The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  "Is this the lass you told us about?" Jock looked at her. "The one in your keeping?"

  "I'm in no one's keeping," she snapped.

  "Hey, Archie Armstrong's lass!" Sandie peered at her. "I've heard tales o' this one. A wild one, they say."

  "Wild enough," William drawled. He looked back, and saw the dark forms of the English riders through the trees. "Come on!" he said quietly, and cantered toward the open field at the other side of the trees.

  Within moments, the pursuers saw them, and shouted. William urged the horse over another fast stretch of moorland.

  The girl lifted a hand to point. "Ride that way, toward those trees," she called. "There's a bog there, but you can avoid it if you keep to the far side of the trees. Lead your cousins in a single line. If the English follow, they willna see the bog in the dark."

  William nodded and rode cautiously over the soft ground. The treacherous surface was little more than a subtle gleam among the thick, tufted grasses.

  As he reached the far end of the pass, with Sandie and Jock behind him, he heard splashes and turned to see the Forsters and Musgrave floundering in the shallow bog. Four of their horses had stepped, whinnying and protesting, into the dark, slimy pool. A fifth rider stayed on solid ground and halted his horse. William turned to guide his bay toward the camp as Jock and Sandie glided ahead.

  Tamsin tightened her grip on his waist. "A pistol!" she said. "I saw the flame of a matchlock!"

  William reacted quickly, spinning the bay, aware that Tamsin's back was a direct target for a pistol shot. He lifted a crossbow from a saddle loop and aimed it at the rider behind them. He too could see the spark now. He loosed the crossbow bolt.

  The explosion of the matchlock echoed over the bog. William heard a buzz like that of a bee, and felt a sharp pressure in his arm. He knew he had been hit, though he felt no pain. He knew the quarrel he had released found its mark. One man shrieked in the darkness and fell backward.

  Pressing his wounded arm close to his side, William jammed the crossbow into the saddle loop and gathered his reins to take up a ferocious pace, while the pain seared and grew. The bay seemed to sail over the soft ground. Ahead, the glow of the gypsy campfires grew larger.

  He turned to glance at Tamsin. "Are your kin here?"

  "My grandparents," she answered. She briefly rested her left hand on his upper sleeve. "Oh! You're hurt!"

  In the moonlight, a dark stain filled her curled palm. As William turned, Tamsin hastily wiped her hand on her shawl. "You've been shot!"

  "Aye." He lifted his arm a little and winced at the burning pain. "'Twill be fine. We need to ride on."

  "We must stop here and tend to it," she said.

  "We canna take the risk. They will soon shake loose that bog and be after us again."

  "The bog slowed them, and one of them is wounded. Stop here and let me look at your wound," she said firmly. She touched his sleeve. "There is a great hole in your arm, and much bleeding. It needs attention now."

  He shook his head. "Later. We will ride on."

  "We?"

  "You," he said, looking down at her, "are coming with me to Rookhope, as was agreed."

  "Oh, nay, I willna," she said, and began to slide her leg over the horse. William caught her arm.

  "You will," he said. "Dinna forget you canna walk far on that leg. You're wounded yourself."

  "Then we both need to stop here."

  "If we stop, you stay with me," he said firmly. "I said I would keep you for a fortnight. Your own father wants it."

  "Hah! I'm sure he does," she said.

  He looked at her, puzzled. A shout sounded, and William looked up to see his cousins riding back toward them. "We heard gunfire," Jock said. "What happened?"

  "A pistol ball caught William," Tamsin said quickly.

  Jock rode closer. "By God!"

  "The bleeding must be stopped," she said. "My grandmother and I can tend to it if he comes into the camp."

  Jock glanced at William. "Let her take care of it—'tis a long ride back to Rookhope. 'Tis said the gypsies are fine healers."

  "This gypsy has no care to heal me, only to get her distance from me," William said, looking steadily at her through the dark.

  "I can remove a pistol ball, if need be," she said. "I've removed many balls from men. Pistol balls."

  Sandie hooted. William twisted his lips to keep from smiling. "I dinna doubt that," he drawled.

  "Sandie and I will lead the English away from here," Jock said. "You can safely ride to the camp and beg hospitality of the gypsies."

  William sighed in reluctant agreement. "Only long enough to get my arm tended," he said. "Ride on to Rookhope and tell my kin to expect me home soon."

  "Aye, then," Jock said, gathering his reins. "Keep him safe, gypsy. There's a wee lassie who canna do without him back at his tower." He grinned at William.

  "See you keep that lassie safe," William said.

  "Always," Jock said in a serious tone. He turned his horse, and he and Sandie galloped away.

  Tamsin lifted her right hand to point. "There—that great bonfire in the center of camp is near my grandfather's wagon. He is the leader of these people. My grandmother and I will see to your wound, and then you can be on your way."

  "And you with me," he growled.

  As they drew near, he heard music and laughter. He saw a large group of people clustered near the bonfire, many of them dancing, most of them smiling as they talked, or ate, or watched the dancers. Music swirled throughout the campsite, a rapid meter and intriguing melody. The tempting scent of roasting meats filled the air.

  A few dogs barked as William and Tamsin rode into the camp. Some of the gypsy men called the dogs back and stepped forward. The dancing stopped and the music faded into silence as fifty or more people watched them warily.

  William halted the horse near an oak tree at the edge of the campsite. Some of the gypsies walked closer, their gazes suspicious. The sudden silence, filled only by the crackling bonfire and the wind, seemed eerie. William was aware that he was a conspicuous, and probably unwelcome, outsider.

  "They look displeased to see us," he murmured.

  "Since I am the one bringing you here, your arrival may be regarded as an ill omen." He glanced at her, wondering what she meant.

  "Is this a Romany feast day?" William asked. They had interrupted some sort of celebration, he realized. Beneath the shelter of a grove of trees, in the golden glow of a bonfire, the tawny-hued gypsies stared at him with clear distrust.

  "My cousin's wedding feast," she answered. He felt her tense behind him and sit straighter. Her arms fell away from his waist. Oddly, he missed their pressure.

  An older man came toward them, his eyes an onyx gleam in his high-cheeked face, his beard long and gray above his barrel-chested torso. He stopped and glared at both of them. Then he spoke sharply to the girl in a strange language, the sounds blunt, rapid, and rhythmic; William realized he spoke Romany, the tongue of the gypsies.

  "Rya," Tamsin answered, bowing her head. She began a rapid stream of the same language. William knew the word rya. Other gypsies, whom he had infrequently encountered in the past, had used it as a term of respect for gypsy men as well as nongypsy gentlemen.

  The old man looked angry, and William tensed. He was also aware of the suspicious gazes of the men who gathered a few feet behind the old man. He must be her grandfather, William thought, for he had the confident look of a leader. The others waited quietly while he spoke.

  The bay shifted beneath them and William soothed him, reaching out to pat the broad neck. Pain seared again when he moved his arm. Glancing down, he saw blood soaking his sleeve, and he covered the wound with his other hand. Warm blood seeped through his fingers.

  The old man stepped forward and held his arms up to the girl, clearly ordering her down from the horse. She slid down, limber and quick despite her injured leg, but William heard her intake of breath as she stood beside the horse. Her grandfather spoke to her in
low tones while she shook her head.

  Unwilling to let the girl bear the brunt of her grandfather's anger, William vaulted down from the saddle to stand beside her. In armor and steel bonnet, he towered over both the old man and the girl. She was of medium height, for the top of her dark head was even with his jaw, but she seemed slight without the bulk of the jack, doublet, and boots she had worn before. He glanced down at her while she spoke earnestly to her grandfather.

  Her profile was delicate and exotic, the nose straight, the lips full, the chin fine, her eyes large beneath dark brows. Her dark hair spilled past her shoulders, rippled and silky. Thin golden hoops sparkled through the black curtain, while silver gleamed at her slender throat.

  She was a comely lass, William thought, born of a people known for natural beauty. When she glanced up at him, he was amazed once again by the color of her eyes, cool and green in her warm, dusky face.

  He studied her, fascinated, while she spoke with her grandfather. Her clothing was soft and simple, her feet bare. She wore a dark skirt and bodice over a linen chemise, and a tartaned plaid as a shawl, with her hair loose. The other women, except the girls, all wore cloths wrapped snugly around their heads.

  While Tamsin spoke to her grandfather, holding one hand tucked under her cloak, some of the gypsies came forward to stare at William. The dogs continued to bark, and a few children cried, comforted and held, he noticed, by women and men alike.

  The grandfather glanced at William, his eyes keen and cautious. Then he nodded and crossed his arms flat over his chest, bowing his head to William.

  In the few times he had met with gypsies in the past, William had seen this form of gypsy greeting. Unable to fold both arms over his chest in a proper return greeting, he bent his right arm over his heart, bloody hand folded, and bowed his head.

  "Welcome, rya," the old man said.

  "My thanks, rya," William said. "I apologize for disrupting your celebration. May I beg hospitality of you?"

  "My grandchild, Tchalai, says you saved her life when she was beneath the feet of a horse," the man went on. His English was heavily accented. "And you have taken a hurt in your arm. Because Tchalai owes you, her grandmother and myself owe you too. You are welcome to join our feast."

  "I thank you. But your granddaughter owes me naught, nor do you. 'Tis I who owe my life to your granddaughter." He glanced down at the girl. "I might have been killed if she hadna warned me in time to avoid a pistol shot to the back," he said, keeping his gaze linked to hers. She lowered her eyes. "I must beg help of a healer. I will offer you coin in return."

  The old man shook his head. "No coin! We owe you, good rya. I am John Faw, earl of Lesser Egypt, and these are my retinue." His hand swept toward the other gypsies. "We are pilgrims traveling through your fair Scotland. What is your nom, Border mantis'! Where do you come from?"

  "My name is William Scott. I am the laird of Rookhope Tower, in Liddesdale."

  "Rookhope! We know that stone tower." The old man frowned. "I remember a man called Allan Scott of Rookhope."

  "He was my father," William murmured.

  John Faw placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head. "Rya, your father was generous to the Romany. He gave us shelter and food, though we heard it said he was a fierce thief."

  "I remember, as a lad, that he allowed gypsies—ah, Romany—to camp on his lands, and to tend his horses. If you come to Rookhope lands, be assured that I will do the same."

  John Faw smiled. "You have our thanks! The son of Allan Scott is welcome here. He was a good friend to our Tchalai's father."

  "Aye, he was," William said quietly.

  Faw spread his spatulate fingers in a welcoming gesture. "You will stay, and share our food, and let my countess heal your hurts. Nona! Nona!" He headed toward one of the wagons, and William followed.

  A cloth lifted from a doorway at the back of the gypsy van, and light spilled forth. A flood of Romany poured out with it. Nona Faw stood in the doorway of the wagon and flapped her hands at her husband. She pointed a finger toward William, and both Faws spoke in low, fierce tones.

  "She doesna want me here," William murmured to Tamsin. "Perhaps I should leave, after all."

  "When they finish arguing, they will let you in. But they will take their time. They enjoy quarreling."

  "They enjoy it?" He looked askance at her.

  "Aye, my grandfather says Nona's anger fires him up to passion like a young bull." She smiled, a quick flash of white, and William stared at her. "Be patient, William Scott. The gypsies dinna rush any matter."

  "I can be patient as a stone," he muttered, taking his bloodied hand away from his sleeve, "but not when I am bleeding."

  "Ah, men, they are weak like kittens," Tamsin said, her tone imitating her grandfather's rhythm of speech. William saw a teasing glitter in her eyes. She pushed at his back. "See, they are waving toward you now. Go in," she urged. "My grandfather says he will see to your horse. Go in."

  He gave her a skeptical glance, looked with even greater doubt at the old woman who scowled at him from the wagon steps, and stepped forward when Tamsin gave him another light shove.

  Chapter 10

  "The idle peopill calling themselves Aegiptians... that have knowledge of Charming, Prophecie, or uthers abused sciences..."

  —Acts of the Scottish Parliament, 1579

  William entered the wagon, dipping his head low to clear the canvas doorway. Behind him, he heard the music start again, and heard John Faw call out to someone. Tamsin mounted the steps too, stepping into the wagon after him.

  Nona Faw gestured a welcome. She was a wizened elf of a woman, brown and wrinkled as a dried apple, swathed in a striped shawl and a pale headcloth. A necklace of gold and silver coins gleamed on her bosom. Her eyes glittered like jet, intelligent in their creased settings. She pushed him toward a cushioned bench that lined the opposite wall of the narrow space.

  The wagon, he saw, was a tent erected on a long cart bed, somewhat like a traveling van used for noblewomen. Overhead, wooden struts supported a canvas covering. Inside, the space was snug and smoky, crammed with cushions, benches, and baskets. Coals glowed in a brazier on the floor. Smoke curled out of a hole in the canvas cover, and the low ceiling was draped with swaths of cloth, making the interior quiet and cozy.

  William edged around the brazier, while Nona let forth a spate of Romany directed at him. He looked at Tamsin.

  "She says to sit," she said.

  "She said more than that. Tell me exactly what she said, if you will," he murmured. He eyed the old woman warily as she continued to ramble on in Romany and wave her hands.

  "Very well. She says to sit, sit, sit, bleeding and wounded Scotsman who saved her granddaughter's life from thieves and murderers in the moonlight," Tamsin translated. "She says she is not afraid of blood, show her your gory wound, she will not faint. She says she is a woman, not a weakling man."

  "Thank you," William drawled.

  Tamsin's eyes were bright with humor. "Sit."

  He sat, and the girl stepped past him, tripping over the wide toe of his boot. She winced and her cheeks turned pale. Her grandmother spoke to her, and she answered, shaking her head.

  "You hurt your leg when you fell on the moor," William said.

  "'Tis a bruise. I will be fine. You are the one bleeding to death, after all."

  "Ease that tongue of yours, I am cut to the quick already." He took his hand from his sleeve, his palm filled with blood.

  "Aiieee," Nona said, and whirled to fetch some cloths.

  Tamsin peered at his arm and touched his sleeve. "'Tis deep, I see now," she murmured. "I didna mean to mock you." She turned to speak to her grandmother.

  Nona came toward him and clapped a folded cloth to his arm, pressing it tightly. He sucked in a breath, and the pad grew red with blood.

  When she poked at the gash with strong fingers, bright spots swam before William's eyes. He drew a long breath to resist the power of momentary agony. Nona spoke to Ta
msin.

  "The pistol ball is gone," Tamsin translated. "It tore through your arm. The wound has bled out, and looks clean."

  "Good," he said. "I think she would have dug the ball out with her fingers if it had still been in there. Your grandmother has an unforgiving touch."

  Nona knocked hard on his breastplate and snapped at him in Romany. William looked at Tamsin.

  "She says to take off that metal shirt and your doublet."

  He nodded and removed his helmet, shoving his fingers through his dark hair. Then, while Nona worked at his arm, he began to unfasten a shoulder buckle awkwardly with one hand. Tamsin reached out to assist him with her right hand, her left fisted at her waist.

  "Two hands would help most here," he said. "Does your left hand still hurt you?"

  "I told you before, it isna injured. My left hand... isna good for small work," she said. He nodded, concentrating on the task. Together they undid the buckles and lifted the back and breast pieces away. Nona stepped away to fetch something else, and William held the cloth over his wound.

  Tamsin knelt before him. With the nimble fingers of one hand, she undid the long row of hooks and loops that closed the front of the leather doublet he wore beneath the armor. He recalled doing the same task for her not long ago. His subtle surrender as he waited gave him a pleasant feeling of intimacy.

  When she leaned close, he sensed a subtle fragrance about her, like heather on the wind. She worked her way down the row of hooks, her breathing soft. Her lashes were thick and black against her cheeks, and her eyelids half hid the clear pools of her eyes. He noticed too the lush curves and swells beneath her clothing. A rush of desire flooded unexpectedly through him, hot and fast. He cleared his throat.

  "Ah," he said. "What is it your grandparents call you? Chahli?" He tried to pronounce it.

  "Tchalai," she murmured, softening the sound. "It means 'star'. They dinna use my Scots name, Thomasine, which my father gave to me for his father, Thomas Armstrong of Merton Rigg."

  "Star," he said quietly. He understood the name. "'Tis fitting. Your eyes..." A wave of weakness swept him, and tiny spots floated past his eyes. The wagon interior grew dim. He shook his head slightly and leaned his shoulders against a crude wooden panel behind him.