“As for this great and powerful love you profess for my son, what does one of your youth know of real love, child?” She raised her hand once more to show this was a rhetorical question. “Your world is so different from ours. The people are different; the rules are different. You will love a dozen times before you marry. But for a Gypsy love comes only once. And without the honor and respect of his fellow Roms, a man can know no love worth having. Love and marriage are for the benefit of the familia—first, last, and always.”
The queen stopped for breath and Charlotte seized the opportunity to speak. She knew where Mateo’s mother was headed. She did not want to hear it.
“Don’t you think I know something of respect and family honor? I’m not some heathen out to ensnare your son. Please, I want only to make him happy, to love him, to bear his sons.”
“Ah, there! That is just my point. Would you have the great Prince Mateo sire sons with pale hair and skin, sons with the thin blood of the gajo? It cannot be! He is prince of his people. If you wish to marry into our clan, I will see that Petronovich—”
“No! Never! I don’t love Petronovich. I am Mateo’s woman!” Charlotte cringed at her own words. Only a short time ago, she had sworn that she belonged to no one. Already, through her love of a Gypsy, she had fallen into their way of thinking and speaking.
“Phaedra is Mateo’s woman.”
The queen’s voice was quiet, but her words hit Charlotte with the force of the bullets that had felled her father on the field of battle. She felt pain twist through her heart.
She tried not to remember how lovely Phaedra was. The Gypsy woman’s curvaceous bronze body, Charlotte was sure, was what men’s dreams were made of. Mateo might never love Phaedra, but if forced to marry her, he would take great pleasure in bedding her. The thought was almost too much for Charlotte to bear. She would fight for him!
“Mateo told me we would go away. He knew that our marriage would never be accepted.”
“Poor child,” the queen said, sighing. “My son is a man in years, but a boy in his heart. He knew that was not possible. He should never have made such wild promises. His life is here. His destiny is to be king of the Gypsies. There is no place for you in his life or his destiny. I am truly sorry, Charlotte Buckland.”
Queen Zolande’s eyes closed, signaling that the interview was at an end. But the matter was far from settled for the lovely, golden-haired woman who stood beside the bed watching the old queen’s breathing grow even in sleep.
Tears gathered in Charlotte’s dark eyes, but she refused to let them flow. She had fought to be free of one marriage. She would fight all the harder to have this one. No Queen Zolande, no Princess Phaedra, no moon madness or Gypsy curse would take Mateo from her.
“Life is life,” she had heard the Gypsies say time and again. “Sing, dance! Who knows what will happen tomorrow?”
“Who knows, indeed?” Charlotte whispered, and a smile curved her lips.
Chapter 10
A strange pall hung over the Gypsy camp in the coming weeks. Queen Zolande lay abed in her tent, struggling against the Dark Angel. Life for all slowed and became more solemn. The violins, when they played around the fires in the evenings, wept their songs of love and death and partings. No one married, no one danced, few made love. It was as if the world had stopped in its orbit, awaiting some final decision from on high as to the old queen’s fate.
Only one activity remained unaltered. Practice continued daily, with Mateo—careful now to keep Charlotte at arm’s length—instructing her in the graceful art of bareback acrobatics.
They no longer talked of love or marriage. Their sole purpose lay in perfecting Charlotte’s act so that she would be ready for a special performance a few weeks off. She would put in minor appearances in the ring before then, to get the feel of riding in costume and before an audience, but her big moment would come when the circus went to Fort Leavenworth to entertain the cavalry and their families.
“We have only a short time left, but you are coming along wonderfully, Charlotte.” She basked in Mateo’s praise, but she would have preferred his kisses. “Has Tamara finished your costume yet?” he asked.
“The scarlet and gold? Yes.” Charlotte was glad the sun was hot this morning and grateful the workout had been strenuous. The heat and exercise disguised the blush that crept into her cheeks just thinking about the tights and scanty bodice and skirt he spoke of. “Mateo, don’t you think it’s a bit daring to wear in public?”
“Not for a Gypsy.”
“But I’m not—”
“I know that, but our audiences will not. They expect a certain display of the bizarre from us. We must not disappoint our paying public. Now let me see your handstand once more and then your dismount.”
While they’d talked, Charlotte had been astride Velacore, riding around the ring. Now she leaned forward, resting her head on the horse’s neck and bringing her legs up gracefully, toes pointed, until she was reclining on Velacore’s broad back as she might on a couch in a parlor.
“Slowly, now,” Mateo directed. “You must make it look as if the motion is totally effortless.”
That was easy enough for him to say, but she would try. After posing for a moment in her reclining position, she sat up, both legs dangling over Velacore’s right side. He continued his steady canter. Charlotte spread her arms wide and smiled. Mateo had taught her to play to the audience.
“Lovely!” He applauded. “Now the final move. Take it slowly.”
This was the tricky part—the dangerous part. One slip and Charlotte could easily break her neck or fall beneath the horse’s hooves and be trampled. She took a deep, steadying breath before beginning the maneuver. Kneeling carefully, she placed the flat of her palms at the very center of Velacore’s backbone. Then slowly… gracefully… ever so carefully, she raised her body and then her legs until they were fully extended, again with her toes at a perfect point.
Mateo clapped loudly. “Bravo! It is perfect! Now down… easy, easy, don’t let your weight shift. That’s it. Beautiful!”
Just as Charlotte was almost back to her normal position and safety, Phaedra came running toward them. Velacore shied at the unexpected movement, destroying the tenuous unity between horse and rider. Charlotte felt herself slipping and cried out.
Mateo was there in an instant to catch her in his arms. She clung to him, shuddering at the thought of what might have happened had he not reacted so quickly. She felt his eyes on her and looked up. What she saw in his face triggered a familiar quiver deep inside her. The mask he had worn for so many days melted away. Here was the Mateo she loved… the Mateo who loved and desired her in return.
“Sunaki bal,” he whispered, and his lips parted, readying themselves for a kiss.
“Mateo darling,” Phaedra broke in.
Still holding Charlotte, Mateo turned on her. “Damn you, don’t ever do that again! You know I don’t allow anyone at the practice ring. You could have caused a tragic accident!”
Phaedra only smiled and tossed her long, unbraided hair back over her bare shoulders. “You don’t seem to be suffering from my actions, Mateo. And certainly your little gajo helper is enjoying it immensely. Look at her, all trembly and blushing. She’s exactly where she’s been scheming to be all along—in the arms of my man!” Phaedra’s smile narrowed to a threatening grimace.
Mateo set Charlotte on her feet at once and moved away from her. So it had been between them since Queen Zolande took ill. He seemed to believe that if he so much as touched Charlotte, he could in some way harm his mother—perhaps even bring about her death. His attitude pained Charlotte, but she did not give up hope. Whatever feelings they had experienced they still shared. And as Phaedra clutched at him possessively, Mateo’s distaste for her grew more evident every day.
“Why have you come?” Mateo snapped at her.
“Since I’m going to be your wife, I feel we should share everything—not just a bed
.” The last part of her statement was aimed directly at Charlotte. “Your precious beasts will simply have to get used to me. I may even decide to return to the act.”
“Never,” Mateo muttered under his breath.
“I see you’re finished here,” she continued, “and you promised to take me to the market today. I’m ready to go.”
“I said I would drive you in only if my mother is better. She had a very bad night. How is she feeling now?”
Phaedra scowled at him and shrugged. “How should I know?”
“You mean you didn’t even bother to look in on her this morning, as I asked?”
“You didn’t ask; you commanded. I don’t take orders, Mateo! The sooner you learn that about me, the better off you’ll be.”
Mateo, his face flushed with anger, drew back his hand as if to strike her.
Phaedra only laughed. “Hit me! Go ahead,” she taunted. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” She turned to Charlotte. “Did you know that this great Rom you so desire is a woman beater? Yes! He may be gentle with his horses, but he takes his vicious temper out on his women.” She looked back at Mateo, her full lips twisting in a cruel smile. “Can you deny it?”
A nerve twitched under Mateo’s eyes, but he held his peace. Finally, he turned away from both women and went to tend his horses. Would Phaedra never let him forget that one time in the ring when his perfect control had faltered… when his hand had slipped? The very memory of it pained him.
Phaedra had been inept at best with the horses. During one performance, she’d dashed between the Black Devil and Velacore, terrifying the pair and throwing all his grai into a panic. Velacore had stumbled, and Mateo, in a nightmare flash, had imagined the great stallion’s leg broken. Flailing the air with his whip—out of fear, rage, frustration—he’d tried to restore order in the ranks. The tip of the slashing whip had caught Phaedra’s back, tearing her costume and drawing a thin line of blood. She wore a scar to this day and claimed that Mateo’s aim had been true. Perhaps she was right. He’d certainly felt like taking a whip to her… more than once! If ever a woman deserved it…
Phaedra whined on to Charlotte, accusing Mateo of one injustice after another. The woman’s voice and her complaints reminded Charlotte of her own mother. How often she had heard Jemima Buckland complain of the hardships of life, even before the war when times were good. And always the object of her mother’s scorn had been Charlotte’s father. There was no justice in life when a man must be saddled with such a wife.
For the first time in a long while, Charlotte Buckland thought of her home, her mother, and Granny Fate. What had become of the two women and Fairview? She longed to know, but her old life now seemed like something she’d only imagined—a dim shadow in the back of her mind.
Ignoring the irritating drone of Phaedra’s voice, she glanced toward Mateo. Here was her reality—this sad, sweet man. He could be angered to the point of violence by a woman’s foolishness, but his dark features took on an angelic glow when he was alone with his horses, tending them with gentle hands and speaking with them in secret whispers. She ached to tell him that she understood, but she knew that would not be wise. Even if she had sole claim on him, he would never accept words of sympathy from her. It was not in Rom Mateo to show weakness; therefore his woman should not see any in him. Such was the Gypsy way, she had learned.
“Charlotte,” Mateo called suddenly, “I’m going to see about my mother now. We’re finished for the day. Tomorrow we will not practice. But on the following day, wear your new costume.”
He strode off toward the camp without a word to Phaedra.
“Poor darling!” Phaedra called after him in a mocking tone. “Tonight you must keep your rendezvous with the moon, eh? I will pray to Sara-la-Kali for you, if I happen to think of it.”
Charlotte felt a chill race through her. She had forgotten that this would be the night of the full moon. On the last such night, she had come to this place. But by the time Petronovich had stolen her away, Mateo had recovered enough to rescue her. She had no idea what exactly happened to him when the moon was full. He had called it “madness,” but beyond his own vague explanation, she knew nothing.
“Will it be bad for him tonight?” she asked of Phaedra.
The other woman laughed. “Mateo is a great actor. And as good a liar as any one among us. In my opinion, he and his dear mother concocted this whole tale of moon madness to keep the others under their control. You’ll see tonight the way they cower in their tents, almost afraid to breathe.” Phaedra fingered the purple scarf tied about her neck and added, “But I have my own plans, and I don’t intend to let Mateo’s act interfere with them.”
The full moon rose that evening, blood-red in the death-black sky, from behind the skeletal line of trees to the east. Charlotte sat alone in the brides’ tent. Tamara would stay with Queen Zolande to see her through this fearful night. It seemed hard to believe that the same moon that Charlotte and her father had wished upon so happily together could bring such terror into the Gypsy camp.
But it was as Phaedra had predicted. Supper fires were kindled early so that the last man, woman, child, and dog would be finished eating before dark. Now only embers glowed outside. Not a soul was in view. And only the lonesome west wind howled its mournful song in the night. Violins and guitars lay abandoned, their owners too terrified to sing in the face of such evil and suffering.
Somewhere near the tent an owl hooted. Charlotte shivered and pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders. For the first time since she’d left Kentucky, she felt totally alone. The emptiness and silence were not pleasant companions. She gazed out across the encampment toward Mateo’s tent. The flap was secured and no light gleamed from within. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he must be going through… but it was no use. Sighing, she shook her head and stared down at her hands, feeling as if they were tied and useless.
The full moon sailed higher, turning from red to orange to tarnished gold. But still the night was dark as heavy black clouds scudded low across the sky. Thunder rumbled far off in the distance. The wind shifted and rose, whipping the tops of the trees until they looked as if they were whirling in a devil dance. A jagged streak of lightning ripped asunder the black garment of night. Thunder shook the earth, followed a moment later by a scream of agony.
“Mateo!” Charlotte cried.
She didn’t think about what she was doing. She only knew that she must go to him… that he needed her. Hurrying out of the tent, she was met by great sheets of driving rain. The wind tore at her clothes, whipping her shawl away and making a blindfold of her storm-tossed hair. But she would not be held back.
“Mateo!” she cried again. ““I’m coming, Mateo!”
As she neared his tent, she saw that the wind was beating at the canvas. Then she realized the motion was coming from within. It looked as if some wild animal were trapped inside, trying desperately to fight its way out.
She knelt and called through the flap, “It’s Charlotte, Mateo. I’ve come to help you.”
Only an unearthly snarl answered her. She drew back, afraid for a moment. Then her courage and determination returned.
“Untie the flap, Mateo. I’m coming in.”
The thrashing inside ceased, and, for a while she heard nothing. Again terror touched her, this time because she feared Mateo might be dead. Then the groaning began anew—a terrible, heart-wrenching sound of one in pain. But Charlotte rejoiced. He was still alive!
Quickly she reached under the flap and untied the laces. Minutes later she was inside, her eyes aching in the darkness.
“Mateo?” she whispered.
She could hear his labored breathing and judged that he was only a few feet away—off to her left. On hands and knees she crept toward him. The tent was not large; it contained only a pallet of skins, a chest, a brazier. And a chair. She bumped it, hurting her shoulder. She must have light. How could she help Mateo if she was blind?
Slowly she rose to her feet, feeling for the ridgepole and the lamp she knew she would find there. Before fumbling for the matches in her pocket, which she had wrapped in oilskin to keep dry, she turned the wick down low. When she struck the match, Mateo screamed and shied away.
She looked at him, and her heart sank. There, tangled in wolf skins, lay a panting, wild-eyed stranger. The gentle lines of his face were contorted as if in rage or pain. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary. Deep scratches on his throat and chest oozed fresh blood, evidence that he had injured himself in his anguish. His beautiful dark hair was tangled and matted as if he were some wild mustang whose mane had never known a currycomb. Clenched between his teeth was a twist of rawhide, and leather thongs secured to a heavy wooden pole bound his wrists. As another spasm racked his body, he strained in these restraints until the leather grew dark with his sweat and blood.
Recovering from her shock, Charlotte drew closer and whispered, “Mateo, I’ve come to help you.”
He looked at her, but his eyes remained unfocused. Spitting out the rawhide, he gasped, “Go away! Get out of here!”
Another scream escaped him. The moon was turning from gold to silver. Charlotte composed herself as best she could and bent down to retrieve the badly chewed rawhide. Carefully she slid it back between his teeth. It muffled his next cry of pain.
She looked about and spied a pitcher. Pouring spring water into a basin, she knelt beside Mateo and began to bathe his face, neck, and heaving chest.
“I’m going to untie your wrists, Mateo.”
She reached carefully for the leather thongs, wondering if she was doing the right thing. A moment later, she found out. His freed right hand lashed out as if of its own volition, striking her across the breasts. A sharp pain shot through her and she gasped.
Mateo, meanwhile, had spat out the rawhide once more. His face contorted painfully as he tried to form words. At last they came. “Go, Charlotte… before… before…”
Gypsy Moon Page 13