A Tudor Turk Read online

  Praise

  ‘Three huzzahs for thisscintillating new take on the late Tudor period: a rip-roaring, erudite, cosmopolitan pageturnerpeppered with the wisdom ofagesand glowingwith the ruby light of a compassionate heart - a jewelnosnaggle-toothed Queen or vainglorious Sultan can buy’ Naomi Foyle, author, The Gaia Chronicles

  ‘In A Tudor Turk Rehan Khan pulls off a rare literary coup. It’sa masterly meld of riveting historical background, characters whose emotions blaze from the pages, a balance between an unlikely (but likeable) male and female duo, and settings so vivid you will think you’re hearing and smelling the scenes. The pace does not let up from page one, and by the conclusion readersyoung and old will be eager for more from Will and Awa!’

  Peter Lerangis, author, Seven Wonders and Max Tilt series

  ‘In these uncertain Brexit days, A Tudor Turk’s portrayals of sixteenth-century prejudice against Ottoman Turks, an ageing queen named Elizabeth, and England as an isolated and despised European outpost cannot but find resonance. To borrow the late MP Jo Cox’s words, the novel shows that different cultures share “more in common than that which divides us”.’

  Claire Chambers, York University

  The Chronicles of Will Ryde and Awa Maryam al-Jameel

  Book One

  A Tudor Turk

  Rehan Khan

  For my mother, the first storyteller I met.

  CONTENTS

  1. Mediterranean Summer

  2. Plains of Tondibi

  3. Prayer of Jonah

  4. Desert Caravan

  5. City on the Bosporus

  6. Bandit Wagons

  7. Free as the Wind

  8. An Impressive Catch

  9. Lost My Soul

  10. More Than a Match

  11. Grand Bazaar

  12. Killing for Entertainment

  13. Feed the Turban

  14. Grand Vizier

  15. Close to Infinity

  16. A Sly Offer

  17. Call Up

  18. Permissions

  19. Roar of Approval

  20. Citadel

  21. Unwanted Attention

  22. Too Crowded

  23. Invitation to Ride

  24. Strong Cup

  25. Prevention

  26. Basilica

  27. Bridge too Far

  28. Ghetto

  29. Messengers

  30. Cracking Fire

  31. Chalk and Carriage

  32. Matter of Trust

  33. Lavender

  34. Entrapment

  35. The Farmhouse

  36. The Meaning of Home

  37. Leeds Castle

  38. Sacrifice

  39. Interrogation

  40. Chancery

  41. Death Beguiles Him

  42. Near the Heart

  43. Smithfield

  44. Pike’s Head

  45. Nearly

  46. An Invitation

  47. Duty

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Anne Ryde

  Will’s mother

  Anver Jacob

  Metalsmith’s apprentice

  Awa Maryam al-Jameel

  Songhai noblewoman enslaved at the Battle of Tondibi

  Earl of Rothminster

  Rising noble within the Elizabethan court

  Gurkan

  Turk, member of the Rüzgar unit within the Janissaries

  Huja

  Jester at the Ottoman court

  Ismail

  Turk, member of the Rüzgar unit within the Janissaries

  Ja

  Odo’s accomplice

  Kostas

  Greek, member of the Rüzgar unit within the Janissaries

  Mehmed Konjic

  Bosnian, Commander of the Rüzgar unit within the Janissaries

  Mikael

  Albanian, member of the Rüzgar unit within the Janissaries

  Odo

  Slave trader

  Sir Reginald Rathbone

  Loyal to the Earl of Rothminster

  Stukeley

  Rathbone’s bodyguard

  Wassa

  Songhai woman

  Will Ryde

  Englishman kidnapped and sold into slavery at the age of five

  1

  MEDITERRANEAN SUMMER

  1591

  THE GREY-HAIRED GALLEY SLAVE collapsed against Will’s shoulder. The Mediterranean summer with its suffocating heat had certainly kept the Grim Reaper busy, Will thought. In the two years he had rowed below decks aboard the Al-Qamar, a Moroccan galleon whose name meant ‘the moon’, he’d seen many of the older slaves die from the heat, from exhaustion or in the cut and thrust of naval battle.

  The oar-master, a hulking Portuguese, shouted at the Sudanese drummer to quicken the pace. ‘Faster!’ he screamed, cracking his whip on the deck.

  At that moment, the old boy beside Will mumbled, ‘Can’t breathe . . .’ So, he wasn’t quite dead. Will wanted to help, then caught sight of the oar-master glowering at him. He put his head down and heaved on the oar, keeping pace with the other rowers. At sixteen, Will had a patchy beard dripping with sweat and his muscular bare back was soaked as though he had been in a rainstorm. As they pulled on the oars, Grey-hair slumped backwards, mouth open, eyes fixed. Now he was dead.

  There was no time for sympathy or regret. The enemy vessel was close and they needed to pick up speed. The Moroccan sailors would be preparing the cannon above deck. The past week had seen four skirmishes with Spanish ships, as two empires vied for supremacy in the Mediterranean. Every day Will expected to be his last, yet somehow, he survived.

  Whack. Waves thumped the side of the hull. The helmsman was turning them hard to starboard, without the Al-Qamar slowing down. It was a risky manoeuvre and meant that the enemy vessel must be readying her cannons. Now they were in a race to see which ship fired first.

  ‘Oars down to starboard!’ bawled the Portuguese oar-master.

  The Al-Qamar cut through the waves, shifting right.

  ‘Oars up!’

  Boom. Their cannon exploded. Boom. Boom. They waited for a response. None came. They fired again, and then again, each explosion shaking the hull.

  Will winced, his head aching from the blast that reverberated around his insides.

  Silence, but for the panting breaths of the oarsmen, gripping their oaken oars with sweaty hands, as though the wood itself contained magical properties to protect them from enemy cannon fire. Seawater trickled below Will’s feet, his manacled ankles chained together with other galley slaves along his row. He glanced down at the dead man, whose eyes stared upwards. Perhaps he had seen his soul departing, onward to heaven or the other place. Will thought about death every day. Dying must be better than living like this. No. Not until he returned to London and found his mother. He had been separated from her for eleven years and had vowed that he would see her again before God took his soul.

  Cannon fire erupted once more from the Al-Qamar, a ferocious volley of carnage. Yet there was still no response. They waited, moments feeling like clammy hours . . . and then there was a euphoric roar from above: the Moroccan sailors must have seen the Spanish ship sink or surrender.

  ‘Oars down,’ the Portuguese commanded.

  Will and the galley slaves collapsed onto their benches. Exhausted but still alive. The oar-master strode down the aisle, to the centre where Will sat.

  ‘You - English!’ He spat on the floor beside Will, before pointing at the dead man. ‘Get that body overboard.’

  Grey-hair had been a Greek, that much Will did know. In fact, he had been in the Al-Qamar long enough to recognise where most of the men came from. There were Abyssinians, Balkans, Turks, Greeks, but mostly West African
s. He was the only Englishman - and the Catholic Portuguese hated the Protestant English even more than they did the Muslims. The chain around his manacle was slipped out, before it was also removed from the dead Greek. Will stretched to his full height, towering over the Portuguese by a good few inches. The man didn’t like it, and he shoved Will back.

  ‘Get on with it!’ he barked.

  Will lifted the Greek under his armpits and hauled him off his bench. He shuffled backwards, dragging the corpse along to the staircase leading up to the deck. The Sudanese drummer, also a galley slave, helped him to hoist the body up the wooden steps. Emerging on deck, the midday sunlight blinded them. The Moroccan sailors were smiling and chatting, pointing over at the enemy vessel. The Spanish galleon, flag still fluttering above the waterline, was going down fast, sailors jumping overboard. Some would be picked up by the Al-Qamar - the officers to be ransomed, the sailors to be used or sold as slaves. Others would try to swim away, fail and drown at sea.

  They lugged the dead man to the stern of the Al-Qamar, where the shortest mast of the four was located. Will and the Sudanese readied themselves then together they threw the corpse off the back of the galleon, watching his body splash down into the blue waters.

  ‘May God rest his soul,’ whispered Will.

  ‘From God we come and unto God we return,’ said the Sudanese.

  The seawater was inviting. Somewhere out there, the waters connected with the English Channel and then home.

  ‘How far is it to land?’ asked Will.

  The Sudanese looked around nervously. ‘You want to swim, with those?’ he said, gesturing at the fetters round Will’s ankles.

  He had a point. Death waited with a certainty if Will jumped overboard now.

  ‘English!’ The Portuguese oar-master had ventured up on deck and was signalling for Will to return to his position.

  ‘Another day maybe,’ muttered Will to the Sudanese, as they trudged back towards the hatch.

  The Portuguese grabbed Will by the arm as he walked past. ‘I’m watching you, you English spawn of Satan.’

  Will didn’t respond. He simply gazed down at his feet. The Sudanese had gone ahead down the narrow stairs to the galley.

  ‘The English Queen is a heretic, so says the Pope. So say I. What do you say, English?’ The Portuguese shook him. Will kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Her father, Henry VIII, so-called Defender of the Faith, burns in hellfire. What say you, English?’

  Will knew that Henry had been excommunicated from the Catholic faith for divorcing his wife, Catherine of Aragon, to marry Anne Boleyn. Not only that, he’d set up the rival Church of England, which followed the Protestant version of Christianity. The Portuguese, staunch Catholics like the Spanish and the Hapsburgs, despised this.

  ‘All the English will join him in hell,’ sneered the Portuguese. ‘Your mother will rot in a pit of vipers.’

  At this, Will stood up straight, chest out, towering over the Portuguese.

  ‘Yes, English, your mother, your father . . .’

  Will took a step closer to the oar-master, eyes hard with menace.

  ‘Christians!’ It was the voice of the First Officer on board the Al-Qamar.

  The Portuguese instantly let go of Will as the other man approached, Moroccan sailors close behind him.

  The First Officer was a man in his middle years, dark-skinned for a Moroccan, his beard bearing flecks of grey. He smiled at Will and the Portuguese, saying, ‘Why do you fight? You worship the same God, believe in Jesus Christ. You have more in common than the differences you have created.’

  ‘First Officer Said,’ the Portuguese replied, nodding respectfully.

  Will remained silent. Slaves like himself had no right to speak to the crew, unless they asked him a direct question. Said seemed to take Will in for the first time, looking him up and down.

  ‘You - where are you from?’ he asked.

  ‘I was born in England,’ Will replied. ‘Since the age of five I have lived in Morocco, serving Hakim Abdullah, a quartermaster in Marrakesh. For the past two years I have been a galley slave, on board various ships.’

  ‘Hakim Abdullah, quartermaster of the Bayt Ben Yousef?’ asked Said in Arabic.

  ‘Yes,’ Will replied in Arabic. ‘He who has made the finest blades, even for the great Sultan al-Mansour himself.’

  ‘And you were his apprentice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why were you taken from him?’

  ‘My master was visiting Aleppo, when a naval recruiting party passed through the quarter of town where my master’s workshop was. I was running an errand for his family: they mistook me for a runaway slave. I protested my innocence, showed them the insignia of my master, which I wore as an amulet around my neck, but the soldiers did not believe me, saying my word as a Christian could not be trusted. I was taken and have not seen my dear master since.’

  ‘Hakim Abdullah is an honest man, and his skill is famed throughout the empire.’ Said calmly removed his sword from its scabbard. The Portuguese took a step back. Will’s instinct was to do the same, but he remained where he was. Said then drew his blade and rested the weapon horizontally across his open palms. ‘Tell me about this sword,’ he commanded.

  Will felt the itch to hold the weapon, assess its weight and balance, but he would most likely be struck down if he moved towards its hilt. Instead he focused on the component parts which made up the sword.

  ‘From the welded patterns in the blade, it is clear it is made of the finest Damascus and Wootz steel, forged by a master swordsmith. The blade is in the decorative form known as Muhammad’s ladder. It is damascened with gold and there is a cartouche bearing the name of the swordsmith, Babak.’ Will looked closer. ‘The pommel is interesting, as it is adorned with an image of a Simurgh, a gigantic mythical winged creature, indicating it came from Persia. If I were to guess, I’d trace the sword’s origins to Isfahan. Sir.’

  Said raised his eyebrows. He turned to the oar-master. ‘Portuguese. You have a talented apprentice quartermaster here, wasted as a galley slave. Which fool put him there?’

  ‘I do not know, sir,’ mumbled the oar-master.

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Said, turning to Will once more.

  ‘Will Ryde, sir.’

  ‘Will, how would you like to act as a runner for the cannons? We could use a man who knows his weapons.’

  Will studied the oar-master.

  ‘Never mind him, we have plenty of new galley slaves. Look, some of the Spanish are swimming towards the Al-Qamar. The Portuguese will have more in common with the Spanish than the English.’

  ‘I would like that very much, sir,’ said Will.

  ‘Unlock his shackles,’ ordered Said.

  The Portuguese removed a key-chain from his belt and grudgingly knelt down to open the lock around Will’s ankles. The skin was raw below the metal: it was the first time in two years his fetters had come off.

  ‘You are dismissed,’ said Said, waving the oar-master away. ‘Jamal,’ he called out to a short, wiry Moroccan sailor. ‘Will Ryde was apprentice to Hakim Abdullah, quartermaster of the Bayt Ben Yousef. Use him for weapons duty.’

  Will couldn’t believe that his shackles had come off. He kept peering down at his ankles. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he gasped.

  ‘You did well, controlling your temper with the Portuguese. How you react to a situation is an illustration of your character,’ Said declared, before he turned and walked away along the deck.

  As Will followed Jamal to the weapons store, he saw the Portuguese oar-master lurking beside the stairs. The man met his eyes, then raised a finger to his neck and made a slicing movement.

  2

  PLAINS OF TONDIBI

  THE NIGER RIVER CUT THROUGH the vast expanse of desert creeping in at Tondibi. Fresh water, pure and lustrous, flowed down from the river’s source in the Guinea highlands, quenching the thirst of the harsh West African terrain. To the north was the desolate Sahara Desert and to the
south the lush jungles of the continent. Tondibi was a point between two extremes. It was also where the Songhai nation had decided to meet the Moroccans in battle.

  Awa Maryam al-Jameel stood, straight-backed, bow loosely gripped, peering across the plains at the Moroccan army. With the other Songhai women archers, she formed a single row behind the infantry. Her hair was tied back and she wore a long white dress woven with green threads, loose enough to ride in, and with a hood to keep the sun out of her eyes. Twenty arrows were lodged in the leather pouch slung across her back and she carried a small hunting knife strapped to a brown leather belt round her waist.

  ‘The Moroccans come out of the Sahara to die at Tondibi,’ said an infantryman ahead of Awa.

  ‘King Askia claims victory is certain,’ agreed another.

  But nothing was certain as far as Awa was concerned. Until a year ago, she had been brought up like other noblewomen of the Songhai, schooled in Arabic, logic, rhetoric, grammar, mathematics and the study of the Qur’an. As the Songhai empire fell into political plots and infighting, however, and it became apparent that the kingdom was disintegrating, many noble and learned families had seen fit to train their women in the skills of archery and swordplay.

  Awa rubbed her fingers on the black leather pouch tied to her necklace. Inside was an amulet - a parting gift from her father. He disapproved of King Askia’s call to arms, believing negotiation with the Moroccans would better serve the Songhai nation. He told his daughter she was a natural when it came to the martial arts; whereas he himself was more comfortable lifting books than swords. The amulet contained a prayer for her protection. After giving it to her, Awa’s father had hugged her, kissed her on the forehead and then walked away. She could not see his face, but her forehead was wet from his tears. She had called out to him that she would return, but he had merely lifted his right hand to acknowledge her comment. It was the last time she had seen him.