The Prince Book 3: Osmanli Sehzadesi

By L.A. Bartrom

From the Far East comes Prince Djem, crossing angry seas with Crusader Knights to a Europe fraught with plague. The mysteries of the Mountain Deeps are encountered as he crosses the Alps of Hannibal's route and encounters Things of Elder Earth in the ancient Monasteries embedded at their base. The Prince

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Regency Publishers
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781960113115

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Copyright © 2022 Linda A. Bartrom.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ISBN: 978-1-960113-12-2 (Paperback Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-960113-13-9 (Hardcover Edition)

ISBN: 978-1-960113-11-5 (E-book Edition)

Some characters and events in this book are fictitious and products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Forward

Prologue

Chapter 1: Deep Winter

Chapter 2: Drums of Night

Chapter 3: The Crossing

Chapter 4: Things of Elder Earth

Chapter 5: The Letter

Chapter 6: The Citadel

Chapter 7: La Belle Helene

Chapter 8: The Encounter

Chapter 9: Visitors

Chapter 10: Tournament of Blood

Chapter 11: Osmanli Sehzadesi

Chapter 12: After

Epilogue

Characters

References

for Lebanon

Forward

When I think back on my childhood my mind is flooded with images of books, poems and songs. Our house was filled with books; books of poems, science fiction books, classical literature, academic textbooks. This is likely why I have a problem getting rid of books. I choose to surround myself with items that provide a nostalgic sense of love and security. That’s what was felt each time our mother would read to my brother and I, tell us stories or sing us a catchy Irish ditty. She has always had a love of learning, reading, teaching, and writing which was instilled in each of her children. This has carried through into my own profession as a Chemistry Professor and as mother. I am happy she has decided to write and continue to share her love of the written word with others. Perhaps those reading Dr. Linda Bartrom’s stories will feel the same sense of security and love of learning that I was afforded growing up with her as my mother.

Amy Jehl, PhD

Prologue

I am Prince Djem, youngest son of Mehmed ll The Conqueror. Born 1459 into the opulence of the Ottoman Empire, I was trained with my brothers in the ancient arts of combat; I have laid siege against the might of ancient Rhodes, lost blood-Battle against my brother through dark betrayal, and forged alliance with the Knights of St. John to regain my Throne. But the treacherous web spun by the dark powers of my brother seeks me. The winds of change blow mightily against me so I have made my haj and my soul is at peace. With my Crusader allies, I make ready to cross violent seas to Europa. Whisperings of plague, of deep and ancient secrets lie there. The great Wheel of Time turns.

Chapter 1

Deep Winter

Memoirs of Guillaume Archinault de Provence

Knight of the Order of St. John de Jerusalem

Maitre d’hotel a Sultan Djem Sayd

Winter 1483

The first day of travel out of Nice, which was mild compared to what I knew we would encounter later, was arduous. It was a gentle upward slope, but very icy, and even for one raised here it was difficult to find the road let alone footing. By the time the sun disappeared over the mountains and the frigid night set in, we had barely gone 30 miles. The lights of a cluster of houses, l’Escarène, which we had been looking for sign of for an hour, shone yellow in the deepening twilight. We urged our horses onward, glad enough for the promise of shelter.

I turned in my saddle. Djem and his brother were behind me, bent against the chill, their hoods so far up I could not see their faces within the huge coats. When darkness fell the hand of cold gripped the traveler like an iron fist and bent us to its will. We all became stiff like wooden creatures, taking shallow breaths, barely moving lest a spike of cold strike up our sleeves. And we were there. This would be our way for the days ahead, and this had been mild, without wind, or the blast of storm. The trip was a spectre, its shadow lay before us.

We drew near the larger building, it was a house which had added an extension twice the size of the original; the roof was high and steep, windows out from the attic spoke of the rooms it held for travelers, and hickory smoke spiced the air. We dismounted and entered. Our saddle packs were brought in. The warmth was a blanket, the air steamed, the skin of our faces burned as the nerves unwound, risen from the torpor of cold. The floor slushed with melting snow and the huge fireplace was hidden by our folk, gathered before it, hands out, letting the heat blast against us. The matron pushed us apart, ladling out soup into wooden bowls: potatoes, onions and large chunks of venison. The spoons were shallow, wooden, and our company who were staying in the hostel sank into chairs, eating the thick stuff slowly, drifting without talk. The Royal party was near me except for the women who had been taken upstairs to their own room. Thirty of us would be slept here; others in our company were housed in nearby homes and inns. Coin from traveler lodging was an industry for this small village; the price and willingness to pay, surely increased when hard winter set in.

The silence gave way to low talk, the low talk to yawns, yawns to stretches. Finally, servants who would sleep before our doors lifted our personal packs and followed us up behind housemen carrying lamps. Djem and his brother slept in a room between his military commanders Omar and Li; myself, Guy de Blanchefort, and Merlo slept in the space on the other side of them. This would become our custom as we sought lodging in our progress through the Alps. Charles Allemond had returned to Avignon and we would lose others as their duties at home called them. Our coats were laid over the chairs and tables below to dry and we wrapped ourselves in the comforters laid out upon the beds, and the night closed in.

The morning outside the small waxed paper windows was signalled by a foggy yellow light filtering through, along with frigid air emanating into the small cubicles. As soon as the comforters were thrown aside we were encompassed by icy cold and although we had slept in our clothes we scrambled for the stairs and the great room below where the huge fireplace broke the winter with its warmth. Our coats were dry; we picked them up off the floor and chairs, piling them in a corner and gathered at the hearth for food. The pork fat was crackling on a huge griddle over the flames, the serving woman was turning the meat, the aroma was devastating. The deep smell of yeast drew us to a basket of warm breads and we each tore off half a loaf, slathered it with butter and forked slabs of meat onto the plates provided on the side table. At the corner near a curtained window hung with a heavy quilt, sat a wizened elder, clearly a Turk, a shawl over his robes, pulling on a long pipe. His breakfast plate was on the floor, already finished. His turban was loosely wrapped, untwisted, and he watched us come down the wooden steps from the loft, interested, watching each figure as it descended into the long room. Snow sifted in as a young man entered, carrying two wooden buckets of water, kicking the door shut behind him. The white powder turned to mush in seconds as the heat melted it into the planked flooring.

The old man looked familiar, but his beard and mustache covered his entire lower face and his turban nearly the other half and I quickly lost interest as I seated myself at a longboard, and bent to the duty I owed to my stomach. The salt pork was crisp and delicious and the bread tore off soft. I was at complete peace at this moment.

I heard the murmur of Turkish and the Royal party as they descended, heading for the fireplace in seconds off the last riser. Djem and Stefan stood shoulder to shoulder facing the flames, the burning heat on their faces. The figure in the corner stood, quilt falling to the floor. The old man wrapped his robe tighter about him, and with a cough, began to walk toward the Princes. I stood. I know the power, the agents, that the Prince’s brother Bayezid had everywhere. His tentacles reached into every kingdom, every city, every trade; this man, unknown to us, had been here waiting. I moved quickly, so did Omar from the stairs, both of us moved to cut the man off before he reached Djem.

The man approached the Princes, we approached the man, Omar headed over . . . and then strangely . . . the Pasha stopped and exclaimed:

Nashu! At this Djem turned. I was by now nearly upon him and watched as he faced the Bey, not knowing what to expect, then head to one side assessing. A broad grin spread across his face followed by the greeting of peace. His eyes turned to concern, you are so thin old father . . . and your cough?

Nearly gone, student. I think the cold froze the demon from my body.

Come, sit, tell me of where you have been. I thought the worst, they told me nothing. Nothing!

The two sat, Djem Sultan and Nashu Bey, and the story of the three month separation was told . . . in Turkish. The morning wore on as they spoke, as though the years had peeled away, leaving only the core of teacher and student. The story was told of the short trip to the Inn, the leave taking of the knights in hard winter, their traveling on without him to Louis Xl at the French Court.

I was on the fringe of the conversation although I sat with them. I could not help but interject But sir, you were ill. Even now the first thing his majesty did was to inquire after your health. Was this not the reason you could not go on, perhaps why you were left at the inn, protected from the winter storm?

The elder’s face was mild, without reproach, but his words were straight forward: "Sir Archinault, we came here at risk, to your country. My Prince’s cause was not without a dependency and I myself opposed even his crossing to Rhodes for placing his life and his cause so wholly in the hands of another. But my Lord wished it done . . . and surely I saw no other way. But I was suspicious, and I remain suspicious. We were told your King forbade my Lord’s crossing his lands, but you now cross those same lands.

. . . do we go to Corvinus as the Sultan wishes? I am well you see, but I do not believe my illness was the reason I was left behind. And I am well enough to ask you directly what the Sultan may pull back from. For what man seeks reassurance that he is a prisoner. Would we not all rather think we are freemen as long as the illusion can be sustained? For what difference does it make to have a few more hours or days of contentment. It does not change the outcome; it did not change ours. The question is before you."

I knew the truth, and I knew he knew the truth. The question was a test of my words, a test of me, not of the plans themselves. Both our worlds had come together into this moment with the final plain question laid out clearly, said into this room, hanging there in space before us as though the words had been written in the fabric of the air… do we take the Prince to Corvinus? What do I do with this? The Prince looks at me now, Nashu Bey looks at me, and I am swallowed by their eyes, immersed in the pool of what I must do, turning things inside out for the lie to go on as long as possible. For my Order. For my God. Such strange things the gods require of us as we twist the shape of truth in order to shape what must be. And so I answered:

We travel to the east to protect your Lord, and turning to the Sultan, "to protect you. The country is dangerous, these times are dangerous. We do not have converse at this time with the King of Huns, but as we move further that may become possible. Your patience with us is needed, for my knights defend your party against our own people from within and your own agents from without." And although well I knew that my Knight Master de Blanchefort was in contact with Bayezid, I also knew we had saved the Prince from two attempts on his life. The former I did not tell him, the latter I did.

And thus it was that I spoke the plan to Djem and his elder, part illusion, part truth, put forth for their belief. Under it was the truth, squirming mightily but not set free. But suspicion filled the room, the air was heavy with it but it was not spoken, convenience was spoken. It separated us now, a fissure has been opened between us and I knew I had confirmed for the old teacher what I was.

Chapter 2

Drums of Night

Letters of Guillaume Archinault de Provence

Knight of the Order of St. Jean de Jerusalem

Maitre d’hotel a Sultan Djem Sayd

Winter 1483

The next morning we set out. There was a high sky, no thunderheads, no overcast of somber grey, no portent of a storm; most surely the warmth that enfolded us was welcome. The party had no idea what lay before us, the exception being the Frankish Knights and we said nothing. Except, that is, to say that our goal for the day was Tende, twenty-five miles east of L’Escarene, which seemed a reasonable progress for one day and the militia and Turks were in good spirits as the ride began.

Although I said little about what lay ahead, Commander de Blanchefort and myself made certain, very certain, that supplies for the trip were well set in and that every 15th person had a map of the terrain should we be separated; Djem Sultan questioned this, That seems extreme.

It is only a precaution your majesty, but he was looking closely at me and I knew, although he said nothing, that he understood in that moment the gravity of the terrain we would be crossing.

Even here the road already began to rise into the gentle roll of foothills and although straight, went steadily upward. Ahead the path veered sideways and the climb ahead could be seen as it wound around the rising mountain.

We moved into the trees, the road was frozen, the mounts picked their way carefully along, and once in awhile a great clump of snow would thunk down from the laden branches overhead. The silence of winter, beautiful from within a warm house with a banked fire and meat upon a spit, is another thing from without. For the silence signals the barrenness of frost, when all living things have the good sense to stay nestled down . . . except for man who ventures out for the least of reasons. Not for food, nor shelter, nor the discovery of a warm fire, but for polity. Man trades position for life, rank for survival, pits himself against the breath of winter to gain a wisp of something that will not last, and will always change. It is a thing I cannot think about too hard.

The rise of the foothills became the winding way of a mountain road, covered with snow but not deeply for the winds blew freely here, although the pine forest continued. Until mid-morning there was only the quiet crunch of the horses’ hooves but as we rounded the mountainside the wind caught us, sifting snow toward us from the branches and the ground, sending swirls of white up the legs of our mounts. By mid-day we had climbed enough to see the crest of these Frankish Alps, white, splendid against a blessedly clear sky. The road wound downward at noon, we did not stop, de Blanchefort and I rode back along the line of travelers, telling them to eat from their personal stores which each had been given: bread, cheese and wine; feedbags were filled for the horses. There could be no rest until we reached Tende, for no one would spend the night on the mountain if they did not have to; we knew the way, we would be sheltered when the deep night fell.

We continued, into valleys, up over rises, the horses were sturdy, the wagons moved steadily, it was a good day, an exhausting day, we kept them all moving. The wagons rolled forward, wheels creaking, the great horses straining against the harnesses, the weight, their breathe clouding into the afternoon air. I knew this road and we would reach Tende before night set in, which was sudden in the mountains. As we passed mid-afternoon, even with the winter sun clear in the sky, the temperature began to fall, we all felt it, the frozen air biting our lungs. I saw ahead the familiar hillcrest I had been looking for, de Blanchefort saw it as well, turned in his saddle ahead of me with a wide grin. He raised his voice:

Tende is ahead, be of good cheer. You will see it over this rise. We arrive within the hour! He rode along the line of riders and wagons and gave the news and as each group passed over the rim of the hill, the little city spread out below. The structures were four stories high, I watched Djem who was next to me, his eyes were fixed on the buildings. He rode staring at them and the doors which opened full onto levels high above ground, signalling the level of snowfall, becoming the entrances in deep winter. The slope downhill was sharp, the snow deep on this side of the hill, Dismount, dismount! came the order from Blanchfort. My horse was struggling under my weight, post holing into the snow; when I dismounted I could see the effect on his stride: he sank only half as deep, his efforts lessoned. I grabbed hold of his tail, following in his steps; our company wound snaking down off the hill, into the valley of Tende as darkness closed in on the last mountain town before the Alpine crest.

This was a larger city, the last refuge before the climb to the summit which towered over the town under a crystalline clear evening. Its crags and peaks looked fragile in the rising moonlight which spread like day across the blanket of snow. The doors of inns opened as travelers came and went; there were many places of lodging here, many rooms, and laughter filtered out into the night. Steam billowed into the frigid air as young stewards tumbled out and joined our own servants, leading away the animals into stables, real stables in this town, large with great doors. We trudged our way into the second Inn, four levels high, snow covering nearly the first level, windows barred shut, planks giving way into the second level and from there we descended a broad wooden staircase to the hall below, and our bags were taken upward to our rooms. TThe lower floor was warm, insulated by snow against the wind outside, closed against the elements, windows shuttered inside and out. The fireplace roared and the wine flowed freely, two casks in the corner providing ready drink and the beef shank on the spit spun its scent through the long room. Baskets of bread stood by on the hearth; bowls of butter and jam on each board. I waited for no one, I was hungry, Djem and Stefan followed me, Omar and Li Grabbing plates. The cook sliced off a slab of meat, we took loaves and set to the benches, buried in food, and hunger spun its tendrils of silence about us. Then wine, then soft murmurs about tomorrow.

We will rise very early, we cross the crest before noon if possible. The way will be very steep, the women will have to walk behind the wagons as we near the top, we will all walk our mounts then, for they are, in the end, what will keep us alive. Turks are to carry double food in their saddlebags in case we are slowed. And two jugs of water. The skies were clear today we will pray for the same in the morning, good night to you, sirs.

I left them sitting in the blast of heat, we had taken the table nearest the mouth of the fireplace. Their faces were burned with the cold and they looked tired. But there was no time for rest in the morning, our departure had to be carefully planned, carefully timed. I went over the trail in my mind, I had crossed it in winter twice only and was not looking forward to this one. These people were vulnerable to cold, they looked miserable. I went up the stairs and yet another flight and was led to a room shared with Blanchefort. The rooms were frigid, braziers of coals had been brought to warm our beds, we slept in our clothes, save our coats, and sleep found us in moments.

In the morning we rose before light came through our windows which were, in the inns of this town, of real glass. They still blistered cold into the rooms and getting out from under the quilts required commitment and a clear intent to gather our things quickly, heading down the stairs to pack our satchels before the great fireplace warming the huge gathering room. The heat was energizing, the fire was well underway from the coals of the night; boys were descending the stairs with armloads of firewood, piling the stuff beside the stone of the wall, leaving again to get more. The cooking would continue all day, breads, roasting meat, stews fragrant, thick with vegetables and the room already steamed with activity. Snow lay against the building’s lowest level up to the top of the windows nearly. One set of top shutters had been folded back for the dawning. I threw my bag on the floor and began to gather my socks, surcoat, leggings and scarves I had set out to dry, repacking the second pairs which would replace the wet ones at midday. There was a pounding of feet as more fuel came down the stairs and into the room and the young men, after dumping the wood ran for the window. They pulled a chair over to see out the high panes, scratching at the ice shards as the first glimmers of yellow streamed through; it was like a beacon that signalled that we had to be on our way. The voices of the boys looking out the window were urgent, they called to the woman kneading bread at the side-bar. She walked to the high panes, wiping her floured hands on the long white over-apron which covered her from shoulder to toe. Pushing the boys aside she peered out the glass, I walked over as well, curious.

The snow was level with the window, it made a platform outside. We all stood transfixed by the sight, for a few yards away in the deadly cold of pre-dawn there were a clot of men moving slowly, arms outstretched, hands twisting, slowly, bodies turning in unison. They were the Mongols, the Sipahi tribesmen, and one began a low sonorous song, a deeply sad sound, almost like a gong, then the others joined in and the sound grew as the first light of day spread over the flat expanse of white. And they were shirtless; their bodies were slender, sinewy, grey in the half-darkness, and their waist length black hair hung loose over their shoulders into their faces. They rejoiced in the air, free like creatures, and they danced in the joy of a life come from another place, another eaon, in movements celebrated in the long ago before memory began. Their leggings were wide and their boots made hardly a sound although they were nearly level with our eyes, they moved so softly, slowly turning, and I began to hear the repeated tones they made, and the sun rose, and the men danced. And it ended.

They moved to a circle and bowed, deeply, to each other and came inside at the second level door. We could hear them, there were perhaps ten, and we moved away from the window, each to our own tasks; it somehow felt like we had invaded their private world, we had seen what was not ours to see.

They moved to the fire and stood before it, thoughtful, still not dressed, warming themselves and their leggings. Turning, they pulled quilted shirting and tunics out of a pile in the corner by the door, took bread and cheese as they passed the side table, nodding respectfully toward the woman by the fire, and went to sit on the floor in a group. Li only stopped as he passed, turning slowly toward me, his black eyes snapping with a hidden knowledge. I always felt somewhat unveiled in his presence. The Sipahi often had this effect; it was as though they held within themselves a pool of knowledge I could not drink from, that I could not know, nor ever know. I envied Djem having them as warriors, these men knew not fear. Their calm belied a cauldron of bottomless courage at his disposal. I envied him.

The Sultan himself descended the steps into the room and came to me. The women need to be in this room, can you arrange it? I had forgotten that they had gone directly to their quarters last night, they had not warmed themselves at all.

Bring them down, they can have a corner table . . . I remembered how they hated chairs, or whatever pleases them. But they can have that much privacy, I can give you this. Will that do?

Wait, there is another solution, this was the serving woman from the stove. Our home has a fireplace, through that door, pointing to the far end of the room opposite the stairway. This place is built onto where we live. I have seen women from the East before, I know of their needs, bring them tome.

But your husband . . . Djem began, but was cut off, the woman clearly did not realize to whom she was speaking, and the Prince had a slight curve to his mouth, he took some humor at her insistent way.

My husband hunts, and my boys will stay out here, this with a harsh look at the wood-bearers who were now swabbing the tables and setting the benches down, which had been leaned against the walls for the night for sweeping. Go! Get them! And the Sultan of all the World turned on his heel at the command of this peasant woman who baked bread before the great fire for a living, and bounded up the stairs in perfect obedience to her orders.

The women emerged shortly from the stairwell, they were in purdah, crossing the room to the waiting woman who led them to the far door, and through into the domicile of the family who owned this hostel. Almeida wore not a burka and her beautiful face was visible behind a filmy veil which covered her nose and mouth. Her eyes went to Djem, passing over his face, he drew slightly toward her with a slight nod of his head, acknowledging her beauty, her proximity; the room was electric with their knowledge of each other, and I was sure their bed had been warm indeed last night.

The room settled now into packing and placement of satchels near the door for loading. My weapons were the only thing I kept near my person at all times, such was the case also for the Sipahi, Janissaries and my brother knights. Our defense on this journey would not be beset by the thieves and brigands which oft plagued travelers throughout all kingdoms, but not ours. They would only to see the great crosses on our scapulars, the sign of Hospitaller on our shields, the turbans of the Turks, and they would stay far from our path. None would challenge our company, but the battle against the weather would not be so simple. Or predictable.

Li and his Sipahi have gone out now to the stables; they groom their mounts, feed them. Many of the younger Mongols had slept near their animals, wrapped in great quilts with braziers of coals within their bedding, settled into stalls near their mount. I have heard the stories from these men of being tied onto their ponies at two years, eating, sleeping, caring for their animal; for not only did their horses depend on them, but they well knew from the time they were born, that they as well, depended on their horse. They were one, they were bound together, rider and mount, and the child learned to ride, eat, to play, to shoot, even to sleep on his horse. The first bow was given when they were five and it became a skill practiced from horseback in day-long exercise. Several days a week they were off their mounts to learn to shoot with the deadly aim that Sipahi were known for across the wide range of the Mongolian Steppes. The second bow was a man’s bow which they received at twelve when they entered the lodge of men and wore only animal skins from that day forward. Barely able to string the weapon, their young arms grew strong with the effort, until by fourteen they could ride and shoot with deadly accuracy. The horse and the man became one, a formidable weapon, many times the strength of each alone. They were ready for war.

Their mothers did not mourn this; the mourning would have been had their sons not offered themselves for sacrifice to the Mongol army. This was their duty, to supply young proud males, feathers braided into their long black hair which was never cut, in competition at war-festivals; they watched