“Dearest Katarina, you know how frightened she is of the Baron and his castle. If I hadn’t let her into our wagon, she would run along behind us, screaming all the way. You know we can’t risk upsetting our host and their neighbors.”
“Why do you tolerate her, Karel. Send her back home.”
“I will, dearest, as soon as I get the money.” He stroked his finger along her glowing cheek. “I promise.”
The wagon creaked and rumbled along the gravely trail eastward until it joined the Pokehollow Village Road. Karel turned the horse to the south, along the road toward the village of Lympwick. The journey was uneventful until they reached the bridge over the Whitwood Brook. The figure of a girl sat on the stone parapet of the bridge, smiling and waving at the gypsies. Her saddled horse grazed on the long grass next to the bridge.
“Why, she looks just like one of us,” Katarina said. “With that red kerchief wrapped around her head, and that white, billowy blouse and short skirt, she looks just like a gypsy. Who could she be?”
Karel slowed the horse, stopping by the bridge. His eyes drank in the vision of the beautiful girl, from the top of her golden hair, to the red, jeweled sandals on her tiny feet. “Hello, miss,” Karel said. “Who might you be, and why are you here?”
Stasio poked his head out the window of the wagon’s front door. He pursed his lips, trying to remember the girl’s face.
“Stasio,” she said, “don’t say you don’t remember me, you’d break my heart!”
“Addy” he exclaimed. “Addy Cailean!” He turned his head to Karel. “You remember, the young girl at Blackthorne house. She had the cook fix us a picnic basket and walked with us down the lane back to our wagons.”
“Oh, yes,” Karel replied with a smile. “How pleasant to meet you again. But why are you here, and dressed like one of us?”
“Because,” she said with a coy smile at Stasio, “tonight I will be one of you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple,” Addy continued, “Gregor, our guardian of our north forest, saw you leave with the wagon. He rode his horse at a gallop to tell my brother, Richard. I overheard their talk, changed into these clothes, and rode my horse like the wind to meet you here.” She laughed. “I guessed you were heading for Lympwick to entertain at the village tavern.”
Stasio laughed with her, and spoke to Karel. “She’s intelligent as well as beautiful, isn’t she, Karel? She must be freezing in this October chill. We can’t refuse her our hospitality.”
Karel looked at Katarina, then back to Stasio. “Well...”
“Hitch your horse’s reins to the back of the wagon, and climb inside,” Stasio said. “We would love to have you with us this evening.” He winked at Karel and pulled his head inside. He threaded his way to the back of the wagon, grinning at everyone’s puzzled stare, and opened the back door. “Just tie the reins to that hook,” he said to Addy, “that’s what it is for.” He reached out and took her hand, helping her up the steps.
Villagers stopped on the street and stared at the brightly-painted gypsy wagon moving down the street. Words and raised eyebrows followed the wagon as it creaked on its way to the village inn, and halted behind the building. The gypsies in their bright silk, flowing shirts and embroidered trousers and skirts paraded out the back door of the wagon. The men vaulted to the ground, the women more carefully skipped down the wooden steps.
Addy emerged wreathed in smiles, smoothing the red silk kerchief around her head, concealing her golden hair. “Stasio,” she whispered, “do you really think I can fool the villagers into believing I am one of you?”
“You almost fooled me, you little fox.” He flashed a wicked grin. “With that filmy translucent blouse, and that little skimpy embroidered black skirt you are wearing, no one will waste time looking at your face.”
The tavern was filled. All chairs were occupied, and more men were standing or leaning against the tobacco smoke tinged walls. Karel had sent his friend Zivon galloping to the village that morning to ask the innkeeper for permission for his people to sing, dance and tell tales from the mountains and forested valleys of their homeland.
A windstorm of gossip whistled through the town and surrounding farms. Every man who could ride, walk, or sit on a wagon had come. Some brought their sweethearts. Most came alone, gambling that the gypsy maidens would sell their fleshly favors cheap.
When the gypsies, including Addy, entered the back door, hurried through the storeroom, and then emerged into the public room, there was a thunder of clapping and whistles. The gypsy men, carrying their violins, concertinas, and guitars; and their women, with tambourines, cymbals, and flowing veils, bounded up the two steps onto the semi-circular stage. Hedy stood at the back, hunched down and scowling behind the others.
Karel nodded and the men began a swirling, stirring, foot-tapping skirl of Central-European music. Stasio stepped forward, his voice booming out a tale of passion of man and woman meeting, joining, and celebrating love under a tree beside a brook.
No one in the audience understood a word; he sung in Voldavian. But the gypsy women on each side of him twirled, beating time on their tambourines and cymbals, dancing a universal language of desire and lust. They grasped their skirts, lifting them just far enough to tease the men, but not shock the ladies. Addy was with them, pleasing Stasio with her total abandonment to the intoxicating rush of music.
The song ended. Shouts, whistles, and a shower of cheap coins flew toward the gypsies. Another round of beer was ordered all round, and then another song began. Karel handed his violin to Stasio and stepped forward beside him. The women stepped back and swayed slowly to the sad sobs of the solo violin.
Karel’s voice began, this time the song translated into English. Not rhyming, but singing of a lost love. There was a hush through the room as men and girls leaned forward, straining to catch every soft tone of Karel’s song.
“Her face was a vault of jewels.
Her eyes, green, were moist emeralds,
Borne in a lacework of ebony lashes.
Forehead and cheeks, ivory carved and smoothed.
Her nose the tiny slope of purest flesh,
But most precious of all, her lips.
To portray them as red is mere mockery,
Red? They were crimson, and more, truly,
Crimson as life’s blood, a vibrant heart.
Rose petals they were, dewy in dusk’s light.
Pursed for my kiss, eager to be plucked,
And plucked they were, our bodies rejoiced.
Then my heart wavered, hearing the call of another.
Allured by gold, I went away, seeking fortune,
Foolishly seeking comfort on mammon’s cold couch.
There are no embraces in a market’s shrill strife.
Buying and getting, selling and coin-counting,
Mouths braying with heads shaking and nodding.
I grew older and richer, savoring mortal success.
One night, counting gold coins stacked in towers.
My heart accused me, bringing forth charges.
Accused, my soul was tried in rose-garden court.
Trial by jury, my memory convicting,
Now locked in a prison of shame, I weep.
Too late! Too late, my love is another’s!
I abandoned a treasure to possess mere gold.
Alone with cold wealth, I shiver and mourn.
Listen and learn, when you hear cold coins clink.
Think not of gaining wealth others will envy,
Choose love instead, and rejoice in her warmth.”
Another outburst of applause, as those prudent men who brought their girls embraced them tightly. Before the clapping ceased, the men stepped forward and began another tune, the notes filled with delirious joy. The gypsy women again whirled around the stage, the filmy veils in their hands whirling in the air as they beat the tambourines in a frenzy.
After a few more songs there was an intermission.
The gypsies bowed and exited into the storeroom to rest and count the coins tossed at them. Hedy sat in a dark corner, still scowling.
“I’ll stay back here the rest of the evening,” she said with a sulky face, “until you are through making fools of yourselves.” She crossed her arms and stared through the window, scowling at the darkness outside.
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” Karel asked Addy.
“When I was away at the university,” she replied. “Oh, not on the campus!” She giggled at Stasio’s puzzled frown. “In town, at the taverns that cater to pimply schoolboys with perpetual erections. Poor things, their cocks sleep all day while their minds are harnessed in cruel labor to their books, or listening to the drone of a bored professor. Then, when the stars peep out of a lavender evening sky, poor, neglected mister cock-a-doodle wants to crow.”
“And you let them scratch in your thatch?”
“Oh, no! I waited until I came home for a real man to show me what love felt like.”
“And did you surrender your virginity then?”
Addy giggled and traced a finger lightly across the front of his trousers. “There’s only one way you can find out.”
The innkeeper pushed the door open with his shoulder and carried in a tray of wineglasses filled with rich Cabernet Sauvignon. “My best,” he said. “My thanks for filling my tavern. Never has my public house been so crowded, nor my cashbox so heavy. I’ll be wanting you back next weekend, too.”
Hedy hopped off her stool and elbowed her way to the tray, snatching up the fullest glass. Without a word of thanks she slouched back down on the stool and continued staring out the window as she gulped down the wine.
“How much have we got, so far?” Stasio asked, glancing into Katarina’s kerchief where Karel was dropping the coins as he counted them.
“Not enough, yet, but the best part of the evening is next.”
“When the ladies are gone home?”
Karel looked at his pocket watch. “They should be leaving now. As soon as we finish drinking our wine, we will return and begin the real entertainment.” All the male gypsies grinned. Hedy snorted and turned her face to the corner, away from them.
“Time to get ready, girls,” Stasio said. “Let’s be sure no one leaves with as much as a tuppence in their pocket.”
The female gypsies tittered and giggled as they hiked up their short skirts and slid down their panties, kicking them off into the corner where Hedy sat. They slipped the sandals off their bare feet and tossed them at the wall beside her.
“Stop that, you shameless whores!” she snarled. The women laughed at her, hiking up their skirts to their waistband and swaying their hips.
“Not you, Radinka,” Karel said. She was blushing, turning away from the others, struggling for the nerve to raise her skirt. “You are my youngest sister,” he continued, “You are only just eighteen this month. Mother made me promise to protect you when we left Voldavia. This kind of dancing is not for tender innocents like you.”
“Can’t I just open the door a crack, and watch?” she said.
Karel frowned momentarily, then smiled. “You always could get your way with your brothers and sisters back home. And now I see you will be a handful here in Scotland, too.” He exhaled a long sigh. “Very well, just be careful you aren’t seen by the audience.”
“I will, dearest uchitel.”
***
The waxy crescent moon had long since gone to sleep below the western horizon of the sea. Only the cold, remote stars were witness to the opening of the castle’s cellar door. Dagan stepped out, hunched low, gleaming eyes scanning the vineyard and forest beyond to the south. He turned, peering along the twisting narrow road winding eastward, towards the gypsy camp.
“It’s safe.” His hoarse whisper was aimed at the open door.
A shadowed bulk squeezed out the small opening, crouching on its thick legs. A tattered robe draped over huge, rounded shoulders. A deformity rose up in a rounded dome on its back. The face was wide and indistinct in the darkness, a shadow blacker than the darkest ink.
“Come, my friend!” Dagan tugged at the ragged sleeve. “I know where they are camped. It is time for you to satisfy that raging hunger between your legs.” He trotted onto the road and beckoned the thing to follow.
A low, rumbling voice of expectancy exhaled from the shuffling form.
A mile down Fleetfoot Road they came to a trail branching off to the south. “This way,” Dagan said, his teeth visible in the sallow starlight.
They hurried on faster now, their hearts pounding with anticipation, the brute’s ponderous cock straining upward against the fabric of his tattered breech-clout. A mile and a half further down the road Dagan pointed and glanced back at his friend. “There!” he hissed, his voice grating with exultation. “The gypsy wagons by the stream.”
With a gesture, Dagan slowed the hulk’s form to a walk. A finger over Dagan’s mouth cautioned for silence as they both crept forward, bent low and scanning for any human movement.
“Their fire is out, and no sentry,” he whispered, and allowed himself a quiet giggle. “We’ll grab the prettiest one and take her back to the castle. Then we will have such fun!”
The squat head of the striding form opened its mouth, its grin revealing an irregular row of wide, misaligned teeth.
They crept up behind the nearest wagon. With skill and cunning, Dagan slowly turned the door handle and opened the door a crack. No sound nor movement from inside. He pressed his face to the opening and peered inside.
No one!
Dagan crept to the next wagon and checked inside.
No one in here, either!
He hurried to the other wagons. “The camp is deserted. The gypsies aren’t here.”
The dark form reared up to its full height, towering over a wide-eyed Dagan. Its blaring, distraught howl echoed from the forest to their west.
“It’s not my fault,” Dagan said with his trembling hands outstretched. “I can find a girl for us, just give me another chance.”
The creature turned to the northeast, wide nostrils flaring, hunting for female scent. Suddenly it broke into a galloping lope across the moor, heading east, heading for the road leading to Pokehollow Village.
“Wait, come back,” Dagan shouted at the shadow disappearing in the darkness. “We must stay together. I must protect you!” Dagan ran until he sank into the heather; panting, gasping for breath, his heart hammering with fear and exhaustion. “My friend, my friend,” he wept, “they will kill you this time.”
***
When the gypsies pushed through the door back into the public room, the men with girlfriends had left, escorting them home. Most would return soon afterward to savor the sights their shy girls denied them. The men in the room had commandeered every available chair, shoving and jostling each other to place them as close to the stage as possible. Every male fist was fortified with a brimming mug of ale, every male eye glittering with expectation. The innkeeper grinned, stroking his iron cashbox while his bartender circulated among the men, holding the innkeeper’s cap, demanding they drop a large coin into it.
Stasio stepped forward on the stage. “Gentlemen; from the dawn of our species, men like you have desired women who are proud and unashamed of their bodies. Tonight, we shall deliver your most secret and passionate fantasies for your eyes to feast upon. How much our ladies will show you, and for how long, depends entirely upon the coins you shower upon them. He who tosses the most gold will see the most.”
Addy and Varina grinned at each other, winking in agreement to their secret bet as to which one would cause the most gold to be tossed at them. Their competition was about to produce a spectacle far more lascivious than any man dwelling in this small village could possibly imagine.
The gypsy men began playing their music. The violin voiced the soprano lure of a flirting young girl, the guitar was the lusting male courting. The concertina was Cupid, enticing the couple to mate.
The older gypsy women danced first, their bodies still strong and fully suited to satisfying the bobbing plea of an erect cock. Slapping the tambourine or snapping the cymbals on their fingers, they whirled at the edge of the stage. Lifting a leg slightly with a quick pirouette, they teased the eyes and noses in the front row with the briefest instant flash of a perfumed pussy pelt under their short, colorful skirts.
The music intensified; luring and alluring, a cadence and beat telegraphing commands to hammering male hearts, ‘Raise your cocks in salute to our women!’ There was a murmur and moan from the unfortunate men not in the front rows, “Show us! Show us!”
The gypsy dancers obeyed. Now the whirling slowed, but the legs lifted higher, forcing short skirts to rise and open as the young women rotated on the toes of one foot. A creamy vision of strong, vigorous thighs separated and exposing their fur-embellished Venus mesmerized the men.
When the women tired, the music slowed to a languid dream of fancy. They slowly unlaced their puffy peasant blouses, pushing them down off their shoulders and revealing to the audience their bared breasts. The female gypsies swayed their torsos and floated their arms in the air above their heads. Snowy white bared breasts exulted in their freedom, swaying and bobbing as the women’s ruby-painted toenails skipped about the stage.
Extravagant nipples, rouged and perfumed, were magnets for men’s eyes and lures for their cocks. In the audience, the male hand holding the mug of ale envied the free hand that unbuttoned the fly and burrowed inside.
The rain of coins began. At first it was only a slight drizzle, hardly enough to satisfy a sweeper’s broom poking into dusty corners. But as the women grew bolder, and more daring, the copper changed to silver. After an exhausting ten minutes of ‘flaunt the furry’, the music faded and the older dancers skipped down the steps and through the storeroom door to sit and rest in private. A rolling clamor of applause drowned out the ‘Thank you’s’ from the gypsy men as they doffed their caps and bowed.
Karel lifted his violin and nodded to Stasio and Zivon. The music began in a whisper as the younger gypsy girls glided forward to the edge of the stage. Every male held his breath, straining their eyes to not miss the slightest flicker of feminine charms. Mugs of beer, half-raised to gaping mouths, hung in the air, the motionless hands holding them forgotten by their masters.
Lust Lurks at Dark Lair Page 5