Greek Wedding

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Hope dawned on his ravaged face. ‘You’ll tell that story for me, kyrie, you and the boy?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ He turned back to the window, the subject finished. ‘Ah! There’s a Turkish boat going out to the Asia. I hope to God old Codrington’s survived.’

  ‘Yes.’ Phyllida was up now, moving stiffly about the cell. ‘Brett, do you know we’re almost out of water?’

  ‘Yes. If they don’t remember us fairly soon, we’ll have to call attention to ourselves, but, frankly, I think the longer we leave it the better. Just don’t wash your face this morning, love. It looks charming as it is.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ She made a face at him.

  He laughed. ‘To me, you’ll always look beautiful. But God knows what your aunt’s going to say. It’s not just your dirty face, it’s that hair of yours!’

  ‘Is it terrible?’

  ‘Just as well we’ve no glass. I only hope I still look enough of an English milord to convince Ibrahim.’ He looked ruefully down at his shabby blue surtout and stained canvas trousers.

  ‘The extraordinary thing is, that you do. I can’t think how you manage it. Here I am, a complete slut, and you’re still a perfect English gentleman. Even without a shave!’

  ‘I’m not absolutely sure I like your tone. I’ve half a mind to give you a brotherly beating, strictly for the benefit of our friend there.’

  ‘Pray don’t! But are you really going to let him off?’

  ‘Why not? If we get out of this ourselves.’

  ‘Yes.’ Had she let herself take it too much for granted, this morning, that they would?

  Time dragged. Out in the bay, the Allied ships were scenes of frenzied activity as sailors swarmed over them, repairing the damage of the day before. ‘Most of them will be fit to sail by tomorrow,’ said Brett. ‘And probably will. There’s nothing more for them to do here. I hope Ibrahim gets back before then.’

  ‘You’re waiting for that?’

  ‘Partly. Besides, it’s important not to lose face. I’d rather they came to fetch us. If you can hold out a while longer?’

  ‘Of course.’ She was starving, and parched with thirst. They had shared the last mouthful of warm, brackish water a couple of hours earlier and the heat in the little room made thirst even harder to bear than hunger. But if Brett and Andreas could bear it, so could she.

  It was afternoon, and the activity on the Allied ships had diminished somewhat when they heard the sound of trumpets on the landward side of their prison. ‘That sounds like Ibrahim,’ said Brett with satisfaction. ‘I just hope, among all the bad news, someone remembers to tell him about us. Take the wedges out of the door, Andreas. We don’t want to seem to have been afraid.’

  ‘Yes, kyrie.’

  Phyllida watched with amusement as Andreas obeyed the casual order. ‘Will you bully me?’ she asked in English.

  ‘Bully? Oh—I see.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s good for him, don’t you see. It makes him feel safe.’

  ‘I wish I did.’

  ‘Maybe I’d better bully you too. Ah, here they come. You’re my tiresome little brother, remember. And,’ in Greek, ‘Andreas, you will say as I say.’

  ‘Yes, kyrie. Though it mean death.’

  ‘I hope it won’t.’ He turned to face the door as it was thrown open to reveal an Armenian interpreter, unmistakable in his strange-shaped cap and fur-trimmed pelisse.

  ‘At last!’ Brett’s voice was angry. ‘I come with messages for your master, and you leave me here for twenty-four hours, without food or water.’

  ‘Ibrahim himself has sent me.’ The man looked frightened. ‘You are to come at once.’

  ‘Without food?’ Brett appeared to think it over, then conceded the point. ‘Very well. I can understand that Ibrahim has much on his mind today. We will come.’

  ‘He said nothing about the other two. It is only you he wants.’

  ‘I do not move without them.’

  This time it was the Armenian who yielded.

  * * *

  Ibrahim Pasha was a short, stout, vulgar-looking man with a face badly marked by smallpox. Plainly, almost shabbily dressed, he still stood out unmistakably the leader, among a group of richly furred two- and three-tailed pashas.

  Brett approached him without hesitation, the Armenian protesting at his side. ‘We don’t need this man. I speak your language.’ Brett was half a head taller than the Egyptian, but the two pairs of eyes met and held steadily.

  At last, Ibrahim smiled. ‘You are a brave man, milord. Yesterday, your ships destroyed ours, and today you dare speak to me thus?’

  ‘Not only your ships,’ said Brett. ‘The Turks seemed to me to suffer even more than the Egyptians.’

  Something flashed in Ibrahim’s grey eyes. ‘You bring me a message from Reshid in the north?’

  ‘So I said.’ There was the slightest possible emphasis on the last word. ‘What I have to say to you, Your Excellency, is not for all ears.’

  Once again, Ibrahim’s lips parted in the cruellest smile Phyllida had ever seen. ‘Very well. Stand apart, all of you. But I warn you, Englishman, this is not a good day with me. If you are wasting my time, you and your friends will not live long to regret it. Nor will your death be easy.’

  Phyllida and Andreas were dragged away by their guards before they could hear more. Brett was speaking fast, and with conviction, but what in the world could he be saying? He seemed very far away, the whole thing hopeless. ‘Andreas,’ Phyllida whispered in Greek, ‘if the worst happens, will you kill me, quickly?’ She could see the outline of the dagger still in his boot.

  ‘Yes, kyria. I promise. It will hardly hurt.’

  Kyria. How long had he known? But a movement in the crowd brought her eyes back to Brett and Ibrahim. It was over. Ibrahim was laughing and clapping Brett on the shoulder. ‘You shall have Tahir Pasha for your escort,’ he said as they moved nearer. ‘You will tell Milord Codrington from me that he may be all-powerful at sea but I remain master here on land. You shall see my army before you go.’

  ‘I shall be honoured,’ said Brett. ‘We would also be glad, my companions and I, of food and drink. We have had nothing for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Companions? Oh—’ He glanced at Phyllida and Andreas. ‘Your brother, of course. The Greek is mine.’

  ‘No,’ said Brett, very quickly. ‘I gave him my word.’

  There was a little pause. Then Ibrahim laughed. ‘You’re a man, Englishman. You would not consider staying to advise me? I need men like you, now that those rats of Frenchmen have shown their true colours by abandoning my fleet in its hour of need.’

  ‘They put it in very good order first,’ said Brett.

  * * *

  Phyllida sometimes thought that the meal that followed was the worst of all she had been through. ‘If I seemed too eager,’ Brett explained to her afterwards, ‘I was afraid he might think again.’

  The greasy Turkish food choked her and in this strictly Muslim camp there was no wine to wash it down. Beside her, Brett was talking easily to Ibrahim about life in Paris and London. How had he realised that the Egyptian longed to be thought a man of the world? As time dragged on, she began to think that Brett was being too successful. Would they ever get away?

  The light outside the tent was dwindling. Brett looked up. ‘Your Excellency, it will be dark soon. I do not in the least wish to be mistaken for a boarding party by the British. We know too well what good shots they are.’ His tone managed to make it a compliment, implying that only heroes could have defeated the Egyptians.

  ‘You’re right.’ Ibrahim was on his feet. ‘But I am sad to part with you, Englishman. Come back some day, in happier times, when I am master here in Greece, and we will talk again.’ And then, looking beyond Brett to Phyllida. ‘Your brother is very quiet.’

  ‘He knows his place,’ said Brett. ‘Make your bow to the Pasha, Phyl. We must be going.’

  She managed a passable bow, acutel
y aware of her Greek costume and the absurdity of it all. Greek. What had happened to Andreas?

  ‘Well, boy,’ said Ibrahim. ‘What is your name, pray?’

  ‘Philip Renshaw, Your Excellency.’ Her voice came out a nervous squeak.

  ‘So he can speak. But younger than I thought. I’m surprised you risked him here in Greece, milord. Well, Philip Renshaw, I like you none the less for having accompanied your brother into danger. Ask a boon, and I will grant it.’

  Goodness, she thought, he thinks he’s something out of the Arabian Nights. And spoke up quickly. ‘Your Excellency, our man, Andreas, he comes with us?’

  ‘Oh, the Greek!’ Ibrahim looked round in feigned surprise. ‘What happened to him? Fetch him, someone. He goes with his masters.’

  Andreas joined them down at the quay, bleeding horribly from a network of light sabre-cuts. ‘It’s nothing,’ he answered Brett’s exclamation. ‘They were only beginning. God bless you, kyrie, for remembering me.’

  ‘You have my brother to thank.’ But Tahir Pasha had already boarded the Turkish version of an Admiral’s barge, the slaves, some of them Greek, were bending to their oars, there was no time for thanks. Only, as they climbed on board: ‘I didn’t tell them, kyria,’ whispered Andreas.

  As they approached, it was possible to see the full extent of the damage the Asia had suffered the day before, but discipline on board was as precise as ever, the decks were already white again, with only a sinister stain, here and there in the scuppers, as a reminder of all the blood that had poured across them yesterday. Best of all was the sight of Lord Codrington, waiting to receive them, imposing in his full dress uniform as Admiral of the Fleet. If he felt any surprise at the sight of Brett and Phyllida following in Tahir Pasha’s wake, he did not show it. His interpreter was ready to join Tahir’s, and Phyllida listened in a daze of relief as the first formal exchanges took place. The Pasha had brought Ibrahim’s assurances that no further hostilities would take place—at sea. ‘On land is another matter, but the milord here is empowered to speak to you about that.’ A Turk, Tahir did not seem to like this much, and Codrington favoured Brett with a quick, considering glance, then turned to settle the armistice terms with the Pasha.

  At last it was over, the Turks had gone and the Guard of Honour been dismissed. Codrington turned a long, hard stare on Brett. ‘Well, young man, you had better tell me all about it.’

  ‘Yes, my lord. But, first, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Renshaw.’

  ‘Mrs.!’ He looked her up and down, then surprised and touched her by a courtly bow. ‘Accept my congratulations, ma’am, on a lucky escape.’ And, to Brett. ‘You’re that cousin of Sarum’s, of course. The Helena’s owner.’

  ‘Yes—’ eagerly.

  ‘All’s well.’ Codrington anticipated his question. ‘She came in a few days ago, in company with de Rigny. We sent her off to Zante, to be safe.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’

  The Admiral actually laughed. ‘A proper spitfire you have for a sister, by what de Rigny says. He had to talk of mutiny, and irons, before he could dissuade her from sailing, single-handed, to Kitries to your rescue. You must understand that we’ve had affairs of our own to attend to.’

  ‘I do indeed. We saw it all, from over there.’ Brett pointed to Neokastron.

  ‘You did? Then you saw who started it.’

  ‘The Turks. They fired on a flag of truce. But I’ve more to tell you than that, sir, when you have the time.’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow, perhaps. For the moment, we must think what’s best for Mrs. Renshaw.’ His glance was friendly. ‘This is no place for a lady, even such an intrepid one as you must be, ma’am.’ And then, with a look, surely, of amusement. ‘I have it: the Redstart. She arrived a little late for the battle and suffered no damage. Captain Froxe has his wife at Zante. What could be more suitable?’ He turned away to give a rapid series of orders. ‘You and I will talk tomorrow, Mr. Renshaw. I take it whatever you have to say will keep till then?’

  * * *

  There was something indescribably glum about the atmosphere of the Redstart. Here were no sinister stains in the scuppers, no groans from below-decks, and no cheerful skylarking of sailors as they repaired damaged spars and rigging above. Captain Froxe had made the mistake of setting his wife safe ashore on Zante before he followed the rest of the fleet into Navarino Bay, had lost the wind, and missed the battle. He received them with the dull civility of a man who sees his career in ruins, and showed obvious relief when Brett pleaded exhaustion on both their parts. Captain Froxe did not want to hear about the battle he had missed. He was glad to ring for his man and have Phyllida shown to the slip of a cabin that normally belonged to his wife’s maid. Brett would have to share with a group of officers. Andreas presented a slight puzzle, which he solved by settling down outside Phyllida’s door. Froxe shrugged. ‘It will save putting a marine on duty.’

  When Phyllida waked, it was broad daylight. She had fallen asleep, as for so many nights before, in all her dirt, snugly wrapped in the filthy sheepskin capote. Now, listening to the civilised sounds of shipboard living all around her, she could not bear herself a moment longer. She opened the cabin door a crack, and Andreas started up to greet her with his broad, black-toothed smile. ‘At your service, kyria!’

  ‘Andreas, do you think you could find me hot water—much much—’ (She pantomimed a large vessel) ‘and—’ (What in the world was the Greek for a looking-glass?) Once again, she had recourse to pantomime, and suddenly the old man grinned again to show he understood and trotted off down the corridor.

  He returned, after a considerable interval, with Captain Froxe’s own man, carrying a jug of hot water, and a small hand mirror.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, ma’am, and he thought maybe you’d not mind helping yourself to one of Miss Mincheon’s outfits.’ His tone was apologetic.

  ‘Miss? Oh—the maid.’ Phyllida laughed. ‘It couldn’t be worse than this.’ Looking as she did, she could hardly blame the captain for not offering her the run of his wife’s clothes.

  ‘We sail as soon as Mr. Renshaw returns,’ the man went on. ‘He’s been with the Admiral all morning.’ And then, suddenly confidential. ‘I hope he gets back soon. We’re due to dine on Zante today. At Mrs. Biddock’s, where Mrs. Froxe is staying. The master says he hopes you and Mr. Renshaw will give him the pleasure of your company.’

  Phyllida had been looking with horror in the glass. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I had better get to work.’

  With Andreas back on duty outside, she began by washing her hair. Probably as well, she thought, that Oenone had cut it so ruthlessly short. Though she had been eaten alive by fleas and doubtless worse, she did not seem to have acquired any permanent infestation. Her hair was soon curling in rather wild ringlets around her face, a testimony to Oenone’s erratic shearing. Nothing she could do about that.

  Delicious to peel off the Greek costume at last, to use up the rest of the cooling water, and then dress from top to toe in Miss Mincheon’s clean linen which smelt, blessedly, of lavender from little bags tucked here and there among it. Miss Mincheon’s best dress was pale grey muslin, cut high, with a daring little frill round the neck. It actually fitted, though several inches too short, but after wearing gaiters for so long, Phyllida found it hard to take this very seriously. She slipped Brett’s signet ring back on the hand that still looked brown rather than clean and opened the cabin door again.

  ‘Kyria!’ Something heartening about Andreas’ surprise.

  Captain Froxe’s man appeared behind him. ‘The captain would be honoured if you would take coffee with him in his cabin, ma’am.’ He was too well-trained to permit himself anything but the slightest blink at her transformation.

  She could have been wearing chain mail for all the notice Captain Froxe took of her. He was in an anguish of anxiety. ‘We shall be late.’ He gazed past her at the chronometer on the wall. ‘We shall be worse than late. She’ll never forgive me.’


  This seemed to be a far more serious matter than simply being late for a battle. Hen-pecked, no doubt. Phyllida spared a moment to be sorry for him, then moved forward, with an apology, to pour herself a cup of coffee.

  ‘What? Oh yes, yes, of course. But where can he be—’ He stopped, thought about it for a moment. ‘Mr. Renshaw.’

  She was beginning to see just how wise Brett had been to insist on that Greek wedding. ‘My husband, you mean?’ Strange to be using the word, for the first time, almost as a matter of defensive strategy. ‘I imagine he had a great deal to tell Lord Codrington. We saw the whole battle, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Captain Froxe. ‘But we shall be late for dinner.’

  Brett arrived, cheerfully apologetic, ten minutes later, and the anchor was already coming up as he climbed on board. By the time he joined them in the captain’s cabin, they could feel the ship begin to respond to a following wind. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you late, Captain—’ And then, seeing Phyllida smiling at him from the other side of the table. ‘Good God, love, what are you playing at now?’

  ‘I’m an abigail,’ said Phyllida cheerfully, ‘but at least, thank God, I’m clean.’

  ‘You’re beautiful.’ He ignored Captain Froxe to come round the table and kiss her lightly. ‘I’d forgotten what your hair was like.’

  ‘At least it’s not infested!’ And then. ‘But we’re shocking Captain Froxe.’

  ‘Too late. We’ve shocked him.’ The captain had murmured something incomprehensible and left the cabin. ‘Tell me, love.’ He settled close beside her, one arm round her waist, while he poured cool coffee for them both with the other. ‘What’s the matter with the poor man? Aside from missing the battle, I mean.’

  ‘He’s got a termagant of a wife on Zante,’ explained Phyllida. ‘No, Brett! Think if someone should come in! They’re doubtful enough about us already!’