The Lion's Daughter (33 page)

“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 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
çiftelia
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.
“Pak.”
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, arid the others with her.

“Go,
Varian
Shenjt Gjergi,”
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.

He
scrambled down over the slippery stones. “Esme!”

He
leapt aboard the nearest boat, a tiny vessel. A quick examination
turned up nothing. He went on to the next, and the

next.
No life. No human sound here except his own furious breathing and the
pounding of his heart.

He
was aware of sound behind him
—
from
the town
—
as
though the merrymakers were advancing to the harbor. It was only a
buzz of voices, punctuated now and again by a shout, but he'd no
interest in the town and scarcely heeded it.

His
senses strained instead to discern life here. One life, one small
being who
must
be
here. He could not be wrong. He could not have lost her, not this
time, for this time, his heart told him, it would be for good.

“Esme!”
The next boat was too far away to jump to. He leapt to the stones
again instead, stumbled and fell, and cursed. “Esme!” he
bellowed. “Don't make me hunt you down!” He scrambled up.
“You won't get away from me! You won't, you little witch!”

Something
stirred amid the shadowy shapes to his right.

Then
he spotted her, on the very last boat of all: a small, dark shape
moving clumsily, struggling with something.

“Esme!”
He raced toward her, his feet slipping on the wet stones. She was
fighting with the sails, and the wind was still rising. If she
succeeded, it would sweep her out into the bay in minutes.

“Esme,
stop!”

She
turned sharply, then away again, and bent to fumble with something.

Varian
tripped and nearly slid into the water. As he regained his balance,
he saw her boat, free of its mooring now, drifting out toward the
narrow neck that opened into the harbor. The tide, or some infernal
current, must be carrying her, for the sails still hung raggedly. In
the blink of an eye, she had slipped clear of the other boats. For
one panic-stricken instant, Varian stood watching the small figure as
it battled with the ragged sheets. Then the gusting wind caught and
filled them, tearing them from her hands. The boat tilted abruptly.
She stumbled and grabbed at the sail.

Sweet
Jesus. She didn't know what she was doing.

“Esme!”
he shouted. “Don't!”

But
she would. She knew she couldn't master the boat, yet she wouldn't
yield. Varian didn't stop to think further. He hadn't time
—
any
more than he had time to make off with one

of
the other vessels. He knew nothing of boats, either. He tore off his
coat and boots, ran blindly across the deck, and dove into the water.

When
he looked up again, she'd passed the narrow opening, but her motion
had slowed. Her vessel was turning, dipping crazily, its partly
unfurled sails caught by the wind, then released. He struggled on,
forcing his muscles to heed his mind, not their own strength or
skill.