“I don’t think there’s a Greek word for tea, but I’ll see what I can do.”
The tea turned out to be neither Indian nor China but a fragrant, greenish mint brew even better for settling an upset stomach. After drinking several cups, James devoured bread and an apple. Having lost his breakfast, he was ravenous. He was about to order a more substantial repast when Kostas returned, very pleased with himself. He had arranged all with the leader of the caravan and had even, with the rest of the money Cordelia had provided, bought them blankets and provisions for the journey.
“Invite him to dine with us,” Cordelia urged James, “and I expect one of his sons might be spared from guarding the boat. We can send a basket of food to the other. We owe them such a great deal.”
“An excellent notion.”
James passed on the invitation in his wretched Greek. Kostas was delighted. He helped to order the best the house could provide and then went to fetch his son.
“That’s all settled, then,” James said contentedly. “I must admit, the longer I can put off going back to sea the happier I shall be. Oh, but good lord, I hadn’t thought. You do ride, I take it?”
“Yes, though not since we...not for some time, never for so long a distance, and never on a mule.”
“It’s much the same as a horse. For a different sort of a ride, you should try a camel!”
“I detest camels!” Cordelia burst out.
“You have tried one, have you?” said James, surprised. “A deucedly uncomfortable mount.”
“No, I have not ridden one.” She fought down the memory of the camel striking her mother’s golden head with its hoof and stalking on, indifferent, unconcerned. “I just dislike them.”
“How fortunate we don’t have to cross any deserts on the way home!”
Spiro’s daughter brought a jug of wine and a vast plate of
meze
. The hors d’oeuvres included olives, pickles, hummus, stuffed vine leaves, cubes of fresh white cheese, little meatballs, and taramasalata. The fish roes of the latter must have been what attracted the cat. With a hopeful miaow, it rubbed against Cordelia’s leg.
The cat’s sudden appearance startled her. Already on edge after the talk of camels, she sprang to her feet, clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The bench crashed against the wall.
James jumped up. “What the devil?” Circling the table, he reached for her arm, then he looked down and smiled. “Don’t tell me the intrepid Miss Courtenay is afraid of cats?”
“Not afraid. I cannot bear them,” she said fiercely, her eyes closed tight to try to shut out the vision of the swarm of cats, the litter-bearers stumbling, herself tripped, falling as she tried to save Mama.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” He righted the bench and made her sit down. “Here, drink a drop of wine. I’ll see that the beast is shut up while we are here.”
Spiro’s daughter had already scooped up the cat. Giving Cordelia a curious glance, she said something to James in an apologetic voice and carried the animal out.
James’s gaze was equally curious. He must suppose she was mad to let a cat disturb her so. She wanted to explain, but she was dreadfully afraid the story of her mother’s accident would make him laugh, and that she could not endure.
She pushed the glass of wine away. “I don’t want this. I’m not hungry any more. I think I shall go to bed so as to be rested for tomorrow.”
His gaze became searching. “As you choose. However, I must remind you that our guests will arrive any moment, and they will expect you to act as hostess.”
Cordelia had an odd feeling that he was testing her, though she could not imagine why a wastrel should care whether she behaved like an English lady. If, indeed, an English lady would be expected to help her brother entertain male friends at an inn, which she rather doubted. She doubted still more that a Greek lady would attempt anything of the sort. Perhaps if she agreed James would take it as another sign she was no lady.
Yet Kostas and his wife and mother had offered them such generous, unstinting hospitality. She did not want to risk affronting him, to have him return home and tell Ioanna she was too proud now to sit at table with him.
“I’ll stay.”
“Splendid. You may find you are glad to have eaten a last decent meal before we go on travelling rations, even if you are slightly less rested. But I shall see them well plied with wine, so you will have every excuse to make an early night of it.”
True to his word, he seemed to be refilling a glass every time Cordelia looked up from her food, and fresh jugs of wine arrived at frequent intervals. She began to fear that James would grow fuddled and arouse suspicion with his command of the Greek language, or even reveal their true identities. However, when she ventured to remonstrate, he told her brusquely not to fuss.
Knowing from experience how useless it was to argue with a bosky gentleman—Count Szambrowczyk had been particularly difficult in that regard—she took this as a signal to retire. Not until then did she discover that the night’s lodging Kostas had arranged for her was to share Spiro’s daughter’s bed.
Too late to make other plans. Huddled on the very edge of the lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress, Cordelia tried in vain to close her ears to the carousing below.
Chapter 10
Joining in the chorus of a Greek sea shanty, James tried in vain to close his mind to the thought of Cordelia tucked up warm in bed above. He was not in the least bosky, and he resented her tight-lipped advice not to lose control of his drinking and his tongue. At the same time, the few glasses of the harsh, resinous wine he had actually consumed had awakened his desire. Despite her shapeless peasant clothes, her figure retreating up the stairs enticed him. He ached to make love to her.
The fact was, she was still a mystery to him. Sometimes prickly, sometimes amiable, often as disapproving as the highest stickler though decidedly unconventional in so many ways, she was bold enough to set out on a long journey with a stranger, brave enough to climb a sheer cliff, yet apparently terrified of a cat. Cats and camels, he mused, pouring more retsina for his guests. What had happened to give her such a horror of both? Would she ever trust him enough to tell him?
When at last his guests staggered back to their boat and James fell asleep on a palliasse in a corner of the room, cats and camels waltzed around him in his dreams. But the partner in his arms was Cordelia.
It was still dark when Spiro shook him awake. By the time he had washed his face and hands, Cordelia had come down. Kostas, his hard head apparently unaffected by his hard drinking the night before, arrived to escort them to the mule-train’s starting point. They drank coffee and ate a bit of bread with olive oil, then set out.
The sirocco was still blowing, but in fitful gusts rather than a sustained blast. It had rained in the night, just enough to lay the dust in the streets, and the air was damp and chill.
Cordelia was unwontedly quiet. In the grey light of dawn she looked wan and despondent. James wondered whether it was excessively unfair of him to drag her on a long ride through increasingly wintry weather instead of taking ship. Then they crossed a street leading to the harbour. Glancing down at the boats bobbing on the storm-tossed waves, he gulped, nauseated by the very sight, and hardened his heart.
They came to a Turkish-style caravanserai on the edge of the small town. In a courtyard surrounded by galleried chambers, some forty pack mules stood patiently as they were loaded amidst a milling throng of shouting people. There were a score of riding mules, too, and half a dozen horses. The scene reminded James of a stage-coach setting out from one of the London inns.
Undaunted, Kostas pushed through the crowd, forging a way to the caravan-master. Impatiently the muleteer pointed out two saddled riding mules and an as yet unladen pack animal before turning back to a vociferous argument with a fat merchant.
Kostas helped James to tie their two baskets and the sack of blankets and provisions onto the back of their pack mule. An assistant muleteer, a villainous-looking, snaggle-toothed fellow in a sheepskin coat, promptly came over and reloaded to his own and—James hoped—the mule’s satisfaction. The mule ought to be satisfied; its load was a quarter the size of most.
“I hired saddles for you,” Kostas pointed out, a little anxious. The peasants rode their donkeys with nothing more than a rug over their backs. “One man’s saddle, one for a woman. It was expensive, but for the Kyria...”
“Is good,” said James firmly. Though he might have contrived without, Cordelia was going to find days in the saddle difficult enough. At best a side-saddle was awkward and uncomfortable. The sea safely behind him, he glanced at her dubiously, no longer doubting her resolve but belatedly concerned as to her strength and endurance.
“Why are so many men carrying guns?” she asked nervously, in a low voice.
Looking around, he saw at least a dozen muskets and shotguns slung over sturdy shoulders. He passed on the question to Kostas then relayed the answer. “To shoot game, to vary the menu en route. Kostas says bandits are not a problem as troops patrol the shore road regularly.”
“Turkish troops?”
“Yes, but watching for bandits, not for us. They have their uses.”
She seemed unconvinced, but saying no more she went over to her mule, stroked its nose, and fed it a crust. It twitched its long ears at her, nuzzling in hope of more. Thank heaven she had no aversion to mules!
He was relieved to notice that she was not to be the only female. Joining her, he pointed out three riding beasts with side-saddles.
Cordelia brightened at once. “Oh, I am glad. Do you think Kostas might find the women, or at least one of them, and present me?”
“I shall ask him.” James was ashamed not to have realized how alone she must feel. She really was an extraordinary, an exceptional girl. However unconventional her upbringing, it could not possibly have prepared her for her present situation.
He consulted Kostas, and a few minutes later was pleased to see Cordelia’s smile as she was presented to a stout merchant’s wife.
Somehow the confusion in the courtyard was sorted out. The sun’s first rays broke through the clouds to gild the eastern sky as James and Cordelia bade a grateful farewell to Kostas. James lifted Cordelia into the saddle, saw that she was properly settled, and mounted his own animal. They took their places in the line filing through the gateway.
“Give my love to Ioanna!” Cordelia called back.
Kostas understood his wife’s name if no more. He waved and nodded vigorously as they rode out into the new day.
The coast road was a stony track winding between sea and mountains. They passed few signs of habitation, an occasional tiny fishing hamlet around an inlet, or a shepherd’s hut clinging to a hillside. In places the road was carved into cliffs of solid rock, braced here and there with masonry which looked so ancient it might have been Byzantine, or even classical Roman or Greek. Elsewhere the track clung precariously to unstable slopes, or crossed a stream by bridge or ford.
The rainy season was just beginning. A few of the stream beds were still dry but for a trickle of water; others tumbled seaward in muddy brown torrents, already knee-deep. These the caravan forded with care, the animals linked by ropes in long lines so that if one stumbled the others might save it. The mules plodded through with their usual stolid, sure-footed patience, which James admired the more since two of the horses skittishly baulked at every crossing.
He admired Cordelia, too. Though her hands clenched white-knuckled on the reins, she made no complaint, never reminded him it was for his stomach’s sake they had taken this roundabout way. He made sure he was always beside her when they came to a ford.
When the path was wide enough, she often rode beside the merchant’s wife, with whom she had quickly made friends.
“Kyria Agathi is bent upon improving my Greek,” she told James as they walked along together, leading their mules. The side-saddle cramped her limbs if she rode for too long at a stretch, so every now and then he lifted her down. The caravan’s slow pace was easy to match for a mile or two. “My island accent horrifies her.”
“You learn quickly,” he said.
“I have needed to. But I enjoy it, too. There is something very satisfying about being able to communicate in a foreign tongue.”
“Is there not? I have given up pretending to speak no more than a few words of Greek, since these people don’t know how badly I was bungling it yesterday. I’ve been talking to your Agathi’s husband, Mr. Miltiades. He’s a fellow-sufferer.”
“Seasick?”
“Yes, which is why he went by land to Istanbul when business took him there, sensible man.”
Among the train, James had found two or three interesting people besides the fat merchant to chat with, all happy to talk about their own affairs and not enquire into his. He would have thoroughly enjoyed the ride had they moved at more than a snail’s pace. The clouds blew over; the sun shone. The azure sea smoothed to gentle swells—and he was not on it. New grass was already showing green after the first rains, a confusing sign to an Englishman, especially as the balmy air felt spring-like.
The mules eagerly cropped the green shoots when the caravan stopped near the mouth of a river at midday to rest and eat. Kostas had provided bread, cheese, apples, dried fruit, and nuts, but the Miltiades invited James and Cordelia to share a roasted chicken so they lunched well.
James tried to resign himself to the two hours lost by the time the mules were rested and everyone was packed up, ready to take to the road again. Travelling on his own on horseback, he’d expect to make sixty or eighty miles a day. While he had known mule trains were slower, he had not realized how slow. At this rate they would be lucky to cover five-and-twenty miles.
Of course, it did not really make much difference. The authorities would be waiting for him in Athens anyway, and this gave him plenty of time to devise a plan to circumvent them.
When he said as much to Cordelia, she responded hopefully, “Or perhaps they will have lost interest in us by then. Perhaps we should go all the way by land.”