Sons of an Ancient Glory (13 page)

They call us aliens, we are told,
Because our wayward visions stray
From that dim banner they unfold,
The dreams of worn-out yesterday.

A
E
(G
EORGE
R
USSELL
) (1867-1935)

M
organ felt the stab of pain in his own arm as he watched the surgeon reset Tierney Burke's broken bone.

The boy had grit, he would give him that. White-faced, his jaw set, Tierney uttered not a sound, but simply clenched his fists and bore his pain with rigid self-control.

“He should go to bed and stay there for a time,” said the surgeon as he applied fresh bandages. “He has a bit of a fever and will be needing rest.” He glanced up at Morgan. “Rest and proper food. And that one,” he said, nodding at the Gypsy who looked to be half-dozing across the room, “should at least stay the night. I believe he will be fine, but he appears to have taken a nasty blow. He shouldn't be traipsing about until I have another look at him tomorrow, to make certain—”

“I am fine,” interrupted the Gypsy, who apparently had not been sleeping after all. “I need no further attention.”

Morgan studied him, feeling torn between reluctance to have a Gypsy in the house and uncertainty as to whether the lad was truly fit to leave. The Gypsy—
Jan Martova
, he called himself—held the battered violin that had been among his personal effects from the prison, cradling it as if it were a rare and precious instrument.

He looked exceedingly weary, and Morgan decided he was no boy, though he had a youthful appearance, a kind of innocence that was no doubt deceptive. He would be older than Tierney, he figured—perhaps twenty or more.

“There is a room for you here tonight,” he offered impulsively.

He saw Sandemon glance at him with surprise. The Gypsy looked even more startled. His head came up sharply, the dark eyes locking on Morgan's face.

“You did a kindness for my friend's son,” Morgan went on. “I would not repay you by putting you at risk. You may stay the night.”

The Gypsy's dark gaze was direct but unreadable. “I expect no repayment. You have already done me a great service in rescuing me from the prison. I would not impose further on your generosity.”

Taken aback by the youth's fine manners, Morgan gave a wave of his hand. “It will be no imposition to give you a bed. Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to leave.”

“You are very kind, but I cannot stay.” The Gypsy was polite, but the finality of his tone brooked no argument. “It is forbidden.”

“Forbidden?”

“You are
Gorgio
. I am
Rom
.” The Gypsy's gaze never wavered, but there was a slight hesitation in his voice that Morgan somehow took to be regret. “I cannot stay under your roof, but I am most grateful for your invitation.”

Had he not been curiously insulted, Morgan might have found the youth's remarks amusing. So strong was the popular aversion to the Romany that he could not help but wonder how most of his contemporaries would react to the idea that a Gypsy considered Nelson Hall “forbidden.”

“The stables then,” he countered. “I'll see that you have bedding.” Inexplicably, he found himself determined that the Gypsy would stay.

“If
he
sleeps in the stables, then so do I!” Tierney blurted out.

Suddenly impatient with the both of them, Morgan snapped, “Don't be foolish! He sleeps in the stables by his own choice.
You
will sleep in a bed, where you belong—and the sooner we get you there, the better! The rest of the household could do with some sleep, too. I, for one, am exhausted entirely!”

Tierney looked at him, clearly unconvinced. His mouth was set in a hard, thin line, but he said nothing more as he allowed the surgeon to help him shrug into his shirt.

Not for the first time that night, Morgan found himself questioning the wisdom of taking on this most recent responsibility. He glanced again at Jan Martova, who still sat balancing his violin, then at Tierney Burke, who met his gaze with an expression that stopped just short of being sullen.

In the instant of that silent encounter, it suddenly occurred to Morgan that, of the two, the Gypsy might well be the less troublesome to have under his roof.

The small camp was on the edge of the Liberties, in a long-abandoned, dusty lot. When Nanosh slipped in among the wagons, it was late, but the campfires were still high, the voices lively. Most of the men sat, smoking and drinking, around the fires. A number of the women were already asleep, most of them in their wagons because of the unseasonably cold night.

The dogs heralded Nanosh's approach, and some of the children playing about the wagons called out to him. But he ignored their greetings, stopping only long enough to scan the cluster of men near the fires. Spying his cousin Greco, he started toward him.

As soon as Greco saw him, he leaped to his feet. “What are you doing here? You were told to stand watch over your cousin at the prison!”

Greco's mouth was tight with anger, his black eyes accusing. Two other men in the circle also stood.

Nanosh stopped short. “Wait, Cousin, you don't know—I must tell you—” he gasped, out of breath from his run. “Jan passed me a message from the prison, told me to take it to the Big House on the hill, on behalf of his cellmate. I went back, just as soon as I delivered the message, but the guards discovered me, and I had to run away!”

Greco's stormy expression darkened. “What message? What foolishness is this?”

Nanosh had no wish to feel his older cousin's wrath. Quickly he rushed to explain about the message written on a piece of cloth, his audience with the big man in the wheelchair at the place called Nelson Hall, and, finally, about his close escape from the prison guards.

“They found me in the brush, soon after the men from the Big House arrived at the prison. They threatened to lock me in a cell, too! One even threatened to disembowel me!”

Anger leaped in Greco's eyes, but this time, Nanosh knew the anger was directed at the guards, not at
him
.

“They were large and clumsy…I slipped out of their hands and ran like the wind! I ran all the way here to tell you what happened!”

His cousin's black gaze raked over him, one long finger tracing the line of his mustache. Finally, he gave a curt nod of approval. “You did well. Go, now, and stay with your mother. I will go to the prison to find out what has happened to Jan.”

“Take me, Cousin! I should go with you!” Nanosh protested.

Greco looked at him. “You cannot go, Nanosh,” he said firmly but not unkindly. “The guards might try to hold you again. You must stay here. But your cousin will be told of your courage this night. Go along now. I will see to Jan.”

Although greatly disappointed, Nanosh knew better than to argue with Greco, and so he reluctantly trudged off to his own campfire.

By two hours past midnight, most of the household had retired. Morgan listened at Finola's door for a moment, hoping all the confusion had not awakened her. Hearing nothing, he gave a nod to indicate that Sandemon should help him into bed.

“Seanchai,”
Sandemon said as he laid out Morgan's nightclothes, “I have been thinking—”

Morgan slanted a look at him. “You usually are,” he quipped.

Sandemon shrugged off the jibe and continued. “I have been
thinking
,” he repeated, “of a way we might give you a bit more freedom—an arrangement to allow you to get yourself in and out of your bed.”

Morgan cocked an eyebrow at the bed, which had been lowered to the height of his wheelchair. “You have already cut the legs off my grandfather's two-hundred-year-old bed,” he said. “What else do you have in mind?”

Sandemon smiled, his dark eyes sparkling. He pointed toward the ceiling.

Morgan looked up at the gloom-shrouded rafters. “So?”

“A meat hook,” Sandemon said. “We fix a meat hook in that rafter directly overhead, attach a chain, and—”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “First you truss me up like a turkey for my own wedding, and now you want to hang me from the rafters like a side of beef!” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “What else—”

A sudden, savage pounding downstairs startled them both. Still in the wheelchair, Morgan instinctively yanked open the draw of the night table by the bed and withdrew his pistol. But Sandemon stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Let me see to it first,” he said, already starting for the door.

The pounding continued uninterrupted until finally Morgan heard the front doors open. Loud voices ensued, and Morgan wheeled himself out into the hall, the gun in hand.

He stopped at the banister and looked downstairs. To his astonishment, he saw a tall, thick-chested man with black hair and a drooping mustache push roughly by Sandemon and come to stand in the middle of the entryway.

The intruder snarled something unintelligible, and Sandemon, his expression as cold as Morgan had ever seen it, replied in strident tones. “You will have to return tomorrow, at a civilized hour! I cannot disturb the
Seanchai
at this time of night!”

But Morgan had already wheeled the chair onto the lift. All the way down the stairs, he purposely trained the pistol at the stranger. “Identify yourself.”

The man below stood his ground, his hands splayed on his hips, staring at Morgan with hostile eyes.

“I am Greco Martova, and I will have my brother!”

Martova.
Of course! He should have realized the man was a Gypsy at first glance. Rugged and dark, the Romany was an imposing sight. His hair and mustache were thick and raven-black. He wore leather riding boots, numerous gold rings on his fingers, and one thin gold earring. Across his wide chest dangled a chain, on which hung several gold coins. A bright blue silk kerchief was knotted loosely about his neck.

“Jan Martova is your brother?” Morgan finally asked.

“My brother, yes. And I was told by the prison guards that he is here. Is that true?”

Morgan gave a short nod. “He is asleep in the stables.”

“In the stables?” the Gypsy repeated, his tone incredulous. “My brother sleeps in your
stables
?”

“Only because he would not accept a bed under my roof!” Morgan snapped, exasperated by the man's rudeness.

The Gypsy gave a short grunt in reply.

“Your brother took a blow on the head from one of the warders,” Morgan went on, determined to ignore the man's bluster. “A surgeon examined him and suggested that he spend the night here, for his own protection.”

The Gypsy frowned, his concern evident. “He is injured?”

“No,” Morgan quickly assured him. “Not seriously. He will be perfectly fine. The surgeon simply thought it in his best interests to stay the night.”

The Gypsy crossed his arms over his chest. “If he is not injured, then I will take him home. At once.”

Morgan drew a long breath, containing his temper at great effort. “That would not be wise, I think. Not when the surgeon has advised against it.”

“The advice of a
Gorgio
medicine man is of no account to me! I will take my brother home, where he will receive proper care.”