Greek Wedding

Jane Aiken Hodge

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

A Note on the Author

The last glow of sunset faded from the still water of the Golden Horn. As quick night fell over Constantinople, the sounds of fighting began to die away. Merciful darkness hid the mangled bodies of the Janissaries that hung in clusters from the trees of the old city, but red light in the direction of the Et Meidan Square showed where their barracks were still burning. An occasional hoarse cry, a volley of shots echoing out over the water of the harbour meant that another of them had been hunted to his death by the Sultan's men.

On the deck of his steam-yacht
Helena
, Brett Renshaw lifted a skull-shaped goblet to drink a toast: ‘It's the end of an era.'

‘Or the beginning.' Captain Barlow moved restlessly across the deck to stare up at the lighted buildings on Seraglio Point. ‘We've got steam up, sir. I wish you'd let me give the order to sail. I'll be glad to be safe away from these murdering Turks.'

‘And miss the end of the massacre? I think not. We came to the Mediterranean to find adventure and, by God, we've found it.' He was a little drunk, not seriously so yet. ‘You want to drag me away from the first real distraction I've had since we left England?' He drank again from the sinister goblet. ‘Here's to Sultan Mahmoud the Second! And may this year of grace, 1826, bring him victory over the Greek rebels as it has over his mutinous Janissaries.'

‘How can you, sir?' Now Barlow was shocked. ‘Those poor Greeks are only fighting for their freedom.'

‘“Poor Greeks,” indeed! A mob of piratical Jacobins! They're no more fit for freedom than the French ones were. I tell you.' He spoke with the careful emphasis of the slightly tipsy. ‘Now Mahmoud's dealt with the threat of the Janissaries at home, he'll give his rebel subjects in Greece short shrift, you see if he doesn't.'

‘It's what he'll do to us bothers me. Tyrants don't much like witnesses to their tyranny, Mr. Renshaw. I wish you'd let me give the order to sail.'

‘To steam, you mean! You're forgetting, Captain. With our engines, we can show the Turks a clean pair of heels any time
we want to.'

‘So long as the engines don't fail.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, get below, you old Jonah. I'll let you know when I'm ready to sail, and it will be when I
am
ready, and not a moment before.'

‘Very good, sir.' On the long voyage out from England, Captain Barlow had learned to like his difficult employer, and to modulate from friend to employee as his moods required.

*          *          *

Left alone, Brett stared unseeing for a while at the fringe of mosque and minaret outlined against the afterglow in the western sky. He was looking into himself, and disliking what he saw. ‘ “Distraction”.' He quoted himself with disgust. ‘A massacre. The first real distraction. It's true, too.' He moved over to a table on the foredeck and refilled the skull goblet. ‘Congratulations, Helena, you've made me the monster you wanted. And still your slave—like those “poor Greeks” Barlow talks about. Freedom.' He savoured the word. ‘Why not?' Suddenly resolute, he shook something out of a paper into the dark wine. ‘Freedom,' and then: ‘Helena, this draught I drink to thee!'

But he lowered the goblet, untasted, at the sound of muffled oars from the direction of Seraglio Point. Since he had sent both Captain Barlow and the lookout below, he was alone on deck, responsible for the
Helena
and her crew. Well, what of that? He raised the goblet again. Drink this, and it was no affair of his.

He shrugged irritably in the darkness. No use. Brought up in the tradition of responsibility, he found he simply could not bow out, drink his poisoned draught and leave Barlow and the crew exposed to whatever danger was approaching, stealthily, with muffled oars. Besides; suddenly cheerful, he put down the goblet: he had wanted distraction and here it was. A fleeing Janissary perhaps? Would it be amusing to help him escape? He leant his elbows on the rail and peered down into darkness.

He could see nothing. The boat must be without lights. So—either a fugitive or a secret attack of some kind. Tyrants don't like witnesses to their tyranny. He ought to do something; call Captain Barlow; have him rouse the crew; prepare to defend the yacht … He stayed, leaning on the rail, staring into the
darkness, listening to the furtive beat of the oars. Only one pair. Nothing, surely, very formidable about that.

Now, he could hear whispering voices. And at last the shape of a small boat loomed, a darker shadow in the darkness, not more than a hundred yards from the
Helena
.

Stupid! In the still night, a lantern burned on the deck behind him. He must be clearly illuminated, a standing target to the rowers in the boat. He was across the deck in a bound, to blow out the light, and wait, motionless, till his eyes got used to the darkness. Back at the rail, he thought the little boat had lost way. Yes, the oars were silent: only the sound of whispering came across the water.

He really ought to summon Barlow. Still he did nothing. Darkness and silence stretched out around him. Then, suddenly, an outburst of shouting drew his eyes up to the lights of Seraglio Point. Something was happening in the Palace. Torches flared here and there among the hanging gardens he had admired when they sailed into the Golden Horn the week before. Trouble in the harem? He smiled to himself, suddenly sorry for Sultan Mahmoud. Women! he thought, and was distracted once more by the sound of oars. The boat was approaching again, quickly now, sacrificing silence to speed. And then, astonishing, a woman's voice, low, cautious, from across the water: ‘Ahoy, there,
Helena
, can you hear me?'

Women! A woman at least. The sex he had left England to escape. Memories flooded back, bitter as Acheron. Helena. An angel with hair
à la Grecque;
her laugh; the perfume she used; the butterfly caresses she sometimes allowed. And her last words to him: the ruthless dismissal…

‘Are you there,
Helena
? Can you hear me?' The boat was nearer now and he could sense panic in the strained whisper. Well, serve her right, whoever she was. An adventuress, of course. What else could she be? What else were any of them?

The boat was very close. The shadowy figure of the rower backed water to hold her steady beside the yacht. A second figure sat huddled in the bows. It was most unlikely that they could see him, as he stood, black against the blackness of the
Helena's
huge, boxed-in paddle-wheel. Another burst of shouting from the shore drew his eyes once more to Seraglio Point where torches flashed among the hanging gardens as if in some mad game of hide and seek.

‘Hélène
!' Now the woman spoke in French. ‘For the love of God let us come on board. It's death if we're caught. You'd not leave two women to the vengeance of the Turk?'

Two women! As if one was not enough. Her French was almost as good as her English but both were spoken with a curious, rather attractive accent. If one could imagine anything about a woman as being attractive. Whatever vengeance these two were fleeing had doubtless been richly earned. He had nothing to say to them, and stayed in the shadows, watching, as the rower took the little boat slowly down the
Helena's
length, obviously looking for some way to board her. She was out of luck, he thought savagely, and surprised himself with the realisation that he was imagining Helena herself down there, helpless and panic-stricken in the dark.

Panic-stricken? The little boat had reached the anchor cable and he could see a flurry of activity on board. Yes, they had tied up to the cable. He moved quietly down the deck to see what would happen next. Behind him, the poisoned goblet stood untasted on the table.

‘Mr. Renshaw! What's happening?' Captain Barlow stood, lantern in hand, at the entrance to the companion-way, straining to see beyond its light.

‘A couple of women in a boat.' Carelessly, ‘They say they want to come on board. God knows why. They're not going to, that's certain.' Brett spoke loud enough for them to hear.

‘For pity's sake help us!' From her tone, the woman had indeed heard him. ‘You'd not leave a dog to the fate we shall suffer if we're caught. We've fled from the Sultan's harem.'

‘Good gracious!' Barlow was a mild-spoken man. ‘Then we must lose no time in getting you safe on board.'

‘Two of the Sultan's whores? What are you thinking of?' Brett exploded. ‘I'll not have them on my ship.'

‘It may be your ship, Mr. Renshaw, but I'm its captain. And after what we've seen and heard today, I'd not leave a mad dog to the mercy of the Turks.' He leaned over the rail and gave a series of quick instructions to the women in the boat. ‘And the last one out had better sink her,' he concluded. ‘Then there's a chance they'll think you're drowned. Can you do it?'

‘No trouble at all.' Incredibly, there was a hint of laughter. ‘The problem's been to keep her afloat. But you'll need to give my aunt a hand on board, sir. She's not so young as she was,
and not well either.' And then, to her companion; ‘Of course you can, Cassy. You can't fail me now.'

Vowing vengeance (back in England he would see to it that Captain Barlow never got another ship) Brett Renshaw found himself actually helping get the two women on board. The silent one came first and it took all their strength and ingenuity to get her up. Safe on deck, she spoke at last. ‘Oh, God bless you, sir, but, please, don't waste a minute. Miss Vannick! Help her!'

Brett could hardly believe his eyes or ears. This fugitive from the Sultan's harem was speaking to him, like an equal, in the voice of an English gentlewoman. Less irritating, if more surprising, she was revealed in the lamplight as a little, colourless, dried-up spinster, somewhere in the no-woman's land between forty and sixty. ‘Please,' she went on, ‘don't trouble about me. Help your friend with Miss Vannick.'

But no help was needed. Already, the little boat was settling in the water, as the second woman (Miss Vannick) came agilely, hand over hand, up on deck to be silhouetted, dripping wet, against the light of the lantern Barlow had hung at the foremast. Her Turkish costume of flowing tunic and full trousers clung revealingly to the figure of a Diana, but all her thought was for her companion. ‘Cassy! You're not hurt?' And then, reassured by a murmured reply. ‘God bless you, sir.' To Barlow. ‘But we must lose no time. They're still searching the palace gardens, but any minute now they'll find how we got out. And then—'

‘Yes.' Barlow turned to Brett. ‘With your permission, sir, I'll give the order to sail at once.'

‘I'm surprised you trouble to ask me.' Brett was in a cold rage and did not try to hide it. ‘But, yes, since you have risked all our lives for a couple of the Turks' whores, I suppose we had best turn tail and run for it.'

‘I don't know who you are, sir!' The older woman turned on him like a fury. ‘And I don't much care, but if you were King George the Fourth you'd have no right to speak of Miss Vannick like that. Apologise, please, this instant.'