The Lion's Daughter

by Loretta Chase

  “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.”

  Varian had risen, preparatory to carrying Percival over his shoulder to bed if need be. Now he sat back down. After endless searching, the black queen had finally been presumed stolen, and Sir Gerald had mentioned offering a thousand pounds for its return. Varian could not believe his ears. He gazed at Percival with narrowed eyes. “You what?”

  “I meant to give Uncle Jason my rock—the one with the green streaks and the little knobby—”

  “The rock’s unique characteristics do not appear pertinent,” Varian interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. Quite right. They’re not—well, not at present, I agree. The fact is, we were in the study. How we got there is not pertinent either, I believe?” Percival asked, looking up hopefully.

  “Not at present.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, because—”

  “Percival.”

  “Yes, sir, indeed. To put it as succinctly as possible: I bumped into the chess table and knocked some pieces over. In my agitated state—for Papa would be most—” He caught Varian’s eyes and went on hurriedly, “Well, I must have wrapped the black queen in Uncle Jason’s handkerchief by mistake, because later I found the rock was still in my pocket. When Papa told us the queen was gone, I knew what had happened. But I couldn’t tell him, could I?”

  If the queen was in Jason’s possession, then it was in Albania by now, hopelessly beyond the reach of a penniless nobleman.

  “I suppose not.” Varian rose once more. “I’m sure you’re emotionally drained by this confession, Percival, and most anxious to rest.”

  Percival gazed at him consideringly. “Actually, now I’ve confessed, I feel obliged to do something.”

  “Yes. Go to bed.”

  “What I mean is, we could get her back. That is to say, she is worth a thousand quid to Papa and,” he said, flinging his arm eastward, “she’s just over there, you know.”

  “‘Over there’ is the Ottoman Empire. Don’t be absurd, Percival. Unless your uncle chooses to return it, the queen is gone for good.”

  “It takes only a day or two to sail there,” Percival said. “Uncle Jason lives right on the coast. We wouldn’t have to go into the country. Just stop at the port, as scores of ships do every day, from everywhere.”

  “We?” Varian repeated. “If you think I’m hiring a vessel to travel to Albania with a twelve-year-old boy, his father’s sole heir—”

  “Papa would pay you the reward, and you know he gave you plenty of money for travel expenses and we’ve got lots of time.”

  “No, Percival. Go to bed.”

  Percival went to bed, but not until hours later, and Lord Edenmont, having altogether forgotten the dark-eyed lady, sat up until dawn watching the fire dwindle into smoldering embers.

  Staring unhappily into the darkness, Percival told himself he was very lucky Lord Edenmont was not as perceptive as Mama. She would have grown suspicious when she saw how much he’d eaten. She knew he overate when he was particularly agitated.

  He’d gorged today because he knew he must tell Lord Edenmont a falsehood about the black queen. He had to. Stolen weapons were on their way to Albani
a, and no one but Uncle Jason could be entrusted with the information, especially since Papa was involved. Unfortunately, one couldn’t write to Uncle Jason. He’d said that powerful men in Albania had spies who regularly intercepted other people’s letters.

  Which meant he must be told in person. Which meant deceiving Lord Edenmont. Which had made Percival feel just like a criminal.

  It hardly counted that people said Lord Edenmont was wicked—even that Uncle Jason thought so. His lordship had always been kind to Mama, and agreeable to Percival himself. He wouldn’t be agreeable ever again, Percival thought regretfully, when he learned the truth. But that would happen only if his lordship took the bait. Perhaps he wouldn’t.

  The room’s blackness was just beginning to fade when Percival heard Lord Edenmont enter the adjoining bedchamber. Closing his eyes, Percival told himself one shouldn’t feel sorry about trying to do one’s duty, especially when hundreds of lives might be saved. Besides, one couldn’t expect Lord Edenmont to remain about forever. Sooner or later they’d reach Venice, and his lordship would go away. On the other hand, if all went well, Uncle Jason would soon be on his way to England with Cousin Esme. That would more than make up for losing Lord Edenmont’s company. They’d be together. A family, just as Mama wanted.

  This reflection quieted Percival’s distress, rather as his mama’s voice might have done. Moments later, while the rising sun darted gold sparks across the Adriatic, he fell asleep.

  Tepelena, Albania

  Ismal, the beautiful prince with the golden hair and blue jewel eyes, reclined upon his divan and gazed thoughtfully at the ornate chess piece in his hand. “Jason is not leaving?” he asked Risto.

  “Ali has convinced him to stay and help quiet the unrest.”

  “That’s disappointing. He’s already captured an important store of weapons. We can’t afford continued interference.”

  “You want him dead, master?”

  “That would be politically unwise. The Red Lion is too well-loved, even by those who support our efforts to oust Ali. I can’t risk being suspected of his murder. Fortunately, I was prepared for this annoying setback.” Ismal smiled at his devoted servant and spy. “You did better than you knew in persuading the Englishman to give you this bit of ‘collateral.’”

  Risto bowed his head. “I’d hoped to bring you the entire set. It would have been a fine addition to your treasures. Besides, Sir Gerald’s prices are excessive,” he added disapprovingly.

  “I want modern British weapons, and he’s the only dependable source,” Ismal answered with a shrug. “But what a fool he was to put anything in writing, even in code. His hand is too distinctive.”

  “He believed me a stupid barbarian, master. He did not trust me to remember the details correctly.”

  “Most convenient.” Ismal stroked the black queen’s head. “I kept the message, in case it might be of use. Now I think it will be of great use.” Looking up at his servant, he went on, “I want a party sent to abduct the Red Lion’s daughter—immediately. Jason will know he must accept the bride-price for her, and once she’s mine, he won’t dare move against me.”

  “He may go to Ali.”

  “I doubt he’d risk her life in that way. But let him.” Ismal turned the chess piece in his hand. “See that this is in Esme’s possession when she’s taken. If Jason dares to make difficulties, why, I shall say he’s a traitor, and the chess piece will be my proof. I’ll advise Ali to consult the British, who’ll have no difficulty tracing the queen to the Red Lion’s brother. No trouble either, showing that the brother wrote the message. Ali knows the Red Lion has been to Italy twice this year, to visit his family. Both my cousin and the British will conclude Jason and his brother are selling stolen arms for their own profit. Both governments will be most displeased.”

  His blue eyes glittered as he handed Risto the chess piece. “Now perhaps you see, Risto, how very powerful the queen can be—to a player who knows how to use her.” Then he laughed.

  Dungs

  Esme woke the instant she felt the hand upon her shoulder and sat bolt upright. The room was still dark. “Papa?” she said to the black shape beside her. Even as she uttered the name, she realized the man wasn’t Jason.

  “It is I, Bajo,” the figure said.

  A chill of anxiety seized her. “Where is Jason?”

  There was a long pause, then a sigh. Even before Bajo spoke, her heart was pounding.

  “I’m sorry, child.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Ah, little one.” Bajo laid his hand on her shoulder. “It is bad news, little warrior. Be strong. Jason has been shot.”

  No. No! Her heart screamed, but her tongue was silent. Her hands tightened on the blanket and she bit her lip, refusing to shriek and weep like a weak female.

  “We were…ambushed…in the straits of Vijose,” Bajo said. “They shot him in the back, and he fell over the cliff, into the river far below. I thank God it was so. A quick death—and the river swept him away so the filthy assassins could not carry his head to their lord in triumph.”

  Jason. Her strong, brave, loving father. Shot in the back like a thief…the icy torrent dragging his body, dashing him against the cruel rocks…Esme closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, and willed the racking grief into rage.

  “What assassins?” she demanded. “Who owes me blood?”

  “Nay, little one. The Red Lion’s daughter does not seek blood,” he reproached. “The killers are dead. I saw to that. But we’ve no time for talk. Jason’s murder was only the beginning, and you are in great danger. Make haste,” he urged, pulling her from the bed.

  Esme yanked free of his grip and found she was shaking. With an effort she made herself stand upright. She always slept fully dressed in her male costume, her long gun within easy reach. One of Bajo’s cousins invariably kept watch outside, even when Jason was home, but she didn’t want to be caught unprepared if the town were suddenly attacked.

  “Why haste? Where are we going?”

  Bajo picked up her head covering and thrust it into her hands. “North. To Shkodra.” He lit a candle, then hustled about the room, gathering up belongings and tossing them into a sack. Hardly aware of what she did, Esme pulled on the woolen helmet and tucked her hair up inside it, all the while staring at Bajo.

  While he packed, he went on talking nervously. “We were hurrying home because Jason feared Ismal was planning to abduct you. Now there’s no doubt of it. Of course he’ll lie—blame the murder on bandits. And Ali will be too devastated to notice or care that Ismal steals a mere female in the meantime.” Bajo paused. “This is why we must make haste. Don’t even think about revenge. If you delay, you invite your own shame. You can’t wish to be concubine of the man who killed your father.”

  “I’ll tell the Pasha of Shkodra,” Esme said. “He’ll help me. Ismal owes me blood.”

  “The Pasha will help you out of the country,” Bajo answered. “That’s all. That’s what Jason intended, and we’ll do as he wished.”

  He met Esme’s horrified gaze, then quickly looked away.

  “No,” she said, her voice choked. “You’re not sending me to England? Alone?”

  Bajo hauled the sack over his shoulder and moved to the door, where he paused. “It’s a hard thing, I know, little warrior, but the choice is plain. Either you show courage in this, or become Ismal’s slave…and your father will have died for nothing.”

  Later, she told herself. Later, she’d have time to think, and she’d find a way.

  Without another word, Esme collected the few things Bajo had missed, thrust them into her small traveling pouch, grabbed her rifle, and followed him out the door.

  Minutes later, they reached the Dunes harbor. It was nearly dawn, but the shore was so thick with fog that the first tentative rays of light were dull spots of pink in the heavy grey blanket. Bajo’s boat was moored discreetly some distance from the main pier. As they neared the shore, Esme made out the outlines of a larger ship, one of the p
ielagos which so often called here. Rarely at this time of year, however, for they were ill-equipped to withstand the autumn gales.

  A moment later, she discerned figures approaching in the mist. Though they came on foot, she tensed and glanced at Bajo.

  “Foreigners,” he whispered.

  The next instant confirmed this, as the wind carried to her ears a hodgepodge of Albania, Italian, and English.

  “No…zoti...the boat, I beg you…master…kill me.”

  As the figures neared, their voices became more distinct, and Esme heard the boyish tenor reply in cultivated English accents. “Nonsense. My uncle lives in this town.”

  “Please, young master, only wait—”

  “Here are some people. We can ask them.”

  The pair was almost upon them. Though they seemed harmless enough, Esme let her bundle drop to the sand and took a firm grip on her rifle. Bajo, his stance alert, stood near, his rifle ready as well.

  “Tongue-got-yet-ah,” the boyish voice called out.

  He was only a child, an English child, with accents like her father’s.

  “Tungjatjeta,” she cautiously answered the greeting.

  Encouraged, the boy hurried up to them.

  “Come away,” Bajo whispered to her. “We have no time.”

  “He’s English,” Esme answered. In the next instant, she wondered if her ears had deceived her, for the boy’s garb closely resembled her own. He even had a pouch slung over his shoulder. Then, as he came closer, she felt certain she was dreaming. The weak light glinted upon hair the color of her father’s. She backed away as the boy stopped short, his gaze upon Bajo’s rifle. His fat, timid companion cowered several feet behind him.

  “Oh, dear, we seem to have alarmed them,” the boy said. “How does one—” He cleared his throat. “Koosh sha-pee—ah—ah—Jason? I mean, it’s quite all right. He’s my uncle. Jason. My jah-jee. The Red Lion, you know—”