The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  The Adriatic was not as richly blue, perhaps, as the Ionian, but then, it was not so tame. In summer, the Etesian breezes roused 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 rather they made her 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 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 homes
ick 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. I expect 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, sixpence 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?

  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.

  After 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 further 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 Two

  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.