Love's Odyssey (28 page)

Nicholas spoke in Chinese, and Chi raised his head and answered. Earlier, Chi had informed Adrien of what he planned to tell the pirate chief.

"I say to Nicholas this fan-qui, Drin, damn bad sailor, but can fight like tiger crossed with dragon."

After listening for some minutes to the singsong exchange between Chi and the pirate leader, Adrien heard his name spoken. Words in Portuguese followed.

"Drin, You may raise your head to address me," Nicholas said.

Adrien looked up at a man he judged to be near forty, a man with shrewd dark eyes and the longest moustache he'd ever seen.

"Your Excellency," Adrien said.

"You are English?"

"I am, Your Excellency."

"Interesting." He continued to regard Adrien intently. "I do not trust foreign devils," he said finally.

Adrien said nothing. The kris was still strapped under his shirt, and he could feel the pressure of the dagger above his heart.

"But I do enjoy watching an able swordsman. Chi insists you are a champion."

"I wield my sword as best I can," Adrien said, hastening to add: "Your Excellency."

"We shall see. We shall see. Unfortunately, Ying is at sea, but we will make do with what is on hand." Nicholas clapped his hands twice. Two servants advanced, heads bowed.

"This man, Drin, will occupy a guest room. Show him there."

As Adrien rose to follow the servants, Chi managed to whisper, "He honors you."

Later, in the room he'd been taken to, Adrien wondered if honor was the right word. Nicholas hadn't become what he was by stupidity. Keeping Adrien apart from Chi was designed to keep Adrien off balance. Who else but Chi would keep him aware of what was going on? No one, especially after Nicholas had publically proclaimed his mistrust of foreign devils.

When would Nicholas have him fight? If it was to be tonight, he was in trouble. His head still throbbed and he feared his coordination was off. . . badly off. There was no use trying to rest, he was too keyed up. Were there any rules for these fights? Chi had mentioned that the winner fought until there were no more challengers. If he should manage to take the first opponent, how many more would he have to face?

Ah, well, at least I shall worry in style, Adrien thought, looking about at the silk covers on his bed, at the lacquer and gilt table piled with food, and at the gold cup ringed with rubies set beside the wine decanter. From a niche by the door, a three-foot-tall jade statue of a Chinese god gazed benignly at him. The pale green translucent stone was exquisitely carved in such lifelike detail that Adrien could almost feel the old man was blessing him—supposing Chinese gods ever did bless the fan-qui.

I'll take a chance, Adrien said to himself, and trust this jade god with keeping my pusaka kris a secret. Detaching the sheathed dagger from the belt he wore under his shirt, he hid the kris behind the statue.

If William could only see me now, Adrien thought. He always warned me I would come to no good.

Adrien poured pale yellow wine into the gold and ruby cup and raised it. "Here's to you, dear brother," he said aloud. "May you, against all odds, be proven wrong."

Chapter 28

Romell sat naked amidst the silk covers of the circular bed. Nicholas lay beside her, idly stroking her thigh. She quelled an urge to pull the sheet up to cover her, for she'd learned in these past few weeks that it was wise to bend to Nicholas's whims, and he liked to see her naked.

Bend to his whims, yes, but not submit entirely.

From outside came the sound of splashing water and, from farther off, the raucous call of a disturbed peacock. Someone in the palace played a bamboo panpipe, the frail notes wavering in the late afternoon air, sad, thin notes.

How long had she been in the palace. Over a month, she knew. Romell stifled a sigh.

"You long for Batavia, perhaps?" Nicholas said.

She glanced at him. He missed very little. "Not Batavia. I've told you that wasn't my home."

"The strange land, far away, that you will never see again?"

Strange land? Virginia? China was the strange land! Romell spoke past the lump in her throat. "My home is with Lord Nicholas, as you well know."

"Yin is darkness," he said; "it is moon, winter. Yin is woman. Yang is light—the sun, summer, and man. Can Yang ever know Yin? I know what you say to me and what you tell me with your body, but how do I know your feelings?"

He reached up to caress her nipple, and she did her best not to stiffen. Nicholas had taken her once this afternoon, satisfying himself without regard to her. That she could cope with. But now he had started the teasing. To match wits with her, Nicholas had become inventive in his love-making. Style, not force, was his new strategy. He enjoyed using subtlety as an exquisite variation of power.

"I thought of you this day, before you came to me," Nicholas said. "Early this afternoon. I do not like coincidence."

"I don't understand," she said, moving slightly to try to avoid his hand.

He pulled her down beside him and ran his fingers along the bare flesh of her stomach, down, down, pulling her thighs apart.

"Confucius has told us we must keep ourselves awake with poetry," he told her. "I have always tried, but little did I imagine I would find words for a fan-qui."

Romell did her best to ignore what he was doing. "You’ve written a poem for me?" she asked, looking at him.

He smiled at her.

"I must translate my poem into Dutch for you to understand. A pity to lose some of the meaning." He began to recite:

"It is late autumn. The lotus has no flower. The rains have passed. You come, bringing fire. Tempting my wings. Beware, O flame! Not all fliers of the night
are moths."

He stopped, watching her.

Romell was silent for a moment. "I'm not certain I understand," she said at last. "Your words are haunting and, somehow, sad."

"You describe yourself. But I weary of talk." He raised up and, spreading her legs, pulled her to him.

She resigned herself. She was more than her body, she had a mind as well. And a heart. Her thoughts blurred. He was a clever lover and was doing his best to create a response. She did her best to master herself, glad when Nicholas pulled away from her.

"I have decided you must ask for what you want," he said huskily. He touched her with featherlight fingers. "Tell me, my pretty fan-qui. Tell me."

She was close to wanting him, but would never let him know that. Romell clenched her fists and remained silent.

Nicholas poised above her, his sex pushing gently at her, teasing. "Tell me," he whispered.

Romell bit her lip. No. Never.

Nicholas pushed her hard, shoving her over the edge of the bed, and she slid to the floor.

"You will return to the women's quarters." he said.

She stared up at his flushed face, feeling triumphant.

"Shall I send Poo Li to you once I get there?" she asked.

He rose. For a moment she thought he would strike her. Slowly he subsided, gazing down at her.

"English women are rash," he said. "Can Englishmen be as foolhardy? I would suspect so, yes." He smiled. "Get up and dress. Go to your rooms and prepare for tonight. There will be a sword contest." He turned away and reached for his robe.

"Your wish is my command," Romell responded, rising and slipping on her robe.

"You will enjoy the swordplay," he said, still smiling.

Romell shrugged. "I'll be there."

"You and Poo Li. Which of you will enjoy it more, I wonder?"

Romell glanced at him curiously. What was he up to now? Was he warning her that she could be given to the victor tonight if she didn't mend her ways? Telling her
that her position as palace favorite was in danger?

No, she thought, he hasn't conquered me yet, and he won't be through with me until he has. If anyone was to leave the palace, it would be Poo Li. Poo Li was the only remaining concubine beside Romell, and Nicholas hadn't called the Chinese women to him since Romell had been brought to the palace.

"Until later," Nicholas said.

She left his rooms and was escorted back along the corridors by one of the black guards.

After she'd bathed and put on a fresh robe, Romell sat beside the lotus pond in the woman's courtyard. Water cascaded from the mouth of a bronze fish, and the lotus pads lay like green stepping stones across the pool. There were no blossoms. It was late autumn, November. The lotus bloomed in the summer.

"The lotus has no flower."

What did Nicholas's poem mean? A warning, she was sure, but of what?

Golden carp flicked among the lotus pads. A frog as green as the lotus poked his head above the water, rolled an eye at Romell and ducked under again. The perfume of the red ginger flowers sweetened the air.

Romell stretched languidly. Best not to try to fathom Nicholas's reasons. Best to think only of each day as it came, lest she lose heart. Living one day at a time had kept her alive in Southland among the natives, and Nicholas's palace was only another form of captivity.

Something plopped into the water beside her, spraying droplets over her arm. Romell jumped and looked up. On the other side of the pond stood a stocky young man, younger than she was. He had no beard and wore his hair cut to his shoulders, much like a Dutchman.

After a moment, she remembered seeing him before. The first day she had arrived at the palace Nicholas had called this young man to the dais. He looked even less Chinese than Nicholas. Was he the eldest son?

"You are the English woman," the young man said, speaking acceptable Dutch.

"Yes," Romell replied, straightening up to sit primly on the tiled rim of the pond. No man except Nicholas was permitted here in the women's quarters. Still, if this was Nicholas's son. ...

"I've never talked to a woman fan-qui before," he said.

Romell decided she must speak up. “I don’t know if I should talk to you," she told him. "I don't know your name, or if you should be here."

"I'm Cheng," he said. "Cheng can be wherever he chooses."

"Then you must be Cheng Iquan," she said. "The number one son."

He smiled at her, a charming, boyish smile. "Do you learn the language of Chung-Kuo?" he asked.

Romell knew the Chinese called their country not China but Chung-Kuo, The Middle Kingdom.

"Your language is most difficult to master," she said. "I learn a word only to find that it has four or five different meanings, depending on the tone of the voice I fear I will never be proficient."

He inclined his head slightly. "You are a woman and cannot be expected to be a scholar, of course. Although you do seem different from most women. I saw you when Ying brought you here, and I knew I must meet you as soon as I returned from the College."

The intensity of his gaze, lingering on the swell of her breasts, made her uneasy but, she reminded herself, he was quite young—no more than sixteen or seventeen. Still, she pulled her pale blue silk robe over her ankles
to conceal them.

"Are you a scholar?" she asked, ignoring the slighting reference to women. It was, after all, how men felt, no matter what country they lived in.

"Of Confucius," Cheng said proudly. "At the Imperial College." He sounded quite like a schoolboy. He moved around the pond until he stood beside her. "Our word for fire is huo." His fingers touched her hair, lingering to caress her neck. "That is the word for your hair. Huo."

Romell rose and began to move casually toward the open wall leading into the women's quarters. Son or not, she knew Nicholas would never approve of this. Cheng caught her arm and drew her close to him. "You haven't been given my permission to leave."

She looked directly at him, feeling his hardness against her body. "I was under the impression that I was to obey only your father."

His hands fell away. "You defy me, fan-qui?"

"I defy no one," she stated firmly.

He scowled at her.

Romell thought quickly. At some future time she might need Cheng's help. Summoning a smile, she said, "Perhaps someday we can be friends. Now, it is not wise."

His brow cleared. He reached out as though to touch her hair again, hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing through a door on the far side of the courtyard. She heard a key click and knew the door was once again locked, as it had always been before.

So he's afraid of his father, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Although not worried about her ability to handle Cheng, she was frightened of Nicholas's reaction if he should hear that Cheng had touched her. It would be she, not Cheng, who would get the worst of whatever punishment was meted out.

Poo Li stood by the open wall as Romell entered the room, and Romell knew the concubine had been watching them by the pond. How many other unseen eyes had observed that scene? Nicholas would surely find out.

Poo Li wasn't quite an enemy, but certainly not a friend. Romell, upon discovering the secret of the concubine's "lily" feet, hadn't been able to hide her horror when she saw Poo Li's terrible deformity. The girl had been bathing, and the sight of her toes turned grotesquely under so they touched the soles of her feet caused Romell to turn away, sickened.

When Romell had later asked Nicholas the reason for binding women's feet, he told her lily feet were beautiful to men, even arousing.

"A girl's feet are bound as soon as she learns to walk so that they may grow into lilies," he said.

"It must be very painful."

"Pain suffered to create loveliness is worthwhile," he had replied.

Poo Li had seen Romell's expression that first time and now never exposed her feet in front of Romell. Neither did she offer any friendliness.

"Cheng Iquan," Poo Li said to Romell, then added the word for wife, and a woman's name.

Cheng was married? At sixteen? Romell shrugged. It was undoubtedly the custom. An official wife acquired early and after that however many concubines a man was able, or cared, to support. Cheng certainly wasn't planning to take her as a concubine when he knew she literally belonged to his father.

"Swords tonight," Poo Li said, in Chinese. "We go." She sounded excited.

Romell had come to deplore this senseless shedding of blood, this fighting for the sole purpose of Nicholas's enjoyment. At the same time, she couldn't help but welcome the diversion in the monotony of her life.

"Ying?" she asked, hoping she might see Fatima again.

"No. New man." Poo Li glanced slyly at Romell. "Fan-qui."

Another Portuguese, Romell supposed. She had seen several of them among the pirate crew, looking and acting the same as any other pirate.

After they had eaten, she and Poo Li were escorted to the latticed porch by a servant. When Romell had settled on the seat next to Poo Li, there was a stir of activity and a bevy of women servants fluttered in. Romell watched as they led the young woman in their midst to a seat apart from Romell and Poo Li.

"Wife of Cheng," Poo Li whispered.

The new arrival was so swathed in bright blue and gold brocade and silken scarves that Romell couldn't be certain, but she thought perhaps Cheng's wife was far along with child.

Her speculations diverted her, and the gong had sounded and the first fight had begun by the time she glanced down at the torch lit arena. Two men, both naked to the waist, circled one another warily. One had lighter skin, a curly black beard, and a blue scarf tied about his head. He must be the Portuguese, Romell decided, since the Chinese grew only straight and sparse beards. His Chinese opponent wore a red head scarf.

For a time, the Portuguese appeared to be getting the worst of the fight, retreating, not forcing his opponent, and Romell thought him outmatched. Then she noted that he was unmarked, despite a monumental amount of lunging and thrusting on the part of the Chinese swordsman. Romell sat a little straighter, her interest aroused.

Blue scarf glided beneath red scarfs blade. He turned about his adversary again and again until red scarf, exasperated, lunged. Blue scarf sidestepped and countered, nicking his opponent's shoulder. With a howl of anger, the Chinese attacked, but the Portuguese with the blue scarf parried the thrust, changed his ground, and counterattacked, surprising the Chinese.