The Gypsy Bride

by Sandra Madden

  “What are the symptoms?”

  “Me old lady is down with it now.” He pointed up over his head, to the second floor. “Fever and chills and more—if ye get me meaning. Goin’ on ten days now. The doctor can’t do nothin’.”

  Lucien placed a half sovereign down on the bar and prepared to depart. “I hope your wife will be well soon.”

  The man nodded. “Can’t be workin’ the pub all by meself. I give her whiskey thinkin’ the alcohol will kill the sickness or numb her from it.”

  “That is a quite remarkable solution. I shall endeavor to remember it.”

  Although disheartened that his tribe would not be rewarded for its stop here, Lucien did not worry about the ague. He possessed a strong constitution and besides himself, only Jassy, Gilda and Tawnie had been exposed to anyone in Worcester.

  Before he left the village, Lucien purchased raisin scones for Henrietta.

  * * * *

  Henrietta enjoyed every morsel of the raisin scones brought to the van by Lucien’s aide Tern. The caravan had not stayed in Worcester due to the outbreak of ague. Mila, fearing the illness, burned a foul-smelling pastille each night, long after they had left the village.

  Henrietta feared the dreadful aroma alone would kill them both.

  The journey from Worcester to Buckingham, a small farming community, had been long and arduous. Potholes and rain often impeded the caravan’s progress. A good many members of the tribe were becoming openly hostile to Henrietta. To make matters worse, she had seen little of Lucien.

  Two nights following the caravan’s arrival the unthinkable happened—Jassy’s bear died.

  Big Ike was like a son to Jassy. With tears in his eyes, the old trainer insisted on a funeral for the bruin. Under the sheltering limbs of a grand old elm tree, the tribe gathered to say good-bye to Ike. Henrietta beat a tambourine, Messen played a mournful violin melody and Mila chanted.

  Moments like this strengthened Henrietta’s suspicion that Mila was indeed a witch. Her powders and potions and oils were mysterious enough. Her appearance and chants likened her to the sorceresses of legend.

  Wishing to make the burial meaningful for her dear friend Jassy, the old woman had given Henrietta the tambourine only hours ago. Although she enjoyed music exceedingly, Henrietta was quite unmusical. She contrived to follow the beat by watching the feet of the violin players. When the toes of the men’s boots hit the ground, she tapped her tambourine.

  Jassy threw the first shovel of dirt over the open grave while Gilda and Tawnie danced in slow, mournful motion around the large opening.

  Henrietta’s heart ached for Jassy. She knew Ike was as dear to him as any human family member could have been.

  Just when she had given up hope, the Gypsy King made an appearance. Lucien strode up beside Jassy and laid a hand on the grieving man’s shoulder, talking softly to the bear trainer.

  At first sight of the darkly, striking leader, Henrietta missed a beat on her tambourine. She studied his commanding figure as if she had not seen him for months instead of just days.

  She missed another beat.

  Mila slanted a dark scowl her way.

  Lucien’s imposing height contributed to the air of power he exuded. He stood taller than the other Gypsy men and he was far more striking in appearance. The breadth of his shoulders, the square set of his jaw, the intelligent gleam in his eyes, even the arrogant angle of his head attracted Henrietta. One glance at him made her light-headed, made her heart quicken.

  No one could mistake Lucien for other than what he was—a king. His confident stride revealed a man who could move mountains and build bridges for his people, a man who radiated vigor, who made her knees crumble with only an exchange of glances or a slight lift of an eyebrow.

  Although on closer examination, he appeared piqued today. Normally clean-shaven, the stubble of his beard was thick, as if he had not shaved for several days. Deep purple shadows circled beneath his eyes.

  She wondered if he were troubled, if her presence had caused some new difficulty.

  He turned away as soon as the grave had been covered. Henrietta ran after him.

  “Lucien!”

  He turned, raised a brow.

  She did not expect to be greeted in such a cold manner. “Have I offended you in some way?”

  “No,” his voice was raspy, he cleared his throat. “Why do you ask?”

  “I feel as if you have been ignoring me these past days.”

  “I am busy.” He swiped back a lock of raven hair that had fallen across his forehead. “You are well taken care of by Mila, are you not?”

  “Yes. Except for the horrid pastille she still burns to keep us well.”

  “And are you well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should be thankful.”

  “I am.” Stung by his terseness, she lowered her eyes. “I did not mean to sound ungrateful.”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Instead of feeling offended, perhaps you should spend your idle time learning how to keep rhythm with your tambourine.”

  “I am woefully lacking in musical ability,” she confessed with a wistful smile.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he cocked his head to the side. “Before today, I had not thought the instrument required a great deal of skill.”

  She laughed. Beneath his stern exterior she heard the teasing banter in his tone. “I will learn to play before we reach Liverpool, and then I shall use my tambourine when I dance for you.”

  “You may not dance in public, Henrietta. You are a lady.” His voice rumbled low in his chest. “Have I made myself clear?”

  “I shall dance only for you.”

  He choked or coughed, Henrietta was not certain which.

  When he recovered, his expression fell into a disapproving frown. “Did I give permission for you to move around the camp during daylight hours?”

  “Mila wanted me to be at the funeral for Jassy’s bear. He is grief stricken over Ike’s death.”

  Lucien nodded. “But now the funeral is over.”

  “Yes.”

  Without another word, he turned and stalked off.

  Dismayed, Henrietta whirled away. Until recently, she had believed Lucien enjoyed her company and conversation. But even though he denied it, he had been ignoring her of late. His insensitivity niggled at her muddled heart.

  ****

  By nightfall, Lucien could no longer ignore his illness. For two days he had carried on despite the fever and cough that claimed him. In vain, he’d attempted to will away whatever ailed him.

  He refused his evening meal and took to his bed. He felt on fire. His lungs ached from coughing and pain snaked its way through every muscle and bone in his body. Had he been stretched for days upon a medieval rack his body could feel no less tortured.

  Thrashing about made him no more comfortable. The only relief came when he fell asleep, but sleep came only in brief increments. Either the pain, the cough, or the fever woke him.

  Despite drinking copious amounts of water, his fever burned higher as the night wore on. He struggled out of his shirt, tossed it aside and collapsed into a restless sleep once more.

  In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the evening entertainment and worried that he was too weak to intervene if there should be trouble between the tribe and the villagers. And, he could not be certain Henrietta remained hidden.

  Lucien could barely lift his head. He was dizzy and nauseous, and suspected he might be dying. He prayed to live until Steffan returned. Although not an experienced leader, his younger brother was certainly capable of guiding the caravan safely to the north.

  Unable to hold a thought for long, Lucien drifted into an uneasy sleep again. When he next awoke, he could barely focus. But he heard whispered voices and made out two spectral-like figures moving around his tent; one wraith wore dark robes.

  Death had come for him.

  “Girlie, bathe his face, neck and chest with the wet rags.”
r />   “Mila, his chest is bare!”

  The old woman clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Have you not seen a man’s bare chest before?”

  “No.”

  The old healer scowled and pointed a gnarly finger. “Look well, then. Lucien’s chest is a prime specimen. You will likely not see a chest as manly again.”

  Henrietta stared and swallowed hard. “It is extremely wide ... and hairy.”

  Lucien emitted a raspy choking sound.

  “ ’Tis all muscle and man,” Mila muttered.

  “I can see that.” Henrietta desperately wanted to touch the muscle and man, to soothe him and make him well.

  From the moment a frightened Tern had come to fetch Mila, Henrietta had been numb with worry and apprehension. She had not expected the old woman to press her into service as nurse to Lucien, but was relieved to think she might help.

  Now, faced with a dreadfully ill king, she wondered what real help she could be. She had considered the handsome Gypsy King invincible. To see him suffer distressed her to the verge of tears. Her heart weighed as heavily in her chest as a sack of stones.

  “ ’Tis nothing to be afraid of, so get to work, girlie. We must cool down the fever.”

  “Cool? Do not physicians treat a fever with heat?”

  “Aye, which is why their patients die. Do as I say. And if he starts with the chills, throw your body over his.”

  “Throw my body over his?”

  “Have you gone deaf?” the old woman cried impatiently. “Lie on top of him.”

  “I do not believe—”

  “Your body heat will take his chills away, girlie. Or, would ye rather stand by and see him chilled to the marrow?”

  “No. No. But I thought blankets ...”

  “Bodies warm faster and better than blankets. If I could get atop, I would.”

  Lucien groaned.

  Henrietta knelt beside him. “You will be well soon, Lucien. Mila has brought all of her healing potions and powders for you.”

  He moaned again.

  “I shall stay by your side and nurse you. Although it is my first time in a sick room...” She stopped. In case he heard, she did not wish to unduly alarm him.

  For the first two days, Henrietta feared her patient might not recover. She moved through the days and nights fighting despair, searching for signs of improvement. A thick knot settled in her stomach. Unbidden tears would spring to her eyes as she held his hand through the long quiet night.

  When he seemed not to grow worse, her apprehension turned to determination. Lucien would live. She would see to it.

  Mila came and went, overseeing the care of her patient. Tern tended the fire, saw to the king’s personal needs, and kept the tent warm. But it was Henrietta who sat with Lucien day and night. She cooled his feverish body with soothing, wet compresses, and when he shuddered with chills, Henrietta did as she had been instructed. She carefully blanketed his body with hers.

  The first time felt awkward, and though he was a big man she worried her weight might hurt him. The second time, she relaxed a trifle. The third time, she enjoyed feeling the handsome king’s muscled body beneath her.

  She felt the heat of his fever, and the iron wall of his chest. As her breasts pressed against his chest, she was overcome by a heat of her own. When the chills had passed, Henrietta lingered, splaying her hands in the mat of his chest and marveling at the thickly corded power he possessed.

  Despite constant care, Lucien improved slowly. His fever lessened day by day and the chills that shook him from head to toe finally ceased. Henrietta no longer had an excuse to lie atop his magnificent body. She thought she would like to do it again, however, when he was well.

  Mila had administered many healing combinations: drops of white horehound mixed with honey, hawthorn berries to strengthen his heart, peppermint tea to calm his upset stomach. On the sixth day, after a thorough examination of the weak and listless Lucien, Mila issued brisk instructions. “Rub camphor on his chest.”

  Henrietta dropped her gaze to the sleeping Goliath’s massive chest. Her fingertips tingled. She looked at the old woman hovering at her side.

  “I think that is something you should do. I ... I am a virgin.”

  Mila threw back her head and cackled with glee. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “I do not believe a maiden should be rubbing a naked man.”

  “Would you let the king die on account of your silly notions?”

  “No, but Lucien grows stronger day by day.”

  “Do it,” Mila ordered as she waddled from the tent with all her bracelets jangling.

  Henrietta spread the camphor, lightly, her finger-tips warming to his touch. For a moment she thought she saw his eyelashes flutter, as if he might wake. When there was no further movement she continued.

  The curls on his chest narrowed to a crisp trail running down the center of his abdomen and disappearing beneath the blanket. Although often tempted to follow the trail, she never lifted the blanket. Only Tern and Mila did that.

  She studied his face. The stubble of beard had grown thicker. She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek.

  He opened his eyes.

  She pulled her hand away.

  He smiled, a weak, sweet smile. Quite unlike Lucien.

  Her heart melted like sugar held over a fading flame, its sweetness flowing though her.

  “You are going to be well, Lucien,” she whispered urgently. “You are gaining strength day by day.”

  “Because I have been nursed by an angel,” he whispered. He extended a hand toward her, but his eyes closed and his hand dropped to his side before reaching her.

  Did she dare kiss a king? Could she brush her lips against his cheek?

  A fit of coughing seized him. Henrietta lifted his shoulders easing him to an upright position. He sipped from the goblet of water she held for him, smiled weakly, and soon drifted back into sleep.

  Ten days later, Lucien managed to sit up by himself.

  “I can feed myself!” he barked.

  Oh yes, he was recovering nicely.

  Henrietta dismissed his crankiness as progress on the path to health. She patiently spoon-fed the irritable king, chicken broth and beef tea at first; when his stomach settled she served him porridge and hasty pudding.

  On the twelfth day a bout of coughing claimed him. Mila lowered her ear to his chest and listened. But as soon as his coughing abated, he ordered the women out. Loudly.

  “I cannot regain my strength if the two of you hover!”

  The old healer drew Henrietta aside. “He needs liquorice for that cough and we have none.”

  “Then I shall fetch some,” Henrietta declared. “Tell me where I may find it.”

  “An apothecary shop. ...” Her voice trailed off. “But you cannot go into town.”

  “I must. Everyone else is busy preparing for this evening’s entertainment.”

  “No. You have been forbidden—”

  “I can ride to town and be back before nightfall. Lucien will not even miss me.”

  Mila shook her head. “No. It is a risk ye cannot be taking, girlie.” She held a gnarly finger in the air. “Say no more.”

  “But—”

  “Not a word more.” Mila’s black eyes flashed a warning. “Go to the tent and get some rest. Ye are beginning to look worse than yer patient.”

  Henrietta started toward the tent, but diverted her route to take her to the pen and Lucien’s splendid mare, Ursa.

  As she rode toward Buckingham, Henrietta realized she was risking her future for Lucien. But had he not been doing the same for her? He might do well without the liquorice, but if it would help him, there was no question in her mind; he must have the medicinal root.

  Before entering the apothecary shop, she drew her shawl over her face. She looked more Gypsy than English lady. When she made her request to the skinny shopkeeper, she lowered her eyes.

  The bespectacled young man eyed her keenly. She coul
d not be certain whether she’d roused his curiosity because she was a Gypsy, or because he suspected her of being the missing Lady Henrietta Hadley.

  Chapter Seven

  He lived.

  Lucien dutifully sucked on a chunk of liquorice, though he doubted the root’s calming effects on his cough. Well on the road to recovery, he considered the best medicine he had received during his long illness was his beautiful nurse. Not only had she learned her lessons well, Henrietta’s bedside manner was far superior to Mila’s.

  Through his feverish haze, as one day slipped into another, he recognized the angel face hovering over him, chewing on her lip, frowning. In one hallucinatory moment, he thought she might have been a genuine angel, come down to earth to transport him.

  The brush of her fingers against his face felt tender and sweet. Henrietta possessed the touch of an angel as well as the face of one. The cold wet compresses she applied to his forehead, neck and then ever so gently on his chest did much to quench the fire burning within him.

  Several times during the first few days, when his fever ran high, Lucien had awakened in the middle of the night to find Henrietta asleep by his bed.

  He’d found her presence comforting. He would watch her sleep, listen to her soft, steady breathing as if it were a lullaby. His gaze would linger on the elegant curve of her cheekbone and drop to her sweet lips parted in slumber. Thus reassured, he drifted back into a healing sleep.

  When awake, her skill reassured him. Her cool hands soothed Lucien while she softly murmured encouragement.

  Days later, his body felt as if it had been battered beneath the hooves of a stampeding herd of horses. But he was on his feet, still weak. He slowly walked the interior of his tent, intent on regaining his strength. Like an old man on wobbly knees, he circled around and around.

  Concentrating on his steps, he started when the flap of his tent suddenly opened. He stopped in his tracks.

  “Lucien!”

  It was Henrietta, apparently in shock.

  “Good morning.” Smiling, he removed the liquorice from his mouth and immediately coughed.

  “Why are you not on your bed?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”