Greek Wedding (31 page)

‘Honestly, love, I think I'd rather not know.' Jenny leaned forward. ‘There comes a man now; riding hard. Bother this sun; it's shining directly in my eyes. Is it Alex, do you think?'

‘I'm not sure. Oh!' Horse and rider had disappeared among the houses. ‘He was riding hell for leather,' she went on. ‘At the risk of his life—and his horse's. Jenny, tell Brett. Quickly!'

Brett returned with Jenny in time to see the rider emerge on the quayside, now unmistakably Alex. A crowd of children had appeared from nowhere to surround him, he threw his reins to a boy, and shouted an order to the man on watch on the
Philip
. In what seemed an incredibly short time, he was being rowed swiftly out to the
Helena
.

‘What's the matter?' Brett was there to greet him as he came on board, pale and agitated.

‘Bad news.' He wasted no time on greetings. ‘The worst. It's Peter. I'll never forgive myself. But how could I have imagined it? My own people … How was I to know they felt so strongly about the Acropolis? I can still hardly believe it. Forgive me,
kyria
?' He had spoken, throughout, to Phyllida.

‘But what is it, Alex? What's happened to him?'

‘He was attacked, last night. There's a trap-door in the ceiling—We used to play there as boys, my brothers and I. How in the world was I to imagine anyone else would remember it; would want to use it? Oh, he defended himself gallantly did my Brother Petros, but by the time I heard the tumult and came to the rescue, he had received wounds enough to finish an ordinary man. They ran, when they saw me, the cowards, but I'll be revenged on them, if it takes the rest of my life.'

‘But Peter?'

‘Alive. Just. And calling for you,
kyria
. I'd be wicked to give you much hope, but, with nursing, with care, I think he has a chance. It's loss of blood, mostly … surface wounds; they tried to fight quietly, you see, in the dark, with their yataghans. But I've nothing at the castle, nothing! No basilicon powder, no bandages, not even laudanum for his pain. I left my old nurse clotting the blood, as best she might, with spider's webs. You'll come quickly,
kyria
? Five minutes may make the whole difference.'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.' No time for doubts. ‘Jenny, will you tell Price what I'll need? Thank God Dr. Howe made me keep some of the medical supplies I ordered from England.' And then, remembering. ‘Brett?'

‘He's calling for Phyllida?' Brett spoke across her to Alex.

‘Constantly. As if he had something on his mind, something he needs to say to her. And, besides, there's the nursing. If he's left to my old nurse—Well, you know what they're like. I'd not give him three days.'

‘But with Phyllida, you think there's a chance?' Brett was weighing pros and cons.

‘He's asking for me, Brett. You must see I have to go?' But why did she have to? Because she loved Peter, or because, guiltily, she knew she did not?

‘I suppose so.' His tone of qualified agreement enraged her. ‘You've horses, Alex? Two hours ride, you said?'

‘Yes. I left my companions behind, and did it in less this morning. But it will take us longer, going back. I brought a horse for you, too. I thought you'd want to come.'

Now the whole difficulty of the situation struck Phyllida. ‘But, Brett … But, Jenny…'

‘Nothing for it, love,' said Jenny. Aunt Cass and I will do well enough on board here, with Price and Barlow and Brown. Of course Brett must go with you.'

‘But—'

‘No time for “buts”,' said Alex.

‘Naturally I shall come,' said Brett.

*          *          *

Phyllida's preparations were quickly made. ‘Three or four
days should settle it, one way or other,' Alex had said, urging her once again to lose no time. ‘I've a side-saddle for you—of sorts.'

She was wearing Turkish costume, as she and Jenny always did on board ship. Her other one and a change of linen she thrust hurriedly into the portmanteau Price produced … He was assembling bandages and medicines under her direction … It seemed no time at all before she was kissing Jenny and Cassandra goodbye.

‘Take care of yourself, love.' Jenny held her tight for a moment.

‘And you, Jenny.'

Brett had been busy giving orders to Barlow and Brown. ‘You'll do exactly as Captain Barlow tells you, Jenny.' He joined them now. ‘I've told him—you'll understand this, Phyllida, I know—that at the slightest sign of danger, he's to sail at once.'

‘Leaving you behind?' Jenny protested.

‘If necessary.'

‘But it won't be,' said Alex. ‘You're ready,
kyria
? Good.'

On shore, they found the rest of Alex's party awaiting them, three wild-looking shaggy-haired Greeks in sheepskin cloaks and dirty white kilts, and Phyllida felt a sudden spurt of fear. ‘Brett?' She turned impulsively towards him, but Alex was between them.

‘Here is your horse,
kyria
. It's something of a makeshift saddle, I'm afraid.'

It was indeed. The horses were tough little mountain-bred ponies, their saddles made of wood, with looped ropes for stirrups. It was a nice point, Phyllida thought, whether the roughly modified side-saddle into which Alex was helping her was more or less comfortable than Brett's, whose stirrups were so short that he had to ride with his knees close up to his chin.

‘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?'

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 ride 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.'