Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  So the Conde had a wife and a family of children! Suddenly the suspicions that had given rise to her agitation seemed comparable with those of a maiden aunt. Undoubtedly, she had been justified in kicking up a fuss about having her freedom curtailed in such an arbitrary manner, but arrogance appeared to be the very essence of the man who had become accustomed to having his wishes fulfilled with instant, blind obedience by inhabitants of a backward, isolated community who had dubbed him Lord of the Land.

  When he left her to take up position next to the pilot, she sank back into her seat and tried to dispel her feeling of foolishness by concentrating her attention upon the Andalusian landscape over which they were flying. As if following instructions to provide her with the best possible view, the pilot was flying the craft low enough for its shadow to be cast like some gigantic monster capable of proceeding without check over deep blue Mediterranean sea, miles of gigantic sand dunes, woods of stone-pines, a line of freshwater lagoons, stretches of sandy heathland, cork oak savannah, then finally the marshland Reserve where the Palacio de Rocio loomed seemingly near enough to touch, before fading from sight as rapidly as her hope of rescue.

  'Take a good, long look, seňorita,' the Conde twisted round in his seat to indicate the perimeter of the Reserve fast receding in their wake. 'In just a short number of years from now there could be no place left in Spain to accommodate birds of the wilderness.'

  ' 'Surely not?' she faltered. 'Aren't you taking a rather pessimistic view, seňor? Your government, in common with my own, must have made plans to protect the environment?'

  He frowned, lips twisting wryly as a general being forced to concede the superior strength of the enemy.

  'Neither political pressure, pleading, nor appeals to common sense have managed to topple tourism from the top of my government's list of priorities,' he shocked her by answering. 'Many have fought to save the Reserve, not only for the sake of its inhabitants, but also to provide enjoyment and education for future generations. However, in spite of all protests, it now faces the threat of what some dare to term progress. A proposal is even now being considered to build a motorway around the perimeter of the Reserve in order to provide a better and faster route to the tourist resorts that are sprawled along the coast just to the north of here. Inevitably,' he shrugged, 'developers will move in to build a string of new beach resorts. Birds and animals that are sure to stray into these places will be shot, household pets left to roam will present danger to the wildlife, so-called bird-lovers will steal rare eggs, careless picnickers will set fire to dry heathland.'

  'But surely something can be done to preserve the wilderness?' Frances appealed, looking stricken. 'Why not try enlisting the aid of men of international stature, eminent biologists and ornithologists, for instance—the combined influence of such men of different nationalities should go a long way towards preventing the Reserve from being destroyed!'

  'All that, and much more, has already been done,' he dismissed morosely. 'Every piece of ammunition we possess has been thrown into the war against progress, yet we have been defeated, not by the urgency of man's need, but by a combination of greed and the lethargy of an uncaring society. However, the battle has not been entirely lost,' he concluded grimly. 'As long as it lies within my power to ensure it, one small part of Spain will remain unviolated—one piece of wild, untamed terrain shall remain a refuge for the Spanish imperial eagle!'

  Frances stared at the back of a black, imperious head showing snow-white markings at each temple, at a glimpse of aquiline features stamped with lines of such primeval intent that she was moved to wonder whether his resolution was strengthened in the same way that an eagle was purported to renew his strength. Was the Conde so closely allied to the rare bird that he too could practise the rites of the ancient superstition that claimed: 'Every ten years the eagle soars into the "fiery region" and plunges thence into the sea where, moulting its feathers, it acquires new life!'

  She stirred restlessly, irritated by her indulgence in such fantasy, yet in spite of her self-derision she was unable to rid herself of a feeling of being in close proximity with a creature so regal it had been adopted as an emblem of royalty, a creature used in heraldry to denote one who has been honoured with a charge of great responsibility.

  The Conde left her to gaze in peace while they flew over valleys and plains abloom with tropical flowers, sometimes gently blending, at others combining to create explosions of yellow, red, purple and flaming pink against the heat-hazed landscape. On hillsides vines stood in serried rows and olive trees formed welcome groves of silvery green against dry red earth. Enormous ranches scattered with herds of huge black bulls stretched the length of river banks, and as they flew low over towns and villages she peered down at white houses built around courtyards filled with flowers, with windows decorated with the same black iron scrollwork as balconies where women leant gossiping, wearing black lace mantillas draped like shawls over their heads.

  Many lovely buildings, their stone carved into a semblance of lace, passed under their shadow as they journeyed eastward, invading the privacy of patios where cool fountains whispered, causing much excitement amongst workers who stood gaping skyward as the noisy modern phenomenon disturbed the peace saturating groves of orange, olive, banana and prickly pear trees.

  But then, like a reminder of home, a range of snow-capped mountains erupted across the skyline and shortly afterwards the craft began soaring above foothills towards what looked from a distance like a towering stronghold with ochre-coloured walls—a Moorish palace built for an Arab grandee!

  'Welcome to the Palacio del Flamenco, Seňorita Ross.' When the Conde turned around Frances saw that his face was gravely unsmiling. 'Some say that to live here in Andalusia is to be slowly born again, sometimes as a stranger totally unknown, completely different from one's normal self.'

  She stared fixedly as they approached a fortress built in the very heart of nature itself, with the wild, rocky backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains, its summits still showing traces of snow, a foreground of gentle slopes scattered with shrubs burning in the sun, then a sweep of lush, cool valley filled with orchards where trees hung ponderous with fruit and terraced vineyards crept high up the sides of sunbaked hills nourishing a crush of tiny green grapes slowly approaching crisp, juicy maturity.

  But it was not until the helicopter soared over thick, crenellated walls enclosing the extensive grounds of the Palacio del Flamenco and began hovering over a landing pad before descending surely- as an eagle homing on to its nest that Frances began appreciating fully the extent of isolation achieved by his escapist retreat. It was a world within a world, a place where the noise and pressure associated with a society greedy for commerce did not exist, a place where peace waved a healing .wand over taut nerves and a centuries-old blanket of silence descended over flower-massed, heavily perfumed gardens, stretches of lush, shaven lawn, paths that meandered through shrubberies, leafy arbours, and around fountains with huge stone basins containing plump goldfish gliding indolently beneath a canopy of waterlily leaves. It was as if, the moment the pilot had cut the engine, he had simultaneously cut off every last link with the twentieth century.

  'As you will see for yourself very shortly, seňorita,' the Conde directed her with a wave along the path he wished her to follow, 'the rear of the Palacio is not so Moorish in design as the frontal approach which has been kept as nearly as possible to the original building constructed by the founder of our family in the eleventh century. Over the years some concessions have been made to comfort.' Very conscious of his guiding hand upon her elbow, Frances quickened her steps to keep pace with his rangy stride as he hurried her past a swimming pool lined with tiles of such brilliant, shimmering blue she had to blink rapidly in an attempt to protect her dazzled eyes.

  'The maias, or covered terraces, are typically Mauresque, however, as are the white marble floors, the horseshoe archways, and garden ornaments such as this which is one of several you will see scattered through
out the grounds.' With a wave, he indicated a Moorish oil jar so huge she had to tilt back her head in order to fully encompass its height.

  'However, successive generations of Andalusian brides have insisted upon adding refinements scorned by sons of the desert but considered essential appendages to comfort by the spoiled daughters of Spain. Isabella, for instance, the first young bride, was reputed to have rebelled against her husband's bizarre practice of setting the skulls of his enemies with jewels and then using them as drinking goblets,' he informed her mildly, the casual tenor of his voice at odds with the flash of amusement in eyes scanning her scandalised face. 'No doubt she resented his persistent humbling of the remains of her vanquished countrymen, and set about employing feminine wiles to convert him into a more charitable frame of mind.'

  'And did she succeed?' Frances croaked, feeling threatened by an ambience of such lingering barbarity she would have been prepared to believe that the helicopter now barely discernible in the distance had transported her backward in time to the savage era of the Moorish invasion of the Spanish peninsula.

  'Up to a point,' he nodded, his lips set suspiciously firm. 'The Moor ordered the removal of the jewels from the skulls, then had them planted with flowers and set along the length of the terraces with a name inscribed on each one so that, when he strolled past enjoying the colour and perfume of the varied bouquets, his mental words of gratitude could be offered to the appropriate donor.'

  When at that precise moment they rounded the side of the Palacio her loudly audible gasp was caused by a combination of outrage aroused by the lack of sensitivity shown by a prince who had carried vindictiveness beyond the grave, and awed admiration of the mind that had envisaged and then supervised the construction of a frontage guaranteed to impose the insignificance of a flea upon any mortal possessing temerity enough to step within its shadow.

  In spite of centuries of necessary maintenance the huge stone facade carved to resemble a curtain of fine lace appeared untorn, sweeping downward from a battlemented roof, past narrow arched windows bordered with white stuccoed embroidery of crescents and stars and tiny seashells, until it met a graceful marble arcade, its arches abloom with white plaster jasmine flowers climbing and clinging to delicate white mesh contrasting starkly beautiful against vivid, ochre-red walls.

  Flowing downward from a massive door nursing in its depths the hidden scars inflicted by the scimitars and lances of frustrated enemies was a tiered train of broad, shallow steps edged either side with marble plinths supporting statues of Egyptian gods of mythology, members of the family of Osiris, god of the Nile, who had been constantly at war with his family. Frances' stare became fixed upon profiles that looked vaguely familiar—some portrayed with the eagle-sharp beak and white-tipped feathered head of a predator, others with a ram's head surmounted by a solar disc, a few wearing the double crown of the Pharaohs but all, without exception, brandishing the flail and the sceptre used to denote the possession of supreme power.

  She remained rooted, stunned by a feast of opulence her simple palate was unable to digest, a vision of splendour that not even childhood delving into the tales of Scheherazade had enabled her to envisage. Shaken by her eruption into the fabled past when Pharaohs who had been fond of depicting the gods in their own images must have posed to enable sculptors to chip a true, eagle-eyed, fiercely-proud likeness out of stone, she heaved a wondering sigh.

  'What's wrong, seňorita, you're looking extremely pale?'

  If one of his petrified ancestors had spoken she could not have been more startled.

  'What?' She jerked violently and almost overbalanced. 'Oh, nothing is wrong, seňor,' she gulped, easing her elbow free of his enquiring touch. 'It's merely that I'm feeling completely overwhelmed—all this,' she tried to encompass the entire Palace of splendour within a weak wave, 'looks too fabulous to be real. It's like the background for an Arabian Nights fairy tale, or even a film set, an elaborately designed mock-up that can be dismantled overnight and stored inside a warehouse for future use.'

  She could have bitten the unruly tongue that had caused his look of cool disdain.

  'Sometimes, seňorita, I wonder how your race ever achieved its reputation for diplomacy,' he rebuked icily. 'Although the Palacio's original structure may have been lost beneath the dust of antiquity, I had nevertheless imagined, up until this moment, that succeeding generations of my family had managed to repair and restore the Palacio to its former glory. Explore it at will, seňorita, I guarantee that far from discovering that it is fashioned out of chipboard and balsa wood, you are more likely to find that it owes its durability to oak timbers salvaged from captured English warships!'

  The apology that leapt to her lips was stifled by a gasp of surprise when the massive door swung open and an elderly woman with bent frame and wrinkled skin, yet with hair black as jet, hurried across the threshold.

  'Bienvenido, Romany Rye!' she cried out in welcome, looking tempted to throw her arms around the unbending Conde.

  'Gracias, Sabelita,' he responded to the old woman's greeting with a courteous bow.

  Feeling a deepening illusion of having somehow being. Toped in as an extra on a period movie, Frances flinched from the probe of black button eyes spearing countless questions in her direction, wondering which position in the Conde's household was held by the obviously possessive, plainly inquisitive old woman wearing a black dress with a long, tightly fitting bodice and a full skirt frilled from hip to hem that struck Frances as youthfully incongruous on a woman of her advanced age. As if starved of colour, she had also thrown around her shoulders a small three-cornered shawl, heavily fringed, and dotted with full-blown scarlet peonies, and as if she was keen to draw attention to her dark, glossy hair, golden earrings danced and dangled as she moved to peer closely into Frances' startled face.

  'Bienvenido, chavali…'

  Much to Frances' relief the greeting sounded encouraging, although she was able to understand only half of it.

  'Chavali? she enquired with a tentative smile. 'I'm sorry, but that word appears to be missing from my vocabulary.'

  'Romanies have no written vocabulary, seňorita,' the Conde interrupted grimly. 'Sabelita welcomed you in Spanish, but it was in Romany that she addressed you as "girl" or "girl child". Sabelita was put in charge of the nursery on the day I was born. For some years, while I was absent from home attending boarding school and then later university, she returned to her tribe, but she seems to possess an uncanny instinct for knowing exactly when she is needed, for without giving me time to enquire about her whereabouts she appeared on the doorstep of the Palacio on the very day that I was deprived of the services of a housekeeper. I owe her a debt of gratitude, not only for her loyalty, but also, as Romanies are known the world over as inveterate wanderers, for remaining in one place much against her natural inclinations.'

  Sabelita looked as pleased as a young girl receiving her first compliment.

  'We Romanies do find the call of the wild irresistible,' she confirmed. 'Most of us are unable to keep still, to resist an inner urge to move on and keep moving, but we can be happy and contented if our surroundings are congenial. To label us vagabonds, as some have been known to do, is to do us great injustice, for we never go travelling without taking our homes along with us. And as for knowing when I am needed, Romany Rye,' she reproved the Conde gravely, 'you must be aware that I am known to possess the gift of second sight, that the gods send me direct information about future happenings. The gift is given to many, but only a handful are capable of correctly reading the signs.'

  'Educated people refuse to be swayed by ancient superstition,' the Conde reproved sharply. 'Atmospheric conditions that cause comets to flame and stars to fall have been thoroughly investigated and explained by experts in terms simple enough to convince the majority of people, that talk of evil portents is merely superstitious nonsense.'

  Frances delved the depth of Sabelita's hurt when she saw a quiver disturb the calm serenity of her features, and cha
mpionship of the old woman's brave spirit was reflected in her involuntary gesture of protest towards the sharp-tongued Conde. But surprisingly, Sabelita seemed to think that it was she who was most in need of comfort.

  'Don't upset your kind heart on my account, beti chavali,' she almost intoned. 'Soon you will prove my gift of prophecy, soon—when my family is rejoicing at the wedding of our Bori Rani!'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Frances stepped out of her bedroom and began walking along a gallery leading towards a staircase that climbed in broad flights from a large gloomy well, flanked by walls of coloured tiles reaching to the full height of a ceiling with a painted dome that was lost in the dusk of evening. What little she had seen of the interior of the Palacio had struck her as being only slightly less impressive than its facade. She loved her luxurious white and gold bedroom, the spaciousness of the galleries, the intimacy of the smaller salons, the cool comfort of internal courtyards supplying constant views of gardens bursting with colourful explosions of flowers so numerous their short-lived exuberance allowed for no empty gaps in the colourful display.

  It was a palace built for escape, escape from the warm spring sunshine to which she had not yet become accustomed, escape from the noise of civilisation and, in the case of the aloof Conde, escape, she suspected, into a world where his word was law, where he ruled supreme over subjects who, if Sabelita was a true example, were devoted and fanatically loyal. Any further attempt to reason with the Lord of the Land, to argue with a man who felt it beneath his dignity to offer any explanation for his actions, would be a waste of time, therefore she had decided that all discussions about her future would have to take place between herself and his wife, the Condesa, she assured herself, as she picked her way across the hall, loath to set foot upon a mosaic floor depicting the three stages of man's development—from birth and childhood, youth and middle age, then final senility—was bound to be more approachable, more sympathetic to her argument that although she was prepared to abide by the condition laid down by the Conde, tutorage for his children in exchange for the information she required, the completion of her father's book had to be given first priority, which meant that she could not agree to stay in Andalusia for an indefinite period.