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
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
Similar Books
