The Falcon's Bride (30 page)

Both men took hold of her. They were elders of the tribe, gray haired with weather-beaten faces, tanned skin like wrinkled leather, and eyes that shone silver in the fractured moonlight peeking through the clouds. The dog pranced at their heels, tail wagging. It looked suspiciously like pictures of a wolf she had once seen . . . somewhere. She couldn’t remember—only that it had penetrating soulful eyes that reminded her of Drumcondra’s. This dog had such eyes. How odd that she couldn’t recall the source of that image. All aspects of her former life, the life she’d lived before Drumcondra, had faded into the mists of time.

“What is your name, child?” the eldest Gypsy said. “How have you come here?”

“Th-Thea . . . Theodosia Barrington—nay, Drumcondra,” she sobbed, her breath coming short. “I . . . I followed the bird. I beg you, help me please. Cian Cosgrove’s men seek me. They must not find me.”

Both men gasped. The elder Gypsy made the sign of the cross, while the other tucked his hand behind his back and made the ancient sign against evil. Another came, a hunched gray-haired woman.

“It is she, Ina!” the elder whispered to her.

“Bring her—quickly!” the woman said.

The Gypsies propelled her along over the frosted grass at such a speed her feet scarcely touched the ground. The wolf dog bounded alongside, dipping its muzzle in the crust underfoot, wagging its long scraggly tail now and then, nudging Thea’s hand with its wet nose as they sped her toward the barrel-shaped wagons at the edge of the clearing.

“Wait!” Thea cried. “Where is this place? I do not know it.”

“Shhhh,” the woman warned. Neither of the men replied.

“Please!” Thea said. “What year is this?” She had to know if the bird had taken her back to her own time of 1811, or if she was still in the troubled times of 1695.

“It is the Year of Our Lord 1747,” said the elder.

Thea froze in place, pulling them both up short. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Darkness closed in all around her. White pinpoints of glaring light starred her vision. Something at the back of her palate tasted of blood. She swayed as consciousness evaporated.

Mumbling words among themselves in a foreign tongue, the Gypsies scooped her up and carried her the rest of the distance.

Chapter Twenty-four

Thea came to lying on a straw-filled mattress, swaying back and forth with the motion of the wagon. She was wrapped in strong warm arms beneath soft fur, her head resting upon a man’s bare chest. His scent drifted past her nostrils—
his
scent, darkly mysterious, clean and very male, of the earth and the forest, of musk and tanned leather. She would know that scent anywhere. How cruel were dreams.

She forced her moist eyes open to chase the vision, only to focus upon the soft mat of jet black hair curling beneath her face. Her eyes snapped open wider, and she vaulted upright on the pallet and cried aloud as strong hands pulled her into a smothering embrace.

“M-my lord!” she sobbed. “Oh, my lord. I thought you dead! Cosgrove said he ran you through with his sword. That you lay dead beneath the . . . snow.”

Ros Drumcondra’s huge hand cupped her face, his broad thumb flicking away her tears. His lips were warm as they took hers greedily, his tongue warm and welcome. He
groaned, threading his fingers through her hair, his heart beating a ragged rhythm against her as he crushed her closer still.

He freed himself from her lips with a groan. “Did he . . . harm you?” he murmured through clenched teeth.

She shook her head. “The bird prevented it,” she murmured.

All the breath in his lungs seemed to leave his body in the shape of a shuddering moan, and he clung to her, gentling more tears from her cheek. The tenderness of that only made more flow.
Please, God, do not let this be a dream
, she prayed.

Her hands flitted over his hard muscled torso and found the bandages that girded his waist. She gasped. Cosgrove hadn’t lied. So many questions raced through her brain. So many emotions ran riot in her. It was more than she could take in.

“He
did
bring you low!” she said. “Do you know where you are? How did you come? What brought you? My lord, I do not understand. . . .”

“Nor do I,” Drumcondra said. He lifted the fur that covered them. “It has to do with this,” he told her.

The only light filtering in through the curtained window in the wagon was shed by the misshapen moon, which had thrown a shaft of light across their bodies. That was enough for Thea to examine the fur. She gasped.

“My pelerine!” she cried.

“I do not know what sorcery was afoot in Si An Bhru, but this fur was put there for a purpose. I do not know what that purpose was, but if it was to unite us in my time as I suspect, the magic failed, and you were left behind.”

“Y-you did not see who put it there?” Thea said, praying that he had not seen his mother die by Cian Cosgrove’s hand.

He shook his head. “When I emerged without you, I searched the chambers. When I could not find you, I went outside, but our tracks in the snow had vanished. And then I knew that time had once more separated us, and I rode for Falcon’s Lair in hopes of finding you at the keep. What I found was the Cosgrove and his men laying siege to my stronghold again. I saw no sign of you . . . or my mother. The keep was in flames. The land was littered with the dead. She must have perished with the rest. So help me God, if such is so, I will not rest until I find my way back to my own time and finish him once and for all.”

Thea held her peace. He did not know what had happened to Jeta. Who was there to tell him unless it be she? He must never know. They had disappeared from the face of the earth. It must stay so if history were to play out as needs must. She wasn’t going to die after all. The corridor had spat them out in a different era, where they were both safe—at least for now. She could hardly contain her euphoria.

“History tells that the bones of many of your band were found inside the passage tomb when it was renovated. They had not died violent deaths. They had escaped the Cosgrove’s fury, my lord. Please God, your mother was among them. She was not at Falcon’s Lair. I can vouch for that. If she were, I would not have needed to rely upon the bird to buy me free. She would have helped me. Besides, Cosgrove would have boasted of her death, I’m certain of it. He was vile and insufferable—just as Nigel, his descendant, is vile and insufferable.” She abhorred the lie, but she dared not let on that Cian Cosgrove had gloated over Jeta’s death in his drunken stupor. It didn’t matter. Her account sounded logical enough. If only he believed her.

“What happened to you when we were separated?” he asked, tilting her face to look into her eyes.

The tale came spilling out of her, as much as she dared tell between wracking involuntary sobs that would not be put by. It seemed so like a dream, and yet she knew she was awake, existing forty-five years before she was even born among a band of Travelers.

“He said he saw you fall,” she said. “He said the snow was crimsoned with your blood. . . .”

“The snow ran with the blood of many,” said Drumcondra, “But mine was not among them. I fell, but came to earth in this time here now—horse and all. The corridor crosshatches these lands hereabouts in many ways and places evidently. The bird is the only one who knows the way of it now, with Jeta . . . gone. That mystery was hers alone to guard.”

“What have you told these?” she said. “You must have told them something. They knew my name when I spoke it.”

“I told them the truth,” he said. “As much of it as I thought they would believe. They think I am descendant of the Drumcondras. The gold, I think, convinced them. It was still tied on Cabochon’s back, when we crossed over. They had heard of such coin, but never seen the like. We will share it with them. My sudden appearing among them seemed otherworldly. These are Romany, my love. Such things as have happened to us are not unheard of among the Gypsies. It is the stuff of legends, aye, but as in all legends, there is a seed of truth. Whether they believed or no, they are our allies. All Gypsies are brethren—all Travelers, brothers of the blood. There is a code of honor among us that can neither be broken nor denied.”

“Where do they take us, my lord—not back to Si An Bhru?”

“No,” he murmured. “These times that we have come to now are hard for Gypsy Travelers. It has been so for our people since time out of mind, but this! It is obscene here
now. My father tried to settle down and keep the border, leaning upon his Celtic heritage to hold sway over his Romany instincts. It did not serve him. It did not serve me, either. The wanderlust has always raged in me. It is in the blood, my Thea.

“These who have taken us in have fled from the north rather than settle the land for other masters. It is the only way that they can keep their heritage—the only way that it can be preserved for all the Travelers who will come after. In Spain, the Church no longer gives Gypsies asylum. Those men who will not settle the land and work it for cruel squires are shot. Their women and children suffer their ears to be cut off. How long before such happens here?”

“But this is madness!” she cried.

“We have a saying—
Jek dilo kerel but dile hai but dile keren dilimata
. ‘One madman makes many madmen, and many madmen makes madness.’ These have come south to gather any who might come with them to escape the madness. They will wend their way to the westernmost shore, and then double back and leave Ireland with any who would be out from under the yoke of cruel landowners until one day, please God, it will be safe to return. It is said that there are safe places for travelers in the Carpathian Mountains.”

Away from the corridor
, Thea reasoned. Perhaps it could be the answer.

“And if that fails, they will return to the east,” he went on, “to India, and Persia, to their roots, until the world is sane again. They want me to go with them, to be their leader. The elders are soon too old to lead, and none among the young can match my reputation. If there is such a thing as destiny, I believe that this is mine, and I also believe that you were meant to share in it with me.”

Thea raised his hand to her lips, and something sticky
on his wrist caught her attention. She examined both hands, and gasped. They were raw and weeping.

“What is this?” she cried.

“They had to restrain me,” he said. “I would not go without you. I saw the bird. I knew he would bring you. When I tried to go in search of you, they tied me down. It was too soon. The wound would have festered. They only turned me loose when you were brought to me.”

“My lord, do you want to go with these?”

“Will you go with me?”

“We cannot stay here,” she said. “The risk is too great. Both of our worlds hold danger for us now—not that this does not. But as I see it, this path is the only one that will secure the future—
our
future—as it is laid down in history. Lost in another time, we shan’t be found. We shall just . . . disappear.”

Thea’s words trailed off. She shook her head and buried her face against Drumcondra’s chest. He must not see her tears. He must not know her heart. She was ill equipped to carry out a deception of this magnitude. He was too clever for her.

“You have not answered me,” he said. “You hesitate. Why?”

“I will never leave you, my lord,” she murmured.

“But . . . ?”

“My brother,” she said. “He will think me dead, and father!”

“You are dead . . . to them. It cannot be helped, my Thea. You cannot exist in both dimensions; even I know that much. You must choose.”

“I have chosen, my lord. It is just . . . if only I could tell them all is well. Only that.”

Drumcondra thought a moment. “There may be a way,” he said at last, soothing her gently.

“How?”

“Shhh,” he murmured. “In due course. Hush now and rest. I cannot bear your tears. I cannot bear that I am the cause of them.”

Thea stroked his face. His skin was hot and dry. “How badly are you hurt, my lord? The truth,” she demanded. “I am feeling fever.”

He ground out a chuckle. “Too badly to do you justice at the moment,” he said, “but not badly enough to keep me from it for long. I mend, thanks to these who have a way with healing herbs . . . and now that I hold you in my arms again. I think I have run mad since last I saw you, Thea. I would have fought my way back and died on that battle-field before I would have left you behind, if the bird had not deserted me here among these, like this. You have so bewitched me, lady wife. I beg you, never leave me.”

Thea drew him close. Her happiness should be complete, but it wasn’t. Her conscience would not be appeased.

“What I do not understand,” he went on, soothing her absently, “is how we were separated . . . and why we have come here, to this time. It means nothing to us.”

Thea bit her lip. She could hardly tell him that his mother’s death at Cian Cosgrove’s hand had interrupted the magic and separated them. She could not tell him that Jeta was also responsible for their existence in this strange time, foreign to them both, where they could live out their destiny . . . where they could disappear. No, she could tell him none of it, else she risk everything, most of all, his love. He would never forgive her for keeping the truth from him. He would go back, and he would die a slow and horrible death at the hands of his enemy.

“Whatever alchemy is afoot here, we must accept it, my lord,” she murmured. “We do not have a choice.”

They traveled south at a leisurely pace, and left the snow and frost behind. Just as it was in her own time, such weather had been unprecedented, and was the topic of conversation wherever they stopped along the way. Many joined them once they heard the elders’ tales, and the caravan grew at a steady rate as they turned westward.

Drumcondra mended quickly. In a fortnight, the Gypsy tinctures, salves and poultices had worked their magic, and he could sit a horse once more. The elders, Aladar and Palco, and Aladar’s wife Ina, who had brought her to him, alone knew his real name, and were sworn to secrecy. Their vows were sacrosanct. He had passed himself off as a direct descendant of Ros Drumcondra. To all others, he was Drummond, and the role of leader fit him like a second skin. Thea was treated with respect befitting Romany royalty, outfitted in clothing suitable for a Gypsy princess, since to them any relation of Ros Drumcondra, a figure straight out of Romany legend, was a prince among Gypsies.