“ ‘I will look after her, I promise. She is asleep. Even the noise you have made has not awakened her.’
“I put my wife down against the pillows, saw her eyes close, and then I looked in the basket on the other side of the caravan where my child was sleeping. She was dead!”
The Marquis saw Saviya had been unable to move while the Voivode was speaking. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and the Marquis felt as if every nerve in his own body was tense for fear he should miss a word of what was being related.
The Voivode went on to say how he picked up his baby daughter in an agony of grief, and as he had done so he wondered how he could tell his wife.
Already she was almost mentally unhinged by the dangers of the voyage and her anxiety over her child.
“I knew then,” the Voivode went on, “that Fate had brought me the answer. I returned to the Scottish woman.”
“You exchanged the babies!” the Marquis exclaimed.
“The woman changed their clothes,” the Voivode replied, “and as she did so she kept repeating how little difference there was between the two children. Both were small and rather under-sized. Both had dark hair.
“ ‘I told you my bairn looked like a Gypsy,’ she said, when I held the living child in my arms and my little dead daughter was in hers.”
“Your wife did not note the difference?” the Marquis asked.
“She was very ill for a long time,” the Voivode answered, “and because I thought it was wise we did not linger in Scotland, we set off south immediately.”
He drew in his breath as if he remembered how anxious he was to leave Scotland.
“Saviya—the new Saviya—never left my arms, and no-one in the tribe had any idea that she was not the same baby that had crossed the sea with us.
“By the time we were back in Europe, I had almost forgotten myself that there had ever been another child, and that it had died because I had been foolish enough to take my tribe to Scotland instead of remaining in Europe.”
“Then I am not your ... daughter!” Saviya murmured, and there was a little throb in her voice as she said it.
“Not of my blood,” the Voivode answered, “but you know that you have always held a part of my heart.”
Saviya’s face was very pale.
“I cannot... believe it!” she cried. “I cannot grasp the fact that I am not a ... Romany.”
“Now you understand,” the Voivode told her, “why I could never have allowed you to marry into the tribe. Our blood must remain pure, and even while to save my wife’s sanity and your life I adopted you, it would have been against my every instinct to allow you, a Gorgio, to marry one of us.”
“You still feel that about... me after all these ... years I have been with ... you?” Saviya asked.
“You know that it is the code by which we live,” the Voivode said simply.
The Marquis did not speak. He wanted to reassure Saviya, but at the same time he knew what a shock this had been to her, and at the moment he was an outsider.
She must grapple alone with something which concerned only herself, because it involved her whole past.
Now the Voivode in a different tone of voice, as if he now set aside past events, said:
“You wish to marry Saviya. Because I cannot insult my tribe by letting them know they have been deceived, I will ask you to marry her according to Gypsy law, and to make this possible I will, if you agree, make you my brother by the exchange of blood.”
“I have heard of such a ceremony,” the Marquis replied.
“It is not often performed and not universally acceptable,” the Voivode said. “But on this occasion, because I must not lose the respect and authority that is mine by right, I shall present you to the tribe. Afterwards you will be married.”
He glanced at Saviya with a little smile on his lips before he added:
“Before a wedding there are of course preparations to be made. Go now, My Lord, and return a little later in the day.”
“I know it is traditional,” the Marquis said slowly, “for the bridegroom not only to give a gift of money to the parents of the bride, but also to contribute to the feast that follows the ceremony. I trust that you will allow me to do both?”
“It is allowed!” the Voivode said with an inclination of his head.
“Then may I suggest that two or three of your tribe wait at the edge of the wood. This will make it possible for my servants to find you,” the Marquis said. “And may I also ask that at the time appointed for my return I have an escort. I had great difficulty in finding you.”
“It shall be done,” the Voivode agreed. “And now while I speak to my people, you may have two minutes speech with Saviya. But not more. It offends our custom!”
He walked away as he spoke and Saviya rose to her feet.
“I cannot ... believe what my ... Father has told us,” she said miserably. “I am a Gypsy! I have always been a Gypsy!”
“I think we both know that he was speaking the truth,” the Marquis said in his deep voice.
He looked down at her white, unhappy face and said very gently:
“Do not be afraid, my darling. Everything will work out for the best! The only thing that really matters is that we have each other.”
“Do you still want ... me?” she whispered with a little catch in her throat.
“Need you really ask me that question?” the Marquis enquired. She looked into his eyes. It seemed for a moment as though they were close against each other and he held her in his arms.
“I love you!” he said softly. “Remember nothing else except that I love you and tonight you will be my wife.”
He raised her hands to his lips, then walked to where his horse was being held by a Gypsy boy. He mounted it.
As he rode away he heard the Voivode calling his people round him, and knew that he was going to tell them that tonight Saviya would marry a Gorgio.
It was nearly six o’clock when the Marquis drove across the Park in his Phaeton.
The Gypsies had shown him a quick way from the camp to where the cart-track made by the Foresters ran into the wood.
The Marquis was dressed as elegantly as if he was about to attend a Reception at Carlton House.
His cravat, intricately tied by Hobley, was snowy white against his chin and a jewelled fob hung from his waist-coat over pantaloons the colour of pale champagne.
He had been extremely busy since he had left the camp in the morning, writing numerous notes which he had dispatched to London by grooms.
One of them was to Charles Collington to tell him that Jethro was dead.
He was well aware that his friend Charles must have been desperately perturbed all the time he had been missing, and he knew that if anyone would be glad to think Jethro no longer threatened him it would be Charles.
There were several other letters the Marquis found urgent. Then he went to the Library to find The Reverend and have a long conversation with him.
He sent to the Gypsy camp an enormous amount of food and several cases of champagne, although he could not help thinking that the Gypsies would prefer the rich red wine to which they were accustomed.
It was with a feeling of almost indescribable happiness that the Marquis drove towards the woods.
He was no longer overshadowed by the problems that lay ahead. He was no longer apprehensive about what the future might hold. All he could think of was Saviya: her beauty, her softness, her sweetness, and her love.
He knew that while many women had loved him in their own way, what they had felt for him had never been the same as the mystical wonder that he saw in Saviya’s eyes, or felt in the trembling of her lips when he kissed her.
‘I will make her happy!’ he told himself.
Then as he reached the shadow of the trees he saw the Gypsies waiting for him.
They were two young men, dark-haired, eloquent-eyed, finely-built and as beautiful in their own way as any Greek god.
They were dressed in a very d
ifferent manner from the nondescript clothing they were wearing when the Marquis had entered the camp that morning.
Now there were red sashes around their waists and round their heads. There were ear-rings hanging from their ears, and the jewelled hilts of long knives were gleaming in their waistbands.
They led the Marquis’s Phaeton a little way into the wood and then invited him to alight.
He knew that they wished him to go the rest of the way on foot so that his groom sitting on the back of the Phaeton could take the horses home and would not therefore be a spectator of anything that was to happen.
The Marquis gave the order. The horses were turned and were driven back the way they had come.
Then, with a Gypsy on either side of him, he walked on through the trees to the camp.
There was a huge fire blazing in the centre of it, and the caravans were drawn round it in a circle, with the exception of Saviya’s which stood a little apart from the rest.
This the Marquis saw with a quick glance was decorated with flowers and greenery.
The Gypsies were clustered round the Voivode. He looked even more magnificent in a coat ornamented with gold buttons and a necklace which flashed with jewels. He held his staff in his hand and beside him stood Saviya.
She was wearing a dress not unlike the one in which she had danced for Sir Algernon, but now her head-dress was more like a crown and glittered with jewels set in gold.
There were gems around her neck and at her wrists, and her skirt was richly embroidered. There were coloured ribbons falling on either side of her face almost in the semblance of a veil.
Slowly, the Marquis advanced towards the Voivode while Saviya looked down only at the ground, her head bent.
Earlier in the day the Marquis had sent, as he knew was correct, a small casket filled with gold coins, and he saw that it now stood on a small table behind the Voivode.
As he reached the Voivode the Gypsy cried in a loud voice: “You have asked that you should marry my daughter who is one of this tribe and a Romany.”
“I have requested your permission to do so,” the Marquis replied, feeling that was the answer that was expected of him.
“I cannot give my only child to a Gorgio,” the Voivode went on, “but are you prepared to become one of us—to become in fact my brother, because my blood is your blood and your blood is mine.”
“I should be honoured,” the Marquis answered.
The Voivode obviously repeated in Romany what had been said. Then taking the Marquis’s hand in his, he made a small incision on his wrist with a jewelled knife.
When there was a mark of blood, he cut his own, then pressed his wrist against the Marquis’s and their blood intermingled.
As he did so the Voivode proclaimed the new relationship between them, saying it was the Marquis’s duty to live from then on in accordance with Gypsy Law.
When he had finished, Saviya came nearer, and now she and the Marquis stood facing the Voivode, the Marquis on the right, Saviya on the left, holding hands.
The Voivode spoke some words in Romany and one of the tribe came forward to hand him a bunch of twigs.
“These twigs,” the Voivode said to the Marquis, “come from seven different kinds of trees.”
Then reverting to Romany, he made an incantation as he snapped the twigs one by one and threw them to the winds.
“This is the meaning of the marriage bond,” he said to the Marquis and Saviya, “and it is wrong to break your pledge to one another until either of you have died.
“As man and wife,” he went on, “you will have to give and to share. Go Saviya, and fetch bread, salt and water.”
Saviya left the Marquis’s side and brought back from her caravan a basket with a loaf of bread in it, a small bag of sea salt and an earthenware jar filled with water.
She put down the bread and salt on the table beside the Voivode and, lifting up the earthenware jar, invited the Marquis to drink.
When he had drunk she too drank from the earthenware jar and the Voivode took it from them and smashed it at their feet.
“As many pieces as there are there,” he said, “will be the years of your happiness together. Keep one piece each. Preserve it carefully and only if you lose it will misery and loneliness come upon you.”
“I will never lose mine, my darling,” the Marquis said in a low voice to Saviya.
She looked up at him and he saw there was an expression of ecstasy in her face.
The Voivode again picked up his jewelled knife and took the Marquis’s right hand in his. Saviya held out her left hand.
He cut both their wrists just enough so they should bleed, then he held their wrists together so that their blood would mingle and bound them with a silk cord making three knots in it.
“One knot is for constancy,” he said, “the second for fertility, and the third for long life.”
Then the Voivode cut two pieces of bread from the loaf, sprinkled a little salt on them and handed them to the Marquis and Saviya.
They ate them and when they had done so, the Voivode undid the silk cord which had held their wrists together.
“Keep the cords,” he said. “They will remind you that you are tied to each other for all time and you can never be divided.”
As he finished speaking, the Gypsies, who had been standing around in silence listening, gave a loud cheer.
Even as their voices rang out the music started—gay, wild music from the violins and the instruments which the Marquis had heard played while Saviya danced.
The Voivode led the bridal couple to the fire where there were a number of cushions and rug-covered seats.
The men all sat down but the women busied themselves with bringing on the feast.
Whatever the Marquis had sent from the house was very different from what they ate. There were stews so delicious he thought it was a pity he could not ask his Chef to taste them.
There were strange sweet-meats of Russian or Persian origin, of which he knew the main ingredients were honey and nuts, and the wine that he had sent was served in goblets which made him stare in astonishment.
“We fashioned these ourselves,” the Voivode said as he handed the Marquis a goblet of gold set with semi-precious stones— amethysts, turquoises and cornelians.
There were others ornamented with pink quartz and rock crystal which could be found in the mountains of Russia and the Balkan countries.
“Is it safe to travel with such valuable objects?” the Marquis asked.
The Voivode laughed.
“It would be a brave man who would attack the Gypsies, unless he had a number of soldiers with him!”
The Marquis, glancing at their jewelled-hilted knives, thought that in fact there was good reason for the Gypsies being left severely alone except by the Civil Authorities, backed by the Military.
They ate and drank and, while the men talked amongst themselves, the women said very little and the Marquis realised that Saviya too was silent.
He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
He felt her quiver but still she said nothing, and it was in fact difficult to talk because the Gypsies were singing.
Their voices, melodious and compelling, seemed to raise the tempo so that there was a vibration and excitement in the air.
It grew dark, the stars came out overhead and the moon was creeping up the sky.
The light from the flames of the bonfire, the music vibrating between the trees, the strange clear-cut features and high cheekbones of those who sang, made a picture that the Marquis thought he would never forget.
Finally the women began to dance.
They were not as graceful or as ethereal as Saviya, but still they were amazingly proficient by any standard.
The Marquis realised that their dances were mostly Russian. Sometimes they were slow, sensuous and as lovely as swans moving over the smooth silvery water of a lake.
At other times they were wildly exhilarating, so that once again he fou
nd his heart beating quicker and a strange excitement making him feel as though he danced with them himself.
The music grew wilder, the voices louder, the violins seemed to be a part of the night itself. Then the Voivode rose to his feet
“You go now,” he said to the Marquis.
Saviya put out her arms towards him.
“Shall I ever see you again?” the Marquis heard her whisper.
“It is unlikely,” the Voivode answered in English, “but you will be in my thoughts and in my heart, as you have always been.”
He held Saviya close to him for one moment. Then he released her, taking her arms from round his neck and gave her hand to the Marquis.
“She is yours,” he said. “Keep her safe.”
“I will do that,” the Marquis said.
The two men shook hands. Saviya led the Marquis to her caravan.
There were two white horses to draw it, and he climbed up and sat beside her on the front seat. But there were no reins: the horses were led by the Gypsies.
The men playing the violins went ahead and they were followed by the women carrying what looked to the Marquis like bundles and baskets.
The caravan followed and, just as they turned out of sight amongst the trees, the Marquis looked back to see the Voivode standing alone by the fire in the deserted camp.
He leant on his staff and looked very distinguished and at the same time lonely—a King of a very small community, but nevertheless—a King!
The procession wended its way through the trees where it was too dark for the Marquis to see the way. Then finally they came to a stand-still.
The horses were taken from the shafts and, still sitting in the front of the caravan, the Marquis and Saviya watched the women light a small fire.
Those who were carrying the bundles laid them down on the ground beneath the leafy branches of a tree, just out of reach of the heat from the flames.
They laid rugs over the bundles and scattered the flower petals which filled their baskets. They were in every hue of red, pink, white, orange, yellow, and mauve.
Then the Gypsy women danced around the fire, at first slowly and then their movements growing wilder, and more ecstatic.
In the light of the flames their figures had a strange primitive beauty until, to the music of the violins, they moved away into the wood.
Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) Page 15
