Gypsy Moon (10 page)

Phaedra smiled wickedly, remembering her lover’s eagerness to please her all through the night. He had stroked and fondled, kissed and caressed, begging her to find her pleasure so that he could take his. She gave a low laugh, thinking back over those dark hours of ecstasy. If only Petronovich knew how his touch made her breasts tingle and her thighs ache until the final rush of fulfillment engulfed her. How pleased with himself he would be! But no. Never! She would keep him at bay… keep him in need. Only when the sun was peeking into the tent to gild their damp, naked bodies, only when the camp was beginning to stir, had she allowed him to take her and spend his own passions. And although she had reached the heights time after time, she’d never let Petronovich know that he had satisfied her needs. This control she had taught herself proved most useful. When Petronovich had left her, he had been smarting with guilt, thinking that she still lay aching for him. He would return whenever she beckoned to right this wrong.

In more ways than this, her relationship with Petronovich was of her own design. He came to her when and if she called. Otherwise, he was forbidden access to her tent. And on the nights when she left her purple veil before her tent flap as a signal to him, he always gave; she only took. So would it be with Mateo! she vowed.

Phaedra rose slowly, composing her features as she did so. Queen Zolande would not be allowed to see beyond the humble, maidenly facade. Phaedra’s plea would be heard, considered, and granted. There was little else the queen could do. And by the next full moon, when Mateo succumbed to the madness, a new queen would take the throne and be hailed as the
phuri dai.

Queen Zolande was still puzzling over Phaedra’s request for an audience when her dead sister’s daughter entered the tent. Inside herself the
phuri dai
smiled, but her face remained as passive and expressionless as if it were carved in stone. What was Phaedra up to with her calculated girlish appearance? Zolande had no idea, but she could not betray her curiosity.

“Come, Princess Phaedra. Stand before me and I will hear you,” she commanded.

Only Phaedra’s walk as she approached the queen betrayed the sensual woman beneath the innocent disguise. Seeing her arrogant stride and the seductive sway of her hips, it would have been clear to a perfect fool what kind of person Phaedra was—and Queen Zolande was no fool. The braids, the shining face, were only lamb’s fleece hiding the she-wolf.

“My queen,” Phaedra said in a respectful whisper as she bowed before Zolande. “I beg you not to close your mind or your heart to the words I am about to say, even if my plea should sound impertinent.”

Zolande nodded. “Speak, girl, and we shall see.”

“I find myself in a difficult position—pledged to Mateo, but with no word from his lips to tell me when my destiny from birth will be fulfilled. Or even if it will ever be. I have seen all my sisters wed. I am an aunt many times over. Yet still I am without husband, without child.” Phaedra paused and forced a look of sorrow to her face. “I am no longer a young girl, my queen. My childbearing years are at their zenith now, but soon they will pass. What will happen to me if I am forced to grow old all alone—with no husband to protect me and no sons to care for me in my declining years?”

Once more Queen Zolande was forced to hide a smile. At eighteen, Phaedra was hardly declining! Still, the girl had a point. Most Gypsy women were married by thirteen, some at a much earlier age.

“So what have you in mind, Princess Phaedra?”

“Please, Queen Zolande. If you could speak to Mateo on my behalf… I would have him in an instant. I love him.” Now it was Phaedra’s turn to bite her lip to keep it from curving upward. Her ability as an actress, developed for the circus ring, was being tested to the limit. She cast down her gaze in an attitude of humility. Her voice lowered to the barest whisper. “If, by some chance, Mateo finds me unworthy, then let him break our contract and free me to wed another.”

“And is there another you favor over my son, Phaedra?” The queen narrowed her eyes and leaned forward as if she had the power to see into the other woman’s heart. “Petronovich, perhaps?”

“Oh, no!” Phaedra gasped. “There is no other, my queen. My heart and soul are Mateo’s, but for his asking.”

Queen Zolande’s black eyes glittered knowingly. The fact that Phaedra made no mention of her body’s owner did not escape the old woman.

“What of my son’s madness?” she demanded.

Phaedra shrugged in the time-honored fatalistic manner of the Gypsies and turned her palms to heaven. “Can any man be perfect? I have seen Mateo’s suffering. I will do what must be done to ease his pain when the full moon afflicts him. Beyond that, what can anyone do?”

The queen felt a sharp stab in her heart. What indeed? She had been so sure that Mateo would find his golden Gypsy and end the curse forever. But her own time was growing short. Mateo must wed—and soon.

As if Phaedra could read the old queen’s thoughts, she said, “We have all wished for the coming of this golden Gypsy, but how can we imagine that Mateo will be the one to find her when almost a century has passed without relief from the curse? I have waited this long to approach you on the subject of my marriage, praying every night that this special Gypsy woman would present herself to become my own beloved’s bride. I would gladly sacrifice my happiness to see Mateo free of the curse. But it has not happened. And now, my queen, I feel my turn has come. Please, will you help me?”

Queen Zolande squirmed slightly in her discomfort. She would as soon see her son remain forever without a wife than force him to marry Phaedra. But a contract was a contract. She had reinforced the betrothal as her poor sister lay dying. With her final breath, Phaedra’s mother had asked for Zolande’s promise to see their son and daughter made man and wife. And soon, the old queen knew from the shortness of her breath and the fire in her chest, she would be joining her sister in
ravnos.
How could she face that dear woman on the other side if she had failed to keep her vow?

“You may go now, Phaedra,” Zolande said suddenly, sternly.

“But—” Phaedra’s placid facade slipped when she was dismissed so abruptly. She had humbled herself before this senile old woman, but she would not be refused. Her black eyes flashed angrily, and the full line of her lips tightened.

“You have spoken your plea,” interrupted the queen. “Now I must consider and, if I decide to, speak with my son on this matter. Go!”

Phaedra relaxed. She bowed and backed slowly away from the
phuri dai.
So it was done! Queen Zolande might detest the very thought of it, but she had no choice other than to order Mateo to marry. And Phaedra, of course, would be his bride…
his queen.

“May your days be long and free of care,” Phaedra said in
Romani,
and then she left the tent.

“What can I say to you to make things right?” Mateo was still holding Charlotte, although now they lay beneath a cottonwood tree at the edge of the clearing. She leaned against his shoulder. While one arm supported her, with his other hand Mateo stroked the rise of softness at the opening of her doeskin jerkin. His dark eyes smoldered as he caressed her. “A very wise woman last night told me that if I loved you, I had better tell you and set things straight between us. So I’m telling you now,
sunaki bal.
I love you!”

Charlotte was having trouble thinking clearly. Granted, she was an innocent, untouched by any man when she left Kentucky. She had no way to compare Mateo’s kisses or the way his hands felt on her flesh. But even little girls have imaginings. And Charlotte had long since left behind playtime musings for the more erotic fantasies of a mature young woman. However, even those wild flights of fancy paled before the real emotions and sensations Mateo stirred within her.

“I thought we agreed last night that we wouldn’t speak of love again,” she said.

Mateo’s hand crept up her throat, making her tremble. Lifting her chin, he turned her face toward his. There was no denying the love she saw in those coal-black eyes, and she knew that her own mirrored his.

“Charlotte, my love, it is easy enough to speak lies to oneself and to others under cover of darkness. The real test comes beneath the burning eye of the sun. Believe my words now. They are true… the only real truth.”

Charlotte’s heart quickened for a moment. Then Tamara’s soft voice came to mind, telling her that no Gypsy will ever speak the full truth to a
gajo.

“And what are you feeling?” asked Mateo.

Charlotte tried to turn her eyes away so he couldn’t read her thoughts. How could she tell him? Would he believe her if she said she loved him more than life itself? Would he be shocked if she told him that every inch of her ached to have him hold her and kiss her and touch her? Would it matter to him that marriage
didn’t
matter to her?

“Mateo,” she began, her voice trembling. “You know my feelings. You’ve known that I love you since the first moment we met. You looked into my soul and helped yourself to all my secrets. I could see it in your eyes that day. What more can I say to you?”

Suddenly Charlotte felt tears welling up in her eyes. She felt defenseless, naked, talking to him this way. What did he want of her? Hadn’t she offered everything she had to give?

“No, my darling,” he whispered, wiping away her tears. “This is not a time for weeping. Our hearts are in tune; our destinies are entwined. Fate has meant this to be.”

His words shocked her. She pulled away, staring. Was he mocking her? What had happened to all the obstacles of a few hours ago… Petronovich, Phaedra, his own Gypsy heritage?

As so often happened, Mateo seemed to be reading her mind. “Phaedra will be no problem. To marry her or not to marry her is my decision alone. I choose not to. As for Petronovich and his claim on you, I don’t believe he has one. He told me that he did not… accomplish what he set out to do. There will be no child.”

Charlotte gasped. “Of course not!”

He smiled at her shock and kissed her gently. “So there is nothing for us to worry about, little dove. We love each other. We will be together.”

For a moment, Charlotte was confused by the odd way he put it. Why didn’t he say they would be married? Then the final, greatest obstacle came back to her.
Mateo must marry a Gypsy.
Again tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. Did a few words spoken over them matter so much? No! The most important thing was being with the man she loved.

Mateo bent down and kissed her temple, then whispered, “There are some things more important than my place in the
familia.
We will go away together. We will have all our years to love each other… as man and wife.”

“Oh, Mateo!” Charlotte cried. She flung her arms around his neck, sobbing with joy.

He crushed her to his chest and sought her lips for a deep, soul-filling kiss. Charlotte felt as if she were floating somewhere among the thin wisps of clouds high above them. Never, not in her most exotic fantasies, had she dreamed that she could love or want or need any man this much. But now here he was—holding her, kissing her, promising her a shining future. She pressed close to him, never wanting the wonder to end.

“Mateo!” It was Tamara, calling to him from just beyond the clearing.

Charlotte wrenched herself free, her cheeks burning with embarrassment that the shy girl who had once been chosen as Mateo’s bride should find them locked in such an embrace, with Mateo’s hand inside the jerkin pressing her breast and his mouth consuming hers.

“At last I’ve found you,” Tamara said, her own discomfort evident in her tone. “Queen Zolande wishes to speak with you immediately, Mateo.”

“My mother wants me? Now?”

Charlotte didn’t like the look of the tight lines around Tamara’s mouth as she answered, “No, Mateo.
The queen
wants you.”

“But she never holds audiences this time of day, Tamara. What’s going on?”

Tamara shook her head. “I cannot say, Mateo. But her summons was urgent.”

Mateo sprang to his feet, anxiety plain in his face. “She isn’t ill?”

“She didn’t appear so. But would she tell us, if she were?”

Mateo clasped Charlotte’s hand for a moment. “I shouldn’t be long, darling. You go with Tamara for now. I’ll come to the brides’ tent when I finish so we can make our plans.”

Charlotte nodded and rose. She stood silently beside Tamara and watched as Mateo hurried toward the camp with long strides. The happiness she had felt only moments before vanished. Something was wrong. She knew it.

“What’s happened, Tamara?” she asked, fearing the answer.

“What Fate has willed.” Tamara slipped her arm about Charlotte’s waist and gave her a compassionate squeeze. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

Charlotte turned toward the young fortune-teller and saw tears in her eyes. In that instant she knew, though she refused to accept the truth.

Mateo pulled on his shirt and jacket as he strode toward his mother’s tent. Every step felt leaden. Although he had no inkling as to the nature of the queen’s summons, he knew trouble awaited him. The hair rose on the back of his neck like the hackles on a Gypsy mongrel When a
gajo
draws too near. His heart thudded in his chest. And the deep, hollow ache inside him that always presaged disaster painfully returned.

Mateo glanced about the camp. Everything looked normal enough. The women sat hunched over the fire, preparing buffalo stew. Most of the men lazed about, smoking their pipes and exchanging gossip. A few naked or near-naked children were chasing a dog and squealing in their excitement. The scene gave no hint of trouble.

Mateo entered the large tent without asking permission, forgetting even the amenities in his haste. Inside, no lamps were lit. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior after the bright sun outside. While he was still squinting and trying to see, his mother’s voice greeted him.

“It is well that you have come so quickly, Prince Mateo. This matter can wait no longer.”

He bowed before her, then kissed her on each cheek. She was not smiling. Neither was he.

“You’re not ill, Mother?”

“No. Only sick at heart, my son.”

The old queen sat on her thronelike chair, enveloped in her scarlet cape. She looked frail and even more ancient than her years, Mateo noted. She sat motionless, her usually animated hands still and quiet in her lap. Her head sagged at a dejected angle and her eyes looked red and tired.

“Have I done something to cause you pain?”

One thin hand stretched toward him. “Never, my son. No, never. But I am afraid that what I am about to say will bring you great suffering, if not now, later. If I had any other path, believe me, I would take it. But my heart is slowing its beat with every shift of the sands in the hourglass. I may live to see the first snow, but I will not smell the flowers of another spring.”

Mateo grasped her hand and kissed it. “Mother, please… don’t…”

A faint smile hovered about her mouth. “Don’t what, my son? Die, or talk about it? I must do both. I have lived a long, happy life, and you have been my shining light since the day I gave birth to you. Fate has been kind to me. And now the time is growing short before I will once more join the rest of our family—my own love, Strombol, your sisters, and even my own dear sister… Phaedra’s mother.”

There was a catch in Zolande’s voice as she mentioned Phaedra. She looked at Mateo with pleading eyes, hoping that he would understand.

“Are you asking me to prepare myself, Mother? I don’t think I can. I know that for each of us the time comes. But to think of life without you…”

“Is to think of your own life as king,” she finished for him.

He knelt before her, letting his head rest on her lap. She stroked his thick hair, the way she had when he was a small boy. They were so much alike, this pair—strong, just, passionate in love or hate.

“Hear me now, Mateo,” the queen said softly. “It seems that I am to be denied the one thing in life that would have brought me the greatest joy. All these years I have prayed for the golden Gypsy to take your curse away. Still, she has not come. We can wait no longer, my son. I’m sorry.”

Mateo’s head jerked up and he stared into his mother’s face. For the second time in his life he saw tears on her cheeks.

“What are you saying, Mother?”

“You must be wed, Mateo.”

Suddenly his mind returned to the sight of Charlotte Buckland riding his great black horse, her shining hair streaming in the wind. He could still taste her honeyed kisses and feel the warm silk of her breasts against his palms. A hot rush of blood pulsed through him. Yes, he must be wed, and he planned to.

“Mateo, you aren’t listening to me,” the queen said, breaking into his thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Mother. But your words set me thinking. It seems that as always our minds are traveling the same paths. I decided only this morning that it is time I was married. I’ve already asked her, in fact, and she has accepted my proposal.”

Queen Zolande frowned. This was not possible. Phaedra had left her only moments before she’d summoned Mateo. Or had Phaedra taken the matter into her own manipulating hands, as she so often did—not waiting even for the queen to have her say?

“Perhaps it is just as well,” Zolande said as much to herself as to Mateo. “If you have spoken to her already, then you must be reconciled to this match.”

“Reconciled?”
Mateo jumped to his feet and gave a great laugh. “My dear mother, I am ecstatic! Grown men aren’t supposed to feel this way. Why, I’m like a boy again! Every minute will drag by until she’s my wife.” He quieted and said, “I love her more than I can tell you, Mother.”

Queen Zolande only shook her head. How could any man love a woman like Phaedra? But then love was often blind, or so she’d heard.

“Well, Mateo, I must say I’m relieved.” She stood and embraced him. “Every mother wants happiness for her son. But I never dreamed that you cared so much for Phaedra.”

Mateo pulled away from his mother’s arms and stared at her, his face clouding suddenly.
“Phaedra?
No! It’s Charlotte Buckland I plan to marry.”

The old queen’s heart sank at his words. She knew it had been too easy.

“No, Prince Mateo,” she said firmly, “you will
not
marry a
gajol”

For several moments, as Queen Zolande’s words hung in the still air, a clash of wills took place. In silence, two pairs of glittering black eyes locked in challenge. The old ways battled the new.

Mateo broke the silence. “Then I will not marry at all!” His words, though spoken quietly, transmitted a harsh finality.

Queen Zolande took a deep breath that hurt her weak chest. She drew herself up, ready to use her last ounce of strength and authority to defend her much loved son from his own foolishness.

“You are not just another
Rom.
You will be king, Mateo! You must marry, but you may not marry out of the
familia.
There has never been any question of this, nor will there ever be. As you bear Valencia’s cnrse, so must you bear this honor and this obligation. And even if all that were not so, Petronovich has first claim on the
gajo
woman.”

“He does not! I have questioned him closely on what happened that night. He did set out intent upon having her. But she fought him off quite effectively. I believe him when he says he did not lie with her.”

“Then you are a
fool,
Mateo!”

The words stung. Never had his mother spoken to him so sharply. He could see the pain in her eyes even as she accused him. His feelings and his voice softened.

“Mother, Charlotte herself told me that it was all a terrible mistake—that he didn’t take her. Perhaps Petronovich would lie to me, but not the woman I love.”

Queen Zolande held one hand pressed to her heart. The pain was bad now. Her words came out breathlessly. “Think about it, Mateo. If she truly loves you, would she hurt you by telling you this particular truth? What man wants to know that the woman he loves has been with another? She would lie to spare you the pain of knowing. No! We can believe neither of them. Only the next man to take her to his bed will ever know for sure.”

“Then I will—”

“You will not!”
The queen’s voice rose to a dangerous pitch. “Mateo, the moon is not full now, but you are acting out of madness all the same. So you test this woman and find her a virgin still, what then? Would you leave her soiled and at the mercy of some future lover when he finds he is not the first? You cannot marry her! She is not a Gypsy! You
will
marry Princess Phaedra!” Zolande slumped to her throne chair. “That is my final word. Go now. Leave me to rest.”

Mateo stumbled from the tent, his mind in an angry blaze. This couldn’t be happening! Phaedra as his wife? He couldn’t begin to imagine it. He’d known all his life of the birth contract. But contracts, he also knew, could be broken. Phaedra cared nothing for him or for anyone other than herself. And the thought that his mother was questioning Charlotte Buckland’s virginity while proposing he marry Phaedra was laughable. Phaedra dropped to the wolf skins as often as leaves fell from the trees.

Granted, it was not unthinkable for a Gypsy woman to lie with more than one man, even if she was married, but
only for money,
never for pleasure. Women served the
familia
in any way they could. When bad times came, the married ones would go to the towns and seek out strangers. But only for needed gold! No respectable Gypsy would ever give her body to appease her own carnal appetites as Phaedra did.

“No! On the holy breast of Sara-la-Kali I will not marry her!”

Mateo stormed back into the queen’s tent. Again he was like a blind man, but he could see that his mother no longer sat in her chair. A faint rasping filled the tent, drawing his attention.

“Mother!” He hurried to where she lay sprawled on her bed of skins, struggling for breath.

“Mateo,” she gasped, “go for Tamara. She will help me.”

All the words he had meant to say dissolved, leaving only a bitter taste in his mouth and a deep ache in his heart. He could not go against his mother now. It would kill her as surely as if he were to plunge his dagger into her heart. He bent and kissed her fevered brow, then went to find Tamara.

The bells on the door of the brides’ tent tinkled gaily. Charlotte, bathed and dressed in a bright yellow skirt and white drawstring blouse, hurried to answer, sure that Mateo had come for her. She still felt as if she were floating about on some gilt-lined cloud. She had ached to confide her secret to Tamara, but the girl’s somber demeanor had warned her away. It was better this way, after all. If the others found out, they might try to dissuade Mateo from marrying her.

She’d refused to let the nagging worry she’d felt when Mateo was called to the queen’s tent stay with her. There should be no happier time in a woman’s life than the day she decides to marry. And Charlotte Buckland was bound and determined to enjoy the full measure of that happiness.

She hurried toward the door, but Tamara intercepted her.

“I will answer it, Charlotte.”

“But I know it’s Mateo.”

“That may be, but how do you know his business is with you?”

Tamara’s usually sweet voice sounded strange, almost harsh, to Charlotte’s ears. She hung back, allowing the Gypsy girl to answer the call of the bells. It was Mateo, but he never mentioned Charlotte’s name or even glanced inside to see if she was there. Her heart ached as Tamara hurried back in to fetch the dried herbs she needed to tend the queen.

“Tamara, doesn’t Mateo want to see me?”

The fortune-teller, her face solemn, swept past Charlotte. “There’s no time. The queen is ill. Mateo and I must go to her.”

“But when will you be back?”

“I have no idea. Please, I can’t answer questions now.”

Then they were gone, leaving Charlotte alone, her lovely plans for an afternoon with her future husband crushed. Still, she took heart. She knew how it was between mothers and sons. Hadn’t Granny Fate doted on Charlotte’s own father, her only son? It was the same with Mateo and Queen Zolande. Even after they were married, Charlotte promised herself, she would never try to come between him and the queen. And she certainly had no right to now. She would wait for Mateo, until he had cared for his mother.

Charlotte sat alone in the tent, watching the afternoon shadows lengthen as they inched across the carpets. Soon the golden sunshine was tinged with the orange and lavender of sunset and still Mateo had not returned. She was restless, bored, and feeling somewhat sorry for herself.

“This won’t do!” Resolutely, Charlotte grabbed a basket and headed for the door. She would go to the forest—the
vesh,
as Tamara called it—and pick wildflowers for Queen Zolande. There was little else she could do. But flowers always made a sick person feel better, she reasoned. Besides, Mateo would appreciate her thoughtful gesture.

Glancing toward the center of the camp as she came out, she saw that a large group was gathered outside Queen Zolande’s tent. They talked in hushed voices, milling slowly about. Mateo and Tamara were not among those holding the vigil. As much as she wanted to go to the others and ask about Mateo’s mother, she couldn’t. She was still “the
gajo
woman,” still the outsider. And although the Gypsies never treated her unkindly, they made it clear that she did not belong among them. They looked through her when she passed, as if she were as invisible as the wind. No, they would not welcome her intrusion now. She hurried away.

Twilight was already creeping into the woods when she arrived at the stream. Birds sang far up in the trees in hushed, sleepy tones. The day’s heat had been preserved in the earth and warmed her bare feet, but the breeze felt chilly about her shoulders. Evening was slipping its cool, blue velvet mantle over the forest.

Searching the banks for flowers, Charlotte followed an animal path beside the stream. She found a few buttercups and a patch of Queen Anne’s lace. Farther ahead, she saw the bright scarlet of a bed of wild poppies. She would have a lovely, colorful bouquet for Mateo’s mother. She dropped to her knees, spreading her skirt to catch the poppies as she picked them. Suddenly, something drew her attention—some faint sound.

Charlotte stopped her gathering and listened. The sound was water splashing just up ahead. She strained her eyes but could see nothing for the trees and the encroaching gloom. Rising, she started toward the sounds. By the time she saw who it was, it was too late to retreat. Phaedra, her naked body gleaming wet, sat on the bank, her face upturned to one last beam of sunlight. Her eyes were closed and she seemed lost in some pleasant world all her own.

Although she wanted to turn and flee, Charlotte found herself rooted to the spot. Like one of these weeds I’ve picked for the queen, she thought dismally. She was dreadfully embarrassed to have come upon the other woman at such a private moment. But the sight of Phaedra’s voluptuous body—her large-nippled breasts, rounded thighs, and tiny waist—was both entrancing and intimidating. Charlotte couldn’t help but compare Phaedra’s beauty to her own. She thought again of the things Phaedra had said about making love. Surely this woman was right: Mateo must find Charlotte’s charm a pale imitation next to Phaedra’s Gypsy sensuality.