Akbar held up his hand. “What is a bishop?” he asked. “And where is this place you call Ireland? Why have I not heard of it before?”
Michael cudgeled his brain. Finally he said, “A bishop is a nobleman of the church, a man of some authority, usually responsible for a small territory.” Akbar nodded in understanding. “Ireland,” continued Michael, “is a captive country of the English, an island kingdom to the west of England.”
Again Akbar nodded his comprehension. “Continue,” he said.
“My lord, it has been brought to my attention that you are a Moslem.”
“No longer,” said Akbar. “I was raised in the faith of the prophet Mohammed but I was curious as to the other faiths of the world. I built in my former capital of Fatehpur-Sikri a place where I invited holy men of every faith to come and expound upon the virtues of their own way of worship. What I saw angered and saddened me. Men of religion, priests of every sect, squabbling and arguing amongst themselves as to which faith was best, which of them worshipped the true God, actually even coming to blows with one another. It was then I devised my own form of worship, taking from each what I deemed the best. It is my faith, and that of some of my closest friends. I do not expound my faith even among my own people, for I have decided that each person must find his own path to God’s salvation.”
“You say,” said Michael, “that you have taken the best from each faith. Do you still believe it is against God’s law to take the wife of a living man for your own?”
“Of course!” said Akbar without hesitation.
“Then, my gracious lord, I must continue. Some many months ago you received at your city of Fatehpur-Sikri a train of gifts from the Portuguese governor in Bombay. Among these gifts was a young Englishwoman, the Countess of BrocCairn, Velvet Gordon.”
Akbar stared at the priest, his face and his eyes expressionless, but his heart was beginning to pound nervously. Suddenly he knew that the man before him was going to bring him great unhappiness. He wanted to shout at the priest to stop, but he knew that he could not. His own strong conscience forbade it.
“Lady Gordon,” Michael continued, “is my niece, the youngest daughter of my sister. My lord, I beg you to tell me. Does she yet live?”
“Yes,” said Akbar in a toneless voice.
“Praise be to God and his blessed mother, Mary, who have heard my prayers!” Michael said joyfully. Then he went on, “My lord, I have come to bring my niece home to England. Her family will pay whatever ransom you deem necessary.”
“I am not holding your niece for ransom, Father O’Malley. Has it occurred to you that she might not want to return to England? Have you considered that perhaps she has found love and favor in my eyes?”
“My lord, her husband lives.”
“I am her husband,” said Akbar.
“No, my lord, I meant that her husband, the Earl of BrocCairn, is not dead as she believed, but alive and eager to have his wife returned to him. If you believe as you say you do, Most High, then you must release my niece to me so that I may bring her back to her rightful lord.”
It was as if a hammer blow had been dealt to Akbar’s heart. For what seemed like an eternity he could not draw his breath. His chest felt as if it were being crushed by several bands of iron. I am going to die, he thought, and it is better that I do so than to live without my beloved Candra. But then he found that he was breathing, and his head cleared, and he said, “First we must be sure that we speak of the same woman, priest. Come with me!”
Rising from his cross-legged position upon his throne, he led Michael O’Malley through a door hidden behind the throne. They were in a cool, well-lit but narrow stone corridor, and Michael had to hurry to keep up with the emperor though Akbar was much shorter than he was. Finally they stopped and the Grand Mughal drew Michael forward. To the priest’s surprise he stood before a peephole.
“Tell me if you recognize anyone within the room, priest. Look carefully, for far more is involved than you know.”
There were three women in the room, but Michael recognized her almost instantly. His hesitation was only caused by the fact that he had carried in his mind a picture of Velvet as he had last seen her at eleven years of age. She had been tall and leggy with an unruly mass of auburn curls then. Her face had just been beginning to change from a child’s to a young girl’s, and her body had been basically still formless.
The woman in the room was probably one of the most beautiful he had ever seen. In a strange way she surpassed even her own mother in loveliness. She was slightly taller than Skye, and the auburn hair was now totally under control, parted in the middle and drawn smoothly back over her ears into a chignon at the nape of her graceful neck. Her face was serene, and her nose had grown, he noted, from the little bit of flesh that it had once been into a straight nose of elegant proportions. The formlessness, too, had given way to a feminine shape of delightful proportions. He considered her turquoise blue and gold clothing most immodest, showing her legs through the thinness of the flowing skirt and at least half of her breasts due to the shortness of her blouse. Still, it was Velvet. Without a doubt, it was his niece.
“It is she,” he said to Akbar. “The girl with the auburn hair.” He thought he heard a sound, almost the groan of an animal in pain, but when he turned to the emperor, Akbar’s face was an impassive one. Still, he could not help but ask, “Are you all right, my lord?”
“You have just told me that my favorite wife, the mother of my daughter, is another man’s wife, priest. Were I not a moral man, were I not a man of strict conscience, I would kill you here in this secret corridor where we now stand.”
Michael felt an icy chill run over him, for he saw the mixture of despair and anger that had suddenly appeared in the emperor’s eyes. “My lord, this is a tragedy, I will grant you, but what can I do? I, too, am a man of morals and strict conscience,” he said.
Akbar nodded. “Give me time to make certain arrangements, priest, and then I will have you brought to me again, and we will settle this matter.”
Michael O’Malley nodded. He instinctively knew that he could trust this man. Together they exited the corridor, and then in the company of Father Xavier he left the palace. To his surprise he was recalled several hours later.
“They tell me you will not return to us,” said Father Xavier who brought Michael back to the palace gates. “Can you trust these people, my lord bishop? We are, after all, responsible for your safety.”
“Rest assured that I shall be safe, Father Xavier,” said Michael O’Malley. “I am most grateful to the Jesuits here in Lahore for all their aid. Remember, however, that my visit must go unrecorded in your journals. That is the wish of Paris and Rome.”
The Jesuit nodded. “Go with God,” he said, and turned back toward his house.
Michael O’Malley was not taken into the main buildings of the palace. Instead he was brought secretly through the gardens to a smaller building where Akbar awaited him. There his escort disappeared, leaving him with the emperor.
