Double the Love Page 2

  “It is on just such a topic that I wish to engage with you this morning,” he then said and Ariana knew at once that her life and future were at stake.

  “Uncle?” she murmured.

  “Several months ago I began corresponding with a certain Albanian Prince, a Stefan of Dukka. I had heard already through the émigré grapevine that he was seeking an English wife. One who happens to speak Albanian.”

  Ariana felt her hand begin to shake as she asked,

  “Why is he looking for an English wife? Are there – no young women in Albania?”

  Her uncle narrowed his eyes, wondering if he had detected a note of sarcasm in Ariana’s voice. But her clear eyes looked innocent enough.

  “Dukka is located in the Northern part of Albania,” Konstantin replied. “It’s a remote mountainous region and young ladies there tend to be somewhat unsophisticated. Prince Stefan would like someone with a mind congenial to his own, he writes. And he is looking for a rare beauty.”

  Ariana relaxed. Surely this eliminated her from the competition!

  Her uncle noted her ill-concealed satisfaction.

  “Ariana, go to that mirror above the fireplace?”

  “Why?”

  “Do not question my commands.”

  With a sigh Ariana rose and went to the mirror.

  “Take a good look at your face, Ariana. Describe what you see.”

  She gazed at her reflection. Since her uncle never praised her looks, she had developed little self-regard.

  “Describe what you see,” repeated her uncle.

  “I see – very pale skin.”

  “Translucent. With a rose hue on the cheeks?”

  “Y-yes. And yellow hair.”

  “Spun gold. Cobalt eyes and dark arched brows. Delicate lips. A pert nose and a tiny waist.”

  Ariana flushed under such unaccustomed scrutiny.

  “Don’t you see that you are pleasing to the eye?”

  “If you say so, Uncle.”

  “I do say so. And so does Prince Stefan.”

  “But he has never seen me!” Ariana cried out.

  “Oh, but he has,” replied Uncle Konstantin. “I sent him the portrait of you that I commissioned last year.”

  Ariana had indeed sat for a portrait last summer, the artist being a friend of the lady who taught her Albanian.

  “The Prince is much taken with you,” he went on. “I would go so far as to say that he fell in love with your likeness.”

  Ariana felt a sudden trembling run through her.

  “I-in love?”

  “Yes. He says so here.”

  Uncle Konstantin picked up one of the envelopes by his elbow and extracted a letter from which to quote,

  “She pleases my heart already. God willing that she will please my house and my bed as well.”

  Ariana was at once shocked at the Prince’s manner of expression, yet the hint of passion it suggested sent a shiver through her body that she could not explain.

  Her uncle continued to read,

  “Let Ariana come to me from your hand and please let her accept as a token of my esteem this necklace that once belonged to my own mother.”

  Uncle Konstantin put down the letter and opened the box on the table that had aroused Ariana’s curiosity.

  Her eyes widened as she saw the glistening pearls that a second later dangled from her uncle’s fingers.

  “They – they are for me?” she asked on a breath that was almost as sob.

  And never in her life had anyone ever offered her anything as beautiful.

  “For you,” nodded her uncle.

  Ariana, quite bedazzled, reached out her hand, but he withheld the necklace.

  “What do you say, niece? Will you agree to travel to Albania and marry Prince Stefan? Remember it is your duty to please me more than yourself and remember too that I will not otherwise provide for your future.”

  Her uncle need not have added that last admonition. Ariana always knew that she had little to hope from him, that his wish was to marry her off with as modest a dowry as he could get away with and return to his bachelor ways.

  She had not considered going abroad, but suddenly the idea of it took on an unexpected lustre.

  Starved of attention and admiration as she had been for so long, the proffered love of a passionate and far-away Prince overwhelmed her caution.

  “Tell him – yes, Uncle,” she whispered. “Yes – I will come.”

  *

  It took some weeks to organise the details of the journey and it was late March before Ariana set off.

  She was to be accompanied by a young girl called Bonnie, who, until her elevation to lady’s maid, had been little more than a general maid in the Bardici’s household.

  Bonnie was excited at the idea of travelling abroad and living in a Palace and she thirsted for adventure.

  From the moment that she had accepted the pearl necklace, Ariana had been lost in a dream of romance.

  She had received only one further communication from her fiancé and that was a formal letter of gratitude that she had accepted his proposal.

  Over this letter she had poured for days, searching the terse words for a hidden message. In the end she had argued to herself that it was not so much a personal letter as a Letter of State.

  Nevertheless it lived under her pillow and she often stroked the insignia stamped at its head, PRINCE STEFAN OF DUKKA.

  Soon she, Ariana Dancer, would be married to a Prince who adored her!

  *

  The arduous journey across Europe did not dampen her excitement.

  Indeed, as the miles passed by, she began to paint for herself a rosier and rosier picture of the life that awaited her, as opposed to the life that she had so far led.

  It was Bonnie who soon began to lose heart.

  The barely heated inn rooms, the lumpy mattresses, the strange food, the interminable hours spent in railway carriages or cold coaches, quelled her appetite for change.

  She was constantly sick and bad-tempered and then Ariana found that it was she who had to look after her maid rather than the other way round.

  It was only when they changed coaches for the last time in sight of the tall mountains of Northern Albania that Ariana’s resolve faltered.

  Staring at the dark peaks ahead swathed in dense unsettled cloud, she suddenly realised that this landscape was to be her home. It was unlikely she would ever return to London or again set eyes on the one constant she had known for most of her seventeen years – Uncle Konstantin.

  He had not wanted her in his life and he had never shown her much warmth or concern. But his was a face she knew.

  The face of Prince Stefan she had not seen.

  As if he was sensing her sudden unease, their new coachman spat on the dusty ground.

  “Lawless country, this,” he said in rough Albanian.

  Ariana turned her gaze upon him.

  “Lawless?”

  The coachman spat again.

  “The Ottoman Turks never managed to subdue the mountain tribes. Here there be only rebel Princes and mad Priests from Italy and murderous brigands.”

  Ariana regarded the looming mountains again.

  “Brigands?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What’s he sayin’?” demanded Bonnie crossly.

  “Nothing important,” replied Ariana quickly. She saw no need to alarm her already excitable companion.

  “Well, I wish he’d tell us how long it’ll be before we get to this Palace,” moaned Bonnie.

  “It’ll take two more days to get to Dukka,” sniffed the coachman, as if he had understood Bonnie.

  “The Prince employed you to meet us here at the border, did he not?” ventured Ariana.

  The coachman gave a nod.

  “You took your time a-gettin’ this far. I’ve been waitin’ two days already, sleepin’ in that tavern over there. No better than a hutch for dogs.”

  “What is the Prince like?” Ariana enqu
ired.

  “He’s not a man to cross, if you want to know,” the coachman muttered.

  Ariana digested his reply soberly, understanding it to mean that the Prince was a man of strength.

  “And is he – handsome?”

  The coachman regarded her for a moment and then gave a sudden wink.

  “Women say so.”

  She experienced an unaccustomed stab of jealousy at the idea that there existed women privileged enough to have already set eyes on Prince Stefan.

  They set off and after an hour of so the road began to climb upwards. The track was easily the worst they had yet encountered and the ramshackle old coach rattled and shook over the stones until they felt like dice in a tumbler.

  “I’m sure to be sick before we’re done” lamented Bonnie.

  Ariana, both hands gripping the passenger strap, did not reply. She felt that she could endure anything if her Prince was waiting for her.

  Nevertheless, when she glanced out of the window and saw the steep drop that soon appeared at the side of the track, she felt almost dizzy with terror.

  As they ascended, even inside the coach, they felt the air become somewhat rarefied and the scent of damp pine chased out the musty smell of old upholstery.

  They had travelled for about four more hours and had reached a section of the route where thin trees rose on all sides when they heard a shout and the coach suddenly juddered to a halt.

  Ariana was flung forward whilst Bonnie, who had been fast asleep, slipped to the floor.

  “What’s happenin’?” the maid called out dazedly.

  Ariana opened the door and peered out.

  There straight ahead of them, straddling the track, was a flock of goats. They were so still it was a moment or two before she was convinced that they were real.

  The coachman leapt down from his box.

  “I don’t like this,” he said nervously.

  Ariana stared apprehensively beyond him. She had glimpsed movement amid the trees.

  There was a rustle of undergrowth and a moment later five or six men stepped out onto the track.

  Ariana gasped as she saw the rifles slung over their shoulders and coloured scarves over their mouths.

  “Brigands!” muttered the coachman.

  Bonnie, understanding his worried tone from within the coach, gave a scream and the goats scampered from the track in surprise.

  Ariana shrank backwards as one of the men, whose confident bearing marked him out as their leader, came to the open door and stared in.

  He whistled to his men.

  “A prize!” he declared.

  Reaching in, he caught Ariana’s hand and dragged her from the coach.

  “H-how dare you,” she spluttered furiously for a moment forgetting her fear.

  The man, his grip on her wrist tight, gave a smile.

  “She speaks our language too. Who can she be?”

  “I sense a ransom here, Chief!” declared another of the men, as he reached in and pulled out the wriggling and protesting Bonnie.

  Hearing the word ‘ransom’, Ariana made an instant decision. She would not be bartered over like an item at auction and she would not come to her Prince with a huge price tag on her.

  Somehow she would outwit these evil villains and escape from them.

  “What do they want?” asked Bonnie.

  “Us!” replied Ariana with a hint of contempt. “But we shall prove to be of little value to them.”

  “What do you mean?” whispered Bonnie fearfully.

  “I mean that we will not tell them who we are or where we are going”

  Ariana was speaking in English to Bonnie so that the brigands could not understand.

  She was not sure how she could communicate with the coachman, as she did not want him revealing anything about their destination to the brigands.

  She need not have worried, as, seeing the brigands occupied with her and Bonnie, the coachman had sidled round to the other side of the coach and stealthily mounted onto his box.

  Now, with a mighty crack of the whip and a wild command, he set the horses going. Two brigands leapt to grab at the horses’ reins, but the coachman sliced the whip across their hands and they fell back cursing.

  Another brigand lowered his rifle to fire, but Ariana called out such a loud and horrified ‘no!’ that he became momentarily distracted.

  Wrestling free from her captor, Ariana then sprang forward and caught such fierce hold of his rifle butt that it could not be focused on its target.

  In the general chaos the coach raced clean away.

  “We’ve lost him!” called out one brigand angrily.

  “What matter,” said the Chief. “We still have our beautiful spoils.”

  Ariana felt very pleased that the coachman had got away. He would surely go straight to Prince Stefan and relate what had happened. And then the Prince would have to come and rescue his bride-to-be from the clutches of these animals!

  “Don’t worry, Bonnie,” she whispered. “We will not be hostages for long.”

  Bonnie looked unconvinced.

  “All our luggage was on that coach,” she lamented. “Includin’ your pearls.”

  Ariana refused to be downhearted.

  “We’ll get them back,” she asserted stoutly.

  She and Bonnie were now pushed into the woods and stumbled ahead of the brigands along a path that led steadily upwards. The hems of their dresses were soon in shreds from catching on sharp rocks and thorny plants.

  After about an hour Bonnie sat plump down on a rocky outcrop and would go no further.

  The Chief of the brigands gestured impatiently at her with his rifle to stand up.

  “I just can’t walk anymore,” she wailed. “I’ve got blisters!”

  Ariana looked at the Chief brigand.

  “Cannot we rest awhile?”

  He shook his head and answered,

  “No. We have to reach our camp before sundown, these tracks are too dangerous to negotiate in the dark.”

  Ariana could well believe it, as sometimes the track wound close to the side of seemingly bottomless chasms and at others it was a mere ribbon between rock and sky.

  The brigands gathered around the weeping Bonnie.

  “Shall we leave her here to the wolves and bears,” they joked amongst themselves.

  Bonnie seemed to catch the gist of their comments as she now began to wail.

  The brigand Chief frowned and then signalled to one of his men.

  “You, Gorci. Take her.”

  Gorci came forward, put his rifle aside and in one move heaved the startled Bonnie up onto his free shoulder. Hair pins scattered on the path as her head bobbed upside down and her brown hair fell free. But realising that she was to be spared the pain of walking, Bonnie left off further complaints.

  “Good,” remarked the Chief brigand. “We go on.”

  Higher and higher up into the mountains they went. Ariana was exhausted, but determined not to appear weak.

  She sent up fervent prayer after prayer to God, as her mother had taught her to pray, that she and Bonnie could somehow escape these ruffians and journey on safely to the Prince.

  Once when she stumbled she found the hand of the Chief brigand at her elbow.

  “I help,” he said softly.

  Ariana thought it best to appear grateful.

  “Thank you,” she said in Albanian.

  The Chief brigand smiled, revealing gold teeth.

  “My name is Ilir,” he declared. “And yours?”

  Ariana glanced at him quickly. She was not going to be caught that way.

  “No name,” she replied.

  “No name? That is strange,” Ilir frowned.

  “It’s a common English name,” she said sweetly.

  Ilir jerked his head towards Bonnie.

  “And her?”

  “No name too,” replied Ariana.

  “No name also,” repeated Ilir. “Huh!”

  They marched on in silen
ce. The air was sweet and chill. The woods had fallen away and with them the sound of birds. Now there was silence all around, broken only by the slither of stones from underfoot.

  Suddenly from out of the encroaching dusk came a long whistle. Ilir put up his fingers and whistled in return.

  “We are near,” he said to Ariana.

  They came out onto a plateau surrounded on three sides by snow tipped peaks.

  The peaks protected the plateau to the extent that grass and wild flowers were able to flourish and, although it was still March, the area seemed verdant.

  On the banks of this stream a number of fires were lit and colourful blankets were spread out. Beyond was a rock face indented with caverns.

  From close nearby came the mournful playing of an instrument, a brooding melancholic sound.

  Ariana was dazed. She had dreamed of arriving at a Palace and of finding comfort and ease at the end of her arduous journey.

  Never in her wildest imaginings had she envisaged this – a brigands’ hide-away, a Kingdom beyond all law or civilisation with she and Bonnie the captives of a rough and ruthless band of men who might at any moment be tempted to ravish them against their will.

  Tired, hungry and suddenly lonely beyond measure, Ariana’s courage failed her at last.

  With a heartfelt cry of utter despair, she sank to her knees and wept.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ariana raised herself and looked around.

  She had just spent the night on a straw pallet spread with thick furs. The bed had proved warmer than she might have expected, considering she was in a cave.

  At the entrance lay the still smouldering ashes of a fire over which a black cauldron hung from a pole.

  Last night Ariana and Bonnie had been fed some kind of stew from this pot and Ilir himself had served them.

  After supper he had plied Ariana with questions, but she revealed little. He had then gone away, vowing that he would find out what he wanted sooner or later!

  Throwing back her fur cover she rose from her bed. The morning felt cold and she shivered.

  She had managed to kindle a weak flame when Ilir appeared. He put down a basket filled with bread and a jar of fresh honey, indicating that she should eat.

  Ariana heard Bonnie stirring and turned. The maid stared at the cave roof for a moment and then let out a cry,

  “It’s all real then! We’re prisoners.”