Gheorghe muttered a curse under his breath. “This Mary Tudor is surrounded by many priests,” he observed. “She is said to be very holy and strong-minded, like her father before her. ’Twill not bode well for the likes of us.”
Sandor nodded. Like his uncle, he realized that the new Queen would seek to cleanse England of her late brother’s religion and return the people to the teachings of Rome. Any purge of heretics would naturally include the Rom, who lived under sufferance on the fringes of English society, with a blind eye toward the old Act of 1530 against the “outlandish people calling themselves Egyptians.” Once again, the wind would change. Sandor felt it in his bones—bad times were coming.
He changed the subject. “I am surprised that you are not already on the road, Uncle.” And thankful that Baxtalo is still here and looking so well.
Gheorghe shrugged. “My fever comes and goes. Old Towla was determined that we remain after the others left. Methinks she knew you would return soon.”
“Aunt Mindra? Demeo? They are well?”
His uncle gave a quick nod. “They are down at Covent Garden Market today. Demeo is a-scrumping among the vendors for our supper, while Mindra reads palms and tells the gadje a pack of lies for coppers and silver.” He chuckled as he contemplated the cleverness of his wife and son.
“But you, Sandor—” he stabbed the air with a bone-thin finger “—you have done nothing. Instead, you send the King’s soldiers here to badger me with questions. All you had to do was strangle the woman up north and cut out her heart. How was that so hard?”
Sandor guarded his tongue. He had spent the past two months practicing how he would explain Tonia to his family. He could not lie to his uncle as he could to a gadjo. The Rom never lied or stole from each other under the pain of banishment from the clan.
“The woman is dead to the world,” Sandor hedged, choosing his words with care. “I delivered the heart to the Constable, as you told me to do. Beyond that, I know nothing.” He plucked a blade of the bright green grass growing at his feet, and chewed on it. Its bitter taste reminded him of his blessed freedom.
Gheorghe grunted. “Let destruction eat that pack of Englishmen! Tonight we will sing and feast on whatever odds and ends Demeo finds at the marketplace. Tomorrow, we will travel south to Dover. ’Tis high time we returned to France.” He spat on the ground. “Pah! I have never much liked these English. No joy thrives in their cold blood.”
Sandor cleared his throat. He had never before seen his life’s path so clearly as now. “Then I wish you baxtalo drom—a lucky road, my uncle. For my part, I will stay here.”
Gheorghe narrowed his eyes at him. “Did they drop you on your head while you were in the Tower? Have all your brains dribbled out of your ears?”
Sandor took a deep breath. There was no way to escape his uncle’s prodding except to tell the whole truth, no matter how much it would cost Sandor. As his foster father, Gheorghe deserved to know. Perhaps he would understand Sandor’s decision. After all, his uncle had once been young and in love.
“I am married again, Uncle.” He showed the stunned man the thin scar on his palm. “We have mixed our blood together. We are one.”
Gheorghe whistled through his chipped teeth. “Have you been a-wooing one of the Buckland girls this past winter, or did this lightning strike recently?”
“I married while in the north…to a gadji.” Sandor held his breath and waited for the ax to fall.
Gheorghe looked as if he had been thunderstruck. Then he stood, turned his back on Sandor and entered the vardo. He shut the lower half of the door before turning to look at the man he once called son as well as son-in-law. With painful difficulty, Gheorghe drew himself upright and pulled back his shoulders.
“You know the law of the kris,” he told Sandor in a cold, hollow tone. “You have defiled yourself beyond all reckoning. Begone from my fireside so that you do not taint my family.”
Though he had expected this reaction, its reality stung Sandor to his core. “She is a good woman, Uncle.”
Gheorghe sliced the air with the flat of his hand. “Enough! Your words hurt my ears. Take what is yours and leave before my family returns. I do not wish my son to witness your shame. My sister would weep if she saw her son now. Your name will never be spoken again. You are dead to us.” He spat on the ground at Sandor’s feet, then slammed shut the top half of the double door.
Sandor hung his head. “The dice are cast,” he murmured to himself.
“And the cards told the truth,” said his grandmother behind him.
Sandor spun on his heel to see the tiny woman with her bright-colored striped shawl covering her snow-white hair. She sat on a low stool before her bender tent. “Do you also shun me, Towla? I am now unclean.”
She chuckled. “Come inside, my tarno shushi,” she said, calling Sandor by her pet name for him since his childhood. “We will drink some elderberry wine and talk before you go down your road. I have a tale that will interest you.”
Her kind words and loving smile nearly unmanned him, even if she had called him a little bunny rabbit in broad daylight. Sandor swallowed down the knot that had risen in his throat. He ducked under the bent hickory poles that supported the tent’s buckram skin. Inside, Towla settled herself on the tight-woven colorful blanket that covered the ground. Beside her lay a wineskin with two salt-ware cups on a wooden tray.
“Close the flap,” she instructed him, as she arranged her colorful red and yellow skirts around her. “I have been waiting a long time for you.”
Sandor released the leather thong that held back the front panel of the tent. In the semidarkness, Towla lit the candle in her lantern. Then she took out her velvet bag. Sandor immediately recognized his grandmother’s tarocchi pouch.
She tapped the wineskin. “Pour us some wine, Sandor, and we will talk.”
Sandor uncorked the skin and filled both cups. He offered one to his grandmother.
With a merry glint in her black eyes, she took it and toasted him. “Te xav to biav. May I dance at your wedding.”
Sipping his wine, Sandor gave her a rueful look. “I have already performed that ceremony, puridai.”
Towla nodded. “With the one you were sent to kill.”
Sandor almost choked. “Did your cards tell you that?” he asked, pointing to the worn deck that she shuffled as she spoke.
Towla turned up the Lovers card and laid it on the blanket between them. “Aye, though it did not take any special skill to see the truth of the matter. You went north to execute a gadji. Three weeks later, you return married to a gadji. ’Twas not much time to find two women in the north, methinks.”
She turned up the Hermit card and laid it across the Lovers. “Besides that, you went on a journey to find your inner self. Methinks you have done so.”
He nodded. “I have found great happiness with Tonia,” he confessed.
Towla cocked her head. “Pretty name. It has a nice feel on the tongue.”
Sandor thought of the other places that Tonia felt nice and his cheeks warmed.
His grandmother chuckled. “I see she pleases you. That pleases me.” She tapped the deck, then spread the cards faceup on the blanket. “Do you know where these tarocchi came from?”
Sandor pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. “I was told that they were given to you by a very rich man.” He shrugged. He had heard a story something like that when he was much younger. To him, it meant little. Grandmother and her cards were one and the same to him.
Towla took another sip of wine. “A rich man.” She chuckled. “Aye, he was the Duke of Milan once, a very long time ago.” Her expression grew soft as her mind slipped into the distant past. “I was barely sixteen and quite beautiful, they said.”
Sandor agreed. Even though the decades had incised wrinkles in her skin, and years of living outdoors had roughened her complexion, the fine bones of Towla’s face still held the hint of her great beauty.
“I had been married to your grandfat
her when I was fourteen and had already borne him a son. But my body was young and supple. I danced for the duke and his court. He liked my dancing. I saw much coin at my feet, so I danced into the night for him.”
“He was a kind man,” she continued. “Tall, like you, with very broad shoulders, also like you.”
Sandor felt an odd tickling sensation at the back of his neck. He put down his cup and leaned closer to catch every word of Towla’s story.
“His eyes were the deepest turquoise I had ever seen,” she mused with a smile. “And his hair was the color of honey. He was very handsome to look upon. And when I danced my last dance for him, he invited me to his inner apartments where we supped together.”
“And where was Grandfather?”
“He was also very young, and the thrill of wagering on the cards filled his head that night—that and a good deal of thick red wine. He thought I had returned to camp with the others.”
“But you stayed with the duke.”
Nodding, she resumed her tale. “I had never eaten such rich food. A pie of larks’ tongues, roasted venison in a wine sauce, plump olives and pastries made of nuts and honey.” She sighed at the remembrance. “I confess that my stomach was not used to such fine fare, and it gave me grief later, but ah! Such a feast!”
Sandor moistened his lips. “And then?” Did she, a married woman, actually bed with a gadjo?
Towla skimmed her fingers over the cards. “Then he opened his chest and took out these. Take one, Sandor.” She gave him the Fool card. “Even after all these years, they still feel magnificent.”
Sandor gingerly picked up the Fool and ran his finger along the still-gilt edge. Towla had never before allowed anyone touch her cards, saying that the good luck would rub off.
She smiled. “Real vellum and painted with rare inks made from powdered jewels, methinks. The colors have not faded over time.”
Sandor replaced the Fool with the others. “And so you told the duke’s fortune?”
“Aye, though not all of it.” Towla sighed. “I saw his death from the plague in the coming year, but I could not tell him that. Why make such a kind man sad? I told him only the good things in the cards. He would learn the bad in time.” Her voice trailed away.
Though he was itching to know what happened next, Sandor sipped his wine and said nothing. Good manners dictated his silence. His grandmother would resume her story when she was ready.
“Aye, Sandor, we spent the whole night together in his large gilded bed that was shaped like a swan. Most wondrous! In the early morning, he kissed me farewell and he gave me three things—a bag heavy with ducats and these cards that I have cherished since that night.”
Sandor held his breath. He sensed there was something more to come.
“The duke’s third gift was your mother.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sandor expelled his breath in a rush. “So my mother was half gadji?”
Old Towla nodded. “Your grandfather never even suspected that his favorite child was not his blood. I prayed when she was born that she would not inherit the duke’s eyes or light-colored hair.”
“Her hair was black as a raven, as I remember,” said Sandor, conjuring up a dim memory of his long-dead mother. “And I was the one who received the gadjo’s eyes.” Then he stared at his grandmother. “Puridai, I do not understand how you could betray your husband—even for a bag of gold.” The mere thought of Tonia lying in another man’s arms set his blood boiling.
Towla sighed again. “Your grandfather was not a cruel man—merely an absent one. Even when we made love, his mind was elsewhere—on his horses, on his gambling, on his schemes against the gadje. I was only the one who washed his clothes, made his bread and bore his children—nothing more. The duke was…so very tender to me. Kind. Loving, if only for a night.” She smiled to herself. “But that one night was enough for me.”
She returned her attention to the present. “I never told your mother that she was poshrat, a half-blood. I didn’t want her to feel ashamed or to be shunned by our family. She would have never gotten herself a good husband if anyone knew that she was part gadje.”
“Then my real grandfather was a duke?” Sandor whispered in awe.
Towla reached over her cards and patted his hand. “To the Rom, a gadjo is only a gadjo, no matter how noble he is, or how rich.”
For the next few minutes, they sat together, sharing the silence. With a sweet, sad smile on her lips, Towla relived her memories, while Sandor attempted to grasp all the implications of his grandmother’s startling revelation. No wonder he had always felt a little different from his cousins and friends! Somewhere deep in his soul was a yearning for permanence, a place to settle down. The eternal open road held no allure for him, though he would have died before admitting such a heresy to his family.
The more Sandor accepted his astonishing background, the more he understood himself. In sharing her great secret with him, his grandmother had soothed the sting of his banishment from the Rom. Now he knew for certain that his home and his destiny were where his heart lay—with Tonia in the north.
Towla gathered up her tarocchi and shuffled them again. Then she fanned the deck toward Sandor. “Choose three,” she commanded.
Sandor contemplated the cards—the beautiful cards that were his grandfather’s parting gift—knowing in his soul that this would be the last time that Towla would ever read his future.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “Would you tell me if I am to die of the plague?” he asked in a half-teasing manner.
Lifting one gray brow, she returned his smile. “May I die if I lie.”
Sandor pointed to three cards. Towla laid them facedown on the blanket. Sandor touched the design of three golden coins that graced the cards’ backs. Several words, written in red ink on an ivory scroll, wove among the coins.
Towla tapped the middle card. “’Tis the duke’s family motto. The words are Latin and I cannot read it, but he told me that they meant ‘Love conquers all.’ I have never forgotten that. I whisper those words over the cards each time before I shuffle them. It has always brought good luck.”
Sandor stared at the scroll, burning into his memory the letters inscribed on it. “’Tis my family’s motto now.”
“Si kovel ajaw,” said his grandmother. “This thing is so. You are the duke’s grandson.” She cocked her head. “Are you ready to see your fortune?”
His pulse quickening, Sandor nodded. Once again the first card was the Fool. Towla chuckled. The second card was again Death. Sandor grimaced but did not look away. The third was the Sun. His grandmother clapped her hands with satisfaction. “Good, good,” she muttered.
“Once again, you are Prosto, the Fool on the hill,” she told him. “You have taken the first step into the unknown, but you must go all the way to reach your journey’s end. Death does not frighten you so much this time?”
He gave her a long look. “I have stared death in the face. I am ready.”
“Good, for there will be yet another change and another beginning…ah!” She rocked with silent laughter.
Sandor knotted his brows. “What do you see?” There was nothing at all amusing in the skeleton’s face.
“’Tis a new birth!” she chortled. “Mayhap one with turquoise eyes.”
Sandor had no idea why this was so funny. Instead of explaining herself, Towla moved to the third card.
“The Sun shines his warm rays upon you, my Fool. You are promised prosperity, joy, a great celebration, contentment and liberation once you have passed through the final trial.”
“I will have all that and more when I am reunited with my Tonia,” he replied.
“Aye,” she agreed. She gathered all the cards except one and returned them to her pouch. Then she handed the Fool to Sandor. “Take this one for luck. ’Tis you.”
Surprised, Sandor protested, “But your tarocchi is incomplete without it.”
She shook her head. “Nay, tarno shushi, ’tis yours. You a
re the only Fool in this pack. ’Tis right that the card goes with you. Think of it as your legacy from your grandfather.” She touched the motto on the back. “Remember these words. They are yours now.”
In reply, he kissed the Latin inscription. “They are upon my lips and in my heart.” Then he carefully placed the card in the pouch that hung from his belt. “Thank you, my grandmother.”
She gave him a heartfelt smile. “The light wanes. ’Tis time to begin your most important journey.”
Sandor lifted the tent flap and was surprised to discover how late the day had advanced. He glanced toward his uncle’s wagon but the vardo’s door was still shut. “Give Gheorghe my thanks for taking me into his family, puridai. I am sorry to have caused him such shame.”
Towla lifted the lid from a small black kettle that hung over her slow-burning fire next to her tent. She stirred the contents. The delicious aroma of hedgehog stew filled Sandor’s nostrils.
“Hotchiwitchi,” he murmured, his mouth watering.
“Eat before you go,” she offered. “I made it especially for you. ’Twould be a shame to waste it.” She ladled out a large bowl full of the savory dish and handed it to him.
With several incoherent words of thanks and appreciation, he ate his favorite meal. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he could teach Tonia how to make this delicious concoction. While he ate, Towla slipped a few golden angels into his pouch. When Sandor protested, she crossed his lips with her finger and shook her head.
“’Tis a wedding present, to ‘give a push to the new wagon,’ as they say.”
When Sandor hugged his grandmother for the last time, his heart grew heavy within his chest. “I do not know if our paths will ever cross again, sukar puridai,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.
“In the spring in France, I will light a candle for you at Black Sara’s shrine. When you next go there, you will see it and know that I love you,” she said. Her black eyes misted.
“And I love you,” he replied with heartfelt tenderness.
“As you love another, who has more need of you now than I. Go, Sandor Matskella, son of Milan. My blessing accompanies you.” She handed him a wrapped packet of bread and cheese that she had prepared while he ate. Jal ‘sa Duvvel.”
The Dark Knight Page 20