Lord of the Land

by Margaret Rome

  Gradually, the Conde guided her nearer to the white fringe of birds at the water's edge. Too near. Suddenly, a collective alarm alerted the entire flock and as they riffled their wings, preparing to take flight, the colour of the levitated eiderdown of feathers changed from white to brilliant pink. For breathless seconds the entire lake seemed to shimmer beneath a vibrant, roseate haze. Squawking and croaking their indignation, the flock floundered in panic, but when she and the Conde began backing away the shy, sensitive birds stopped fluttering and slowly sheathed their wings until the wave of colour faded and the flock turned white again.

  They had retraced their steps far into the grove of chestnut trees before she managed to find words to thank him.

  'I'm grateful for the privilege of being allowed to see such a beautiful sight, seňor,' she tendered simply, sensing that he would resent effusive praise or expressions of delight which, however genuine, would still be inadequate.

  'The privilege was mine, seňorita,' he assured her gravely. 'Seeing the flamingo lake through your eyes was comparable to seeing it again for the very first time. What saddens me most is the thought that there will be few wild breeding places left in the world for our children to see, or our children's children. Almost certainly they will be denied the pleasure of seeing birds flying free, of watching animals in their natural habitat, not locked inside cages or confined within the perimeter of high wire fences. Which is why I consider it so important that you should complete the final chapter of your father's book, which at present some might praise on the grounds of literary merit, but which in the future will probably be looked upon as an invaluable tome of natural history.'

  Frances flushed with pleasure and forgot to be shy of the noble Conde when, digressing from the well-trodden path, he took her hand and began leading the way along an overgrown path branching off into a tangle of undergrowth. Carefully protecting her face from thorns, sweeping whiplash branches from around her bowed head, he forged his way into a small clearing and rewarded her unquestioning obedience with the sight of a miniature cataract splashing into a pool of water so pure and clear that she could see white pebbles gleaming in its depths and slender strands of waterweed falling and rising, swaying and twisting, as if enjoying a slow, languorous dance.

  Rooted in an overhang of rock were clumps of maidenhair fern and a few bushy plants with pale green leaves and a small white flower which, she noticed immediately she sat near, was emanating a scent so strong that the clearing seemed permeated with its heady perfume.

  This secret pool cannot be easily located until the albahaca is in bloom,' the Conde confided, reaching out to pluck a leaf which, when he crushed it in his palm, introduced into the air a different, aromatic smell that reminded her of the scent of sweet basil. 'The Moors were reputed to have brought this herb from India where it is sacred to Krishna, and although it is used every day by wives in their kitchens, its flower is regarded as a symbol of devotion. To the gypsies, it has a special place and meaning in their love rites.'

  For no obvious reason Frances blushed, then started with surprise when he stated with an uncharacteristic trace of whimsy, 'The albahaca and yourself appear to me to share a common characteristic, seňorita.'

  'You mean because we are both small, pale and inconspicuous, seňor?' she tilted, compressing her lips to disperse a quiver disturbing her hurt mouth.

  'Certainly not.' When he shook his head, her pulses leapt into vigorous life, causing a sense of confusion that caused her to wonder, whether the overpowering scent possessed magical properties that were affecting her reason. 'I was referring to the locally-held belief that the albahaca, "Gently handled, will give a pleasant response, but if hardly wrung and bruised it will breed scorpions ".'

  She stared, nonplussed, wondering whether the lazily-proffered statement could be construed as an olive branch or as an exercise of derisive wit, then was forced to discount her suspicion of mockery when, instead of brutally demanding, he broached the subject of her stay in Andalusia in an unusually diplomatic manner.

  'Have you reached any decision about the post I offered to you, Seňorita Ross? Studying the eagles' habits and habitat could develop into a lonely and exhausting chore if it were to be allowed to absorb the whole of your attention. So, as you so obviously love the company of children, don't you think that a few hours spent teaching might help to break up the monotony of your day?'

  The tone of sweet reasonableness fell strangely from the lips of the Conde with the aloof, inscrutable expression and proud dark head, silvered at each temple with the markings of the Spanish imperial eagle. Yet even though she felt suspicious of his change of tactics, she could not refute the logic of his statement.

  Made nervous by a watchful, heavily-pressing silence, she gave a short, breathless laugh before chirping with artificial brightness:

  'You win, Conde! Very well, I'll do as you ask, but on one condition—please try to persuade Sabelita that she's mistaken in her assumption that you brought me to Andalusia with the purpose of making me your bride!'

  She had expected him to respond with amusement to her quip, was even prepared—because he was so unpredictable and because he so rarely smiled—to have her jocundity deflated with a frown, but the reaction that clamped down upon his features the tightness of pain, his air of offended pride and piercing glance of displeasure, made her feel instantly rebuked, threatened as a cowering concubine.

  'You disappoint me, seňorita? he iced, rising to his feet so that he appeared to tower tall as the high sierras. 'One thing I had not thought it necessary to warn you against was the indiscretion of gossiping with servants! Sabelita shall be reprimanded for her impertinence and for disobeying an order—an order which I now pass on to you and which you would do well to act upon. The subject of my marriage is taboo!' he stressed with a bitterness that struck her as appalling. 'Once, as is well known to all in Andalusia, I was on the verge of marrying a girl whom I had known and loved since childhood. Two days before the ceremony was due to take place the marriage was cancelled, with no reason given other than that Maria had had a change of heart and mind. Her father, however, made no secret of that fact that it was he who had brought pressure to bear upon his only child, he who had striven hard to convince her that one drop of gypsy blood instilled deceit, cruelty and a nomadic wanderlust into a man's veins! Since then, seňorita, I have remained betrothed to the state of bachelordom—as good is betrothed to evil, as life is betrothed to death, as Andalusian families are betrothed to the religion of unadulterated blood and impeccable breeding!' He spun aside, crushing a herb plant underfoot so that the scent of the flower of love eddied in the air and hung potent and powerfully overwhelming, is your curiosity now satisfied, seňorita?' Judging her horrified silence as an affirmative, he iced conclusively, 'Good! If ever in future you should consider yourself entitled to pry further into my private affairs, I should be obliged if you would approach me with your questions, and not my garrulous servants!'

  CHAPTER SIX

  'Uno … dos … tres… quatro… cinco… seis … siete… ocho… nueve… diez!'

  Frances beamed approval upon her class of urchin pupils, who had responded with enthusiasm to her request to be assured that they really had memorised the first ten cardinal numbers.

  'Muy bonita!' she applauded, pretending not to notice the two boys who were sidling out of their seats with the obvious intention of making a getaway, or the writhing bulge underneath the pinafore of a little girl who could not bear to be parted from a kitten whose muffled, indignant mews had accompanied the entire lesson.

  The Conde had been right in his assumption that gypsy children would respond better to coaxing than to coercion. Each day since the school had opened the previous week, chairs and tables had been ranged in front of a blackboard and easel set beneath the shade of a tree for the benefit of the pale young maestra who had come from England, a land they had heard had a climate as cold and inhospitable as the peaks of the Sierra Nevada which for six months of
the year remained covered in snow.

  For the first couple of days Frances had been disheartened by the lack of response from children who had laughed, played, and cavorted at a distance near enough to monitor her movements yet far enough away to maintain a safe distance between themselves and the maestra who represented a threat to their freedom. Then gradually, shyly, one by one, the seats had become filled. More had been added and still more, until a situation had been reached where, having had to intervene in fights arising from disputed claims to territory, she had finally persuaded the latest arrivals each to fetch a chair from home.

  The freezing formality of the Conde towards his guest at dinner each evening had softened with each good report he had received of her progress, so much so that she had been surprised and disconcerted when, the previous evening, after she had refused dessert and politely requested leave to retire to her room, he had waved her back into her chair and pushed within reach a dish of shelled almonds.

  'Try one, you'll find them very good,' he had encouraged, setting an example by splitting a crisp kernel between white teeth. 'Now, I'd like to know what impressions you have formed about your pupils, their homes and their parents. But first of all, I must ask your permission to dispense with the obligation of having to use a form of address that renders conversation stilted and consequently more difficult. If you have no objection, I would prefer you to call me Romanes, which after all,' he had shrugged, 'is merely the gypsy word for "man". May I, in return, be permitted to address you as Frances?'

  She had responded with the blush of a fiery peony and signified agreement with a nod of her head, relieved by this evidence of his lessening displeasure, yet fully aware that she would never feel sufficiently relaxed in his company to allow the intimate name to falter from her lips…

  'All right, children, you may go now!' She clapped her hands to signal dismissal. 'Lessons will be resumed at four o'clock, if you'd care to join me. We could make a start upon translating into Spanish some of your favourite songs and rhymes.'

  She was gathering up her books, wilting a little in spite of the canopy of leaves shading her from the worst of the noonday sun, when a different male voice attracted her attention.

  'Permiso, seňorita!'

  She spun round to direct a look of smiling enquiry towards Culvato, father of the child who was inseparable from her kitten.

  '… Floure, my wife, has sent me to ask whether,' he paused to clear his throat then, appearing shyly embarrassed, concluded in a hurried rush of words, 'you would honour us by sharing our meal?' ,

  Feeling flattered yet undecided, Frances glanced towards the road. Sometimes the Conde arrived in his car to drive her back to the Palacio for lunch, at other times he sent a servant, but today her transport was almost an hour overdue and the only sign of movement to be seen on the road cutting straight through the ravine where the gypsies' caves were situated was a shimmering heat haze.

  The temptation to learn more about this race of people whose innate sense of gaiety was conveyed in the richness of multi-coloured skirts worn by its barefooted, hip-swinging womenfolk, and by the coins used as buttons, the golden earrings and colourfully braided waistcoats of its men, proved irresistible. Also, there was the bonus of being allowed to make a closer inspection of their very unusual homes.

  'Thank you, Culvato,' she smiled acceptance to the man who had been introduced to her by the Conde as the leader of the tribe, 'I'm grateful to you and to your wife, Floure, for your kindness and will gladly accept your invitation.'

  Because of a combination of circumstances—the fact that the Conde's simmering annoyance had led him to provide the basic essentials for an open-air schoolroom and no more; because of her own innate shyness, and because of uncertainty on the part of the gypsies in whose midst she had been dumped whether to welcome her with a show of friendship or to treat her with deferential awe—she had been made to feel as if she was neither fish, flesh, fowl nor good red herring, the recipient of many encouraging grins and nods yet left stranded within a chair-littered clearing affording tantalising glimpses of caves gouged out of hills of clay, a honeycomb of homes housing a swarm of gypsies buzzing through one door and out of another with the fervour of busy bees.

  'Then if you would step this way, seňorita,' Culvato beamed, addressing her slowly in Spanish that had a distinctly different dialect which, during the past week, she had become gradually able to decipher, except for gaps left in sentences by the occasional use of gypsy jargon.

  Eagerly she accompanied him towards the hive of stone-faced homes emitting smoke from small, rounded chimneys, their whitewashed walls festooned with strings of bright red peppers and hanging baskets spilling a profusion of pink, white and red geraniums. Huge earthenware pots crammed with herbs lined an exquisitely scented path towards each door, and smaller pots held in place with a thin circle of wire beneath each rim were positioned so that a stream of cool green ivy seemed to flow downwards from the roofs, around arched doorways, and unglazed black-grilled windows.

  Floure, accompanied by Cinerella, her youngest child, was waiting in the doorway, her brown face split by a happy, white-toothed smile of welcome.

  'Droboy tume romale, seňorita!' She bobbed a curtsey and motioned to her daughter to do the same.

  'Nais tuke!' Frances faltered, parodying as exactly as she was able Sabelita's words of response to the traditional Romany greeting.

  Her effort was rewarded with cries of delight, and as she responded to the family's smiles the impression Frances received was one of happiness, health and vitality. Floure was looking especially vivacious, her ample curves draped in a low-cut, many-layered, ankle-length dress the colour of poppy petals clustered around a shiny head of blue-black hair, braided so as to form a frame for large expressive eyes, strong white teeth, and thickly stroked eyebrows and lashes. Both she and Culvato were wearing jewellery fashioned from ancient coins—necklaces and bracelets for Floure, and for Culvato earrings that hung low as the magenta silk kerchief wound around his neck, and a medallion exposed by a buttonless shirt divided across the dark matt skin of his bared chest. Neither mother nor daughter was wearing shoes, and as they preceded her into the cave dwelling Frances was struck by their pride of bearing and lissom, graceful walk.

  But immediately she stepped past a thick wooden door hung with ancient iron bolts she was entranced by the sight of rough interior walls contrasting dazzling white against a red-flagstoned floor; burnished copper pans and kettles, an assortment of cheap but colourful ornaments, painted wooden chairs with woven rush seats, and a large open-hooded fireplace, empty of fuel, except for a small square portion in one corner of the hearth where fir-cones had been tossed on to red hot embers to provide just sufficient heat to keep the contents of a large stewpot simmering. Half hidden behind the shimmer of beaded curtains Frances glimpsed two smaller rooms furnished with brass bedsteads and brilliantly striped quilts to match handwoven rugs scattered at random over a cool flagged floor.

  As she smiled acceptance of the seat Culvato had hastily positioned where it would catch the maximum amount of breeze from the open doorway, Cinerella stooped to pick a deep red carnation from a pitcherful set in a shady corner and began shyly advancing towards her with the clove-scented gift.

  'Gracias, Cinerella,' she accepted, charmed by the simple gesture of friendship offered by a child whose solemn expression was belied by twinkling, mischievous eyes.

  A table had already been set with two rows of blue and white dishes the size of soup plates, and immediately Floure began dishing out stew from the simmering pot a horde of hungry-looking urchins appeared as if from nowhere and began jostling for position at the table. Casting Frances a quick look of apology, Floure served them first, then shooed them with their plates of stew and hunks of bread to sit lining the walls before drawing three chairs up to the table.

  'Will you sit here, seňorita?' She indicated a place set to the left of Culvato, who was waiting to take his seat at the head of the table.
The thick, delicious stew was lightly spiced and barely salted, but the taste of fowl and game was enhanced by the flavour of herbs, especially wild garlic, and by the berries, mushrooms and nettles that formed the basis of the surprisingly tasty vegetable content.

  Interpreting anxiety in Floure's watchful look, Frances slowly savoured her first mouthful, then, conscious of the entire household's breath-held attention, did not hesitate to convey her appreciation.

  'Mmm… delicious!' she murmured, emphasising her enjoyment by scooping up a second spoonful. 'I don't think I've ever tasted a more flavourful concoction!'

  As if her words were the signal they had all been waiting for, the silence was broken by an outburst of chattering from the children, Floure's relieved laughter, and a vote of thanks from her smiling husband.

  'Everyone agrees that my wife is a wonderful cook, seňorita, I told her that she had no cause to worry, that you were certain to enjoy your meal.'

  'Which could only be as good as the produce you supplied,' Floure reminded him fondly, obviously well pleased. 'My man is an expert provider,' she boasted proudly, 'which is just as well considering the number of mouths he has to feed.'

  With an audacious twinkle lighting his dark eyes, Culvato confided to Frances, 'We gypsies have always been a race of gatherers and collectors. Being neither hunters nor farmers, we have learnt to feed well from nature—berries, mushrooms, roots, wild fruits, fish and all things furred and feathered are supplied in abundance by the Creator. The fruits of the earth belong to all men. Game and fowl are there for the taking, only the eating of dog, cat, or horse flesh is strictly taboo. Did you know, seňorita,' mercifully, he had not seemed to notice her fastidious wince, 'that it was we gypsies who first invented artificial baits for line fishing and also the artificial fly for tempting trout? We are also expert at making bait with gum obtained from plants, and with certain types of oil which when smeared on to stones has an attraction so potent that fish swarm towards it. Non-gypsies who witnessed such a sight have even been heard to swear that the shoals have been magicked!'