Page 46 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)

“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.