by Susan Wiggs
“So. When she is no longer of use to you, you will discard her like a horse with the slump?”
“I’m trying to help her, for God’s sake,” Stephen burst out. “She doesn’t want this marriage and neither do I!” He turned to Juliana. “Or do you?”
She twisted her fingers together, her hands pale against the bright blue-green of her gown. “I wish to please Laszlo. He was so disappointed when I refused to wed Rodion. Laszlo alone protected me when evil men would see me dead. He left his family on my account, defended my honor when men would have taken it from me.”
“I would expect no less from a father,” Stephen said.
Suddenly she seemed to find her pride again, and she sent a look of fervent affection at Laszlo. “He is not the man who sired me, but these five years past he has been my father.”
Stephen did not know what to believe. Was this all a farce to dupe him? For what purpose—to snare a noble husband for a sly gypsy? And why could he not see the lie when he looked into her proud, beautiful face?
“So you want this … plotchka,” he said, stumbling over the word.
“It is my duty to Laszlo,” she stated, rather neatly hiding her own feelings about the matter.
A denial formed on Stephen’s tongue, but he made the mistake of looking at her a heartbeat too long, of seeing just a little too much—the barely detectable quiver of her chin, the diamond glitter of a tear in her eye, which she quickly blinked away.
And then he made his fatal mistake. He remembered, once again, how it felt to hold her all night.
“What does this rite entail?” he heard some fool asking. Belatedly, he realized it was he, the baron of Wimberleigh, playing like a willing gull into the hands of a pair of gypsies. But this ceremony was pagan, hardly legal. Why not humor the old man? No court or cleric would let it impede an annulment.
“First,” said Laszlo, lifting his swarthy face like a hound scenting victory, “we must gather the whole kumpania.”
“But you came alone. There’s not another gypsy within miles of—”
“Lord Wimberleigh!” Nance’s horrified screech preceded her cumbersome figure into the office. She pressed her back against the wainscoted paneling inside the door. Her jowls and bosom heaved in tandem as her gaze fixed on Laszlo. “Eek!” she squealed. “There’s another one!”
His patience nearing its limit, Stephen squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Yes, Nance? What is it?”
“The gypsies are upon us, milord!” Bringing up the hem of her apron, she fanned her florid face. “I had it straight from the chandler’s boy when he came round to deliver tapers. Nasty, greasy things they are, too, I might add. All tallow and nary a drop of beeswax if you ask me. And the wicks all be—”
“Yes, yes.” Stephen waved his hand. “We’ll speak of the candles later, Nance. Now. You say the lad has seen gypsies.”
Laszlo and Juliana exchanged a look of amusement.
“A whole ragged rabblement of rakehells, milord.” She clapped a chubby hand on her forehead. “The countryside’s crawling with them. They be coming in a long train up the Chippenham road—right toward the manor house, mind you.” She paused to catch her breath. Stephen had never known anyone to enjoy a great fright as much as did Nance Harbutt. “Ah, we’ll be plundered for certain,” she rushed on, “the plate carried off and Lord knows all the mothers had best hide their babes, for ’tis common fact the Egyptians are child stealers.” She finished with a challenging glare at Laszlo as if defying him to suggest she was wrong.
“Why would we steal Gajo babies?” Laszlo grumbled. “We have plenty of our own.”
Nance dropped her apron and planted her fists on her hips. “Hmph! Blind me, milord, but we’d best be about securing the place before—”
“Nance,” Stephen said with the patience he always managed to find for her.
“—the punks and rapscallions be in our very midst—”
“Nance.”
She blinked. “Aye, milord?”
“I believe it’s true,” Stephen said gently. “The gypsies are coming.”
“Eek!” The apron started flapping again with new vigor. “And didn’t I tell you the apple-squires, the runagates—
“They aren’t here to steal plate or babies, Nance.”
“Then what—”
“They’ve come, my dear Nance—” Stephen watched Juliana, her impossibly comely face alight with anticipation “—to witness my wedding.”
“My lord,” Kit Youngblood said, stepping back to survey Stephen’s costume, “forgive me for asking, but why?”
Stephen examined his tightly laced velvet sleeves, the cambric undersleeves peeking artfully through the gaps. “I thought a festive costume would be in order, since our guests take this ceremony so very seriously. Should I have worn the murrey doublet, then?”
Kit scowled in frustration. “You know I don’t mean the costume, my lord. Why are you going through with this gypsy ceremony? ’Tis pagan!”
So are my feelings for the bride. Stephen pressed his lips into a firm line of resolve. He would not admit that he had been seized by a desire to please Juliana, to ease the torment he saw in her eyes. Instead, he ran a hand through his freshly washed hair and said, “Some things, my young friend, are better compromised. If I had refused, Laszlo would have unleashed the mischief of his people on the villagers. Better I should go through their pagan rite and send them on their way.”
Kit’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “And the baroness, my lord? Will she go with them?”
“Alas, no.” For the sake of his own peace of mind, Stephen truly wished he knew a way to send Juliana out of his life. But it was too soon. The king was still savoring his prank. “I fear that after this plotchka event, the gypsies will expect me to keep her.”
A flush crept up Kit’s face, coloring his cheeks and ears. Stephen could have sworn the lad grinned as he bent over a carved chest, searching for Stephen’s best hat.
“This pleases you?” he demanded stonily.
“Er, my lord, ’tis hardly my place to comment on the lady—or your … er, circumstances.”
“You’d not be your father’s son if you failed to speak your mind.”
With Stephen’s hat in hand, Kit straightened and made no attempt to hide his adolescent grin. “After Jillie did her up in proper gowns and hair, my lord, I saw that the baroness was truly …” His voice trailed off. He stared up at the ceiling as if seeking to pluck a word from the rough beams.
“Truly what?” As always, Stephen held the boy in secret fascination. Jonathan Youngblood had no idea what a gift he had given Stephen in sending Kit to him for fostering.
“ ’Tis hard to say.” The lad tugged at a few prized whiskers sprouting from his chin. “There’s a look about her. She’s …”
“Pretty?” Stephen could defend himself against a pretty woman. He was adept at it.
“No, my lord. Pretty is not the word.”
Stephen ground his teeth, then suggested, “Beautiful?” Beauty was more dangerous, but not insurmountable.
“One might say so, my lord, at first glance, but she is more than that.”
Stephen wanted to tell the lad he had no business scrutinizing another man’s wife so closely. But Stephen’s throat was suddenly dry and tight, and he could not speak. Though Kit was almost a man, he had not yet mastered the most manly of arts—deception.
“She is not simply beautiful, my lord,” Kit went on, all artless honesty. “She’s … luminous. Aye, she shines with a light all her own. ’Tis a most magical thing.” Satisfied with his summation. Kit handed Stephen his hat, a velvet toque with a silver clasp securing a jaunty pheasant feather to the rolled brim.
Stephen took it with numb hands. Kit spoke the truth as only a guileless youth could. There was something special about Juliana. If she were merely pretty or even beautiful, he would have no trouble keeping his distance.
Luminous and magical were something else entirely. He had never before
faced such perils. As Kit secured a dress sword to Stephen’s baldric, he felt as if he were being girded for battle.
As indeed, he thought grimly, he was.
Juliana stood surrounded by gypsy women. With their usual speedy efficiency, they had set up a camp in the east park, with the caravans and animals sequestered in a grove of trees and a bonfire built in the middle of a clearing by the river Avon.
Long lengths of cloth formed a crude pavilion around Juliana and the women. Before the plotchka, the bride’s privacy was scrupulously guarded.
“Hold still,” murmured Leila, one of the elders. “Here’s a bit of sparkle.” With delicate movements of her hands, she clasped a thin gold wire to the side of Juliana’s nostril.
Juliana suppressed a smile. Even before tonight, her husband had thought her strange. He did not know the half of it.
“And now the necklace of coins,” said Mandiva. In keeping with tradition, the women had collected a coin from each man in the tribe. Juliana would go to her husband with a token of goodwill from each.
Juliana fingered the pennies and farthings. There was even a gold noble, probably from Laszlo. She felt guilty taking money for a marriage that was no marriage at all. But the alternative was to let Laszlo suffer disgrace, and she could not let that happen.
“Did Rodion contribute?” she asked.
Mandiva shook her head. “Not yet. Though I’ll box his ears if he balks.”
“Let me through, damn your coney-catching eyes.” The English words came from outside the tent. With an apologetic shrug at the women, Juliana held back the flap. Like a cog under sail, Jillie Egan pushed her way through a group of men and children.
The little ones stared in awe at the giantess. “Jofranka!” one cried, naming her the witch of Romany legend.
Someone else shook a braid of white garlic at her—a sure way to banish a sorceress. Jillie grabbed the garlic, gave it a sniff, then handed it back. “Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.”
Someone else shook a bat bone charm in her face.
“Boo!” she shouted.
The gypsies backed off, their faces watchful. “A witch unafraid of the charm must be powerful indeed,” someone whispered.
“Let her by,” Juliana called. “She’s a friend.”
Though Leila and Mandiva grumbled, they allowed Jillie to enter the tent, casting slitted stares of suspicion before leaving.
“Well now,” Jillie boomed, taking in Juliana’s borrowed silk skirts, her blousy bodice and clanking necklace, the ring in her nose. “Don’t you look fine.”
Juliana smiled. “You think so?”
“Oh, aye. Passing strange, though.” Jillie reached down and touched the wreath that circled the crown of Juliana’s head, holding the veil in place. “What’s here?”
“A wreath of wheat for bounty, wild rosemary for remembrance, lavender for love. It’s traditional.”
Nodding in approval, Jillie inspected Juliana’s hair, which fell free below the veil almost to her knees. Juliana pulled the gauzy length of raw silk down and forward. “His lordship is not to see my face until we have exchanged vows.”
“Too late for that. He’s seen your face and a good bit else besides.” Jillie winked broadly. “Now all we have to do is wait for the bridegroom.” She went out to stand by the bonfire, arms akimbo, face alight with a childlike smile. Juliana felt a surge of affection for her big coarse maid. While most of the others in Stephen’s household quailed in fear and shuttered their windows against the gypsies, Jillie embraced the novelty of the visitors. She had never been out of the shire, Juliana remembered. Perhaps the gypsies would bring a bit of the world to Jillie.
A few moments later, Laszlo entered the tent. He took one look at Juliana, and his swarthy face softened. “Look at you,” he said in Russian, the language the two of them used when they were alone together. “I fled Novgorod with a frightened little orphan. When did you become a woman?”
Juliana smiled behind the veil. “I did it in secret, when you weren’t looking.”
He heaved a sigh. “And when did you begin to have a mind of your own? Ah, Juliana, why did you run off? What were you thinking of?”
“My future,” she said simply, sprinkling herself with the rosewater Mandiva had given her. “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I could never marry Rodion.”
“I thought it was best. Time for you to settle down. To be a part of the kumpania.”
“I was never part of the kumpania. You know that, Laszlo. If I had wed Rodion, I would have had to give up trying to find justice for my family.”
“That is a dream. You should leave go of it. Novgorod is half a world away. There is no way to go back.”
Juliana took out her brooch and fastened it to her bodice in the center. “I think there is. Maybe now more than ever.”
“With this pale, beardless Gajo?” Laszlo asked, contempt ringing in his voice. “How?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet, but I will. Though neither of us asked for it, Stephen and I are man and wife. He is a peer of the realm.”
“What is wrong with him, that he cannot find an Englishwoman to marry?”
“I don’t know.” Juliana thought of the moody Lord Wimberleigh, the pain in his eyes, the catch in his voice when he spoke of matters close to his heart. “I think one day I shall find out.”
Laszlo took Juliana’s hand. “For five years I have been your father. We have traveled many miles and seen many wonders. At first you were strange to me—a Gaja princess running for her life, helpless as a babe in a winter storm. But you changed, Juliana. Grew straight and strong like a tree braving the blizzards of the steppes. I learned to see into your heart, and I discovered it was not so different from the heart of any gypsy. You are Gaja, and you will always be. But first you are a woman. First you are Juliana.”
Tears pricked her eyes. From behind the veil she gazed at him, his dear face soft and diffuse, achingly familiar. “You have been good to me, Laszlo. When I triumph over the murderers of my family, you shall be rewarded.”
He dropped her hand. “Always you cling to this idea of going back, taking revenge. Do you not see, little one? It is impossible. You wrote frantic messages to the family of your betrothed, Alexei Shuisky. I sent the messages by the means I knew—with a bit of gold to speed them on their way.”
Juliana remembered. Once she and Laszlo had ridden a safe distance from Novgorod, each of four messengers had received a silver-and-garnet button from her cloak. Each was promised that, if he found his way to the Shuiskys of Muscovy, the wealthy boyar’s family would add generously to the reward.
“Alexei’s family never came for me,” she whispered, half to herself. “I told them of our journey and our destination.”
Laszlo spread his arms. “Five winters have passed. It was not meant to be. Your destiny is here, with the people who have become your family.”
She studied the pattern of light from the bonfire flickering on the tent. For a moment she was back in the barn on her father’s estate, her hand held out to Zara. I see blood and fire, loss and reunion, and a love so great that neither time nor death can destroy it.
“No,” she said firmly, laying her fingers on Laszlo’s sleeve. “You have been good to me, but I had to leave. I could not be trapped into servitude to Rodion. Perhaps it was wrong for me to go off on my own, but I had to take action. I did not tell you my plan because I knew you would argue against it.”
“Of course I would argue against it!”
“I must follow my dream, not yours.” She touched his somber face. “Why do you look at me so? Do you think I want too much?”
“Perhaps, little one, you want the wrong things.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He jabbed his finger at the ruby. “Blood, vows and honor. All you do, all you live and breathe for, is revenge. I like it not. The desire acts like slow poison. When will you find contentment for Juliana?”
She bit her
lip. “When I win back all that I lost.”
“Ah!” He threw up his hands. “So you will revive your family by spilling the blood of others? Regain your honor by burning your soul to ashes on an impossible quest?”
“If that is what it takes,” she said fiercely, “yes.”
Laszlo hung his head. “I thought you had found peace. But perhaps there are some things a gypsy will never understand about the Gaje.”
Sadness welled in her throat. He had given her everything it was in his power to give. Yet it was not enough, and he knew it. She hated herself for wanting—needing—more than the Romany people could offer.
The sounds of bells and tambours shrilled outside. Laszlo held out his hand. “It is time to go and receive your husband. Perhaps he can give you what I failed to provide. Or perhaps he can teach you what I failed to impart.”
“And what is that?”
“The value of being simply Juliana.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Not of family honor. Not of revenge or even justice. Of you and you alone.”
She thought of Wimberleigh, his brooding, impenetrable silences, the shadows that haunted him. “I doubt that, Laszlo,” she said, but she took his hand as they left the pavilion.
* * *
“What in God’s name am I doing here?” Stephen wondered aloud, speaking over the wild music of pipes and drums.
Standing beside him at the edge of the ring of light cast by the bonfire, Kit swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Getting married … again,” he said simply.
“It’s beyond me why I agreed to do this. I must have been moonstruck.”
“You’re doing it to please your lady.” As Kit spoke, a girl bearing a basket of bread passed by, hips swaying, dark eyes smiling. He wet his lips. “What man wouldn’t?”
“Indeed.” Still, Stephen told himself he was going through the pagan ceremony only to placate Laszlo and speed the gypsies on their way. “Let’s be about it, then.”
He stepped into the circle of firelight. He wore his finest doublet and hose and his high Spanish boots from Córdoba. In his hands he held a bottle of muscatel wine wrapped in a length of bright silk and garlanded with a necklace of gold coins.
