Castle in Spain

by Margaret Rome

  She sensed the scrutiny of an ancient, hawk-eyed woman with a lined face and white hair as she and Vulcan were led towards seats that had obviously been reserved for guests of honour.

  'Your bride moves like a dancer with honey in her hips, Senor Conde,' she intoned wickedly. 'Though she is not of our race, like all Spanish women she was born to love and be loved—so why does she limp, senor, and why does her heart ache even more than the pain in her ankle?'

  Sensing from Birdie's heightened colour and from the grim tightening of Vulcan's features that his mother's blunt question had caused them embarrassment, the chief of the tribe quickly intervened by striding forward carrying a little wooden basket containing drinking glasses and an enormous wickercased bottle of wine.

  'No, muchas gracias!' Birdie refused, feeling that the drink would choke her.

  'Si, si, si!' he smilingly insisted, leaving her no option but to acknowledge his gesture of hospitality.

  As soon as Vulcan raised his glass and gravely toasted: 'Saludo!' every sleek-haired, level-eyed man responded. Then guitars began to twang and music, thrumming as wind captured between high, narrow walls, escalated until the air vibrated with the clapping and shouting of gypsies inciting the musicians to even noisier efforts.

  Then with startling suddenness the guitars fell silent, the noise died, and a girl sidled into the circle of onlookers, sat down upon the ground, then demure and unselfconscious as a child began to sing. Her voice was so exquisite that even the children stopped scuffling and dogs padding silently around the perimeter of the camp became strangely still.

  From the passionate notes, the anguish portrayed on the singer's face, Birdie judged that she was singing a song to her lover, an impassioned message that Vulcan seemed anxious to impart when he bent his dark head to translate softly against her ear:

  'Love must be like the blowing wind, fresh and invigorating.

  Capture the wind within walls and it becomes stale.

  Open tents, open hearts; let the wind blow!'

  She did not dare look up nor turn towards him, would not allow herself to be deceived yet again by the master of the piropos, to have her head turned by flattery she knew to be false, casual, meaningless phrases that had little to. do with sincerity and even less to do with love. As a defence for panic-stricken pulses, for a heart hammering frantically as a captive on the door of a cell, she retreated behind a barrier of reserve, a curtain of ice that had to appear impenetrable even though at the slightest pressure it would give way.

  Keeping her eyes averted from the tutor whose face had haunted her dreams ever since the night he had accepted her as a pupil, she forced stiff lips to murmur: 'Forgive my reluctance to continue with the sort of lesson you teach, senor, I prefer to remain faithful to my own ideals, however misguided and naive, rather than learn from the faithless about love's tragedies.'

  He was too self-controlled, too alert to the possibility of attracting the attention of one of the gypsy tribe to betray anger, but the grip he fastened upon her wrist was agonising when he hissed:

  'I suspect that you are the type of pupil who needs to hear a lesson repeated a great number of times before its meaning becomes obvious, in which case the obligations imposed by vows of matrimony may become stamped upon your conscience the second time around!'

  Her startled head jerked upwards, but just as she was about to demand an explanation the girl's singing ceased and immediately a fiddler began to play. As the youngsters of the tribe jumped to their feet and began dancing hilariously she noticed their widely grinning chief approaching carrying two red kerchiefs and watched bewildered while Vulcan accepted one and tied it around his neck. When the beaming chief turned to her and offered the remaining kerchief she felt she had no option but to follow Vulcan's example.

  'You are now formally betrothed in accordance with Romany custom,' the chief shocked her by saying. 'May I say, on behalf of my tribe, how honoured you and the Senor Conde have made us feel by looking with favour upon our suggestion that you should marry a second time in the manner of the gypsies? Your acceptance of the kerchief was a public admission of the love you feel for your bridegroom, and now all that remains is for us to agree the dowry payment before the actual marriage ceremony is performed. With your permission, senora, I will take upon myself the duties of your father.'

  Feeling trapped, made furious by Vulcan's wicked, unrepentant smile, Birdie gave a choked gasp which the chief immediately interpreted as agreement. Folding his arms across his chest, he turned towards Vulcan and waited, adopting the stance of a father determined to get the best possible deal for his marriageable daughter.

  Solemnly, but with a twinkle in his eyes that only she could read, Vulcan opened the negotiations in the time-honoured gypsy way.

  'I have lost a little cow!'

  The chief nodded briefly. 'You can have the lost one in exchange for ten gold coins.'

  To her intense annoyance, Vulcan piled on humiliation by pretending to take time to consider, slowly eyeing the glossy hair, the bright eyes, the indignantly-flaring, nostrils and every shapely curve of the healthy little cow for which he was bidding. Finally, frowning as if suspicious of being cheated, he concluded the deal:

  'Agreed!'

  With a grin of triumph the chief clasped him by the hand before twirling to yell an order to the dancing tribe. Abruptly the music ceased, and the members of the tribe hurriedly arranged themselves in two opposite rows about six feet apart. Halfway down between the rows two gypsies held a broomstick about a foot above the ground and in response to a call from the chief, Vulcan, with the rakish red kerchief still tied around his neck, walked down the row, jumped over the broomstick, paused, then swung round to face Birdie, who had been positioned ready to take her turn.

  Slowly, showing a reluctance that delighted the race of people to whom the modesty of women was of paramount importance, she advanced between the line of gypsies and jumped over the broomstick, straight into her bridegroom's outstretched arms.

  'Ne! Kana romadi san!' The cry rang out from the throats of the tribe.

  'There now!' Vulcan translated gravely as he slid a rush-ring next to the heavy gold band on her wedding-ring finger, 'you are truly married!'

  Lusty cheering rose above the sound of music and stomping feet as he swept her off her feet and began running the gauntlet of the cheering, back-slapping tribe.

  'Put me down!' she insisted furiously, fighting to wriggle out of his grasp as he carried her towards the isolated caravan he had implied had been decorated with flowers for the benefit of some anonymous bridal couple. But with a throaty chuckle that filled her with misgiving he mounted the steps, strode inside the caravan, and kicked shut the door.

  She froze to stillness in his arms, sensing the intent behind eyes aflame with impatient desire for the wife whose body he held in bondage but whose spirit he could not chain.

  'This is our private place where we can laugh and cry together, mi cara,' he husked, lowering her gently on to a mattress scented with herbs— rue, the bitter herb used by Romanies as a symbol of repentance, the herb that was said to purge and purify and was even believed capable of casting out the devil.

  'Is there no limit to your trickery?' she accused, her eyes hurt as a child mourning over some sore place. 'You seem to enjoy seeing me humiliated, treating me in turn as a servant, a thief, a slave girl and now,' she shuddered with distaste, 'as a bartered cow!'

  'The blame for such confusion lies entirely with you, preciosa,' he countered thickly. 'I, too, am tired of playing Hunt the Lady, of being kept at arm's length, of being married to a succession of fictitious heroines whose characters you hide behind because you are dissatisfied with your own personality! Did you think I was unaware that even on our wedding day you were playing a role, that the vows you spoke meant less than nothing to you? I want a flesh and blood wife,' he stressed roughly. 'I want to feel your warm, silken body quivering beneath mine ...' His lips descended to search for the velvet soft hollow at
the base of her throat, then lingered, captivated by a wildly fluttering pulse.

  'Why should the outcome of a second marriage of convenience turn out to be any different from the first?' she cried bitterly, her voice breaking on a sob. 'The motive remains the same ...'

  'Not quite,' he contradicted hoarsely, 'because this time, querida, my motive is revenge, revenge for many sleepless nights during which I have been forced to relive the torture of your contempt, the humiliation of being tolerated! This time I mean to be patient, to wait until your passions are inflamed, until your eyes are pleading, your lips aching to be kissed! Not until you beg my forgiveness will I even attempt to relieve the agony of desire with the soothing balm of love, for then, and only then, will I be certain that my thistledown wife—blown back and forth on the winds of insecurity—has sown her last seed of doubt, is ready to put down roots and to blossom into beautiful maturity!'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT was the day of the feria, the day when the bride of the Caixer Senor was to be paraded before the happy, rejoicing crowds thronging the streets of the capital. For two days Lucita had deliberated over which costume to choose from many stored from the past in sandalwood boxes and examined meticulously by Dolores and her seamstresses in order to keep deterioration at bay.

  Predictably, Lucita had fallen in love with a buttercup frilled crinoline with a miniature green shoulder-shawl and a matching rounded comb that towered importantly above her mass of dark curls when, miraculously, Birdie had managed to arrange it so that the comb remained fixed and upright on her small proud head. The tottering but splendid little damisela had departed some time ago to seek the approval of her beloved Tio, and now, Birdie reluctantly conceded, the time had arrived when she, too, must brave the scrutiny of the husband whose company she had deliberately avoided since the day of their gypsy wedding.

  She braced for disapproval, and without a glance towards the magnificent satin gown, the hand-made shawl embroidered with huge scarlet peonies, the lace mantilla, discarded at the last moment in favour of a costume more in keeping with her subdued mood, she hurried out of her bedroom and downstairs to the study where she knew Vulcan would be waiting.

  She swallowed hard when, in response to her knock, a deep voice responded: 'Adelante!' and gasped when she stepped inside the room, her heart jolted by the impact of Vulcan's lithe, imposing figure clad in the manner of the caballeros, with a black, tight-fitting jacket set upon straight shoulders. Black sword-slim corduroy pants with a scarlet sash swathed around narrow hips, and a black Cordoba hat usually worn straight but which momentarily he had tipped to the back of his head. After a swift, startled appraisal her glance dropped to the ground as she fought to suppress a wild rush of colour imposed by remembered shame.

  'Why are you trembling, cara?' The question smouldered dangerously as the eyes that had raked her from head to toe the moment she entered the room. 'Is it because you have deliberately chosen to dress in a manner you imagined I would find displeasing? If that was your aim then you have not succeeded, for contrarily, a woman dressed in masculine attire is made to appear infinitely appealing, exquisitely feminine, and,' his voice developed the black velvet intensity of his outfit, 'utterly desirable.'

  Birdie hung her head, lashes throwing a gold-tipped screen over eyes dark with shame as slowly and thoroughly he examined the long black riding skirt and shining leather boots, the short Spanish jacket cut on masculine lines, the high white stock, and the wide-brimmed sombrero she was threading through nervous fingers.

  'Muy guapa!' he complimented with such gravity she felt impelled to raise her head. 'You will appeal as a charming novelty compared with the majority of girls who favour clinging gowns decked with frills and flounces.'

  She smothered a cry and was moved almost to the point of forgiveness when she glimpsed a ghost of pain reflecting in his dark eyes, a remnant of the revenge she had unintentionally managed to inflict when, after gaining every victory he had promised would occur within the walls of the private place the Romanies had set aside for them to laugh and cry together, after the sweet torture of his teasing kisses and seductive caresses had turned her wanton, begging for his forgiveness and his love, sanity had dawned and jerked from her cold lips the shamed, whispered admission that had changed his warm, perspiring body to stone.

  'Sometimes, in the darkest moments of my life, I begin to wonder if God really does exist!'

  'Please don't look so sad, little lame bird!' He broke her trance by reaching out to gently tilt her chin. 'Grant me the pleasure of your company for just one more day and in exchange I promise that you shall have your freedom. I have treated you very badly,' he admitted with the sombreness of a man who has spent many bitter hours reflecting upon his faults, 'it is my dearest hope that in time you might find it possible to forgive me. Meanwhile,' he sighed with a finality that squeezed every drop of blood from her heart, 'as I have been forced to acknowledge the futility of expecting affection to flourish behind the bars of conscience and duty, I have decided that the pajarita must be set free and allowed to fly back to the nest she has always looked upon as home. I shall try to make this last day a happy one, querida,' he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each fingertip one by one, 'so that when you leave you will take with you at least one memory that can be recalled with pleasure—a parting gift of laughter to help cancel out the tears.'

  As he led her outside to the front of the casa she was battling with a gamut of conflicting emotions. His sudden volte-face had taken her completely by surprise, so assured had she been, so conditioned to the idea of spending the rest of her life in his demanding, aggravating, often hurtful but always exhilarating company. Her dazed mind could not accept the fact that from tomorrow onwards she would no longer be called upon to battle against his mastery, to guard her heart, her actions, her expressive face and impulsive words from betraying the love whose roots had sprung from a tiny seed and then strengthened, inch by inch, day by day, until it had become a firmly established, integral part of her being.

  A groom was waiting at the bottom of the steps holding the reins of a frisky Spanish steed, prancing proudly as if conscious of being groomed for a special occasion that had called for its docked tail to be bound with primrose satin, for its bridle to be decked with swansdown rosettes, for saddlecloths and trappings of scarlet and green, breeching straps embroidered with coloured silks, stirrups following the pattern of the ancient Moor's and for the fringed leather chaparajos favoured especially by the caballeros.

  'Usually, the novias prefer to perch on the almohada—a long bolster-like cushion that is flung across the horse's haunches—in order to display their dresses to advantage,' Vulcan explained as he vaulted into the saddle and held out encouraging arms, 'but because you are sensibly dressed I will sit you in front of me where you will be safer.'

  Safe was hardly the word Birdie would have used to describe her condition when with the help of the groom Vulcan lifted her aloft and set her down in the saddle a-pillion so that his chest was her backrest and strong forearms pressed either side of her waist when he tightened his grip upon the reins.

  'Viva! Viva!' the groom called out as he slapped the horse's hindquarters to speed it on its way. In spite of her determination not to show fear, Birdie screamed when the prancing animal reared slightly before setting off to trot down the length of the driveway.

  'Don't be afraid!' She knew from the tone of Vulcan's voice that he was smiling. 'I'll keep you safe ‑' Then, as if recalling his earlier promise, he breathed an afterthought that drew tears of pure misery to her eyes: '... that is, for the short time that I am to be permitted.'

  Desperately she twisted round in the saddle to face him and would have been appalled at the notion that the glint in tear-wet eyes could have been mistaken for a sparkle of joy. 'You have definitely decided that I must leave, Vulcan ...

  there is no possible chance that you might change your mind?'

  The haughty caballero drew himself tall. 'I have de
finitely decided,' he confirmed stiffly. 'You need have no fear that I will go back on my word!'

  The road leading towards the capital was choked with traffic, motorcars and lorries; horses, mules and donkeys; tandems and gypsy caravans as well as hundreds of laughing, excited people on foot, all eagerly anticipating the feria that might last for one day or even three.

  Many people hailed them as they entered the city engulfed in festival fever and as they rode through narrow streets lined with pretty whitewashed houses their occupants leant from balconies adorned with iron filigree work to toss blossoms into the crowd and to press glasses of sherry upon thirsty passers-by. The sound of rich, vibrant flamenco music filled the main square that had been turned into a playground lined with avenues of stalls laden with sweets, china, children's toys, fancy gifts, wines and good things to eat, and paper flowers fluttered from the roofs of striped tents fitted out with wooden floors that were already reverberating to the tempo of dancing feet.

  In spite of her heavy heart, Birdie's eyes were shining with excitement when she twisted round to gasp: 'How wonderful to see so many people looking so happy!'

  Vulcan's arms tightened around her waist, but though he returned her smile his eyes retained the smokescreen of gravity that kept her at a distance as if already he was adjusting to the parting of the ways.

  'According to legend,' he told her, 'nowhere has the Devil, by permission of God, more power to tempt!'

  She found this very easy to believe when, as they trotted round and round the square in time-honoured fashion, joining in the marathon cavalcade made up of the island's richest and most aristocratic families—some being driven in beautiful carriages, others mounted on horseback with senoritas in flounces riding pillion—the pressure of his arms sent fire racing hell-hot through her veins; the ripple of his chest muscles pressing against her shoulderblades aroused deep inside of her the sensuous, desirous animal which, prior to Vulcan's lovemaking, she had not known existed. Also, she heard the devil taunting: Where is your spirit? Why relinquish without a fight the man to whom you belong—and who belongs to you? Twice he has taken you in marriage, twice you have solemnly promised to love and to cherish him. He may be bored with you, may be glad of any excuse to send you away, nevertheless he cannot be totally immune, could not possibly have forced himself to speak all those tender, loving words, or have pretended the passion that kindled, flared, consumed him, then slowly abated leaving him smouldering with contentment in your arms. All your life you have had nothing—you are entitled to fight for the half-loaf of love that is your only possession!