Chapter 12

The next morning, Ruslo ordered camp broken at dawn. He wanted to spend a night at a grand chateau on the way to Carcassone. He regularly visited Joseph, baron de Lagrasse. He was one of a growing number of the nobility on whom Ruslo could rely to provide food and coin to fund their trip through France to the marriage council.

The children lingered, picking berries from the bushes that lined each side of the road. Their fragrance mingled with the thick grasses in the damp morning air and drifted over the abundantly green fields.

Etti’s uncle had summoned Rafa again to drive them. Jardani led Dark Tide, and Rafa had tied Red to her uncle’s wagon. Her wound was clean and healed, and both horses were fed and happy. Etti had picked berries, too, black, fat, bursting with sweet juice. She dropped one into Rafa’s mouth. He lunged forward, sucking her finger. She withdrew it, giggling, and settled back on the driver bench.

From the moment Rafa took the reins, Etti’s heart fluttered, and she felt a warm glow that didn’t come from the first needled rays of the sun. He had washed his hair, along with his blue tunic, which was still wet so he had hooked it on the wagon to dry and wore only his jacket, unbuttoned.

She hadn’t seen his chest since the horse washing. It was as smooth and muscular as she remembered it, but a short, jagged scar trailed across it now. It bespoke of his courage, reminding her of his decency and the ways he had protected Etti and those she loved. It made him all the more masculine and beautiful in her eyes, and she couldn’t resist subtle glances. His muscles flexed and relaxed as he handled the reins, guiding the horses over the well-worn road.

“Fie!” She stabbed her finger with the lower blade of the scissors she held. Etti raised her hand to keep any blood from dripping on Miri’s skirt of grey flax, especially the orange flowers skillfully embroidered by Atira. Miri had outgrown it since Michaelmas. Etti couldn’t stitch her way through a purse. She had failed to conquer the challenge of even tension with her thread, so Ucho always gave her the task of releasing skirt hems when the tribal girls gained height. The scissors were impossibly small, as was the needle. She sucked the skin above her knuckle. “I did it again.”

“’Tis the wagon,” Rafa said. “This right wheel is warped. Gives a pitching ride. Here.” He took her hand and kissed it, lingering, sweeping his lips softly across her skin.

The sensation buzzed up her arm, spreading heat.

Rafa’s eyes shone playful under his black lashes. Her toes tickled when he looked at her like that. He had erased her troubling doubts about the future. She wanted to be with him, to share the same driver bench, and soon, his bed, forever.

From within the wagon, Atira and Melodia’s voices grew tight in anger. Atira was complaining because Melodia had released Pesha from his cage and Miri was playing with him.

Etti chose to mute Atira’s sharp words with her own conversation. “Tell me about your country.”

Rafa looked to the horizon. “It’s very large, many mountains. In the north, the summers are warm, and the winters are mild. Cloudy, with buckets of rain. In the south, it’s hot. In the Meseta, the center, the summers are hot and dry, and cold in the winter.”

“Jardani said there are beautiful islands by Barcelona,” Etti said.

Rafa stiffened, and he grimaced.

“They aren’t comely?”

He took a deep breath and exhaled. “They are known to be.”

“You haven’t seen them?” she asked.

“I don’t sail.” His voice had turned brittle. “I…” He shuddered. “The rocking of the boat. I have never been so sick in my life.” He shook his head. “I can’t take you there.”

“But we sat by the sea.”

“So long as I’m on the shore, but not by boat, though. I’m sorry.”

She squeezed his arm. “They’re just islands. Tell me about the mountains. Are they cold?”

“They are beautiful,” Rafa said. “In summer, it’s cooler, very comfortable. A mist covers them at times and they look mysterious and romantic. You enjoyed the moonlight at the river, si?”

“Va.” And being in your arms. She shivered from the memory, intensely aware of his closeness, the soft hairs of his arm that brushed hers.

“In the mountains the moonlight is enchanting. You will like it. And my mother. You will like her, too. She is like Rupa, talkative like her, but, hmm…” He thought for a moment. “Softer. She has a sweet voice, like you.”

Relieved, Etti collected the answers to questions she had been afraid to ask. Will she like me? She savored her closeness with Rafa—his touch, their kisses—but had not the courage to pose such questions. This unwelcome feeling of timidity and awkwardness kept her silent.

“Is something amiss? You’re so quiet.”

“Na. I’m wondering about… your family.” There. She said it.

“My Uncle Tomas is our chief. My parents are close advisors to him—well respected, but none have the grand reputation of your father.” He stopped the horses to wait for Phuro Marko’s wagon, ahead of them, to clear a deep rut in the road.

“Do you love your kumpania?” she asked.

“Va.”

“It will be a whole new world for me.”

“And for me, too,” Rafa said.

“How so?”

“Once we arrive in Barcelona, I’ll see everything for the first time through your eyes.” He kissed her hand. “Life must have been hard for you with your brothers,” he said. He lowered his voice. “And I seek your pardon for saying so, but Atira and the others… they are… harsh to you.” He paused. “My kumpania is more friendly.

“My parents are warm-hearted, pleasant. They will like you. You need not worry. And we will see mountains soon and I will see your smile.” He reached out for her hand and held it in his, and she could feel the confidence in his touch.

He released her, still careful to avoid unseemly behavior when others could witness it. From the wagon, Pesha grew loud, chattering and ending with his special sound, a kind of cough followed by what sounded like “tut,” the Romanes word for you.

“That’s your, um…”

Etti smiled. “Hedgehog, you can say it. That’s what he is.” She met his gaze. “His name is Pesha.”

“Ah. Pesha. He sounds like he’s saying… words.”

“What does it sound like to you?”

Rafa’s smile faded, and he shifted on the driver bench. “As if he said, ‘You.’”

“I think he’s saying, ‘I love you.’”

Rafa’s back straightened, and he leaned away from her. “Forsooth?”

Etti laughed. “No, but it sounds like it. You’ll hear him say it again. He gets talkative when he’s played with, and Miri’s become fond of him.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Which greatly annoys Atira.”

A raised brow revealed his discomfort. “But he doesn’t—”

“Tell me he loves me? Na.” A thrill bubbled up at his discomfort, and she laughed. “He is not possessed. He is not evil. He’s simply a little animal who makes me happy.” In the silence, a mischievous thought occurred to Etti. What better time than now to introduce him to Pesha? “I’ll be right back.”

She entered the wagon. “Pesha. Here.” She patted her chest, her signal for him to come. He ignored her. He skittered across the wagon, corner to corner, disappearing under the chest, and back again.

Rafa peered inside. “You let him loose?”

“To exercise, yes,” Etti said. “When he’s not in his cage, where I keep him safe. Pesha.” She gave the signal again, and he stopped. She lifted him toward Rafa in the opened canvas door, staying in the wagon. “See?”

Rafa’s eyes grew wide, wary over a thin smile, as if she held a handful of hornets. “Oh.”

“Meet Pesha.”

Pesha ran up her sleeve until it became too narrow and settled in. “Come out of there, you shy one,” she said. She squeezed him out and he curled his body tight. Nestled in her hand, he resembled a brown mud ball, his tiny feet sticking out, eyes black and shining, nose and whiskers wiggling.

“I… I have not seen one alive before.” Muscles tensed, Rafa appeared to be ready to leap off the wagon.

Etti laughed again. “Isn’t he fun? He’s a jester. Likes to play, especially at night.” She poked her finger into his soft belly fur. “The quills can hurt if you’re holding him tightly and he moves suddenly in the wrong direction. Make sure you don’t startle him. His fur is really soft here though. Give me your hand and I’ll show you.”

Rafa froze.

“He won’t hurt you.”

“Does he have fleas?”

“Not a one. I bathe him. Often.”

He raised a brow. “Why isn’t he running away?”

“He’s happy with me. This is how he came to me in the beginning. He crawled into the wagon.” She met his eyes. “And he stayed.”

Rafa looked at Pesha. He raised both brows. His hand shot out, and he touched Pesha’s skirt, where the quills turned into soft, white fur. He withdrew his hand quickly and met her gaze. “There.”

His combined courage and discomfort moved her. “You touched him.”

“His fur is very soft. It is strange, is it not? I never thought I would. But I agree with you. He is different.”

“How so?”

“Less…” He turned his palm upward as if to catch the word from the sky. “I guess, because he is yours.”

Etti thought about that. “The more you look, the more you see.”

He angled his head and regarded her. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. What do you mean?”

“My mother used to say it. It means that, to understand, one must learn and to learn, one must first observe. See how he runs.” She released Pesha on the floor of the wagon. “Will you watch him for me, Miri?”

“Va! Pesha!” Miri bounced her hand on the floor of the wagon, and Pesha unfurled himself from his ball-like defense position. Stretched out, he was about the length of Etti’s foot, and his legs, like short blades of grass, moved stiffly, swiftly.

Miri laughed. Atira rolled her eyes.

Rafa smiled. “He runs like a sanderling—those little wading birds on the shoreline.”

She watched him. “I can see the similarities. That’s amusing.”

Etti returned to the driver bench and closed the canvas door. Warmth filled her heart as her fears about Pesha’s future subsided. “You have shown more courage than any man in my tribe. Oh, you are his favorite now, all right,” she reassured him. “Next we’ll have you feed him an apple and you’ll be friends for life.”

Rafa laughed, and his shoulders relaxed. “He has enchanted you.” He caressed her chin and rubbed his thumb across her lip. His touch was possessive and sure, and her heart startled. “I am jealous.” He lowered his voice, keeping the conversation just between the two of them. The twinkle in his eye reassured her that he held no animosity for Pesha. “He and I will have a talk. I am a jealous man. He may entertain you now and again, but I—only I—am allowed to charm you henceforth.” He smiled, attractive in his cloak of self-confidence. “Agreed?”

Before she could reply, his mouth quirked with humor and he whispered in her ear. “If not, you and I must meet again. Under the moonlight. Convenido?” He asked in Castilian.

Would she slip under the moonlight with him again? The look in his eyes, the tone in his voice lured her into the kind of warm haze she felt at the fireside, when the flames billowed and settled her into a dream-like trance. A shyness came over her and she covered her smile. “Convenido.” Agreed.

She sighed in relief. Fear had settled in her heart that he would ask her to give her hedgehog away. If she did, Pesha would find himself in the supper fires. Rafa’s jest about him reassured her. She bit her lip gently, pleased and relieved.

Her uncle approached on his palfrey, smiling broadly. “You’re looking very happy this morning, Etti.”

She returned the smile, wishing she could think of a way to thank him for arranging the match with Rafa. Some day she could tell him, but not now. Rafa had sworn secrecy to him and she would never risk damaging that trust. “That I am, Uncle.” She offered him some berries.

“Na, I’ve been at them already.” He held up his hands, stained dark from the fruit.

Something sparked in her uncle’s eyes as he watched the two of them. “I see. I’ll be on my way and leave you to your talk.”

Rafa gave her a private smile, drawing her attention to his lush mouth and the memory of their moonlight kisses. How many days until the marriage council? Too many, and they would be followed by yet more as she awaited the ceremony that would unite them. Then she could release the passion he stirred in her, a passion that grew stronger every day.

Body humming, she returned his smile. It would not do to jump into his arms at this moment, with judgmental Atira so close, and her aunt in the wagon behind them. Her heart pattered an insistent beat, demanding she find a way to be with him again.

 

* * *

 

The sun turned progressively warm as the morning wore on. At midday Atira switched to Rupa’s wagon, taking Miri with her.

Melodia had put Pesha in his cage and joined Etti and Rafa on the driver bench. The three talked of Red and her steady recovery, of horses and their strength and loyalty. Etti told Rafa of Pesha’s loyalty and how, from the first time he ventured onto her hand, they experienced a bond.

They turned inland, heading for the baron’s manor. “Do you know this baron that Ruslo is visiting?” Etti asked.

Rafa scratched his brow. “Joseph, Baron Lagrasse. Ruslo said his chateau is grand. It was built at least two hundred years ago. The baron has repaired it, added a courtyard and fortified the wall. It sits on a high cliff.” Rafa laughed. “He probably didn’t want to wake up to find his bed sliding off the edge of the cliff in the middle of the night.”

“That would spoil a good night’s sleep,” Etti said. “He and Ruslo must be good friends. At the fair Rupa bought gifts for the baron—copper jewelry and fine spices. Rupa said we would be telling fortunes.” Like so many of the Gadje women, the baroness and her ladies liked having their futures told, and only Gypsies could hear the voices in the sea shells. While they traveled at the shoreline, the tribal women had gathered large, swirling shells for that purpose.

“Old Lolly will probably sing some history and travel tales, too,” Rafa said.

“I so enjoy that.”

“I do, too. I’ll look forward to hearing more of your father’s achievements.”

“I am proud of him.” She thought of her familia and sadness stole the moment.

“What is it, Etti?”

“When you talk of your kumpania… ”

Rafa waited, watching her.

“It’s different for you.” She lowered her eyes. Her parents had died. Her brothers had become hateful thieves. Etti had only her aunt and uncle and Melodia, and her father’s history.

The countryside stretched before them, a rich, green carpet under a blue sky painted with feathery clouds that slowly dissipated, like lovely white dreams. Craggy rocks and cliffs punctuated the meadows, giving way to neat patches of lavender, asparagus and barley fields, with an occasional field of honeysuckle, its sweet blossoms delicious in the gentle breeze. Rivers meandered through it all, dark veins sparkling from the sun, stealing one’s breath.

By mid afternoon they approached a walled village that climbed up a steep hill. Etti climbed in the wagon and took Pesha from his hidden cage. He was balled up, his face and tiny feet making her laugh. “Hey, sleepy little boy,” she crooned, tickling his soft fur.

Pesha chittered, scolding her.

“Va, I know. ‘Tis daylight, your time to rest, especially after all that play with Miri and Melodia.” She moved him to her eiderdown.

Pesha burrowed into the soft covers until he was invisible. Etti cleaned his cage, found the bucket with the wood shavings and freshened his floor. Foraging deep into her eiderdown she retrieved him and with a soft kiss on his nose she secured him in his cage and returned to the driver’s bench.

They had arrived at LaGrasse. Two large columns framed the gate, the baron’s white banners flying with his family crest of fleur de lis, and plumes.

“What does it mean?” Melodia asked.

“The nobility trace their family histories on their crests,” Etti said. “See how the squares get real small on this side? The baron’s paternal branch of the family’s ancestry has more limbs than the maternal side.”

Rafa tilted his head and regarded her. “You’re familiar with nobility?”

“Na, but I do like to watch the scriveners at the horse fairs. They copy heraldic tables and charts for the nobility there. They’re artists.”

They proceeded through the gated village. Melodia’s eyes grew large. “It’s stone. All stone. No grass. No gardens.” She turned from side to side as they climbed the steep, busy streets, nearing the chateau. They stopped to stable their horses and waited for Ruslo to return from the manor. When he arrived, disappointment etched his face.

“The baron won’t receive us until the morrow,” he said. “He has entertainers for his court already this evening. Gitanos from Andalusia. You know of them?”

“Va.” Rafa turned to Etti. “Andalusia is in the south, far from Barcelona. Seville, Grenada are there.”

“Rupa, we’ll tend to the horses and wagons,” Ruslo said. “Take the women about. Bring your shells, tell some fortunes and we’ll sup in the markets with your earnings.”

The procedure was familiar. Even though their tribe was small, villagers grew anxious when seeing several strange men of a sudden in their streets. If the women appeared first, however, the villagers were less suspicious. Buying wares from the markets also made them more accepted. Ruslo was a good leader. While he could be patient and thoughtful, she had also seen him ferociously defend his people, fighting off three men at a time. He would control the more vocal and aggressive members of his tribe, and they would be peaceful guests in the baron’s village.

The older women stayed to watch the children, and Atira, Rupa, Ucho and the younger women left to explore. “We stay together.” Rupa gave her usual instructions when embarking on a new village. “No stealing. Be polite and let Etti do the talking. She knows their language.”

“I know some,” Etti said. Atira would work her fortune-telling magic with the women, and Etti would translate when needed. Her stomach grumbled, anticipating supper. They began their upward climb through the narrow streets.

“The buildings are wonderful.” Melodia spread her arms, encompassing the many cream-colored structures, almost identical in size and box-like shape, all covered with the same stone slab roofs. “What’s inside them?”

“Families,” Atira said. “They’re homes.”

“Homes?” Melodia grew thoughtful. “They’re not at all like the Gadje huts. They’re huge.”

Gadje children ran on a street corner, playing stickball. As Etti and the women drew near, the children clustered together, watching them. Etti smiled and waved, and Melodia greeted them in Romanes. They looked at each other and hurried behind the nearest house

“They’re not like the peasant farmers’ homes. These buildings look like… churches,” Melodia said.

“Larger and stronger, but still, Gadje homes,” Etti said with a smile. “Come. Let’s see how close we can get to the manor.”

Etti enjoyed fairs and markets, villages and crowds of people, and the abundant talk and activity that accompanied them.

The market was still open when they arrived, the aisles crowded with people in the southwest corner. Weaving through the people, Etti learned why.

Six young women hovered over tables of fabrics and jewels. They stood out in appearance from the village women. They had stained their eyelids and brows, giving them a brooding, sensual appearance. Coins sparkled in their shining black hair. Gold rings had been pierced into their brows and ears, and their hair was spit curled at their temples.

Andalusians. These were the Rom that Rafa had mentioned, from south of Barcelona. Etti had heard they were a handsome people—known for their fast-paced music and dancing. One woman, more willowy than the others and more boldly painted, had singled Etti out. Her eyes, wide and expressive, assessed Etti and gave a knowing smile and a saucy tilt of the head that made her coins tremble. “You.” She raised her chin. “Beauty.” She crooked her finger on which a startlingly long fingernail grew, so long that it curved downward. She spoke Romanes with a heavy accent, merry to the point of bawd.

To be singled out in such a way—Etti felt her face heat. She stepped forward and introduced herself.

“I am Sinfi.” She took Etti’s hands and introduced the other women, all their names lyrical and light on the tongue, but so similar Etti had already forgotten the first three. Sholtari, Mahari, Tomari… They stroked Etti’s hair, touched her face and her back.

The tall one reached for Melodia and pulled her to them, praising her clear skin and pretty smile. The woman with blood-red lips snared Atira and spoke of her womanly curves and beautiful hands. Another cornered Rupa and admired her eyes.

“Come with us,” Sinfi said, gesturing with her overlong fingernail to the chateau. “We practice our dances there now. We will show you.”

Melodia’s eyes grew big with excitement. “Can we?”

Etti looked to Rupa, who had already begun walking with one of the dancers. Past them, the chateau graced the top of the steep hill like a castle, banners flying, stones the color of marble, reaching high, as in a dream.

A cloud passed the main tower, casting a shadow, and a cool breeze caused Etti to shudder.

“Please?” Melodia gave her an endearing, dimpled smile.

Sinfi raised a brow in playful challenge.

Etti laughed. It was just a cloud, and she wanted to see Sinfi’s dancers. “Va.” She took Melodia’s free hand. “Let’s go.”