The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga)

by Thorne, Nicola

  Reyora the cohani was a great-granddaughter of Rebecca and she had learned many of her powers from her great-grandmother and assumed her mantle when Rebecca grew too old. She was the daughter of Rebecca’s grandson Spartus and she had married her first cousin Wester Buckland, the son of Rebecca’s granddaughter Zia.

  Everyone had known from her early childhood that Reyora had cohani powers like her great-grandmother. She had known so much about potions and spells and had saved a new-born baby from death merely by incantation. People came to fear Reyora because she could exercise her gifts both for good and ill; they took care not to cross her path.

  When Reyora married it was well known she had chosen Wester Buckland and that he wanted to marry someone else. He was even tomnani, betrothed, and then his beautiful bride-to-be, a big strong healthy girl, suddenly sickened for no apparent reason and died. Reyora had been asked to help her, but she would do nothing and even Rebecca, who was cohani until a very advanced age, would not interfere.

  Wester was terror-stricken when his tomnani died so young, so unexpectedly, and he immediately took Reyora for his bride, as she wished, however reluctantly. Reyora was not beautiful, not good-looking even by gypsy standards; but she was not ugly like many cohani – she was arresting, with her slanted eyes and the quiet determined way she had of moving like a bird of prey about to strike its victim. Reyora was now thirty-three.

  As soon as she entered the tent and looked at Analee Reyora knew she was not in love with Randal, that she had not wished to marry him and that she bore a grudge against him and his tribe. Reyora had four sons and no daughter which was a disappointment to her because she would have liked the cohani powers to have continued in her branch of the family. Try as she had to weave the right spell she had been unsuccessful in bringing a daughter to herself and Wester.

  After talking to Rebecca and greeting her relations and Randal, Reyora walked slowly over to Analee and smiled at her, the first person, the first woman to show her kindness apart from Rebecca, since she had come to the camp.

  ‘What is your name?’ Reyora said softly, seeing the fear and the despair in Analee’s eyes.

  ‘Analee.’

  ‘I am the cohani.’

  ‘I know.’

  Reyora smiled a mysterious smile, aware that her powers had been instantly recognized by someone who, Reyora sensed, had some cohani gifts herself.

  ‘I am called Reyora. Rebecca is my great-grandmother. Were you ever cohani, drabarni?’ she added casually.

  Analee shook her head.

  ‘Your Mother?’

  Analee’s eyes were veiled. She didn’t intend to reveal her past to anyone, let alone the cohani. But she knew the cohani could divine much that she couldn’t see. Analee felt already that Reyora knew all about her.

  ‘I have some cohani powers. I have been able sometimes to predict the future; but herbs, and spells ... no.’

  Reyora noticed that Analee lingered on the word ‘spells’. She knew Randal would be looking for a spell to make her love him.

  ‘I hope you will be happy with the tribe now you are among us,’ Reyora whispered, ‘and that you will count us among your friends. Even though you came unwillingly, and I know how unwillingly, we here are now your family to love and help you.’

  Analee didn’t reply, and Reyora could tell from the smouldering look in her dark eyes that she would do all she could to resist the love spells, all the magic, all the incantations that she could perform.

  From outside came the sound of the flute and, looking around, Analee saw that none of the musicians were present. They had gone to play at the wedding feast. Randal came up to her and, smiling at her, took her hand.

  ‘Will you dance at our wedding?’

  Analee stared at him, her gaze meeting his.

  ‘You have accepted,’ Randal murmured. ‘We are wed.’

  Analee tilted her head, her feet tapped time to the music, her body swayed and she allowed him to lead her out of the tent.

  Outside, the field had been transformed in a few hours into a spectacle of colour and gaiety. Streamers and banners had been hung from the tents and mats spread on the ground for the food. A pig was slowly being turned over a huge fire, its succulent smells reminding Analee that she had not eaten properly for a week. The hedgehogs were being wrapped in clay and laid in the red hot ashes under the slowly turning pig. On another spit a sheep was roasting and on yet another a young heifer. The smell of baking bread mingled with that of roasting meats, and cakes, sweetmeats and jellies were also being prepared.

  The young men had taken a cart into Carlisle and now came back with flagons of ale and some wine for the chiefs at the wedding. The children, half naked, were running about playing with their dogs or hoops and wrestling with one another in the grass.

  Looking at the scene Analee felt grow in her an approximation of happiness that she had not expected. Here she was with her own people, accepted into a tribe again, a member of the Buckland family. She belonged; she was Randal’s wife and related to Rebecca the phuri-dai, head of the tribe. She could, if she liked, settle to a life of ease bearing children for Randal and establishing herself as one of the matriarchs of the tribe, a power, a force.

  Unless she wanted to she need never go on the road again, wandering from town to town, eating berries, making out with men like Randal to sleep with, or being chased by others less pleasant like Brewster Driver. Yet, unlike the others who had been content with a night or two, Randal had wanted her forever. He had cared enough to take her by force, despite seeing her in the arms of a gadjo. Why, he might have killed them both on the spot. Analee’s eyes sidled to the face of her bridegroom who was now presenting her to the gathered tribe, who called out and clapped. He was a handsome man, no doubt; tall and well built despite the slight wiry frame of a dancer. There was a savagery in his eyes, a pride in his mien that she had not noticed before as he followed her about, trying to please her in order to gain her attention.

  Capturing a bride, taking her by force, had transformed Randal; given him stature. She thought if he had behaved like this before she might have been more interested; might have been indifferent to the advances of Brent Delamain. Now he firmly gripped her hand and led her into the circle made by the tribe and Benjy struck up a theme on his flute and Hamo on the violin and Selinda raised her tambourine into the air. At a signal Randal lifted his arms above his head and slowly circled his bride, his eyes flashing, his belly thrust forward in a primitive erotic gesture. For this was an ancient dance, the alborea, which had been brought all the way from Spain, a dance full of meaning and significance and much performed at weddings.

  As he circled her, his hips undulating, his fingers clicking and his chin tilted proudly and aggressively forwards, his eyes never leaving hers, Analee felt rising within her an unexpected surge of excitement, even of desire such as she had never dreamt she would feel about Randal.

  He was, after all, a good-looking man, a gypsy like herself, a Romany, a wanderer, above all a dancer – a superb, excellent dancer who understood the rhythms and cadences of the gypsy dances which they performed so well together. In time with the music Randal stopped suddenly and then Analee slowly began her part of the intricate courtship dance, first stepping slowly and deliberately, then raising her hands above her head, her breasts thrust forward, her hips swaying as she gently circled her partner. Their eyes never left each other’s and, as she revolved he turned on his axis and slowly smiles broke on their faces in mutual accord and their teeth gleamed. As though sensing that her hostility was breaking the crowd warmed to the magic of the dance and began to tap and clap and sway to the rhythm of the music.

  Then the pace of the dance increased, sweat pouring from Hamo’s brow as he frantically bowed the strings of the fiddle, his fingers appearing to have magical properties of their own. Analee and Randal were now stamping their feet together, their torsos almost touching, each with a hand nonchalantly on a hip, the other raised above the head, Analee clickin
g her castanets, Randal his fingers. Their bodies moved together and parted, their hips gyrated and, because it was a wedding dance, it seemed to anticipate the act of love intended to cement the ceremonial vows they had just made.

  But, as the rhythm increased and the blood pounded in their temples and their bodies grew fevered and hot it was instinct that spoke, not thought or words, not memory of violence committed or love lost.

  Randal and Analee danced until their feet were bleeding and their bodies ached. They danced while the bold sun sank low in the sky and the moon timidly appeared over the horizon, so that at one point night and day merged as their bodies fused in the dance. Then, at last, in front of one of the myriad fires they sank exhausted to the ground and ate pork and beef and the delicacies which were offered to them.

  For a long time after they were replete they sat staring into the flames, not speaking, watching the other dancers, the other musicians who had taken over, their own bodies limp with weariness.

  Then quietly and without being noticed, when the merriment was at its height, at a gesture from Randal they got up and silently stole away towards the tent that had been prepared for them.

  At dawn some gypsies were still dancing and feasting and fires still flared to meet the rays of the rising sun. Inside the nuptial tent Analee lay on her back aware of the light glimmering through the curtained entrance, of the man asleep beside her, of his heavy regular breathing.

  Randal had thrown himself on the palliasse prepared for both of them, too exhausted to stir or say a word, to make any attempt to take her. And Analee had lain throughout most of the night thinking, reviewing her life, trying to see into the future, trying to decide what would happen, what would be best for her to do.

  Randal was her husband now; he had captured her, but not won her. It would take a long time to win her heart; but her body he could have as many others had. As Brent Delamain had. But if she did see Brent again, ever, it would not be for a long long time. Analee meanwhile had her life to lead, a life difficult enough without moaning over the thoughts of a great love that might have been. Or might not. He had looked for her, yes, and wanted her, but so had many men. So did Randal. He had wanted her enough to capture her, make her his bride by force.

  As the sunlight filtered through the tent flap, Analee looked at his face, softened in the half light, dark with his beard, the hairs on his chest still matted with sweat. He looked very handsome as he slept, manly and virile, his dark hair tumbling over his brow. Suddenly he groaned and turned over so that he lay on his belly with his head facing hers. Looking at him she could see his eyes were wide open, staring at her, at the mound her breasts made, at the sweat trickling between them on to her own flat stomach. It was very hot inside the tent; they were both panting a little.

  Randal put a hand on her thigh which was exposed to him as she had moved back the coverlets because of the heat. She felt a tremor, but she did not resist him.

  As he raised himself, for a moment she saw his dark intense face, his brow glistening with sweat, leaning over her. His eyes were a strange colour, a reflection of herself, and then his mouth pressed hard down upon hers and she could feel his even white teeth against hers, and she bared her mouth with a savagery which equalled his. Then they began twisting and turning as though playing out once again the slow preparatory rhythm of the wedding dance.

  When they awoke it was because the curtain had parted to let in the light and old Rebecca stood there, a bowl in her hands, her old face cracked in a smile of satisfaction. Randal was still lying on Analee, his head resting on her breast, her legs crossed over his as though still to imprison him.

  The old woman gazed at the naked bodies covered with sweat, glistening, and she smelt the air with satisfaction. She still thought it was a wonderful sight to see two nubile, fertile bodies coupling, easy with replete desire. She had noticed the change in the dance, saw how well suited they were, and the sight in front of her pleased her the more.

  There would be no need of spells now.

  She put the bowl of scented herbal tea beside them and silently withdrew, closing the curtain behind her.

  Randal had seen the old woman and the satisfaction on her face, and gazed at the face of his half sleeping bride. Now she was his. He had taken her many times and he would again. And how well she received him! She was a fine creature, an earthbound human being and now his; his seed inside her, the mother-to-be of his children. He had conquered Analee as a stud conquers a fractious mare; he had tamed her and moulded her to his desire. She opened her eyes and saw his gaze, understood it, and his lips brushed hers.

  ‘Well?’ Randal said, the first words, almost, they had spoken since they had been married.

  Analee smiled lazily back.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We are wed then.’

  ‘Truly it seems. Well and truly.’ She glanced at their bodies and smiled.

  ‘I will be a good husband to you, Analee. I know I took you by force; but I felt there was no other way. I ...’ He looked uncertainly at Analee and she turned her gaze from his. ‘The gadjo,’ he said at last, his voice bitter.

  ‘I know. What you did was wrong.’

  ‘I was beside myself. To see you with him ... and I wanted you so much.’

  ‘I know. Don’t speak of it. It is finished and over. You captured me and I accepted it and now, well we are wed ... and we are right well bedded.’

  ‘Aye, thoroughly,’ Randal said with satisfaction, and he took her to himself again while outside the noon sun climbed higher and higher into the heavens.

  6

  In medieval times much of Lakeland belonged to the great monastic foundations established mainly in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. One of the greatest, founded in 1127 by Stephen, Count of Boulogne, nephew of the reigning monarch, Henry I, was Furness Abbey. Here in a sheltered valley overshadowed by steep cliffs of red sandstone and surrounded by green woods, the Cistercian foundation had for 400 years acquired and controlled lands and possessions that amounted almost to a kingdom. The Abbots were nearly as mighty as the marcher lords who wielded such power from the reign of William Rufus onwards.

  The Abbeys controlled wool and pastures, sheep and cattle and they built earthern dikes that wound across the moors and pasturelands as boundaries to show the limits of their properties. In 1209 the monks of Furness bought the greater part of Borrowdale from the heiress to the Barony of Allerdale, Alice de Rumelli. The boundaries of the property reached from the Head of Derwentwater to the Sty Head Pass. Most of this land was used for the grazing of sheep and cattle, but to the west the Forest of Copeland arose from the Buttermere fells and was kept as a deer reserve.

  Grange-in-Borrowdale was one of the chief monastic settlements of that beautiful valley. The name ‘grange’ meant a farm belonging to a monastery and from the Borrowdale settlement the monks ran their estate, ‘grangia nostra de Boroudale.’

  The monastic lands were broken up at the time of the Dissolution and parcelled among the local nobility or gentry. Some were acquired by right of tenure by the yeoman farmers – ‘statesmen’ as they were called, who formed the backbone of the population in northern England. But now in the first half of the eighteenth century a new class was developing, thanks to the opening of trade routes; new inventions that were improving industrial techniques and the prosperity brought about by years of peace under the first Hanoverians and their able Prime Minister, Robert Walpole. The rich yeoman farmer now might also dabble in business, become an ironmaster, a forgemaster or a dealer in wool. The pack-horses plied between the coastal ports of Cumberland and the hinter regions of Lakeland where the sturdy Herdwick sheep gave of their wool and the mines yielded their rich ores – iron, copper, lead, plumbago and tungsten.

  The Allonbys were part of the old nobility, part of the Lakeland heritage that went back to the Conquest, yet they had not acquired the new skills of making money by commerce. Maybe the intrinsic awareness of their class held them back; the knowledge o
f the statesmen they had sent to Parliament in London, the soldiers and sailors to the wars, the monks to the abbeys and the scholars to the universities.

  Several members of their family had been monks of the Cistercian Order at Furness and two of them abbots. Now, stripped of their lands and great possessions by successive monarchs and rulers bent on vengeance, all the Allonbys had left was their lovely house, Furness Grange, which stood on a tree-covered promontory jutting into Lake Derwentwater.

  The promontory was known as Catsclaw because it sprang out from the steep smooth slope of Catbells mountain which swept downwards to the lake. And indeed the jagged rocks and stones of the peninsula did resemble those of some massive predatory cat and the spiky coniferous trees its fur. Rising from the trees Furness Grange, largely an Elizabethan construction, was build of warm, pink sandstone – maybe quarried from the hills surrounding Furness Abbey or, at the Dissolution, the abbey itself – with black crossbeams and narrow mullioned windows.

  But the most spectacular thing about the Grange was its view of the lake and the surrounding fells and mountains covered with heather, bracken or green woods. Occasionally there were stark, grey, rocky crags whose sharp teeth rose unevenly above the lake like those of some monstrous giant.

  In the mornings when it was fine a mist rose from the still waters of the lake, and when it cleared the rosy tops of the hills and mountains could be seen in all directions from massive Skiddaw at one end to, at the other, towering Castle Crag which almost blocked the narrow opening known as the Jaws of Borrowdale. Opposite were the wooded precipice of Walla Crag and the sharp tongue of Friar Craig, above which the rough, rocky ridge of Glaramara could just be seen, topping the hills on the east side of Borrowdale.

  Every morning Brent Delamain, from his bed by the window on the first floor of the Grange, could look out on the peaceful scene. The hardy permanence of the rocky crags, the calm immutable serenity of the lake not only consoled him for his misfortune, but seemed to give him strength so that every day he felt a little better.