The Lion's Daughter (3 page)

Resolutely
banishing Percival's plight to the farther recesses of his mind,
Varian headed for the breakfast room.

Durrès,
Albania

From
a distance, the
Durrës
house seemed a ramshackle heap of
stones piled upon a ledge overlooking the Adriatic. It was smaller
than their previous abodes, comprising but two tiny rooms: one to
live in, one to store supplies in. To Esme Brentmor, it was a
beautiful house. In all her peripatetic life, this

was
the first time time she'd lived upon the sea.

The
Adriatic was not as richly blue, perhaps, as the Ionian, but then, it
was not so tame. In summer, the Etesian
breezes rousedd it. In autumn and winter, violent southerly gales
drove themselves to furious frenzies, trying to tear the house apart.
In vain. Though the crooked little structure seemed about to tumble
to pieces at the next light breeze, it was as solid as the ledge upon
which it stood, defying gales and blistering summer heat with equal
aplomb.

The
sea brought them fresh fish nearly all year round. A short distance
from the ledge, Esme's garden thrived in surprisingly fertile soil.
It was the first she'd been able to tend for more than one season,
and the most generous in supplying maize, alliums, and herbs. Even
the chickens, in their own irritable way, were happy.

At
the moment, Esme was not. She sat cross-legged upon the hard ledge,
her eyes on her folded hands as she conversed with her very best
friend, Donika, who was leaving the next day for Saranda, to be
married.

“I
shall never see you again,” Esme said gloomily. “Jason
says we must go to England soon.”

“So
Mama told me
—
but
you'll not leave before my wedding, surely?” Donika asked in
alarm.

“I
fear so.”

“Oh,
no. You must ask him, please. Just another month.”

“I
'
ve
asked already. It's no use. He's made a promise to my English aunt,
who is dying.”

Donika
sighed. “Then nothing can be done. A promise on a deathbed is
sacred.”

“Is
it?
She
held
nothing sacred.” Esme hurled a stone into the water.
“Twenty-four years ago she broke her betrothal vows to him.
Why? Because one time he got drunk and made a foolish mistake
—
as
any young man might. He played cards and lost a piece of land
—
that's
all. But
she
told
him he was weak and base, and she wouldn't marry him.”

“That
was not kind. She should have forgiven him one mistake.
I
would.”

“She
did not. But he's forgiven
her.
Twice
this year he's gone to visit her. He tells me it was not her fault,
but her parents' doing.”

“A
girl must obey her parents,” said Donika. “She can't
choose a husband for herself. Still, I don't think they should have
made her break a sacred vow.”

“It
was worse than that,” Esme said angrily. “Not a year
after she drove my father away, she wed his brother. She was of a
noble family, and wealthy, and you'd think Jason's family would have
been appeased. They were quick enough to take
her
in, but my father they made an
outcast forever.”

“The
English are very strange,” Donika said thoughtfully.

“They're
unnatural,”
Esme
returned. “Shall I tell you what my English grandfather wrote
when he received the news of my birth? The words are burned in my
heart. 'It was not enough,' he said in his hateful letter, 'that you
disgraced the Brentmor name with your reckless debauchery. It was not
enough to gamble away your aunt's property and break your mother's
heart. It was not enough to run away from your errors, instead of
remaining, like a man, to make amends. No, you must compound our
shame by joining the ranks of Turkish brigands, marrying one of these
unspeakable barbarians, and infecting the world with yet another
heathen savage.'
“

Donika
stared at her in horrified disbelief.

“In
English, it sounds even worse,” Esme grimly assured her. “This
is the family my father wishes to take me to.”

Donika
pressed closer and placed a comforting arm about her friend's thin
shoulders. “It's hard, I know,” she said, “but you
belong to your father's family
—
at
least until you're wed. Perhaps it won't be for long. I'm sure your
father will find you a husband in England. I've seen some Englishmen.
Taller than the other Franks, and some quite handsome and strong.”

“Ah,
yes, and I'm sure their kin are just dying to welcome an ugly little
barbarian into the family.”

“You're
not
ugly.
Your hair is thick and healthy, filled with fire.” Donika
smoothed the wavy dark red locks back from Esme's forehead. “And
your eyes are pretty. My mama said so, too. Beautiful, like
evergreens, she said. Also, your skin is smooth,” she added,
lightly touching Esme's cheek.

“I
have no breasts,” Esme said glumly. “And my legs and arms
are like sticks for kindling.”

“Mama
says it doesn't matter if a girl's skinny, so long as she's strong.
She was skinny, too, yet she bore seven healthy children.”

“I
don't want to bear children to a
foreigner”
Esme snapped. “I don't want to
climb into bed with a man who can't speak my language, and raise
children who'll never learn it.”

“In
bed, you won't need to converse with him,” Donika said with a
giggle.

Esme
threw her a reproving look. “I should never have told you what
Jason said about how babies are made.”

“I'm
glad you did. Now I'm not at all frightened. It doesn't sound very
difficult
—
though
perhaps embarrassing at first.”

“It's
also rather painful at first, I think,” Esme said, momentarily
distracted by the titillating subject. “But I've been shot
twice already, and it can't be worse than having a bullet dug out of
your flesh.”

Donika
threw her an admiring glance. “You're not afraid of anything,
little warrior. If you can face marauding bandits, you should have no
trouble with even your English kin. Still, I'll miss you so much. If
only your father had found you a husband here.” She looked
toward the sea and sighed.

“As
well to wish to find a mountain of diamonds. The fact is, I make a
far better boy than a girl, and a better soldier than a wife. A man
must be very old and very desperate to want me, when he could have a
plump, pretty,
docile
wife
for the same price.”

Donika
tossed a stone into the water. “They say Ismal wants you,”
she said after a moment. “He isn't old or desperate, but young
and very rich.”

“And
a Moslem. I'd rather be boiled in oil than imprisoned in a harem,”
Esme said firmly. “Even England, with relatives who hate me,
would be better than that.” She considered briefly, then added,
“I never told you before, but I was afraid once that it would
happen.” Donika turned to her.

“When
I was fourteen, visiting my grandmother in Gjirokastra,”
Esme continued, “Ismal and his family were there. He chased me
through the garden. I thought it was a game, but
—”
She paused, flushing. “But
what? But what?”

Though
there was no one else about to hear, Esme lowered her voice. “When
he caught me, he kissed me
—
on
the mouth.”
“Truly?”

Esme
shook her head from side to side in the Albanian affirmative.

“What
was it like?” Donika asked eagerly. “He's so handsome,
like a prince. Beautiful golden hair, and eyes like blue

jewels
—”

“It
was
wet”
Esme
interrupted. “I didn't like it at all. I knocked him down and
wiped my mouth and cursed him soundly.” She looked at her
friend. “And he just lay there on the ground and laughed. I
thought he was crazy, and I was so afraid his grandfather would make
an offer for me and I would have to marry this crazy boy with his wet
mouth and live in his harem
...
but nothing happened. Or if it
did, Jason must have said no.”

Donika
laughed. “I can't believe this. You knocked down the cousin of
Ali Pasha? You could have been executed.”

“What
would you have done?” Esme demanded.

“Screamed
for help, of course. But it would never occur to you to call for
help. You don't just think you're a warrior. You think you're a whole
army.”

Esme
turned her gaze to the sea. Any day now it would carry her far away
from all she knew and loved
...
forever.

“My
father is no unwanted suitor, no enemy,” she said quietly. “I
can't fight him. When at last he confessed he was

homesick,
I felt so ashamed for arguing with him. I've complained to you, only
to unburden myself, but you mustn't mind it. I know what I must do.
He won't leave without me, and I love him too much to try to make him
stay. I'll make the best of it, for his sake.”

“It
won't be so bad,” Donika comforted. “You'll be homesick
at first, but once you're wed, with babies of your own, think how
happy you'll be. Think how rich and full your life will be.”

Her
gaze upon the pitiless sea, Esme saw only emptiness ahead. But her
friend was, miraculously, in love with the man her family had chosen
for her. No more self-pity, Esme resolved. No more gloom. This was
Donika's happy time, and it was unkind to spoil it.

“So
it will,” Esme said with a laugh. “And I shall teach my
babies Albanian, in secret.”

Otranto

“I
must ask a favor of you, Edenmont,” Sir Gerald said as Varian
was pouring his second cup of coffee. “I'd hoped to leave soon
for England, but my responsibilities order otherwise. I want you to
take Percival to Venice.”

“Certainly,
I should like to oblige,” Varian murmured politely, “but
—”

“I
realize it's a great deal to ask,” the baronet interrupted,
“but I haven't much choice. I can't look after the boy at the
moment. It's too complicated and tedious to explain, but it suffices
to say there are certain delicate negotiations
—
that
sort of thing
—
and
one can't have the lad about, making a nuisance of himself.”

Varian
gazed impartially at his coffee cup.

“It
wouldn't be for very long. Iexpect to take him off your hands in a
month or so.”

A
month? Or so?
Varian
dropped in another lump of sugar.

“Naturally,
I would assume all expenses,” said Sir Gerald. From his breast
pocket he withdrew a bank draft, which he laid beside Varian's
saucer.

Varian
eyed it with all the composure with which he regarded a winning card
hand, his gray eyes as unreadable as smoke.

“For
out-of-pocket expenses,” his host said. “Of course, I
shall see to your passage and write to engage suitable lodgings en
route, and in Venice.”

“Venice,”
said Varian, “is very damp this time of year.”

“Well,
you needn't hurry. It hardly matters to me whether you dawdle along
the way to see the sights, does it? Certainly I'll send a manservant
with you, and pay his way as well. Choose whomever you like.”

Passage
paid, a fortune to spend on the way, and a servant. For a man with
one pound, three shillings, six-pence in his pocket, the offer was
—
as
it was intended to be
—
irresistible.

Varian
looked up from his cup to meet his host's impatient gaze. “As I
mentioned, Sir Gerald, I should be happy to oblige,” he said.

Tepelena,
Albania

Ali
Pasha, the wily despot who ruled Albania, was old, fat, and sick.
Periodically, he suffered fits of madness. These drove him to acts of
savagery so sadistic that even the Albanians, inured to the brutality
of a world in which human life was held very cheap, found them worthy
of remark.

That
the populace remained loyal, for the most part, and even boasted of
his triumphs, was evidence not only of their stoicism, but of their
acute political perceptiveness. There were plenty of monsters about
ruling the downtrodden masses of the Ottoman Empire. Ali, however,
was the only monster the Sultan could not make his slave.
Consequently, the Sultan could not make the Albanians his slaves.
They answered only to Ali
—
when
they condescended to answer at all
—
and
he was no outsider, but an Albanian, one of their own. He couldn't
even be bothered to learn Turkish. Why trouble himself when he wasn't
going to listen to the Turks anyhow?