The Lion's Daughter (4 page)

Like
the Albanians, Jason Brentmor took the broad view of the
Machiavellian Vizier. Aware of Ali's courage, his military and
political acumen, and weighing the advantages against the

man's
many character flaws, Jason still felt that Ali Pasha, the Lion of
Janina, was far preferable to any available alternative.

Alter
more than twenty years' close association, Jason knew Ali very well.
As he left the Vizier's palace, Jason wished his friend did not know
him
quite
so well. Naturally, as a British subject, Ali had said, Jason was
free to leave Albania whenever he wished, but
...

Well,
what Ali's long “but” boiled down to was, “How can
you abandon me at a time like this? After all I've done for you?”

“He's
quite right,” Jason told his comrade Bajo, as they rode out of
Tepelena that afternoon. “And he doesn't know the half of it.
If the rebels succeed, Albania will be plunged into chaos, and the
Turks will sweep in easily to crush your people. Ali doubts the
uprisings will lead to anything, but he doesn't want any trouble now,
when he's trying to get the Greeks to join
his
revolution.”

“If
the Greeks join, under his lead, we'll be able to overthrow the
Turks,” said Bajo. “But Ali's old. I fear there won't be
time.”

“He's
lived this long. He might live to be a hundred.”

Bajo
looked at him. “You didn't tell him, then, of your suspicions
about Ismal?”

“I
couldn't. Ali's been too preoccupied with his grand scheme to notice
that we've more than scattered unrest on our hands. If he learns a
conspiracy's afoot
—
and
his own cousin behind it
—”

“A
bloodbath,” Bajo finished succinctly. His gaze softened into
compassion. “Ah, Red Lion, you must deal with it yourself, if
you wish it to be done without great slaughter.”

Jason
sighed. “I realized that in about a quarter hour. I had plenty
of time to think it through while pretending to listen to Ali's
brilliant plans to throw off the Turkish yoke.” He paused for a
moment to glance about him, but the landscape was deserted. “I
shall have to pretend to be killed,” he said quietly.

Bajo
thought this over, then shook his head in agreement. “Very
wise. If Ismal wishes to succeed, he must get you out of the way. If
he believes you're dead, he won't need to be so cautious. Meanwhile,
you can go where you like and do what you must without troublesome
spies and assassins bothering you.”

“That's
not the only reason,” Jason said. “I think Ismal is too
cunning to try to kill me outright, at least this early in the game.
It's more likely he'll try to tie my hands
—
and
the best way to do that is to take Esme as hostage. He's been moaning
about his desperate love for her just a bit too much lately. I
suspect he means to abduct her and make it look like an act of
passion.
That
Ali
will readily believe; he's stolen women and boys enough, merely
because he fancied them.”

“I
see great advantages to your death,” Bajo said. “She'll
be no use to Ismal then, and he'll leave her in peace.”

“I
don't mean to risk even that. I want her out of Albania,” Jason
said firmly. “I've thought it over, and what I propose is a
cruel deception, but I see no alternative. Esme must believe I'm
dead, or she'll never leave without me. You must make certain she
believes it, and get her on her way to England. I'll give you money
and the names of some people in Venice who can be trusted to take her
to my mother.”

“Y'Allah,
Red Lion, what a thing you ask of me. To tell the child you're
dead
—
and
then make the grieving creature go away? She's very stubborn, this
girl of yours. How am I to make her go to strangers, foreigners?”

“Don't
give her any time to think,” Jason answered sharply. “If
she gives you trouble, knock her on the head and tie her up. It's for
her own good. Better some hours' discomfort and a few weeks' grief
than rape or murder. I want my daughter to be safe. Don't make me
choose between her and Albania. I love this country, and I'd risk my
life for it
...
but
I love my daughter more.”

Bajo
shrugged. “Well, you're English, after all.” He threw
Jason a smile. “I'll do as you ask. She
is
a superior female, worth two good
men, I've often said. And once she's safely away, I'll return to help
you. I suppose you want me to go now?”

“Not
just this minute. I need to be killed first. We'd better do it
farther north. I must fall into the river, and be swept away
—
or
into a deep gorge. We don't want anyone hunting for my body, now, do
we?”

Chapter
2

Bari,
Italy

“
'WHO SOON HAD LEFT HER CHARMS FOR vulgar
bliss,'
“
Percival quoted. “What does
it mean?”

Varian
paused in the doorway, a towel in his hands.

Percival
had begged to visit the fish stalls today, which he claimed had
existed on the Bari breakwater since before Roman times. The area
certainly stank as though it had existed
—
and not been cleaned
—
since
the beginning of time. There Varian had watched the boy consume a
bucket of oysters and another of sea urchins, followed by a half
bucket of clams. Though Varian had not partaken of the feast, the
stench of shellfish had permeated them both equally. This was the
third bath he'd taken, and at last the odor seemed to be gone.

He
gave his hair a final rub with the towel, then tossed it behind him
and entered the sitting room. He sniffed dubiously as he passed
Percival, but their servant, Rinaldo, had scrubbed the boy raw. Not a
hint of fish remained.

Percival
repeated the line from
Childe Harold.
“I take it 'vulgar bliss' is a
euphemism,” he said. “Does Byron refer to women of ill
repute? I can't think what else he could mean. But

why
leave the one he loved for a tart, when he's supposedly sick of
tarts? And why call it 'bliss' when he's so unhappy?”

“I'm
not certain I ought to explain it,” Varian said as he dropped
into an overstuffed chair by the fire. “I suspect your father
would not approve your reading Lord Byron.”

“Indeed
he would not,” Percival answered, looking up from the book.
“But Papa isn't here, and you are, and you are not in the least
like him. Mama said you were like Childe Harold, actually, and so one
must conclude you are best able to explain his state of mind. He
seems a most morose sort of hero. That is, if he spends his life in
pleasure, how can he be unhappy?”

“Perhaps
he's repenting his sins.”

“I
thought wicked men did that only when they were old and decrepit.
Gout, I understand, has reformed a great many rogues.”

“Perhaps
Childe Harold suffers from toothache,” said Varian, leaning
back comfortably. He was relieved to find Percival once more his
usual self. The boy had been unnaturally quiet and well-behaved all
the way to Bari, a sad ghost who gazed dully out the coach window for
hours and passively did whatever Varian asked. The shellfish had
evidently enlivened Percival's disposition. Certainly his digestion
hadn't suffered. At dinner, the lad had consumed enough to bloat an
elephant. Where the devil did he put it? He was the scrawniest boy
Varian had ever seen outside a slum.

“Did
you sin with Signora Razzoli?” Percival asked, after a moment.
“Rinaldo says you were her
cavalier
servente,
but that is an idiomatic
expression, isn't it? When you visited her house, did you
—”

“We
conversed,” Varian said. “She is very well-read. And it
is vulgar to gossip with servants, Percival.”

“Yes,
that's what Grandmama says, but it's ever so interesting. Servants
know
everything.”

“I
expect your grandmother will be happy to have you and your father
back in England.”

The
boy obligingly followed the conversational detour.

“Well,
she makes the best of it, Grandmama says, since she hasn't anyone
else. Uncle John
—
but
they all called him Jack
—
was
the eldest. He died before I was born, though. And

Uncle
J
—”
Percival hesitated, then closed
his book and pulled his chair closer to Varian's. In low,
confidential tones he concluded, “They pretend Uncle Jason's
dead, too, but he isn't.”

“Your
mama's brother?” Varian asked. He knew Sir Gerald's elder
brother had succumbed to influenza ages ago. He'd heard of no other
Brentmor siblings.

“Papa's
younger brother,” Percival explained. “He ran away years
and years ago, and they've always pretended he was dead, they were so
angry. But he's not. He's alive and
...
and he's a
hero.”

“He
must be a very discreet sort of hero,” Varian said. “I've
never heard of him.”

“Have
you heard of Ali Pasha, the ruler of Albania?” Percival tapped
his finger on the book cover. “That's why I'm reading this.
Lord Byron tells all about Ali Pasha and the Albanians, and that's
where Uncle Jason is. He's lived there all this time, and they call
him the Red Lion. That's for his courage and his red hair. It's the
same color as mine
—
and
quite rare in Albania, I believe.”

“I
beg your pardon, Percival, but I do read upon occasion, and am
familiar with the poem. I recall no mention of the Red Lion. Where
did you read about this fellow?”

Percival
wrinkled his brow. “But I'm sure I never said I
read
about my uncle.”

“Then
how do you know so much about a relative everyone pretends is dead?”
Varian gave the boy a searching look.

Percival
squirmed a bit, then sat back in his chair, his expression
thoughtful.

“Perhaps
it was a dream,” Varian suggested.

“No.
It wasn't a dream.”

“A
fairy tale, then.”

“No.
It's quite true.” Percival bit his lip. “I can prove it,”
he said. “If I may be excused for a moment?”

He
ran to his room, leaving Varian to stare uneasily at the fire.
Moments later, the boy was back, bearing a pile of clothing. He
draped the pieces over his chair: woolen trousers with elaborate
braiding, a black, gilt-embroidered jacket, and a voluminous cotton
shirt.

“Uncle
Jason gave them to me,” Percival said. “It's what the
Albanians wear
—
or
some of them. He said he didn't think I'd want the kilt until I was
older. Mama said I wasn't to show them to anyone, because Papa would
find out. But
you
wouldn't
tell Papa, would you?”

“Tell
him what?” Varian asked, though he had a suspicion what the
answer was.

“That
Uncle Jason came to see us.” Percival picked a minute piece of
lint from the jacket and smoothed a crease in the shirt.

In
half an hour, Varian had most of the story. Jason had made two
visits: one long stay in Venice while Sir Gerald was away, seeking a
villa in southern Italy, and one brief visit a few days before Lady
Brentmor died. From innocent remarks Percival made
—
in
between extolling his uncle's endless virtues
—
Varian
guessed that Jason Brentmor had been more than a brother-in-law to
Diana.

Varian
could hardly blame her for infidelity to a husband like Sir Gerald.
Nor was he shocked that the lover was her brother-in-law. On the
contrary, the news was welcome. Varian had suspected her life was
unhappy, even apart from her illness. He felt an odd relief that
someone had made her happy for a while.

“Well,
I'm delighted you had a chance to meet this splendid uncle,”
Varian said when the tale was done. “However, it grows late,
and you ought to make an early bedtime if we're to tour the Church of
St. Nicholas tomorrow.” Varian had his own tour planned for
this night: a leisurely exploration of the charms of a certain
dark-eyed lady he'd encountered at the Castle of Bari.

“But
I haven't told you the terrible thing I did,” Percival said,
his green eyes downcast.

“I
am hardly the father confessor,” Varian answered with a tinge
of impatience. “So long as you don't dissect your various
specimens upon the table at mealtimes, or fill my bed with your
rocks, your sins are of little moment
—”

“I
gave him the black queen,” Percival said in a choked voice. “By
accident, I mean. But if Papa finds out he'll
—
he'll
send me to school in India. He's threatened that hundreds of times,
but Mama wouldn't let him.”