Far from disturbing her, the thought that her granddaughter had been kidnapped by Mateo’s people seemed the most romantic escapade she could imagine. And Charlotte was “being taken care of by a Gypsy prince, at that! It was thrilling.
“Well, what are you standing around mooning about, ’Mima? Let’s finish packing these bags!” Granny Fate said, interrupting her daughter-in-law’s daydreaming.
The two women launched themselves into a flurry of activity.
Queen Zolande, alone in her tent, fretted over Charlotte’s condition. If the woman didn’t recover, the curse would continue.
“She can’t die! She has no reason to. Mateo loves her and needs her.” Zolande glared up at an ancient portrait of Sara-la-Kali hanging over her bed and shook a fist at the lovely saint. The queen had given up praying and was now threatening. “I won’t have it, do you hear? She will stay alive to marry my son!”
The old queen slumped in her chair. She shouldn’t let herself get so upset. If she made herself ill, poor Tamara would have two patients to deal with, and she needed all her energy to save Charlotte Buckland.
To distract herself from her worries, Zolande recounted the tale of Valencia’s curse in her mind. The Gypsies prided themselves on their verbal accounts. No incident in their history was ever lost, although no written records existed. Tales were told and told again—a thousand times over around the campfires.
The queen thought of Xendar’s disgrace and Valencia’s fury. Mateo, through his father, was descended directly from the child of the forbidden union. But where did Charlotte Buckland fit into the scheme of things? The girl obviously had no idea she was of Gypsy ancestry. The old queen shook her head. The more she worried over the question, the more muddled the problem became in her mind. She would simply have to trust in Fate.
“And in love,” she added aloud.
“Excuse me, my queen,” Tamara’s voice broke in. “I called from outside, but you seemed to be napping.”
Zolande motioned for the woman to come in. “Not napping, only lost in thought. What is it, my dear?”
Tamara’s face showed the strain of her constant vigil at Charlotte’s bedside. She said, “I don’t know what to do, Queen Zolande. Her illness is beyond my comprehension. I have tried everything, but nothing helps her. If she should die…”
“Silence! Do not even think such a thought. She must live! She will live for Mateo’s sake. Now that he may have found his golden Gypsy, she cannot slip away. It would be the end of us all.”
“Mateo has returned from Fort Leavenworth.”
The queen’s eyes widened. “They did not arrest him?”
“No. He is free and unharmed. They even returned his stallions. He says their yellow-haired colonel was most understanding.”
“What happened, then?”
“Major Krantz has sent for Charlotte’s mother and grandmother. And their physician has come to look at her.”
“Good. Perhaps he has thought of some cure we have overlooked. You say her family is coming?”
Tamara nodded.
“That is good! Go back to Charlotte now, child. She needs your strength.”
“Yes, my queen.”
Unfortunately, the strength Charlotte needed most was being denied her. Mateo, morose from guilt and grief, had kept to himself in the woods for several days—thinking, fasting, and praying to Sara-la-Kali. He remained close enough to camp to find out if there was any change in Charlotte’s condition, but he dared not trust himself near her after what had happened. He was sure that his lovemaking had done her grave harm. So now, although he ached for her every moment, he denied himself any thoughts of pleasure, passion, or love. He had cast himself out in much the same manner that Valencia exiled Xendar so long ago. He knew his ancestor’s pain.
Twilight was coming on, and great, purple clouds boiled up on the horizon. Mateo strode back and forth, his heavy boots crushing a path through the winter-hard buffalo grass. The day was cold, the air frosty, but he never noticed. His bare chest—crisscrossed with many wounds inflicted by his own sharp blade during the past few days—took the full brunt of the winter wind. He dared it to freeze him! He tramped on, head down, eyes clouded, communing silently with the spirit of the north wind.
Surely there must be something he could do. He felt so helpless. He dropped to his knees before an altar of stones he had erected for his private use. A strange, half-faced image of Sara-la-Kali stared down on him. The ancient icon of ivory and gold—shattered in rage almost a century before he was born—rested atop the pile of rocks. He mumbled a few prayers, but his mind wandered and he broke off in midsentence. Was the holy Handmaiden even listening to him? It didn’t seem so. He had offered her everything he could think of. He would give up his right to the throne. He would never perform again. He would leave his familia and live among strangers, if only he could have Charlotte by his side. For days now, he had shunned food, shelter, companionship. How much more could she ask? He buried his face in his hands and sighed wearily.
Suddenly, the wind shifted and the aroma of roasting venison drifted to him from the nearby Gypsy camp. His stomach muscles contracted at the smell, twisting and complaining of emptiness. He grabbed his belly convulsively, but he rejoiced in the pain. It was only just! Why should he be free of suffering while the woman he loved lay wasting away?
He sat up abruptly with the crystal-clear vision that often comes from fasting. At last, Sara-la-Kali had answered his prayers! He should have realized his mistake before now. What did the saint care if he slashed his flesh to ribbons, starved it, or froze it to solid ice? These were punishments of the body, not the soul. In order to appease her, he must give up what meant the most to him in all the world. He must tear out his own heart and present it to her as a sacrifice. Only then would she believe in his faith in her and his love for Charlotte Buckland. Only then would she allow his golden Gypsy to live.
But what sacrifice would be great enough to satisfy Sara the Black?
Suddenly, Mateo knew what he must do!
He stripped off his boots and buckskin britches and waded into the icy waters of the bathing stream. Plunging below the surface, he let the current carry him where it would. His body grew numb with cold and his lungs burned for air, but still he went with the flow. Not until the blackness began to close over his open eyes and he had his sign would he return to the world above.
At first he was blind in the cold water, but soon his sight cleared and the holy Handmaiden provided him with visions. He knew a sacrifice must be made. But what? What?
As the current dragged him along, pounding him, bruising his flesh against boulder and bank, his life unfolded before him. He saw himself as a small boy—in Russia first, riding over the mounds of snow in a bright red sleigh pulled by a matched team of four gray horses. Silver sleigh bells tinkled in the crisp air, and he could once again smell the familiar odors of leather and lathered horseflesh. Then he was in Spain, riding along the golden beach—the sun on his face, the wind in his hair, a swift cloud-white stallion beneath him. Italy, France, Wales; he relived his adolescent years, his young manhood, his coming of age. And always there were his horses.
His final vision was of himself and the Golden One astride his great black stallions. They rode around and around the ring in perfect step, their timing exact. He saw himself dismount, reach into his pocket, and bring out a lump of sugar. He felt a warm muzzle in his cold hand. He heard his horse whinny its thanks… its love. He felt his heart swell with pride and tender affection. And in that awful instant, he knew!
The cold water chilled him through. He thrashed to be out of its clutches. It filled his nostrils and burned into his lungs. Fighting, raging, sobbing, he dragged himself onto the shore. He lay naked and shivering on the bank, pounding the frozen earth with clenched fists.
“No! No! Anything else! You can’t demand this of me!” he cried. But only the wind answered his anguish in mournful, funereal moans.
<
br /> How long Mateo lay on the bank, he could not guess. When he dragged himself up at last, the sky was blacker than any he had ever seen. So, this was it—the moment of truth! Now—with one single, terrible stroke—he must prove himself.
Slowly, carefully, with every attention paid to the slightest detail, Mateo began preparing. He gathered herbs and sweet grasses from the woods and piled them high upon the altar he had built. Next, he walked to the stream and cleaned his knives of his own blood. “Useless stuff!” he sneered. He laid the weapons out on the bank beside the gleaming Gypsy broadsword used only in ceremonies. One by one, he sharpened the blades on a stone. They were in readiness.
He went back to the altar and struck flint to the grasses. They exploded into sweet-scented flame, filling his nostrils with thick smoke and obscuring the one staring eye of Black Sara. Taking his knives and the sword, one by one, he held them in the fire until each was glowing-hot, then he took them to the icy stream and plunged each blade in. Steam hissed and sizzled, rising into the night. He should have tempered the steel in blood, but that would come… all too soon.
There was an eerie silence to the night. He could see the dim glow of the campfire through the trees, but it was deserted. No Gypsies sang or danced or even sat about, puzzling over the mysteries of life. It was almost as if they knew of his desperation, his terrible mission.
Slowly, Mateo pulled on his buckskins. Then, standing tall and determined, he split the silent night with a shrill whistle. He heard the Black Devil answer his call. The great hooves pounded the earth as the magnificent stallion plunged through the forest, seeking his master.
The beautiful animal slowed when he entered the clearing. He stood a few feet from Mateo—nostrils flared, flanks quivering—and pawed at the hard ground. The great head tossed, sending a cascade of black mane rippling in the wind. He neighed, sidestepped, and eyed his master, waiting for a command.
Mateo, the broadsword in his right hand, reached out his left and said softly, “Come.”
The trusting animal pranced forward and nuzzled him affectionately. The feel of the velvety muzzle against his bare chest shot Mateo through with sadness. His heart twisted with pain. They had shared so much, these two. They loved each other better than brothers. They understood and respected each other without words.
He caught the great horse about the neck, burying his face in the thick, silky mane as he raised his sword.
Suddenly, Mateo looked up at the dark sky. “Just one more ride!” he pleaded. But he knew what he must do. And it must be now!
Stepping away from the Black Devil, who still gazed at his master with soft, trusting eyes, Mateo raised the broadsword with both hands. His thrust must be swift and sure. He would sacrifice this dearest of creatures, if he must, to save the woman he loved. But he would not see his friend suffer.
The stallion shifted slightly and drooped his head. He neighed very softly as if telling Mateo he understood and was ready to die. Pain raged through Mateo’s body. The muscles of his arms jerked and spasmed. His heart pounded as if it might tear through his chest. His breath was labored, his eyes clouded.
“Now!” he screamed, forcing his arms to move.
Lightning tore through the night sky. The wide blade flashed and glowed as if electrified. Mateo felt it grow hot in his hands even as he aimed for the Black Devil’s heart. Wind howled through the clearing, swirling dead leaves and grass in a whirlwind about man and horse. Mateo tried to thrust downward with his blade, but some unseen hand seemed to be holding his arms. Again the lightning flashed, the sword blazed, and Mateo, palms blistered with heat, screamed and dropped his weapon. He fell to the ground, stunned.
It seemed that he blacked out for a moment. When he was conscious once more of his surroundings, he felt warm breath on his face. He opened his eyes and looked up at the black muzzle nudging his cheek.
He hadn’t been able to do it. He had tried. But something—some force beyond reason—had stayed his lethal hand. In the same instant that he rejoiced, he understood what had happened. His depression deepened and a new, heavier hopelessness gripped him.
Sara-la-Kali hadn’t been fooled for a moment. Once, his great stallion might have been the most precious sacrifice he had to offer. But no more! There was only one thing in life that he could not bear to part with. But to save her, he must do just that.
At every turn, Charlotte Buckland had suffered at his hands. He had taken her sacred virginity when the madness had been upon him. On a second occasion, he’d used her cruelly. He did not deserve her love, yet she’d given it to him unselfishly. He couldn’t ask the holy Handmaiden to spare the woman he loved on his account. And he couldn’t appease her with the slaughter of a sacrificial animal. He must make the ultimate sacrifice in order to save Charlotte. He must, though it would be the end of him.
Mateo stood up and walked to the altar. He touched the jagged, broken edge of the icon. Then he raised his arms to heaven. His voice boomed through the night. “Hear me, Handmaiden! If Charlotte Buckland is indeed the golden Gypsy, whose love could take away my curse forever, I give her to you. I will live with the moon madness to the end of my days. If the Golden One recovers, I promise you I will refuse her—turn my back on her. She will never again know that I love her from my words or actions. And I will take no other to my heart. A Gypsy Rom loves but once, and he loves for all eternity. I now make you a gift of my love in return for her life.” His arms dropped to his side. His head drooped. And his voice became a whispered prayer. “Let her live, Sara-la-Kali. Let her live!”
When Mateo turned away, he felt empty and alone. He was angry with Fate, but what purpose could that anger serve? His destiny had been written in the stars long before his birth. He was only a puppet, with the powers of the universe pulling his strings. As for Charlotte Buckland, she was better off without him.
He mounted the Black Devil and headed north, upriver. They picked up speed and flew with the wind through the black night. Now that Charlotte was out of his life forever, he knew what he must do. Although he could never love another, he was Mateo, prince of the Gypsies, and he must have a wife… a Gypsy queen.
“Good Lord! No wonder she’s not recovering. It’s too damn cold in here!”
The army surgeon, Captain Ira Feldston, stood just inside Mateo’s tent, observing the comatose patient. The brazier burned low in the far corner and Feldston noticed that his breath fogged the chill air.
“The cold has nothing to do with her condition, Captain,” Tamara responded angrily. “Gypsy blood is impervious to changes in temperature.”
He stared first at the dark woman beside him and then down at the frail-looking blonde on the pallet.
“But this woman’s no Gypsy.”
Tamara saw no need to discuss Charlotte’s bloodlines with this gajo doctor. He was wasting enough time as it was. “Can you help her?”
Feldston was already bending down to lift Charlotte’s limp form from her bed of wolf skins. He was an averagesized man, but his arms were strong from many hours spent as a battlefield surgeon.
“What are you doing with her?” Tamara demanded.
“Surely you have someplace warmer than this small, drafty tent. She needs to be where she’s more protected.”
“The brides’ tent is larger and more comfortable,” Tamara said. “Follow me.”
The captain held Charlotte close and trudged across the compound toward the tent with the blue door. Snow was beginning to fall, but as he glanced about, he saw naked children playing in the clearing. The sight made him shiver. How could they stand it?
A few of the large flakes drifted down onto Charlotte’s cheeks and eyelids, where they melted quickly. She moaned and stirred in the doctor’s arms. He thought her eyes fluttered open for an instant, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Hurry!” he called to Tamara. “I think she’s coming around.”
She sped toward the door and held it wide for him. “Over there, on t
hat pallet, Captain.”
Feldston had no sooner settled his patient in the bed of rabbit fur than she began thrashing about, murmuring in her sleep. He flashed a wide smile at Tamara and his blue eyes sparkled.
“I told you. She’s pulling out of it! Come over here so she’ll see a familiar face if she opens her eyes. Seeing my ugly mug first thing would be enough to frighten her back into a coma, I’m afraid.”
Tamara hurried to kneel beside Charlotte and gave Ira Feldston a bright smile. He wasn’t ugly at all. In fact, she found him quite beautiful when he wasn’t scowling.
“Charlotte, can you hear me?” she asked. “Charlotte, it’s Tamara. Open your eyes, please.”
But Tamara’s soft voice only seemed to agitate her friend further. Charlotte thrashed furiously and kicked off her cover of skins. Her lips moved; she was trying to speak. Tamara and Feldston exchanged hopeful glances. Without realizing it, they both leaned closer, trying to catch her slightest murmur.
“Ma… Mateo,” she gasped out at last. “Mateo!”
“She’s calling for the prince,” Feldston said. “Where is he?”
“I’ll go and find him.”
“Quickly, Tamara!” he said, using her name for the first time.
She turned for an instant and looked into his eyes. “As fast as I can, Ira.”
But Mateo was nowhere to be found. Tamara searched and searched, trudging through the snow, which was coming down fast now and blowing into deep drifts. She called until her voice grew hoarse against the wind. Although she did not know it, Mateo was many miles away by now. Finally she gave up and returned to the tent.
“Mateo… Mateo… Mateo!” Charlotte’s frantic cries greeted her the moment she entered.
Feldston turned an anxious face toward her. “Is he coming?”
“I’m sorry,” she said dejectedly. “I couldn’t find him.”
“Good God! Where could he be? She’s wild. She’s going to hurt herself if he doesn’t come soon and quiet her.”
Gypsy Moon Page 27