Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) (17 page)

“I have heard of such a ceremony,” the Marquis replied.

“It is not often performed and not universally acceptable,” the Voivode said. “But on this occasion, because I must not lose the respect and authority that is mine by right, I shall present you to the tribe. Afterwards you will be married.”

He glanced at Saviya with a little smile on his lips before he added:

“Before a wedding there are of course preparations to be made. Go now, My Lord, and return a little later in the day.”

“I know it is traditional,” the Marquis said slowly, “for the bridegroom not only to give a gift of money to the parents of the bride, but also to contribute to the feast that follows the ceremony. I trust that you will allow me to do both?”

“It is allowed!” the Voivode said with an inclination of his head.

“Then may I suggest that two or three of your tribe wait at the edge of the wood. This will make it possible for my servants to find you,” the Marquis said. “And may I also ask that at the time appointed for my return I have an escort. I had great difficulty in finding you.”

“It shall be done,” the Voivode agreed. “And now while I speak to my people, you may have two minutes speech with Saviya. But not more. It offends our custom!”

He walked away as he spoke and Saviya rose to her feet.

“I cannot ... believe what my ... Father has told us,” she said miserably. “I am a Gypsy! I have always been a Gypsy!”

“I think we both know that he was speaking the truth,” the Marquis said in his deep voice.

He looked down at her white, unhappy face and said very gently:

“Do not be afraid, my darling. Everything will work out for the best! The only thing that really matters is that we have each other.”

“Do you still want ... me?” she whispered with a little catch in her throat.

“Need you really ask me that question?” the Marquis enquired. She looked into his eyes. It seemed for a moment as though they were close against each other and he held her in his arms.

“I love you!” he said softly. “Remember nothing else except that I love you and tonight you will be my wife.”

He raised her hands to his lips, then walked to where his horse was being held by a Gypsy boy. He mounted it.

As he rode away he heard the Voivode calling his people round him, and knew that he was going to tell them that tonight Saviya would marry a Gorgio.

It was nearly six o’clock when the Marquis drove across the Park in his Phaeton.

The Gypsies had shown him a quick way from the camp to where the cart-track made by the Foresters ran into the wood.

The Marquis was dressed as elegantly as if he was about to attend a Reception at Carlton House.

His cravat, intricately tied by Hobley, was snowy white against his chin and a jewelled fob hung from his waist-coat over pantaloons the colour of pale champagne.

He had been extremely busy since he had left the camp in the morning, writing numerous notes which he had dispatched to London by grooms.

One of them was to Charles Collington to tell him that Jethro was dead.

He was well aware that his friend Charles must have been desperately perturbed all the time he had been missing, and he knew that if anyone would be glad to think Jethro no longer threatened him it would be Charles.

There were several other letters the Marquis found urgent. Then he went to the Library to find The Reverend and have a long conversation with him.

He sent to the Gypsy camp an enormous amount of food and several cases of champagne, although he could not help thinking that the Gypsies would prefer the rich red wine to which they were accustomed.

It was with a feeling of almost indescribable happiness that the Marquis drove towards the woods.

He was no longer overshadowed by the problems that lay ahead. He was no longer apprehensive about what the future might hold. All he could think of was Saviya: her beauty, her softness, her sweetness, and her love.

He knew that while many women had loved him in their own way, what they had felt for him had never been the same as the mystical wonder that he saw in Saviya’s eyes, or felt in the trembling of her lips when he kissed her.

‘I will make her happy!’ he told himself.

Then as he reached the shadow of the trees he saw the Gypsies waiting for him.

They were two young men, dark-haired, eloquent-eyed, finely-built and as beautiful in their own way as any Greek god.

They were dressed in a very different manner from the nondescript clothing they were wearing when the Marquis had entered the camp that morning.

Now there were red sashes around their waists and round their heads. There were ear-rings hanging from their ears, and the jewelled hilts of long knives were gleaming in their waistbands.

They led the Marquis’s Phaeton a little way into the wood and then invited him to alight.

He knew that they wished him to go the rest of the way on foot so that his groom sitting on the back of the Phaeton could take the horses home and would not therefore be a spectator of anything that was to happen.

The Marquis gave the order. The horses were turned and were driven back the way they had come.

Then, with a Gypsy on either side of him, he walked on through the trees to the camp.

There was a huge fire blazing in the centre of it, and the caravans were drawn round it in a circle, with the exception of Saviya’s which stood a little apart from the rest.

This the Marquis saw with a quick glance was decorated with flowers and greenery.

The Gypsies were clustered round the Voivode. He looked even more magnificent in a coat ornamented with gold buttons and a necklace which flashed with jewels. He held his staff in his hand and beside him stood Saviya.

She was wearing a dress not unlike the one in which she had danced for Sir Algernon, but now her head-dress was more like a crown and glittered with jewels set in gold.

There were gems around her neck and at her wrists, and her skirt was richly embroidered. There were coloured ribbons falling on either side of her face almost in the semblance of a veil.

Slowly, the Marquis advanced towards the Voivode while Saviya looked down only at the ground, her head bent.

Earlier in the day the Marquis had sent, as he knew was correct, a small casket filled with gold coins, and he saw that it now stood on a small table behind the Voivode.

As he reached the Voivode the Gypsy cried in a loud voice: “You have asked that you should marry my daughter who is one of this tribe and a Romany.”

“I have requested your permission to do so,” the Marquis replied, feeling that was the answer that was expected of him.

“I cannot give my only child to a Gorgio,” the Voivode went on, “but are you prepared to become one of us—to become in fact my brother, because my blood is your blood and your blood is mine.”

“I should be honoured,” the Marquis answered.

The Voivode obviously repeated in Romany what had been said. Then taking the Marquis’s hand in his, he made a small incision on his wrist with a jewelled knife.

When there was a mark of blood, he cut his own, then pressed his wrist against the Marquis’s and their blood intermingled.

As he did so the Voivode proclaimed the new relationship between them, saying it was the Marquis’s duty to live from then on in accordance with Gypsy Law.

When he had finished, Saviya came nearer, and now she and the Marquis stood facing the Voivode, the Marquis on the right, Saviya on the left, holding hands.

The Voivode spoke some words in Romany and one of the tribe came forward to hand him a bunch of twigs.

“These twigs,” the Voivode said to the Marquis, “come from seven different kinds of trees.”

Then reverting to Romany, he made an incantation as he snapped the twigs one by one and threw them to the winds.

“This is the meaning of the marriage bond,” he said to the Marquis and Saviya, “and it is wrong to break your pledge to one another until either of you have died.

“As man and wife,” he went on, “you will have to give and to share. Go Saviya, and fetch bread, salt and water.”

Saviya left the Marquis’s side and brought back from her caravan a basket with a loaf of bread in it, a small bag of sea salt and an earthenware jar filled with water.

She put down the bread and salt on the table beside the Voivode and, lifting up the earthenware jar, invited the Marquis to drink.

When he had drunk she too drank from the earthenware jar and the Voivode took it from them and smashed it at their feet.

“As many pieces as there are there,” he said, “will be the years of your happiness together. Keep one piece each. Preserve it carefully and only if you lose it will misery and loneliness come upon you.”

“I will never lose mine, my darling,” the Marquis said in a low voice to Saviya.

She looked up at him and he saw there was an expression of ecstasy in her face.

The Voivode again picked up his jewelled knife and took the Marquis’s right hand in his. Saviya held out her left hand.

He cut both their wrists just enough so they should bleed, then he held their wrists together so that their blood would mingle and bound them with a silk cord making three knots in it.

“One knot is for constancy,” he said, “the second for fertility, and the third for long life.”

Then the Voivode cut two pieces of bread from the loaf, sprinkled a little salt on them and handed them to the Marquis and Saviya.

They ate them and when they had done so, the Voivode undid the silk cord which had held their wrists together.

“Keep the cords,” he said. “They will remind you that you are tied to each other for all time and you can never be divided.”

As he finished speaking, the Gypsies, who had been standing around in silence listening, gave a loud cheer.

Even as their voices rang out the music started—gay, wild music from the violins and the instruments which the Marquis had heard played while Saviya danced.

The Voivode led the bridal couple to the fire where there were a number of cushions and rug-covered seats.

The men all sat down but the women busied themselves with bringing on the feast.

Whatever the Marquis had sent from the house was very different from what they ate. There were stews so delicious he thought it was a pity he could not ask his Chef to taste them.

There were strange sweet-meats of Russian or Persian origin, of which he knew the main ingredients were honey and nuts, and the wine that he had sent was served in goblets which made him stare in astonishment.

“We fashioned these ourselves,” the Voivode said as he handed the Marquis a goblet of gold set with semi-precious stones— amethysts, turquoises and cornelians.

There were others ornamented with pink quartz and rock crystal which could be found in the mountains of Russia and the Balkan countries.

“Is it safe to travel with such valuable objects?” the Marquis asked.

The Voivode laughed.

“It would be a brave man who would attack the Gypsies, unless he had a number of soldiers with him!”

The Marquis, glancing at their jewelled-hilted knives, thought that in fact there was good reason for the Gypsies being left severely alone except by the Civil Authorities, backed by the Military.

They ate and drank and, while the men talked amongst themselves, the women said very little and the Marquis realised that Saviya too was silent.

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

He felt her quiver but still she said nothing, and it was in fact difficult to talk because the Gypsies were singing.

Their voices, melodious and compelling, seemed to raise the tempo so that there was a vibration and excitement in the air.

It grew dark, the stars came out overhead and the moon was creeping up the sky.

The light from the flames of the bonfire, the music vibrating between the trees, the strange clear-cut features and high cheekbones of those who sang, made a picture that the Marquis thought he would never forget.

Finally the women began to dance.

They were not as graceful or as ethereal as Saviya, but still they were amazingly proficient by any standard.

The Marquis realised that their dances were mostly Russian. Sometimes they were slow, sensuous and as lovely as swans moving over the smooth silvery water of a lake.

At other times they were wildly exhilarating, so that once again he found his heart beating quicker and a strange excitement making him feel as though he danced with them himself.

The music grew wilder, the voices louder, the violins seemed to be a part of the night itself. Then the Voivode rose to his feet

“You go now,” he said to the Marquis.

Saviya put out her arms towards him.

“Shall I ever see you again?” the Marquis heard her whisper.

“It is unlikely,” the Voivode answered in English, “but you will be in my thoughts and in my heart, as you have always been.”

He held Saviya close to him for one moment. Then he released her, taking her arms from round his neck and gave her hand to the Marquis.