“Our lord Akbar awaits you at the bottom, my princess,” Adali told her.
“I shall want to bathe when I return,” she told him. “I’ll stink of horses after a ride in this heat.” Then she bounded off down the staircase, leaving him to shudder with disapproval behind her.
Akbar was prompt and awaiting her as Adali had promised. He looked at her, his eyes admiring. “You make a most fetching prince, my Rose.”
“I did not stop to look at myself in a mirror.” She laughed into his face. “I was far too anxious to ride. I would have sold my soul a hundred times over during our trek from Bombay to have had a mount beneath me. As it is I do not think my feet will ever be the same again, and I fear my dancing days are over once I return to England.”
From the shadows a groom appeared leading two horses, one a big-boned white stallion, the other a dainty golden mare. The stallion snorted and pranced and attempted to reach over to nip at the mare, who danced skillfully out of his reach, almost pulling the groom in two.
Akbar chuckled. “The age-old battle between male and female,” he noted. “He would take, but she is not yet ready to give, and he will not have her until she is.” He offered Velvet his cupped hands as a mounting block, and, putting her foot up, she vaulted easily into the saddle and gathered up the reins.
“Where do we ride, my lord?” she asked.
“Just outside the city along the Agra road,” he answered her, then mounted the stallion.
She saw that they were alone and was puzzled. “Do we ride without an escort, my lord?”
“There is no need for an escort, my Rose. You will be safe with me.”
Velvet was amazed. She had never known a king or great lord who dared to ride his lands without some sort of escort. She said nothing further, but followed him from the courtyard out through the city, her eyes wide at all that she saw, for the day before as the caravan had arrived in the city she had not been of a mind to really look about her. Now, however, she could not refrain from turning her head this way and that, each moment that passed bringing a wonderful new sight.
The thing that struck her as the strangest was that the city was so very quiet, unlike any city she had ever known. She realized this was because few people actually lived here anymore, and that was the most peculiar thing of all, for the city seemed to be in perfect condition. Still, she could see it was really a royal city with no place for the common people. Only Akbar and his court had inhabited it, and so when they had left it to move to Lahore, Fatehpur-Sikri had become truly deserted, having no merchants and beggars to remain and keep it alive. The city was like a sleeping princess waiting only for the return of her prince to bring her back to life. Akbar’s small entourage now visiting it simply wasn’t enough. Velvet found that rather sad.
The city was beautiful in a stark, yet highly decorative way. It was built entirely of native sandstone. The broad streets and squares were paved with wide square blocks of it. All the buildings were built of it, from the former seat of government, the Diwan-i-Khass, to the Great Mosque, to the various palaces, to the Panch Mahal, an amusing structure of no particular use. Most of the pillars were carved, some with vines and leaves, some with flowers, others fluted, yet others with great whorls that entwined themselves seemingly without end around the columns. The buildings contained porches and domes, latticed windows and carved panels, all as perfect as the day their creators had finished them. The entire city was like that, and it gave Velvet an eerie feeling.
They rode through one of the city’s gates out onto the Agra road, and Velvet took this opportunity to broach the subject of her return with Akbar. “Knowing how I came here,” she began, “and knowing that the Portuguese kidnapped me, will you not arrange for my return to my own people, my lord?”
“I cannot, my Rose,” he said quietly. “To do so would be to insult the Portuguese, and I will not do that.”
“Then send me back overland by caravan. The Portuguese need never know.”
He shook his head. “It is much too dangerous. You would likely end up in some slave market, or worse, in some Mongol hetman’s yurt. No, my Rose, the fates decreed that your path bring you to me. I will take care of you. Besides, what is there for you to return to now that your husband is dead?”
“I have my family …” she began.
“Your family,” he interrupted, “would arrange another marriage for you and send you from them. Your fate would be the same as what has actually transpired. You will be safe and cared for with me, my Rose.”
“I want to go home,” she said, her voice wavering.
“This land is now your home,” he replied. “Do you know how to hunt?” he asked, changing the subject. “Would you like to go on a tiger hunt with me?”
The matter, she realized, was closed. For a moment she stared ahead in shock as she comprehended her situation. He had no intention of allowing her to go. There was no way in which she might flee. They were hundreds of miles from the coast, and even if she could surmount that hurdle, the O’Malley fleet would not be there waiting for her. How would she get home?There was no way.Suddenly angry and frustrated by a fate not of her own making, Velvet kicked her mare into a headlong gallop, careening blindly down the road in a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming reality of the situation.
Akbar galloped after her. He was not afraid of her escaping him—he actually understood her anguish—but the road was no longer the best, and he was worried that the mare might stumble and throw her.
She saw nothing through her tears. It was over. Her life was finished and over. Alex was dead. Never again would she see her beloved parents. Murrough, Ewan, Robin, Willow, Padraic, and Deirdre were all lost to her! Like a child suddenly finding herself alone in an empty and strange room, Velvet could see nothing familiar in her future and despaired bitterly. Her sobs shook her entire body, and when the mare did stumble she was totally unprepared for it, tumbling headlong from her saddle.
By some miracle she was not hurt. Indeed she lurched to her feet and continued her flight, running down the Agra road, totally unaware of where she was and what she was doing.
Akbar raced after her. As he passed the mare his Mongol soul was relieved to note that she was not injured. He galloped on and, controlling his stallion with his strong legs, reached out to catch Velvet up into his arms. Suddenly conscious of him she struggled wildly, flailing at him with her fists, hitting out blindly in an effort to exorcise her pain. He cradled her body against his, her head held firmly against his broad chest.
“Shh, my Rose,” he soothed her over and over again. “Shh, shh. It will be all right. It will be all right, I promise you.”
Velvet began to cry in earnest now, weeping huge, salty tears that streamed down her face making dirty ribbons through the dust on her cheeks. She sobbed and sobbed until he thought his heart would break for her, so piteous was the sound of her keening. He had never heard such grief. It was total and lonely beyond all, and, slowing his horse to a walk, he let her wear herself out crying. He continued to walk his stallion until she finally quieted, and only then did he turn the animal back toward Fatehpur-Sikri.
Velvet realized suddenly where she was; that she had not only dirtied his silk tunic but wet it clear through. Beneath her ear his heartbeat thumped with steady monotony, and the manly smell of him filled her nostrils with the warm fragrance of sandalwood. She was very aware of him in all his maleness, and her own thoughts startled her greatly.
“Is the mare all right?” she ventured softly, embarrassed and almost wishing the earth would open and swallow her whole.
