The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  “We will wait until they collect Ismal and Risto,” Fejzi went on. “Then your men will take you and Master Percival to the town. It is a small place. She will not be difficult to find.”

  “If she’s there.”

  “She will be there.”

  So everyone said. Varian didn’t believe them; he was simply outnumbered. What he believed—or feared…but he wouldn’t think about that. Not now.

  “You’re not coming with us?” he asked.

  “I must escort naughty Ismal to his cousin.”

  “You’ve two score men to escort him, and I need a competent interpreter,” Varian said tightly.

  “You do not know Ismal. Forty men is nothing to him. In an hour he would have those brave fighters weeping. When Ismal makes men weep, they always do as he so sweetly asks. Fortunately, I am not a brave fighter but a great coward. Also, I was his tutor for many years and am immune to his arts. Fear of Ali keeps me so.”

  “You make that spoiled lordling sound like a sorcerer.”

  “Some say his mother was descended from Olympias, the mother of Alexander. They say she was an enchantress, with hair the color of dark fire—the Red Lion’s color. They say she took gods as her lovers and it is of such the beautiful Ismal is made. Of course, everyone would like to claim kinship with Alexander. Still, even I believe there is something inhuman about him.”

  “Something insane, more likely.” Varian’s gaze returned to the two riders.

  “Perhaps,” Fejzi said. “The do say desire makes men mad.”

  A muscle twitched in Varian’s jaw. “What romantics you Albanians seem to be. Even Ali puts all his faith in Ismal’s desperate passion for Miss Brentmor. Or so he’d have one believe.”

  “You do not believe it, Lord Edenmont?”

  “What I believe appears to be of as little moment as does anything I do or say.”

  Below, Ali’s troops spilled onto the road. As they picked up speed, they swiftly surged into order. In less than a minute, the mass of men and beasts had shaped itself into a broad galloping wedge, racing inexorably toward the crossroads.

  Fejzi drew nearer. “You see,” he said. “Wherever he turns, Ali’s men will be waiting for him. He cannot escape.”

  “He should have known he’d be followed. He’s not stupid. I’ll wager he did know—and he’s only led us on a wild goose chase.” Varian’s voice tightened with rage. “They probably planned it, the two of them. She couldn’t have got away without his help.”

  Fejzi shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The whole matter is beyond my comprehension. It seems Ali plays some deep game with his cousin, but what it is I do not know. Perhaps Ismal has guessed. Or perhaps he, too, has been misled. Still, our court intrigues are not your concern, my lord. In a short while, you shall find the girl and take her away.”

  “I wonder if I shall.” Varian glanced past the secretary at Percival, who sat on a boulder some yards away, his eyes fixed upon the road. “I wonder if I should.”

  “You will do what is right, my lord. I have no doubt of that.”

  “Then you’re a fool,” Varian muttered. He turned and strode down the narrow path.

  ***

  Donika’s wedding day had dawned bright and warm, the sun beaming kindly upon the new bride and sparkling upon the gold coins that adorned her dark hair. Now, though the afternoon was waning, it beat down fiercely, making Esme wish her accomplices had devised a lighter disguise. Her face was sticky with paint and her body damp under the heavy layers of her gypsy costume.

  She’d no idea what had transpired last night. Esme knew only that she’d been roused well before dawn to find herself in a room crammed with Donika’s sisters, aunts, cousins, mother…and her own grandmother, Qeriba.

  Had she not been so weary the night before, Esme-would have realized Qeriba would be here, for she was both the groom’s cousin and a friend of the bride’s family. She was not, she soon made clear, Esme’s friend at present.

  From the day Esme had begun menstruating, Qeriba had been obsessed with getting her married. Thus, the instant Esme had finished her tale, the old woman began berating her—not for endangering herself or her friends, but for running away from a perfectly good bachelor.

  She scolded while the others dressed Esme, and all during the hasty breakfast. She muttered throughout the wedding and was still grumbling hours after, while they sat with a large group of women in the terraced garden behind the bridegroom’s house. He was inside with the men, listening to indelicate songs and even more indelicate advice, all very loud. The women were singing, too, though with rather less volume and far more subtlety. Only Qeriba ventured the occasional immodest suggestion—when, that is, she could spare a moment from haranguing her granddaughter.

  “A fine-looking Englishman, of noble blood, and you ran away from him,” she was saying for the thousandth time. “Why should he not take money from Ali? Are you such a treasure that you think a man—even a Christian—would take you for nothing?”

  “Grandmama, how many times must I tell you? It has nothing to do with wedding me. He wanted only –”

  “Men don’t know what they want. Women must show them.” Qeriba gestured about her. “Any of these girls could have shown him. But not you. You can read and write. You’re more clever than any dozen of them together, but this you couldn’t do.”

  “Any one of them is twelve times prettier than I, Grandmama.”

  “Men don’t know what’s pretty and what isn’t. Make a man happy to look at you, and he believes you’re Aphrodite. God give me patience. These things you of all girls should understand.”

  “I don’t want to understand,” Esme whispered irritably. “This has nothing to do with ensnaring men—as if I could. I just want to be left in peace.”

  “And die a virgin.” Qeriba signed. “You won’t get a husband in Shkodra.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “A terrible place. Barbarians, all of them. Jason kept you there too long. You learned savage ways.”

  “Then it’s best I return. There at least I’ll belong.” Esme rubbed her face. The thick paint made her skin itch, and she was perspiring heavily, though they sat in the shade. It wasn’t just the heat and the six layers of clothing she staggered under, but increasing nervousness as the time for her departure neared.

  Branko had found a boatman who’d agreed to take her to Shkodra, but not until nightfall, because he was in no hurry to leave the festivities. Esme could only hope he wouldn’t drink too much. She’d never handled a boat on her own.

  “You belong with your father’s kin,” Qeriba said. “It was Jason’s wish.” She gazed at Esme in vexation. “A little while ago, you played at telling fortunes. Shall I tell you yours? In all that’s happened, I see clearly the hand of Fate. You cannot escape your kismet by sailing away on a boat. But it’s no use to tell you. Never was there a child so obstinate.”

  “Aman, grandmama, grant me peace,” Esme begged. “What’s done is done. In a few hours, I’ll be gone. Must we quarrel and say farewell in anger? May I not have a few hours’ respite among those I love before I go?”

  Qeriba studied her granddaughter’s face, her own countenance softening. “Ah, well, it’s bad luck to part in anger.” She glanced about. “Song and laughter are good things, but hard on an old woman’s ears. The sun beats too strong, and no wind comes to ease its heat. Also, I’m hungry. Let’s take a bite to eat, then I’ll go with you to the harbor. It’s been many years since I walked along the shores of Saranda. Let’s stroll there together, and let the sea quiet our spirits, eh?”

  While his men spread through Saranda, Varian waited on a hill overlooking the town. He’d fretted one interminable hour, pacing resdessly, when Agimi returned with his report.

  Saranda, it turned out, was in a state of roaring chaos. The son of one of its more prosperous citizens had just got himself leg-shackled, and the entire population was celebrating. The streets near the bridegroom’s house were mobbed with men. The
only way to get through without trampling drunken wedding guests was on foot. In short, Lord Edenmont could not expect to make his way unnoticed, and word of his presence would spread quickly through the crowd.

  “I take it Agimi considers that a problem,” Varian said to Petro.

  The dragoman scowled. “What else is to be expected? Where she goes, always there is trouble. Agimi says the bride is the good friend of the little witch. They will not help us. We shall all be killed.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Percival. “There’s always general peace at weddings. They won’t even kill their own worst enemy. Mustafa said—”

  “I don’t care what Mustafa said,” Varian snapped. “The whole town’s drunk. A mob of drunken men could take it into their heads to do anything. You’ll stay here with Petro and make sure he keeps away from the raki bottle. I’ve got problems enough without worrying about you.”

  “But, sir, I promise I—”

  “You’ll stay here, Percival.”

  “But you need Petro to—”

  “There’s bound to be someone who knows Greek or Italian. At the least, the priest must know Latin. I’ll manage.”

  “They’re not Papists, sir, not in the south. They’re—”

  “Damnation. Will you hold your tongue for once and just do as you’re told? I warn you, Percival, if you so much as think of stirring from this spot, I’ll give you the birching I should have done weeks ago.”

  Percival hastily sank back down upon the stone he’d been sitting on. “Yes, sir,” he said meekly.

  Varian threw one warning look at Petro, then quickly mounted and followed Agimi down the hillside.

  ***

  Donika squeezed Esme’s hand. “No, you cannot go so soon,” she said. “You promised you would sing to me, gypsy girl.”

  Esme looked at Qeriba.

  “Well, what harm?” the old woman said. “Sing to the bride and bring her good luck. The bride’s wishes come first. Later, the whims of an old woman.”

  Esme smiled faintly. A substantial meal had radically improved Qeriba’s temper. When she’d done eating, she’d even patted Esme’s hand. “The air cools at last,” she’d said. “A good wind comes. Can you feel it?”

  Esme felt no breeze, even now. Though the sun was slowly sinking toward the sea, the garden still seemed stifling. She wasn’t sure this was entirely on account of her thick clothing. Perhaps the feeling was inside her. She felt suffocated by Donika’s glowing happiness. That was ill-natured and selfish, Esme chided herself.

  She returned Donika’s hand squeeze and said, “I shall give you my best love song. A plaintive melody, but the end is a happy one.”

  She sank down on the cobblestones at the bride’s feet, arranged her heavy skirts elegantly about her, accepted the lutelike giftelia from another girl, and began to sing.

  This was truly a mournful melody, a story of a peasant girl wooed and abandoned by a rich man’s son. By the second verse, she saw tears in more than one pair of feminine eyes. Even Donika’s were misting, but she smiled, and those tears seemed radiant beams of joy.

  It wasn’t until the third verse—when the peasant girl plucked a poppy from the spot where her lover had first embraced her—that Esme sensed something amiss. Her audience seemed entirely captivated by her performance; several women were weeping openly. Whatever was wrong, they were too taken up with the sad song to notice.

  Esme’s glance darted to Qeriba. The old woman’s attention was not fixed upon her granddaughter but upon the house, and her narrowed eyes glinted.

  Then Esme realized what it was. The men’s noise had subsided. No shouts, no boisterous singing, only a buzz of voices. Her flesh chilled. She glanced behind her. Nobody. Nothing. Only the too-subdued house.

  The chill had seeped inside her now, and a cold feeling seized her belly. Her tongue stumbled over the next line of the song, then failed her entirely as raw panic engulfed her. She leapt up, dropping her instrument, heedless of everything but the need to escape. She was dimly aware of the women moving about her, of shrill voices sharp with anxiety and questions. Esme heeded none of it. She was already hurrying toward the path, all her being fixed on the gate beyond.

  Varian had heard her. He was sure he’d heard her voice. He hurried out to the garden…and found himself facing a wall of women.

  “Where is she?” he demanded in Albanian.

  Silence.

  His glance darted over the terraces and stopped at the narrow gate. He’d no sooner begun heading for the path that led to it than the feminine wall surged into motion, blocking his way. He looked behind him. The men had followed him out of the house. Now they stood, unmoving, another wall of sullen faces. Agimi tried to struggle through, but two of the men caught him and held him back. No one would hinder the English lord; no one would be allowed to help him, either.

  Swearing under his breath, Varian turned back to the women. There must be fifty at least, and more were streaming into the garden. They wouldn’t let him by, that much was obvious. His predicament was equally plain. They stood packed close together, so that to get through, he must touch them. If even his coat sleeve brushed against any of them, the men would be upon him in an instant. Most were the worse for drink and could easily forget that he was English, a guest in their country. They had not been particularly hospitable to begin with. Esme must have made him out a monster—the Devil incarnate, no doubt. It didn’t matter. He was not about to retreat.

  The Devil flashed his most disarming smile. “So much beauty in one place,” he said softly. “It takes my breath away.”

  A few of the younger women stirred uneasily, as he’d hoped. Women didn’t need to understand his language. They responded to his tone and his eyes. Whatever they’d believed a moment before, they were confused now. The dark-eyed bride, who stood in the forefront of her army, looked puzzled and anxious. Beside her, a tiny old woman clad entirely in black muttered something. The comment elicited a few giggles. Also, a few irritated responses.

  Varian focused on the old lady. “You understand English?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Pat.” A little.

  Thank heaven. “Please tell them then that never have I beheld so beautiful a bride, a blooming rose in a bouquet of beauty. The men cannot move because they’re struck helpless by this sight. They wonder how I dare approach so near, for surely so much sweetness will kill me.”

  The old woman gravely translated this for the company. Their uneasiness increased. He heard several nervous giggles.

  “I dare because my heart is gone,” Varian went on coaxingly. “A little bird has taken it and flown from me. I heard her singing a moment ago. Or did I merely dream this? If she were near, such sweet flowers would not keep me from her. They could not be so unkind.”

  Tears were trickling down the bride’s face even before the old woman had finished translating. The bride looked enquiringly at the crone. The latter shrugged, then waved her bony hand impatiently. The bride stepped aside, and the others with her.

  “Go, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” said the old woman.

  Varian swept her a bow. “Faleminderit,” he said. God help me, he thought. Clearly, no one else would.

  He strode rapidly toward the gate.

  He didn’t know where he was going, or that Esme had gone this way. But the garden walls were high, and this appeared to be the only speedy exit from the place.

  Beyond the gate, he discovered a vast orchard rising on the hillside—and not a living soul in sight. He stared despairingly about him. “Esme!” he called. Only the wind answered, brisker than before, coming from the southwest. He could search the orchard or go the other way, west, to the bay. He glanced at the waning sun and headed for the stonier part of the hill, the side facing the water.

  After stumbling about blindly for a while, he found at last a well-worn path. As he left the orchard behind, the way grew rockier and narrower, coiling tortuously about the brown marble of the hillside. Hours seemed to pass while he felt he
traveled in circles and got no nearer the bay. He reminded himself the ways were always like this in Albania: roundabout and agonizingly slow as they detoured round the unforgiving terrain. Which meant that Esme could go no faster than he...if this was the way she had gone. It must be. He could not consider the alternative.

  At long last, when he felt certain he’d circled the entire mountain, Varian struggled through the thorns and grasping vines of some unfamiliar vegetation to find the view open at last. Below him sprawled the bay of Santi Quaranta: Forty Saints. He hastened down the slope and across the rough road to the beach. To his right, a mole jutted out into the harbor. Like a great arm bent at the elbow, the stone breakwater held a cluster of small boats in its embrace. West, where the sun dipped treacherously near the horizon, he discerned the dark mass of Corfu rising in the midnight blue of the Ionian Sea.

  He took all this in at a glance, along with the disquieting awareness that he had about half an hour—an hour at most—to find Esme before night fell. His feet, meanwhile, carried him on, down to the boat rest, while he scanned the vessels for signs of life.

  The tiny harbor within a harbor lay ghostly still. He heard only the waves lapping and the faint creak of wood. He must be the only soul in Saranda who wasn’t at the wedding. Except for Esme, wherever she was. Not here, he thought, as despair washed over him. Nothing stirred here.

  “Esme!” he shouted. He ran along the breakwater. “Esme!”

  The boats—fishing vessels, most of them—gave him no answer. They lay mute, huddled together within the great stone arm. Sullen reddish glints danced upon mast and deck, the only light in the deepening shadows. The boats appeared empty, and he told himself he’d erred grievously to come this way. Then he answered that she was small and might lay hidden under a blanket or behind a heap of ropes and nets. The sun was low, and most of the boats rested in the breakwater’s shade. He couldn’t be certain until he searched…every last, dratted one of them.