Her stomach retched, but she picked up her fork with trembling fingers, then, hiding distress behind a crescent of lowered lashes, she lifted a tiny morsel of meat to her lips. She gulped, and managed to swallow it whole before the taste had time to taint her tongue, nevertheless her feeling of revulsion was so strong she felt compelled to lift her head and direct a dumb appeal for pity from eyes darkened into deep blue pools of torment.
She felt she had never hated him more than when he laughed aloud, flexing muscles of superiority. Then she experienced a savagely alien urge to strike him when, judging victory to a nicety, he withdrew from further conflict by engaging a guest in conversation, content to leave his sickened adversary choking on the taste of defeat.
The celebration continued all day and right throughout the evening, hours upon hours of eating and drinking, with everyone dancing off their excesses and renewing their appetites, with the exception of the bride and bridegroom. Petra felt chained to Stelios's side, her every move to escape frustrated by his grasp upon her shoulder, by clinching fingers around her wrist, by arms stamping a brand of possession around her slender, red-sashed waist.
But when the celebrations had reached a late-evening peak of merriment, and Stelios was finally persuaded to join his koumbari in a male exhibitionists' dance of strength and virility, Petra seized the opportunity to go in search of Gavin and found him sitting alone, brooding into a glass containing the last remaining drops from an empty wine bottle propped drunkenly against the leg of his chair.
'So the bride has at last been reminded of old family ties!' he greeted her sourly. 'No doubt you're feeling in need of sensible companionship, for the only act missing from this performing circus is the ritual of guests pinning paper money on to the dress of the bridal puppet! But then,' he sneered, 'gifts of money to the wealthy Stelios Heracles and his bride would hardly be appropriate. How pleased I am that Grandfather has been spared the agony of watching his adored granddaughter decked out like a houri eager to become part of a sultan's harem! Can't you just picture him now,' he challenged, tipping back his chair until his weight was uneasily balanced upon its two hind legs, 'sitting on the well-worn straw seat of one of the "village chairs" spilling out on to the pavement in front of the coffee shop, blatantly interrupting his cronies' intense political discussions, ignoring their gestures of resignation, in order to boast once again about his incredibly superior granddaughter whose intelligence has gained her access into a world previously confined to the authoritative male—the granddaughter whose outspoken opinions about female emancipation never failed to leave him gasping. Tell me, Petra,' he righted his chair with a savage thump, 'how can you relate your present situation with the release of women from bondage, oppression, and legal, social, and moral restraint? How can any person who used to be so strong an advocate of the emancipation of slaves bring herself to participate in a marriage that offers to the bride no more freedom than is offered to a convict who has to serve his term?'
She flinched from his acid condemnation, from his cruel reminder of the grandfather she adored, the elderly patriarch whose fierce expression and inflammable temper hid a heart of pure silver, as soft and abundant as his crop of tightly curled hair. Inevitably, her decision not to tell him, much less invite him to her wedding, would inflict hurt upon the proud old man whose response to every enquiry about his health and wellbeing was a philosophical shrug, followed by the dry assurance: 'Eh, pernoune zoune—I get by. I survive.'
The thought of his hurt was so unbearable that Petra stammered an assurance designed more to reassure herself than Gavin.
'He'll understand. Once I've explained the situation, he's sure to understand…'
Gavin leapt to his feet to hiss with a venom that only a man possessing a strain of Greek blood can instil into his language:
'Sto thiapolo, Petra!'
'Do take his excellent and opportune advice, elika.' The sound of Stelios's voice ringing sharply as steel sent her spinning in search of his threatening presence. 'Your brother has just advised you to go to the devil.' He executed a mocking bow, then straightened to fling his arms out wide. 'Come, kalliste, it is not wise to keep the devil waiting!'
The ebullient, fun-loving koumbari were engaged in the old Greek custom of relieving high spirits by smashing piles of plates to smithereens as Stelios guided her, unnoticed, away from the clearing and towards the looming, deserted loneliness of the castle.
She strove to project an outward semblance of calm, to allow her cold, captured hand to remain as still as the frightened little bird he had cupped in his palm, but beneath her unruffled mien she was feeling as heart-thumpingly terrified as Pini must have felt, as trapped, as helpless, as completely dependent upon her gaoler's mercy.
Stelios made no effort to speak as he led her across a hall whose dimly lit interior seemed laden with oppression, then up a marble staircase with steps so cold they appeared to freeze to the thin soles of her slippers, causing her feet to drag, her knees to buckle beneath the strain of approaching a summit offering no protection from complete exposure. When they reached the top she faltered, raising anxious eyes over his implacable features for some sign of warmth, some hint of softening.
But the look he returned was pure Greek in its gambler's determination to collect everything that was due, in its passionate, deeply implanted desire to mount the winner's rostrum and collect the golden accolade awarded to a winning competitor.
'You have to take a prize, haven't you, Stelios?' she condemned huskily. 'Your entire existence is directed towards winning, whether, it be a wager, a war, or merely a game.'
A lantern swaying gently in a draught cast a sliver of light across shadowed features, igniting in the depths of his brooding eyes a flame that seared her very soul. Petra shrivelled, feeling sacrificial flame licking around her feet, sensing that she was about to be engulfed by the passion of a man who regarded her not so much as a wife as a stand-in for Gaea—the deep-breasted goddess who had been worshipped as the universal mother, who had been said to have created the universe and to have borne the first race of gods and the first humans, the supreme goddess by whose benevolence men had been blessed with fair children and all the pleasant fruits of earth…
'Until this moment, it had not occurred to me to liken our marriage to a game, elika,' he murmured throatily, stooping to lift her from her feet to carry her, limp as a golden-haired doll, in his arms. 'But I am not averse to viewing life as a playground— so long as there are toys provided for all ages!'
CHAPTER TEN
All the sights and sounds of the village passed Petra by as she wandered with her head downbent along the main street towards the classroom which every morning for the past three weeks had been filled with eager children dressed in uniforms of Greek-flag blue, long-sleeved 'aprons' belted over their regular clothing to form bulky outfits that they were required to wear throughout their years of schooling.
Deep in thought, she passed beneath vine-covered balconies overhanging the street full of houses outside which villagers were going about their daily tasks—a black-robed grandmother using a hand-mill to grind wheat used for making soup; a grizzly-haired grandfather re-stringing a mandolin; a farmworker riding a donkey through narrow alleyways leading towards fields spread over the slopes of the mountains; a silkmaker winding thread into hanks; women weaving cloth on ancient looms; tending batches of bread baking in communal ovens; enjoying a gossip while they waited their turn to fill water jars from a leisurely trickling spring.
'Kalimera, kyria!'
Petra's head jerked upward as she was startled back to earth by the friendly greeting. Then immediately she blushed, embarrassed by the kindly yet speculative appraisal of women too astute not to have guessed the reason why the kyrios had married her rather than one of the parade of beautiful girls they had become accustomed to seeing being ferried towards the castle in the passenger seat of his- car—fragile, flirtatious, glamorous girls whose vain, pampered existences had rendered them unfavou
rable candidates for motherhood.
'Kalimera,' she husked, trying hard not to mind the blatant curiosity of villagers whose lack of modern conveniences had resulted in the development of a closed community where privacy was unheard-of and where everyone's affairs—like communal ovens—were regarded as property to be publicly shared.
Confirmation of the direction in which the women's thoughts were drifting was supplied by the wife of the village grocer whose attempt to sound offhand caused Petra's mouth to curl upwards for the first time in days.
'How is your little kanapini?—the puff of yellow feathers whose trilling is loud enough to keep even an infant awake, as no doubt you will shortly discover for yourself, kyria,' she concluded with a heavy, meaningful stress of humour.
'Pini has completely recovered from his ordeal. His singing is constant and rather loud,' Petra admitted ruefully, 'but so far no one has complained of having had their rest disturbed.'
'Then make the most of this tranquil period,' another woman broke in, grinning widely, 'for once your first child arrives there will be no such peaceful existence. Each day, the women of the village are taking turns to light tapers from the candle that is always kept burning in the church, and offering up a prayer that the kyrios's wish for a son will soon be granted. As each taper burns low another is lit, so that in the silent dimness there remains a tiny, flickering symbol of hope—a constant reminder to worshippers to include yourself and the kyrios in their prayers.'
Petra swayed, rocked by an unbelievable wave of pain that had swept through her sensitive body, the pain of hearing put into words the basic reason for her presence in Stelios's mountain retreat, the only reason why she had been allowed to share his bed, to creep into his arms, to pretend that he was as much in love with her as she was with him.
Somehow, she managed to take her leave of the keen-eyed women without appearing too shaken, without betraying the heartache that had been her constant companion for more than a long, lonely, deserted week. She hurried on her way, anxious to find some haven of solitude in which she might compose her thoughts, control her trembling limbs, before facing a classful of demanding pupils. Blinded by tears, she turned off the main road and stumbled down a steep path leading towards the river and the ruins of an ancient mill almost smothered by encroaching greenery—tall trees towering above the roof of its ramshackle structure and down towards a picturesque stone bridge so rarely used it had become covered in grass and a profusion of delicate lilac-coloured flowers.
'A long time ago,' the children had confided, 'the beautiful sound of bells used to ring a musical accompaniment while the mill did its work.'
As she slid down on to a grassy bank to rest her aching head against cold grey stone forming an archway over tumbling water, she imagined she could hear once again distant pealing, sweet and joyful as the response made by her heartbeats whenever Stelios entered their bedroom. With a moan of deep unhappiness she leant against the screening stonework and gave in to the relief of tears, trying not to dwell upon the cause of her misery, yet unable to prevent her thoughts from reliving yet again the wondrous, breathtaking happiness she had discovered during the first two weeks of her marriage.
With tear-blurred eyes fixed upon the river she stared sightlessly, picturing in her mind's eyes an image of herself on her wedding night, nervously awaiting the arrival of her bridegroom. She had been standing shivering by the side of a huge, unfamiliar fourposter bed, divided between the prospect of creeping between its covers, thereby running the risk of appearing too eager, or of allowing Stelios the first sight of his bride wearing a wedding gift that had been woven by the skilful fingers of an old silk-maker before being passed over for cutting and stitching into the delicate hands of his equally skilful wife. But before her frantically confused mind had had time to form a decision Stelios had marched out of an adjoining dressing-room wearing a silk robe glowing rich and red as passion. Abruptly he had checked his approach, his air of unconcern betrayed by an audible gasp of appreciation when he had glimpsed her near-nudity, an outline curving smooth and pale as wax beneath a shimmering, diaphanous cloud of silk.
'Kyrie eleison!' he had blasphemed in a whisper. 'How do you manage such an aura of untouched purity? You are much cleverer than I had imagined, little lost one,' he had drawled, quickly recovering his composure, 'but your attempt to make me feel as if I am about to commit an act of desecration must not be allowed to succeed!' In a couple of strides he had moved close enough to arouse a panic-stricken pulse in her throat. 'A wife has no right to impose upon her husband the guilt of a thief prepared to steal a blessed candle from a place of worship!'
Yet if she had been a candle, Petra mused painfully, an object made entirely of wax, she could not have melted more readily beneath his touch, could not have been so swiftly set alight by the flame of passion that had caused glowing heat to penetrate deep inside her, melting all resistance, leaving her soft, warm, pliant, eager to be moulded into whichever shape or pattern he found most pleasing.
For two idyllic weeks Stelios had continued teaching her the art of loving, appearing regularly each night to share her bed, to kiss, to caress, to murmur, to tease—but never to stay.
Until their last night together, when he had appeared unable to tear himself away.
Petra had awakened the following morning to discover him still sleeping beside her with a protective arm cradling her to his chest. She had had confidence enough then to tease him awake by dropping featherlight kisses upon a chin made to look dark and piratical by overnight shadow, then had squealed a protest and tried to evade a retaliatory lunge that had brought rasping bristles in contact with her tender skin.
She stirred uneasily, tears of humiliation welling into her eyes as she relived the thrill of his softly-growled laughter, the wicked threat he had whispered roughly against her ear.
'Very well, yineka mou, if you insist, I will wait until night time for the blanket of darkness all shy young kittens seek before lapsing into savagery!'
Yet after that period of contentment and supreme happiness he had shunned her completely, leaving her to wonder and weep in her lonely bed, finding what little consolation she could from the knowledge that she had never quite managed to nerve herself up to the point of whispering the shy confession that she had fallen deeply in love with her tender, solicitous, passionately possessive husband…
Years spent practising self-discipline, together with a strong sense of duty, finally prodded her out of her morass of misery and on to her feet. Her pupils would be waiting—probably fidgeting and fighting to alleviate their tedium—for her to make an appearance. It was not fair to force them to share, in her rejection, to make them suffer as she was suffering because the man who had taught her all about loving had grown bored with his pupil.
The first person she saw when she reached the main road was Zeus, the boy with the mischievous eyes whom teasing classmates had christened 'teacher's pet'. He was hurrying in the direction of his home, stuffing a bright blue smock inside his satchel as he went. Immediately he caught sight of her he jerked to a standstill, looking ludicrously dismayed.
'Because you were so late arriving, class has been dismissed, kyria,' he almost accused, then bent his head low to continue addressing his shuffling feet. 'My friends and I had planned to go fishing…'
'Then don't let me stop you,' Petra encouraged gravely, realising that her pupils were also in need of some fresh distraction. 'On such a day as this, the fish will almost certainly be biting!'
The boy's stammered words of gratitude followed behind her as she turned and began walking in the opposite direction to the schoolroom, feeling a mixture of contradictory emotions—relief at having been spared the effort required to instruct keen, intelligent pupils, and regret that during a period when she needed to be kept busy she had been left with time on her hands.
Aimlessly she wandered along the cobbled streets of the village, finding new surprises around every other turning. Villagers called out greetin
gs as she passed, elderly women pausing in their task of sifting pulses—beans, peas, lentils and mahos which were used in place of fresh vegetables during the long winter months—young girls sewing dowry linen allowing her to examine and admire their exquisite embroidery; wives enticing her with the smell of freshly baked bread hanging in large string baskets to cool, tempting her to accept the honey-spread slice that she was offered.
But her greatest surprise of all was the sight of Gavin engrossed in conversation with a saddle-maker who was sitting crosslegged on a rug with the tools of his trade spread around him. She started guiltily, conscious that during the weeks since her wedding she had had little time to spare for her brother. Tentatively, she approached him from behind, nerving herself for a display of resentment or at the very least, sarcastic reproaches.
'Gavin…!'
His head spun round, and as he rose to greet her she saw that his features were creased into a harassed frown.
'Hello, Sis!' Her tension relaxed. He sounded weary, yet reluctant to abandon an absorbing occupation. 'I'm sorry I can't stop to talk at present,' he swiftly confirmed her theory. 'My task for today is to make a detailed study of the method used to make saddles. The saddlemaker intends moving on as soon as his work is finished. He travels all around the island making and mending, staying at each village just long enough to attend to his customers before moving on to the next. I'm finding research into ancient trades and customs very interesting,' he surprised her with the admission. 'If only your husband wasn't such a hard taskmaster I might even find it enjoyable!'
He raked his fingers through his hair, looking highly aggrieved. 'Each morning Stelios hands me a list of subjects he wants me to research, then demands a progress report that has to be ready on his desk before dinner each evening. I wonder if he has any notion how much effort is involved in chasing people up, encouraging them to confide the secrets of their craft, in studying, questioning, and writing up notes! Take today, for example,' he exploded hotly, 'for hours I've sat here watching the saddlemaker at work, taking careful inventory of the tools used—large scissors; a distaff; three different sized needles, a horn stuffed with oil-soaked cotton wool which he employs to force stuffing into the layers of the saddle; asking why it's necessary for the horn to be stuffed with cottonwool and discovering that it's the only material that keeps the oil in the horn without allowing it to dry up! It will be hours yet before he's finished layering the saddle, yet after he's gone I shall have to find time to research the second item on my agenda. There'll be hell to pay,' he assured her in a tone laden with the dread of past experience, 'if the notes on both subjects aren't laid on Stelios's desk, neatly typed, ready for his attention before dinner this evening!'
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