Greek Wedding

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Leave it all to the horse,’ Alex handed her the much knotted reins that might once have been leather. ‘Keep close behind me.’ He was leading the way already up the steep lane between terraced houses, and Phyllida forgot her gnawing anxiety in surprise at how crowded the village was. Old men sat in the sun at dark doorways and under the fig trees that seemed to find nourishment, by a miracle, among the bare bones of the rock. Two young women paused for a moment in their endless spinning to gaze at the little cortège … A ripple of salutations greeted Alex as he rode at its head.

  As they passed the last house and the tiny whitewashed church, the lane widened slightly and Alex slackened speed to let her catch up with him. ‘It will be single file from here onwards. You can manage, kyria?’

  In the village, the lane had been roughly paved, now it was merely a faint line across jagged edges of grey and blue slate mixed here and there with limestone and quartz. The horses slipped and their hooves clinked and clattered on the bare rock, so that conversation would have been impossible even if Phyllida could have thought of anything but the immediate problem of balance. Impossible, too, to get more than the briefest glimpse, from time to time, of the towering mountain range running southward towards Taygetus. Petro Bey’s castle had vanished now behind a buttress of the range. A turn of the path gave her a sudden view back to the shining water of the bay and, beyond it, the rocky promontory of Modon and then sea again … She strained her eyes, wondering if it might be possible to see as far as Zante. Her horse stumbled, she nearly lost her balance, recovered herself with an effort, was aware of Brett, closing anxiously up from behind and decided she would do no more sea-gazing.

  The track was making its way steadily upwards over one rib after another of the mountain range. Once, they dipped sharply down to cross a stream-bed, dry now, with only the wide rocky bottom to suggest the torrent it must be in spring. Then they were climbing again, steadily now, up a spur of the mountain, and Phyllida, lurched and jolted by the hard wooden saddle, forgot everything in the mere effort of keeping upright, keeping balanced…

  Ahead of her, Alex paused at the top of the long slope. ‘There,’ he pointed ahead. ‘Not long now.’

  The castle stood at the crest of the next spur, cliff dropping sharply in front and rising as steeply again behind it. Phyllida had one quick glimpse of it, silhouetted against the light: medieval turrets … a square Maniote tower … a little cluster of other buildings, clinging like moss to the rock.

  ‘Half an hour more,’ Alex called back over his shoulder. Did she dare turn and pass the encouragement back to Brett? She thought not. Bones and muscles she did not know she had were aching now. She set her teeth and forgot everything but the effort of hanging on.

  She did not dare imagine what the climb up to that cliff-top stronghold would be like, and was amazed when Alex pulled his horse to a halt on a narrow ledge of rock where the path seemed to come to a stop. ‘There.’ He turned to smile encouragement, then pursed his lips in a clear, high whistle.

  It was answered from above. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I told them to be ready. I’m sure you’ve had enough, and the next bit is the worst of all.’

  His retainers had jumped down from their little horses. One of them was holding all three, while the other two stood in an elbow of the rock, and stared upwards. Phyllida steadied her own horse with one hand and turned to follow their gaze to where a huge osier-plaited basket was coming slowly down the sheer side of the cliff.

  ‘It’s quite safe.’ Alex had dismounted and tethered his horse to a metal ring sunk in the crude rock. ‘Will you go first, Phyllida, or shall we send milord?’

  Chapter 23

  The huge basket swayed dizzily upwards. Fending herself off the wall of rock with her feet, Phyllida obeyed Alex’s instructions not to look downwards, and wondered if she would ever have come had she known that this hazard awaited her. Of course she would. And after all it was not a great deal worse than being hauled on board ship in a bosun’s chair. At least the rock was steady.

  The basket swayed inwards. Firm hands caught and held it. Brett, who had gone first, helped her out. Behind him, she saw a group of the usual wild-looking Greeks, and beyond them the castle, very much more tumble-down and less romantic near to than it had seemed from a distance.

  ‘What now?’ She turned to Brett.

  ‘We wait for Alex. He said he would come up by basket—Quite a concession, I think. There’s a steep flight of steps round the other side. I gather it’s a matter of pride to use them.’

  ‘But must we wait? Can I not go straight to Peter?’ She turned to the Greek nearest her, and addressed him in his own language. ‘My brother,’ she said. ‘The kyrie Petros. You will take me to him?’

  He shrugged. ‘Den katalabaino’ (I don’t understand).

  ‘Best wait,’ said Brett, as she was about to rephrase the question. ‘The basket’s down already. Alex won’t be a minute. And he’s got your packet of medicines. Lord,’ he moved to the edge of the plateau. ‘What an extraordinary place. A dozen men could hold it against an army. And look at that for a view, Phyllida.’

  Tears choked her at his return to the old friendly tone. Silently, she joined him near the sharp, unprotected edge and saw the same view that she had briefly glimpsed earlier, but wider now … sea, and hills, and sea again, with every detail etched clear and strangely flat in the pure Greek light.

  ‘I suppose the hills are between us and the fort at Navarino.’ Brett had been looking northwards. ‘Look! There’s smoke up there—that must be near Kalamata surely. I wonder if Ibrahim is out again.’

  ‘I do hope not. Ah! Here’s Alex. Can I go to Peter at once?’ she asked, as Alex leapt, unaided, out of the imprisoning basket. ‘Your people didn’t seem to understand.’

  ‘Very likely not. Some of them are Albanians. Their Greek is rudimentary, I’m afraid,’ He turned and conducted a quick, unintelligible conversation with one of his followers. ‘He says Peter’s fallen into a deep sleep at last.’ To Phyllida. ‘Best not disturb him, don’t you think? Besides, you’re tired and hungry. I left orders for a meal to be ready the moment we arrived. You’ll be better able to deal with what is going to be a difficult enough task when you’ve eaten. All Peter’s wounds will need redressing, and, frankly, you’re not going to find him an easy invalid.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ It was true. She was exhausted, and famished. ‘Well, if he’s really asleep?’

  ‘Yes, thank God. It’s the best news yet.’ He turned to lead the way round the high, square tower that dominated the plateau, to a huddle of buildings clustered between it and the cliff. Some were fortified, others, merely the usual flat-roofed little Greek houses, badly in need of a coat of whitewash. ‘I told you we were in no state to entertain a lady.’ He had read her thoughts. ‘But I hope the food will make up for the primitive conditions. This way.’

  A low, arched entrance led into a larger room than Phyllida had expected. Lit only by narrow slits, high up in the thick walls, it struck almost dark after the brilliant sunshine outside, and Alex shouted an order. ‘Lights for my guests!’ before seating them at a rough wooden table. ‘I have no Turkish customs here,’ he told Phyllida. ‘None of that luxurious lolling about on cushions. We’re a Spartan society.’ He was seating her, as he spoke, on the upright chair next to his own big one. Brett and the handful of Greeks who ate with them had to make do with stools.

  Now men with torches filed into the room from a dark doorway at the far end and took their places behind the seats of the chief members of the party. By the flickering light, Phyllida could see that the rough walls were decorated with arms of every kind: guns, pistols, yataghans and swords, while a few broad-headed lances stood in the corner.

  The peasants in Kitries might have been pale and bent for lack of food, but there seemed no shortage of it here. A delicious, if greasy vegetable soup was followed by freshly grilled fish. ‘Caught in the bay this morning,’ Alex told her. ‘And none the worse for the ri
de up. You’ll take some more, kyria?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Impatience to see Peter was burning in her. This endless, ceremonial meal seemed a mockery of the morning’s hasty journey. She longed to break it up, but caught Brett’s eye fixed on her across Alex, surely in warning. He was right, of course. They must not insult their host. ‘It’s delicious,’ she went on. ‘But I’m rather tired.’

  ‘Of course.’ He clapped his hands and servants hurried in with a huge wooden platter piled high with fresh fruit and a dish of the cakes of nut and honey she knew so well. More wine was poured, though she had already had quite as much as she wanted. ‘You must try this.’ Alex ignored her protests. ‘It’s something quite special of our own.’ His eyes glittered in the torch-light. Jenny would say this was a scene straight out of Sir Walter Scott. What a world away Jenny seemed…

  There was coffee at last, and tiny glasses of ouzo, which Phyllida managed to refuse. ‘Alex—’ She did not like the note of uncertainty in her own voice. ‘Don’t you think Peter might have waked by now?’

  ‘Ah, Peter.’ He nodded to the group of men who had sat a little away from them at the big table, and they rose and left the room. ‘My Brother Peter.’ She felt Brett, beyond him, tense at something strange in his tone.

  ‘Yes. It’s time I went to him.’

  ‘A devoted sister.’ Stranger and stranger. ‘He wasn’t sure you’d come. I knew you would. And you, milord. You’ve won me a pair of pistols, the two of you.’

  ‘Where is Peter?’ Phyllida knew that quiet tone of Brett’s.

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Let me think. Four hours—more like five since we left the harbour. I should think they’re well out to sea by now.’

  ‘What in the world do you mean?’ She was afraid to understand.

  ‘I wonder if the others will have been as easily fooled as you.’ He drank, and smiled at her over the glass. ‘Such a good sister. But so is Jenny. I’m sure, when Peter arrived with his tale of treachery, she will have been quite as quick to act as you.’

  ‘Treachery,’ said Brett.

  It felt cold in the hall, and darker. ‘Peter’s not here,’ said Phyllida. ‘He’s not hurt at all.’

  ‘Of course not. Aren’t you relieved, kyria?’

  Shock and anger held her dumb. Yes, and fear. Fear admitted at last, that secret dread of hers that had haunted her ever since they left Nauplia. It all came, horribly, clear now. The night Peter proposed to Jenny: she had thought, oddly, that Alex was pleased at the result. No wonder! It had ensured Peter’s cooperation in his plans against the Helena … Plans, she saw now, that went further back, the further she looked. He had saved them, that day at Spetsai, because he wanted the Helena himself. But then, she felt herself redden with rage and shame, he had thought he might get her and her fortune as well, and had held his hand. When she refused him, he had begun to plot again, had suggested that they leave Nauplia and hide in his ‘safe’ anchorage under Sunion. She had saved them, for the moment, when she refused to go, but now…

  ‘Kidnapped.’ Something wonderfully steadying about Brett’s tone as he summed it up. And then, across Alex, to her: ‘At least, Phyllida, we were both fooled equally.’ He turned back to Alex. ‘So. You’ve got us here. No need to discuss the means. What we need to know is the end.’

  The calm tone that steadied Phyllida was acting as an irritant on Alex. In his imagination, this scene had played itself quite differently. He poured more ouzo with a hand that was not quite steady. ‘The end? Why, two marriages; two splendid settlements, and, from you, milord, a ransom that will enable me to make this castle fit for my American wife.’

  ‘But—’

  Brett’s glance silenced Phyllida. If Alex thought him rich enough to pay an immense ransom should he be disillusioned? ‘Let me understand you,’ he went on, still in that tone of dangerous quiet. ‘Peter has boarded the Helena, you’re telling us, with one of your lying stories—and done what?’

  ‘Taken her to a place of safety, of course. Down by Matapan, to await my instructions about your ransom and our double wedding. He’ll have told them, you see, that unless they do as he bids, you two will be killed.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Brett. Pure nightmare, this matter-of-fact conversation. ‘And will we?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. A few weeks as my guests—I hope you won’t mind the upper stories of the tower?—while we make the arrangements. Peter will need your power of attorney, kyria; a letter to that man of business of yours on Zante. And you, milord, will have to write your friends in England. That will take rather longer, of course, but once Phyllida and I are safely married, I think we will be able to accept your word of honour and treat you as our guest.’

  Once again, Brett’s glance silenced Phyllida. ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘I told you.’ Impatiently. ‘A double wedding. I have Peter’s promise that he’ll wait. Well, of course… He needs his fortune—and hers.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  ‘We’re brothers.’ His tone betrayed him. This was his weak point. ‘Besides’—he turned a travesty of the old smile on Phyllida—‘he knows that he is entirely dependent on my wife’s goodwill. And therefore on mine. You need have no fear for your sister, milord.’

  ‘No?’ Once again, Brett’s calmly ironic tone forestalled an outburst from Phyllida. He was trying to convey something to her, now that Alex had turned half away from him to speak directly to her. ‘Time.’ Was that the word his lips were forming? Play for time?

  Why? Well, why not? Lost in a sea of emotion, rage with herself, with Alex … black anxiety for Jenny … feelings beyond endurance about Peter … she was in no state to think. If Brett had some idea, some shred of a plan, she would be only too glad to go along with it.

  ‘Alex.’ It hurt her to use his name. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t take it in.’ Behind him, Brett’s look was approving. ‘I’m ill.’ She put a shaking hand to her head. It was nearly enough true. ‘That ride … And now this … I don’t understand—anything… I think I’m going to faint—’ At what point in the incredible conversation had they all risen to their feet? She swayed now, and made herself clutch Alex for support.

  He was suddenly, horribly, all solicitude, a tender arm round her. And beyond him, Brett’s glance, approving, supporting her. ‘So you’re human after all, kyria.’ Alex, too, sounded approving. ‘I confess, I’d wondered. I’m glad it’s a woman I’m to marry, not a goddess. I’ve always thought they’d be awkward company in—’ He stopped, changed the phrase. ‘In the home. And, that reminds me.’ He turned and shouted an order to one of the torch-bearers. ‘Don’t think I’ve not made my preparations for you. Jenny has your aunt for chaperone.’ He laughed, quickly, strangely. ‘Ah, here she is. Oenone, the Kyria Phyllida is not well. Take her to her room. Look after her.’

  The short, dark-haired, dark-clad young woman who had appeared in the doorway spat something at him in quick, unintelligible Albanian. ‘Take her to her room. Oenone,’ he said again, his voice a threat. ‘And speak Greek, so we can all understand you.’

  ‘I bid you welcome.’ The hate in the woman’s voice was like a blow. ‘Come with me. kyria.’

  Passionately, horribly, Phyllida feared being separated from Brett. But again his glance was encouraging. Extraordinary, how they seemed to be able to communicate without words. He wanted her to go with this furious young Greek woman. Here (was he telling her?) was another weak link in the chain Alex had forged for them. She made herself stagger towards the lowering young woman. ‘I’m not well. Help me?’

  * * *

  Some rudimentary preparations had been made in the upper tower room. Sheepskins on the raised bed-place, a table, a chair, and, Phyllida was glad to see, the small bag of necessities Price had packed for her it seemed a lifetime ago. ‘You’ll be safe enough here.’ Oenone spoke at last and her words showed the same uncompromising dislike as her silence. ‘Milord has the room below. There is to be a guard a
t the bottom, night and day.’

  ‘Milord below?’ This was wonderful news. She had been horribly afraid, back there when she left him, that she might never see Brett again.

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s smile was cruel. ‘Locked in, like you. So think now, quick, before I leave you, if there is anything you must have—that I can give you.’

  ‘Some water.’ It was a request no Greek would ever refuse. ‘If you please?’ At all costs, she must break through the hatred she felt like a wall between them.

  ‘Of course.’ Oenone went to the doorway and shouted a command down the steep stair.

  ‘There’s a spring then?’ Anything to get Oenone talking.

  ‘The best in the Morea. You’ll not die of thirst here.’ Her tone suggested all kinds of other possibilities, none of them pleasant.

  ‘No. Oenone—May I call you that?’ She felt the girl’s recoil, but went on as if she had not. ‘I’m Phyllida. Tell me, are we the only women up here?’

  ‘The only ones of any account.’

  ‘I see. And you?’ How in the world could she phrase the question.

  But Oenone had been waiting for it. ‘I am Alexandros Mavromikhalis’ wife.’ She spat it out like a challenge. ‘In the eyes of God. We were betrothed in our cradles. I warn you, kyria, nothing but disaster will come of your marriage with him. Blood on the hearth and blood in the bed … Nights of misery and days of anguish. Death would be better.’ She looked about her, wildly, and Phyllida was actually afraid, for a moment that she was going to produce a dagger from the black folds of her dress and suit the action to the word. At all costs, she must get the conversation down to a lower key.

  ‘You can’t for a moment imagine I want to marry him?’ she asked.

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Not I, for one. Do you understand what he has done to me?’