Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  'What's about to happen?' she whispered urgently as they came within sight of a carpeted dais strewn with flower petals that had one large wooden chair set like a throne in its centre.

  'Even Gentiles must be aware of the legendary gypsy blood marriage, during which ritual incisions are made in each wrist so that the blood of both parties can mingle? Don't look so shocked,' he laughed beneath his breath, throwing an arm around her shoulders so that her look of startled incredulity was hidden from sight. 'I promise that you will feel no pain, Culvato's dagger is too sharp, his regard for you too high, to permit him to inflict anything more than a slight discomfort.'

  Beginning to wonder if she was the victim of some weird, hallucinatory dream, Frances concentrated her mind upon urging her reluctant feet to tread the petal-strewn path leading up to the dais that had taken on the appearance of a sacrificial altar where the swarthy-skinned Culvato, his beard neatly trimmed and pointed, was standing, dagger poised, waiting like Diabolus to admit her damned spirit into his demoniac possession.

  Without the protective shield of Rom's arm around her shoulders, without his powerfully reassuring presence and murmured words of encouragement, she could not have endured the rituals performed during the very old marriage ceremony that the Romanies held sacred.

  Though no more than a large wooden chair, the 'throne' upon which she was kept symbolically isolated by a loosely-hung chain draped across her lap lost none of its regality as she sat trembling upon its rush-woven seat, her wide, apprehensive eyes trained upon Culvato's silver-bladed dagger glinting wickedly as razor-sharp edges were whetted by glancing sunrays.

  Rom was standing behind her chair with a consoling hand resting lightly upon her shoulder when the drumroll died to a faint background rumbling and the tribe fell silent, crowding around the dais with a sudden air of solemnity that she found unnerving.

  Savage-looking, stiff-haired dogs that prowled continuously around the cave houses ceased howling and barking, rollicking children were rebuked into silence, tethered horses stopped snorting and neighing, and the pungent smell of burning wood drifted over the clearing from thin corkscrews of blue smoke rising from campfires, when Rom's loud, clear voice resounded with a formality that warned Frances that the mysterious rites were about to begin.

  'By your leave, gypsy men and youths, this is Romanes calling upon you to witness his marriage to Frances!'

  Coins, bracelets and earrings jangled, voluminous skirts rustled as the gypsy audience pressed forward, nodding permission to Culvato to respond in their name.

  'By your leave, Romanes, this is Culvato agreeing on behalf of his tribe to perform the necessary rites, and also to act as witness to your marriage to Frances!' Solemnly, he broke a piece of bread into two pieces, sprinkled salt on each of the fragments, then handed one each to the bride and bridegroom, miming instructions to Frances to exchange her portion with Rom before eating. Then as she chewed for a second before forcing the bread down her constricted throat, he intoned sternly, 'When you are tired of this bread and this salt, you will be tired of one another!'

  During the shower of rice grains that followed the symbolic bestowal of wealth and prosperity, Frances felt the hand of some unseen person closing around her left wrist, levering it upwards until it was level with the left wrist of Rom. She did not resist, but kept her wide eyes, riveted upon the point of the silver dagger Culvato began lowering towards a pale blue vein outstanding on her wrist, pulsating in time with her rapidly . pounding heartbeats.

  The incision, when it came, felt like the merest pinprick, yet her blood spurted as if leaping with joy towards the dark red stream gushing from Rom's lacerated wrist. A split second later their wrists were clamped and bound tightly together with strips of cloth so that their life-blood could mingle, turning two separate entities into one.

  Shaken to the core by a physical communion so intimate she felt possessed, her virgin body invaded by the blood of the rapacious Moor who had used a young slave girl to slake his loneliness and to share his bondage of self-imposed isolation, she stared into the darkly brooding eyes of her Romany husband, wondering whether, even as they remained bound, giving and accepting the blood of each other, his thoughts were dwelling upon Maria, the girl he had loved passionately enough to ask her to become his wife, the one whose rejection had turned an adoring youth into a cold, embittered man.

  'May your clothes rip and wear out, but may you live in good health and in happy fulfilment!'

  Culvato's final blessing coincided with the removal of the cloth binding their wrists. Reluctantly, Frances withdrew her arm to enable Floure to wipe her wrist clean, then stared with disbelief at skin that was unblemished except for a faint red scar.

  'We use a lotion distilled from herbs to stop the bleeding instantly,' Floure responded to her look of puzzlement. Tomorrow you will need to search for evidence of the incision.'

  Floure's retreat from the dais with her bottle of herbal magic seemed to signify the conclusion of the ceremony and the commencement of high-spirited revelry that began with a congratulatory roar, a surge of hand-shaking, back-slapping good wishes, then progressed into a skirt-swirling, hip-jerking, foot-tapping furore of dancing as exhilarated gypsies endeavoured to keep pace with the lively tempo of gypsy music.

  'Prepare yourself for an exhausting day,' Rom warned, pulling Frances behind the trunk of a tree that had a canopy of low-slung branches offering a promise of comparative seclusion. 'The ceremonial celebrations to honour special guests, known to the gypsies as "Pashiv", has been known to last for two or three days!'

  Perhaps the Cante Hondo was too loud, yet Frances could not help but suspect that he had seized upon the loudness of Spanish gypsy music as an excuse to pull her into his arms and to feather his lips across a burning ear-lobe.

  'You looked so scared at the sight of the plunging silver dagger,' he mused with the benevolence of a man in complete charge of his emotions. 'I'm sorry you found the ceremony such an ordeal. Romanies excel at wringing the last drop of drama out of their rituals, they scorn subtlety—not for them the wisdom of serpents and the gentleness of doves, every story they tell has to be told in full, with every detail outlined until the mind is peaceful and the imagination satisfied. They make love as if making war,' his lips swept a trail of fire across her cheek, then hovered to breathe against her startled mouth, 'but we shall manage without the weapons of war, my gitanilla, provided we can provide plenty of fuel, for without wood the fire will die!'

  With a heart as heavy as stone she endured his deeply probing kiss, wondering why fate could not have been kind enough to decree that she should marry a man who loved her, instead of merely mating her with the man she loved.

  Instinct warned her to tread warily, to show gratitude for any morsel of affection he might choose to toss her way, but with his blood running wild in her veins, with the taste of bread upon her tongue and the sting of salt upon her lips, she felt an urgent craving for more.

  When she pulled out of his arms Rom showed surprise at the first sign of resistance she had ever demonstrated.

  'Are you still so much in love with Maria that all you can offer me is the sort of relationship that once existed between tyrant and slave?' she charged shakily, not caring if he should lie, so long as she could redeem a little of her self-respect.

  Immediately his expression froze into a mask of hauteur she knew that she had spoken unwisely.

  'I offered you a bargain,' he reminded her coldly. 'A deal in which love had no part to play. And as for Maria,' his voice suddenly grated, 'my feelings for her are irrelevant, buried in the past.'

  'A past that refuses to go away,' she continued recklessly, knowing herself foolish for loving him so. 'Maria is a ghost in your life that nobody talks about and few ever see, yet her spirit still lives inside the broken-down shrine you call a heart!'

  'Dios!' he spat, looking angry enough to break his whip of authority across her stiffly-held spine. 'I offered you wealth and comfort in exchange f
or a son, no more and no less! Remember always,' he stressed with a look so contemptuous she wanted to curl up and die, 'that part of the duty of a wife is to assuage her husband's hunger, but though duty may force me to eat at your table, I shall decide for myself where I shall dine!'

  Wild, berries, mushrooms, nettles and herbs were simmering with the juices of games and fowl in huge iron cauldrons positioned above campfires ringing the clearing. Hedgehogs encased in clay were roasting slowly on flat, white-hot stones sunk into the ground to form primitive ovens, and as it was the beginning of a Patshiva, a great ceremonial occasion, beer and wine had replaced the gypsies' favourite drink of sparkling water and tea that they managed to drink boiling hot by pouring it, a little at a time, into a saucer and then drinking it with a noisy lack of fastidiousness.

  Nervously twisting through her fingers the strand of blue beads Sabelita had promised would bestow 'a thousand blessings', Frances allowed Rom to lead her towards a seat provided by the tribe for the bridal pair, a high-backed, wooden love-seat providing just sufficient room for two to sit in close proximity. When Rom indicated that he wished her to sit down she breathed in deeply, foolishly attempting to shrink her slender frame into the far corner of the seat in case he should notice her weak trembling. But immediately he joined her, she felt engulfed, vitally aware of the ripple of muscles where their thighs touched, of rock-hard biceps brushing against her cheek, of sensual heat emanating in waves from the virile, power-packed body of the husband who expected no more of a wife than that she should provide him with sons.

  Shivering, uncontrollable as ague, erupted through her tense body when she realised with a sudden sense of shock how quickly Sabelita's unlikely prophecy had come to pass.

  'It is written in the stars, in the sand, and in the movements of the planets,' she had declared, 'that you and Romany Rye will take bread and salt!'

  Did Romanies possess some magical power that enabled them to manipulate the future? Or was society right to condemn them as smooth-tongued tricksters who bewitched money from the pockets of the gullible by filling their ears with promises of luck and the state of Utopian happiness yearned for by every mortal?

  'Why are you shivering? Surely you are not cold?'

  Frances cringed from the arm Rom slid around her shoulders, convinced that he was not acting out of concern for herself but demonstrating affection merely for the benefit of their audience. 'Would you like me to fetch a shawl to put around your shoulders?' He frowned, kindling a spark amongst her charred emotions by stroking an exploratory palm across her naked shoulders.

  'I suppose, as I am now a chattel, I must do whatever my master commands,' she responded coldly, deciding that she might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. 'As you have already stated a liking for nudity, I'm surprised by your willingness to allow a veil to be drawn across the spectacle of a slave dressed to please her owner.'

  She knew by the flicker m his dark eyes that he was angry, yet onlookers who noticed her wild rush of colour could have been forgiven for assuming that Rom was paying flattering attention to his bride when he bent his head low to murmur, 'I am fond of women, I like their company, I adore seeing their femininity emphasised by voluptuous clothes designed, as a trap is designed, to display just a sufficient amount of bait to attract. and to ensnare the unwary. I enjoy being just a little in love with, and spoiling, women who excite my interest. But I have never expected nor demanded servitude in exchange. In fact, Frances,' a muscle jerked in his suddenly tightened jaw, 'up until recently I had never been made to feel a tyrant, nor have I ever before had to curb an impulse to inflict a salutary beating. I suspect that taking you for a wife might be similar to making a pet of a tiger cub—one can never be certain if one is master!'

  At that precise moment, as their eyes were locked in combat, a male elder of the tribe was escorted into the clearing and left standing alone, waiting with his head thrown back until the entire tribe had lapsed into silence. When he began singing, unaccompanied, his quavering but still powerful voice sounded to Frances like the prayer chants of Islam, a flamenco, very Arabic in flavour, which she gathered from Rom's whispered translation told the ancient story of how gypsies had migrated into Spain from India, their original homeland, the birthplace of a culture Romanies had preserved in secret during their centuries of nomadic wandering.

  The old man sobbed his grief for a race branded as outsiders, wailed and wrung his hands as he mourned the ignorance shown by people who levelled hatred and envy upon gypsies who insisted upon remaining separate, different, and refused to conform to the values of others. Many pious references were made to the goddess Kali, the Hindu goddess who had travelled with them through time and remained alive in their myths and legends. Then as the ancient ballad drew to a close, the old man's voice grew deep with emotion as he lifted his hands towards heaven, pleading for justice to be shown to nomads cast out of lands because of an undeserved reputation for stealing, plundering and trickery, whose daughters had to dance, whose sons had to become musicians before they could become integrated, accepted by Gentiles whose hearts and minds could only be invaded by unique, artistic talent.

  'Not all flamenco songs are devoted to history and politics,' Rom assured Frances under cover of tumultuous applause. 'Just like their life, gypsy music is full of contradictions. Melancholy must be purged before gaiety can emerge—a very special quality of gaiety, vibrant as an electric shock, that is communicated to all hearts by their passion for dancing. Never was a gypsy born that was not born to dance,' he mused, 'and especially a Spanish gypsy,' he told her in a tone so low and lacking in bite it caused her heart to flip right over. 'Later, querida, after the feasting is finished and night has fallen, you will be called upon to display your talents, to prove that even a cool, poised English girl can dance as if she had a little Spanish honey in her hips.'

  'But I can't dance,' she protested, 'I've never had any opportunity to try!'

  'There's nothing to it,' he insisted with a glint of Moorish wickedness. 'Gypsy children are taught a few basic rules, then the rest is left to natural ability.

  'Do not look at your feet to see if you are doing the steps properly but keep your head up and look about you confidently. Make sure that you have a clean handkerchief, but do not use it more than is absolutely necessary. If stockings and shoes are being worn, see that the first do not slip down and that the second are well polished and never allowed to become soiled.'

  Rom's aggravation seemed to wane as gradually as the sinking sun, so that by the time it had dipped below the horizon his mood was as mellow as darkness flung like a cloak over the clearing scented with the heady perfume of crushed flower petals, glowing with the warmth of flaring campfires, vital and exciting as the music of guitars and gypsy violins that played havoc with the senses, setting feet tapping, bodies swaying, hearts racing to keep up with its wild, exhilarating beat.

  The gypsies had eaten their fill of thick game stew and hedgehog cooked to a turn so that when the clay was removed the prickles remained embedded in the crust and the meat was ready to be served upon plate-sized leaves.

  Rom had noticed Frances' start of revulsion at the sight of hedgehog bellies being split open and the entrails disposed of at the very last moment before portions were distributed. But although he had jeered at her squeamish inability to taste even a morsel of the large helping she had been served, he had surreptitiously scooped her portion on to his plate so that their hosts would not be offended by her rejection of a dish they had proudly assured here was 'good enough for a queen to eat without salt'.

  They were watching a nuptial dance, a performance enacted by six betrothed couples that had begun by portraying the shy, tentative approach at a girl and boy's first meeting, had advanced slowly towards the quick tempo of mutual attraction, then escalated suddenly into a burst of eye-flashing, posturing, passionate flirtation, every gesture and movement sending out signals of desire, of sexual arousal that could be assuaged only by the magical intimac
y of marriage.

  Frances watched breathlessly, gripped by the savage beauty of the performance, unaware that the ritual dance of seduction had any bearing upon her own coldblooded marriage of convenience until, when excitement was at its peak, the music ceased as suddenly as the dancers' tempestuously tapping feet and a whole audience of dark, expectant eyes swivelled towards herself and Rom.

  'It is up to us, as newlyweds, to supply a fitting climax,' Rom explained, pulling her to her feet. 'Just relax, querida, and try to look as happy as a bride should look when she knows the pinnacle of happiness is almost within reach.'

  His words made no sense to her panic-ridden mind, nor did it seem reasonable of him to expect—having already been told that she could not dance—that she would accompany him willingly on to a stage where they would be expected to conclude the ritual dance with some sort of dramatic finale.

  Cringing with shyness, she was forced to accompany Rom into the centre of the clearing where she stood on leaden feet, directing an imploring plea to be rescued from the nightmare situation. But, looking completely impenitent, Rom refused to be moved, even demonstrated his eagerness to act out the role of enamoured bridegroom by gripping a waist that fitted as neatly into his palm as the handle of a whip and pulling her close enough to feel the kick of his heartbeats, the animal sensuality of muscles rippling beneath the shirt clinging close to his frame as a silken pelt.

  The magic of his touch drew from her lips a sigh of surrender, dispersed from her mind all consciousness of others, so that as she trembled within the circle of his arms, feeling the glow of campfires licking heat across the pale, exposed skin of her shoulders, seeing the reflection of flames flickering in the depths of eyes black as sin, she felt ringed by fire, held fast in the arms of a Romany devil hellbent upon introducing yet another slave into his Satanic harem.

  When his grip increased in urgency she tried to draw away, but then, as if demons of sorcery had been summoned to his aid, violins began playing a sweet, pagan, insidious psalm of temptation. Instinctively, intent as a priestess moving through some holy ritual, she responded to his guidance, swaying when he swayed, matching each of his steps with an inherent grace of movement that made her appear ethereal, a sweetly serious cherub drifting languorously, gliding, swirling, ebbing and flowing within a pale blue cloud of enchantment.