The Enchantress
1744 – 1746
(Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)
Nicola Thorne
Publishing history
First published in Great Britain in paperback in 1979 by Futura Publications Ltd under the pseudonym Katherine Yorke and in the United States in the same year by Pocket Books under the same pseudonym. Also in Italy in 1980 by Mondadori under the same pseudonym and with the title Zingara.
Published in hardback in 1986 by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd by arrangement with Granada Publishing Ltd under the pseudonym of Nicola Thorne in a compendium volume taking in the two sequels (Falcon Gold and Lady of the Lakes) in what was called The Enchantress Saga.
Katherine Yorke and Nicola Thorne are two of the pseudonyms of Rosemary Ellerbeck
Copyright ©1979, 1980, 1986, 2013 by Nicola Thorne
This E book edition revised by the author in 2013
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Thorne, Nicola
The enchantress saga Rn: Rosemary Ellerbeck I. Title
823’914[F] PR6070. H689
ISBN 1-85018-056-3
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publishers.
Cover painting by Nigel Chamberlain
Design by Ruth Wrixton
Author website: www.nicolathorne.com
E book preparation Witley Press Ltd, Hunstanton, PE36 6AD
For Geraldine Watkins With love
About the Author
Nicola Thorne was born in South Africa and, after a spell in New Zealand with her Mother who was born in Wellington, came to England as a child where her parents finally separated. She spent her youth in the North of England, where she was educated first at a convent school and then a co-educational school. After completing her education at the London School of Economics she then spent most of her adult life in London. She has made a long career as a writer and is the author of over fifty novels. For a number of years Nicola has been among the top most borrowed authors from public libraries in the UK (PLR statistics) and many of her books have been published in foreign languages apart from English. After fifteen years spent in Dorset, she now lives in Devon.
By the same author
Return to Wuthering Heights (also e-book)
A Woman Like Us (also e-book)
The Perfect Wife and Mother (also e-book)
The Daughters of the House (also e-book)
Where the Rivers Meet (also e-book)
Affairs of Love (also e-book)
The Enchantress Saga ( also e -book)
Pride of Place
Bird of Passage
Champagne
Champagne Gold
A Wind in Summer
Silk, a novel
Profit and Loss
Trophy Wife
Repossession, a novel of psychic suspense (also e-book)
Worlds Apart
Old Money
Rules of Engagement
The Good Samaritan
Class Reunion
My Name is Martha Brown (also e-book)
In Search of Martha Brown (non-fiction)
A Friend of the Family
Coppitts Green (also e-book)
The Little Flowers (also e-book)
Rose, Rose, Where are You? (also e-book)
On a Day Like Today
The Holly Tree
The Pride of the School (e-book only)
After the Rain (also e –book)
The Askham Chronicles, 1898-1967:
Never Such Innocence
Yesterday’s Promises
Bright Morning
A Place in the Sun
The People of this Parish series:
The People of this Parish
The Rector’s Daughter
In This Quiet Earth
Past Love
A Time of Hope
In Time of War
The Broken Bough Saga:
The Broken Bough (also e-book)
The Blackbird’s Song (also e-book)
The Water’s Edge (also e-book)
Oh Happy Day! (also e-book)
Foreword
The story of Analee the gypsy who becomes a marchioness, an intimate of the Royal families of France and England originally appeared as three separate novels in paperback and was then cut and reissued in hardback as one novel under the title of The Enchantress Saga. Even then it came to nearly 1000 pages so I have decided to reissue them as separate e books again under their original titles The Enchantress, Falcon Gold and Lady of the Lakes.
It is not very profound but it is, I think, full of fun, adventure, intrigue. It is what Graham Greene once referred to some of his books as ‘entertainment’, to divide them from his more serious novels. However, because I have a passion for historical accuracy, I always try my very best to ensure that the historical people and occasions presented in my books are as accurate as I can make them and did a vast amount of research into gypsy customs and lore and the history of The ‘45 rebellion and Bonnie Prince Charlie, life at the French and English courts. Thus in addition to a host of fictional characters we also meet Bonnie Prince Charlie, Louis XV and the Pompadour, George II of England, various members of his court and the sad Princess of Wales, Augusta, whose husband’s death deprived her of the chance of ever becoming Queen of England.
Author’s Note
In the eighteenth century, when this book is set, many places in what we now call the English Lake District had different names, or the spelling was different. I have used modern names throughout so that the areas in which the action takes place may be more familiar to the modern reader.
In the spelling of the various gypsy words I have used the translation by Charles Duff of Jean-Paul Clebert’s classic book The Gypsies (London 1963). I am also indebted to this book as well as E. B. Trigg’s Gypsy Demons and Divinities (London, 1975) for much of my information about the gypsy people.
I consulted many books on the English Lake District and the Rebellion of 1745, but I am especially grateful to David Daiches whose Charles Edward Stewart: the life and times of Bonnie Prince Charlie (London, 1973) was constantly by my side.
Book 1 The Enchantress
Synopsis
Where she came from no one knew. Few cared. The men saw the pride, the grace, and the fierce defiance in her eyes. The women pitied her fatigue, the ragged clothes, and her loneliness. None guessed the tragic past from which she was fleeing, or foresaw the strange future that was her destiny. Analee however was no ordinary gypsy, her past as mysterious as the effect she had on all who came into contact with her be they men or woman. Was she a witch, a sorceress, perhaps an enchantress, a weaver of spells?
During that violent summer, among the mountains and lakes of Cumbria, three men would be enslaved by her presence and awesome beauty: The first was rebel aristocrat Brent Delamain. The second, the dark gypsy Randal Buckland. The third, the man all men knew and feared as ‘The Falcon ...’ a colonel in the Hanoverian Army which would eliminate forever the claims of the Stuarts to the throne of England.
This is the first novel in a dazzing family saga a full blooded tale of passion and adventure set during Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion of 1745.
1
Where she came from no one knew; no one asked; few cared. In the huge roving community of drovers, pedlars, tinkers, whores, gypsies, pick-pockets, horse thieves and honest traders that descended on the Cumbrian town of Appleby for the June
Fair in the year 1744 she was scarcely noticed.
But some there were who did notice her and ask themselves questions. The men who followed her progress through the town – surreptitiously, if their wives were watching, or with open admiration if they were not – could not help but appreciate her beauty beneath the pallor; the graceful dignity with which she walked, even though her feet were bare; the proud tilt of her head, the fierce defiance in the eyes of one who has learned to protect herself.
The women, those who noticed her, pitied her for her air of extreme weariness, her slow tired pace, the sloped shoulders, the tattered clothes she wore and the picture of poverty and loneliness that she presented.
Everyone came to the June Fair in Appleby; everyone that is who had to do with horses, cattle, sheep or chickens or who had farm produce or home-made goods to sell. Those who wanted to buy or exchange came, and those who wanted to hire servants or be themselves hired for the farms or great houses. They came in vast numbers from across the border with Scotland; they came from all parts of Cumberland and Westmorland; some even came from as far south as Preston or as far east as York.
But few came from the real south. It was a long way. Even by horse or carriage it was a journey of many days. On foot it would take weeks. And those who did notice or speak to the girl agreed on one thing: she came from the south; she was not one of them. But she said few words as she walked with her bundle in her hand, stopping occasionally to admire some glass beads or metal jewel work displayed on many of the stalls in the market place, her fine eyes glinting as though in imagination she could see herself adorned in such finery. Or her fingers would tentatively feel the satins and silks, the brocades and soft cloth, her face alight at the vision of herself such richness conjured up.
But no one tried to sell her anything because it was so obvious she could not pay; and the men smiled and winked at her or made some coarse gesture, or promised her a bauble or a yard of cloth for a certain favour she might give them, while the women told her to be off so that she should not spoil the view of those who could afford to buy.
Finally, as though instinctively seeking home, she came to the tents that stood a little apart from the town where the gypsy folk set up their camp ... those wanderers of the road who spent the year going from one fair to the next. The tents and carts clustered around smoking fires, and in the late afternoon the enticing odour of wood smoke and roasting meat filled the air.
The town of Appleby lay in the broad valley between the range of Pennine mountains in the east and the hills of Lakeland to the west. She had followed the jagged line of the Pennines in her journey north knowing that they led from Derbyshire to the Cheviot Hills that formed the border with Scotland; that they would lead her away from all that she was fleeing from, the hateful memories and painful regrets of her past life.
Boroughgate, the steep main street of Appleby, led to the huge red stone castle built in the time of the Normans. At the bottom a bridge crossed the river Eden and, asking her way, the girl had trudged wearily up the bank towards the gypsies’ field. Ahead of her, almost obscured in the hazy mist of late afternoon, were the Pennines which had guided her and knowing they were still near, in sight, comforted her. They seemed to offer both a consolation and a way of escape if she needed it. But now she was hungry and tired and at last she stopped by a fire on which stood a huge iron cauldron, and her nostrils twitched as though she were already eating the savoury fare.
‘Eh the lass is hungry, give her sommat t’eat.’
The family sitting round the fire, huge bowls on their laps, looked up at the words of the speaker, first at him and then at the hungry girl.
‘Wilt eat lass?’ the big man said, moving up as though to make a place for her.
The girl smiled with the timorousness of one who is not frequently offered kindness.
‘Aye, if it pleases you.’
‘Margaret, give her a bowl and some of this good stew. Lass sit thee down.’
Everyone wriggled to make way for her and crossly the woman got up and ladled into the bowl a measure of stew, muttering bad-temperedly to herself.
‘More, Margaret, more,’ the man said authoritatively. ‘This one looks as though she’s not eaten for days.’
Yes, she was very thin, he noticed, and hollow-eyed as though she hadn’t slept much either; but the meagreness of her clothes seemed to emphasize the contours of her young body, the firm swell of her fine breasts. His eyes gleamed appreciatively – for Brewster Driver was not primarily an altruist and it is doubtful whether a less well endowed girl would have been offered as much as a bone.
The girl saw his expression – it was one she often saw in men – but she was not in a position to make conditions so she sat down next to him, smiling her thanks.
‘You’re very kind, very kind,’ she said, taking the bowl from the woman and hungrily stuffing great chunks of mutton into her mouth. The man watched her.
‘And from the south I reckon?’
‘Aye,’ between mouthfuls.
‘’Tis a long journey.’
‘A very long one.’
The man continued to look at her and saw how she wolfed her food and didn’t stop eating until it was all gone. Then she wiped the bowl clean with her fingers and licked them carefully one by one. Brewster Driver laughed.
‘Give her some more Margaret, she’s famished!’
‘Nay,’ the girl said quickly. ‘I’ve had enough, thank you.’
She could see that the careworn wife was not best pleased at having to feed a stranger with scarce victuals, and she knew how women disliked her anyway, particularly when the lecherous look in their husbands’ eyes was clear for anyone to see.
‘Now some ale,’ Brewster said. ‘Alan, give her some porter.’
A tall youth, like the man in looks only beardless, got up and poured ale from an earthenware jug into a pot which he handed to the girl as reluctantly as his Mother had ladled the food. ‘Thirsty too, I see,’ Brewster said.
‘Yes,’ she wiped her mouth on her arm and handed back the pot. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’
The girl glanced round at the faces gazing at her sullenly. She had the picture quite clear in her mind; it was so familiar. The lecherous, ill-tempered, heavy drinking father who burdened his wife with too many children and never made enough money to feed them. They all resented her; the children because she had eaten some of their food and the wife because she knew that all he wanted was to bed her.
Brewster got up, a huge man in shirt and breeches, the latter secured at the waist by a broad leather belt. From his pocket he drew a long clay pipe into which he carefully pressed tobacco from a leather pouch which hung on his belt. He lit the pipe with a spill taken from the fire and gazed thoughtfully at the girl through the smoke issuing from his mouth.
‘How do they call thee lass?’
‘I am called Analee.’
‘Gypsy stock, like us?’
‘Aye.’
‘Not that I’d have thought otherwise with thy dark hair and black eyes ...’
Margaret, thin faced and haggard of body, made an exclamation of annoyance and got to her feet clattering the dishes. ‘Black eyes indeed!’ she muttered.
‘Now Margaret,’ roared Brewster in a voice that instantly cowed his wife. ‘Let us have none of thy jealous spite. This girl is young enough to be my daughter. See here Analee,’ he pointed proudly around the fire, there you see my fine sons Alan, Roger and John and my daughter Nelly who will be about your age, eighteen she is; and my Jane who is thirteen, and the little ones playing over yonder, Peter, Agnes and Toby. Driver’s the name.’
He gazed fondly at his brood, momentarily the family man pleased with his achievement.
‘You’re very kind, Mr Driver, to share your food ...’
‘And wi’ so many mouths to feed an’ all,’ grumbled Margaret; but Analee thought, or imagined, that the young-old face of the wife had grown softer, the voice less harsh. Maybe she resented at firs
t the generous impulses of her husband, or the reason for them, but relented after a while.
Analee, invigorated by the rest and the food, got agilely to her feet.
‘I must go ...’
‘Whither lass?’ Brewster’s eyes were speculative. Analee avoided them.
‘I must go on, from one place to the next.’
‘And how dost live?’
‘By a little of this, a little of that,’ she replied flinging back her head and gazing at him with that look which was meant to be defiance, but which men found so attractive. ‘On kindness such as yours in the big towns, from berries and nuts in the woods through which I pass; from the clear water in the streams. And then when I can I work. I can gut a rabbit or hare, aye and trap them too, wring a chicken’s neck or spear a fish. I can cook them, and also clean and scrub and make baskets of wicker, I can ...’
‘Cans’t ride a horse?’
‘Aye, very well. I was brought up on the back of a horse.’ Brewster’s eyes glinted.
‘Maybe I can give you some work.’
‘Here?’
Analee had a familiar feeling as to what the work would entail, and yet his tone was businesslike.
‘Aye. Appleby is famous for its horse fair; everyone comes to buy and exchange. A few days work with food and a pallet on the floor. Eh?’ Brewster was looking at her hard, calloused feet; between the toes brown, congealed blood. ‘Not so much wear on your feet, maybe. What say?’
Analee followed his gaze and looked at her feet – as brown as leather and almost as hard from walking. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and gave a deep sigh.
‘But where are your horses?’
‘Ah,’ Brewster said with a cunning look, lowering his voice, ‘we have to find them.’
It was not the first night that Brent Delamain had kept watch by the side of his dying grandfather. Since he had been so hastily summoned home from Cambridge he had taken turns with his Mother, his sister and his elder brother to see the old man through the night.
The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) Page 1
