Castle of the Lion

by Margaret Rome

  Realisation that the day of her wedding had actually dawned was responsible for the wide-eyed, fearful look Sophia noticed immediately she entered the bedroom carrying a breakfast tray laden with a coffee pot, fruit, sesame buns, and a jar of rich golden honey.

  'At last the day has arrived for everyone to respond to the invitation, "Kopiaste ston gammo tis koris mas"—come to the wedding of our daughter!' She bustled towards the bed wearing a beaming smile. 'The mothers and daughters of the village have begun stirring and beating the resi. Your koumeres are all assembled downstairs giggling nervously as they wait to be called upon to carry out their duties of combing and dressing the bride. And as you have no doubt heard,' she concluded dryly, 'the koumbari are noisily engaged in their task of shaving and valeting the bridegroom.'

  'How many valets does a bridegroom need?' Petra attempted to scoff but somehow managed to sound timidly plaintive. 'Judging from the noise issuing from the kyrios's room there must be a dozen or so men inside.'

  Nodding agreement, Sophia set the tray down upon a bedside table. 'It is customary for the groom to have a retinue of male companions—a throwback from the days when a bridegroom "won" his bride by carrying her off against her family's will, having wasted no time in wooing either her love or confidence. Abduction died out, and as times grew more civilised the groom's raiding companions became known instead as koumbari, bachelor friends who groom and attend the bridegroom at his wedding. Which is probably just as well,' she scoffed, bending to plump up Petra's pillows, 'for after the amount of wine that was drunk last night I doubt whether any one of them is capable of defending the groom against angry male relatives descending in a body to snatch back the unwilling bride!'

  Petra collapsed against her pillows, knowing exactly how earlier brides must have felt, feeling that centuries had rolled back to the days when wedding had meant abduction and man's choice of bride had been governed by revenge, material gain, duty to procure an heir to his family fortune— anything other than to be united in love, to become part of the fusion of two separate entities into one devoted couple, two hearts beating as one.

  'Make haste, thespinis!' Sophia's plea penetrated her misery. 'Finish your breakfast while I run your bath. Greek bridegrooms frown easily if their . brides keep them waiting at the altar!'

  But a few sips of coffee were all Petra was able to force down a throat made increasingly constricted by the blast of masculine voices escalating to the heights of ribaldry. Abandoning all attempts to eat, she threw back the bedclothes and ran to close the windows, trying to shut out the sound of Stelios's laughter as he responded to his companions' jokes in the manner expected of the leader of a pack of virile stags.

  'Don't listen to them, Pini,' she murmured sadly, feeding crumbs of sesame bun to the pet who demonstrated his affection by pecking her finger. 'Sons of Adam are formed from dust, which could explain their earthy eagerness to crack a chaste sheet of ice beneath their heels; to stamp clumsy footprints upon a blanket of pure white snow.'

  'Your bath is ready, thespinis.' Sophia bustled out of the bathroom and cast a disapproving glance over the untouched breakfast tray. 'In ten minutes' time I shall return to see if you are ready for the koumeres, who are waiting to help you to dress.'

  The prospect of having her privacy invaded by a horde of giggling bridesmaids was sufficient to impel Petra towards the bathroom, determined to bath, shampoo her hair, and to slip into at least her underwear unaided. She accomplished her tasks so swiftly and with such a lack of bridal concern that when Sophia returned as promised she found Petra seated in her petticoat in front of a dressing-table, smoothing a hairbrush across a flow of shoulder-length hair toned down by dampness to the sheen of dark Greek honey.

  Startled into swifter action by Sophia's reappearance, Petra abandoned the hairbrush, drew two fistsful of hair towards the nape of her neck, then began twisting it tightly back from her forehead into its customary coil, leaving her head seal-sleek, lending a cool marble purity to her cameo profile.

  'No! No! Sophia clasped her hands together to add urgency to her appeal. 'Please don't do your hair that way—not today!'

  'Why ever not?'

  When Petra swung round to direct a look of astonishment the old servant's cheeks flushed, but bravely she stood her ground.

  'I intend no disrespect,' she mumbled. 'It's just that, today of all days, your bridegroom should be allowed the pleasure of seeing you as I do each morning, with your beautiful hair tumbling past your shoulders, forming a soft golden frame around features tender as a child's, lacking all trace of the severity you employ as an oyster employs a shell to secrete a pearl. Man is a conquering beast,' she confided wisely, 'a male whose pride is at its most rampant on his wedding day. Always, he expects a bride to delight the eyes and excite the envy of his friends—and it is to a woman's advantage that this should be so,' she coaxed slyly. 'As well as being proud, the male sex is by far the more sentimental. In spite of his notorious reluctance to make such an admission, it is a well known fact that a man's first glimpse of his bride on their wedding day becomes a memory that remains with him for ever—acting as a spur upon his conscience whenever he feels tempted to stray; blunting the edge of his temper on trying days; reminding him of the need for tenderness and patience when hot blood is urging him to have his way!'

  Petra blushed crimson. Since the day Stelios had won the contest of wills by forcing from her a promise to marry him, she had deliberately avoided dwelling upon the physical aspect of their union. But Sophia, in a way that was typical of a race that idolised physical perfection, whose mythological characters included Circe, the sorceress, and Apollo whom they worshipped as the personification of youthful manhood, had brought home to her in full force the ordeal of sex without love which very shortly she would be called upon to face. In the circumstances, Sophia's advice appeared sound. Stelios's coldly calculating attitude towards their marriage might soften if the colourless nonentity he had chosen as a wife simply because of her ability to fade into the background of his life should turn out to be pretty and appealing…

  'Very well, Sophia,' she sighed, 'I'll leave myself entirely in your hands. You may tell the koumeres that the bride is ready for their attentions.'

  Five minutes later her bedroom was filled with chattering, excited bridesmaids jostling for the honour of dressing and grooming the bride. Her dress, that had been offered as payment in kind by the village dressmaker whose daughter had been enrolled as a prospective pupil, had been designed along traditional lines of peasant simplicity, swirling, roughly textured cotton that was sufficiently diaphanous to demand the modesty of a fine silk beneath its gathered folds.

  As it was drawn over her head to settle with a rough sigh over curvaceous breasts and slender, tapering thighs, a collar of delicate Lefkara lace lifted in the draught, then settled into a circle of overlapping petals around her pale, slender stemmed neck. She submitted patiently while two of the bridesmaids brushed and combed her hair until a stream of honey gold was flowing on to her shoulders and tumbling in fine swirls round her forehead and against cheeks glowing pink with excitement.

  The girls sang softly as they executed tasks elevated to artistry by frequent repetition.

  'Do adorn her well, the pearly one

  to whom her mother hath given every

  eight days a bath,

  and whom her father

  hath bedecked in gold.'

  'The bride is now ready for the sash, Sophia!' Laying down the brush and comb, the girls urged Petra to her feet as they continued singing.

  'Call her mother too

  to come and tie her sash

  and bless her

  and then give her away.'

  Tears were streaming down Sophia's cheeks as she advanced towards Petra carrying a bright red ribbon. The sight of her sadness caught Petra emotionally off guard. She swallowed hard, bracing herself to withstand that part of the ritual usually undertaken by the bride's mother, who was expected to shed tears fo
r the daughter about to leave her sheltered home to meet the strenuous demands of a husband who was almost a stranger. She stood motionless while Sophia fumbled blindly with the sash, then when she eventually managed to tie it around her waist she smiled at the tearful old servant and bent to place the symbolic goodbye kiss upon her cheek.

  'Na zisete, thespinis,' Sophia whispered shakily. 'Long life and much, much happiness!' She stepped back to allow the bridesmaids to position a white lace headkerchief on Petra's head, then with her hands clasped together she nodded to the smiling bridesmaids and breathed ecstatic approval.

  'Kalliste—the most beautiful! The bride is now ready to meet her bridegroom.'

  But immediately Petra joined Gavin who was waiting at the foot of the castle steps to escort her to the church all her cool courage deserted her. Not even Gavin's incredulous stare, the jerked exclamation that was a compliment in itself, managed to bolster the weakness of her trembling limbs.

  'Good lord, Sis, I never once suspected that your prim disguise was hiding such a reserve of beauty!'

  Two children, each carrying a huge white candle, fell into step beside them as they proceeded towards the church. Directly behind them was a small girl carefully carrying a tray holding wedding wreaths and two golden rings tied with ribbon the colour of the bride's sash—red, the colour of joy. Behind her came the chief bridesmaid, who was also carrying a tray containing a glass of red wine, a glass of oil, and saucers filled with bread and cotton seeds. The retinue of bridesmaids formed up behind, completing a colourful procession that wended slowly behind Petra until she entered the clearing in front of the church, when they dispersed to mingle with a crescent of wedding guests curving towards Stelios and his koumbari who were lined up on each tip of the half-moon to form a complete circle.

  The air was filled with the delicious smell of spitted lamb and poultry; savoury, slowly simmering rest; and small, nutty, oval-shaped wedding cakes that had been individually baptised in rose blossom water, rolled in icing sugar, then left to waft their scent in the air while they dried. But as Petra stepped into the circle of wedding guests she was conscious only of the overpowering perfume of sweet basil, and the equally potent impact of a bridegroom exuding the virility and strength of Heracles himself, dressed in the traditional wedding garb of black breeches, embroidered shirt, and with a gleaming dagger thrust into the red silk sash circling his waist.

  Stelios started forward at the sight of his bride, then stopped suddenly in his tracks. As Petra lifted her eyes to meet his she felt a small thrill of triumph, the pleasure known only to one who had seen an enemy completely disconcerted. Yet predictably, in spite of dark eyes questioning her ability to emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis, he was quick to recover his composure.

  He held out his hand, silently commanding her to cast off the chains binding sister to brother, then when nervously she obeyed by sliding her small, cold hand into his, he began escorting her towards the church, drawing her close to his side so that only she could hear his whimsical murmur.

  'Change of name, change of identity? Is that the sort of reasoning that has led to your amazing transformation? Your Miss Grundy title may weigh heavy, but by discarding its protection I fear you may have left yourself as vulnerable to danger as a hedgehog stripped of its needles!'

  Little of the tiny weatherbeaten church with its slanting roof of dark brown tiles, that had been built solely for the use of the Heracles family and the villagers of their feudal estate, registered Upon Petra's mind. Even the interior left her with no more than a blurred impression of painted walls, one depicting a particularly apt tableau of Doubting Thomas with a couple that could have been a bride and bridegroom kneeling at his feet. As she was being led down the aisle towards an altar she glimpsed a carved, gilded iconostasis incorporating a bird nibbling grapes, and behind that a selection of old religious relics; processional crosses, and an icon painted upon a crescent-shaped canvas. The air smelled sweet with a mixture of perfume from banked-up flowers; smoke rising from wicks fitted into bowls filled with oil, and from candles composed of multi-coloured pieces of wax glowing in flickering flamelight like miniature stained glass windows.

  She waited calmly by Stelios's side until the shuffling feet of villagers piling into pews behind them were stilled, but when a priest approached, signalling them to kneel to receive his blessing, the realisation that she was committed to sinning in church, to exchanging deceitful vows and promises, set her trembling violently.

  She endured the service as she would have endured a nightmare, consoling her troubled conscience with the assurance that very shortly she would waken, that the children proffering beribboned rings; the partaking of bread and wine during Holy Communion; the cottonseed confetti that was thrown during the service while, hand in hand, she and Stelios were led by the priest three times around the altar followed by koumeres and koumbari holding on to long white ribbons attached to the wedding wreaths, were all part of a fantasy, a wildly imaginative dream.

  She chanced a glance towards Stelios when the priest began reading a passage, and felt a rise of anger at the sight of his mildly amused composure.

  '… and woman shall fear man …'

  She heard the priest intoning the words Sophia had quoted, the signal used by the bridegroom to demonstrate power over his bride. She saw Stelios's foot rising, then without stopping to think, without daring to consider the consequences, she swiftly lifted her satin-slippered foot to stamp a pointed heel down hard upon his instep.

  An audible ripple of amusement from the congregation brought her to her senses. With cheeks flaming, she lifted fan-spread lashes to allow fearful blue eyes to seek his reaction, then looked quickly away from the sight of a mouth registering tight-lipped disapproval, from lean cheeks turning a pale shade of pain beneath dark tan, from eyebrows beetling over eyes sparking a threat of early retribution.

  Outside the church liquid gold sunshine simmered as fiercely as Stelios's tightly controlled anger, a cauldron of resentment and injured pride that was stoked up to boiling point by jesting, unrepentant koumbari.

  'Stelios, poor Stelios! Your reign of authority is over!' shouted one of the most audacious, casting a challenging look towards companions who were doubled up with laughter.

  Stelios's grip tightened around her arm, delivering bruising insight into the true state of his temper as he forced himself to respond in a jocular vein to teasing comments that were thrown thick and fast as confetti as they walked towards decorated tables set around the clearing.

  'If your heart was quite set upon a crown of thorns, you did well to choose one made of roses, Stelios, for at least its pretty appearance should help to make its prickles more bearable!'

  'Never mind, kyrie, at least you were given time to learn how to command before being forced to obey!'

  'It makes a change to see a mare throw a saddle over a rider!'

  'Drink a farewell toast to freedom, Stelios. From today onwards your life threatens to become a little garden with a straight and narrow path!'

  Stelios's smile had been reduced to the tight baring of lips over clenched teeth by the time they reached the 'first table' which they were intended to share with the priests, the village elders, and their retinue of koumeres and koumbari. Much to the lessening of Petra's inner agitation, jesting gave way to sincere expressions of, 'Na zisete—Long life to the .happy pair!' as guests lined up to shake the hand of the bridegroom and to accept their commemorative bonbonnieres of sugared almonds from the pale but surprisingly beautiful bride.

  By the time everyone was seated, numerous toasts had been drunk, and feasting was about to begin, Stelios managed to address her in a tone that sounded almost affable. Guests displaying hearty appetites were tucking into a selection of grilled meats and savoury dishes, but to Petra's dismay she and Stelios were served a dish reserved especially for the bridal couple. Tensely she stared down at the offering on her plate, feeling heartbroken affinity with the tender young bird that had been pluc
ked, trussed and slowly roasted in order to tempt the approval of a jaded appetite.

  'You must eat a little of your pigeon—our guests must not be offended by the sight of a bride rejecting a dish that is considered a symbol of a life of love,' her bridegroom drawled unkindly. 'Consider yourself fortunate that tradition has been relaxed far enough to allow the dish to be included in the wedding feast. As a rule, it is served for breakfast on the morning after the wedding night, once the bridal chamber has been inspected by the bridegroom's parents, who expect to be provided with proof that the marriage has been properly consummated.'

  Petra shrank from his first barbed counterattack, from the hostility she had aroused the moment she had squashed his pride beneath the heel of her silken slipper, and felt a rush of, gratitude towards Sophia for insisting that her hair should be left loose, providing a silken screen for cheeks blazing red, the colour of joy—and of humiliation.

  She sat without stirring, feeling his dark eyes penetrating her flimsy defences, then received further indication of his unforgiving mood when, with an unkind hand, he brushed aside her flimsy screen, baring her blushing discomfort.

  'Eat, Petra,' he menaced, pitching his tone low enough to be drowned by the swell of conversation and by the drift of sweet, romantic music being coaxed from violins, '… or chance providing me with a fortuitous excuse to demonstrate publicly that my status of authority remains unaltered, that my bride, in spite of her attempt to prove otherwise, still occupies a position of subordination!'

  His words sounded like a threat to force-feed her, mouthful by mouthful, with the flesh of the tortured bird!