Authors: Jane Toombs
A second later, the pirate captain forced Romell to her knees and Fatima hissed at her to bow her head. When she didn't immediately do so, Ying shoved her forward. Romell put her hands out to save herself from toppling onto her face. In this position, she couldn't see who spoke, but by the languid air of command, she knew it must be Nicholas.
Apparently, he'd told Ying to come forward for, as she raised her head, Romell saw the pirate captain get up from his knees and approach the throne, bent nearly double in homage. The captain talked rapidly and earnestly, and Nicholas flicked a look toward Romell and Fatima.
Nicholas must be about forty, Romell decided. Besides being older than Ying, he looked far different. He was dressed in a robe of raw silk with a belt of blue beads. He wore a heavily brocaded round cap adorned with jewels. The toes of his satin slippers curled upwards.
Somehow, Nicholas didn't look as Chinese as the junk pirates. In fact, she found his appearance exotic but pleasing. His eyes were wide-set, with bushy eyebrows, and his nose generous. He had a very long drooping moustache that hung below his chin, and a square patch of beard, closely trimmed, beginning below the edge of his lower lip.
As she watched Nicholas, a hefty, beardless youth approached the throne, head bowed but not with the abject submissiveness of Pirate Captain Ying.
"Cheng Cheng-Kung," Nicholas said, and the young man climbed onto the dais to sit at Nicholas's feet. Romell thought the youth resembled Nicholas--his son, perhaps?
The junk captain finished his speech and waited. Nicholas spoke briefly, and then Ying called Fatima. She rose and scurried forward, bent double. Nicholas spoke to her in Javanese.
"Dance for me," he ordered.
Fatima straightened and glanced about to where a man with two small drums sat cross-legged on the marble floor. She inclined her head toward him and the man began to beat the drums softly. Fatima waited a moment, then began the slow, precise movements of the bedayas. She seemed oblivious to anything except the drum beat and the sinuous rhythm of her dance as she made the gestures and suggestive poses of a woman attending to her toilet.
When she finished, Nicholas smiled and spoke to Ying, who grinned broadly, obviously pleased. Nicholas turned to stare at Romell, asking the junk captain a question. Ying bowed and scuttled backward. With one swift motion he drew the concealing scarf from Romell's head.
A sigh swept through the room as her bright crimson curls spilled out. Nicholas spoke and Ying motioned Romell to come forward. She rose from her knees and, fastening her eyes on Nicholas, approached the dais, head up, hearing more murmurs as she did so. She stopped below the throne.
He spoke to her in fair Dutch. "What is your name?"
"My name is Romell Wellsley," she answered, in the same language, "but I am not Dutch—I am English. Why has your man captured me and brought me here against my will?"
"You know who I am?" he asked, still speaking Dutch.
"You are Nicholas, king of the pirates," she said, telling herself that he must not know English.
"Yet you do not fear me?"
"I am your prisoner," she answered. "What prisoner doesn't fear a captor?"
"You don't show fear. Is your skin white underneath your sarong as this man claims?"
"Yes."
“And did he have you when he looked at your skin?"
"No."
"So. It is well for him that he told the truth. I will allow him his dancer if he is the victor tonight. She will be his reward."
Romell said nothing, not knowing what he was talking about.
"I will try you tonight," Nicholas said. He poked his foot into the back of the woman on the floor by his throne and spoke to her in Chinese.
She slithered down from the dais and, head bowed, took Romell's hand. Pulling Romell with her, she began walking backward from the room with an odd, hobbling gait. Before they reached the door, Nicholas spoke again:
"You intrigue me, Romell Wellsley, even though I do not like fan-qui, a foreign devil, such as you. And, of course, your feet are ugly. After tonight, I will decide if you are worth keeping."
Chapter 26
Romell and Fatima followed the Chinese woman along the corridor, Romell wondering at the woman's odd gait and puzzling over why Nicholas thought her feet were ugly. She tried to keep track of the turns they made but could not, and was hopelessly confused by the time they reached the women's quarters. Here the black man guarding the door stepped aside to let them enter.
While not in a separate building as the women's quarters in the kraton had been, the rooms were some distance from where Nicholas was. Here, as elsewhere in the palace, the only furniture was low divans, pillows on the floor, and short-legged ivory and gilt tables.
Romell ran her hand caressingly over the fabric of a pillow, feeling the silky pile of the blue velvet. In the light from thick candles in wall sconces of bronze, she saw delicate paintings of flowering branches and birds. Cream brocade hangings separated areas of the room for privacy, and a cool breeze entered through one wall that was folded back on itself.
Glancing through a window, she saw their rooms faced an enclosed courtyard, but could make out no detail in the darkness.
"What is wrong with their feet?" Fatima whispered, and Romell turned to look at three Chinese women clustered near the door. All the women wore extremely short sandals with elevated soles.
No woman could have feet that tiny, Romell decided, but she couldn't get a good view of their feet because they wore white silk stockings.
"Are they wives, do you think?" she asked Fatima.
"There is no wife in the palace, Ying tell me. These are concubines. See how they dress alike."
Romell saw Fatima was right. Although the belted ankle-length robes worn by the women were blue, red, and yellow, the brocade was identical.
Two more Chinese women entered the room, heads bowed, feet bare, dressed in matching robes of pink cotton. Their manner and dress told Romell they were servants.
"See," Fatima said, "their feet are like ours."
The maids approached, bowing repeatedly. With the use of Fatima's limited Chinese and frequent gestures on both sides, the two captive women were bathed and invited to choose from a profusion of shimmering robes the servants spread before them.
Fatima quickly picked a saffron-yellow shantung, with a wide trim of gold brocade threaded with silver and a brocade belt to match. She tried to place her feet in the sandals, but both her toes and heels hung over.
Romell hesitated between a pale green brocade and a peach satin, finally choosing the satin. As she wrapped the robe about her, she was suddenly reminded of the gown she had been wearing at Three Oaks the day her uncle was killed. Surely it had been this exact shade of peach?
She started to remove the robe but was too late. The maids had gathered the rejected clothes and were hurrying away.
Sighing, Romell belted the peach robe about her waist with a silver band. The fabric was rich and smooth, embroidered with tiny pearls at the hem and down the sleeves, but somehow she felt she had chosen wrong—that the color was a bad omen. She glanced down at the sandals neatly lined up on the floor but knew none of them would fit, since Fatima's feet were certainly smaller than hers. She stared at her bare toes, wriggling them.
Ugly feet, indeed! Nothing was wrong with her feet.
"Ying whisper to me of a sword contest tonight," Fatima said.
Romell looked up.
"He say he win tonight and so I am his." Fatima glanced at the concubines, the room, the maids. "I miss all so nice. Ying is not as rich. Maybe. I am the only one for him, though. Here--" Fatima shrugged and gestured at the Chinese concubines. "Many. At the kraton, I am a bedaya and someday to marry, but here the king tires and you are no more. Poof!"
Romell felt a tremor along her spine. She didn't want to be here in Nicholas's Chinese palace, but she thought it probable that any other fate—as long as she was in China—would be worse. Would Nicholas like her? It did matter.
Nicholas didn't seem to be as intrigued by her as the Raden had been. Nicholas had called her a foreign devil and told her she had ugly feet.
"You frown," Fatima said. "Better to look happy. Smile."
"I can't."
"You worry about Nicholas?" Fatima asked.
"I don't think he likes me."
"You make him want to keep you."
"How?"
"Easy to do. Men are much the same. Each likes to think he is strong and brave and the best."
Romell sighed. "Nicholas already knows he's king of the China Sea."
"You are not a man or a boat," Fatima scolded. "YOU are a woman."
"He has any woman he wants."
"Not you. Not yet. You look different to him. You are from another part of the world. Be different and he keeps you."
Different? How could she be different when she didn't have any idea of what Nicholas thought of as usual? How did he act when alone with a concubine? Romell glanced at the three women in their high sandals. What did any one of them do when alone with Nicholas? He probably thought their feet were beautiful.
Two servants entered carrying trays of bowls and cups, which they placed on the low tables. The three concubines tottered to one of the tables with their queer mincing steps and settled themselves on cushions.
Romell realized that she was very hungry and seated herself on the floor by another table where Fatima joined her. As she waited for the maids to serve them, Romell glanced at the concubines and saw two of them watching her. When she met their gaze, they ducked their heads shyly and turned away.
They're almost as small as Fatima, she thought. I'm nearly a head taller than any of them. I wasn't considered tall in Virginia or England or Amsterdam, but I've felt gigantic ever since the kraton. I've got cinnamon hair and white skin and my eyes are round instead of slanted--yes, I'm certainly different.
The maids placed saffron-colored rice on the table before her and tiny fish and bits of vegetables she couldn't identify. A separate dish held two small birds, cooked to an appetizing brown. The fragile porcelain cups were filled with a golden wine. Tiny cakes made a sweet pyramid on a gold-trimmed plate.
When the meal was over and the dishes taken away by three servants, a knock sounded on the door. One of the maids hurried to answer. A black guard stood outside and gestured with his hand, a summoning gesture.
"It is the sword fight," Fatima said. "We are to go, I think."
The concubines teetered toward the open door, and Fatima followed them. Romell shrugged and trailed behind. She had no choice here but to do as she was ordered.
Again they were led by the guard along corridors and past many rooms until they came to a tiny latticed porch overlooking a torch-ringed courtyard.
Romell peered through the open squares in the lattice work at the men sitting in a semicircle about an area of trampled dirt. Nicholas sat on a raised platform behind the spectators.
A gong sounded, the bronze note lingering in the air as two men entered the cleared space and squared off, swords in hand. Both were naked to the waist.
"See, it's Ying!" Fatima exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
As she spoke, the man facing Ying sprang at him. The junk captain parried the thrust and simultaneously leaped sideways. He was a nimble swordsman.
It was soon apparent to Romell that Ying was not only nimble in defense but in attack as well.
He forced the other man backward, slashing at him until the man threw down his sword and limped from the field, his skin red with blood. Cheers followed him.
A second man sprang into the arena and came at Ying with a flurry of thrusts. Ying gave ground and Romell felt Fatima tense beside her.
But Ying was only playing with the man. When Ying launched his own attack, his opponent was clearly outclassed. Soon number two lay on the ground, more seriously wounded than the first, for he had to be carried off.
Ying's an excellent swordsman, Romell said to herself. I doubt I've seen better. Even Adrien would be hard put to keep up with Ying.
A flood of memories blinded her eyes to the next fight, as she thought of Adrien in her uncle's great hall, saving her from John Burnet, Adrien holding her in the cabin of the ship bound for Amsterdam, Adrien finding her in the Southland wastes.
A muffled gasp from Fatima brought Romell back to the present. Below them, a man lay sprawled on the ground, his life's blood draining into the dirt. Above him, sword in hand, stood the grinning Ying.
Whether the death frightened any further challengers off, or whether there had only been three men scheduled to fight Ying was impossible to tell, but now Nicholas descended from his platform and stepped into the open area to embrace his captain. Ying and Nicholas left the arena together.
"I choose right," Fatima crowed. "Ying win."
Two of the blacks came forward, indicating the women should follow them. But as they left the balcony, one of the black men shepherded the concubines toward the women's quarters while Romell and Fatima were led off in a different direction by the other.
They passed through a large room with pillars instead of walls, where flowering plants bloomed around a white life-sized statue of an ornately-dressed Chinese woman wearing a headdress adorned with eleven tiny angry faces.
At the other end of this room stood still another black who bowed to Romell, gesturing to her to follow him. Fatima went on through the pillars after their original guide.
Romell looked back. "Fatima!" she cried.
The Javanese woman's voice floated back to Romell faintly although she could no longer see her. "May all the gods of heaven and of earth and of the sea look after you, my sister."
As Romell followed the guard down a corridor carpeted in red, she remembered Sora telling her about the goddess of the sea, Njai Loro Kidul, and her own half-serious plea to be taken across the ocean to Virginia. Sora had been right when she had warned about asking the green goddess for a favor, for the only water Romell had crossed was the China Sea.
I don't believe in heathen gods and goddesses, Romell told herself firmly, but she was nonetheless grateful for Fatima's parting prayer. There was certainly no one else to look after her, for she had been taught that her own god didn't interfere in human affairs.
The black servant paused before a red door, raised his hand and tapped twice on the wood. The door opened, and another black stood just inside. He bowed and swept his hand inward. Romell took a deep breath and stepped into the room. The servant backed through the door and shut it, leaving Romell alone in the room with the king of the pirates.
Nicholas stood by an open outside wall looking out into a courtyard, his back to her. Romell remained near the door looking about the room. A dark red carpet with a dragon design in gold covered much of the tiled floor. Against one wall a low vast circular bed shimmered as the light from the multi-candled chandelier glinted on the silver and gold threads woven into its brocade covering. Across the foot of the bed lay a white fur rug.
He'll turn in a minute, Romell told herself, and tell me to come to him. What will I do? There's no reason to fight him, that would be foolish. But I don't want him to touch me. I don't want his hands on my body. I don't want him to. ..
Like I didn't want Pieter. Shall I, then, lie inert when he takes me, as I did with Pieter?
Be different, Fatima had warned her, if you seek to stay in the palace. Was passivity different enough? Romell shook her head slightly. Submission wouldn't interest a man like Nicholas, who had servants and followers bowing and kneeling to him every moment of every day.
What, then?
She stared at his back. The red dragon embroidered on his black robe seemed to writhe under her gaze. Why didn't he turn?
She was trapped in China. She would be comfortable enough in this palace. If Nicholas cast her out, who knew what might happen to her in a land where she couldn't make herself understood, where she might be viewed as an ugly foreign devil?
I must make him want to keep me here, she thought desperately. Later, after I learn the language, perhaps I can find a way to escape.
But for now—what? I can't simply stand here waiting. What might a man wish me to do?
She remembered Margitte undressing in front of Jan Hardens, making each movement provocative, teasing Jan. The Javanese dancers were skilled in enticing dances--men liked being teased.
Could she try this? Romell gritted her teeth. Not in Margitte's way, perhaps, and she was no dancer, but she would try.
Tease. Offer and withdraw. Romell took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she raised a hand to her waist, slowly untying her belt and opening her robe. Before she could change her mind, she walked swiftly and silently in her bare feet across the room to Nicholas. She pressed her naked breasts against his back, reaching down and around with her hands to touch his sex.
Still he didn't turn, although she felt him grow large under her fingers. Large and hard. I'm not doing enough, she thought frantically. What now? Romell twisted away and walked across to the bed, her robe drifting behind her, half off her shoulders. She pulled the white fur from the bed and let it trail across the floor as she moved back to where Nicholas waited, watching. She spread the fur at his feet, shrugged off her robe and lay down on the white fur, looking up at him.