Scandal's Daughter (20 page)

Father Josif tugged on an iron handle set in the wall beside the gates. As a bell jangled within, he hastily reached into the bosom of his robe and pulled out a black, cylindrical cap.

“One must strive not to give offence,” he said cheerfully, teeth gleaming white in the midst of his black beard as he jammed the cap on his head. He had to hold it on with one hand against the wind.

In the wall above the bell-pull, a panel swung open behind a small, square grill. “Father Josif! Welcome!” cried a disembodied voice in Serbian, which Cordelia translated as he spoke. “You have brought us guests?”

“Two storm-buffeted travellers, Father, with two ponies and a hard-working donkey. Pray let us in before we turn into six monstrous icicles.”

“Ha ha,” the voice uttered uncertainly, as if the porter laughed seldom and expected jokes from Josif but was not sure whether this was one. “I come, I come.”

“Cordelia, pretend you’re ill,” James said quickly as the gates creaked open. “Not at death’s door, but bad enough to need to spend a day or two in bed.”

After a startled glance, she nodded. She took a step backwards and put her arm around Dido’s neck, leaning heavily on the mare. “A day or two in bed would not come amiss,” she said wryly in a failing tone.

“Father Josif, my brother is unwell! He was ever sickly, child and youth, and I fear the cold wind has made him ill.”

The priest swung round. He gave Cordelia a shrewd look and his dismay changed to amusement. Shaking his head reprovingly, he winked at James, then turned back to the porter, a tiny greybeard with a cowl over his round cap. Father Josif’s explanation made him wave them hurriedly through the gates, into the shelter of a cloister.

The gates closed behind them, shutting out the biting wind.

In no time Cordelia was ensconced in a tiny, stone-floored cell with walls of whitewashed plaster, the only decoration a simple wooden crucifix. The small, high window had no glass, just an iron grating, but as it overlooked the cloister the draught was not too bad, and the abbot gave special permission for a brazier. In fact the room was much warmer than their tent. The furniture consisted of a low bed, a wood frame laced with leather thongs supporting a thin mattress.

“Much more comfortable than a carpet on the ground,” Cordelia declared. Curled up in most of her clothes, with two blankets, her cloak, and her sheepskin coat on top, she fell asleep before James, playing the anxious elder brother, left the cell.

Father Josif awaited him in the passage, with a stout monk he introduced as the infirmarian. Father Nikola was eager to get to the patient, but with the priest acting as interpreter, James said firmly that his brother was sleeping. The infirmarian agreed disconsolately that sleep was the best medicine.

“When my brother awakes,” James said to Father Josif, “I think he ought not to visit the privies, which are doubtless cold and draughty. Would it be possible to procure a chamber pot for him?”

The priest eyed him with mischievous understanding. “You are an excellent brother. I shall see what I can do.” He explained to Father Nikola, who brightened at the thought that he could be of some help. He hurried off. “When he returns,” said Father Josif severely, “I believe it would be politic for you to attend the church service which is about to begin.”

* * * *

The monastery’s church was an astonishing contrast with the austere quarters James had seen so far. Candlelight revealed richly coloured frescoes of saints covering every inch of the walls, gleaming with gold-leaf haloes, and bejewelled crosses, statues, and icons sparkled.

Ignorant of the service, James stood at the back watching and listening. In constant motion, the monks lit candles and snuffed them again, bowed, prostrated themselves, kissed icons, swung a censer which filled the chilly air with the pungent smoke of incense. Endlessly, tirelessly, they chanted and read and prayed.

James made no claim to be tireless. After a while the fascination wore off, the incense stung his eyes, the chill crept up from the stone floor and his legs began to cramp from standing still. He considered prostrating himself, just for the sake of a change of position, but he feared it would appear the sheerest hypocrisy. Yet he did not want to walk out and offend his hospitable hosts.

To his immense relief, Father Josif appeared beside him and whispered, “The abbot excuses us weary travellers from the rest of the service, may the Lord bless and keep him.”

They slipped out. The sound of chanting followed them down the corridor.

“You are not Orthodox?” Father Josif enquired.

James had been properly brought up in the Anglican Church, though he seldom thought about it. He didn’t want to introduce complications by mentioning England. “I’m afraid I’m a Protestant,” he said.

“Better than a Roman, Moslem, or Jew, but best not to mention it. Let us go to the kitchens. There is bound to be a pot of soup on the fire and I do not belong to an ascetic order!”

“I’d like to go first to make sure our animals are well cared for, and to see whether my brother is awake and as hungry as I am.”

Cordelia was awake, hungry, and bored. Fetching bread and two bowls of thick lentil and vegetable soup from the kitchen, James sat on the edge of her bed to eat with her.

“I was sorry to leave Father Josif to eat alone,” he said. “He’s an excellent fellow, and discreet, but I’m sure he is curious about us and the less opportunity for questions the better.”

“And I thought you were eager for my company!” she pouted.

James grinned. “That too, of course.”

“What have you been doing?”

He told her about the church service. “For all I know it will go on for hours yet,” he finished.

But when he left to return the empty bowls to the kitchen, he met Father Nikola hurrying down the passage towards him. In a mixture of Polish, Serbian, and sign language, he did his best to convey that his brother had gone back to sleep after eating a little, a very little—luckily only Father Josif knew Cordelia’s soup bowl had been nearly as full as his own.

Looking grave, Father Josif said several times, “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” and patted James’s shoulder sympathetically.

Before James retired to his cell for the night, he warned Cordelia about the persistent infirmarian.

“What if he comes to see me in the morning before you are up?” she fretted. “He will want to examine me and he is bound to guess I am a girl. I shall be thrown out.”

“Then we shall go on to the next village as we should have if Father Josif had never found us, having had a hot meal and a good night’s rest.”

“It is not so easy. We are no longer on the direct route to the village.”

“Oh Lord, you’re right! I’d forgotten. Well, we’ll just have to see that Father Nikola has no chance to examine you. Shall I spend the night with you?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

“Splendid.” He could not resist teasing. “I have been longing for this moment but I thought you’d never agree. The bed is a trifle narrow for both of us, but where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“James, please!” she said crossly. “That’s not what I meant, as you know very well, and besides, this is a monastery.”

“But I am no more a monk than I was a eunuch before. No, no, you don’t need to throw your boots at me! Remember you are ill,” he begged, laughing.

“I wish I had never pretended to be ill!”

“But you did, and you might take a turn for the worse in the night, so no one will wonder if I share your room. Not, please note, your bed. I’ll fetch my mattress.”

Though he slept well, periodically James half roused to hear a bell pealing and he knew the monks were once more on their way to prayers. Waking at last to a pale half-light, he went to the window and stood on tiptoe to peer out. Beyond the cloister snow still fell. He began to fear that by the time it stopped the monastery would be snowbound, perhaps for the rest of the winter. What would they do if they were ejected but could not get to the next village?

He turned to look at Cordelia. Her head pillowed on one hand, dark lashes kissing rosy cheeks, a slight smile on her thoroughly kissable lips, she looked very feminine and not at all ill.

Someone knocked on the door. Her eyes opened, full of alarm.

“Pull the covers up,” he hissed. “You’re still asleep.”

He slipped out. This time, Father Nikola had brought another monk to interpret, a tiny, wizened old man with a grey beard to his waist and ink-stained fingers. No doubt he had a superb grasp of old Greek ecclesiastical texts, but his modern spoken Greek was decidedly shaky.

It suited James very well. He announced that he now thought his brother was not ill but simply overtired from their long journey. This took the elder such an age to translate, with many consultations back and forth, that Father Nikola did not attempt to ask questions. The infirmarian said he would put up a restorative potion, but if the lad was not much revived by the next day, and eating well, he feared there must be more amiss than mere exhaustion.

Cordelia took one sniff at the potion and refused to taste it. However, she was perfectly willing to eat a huge breakfast, luncheon, and dinner.

“Which is all very well,” she pointed out, “but though he won’t insist on examining me if I’m not ill, I cannot go on hiding in my cell if I’m no longer tired. They will expect me to join in their communal life as much as you do. I know I shall be discovered.”

“I’ll think of something,” James promised. But his mind was a complete blank when, next morning, he woke to the expected knocking at the door.

Chapter 19

“It’s a glorious day,” declared Father Josif. “I trust your little brother is well enough to travel?”

“Yes, indeed!” James sagged against the cell door in his relief. “She...He has completely recovered, thanks to Father Nikola’s tonic.”

The priest’s eyes twinkled. “I shall tell the good father he has effected a marvelous cure. We shall leave as soon as we have broken our fast, for the going will not be easy.”

Their departure from the monastery was an ominous portent of the difficulties ahead. The wind had piled snow against the gates almost to the arch above, and when the porter opened them, he was knocked down by a minor avalanche.

Father Josif was undeterred.

Monks with shovels cleared a way for them through the monstrous drift. As they emerged at the top of the track, a vast white panorama spread before them, mountain beyond mountain dazzling in the sun, beneath a clear blue sky. Surprised at the warmth of the sun, James reminded himself he was in southern climes in spite of the wintry view.

The track proved steep enough to have shed most of its burden of snow, but the footing was decidedly slippery, with a sheer fall of several hundred feet to one side. Even the intrepid Father Josif, in the lead again, crept downwards with extreme caution. Dido and Aeneas did not care a bit for the descent, though Achates took it in his stride with his usual patient aplomb.

With several anxious moments but no mishaps, they reached the main track along the ravine. This was less dangerous—easy it was not. In places the snow was over the animals’ heads, but Father Josif bulled his way through the drifts with inexhaustible energy and good cheer. Well-rested and well-fed, Cordelia tramped along happily behind him leading Dido. Luck had truly been on their side for once when they met the priest.

Behind her, James echoed her thoughts. “It was our lucky day when Father Josif found us. Without him we’d never have reached the next village. I could not march through snowdrifts without turning a hair as he does, loath though I am to admit myself bested.”

He sounded so disconsolate, she had to comfort him. “He knows the path, and he is big as an ox, besides. I daresay it would have taken us longer without him, but you would have contrived somehow. You always do.”

“My thanks for your confidence in me, though not all of our escapes have been my doing.” He laughed. “One way or another, we have always succeeded in scraping through by the skin of our teeth, have we not?”

“More often than I care to recall!” Cordelia said tartly. “We have had more than our fair share of adventures.”

“Just think of the tales we’ll have to tell when we get back to England. That is...Oh Lord, I hadn’t thought.”

“Thought of what?”

“I’m not going to be able to tell any tales which involve you, and you are going to have to keep quiet about this journey altogether. Otherwise your reputation will be in shreds.”

“Why?” Turning her head to stare, she stumbled.

“Careful! We cannot discuss it now. You must watch where you’re going.”

“But James—”

“Not now.”

He said no more. Glancing back a moment later, she saw he was frowning.

Why should her reputation be in shreds? Cordelia thought rebelliously. She had not done anything to be ashamed of, not like Mama. Not quite—thanks, admittedly, to the unwitting intervention of a band of Greek partisans. Hot all over at the memory of a certain brief interlude in Captain Hamid’s tent, she determinedly turned her attention to her surroundings.

For some way the track had been slowly but steadily descending. Now she realized the ravine had widened. Not far below, trees grew on the valley floor and grass was visible through rapidly melting snow.

Father Josif looked back at her and grinned. “Soon we shall stop to rest, and to eat. I am hungry. Fighting the snow takes much energy. You walk well, little sister.”

She smiled at him. He had known all along!

Over luncheon, the priest advised them that Cordelia would do well henceforth to resume her own sex.

“Among the Albanians,” he said, “a woman alone may travel safely without fear of molestation. Indeed men often take a female relative with them on a journey to reduce the chance of being attacked, for the Albanians are a quarrelsome people, much given to blood feuds. The Montenegrins, on the other hand, have an immense respect for sisters, much more so than for mothers or wives. The love of a sister, they say, is pure and unselfish and much to be prized. I do not know, and I do not ask, what is your relationship, but I suggest you travel as brother and sister.”