She was looking at him as well, finding it strange that anyone so rude could be so good-looking. He was unlike any man she had ever seen before.
He had dark hair, which was uncovered, straight classical features and what she thought were almost black eyes.
There seemed to be a long silence before he began,
“I do apologise. I was not expecting to be visited by a Goddess from the heart of one of the mountains!”
Because she could not help it, Thea laughed.
She had always believed that there were Gods and Goddesses living on top of the snow-capped mountains.
They would show their disapproval of anyone by sending down cascades of icy water or would reward those they favoured with an abundance of delicious wild strawberries.
As he went on gazing at Thea, the artist rose to his feet.
He was tall, over six foot and his shoulders were broad and she realised that he showed his profession by the way he was dressed.
He had discarded his coat because the sun was warm, especially as the lake was sheltered by so many trees.
He was wearing instead of a tie, a red silk scarf round his neck that was tied in a large bow.
As Thea did not speak, the artist then said,
“Please forgive me and let me try to answer the question you were asking me that I did not allow you to finish.”
He seemed so contrite that Thea smiled and replied,
“Maybe it is I who should apologise for interrupting you when you are painting anything so beautiful.”
“I was cross because I could not capture it,” the artist admitted. “How can I depict the dancing lights on the water and the mystery of the trees?”
Thea stared at him in astonishment.
It was exactly what she thought herself, but nobody else had ever said it to her before.
“May I look at your painting?” she asked him.
The artist spread out his hands.
“I am honoured that you should do so. At the same time I am well aware that I am an inadequate painter.”
Thea moved closer to his easel.
She could see at first glance that the painting was very different from any of the pictures hanging on the walls of The Palace.
It was not in any way a precise representation of the lake or the trees.
It was, she thought, more of an impression and yet in some strange way he had captured the magic of the lake and its surrounds that more traditional artists would not have been able to achieve.
She was gazing intently at it unaware that the artist was watching her.
At length she declared,
“I think you are painting what you feel rather than what you see. It is very clever. I can feel the goblins under the trees and the nymphs beneath the water!”
She was speaking to herself rather than to him, then, as he did not reply, she turned to look at him.
“You are a Goddess from the mountains!” he exclaimed. “And no one else has ever understood what I am trying to do.”
‘It is – difficult to put into – words.”
“Of course,” he answered, “but what you are thinking and feeling is very much more important.”
Thea was going to ask him how he could speak like that when Mercury came to join her.
At the sound of the horse the artist turned his head to look with even more amazement at the huge black stallion with just a white star on his forehead.
“So this is how you reached me!” he cried.
“This is Mercury,” Thea said by way of introduction.
“The Messenger of the Gods!” the artist exclaimed. “How could he be anything else?”
He patted Mercury on the neck and he nuzzled Thea affectionately and then she said,
“What I was going to ask you was if you knew of anywhere near here where Mercury and I could have – something to eat. We have – travelled a – long way this morning.”
“I can understand that,” the artist said, glancing up at the mountain peaks directly above them, “but I am afraid I cannot offer you ambrosia!”
“I will accept – anything that is – edible,” Thea smiled.
As she thought about it, she was indeed feeling hungry, having eaten nothing since last night.
Even then because her father had upset her, she had only picked at the food that Martha had brought to her bedroom.
She had been thinking all the time of having to marry the old King Otho and the food had therefore seemed to stick in her throat.
The artist closed his paintbox and put his canvas under his arm.
He left both the easel and the stool where they were, making it clear that he intended to come back later for them.
Thea thought that he was not taking the risk of losing his picture although she doubted if there was anybody in the vicinity who was likely to steal it.
Then, as an afterthought, he asked her,
“Do you wish to ride or will you walk? It is not very far.”
“I will walk,” Thea answered.
They moved along a track that wound through the wood and Mercury followed behind them like a faithful dog would do.
“I feel rather guilty,” Thea said conversationally, “for taking you away from your work. You could have told me where I could go.”
“Apart from the fact that it would be impolite,” the artist replied, “I have just realised that I am hungry.”
Thea laughed.
“I feel the same, but I was so enjoying my ride that I forgot everything else.”
“Are you really riding alone?” the artist enquired.
“Yes.”
The one syllable told him better than more words that she did not wish to speak about it.
He glanced at her profile because she was now looking away from him and there was a twinkle in his eyes, but he did not say anything more.
They walked in silence until the trees suddenly came to an end and there, just in front of them, was a small building.
It was perched on the side of a mountain with a cliff below it that fell hundreds of feet down into a valley.
Thea looked down in surprise.
It was a very different valley from the one that she had just left. To begin with there were many more woods and it all seemed to be wild and uncultivated, but at the same time very beautiful.
There were no mountains straight ahead of them and the land seemed to just go on into infinity.
She realised suddenly that this was another country and that she had left her own.
But for the moment she did not want to ask the artist any questions.
She was so afraid that she would find that she was in Kanaris and that was King Otho’s Kingdom.
The artist was now leading her towards the small house.
As they drew nearer to it, Thea thought that it was a very strange place to find a hotel.
As far as she could see, either beyond or below it, there was no other building.
She was just about to ask the artist for an explanation when a young man came hurrying towards him.
“I just coming, Master,” he said, “to tell you time for luncheon.”
“Tell your mother I have a guest for luncheon,” the artist ordered, “and tell Valou that there is a hungry horse that requires a stable.”
The boy looked at Mercury and then he ran to do the artist’s bidding.
Thea was at once aware that both the artist and the boy had spoken in a language that was different from the language of Kostas.
She could fully understand what he was saying and she knew that she had learnt their language, but for the moment she could not put a name to it.
They had gone on for a short distance before an older man appeared and Thea thought that he would be recognisable anywhere as being connected with horses.
He gave an exclamation when he saw Mercury and it was one of admiration.
“Give him a good meal, Valou,” the artist said, “which is what I intend to have myself.”
The groom bowed politely to Thea as he passed her and then he patted Mercury before he took him by the bridle.
When the horse went with him without making a fuss, Thea knew immediately that he was experienced with animals.
“We go this way,” the artist suggested.
She saw that he was taking her to the front of the small house.
There was a balcony outside and she could see that there was a table already laid for one with a white tablecloth. It had an orange-coloured umbrella above it to keep off the sun.
The artist, however, walked in through the door that led into the hall. Thea, following him, found that it was very different from what she had expected.
The hall was small and painted white. The only decoration consisted of several paintings like the one that the artist had been working on by the lake.
At a glance she could see that all the paintings had the same characteristics that made her appreciate that he was painting what he felt.
“If you go up the stairs,” he said, “you will find a room on the left where I am sure you would like to wash your hands.”
“Thank you,” Thea replied.
She went up the stairs thinking that this was indeed an unexpected adventure.
She found the room, which was not difficult, as there were only two doors at the top of the stairs, one to the right and one to the left.
The room that she had been directed to was as surprising as the hall. It was small, but the window had a glorious view over the valley below that was breathtaking.
Most of the room seemed to be filled with a very large bed that was distinctive because the back, the sides and the feet were all carved and painted.
Thea knew that it was the work of local craftsmen, but the workmanship was far superior to anything that she had seen before.
The headboard depicted flowers that she had seen by the lake, a great number of which she reckoned were wild. And amongst them nestled birds and most of them she knew by name.
There were one or two, however, that were strangers to Thea.
Their brilliant plumage, the colours of the flowers and the skilful manner that they had been massed together was lovely.
For a moment she could only stand staring at it and then she realised that the bed cover was also the product of local talent.
There were many women in Kostas who made lace with their bobbins and what she was looking at now was outstanding work and very lovely indeed.
On the polished wooden floor there were white rugs of chamois skin.
She washed her hands in a china bowl which she was quite certain was the work of local potters.
It was all so fascinating and intriguing.
She admired it for some time before she looked for a mirror, which again was carved very delicately and was surmounted by two fat little cupids who had been coloured in natural hues.
She next tidied her hair, which had been swept into curls by the wild way that she had galloped on Mercury.
Then she went down the stairs.
The artist was waiting for her on the balcony outside. She was sure it was a concession that he had put on a coat of some light material and a different scarf at his neck and this time it was blue and it too was tied in a bow in the front.
She wondered if he wore the velvet tam-o’-shanter that was usually adopted by French artists.
She had, however, no wish to ask him any uncomfortable questions or to appear critical in any way.
She saw, as she joined her host, that another chair had been placed beside the table.
She sat down under the shade of the orange umbrella, the sun was high in the sky and it was becoming increasingly hot.
As if he read her thoughts, the artist suggested,
“Why do you not take off your riding coat?”
“What a good idea,” Thea nodded.
He helped her out of her coat and, as he put it down on a chair, she looked at the view and said,
“I think I am dreaming! I had no idea that anything could be quite so glorious.”
“Nor had I,” the artist replied, but he was looking at her.
He poured something from a jug into her glass and, when she looked at it, he explained,
“It is a fruit juice that is a local speciality. I do hope you will enjoy it.”
She lifted it to her lips and found it delicious and then, because she was curious, she had to ask him,
“Is this your house? Do you live here?”
“It is my house,” he replied.
“How could you have found anything so different – so unusual?” Thea asked.
“I must have known instinctively that one day it would be what you wanted,” he replied.
She laughed.
“That is a pretty speech, but I think that it was very clever of you to discover anything so unique!”
“I thought so myself.”
Once again he was gazing at her.
It flashed through her mind how shocked her father and mother would be that she was alone with a very handsome young man in a house where there was no chaperone.
The boy who had met them at the lake brought out the first dish.
Now, as he came towards the table, he was not in his shirtsleeves. He had put on a clean white jacket and he had brushed his hair.
“I usually have a small luncheon,” the artist was saying, “but I promise to provide you with something more exotic at dinner.”
Thea’s eyes opened wide.
“Dinner?” she exclaimed. “But I was – not planning to – stay.”
“Where are you going?”
She realised that she had no answer to this question and after a moment she said,
“I-I am not quite – certain but – further on.”
“Why?”
There really seemed to be no answer to that.
She had to be as far as possible from The Palace, but it was something that she could not say to her charming host.
They were eating a salad of eggs, fish, lettuce and tomatoes.
Because she was hungry, Thea thought that every mouthful was a real joy.
It was followed promptly by a dish of young tender chicken cooked with cream and it was flavoured with some herbs that Thea did not recognise.
There were tiny potatoes, so small that it seemed cruel to eat them, peas that were also minute and little carrots no bigger than Thea’s smallest finger.
After this there was cheese of several different varieties.
Coffee, black and fragrant, completed one of the most delicious meals that Thea had ever enjoyed.
They did not talk much while they were eating and, when they had finished, the artist sat back in his chair.
“Now tell me about yourself,” he proposed. “First of all I don’t know your name.”
“It is ‘Thea’.”
She knew as she spoke that she was quite safe in saying that for only her family called her ‘Thea’ and to the people of Kostas she was ‘Princess Sydel’.
“But I don’t know your name,” she said, “and I just cannot go on thinking of you as ‘the artist’.”
He laughed.
“That is a compliment, but I am too conscious of my obvious shortcomings to be entitled to it.”
“Of course you are entitled to it,” Thea argued. “It is only that I have the idea that you are in advance of our time. One day people will understand what you are trying to say in your paintings.”
“How do you know that?” he enquired.
Thea made a little gesture that explained better than words it was just what she thought.
“Who are you?” he asked. “And where are you going all alone with a horse that could only have come from Mount Olympus.”
Thea did not answer and after a moment he asked her,
“I know without you telling me that you are running away.”
She looked at him with startled eyes.
“Why – should you – think that?”
“Why should you understand what I am trying to paint?” he retorted.
She decided that there was no point in prevaricating any further.
“Yes – I am running – away.”
“From a man?”
“Y-yes – a man!”
That was certainly true and, as she thought of King Otho, she shuddered.
“Then I can think of no place where you are less likely to be disturbed than here,” the artist responded.
“No – no – of course – not!” Thea replied.
“Why not?”
“Because you are a stranger and – I don’t – know you!”
“My name is ‘Nikōs’ and I think that we know each other very much better than if we had been introduced formally at a Reception, which would have been incredibly dull except that you were there!”
Because of the way he spoke Thea could not help laughing.
Nikōs bent towards her.
“Why are you running away?”
“Because – I want to be – free!”
“That is a cry from all down the ages, but unfortunately it is impossible.”
“Why is it – impossible?”
“Because you are a woman and women have to be protected, cared for and looked after.”
“That is something I have – no wish to be. I want to be – myself. I want to – live my own life.”
“And to find what you are seeking?” Nikōs said gently.
For a moment she was startled.
Then she told herself that he was being uncannily perceptive, but he could not know that what she was really seeking was love.
The love that she was cruelly denied because she was a Princess.
Chapter Three
When luncheon was over, Nikōs turned to Thea,
“There are places in the wood that I would very much like to show you. Another day I will take you riding.”
Thea looked at him with wide eyes and he added,
“Both you and Mercury have gone far enough today. It would really be cruelty to take your plucky stallion any further.”
She opened her lips to say that she could not stay with him as he had suggested.
And then she asked herself ‘why not?’
She had to stay somewhere for the night and it suddenly struck her that if she was in a hotel she might well be frightened and intimidated.
She had not thought of this before, but, of course, there might be strange men.
The Passionate Princess Page 4
