She was stunned by this terrible revelation. Perhaps if she had not known the sweetness of lovemaking with Prince Murad it would not hurt so much. How the sultan must hate her! And she silently cursed the father who had sacrificed her in this cruel manner.
And in that one moment of blinding understanding, Theadora Cantacuzene grew up.
Ali Yahya spoke again. He was obviously in sympathy with her. “You must be prepared for your master, my princess. Do not be afraid of what will transpire.” And at her puzzled look he went on. “Your body is not yet ready to receive a man.”
He clapped his hands and two pretty women appeared, each carrying a white ostrich plume. They settled themselves quietly on stools by either side of the bed and, at a nod from the chief eunuch, began to touch her breasts with the soft plumes.
Theadora regarded them with a frankness that soon turned to amazement as the gentle caresses began to rouse her body. Her young breasts began to swell and harden, the nipples grew pointed and tingling. She gasped softly, surprised at herself. The eunuch watched her for several minutes from beneath hooded lids, noting her every movement.
He clapped his hands once more and two young girls, children really, approached with a woman. Without a word the two girls positioned themselves on each side of her, bent over, and gently pulled her nether lips apart. The woman leaned forward and, drawing a long pointed feather from her sleeve, delicately applied it to the most sensitive spot. Theodora stiffened with shock at this frightening invasion but, when she opened her mouth to protest, it was quickly stuffed with a silk handkerchief.
The agony was exquisite, but Theadora was outraged. She was being treated like a mare led to stud.
She silently screamed as wave after wave of delicious feeling, similar to that which Murad’s supple fingers had worked on her, washed over her. Christos! Why would her hips not lie still!
There was another movement in the shadows, and a tall man in a brocade robe appeared by the bedside. Her eyes were glazed with fear and reluctant sexual stimulation, but she recognized Sultan Orkhan. The hair she had remembered as dark was now mostly gray, but the eyes-dear lord-were black like Murad’s. The sultan looked down on her dispassionately and remarked to Ali Yahya, “She is really quite lovely. What a pity there is no time to train her properly.” He spoke as if she were not even there. “Is she still intact, Ali Yahya?”
“I did not think to check, Most High. She has, after all, been safe within her convent.”
“Be sure! Girls are known to play lewd games.”
The eunuch nodded curtly to the woman with the feather who ceased her ministrations. Bending, Ali Yahya gently inserted a finger into the helpless girl. She strained wildly against her bonds. Withdrawing from her, the eunuch straightened and said to his master, “She is intact, my lord sultan.”
“I don’t want to bother with the business of breaching her maidenhead. Mara will be waiting for me when this business is over with. See to it that she is deflowered. I will be ready shortly for the mounting.”
Theadora could not believe her ears. If Orkhan did not deflower her, how was it to be done? But she had little time to wonder. The chief eunuch gave swift orders and, moments later, he bent over her holding a long, thick, smooth, highly polished piece of wood shaped like a phallus. “The pain will be but momentary, Your Highness,” he said apologetically and then, in a lower voice which only she could hear, “Forgive me, princess.”
She felt the cool, smooth wood against her shrinking flesh and silently wailed her shame. A swift thrust! A sharp and burning pain spread through her loins before gradually dying. Warm wetness trickled down the insides of her thighs. She wanted to faint, to escape all this, but she remained conscious. And now her attention was drawn away from herself to the sultan.
He had watched without emotion as she was deflowered. Now he spread his arms wide and instantly the slaves removed his loose brocade gown. She was surprised to see that his body was as firm as a young man’s, if somewhat thinner.
Theadora watched, mesmerized, as a naked girl with long, golden hair stepped forward, bowed to her master, and knelt before him, her beautiful hair tumbling about her as her head touched her master’s foot in the age-old gesture of subjugation. Still on her knees, the girl raised her body and rubbed her cheek against the sultan’s groin. Now she was taking his limp organ and caressing it with delicate, slender fingers, kissing it with quick, teasing little kisses. Theadora felt a wave of desire as the girl gently took the swelling organ into her rosebud mouth. Horrified at herself, Theadora turned her head away to meet the amused gaze of one of the girls who was stroking her hard, hurting breasts. Shamed color flooded her face, and she closed her eyes. The sensations were intensified now, but she made herself keep her lashes lowered.
The quick patter of running feet forced her eyes open. She was alone with the sultan. He moved across the room toward her, his manroot now enormous, its angry, red head glistening with moisture. He jammed a bolster beneath her hips to raise her, to make her body more easily available to him.
She was mounted like a mare and she felt his penetration-hard and brutal-as he thrust into her. He rode her smoothly, his hands crushing her breasts, pinching at the nipples. Cruelly, he forced her head forward so he might look into her face. Afraid to close her eyes now, she met his impersonal gaze steadily, silently screaming Murad’s name over and over again. Suddenly the man above her shuddered and collapsed on top of her. They lay quietly for a few minutes, then he climbed off of her. Loosening the bonds on her spread legs, he shut them and pushed them up. Then he said the only words he had spoken to her during the entire nightmare. “Keep your legs up and closed, Theadora, lest you lose my seed.” Turning, he disappeared back into the darkness and she heard the door close.
She was alone. Her whole body began to shake, and the pent-up tears poured down her cheeks. A few minutes later Ali Yahya emerged from the shadows and removed the silk from her mouth. Quietly he unbound her arms and gently rubbed her wrists. He brought forth a handkerchief from his robe and silently wiped her tears away. Then, helping her up, he wrapped her silk robe about her icy body and led her back into the corridor and to the litter. Soon Iris’ loving arms were about her and the slavewoman led her to her bed.
Ali Yahya waited in the antechamber of Theadora’s apartment, warming himself by the tile stove. Finally Iris emerged and stood before him questioningly. In his high soft voice he told her all of it. “It is up to you to see that the princess does not become melancholy,” he finished.
Iris laughed harshly. “And how am I to do that, master? The girl is young and has been gently reared. A wedding night is frightening to any young virgin, but,” she lowered her voice, “the sultan has brutalized my little mistress. And what is worse, she must endure the same treatment for the next three nights! Why? What has this child done that he would hurt her so?”
“It is not your place to question, woman.”
“If I am to keep the girl alive I must know all, Ali Yahya.”
“The sultan was angry at the princess. He thought she had induced her father to force compliance of the marriage contract and, thus, better her position. I believed that possible until I met the princess. There is no guile in her. And the two wives, Anastatia and Nilufer, have encouraged the sultan’s anger toward the princess. They are fearful of a third wife.”
“My princess is like a delicate flower, eunuch. You must convince the sultan to treat her gently these next few nights. If she goes mad and dies, to what purpose is this cruelty? Do you think the emperor will award your lord the remainder of my lady’s dowry when he learns what has happened to his favorite daughter? The Byzantine may have used the girl to his political advantage, but she is still his child, and he does love her.”