Gypsy Jewel (8 page)

Damien sought for any sign of the lovely blonde from the forest, but these folk were all dark. He was startled when one particularly hard-looking older wench with dyed red hair licked her full lips at him in invitation. None of the men appeared to mind this, so perhaps the woman needed a husband, but Damien quickly sidestepped her wet kiss.

From amid the ruckus a large Slav finally pushed his way thorough, going directly up to Damien and speaking in
romani
.

“Who are you?”

Not intimidated by the husky growl, Damien introduced himself to the
Rom Baro
, the leader of the Lowara.

Built like a tree trunk, with muscle to spare, the middle-aged Jingo would have intimidated a lesser man. But Damien looked past the brute strength to note that the king’s dark eyes held intelligence and kindly curiosity. Their brief exchange proved the earl correct. Jingo was a friendly man, but he was also cautious. Damien respected the request to have his wagon searched, and he presented his careful tale.

At last the king seemed satisfied, or, Damien thought, perhaps a little weary of all the noise. Jingo ordered the others to disband, and then invited Damien to his tent to talk.

“You have come far, if you have come from France,” the gypsy king began as he gestured to a comfortable mound of pillows where visitors could recline.

“Have you been to my country?” Damien asked politely as he sat down and leaned back, crossing his ankles in imitation of Jingo. He knew enough to reflect the king’s habits with his own, lest he arouse suspicion. He also did not refuse the drink that was offered him.

“I have heard of it,” Jingo replied. “Some who were once Manouches live with our band now. You will meet them later. Perhaps you share the same friends.”

Damien decided to be direct with this man, whom he wished to deceive as little as possible. “It’s not likely,” he admitted, “for I am not Rom by birth, but only choice.”

Damien told Jingo a dramatic tale, though one still holding a kernel of truth, about how he had run away from his family and joined the Romany. Since then, he added, he had traveled widely, visiting with different bands, but staying with none for long.

“I have chosen the wind for my brother,” Damien said, quoting a phrase he remembered one of the gypsies saying in the camp he had visited when he was fifteen.

Jingo smiled in understanding. How well he knew a young man’s urge to escape and wander the world, and how sometimes, once it was in the blood, a man was called to seek such a life forever. With keen eyes he assessed this
gajo
stranger, this
romani rei
, who seemed sincere enough and truly interested in the Lowara people.

“Which way did you come?” he asked, and listened intently to Damien’s story. Then he said, “I have heard of this war in the north. I had thought to delay our next move until things were settled.”

“You are wise. The fighting has spread to the mountain passes, and travel is no longer safe,” Damien agreed. Then he gave a whittled version of what he actually knew of the latest troop movements. The two men talked for a time of the foolishness of
gaje
, fighting over land that should belong to everyone, and warmed to each other in the process.

Contrary to Damien’s expectations, Jingo’s imposing size was complemented by a merry, gentle nature. And the king found his unexpected visitor informative and amusing after long weeks on the road.

Considering carefully what Damien had said about the war, the gypsy king confessed, “Even with the war, we must move on soon. For several weeks we have been searching for another band of Rom.”

Damien knew that was unusual for gypsies. “You are having a reunion or a wedding?”

Jingo sighed and shook his wiry dark head. “No, nothing so pleasant. There has been great conflict in our tribe recently. The Lowara are torn between two of their own.” He saw Damien looked curious but unwilling to pry, and it gave him greater respect for the man. “Something bad happened. One of our young men was attacked in the woods.”

“Was he hurt?”

Jingo shook his head again. “More pride than flesh was hurt that day. You see, the one who attacked him was a young woman. She claimed he was forcing himself upon her.”

Looking puzzled, Damien ventured, “I don’t understand. You said they were both of your tribe?”

“Yes. There were three other witnesses who claim the girl invited him, but others believe the boy lies. It is not a simple thing to find someone who does not know either one of them. The tribe is divided by their stories.”

“So you are looking for another band from which to draw an impartial judge,” Damien said. “It seems the wisest course.”

“But we have wandered for over two weeks, and the war has driven most Rom off,” Jingo explained. “So my people grow frustrated with the delay in justice. Half think the girl should be banished, but there are young men who beg to have her hand in marriage just to save her from a terrible fate.”

“She must be quite a woman,” Damien said, envisioning the brassy, full-blown wench who had been making eyes at him earlier.

Jingo said soberly, “She is like no other here. I admit I do not know what will happen to her. The mood of the camp changes each day. Lately the rumors have been leaning toward the boy’s tale.”

“Why tell this to me?” Damien asked.

Jingo shrugged. “You see my plight. A decision must be made swiftly before someone is hurt. We need an outsider,” and his dark eyes bored into Damien’s directly, “to settle their differences as soon as possible.”

Naturally hesitant to get involved, Damien tried to demur, but Jingo proved most insistent.

“I ask only this one thing of you. Nobody knows you here. My people have not seen a
romani rei
before, but your kind are met with respect among Rom, and I myself will be responsible for your decision. Please, will you not help me to settle this matter and ease the hearts of my people?”

Though his conscience warned against it, Damien considered it long enough to be swayed. He finally accepted Jingo’s request, saying, “Does this mean I can stay with the Lowara?”

Privately he was thinking that nothing would be easier. First he would make an impartial ruling on the incident in the woods, then cozy into the camp as one of the gypsies himself. It would open a back door into Czar Nicholas’s homeland. And, if he could find the lovely young nymph who had haunted him at the stream, then so much the better.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish to,” Jingo said, and once reassured of the newcomer’s assistance, he was friendlier. Damien let out a deep breath of relief as he realized he had secured the necessary cover for entering the Russian front.

“T
HERE’S THE
GAJO
,”
A
PRIL
told Tzigane. She was careful, though, not to let her obvious interest show as she gestured out the back of the fortune teller’s wagon toward the figures of Jingo and Damien walking through the gypsy camp.

“He’s not a
gajo
, he’s a
romani rei
,” Tzigane corrected her daughter. Letting the flap fall closed again, the seer returned to her sewing and bit the length of string dangling from her needle and tied it off.

Holding up the beautiful skirt she had just finished, of bright emerald green muslin with a satin-like sheen, Tzigane nodded with satisfaction. By the light of the lamp she worked by, the skirt danced with tiny reflections of gold along the elaborately embroidered, layered flounces.

Across from her April returned to stabbing ineffectually at her own material, pushing the needle hastily through the cotton of the white ruffled blouse on which she was working. She tried to wrench her thoughts from Damien, but couldn’t. To deny her own curiosity, April said firmly, “He’s not one of us.”

“Not of our blood, but of our beliefs,” Tzigane answered. “There are those who understand our ways who were not born Rom. This man is one of those. I could tell at once.”

“You are not suspicious of him?” April asked curiously. Tzigane rarely trusted anyone at first sight, and she was frankly amazed.

“I have seen him in the cards,” her mother replied vaguely, but said nothing more. Instead Tzigane smiled in secret pleasure as she finished hemming the green skirt with its swirling gold embroidery. She had coaxed April to work on the blouse under the pretense of making it for another woman in the band.

Restless tonight, April proved an impatient pupil. She knew why, though she did not wish to admit it to Tzigane or even herself. She was thinking of Damien, of the way his blue eyes caressed her, as his hands obviously longed to. And she felt the strangest, bittersweet sensations pulling their souls together, while she fought to keep their bodies apart.

Tzigane could tell something was troubling the girl. She assumed it was because of the trial to come, where April’s fate as well as Nicky’s would be decided. If Jingo did not find someone to resolve the conflict soon, there would be grave trouble. Her motherly heart bled for the beautiful child-woman who was bent over the blouse now, tears of frustration in her eyes.

“The
rei
will distract the others for awhile,” Tzigane said, “and I saw he carried a violin. Now that everyone’s attentions are occupied, you will perhaps be able to do more.”

“Can I ride Prince Adar?” April asked, her voice raw with longing and an inner pain reflecting deep in her eyes as she looked over at her mother.

Tzigane hesitated. She knew how vehemently the others had insisted that April be forbidden access to the stallion. “We will ask Jingo,” she said, not daring to give the girl any shred of hope for fear of disappointment.

Then, to break the gloomy silence, Tzigane decided to surprise April. Instead of saving the skirt for a special occasion, she reasoned it would mean more right now.

“April,” she said innocently, “I think you are the closest to Choomia’s size. Would you try on the skirt now and let me make the final fit?”

April set aside her own project gladly and slipped out of her own skirt. After Tzigane helped her put on the new one, she stood still and let the other woman adjust the folds and gathers.

“It seems just right,” Tzigane said, pleased with her work, which was a perfect color for April’s eyes and hair. “Put on the blouse too so we can see the whole outfit.”

April exchanged blouses and let her mother fuss again with the ruffled neckline. The blouse was made to be worn off the shoulders, and April did not protest as Tzigane tugged each side down a few inches, revealing her bare shoulders.

Tzigane pursed her lips in consideration. “It needs something more. Will you get me my box?”

Puzzled, April did as her mother asked. She brought Tzigane the carved wooden jewelry case that had been passed down in Bal's Romany family for several generations.

Pawing carefully through the stash of jewelry, Tzigane selected a matched set of gold coin earrings, a necklace and a thick gold arm band. She persuaded April to put them on and stepped back for a look. She smiled and nodded at the picture she saw.

Her April was a golden beauty, her blonde hair curling about her hips and her stance still proud and resolved. For all her misery the girl would not buckle, and she more than deserved the gifts Tzigane gave her now.

“These things are yours now,” she said as she closed her box and put it away. “Bal gave them to me, and I want you to have them. Wear them with pride and remember you are always a Lowara woman, no matter what any of the others say.”

Stunned, April fingered the rich fabric and looked at Tzigane. She was too moved to speak, and when her mother urged her outside, she could not protest strongly enough to make any difference.

“Go,” Tzigane said abruptly. “For once you will go out and enjoy yourself by the fires. The others are too busy with the stranger to take much note of you. You may find a moment of peace in which to gather your thoughts.”

Giving the generous woman a grateful hug, April blinked back the threat of tears. Then, taking a deep breath, she slipped from the tent and melted into the shadows of the night.

A
S
D
AMIEN FEARED, IT
was not long before the gypsies called upon him to demonstrate his musical prowess. As a people they loved music, and most were gifted with dancing or instrumental skills. They would be suspicious if he could not match them song for song, and so he gave in at last and went to fetch his violin. Fortunately, in his youth Damien had taken fourteen years of music lessons at his mother’s strict insistence. After all, Marcelle had said, only the bourgeoise had money without talent.

Damien shrugged aside the last of his worries and rejoined the others. He knew he had a good ear for music, and he thought he would be able to bluff his way through most of the unfamiliar songs.

The entire camp gathered around the largest fire built in the circle of wagons, and dark eyes shone with excitement. Even the older folk, initially distrustful of the stranger, had finally been swayed by Damien’s fascinating tales of countries far afield. They all circled round to provide a clapping, cheering audience for his music, and the moment he launched into the first song, they were keeping time with tambourines as well.

April heard the music from a distance, poised on the edge of the woods away from the busy camp. Her keen ears immediately registered the glorious solo as something out of the ordinary, and as if drawn by an invisible cord, she found herself walking back toward the orange glow of the bonfires.

There she hovered in the shadows and tried to peer through the milling bodies for a glimpse of Damien. The music struck a chord somewhere deep in her breast, though it was a song she had never heard before. It reminded her of cool, smooth-flowing water, the melting tones hypnotizing her as the bow was drawn with unequalled skill.

Stepping cautiously between two tethered horses, April leaned out for a better look. Her eyes widened at the sight of Damien standing in the midst of the circle, gently coaxing magic from the violin. As he slowly revolved, mesmerizing the crowd, the firelight danced off his features and reflected back an image that instantly reached out to her.