Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “What are you saying, Mother?”

  “You must be wed, Mateo.”

  Suddenly his mind returned to the sight of Charlotte Buckland riding his great black horse, her shining hair streaming in the wind. He could still taste her honeyed kisses and feel the warm silk of her breasts against his palms. A hot rush of blood pulsed through him. Yes, he must be wed, and he planned to.

  “Mateo, you aren’t listening to me,” the queen said, breaking into his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Mother. But your words set me thinking. It seems that as always our minds are traveling the same paths. I decided only this morning that it is time I was married. I’ve already asked her, in fact, and she has accepted my proposal.”

  Queen Zolande frowned. This was not possible. Phaedra had left her only moments before she’d summoned Mateo. Or had Phaedra taken the matter into her own manipulating hands, as she so often did—not waiting even for the queen to have her say?

  “Perhaps it is just as well,” Zolande said as much to herself as to Mateo. “If you have spoken to her already, then you must be reconciled to this match.”

  “Reconciled?” Mateo jumped to his feet and gave a great laugh. “My dear mother, I am ecstatic! Grown men aren’t supposed to feel this way. Why, I’m like a boy again! Every minute will drag by until she’s my wife.” He quieted and said, “I love her more than I can tell you, Mother.”

  Queen Zolande only shook her head. How could any man love a woman like Phaedra? But then love was often blind, or so she’d heard.

  “Well, Mateo, I must say I’m relieved.” She stood and embraced him. “Every mother wants happiness for her son. But I never dreamed that you cared so much for Phaedra.”

  Mateo pulled away from his mother’s arms and stared at her, his face clouding suddenly. “Phaedra? No! It’s Charlotte Buckland I plan to marry.”

  The old queen’s heart sank at his words. She knew it had been too easy.

  “No, Prince Mateo,” she said firmly, “you will not marry a gajol”

  For several moments, as Queen Zolande’s words hung in the still air, a clash of wills took place. In silence, two pairs of glittering black eyes locked in challenge. The old ways battled the new.

  Mateo broke the silence. “Then I will not marry at all!” His words, though spoken quietly, transmitted a harsh finality.

  Queen Zolande took a deep breath that hurt her weak chest. She drew herself up, ready to use her last ounce of strength and authority to defend her much loved son from his own foolishness.

  “You are not just another Rom. You will be king, Mateo! You must marry, but you may not marry out of the familia. There has never been any question of this, nor will there ever be. As you bear Valencia’s cnrse, so must you bear this honor and this obligation. And even if all that were not so, Petronovich has first claim on the gajo woman.”

  “He does not! I have questioned him closely on what happened that night. He did set out intent upon having her. But she fought him off quite effectively. I believe him when he says he did not lie with her.”

  “Then you are a fool, Mateo!”

  The words stung. Never had his mother spoken to him so sharply. He could see the pain in her eyes even as she accused him. His feelings and his voice softened.

  “Mother, Charlotte herself told me that it was all a terrible mistake—that he didn’t take her. Perhaps Petronovich would lie to me, but not the woman I love.”

  Queen Zolande held one hand pressed to her heart. The pain was bad now. Her words came out breathlessly. “Think about it, Mateo. If she truly loves you, would she hurt you by telling you this particular truth? What man wants to know that the woman he loves has been with another? She would lie to spare you the pain of knowing. No! We can believe neither of them. Only the next man to take her to his bed will ever know for sure.”

  “Then I will—”

  “You will not!” The queen’s voice rose to a dangerous pitch. “Mateo, the moon is not full now, but you are acting out of madness all the same. So you test this woman and find her a virgin still, what then? Would you leave her soiled and at the mercy of some future lover when he finds he is not the first? You cannot marry her! She is not a Gypsy! You will marry Princess Phaedra!” Zolande slumped to her throne chair. “That is my final word. Go now. Leave me to rest.”

  Mateo stumbled from the tent, his mind in an angry blaze. This couldn’t be happening! Phaedra as his wife? He couldn’t begin to imagine it. He’d known all his life of the birth contract. But contracts, he also knew, could be broken. Phaedra cared nothing for him or for anyone other than herself. And the thought that his mother was questioning Charlotte Buckland’s virginity while proposing he marry Phaedra was laughable. Phaedra dropped to the wolf skins as often as leaves fell from the trees.

  Granted, it was not unthinkable for a Gypsy woman to lie with more than one man, even if she was married, but only for money, never for pleasure. Women served the familia in any way they could. When bad times came, the married ones would go to the towns and seek out strangers. But only for needed gold! No respectable Gypsy would ever give her body to appease her own carnal appetites as Phaedra did.

  “No! On the holy breast of Sara-la-Kali I will not marry her!”

  Mateo stormed back into the queen’s tent. Again he was like a blind man, but he could see that his mother no longer sat in her chair. A faint rasping filled the tent, drawing his attention.

  “Mother!” He hurried to where she lay sprawled on her bed of skins, struggling for breath.

  “Mateo,” she gasped, “go for Tamara. She will help me.”

  All the words he had meant to say dissolved, leaving only a bitter taste in his mouth and a deep ache in his heart. He could not go against his mother now. It would kill her as surely as if he were to plunge his dagger into her heart. He bent and kissed her fevered brow, then went to find Tamara.

  The bells on the door of the brides’ tent tinkled gaily. Charlotte, bathed and dressed in a bright yellow skirt and white drawstring blouse, hurried to answer, sure that Mateo had come for her. She still felt as if she were floating about on some gilt-lined cloud. She had ached to confide her secret to Tamara, but the girl’s somber demeanor had warned her away. It was better this way, after all. If the others found out, they might try to dissuade Mateo from marrying her.

  She’d refused to let the nagging worry she’d felt when Mateo was called to the queen’s tent stay with her. There should be no happier time in a woman’s life than the day she decides to marry. And Charlotte Buckland was bound and determined to enjoy the full measure of that happiness.

  She hurried toward the door, but Tamara intercepted her.

  “I will answer it, Charlotte.”

  “But I know it’s Mateo.”

  “That may be, but how do you know his business is with you?”

  Tamara’s usually sweet voice sounded strange, almost harsh, to Charlotte’s ears. She hung back, allowing the Gypsy girl to answer the call of the bells. It was Mateo, but he never mentioned Charlotte’s name or even glanced inside to see if she was there. Her heart ached as Tamara hurried back in to fetch the dried herbs she needed to tend the queen.

  “Tamara, doesn’t Mateo want to see me?”

  The fortune-teller, her face solemn, swept past Charlotte. “There’s no time. The queen is ill. Mateo and I must go to her.”

  “But when will you be back?”

  “I have no idea. Please, I can’t answer questions now.”

  Then they were gone, leaving Charlotte alone, her lovely plans for an afternoon with her future husband crushed. Still, she took heart. She knew how it was between mothers and sons. Hadn’t Granny Fate doted on Charlotte’s own father, her only son? It was the same with Mateo and Queen Zolande. Even after they were married, Charlotte promised herself, she would never try to come between him and the queen. And she certainly had no right to now. She would wait for Mateo, until he had cared for his mother.


  Charlotte sat alone in the tent, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen as they inched across the carpets. Soon the golden sunshine was tinged with the orange and lavender of sunset and still Mateo had not returned. She was restless, bored, and feeling somewhat sorry for herself.

  “This won’t do!” Resolutely, Charlotte grabbed a basket and headed for the door. She would go to the forest—the vesh, as Tamara called it—and pick wildflowers for Queen Zolande. There was little else she could do. But flowers always made a sick person feel better, she reasoned. Besides, Mateo would appreciate her thoughtful gesture.

  Glancing toward the center of the camp as she came out, she saw that a large group was gathered outside Queen Zolande’s tent. They talked in hushed voices, milling slowly about. Mateo and Tamara were not among those holding the vigil. As much as she wanted to go to the others and ask about Mateo’s mother, she couldn’t. She was still “the gajo woman,” still the outsider. And although the Gypsies never treated her unkindly, they made it clear that she did not belong among them. They looked through her when she passed, as if she were as invisible as the wind. No, they would not welcome her intrusion now. She hurried away.

  Twilight was already creeping into the woods when she arrived at the stream. Birds sang far up in the trees in hushed, sleepy tones. The day’s heat had been preserved in the earth and warmed her bare feet, but the breeze felt chilly about her shoulders. Evening was slipping its cool, blue velvet mantle over the forest.

  Searching the banks for flowers, Charlotte followed an animal path beside the stream. She found a few buttercups and a patch of Queen Anne’s lace. Farther ahead, she saw the bright scarlet of a bed of wild poppies. She would have a lovely, colorful bouquet for Mateo’s mother. She dropped to her knees, spreading her skirt to catch the poppies as she picked them. Suddenly, something drew her attention—some faint sound.

  Charlotte stopped her gathering and listened. The sound was water splashing just up ahead. She strained her eyes but could see nothing for the trees and the encroaching gloom. Rising, she started toward the sounds. By the time she saw who it was, it was too late to retreat. Phaedra, her naked body gleaming wet, sat on the bank, her face upturned to one last beam of sunlight. Her eyes were closed and she seemed lost in some pleasant world all her own.

  Although she wanted to turn and flee, Charlotte found herself rooted to the spot. Like one of these weeds I’ve picked for the queen, she thought dismally. She was dreadfully embarrassed to have come upon the other woman at such a private moment. But the sight of Phaedra’s voluptuous body—her large-nippled breasts, rounded thighs, and tiny waist—was both entrancing and intimidating. Charlotte couldn’t help but compare Phaedra’s beauty to her own. She thought again of the things Phaedra had said about making love. Surely this woman was right: Mateo must find Charlotte’s charm a pale imitation next to Phaedra’s Gypsy sensuality.

  Just as Charlotte started to turn, Phaedra spotted her and said, “Well, if it isn’t the little gajo spying on me! Aren’t you afraid to be out this late in the woods all alone? For all you know, some lust-crazed Rom could be lurking behind any tree, just waiting to jump out and rape you!”

  Charlotte felt utterly flustered. “I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she stammered.

  Phaedra drew one long leg up, rested her chin on it in a decidedly wanton pose, and laughed. “You’ve never disturbed me! And I doubt you ever will. You won’t be here that much longer.”

  Charlotte brightened. “Oh, then Mateo told you?”

  “Told me what?” Phaedra sat up and stretched, thrusting her full breasts forward. She yawned to indicate that she found both the blonde gajo and her conversation boring.

  “Mateo has asked me to marry him.” Charlotte hadn’t meant to say it, but her old rebellious nature surfaced to force the secret out.

  Phaedra was on her feet in an instant, bored no longer. “He what?”

  “He says we’ll go away together… just the two of us, as man and wife.”

  In spite of the pleasure she had taken in telling Phaedra her news, Charlotte was instantly sorry. The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits, her long-nailed fingers drew back into talons, and her breasts heaved with rage. The fact that she was naked—and obviously unashamed to be—further added to the bestial quality of her anger. For some time, she stood before Charlotte, seemingly unable to find her voice over the deep growl in her throat. She looked like a dangerous, wild creature with her wet hair tossed about her bare shoulders and her lips curled in a threatening sneer.

  Charlotte was frightened. She wanted to turn and run, but she refused to give ground to this woman. Then suddenly Phaedra began to laugh. The unpleasant sound echoed through the quiet forest, startling the birds into silence, unnerving Charlotte further.

  “My Mateo, marry you?” Phaedra choked out through her laughter. Then her ugly mirth vanished. “You’re as mad as he is! No, you’re not mad. You’re just stupid! I told you what Mateo wants from his woman. I can see you now, all pale and cringing, begging him to be gentle on your wedding night.”

  “I really don’t see that my wedding night is any of your concern!” Charlotte snapped.

  “No, I doubt that it will be, since my Mateo will certainly not be a part of it! You see, he’s going to marry me!”

  Charlotte couldn’t believe her ears, but she wasn’t about to let her would-be rival have the last word. “Mateo does not love you!”

  Phaedra offered Charlotte a bemused smirk. “I never said he loved me, only that he will marry me.”

  “Of all the…” Charlotte was too outraged to go on. She whirled away, wanting to break into a run but forcing herself to act with a certain amount of decorum.

  “I suppose you imagine that he loves you?” Phaedra called after her.

  “He does!”

  Phaedra laughed again. “Poor little gajo!” she crooned. “Mateo is a man who takes what he wants. If he loved you, if he even desired you, he would have ordered you to his bed already. Has he?”

  “No! Of course not!”

  “Then he doesn’t love you,” Phaedra said with finality.

  Charlotte was so angry now that she couldn’t even think of a reply. She turned and started to run back to the village.

  “Hey, you!” Phaedra called. “Where do you think you’re going? I’m not finished with you yet!” She caught up with Charlotte and, taking her by the arm, whirled her around. “No one turns her back on Princess Phaedra. Especially not now that I am about to become the queen. Do you hear?”

  “Take your hands off me!” Charlotte yelled, struggling against the other woman.

  “First, you promise me that you will go away.”

  “I will not! I’ll stay here as long as Mateo wants me!”

  “He does not want you! You are no Gypsy! What would he do with you? Settle down and live in a white man’s house? Ha! You are crazy if you think my Mateo could live that way. He must be free like the wind.”

  Charlotte was battling now to retain her reason and her trust in Mateo. She pushed Phaedra away from her and quickly grabbed up her basket of flowers.

  “I refuse to stand here and argue with a… with a naked woman!”

  Charlotte didn’t hear what Phaedra shouted after her. Her heart was pounding with her feet. She had to be away from that woman. She had to find Mateo. Surely he would reassure her of his love. He wouldn’t lie to her. And he wouldn’t marry Phaedra. He detested her.

  Still, the other woman’s words echoed in her mind: “You are no Gypsy!”

  There was a change in the camp when Charlotte returned. The cluster of people had left the front of Queen Zolande’s tent. The women were at their fires, the men at their pipes and mugs. Nicolai, the blind guitarist, strolled among them, strumming his wires softly. His tune, though typically Gypsy-sad, was not a song of mourning, Charlotte knew. She walked to the queen’s tent to leave her basket of flowers. Perhaps, if she was quick about it, no one would n
otice her.

  But just as she stooped down to deposit her bouquet, the tent flap flew open. Startled, she looked up into the dark contours of Mateo’s troubled face.

  “The queen wishes to speak with you.” His statement came in the cold, stern form of a command.

  “Mateo?” Charlotte said, but he was gone.

  She stood there uncertainly. Should she call through the flap for permission to enter or just go in unannounced? Did Mateo mean that the queen wanted to see her this very minute or at some time in the future? Tamara solved her dilemma.

  “Please come in now, Charlotte. Queen Zolande is feeling much better, but she swears she won’t rest until she’s spoken to you.”

  “About what, Tamara?”

  The Gypsy girl shook her head. “That is for her to say and you alone to hear, my friend.”

  When Charlotte entered, both Tamara and Mateo left. It wounded her deeply that Mateo didn’t speak to her and even seemed to be avoiding her. She needed reassurance now more than ever before. And she would have it. But First she must face the queen.

  “Come closer, Charlotte Buckland,” rasped the ailing woman. “These old eyes are not as keen as they once were. Turn up the wick in the lamp. I want to see the beauty of this face which my son holds so dear.”

  At that moment, Charlotte had the sudden urge to hug the frail old lady, who lay on her bed of skins looking as fragile as a china doll. So Mateo had spoken to his mother. This explained everything—even Mateo’s coolness toward her just now. He wanted his mother’s approval, and Zolande had probably not yet given him a hint as to what her answer would be. Charlotte turned up the lamp as ordered and went to stand near the queen.

  “I promise to make your son happy,” Charlotte said hesitantly. “I love Mateo very much, Queen Zolande.”

  Mateo’s mother waved a thin hand in the air, dismissing Charlotte’s words.

  “Who taught you manners, girl? Don’t you know not to speak until spoken to in the presence of the queen?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, blushing from head to toe.