Siege by Jack Hight Page A

transparent, silken gown.
    ‘Greetings, husband,’ she said and curtsied low before him, revealing her ample cleavage. ‘I am overjoyed at your safe return.’
    Mehmed took her hand and raised her up. ‘You have been well, wife?’ he asked, stiff and formal.
    ‘As well as I can be, with my husband gone,’ Sitt Hatun replied with a smile. Mehmed did not smile back.
    ‘I am sorry to inform you that you will be moving to smaller apartments,’ he said. ‘You will have to reduce the size of your court.’
    ‘But why? Have I done something to displease you?’ Sitt Hatun prostrated herself, even though she knew she had done no wrong. ‘If I have, then punish me.’
    ‘No, you have not displeased me. Gülbehar will be taking your apartments. As mother of my child, she will need a large court.’
    ‘I understand,’ Sitt Hatun replied. So it was true. This Gülbehar already bore the child that should by right be Sitt Hatun’s, and now she took her apartments as well. It was almost too much to bear. Sitt Hatun dug her nails into her palms as she struggled to control her anger. Finally, she stood and managed to ask demurely, ‘Would you like to sit? Some wine?’
    ‘No,’ Mehmed said. ‘I wish to sleep. I am tired.’
    ‘Shall I give you a massage, to help you rest more peacefully?’
    Mehmed gave her a long look – whether of desire, pity or both she could not tell – and shook his head. ‘I wish to sleep, wife.’
    In their large bed, with its silken sheets and elaborate canopy, Mehmed lay rigidly still, an arm’s length from Sitt Hatun. She listened as his breathing slowed to the rhythmic cadence of sleep. She had hoped that tonight would be different, that his great victory would have changed Mehmed, allowing him to put aside his rivalry with his father. She still hoped that someday he would give her a child. Maybe he only needed some encouragement.
    Sitt Hatun eased herself across the bed towards Mehmed. Gently, she placed her hand on his bare chest. He did not move; his breathing was still easy. She stroked his chest gently, and then moved her hand down slowly, slowly. Mehmed stirred in his sleep, but made no move to stop her. Sitt Hatun leaned forward and kissed his ear, moving her hand still lower, past his stomach.
    Mehmed’s hand caught hers, gripping it painfully. He was awake, his face right beside hers, his breath hot on her face. ‘Wife,’ he whispered, his every word a threat, ‘you know the punishment prescribed in the Koran for taking that which is not yours?’
    ‘Yes, husband.’
    ‘Good,’ Mehmed said. ‘Then keep your hand to yourself if you wish to keep it.’ He continued to look at her, and the anger faded from his eyes. He ran his hand along the length of her side and then stroked her black hair. ‘But if you insist,’ Mehmed continued, his voice altered, deeper now, ‘then you may pleasure me.’ He gripped her hair and forced her head down. Sitt Hatun grimacedin distaste as she placed the tip of his sik in her mouth. She knew better than to refuse.
    Mehmed hardened immediately and arched his back, thrusting against her so that she gagged. Within minutes he climaxed and collapsed back with a moan of pleasure. Sitt Hatun turned aside and spit out his seed, wasted. When she turned back, Mehmed had already settled in to sleep, his back to her. Sitt Hatun lay back, tears in her eyes. It was humiliating to be treated as little better than a concubine, good only for pleasure. She knew now that Mehmed would never lie with her. Nothing would change that, not success at war, nor even his father’s death. She would be locked away in the harem all her life, shamed and childless.
    She thought once more of the proposal that Halil had made to her. If Mehmed died, and she had a son, then her child would be the sultan when he came of age. No matter that the child would be Halil’s and not Mehmed’s. That secret would be theirs alone. Sitt Hatun would be the valide sultana – mother of the