Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “You say you want an heir. I am willing to give you the little prince your pale lover has denied you. You told us all that she was with child, but it was not true. Perhaps she is incapable of conceiving.”

  Mateo frowned. He had been so sure that Charlotte was carrying his seed. What had happened? But it made no difference now. He could never have her.

  “We both know that I am not barren. Pesha is my proof, the child of my own childhood, and as crafty a little wench as ever was born.” Phaedra saw that she had his full attention now and went on, pleased to find the opportunity at last to confess a long hidden secret to Mateo—one that would give her power over him even after he was king. “But then how could she be other than a true thoroughbred? Her bloodlines are of championship stock—out of Princess Phaedra, sired by King Strombol—your own father.”

  Stunned, Mateo jerked away from her. He had known that Poor Little Pesha was Phaedra’s child, but the father had never been revealed. Her words twisted through him as painfully as a knife through flesh. Then anger replaced that pain and he raised his hand to strike her lying mouth.

  She smiled up at him. “Go ahead! Hit me! It will not change the truth. Strombol maintained the fire in his loins to his very last days. He was a powerful, compelling lover. Ask your mother, if you don’t believe me.”

  His eyes narrowed to dark slits. “No more! Do you hear me?”

  She shrugged, making her breasts quiver tantalizingly. “I only thought that since we are to be man and wife there should be no secrets between us. The fact that your father loved me so well, it seemed to me, would make you want me all the more. And it would be interesting to compare the son to the father. But in every thoroughbred line there is one throwback to a weaker strain. Perhaps that is you, Mateo. You’ve always been a hesitant lover. You may never be able to produce an heir. Still, I am willing to give you the chance to try. A king must have princes from his queen.”

  It seemed to Phaedra that her confession and her taunting words had the desired effect. Mateo fell upon her once more. There had been little tenderness in his touch before; there was none at all now. His strong fingers bruised her flesh; his teeth bit at her nipples until she cried out in delicious agony. His hips ground against hers, crushing her down into the skins.

  Phaedra felt a fever in her womb. Never had any man charged her with such fire and longing. She would die of it if he didn’t enter her soon. He tore away her skirt and she lay very still—holding her breath, waiting for his first, fierce thrust. Her whole body quivered with exquisite anticipation. But still he lingered over her lips, her breasts—still he tortured her with need, bringing her to the very brink but denying her the fulfillment of possessing him.

  “Mateo!” she screamed at him. “By the holy Handmaiden, take me now before I die!”

  At once he drew away and stood towering over her naked form. A cruel smile twisted his unshaven face. When he spoke, his voice was cold, devoid of any emotion.

  “No, Phaedra. I will not bed a woman my father has lain with. You will be my wife, but there will be no heirs. Not of my loins or any other’s.”

  “Mateo!” she gasped, her face a tortured mask of disbelief. “No! You can’t mean that. You want me. I know it!”

  Ignoring her words, he went on. “And there will be no lovers! My father died many years ago. If the wicked tale you have told me is true, you have used your body for wanton pleasure too long already. From this day forward, you will be a chaste vessel. You want to be queen? Very well. But these are my terms. Go against them and…” He fingered his whip meaningfully.

  He left her then—aching, seething, scheming, and vowing revenge.

  Charlotte—not wanting to see, but unable to tear her gaze away—had watched Phaedra’s tent all the while Mateo was with the dark-haired woman. Charlotte sat, hurting inside and crying softly, wondering what was going on between them. She didn’t understand any of it. Then, when she thought she couldn’t stand the suspense for another moment, Tamara came flying in the door. Seeing Charlotte up and staring with tear-flooded eyes out the window, the fortune-teller tried to hurry past. But her attempt to evade her friend failed.

  “What’s happened, Tamara?”

  Flushed and flustered, the Gypsy woman waved Charlotte’s question away. “Mateo has finally returned.”

  “I know that. He’s in Phaedra’s tent this minute.” She turned a searching gaze on Tamara, pleading for an explanation. “Why did he go there instead of coming here to see me? He’s been away so long.”

  “Who knows?” The fortune-teller shrugged eloquently.

  “You know!” Charlotte said quietly. “Please, tell me, Tamara. The truth!”

  “I wish I knew the truth myself. Oh, Charlotte, nothing makes sense anymore.” There was pain in her voice. “Mateo has paid the queen an exorbitant brideprice.”

  “But not for me.” There was something close to acceptance in Charlotte’s tone.

  “For Phaedra, a woman he despises. Who can guess what is in his mind? He looks like a wild man. His eyes hold a mad gleam. In the days he’s been gone, he has turned from the man we all knew to a vicious, raging savage. Something terrible has happened to him.”

  “He’s been in her tent a long time,” Charlotte said wistfully, as if she hadn’t heard Tamara’s impassioned words. “But then he is always very thorough when he makes love.”

  “Charlotte, don’t say such a thing! Don’t even think it! How could he lie with her when he still loves you?”

  Charlotte turned to look placidly at her friend. “Does he love me?”

  Tamara came to her and hugged her compassionately. “You know he does!”

  “I don’t know anything any longer. As you said, something has happened to him. Something has changed him. It’s time I made some decisions, Tamara.”

  “Don’t do anything hasty, Charlotte. Wait and see. This will all work itself out.”

  Charlotte laughed softly, but there was little humor in it. “As Fate wills, you mean? I’m afraid your precious Fate has been against me from the start. No, I’ve been a foolish, starry-eyed girl. It’s high time I learned to face reality. I have no future with Prince Mateo.”

  “You’re tiring yourself, Charlotte. Come back now and lie down. You shouldn’t get yourself so upset.”

  “I’m perfectly calm. And I plan to stay right here until he comes out. At least I can look at him from a distance. There’s no Gypsy law against that, is there?”

  “No,” Tamara answered quietly, feeling totally defeated and powerless to help her friend. She wanted desperately to tell Charlotte of Queen Zolande’s suspicions. She wanted to reassure her by letting her know the wonderful secret—that it was possible Charlotte could banish Mateo’s curse forever with her love. But the queen had forbidden Tamara to speak of these things to Charlotte. The decision was up to Mateo. If he chose to wed Phaedra—even against all reason and in spite of his mother’s will—then Charlotte would never be told. Her family was coming. Charlotte Buckland would return to Kentucky with them, and her brief passage in the oft told family history would become a closed chapter.

  “He’s coming out,” Charlotte said in a dull tone.

  The two women watched in silence as Mateo stalked away from Phaedra’s tent. When he turned toward the brides’ tent, they both held their breath.

  Even from a distance, Charlotte thought she could see the harsh lines of his face soften when he looked at the window where she sat. Her heart ached for him and she felt unbidden tears gathering in her eyes. He took two steps toward her, then turned and strode off toward his horses. Soon he vanished from their line of vision.

  “Yes,” Charlotte whispered. “It’s time I made other plans.”

  Chapter 22

  Queen Zolande, weary from days of trying to reason with her son, took great pleasure in an opportunity for celebration. Hearing of the imminent arrival of Charlotte Buckland’s family at Leavenworth, she sent a message to Ma
jor Krantz, inviting him, Charlotte’s mother, and Fatima Lee Buckland to a reunion with Charlotte. They would join the Gypsies for a palshiva—a sumptuous feast with much singing and dancing.

  All day long the cookfires blazed, filling the clearing with mouth-watering aromas. Venison stew flavored with wild garlic bubbled in a huge black pot. A roast of buffalo hump sizzled to a crusty golden color on the spit, its juices making the fire hiss and sputter. And dozens of plump hens stuffed with dried plums browned to a turn in their bed of hot rocks.

  “If only we had a few hedgehogs,” a hefty cook said to the queen as she passed through the work area, inspecting. “My mouth waters at the thought of their sweet, tender flesh.”

  “Ah, yes, that would be nice,” Zolande answered. “But we must be content with what Fate has provided in our new land, Rishna.”

  Zolande walked on toward the huge silver samovars that brewed the thick, sweet coffee. Beyond those she saw large tubs where chunks of ice broken from the nearby stream kept chilled crocks of brown ale, blackberry wine, and pivos, Gypsy beer.

  Already the prima was rehearsing his strolling musicians. Their violins wept magnificently, while tambourines and drums throbbed out their soul-felt rhythms. A few of the children, dressed in many-colored costumes, whirled and pirouetted in time to the music.

  Yes. Zolande nodded to herself. This night will be special.

  This was the night Charlotte had been waiting for. Although her arm was still in a sling of red silk, she had recovered her strength. And her mind was made up. These past days she had only been biding her time, waiting for the arrival of her family. She would not leave without seeing them: she owed them that much.

  But that was all she owed anyone. She was her own woman—capable of finding her way alone. She would not look back, she vowed. The past was over. Once more, the uncertain future was all she possessed.

  As for Mateo, perhaps she had never really known him. Or perhaps his Gypsy blood was fired with such passion that one woman would never be enough to satisfy him. Still, if that were the case, why had he not come to her? Since his return, he had avoided her. When she saw him it was from a distance, and usually Phaedra was by his side. The whole familia now knew and seemed to accept that Phaedra was to be Mateo’s bride and their future queen. Charlotte had no other choice: she must accept that fact, also. If only she could be certain that he had loved her—for a time, at least—how much easier it would be for her to face the bleak, empty years ahead.

  She closed herself away behind the amethyst curtains at the far end of the brides’ tent so that Tamara would not see her packing her small trunk.

  Her friend called out suddenly, startling her. “Hurry, Charlotte, and finish dressing. Already the music and dancing have begun. Your family will arrive at any moment.”

  Charlotte was dressed. She wore a snow-white blouse, a fine silk skirt of shifting rainbow colors, and new scarlet petticoats underneath. Large golden hoops dangled from her ears. Chains of coins dripped from her throat and wrists. And the ruby-eyed snake encircled her upper arm. She would meet her family dressed as what she had become in her heart—a Gypsy.

  “Tamara, if I ask you a question, will you tell me the truth?”

  Her friend looked at her oddly. “I have always been truthful with you, Charlotte.”

  “I know I have no chance with Mateo now. He will marry Phaedra, as Fate wills. I accept that. But do you think he ever loved me? Or was it all just a Gypsy charade?”

  Tamara’s expression remained passive even as her heart ached for the other woman. “Why would you ask such a thing, Charlotte?”

  “Please. Tell me the truth. I deserve that much, don’t I? You’re the fortune-teller, Tamara. So now tell me of my past and my future.” Charlotte was fighting tears. “Look into your crystal ball and, through it, into Mateo’s heart. Did he give me even a small piece of his heart when I gave him my love?”

  The silence between the two women stretched uncomfortably. Tamara could not answer. There were some questions too deep, too private, for even her magic ball. Still, her friend was hurting, and she must try to soothe her pain.

  Tamara took Charlotte’s arm. “Come with me. We will speak with the queen on this matter.”

  “I don’t want to bother her.” Mateo’s mother was the last person she wanted to discuss this with; she had been against them from the first.

  “Never mind. Just come along.”

  As they crossed the clearing, Charlotte spied Mateo. He was dressed in a fine, ruffled shirt of scarlet and tight black trousers. His boots were new—made of soft leather, tooled in silver. He had never looked more handsome or more unattainable as he stood leaning against the corral fence, fondling his Black Devil’s soft muzzle. She ached inside, wanting to go to him. But Tamara kept a firm grip on her arm and steered her toward the queen’s tent.

  Charlotte noted a certain excitement in Tamara as they entered. The woman was up to something.

  “Queen Zolande, Charlotte Buckland has asked me a question that only you can answer. She wants to know if your son ever loved her.”

  The old queen, decked in black lace and golden bangles for the patshiva, raised her head and gazed at them for a long time without speaking. Finally, she nodded and spoke directly to Charlotte.

  “How could you doubt it, my child? You know he loves you. We have all known it for some time.”

  Charlotte’s heart quickened with happiness for the barest moment before sadness overtook her once more.

  “Thank you for telling me, Queen Zolande.”

  The old woman reached out a frail hand to touch Charlotte’s cheek. “But my dear, why do my happy tidings make you look so sad?”

  “How else do you expect me to look… to feel? You’ve all let me know from the very first that I have no right to your future king. Now he will marry Phaedra, by your command. I must leave the man i love… the only man I will ever love!”

  “Not by my command, Golden One.” The queen’s voice was so gentle that it startled Charlotte. It was almost as if she were speaking to one of her own familia. “I would have my son wed the woman whose love for him is great enough to take away the curse.”

  The queen paused, allowing her meaning to sink in. She watched the light of realization replace the dull, sad darkness in Charlotte’s eyes.

  “I believe you are that woman, Charlotte Buckland,” said Zolande.

  Charlotte stared at the old queen—dazed, uncomprehending. Her words came slowly. “You would allow Mateo to marry a gajo?”

  “No! Never! My son must marry a Gypsy!”

  Charlotte stared down in confusion, wondering if she could have misunderstood. Was the queen saying that her veins ran with Gypsy blood? When she looked up, Queen Zolande wore a shining smile of acceptance.

  “But… it can’t be!” Charlotte stammered. “How?”

  “I’m not sure how. But it must be true, my dear. I had not meant to tell you just now. But perhaps our little fortune-teller knows something we do not. She is wise for her years. Not only are you a Gypsy, Charlotte, but it seems that you must be the golden Gypsy my Mateo has been searching for all his life. Your love alone can lift the curse from him.”

  Charlotte’s head was spinning. Could any of this be true?

  “Does Mateo know?” she asked.

  The queen nodded. “He has been aware of my suspicions for some time. I did not know myself until the night of your accident. That was the time of the full moon, but Mateo suffered no madness. Your love for him had purged him of Valencia’s curse.”

  Every sort of emotion went tumbling through Charlotte as she tried to grasp all that Queen Zolande was telling her.

  “Yes—he must have left me at Fort Leavenworth, thinking that the moon madness might overtake him at any moment. He didn’t want anyone to see his suffering.” Charlotte paused, frowning. “But if all this is true, why has he turned away from me? He can’t love me any longer. I’ve seen him with Pha
edra—the way he clings to her arm whenever he’s near her. It’s as if he’s afraid to let her go.”

  The queen and Tamara exchanged glances. Charlotte could not imagine how near the truth she was. They knew of Mateo’s vow to see that Phaedra never bedded another man, not even her husband. Phaedra had sworn to escape from him the first chance she got. Mateo seemed to have lost all other urges, so determined had he become to punish Phaedra. He refused to listen to reason. Even his mother couldn’t talk to him any longer. The man was obsessed.

  “Queen Zolande,” Tamara said, “we passed Mateo on our way here. He was alone with his stallions. Don’t you think, if Charlotte went to him now, she might be able to talk to him?”

  The queen nodded. “What harm could it do? Are you willing, my dear?”

  Sudden hope swelled in Charlotte’s breast. “Oh, yes, Queen Zolande! I must talk to him.”

  “Go, then. And Sara-la-Kali be with you, my child.”

  Charlotte Buckland was not the only woman in the Gypsy camp plotting a new course that night. Phaedra had escaped Mateo’s watchful eyes for a time by going to bathe in the ice-clogged stream. No Rom would dare intrude while the women washed themselves.

  The others hurried to be out of the cold water, but Phaedra lingered, allowing all of them to drift back to the camp. Finally she was alone. When the last woman disappeared around a bend in the trail, she gave a shrill whistle. Immediately, boots came stamping through the woods.

  “Hurry,” Petronovich urged, tossing clothes to her. “When the others get back to camp and he sees that you are not with them, he will come searching for you.”

  “Well, he won’t find me,” she hissed. “Not ever again! We’ll hide in the woods and wait until the full moon rises and the madness seizes him. Then we’ll make our move.”

  “Hide in the woods? Wait? Have you lost your mind, Phaedra?” Petronovich grabbed her arm and jerked her sharply as if to shake some sense into her.