Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  She jumped with alarm when a soft-footed servant loomed out of the darkness, sheltering a lighted taper behind his cupped palm. His flame-flecked reflection struck her so grotesque she almost screamed aloud, but after a quick mental scolding she took a grip upon her nerves and enquired politely:

  'Would you kindly direct me to the dining salon where I believe El Conde is waiting?'

  Confidently expecting to make up the third party of an intimate dinner a trois, she stepped past the servant who had hurried in front of her to open one half of tall double doors, then came to a shocked standstill, staring around a salon as large as a ballroom, with galleries running the width of three of its walls and curved, Islamic arches giving access to drawing-rooms and various other salons which, had a ball been in progress, could comfortably have accommodated extensive buffets. Running down the centre of the room, positioned directly beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier, was a long table, its mirror sheen reflecting bowls piled high with fruit, silver candelabra, fine glass goblets and cutlery stamped with' the eagle's head emblem of the Condes del Nomadas y Aquila ranged either side of lace table mats indicating places set for two people!

  'Buenas noches, seňorita! You found your room to your liking, I trust?'

  Dazedly, she swung round in search of the owner of the voice and discovered the Conde looking formal yet relaxed in a white dinner jacket, dark slacks and a pastel-coloured shirt, Its ruffled front and cuffs edged with a deep shade of blue embroidery. A diamond glittered in his cuff when he raised an arm to check the time on a watch snapped around his wrist with a band of platinum.

  'Punctuality is obviously one of your virtues,' he commented without allowing a smile to disturb the stern-set symmetry of his lips. 'Would you care for an aperitif, or shall I instruct the servants to begin serving dinner immediately?'

  Feeling a mortified blush rising to the very roots of her hair, Frances glanced down at her serviceable skirt and fresh but strictly functional blouse, then began backing nervously towards the door.

  'I'm sorry, Conde… I'm not properly dressed for dinner. Perhaps,' she pleaded with a breathless catch in her voice, 'I could have something served on a tray in my room?'

  'Nonsense!' He brushed aside her protest, attempting no apology in spite of the fact that as her host, fully conversant with the inadequacies of her wardrobe, his manners were more to be faulted than her own. 'Sit down, please, seňorita, having eaten next to nothing all day your appetite must be as voracious as my own.'

  Egged on by hunger, agreeing wholeheartedly with the understatement, she advanced into the room, then hesitated, her brow wrinkling with puzzlement as she queried the two place settings on the table.

  'I can appreciate the reason for your children's absence at this late hour, Conde, but what about your wife? Surely the Condesa will be joining us?'

  'Questions, questions, and still more questions!' he clipped, once more showing his dislike of what he obviously considered to be her presumption. 'A good meal ought never to be spoiled with contentious conversation. Be seated, if you please, Seňorita Ross.' Decisively, he pulled back the chair positioned to the right of his own at the head of the table. 'The omission of instruction in the art of dining well has left a lamentable gap in your education. I shall take upon myself the duty of remedying the omission by proving to you that one is able to think better, sleep better, even to love better, after dining well.'

  As she was ravenous, and there was undoubtedly little to be gained from carrying the argument further, she dropped into the seat he had indicated with apparent meekness, mentally promising herself that come what may she would refuse to retire to her room that evening without gaining a full, concise, and detailed summary of her position.

  The meal, served with formal elegance inside a dining salon with walls ornately decorated with bright mosaics in colours echoed in richly woven rugs scattered at random over a polished wooden floor, was eaten almost in silence. After the initial ceremony of dipping three fingers into a bowl of perfumed water, came the serving of food evocative of dark, sunless alleyways, the souks, and casbahs from which the superb cuisine had originated.

  They began with bstilla, a juicy, crisp, sweet-sour pie made up of innumerable paper-thin circles of pastry layered between exotic fillings containing spices, sugar and pigeon meat, quickly fried and then slid directly from the pan to the plate to be sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar.

  The Conde drank wine with each of the many courses, but Frances asked for a glass of cold milk to accompany the little almond-stuffed pastries she chose in preference to the semolina dish packed with raisins, currants and chopped, blanched almonds which the Conde chose as a dessert.

  By the time the exotic, leisurely-eaten meal had ended she was feeling replete, contented, and much better equipped to launch the offensive that could no longer be evaded. She was idly dabbling in the warm, rose-scented water of a freshly-filled finger bowl when the Conde signalled that he, too, was satisfied by rising to his feet and suggesting courteously, 'Let's retire into the drawing-room where we'll be much more comfortable. Can I get you a liqueur, a coffee, or perhaps a glass of mint tea?'

  Frances shook her head and rose with a contented sigh.

  'I'll just .finish my milk, if you don't mind.' When she reached out to pick up her half empty glass he cautioned sharply, 'Please don't, it will be brought to you in the drawing-room.

  'Oh, but—'

  'Unless,' he chopped off her protest with an edge sharp as steel, 'you wish to offend my servants greatly?'

  Swallowing the rebellious reminder that she was a working girl unused, as he obviously was not, to being waited upon hand and foot, she moved towards the archway leading into a room where low-slung copper lamps were throwing a soft glow over a woven carpet fitted into a square of white marble floor space, its fringe lapping the base of velvet-covered banquette couches ranged around three of the walls. She sank down on to a couch and felt immediately seduced by the wine-coloured embrace of upholstery soft as a bed of down and jewel-bright cushions exquisitely embroidered to match the tops of plump pouffes scattered around the floor, and curtains drawn together over windows running the height of the wall from ceiling to floor.

  When a servant had placed her glass of milk and the Conde's balloon glassful of brandy on a beaten copper table set within easy reach, he silently withdrew, leaving her alone with his master, who appeared to be deep in thought, broodily contemplating the tip of a cheroot. The white-flecked wings of hair at his temples appeared startlingly pronounced as a beam of light played directly upon his bent head. Frances watched him closely, fascinated by the sharp-cut edges of a profile rapt with concentration, by a body that seemed relaxed but which, when goaded into action, could react with the tensile strength of a steel spring. Flame flared against the tip of the cheroot clenched between his teeth, then, bruising her vanity with the betrayal that he had almost forgotten her existence, he extinguished the flame and hesitated, his finger poised over the switch of an onyx table lighter.

  'I beg your pardon, seňorita, may I have your permission to smoke?'

  The question was no more than a polite formality, of course, the Conde had made it plain that he considered himself possessed of a God-given right to do exactly as he pleased, nevertheless, Frances felt flattered by the unexpected act of courtesy.

  'Please do,' her smile was a trifle wistful. 'I rather like the smell of tobacco. As a matter of fact, over the past months, one of the things I've missed most has been the rather pungent odour of my father's favourite pipe.'

  'Gracias,' he acknowledged, setting a flare to her senses by choosing to sit so close that only the width of a narrow copper table lay between them.

  Mentally registering relief at the thought that she was highly unlikely to be subjected to any stronger dose of a charm which she instinctively sensed could be deadly, she reached for the glass of milk that looked as incongruously out of place as she did herself, subconsciously emulating the superstitious followers of Is
lam who wore amulets and believed that immunity from all sorts of disaster could be achieved by clutching at talismans whenever danger threatened.

  Unfortunately, her calm, sensible approach somehow deteriorated into a grab that jerked the glass sideways, spilling its entire contents over the Conde's immaculately tailored trousers.

  'Oh!' Her round-mouthed gasp projected an amount of horror hugely disproportionate to her crime. 'I'm dreadfully sorry, I'm not usually given to being so clumsy!'

  Frantic with dismay, she pulled a tissue out of her pocket, intent upon trying to diminish the damage, but he stayed her hand, fastening a grip upon her wrist that felt gouging as a talon.

  'No, you are not usually clumsy, seňorita,' he agreed. 'On the contrary, you are typical of your race, as cool, wholesome and sensible as the drink you seem to favour. Leave it!' he snapped, when she resisted his pressure in an effort to lever the tissue downward to mop up the spillage. 'What little damage has been done can easily be put right. Excuse me for a moment, if you please,' when he rose to his feet and released her hand blood began racing through veins dammed by the pressure he had exerted upon her wrist, 'I will return very shortly.'

  When he had left the room she sat miserably pondering upon the mishap which normally she would not have allowed to happen. But since she had first set foot inside the palace built by a Moorish prince for his favourite concubine, her usually serene composure had been completely routed. Never in her life before had she experienced an atmosphere so laden with luxury, an El Dorado of wealth ruled by a man who, in. common with the fabled king of that gilded city, seemed incapable of tasting the fiery tang of pleasure, appeared to have no one to guide him gently, and with love, towards the enjoyment of simple things.

  She was musing upon the non-appearance of his wife, the elusive Condesa, when a movement caught her eye, drawing her attention towards a figure standing motionless, arms folded like wings across his chest, framed within the curve of a connecting archway. She caught a sharp breath, wondering for a second if she were in the presence of a princely apparition—a Moorish ghost whose heart had been so filled with love for his Isabella that he had offended against both custom and tradition by promoting a concubine to the proud status of Principesa.

  The tall figure, stranded in the shadows beyond the perimeter of light being cast by low-slung lamps, seemed to be attired in the sort of loose white ankle-length garment favoured by sons of the desert who sought refuge from daytime heat and the chill of night-time within its voluminous folds. But when the figure moved closer towards the orbit of light Frances realised that it was no ordinary robe but a garment fit for a prince, with a heavily embroidered yoke, a clasp fashioned to resemble two golden claws, and a shower of multicoloured stones scattered like raindrops over silk-petalled flowers.

  'No need to look so startled, seňorita. As any Arab nomad will confirm, the burnous is a comfortable, functional garment, extremely conducive to an evening's relaxation.'

  She shuddered from the shock of hearing the Conde's cultured voice issuing from the figure she felt would not have looked out of place leading a cavalcade of warriors with banners flying, pulling impatiently on the bridles of Arab thoroughbreds so that their necks arched proudly as they cantered homeward with trophies of battle dangling from their saddle bows. With the stride of a forceful Moor he advanced to peer down into her frightened face. She backed away, then was made to feel foolishly ingénue when he chided dryly.

  'What scandalous thoughts seethe behind your manner of prim decorum—a fine, sleek pelt denotes the hunting prowess of a well-fed beast, is that what you are thinking, seňorita?' His jeering laughter scraped a permanent scar across her youthful sensitivity. 'Put your mind at rest, tonight the beast does not prowl, his mind is too set upon affairs of family to spare time for thoughts of ravishment!'

  'I'm pleased to hear it,' she snapped as crisply as she was able, considering she was awash with embarrassment from head to toe. 'Believe me, seňor, you would not have found me half so amenable to abduction had I not been consoled by the knowledge that you have secreted somewhere in the background of your life a wife and a family. How many children do you have, seňor, and are they sons, or daughters, or both?'

  Resuming his seat on the couch next to her, he reached for his glass and savoured half of its contents before startling her rigid.

  'I made no mention of a wife, seňorita, nor of sons or daughters—nevertheless, members of my family can be numbered in hundreds.' Edged almost to the brink of a smile by her wide-eyed stare of astonishment, he returned his glass to the table and continued with an air of resignation she found unforgivable, 'It is a long story, but as you will no doubt insist upon hearing all of it, I'd better start by explaining the implications contained within our family name. El Conde de Nomadas y Aquila is the title coined for the first Conde when he built the Palacio many centuries ago. "Count of the Nomads and of the Eagles",' he translated, 'an appropriate choice when you consider that there is no other place on earth where either species can- hope to gain the protection they have always received on this estate. The Spanish imperial eagle was most probably breeding here long before the Moors arrived, but the appearance of the nomadas, or gitanos, as they are often referred to in Spain, coincided with a particularly vicious scourge being perpetrated upon their race by an unfeeling society. Harassed, persecuted, and made victims of Unfair discrimination, one tribe appealed to the Moorish Prince for protection and was permitted by him to remain on a part of the estate that is honeycombed with caves which they utilised as homes into which the tribe settled and has remained up until the present day.'

  'Do you mean that the family you spoke of is a tribe of gypsies?' She could not suppress her indignation at being so misled. 'And are you seriously expecting me to take up a post as teacher to such people?'

  When his head snapped up she shrank from dark, Oriental eyes flashing a warning to take care, but felt stripped as an oyster of its shell when he bit out the sharp condemnation:

  'You make it obvious by your tone, seňorita, that you are as prejudiced as the majority of society towards the gypsy race. In every country, and by every nationality, they are used as scapegoats. For centuries they have been branded rogues, wherever they have travelled people have hated and envied them simply because they have always refused to conform to other people's values, because they have insisted upon remaining different by retaining their own tribal trades, language and customs. Yet in spite of the fact that their contempt of worldly goods has made them appear poor in the eyes of a mercenary society, it is a well established fact that they set standards— especially of morals and integrity—that are far higher than most. Unfortunately, what often seems to happen is that the arrival of gypsies in an area is welcomed by local criminals who tend to step up their unlawful activities, knowing that the gitanos will be blamed.'

  The flaring of aristocratic nostrils, the tinge of temper on high cheekbones, confirmed his partisanship of the gypsy race far more than his terse yet impassioned spate of words. But to have referred to them as his children, to have implied that he was some kind of honorary gypsy chieftain, seemed to her to be a case of taking the duties of inherited patronage far beyond the bounds of what had originally been intended.

  'I cannot pretend to be an authority on gypsy law,' she responded coldly, 'however, their well-known contempt of those whom they choose to term "outsiders", together with their insistence upon living in exclusive, tightly-knit communities, must bear out the truth of the statement that "a person is gypsy only by right of birth".'

  She saw his slight flinch, noted the tightening of lips which, in one less arrogant, might have been taken as an indication of pressure upon a sensitive nerve, but spurred on by anger caused by the suspicion that she had been deliberately misled, she continued to argue, 'In my own country, education authorities have been forced to conclude that gypsy children, because of their nomadism and an inability to adapt to the discipline of timetables and the need to remain quiet for l
ong periods, are almost impossible to educate.'

  'Exactly!' he pounced like a hungry eagle prepared to peck holes in her defence. 'What usually happens is that teachers relegate gypsy children to the bottom of the class and leave them to shift for themselves, easing their consciences by arguing that they are a disruptive influence upon the rest of the pupils, that they fidget, that they are noisy, dirty, and even that they are inclined to be rude. Those are precisely the reasons behind my decision to bring you here, Seňorita Ross. I want you to establish the sort of school that can be held up as an example to other countries, where lessons take place in the open air, where impositions are kept to a minimum and rules are adapted to suit the freedom-loving natures of young gitanos. For too long the gypsy race has been deprived of the benefits of education! Its children must be taught how to count, to multiply and subtract, and to read and write—things that are necessary, if not to integrate them completely into modern life, then at least to allow them to handle themselves with more ease and to prove to the world that they are capable of better things than merely singing, dancing and playing the guitar!'

  Sensing the danger of allowing him to detect any sign of weakness, Frances suppressed a shiver of alarm caused by the implication contained in his words. He appeared to be measuring her stay in Andalusia in months—perhaps even years!

  Managing to muster a note of authority, she stated flatly, 'I'm sorry, Seňor Conde, but even if I were prepared to embark upon such an assignment, which I definitely am not, the difficulties that would arise from my inability to communicate with the children would prove insurmountable. As you must already have gathered, my knowledge of your language leaves much to be desired—'