The Marquis, riding as quickly as he could, guided his horse through the tree-trunks until he came to the place in the wood where he himself had been hidden for three weeks.
With a sudden pang of dismay he realised the caravan was no longer there.
Saviya’s own special painted caravan, in which he had known a happiness that had never been his before, was not where he had left it that morning.
Then he told himself that if it had so recently been moved, there should be the marks of the wheels.
His eyes searched the ground but it was not easy. There was either moss on which no marks could be seen or low undergrowth through which the wheels of a cart could pass without leaving an impression.
Twisting and turning, straining his eyes for some clue which might lead him to Saviya, the Marquis had ridden for over half an hour before finally he came to an open space.
He knew immediately that this was where the camp must have been before Jethro had tried to kill him, and Saviya had saved his life. There were the remains of fires but they were only ashes.
It was not a camp-site that had just been vacated, but one on which the woodland flowers were already beginning to hide the fact that it had ever been used by human beings.
But here at last the Marquis had the clue! A wheel mark!
He could see that it would lead him deeper into the forest that stood on the south side of the Estate and was in parts almost impenetrable.
‘That is exactly where the Gypsies would have gone if they wished to hide,’ he told himself.
He found what appeared to be a bridle-path and knew it was just wide enough to allow a caravan to travel along it.
He followed it, all the time conscious that he must move quickly or Saviya might elude him forever.
He knew then with a pain that was both physical and mental that he could not lose her.
It was not only her beauty that attracted him. It was that she was in all truth the other part of himself.
He knew now why he had always felt lonely in his life and somehow apart from other people. He had not been a whole person—he had not been complete. It was Saviya who was the completion of himself as he was the completion of her.
‘I love you!’ he said in his heart. ‘Oh, my darling, do you not understand how much I love you? How could you do this to me?’
He rode on feeling at times almost frantic as the wood bewildered him, and he felt as if instead of advancing he was going round in circles and coming back to the place from which he had first started.
Then suddenly—so suddenly it was almost a shock—he found them!
There were eight caravans, most of them far larger and more elaborate than Saviya’s, and they were on the point, the Marquis knew, of moving off.
The horses were between the shafts, some of the Gypsies were already holding the reins in their hands, others were folding tents and stowing a number of objects away inside and beneath the caravans.
They were talking amongst themselves in their own language, until as the Marquis appeared there was a sudden silence.
He reined in his horse and a number of dark-skinned faces were turned towards him and suspicious black eyes regarded him questioningly.
They were an exceedingly good-looking collection of people, the Marquis appreciated, with their high cheek-bones, black eyes and dark hair. They were in fact more Russian-looking than any Gypsies he had seen in the past.
There were children with small, oval faces and large gazelle-like eyes, and several older women with red handkerchiefs over their heads and huge gold ear-rings dangling from their ears.
The Marquis moved his horse forward a little.
“I wish,” he said, “to speak to your Voivode.”
The man to whom he addressed his remark did not answer but merely pointed his hand to the far end of the clearing.
As the Marquis rode in the direction he saw a rather more elaborate caravan than the rest and standing in front of it, apparently unaware of his approach, was a tall man talking with Saviya.
The man saw him first and Saviya turned. The Marquis saw a sudden expression of radiant gladness on her face. Then it disappeared as if a cloud hid the sun.
The Marquis rode up to them and dismounted.
He found the Voivode was almost as tall as himself, and anyone would have known by his bearing and his clothes that he was a Chieftain.
His coat was blue and he wore very high boots. On his short jacket he had a large number of gold buttons and there was a heavy gold chain hung with pendants round his neck.
The Marquis had heard Saviya speak of the Voivode’s staff called bare esti robli rupui, which was the last remaining relic of a Kings sceptre.
It was made entirely of silver and the hilt, octagonal in shape, was adorned with a red tassel. The staff was engraved with the Semno, the authentic Sign of the Gypsies comprising the five ritual figures.
The Marquis held out his hand.
“I am the Marquis of Ruckley and you, I think, are Saviya’s father.”
“I have been expecting you,” the Voivode replied.
“And yet you were leaving?” the Marquis said sharply.
He looked at Saviya as he spoke and saw in her eyes raised to his a look of pleading as if she wanted him to understand why she had run away from him.
“What do you want with us?” the Voivode asked. “We are grateful for the hospitality of your woods. Now it is time for us to go.”
“I have come,” the Marquis said quietly, “to ask your permission to take your daughter, Saviya, as my wife.”
“You would marry her?”
There was no surprise in the Voivode’s voice. He merely looked at the Marquis as if he was seeking deep into his character and personality to find the answer to his question.
He had a dignity about him which made it not an impertinent act, but simply the summing up of one man by another without a question of class or caste.
“No!” Saviya said before her father could speak. “No, it is not ... possible!”
Her voice was passionate with intensity.
Then sharply, and in a voice of authority, the Voivode spoke to her in Romany.
The Marquis could not understand the words but the sense was very obvious.
He was rebuking her, telling her it was not her place to speak. Saviya bent her head.
“I am sorry, father,” she said in English.
“We will discuss this,” the Voivode said to the Marquis, “and Saviya, I wish you to hear what I have to say.”
He stepped past the Marquis as he spoke to address the tribe.
He obviously told them they would not be leaving for a little while; for the Gypsy men, who had been watching with undisguised curiosity the Marquis’s conversation with the Voivode, now turned away to unharness their horses.
The women began to re-kindle the fire in the centre of the clearing, which was practically extinguished.
The Voivode led the way to his caravan and Saviya brought a chair which she set down beside the steps.
The Voivode seated himself on the steps and Saviya sank down on the grass at his feet.
The Marquis tried to meet her eyes; to re-assure her; to tell her by a look if not by words not to be afraid.
But her head was still bowed after her father’s rebuke and her eyes were on the grass.
She looked very lovely but sadly forlorn, and the Marquis longed to put his arms around her and hold her close.
He knew she was unhappy. At the same time she had been unable to repress the sudden radiance in her eyes when she had first seen him riding towards them.
A Gypsy approached the Voivode and the Marquis was offered a glass of wine which he accepted.
It was red and a good quality. He supposed that the Gypsies must have brought it with them on their journey across Europe.
The horses were unharnessed and taken away from the caravan, and now that they were out of earshot of the other members of the tribe the Voivode said with a gra
ve voice: “You wish to marry Saviya?”
“I want her to be my wife,” the Marquis replied.
He saw a little quiver go through Saviya as he spoke, but still she did not raise her head.
“This is what I knew was Saviya’s destiny,” the Voivode said slowly.
The Marquis looked at him in considerable surprise. Such a reply was far from what he had expected.
The Voivode was a handsome man of about fifty. His face was very thin, his cheek-bones prominent, but he must, the Marquis thought, have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. Even then he would have had an air of authority about him; a man born to lead, perhaps to rule.
“Saviya will have explained to you,” the Voivode went on, “that the Kalderash are not only smiths but also have a knowledge of magic. It was this knowledge which guided me here.”
“You mean,” the Marquis asked, “that you knew by clairvoyance that Saviya would meet me and that we would fall in love with each other?”
“That is a simple way of putting it,” the Voivode agreed.
Although his English was good he spoke with a very pronounced accent.
“Then I have your permission?” the Marquis insisted.
“There is something I have to say to you first,” the Voivode said, “something which I intended to tell Saviya when she wished to marry.”
Saviya raised her head. The Marquis saw there was a look of surprise in her face.
“You do not know anything about our race,” the Voivode went on speaking to the Marquis, “but you must have learnt from Saviya that no Gypsy girl would ordinarily have been allowed to behave as she has behaved these past weeks; coming first to your house to read your books, and then being constantly in your company.”
“I did not understand it, father,” Saviya said.
“You were permitted such behaviour,” the Voivode explained, “because I knew that this, Saviya, was your only chance of finding yourself a husband—otherwise you would have remained un-wed!”
Saviya was puzzled.
“But why?”
“Because I could not have sanctioned your marriage to any member of our tribe or to any Romany,” the Voivode replied.
Saviya looked utterly bewildered. The Marquis with his eyes on the Voivode’s face was listening intently.
“I have a story to tell you,” the Voivode said.
It was obvious as he began to speak that he had a command of words which the Marquis would not have expected from a Gypsy, even a tribal Chief.
Perhaps it was his Hungarian blood which made him not only eloquent but able to speak with the culture of a man who had lived a very different life from the majority of Gypsies.
It was true also there was magic in the way he made the story seem so real.
Zindelo was the son of the Voivode of the Kalderash in Hungary, and their particular tribe was under the patronage of one of the great Hungarian nobles. Their music gave them a special prestige and they were widely respected.
They were rich; they were accepted as part of the community; and Zindelo was acknowledged one of the most attractive young men that could be found anywhere in the country.
Great ladies smiled on him, but he was exceedingly proud of his Romany blood and he would not seek love outside his tribe.
Nevertheless, at twenty-one he had not found any girl whom he wished to marry and had refused all suggestions from his father that he should settle down.
It was then the Hungarian nobleman, on whose ground they were encamped, was sent by the Tsar of Russia some dancers from St. Petersburg for his private theatre.
A great fete was arranged for their entertainment, and when they arrived Society from all over Hungary gathered to see them dance.
The majority of the dancers were from the Imperial Ballet, but the Tsar had included a number of Gypsy dancers and singers who were widely famed in Russia.
Among them was a young dancer called Tekla with whom young Zindelo fell in love the moment he saw her, and she with him.
They were married and she did not return to St. Petersburg. The tribe wandered around Hungary, Rumania and into Austria, for there was much that Zindelo, now the Voivode, wished to show his bride.
It was when they were in Germany and had suffered some minor attempts at persecution that Zindelo decided they should visit Britain.
They went to the coast and found a ship that was sailing for Aberdeen.
Some thirty of the tribe, mostly young and adventurous like Zindelo himself, decided they would like to visit Scotland and then trek south through England and back to the Continent.
It seemed a great adventure, but unfortunately the passage was very rough.
By this time Zindelo and Tekla had been married for nearly three years and a child born before they left Hungary had now reached the age of fifteen months.
Gypsy children are proverbially strong, but the baby Saviya sickened during the voyage, as did her mother.
The ship nearly foundered, and while Zindelo was exhilarated by the storm, he realised that his wife, never having been to sea before, was distraught not only by her own sea-sickness but with worry for her child.
By the time they reached Aberdeen, Tekla was in a state of collapse.
Highly-strung, her Russian blood made her more prone to melancholy and depression than the other women, and by the time they set foot on Scottish soil, he was desperately worried about his wife and his child.
The baby had refused to eat or drink during the whole of the voyage and was now emaciated and very weak.
Tekla was hysterical with anxiety and her own health had suffered to the point that she was running a fever.
They camped not far from the sea. The weather was cold but invigorating, and soon the other members of the tribe began to recover and take an interest in their surroundings.
There was plenty of wild game to be found on the moorland, and hot stews cooked over a peat fire soon had them laughing and singing again.
But Tekla grew worse and the baby weaker.
“I was sitting beside my tent one evening almost in despair,” the Voivode recounted, “when one of the tribe came to tell me that a woman wished to speak with me.
“She was standing under the darkness of the trees outside the light thrown by the fire.
“When I reached her I saw that she was elderly with strong features.
“ ‘There is something I wish to say to you,’ she told me, ‘but we must not be overheard.’
“We moved a little way into the shadow of the trees.
“What is it,” I enquired.
“I thought perhaps she wanted her fortune told. It is the usual reason for which women approach us Gypsies in whatever part of the world we travel.
“ ‘I have known Gypsies for many years,’ she said. ‘For all their faults they are kind to their children and good parents. I want you to take this child and bring her up as your own.’
“I had had many strange requests made to me, but this was extraordinary.
“I am sorry,” I replied, “we are Romanies. We do not want other people’s children and we do not steal them, despite the stories that are told about us.”
“ ‘If you do not take this child,’ the Scottish woman said, ‘it will die!’
“Why? What is wrong with it?’ I asked.
“ ‘There is someone who wishes to kill it!’
“I looked at her incredulously.
“ ‘It is the truth,’ she said, seeing the disbelief in my eyes. ‘This child belongs to a nobleman but the poor bairn’s mother died in child-birth and her father has married again.’
“She spoke with such sincerity,” the Voivode explained, “that I knew she was telling me the truth.
“ ‘And who wishes to kill the child?’ I enquired.
“ ‘The Master re-married. She was determined to get him almost before my poor mistress was cold in her grave,’ the Scottish woman said with venom in her voice. ‘And now she herself has had a premature baby. It is a
girl, and she is told she can have no more.’
“ ‘Is that such a tragedy?’ I asked jokingly, ‘the world is full of women as it is.’
“ ‘In Scotland,’ came the reply, ‘if there is no son, a daughter will inherit—the eldest daughter!’
“I began to see what the woman was trying to tell me.
“ ‘So you mean,’ I enquired almost incredulously, ‘your master’s new wife intends to kill this child so that her own can be their heir?’
“ ‘She will kill her, make no mistake of that,’ the Scotswoman replied. ‘This evening I found her in the Nursery with a pillow in her hands. If I had not come in at that moment, she would have suffocated this poor wee girlee in her cot.’
“ ‘It is sad—very sad,’ I commiserated, ‘but I am afraid I can do nothing. If I were to take the child of a Gorgio, people would say it was stolen. Can you imagine the hue and cry there would be?
“ ‘Please,’ the woman pleaded with me. ‘Please, save the bairn’s life. I would not have brought her to you had not somebody said to me only yesterday that she is dark enough to be a Gypsy. Take her away with you. Who will notice one more baby in your camp?’
“She pulled the child’s shawl away from its face as she spoke. I saw it was very small and had dark hair, thicker than was usual for a child of that age.
“I looked down at it, feeling sorry it must die, and knowing there was nothing I could do about it.
“Then I heard a sudden cry. It came from my tent.
“Turning, I ran away without a word, knowing it was my wife’s voice that called me.
“She was sitting up in bed and she was half delirious. I caught her in my arms.
“ ‘What is the matter? What has upset you?’ I asked.
“ ‘It was a ... dream!’ she cried. ‘I dreamt that Saviya was ... dead! Dead!’
“She seemed to scream the words, and holding her close I reached for a potion of soothing herbs that had been made for her earlier in the day by one of our women.
“She drank it and seemed immediately to grow a little quieter.
“ ‘It was only a foolish dream, Tekla,’ I said. ‘Go to sleep.’
“ ‘You will look after Saviya?’ she begged.
Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Page 14
