The Heather Moon

by King, Susan

  With tears in her eyes, Nona bowed and folded her hands in farewell. At that moment, William heard the rhythm of approaching hooves. He turned to see a dappled gray horse loping through the encampment, and stepped back as it headed toward him.

  Tamsin rode with reckless grace, back straight and hips supple, skirts flying over her knees, her hair floating out like a black cloud. With scarcely a look toward him, she streamed past and headed out of the camp. When she reached the edge of the moor, she urged her horse to a fast gallop.

  William started forward, but glanced back at her grandparents. John Faw pointed calmly toward the moor. "Go," he said. "Follow her. She is your trouble now, William Scott."

  He crossed the grove at a run. Within moments, he mounted the bay and rode out of the camp.

  * * *

  Mist hovered on the moor in low, fragile clouds, and the hills seemed translucent in the increasing glow of dawn. William guided the bay over the moor at a leisurely pace. Tamsin rode far ahead of him on the gray horse, but he felt no urgent need to catch her. Easy enough to keep her in sight, he thought, and let her ride off whatever strong emotion had powered her bold departure from the gypsy camp. He would not lose her out here.

  She crossed the moor and headed toward an earthen road that skimmed along the wide base of a hill. William followed, the bay's rhythmic stride fast but relaxed. He did not need to push the horse or pursue the girl. The gray would tire soon enough at that pace, he reasoned. Soon or late, the girl would have to pull up.

  He watched her ride, hair flying out like a black banner, her skirts high over her long, slim legs. He watched the grace and power that seemed natural to her, and wondered what caused her distress. She seemed to run from something, he thought. Last night she had possessed the courage to stand up to two men who mocked her. Now she behaved as if she lacked even the courage to face him.

  He rode at a steady lope behind her, thinking of last night, when he had seen her hand exposed for the first time. Neither shock nor disgust had been his reaction, though Tamsin seemed to expect both from him. Surprise, perhaps, and curiosity, for he knew that she hid some flaw in that hand. He expected to see scars or the traces of an old injury.

  What he had seen, finally, was no more than a harmless variation of nature. His heart had gone out to her in sympathy, as he had felt before with her. Tamsin seemed to have a singular capacity to melt the guards around his feelings, no matter that he endeavored to always show himself as cool and unmoved. None but his daughter had that effect on him.

  Tamsin seemed to believe that her hand represented some mark of inferiority, even a sign of inherent evil. He could not share even the smallest part of that view. Years of tutelage at the king's side, and his own preference for studying scientific and medical treatises, had made him immune to common superstitions.

  Seething fury had rushed through him when Arthur and Ned had mocked and threatened her. William had been about to confront them himself when the girl began to brandish the hand like a weapon. A foolish but courageous act, William thought, touched off by her fiery, impulsive nature. But then, he mused, true bravery often required a touch of madness to fuel it.

  He glanced ahead. The road met another track, and continued past a wide crossing to disappear between two steep hills. Tamsin headed for the crossing. Once there, she slowed and circled the horse, glancing back at him.

  William remembered when he and Archie had chased her over meadows and roads in the Debatable Land. Then too, she had stopped at a crossing. He wondered if she looked at another of the strange gypsy marks.

  This time, she took neither of the roads. Instead, she urged the horse up one of the hillsides, a gradual incline that led to the ridge where William and his cousins had ridden last night. Reaching the peak of the hill, she halted the horse.

  William hoped she intended to wait for him and accompany him along the drover's track that topped those hills. He headed after her.

  At the crossroads, he stopped, as she had. In the center of the clearing, a cluster of stones was arranged in the shape of a heart. The design was not the same as the scratchings and pebbles that had led him to the gypsy camp, and to Tamsin.

  Here, the heart was much larger, a wide heart-shaped space outlined by smooth stones as large as bread loaves. This was no secret sign etched in the dust for other Romany to see, he thought. The heart was a permanent thing, for the stones had been there a long while, half sunk into the earth.

  He looked toward the hilltop. The horse and rider were silhouetted on the high crest. Tamsin sat motionless, her back straight, her dark hair billowing out, as if she watched him. In the pearled light of dawn, a delicate mist seemed to surround her.

  He guided the bay up the hillside, wondering if Tamsin would bolt as soon as he came near. But when he attained the peak, she sat still. Except for the rippling motion of her hair, and the horse's tail and mane, they might have been an equestrian statue, he thought, like those proud, elegant statues he had once seen in the city of Rome when he had traveled there on a mission for King James, several years past.

  He halted, sidling the bay beside her mount. Tamsin did not look at him, though her horse acknowledged his with a soft whicker. Tamsin's silence and stillness seemed to ask the same of William. He said nothing, and waited.

  He studied her elegant profile, the slim, graceful lines of her body, the dark, tendriled mass of her hair. She had a fiery kind of beauty, he thought. She was unlike the women he was accustomed to admiring at court. Without the enhancement of textiles and jewels, she had a natural loveliness, simple, strong, yet delicate. But what he found most fascinating about her was not outward.

  A flame burned within her, in the heat of her temper and her quick moods, in the lithe, agile style of her movements, in the low warmth of her voice. Most of all, he sensed it in the spirit that brightened her eyes, like pale green crystals lit from within.

  Her silence was profound, not a gentle peace in keeping with the dawn, but something darker, tinged with sadness. He did not know why she sat and waited on the hilltop, but he would not disturb her, or the quiet atmosphere, with mundane questions.

  He looked outward. The land spread below the hill in a wide vista of misty moors and heather-coated hills, greens and purples softened to pale hues by the fog. To one side of the moor, the gypsy campfires twinkled like morning stars.

  After a few moments, he noticed movement there, and squinted his eyes to see the gypsies walking over the moor. All of them, men, women, and children, seemed part of the procession. Soon they came to the same road that he and Tamsin had taken. Through the early mist, they headed toward the crossroads.

  "They are going to the heart circle," Tamsin said before he could ask. Her tone was subdued, as if the bright spark within her burned low.

  "Heart circle?" he asked. "In the crossing?"

  She nodded, lifting her right hand to point. Her left hand was hidden once again in the black glove, and she gripped the reins with it. "Long ago, the Romany people put the stones there. 'Tis where many Romany marriages are made. Betrothal promises are made there too. Romany bands travel to this place just to hold weddings here."

  "Is it the custom to marry at dawn?" The sky had lightened further, but the gloom of night still clung in the shadows.

  "In the Romany way, dancing and feasting take place before the wedding vows, not after. On the last day of the celebration, the oaths are taken before the night ends." She glanced at him briefly. "The bride and groom would have said their vows last night, but the wedding was delayed."

  "Do you want to join them to attend the wedding?" he asked. "I will wait, if you wish."

  She shook her head. "I will watch from here. The bride and her close kin willna want me among them." Her voice was flat, lacking emotion. She sat the horse with simple ease, her back straight, her head proud on her long neck. But he glimpsed something fragile in the depth of her eyes.

  "Then we will watch from here," he said softly. "If you dinna mind the compan
y."

  She did not reply, her gaze intent on the scene below. The gypsies came toward the crossing and surrounded it. William watched as John Faw walked toward the center, staying outside the heart itself. He addressed the Romany, and then beckoned. The bride and groom came forward and stepped into the center of the heart. Faw tied their hands together with a red cloth.

  William gave Tamsin a questioning look. "My grandfather, as the leader of the Romany," she explained, "will ask them to say their vows there. He binds their wrists together to symbolize the union. Then..." She paused.

  He saw the glint of a blade. "What...?"

  He heard her take a long, quavery breath. "He... makes small cuts on their wrists. They allow their blood to mingle, and speak their pledges to each other. 'Tis all that is needed to seal a Romany marriage."

  A thought flashed and was gone, so quickly that he could not catch it. He watched the bride and groom. The earthy sincerity of the simple ritual touched him deeply. John Faw released the hands of the bride and groom, and they spoke. Then the whole group began to wend back toward the camp. Voices joined and lifted in song as they walked.

  "'Tis done," Tamsin said.

  "I wish them well," William said softly, half to himself.

  Tamsin opened her mouth as if to speak, but looked away, her lip and chin quivering. "I must tell you something," she said at last. He frowned, narrowed his eyes, sensing that whatever she had to say was a burden for her. He waited.

  "I spoke with my grandparents for a long while before we left the camp," she began. "You likely heard some of it, for we raised our voices."

  "I noticed the dispute," he answered. "But I did not understand the language."

  "My grandfather wanted me to wed a man of his choosing," she said. "He wanted me to stand in that heart circle with a Romany man, someone who has offered to wed me. I refused. My grandfather was very upset with me."

  "He seemed pleased enough by the time we left," he said, though he felt a surprising sense of jealousy simmer within him. He did not like the thought of her wed to someone else. The thought startled him, for he had no claim to her himself. "The argument seems to have been resolved," he added.

  She bowed her head, her dark hair sliding forward. "That is what I must tell you," she said. "The resolution. My grandfather wanted me to wed. If I didna choose a husband, any husband, he threatened to banish me from the Romany."

  "Banishment?" he asked. "Exile?"

  She nodded. "A Romany who is cast out can never go back, unless forgiveness is given. I didna think he would do that to me in truth," she said quickly, "but he mentioned it, which proved how angry he was, how frustrated. How much he wanted me to marry. I couldna... I couldna bear to be banished," she said. "It frightened me to hear him say it. I dinna live with them most of the year, and 'tis true that many of the Romany dinna welcome me. But my grandparents' wagon is my home, as much as Merton Rigg is my home. I need to be free to come and go there, to be welcomed at my grandmother's fire, as I have always been." She stopped, drew a breath.

  "I understand." William felt a twist of sympathy. "I know what 'tis like to be taken away from kin and home, lass. Believe me, you dinna want to endure that."

  He had been thirteen years old when he had been taken from Rookhope by force and put in the custody of the crown as a pledge for his disobedient Scott kinsmen. He was a man before he saw his mother and his siblings again.

  He looked out over the blanket of mist lifting from the moorland. He remembered the cold ride through the glen on the day that his father had died, and felt, once again, the keen pain of that forced parting. The awful loneliness of it, which he had never lost in all the years since.

  And then he remembered, like a companion image, the sight of Archie and Tamsin Armstrong, together on a horse at the crest of a hill, like the hill he and Tamsin were on now. He recalled their silent salutes to him, and the way they had watched him, like an honor guard, a gesture of respect. He felt a new rush of gratitude for their gift of friendship—and love—at a time when those had been torn from him.

  He drew a breath. "Have you decided to wed this Romany man, and so stay within the circle of your grandfather's band? Is that what you wanted to tell me?" he asked.

  She shook her head vehemently, tears pooling in her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her bare hand. "Nay," she said, her voice cracking a little. "I didna agree to wed him. I could never do that. I agreed..." She gulped then, and covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a sob.

  He wanted to reach out to her, felt an overwhelming urge to touch her, hold her, not presently for the lust that seemed to flare whenever he was near her, but to comfort her. But a hand, a shoulder to lean upon, a word or two while she cried, would not ease the hurt and confusion she felt. He knew that.

  And he knew too that she was too proud, too strong, to allow herself to lean on him. He sat his horse beside her and watched as a tear slipped down the honey curve of her cheek. He fisted a hand, tensed his stomach against the wrenching in his heart, so intense was his urge to take her into his arms.

  She brushed the back of her hand over her cheek and lifted her head proudly. Then she lifted the reins and guided her horse down the long slope. William followed, stilling his horse at the empty crossing when Tamsin did. With a sigh, she dismounted and went to the heart circle. After a moment, he climbed down and went to stand beside her. He saw the glint of more tears, blinked back.

  "Tamsin." He stepped close, unable to stop himself from reaching out, resting his fingers on her shoulder. "What is it? What happened between you and your grandparents?"

  She turned her head away from him, but let his hand stay. He felt her heat sink into him, felt her hair drift soft over his skin. He sensed regret, even guilt, within her.

  He wanted to help her in her distress, in return for that long-ago day when she, as a child, had made a gesture of such simple sweetness that it had settled soft in the niche of his heart like a dove roosting, and had never left him. Now, as he stood with her, linked to her only by the touch of his palm to her shoulder, he wanted to give something much greater in return for that old, tender gift. He wanted to repay her and her father somehow, and found, simply, that he did not know how.

  "My disobedience in refusing Baptiste shames my grandparents," she said. "My marriage, my obedience, would give them great joy. Such things are of enormous importance to the Romany. I want you to understand that." She drew a breath.

  "I do understand," he said. "Is there some other man you can marry, then, and still please them?" The words sparked a dark jealousy in him once again. He admonished himself for it, yet could not deny its existence.

  He was surprised to hear a soft, tiny laugh escape her lips. She stared down at the heart-shaped circle. "My grandfather has tried to find me a husband. My father has tried even longer. No man has ever wanted me, or offered for me, until this Romany."

  "Dinna tell me no one wants you, lass," he said. He watched her in the rising light of dawn. "I would think many men would want the chance to wed such a bonny, bold lass as you."

  I want you, he thought suddenly, the certainty of it so strong, so fierce, that he nearly said it aloud, astonishing himself, and stopped the words as they formed.

  "'Tis well known that no Borderman, and no Romany either—until Baptiste Lallo—will have the daughter of Archie Armstrong," she said. "None want a half gypsy, with but half... half a hand, to wife." She shrugged as if to dismiss all of those who thought so. But when she tipped her head a little, he saw the hurt in her eyes.

  "Then your father and your grandfather havena asked the right man," he said quietly.

  She laughed, rueful and humorless. "My father has asked near every man he meets," she said.

  "He hasna asked me." His words were quiet, impulsive.

  She caught her breath. "You?" she asked. "What... what would you have said to him, had he asked you to consider a lass such as me to wife?" She turned her head and looked at him.

 
In her eyes, as lucid as light shining through green glass, he saw hope, and fear, and fire. He glimpsed the flame that was so essential to her being, diminished by the rejection of so many. The vulnerability he saw in the depths of her eyes tugged at his heart.

  He wanted no part of extinguishing her spirit. As much trouble as she had been to him, as much trouble as she yet might be, he admired her spark, enjoyed it, wanted it to flare again.

  The elusive thought that had escaped him earlier, while he had watched the gypsy wedding, suddenly returned with startling clarity. The realization that came with it bloomed and grew, opening with possibility. Within an instant, a cool sweat broke over him, and his heart began to pound.

  He had not answered her yet. She looked away, let out a long sigh, and began to walk toward her horse.

  "Tamsin," he said.

  He must be mad, he told himself. One night with the gypsies had thrown him into a state of utter lunacy. He need say nothing to her of his wild thought. He need offer only sympathy, and give her a boost up into her saddle, and take her to Rookhope for a fortnight as arranged. That was the safe path.

  He did not want the safe path, this time. He knew that, and did not know why. And suddenly did not care.

  "Tamsin," he repeated. He walked toward her.

  She turned, her brow creased slightly, and waited.

  "I would have told your father," he said, "that I would be honored to be your husband."

  She stared up at him, her mouth open slightly, as if she were made speechless, utterly stunned.

  "And I would have told him," he went on, "that you and I were already wed."

  Chapter 15

  "Said the youthful earl to the gypsy girl,

  As the moon was casting its silver shine

  Brown little lady, Egyptian lady,

  Let me kiss those sweet lips of thine."