‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ the minister was now saying.
The Earl of Dugdale stepped forward.
Ella’s thoughts continued to drift. She thought of her Cretan friends: Kostas and Eleni; Andre and Agata; Nikoleta; Apollonia; Pericles; Nico; Yanni; Adonis; Dimitri and Aminta; Angelos and Rhea. If she had been marrying Sam on Crete, they would all have been there, magnificent in their heroic costume, the men carrying rifles in order to fire into the air volley after volley of celebratory shots.
Christos wouldn’t have been there, though.
‘I take thee, Sholto Edward Henry Hertford,’ Daphne was saying in her distinctively husky voice, ‘to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward . . .’
Christos. Ella’s fingers tightened on her posy of lilies-of-the-valley and stephanotis. Why was Christos invading her thoughts now, at this of all moments?
Only yards away from her, Sholto Hertford was sliding a wedding ring on to the fourth finger of Daphne’s left hand.
‘With this ring I thee wed.’ His voice was perfectly steady, his eyes, as they held Daphne’s, unreadable. ‘With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’
Ella tried hard to stop thinking of Christos, but now that she had started, she couldn’t stop.
With Daphne and Sholto now kneeling before him, the minister exhorted the congregation to join him in prayer.
Dutifully Ella bowed her head, but although she tried hard to concentrate on the words of the prayer, she couldn’t stop the thought that even if she had been marrying in Crete, Christos would not have come to her wedding; not unless it had been in order to bride-kidnap her, before Sam’s ring had slid upon her finger.
The minister joined Daphne and Sholto’s right hands together, saying: ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’
Ella gave a sigh of relief as deep as if the words were being said over her and Sam.
For this was the moment that she wanted – the moment when she and Sam were married and when she would, she was sure, be beyond all temptation, where Christos was concerned.
Chapter Seventeen
JANUARY 1938
Lewis walked out of King’s Cross Station and towards the taxi rank, a leather travel bag in one hand, a briefcase in the other. He had come down from Sutherland on the overnight sleeper after spending Hogmanay with the aunt who took care of his home during his long absences from it, and with his godfather who, this year, had decided to forsake Claridge’s for the snow and icy chill of the far north of Scotland.
‘The Travellers Club, Pall Mall,’ he said, stepping into the back of a black cab.
He had booked in for two nights, long enough for him to take care of his residual business in London before, on Wednesday, he left on the boat train for the beginning of his journey back to Crete.
That his godfather was pleased with the results of the year’s dig at Kalamata was an understatement. ‘It’s far, far better than I could possibly have dreamed of,’ he’d said as, with snow falling steadily outside, they’d sat nursing brandies before a pungent-scented log fire. ‘A palace! Who would have thought there would have been another Minoan palace still to be found?’
‘I would,’ Lewis had said, a rare smile creasing his face. ‘But be warned, Nathaniel, even though we still don’t know the full extent of what we’ve got at Kalamata, it can’t be over an acre in size. The plateau isn’t big enough for anything larger.’
‘How big is Phaistos?’ Nathaniel had asked.
‘One-point-eight acres.’
‘And Mallia?’
‘A tad smaller, although not much. And both Phaistos and Mallia had been, like Knossos, the centres of small townships. The upper plateau at Kalamata isn’t large enough for that situation to have existed there. In being situated where it is, and in being so isolated, the palace at Kalamata is unlike any other palace so far found.’
And that, for Lewis, was what made it so exciting.
As the taxi headed now in the general direction of Bloomsbury, he again pondered his theory that the palace at Kalamata had never been built to serve the same purposes as the other excavated palaces. Whereas they had all quite clearly been not only the residence of a priest-king and a priest-queen but also administrative and storage centres, so far only one royal megaron, or central hall, had been discovered at Kalamata; and, of the artefacts found there, there was nothing to indicate whether the occupant of it had been male or female.
Helmut’s theory was that Kalamata had served as a pleasant occasional retreat from the official residence – a residence that could, because of Kalamata’s geographical position, have been any one of the other three palaces. It wasn’t a theory Lewis shared. The retinue that would of necessity have accompanied a priest-king and -queen could not have been accommodated at Kalamata. And always the mystery came back to the one royal suite of rooms, when every other palace had two.
As the taxi entered the maze of little streets that made up Covent Garden, Lewis continued pondering the mystery. Had the personage for whom the palace had been built been living in some kind of exile? And, if so, what new light would that shed on the culture and lifestyle of the ancient Minoans? Was he going to find himself at odds with Sir Arthur’s conclusions about them? If he did, the resulting academic furore could last for years – and would do his reputation no harm whatsoever.
In Pall Mall the taxi drew to a halt and, in high spirits, Lewis paid the cabbie and strode up the steps and into the familiar ornate reception hall.
‘It’s good to see you again, sir,’ the middle-aged man on the desk said, handing him his room key. ‘And there’s post for you.’
He handed Lewis four envelopes. Lewis flicked through them. One was from the Royal Archaeological Institute. Two were in handwriting that was familiar to him, and which he had been expecting. The fourth envelope had just his name on the front and had been hand-delivered.
Seeing his frown of perplexity, the uniformed figure manning the desk said, ‘The messenger-boy who delivered it was most particular that you should receive it the instant you arrived, sir.’
Lewis pocketed his room key and then opened the envelope. It had come from an unspecified government department in Whitehall and the name of the sender – Julian Kermode – was unknown to him. It read:
Dear Mr Sinclair,
I would be most grateful if you would find time this afternoon to meet me at the above address. Three o’clock would be convenient to me, but I shall be here until five.
Lewis slid the letter into his pocket and made his way to his room. Once in it, he dropped his travel bag and briefcase on the bed, walked into the bathroom, put the plug in the bath and turned the hot tap on. Then he walked back into the bedroom, took the letter out of his pocket and read through it once again.
There was no hint at all that Julian Kermode wished to see him in connection with his working life; and if the meeting wasn’t in connection with the dig at Kalamata, then what was it in connection with? And how had Julian Kermode known of his imminent arrival at the Travellers Club? It was all so high-handed and cavalier that Lewis’s first instinct was to screw the letter up and lob it into the nearest bin.
He didn’t. It was too intriguing. Instead he shrugged himself out of his jacket, undid his tie and went back into the bathroom to check on the bath water.
At five past three he was at the required office in Whitehall. It wasn’t what he had expected.
Though the exterior of the building was grandiose, the part of the building that he was directed to was a rabbit warren of small, functional numbered offices. In growing bewilderment and certain that his time was being wasted, Lewis came to a halt outside the door he’d been searching for and knocked.
No one called out for him to enter.
Instead the door was flung open by a man he judged to be not much older than he himself was. Nothing about him spoke of being a Whitehall mandarin. Instead of being formally
suited, he was wearing flannels and a shabby but very good-quality tweed jacket. In one hand he was holding a pipe; the other was thrust out towards him.
‘Julian Kermode,’ he said, giving Lewis a vigorous handshake. ‘Good of you to come. Sit down and I’ll get to the point straight away.’ Once behind his desk, and with Lewis seated at the far side of it, he went on, ‘You’re a classicist, right?’
Lewis nodded.
‘And you’ve spent the last two years working in Greece?’
‘Yes,’ Lewis said, equally brief. ‘Crete.’
Julian Kermode sucked on his pipe and then said, ‘Do you find familiarity with classical Greek gets you around in modern-day Greece?’
‘Yes, but I don’t have to rely on it. I speak modern Greek. Before this goes any further, would you mind explaining just what this is about?’
‘Ah, yes. Sorry.’ A smile tugged at the corner of Julian Kermode’s tough-looking mouth. ‘Although you wouldn’t think it, looking at this cubbyhole I’ve been allotted, I’m attached to the War Office – and the War Office is interested in recruiting persons with special knowledge and languages of the Mediterranean area, in the event of war breaking out.’
Lewis looked beyond Julian Kermode to the large map of the Mediterranean area that had been pinned to the wall.
‘And if war breaks out, how does Crete fit into the scenario?’
Kermode rose to his feet and turned to the map. ‘Being halfway between Europe, North Africa and the Near East, Crete is strategically a time-bomb. Whoever controls it and has use of its deep harbour at Suda Bay controls the Mediterranean. This means that if war is declared, it is highly likely the Germans will try to occupy it. Because of this possible eventuality, Military Intelligence is looking to recruit people like yourself who have an intimate knowledge of Crete, for what can best be described as special operations.’
‘But if war is declared, I’ll no longer be in Crete. I’ll be back in Britain, seeking a commission in the army.’
‘Why – when you will be in a unique position to serve your country by laying the foundations of Cretan resistance? You’ll be supplying intelligence; sounding out which local leaders can be trusted and which can’t; preparing groups to resist invasion; and, if it is invaded, you’ll lead the resistance in an area of the island you know like the back of your hand.’
Already knowing what his answer to Julian Kermode’s proposal was going to be, Lewis said, ‘And I’d be doing this under whose authority?’
‘You’d be operating under a newly formed branch of Military Intelligence, the Special Operations Executive, usually referred to simply as SOE. For now, and until you are contacted to the contrary, we’ll want straightforward intelligence. Who on the island has influence, lists of who is pro-British and who is anti-British. That kind of thing.’
‘And when I’m contacted?’
Kermode grinned. ‘Then you’ll have more action on your plate than you’ll know what to do with.’
Fifteen minutes later, and walking down Whitehall in the direction of Trafalgar Square, Lewis was still trying to get his thoughts in order. It had been obvious to him for months that Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement policy with regard to Hitler was never going to have a happy outcome, and that war with Germany was inevitable. What he had never faced up to previously was where a war between Britain and Germany would leave Greece and, in particular, Crete.
He thought of his friends on Crete. He thought of the precious artefacts in Heraklion’s museum, and of bombs being dropped on Heraklion; of bombs even, perhaps, destroying the irreplaceable, reconstructed Palace of Minos. He thought of the Kalamata dig and of how war would bring an end to it. He thought of Helmut. Helmut wasn’t a Nazi, but if his country was at war, he would return to it in order to fight. His friend would become his enemy, and the thought made Lewis feel physically ill.
A number-eleven bus thundered past. Outside the Whitehall Theatre a ticket-tout tried to waylay him. Ahead of him the sun shone on Nelson, as he stood on top of his column. England’s green and pleasant land was green and pleasant still; but for how much longer? Sometime soon, perhaps within months, Hitler would go a step too far and all appeasement would end. And if war came to Crete?
As he turned left into Pall Mall he felt a spasm of certainty. If war came to Crete, Hitler would find that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. In Crete every male over the age of twelve could handle a rifle and bring down a bird with a single shot. And it wasn’t only rifles that were commonplace.
Muskets – relics from the Greco-Turkish War of forty years ago – still hung on the inner walls of many Cretan cottages. Shotguns were legion. Although Cretans were the most generous, gregarious people in the world to those they regarded as their friends, no quarter was ever given to an enemy. They were natural brigands. In the line of mountains that ran from east to west of the island, lawlessness was a rule of thumb. Sheep were still rustled. Honour-killings still took place. Brides were still occasionally abducted. No matter what other country in Europe Hitler rode roughshod over, he wouldn’t be able to ride roughshod over Crete. When it came to Homer’s sea-girt isle set in a wine-dark sea, the Führer would find every man and woman armed to the teeth and ready to fight to the death. And he, Lewis, would be shoulder-to-shoulder with them.
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearing the end of February, and Kate and Ella had been back on Crete for just over a month. Although the dig wasn’t officially to start until March, because there was so much work to do preparing tented accommodation for the new team of workmen who were about to arrive, they were back in their familiar lodgings at the cafeneion. Lewis, Helmut and Christos were also back at Kalamata, as were Nico and Adonis. The Mamalakis brothers both had family homes in the village and so had never left it, and Yanni had moved in as a lodger with Dimitri and Aminta Mamalakis. Of the original team, only Pericles was still to arrive.
Ella’s relief at having moved out of the Kourakises’ small house was vast, as it meant that now they were no longer living beneath the same roof, she spent far less time in close proximity to Christos. Whereas she had once enjoyed the sight of Christos washing at the pump, she did so no longer. The feelings he aroused in her were far too disturbing and filled her with too much guilt and confusion. How was it possible for every fibre of her being to react to Christos as it did, when she loved Sam and, in just two months’ time, was going to marry him? And when Sam was, in every possible respect, the perfect person for her to marry?
All her life she had behaved with great common sense. Unlike Daphne, Ella had never acted impulsively or recklessly. Ever since junior school she had slogged hard to make her parents and granddad proud of her, and to achieve her personal ambitions. And she had attained those ambitions. She had won a place at Oxford. She had left with impressive letters after her name. She was an archaeologist, and an archaeologist working on what would, when the work on it was published, be a site of worldwide repute.
She had only ever had one boyfriend, and that boyfriend had never let her down. Although Sam didn’t share her passion for the far-distant past and for unearthing artefacts and the remains of buildings thousands of years old, he understood how important her work was to her. As a GP, he had every right to expect that when they married she would be a support to him in his medical practice, and would show that support on a daily basis by answering the phone, taking messages and generally being a familiar face, where his patients were concerned; and yet Sam had agreed that instead of being an adjunct to his career, Ella should continue with her own career. All he had asked was that she didn’t accept archaeological digs so far away that she wouldn’t be able to get home from them easily and often.
Her mum, dad and granddad all thought Sam wonderful, and would have done so even if, like generations of Tetleys before them, he had been a rag-and-bone man or a mill worker. That Sam was a doctor did, though, give him added lustre, especially in her mother’s eyes. If, when she had been home over
Christmas, Ella had heard her mother say proudly once, in a conversation with a neighbour, a shopkeeper or absolutely anyone at all, ‘Ella’s fiancé is a doctor. A proper doctor. A GP in Scooby’, she had heard her say it a hundred times.
Everyone loved Sam and thought he was right for her. She loved Sam and thought he was right for her. Why, then, was she still so dangerously and overwhelmingly attracted to Christos?
All the while she was thinking, she was making her way to the upper plateau. Everyone else, apart from her, was already there, getting the campsite ready for the men who were about to arrive. Although in coastal areas such as Knossos the weather was beginning to be milder, it was still chilly in the mountains and she was wearing several layers of suitable clothing.
It wasn’t, she thought as she reached the approximate halfway point, where chestnut trees hemmed the steep path, as if – were she to give way to temptation, where Christos was concerned – anything could come of it. Though gifted at what he did, he wasn’t academically educated. She tried to imagine telling her parents and granddad that, after all the sacrifices they had made for her education, she was going to jilt Sam because she was in love with a Cretan workman who had had no more education than an English junior-school child. Then she thought of trying to tell them that Christos wasn’t a Methodist, and wasn’t even a Protestant. Whether or not they would understand what being Greek Orthodox meant, she didn’t know, but she did know that the chances of them being happy about it were on the scant side.
Beneath the Cypress Tree Page 19
