Gene of Isis mt-1

by Traci Harding

  With my hair braided back and the green velvet hood drawn over my head, I could easily pass for a man—albeit with a somewhat dated sense of fashion. Still, as a woman, I felt very bohemian.

  On the first night of our journey, the males of the clan were delighted that their women had decided to journey with the caravans toward Orleans to await the outcome of my meeting with de Guise. Subsequent to my speedy victory, we met up with the rest of the Charon clan en route back to the road to Paris.

  In the camp there was much rejoicing and the gypsies held a great feast in my honour that night—for we had provisions aplenty courtesy of the duke. I had the very great pleasure of being serenaded by Cingar, and he was masterful indeed; he played more passionate and heart-wrenching violin compositions than any famed composer I had been made aware of. In addition, Cingar was also one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen, with long unruly dark curls falling to his waist and a wee French-style beard and moustache. He had beautiful soft brown eyes, a tanned and vibrant face, and a body that was long, lean and fit from life on the road. I also loved all his jewellery—rings, ornate wristbands and charms on neck chains—but most of all I liked the large round earring attached to his left ear and indicated to any interested girl that he was still a single man.

  But not for long, Chavi had informed me. As Cingar’s grandmother—her husband, daughter and son-in-law being deceased—it was Chavi’s responsibility to choose a suitable wife for Cingar from among other Romany clans. This she had done and Chavi invited me to the wedding, which would take place en route to the sea. Cingar had yet to meet his bride and was more than a little apprehensive about doing so. Apparently, the band had been heading home to Italy for the happy event when Cingar had received the duke’s request to play at the court in Orleans. As Cingar was willing to do anything to avoid facing his marriage vows he had had the caravan sidetrack to Orleans, which had nearly proven fatal.

  Despite his engagement, in gratitude for his freedom the captain had pledged his undying devotion and service—for a gypsy, there was nothing on Earth that was valued more than liberty. Cingar said that he would make my feats legendary and dedicate to me everything he composed from this day forth.

  Of course, I was flattered, but there seemed little point to such devotion when I dared not even tell my gypsy friends my true name. ‘If you will see me swiftly and safely to the sea, then I shall be forever in your debt, captain.’ Cingar insisted it was not enough, and so we argued in merry spirits for most of the evening.

  In recognition of my service, an entire caravan had been vacated for me to inhabit. Not even Nanny was to share with me for she had taken up lodging with a family of three orphaned girls, aged between five years and fourteen, who were not prepared to relinquish her to my company for the night.

  I had not seen Nanny so well and filled with such vitality in many years, so I was not about to break four hearts and do away with the opportunity for privacy and quiet into the bargain! The arrangement suited me just fine.

  At dawn my consciousness was greeted by the sweet sound of Cingar’s violin and it stirred my heart fearfully. I had disciplined myself not to think about Devere and those precious few days we’d spent together, but the music was so emotive of love that I couldn’t help but recall those intimacies that now caused me pain and torment. ‘God damn that man,’ I muttered under my breath, my longing filling my eyes with tears. I surmised that my husband’s dread of his brotherhood’s wrath was the driving motivation behind his ardent pursuit of me.

  ‘I shall not mourn the loss of his favours,’ I lectured myself as I climbed out of bed to dress. I was convinced that that was all there was to it—I had never experienced sexual bliss with any man but Devere, so how did I know that such ecstasy could not be found with any man that tickled my fancy?

  I found myself dwelling on Cingar as I dressed and how enchanting he was. I held no delusions that he was in love with me, but certainly lust was in the air.

  That kind of thinking will land you in strife, Mrs Devere.

  Noting his emphasis on the Mrs Devere part of that statement, I looked to find Albray leaning against the closed doorway of my quarters.

  I forced a smile, not in any mood to be lectured. I wanted Devere out of my heart and Cingar was just the man to take care of it for me. And as the captain was to be married soon I would form no attachment. ‘I thought you said you were useless when it came to affairs of love?’

  I am, he insisted, which is how I can tell you’re heading for disaster.

  ‘No offence, dear friend, but I am not asking for your counsel in this matter.’ I finished strapping on my weapons belt and waited for my knight to move aside so that I might join the rest of the band for breakfast before they packed up for the journey south.

  Don’t love in haste, for spite, he appealed, moving out of my path. It will leave you bitter and remorseful, guaranteed.

  ‘Are you speaking from experience, Albray?’ I strongly suspected that he was.

  Yes, unfortunately.

  ‘Well, we all have to make mistakes,’ I told him and exited, to be greeted by Cingar who, I discovered, was playing for my benefit.

  ‘I shall thus stir your soul to wakefulness every day,’ Cingar vowed.

  ‘Every day until you are wed,’ Chavi added in warning, for she clearly saw how her grandson doted on me.

  When Chavi and Cingar began arguing rather fervently in a dialect I couldn’t understand, I left them to see Nanny about breakfast. FROM THE HONEYMOON JOURNAL OF LADY SUSAN DEVERE

  I must say that I am very, very annoyed with my friend, Ashlee Devere, for I feel that her latest stunt to elude her husband was nothing short of cruel!

  I can hardly believe our dear sister allowed us to think she was suffering in prison this last week when, in fact, she was probably halfway to Italy by now. Not only has she caused Mr Devere much distress and torment, but James and I have been worried out of our minds.

  We would still be commuting to the estate of the Duc de Guise every day to plead Ashlee’s case had Devere not found the opportunity to kiss the hand of the Duchess de Guise, whereby he learned the truth and was devastated by it. That Ashlee would go to such lengths to lose him weighed heavily on his heart.

  ‘I am beginning to wonder why I continue this pursuit. I shall never be able to win back her heart and trust.’ Mr Devere’s eyes turned to the rain beyond our carriage window; the sombre weather complemented his grave mood.

  ‘Of course you will.’

  I was surprised when Lord Devere beat me to reassure our brother.

  ‘All we have to do is get your dear wife to stand still long enough to hear your side of the story.’

  ‘I’ll never catch her.’ Mr Devere sounded so defeated. ‘She has a week’s head start.’

  ‘Our sister is travelling with a large caravan, and it is bound to move more slowly than we do,’ I reasoned. ‘And although no one in Italy will know who Ashlee is, I feel sure that Cingar Choron will be easy enough to track down.’ I reached across and placed a hand over my brother’s and squeezed it tight; I had never known anyone to be so cursed by love. I recalled Mr Devere retrieving Ashlee’s charm from the ground on the first day they’d met, and how she had warned him that he would be cursed for his politeness. ‘Don’t give up on her yet. If Ashlee is in as much danger as you suspect, then you’ll get an opportunity to prove where your allegiances truly lie.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Mr Devere took a deep breath and attempted a smile. ‘Thank you…both.’ He included James in the equation. ‘Your support through this has been invaluable, and very much appreciated.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Lord Devere insisted. ‘It has been a very interesting journey thus far, and no doubt more educational and stimulating than loitering about, and entertaining, at the Chateau de Vere for months.’

  Both Mr Devere and I were rather surprised by my husband’s change in attitude.

  ‘I’m rather glad I came along.’ My husband pulle
d out his paper and a cigar, and as content as can be, sat back to read. ‘This travelling business is a lot more character building than I gave it credit for. I’m beginning to see why the Grand Tour was so popular.’

  Since the Industrial Revolution, there was too much money to be made at home in England for young lords to indulge their lust for culture and travel.

  ‘I agree.’ I voiced my feelings on the matter. ‘It is fortunate that we have taken this opportunity to see some of the world now, before the House of Lords and family life consume all of our time.’

  I had to admit that I was relishing the adventure myself, and after Ashlee’s latest deception I would know better than to waste any of my enjoyment worrying about her welfare. FROM THE TRAVEL JOURNALS OF MRS ASHLEE DEVERE

  Travelling with gypsies had more advantages than I had originally imagined.

  They knew the towns to avoid en route, and always went around the cities where government checkpoints might give them trouble.

  Fortunately for me, Cingar’s people were well-established traders in southern France and Italy, holding papers of passage for every region through which we passed.

  The church had been trying to alter the nomadic lifestyle of the Rom and the other gypsy tribes of Europe for centuries. In some kingdoms, enslavement, imprisonment, deportation and having their children taken from them and placed in foster care, remained a very real threat; like the Chorons, many gypsy families had turned to trade to justify their nomadic lifestyle to the church and to be seen as benefiting society.

  In the towns they did stop at, Cingar knew all the officials by name and his offerings of rare spices, fabrics and jewellery from as far afield as Arabia Petrea were always well received. In return, the gypsies were granted free passage and a patch of ground on which to camp for an evening or two. There were also several coppersmiths among the men of the clan and their services were in demand wherever they went.

  In tiny villages, Cingar’s way with a violin was all the more appreciated—for master musicians did not usually visit these provincial venues. Many residents were not averse to having their fortunes told by the gypsy women either.

  My caravan accommodation was cleaner and more comfortable than any I could have obtained at inns along our way. Many English people believed a myth about gypsies—that they were a dirty people. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I had wondered, when I first arrived in the camp, why each family transported so many large washtubs. I soon found out that the upper body and the lower body were never washed in the same tub, nor with the same cloth. The same applied to clothes—upper body clothes in one tub and lower body clothes in another. This explained why gypsy women wore skirts and blouses as opposed to dresses. And, as if the above was not extreme enough, men and children washed with one set of tubs, and women with another. I suppose it goes without saying, then, that bedding and dishes could not be washed using the same tub!

  The weather never bothered these people: rain, wind or shine they were joyful just to be at liberty to wander—a sentiment which I shared completely. My beautiful horse felt the same, I believe, for he never tired of moving forward. Destiny had been a stabled horse all his life, and I suspect the constant stimulation was a great motivation for him. I very much enjoyed riding a horse male-fashion, and found I had far more stamina in the saddle this way.

  The captain had not wavered in his pursuit of my affections, despite warnings from his grandmother, and I must confess that by the time we reached the Gulfe du Lion I was seriously considering surrendering to his proposals.

  Late on the Sunday that marked a fortnight on the road, we made camp outside a coastal village on the outskirts of Marseilles.

  The caravan of gypsies never entered Italy via the Alps, as the freezing cold and snow would hinder their journey. It always proved faster, and gave them far less grief, to travel through lower France and take the coastal route via Nice.

  I had wandered away from camp to gaze upon the azure waters of the gulf and ease my stiff legs and rump, which were always numbed by the end of a day in the saddle. It was here that Chavi sought me out for a little chat.

  Not being the kind of woman to beat around the bush she came right out and demanded that I release her grandson from my enchantment.

  ‘I have not put a spell on the captain.’ I chuckled at her assumption, until I saw how grave the expression of the old gypsy woman was.

  ‘You have indeed,’ Chavi accused, ‘and well you know it! I am not speaking of a spell woven with a potion or a chant,’ she said to forestall my impending denial. ‘I speak of the charm that a heroine might have upon a humble male soul, awed by her deeds and strength of character.’

  ‘I note that you do not consider it might be the heroine who has been enchanted,’ I countered. What was the point of denying my attraction when she could see straight through me?

  ‘Cingar is not the man you truly love,’ Chavi pointed out, which shocked me slightly and angered me a little too. ‘And he never will be,’ she added firmly, knowing I was in doubt. ‘Just toying with my grandson’s emotions is placing the entire future of our family in great jeopardy.’

  Now I thought that she really was exaggerating and she knew it at once.

  ‘Let me tell you a little of our customs and then you may decide if I am delusional or not,’ she offered, and I agreed.

  It seemed that washing was not the only aspect of gypsy life that was subject to many taboos. For as Chavi spoke I fast came to realise that the little affair I had been contemplating so lightly could cause Cingar to be branded as marimè, which meant ‘unclean’, although the term carried so many more connotations than this for Chavi—dishonoured, set apart and contaminated, for example. For a gypsy man to be declared unclean was the greatest shame he could suffer and his entire household would suffer along with him, and so ruin his sister Rumer’s chances of making a good marriage.

  ‘It is social death.’ Chavi wrapped up her case. ‘Anything Cingar wears or touches would be contaminated, including his future wife and offspring, and their offspring and so on.’

  ‘You can stop there, Chavi,’ I assured her. I felt sick to the stomach when I considered the near-disaster my desire had caused. ‘I can see that there is precious little point to saving a man from prison to have him banished instead.’

  ‘You must reject Cingar firmly, as soon as possible, and free his heart to embrace other interests,’ Chavi instructed rather than asked.

  ‘Cingar’s friendship means a lot to me. How can I do this without hurting him?’ I had been doing a fair bit of flirting with him lately.

  ‘Simply tell him the truth,’ Chavi suggested, more sympathetic now that I had been safely diverted from her grandson. ‘Tell him that your heart belongs to another…this, he will understand.’

  ‘But the man of my heart is a traitor to the rest of me,’ I said, although aware that such a confession was not entirely truthful.

  Chavi took my hands and held them firmly as she briefly went into trance. ‘It is your own reasoning that betrays you, not your husband.’

  I gasped, for I had never once let slip that I was married having placed my wedding band with my valuables before I met up with the Charon clan. ‘But he lied,’ I protested, and yet I did not pull my hands from hers. I wanted her to prove me wrong about Devere.

  ‘The gravity of that lie hangs on other assumptions you have made, and expecting the worst of everyone involved. But what if you have misjudged some of these situations—then, truly, how grievous is the offence of your beloved?’

  I gasped at the shock that shot through my being at her words. The ‘what ifs’ of the past six months bombarded my brain all at once. What if Lord Hereford had died of natural causes? What if the real intent of this brotherhood was merely to protect me? What if the brothers’ prediction of Hereford’s death had come from prophecy, rather than murderous intent? Then they would have been warning Hereford against marrying me, rather than threatening him! What if Devere did lov
e me? Even in arranged marriages there could be great love.

  Chavi released my hands. ‘I know I can trust you to do the right thing.’

  I had to wonder if Chavi was polishing my husband’s image in my eyes in order to take my focus off Cingar. Still, she had given me plenty of other incentives not to entertain a romance with our dear captain. ‘I shall speak with him tonight.’

  Chavi smiled. ‘The goddess will bless you for your consideration.’ She left me to stew in my disappointment.

  Devere monopolised my thoughts following my talk with Chavi. I did not return to camp, but had taken a seat to watch the sunset, the gulf speckled with ships travelling to and from the nearby port.

  I was considering that it might be better for all involved if I just booked myself on a boat leaving Marseilles and cover the rest of the distance to Cairo by sea. I had never travelled by ship over a long distance before, and so I had hoped to keep that part of the voyage as short as possible. But with what I was obliged to tell Cingar, I imagined that our relationship might be a little awkward and travelling together more of a strain than it had been to date.

  The view was awe-inspiring and yet it could not lift the heaviness of my heart. As I considered that perhaps somehow Devere might be blameless in all this and that I could have harshly misjudged him, I wept. Then the memory that I had perceived from Devere’s mind the night I left him stopped the flow of tears.

  The man I had seen threaten Lord Hereford was standing over my husband saying, ‘Keep her safe, Devere. Learn about her, learn from her and keep me posted. If you can please this woman, you will become a very powerful man indeed. And, with any luck, you’ll have many, many adept offspring.’