Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Now she felt herself being dragged from Velacore’s back onto his mount. A moment later she was lying across Mateo’s hard thighs, staring down at the patches of snow on the ground. She kicked and screamed and threatened, but he held her fast, urging the Black Devil to more speed.

  “Have you lost your mind?” she yelled. Turning her head slightly, she could see through the hair flowing down over her eyes that he was wearing a magnificent grin.

  “That’s very good, Charlotte.” He demonstrated his pleasure with a sharp swat upon her rear. “Only louder—yell louder!”

  “Oh, you!” she seethed. “Let me down this instant! Who do you think you are, treating me this way?”

  “I am the man who is about to be your husband, my love,” he answered calmly. “But you aren’t acting like a proper bride-to-be. Can’t you really let go for me a time or two? Scream, my darling, scream!”

  Charlotte was fuming, furious, so angry and humiliated that she would have liked to scratch his eyes out. He wanted a scream? Very well, she would give it to him! She let fly such a shrill cry that blackbirds perched on a nearby tree took wing in a panic. She screamed and screamed until her lungs burned and her throat ached. But Mateo only held her fast and laughed as if this were the grandest joke in all the world. Well, it was no joke to Charlotte. She was damn good and mad!

  “You turn me loose! Do you hear?” He ignored her. “I’m warning you, Mateo!” He laughed harder. “You can’t treat me this way.” He swatted her again and she went for his leg with her teeth.

  “Ow!” he howled. “Stop that, woman!”

  “And don’t call me woman!” she hollered. “So help me, Mateo, when we get back to camp, I’m going to tell the queen how you’ve treated me. Everybody’s going to know about this!”

  “I sincerely hope so, my golden beauty!”

  When they rode into camp, Charlotte was still shrieking her rage, pounding her fists, and by that time swearing she hated him and would never marry him. Everyone from the queen right down to the tiniest toddler converged on the clearing. They stood staring at Charlotte, draped unceremoniously across Mateo’s horse. And they were cheering, laughing, and congratulating their prince while they passed around bottles of wine to toast the occasion. Charlotte watched from her upside-down vantage point as Granny Fate took the bottle, tipped it up, and then gave a delighted cheer

  “They’ve all gone mad!” Charlotte muttered.

  Suddenly Mateo righted her and turned her in his arms. She drew her fist back to land a blow to his jaw, but he caught her hand and pulled her tightly against his chest, locking her in such an embrace that she couldn’t fight him. The next instant, his mouth came down hard on hers, silencing her angry protests. The unexpected intensity of his kiss drained the fight from her. He released her at last, and she stared up into his eyes. He was smiling down at her, love pouring from his beaming face.

  “You did well, my Golden One,” he whispered. “You are a true Gypsy woman—filled with passion and spirit.”

  Charlotte suddenly realized what was happening, even as Mateo turned her to face the crowd and shouted, “I have stolen my woman from her cave. Here is my bride, Charlotte Buckland!” This was all part of the wedding ritual. He had to steal her and bring her into camp still fighting him, so that his familia could be witnesses as he subdued his woman.

  She looked up into his shining face. Her anger had given way once again to love. Her heart pounded. Oh, how she wanted him at this moment! They smiled at each other, then she leaned her head against his chest. The Gypsies burst into loud applause.

  “Come now, Charlotte.” Granny Fate reached up and took her hand. “It is time for you to prepare for your wedding.”

  Charlotte gave Mateo an uncertain look.

  “Go with your grandmother,” he told her. “Make ready to be my wife. My love goes with you.”

  He helped her down from the Black Devil’s back. The crowd parted, making a path to the brides’ tent. Granny Fate led the way, with Charlotte following a few paces behind. At the blue door, Charlotte paused and turned. Mateo stood watching her, his eyes burning with the light of love. He blew her a kiss and suddenly she felt very small and shy. She hurried inside and closed the door on the cheering throng and the man she would marry.

  The wedding was set for the next full moon. In the interim, Charlotte did not lay eyes on Mateo. She felt almost as if she’d been locked away in a nunnery. The brides’ tent became her entire world. She was not even permitted to leave to attend her mother’s wedding to Winston Krantz. She spent long hours being tutored by Tamara in the ways of a Gypsy woman and by Granny Fate in the traditions of marriage. She learned the story of the curse from beginning to end. After two weeks of this, Charlotte became rebellious.

  “I want to see him, Granny Fate!” She stood with arms crossed angrily over her chest and stamped her bare foot on the earthen floor.

  “Tsk-tsk!” The old woman made a sign to ward off the evil eye. Brides were especially susceptible. “No, you can’t see him! What a thing to say! Nothing is more taboo, Charlotte. The very idea!”

  “But we’ve been separated almost the whole time since my accident. It’s not fair!”

  “Charlotte, listen to your grandmother,” Tamara put in quietly. “She is wise in these things. You don’t want to go against the ancient customs, do you? It would spoil everything. It would shame Mateo in the eyes of the others.”

  Charlotte flopped down on the rug with a sigh of resignation and dropped her chin into her hands. “Oh, all right!”

  “Good,” said Granny Fate. “Now I want you to concentrate on your weeping.”

  “I don’t see why I have to cry on the happiest day of my life.”

  “You will cry because it is expected of you!” Granny Fate told her.

  Charlotte sat there, trying to think of the saddest things in all the world—a broken china doll, a lost kitten, a horse that had to be destroyed. She’d just about had herself worked up to tears when her thoughts strayed back to Mateo. A smile crept over her face. She glanced up at Granny Fate. The woman was frowning down at her.

  “You are impossible!” Fatima threw her hands up in disgust. “You will disgrace us all. Who has ever heard of a smiling Gypsy bride?”

  “I’m sorry, Granny Fate. Maybe if you explained to me why I’m supposed to be sad. I simply can’t cry for no reason.”

  Charlotte’s grandmother—her patience strained, but still intact—knelt beside the bride-to-be. “Close your eyes and think about what I’m saying, please. You are very, very young. A mere child. And, of course, a virgin. A man—a tall, fierce-looking stranger—has come to take you away. You love your father and your mother, your brothers and sisters. You do not want to be snatched away from the bosom of your beloved family. What if the man is cruel to you? What if he is not gentle on your wedding night? What if he starves you… beats you? How will you ever know another moment of happiness once you are taken from your family by this terrible stranger? There is so much for a bride to weep over.”

  Granny Fate stopped and looked at Charlotte. Her eyes were still closed, still dry. She was still smiling.

  “You are hopeless—not a fit bride at all!”

  “I’m sorry, Granny Fate, but none of those things apply. I’m not a child. Mateo is not a stranger. I have no brothers and sisters, no father to miss. Mateo would never beat me or starve me. And I can hardly wait for my wedding night, whether he is gentle or not!”

  “Every virgin weeps on her wedding day!”

  “I’m not that, either,” Charlotte admitted quietly.

  “On the holy breast of the Handmaiden, bite your tongue! What are you saying? Not a virgin? We will get nothing for you!” Granny Fate closed her eyes and began making a mournful, keening sound.

  “Well, you told Mateo you wanted princes!”

  “You are blaming this on me? Fatima Lee Buckland, who went to her husband’s wolf skins pure as the driven snow—
knowing nothing of men and love?” She raised her bejeweled hands to heaven and pleaded, “Slome, Slome, what have I done in this life to deserve such a granddaughter?”

  “Granny Fate,” Tamara said softly, “perhaps she’s just tired. Why don’t you go out for a walk? I’ll watch over her.”

  Tamara, the eternal peacemaker, soothed both women that day and for the rest of their confinement prior to the wedding. With marvelous understanding and diplomacy, she kept the peace while Charlotte learned of the henna ceremony, the haggling over the brideprice, and everything else it took to become a Gypsy bride.

  And during the period of instruction, Tamara’s skilled hands fashioned the bridal costume. Charlotte would wear the traditional salvar, the billowing harem-style pants of diaphanous white material, and a matching full-sleeved blouse. Other costumes of similar design had to be created out of equally fine fabrics to serve her during the days before the actual ceremony. And even as Tamara worked, the lohari—the blacksmith—was busy hammering silver coins into thin sheets to be wrought into fanciful jewels, or peche, to adorn the bride’s forehead and hair.

  As the time drew near, Charlotte grew more and more nervous. Although she wasn’t allowed outside, she could hear the bustle of activity. All day and all night, it seemed, the Gypsies sang and danced and laughed and loved. She longed to join in the celebration. Mateo was there with the others. But Granny Fate had told her that she must stay hidden from everyone until the groom’s family came to them to perform the first henna ceremony.

  Just before the full moon, Queen Zolande and several of Mateo’s female cousins, bearing a pan of the sacred henna, knocked at the door of the brides’ tent.

  “We have come to insure the piety of the bride,” the queen called out.

  Charlotte shuddered slightly at the sound of Zolande’s voice. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she was ready. She stood in the center of the room, dressed in a salvar of turquoise satin with a sheer pink blouse. A thin, silver flower peche adorned her forehead, and the thick gold ring sent by Mateo encircled the middle finger of her left hand.

  “Enter!” Granny Fate said solemnly.

  The women, led by Queen Zolande, filed in, looking as somber as pallbearers. Again, dread touched Charlotte’s heart. But the moment the door shut behind them, they all began singing, laughing, and teasing the bride good-naturedly. They danced around the bowl of thick reddish-brown paste—the sacred henna brought from their homeland, which had been beaten to powder and mixed with water.

  “Ah, she looks fine!” Zolande whispered to Fatima.

  “I shall remember your words when it comes time to settle on a brideprice, my old friend.”

  Mateo’s gold had been returned to Zolande. It would be needed for the haggling. Two thousand would be the price, they all knew that. But what was a Gypsy wedding without a good argument over money between the two families? Horse traders were horse traders, whether their object be a mare or a bride.

  With much giggling and joking, Mateo’s cousins went about their work—dyeing Charlotte’s long golden hair with the henna concoction. While they waited for it to dry, they ate little meat pies and goat cheese and drank wine, all the while teasing Charlotte about the wedding night until she was in tears.

  Granny Fate smiled and pointed this out to Queen Zolande.

  “A good sign, a weeping bride,” the queen agreed, nodding sagely.

  Then, for the first time in nearly three weeks, Charlotte was allowed out of the brides’ tent. To her disappointment, Mateo was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the entire camp was deserted.

  “No one must see you, Golden One,” the queen told her. “All the others have been sent away for the day.”

  The women led Charlotte to the stream. There they all stripped, amidst much giggling and singing. For the first time, Charlotte was forced to join the others in the frigid water for their communal bathing. She had no choice.

  “It is tradition!” her grandmother bellowed when Charlotte objected.

  The women took turns running their hands through Charlotte’s long hair until the last of the henna had been washed away. But the dye had done its work, turning her pale gold tresses to a rich bronze. And according to the queen, her piety was now assured.

  That night, Charlotte felt exhausted. She had been the center of attention all day, with not a moment to herself. All she wanted was to fall down on her pallet and sleep. But as darkness fell, Granny Fate came and shook her awake.

  “They are coming to take you! We must defend ourselves!”

  Charlotte stared up at her grandmother, convinced that she was still asleep and dreaming. Fatima held several brooms and sticks. Draped around her neck were chains, two heavy skillets tied together with leather thongs, and a sack filled with rocks.

  She rubbed her eyes. “Granny Fate, what on earth?”

  “Hurry, Charlotte! The groom’s family is almost here. We must put up a good fight!”

  She dragged her granddaughter from the bed and hauled her out through the blue door. The table from the tent was turned over like a barricade just outside. Overturned chairs flanked its sides. More sticks, rocks, and old pots were piled nearby.

  “They plan to take you tonight so that they do not have to pay the brideprice, but we will see about that! Here take this bag. When they come near, throw the rocks at them.”

  “But Granny Fate—”

  “Don’t argue, girl. Do as I say!”

  Sure enough, in a matter of moments, a mob had formed and was coming across the clearing toward them, armed with sticks and pots. They yelled and threatened as if they were out for blood.

  “Fire!” Granny Fate screamed, jumping to her feet and waving one of her wooden broom swords.

  The mob charged, yelling and brandishing their weapons. Following her grandmother’s orders, Charlotte began hurling the small rocks into their midst. One of the attacking women got past their barricade and was matching her broomstick against Granny Fate’s. Charlotte kept firing her missiles. There was no way they could win, but she had to do something.

  Suddenly, Granny Fate forced the other woman back out of their territory.

  “Victory is ours!” she yelled. “Be gone with you before I give you all a taste of my blade! You will pay dearly for this woman!”

  With much grumbling and many angry shouts, the mob fell back. Charlotte stared, shaking her head. She had to smile moments later when the musicians struck up a tune and the angry mob began to laugh and dance.

  “It’s all over,” her grandmother said firmly. “We can go back in now. You’re safe.”

  Granny Fate no doubt thought Charlotte was sleeping when she slipped out to join the revelers who had opposed her during the mock battle. But when she was gone, her granddaughter crept to the window and looked out. There was Fatima Buckland, whirling her colorful skirts and stamping her feet in a frantic dance with the others. Charlotte shook her head, wondering at the strange ways of her people. The whole episode had been a sham—simply another part of the involved bridal ceremony. She went back to bed and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

  The next morning—the day of the wedding—Charlotte awoke to find Granny Fate looking weary and ill. The old woman lay on her pallet, holding her head and moaning, “Matto, matto! Mandi dinilo!”

  Charlotte ran to her, truly alarmed. “Granny Fate, what’s wrong?”

  But the old woman just kept up her muttering—words that her granddaughter couldn’t understand, although she thought she recalled having heard Phaedra call Mateo dinilo. She frowned, trying to remember. Yes, that was it! That first day in Leavenworth. Mateo had said it meant “stupid.” She was still trying to soothe her grandmother when Tamara came in.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re here! Granny Fate’s ill.”

  Tamara looked at the woman and laughed softly. “Do you understand what she’s saying?”

  “No. Only something about someone being stupid.”

 
; “She’s cursing herself, saying she got matto last night from too much wine. She says, ‘I am stupid!’ I’m afraid she’s not the only one with a hangover this morning. That was quite a battle last night and quite a celebration afterward.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Tamara, didn’t I see you waving a stick at us with the others during the attack?”

  “Of course! I’m part of the groom’s family. I would never have passed up the opportunity to join in. I don’t want to miss out on a moment of this fine wedding.”

  Tamara fixed a healing potion for Granny Fate that had her on her feet again in no time. Then the two women set about preparing the bride for the actual wedding ceremony. They bathed her and helped her into the white salvar, blouse, and bolero. An intricately wrought peche was placed across her forehead, and swirls of silver were draped in front of her hair to frame her face. Her grandmother’s lace mantilla completed the costume.

  “Now do I get to see Mateo?” Charlotte pleaded.

  “Oh, not just yet,” Tamara answered, laughing at the bride’s impatience. “Soon the others of his family will come to complete the henna ceremony.”

  Charlotte touched her darkened hair and looked horrified at the thought. “But they can’t! I’m all dressed.”

  The women came as they had before. But this time they dyed Charlotte’s hands and wrapped them in clean white linen.

  “A most pious bride,” Queen Zolande observed solemnly. “Darkness is falling, so now we begin.”

  Granny Fate went to Charlotte and lowered the mantilla over her face. “Weep!” she ordered.

  But there was no need to instruct the bride. Tears were streaming down Charlotte’s face. Tears of happiness! She was about to become Mateo’s wife.

  The wedding walk would take Charlotte from the brides’ tent to the queen’s tent, where Mateo awaited her just outside. Again the Gypsies parted for her. Tamara walked before Charlotte, carrying a mirror to reflect her image and so confuse any evil spirits that might be lurking about. Granny Fate led the procession, looking sullen and jeering at the well-wishers.