Sons of an Ancient Glory

by BJ Hoff

  Never one to shun trouble, Tierney would have liked nothing more than to get to know Zia a great deal better. But he was no fool. Early in their friendship, Jan had explained the way of things with Gypsy women, warning Tierney that any man foolish enough not to heed the law of the Rom in this regard might very well end up with a knife in his back.

  Tierney had been surprised to learn that the Gypsies lived by a rigid code of laws, a code which apparently combined ancient decrees with strict morals and a confusing mix of customs—some religious, some distinctly pagan. For the women, the code required chastity and modesty. For the men, it occasioned a surprising lack of emphasis on sexual prowess and a serious, almost businesslike approach to marriage. Most marriages were arranged by the couple’s families. Infidelity brought a variety of harsh punishments, especially for women, for whom banishment from the tribe was not uncommon.

  While not exactly warning him to stay away from his sister in particular, Jan Martova had conveyed to Tierney the importance of keeping his distance from Gypsy girls in general.

  Still, he could not resist an occasional question about the alluring Zia. Glancing at Jan across the low burning campfire, he stretched to hand him the nearly empty wine bottle. “The last is yours,” he said magnanimously, feeling the effects of the wine and the heat from the fire.

  Jan smiled and shook his head. “Thank you, but I have had enough.”

  Tierney shrugged and casually drained the rest of the bottle. “What were you talking about, last time I was here, when you said a match would soon be made for your sister?”

  Jan didn’t reply right away, but went on carefully cleaning the harness. “Zia is promised to Tenca, the leader of another kumpania,” he finally said.

  “Kumpania?”

  “A tribe of families, like my own,” Jan explained.

  “But you said your sister is only fourteen years old! She’s just a kid.”

  Jan looked up with an expression of mild rebuke. “Gypsy girls are pledged at a very young age, sometimes when they’re no more than eight or nine years old. They don’t always marry until much later, but the match is arranged in their early years.”

  Tierney found himself strangely repulsed by the idea. “How old is this man they’re making her marry?”

  Again the look of faint censure. “Gypsies do not measure years as the Gorgio do. Tenca is well past his thirtieth year, like my brother, Greco. But understand that Zia will not be forced to marry him. The arrangement can still be canceled, if Greco agrees. My brother is a reasonable man. He will not bully our sister. Our women are not slaves.”

  From what Tierney had seen, Greco was anything but reasonable. And while the women might not be slaves, they seemed to be treated with a certain heavy-handedness that left little doubt as to their standing in the camp.

  “You are attracted to my sister?” The question was asked easily enough, but Tierney heard the slight edge in Jan’s tone.

  He shrugged off an answer. “Like I said, she’s only a kid.”

  The other boy’s hands stilled as he met Tierney’s eyes over the fire. “Zia is not considered a child among the Rom, but a young woman, to be cherished and closely protected.”

  He paused, again taking up the harness in his hands. “You and I are friends, Tierney Burke,” he said quietly as he went on working. “Your household extended aid and kindness to me when I was injured. Indeed, had it not been for you and the Seanchai, I might have died. But please understand that our friendship would be of no account whatsoever should you ever disregard our laws. The Rom is loyal to his friends—but only when his friends are loyal to the Rom.”

  The pleasant buzz going on in his head made it difficult to take anything seriously, but Tierney gave a solemn nod, as if to indicate his understanding and acceptance.

  On his knees in the pantry, Sandemon heard the sound of stamping feet behind him and knew the child was on the march.

  He sighed, hauled himself upright, and turned around.

  “Whatever are you doing in the pantry, Sand-Man?”

  Her petulant tone and thunderous frown told him immediately that young Annie did not care in the least what he was doing, that her real mission most likely had nothing to do with him.

  Nevertheless, he would humor her. “Mrs. Ryan insists we have a mouse. I am setting a trap to appease her.”

  “Sure, you would not kill a wee mouse!” Annie stood rigid, her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arched, a foot thrust forward. The wolfhound, who had been standing in the middle of the kitchen eyeing a loaf of bread on the counter, now came to join the exchange.

  Sandemon recognized the girl’s battle posture, and quickly moved to defend himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leveled a stern look on her. “Have you ever known me to kill a living thing, even a mouse? Shame on you, child, for even thinking it! I have set a catching trap, not a killing trap. If the mouse is foolish enough to enter, he will merely find himself confined until I can rescue him.”

  “Oh.” She appeared satisfied—and not at all interested. “Where is Tierney Burke, by the way? Have you seen him tonight?”

  Amused at the way she managed to turn the boy’s full name into one—Tierney-Burke—Sandemon replied, “I’m sure I do not know. Is there an emergency?”

  She gave a saucy toss of her braids and fixed him with a thoroughly guileless look. Of late, the child had been practicing the fine art of being a woman. “Of course not,” she said airily. “If there were an emergency, why would I be looking for Tierney Burke?”

  “He seems a competent young man.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose he’s sneaked out again.”

  Sandemon sensed he was being tested. “Is that a question or an observation?”

  “You must know what he’s up to,” she countered. “I saw him once, with my own eyes.”

  Sandemon did know. But he had not realized that anyone else suspected. Young Tierney was most enterprising, and evidently well-experienced at slipping in and out at all times of night.

  “Artegal helps him, you know,” Annie announced rather peevishly. “He leaves the kitchen door unbolted so Tierney Burke can come and go as he likes. It strikes me that they are both deceitful.”

  Sandemon frowned at her. “It strikes me that you know entirely too much, that apparently there has been a considerable amount of prying on your part. And it strikes me as well that it is long past time for you to retire.”

  Instantly her face screwed up, a mirror of the child she used to be. Just as quickly, she regained her dignity. “I don’t require as much sleep, now that I’m older.” She paused, but when Sandemon said nothing in reply, she turned to the wolfhound. “Come, Fergus, we might as well go upstairs. Sand-Man is cross tonight.”

  Sandemon smiled as he watched them go, the girl flouncing out the door with deliberate impudence. The wolfhound was right at her heels, glancing back only once with a longing eye at the bread.

  Alone again, his mood turned solemn. The child’s comment about Artegal’s complicity in Burke’s late-night antics reminded him of a situation that was worrisome, to say the least.

  He was aware of the irascible footman’s duplicity, of course. Moreover, he suspected him of slipping spirits to the boy. He had passed by young Tierney’s quarters when the door was partly ajar, and the stale, sour odor from within was unpleasantly reminiscent of the days when the Seanchai had been given to the drink.

  For months, he had suspected Artegal of being a secret tippler, but as the man’s vice didn’t seem to affect his job, Sandemon had made the decision to hold his tongue, at least for the time being. This collusion with Tierney Burke, however, was a different matter entirely. If Artegal was indeed giving the boy alcohol, in addition to encouraging his deceit, was it right to allow them the protection of silence?

  He didn’t think the Seanchai had a hint as to what was going on between the footman and the American boy. These days, when the young master was not busily involved with his family or the schoo
l, he was working intently on the final editing of Father Joseph’s famine journal, readying it for publication. He seemed unaware of anything amiss in the household.

  But Morgan Fitzgerald was far too shrewd and discerning to be duped indefinitely. He would eventually discover the truth, and when he did, he would no doubt give young Tierney reason to regret his actions.

  In the meantime, Sandemon was still troubled by his responsibility in the situation, still concerned that his silence might only make matters worse. His first loyalty was to the Seanchai, after all. Wherever the incorrigible Tierney Burke was sneaking off to—and he had his suspicions about the boy’s nocturnal exploits—there was always the risk that his surreptitious behavior would bring trouble on Nelson Hall.

  There had already been more than enough grief in this house. Sandemon sensed that the time was approaching when he would have to take steps to prevent more.

  He decided he would start by confronting Tierney Burke. He would face the boy with what he knew and give him the opportunity to tell the Seanchai himself.

  With a deep sigh, he drew a chair up to the table to wait. Tonight when the errant young rogue came sneaking into the kitchen through the back door, he would not find an empty room.

  As soon as Greco and the other men came back to the fire, somebody called for music. Across the camp children came running, and at the same time the women began to gather in. One of the older men started to sing, and soon others joined in, Jan and his brother among them.

  The Gypsies sang with full, strong voices and deep emotion. Sung in a language that Tierney could not understand, the lyrics sounded ancient and sad. Some of the older men had tears in their eyes as they lent their voices to the music.

  The song ended, and Greco stepped into the circle of men who had crowded about the campfire. He began to hum what sounded like a dance tune, the rhythm brisk, the melody happy. The other men and boys took up the humming, then burst into song, clapping and beating out the rhythm with their feet.

  Someone among the young men called for Jan to get his violin, and with a faint smile he left the fire to fetch it. By the time he returned, leaping into the open space near the fire, the other men had moved back to give the Martova brothers more room.

  Fascinated, Tierney got to his feet, clapping with the rest of the Gypsies as the usually thunder-faced Greco began to circle the campfire, his strong white teeth flashing to the obvious mirth of the music as his boots pounded out a hailstorm of staccato beats.

  But it was Jan who captured his interest and held it. Tierney knew next to nothing about music, had never played an instrument in his life, and in fact had never understood the passion of those who did. But as he stood there watching and listening to his new Gypsy friend, his instincts told him that Jan Martova was an exceptional violinist, a master of the string and bow. He could almost feel the power and the artistry in those long, slender hands as they coaxed one enchanting tune after another from the violin.

  The music grew in intensity, and a second dancer joined Greco, then another, until an entire throng of men and boys had entered the dance. Tierney was disappointed when Zia attempted to lead some of the women into the circle, only to be stopped by Greco’s restraining hand. One curt shake of his head, and she backed away from the others.

  Tierney couldn’t help but wonder if Zia would have been allowed to dance had an outsider like himself—a Gorgio—not been present.

  At last Jan ended the set of dances with a flourish and a grin, and there was much hand clapping and bursts of whistling. This time when the young violinist touched his bow to the strings it was to evoke a slow, tender melody, so achingly beautiful and sad that a shiver ran down Tierney’s spine.

  It was almost as if Jan Martova were playing the strings of his heart. He felt his own emotions accompanying the violin as bittersweet memories and old dreams came rushing up, swelling his mind, stealing his breath.

  Something about this music called up feelings from deep inside him, from a place he hadn’t even known existed. If Jan Martova’s music could accomplish such a thing with someone as unmusical and heretofore uninterested as himself, what kind of magic would it work on those more sensitive to such things?

  Right then and there he decided that Jan Martova must play at Nelson Hall, for Morgan. Perhaps it would help to gain a measure of acceptance for his Romany friend.

  Another hour passed, an hour of music and dancing and merriment, before Jan finally stopped playing and came back to the fire. “Come,” he said to Tierney, “I want you to see my vardo—my wagon.”

  He led him to a small square wagon that had been pulled away from the others, but was still parked not too far from the camp. It was obviously new, its deep-toned natural oak walls freshly varnished, with shutters painted bright blue. A variety of symbols—flowers, moon, and stars—had been stenciled here and there as decoration. Fitted at the rear of the frame, in between the wheels, was a large box, presumably used for storage.

  Jan opened the double doors at the back, bowed formally to Tierney, and said, “Welcome to my home, Tierney Burke.”

  Following him inside, Tierney let out a low whistle. “Some digs,” he said, turning to look at the Gypsy. “This is yours?”

  Jan nodded. “I built it.” Again, the faint note of pride without arrogance.

  Impressed, Tierney’s gaze swept the room. “You built this?”

  Jan grinned. “With a little help from Greco and my cousins,” he said. “It took us many months. I don’t really need my own wagon, of course, since I have no wife as yet. But Greco’s vardo is quite crowded, with Elena and the younger children, and I was beginning to feel in the way.”

  There were curtains on the windows, pots and pans hanging on nails, but no furniture—only a few cushions tossed randomly about the floor, and some plump, colorful quilts spread out in one corner,

  “This is grand,” Tierney said in earnest. “I envy you, having your own place.”

  “It’s only a wagon,” Jan said with a small shrug, but Tierney could tell he was pleased.

  They plopped down on the cushions, sitting in companionable silence for a time as Tierney considered his new friend’s impressive, and varied, talent. Jan seemed slightly distant, as if he were still lost somewhere in the music.

  “How did you learn to play like that?” Tierney finally asked. “You said you never went to school, that you can’t read or write. How do you know so much about music?”

  Jan smiled a little. “It is true that I did not go to school and I cannot read or write. As for the music—” He shrugged, looking up at the window on the opposite wall. “I believe I was born with it in my soul. My tribe is a part of the Rom known as The Musicians,” he explained with a faint trace of pride.

  Tierney stared at him. “You mean it just comes natural? You never took lessons or anything?”

  Jan laughed. “Gypsies do not take violin lessons, Tierney Burke.” His smile faded, and Tierney was surprised to hear him say, “Although I confess there have been times when I’ve wished to do so.”

  “Why? You should be giving lessons, not taking them.”

  Still staring into the fire, Jan shook his head. “There are many sounds inside me I cannot give voice to because I don’t know how to go about it. Besides, I have often thought I would like to go to school. It is not our way, but I would be glad for an education.”

  Abruptly, he turned and grinned at Tierney. “But what foolishness is this? A Gypsy who cannot read or write, talking of violin lessons and going to school, eh? As you Irish would say, ‘A daft notion entirely!’ What about you? What will you do here in Ireland? Will you take a job?”

  Tierney shrugged. “Morgan wants me to get more schooling, but I’d rather work. First, though, he’s talking about a tour across Ireland. Soon, I hope. Nobody knows more about Ireland than Morgan does. But he says we’ll have to wait until the baby gets a little older. He won’t go without his family.”

  Morgan’s insistence on waiting irked Tierne
y. He didn’t know why the two of them couldn’t just go off on their own. Of course, Morgan would insist on taking Sandemon along; he was admittedly dependent on the black. But even that wouldn’t be as much fuss as traveling with a wife and baby.

  Jan broke into his thoughts. “I could offer you more wine if you like.”

  Tierney grinned at him and leaned back against the wall.

  Then a strange thing happened.

  His legs began to twitch, at first only sporadically, then with more force. Abruptly, it stopped, and then a sharp, knifing pain struck his knees and his calves. It fled as quickly as it came, but had he been standing, his legs would have buckled under him.

  He gaped at his limbs in astonishment, clutching his knees as a fresh blast of pain hit first one, then the other. “What—”

  Seeing his distress, Jan jumped to his feet and came to stand in front of him. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  Ill? Yes…oh, he was ill! Nausea rose in him like a wave. His stomach blazed with fire, and his heart seemed to stop beating.…

  “What is wrong, my friend? What can I do?” Jan’s voice seemed miles away, muffled, as if he were shouting from the depths of a well. “I will get help!”

  A fierce heat swept Tierney’s loins, raged down his legs. Jaws of pain clamped down on him, shaking him.

  His head spun, and the floor of the wagon seemed to pitch. He looked up. The door to the vardo flew open, and the fierce form of Jan’s brother, Greco, swirled above him.

  There was a terrible rumbling in his stomach. Tierney ducked his head to retch, but nothing came.

  He was hot, so very hot.…

  “It is the cholera!” Greco’s voice came, rough and angry. “The Gorgio has cholera!” He spewed out something in Romani, then, “Get out of the camp! You must leave at once!”

  Tierney groaned, twisted, tried to push himself onto his knees.

  “He’s not able to leave the camp! Have pity, Greco! We must help him! He is my friend!” Jan pleaded with his brother, at the same time trying to help Tierney to his feet.