'Love!' he hooted with disbelief. 'If it's love that's prompted tomorrow's debacle then you really do deserve sympathy, Petra, because I'm quite convinced that to Stelios Heracles marriage represents no more than intercourse between tyrant and slave!'
'Then I must be the sort of slave who clings to her chains,' she rebuked with dignity, 'for I find little to choose between pandering to the whims of a demanding husband and being constantly at the beck and call of a selfish, spoilt younger brother. It's becoming clear to me that when I tried to fill the gap in your life left by the death of our mother I did you a great disservice, Gavin.' She sighed, forced to acknowledge the logic of Stelios's argument. 'A child that's never allowed to risk a fall or a bumped head develops a false sense of security, an ignorance of life's dangers that breeds a bravado lacking in those who've suffered knocks and bruises, who've fallen flat on their faces and found' no one rushing to pick them up, set them back on their feet, and kiss better all their sore places.'
Her newly discovered guilt was almost expiated by the shamefaced look that clouded her brother's features, and by the mumbled statement that gave her grounds to hope that her reprimand, though too long delayed, might not be altogether too late.
'I say, Sis, you're coming on a bit strong, aren't you? I admit to being thoughtless and irresponsible at times, but no more than others of my generation!' Awkwardly, he shuffled his feet. 'In my own defence, I must plead to being an average, normal guy when measured by a conventional yardstick.'
His pained objection brought a flash of insight that made Petra quick to apologise to the boy whose immaturity seemed more pronounced only because she had begun comparing him with the powerful, overbearing strength of one particular man.
A rush of remorse sent her rushing to envelop his boyish shoulders in a reassuring hug. 'Forgive me for the harsh things I said—I don't know what came over me,' she pleaded tremulously; 'I think… I think perhaps I'm suffering pre-wedding nerves.'
For a brief second Gavin's mouth held on to its sulky pout, then as if stung by the reminder of her earlier accusations, it widened into a forgiving grin.
'I'm not surprised,' he teased with a return of his usual good humour. 'Any girl brave enough to take on Stelios Heracles is entitled to indulge in hysterics!'
A reminder of Stelios as she had last seen him jabbed her conscience. Suddenly she found herself pleading:
'Gavin, would you mind very much if I left you to lunch alone? Greek marriage customs are complicated and prolonged, preparations began immediately the date of our wedding was announced and each day since there has been some different ceremony enacted. Yesterday, for instance, Stelios and I called at every house in the village carrying a gourd filled with wine that had a ring of pastry decorated with tiny pigeons slung around the neck. As each individual was invited to the wedding, he signified acceptance by drinking a little of the wine and eating a small piece of the pastry ring. People living in neighbouring villages have been sent handkerchiefs, silk ones for the numerous koumeres—the bridesmaids—and simple cotton ones for ordinary guests. I've no idea what's been arranged for today,' she frowned uncertainly, 'but as Stelios was so insistent that I should join him, I think I'd better do so.'
Feeling an urgent need to make up to Stelios for her slight, she took a step backward and turned to run towards the door.
'Good lord, Petra!' Gavin's mocking laughter followed her. 'I can't imagine you participating in peasants' folk practices. Have you forgotten that you're still a member of the restrained, dignified, and very proper Diplomatic Corps?'
'I'm not—not any longer!' Lightly, she tossed the bombshell over her shoulder as she reached the door. 'So please don't ever refer to it again. Oh, and by the way,' she confounded him with the afterthought, 'don't be surprised if you should hear me referred to as the schoolteacher. That's what everyone thinks I am, so stay on your guard, don't give the game away—and especially not to Stelios!'
Her feet seemed barely to make contact with the ground as, lifted on a wave of totally illogical high spirits, she sped out of the castle into gardens ablaze with bougainvillea, roses, and geraniums daubing blood red splashes against a backcloth of dark green cypress trees, towards the distant sound of violins, mandolins and the soul-stirring rhythm of the bouzouki. For days past, preparations for the wedding had been carried out to the accompaniment of music and song. Every villager, man, woman and child, had been carting trestles and chairs; table linen, crockery, glasses, wine and food to be cooked in huge iron cauldrons set around the perimeter of a circle formed around a marble fountain which centuries previously had been erected near enough to allow its cool water music to penetrate the peaceful interior of a small family church.
A puzzling far-off thudding sound caused her footsteps to falter. Slowly she advanced towards a belt of trees and as she gradually drew nearer she began identifying many deep-throated masculine voices counting in unison with the methodically thudding beat of sound.
'Fifty-seven… fifty-eight… fifty-nine… sixty!' As, curiously, she ventured near enough to distinguish each urgently stressed number, the ground seemed to reverberate beneath her feet, a sensation that might have accounted for the sudden buckling, of her knees which forced her to clutch for support a tree trunk fringing the edge of a natural arena.
It was filled with an intent, admiring audience, yet was not too crowded to deny her the sight of Stelios stripped to the waist, wielding an axe with a precision and vigour that was causing globules of sweat to trickle down his glistening torso. A breath of wonder caught in her throat as she marvelled at the stamina and strength of his athletic body, at the sight of muscles rippling smoothly beneath dark satin skin as he tackled the test of chopping a sodden tree trunk into planks under the heat of a Greek high summer.
As he aimed rhythmic blows in pace with chanting voices his features were set grimly, as if he were concentrating body and mind upon expunging an inner tempest of fury. Petra clung to her support, feeling weak and apprehensive, suspecting that she might be the cause of his anger, yet thrilling to the spectacle afforded by a perfect physique in the peak of athletic condition providing proof of strength and determination to meet all the conditions laid down before a man could claim his bride.
She realised that he had managed to achieve his aim when, after one last mighty blow, he threw down the axe and straightened to cheers of 'Yia asa!' yelled from the lips of his admiring audience.
She quivered, feeling threatened by blatant male virility when he shouted in reply:
'Sto thiavolo ola! Fere krassi! To hell with everything! Bring on the wine!'
Startled half out of her wits, Petra turned on her heel to run, not realising that she had already been spotted until a flagon of wine was pressed into her grasp and playful hands began pushing her forward until she was directly in front of Stelios— a cringing mortal at the feet of an Olympian god.
The silence of expectancy fell all around them as Stelios stared hard into her eyes before reaching for the flagon. Supporting its weight upon the crook of his elbow, he lifted the spout to his lips, then leant back his head to drink deeply. For long, thirsty seconds the strong column of his throat rippled and pulsated in time with her nerves that had been aroused to a state of panic by a glint of devilment in his vengeful eyes. She stood petrified while he drained the flagon dry, then realised the form her punishment was to take when he tossed it aside and with a lusty whoop of triumph stooped to pluck her into his arms and carry off his prize.
Shocked by the suddenness of his move and almost deafened by roars of masculine approbation, she clung limp as a silken sash across the width of his bared chest as she was borne swiftly out of sight and hearing of their highly entertained, wildly applauding audience.
Breathtaking, turbulent minutes passed before fear began transcending the shock of being kidnapped, carried off in triumph by a silently padding prowler whose sinuous movements, smouldering eyes, and warm heated breath seemed typical of a bloodthirsty animal intent
upon appeasing a lusty appetite.
'Put me down!' Desperately she began struggling. 'Where are you taking me…?' She pounded his chest with clenched fists, but his only reaction was a growl of laughter, complacent as a purr.
'Are you beginning to regret your dangerous move to undermine my authority?' he menaced softly. Slackening his stride to a standstill, he loosened his grip to lower her feet to the ground.
'You have courage, I'll grant you that!' He smouldered a look that was almost admiring across her pale, apprehensive features. Keeping her shoulders pinned between his palms, he simmered: 'Why do you allow your brother to use you as a cripple uses a crutch? He is a spineless coward who stood nervously by while you jumped into water far out of your depth, allowing you to swim against the stream though fully aware of its punishing current.'
Petra quivered as if physically struck by the threat contained in the indictment that seemed to rise to the height of surrounding trees, shivering still leaves into a fretful rustle, whispering through tall grasses and clumps of wild flowers with heads drooping on slender stems as if oppressed by the surrounding weight of antagonism.
Feeling torn in two by loyalty to her brother and by an illogical sense of duty towards the man who—after hours of agonised thought—had forced her into accepting his proposal of marriage, she choked bitterly:
'Aren't you equally guilty of showing a coward's propensity towards gratifying a base desire to oppress? You accuse Gavin of preying upon my emotions, yet haven't you been just as careful to choose a victim whom duty and compassion has rendered defenceless?' Prodded by despair, she stamped her foot in a burst of condemning anger. 'It's so unfair that qualities of physical strength and aggressiveness should be the prerogative of men who are mostly lacking in sensitivity, who are overburdened with a conceit that leads them to believe that their sex is born into the world wielding a whip designed to thrash tigerish females into submission, make them sheath their claws and, they hope, fawn over and lick the boots of their brutal tamers!'
Fierce Greek sunshine struck sparks of silver from hair dampened by sweat into a tightly curled fleece when he threw back his head and laughed.
'Forgive me, elika,' he mocked without compunction, 'but it is hard to picture you prowling tigerishly around any man's bedroom!'
He jerked her forward, taking her so much by surprise she stumbled into arms that hooked her close enough to feel sunwarmed pelt beneath her cheek, close enough to hear and feel threatened by his whispered, deep-throated purr.
'Timid kittens should be confined to nurseries, Perdita—little lost one. Just this once, I am willing to overlook your attempt to scratch my pride by allowing a brother to usurp the position of privilege that ought to be the exclusive preserve of your future husband. But I warn you that tomorrow, my bride, I shall be claiming all a bridegroom's privileges. Basically, my race is not sentimental about weddings—indeed, originally the word wed meant "a pledge", the bride's price which was handed over to the bridegroom by her father.'
'Like a seller in some market place…!' Petra managed to gasp, even though her senses were reeling from the effects of his earthy, magnetic proximity.
'Not in our case.' He tilted her chin until she could see the glint of steel in his eyes. 'Marketplace merchants begin with an impossibly high price, working on the premise that the buyer will settle for less. A wife who has promised to provide me with children is what I've bargained for, elika! We wed tomorrow on the understanding that that promise will be kept—that you will be neither hoping nor expecting that I might be persuaded to settle for less!'
CHAPTER EIGHT
The clearing in front of the church was a hive of activity. Stunned by the weight of intent she had recognised in Stelios's softly breathed words, Petra could muster no resistance against the hand manacling her wrist, pulling her towards the crowd of revellers who were laughing, chatting, teasing, sipping ouzo and brandy as they carried out the final preparation of food for the wedding feast. Excited children were running wild, weaving in and out of a circle formed by simmering cauldrons, keeping a safe distance away from naked flames yet now and then pausing to hover hungrily, sniffing the tantalising aroma of pork and chickens stewing in savoury gravy.
Musicians rendering an idle accompaniment to the hum of many voices broke into a wildly strumming warning of their appearance, then waited until the shouts of welcome had died down and the bride and groom-to-be had been seated before leading the villagers into a traditional pre-nuptial song.
In a bemused daze, Petra suffered the possessive grip of Stelios's arm around her waist as they sat side by side on a wooden bench watching village youths performing yet another of their traditional marriage rites, another link being forged in the weighty, unbreakable fetter that was to chain her to an uncaring husband for the rest of her life.
Young girls and boys kneeling on rugs spread upon the ground were turning small stone mills, laboriously grinding grain into a fine powder. Violins began to play, and as the muted melody drifted over their heads the youngsters started singing softly:
'Good hour, kind hour
and blessed hour,
May the work we have begun
be a secure one.
The mountains grew dark
and they could not finish their feat,
come along, my girls,
and let us grind the wheat.'
Intensely moved by the sweet melody accompanying the labour of love, Petra blinked back an onrush of shamed tears, wishing she had sufficient courage to jump to her feet and explain that the elaborate preparations were a waste of time, a mockery, that no amount of ceremonial rites could change the forthcoming marriage into anything other than a sham.
'When a full sackful of the resi—wheat for the wedding—has been ground, it will be put into wooden troughs to be carried by the young men of the village to the fountain,' Stelios murmured, playing the loving bridegroom to perfection by placing his lips close against a flaming velvet earlobe. 'A procession of villagers will follow to form a singing circle around the fountain. Then the girls will take over, washing the rest seven times before it is added to the meat inside the cauldrons and left to cook all night over a very low fire until required for tomorrow's wedding feast, when the meat will have melted completely, resulting in a tasty savoury dish with the consistency of porridge.'
All the pent-up emotions that had been festering inside of her during the past traumatic days— resentment of the manner in which he had accepted her heartbroken surrender to marital blackmail without so much as blinking an eyelid; bewilderment at having been put at the mercy of physical impulses she could neither control nor understand, quivering nerves; waves of trembling, the reaction of a heart that pounded with the frenzied beat of a tribal war chant whenever she dared to contemplate her initiation into the sexual rites of marriage by a husband who was determined that no rein would be imposed upon his fiery Greek passion and who looked upon their union in the cold light of duty—was contained in her low, bitter reply.
'Doesn't your conscience ever rebel against the deceit of allowing simple peasants to believe that they're preparing to celebrate a loving union, instead of merely the revived ritual of sacrificing a virgin in order to appease the wrath of an omnipotent god?'
For the benefit of onlookers he smiled, but in the deep, dark well of his eyes she glimpsed a flicker, a spark almost, flashing a signal to beware.
'My conscience has many tongues,' his thickly lashed eyelids flickered, 'but the loudest one of all tells me that it cannot be wrong to provide hardworking villagers with an excuse to celebrate. However unimportant our wedding may appear to you, to them it is an event, a rare social activity that provides a release for their emotions, a break in the monotony of working for a living that is all too short for the amount of feasting, dancing, and social visiting that has to be crowded into the meagre time allotted. So please try to smile, elika. Then everyone will be convinced that the celebrations are not to be wasted upon an unhappy bride—a
nd I mean everyone,' he stressed, 'including your brother! There is a belief held by the occupants of mountain villages that has probably been inherited from ancient tribes of ancestors who made a practice of carrying off wives from neighbouring villages: 'Marriage is often followed by many funerals'.
'Even today, though secretly, and kept hidden from officialdom, it is not unknown for vendettas to erupt between villages—to the detriment of both communities.- Though your hot-headed brother constitutes no threat to my peace of mind, it would be to his advantage,' he drawled the warning, 'if you were to attempt to convince him, both by word and deed, that there is no reason why our marriage should initiate a blood feud!'
Petra's heart sank. Unknowingly, he had just given her one more reason why her grandfather should be kept in ignorance of her marriage. If Patera Romios were ever to discover that a member of his family had been threatened or coerced, neither poverty nor age would prevent him from exorcising fierce family pride by unleashing his contempt upon the powerful owner of a castle with turrets rearing high into the rarefied region of legendary Olympian gods!
Suddenly, as if supplying a signal to the expectant crowd, Stelios rose to his feet with a shout of, 'Fere krassi! Bring on the wine!'
With an enthusiastic roar the revellers responded to his cue and seconds later it appeared to Petra as if the boisterous, fun-loving Greeks had gone wild. As the foot-tapping rhythm of bouzouki music filled the air, every man present rushed into the centre of the clearing, stomping and bellowing, leaping, slapping and clicking his fingers in time to the music, hastily refuelling with quick swills from bottles and glasses being tendered by an audience of admiring wives.
'Yia sas, kyrie!' The grinning village butcher approached carrying a bottle and three glasses which he filled to their brims.
'Eiva proti! Cheers to the first drink!'
Stelios lifted his glass and to Petra's shocked dismay downed its contents in a couple of convulsive swallows.
Castle of the Lion Page 9
