The Sultan's Eyes (16 page)

Can you ever come home to a new place? Or must you always return to the place you were raised? Is it still your home if you can never go back? Can you have several homes — or none? To this day, I don’t know the answers.

I’d always thought that my home and my father were the same thing. Then I learned how to live without either of them.

I never expected to fall in love with Venice. It seeped into my soul like salt water. But was it home?

And did that matter, since I was exiled from that city just as surely as I had ever been from Cambridge?

Perhaps Al-Qasim was right. Home is wherever you build it. It’s made of friends or family as much as bricks and beams or city streets.

I pleaded a headache and spent the evening in my chamber, pacing from window to door and back again, weighing each question in my mind. Far too late, I crawled into bed, but lay awake long after the candle had burned out.

The next morning, I returned to the Jonsons’ house to tell the Admiral that I would not take the ship to England.

A secretary showed me into the library. The Admiral and Lady Elizabeth, I was told, had gone to the city for the day, but a footman went to fetch Justinian. He arrived not long after, looking as if he’d just woken up. His jacket had been pulled on too hastily and his blouse was unlaced.

‘Mistress Hawkins.’ He bowed, tried to smooth his rumpled waistcoat, and offered me a chair. ‘Allow me to call for refreshments.’

‘Please don’t bother. And there’s no need to call me Mistress Hawkins after all these years.’

‘Well, then. Isabella. Tea, perhaps?’

‘Thank you, no.’

I took a seat, but he remained standing. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled at his collar.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I began.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Think nothing of it. I was just —’

‘I’ve come to tell you that I cannot accept your family’s kind offer of the passage to Plymouth.’

I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t the sudden despair that flashed across his face.

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he said.

‘I am, and very grateful.’

‘But?’

I hesitated. ‘What would I do in England, alone?’

‘Why do you have to do anything? You can just be there. Live there.’

‘Live where? With whom?’

‘Surely you have family or someone? Or you could find rooms.’

‘How will I pay for them?’

Justinian shook his head. ‘How can I possibly know the answers to these questions?’

‘Exactly. You can’t.’

At last he sat down, throwing himself onto the sofa opposite me. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘How could you? You don’t know anything about my life.’

‘True enough.’

‘Yet you decided to send me back.’

‘Send you? But isn’t that what you want? To go home?’

I turned a little to look out of the window, across the tiled rooftops and the glittering strait. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure it’s my home any longer.’

‘Of course it is,’ he said. ‘You’re English. You belong there, not out here with all these strangers.’

‘That sounds like your father talking, not you.’

‘Perhaps so. But surely you’ve been away from home long enough?’

‘I think …’ The feeling grew stronger and clearer as I spoke the words. ‘I think my place is here now, with my friends. With Signora Contarini and Al-Qasim —’

‘And that Dutch fellow?’

‘Yes, of course. They’re almost a family to me. I can’t leave them.’

‘I see.’

He sighed, and leaned right back against the cushions, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. We sat in silence for a few moments: me with my hands in my lap, Justinian gazing upwards, jaw clenched, as if I wasn’t there.

At last I could stand it no longer.

‘It was very generous of you, though.’

He didn’t move, didn’t respond. It seemed as if he was trying to master some tremendous force inside himself.

‘Please don’t think me ungracious,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to anger you.’

At that he finally sat up straight, but he still wouldn’t look at me.

‘I’m not angry,’ he said quietly. ‘Just a little disappointed.’

‘In me?’

‘No, in myself. You see, I was trying to make amends and I have failed even in that.’ He glanced at me just for a heartbeat and went on. ‘For what happened in London.’

‘Why on earth do you feel the need to make amends?’

He placed his fists on his knees and took a breath. ‘If I hadn’t booked that cabin on the ship for you …’

‘My father wouldn’t have died? Is that what you think?’

Before I could say anything else, he slumped forward, covering his face with his hands. I reached out to touch his shoulder, but hesitated, uncertain.

‘Justinian, I would have found a way to smuggle my father onto a ship even without your help. Surely you know that?’

‘But you … he …’

‘Have you felt guilty about that? All these years?’

He nodded, his face still in his hands. I bent closer. Was he weeping? It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t be sure.

‘There’s no need, honestly,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve suffered enough guilt and grief for both of us.’ I stood up and paced, just like my father once had. ‘I thought I was so smart, so ingenious, planning the escape and outwitting the guards, the government — even you. But of course I only made it worse.’

At last he looked up. There were indeed tears on his face. ‘No! You mustn’t think that.’

‘You should know by now, Master Jonson, that nobody can tell me what I can or can’t think.’

The jest fell flat, but it did at least blunt the tension between us. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve while I pretended not to notice.

‘We must agree to disagree,’ I said. ‘You can indulge in your guilt and I will wallow in mine and we need never discuss it again.’

He got to his feet and came to join me at the window. We stood together, watching the fishing boats beating their way towards the sea. On the far shore, a herd of cattle drank at the water’s edge.

‘When you left London —’ he began.

‘Please.’ I put one hand on his arm. The last thing I wanted to do was discuss my father’s death any further. ‘Don’t speak of it. It’s too painful.’

He bowed his head. ‘Of course. My apologies.’ He sighed and the breath shuddered in his lungs.

‘I must go.’

‘As you wish.’

It wasn’t until I was halfway up the hill to the palace that I wondered if he’d really meant to talk about my father at all.

I didn’t mention the Jonsons’ offer to my friends. Perhaps it was cowardly of me, but I simply couldn’t face another round of discussions on the topic. But once made, the decision settled in my mind, just as life in Constantinople slowed into a new pattern. I spent the mornings with Al-Qasim, translating the precious pages from the locked library, the afternoons reading our most recent work to the Sultan and his sister, and the evenings with my friends, planning our secret venture.

By now, the people in the streets around the palace had grown used to us and word spread through the city of the foreign woman who had befriended the Sultan. When we drove up the hill, or walked through the market, men waved a greeting to Willem and sometimes children ran out to offer me a sugared flower or cake.
As I passed the cookshops and the blacksmiths, men shouted out: ‘There she goes — the Eyes of the Sultan!’

I smiled under my veil and bowed, but Ottoman manners prevented me from speaking. Willem waved back happily.

I forced myself to pay a call to the Jonsons each Friday, while the Sultan was at his prayers, to take tea with Lady Elizabeth before we joined the Admiral and his sons in the library. I often visited alone in an effort to make peace with the only people I knew in the city, but sometimes my friends came with me. Even Willem grew to look forward to those calls, although it may have been due to the talents of Lady Elizabeth’s English cook. We discussed the news from the city and abroad, the progress of the war with Venice, the books we’d read, Valentina’s latest gossip. There were times when we were ill at ease: moments fraught with anxiety and even flashes of anger — usually my own, but often one of the boys’. By some unspoken agreement, we managed to avoid any further arguments. I admit that had more to do with Lady Elizabeth’s tact, her sons’ tight-lipped restraint and Valentina’s charm than any delicacy on my part.

One day, we arrived to find the Jonsons sitting together, pale-faced and speechless, around the fireplace. The Admiral tried to rise to greet us, but slumped back into his chair.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What has happened?’

‘They have … God help us …’ The Admiral waved a paper at me.

‘The mail from London has just arrived.’ Justinian put a hand on his father’s shoulder. ‘They have executed the King.’

‘Your English King?’ said Al-Qasim.

‘Of course,’ said Justinian. ‘Who else?’

‘He hasn’t been King properly for years,’ said Willem. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Deposing a king is radical enough,’ I said. ‘But for the state to execute a monarch — why, it’s never happened before. Has it?’

‘Not in England, perhaps, at least not legally,’ Al-Qasim said. ‘But you ask the Black Eunuchs how many sultans have met an early death at their hands.’

‘Kings, sultans,’ said Willem. ‘They’re all as bad as one another.’

Valentina shot him a frightening look. ‘Willem, this is perhaps not the best time to air your political views.’

The Admiral wasn’t listening. He stared at the paper in his hand as if it was written in the poison of a thousand scorpions, then at Constantine who was slouched in a chair by the window. Lady Elizabeth wept quietly into a handkerchief.

‘What will it mean?’ asked Valentina.

‘I can’t imagine,’ said Justinian. He shook his head, as if trying to make sense of the news. ‘All those times I called him a tyrant … do you remember, Isabella?’

‘You were a boy. You said many silly things, like everyone.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I never imagined, not in a thousand years, that they would … that anyone would … Dear Lord — to go so far!’ He gazed at his father. ‘Surely, sir, the Parliament cannot approve of this?’

‘It appears it has.’ The Admiral looked again at the letter. ‘Parliament approved the trial and charged him with treason. Many of the same men sat in judgement on him and signed the death warrant. God have mercy on them. The King refused to plead either guilty or innocent.’

‘Will they let his son be King?’ I asked.

Justinian shook his head. ‘Parliament has abolished the monarchy altogether, and even the House of Lords. They’ve set up a new Council of State.’

‘It’s Cromwell.’ Constantine spat the name. ‘He’s behind it. Always Cromwell.’

His father nodded. ‘Among others.’

‘For the moment,’ said Justinian. ‘Mark my words, though —’

Al-Qasim held up a hand in warning. ‘I think, shocking as this news must be to you, that you have said enough, at least outside your private chambers.’

Justinian nodded. ‘You’re right, of course.’

Silence fell as two footmen arrived with the tea tray.

Justinian waited until they had left the room. ‘Father?’

‘What is it?’

‘Do you think the Ambassador has heard the news?’

‘No doubt. But you’re right, I must go to him.’ The Admiral kissed his wife on the forehead.

‘Forgive us,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘We intrude on your grief.’

‘Is that what it is?’ said Justinian. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘There has been so much grief already,’ Lady Elizabeth said, wiping her eyes. ‘Surely they could have spared us this?’

Her hands trembled as she poured the tea. Tears stung my eyes — for her, for all of us.

‘We should go,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘We will leave you to talk alone.’

‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind,’ said the Admiral. ‘Please don’t be frightened off by our manners today. We are not ourselves.’

‘We understand,’ said Al-Qasim.

‘And dear Mistress Hawkins,’ the Admiral said, in an obvious effort to be cheerful, ‘don’t you be a stranger here. We shall expect you for the luncheon at the embassy next week, shall we?’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, although I couldn’t think of anything worse.

‘Yes, you must come,’ said Constantine. ‘I do love fireworks.’

Justinian appeared at our house a few days later bearing the formal invitation to the luncheon, which Valentina accepted graciously on my behalf, and apologies from his parents for their sorrowful demeanour on our previous visit.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ I said. ‘It was shocking news for all of us.’

‘Not me,’ said Willem. ‘I’d already heard it, days before.’

‘Really?’ Justinian raised an eyebrow. ‘Where?’

‘Wait about in the palace kitchens long enough and you hear all the news of the world,’ said Willem.

‘I see,’ said Al-Qasim. ‘So that’s what you do all day at the palace? Eat?’

‘Not just that.’

‘Then what?’ I said. ‘I’ve wondered the same thing myself. Where do you get to?’

‘I have work to do, you know, just like you two.’

‘Willem,’ said Valentina, ‘you look quite handsome when you blush.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said Al-Qasim, but he watched Willem closely for the next few minutes.

Justinian gave a gentle cough. ‘Excuse me, Isabella, but I found this when I was unpacking my books. Constantine brought several crates of them with him from London.’ He held out his hand. In it was a slender blue book, not much more than a pamphlet. ‘Your father loaned it to me, and I never got a chance to return it to him.’

I reached out and took the book, a little tentatively, wary of anything that might uncover the deep well of grief for my father that I kept so deeply buried.

‘What is it?’ asked Willem. ‘Anything good?’

I turned the book over in my hands, then opened the cover to see, in my own writing, my father’s name inscribed on the flyleaf. I flicked through the pages slowly, remembering the evenings when we had read and discussed it together in front of the fire, with Nanny fussing over her mending in the lamplight.

I glanced up. ‘It’s Father’s copy of an essay by Marie de Gournay. We had every volume of her works, once.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, Willem, a woman. A poet and a philosopher. A very good Latin translator. Oh, don’t look so astonished. You should read it. She believes that all women should be educated.’

‘As if we don’t have enough trouble already.’

‘She translated all of Montaigne,’ I said, ‘which can’t have been easy, and many of the classical authors.’

‘I think I’d like her,’ said Valentina.

‘I’m sure you would,’ I said. ‘We wrote to her, once or twice. My father admired her very much, agreed with much of what she said, although not on the topic of religion. But she was a powerful advocate of free will.’

Justinian cleared his throat. ‘She writes very much in the spirit of Aristotle, don’t you think? She says, for example, on moral virtue —’

‘Oh no,’ said Willem. ‘Not you, too. Just what I need, another genius quoting the ancients at me.’

‘That’s exactly what you do need,’ said Valentina. ‘Perhaps Master Jonson might have more success at teaching you Greek than Isabella did.’

Justinian looked so alarmed at the idea that I laughed aloud, brushing away the other, more sorrowful thoughts of which the book reminded me.

‘I’m no teacher,’ Justinian said.

‘Good,’ said Willem, ‘because I don’t need one.’

That made me laugh even harder, and Valentina joined in.

‘Isabella’s Greek is much better than mine, anyway,’ said Justinian.

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

His face reddened. ‘I just guessed. I mean … your father … it was his field, and you … well, perhaps you picked it up from him.’

Valentina focused all of her attention on his face. ‘There is something you’re not telling us, Master Jonson. What is it?’

He blushed even more ferociously. If only he had known that to Valentina, blushing was merely an indicator of secrets to be extracted by any possible means. She threw him one of those smiles that once upon a time would have launched a thousand ships upon the seas to Troy, and took his arm. Poor Justinian had no hope.

‘Come along, Master Jonson. What is this dark secret you cannot share?’

He closed his eyes for a moment and forced a smile. ‘It’s nothing, really. It’s just that …’

‘Yes?’

‘Before I left London for Constantinople, I recovered some of Professor Hawkins’s papers,’ he said, carefully avoiding my eye. ‘Letters to some of his friends. Notes for pamphlets.’

I clutched the tiny book in my hand even more tightly. ‘Where are they?’

‘In London, safely stored, I assure you. If I’d known you were here, I would have brought them with me.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.

‘But go on with your confession, Master Jonson,’ said Valentina.

He took a deep breath. ‘Well, I read them, you see. And the thing is …’ He turned to me. ‘I could see that there were two distinct hands, and minds, at work on the papers. Your father’s script and one I quickly came to realise was your own handwriting.’

‘Yes,’ said Willem. ‘She’s a philosopher of sorts. We all know that.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Justinian. ‘Not for years.’

‘Well, well,’ said Valentina, still smiling. ‘And this was a surprise?’

‘Of course it was,’ I said. Even I was shocked at the frosty tone in my voice. ‘I’m afraid Mademoiselle de Gournay’s writing would have been wasted on Master Jonson. He believes that a woman who reads is akin to a performing dog. Or worse. He told me so once himself.’

Justinian’s blush had begun to fade but it returned with a vengeance. He tried to reach for my hand, but I stepped back out of reach.

‘I’ve tried to apologise before, but please, this time, let me speak,’ he said. ‘All that time, all those months, you let me taunt you —’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Willem. ‘I taunt her every day if I can.’

‘Shut up, Willem.’ Valentina and I both said it at once.

‘I behaved dreadfully,’ said Justinian. ‘It’s quite clear to me now that you are — were — better trained and read than any of those young men at Cambridge, including me.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am.’

It was as if all those misty years of keeping it hidden, of pretending to be Professor Hawkins’s sweet, ignorant daughter had evaporated. Now, at last, I felt I could say it out loud, even to those who remembered me as I had once been. So I did.

‘My father taught me everything. Logic and ethics. Rhetoric. All the philosophers. All the poets.’ My voice quavered in my throat. ‘And every Saturday evening, I had to sit there and pretend to be stupid so you, Justinian Jonson, and your friends could feel superior.’

‘I know,’ he said softly. ‘I know.’

‘Yet here you stand, acting as if all that is past, as if it doesn’t matter.’

‘Far from it,’ he said. He hesitated, bowed his head, took a deep breath, and then looked up, straight into my eyes. ‘I ask you to forgive me.’

‘I don’t know about you,’ Willem whispered loudly to Valentina, ‘but I’m finding this very entertaining.’

She tried, unsuccessfully, to hide her smile.

‘Thank you, Master Jonson.’ I tried to sound dignified, but my voice was as cold and grey as sea ice.

‘Then you forgive me?’

‘I will consider it.’

I ran upstairs to my chamber with the book clutched to my chest, threw myself onto the bed, and buried my face deep in the pillows so that no one could hear me weep.

I didn’t tell anyone how I felt, or about the conflicting thoughts that kept me awake into the night, scribbling in my journal. I had hated Constantine Jonson for so many years, and if I’d thought of Justinian at all it was with annoyance. Now here we were, together in a foreign city, forced to face a shared past. I absolved them of their crimes against me a dozen times a day, then a sudden memory or a clumsy word would sweep away any shred of forgiveness. We were as prickly as hedgehogs, all three of us, and just as shy.

It wasn’t them, I knew that. They were both changed almost beyond knowing. It was much more fundamental. It was about my nature, my own history. Sometimes, I just wanted things to be different, or rather, the way they used to be, when I was home in Cambridge and Justinian Jonson was nothing more than an irritant. At other times, I visited over and over in my mind the months of despair, the shipwreck, my life in Amsterdam, in Venice. Around and around my mind went, leading me in endless circles instead of shining a light into dark corners. If I’d never left Cambridge, I wouldn’t have lost my father. But if I hadn’t left, I’d never have met my dearest friends. My only friends.