The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  "Be gone from here—or I'll curse you with the evil eye!" she said. Arthur gasped.

  "God in heaven, she can do it too, look at her," Ned muttered.

  "The devil in the shape of a woman," Arthur said. "She wore a glove when I saw her before. 'Twas to hide that demon's hoof! By God! My father should have hanged her for a witch!"

  She sensed William behind her in the shadows like a protective presence. Yet she was aware that he watched her, that he knew, now, the truth about her. A sob curdled within her. While she could endure what these brutes thought of her, a tender, wounded part deep inside of her did not want William Scott to see her flaw, her weakness, her ugliness.

  She sucked in a breath. No matter how much she hurt inside, she would not let it show. She was the granddaughter of an earl of Egypt, and the daughter of a great Scottish scoundrel. Lifting her chin to raise her pride, she held her left hand high, unmoving.

  "Arrest her, man," Ned said, looking at Arthur. "You have the authority! Your father made you a deputy warden of the English Middle March!"

  "Ah," said a deep, sure voice behind her. "But we are in Scotland, lads. Arthur has no authority here."

  Tamsin caught her breath as the sudden, welcome warmth of William's hands rested on her upper arms. He guided her behind him, and she went without protest, her heart beating fast. She peered at Ned and Arthur around the width of his shoulder.

  "Her husband!" Ned said.

  "I told you!" Arthur hissed. He blinked. "By God! What? William Scott—guised as a gypsy!"

  William inclined his head. "Very good. Now get out," he ordered. "You disturb a wedding."

  "Yours?" Ned sounded confused. "Did you wed the gypsy this evening? Is that what this celebration is all about?"

  "There are easier ways to bed a tawny than to wed her!" Arthur said. "That one's a witch! And you must be a fool to want her! Though she's a pretty little tart. I wager you did not know about that claw either, hey?"

  William slithered free the dirk sheathed at his belt. "Guard your tongue," he growled.

  "She took our silver and put a curse on Arthur!" Ned said.

  Arthur looked startled, but nodded. "Aye!" he said. "She put an evil eye on me—both of us—and she took my silver, telling me lies!"

  "She told no lies," William said. "Palmistry is regarded as a science among scholars and physicians, though I doubt you know that. And she knows a good deal about your true character, Arthur. Certainly more than you would want anyone to know," he added in a low drawl.

  "Did you truly wed that gypsy?" Arthur demanded. "My father will want to know what the devil you are up to!"

  "If I were to wed a gypsy, 'twould be my concern, and not yours or your father's," William said. "If I were to wed a gypsy"—he twirled the dirk and caught it, swift as a spinning star—"your father should be pleased, for he wants a contact among these people for his own purposes. Now be gone from here. Or the evil eye will be the least of your troubles."

  "I will tell my father what I saw here!" Arthur said.

  "Tell him that you saw Tamsin Armstrong and me meeting with the gypsies. Tell him too that Ned insulted the lass in a lewd manner, and you both were sent out of here as you deserved."

  Ned snarled and drew his own dirk, launching toward him. William stepped aside with easy grace, his arm sweeping back to shield Tamsin.

  Ned stopped abruptly, staring past them. Tamsin turned to see her grandfather and several Romany men walking toward them. John Faw held a whip and lashed out with it, cracking the supple length.

  William looked at Ned and Arthur. "Be gone," he ordered.

  Wordlessly, the men turned and ran toward their horses. Within moments, they vaulted into the saddles and rode away, vanishing into the darkness of the moor.

  Tamsin whirled to see John Faw nod silent thanks to William Scott, who nodded in return. Her grandfather looked at her.

  "Are you harmed, girl?" he asked in Romany.

  "I am fine," she replied, rubbing her left wrist with her right hand. Her small hand was open to view, but she did not care. The damage had been done.

  John Faw stared from her to William for a long moment. Tamsin was sure that he had heard Arthur asking William if he was indeed her husband. She swallowed nervously and waited for John Faw to ask for an explanation or to show his anger.

  But her grandfather only swiveled his black, intense gaze from one to the other, as if he tried to divine what they knew and he did not. She realized that he would say nothing to her of his private thoughts, or the matter of her behavior, in front of his people. After a moment, he turned to walk toward the bonfire, followed by the men. The camp was quiet. Just when the music and chatter had stopped, Tamsin could not have said.

  John Faw gave the signal for the music to resume. Tamsin saw her grandmother comforting the tearful bride, whose wedding celebration had been tainted by violence and strangers. Tamsin felt some remorse over the ruined festivities, but knew that her apology would not be accepted. The bride and her closest relatives had often shown a wary suspicion of Tamsin.

  She turned away. William stood watching her, the firelight flickering over his face. She glanced away and bent to pick up the fallen silk, wrapping its softness around her left hand.

  She knew she should thank him for helping her. But she only wanted to run from him, ashamed that he had seen the flaw she had tried to hide. She whirled and hurried toward the bonfire.

  An instant later, she felt long fingers grasp her left hand. The silk fell away and floated to the ground.

  "Evil eye," William muttered. He pulled on her hand and started through the clearing. "Evil eye! Casting a curse! God in heaven, lass, what were you thinking!" His fingers were warm and strong on her skin as he yanked her with him.

  Too stunned to answer, overwhelmed by the sudden touch of his hand on hers, Tamsin tried to pull away. He did not slow down, tugging her in his wake. Some of the gypsies stopped and stared after them.

  "I didna take you for a foolish lass," William continued in an irritated tone. "But that was a silly performance indeed." He stopped and glared at her. "Do you know what you've done?"

  "Nay," she said hotly. "I dinna have a hint of it!"

  "Well, you'll soon find out, when Jasper Musgrave puts out a summons for your arrest and accuses you of witchcraft."

  "He wouldna," she said. "Anyone can see Arthur is a fool."

  "He is. But so is Jasper. He will believe Arthur, if the lad reports this. And be sure he will." He shook his head, looking down at the ground as if in thought. His fingers remained firm over her misshapen hand. She flexed it in his. He did not flinch, did not even lessen his hold.

  She wondered if he was so caught up in his anger with her that he did not even realize that he held her left hand.

  "Well," he said finally, resuming a fast stride through the camp, "we'd best go back to Rookhope as quick as we can. Likely 'twill take more than a fortnight to sort out this tangle. I'll have to bring word of it to your father. He'll want to be warned that Musgrave may have another charge to lay on your head."

  She stumbled after him. "But—but—"

  He glanced over his shoulder. "What?" he asked impatiently.

  "I—I dinna want to go to Rookhope," she said. The fire of her previous protests had faded, replaced by pure amazement. He had not looked in abhorrence at her hand. He held it in his, even now, his fingers curled around the wedge, warm and firm against her palm.

  No man, other than Archie and Cuthbert, had ever held her left hand like this, cradling it casually, warmly, as if it were the same as any other hand. She stared at him as they walked.

  "What is it?" he asked, stopping again to look at her.

  "You..." She searched for the words. "You dinna seem disturbed...." She paused.

  "By what? Your hand?" He lifted her left hand, lowered it, did not let go. "I am no superstitious blockhead, like those two fools who just left us."

  "You... dinna think 'tis a sign of evil?" she asked faintly.
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  "Evil? Nay." He sounded impatient as he tugged her along. "And I doubt you know aught about laying curses either. But Jasper Musgrave will think it. He'll have his rope around your bonny, foolish neck again, unless we can prevent it."

  "What should we do?" she asked. She felt stunned, so relieved by his casual reaction to her hand that she could scarcely think about any other matter.

  "I will have to consider it before I can say. Come on."

  "Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly.

  "To Rookhope," he said, as they reached the wagon. "Get your gear."

  He let go of her hand and pushed her toward the wooden steps. At that moment, the door flap parted, and Nona peered out at them. Her face shifted into a toothless grin.

  "Now that I think on it," William drawled, "I wouldna put a thorough curse beyond your grandmother's talents."

  "Tell the pretty man," Nona said in Romany, looking at Tamsin, "that he should not be so familiar with you unless he intends to wed you. Your grandfather told me all that was said among the gadjo. Everyone here has seen him touch you in a courting manner, and we assume he intends to marry you."

  "Kek, no, Grandmother, it is not as you think—"

  Nona pointed a thumb at William. "I like this pretty man well, and I see his lusty desire for you, clear in his summer-sky eyes. But I tell you that your grandfather is furious. He has found a gypsy man who will take you in marriage. And then you go and give yourself to the pretty rya!"

  "Please listen. It is not what you think."

  Nona was too intent on her course to listen. "But I say, it is good that this beautiful gadjo wants you in his bed!" She smiled. "I will tell your grandfather that he will be a good husband for you, this one, strong and rich! His leather doublet is very fine, and his metal armor costs much gold. And he has a good heart too, though troubled—I saw that in his hand." She shook her long finger. "But you must tell the pretty Scotsman that he cannot touch you again until we celebrate the marriage!"

  "What is she saying?" William asked.

  Tamsin, startled, looked up at him. Embarrassment and shame, for her own shortcomings and for her grandmother's boldness, burned in her. "She says dinna touch me again," she translated. As she tried to stifle her agonizing embarrassment, anger rose in its stead. "She says"—she walked up the steps—"that you will have naught but bad luck forever if you touch me!" She nearly gasped at her own absurd answer.

  Anger and gratitude grappled within her. He had taken her hand without fear. The warmth and pressure of his touch had shocked her at first. And though the feeling was deeply welcome, it confused her. His fingers against her palm felt like sunshine on shadowed ground. His unhesitating touch brought a kindness so simple and poignant that she wanted to cry.

  Instead she had lashed out at him. She stumbled past Nona into the dark interior of the wagon. She could not help but glance back. Nona smiled at William, who looked astonished.

  "Pretty rya," Nona said, although William could not understand her. "She will be a good wife to you."

  William smiled at Nona and peered past her into the wagon. "Tamsin," he called. "Come out. Bring out my armor and my gear, if you will, and come out. We must set out for Rookhope." He waited. "Tamsin Armstrong!" he said with more force.

  Nona crowed with delight. "Avali, yes," she told William. "This is good! Shouting for her! Tell her what you want of her! Show her your passion! At last, a strong man for my strong girl! You are unafraid of her strange little hand!" She shouted it out for all to hear. Some of the Romany walking nearby paused to look toward the wagon.

  "Grandmother," Tamsin hissed. "Stop that! I will explain this to you, if you will but listen!"

  Nona pointed at William, who, not understanding a word of what went on, gave her a somewhat bewildered glance. "You stay here with us, rya, and we will have a wedding for two couples, eh! I will tell my husband not to worry, for we have found a good man for our Tchalai!" She turned and grinned at Tamsin.

  "This man does not want me!" Tamsin said.

  "Look at him," Nona said, wiggling her brows. "He does."

  "Tamsin," William said, catching sight of her behind Nona. He spoke through his teeth, as if deeply exasperated. "Come out of there, lass! And tell me what the devil is going on here!"

  Tamsin stood back in the shadows, her cheeks hot with shame. "My grandmother likes you," she said in brisk summary. "But go away. I willna go to Rookhope with you."

  She heard him swear under his breath, saw him remove the hat he wore and shove a hand through his hair, heard him swear again, then saw him wince at the forgotten pain in his arm. Nona folded her hands on her belly and grinned.

  "Just give me my gear," he said. "I'll sleep in the camp somewhere. We will talk in the morning, you and I. And be assured I willna leave without you."

  Tamsin's temper, barely controlled, sparked further. She did not even know what she was angry about, but she followed the hot impulse that hurtled through her. She picked up his helmet and tossed it over Nona's shoulder through the doorway. William ducked, but managed to catch it. The rest of his gear followed when Tamsin dumped the bundle down the steps.

  Nona rubbed her hands in utter delight. "Yes, yes," she crowed. "This will be a good match indeed!"

  William gave Nona a distracted smile, oblivious to her meaning. He scowled past her at Tamsin, who kept in the shadows behind the door flap. Then he stalked off toward the trees.

  Nona turned to Tamsin, looking elfin and delighted. A moment later she hurried down the wagon steps, coin necklace jingling, and called out for her husband.

  Tamsin sank down to the floor of the wagon and put her face into her hands. Within moments, hot tears of frustration and embarrassment trickled into her palms.

  Chapter 13

  "If your hand you hallow,

  Good fortune will follow,

  I swear by these ten,

  You shall have it agen,

  I do not say when."

  —Ben Jonson, Masque of the Metamorphosed Gipsies

  Dawn bloomed cool and fragile, a faint lifting of the sky. Tamsin woke beneath the wagon and crawled out to stand in the chilly air, holding the blanket snug around her shoulders. Although darkness lingered, she could hear the murmur of voices and an occasional barking dog, and smelled bacon cooking somewhere in the grove.

  Campfires sparkled like golden stars in the morning mist. The Romany had begun to stir after a brief rest, moving slowly through the soft shadows, whispering quietly while they tended to their families and to the horses raised and trained by the Romany band.

  When her grandparents had returned to the wagon last night, Tamsin had feigned sleep beneath the wagon, and they had not disturbed her. Across the clearing, William Scott had slept beneath an oak tree. Tamsin had glanced often in his direction, but he appeared to sleep soundly, while she had tossed and turned.

  She watched as some of the women prepared for the wedding celebration. Soon the entire camp would walk to the place where her grandfather, as the Romany leader, would perform the marriage. Feasting, music, and dancing would complete the day.

  Tomorrow, Tamsin knew, her grandfather would lead his people on a journey to another part of Scotland. John Faw had promised to heed the warning that Tamsin had brought to him. They would be protected from King Henry's plan if no Romany could be found to be bribed or threatened into compliance.

  She turned and walked toward the stream on the far side of the trees, glancing toward William Scott as she went. He sat beneath the oak tree, pulling on his long boots. He looked up at her, his gaze cool blue in the dawn light, and nodded to her. No doubt he expected her to be ready to leave for Rookhope soon. Although her heart seemed to leap, she hurried past with a curt, returned nod.

  At the stream, a few women collected water in buckets, but no one spoke to her. Perhaps they recalled that she had brought poor luck with her last night, she thought. Tamsin kept apart from them as she rinsed her face and hands in the cold water and ran damp fingers t
hrough her tangled curls. When she headed back, a quick glance showed her that William now stood beside his horse, readying his gear to leave.

  Ahead, John Faw emerged from his wagon and waved to her. He held some food in a folded cloth and beckoned her forward.

  "Tchalai!" he called. "Good morning." He offered her a flat oatcake and crisp bacon, still hot. She thanked him and ate, standing beside him. He modestly averted his eyes, as was proper, until she finished.

  "Grandfather," she said. "Thank you for coming to my aid last night."

  "We defend our women," he said gruffly.

  "I am sorry that I brought trouble to my cousin's wedding."

  "The gadjo are to blame for that. You did nothing wrong... though your behavior is not always that of a proper Romany girl," he added. "But then, you have learned gadjo ways."

  "Scottish women do act with more freedom than Romany women," she said. "I know you think I behave poorly at

  times—"

  "You have a boldness in your nature that is not of Romany making. Romany women are modest and obedient." His glance was like a grim scold.

  "Is it boldness, grandfather, or independence?"

  He grunted. "The Scots make much of this independence," he said. "It is good for men, and unseemly in women."

  She sighed. Although she loved and respected him as much as she did Archie, her grandfather abided by strict Romany rules of behavior, and imposed restraints on her that Archie had never done.

  Her grandfather was, in some ways, Archie's opposite; her father was big and loud, full of humor and affection, while her grandfather was a small dark man with a reserved temperament.

  "I only think of your good, Tchalai," he said. "I have always defended your presence among us, though others wanted you cast out as an infant. But Nona and I kept you with us after... the one who gave you life went away." He glanced down. "You look much like her."

  She knew that. Archie sometimes mentioned it, and spoke of her mother with tenderness, while her grandfather would not even utter her mother's name. Like Nona, he would not allow his grief to lessen or to heal.