Gypsy Moon (16 page)

She tossed and moaned in Mateo’s arms. He kissed her tenderly and her arms closed about him. This was not the time to ponder all the questions of the world, she decided. This was a time for love.

Lieutenant Lance Delacorte, too groggy to sit his horse, hitched a ride back to Fort Leavenworth that night on one of the army’s quartermaster wagons. He was certain at least two of his ribs were cracked, and he was visibly bruised and battered all over. But he felt lucky at that. The fall from upstairs at the Star of the West could have broken his back or cracked his skull.

That Gypsy fellow might have worn earrings, but there was nothing sissy about him. No sir! He was hard as a rock and mean as a rattler! But since when did those
Roms
start taking up for white women? Lance wondered. And the little whore most assuredly had been white—from the bright yellow of
all
her hair to the little pink nipples crowning her creamy breasts. The thought forced him to adjust the throbbing crotch of his borrowed trousers for more comfort. Damn, he’d wanted her! And that Gypsy bastard who’d brought her to town had run off with his money to boot. It sure hadn’t been his night!

He mulled it all over—as best he could with his head aching as if he’d just been caught lying down in the middle of a buffalo stampede. When he’d come around, there on the poker table, the first thing he’d grabbed for was that checkered tablecloth on the floor. Those sonsuvbitches in the saloon had sure gotten their jollies at his expense. He’d wanted to belt every grinning, gap-toothed face in the bar, but his fists were so torn up from slugging it out with that Gypsy that he’d squirmed in pain at the mere thought of socking another jaw.

The ill-fitting work clothes he wore now were a parting gift from Solange. He could hear that sexy French accent of hers still: “You needn’t bother to return them, Monsieur Lieutenant. In fact, it will please me for you to find another place of amusement from now on.”

He put his elbows on his knees and let his head sink down between his palms.

“Shit!”

“You ain’t feelin’ so hot. Lieutenant?” The crusty old mule skinner sitting beside Lance on the front of the wagon gave him a sidelong glance. His voice held an unmistakable trace of humor.

“Oh, I feel just great, Sarge! Why, I couldn’t feel any better if I’d been kicked in the head by one of your army mules!”

Sarge—his hair, body, and eyes all bleached the color of desert sand from long service in the West—chuckled out loud.

“Lord-a-mercy, you young fellers really get yourselves into some scrapes. I’m glad I ain’t spry enough to be interested in females no longer. Tossed my last skirt seven years, two months, thirteen days”—he paused and looked off toward the lightening horizon—“and I reckon about twenty-six minutes ago. Then I swore off for good. From the looks of you, Lieutenant, you might think about taking the oath your own self. Might be a helluva lot healthier.”

“How do you know the fight was over a woman?”

“Always is. There ain’t nothing much else out here worth fighting over. And hellfire, I don’t see no sense to it. Get off in the dark with ’em and one’s good as another. Course now, them Gypsy women is the best! Lord, Lord!” he said, rolling his eyes heavenward and smacking his lips. “I tell you, I had me one of them a couple of times. A real gouger and biter, she was. But I ain’t never had another one like her. That gal, once you got her primed, could of sucked the Rio Grande plumb dry.” He gave a visible shudder to demonstrate his remembered pleasure.

The sun was coming up, turning the landscape to coral and gold as the men rode on at a slow pace behind a pair of brown mules. Lance Delacorte sat up straighter, forgetting some of his aches, at the sergeant’s mention of Gypsies. The light dawned in his fogged mind. The woman he’d been with
was
a Gypsy after all. She was the light-skinned one that all the soldiers were talking about.

“Sarge, have you ever heard of such a thing as a blonde Gypsy?”

“Well, hell, yes! They ain’t all real dark. Blood gets mixed, you know. Say one of them dark ones gets knocked up by some towheaded soldier. Their kid’s gonna be lighter. They’s all colors. I hear tell there’s a white one with that tribe camped out by the river now.”

“Do tell!” Lance Delacorte arched one eyebrow thoughtfully. Sure as hell, she was the one he’d been with!

“Yep, we gonna get a chance to eyeball her real soon, too. I ain’t got no other reason but curiosity, mind you, but I’m looking real forward to it.”

“What are you talking about?” The sergeant had babbled on while Lance was remembering the woman.

“The circus! Them folks are bringing their show right out to the fort in a few days. Where you been that you ain’t heard about it?”

Lance’s mind was working now at a feverish pace. “Nowhere. I guess I was just thinking about something else.”

“Well everybody’s talking about it, from Colonel Custer on down. They say she’s a right smart rider for a woman. Call her ‘the Golden One.’ Fits her, so I hear. They claim she hails from Ireland and that’s how come she’s so fair. I reckon she must make a real startling contrast to that Prince Mateo she rides with, and him as dark and wild-looking as Satan’s pitchfork.”

Lance stared at the sergeant for a moment, absorbing his words. So, that’s whom he’d tangled with tonight—the legendary Prince Mateo. No wonder he’d gotten his ass kicked.

“When did you say they’ll be at the fort, Sarge?”

“Didn’t! But I was fixin’ to. Be there a week from yestiddy, ’bout noontime. You goin’ to see their show?”

Lance grinned in spite of his busted lip. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Sarge whipped the reins with a sudden vengeance. “Giddap, you goddamn lazy jackasses! We ain’t got all day!”

Lieutenant Lance Delacorte settled back into quiet contemplation of his own scheming thoughts.

Mateo and Charlotte were hardly prepared for what awaited them back at the Gypsy camp. They had lingered in Solange’s bed until dawn blushed the sky. Their ride back, together on Mateo’s horse, had been at a leisurely pace. Mateo had said he didn’t want to tire the great black stallion, but Charlotte knew that he simply wanted their time alone together to last as long as possible. She agreed and loved him all the more for it.

When they neared the camp, Mateo sniffed the air, then stood in the stirrups and shielded his eyes against the sun’s rays to get a better view.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked, seeing the deep frown that etched his features.

“Council fires,” he replied. “I don’t understand it.”

“I don’t either. What do you mean, Mateo?”

“On extremely momentous occasions, the
familia
piles logs high and sets torch to them, signaling any
Rom
who might pass that his wisdom is called upon to make some serious decision. All the elders, headed by the queen or king, gather to consult with one another. But there is no reason for such a meeting. At least, there was none last night when I left here to find you.”

“What sort of reason would be needed?”

“Oh, any number of things—the discussion of a move, the transgression of a member of the troupe, war with someone, or the death of a very important personage.”

Charlotte glanced up at Mateo, but he didn’t seem to be taking these last words personally. Apparently he wasn’t as worried about his mother as he had been a short time ago.

He spurred his horse. “We’d better hurry. I should be at the council.”

“But not me.” Once again, Charlotte felt like an outsider.

“No, little dove, not you. I’m sorry. Go to the brides’ tent as soon as we arrive. Stay there until I come for you.”

But when they rode into the outskirts of the camp and dismounted, they were surrounded by members of the clan dressed in their best ceremonial Finery.

“You will both come with me at once, please,” Tamara said in a serious, almost ominous, tone.

“What’s going on?” Mateo asked.

“A meeting of the council,” was the only answer he received from his cousin as she bustled him and Charlotte toward the largest campfire, which had the queen’s throne set before it.

Charlotte was suddenly gripped with terror. Surely her mission in town had something, if not
everything,
to do with this high court. As they passed, every Gypsy to the last small child looked through her as if she were entirely invisible. She shuddered inside, remembering stories in old books she had read as a girl that told of ancient, barbaric customs, even cannibalism, among the Gypsy tribes of Europe.

The queen knew where she had gone and for what purpose. Glancing about, Charlotte saw, too, that Phaedra and Petronovich had returned. His painted wagon stood in its usual place. So they would have brought back word that a man had paid the required gold to lie with her. Her heart sank. She should never have trusted that pair.

But why should she be punished for acting out one of their own traditions, even if, as Mateo said, it was no longer practiced? The answer came to her in a sickening flash—because she was not a Gypsy. A
gajo
carrying out the same time-honored tradition of the Romany folk came off as nothing but a prostitute, a person of low and tainted morals. She was no longer good enough to associate with the others. She was about to have her punishment pronounced; she knew it.

Feeling her tremble beside him, Mateo squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Do not worry, little dove. You have nothing to fear.”

But the very fact that he did not include himself in that statement made her all the more fearful. What if Mateo was to be punished on her account? She could bear whatever torture they chose for her. But she could not endure seeing him suffer. She bit her lip to keep silent and hold back the tears that were threatening.

Tamara led them to Queen Zolande. The old woman was dressed in stark black instead of her usual scarlet. A veil of thick black lace partially covered her features. About her throat she wore a necklace of charms—a shining silver nail, a dried snakeskin, the foot of a rooster, the horn feathers of an owl, and locks of human hair. Mateo bowed before his mother and indicated with a tug on her hand that Charlotte should do the same.

“So, you have found her, Prince Mateo.”

“And brought her home,” he answered in the same somber, impersonal tone as his mother.

“Not
home
! Never
her
home!”

Mateo drew up beside Charlotte and his voice boomed. “Then it is no longer
my
home, either!”

Queen Zolande’s eyes narrowed until only a faint, hard glitter showed between the lashes. “You will hold your tongue! We all know where she went and what she has done. Witnesses have spoken against her. Now it is only left for the council to judge.”

“Bring forth your witnesses,” Mateo demanded with a sneer.

The queen raised her gnarled wooden staff and tapped it three times. “Witnesses!” she cried. “Come and be heard!”

Phaedra, also dressed in black, came through the crowd, followed by Petronovich, washed and showing nothing more from his bout with Mateo than a swollen lip. Both wore the gold trappings of minor royalty. They bowed before the queen; then, in a move of alarming speed, Phaedra whirled to point a bejeweled finger directly into Charlotte’s face. Charlotte cringed, then straightened and stared hard into the other woman’s face, steeled to hear the charges.

“This one begged to be taken to town. ‘I’m so lonely for my own kind,’ she whined to me. ‘I will die of it. Please, if you are my friend, help me to get to Leavenworth.’” Phaedra turned from Charlotte to the elders and forced a demure look to her face. “I am not one to turn away from such a plea. She seemed so pitiful. I would die if I were taken away from my people, I know. I could only sympathize and try to help her.” The Gypsy woman lowered her voice to a whisper. “The rest Petronovich must tell.” Phaedra bowed and backed into the crowd while her lover came into the open circle.

Mateo once more squeezed Charlotte’s hand and whispered, “Be brave. They cannot hurt us. The truth is on our side.”

For a moment, his words gave her strength. But was the truth on their side? How would the others feel when they found out that their prince had spent the night with a
gajo
in a bawdy house?

“This one,” Petronovich said, pointing at Charlotte, “convinced me to take her to Leavenworth—I thought to meet with an old friend at his home.”

Charlotte flinched. Petronovich was twisting her own words to use them against her!

“But I was sadly mistaken,” he went on. “She is not our kind. And I do not mean by that simply that she is not a Gypsy. She lies with men for pleasure. She is a whore!”

A murmur ran through the crowd; the word whispered like a foul wind through broken branches. When the voices quieted, Petronovich continued.

“Hardly had I hitched my team in town before she was in the arms of a man—a horse soldier. He forced gold on me and said he would buy her body for the night. I argued, but the crowd became angry and shoved me away. She hissed at me to leave her alone and let her have her night of pleasure before she had to return to Mateo and his harsh embraces.”

Charlotte felt Mateo stiffen beside her. This time it was her hand that squeezed his compassionately.

“And did you see what went on between the soldier and this woman?” Queen Zolande asked in an unemotional voice.

“Only part, but enough. He took her inside the saloon, to the bar. There, I think she had several drinks of strong whiskey.”

“I never!” Charlotte cried. The queen scorched her with a dark look.

Mateo whispered, “Please,
sunaki bal.
You will only make it worse by speaking out.”

“Go on,” the queen said to Petronovich.

“Even as they drank, she could not wait for him to take her. She pulled the blouse from her shoulders, baring her breasts for all to see. I shudder with embarrassment for her even as I speak the words, my queen. Would any decent woman do such a thing? She is a whore by birth and nature, I tell you all. But it was worse still. She could not wait for him to carry her upstairs to one of those pits of degradation they call bedrooms. She pulled him with her to a tabletop, lay back, spread her skirts, and begged him to take her there for all to see.”