Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  Warming to his theme, he leant forward to confide, 'The art of baiting a trap and rigging a snare was taught to me, and to my brother Rom, by my late father. Rom, as chief patron of our tribe, and myself being the eldest son of its leader, were expected to be expert at all gypsy rites and rituals long before other boys of the same age.'

  Wearing the faintest of frowns, Floure interrupted her husband's flow of words.

  'Culvato means no disrespect when he refers to El Conde as his brother, you understand, seňorita. Though a nobleman by birth, he is regarded as one of us—as a member of our family.'

  'Disrespect!' Culvato rose to his feet, obviously incensed. 'Are you loca, woman?' he snorted, making his meaning plain by employing the derisive gesture of screwing a finger-knuckle hard against his temple. 'Why should you find it necessary to explain any of the words that I use in connection with my brother? Does not Rom share our camp and our food as only a brother is permitted to do? Has he not sworn the gypsy oath while touching my chest with the tip of his knife, and was he not christened with a gypsy name while his wrists were bound together with gold-coloured ribbon? Of course he is my brother!' he exploded, wrath spilling into his eyes with the turbulence of a racing torrent. 'To whom did he come for comfort after being jilted by his faithless novia? And who else but myself did he choose to accompany him on the bout of wild revelry with which he finally managed to rout the devil of desire from his aching loins?'

  'Bah!' Floure's meaning would have been clear in any language, even without the added enlightenment provided by a curled-up lip and a contemptuous flick of her fingers. 'For years you have used Rom's disappointment in love as an excuse for absenting yourselves for weeks whenever either of you felt the need for a space of freedom! Why can't you simply admit that such trips are necessary in order to assuage the nomadic urge to wander that fires every gypsy's veins?' she accused, dark eyes flashing. 'I too feel the ties of family growing irksome; I too am gypsy,' she stabbed a pointing finger among coins dangling like a golden collar around her neck, then almost spat at her startled husband. 'As well as being united in marriage, I also share your love of freedom, your need to escape from the bonds imposed by the duty to nurture our children, yet what rage would erupt inside you if I were to give in to the desire to be my own mistress, if I were to show contempt for the consequences and disappear for weeks to live in accordance with nature's rhythm! Go with your brother if you must,' Floure stamped her foot, obviously working herself up to a point where years of simmering resentment was to be allowed to boil over, 'but be honest about your motives, both of you! Rom was never truly in love with Maria Peralta! To him, she was merely a childhood companion who never grew up, a playful kitten who never matured into the sort of passionate female necessary to captivate, tantalise and respond with abandon to his needs. What sort of woman,' she scoffed angrily, smoothing complacent hands over ample hips, 'would allow herself to be talked out of marriage to the man she loved by a doting father who feared a lonely old age? When Maria Peralta jilted the most eligible bachelor in the whole of Andalusia, using an excuse provided by her bull-breeding father that the family bloodstock had to be kept pure, not only did she outrage members of her own society, she also condemned herself to a lifetime as a spinster, because all other men have been scared off, afraid that they might not measure up to her exacting standards! But justice has been done! While she has been left like an ornament to gather dust upon a shelf, every other girl in Andalusia has been plainly eager to console Rom for his imaginary disappointment! Huh!' her shoulders heaved in a contemptuous shrug, 'his lucky deliverance, more like!'

  'Woman!' Culvato found his voice, 'you talk too much!' Thumping his fist hard down upon the table, he accused, 'Have you forgotten that we have a guest in our house, and also,' he swept an arm towards his gawping children, 'that we now have a row of little pitchers filled with gossip up to their brims?' Angrily, he dispersed his curious brood. 'Anda! Anda!' he cried out, loudly clapping his hands.

  As if the slap that resulted had served as a reminder of some previous punishment, the children leapt to their feet and ran, leaving behind a floor littered with licked-clean plates.

  Feeling completely stunned, looking dazed as a tourist who has wandered by accident into the midst of a volcanic eruption, Frances sat rooted, staring at the two antagonists glaring fury at each other across the width of the table. Never in her life before had she witnessed such a show of fiery temperament, heard words rippling like a knife through flesh, seen glances gouging deep as an angry wound, felt seared by a passion as tempestuous in anger as it no doubt was in love.

  Shaking with reaction, she rose to her feet with the intention of creeping as silently as possible away from the arena of wrath where any moment, she felt convinced, Floure might whip a dagger out of a garter hugging a shapely thigh, or Culvato might begin meaningfully unbuckling the clasp of his broad leather belt.

  But at the sound of her chair scraping across the flagstones, two pairs of dark eyes unlocked and swung in her direction. Visibly she shrank, feeling the panic of a rabbit about to be used as a scapegoat by a couple of snarling whippets, then almost collapsed with relief when she saw savage glares become submerged by waves of compassion.

  At the sight of her distressed face Culvato struck the palm of his hand against his forehead. 'A thousand pardons! Floure,' he spun quickly towards his troubled wife, 'fetch water, you've almost frightened the life out of the pobre Inglesa with your display of insane jealousy!'

  In spite of the monstrously unjust accusation, Floure did not stop to argue but hurried to fetch a pitcherful of sweet spring water.

  'Drink up, maestra,' she urged, pushing an earthenware mug into Frances' nerveless hands, then as she watched her drink she stepped back to remark with an inscrutable smile, 'A man in a passion rides a runaway horse, but you were never in any danger of being trampled, seňorita. Grievances are best squeezed like sour pips from the sweet heart of an orange, so that nothing remains to stick in the throat. What you have just witnessed was no more than a bout of harmless badinage—beware of passions that are silent,' she nodded sagely. 'In nature, it is the mute, silently creeping snake that is responsible for the most tragic acts of violence!'

  'Merely the mention of such a reptile in her hearing will be sufficient to instil fear of a wriggling piece of string into the heart of the timid maestra!'

  Frances almost dropped her mug when a dry observation was directed from the open doorway.

  'I must apologise for arriving late,' the Conde sauntered inside the cave, 'but it appears that I was right to console my conscience with the assurance that Floure and Culvato would not permit you to starve.' His glance swept over the table laden with discarded dishes, the depleted stewpot, and lingered upon a bowlful of pomegranates and figs that had remained untouched. 'I take it that you have finished eating, Frances?' he enquired, addressing her by name without the least trace of unease. 'If not, please carry on, I'll wait outside until you have finished.'

  'Rom, old friend!' Culvato exclaimed, striding forward to clasp his hands around his. 'What are you implying—that there is no room for my brother in my home, or that to grace such a hovel as this with his presence is beneath my brother's dignity?'

  'Neither,' the Conde smiled, returning Culvato's handshake with a warmth that showed confidence that no serious rebuke had been intended. 'I did not come alone, therefore courtesy demands that if there is to be a delay I must wait outside and keep my friend company.'

  Galvanised into action by the threat of being cast once more into a maelstrom of unpredictable gypsy temperament, Frances assured him hurriedly, 'I couldn't eat another bite.' Then mindful of her manners, she turned to her smiling host and hostess. 'I enjoyed my meal so much, thank you for inviting me.'

  'Your presence at our table has given us both great pleasure, seňorita? Floure responded with an aplomb that convinced Frances that the row she had just witnessed was as of little consequence to the volatile-natured couple as a dead le
af cast from nowhere on a hot breath of wind.

  'Soon, at a time that is convenient to yourself and to our brother Rom, we must arrange a proper visit. We'll have a fiesta!' Floure decided, clasping her hands together like an excited child. 'A gathering lasting all night long, during which all the family will entertain in turn, terminating with our grandmother, who can truly be termed the matriarch of old-style flamenco. Listening to her songs, seňorita, will help you to understand how much music means to us gypsies, how it makes us feel good and helps us to forget the' sorrows that are deep inside of us. Promise me that you will come,' she urged, then swung pleading eyes towards the Conde. 'Please, Rom, say that you will bring the young maestra to our fiesta?

  After hesitating for a fraction of a second, he shrugged, then conceded kindly, 'As you say, Floure, the mixture of the Moorish, the Andalusian and the gypsy contained within flamenco should provide insight into a life that is full of contradictions. It is only fair that one who has offered to instruct our children should not remain ignorant of the most intimate and ancient ways of gypsy living.'

  Vaguely, it had impinged upon Frances's conscience that the Conde, looking lithe, tall and straight, dressed all in black, with a tight, waist-length jacket and black Cordoban hat, was dressed for riding, nevertheless she was not prepared for the encounter that took place immediately she stepped outside the cave dwelling.

  Two beautiful Arab horses with arrogantly tossing heads were pawing the ground, a black stallion that was riderless, and a snow-white mare bearing an elegant, stiff-backed rider in the saddle. A girl, alone, beautifully turned out in a long black riding skirt, a short, severely-tailored jacket made to appear deliciously feminine with the addition of a white silk stock worn high at the neck, and with a wide black sombrero casting a pool of shadow across patrician features set pale and cool as a cameo.

  At the sight of his companion, Floure and Culvato stepped hastily backward, as if anxious to seek anonymity within the solitude of their home, leaving Frances to flounder alone in a sea of embarrassment while the girl's calculating eyes assessed every wayward wisp of hair, every smudge of chalk dust on the limp shirt and crumpled denims worn by the girl for whom she had been kept waiting.

  'Cara,' even as the Conde spoke Frances guessed the identity of the girl whom he was about to introduce, 'I'd like you to make the acquaintance of Seňorita Frances Ross, the young maestra who is coping so well with her class of unruly pupils. Frances,' he glinted down at her, a slight twitching of his lips convincing her that he was enjoying her hot, sticky discomfiture, 'permit me to introduce a very old friend,, Seňorita Maria Peralta, daughter of my nearest neighbour, Gonzales, Carlos Peralta, Marques de Quesada!'

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maria's eyes, when she glanced at the Conde across the width of a wrought iron table set out on the patio, were the soft, velvet brown of pansies. Yet, except where he was concerned, she appeared formidably aloof, especially towards Frances who, in a freshly laundered blouse and well worn skirt, was feeling humble as dust beneath the dainty feet of the girl whose appearance had caused Sabelita to mutter darkly.

  'A beautiful face and wicked mind, often, full often, together we find!'

  'Do you intend staying long in Andalusia, Seňorita Ross?' Maria enquired coolly.

  Carefully, Frances laid down the knife with which she had been attempting to peel a peach and slid trembling hands beneath the table, clenching her fingers hard together until the knuckles showed white as she fought to regain the composure that had fled the moment the Conde had leant sideways in his saddle, plucked her from the ground, and held her firmly in front of him as he had urged the black Arab stallion into an easy canter.

  The journey home had been a nightmare, a frenzied furore of blushing, tingling, quivering, throbbing agitation which, because of Maria's close attention, had had to be endured with a show of stony indifference. Some instinct had told her that the entire incident had been planned, that the intimate trap—with herself as the victim and Maria as the furious onlooker—had been deliberately sprung by the man who could be as cruel in his own way as the Moor whose streak of sadistic humour had led him to use his enemies' skulls as decorative flower pots.

  'Well?' Maria prompted, made impatient by Frances' look of dazed hesitation. 'Is your visit to last a week, a month, or perhaps just a few more days?'

  'Frances will be remaining with us for an indefinite period.' Smoothly, the Conde came to her rescue, not merely with a reply to her questioner, but also by reaching for the plate holding the discarded peach which he competently stripped of its skin before pushing it back towards Frances with the confusing comment, 'Sometimes, I find myself regretting the passing of the era of the powerful caliphs whose wishes were considered law and thereby granted with the swiftness of a command. They would have had no need to cajole and coax, to be forever racking their brains in an effort to think of some inducement that might persuade a maestra to remain permanently in Andalusia.'

  'Why should you wish to do that?' Maria's gasped intake of breath, the dagger-swift sharpness of her response, sounded plainly to Frances like a reaction of fear, fear of being usurped, of being deprived of the power she undoubtedly still held over the emotions of the man whose rejection as a husband she was obviously bitterly regretting.

  'Surely my reason is obvious?' Puzzled by the tender, meaningful cadences in his voice, Frances abandoned her study of the neatly dissected peach and glanced upwards, then blushed to the roots of her hair when she saw his deeply intimate look trained upon her face, his pensive half-smile, and the sombre clouding of his features which anyone less knowledgeable than herself might easily have mistaken for an expression of intense longing.

  Her glance fell upon Maria, sitting still as a frozen mute, sympathising with her pain when, like a man whose revenge-fevered blood can only be cured by the letting of the blood of another, the Conde intensified her misery with the warm attribution, 'Frances' method of handling wayward pupils has proved so successful that we are reluctant to even acknowledge the possibility of her departure.'

  Frances' feeling of pity was ousted by annoyance when with a malicious snap of her perfect teeth Maria returned the spiteful rejoinder, 'I had imagined that ill-disciplined, ill-mannered gypsy children would be more in need of a mature person specially trained to deal with the offspring of parents who seem incapable of inhibiting their own unruly tempers, their idle disinclination to work, their instinct to steal whatever food they fancy and to respond to justifiable protests with expressions that are often rude and mostly unintelligible. Children need firm discipline, Rom, and quite frankly, querido, your English Miss appears to me to be far too immature to exert authority or to administer severe punishment.'

  Frances sensed the Conde's narrow-eyed search for her reaction, saw him relax in his chair with a cheroot clenched between his teeth, smiling in the manner of a potentate preparing to enjoy some scene about to be played out especially for his amusement—but she was far too incensed to care!

  'Certainly children need to be disciplined, Seňorita Peralta,' she agreed coldly, 'but it is possible to instil decent standards of behaviour, to give clear guidance of what is right and what is wrong, of what kind of behaviour is acceptable and what kind is not, without having to resort to tyranny. Failure to teach pupils the elementary laws of life is a betrayal of the teacher's primary function. A product of my own experience is the belief that there are no really wicked children-only imitators of lazy or misguided adults!'

  'Your experience?' Maria's trill of scornful laughter sent flags of colour flying high in Frances' cheeks. 'And when, might one ask, did you gain such a huge amount of experience?' she jeered. 'During the few years you spent at college, perhaps?'

  'Partly,' Frances stated simply, 'but mostly during the many happy years I spent as a child myself.'

  When a stunned silence fell over the occupants of the table set in a patio made shady by an overhead trellis woven with tendrils of leafy greenery, fragrant with the scen
t of flowers spilling in colourful profusion from decorative tubs, made tranquil by the musical sound of water playing faintly in the background, Frances felt no triumph at a loss of composure that had left Maria speechless, floundering for words to begin a counter-attack against defeat that had been accomplished by a few quietly spoken words of logic.

  The Conde's choked-back growl of laughter aggravated rather than helped to defuse the situation, and though his expression was quickly rendered unreadable, the hint of a quirk playing around his lips indicated to Frances, at least, that he had found the contest of wills entertaining.

  Perhaps it was this hint of enjoyment that alerted Maria's sensitive Andalusian pride, because in spite of eyes flashing a look of dedicated enmity, a slim frame stiff with the leashed fury of a cat tempted to spring, she managed a shrug that dismissed the subject as being of little consequence and evoked Frances' unwilling admiration by issuing a carefully modulated invitation.

  'If your visit is to be prolonged until Easter, Seňorita Ross, you must join our party for the week-long feria, a time during which Andalusia becomes a playground offering bullfights, displays of superb horsemanship, flamenco music, carnivals and parades enhanced by females of all ages wearing our colourful, eye-catching traditional dress. However,' she rose to her feet, managing to transmit an impression of having tolerated for too long a conversation she found boring, 'a word of warning should not come amiss.' Momentarily, her eyes flickered towards the Conde, who was politely rising to his feet. 'This is the region of the notorious Don Juan, the shameless libertine whose exploits are still being copied by many present-day rakes. During the feria, according to legend, even the devil has the permission of God to tempt…'