The hulking man pulled the swaddling away from the tiny baby. “A girl…” The words were a whisper. He held the infant up to the slanting light coming through the window to make sure, but it was undeniable; the baby was perfectly female.
He shoved the bundle at his sister, who had attended the birthing of the infant. His wife lay unconscious in the bed behind them. The furs were soaked with blood. He couldn’t bring himself to go to the woman who had been his wife for fifteen years. She had promised him this time she would give him a son. She had seen it in a dream: Saint Clement had handed her the child and proclaimed it would help them turn back the Turks. And now this. The tiny female wriggled and let out a mighty wail as her aunt Besjana wrapped her up again and cradled her against her chest.
“She’s healthy and strong this one.” Besjana patted the baby’s back.
“I have five daughters already. I need a son. Why won’t the Lord give me a son?” Grigor Kelmendi dropped his stubbled face into his hands.
“She could give you grandsons. Perhaps that was the meaning of the dream?”
“Or granddaughters.” Grigor shuddered. “How am I to repel the Ottomans with an army of women? Will they talk them to death?” He threw his eagle-crested helmet against the wall. The iron rebounded with a clatter on to the stone-flagged floor.
“It is not for us to argue with the Lord, Grigor. Take your daughter and stop your roaring.” She held the offending bundle towards him.
“I will not! Leave her out on the mountaintop. If the Lord loves females so much let him care for her.”
“You would leave your own daughter out in the snow? What if our father had done such a thing with me?”
“He only had you, Besjana. He didn’t have to bear the shame of fathering six daughters and no sons. Do you want all of Albania to laugh at me? The mountain lion who could only father lionesses.”
“They will not be laughing when you draw your sword against them. You are the greatest warrior these mountains have ever produced, Grigor. Not a man of the Kelmend has ever come close to you.”
“And yet the Lord shames me by sending me daughter after daughter. Do you know the Ottomans recite poems about me in the great hall at Rozafa castle?”
“Then turn your anger on them; ride to Shokdra and rip its walls down to the earth, but do not harm this child!” Besjana held the infant close.
“No one can know I have fathered another female.”
“Your mother is a woman. If it wasn’t for her you wouldn’t be here!” Besjana clutched the child more tightly.
“I have never disrespected my mother.” His eyes were burning wounds.
“The Virgin too was a woman, if it wasn’t for her, our saviour would never have come.”
“I am still without a son to help me repel the Ottomans! I have no use for daughters, Besjana! I cannot train them for war.” He ripped one of the shutters from the window and threw it at the floor where it smashed. A freezing gust blew into the room.
“You must stop this, Grigor, please.” Besjana shook as the baby’s screams grew louder. “The baby needs to be suckled or she will die. Your wife is not long for this world. We must think of the child.” Besjana looked down at the piteous sight on the bed and pulled another fur on top of the bloodied mess.
But Grigor was lost in his own wretched thoughts. “No one must know. Tell them mother and child died together.”
“You will not leave this child out on the mountain to die—she is perfect and beautiful.” Besjana kissed the child’s head, her tears mixing with the fresh blood.
“I will do with her what I will!” he roared. “Give her to me, Besjana.” He snatched the baby from her arms.
“Grigor, promise me you won’t kill her. Swear it on your honour as a Kelmend knight.”
He looked at Besjana and the haze of his anger dissipated. She was a good sister to him: loyal, fierce, protective. And he was not a murderer, though he’d killed many a man. She was right. He couldn’t leave the child to die. It would be as shameful as keeping her. He must find another way.
“I will not kill her.” His voice was gruff as he looked at the wailing bundle.
“Let me take her, Grigor.”
“I will not have this child associated with me. If you want to help, Besjana, have my wife buried.” He glanced at the pale visage of his wife. There was no time for tears. Ottoman reinforcements marched on them from Shkodra at that very moment. “I will take care of the child.” He shook off his sister’s pleading hands, wrapped the child in his fur cape so that no man or woman would know what lay within, and disappeared into the storm outside.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
Besjana was met at the doors of the Shirgj monastery by a Benedictine monk dressed in the coarse robes of his order. She swooped past the spindly old monk into the interior. It was even colder inside than it had been without. Besjana pulled her fur cape tightly about her body.
“You are the lady Besjana?” The monk looked at her suspiciously. Everyone was a potential threat with the Ottomans breathing down their necks.
“As you see.” She pulled the glove off her left hand and showed him the eagle-crest of the Kelmendi on her ring. He nodded and she walked through the vaulted entrance of the monastery. “The child?”
“The coin?” the monk responded.
Besjana untied a leather pouch from her waist and handed it to the monk, whose face split into a greedy smile.
“A true man of God,” Besjana scoffed.
“Even a man of God has accounts to settle.”
“Take me to the child.”
“She is upstairs.”
“Are you certain she is the child I seek?” Besjana asked as she was led up the stone staircase, past Byzantine murals of the Madonna and child.
“Ten months ago a baby was abandoned here in the middle of the night wrapped in the finest fur I have ever seen. A rider was seen on a great, grey warhorse emblazoned with the very crest on your ring.”
“I see.” Besjana felt euphoria ripple through her core. She had found her. “And you kept this information to yourself?”
“I am fond of having my head attached to my body, so yes, I kept the activities of your noble brother to myself, until now.” As he spoke, they left the stairwell and stopped before a timber door.
“I too am quite skilled with a sword, so I suggest you continue to keep your silence.” Besjana pushed the door inwards and entered. Lying in the middle of the room was a row of tiny cribs filled with infant girls. Seven little bodies slept beneath crudely knitted blankets of goat hair hardly warm enough to keep out the mountain air.
Besjana recognised, without having to ask, the visage of her niece. It had taken ten months for her to track down the baby, but the girl was the very image of her dead mother. She grabbed the child from the crib and cradled her, wrapping her fur cape around the both of them. She was so cold. It was a wonder she was alive at all.
“Where is her fur?” Besjana barked at the monk.
“We sold it to pay for provisions. Your brother left no money. We do the best we can for abandoned children.”
“This is the best you can do?” Besjana grabbed the monk by the hood of his robe.
“Lady, I am the one who has cared for your niece these long months.”
“She is dirty and her crib is soaked with piss. I ought to drown you in it.”
“My Lady, please. You will wake the others.”
Besjana looked at the other forlorn little bodies asleep in the room. She felt despair clutch at her heart; it was a curse to be born a girl in these lands, perhaps in all lands. “Where are their parents?”
“Some are dead; some are like your brother. They do not want their shame to be known to the world.”
“There should be no shame in giving birth to a girl.” She stared into the priest’s face. “I am a woman and I could take your head off with one strike of my axe.”
“Please, my lady. I am only saying what others believe.”
“You are all stupid creatures.” She moved towards the door. “I am taking my niece home. I will be sending a servant to care for these girls. If she writes to tell me they are ill-treated, expect to see me again.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“And remember, Grigor might be the best warrior in all of Albania, but he will never be more clever or cunning than me.” Besjana swept from the room and back to the freezing waters of the Bojana River where her oarsmen waited.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
“Nora!” Besjana’s voice bounced off the rocks where the girl was playing beside one of the mountain streams that flowed in the forest around their home.
Nora caught the dragonfly between her thumb and finger and yelped in excitement. “I caught it!” She jumped up from her perch and dashed across the stream to where her aunt waited in the shadows of the trees.
“Quiet, Nora. We have company.”
“But I caught the dragonfly in my fingers.”
“That is very good, but do you remember what I told you about visitors?”
“What visitors?” Nora was more interested in the dragonfly.
“My brother has come with two of his men.”
“I have an uncle?” The child’s eyes widened and she made to run towards the cottage.
“Nora, no.” Besjana grabbed her arm and yanked her backwards.
“I want to see him.” The dragonfly escaped from the child’s grip.
“Do you remember what you must do if we have a visitor to the cottage?” Besjana knelt to peer into Nora’s face.
“I must pretend I am a boy?”
“Yes, very good, Nora.” Besjana’s shoulders relaxed.
“But, I’m really a girl like you, aren’t I?” Nora’s forehead creased as she looked up into her aunt’s face.
“You are, but no one can know that. We must pretend you are a boy until you are old enough to protect yourself. Do you understand, Nora?”
“Why would anyone want to hurt me?” The child laughed.
“This is not a game, Nora.” Besjana shook the child. “Your uncle must never know you are a girl. He must only know you as my son, understand?”
“But Nora is a girl’s name. You should have given me a boy’s name instead.”
“Very true. You can choose a new name for yourself.”
Nora’s face lit up. “Can I be called Kreshnik?”
“You want your name to be ‘Knight’?”
“I’d like to be either a knight or a zana, a mountain fairy. Both are strong and fierce, but Zana is a girl’s name.”
“Kreshnik it will have to be then.” Besjana ruffled the girl’s long chestnut hair that fell in waves to her waist. “Now you must go around the back to the stable and cut off your hair.”
“Cut off my hair?” Nora’s voice was hollow.
“It is too beautiful to belong to a knight, Nora. I shouldn’t have allowed you to grow it. Imagine if your uncle had found you out here running about?”
“Must I dress like a boy too?”
“Yes. See that the stable boy gives you some of his clothes to wear. Your uncle must not suspect who you are, Nora. Your safety depends on it.”
After watching the waif-like figure disappear between the trees, Besjana wound her way back through the forest and into the cottage where her brother was downing another glass of raki.
“Easy, Grigor. I’ve only got a few bottles left.” She frowned at him as she entered.
“How can you live up here alone with only a few bottles of raki, woman? If I lived this deep in the woods I would drink all day.”
“I have better things to do than drink; I have my work.” Besjana looked at the spinning wheel that sat in the corner.
“You gave up the life of a noble woman to come up here and spin wool?” Grigor curled his top lip and then took another swig.
“I make clothes as well and care for my flock.”
“Ha—goats and sheep, your only company.” He turned to the two Knights who stood by the front door and the three whooped in laughter.
“That’s where you are wrong. I have someone I want you to meet,” Besjana told her brother as he downed another glass of raki
“You haven’t got a man living up here with you?” All traces of mirth disappeared from Grigor’s face.
“I have a son.” Besjana’s chin lifted proudly.
“You have a son.” He almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“How in God’s kingdom did you get a son, sister? You’ve never married.”
“I’m not claiming a virgin birth, Grigor. The boy’s father is dead and I shall speak not another word about him, so do not ask me.” She rearranged the fur that was draped around her shoulders. She needed more wood for the fire but she didn’t dare ask the men to go out and get it until Nora was safely disguised. What was taking the child so long?
“If he wasn’t dead I would kill him myself!” He banged on the wooden table with both his fists. “How dare any man touch my sister without my permission! What were you thinking?” His face flushed an ugly red.
“Have another drink, Grigor.” Besjana got up and pulled another bottle of raki from the cupboard.
“You are an unnatural woman! You could have had any knight in Malsia.” He pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it across the table at her.
“I didn’t want a knight of Malsia. I’ve seen the way knights treat their ladies. I was there when your wife died, remember?” She threw the cork back at him.
A shadow passed over Grigor’s face and he took a long swig of his drink. “I will not speak of your past if you do not speak of mine.” It was as close to an admittance of regret as she would ever get from him.
“Agreed. Now, here is my son.” Besjana stood as the door was pushed inwards. “Come, Kreshnik. Come, meet your uncle.”
Nora hesitated for a second in the doorway, casting wary glances at the armed men who flanked the entrance, but the strange light in Grigor’s eyes drew her towards him. “Uncle.” She scratched at her close-cropped hair.
“Your name is Kreshnik?” Grigor looked the child up and down.
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, little knight, it is time you met a real kreshnik.” A rare smile cracked his face.
“You are a real knight?” Nora couldn’t hide her excitement.
“The most famous in this land; your mother has not told you of me?” Grigor cast a disapproving glance as his sister.
“Only that she doesn’t like you much.” Nora shrugged.
“Nor–Kreshnik!” Besjana shook her head.
“You are not afraid of me, boy?” Delight shone in Grigor’s eyes.
“I’m not afraid of anyone.”
“Fearless and quick. How old are you, boy?”
“He is five,” Besjana lied. Nora had recently turned six.
“You are tall for a five year old but too skinny to join my knights yet. You’re mother must be a terrible cook.”
“And not beyond poisoning unwanted guests,” Besjana sneered as she moved over to the pot she was making goat and bean stew in.
“Lucky I have brought my men to taste-test for me,” Grigor laughed. “I have missed your fire, sister.”
“How did you find me?” Besjana gave him a guarded stare.
“We were tracking some Ottoman spies in a nearby village when we heard a story of a beautiful woman living alone on the mountaintop. My men were eager to catch a glimpse of this zana, but instead we found you and your son.”
“The villagers are simpler people than I thought if they cannot tell the difference between me and a zana.”
“Well you are still beautiful enough to mesmerise my men here, so they weren’t too wrong.” Grigor looked her up and down. “You must marry.”
“I will do no such thing!” She turned on him with her spoon.
“Be sensible, woman, you cannot raise this boy on your own. What will you teach him, to weave cloth and braid his hair?” The knights by the door laughed.
“I climb trees and catch animals and ride the horses,” Nora interrupted.
“Hush, Kreshnik.” Besjana pushed Nora behind her. “I will not return with you to Kelmendi.”
“You would rob the child of the chance to train as one of my knights?” Grigor’s brow creased.
“I could be one of your knights?” Nora ran around Besjana to stand before Grigor again.
“Out of the question.” Besjana pulled Nora backwards into her arms. “Kreshnik cannot train with you.”
“Why ever not? The boy wants to become a knight. I am in need of more knights to fight the Ottomans. If we do not continue to train and fight, even your remote home up here will soon be overrun by the Turkish vermin.”
Besjana could not tell Grigor the real reason she didn’t want Kreshnik to train with him. What would happen when Nora’s body could no longer be disguised as that of a skinny boy? Short hair and a stable boy’s clothes would not disguise the female figure she would one day have.
On the other hand, Nora had rare dexterity and strength. If she was trained as a Kelmendi knight, she may be able to protect herself when her true identity was revealed. Besjana knew of herbs she could give the child to delay the changes of womanhood for a few years more.
“Very well.” Besjana released Nora.
“You changed your mind?” Grigor was taken aback.
“If you want to train my son I will allow it. But the child sleeps in my room and will always be within my sight, understand?”
“Knights do not have their mothers hold their hands on the battlefield, Besjana.”
“None of your knights ever had me as a mother.”
“So I can really do it, I can really train to become a knight?” Nora’s face was suffused with ecstasy.
“Yes, you can,” Grigor slapped the child on the back. “And your first task as a knight is to start eating. We need some meat on those bones if you’re going to be able to carry your armour.”
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
“How much further to Shokdra?” Nora called after her uncle. “My mother is not feeling well.”
“That is the bridge ahead of us, and just behind it the castle. I told your mother this was no trip for a woman to make; this is a tournament. Go tell the old crone to stop her whining.” Grigor playfully shooed Nora away from the band of Kelmendi knights where he sat in full armour astride his warhorse.
“You know she will never leave my side until one of us is dead.” Nora laughed as she expertly turned her horse and galloped back to her place in the cavalcade.
In the ten years since Grigor had taken her and Besjana from their forest home, never once had he guessed that little ‘Kreshnik’ was in fact ‘Nora’. Besjana had done well in delaying the onset of womanhood with herbs, but it could not be delayed forever. Nora, now sixteen, had to bandage her chest tightly each morning and go on solo reconnaissance missions into the mountains at least once every few months; she thanked the saints that she wasn’t as regular as other girls. There would be problems explaining more frequent withdrawals from Kelmendi.
Despite Grigor’s gruff manner, Nora had come to love and respect her ‘uncle’. She had not wasted a minute with him over the years, learning how to fight, hunt and ride as well as any of his men. There might be stronger knights in the ranks, but her cleverness, her speed and her dexterity with a sword had drawn the notice of everyone in Malsia. Nora had learned that brute strength could never win over clever planning and intuition. She had saved her little band from many a scrape with the Ottomans over the last few years using guile rather than brawn. The heavy-footed Turks were no match for the Kelmendi who could disappear into the mountain fog as fast as the fairies they were reported to have descended from.
So it was that this band of revered knights had been invited down for a ‘friendly’ tournament at Rozafa Castle, in Shkoder, currently home to Vutsi Pasha, the Ottoman Pasha whose task it was to take the highlands for the Turks.
Nora had never been this close to Shkoder before. She had worried this truce was a trap, but if it was, she would take many Ottoman heads with her as she escaped. The lure of demonstrating her skill at the tournament was too great. She was famous throughout the villages of the highlands but Nora would not be happy until the entire empire flinched at the sound of her name: Kreshnik.
Nora had little time to think on it further as they cantered up the hillside, through the gates and into the ward. Nora felt her back stiffen as she looked up at where the green crescent flags of the Ottomans whipped around atop the keep and ramparts. She wanted the invaders gone from these lands as much as her uncle ever had. Albania had seen a long procession of invaders; Greeks, Macedonians, Romans, Bulgarians and now the Turks. This was her chance to take a few of them out. She felt the adrenaline dance along her veins. Grigor and his knights dismounted and were led forward to where the pasha sat, swathed in cloaks, upon a raised platform erected before the keep. He wore the giant white turban of the Ottomans but was no native Turk; his face was very white and his eyes icy blue like the snow and rivers of his Bosnian homeland just beyond the neighbouring land of Montenegro. One of his men, a janissary from the same Balkan land as his master, stepped forward to welcome them.
“In the name of Allah, the most gracious, the most merciful. We bear witness that there is no god in any land save he and that Muhammad, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, is his final messenger. Our most honourable leader, friend of Sultan Murad IV and slave of Allah, Vutsi Pasha, welcomes you here to Rozafa castle. If Allah wills it we invite you to renounce your false religion and convert to Islam, the one true religion, so that you may be availed of Allah’s mercy before it is too late.” The janissary dipped his head.
Grigor puffed his chest out and laughed heartily. “I prefer my religion to slavery at the hands of the Turks. Does your master not have his own tongue?” Grigor hadn’t gotten his reputation as the Lion of the mountains for nothing.
“If you wish to keep your tongue, infidel, I suggest you do not insult my master again.” The janissary pulled his yatagan a few inches from its sheath.
“Mjaft.” The use of the Albanian word drew smiles from all the Kelmendi as the pasha came down the stairs to stand before Grigor. Vutsi Pasha was a good two foot taller than his Albanian foe, but this did not deter Grigor.
“You’ve learned our language?” Grigor did not hide his approval.
“A good pasha learns the ways of his people.”
“We are not your people. The Kelmendi belong to no one but themselves.”
“For now.” The pasha smiled enigmatically.
“You wanted a tournament, Ottoman. Let us not disappoint the crowd. Shall the two of us begin and end it here this day?”
“You have spent too long in the mountains with the beasts, my friend. This is not how we run things in the world of men. There are rules and traditions to be observed.”
“Like kidnapping our sons so you can turn them into your janissaries?”
“What you call kidnapping, I call tribute.”
“Spoken like a true silver-tongued Turk. Do they tell you what to say as well as how to scrape your forehead across the ground?”
Vutsi Pasha smiled. “You Albanians have fire but you lack delicacy.”
“My deepest apologies, great pasha, but mountain lions have no need for delicacy when they are ripping apart their prey.”
Nora had watched this exchange with growing impatience. “What are the rules?” The words were out of her mouth before she realised.
An angry red flush suffused Grigor’s cheeks. The pasha’s face remained blank as he studied her carefully.
“How dare you speak directly to the pasha!” the janissary who still hovered closely behind his master snarled at her.
“Fall back, Kreshnik!” Grigor glared at her before angling his body between her and the janissary.
“Kreshnik? Is that your name, boy?” The pasha moved forward to where Nora stood flanked by two other Kelmendi knights. Besjana immediately pushed her way through the throng and hovered just behind Nora’s shoulder. “You are well protected, Kreshnik. And who is this lovely woman with you?”
“She is my mother, Besjana Kelmendi, my lord.” Nora answered as she turned to glare at Besjana. It did her no favours to be publicly coddled.
“The cub does not stray far from its mother.” The pasha smiled as he turned back to his janissary behind him.
“I am no cub, my lord!” Nora’s voice shook with anger.
“No?” The pasha turned back to her. “But you are very comely for a boy.” He peered into her face. “Do you have talents other than that little growl?”
Nora held his gaze without flinching. “You won’t think me so attractive when I have three of your men’s heads hanging from my belt.”
“Pretty and fierce.” The pasha erupted into laughter. “I shall enjoy watching you fight, Kreshnik. You will go first.” The pasha smiled before returning to his seat.
“You can’t let Kreshnik fight one of their champions, Grigor, he’s not ready.”
“Of course I am ready!” Nora protested Besjana’s words.
“There is nothing I can do now, Besjana. Your son is as wilful as you. He will never be happy until he has his chance to outshine us all or be killed in the process—so here it is, boy.”
“I’m not dying today, Uncle,” Nora laughed in his face. “Not until I take out a dozen of these lounging Turks, anyway.”
“Kreshnik, you are young. You have never fought in open combat like this.” Besjana grabbed Nora’s shoulders and tried to communicate a thousand other things with her eyes.
“This is my chance.” Nora would not be stopped.
“Chance for what?”
Nora bent her head forward to speak for Besjana’s ears only. “To prove I am as worthy as any son.”
“You are better than any son could be.” Besjana gripped Nora’s shoulders tightly but had to let go as Nora was led away by the janissary to prepare for the opening bout.
◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊∆◊
“Kreshnik, they are waiting.” Grigor had come for her.
“I am ready.” Nora put her sword back into its sheath and made to walk towards the inner court.
“Wait, boy. I have something for you.” Grigor took a parcel from inside his tunic, and unwrapped a glistening dagger.
Nora’s mouth fell open. “But that is yours.”
“Given to me by my father and passed down through every generation before from father to son.”
“I am not your son.”
“No, but you are fearless, as I always hoped my son would be. This belongs to you now. Know that no man who ever wielded this dagger has died from a wound inflicted by an opponent.”
“I am honoured.” Nora swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat.
“Do not make me regret giving it to you, Kreshnik. Go out there and show those Turkish dogs what an Albanian mountain lion can do.” Grigor slapped her roughly on the back and gripped her shoulder as they walked away from the horses and into the inner court.
The pasha and his janissaries sat upon a raised dais at the northern end of the court. Groups of knights from all over Albania, Macedonia and Serbia flanked the other sides. Besjana stood amongst the Kelmendi knights as Nora pulled her helmet over her head and marched forward into the centre of the court.
The ranks of Turkish janissaries across from them opened and a tall man with shoulders twice as wide as Nora’s walked forward and stopped a few feet before her. He pulled a long, curved yatagan—favoured sword of the janissaries—from his waistband that looked as if it weighed as much as Nora’s entire armoured body. She felt fear rake its icy fingers up her spine but she stubbornly shook it off. She knew better then to be swayed by outward displays of brute strength. Her opponent might weigh three times what she did but she had the dagger, her speed, and her cunning. She gripped the dagger hilt tightly as the spectators began to jeer and laugh at the sight of so slight a boy up against the Turkish giant. The drums stopped.
The moment the pasha barked for the duel to begin, Nora found herself leaping sideways as the huge Turk lunged at her with his yatagan. He was quicker than she had anticipated and he only took a moment to recover his balance. He lunged for her again but she deflected his blow with her eagle-crested shield. The impact reverberated around the court and knocked her to her knees, but pulling out her dagger, she jabbed him in the side, before rolling out of the way as he went down. The Turk grabbed at his wound and growled as his hand came away bloody. He cursed in a language she couldn’t understand, then pushed himself off the ground and advanced on her again.
Nora raised her shield as he swung at her but the shield, made of wood with only an iron plate attached to the front, splintered in two and the blow of his yatagan knocked her backwards onto the ground. She tried to roll but the Turk pinned her down with his boot before grabbing her about the waist and lifting her over his head. The crowd erupted into laughter as he spun around with her held up as if she were a straw puppet.
“Put me down you filthy ox!” Nora pummelled at his head with the butt of her dagger. His curved golden helmet deflected her blows at first but she found his temple and the Turk crumpled to his knees. Nora wasted no time; wrapping her legs about his neck, she squeezed as hard as she could, cutting off his air.
The Turk fell to his side but his neck was so thick and muscled that she couldn’t apply enough pressure to completely cut off his breath. He reached for her again, grabbing the bottom of her tunic and flinging her across the arena, still holding her breastplate, which tore at the fastenings and came away. Nora landed on the ground, the wind knocked out of her. Her clothes had come away and she was left in nothing but the bandages she had so expertly wrapped around her chest that morning. Trying desperately to catch her breath she rolled and began crawling away from the Turk.
“Kreshnik!” Nora heard Besjana’s scream from the side.
Nora could hardly focus her eyes. She felt the Turk’s blade slice down her back, cutting away the bandages. He leaned down and whispered something; his tone was enough to communicate his lewd intent. She tried desperately to clasp the tattered fabric to her chest as she was plucked from the ground by her ankle and held upside down, exposing her female chest to every pair of astonished eyes in Rozafa castle.
“Enough!” the pasha yelled as he rose from his seat.
Nora’s opponent froze with her still held mid-air. While his attention was levelled on his master, Nora sank her dagger into his bicep. The Turk bellowed, dropping her to the ground again.
“I commanded you to stop!” The pasha grabbed Nora by her cropped hair and dragged her across the ground. Another of the janissaries snatched the eagle-crested dagger from her hands.
“You are a woman!” The pasha’s voice was a mixture of horror and awe as he took in the tight buds of her breasts.
“You knew that already, didn’t you?” Nora was brazen in her reply.
“I had my suspicions.” His eyes travelled the length of her dirt-covered body.
“What trick is this?” Grigor joined them in the middle of the court, his eyes bulging at the sight of Nora’s exposed breasts.
“This is your daughter, Grigor!” Besjana ran forward to shield Nora’s nakedness, throwing her fur cape about her. “This is the girl you abandoned at the monastery. She is a braver creature than any man within these walls.”
“You did this!” Grigor’s shock turned to rage as he confronted his sister. “You lied to me all this time, Besjana? This is why you hid Kreshnik in the mountains.” He grabbed her and shook her roughly.
“What choice did you give us?” She tore her arm from his grip. “I turned her into a boy so that she could live.”
“And live she shall. She is under my protection now,” the pasha declared loudly. “No one will hurt this woman.”
Grigor bristled. “She is my daughter and I will do with her as I wish.” He leaned in threateningly but the janissary held him back from the pasha.
“She is much more than your daughter now, Grigor. She is my champion.”
“Your champion?” Nora wheezed, still recovering from the the duel.
The Pasha nodded. He turned to the crowd. “It will be known throughout all the Ottoman Empire that Kreshnik Kelmendi—”
“Nora, my name is Nora.”
“So it is.” The pasha smiled upon her. “That you, Nora, a woman, have shown more courage than any man I have ever met. I honour you.”
The words she longed to hear. Finally she could be her own true self.
“And as the finest woman I have ever beheld, I ask you to become my wife.”
There it was. He didn’t want to honour her; he wanted to own her. Always the same with men: ownership, enslavement, possession.
“You cannot have her!” Grigor erupted.
“I am the pasha and I take what I want. She is my reward from Allah for all my days spent in this place of savages and infidels.”
“We do not recognise your Allah. This woman is a Catholic and my daughter. Under the laws of our land you cannot have her.”
“If you do not give her to me, I will burn all of Malsia to the ground.”
“I belong to no man, and I will not see Malsia burned for the sake of pride and lust,” Nora interrupted.
“Then you will become my wife?” The pasha’s eyes narrowed to greedy slits.
“Come to Malsia in a month’s time and you will receive exactly what you deserve for all your efforts, my lord.” Nora gave the pasha her most winning smile. “But I want my dagger back.” She held her hand out, regal and demanding.
The pasha motioned for his janissary to return the dagger to Nora. “Anything you wish, my lady.” His eyes travelled over her.
“My wish is to return home, my lord. I am injured. You must excuse me so that I can rest and prepare for your arrival.” She bowed to the pasha, and without waiting for his reply, walked back towards her horse, still tethered in the outer ward.
“I will be there, Nora of Kelmendi. I look forward to our next meeting,” the pasha promised.
Besjana and Grigor followed her from the inner court as the other Kelmendi knights made their horses ready to leave Rozafa.
“First you lie to me and then you defy me to marry that Turkish dog?” Grigor grabbed Nora’s shoulder and spun her around to face him.
“He’s not a Turk, he’s a Bosnian.” Nora’s voice was dry.
“Which is even worse. He is a traitor to his own people.”
“Let’s talk about betrayal, shall we, Father?” She drew the word out.
His face dropped. “I am not proud of what I did, Nora. But you cannot marry my enemy to spite me.”
“I am not marrying him.” She laughed dryly as she pulled herself up onto her horse, refusing Besjana’s assistance.
Grigor’s brows knitted together. “You invited him to Malsia in a month’s time to get what he deserves.”
“He will.” Nora winked at her father as she pulled the eagle-crested dagger from her waist and kissed the blade still wet with Turkish blood. “He will get exactly what he deserves, and that is my promise.”
“The Pasha, the Girl and the Dagger” by Havva Murat