“Are you Portuguese,senhora?”he inquired of her in that tongue. She stared blankly at him.
“Êtes-vous français, mademoiselle?”he asked, switching to the French language. He could see relief wash over her in that moment.
“Non, monseigneur, je ne suis pas français, mais je parle français comme ma grandmère est une Française,”came the woman’s reply. Then uncontrolled tears began to slide down her oval face, making dirty runnels in her skin as they went. For a moment she was in a quandary as to what to do. One hand held the dagger, the other the cape that covered her. Finally she reached up with her weaponed hand and brushed her tears away with the heel of her palm, further smudging the dust on her face.
“Why do you weep?” Akbar asked softly, finding that desperate, feminine gesture both charming and vulnerable.
“Because,monseigneur,”she sobbed, “this is the first time in weeks that someone has spoken to me in a tongue that I could understand. Your accent is heavy, but I can comprehend you. Have you any idea what it is like to be in a strange place, unable to communicate with the people around you, not knowing what is going to happen to you?”
“No,” he said quietly, “I do not, but if I found myself in such a position I think I would be afraid.” The emperor could see that the woman was near the breaking point, and not wishing to frighten her further he asked gently, “Would you like it if I sent all these people away,mademoiselle?”
She nodded, saying, “Can you do that? Are you the lord of this place?”
“I am.”
“What are you called,monseigneur?How shall I address you?”
“I am Akbar, called the Grand Mughal. I am the emperor of this land,mademoiselle.Who are you?”
She drew herself up in a proud little gesture, and he was surprised by her height. “I am the Countess of BrocCairn,monseigneur.I am Velvet Gordon.”
“Are you hungry, my lady? Thirsty, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes, my lord! I am both hungry and thirsty. It is so very hot.”
The emperor turned back to his people. “Leave us,” he said to them, “but, Ramesh, see that a servant brings cool wine and some fruit. This woman is not quite the villainess you imagined. From what I can gather so far, she is a noblewoman in her own land. I suspect treachery on the part of the Portuguese, and this poor creature has been their victim.”
“Is she Portuguese then, Most High?”
“No, my friend. I do not yet know her native land, but she is able to speak with me in the tongue of the Franks. I shall soon learn all, and you need not fear for me. She is no danger.”
Ramesh nodded. The emperor had a magic about him when it came to dealing with people. Had he not virtually single-handedly united this great land, which for years had been divided by warring factions that set family against family? Neighbor against neighbor? Was he not the first Moslem emperor to bring Hindus into the government and the army? Ramesh nodded again to himself and, leading the way for the others, he left the room.
Velvet relaxed a tiny bit now and quickly studied the man who sat calm and cross-legged amid colorful pillows upon the raised dais before her. She suspected that when he stood he would be of medium height for a man, and not a great deal taller than she was herself, but then she was considered tall for a woman. He was beautifully dressed and jeweled. Beneath the sheer fabric of his tunic she could see his broad, smooth, muscled chest tapering down to a narrow waist. He had a golden complexion, and was clean shaven but for a closely trimmed, small, dark moustache. His brows were thin and black; his bright eyes were also black but despite their narrow shape, which revealed the Mongolian strain in his blood, they shimmered and danced in the light. His forehead was broad, his nose somewhat short though slender, and between the left nostril and his upper lip was a mole about the size of a small pea. The emperor’s mouth was a sensual one, but his expression was serene and full of dignity.
Akbar gave her a moment to collect herself, and then said, “I would reassure you, my lady, that no one here means you any harm. Will you come and sit on the steps beneath me here? You would be far more comfortable than you are now in that corner.”
“I will not give up my weapon,” she replied.
“If it will make you feel more secure, then keep it.” He smiled in a kindly fashion at her. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand.
Instinctively Velvet trusted him, though she knew not why, and so she slowly came forward from her refuge and sat gingerly upon a long comfortable pillow that was set on the marble step just below the emperor’s throne. “Thank you, my lord,” she said simply.
A servant silently entered the room bearing a tray upon which were two goblets of frosty wine and a plate of a juicy, sliced fruit that Velvet could not identify. Bowing low, he offered the contents of the tray first to Akbar and then to Velvet.
“What is that fruit?” she questioned him. It was pale orange in color and looked very good.
“It is melon,” Akbar answered. “It is very good and very sweet. I have these particular melons brought down from my capital of Lahore in the north. Try a slice,” he suggested and took one himself.
Following his lead, she took a piece and bit into it. It was delicious and, along with the cool, light wine, revived her spirits.
When she had eaten half of the melon and drunk part of her wine, he began to question her gently. “Tell me, my lady,” he began, “you are not Portuguese and you say you are not French, though you speak that language. What then is your native land?”
“I am English, my lord,” she answered him, daintily licking the juice from the melon off her grimy fingers and suddenly becoming aware of just how dirty her hands were, particularly her nails.
Akbar was not a man to miss anything, and it amused him to see such a typically female reaction come over her in the midst of all her troubles. He could still not tell a great deal about her looks beneath the dirt and the mass of lank hair, but the one thing he could see as she glanced up at him was that her features were fine and that her eyes were the color of emeralds. “You are English,” he repeated, and she nodded. “I had some Englishmen here several years back. They brought me a letter from your queen. Does she still reign?”
“Yes, my lord, Queen Elizabeth yet reigns, and will continue to do so, God willing. The queen is my godmother, my lord! The expedition you speak of was that of Master John Newbery and Master William Hawkins. They and their assistants, a jeweler named Leedes and James Story, a painter, along with a friend of my mother’s, a London merchant named Ralph Fitch, left England when I was twelve. Nothing was heard of them after they landed in Goa. In England it was thought that they died,” Velvet told him.
