PROLOGUE
Spring, 1571 - The Albanian Coast
The little village was on fire, smoke from the burning huts drifting over the scattering
of dead and mutilated bodies left to lie where they had fallen in the dry midsummer heat
of the Balkans summer.
Set against a backdrop of tree-lined, mountainous ridges into which just a few lucky
survivors had managed to flee, the sprawling collection of tiny stone-built houses were
even now still being systematically looted by a party of heavily mailed and armed men.
The woman nailed to the cross set upright at the edge of the village was still alive
though it was obvious that the strength was ebbing fast from her tortured, naked body.
The executioner had been both thorough and cruel. The victim’s ankles had been nailed
through to the sides of the upright in such a way that she was able to push herself
upwards spasmodically for brief periods so that she could breathe. Her wrathful captor
had decreed she be fixed thus; further ordering his men to position the cross so that it
faced the little beach so that the surviving villagers being loaded into the slaving
galley anchored just offshore might all see her fate.
Chained to an oar aboard the galley, nose filled with the acrid smoke drifting down from
the burning village, a teenage boy gazed white-faced at the awful scene. A shadow fell
over him and he looked upwards at the tall, black-cloaked man standing over him on the
planked catwalk. “You … you … animal,” he choked. “Why do THAT to her?”
The object of the boy’s gaze held a dirty, bloodstained cloth to the side of his face
and looked down malevolently at the chained youth. Momentarily he lifted the cloth to
reveal the long disfiguring knife slash disfiguring his cheek. “Look closely, nasrani!”
he snarled. “Your slut of a mother did this to me and for that she pays with her life.”
“God curse you,” choked the boy. “My father died with a sword in his hand. My mother
was but defending herself and my sister, as well you know.” The boy’s face paled with
sudden rage. “As God is my witness, killer of women, I will put an end to your miserable
life one day.”
“Watch your tongue, young cockerel,” snarled the slaver. He jerked a finger at the
still figure on the cross. “Lest you and your mewling sister both share your mother’s
fate.” Painfully, he pressed the cloth back to his ruined face.
As if on cue, a shrill, pain-filled scream came from below deck. White-faced, the youth
stared up at his captor. “My sister!” he whispered hoarsely. “What are they doing to
her?”
The slaver’s face twisted into something that might have been a smile. “Worry not,
whelp! Your sister is merely serving my men’s needs as a slave should.” He chuckled
evilly. “As for you, I have a friend whose preference ... like mine ... is for something
a little different. Perhaps he can be persuaded to part with a bag or two of silver for
you!”
The boy’s face suffused with impotent rage. “Filth ...” he began again, before a casual
but vicious blow from the flat of the man’s sword stretched him limply across the great
sweep, blood from a gash on his temple running unchecked down his face.
“Filth, am I?” The slaver glanced carelessly around at a watching sailor. “When this
whelp regains his senses, treat his wound, then see that he is bathed and perfumed and
bring him to my cabin. He can begin his slavery there.” ...
CHAPTER ONE
Sixteen years later - Valletta, on the Island of Malta
Close-hauled against a capricious south-westerly breeze, the little English galleon
‘Triumph’ slipped gently under the lee of the buttressed, grey-granite walled fortress
guarding the entrance to Malta’s ‘Grand Harbour’.
On the tiny quarterdeck, a tall, well-dressed man drew closer to the girl standing at
his side. “Well there it is, Charlotte,” said Sir James Brandon softly. “Valletta at
last, though I suppose you do not remember it!”
Clutching tightly at her uncle’s arm, nineteen years old Lady Charlotte Brandon hardly
heard the strident calls of the sea birds wheeling and diving overhead. Though young, the
girl’s strong-jawed features, flawless peaches and cream complexion and full-bodied, one
might almost say voluptuous, figure, the whole crowned so gloriously by a tumbling,
shining mass of shoulder-length golden blonde hair, made her a vision so striking that an
observer might have been forgiven had he mistaken her for one of the mythical Celtic
Goddesses of old. Green eyes wide with amazement; she gazed almost in awe at the bustling
sight, which presented itself. Even Portsmouth and Cadiz did not compare with this! What
looked like a hundred or more ships jostled for space in the sheltered anchorage:
Nationalities were myriad; Neapolitan, Venetian, Portuguese, French; ships of all classes
and flags were anchored each side of the channel, while graceful Eastern galleys,
feluccas, Arab dhows and even a great, two-masted Spanish war galley all lay side by side
along the bustling dock. From all quarters, barges and small craft were scuttling busily
to and fro, loading and unloading, ferrying passengers or crewmen ashore, or back out to
vessels preparing to leave. The smell of spices and other exotic smells, most of which
she didn’t recognise, drifted in on the salt-laden air.
Her uncle, still a handsome man in his fifties; though his thinning hair, originally
golden blonde like his niece’s, was now shot through with grey, pointed towards the city.
“There, Charlotte ... up there beyond the castle? See? Remember how I told you it would
look? The building with the white dome. Sheikh Omar’s villa!”
Almost overwhelmed by the intense bustle and strangeness of it all, the girl looked to
where he pointed, her eyes finally focussing on the big, white-domed building overlooking
the bay. “It’s big, Uncle, isn’t it? So much bigger than I thought it would be,” she
said breathlessly. “All for just one man to live in?”
Sir James chuckled. “Well, not quite, darling. Remember, there are a lot of other
people who live there with him. Sheikh Omar is a very important man, one of the few Moors
who has the ear and favour of the Island’s Grand Master. There are servants, guards,
slaves and all the people who go to make up his personal retinue.” He grinned. “And
then, of course, there’s his harem. No-one knows just exactly how many wives and
concubines he has, but if I remember correctly, there are probably fifty or more.”
“Fifty or more?” Charlotte’s expression was one of wonderment. “Oh Uncle, it’s ... it’s
... all so marvellous, isn’t it? Aren’t you glad to be back?” Breathing deeply of the
exotic smells, the excited girl squeezed the man’s arm as she turned her attention to the
city proper; the high battlements and walls grey, towers and domes a mixture of glittering
white and gold in the afternoon sun.
Sir James Brandon shot a quizzical glance at his niece as she stood looking out over
the sun-dappled water.
Charlotte caught the look and smiled mischievously. That morning she had donned her
favourite silk gown, purchased the previous summer in the face of stiff opposition from
Sir James because of its low-cut and revealing bodice. She sighed. It was almost
indecent, she would grant him that. The lust-filled looks she’d been getting from the
English sailors ... looks which, if she were honest, she had to admit had both pleased and
excited her ... confirmed it. The silken material clung to her waist like a second skin
and her breasts, which had grown considerably over the last year, looked as if they might
fall out of the containing material at any moment. She glanced across at her uncle, but
his attention seemed to be focussed away from her. Momentarily she wondered at the
direction of his thoughts. Was he perhaps thinking of her father, his younger brother,
who had died here before she was born?
Uncle James had been honest and blunt with her and Charlotte knew the story well. It
was one fairly typical of the times. Henry Brandon had been the black sheep of the
family. His wildness, unpaid gambling debts, fist-fights and duels; many the result of
illicit dalliances with married ladies; had made him less than popular with his otherwise
respectable family. Henry’s father, finally despairing of the young man’s future, had
packed him off to Malta to enter the employ his older brother. Sir James was at the time
heading what was ostensibly an English trading venture in Malta which was, in reality, a
well-organised intelligence gathering mission on behalf of the English Queen Elizabeth
uneasy about Philip of Spain’s intentions towards the area.
It had been the turning point in the young rake’s life. At his father’s insistence,
Henry had married Delphine, the lovely sixteen year old daughter of a fairly well-off
merchant just before leaving England, an arrangement entered into more as an attempt to
placate a family outraged by his indiscretions than anything else. Despite Delphine’s
youth, Henry had soon come to feel a real regard for her, feelings which had grown even
stronger when, towards the end of their first year of marriage, she had become pregnant.
The family had been both amazed and pleased at the change reported in their wild and
wayward son by his elder sibling; his young wife also more than content. Henry’s
considerate usage of Delphine had struck a genuinely receptive chord in her heart. After
all, what more could any young girl want than the protection and regard of such a dashing
young cavalier who treated her almost as if she were a precious flower?
Then - tragedy! Always a vigorous and active man, Henry had been killed in a freak
riding accident; news of which had sent Delphine into premature labour. Charlotte’s birth
had been long and difficult and the young wife had never really recovered. Two months
after the birth she, too, followed her husband to the grave.
And so it was that Charlotte had been taken back to England to spend her childhood at
Hawkridge, the Brandon family’s large estate on the edge of the Essex moors. Sir James
himself, busy in the Mediterranean with his affairs, had rarely been there and, though her
grandparents had taken some interest in her, she had mostly been raised by a series of
nurses and nannies.
The Triumph headed down the narrow channel between the anchored vessels and Sir James
addressed his niece seriously. “Ah ... Charlotte, I’d appreciate it if you’d change that
dress before we go ashore!”
Charlotte looked at him as if surprised. “Why, what’s wrong with it, Uncle?”
“Oh come on, Charlotte, you know exactly what’s wrong with it,” he began. She smiled at
him sweetly and he reddened even more. “It’s one thing to run around half-dressed at
Hawkridge, or even here on board, but ...,” he stared meaningfully at the straining bodice
of the dress, “... quite obviously you’re not a child any more! I’m just surprised it’s
taken me so long to realise it.”
Charlotte gave him her most dazzling smile ... just like her father’s ... and he
softened at once. No matter what she did, he could never be out of temper with her for
long. “Please, darling, remember what I told you about this part of the world! Out here,
ladies do not dress so ... so ... provocatively!”
Charlotte smiled mischievously at her uncle’s discomfiture, then surrendered gracefully.
“You’re right, of course, Uncle. It isn’t suitable. Don’t worry! I’ll change before we
go ashore.”
There was a shout from the bow. They were approaching the anchorage.
Ten minutes or so later, almost as the last rope was being coiled, there was a call from
one of the Triumph’s lookouts. “Small boat approaching, M’Lord. The Great Grand Fandango
hisself, looks like!”
Joining her uncle at the ship’s rail, Charlotte watched curiously as the little boat
made its way alongside. The warm wind stirred the scarlet robe of the single passenger
sitting so majestically in the bows; a tall black man who, somewhat theatrically, she
thought, was wearing a tall snowy-white turban topped with a scarlet plume. He stood up
as the small boat approached and, even as they touched, swung himself up and over the side
of the ship, showing an agility surprising for such a big man.
“Lord James, welcome back,” said the visitor in almost perfect English, totally ignoring
Charlotte and bowing deeply as he spoke. “Sheikh Omar sends his greetings.”
Charlotte’s look of ire at being so ignored was transparently obvious. “Thank you,
Suleiman,” replied Sir James easily. “It is good to be back.” He took his niece’s arm in
a firm grasp as if to say ‘now behave, young lady’, and began the introductions. “This is
my niece, the Lady Charlotte, whom you last saw as just a baby. Charlotte, my dear, this
is Suleiman, Sheikh Omar’s Steward.” Frowning a little at the look of petulance on
Charlotte’s face, he continued. “Suleiman has the most amazing command of languages.
“English is not the least of his accomplishments.”
The Negro’s eyes flickered expressionlessly over Charlotte’s low-cut bodice before he
bowed deeply and courteously once more. Charlotte’s displeasure dissipated a little and
she even managed a tiny smile in return.
“Welcome, my lady,” said Suleiman courteously. “I hope your stay here shall be a
pleasant one.” Turning back to Sir James, he went on eagerly: “News of your coming has
preceded you, my Lord.” He grinned broadly, showing white, even teeth. “May I ask, what
cargo is it you carry?”
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “I thought that, this time, grain
might be welcome. What do you think? Is there a demand?”
Suleiman chuckled. “Truly my Lord is a magician. Always he smells out where there is a
profit. For over a month now, there have been shortages. Meantime the price has trebled.
Even now there a dozen or more fat merchants waiting on the quayside.”
Sir James smiled. “I leave it to you to deal with them. It has been a long trip and I
am impatient to see friend Omar again.” He turned to Charlotte. “Gather up your
possibles, darling! We’ll be away shortly.” He turned to the Negro. “About ten minutes
or so. Will that be all right?”
The huge black man bowed again. “Of course, Lord. Take all the time you require!”
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