his pony, he was off.

“Why must they be naked?” she demanded of Buri.

“To instill fear, so they will quickly accept Prince Arik as their new owner and not even consider escape.” He leaped lightly into his own saddle. “Stay by the wagon with old Alghu. I’ll be watching you even if you don’t see me.”

The large procession began to move away. It was now two hours before midday, and the orderly, well-run farm that had seen a glorious May dawn was now entirely gone. As she walked along, Miranda saw sights she had never expected to see even in nightmares. The prince’s serfs, with the exception of the pretty girls and children, lay slaughtered. Every woman lay on her back with her skirts up, legs spread, throat cut. The men and the old people had all been shot or decapitated. As they passed by the men’s quarters, now a smoldering ruin, the air heavy with the stench of burned flesh, she saw that several of the men had died fighting for their survival, Paulus among them. She did not see Lucas, but knew he was there. She said a silent prayer in memory of the gentle giant whose child was in her womb. Suddenly her eyes widened with fresh horror.

The Tatars had been doubly cruel. The genitals of the men who had chosen to defend themselves had been cut off and stuffed into their mouths. The Tatars had taken these gallant defenders alive, though wounded. They had performed the terrible mutilation and left the men to die either from blood loss or from choking to death on their own flesh.

She felt her kidneys empty themselves, her legs grew weak, and she vomited the scant contents of her stomach until she was retching only bitter bile. She fought fiercely to regain self-control, forcing herself to breathe deep, long breaths until she steadied herself. Looking away from the awful sight, she focused her vision straight ahead and moved steadily forward, placing one foot before the other, one foot before the other, one foot before the other. Her body was wet with clammy, cold perspiration, and her head ached terribly, but she moved onward.

They walked all day long without stopping, crossing over the border into Bessarabia late in the afternoon, long before the Russian authorities in Odessa could possibly know about the raid on the Cherkessky estate. Finally, at dusk, they stopped near a stream, and within a short time the campfires were blazing and the smell of roasting meat permeated the air. Numb, Miranda was sitting alone by the cart when Buri approached and shoved a tin plate into her hand.

“There’s a slave woman who wants to stay with you. Says she was your maidservant.”

“Of course,” Miranda replied. Marfa! A friendly face! However, the naked woman with the slightly protruding belly who appeared in Buri’s custody was not Marfa, but a sweet-faced petite blond with corn-colored braids and desperate, begging, light-blue eyes. Although she had never seen her before, Miranda knew instantly who she was. “Mignon, my dear, thank heavens you are safe! Here, sit by me.” She patted her cloak, look to the Tatar, and said, “Would you ask Prince Arik if my servant may stay with me and have her gown back? She will not run away.”

He grunted and went off.

“You knew me? How?” asked Mignon in beautiful French.

“Lucas spoke of you, and of course, Sasha told me your story.”

“Why do these animals treat you well?” Mignon asked.

Miranda explained, and Mignon nodded. “You are fortunate,” she sighed.

“They have no intention of ransoming me,” Miranda said quietly. “Sasha warned me before we were separated, but he told me where the English Embassy is. I plan to escape when we get to Istanbul. Do you want to come with me? We’ll show these barbarians what it is to deal with a free American and a Frenchwoman!”

Mignon smiled suddenly. “ Mon Dieu , yes! I will have a chance to return to France, and believe me, madame, if I ever get there I shall never stir from Paris again!”

“What of your children?”

“I have no idea which ones they are,” she said matter-of-factly. “I birthed them, but I never saw them afterward until it was too late to know. I am four months pregnant. I will have to keep the one I carry now.”

Buri returned and tossed a caftan at Mignon, who looked gratefully at Miranda. “ Merci, madame! ” she said.

Miranda nodded and then turned to the Tatar. “What did the prince say?”

“You may keep your servant with you. He also told me to say that you two are to sleep beneath the cart tonight. Old Alghu will guard you, and the prince has already given orders you are not to be touched. Still, our men are celebrating, and there is no reasoning with a drunken man, so be warned.” Then he disappeared into the darkness.

Miranda offered to share the haunch of meat on her plate, but Mignon declined saying, “I’ve already eaten, but you eat. It’s baby lamb, and very good.”

Miranda followed the Frenchwoman’s advice, knowing that she must keep her strength up and her wits sharp. She ate the lamb right down to the bone, even sucking the marrow from the bone’s end. “Do you think we dare get some water from the stream?” she queried Mignon.

Mignon looked about. “Why not?” she answered. “They’re too busy stuffing themselves and getting drunk to bother us.”

The two women stood up, and Miranda spoke to Alghu in the local dialect. “We want water.” She pointed to the stream. “Is it permitted?”

He lumbered to his feet, nodding, and escorted them to the stream, chuckling as they squatted modestly behind the bushes to relieve themselves before drinking. Once back at the cart, they sat on the end of it comparing the events that had brought them to Prince Cherkessky’s farm, and telling of their lives before being kidnaped.

Mignon had been born the year the Bastille fell. Her father was a duke, her mother a farmer’s daughter. They were not married. Raised by her mother in the Normandy countryside, she and her peasant relatives escaped the worst of the terror accompanying the Revolution. Her father had escaped to England where his title and sexual prowess had gotten him an heiress wife. When Napoleon came to power he returned to France and, by loyal service to the emperor, won back his estates.

Ten years after Mignon’s birth her mother received a letter from her former lover. The letter was read to her by the disapproving village priest. His bastard daughter, the duke stated, was to be educated. He enclosed money, and Mignon’s mother obediently complied with his request. Each year from then on a letter with money arrived right after the new year. Mignon met her father for the first time when she was fifteen.

“Why have you educated me?” was her greeting.

“Because there will be one less peasant to turn on her master next time,” he growled back at her.

They both laughed. The two became good friends. She was brought to Paris and sent to an excellent convent school, which filled in the gaps in her education and taught her how to be a lady. She had left the convent at eighteen to become a teacher in a fine Paris boarding school. At twenty she obtained an excellent position as governess in the household of Princess Tumanova in St. Petersburg. Miranda knew the rest of her story.

Miranda outlined her own history and downfall. “Thanks to Sasha, however, I shall escape, and you will come with me, Mignon,” she said confidently.

“Did you love Lucas?” the Frenchwoman asked suddenly.

“No,” said Miranda candidly. “He was a good man, but the only man I have ever loved is my husband, Jared.”

“I loved him,” Mignon whispered low, “but until you came I didn’t believe his heart could be touched at all.”

“He was not like us,” said Miranda. “His life as a slave was better than his early years. It was different for us. Did you ever go hungry? Were you ever cold?” Mignon shook her head. “I thought not,” Miranda continued, “and though you were not your father’s legitimate daughter, he loved you and he saw to your welfare.”

Miranda shifted her position, for the baby was making her uncomfortable. “I lacked for nothing. But poor Lucas had none of these things, nor did he understand what freedom really was. Neither do the rest of the poor souls captured at the farm. But we do, Mignon. Trust me, we will be free.”

“You will have your baby soon. It will not be easy, Miranda.”

“We will succeed!” came the confident reply.

The two women sat companionably for several more minutes, and then they retired beneath the cart to sleep under the warmth of Miranda’s wide wool cape. They had barely dozed off when a shriek tore into the night. They woke together, and both realized what was happening. The women who were not virgins were being raped by their captors. The two women huddled close together, hands over their ears, attempting to blot out the cries, and as the noise gradually died they dozed nervously until dawn, when Alghu shook them awake. He had brought them mugs of steaming sweet black tea and cold meat.

Miranda took out her brush, and brushed both her own and Mignon’s hair. Then they both rebraided neatly, and washed their faces and hands in the cold stream nearby. The journey began again.

“Keep your eyes out for early strawberries,” said Mignon. “I suspect they mean to walk us all day again without any real rest or food.”

“But why?”

“Tired and beaten prisoners don’t run away. They’ll feed us well at night so we’ll arrive in ’Stanbul in fairly good condition, but they want the journey to wear us down. Look for the strawberries, Miranda. Their sweetness will help keep us going.”

“I don’t need another day’s trek to be too tired to run away,” replied Miranda wryly. “I’m exhausted. But I told Prince Arik I could keep up, and I will.”

Their lives took on a monotonous pattern: up at dawn, hot tea and cold meat, walk all day except for a few minutes’ rest around noon when the Tatars watered their ponies, stop for the night, broiled meat to eat and water to drink, exhausted sleep. They supplemented their diet with the strawberries Mignon found, and one day as they marched by the sea Miranda captured several large crabs, which they wrapped in seaweed and cooked that night in the hot coals of Alghu’s little fire. Nothing had ever tasted so good, Miranda thought, as she picked the hot, sweet meat from a claw.

The warm Black Sea spring weather held for almost two weeks, and then one day they awoke to a steady downpour. The word was passed through the camp that they would rest all day in shallow caves that would protect them from the rain. The slave women were grateful for the rest, for they were all exhausted. They slept while the children played games. Their captors, however, preferred to drink and gamble, and by midafternoon had become unusually surly. Old Alghu had fallen into a drunken sleep. A couple of the Tatars wandered over to the cart where Mignon and Miranda were talking quietly.

“What a shame the silver blond is so far gone with child,” remarked one of them. “She looks like she could fuck a man into paradise.”

“Too thin for me, Kuyuk. Now this plump little quail is more to my taste,” the second Tatar said, dragging Mignon onto her feet, and pinioning her against his body with one hand while the other hand fumbled with her breasts.

“Please,” Miranda cried, struggling to her feet, “my servant is with child. Prince Arik promised me she would not be touched!”

The men stopped. But when they realized Alghu’s drunken condition, they resumed their abuse. “On your back, slave!” snapped the second man, and Mignon complied without a word.

“No!” screamed Miranda. “I will report you to Prince Arik!”

“Gag her!” carne the command, and Miranda found a dirty rag stuffed into her mouth. “She can watch, Kuyuk, and though she is about to whelp, her tits aren’t off limits!”

“By God, you’re right, Nogai!” He sat down on his haunches and dragged Miranda with him. He placed her firmly on her knees between his spread legs and, sliding his hands around, he grasped her swollen breasts and squeezed. She gasped with pain, but bit her lip. She would not give this Tatar the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt her.

Miranda could feel the child within her moving restlessly, trying to escape her cramped position, and a sudden great anger welled up within her. Mignon was submitting in order to save her baby possible harm, and also to save Miranda. Furiously she jammed both her elbows into Kuyuk, taking him by surprise and knocking the wind from him. She scrambled clumsily to her feet and ran, tearing away the gag as she went. The Tatar thundered after her.

“Prince Arik!” she screamed. “Prince Arik! Prince Arik!”

Kuyuk caught up with her and slapped her several times. Her head reeled, but she shrieked nonetheless. Her cries brought slaves and Tatars running. “Pig of a Tatar! Your mother was born of a pile of dog droppings, and coupled with an ape in order to beget you!”

He delivered a brutal blow to her belly. “Bitch!” he roared. “Pregnant or not, I am going to take you like a stallion takes a fractious mare! Your belly isn’t going to protect you any longer! On your knees before the whole camp, woman!”

Waves of pain overcame her, and she vomited. Gathering her last ounce of strength, she shouted, “Prince Arik! Is this how the word of a Tatar is kept? Your word has no value!”

Suddenly the crowd surrounding them parted, and the Tatar chief was there. His blazing eyes flicked from the disheveled Kuyuk to Miranda, now on her knees clutching her belly. The prince knelt, and with surprisingly gentle hands brushed the hair from her face. A sharp command brought a flask, and he forced a potent fiery liquid between her lips. She gagged, but managed to keep it down. “Take deep breaths,” he commanded her, and when the color returned to her face he commanded quietly, “Explain!”

“Two of your men, this one and his friend, Nogai, came to where Mignon and I were resting. They have raped Mignon despite her pregnancy. I have been subjected to their abuse as well. I think,” here Miranda’s voice caught and tears rolled down her cheeks, “I think they have killed her.”

“Where was Alghu?”

“Drunk,” she answered.

Prince Arik turned to Buri. “Find out!”

For several minutes they all waited in deathly silence. The crowd of Tatar warriors and their captives stood quietly, and then Buri returned with both Alghu and Nogai. “She’s right,” he said. “The Frenchwoman’s dead, and her baby with her. What a waste!”

The Tatar prince stood very still and looked around at his warriors. “I put this woman and her servant off limits to you all,” he said. “You have not only violated my word, but you have wantonly murdered two expensive slaves, the woman and her unborn child. The punishment is death. As for you, Alghu, you seem to love wine more than you love your duty. You are no longer fit to be called a Tatar warrior. You will lose your sword hand, and if you don’t bleed to death, you may follow us to Istanbul, but you are exiled from Tatar life forever. Temur!”

A young warrior leaped forward. “Temur, I am placing this woman in your keeping. I know you will do your duty better than Alghu did his.” He looked to the captives. “I want another house servant,” he said, and Marfa quickly stepped forward. “See to the lady, girl, until you are told otherwise.”

“Yes, master!” Marfa leaned down and helped her mistress rise. Miranda swayed dangerously. Temur picked her up and carried her back to the cart, Marfa hurrying behind. Temur set Miranda gently down. Hurrying off, he returned a few moments later with a huge armful of fresh-cut pine boughs, which he placed near the fire. Rummaging in the treasure cart, he pulled out a sheepskin rug and tossed it over the pile of pine boughs. Over this he placed a simple woven wool hanging that Miranda recognized as having come from the dining room of the villa.

Picking her up again, he set her gently on this comfortable bed and covered her with a cape. “We are not all beasts,” he said. “I am ashamed for Kuyuk and Nogai, and I am sorry about your friend. Rest now. No harm will come to you while I guard you.” He fumbled in a pouch of his belt. “Here, girl, make your mistress some tea,” and he handed her a small packet of leaves.

Miranda lay very still, gazing at the place where Mignon had lain. The body had been removed, and a dark patch of her blood was all that remained of the horrible death Mignon had known. Miranda wept softly. Perhaps now she was with Lucas and their child, but she would never see her beloved Paris again.

“Tea, Miranda Tomasova. Drink.” Marfa helped her sit up, and put the mug of boiling sweet liquid to her lips. Miranda sipped at it, and soon she became very sleepy. The child was quiet now too, and the pain in her belly was gone. She fell asleep, a sleep so sound that she did not hear Alghu’s cry of anguish when his sword hand was severed, and the stump stuck in boiling pitch to prevent his bleeding to death. Nor did she hear the hissing “Ahhhhh” of the spectators at the swift executions of Kuyuk and Nogai.

The rain grew worse during the night, and in the morning Prince Arik made the decision to remain camped in the caves. After the previous day’s tragedy, the mood of the camp was deeply subdued.

Miranda awoke to a terrible, wracking pain that tore from her back through her belly. She was in labor. It was too soon. The baby wasn’t due for three or four weeks, but it was coming now. She gritted her teeth and groaned. The young Tatar was immediately by her side, his eyes sympathetic.

“My baby is coming,” she whispered hoarsely. “There are midwives among the slave women. Get me one!”

“I’ll go!” volunteered Marfa. “You’ll want Tasha. She is the best,” and she ran off.

“I’m here,” the Tatar soothed Miranda, then stated proudly, “and I can help if necessary. I’ve helped my ponies foal many times.”

She almost laughed, but he meant to be kind. “Please,” she begged him, “just a little sweet tea. I am so thirsty.”

He got to his feet as another sharp pain knifed through her. Marfa returned with a stocky, capable-looking woman who said briskly, “I’m Tasha. Is this your first?” Miranda shook her head and held up two fingers. Tasha nodded. Kneeling, she drew the cape back to examine her patient. “Your waters must have broken while you slept,” she observed. “It will be a dry birth.” She probed her patient gently, finally announcing, “The baby’s head is down in position. It is just a matter of your pushing.”

Temur brought her a tiny bit of tea, which she drank greedily. Her lips were dry and cracked. He moved behind her and, kneeling, propped her body up with his. Tasha nodded approval. “At the next pain, I want you to push,” she said. Miranda thought back to her son’s birth, and was barely conscious of the pain of this one. She followed Tasha’s instructions and after a while heard her calling, “It’s a girl!” Then Miranda heard one weak cry, but nothing more. She slid in and out of consciousness until, finally, she fell into a restful sleep.

When she awoke again it was with a feeling of great relief. She was free again, and now she must gather her strength, for they would reach Istanbul in several more weeks. She would escape. She would be free.

A whimper by her side made Miranda turn her head. With a shock she saw a small, swaddled bundle tucked in next to her. The child! Why had they not removed it? Then her mind began to clear. Only on the farm would they have taken the child away. Here in the Tatar camp the child was believed to be the offspring of her lawful husband, and she could hardly reject it. Damn! The brat would slow her up. Oh well, she could always leave it behind with Marfa when she fled into the city.

The baby whimpered again. Rolling onto her side, she drew the infant closer, gently loosening the swaddling clothes around it, remembering as she did her first inspection of little Tom. This child was beautiful tiny, so very tiny, but beautiful. Her downy hair, barely visible, was Miranda’s own silver gilt or was it Lucas’s? Her eyes were violet, but Miranda immediately noticed something strange about those lovely eyes. She passed her hand across the child’s face, but the baby didn’t react at all. Was the baby blind? The child had a tiny cleft in her chin, as both her parents had. Miranda touched the soft rose-tinted cheek so like her own, and the infant turned its small head, revealing an enormous dark purple bruise.

Miranda sighed. Kuyuk’s vicious blow had found its mark after all, injuring her child. As she rewrapped the baby securely she suddenly realized what she had been thinking. Her child? Yes, it was her child, and she couldn’t deny it any longer. It had been forced upon her in a frightening, degrading way, but the baby was just as much a victim as she had been.

Miranda struggled to a sitting position and, unbuttoning the front of her caftan, put the baby to her breast. Although the child seemed to nuzzle at her, it made no attempt to take the breast and suck. Gently Miranda forced her nipple into the baby’s little mouth, and then began to milk herself. Suddenly the infant understood, and began to suck weakly. A smile lit Miranda’s face. “There, my little one,” she cooed at the child. She spoke in English. Her daughter was an American. Yes, she realized again, her daughter.

Prince Arik came into the light of her campfire and squatted next to her. His eyes moved admiringly over her. By God, he thought, this is a real woman! She looks as fragile as an early rose, but she is as tough as iron. He motioned toward the baby. “Let me see her,” he said.

Miranda turned the child from her breast for a moment.

“She is beautiful,” he said, “but the midwife says she won’t live. You shouldn’t waste your strength nursing her. Let us leave her on the hillside when we leave this place. It is more merciful.”

Her sea-green eyes blazed furiously. “My daughter may also be blind. Blind from the Tatar blow. But she will live, Prince Arik. She will live!”

He stood up, shrugging. “The weather is clearing,” he said, “and we will leave tomorrow. I have told Temur you are to ride in the cart for a few days until your strength returns.” Then he turned abruptly.

“Thank you,” she called as he left.

She spent the rest of the day dozing and feeding the baby. Marfa brought her a mug of rich beef broth. “Temur gave me a piece of meat from a heifer they slaughtered. I’ve boiled it for several hours with some greens and wild onions,” she said proudly.

Miranda sipped the broth. “It’s delicious, Marfa, thank you. I’m hungry, too. Will you get me several slices of that beef, the rarest you can find, and some of the juices if you can?”

Marfa was able to do just that, even bringing Miranda a full cup of the beef juice. She also found a small patch of wild strawberries to bring to her mistress. Miranda stuffed herself shamelessly. She was already feeling stronger, and twice rose to move around their shelter, leaning on Temur’s shoulder.

In the hour just before the dawn she awoke to feed her child. The infant’s skin was so very pale, and she seemed barely to be breathing. All Miranda’s mother instinct welled up, and she cradled the baby protectively. “I won’t let you die!” she said fiercely. “I won’t!”

Temur reloaded the cart, leaving enough room for her to ride comfortably. Cutting more pine boughs, he made her afresh new bed and settled her. Once again, the days took on a pattern.

One thing Miranda had done since the Tatars had captured them was to keep close track of the days. The farm had been raided on the fifth of May, and her baby was born thirteen days later, on the eighteenth of May. Ten days after the baby’s birth, she guessed they were still two weeks from Istanbul. Miranda grew stronger, and soon she was even walking all day, carrying the baby daughter in a sling that nestled her close to her heart. She worried constantly. The little one didn’t seem to gain weight, and was really too quiet.

Strangely it made her think of her son. Little Tom was now thirteen months old, and she had missed his babyhood. She was, she decided, no more mature than Jared, who had missed the early months of their marriage. Perhaps now they had both finally grown up, and when they began anew, they would behave in a more sensible manner. If they began again, she reminded herself.

Excitement began to build as they neared the Turkish capital. Finally they came in sight of the great and ancient city of Constantine, the Rome of the East captured by the Turks in 1453 and held by them ever since. The Tatars camped that night by the ancient walls of the city which were locked for the night. They would enter the city the next day, and their captives would be taken to one of the best slave merchants there.

The days of wandering and raiding were just about over, and Prince Arik was wise enough to see it. His tribe needed money to purchase land so they might settle somewhere permanently. Some of them, he knew, would return to Asia, and align themselves with other wandering bands of Tatars, but as leader of the Batu clan he had made a decision for his people. The great days were over, and would never return. They were now stories to be retold about the campfires, but nothing more.

“My lord?”

Prince Arik looked up. “Yes, Buri?”

“The fine lady, my lord. Do you want a guard on her now?” Buri asked.

“It is not necessary. Her ladyship has stated her case and, being a noblewoman, is used to being listened to. She assumes that I will do her bidding, and we will allow her to continue believing that. We will take the others into the city first, and arrange with Mohammed Zadi for their disposition. I will explain to him about our fine lady, and he will arrange a private auction for discriminating buyers. When the time is arranged we will get her to the baths on a pretext, drug her there so she will be docile, and it will be over quickly. I expect such a beautiful woman, with an infant at her breast to attest to her fertility, should bring us a fine price.”

Buri nodded in agreement.

The two men continued to talk while deep in the shadows Miranda slipped silently away. Thank heavens she had learned their dialect! She had waited in the darkness for several hours after sunset, hoping to learn their plans, and she had certainly gotten more than she had bargained for! She decided it would be better to leave immediately. Tonight the Tatars were still concerned with their camp full of captives. Yes, tonight was her best chance.

She reached her small campfire. Just beyond its shadows she could see Temur and Marfa entwined in an embrace. To her good fortune, they had become enchanted with each other in the last several days. She suspected the young Tatar would buy the plain, sweet Marfa for a wife. At least they would keep each other busy tonight.

Miranda sat down by the campfire and nursed the child. Another good thing was that the baby hardly ever cried. It would make escape easier. Miranda was beginning to suspect that she was deaf as well as blind, but she couldn’t let herself think about that now. Perhaps the baby was simply weak.

Finished with the feeding, she quickly changed the baby’s napkin and, reswaddling it, rebound the sling tightly against her chest. Then she carefully scanned the camp. All was quiet, but she forced herself to wait seated by the fire for another hour to be absolutely sure.

A waning moon was half risen, and offered her just enough light to see her way. She cut a wide swath around the camp in order to avoid detection by anyone who might be awake, and it took her time to work her way back onto the well-worn path. Once there, she quickly covered the final distance. Reaching the gate, she sat down with her back against the wall, pulling her dark cape around her to camouflage them so she might doze in relative safety.

The noise of carts arriving early the next morning awoke Miranda, just as she had intended. Feeding and changing the child, she then joined the crowd waiting for the gates to open. She could see the name “Charisius” carved deeply into the marble at the top of the ancient gate.

The new sun climbed over the eastern hills with slender, golden fingers, and from the heights of every mosque in the city the muezzins sang praise to God and the new day in a wailing chorus. About her, all fell to their knees, and Miranda followed suit, anxious not to be singled out. Then the gates creaked open, and Miranda hurried through with the rest of the crowd, eyes lowered as befit a modest, lowly woman. She had cut a rectangle of cloth from one of her caftans, and this was fixed in place across her face by her hair ornaments. With the hood of her cape pulled low to her eyebrows, she appeared a respectable woman garbed in the traditional black yashmak of the poor. She was no different than a hundred other women, their yashmaks making them anonymous to curious eyes.

She had no idea where she was, but she realized that she must reach the English Embassy as quickly as possible, for as soon as her captors knew she was gone, Prince Arik would realize where she was fleeing to and hurry to head her off.

Miranda looked around for a shop, not one catering only to neighborhood trade, but a shop that would be attractive to a visitor, whose owners would probably speak French. Her eye lit upon a jeweler, and she boldly entered the shop.

“You, woman! Begone! Begone before I call the sultan’s police! This is no place for beggars.”

“Please, sir, I am a respectable woman.” Miranda imitated the whining cry she had so frequently heard from her elegant carriage in London. She spoke a crude French, badly accented. “I merely seek direction. I am not of this city. Your fine shop obviously caters to the ferangi infidels so I assumed you could direct me safely.”

The jeweler stared at her with a little less hostility. “Where are you going, woman?”

“I must find the embassy of the English. My cousin, Ali, is their doorkeeper, and I have been sent to fetch him. Our grandfather is dying.” She paused as if thinking, and then said, “No one else could be spared from the farm to come.”

The jeweler nodded. It was the growing season, and no man could be spared even in an emergency. “You came in through Charisius, eh?”

“Yes, sir, and I know the English Embassy is located at the end of the Street of Many Flowers near the old Hippodrome, but I do not know how to get to this Hippodrome.”

The jeweler smiled a superior smile. “The street outside this shop is called the Mese, woman. It is the old commercial avenue of this city. I know that because I am Greek, and my family has lived in this city for a thousand years.”

He paused. Knowing what the pompous fool expected, she widened her eyes and said, “Ohhh!” Gratified, the jeweler continued.

“You have but to follow the Mese across the city, and at its end are the ruins of the old Hippodrome. The avenue goes right at the Church of the Holy Apostles, so don’t be fooled and go to the left or you will be lost. A pleasant neighborhood has been built up around the ruins. One street before you reach these ruins is a small street to the right. That is the street you seek. The embassy is at its end. It is quite near the sultan’s palace.”

“Thank you, sir,” Miranda said politely as she left the shop, trying not to run. Now she knew! Across the city, he had said.

She glanced fearfully toward the gates but there was no sign of unusual activity. Miranda began walking, reassuring herself as she went of her safety. Every woman on the street was as muffled as she was, and they were all quite indistinguishable. If the Tatars sought a woman with a baby she was also safe, for the child slept peacefully in its sling beneath her enveloping cloak, out of sight.

Behind her she heard a troup of horsemen coming up, and her heart seemed to swell painfully in her throat, almost stop, then thump violently. She somehow managed to scramble frantically to the side of the avenue with the rest of the pedestrians as a group of men in red and green cloaks cantered past on their dark brown horses.

“Damned, arrogant Yeni-cheri,” muttered the man next to her, and she almost laughed aloud in her relief. She felt the chilly perspiration of fright rolling down her back. God, how she longed for a bath! It had been five-and-a-half weeks since her capture, and in all that time she hadn’t been able to bathe. Her hair was also filthy, and she wasn’t totally sure it wasn’t lice-ridden at this point. She walked doggedly on, fascinated in spite of her fear, and the need to hurry, in this marvelous city about her.

The street noise was incredible, a mad cacophony of loud voices, each shouting in a different language, each with something very important to say. The shops were just as varied and fascinating. She passed a street where the shops were all tanners and shoemakers and leatherworkers. Then, farther along, there were linen drapers, men who sold only the finest silks, goldsmiths, silversmiths, jewelers. The open-air bazaars were a wonder, offering everything from fish to figs to old icons. It was growing hot now, and odors rose from everywhere. There were the pungent smells of cinnamon, cloves, nutmegs, and other spices, melons, cherries, bread and honeycakes, gillyflowers, lilacs, lilies, and roses.

She walked on, and the establishments began to lose their big-city elegance and become shops of a residential neighborhood. She was getting closer. Dear God, let the Tatars not be there before her! Up ahead she could see the old chariot racetrack of the Hippodrome now made into a small neighborhood open-air market. She began to check the street signs at each crossing. They were done in both flowing Arabic script and French. There it was! La Rue des Beaucoup Fleurs . The Mese was empty here, and cautiously she approached her destination, peering down the narrow little street for any sign of an ambush. But the small birds in the flowering vines that hung over the blank walls on either side of the street were active and noisy, a sure sign of safety.

Miranda turned and looked back down the Mese for signs of pursuit, but there were none. She hurried down the Street of Many Flowers toward her destination a black iron gate set in a white wall. As she neared it she could see the shining bronze plaques on either side of the gates. In three languages, they announced His Majesty’s Embassy.

Reaching the gates, she pulled boldly on the bellcord, and was instantly greeted by the gatekeeper, who popped like a jack-in-the-box from his little gatehouse. One look at her set him to shout “Begone, misbegotten daughter of a she-camel! No beggars! No beggars!”

Miranda didn’t understand his words, but she understood his meaning well enough. Tearing the veil from her face she threw back her hood, and shouted back at him in English, “I am Lady Miranda Dunham. I am English. Let me in quickly! I am being pursued by Tatar slavers!”

The gatekeeper looked stunned, then frightened.

“Please,” pleaded Miranda. “I am being pursued! My family is wealthy. You will be well rewarded!”

“You have not escaped from the seraglio?” demanded the gatekeeper, half fearfully.

“ The what? ”

“The sultan’s harem.”

“No! No! I have told you the truth! For God’s sake, man, do women come to your gate each day looking as I look, speaking correct English? Let me in before my captors catch me! I swear you will be well rewarded!”

Slowly, the gatekeeper began unwrapping the chain that held the gates together.

“Achmet! What are you doing?” An English naval officer strode down the gravel-lined embassy driveway.

“This lady claims she is English, my lord.”

Miranda looked up and suddenly recognition made her legs give way. She grabbed at the gatekeeper for support. “Kit!” she called out. “Kit Edmund! It is Miranda Dunham!”

He stared hard at the woman on the other side of the gate. “Lady Dunham is dead,” he said stiffly. “Lady Miranda Dunham is dead.”

“Christopher Edmund, Marquis of Wye!” she shouted at him. “Brother of Darius, who loved my twin sister, Amanda. I am not dead! The body in St. Petersburg was someone else. Kit,” she begged,” for God’s sake let me in! I am pursued by my captors! Do you remember how you brought Mama and Mandy and me to England from Wyndsong so Mandy wouldn’t miss her wedding to Adrian?”

He stared past her, his face whitening. “Jesus,” he swore, then turning shouted, “Mirza! To me! Hurry!”

Miranda felt her arm grasped in an iron grip. “So, my fine lady,” hissed Prince Arik, “I suspected we would find you here.” He began to pull her away, back down the street. She could see horses waiting. “You’ll go on the block tonight, my fine lady, make no mistake about it!”

“Kit!” she screamed in English. “Kit, help me!” Then she switched to French, and turned to her captor. “Stop, Prince Arik! The British naval officer is a personal friend of my husband’s. He knows me! He will pay your ransom.”

The prince whirled Miranda around to face him, and slapped her across the face. “Bitch! Understand me well. I can get more for you on the block, and I damned well intend to! Buri, block their pursuit!” He yanked her down the street, but Miranda struggled fiercely, managing to escape his grip by shedding her cloak, and ducking past Buri and his startled men. She ran as if pursued by the devil himself, flying through the embassy gates, now open, which Achmet quickly slammed shut and rechained.

The Tatars howled their outrage, shaking their weapons. “The woman is a lawful captive,” cried out Prince Arik. “I will go to the sultan’s magistrate!”

It was then that a tall, dark-haired man in a flowing white cloak stepped forward and, undoing the gates, moved out into the street.

The Tatars surrounded him. “This woman is a noblewoman of England,” he said quietly. “You could have obtained her only by dishonest means.”

“There is no shame in raiding the Russians, and we found her among the Russians,” Prince Arik shot back.

The tall man smiled, his blue eyes flashing. “There is no shame whatsoever, my friend, in raiding the Russians. I sometimes think that Allah created the Russians solely for the purpose of being our victims. Nonetheless, the lady is not a Russian, she is English.”

“I can sell her for a fortune,” whined Prince Arik. “If I let you simply take her I have lost money. It is not fair!” The prince was ready to bargain.

The tall man laughed pleasantly. “Hold out both your hands, Tatar. I will pay you a king’s ransom. It will be more than you could get for her on the block, I promise, and no greedy slave merchant to take her commission, eh?”

Prince Arik held out his hands. The tall man pulled a chamois bag from his white robes. Loosening the ties on it, he tipped the bag and a stream of brightly colored gemstones poured into the startled hetman’s hands. There were diamonds, rubies, amethysts, sapphires, emeralds, topazes, and pearls. The tall man poured until the treasure overflowed the Tatar’s hands. Some of the jewels spilled onto the street and the other Tatars scrambled for them.

The tall man retied his bag, which was still quite full. “There, Tatar! I imagine you won’t get as much for all your other captives as you have gotten for this one woman. Are you content now?”

“More than content, sire. Who are you?”

“I am Prince Mirza Eddin Khan,” came the reply.

“The sultan’s cousin?”

“Yes. Now begone, Tatar, before these misguided infidels misunderstand and set their dogs on you!”

The Tatars backed down the street and, mounting their ponies, galloped off. The tall man turned around and said, “Kit, send my palanquin down here. I will take Lady Dunham to my home. I think she will be better able to answer questions after she has bathed, and is dressed properly.”

Kit Edmund saluted neatly and ran back up the driveway.

The large palanquin came down the drive, and was set down by its slave bearers. Mirza Khan helped Miranda into it, and then settling himself opposite her gave the signal to depart. He drew the vehicle’s curtains.

“You don’t think the Tatars will be waiting to ambush us, do you?” she said worriedly.

“No,” he answered. “They were more than content. You are safe now.”

After a silence she said, “I imagine this sounds woefully indelicate of me, but, oh lord, how I long for hot water and soap!”

“Sweet stock,” he said.

“What?”

“Your scent is sweet stock, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered slowly, amazed. How could he remember such a trifle from their very brief previous acquaintance? She fell silent, a little embarrassed, and finally he said quietly. “The child? Is it yours?”

For a moment her sea-green eyes were wet. “Yes, she is my child.”

“Perhaps if you would tell me about it I might help. You were reported murdered in a robbery, your body tossed into the Neva River. That was a year ago. Believe me, Lady Dunham, you may trust me.”

She looked into his dark blue eyes and knew with a deep certainty that she could indeed trust him. She needed someone to help her through what she knew was going to be a very difficult period. “Do you know who Prince Alexei Cherkessky is?” she asked.

“I never met him, but I know of him. His money comes from a famous slave-breeding farm in the Crimean area. The slaves from the Cherkessky estate are quite sought after here in Istanbul.” The blue eyes suddenly widened. “Allah! Do you mean to tell me ?” he stopped as her level gaze met his, and she nodded solemnly. “The swine!” said Mirza Khan.

Miranda told him her story, finishing “The child was born before its time on the journey to Istanbul. She is beautiful, but probably blind and even deaf.”

In the awkward silence, he asked, “What gate did you enter through?”

“Charisius.”

He looked at her with open admiration. “You walked across the city! You are an amazing woman, Lady Dunham.”

“Walking across the city was a mere stretch of the legs, my lord. You must not forget that I walked all the way from Prince Cherkessky’s farm in the Crimea.”

“ You walked? ”

“Of course. We all did. I did ride in a cart for several days after the child was born,” she said, “but mostly I walked.”

“You are amazing,” he said softly.

“No,” she said softly. “I am not amazing. I have survived. I vowed I would return to my husband and son, and I will! Jared, of course, may choose to divorce me. I have borne someone else’s child, and he will have every right to rid himself of me.”

“You love him deeply, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I love him.” Then she fell silent, lost in her thoughts.

He studied her discreetly. A year ago in imperial St. Petersburg he had been overwhelmed by the exquisitely beautiful woman in the shimmering gold gown that he had met at the English ambassador’s soirée. She had surprised him with her sharp mind, her quick wit.

Occasionally, after being told of her death he had dreamed of that evening, seeing her beautiful face again. Awakening suddenly, he was filled with a deep, terrible sadness. He wondered now if death wouldn’t have been a better fate for her than the bleak, loveless future she was expecting. She was much too young and far too beautiful and sensitive to live without love. The horrors she had seen had, of course, changed her. They had not broken her magnificent spirit, but something was not right. First things first, however. She needed to be made comfortable, to be free of fear, to sleep and to eat. She was quite thin and there were purple shadows beneath her eyes.

“I live in the Eastern manner, Lady Dunham. I hope you will not be shocked by the fact that I possess a harem.”

She shook her head. “It is your way,” she said. “Do you have any children?”

“No,” he said, and she heard the sadness in his voice.

“Have I offended you, Mirza Khan?”

“No,” he said hastily. “There is no reason you should not know what everyone else does. When I was a young boy I spent some time in the palace of the late sultan, Abdulhamit, who was my maternal grandfather. In the Ottoman family the eldest living male inherits the throne, not necessarily the eldest son. I was not, praise Allah, the eldest! I have several cousins in line for the throne. There was Selim, who was my best friend and nearest to me in age, and then there was Mustafa, and finally little Mahmud.

“Mustafa’s mother was a very ambitious woman, and not just for her son, but for herself. She managed to poison Selim and me, but we were saved by Selim’s marvelous mother, the baskadin, Mihrichan. Unfortunately the poison rendered my seed lifeless. Poor Selim only managed to produce two daughters before his death.

“My father was, of course, very angry, for I was his heir, but then my own mother is an admirable wife. I have four younger brothers, the eldest of whom is now our father’s heir, and I, thank heavens, do not have to live in the Georgian mountains, but can instead live here in the civilized and beautiful city. There are compensations for everything, Lady Dunham.”

“I think I would like it if you called me Miranda, Mirza Khan,” and she smiled the first real smile she had smiled since he had rescued her.

“Miranda,” he smiled back, “from the Greek, meaning admirable , and by Allah, you are! What you have suffered would have broken most women.”

“I am not like most women, Mirza Khan,” she said, and her sea-green eyes flashed. “I will not be beaten!”