Gypsy Moon
Authors: Becky Lee Weyrich
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal, #Historical, #General, #FICTION/Romance/Historical
- Gypsy Moon
- Copyright
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Epilogue
- More from Becky Lee Weyrich
- Connect with Diversion Books
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1986 by Becky Lee Weyrich
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email
[email protected]
First Diversion Books edition July 2014
ISBN:
978-1-62681-338-0
To the memory of Ruth Tucker Herbert,
my wonderful teacher and very, very, very, very, very good friend

A Gypsy Camp Somewhere in the Balkans—1797
The ghosts of a thousand Gypsy dancers whirled in the green-black arms of their evergreen lovers, growing tall upon the hills surrounding and sheltering the Romany camp. A full moon lit this ethereal
czardas
of love.
Wisps of fragrant wood smoke spiraled upward into the darkness from the dying embers of the campfire. Violins lay quiet next to beribboned tambourines. Midnight and sleep cloaked the Gypsy caravans.
Inside her tent, Valencia tossed restlessly on her bed of wolf skins. The day had been long and hot, the night and the dancing charged with a certain unsettling tension. Her dreams warned of mysterious evil and coming catastrophe. She clutched an ivory-and-gold icon of the good saint, Sara-la-Kali, to her bosom, hoping to ward off the black spirits of night.
Thinking Valencia fast asleep, her husband, Xendar, rose from their pallet and slipped silently out into the night. With the stealth of a hunting beast, he made his way to the tent of his wife’s sister, Kavà. He had watched the girl grow from a pretty nymph into a beautiful pagan, ripe for love.
Earlier in the day, he had chanced upon her bathing naked in the stream. That sight fired his blood and chased all caution from his mind. She had spied him watching but made no move to cover herself. She wanted him, too. He was sure of it. No longer could he deny the smoldering Gypsy fires that threatened his sanity while searing his loins with desire.
Without a sound, Xendar maneuvered his large frame through the unlaced flap of Kavà’s tent. He crouched low, letting his Romany-black eyes adjust to the darkness. Before him lay the object of his lust—as wantonly lovely in sleep as she had been whirling in the orange glow of the campfire a short time before.
But now her clinging peasant blouse was gone and the rise and fall of her bare breasts made him long to taste the ripe, forbidden fruits. Her shapely legs, which had flashed tantalizingly from beneath swirling skirts as she danced, rested in magnificent nudity, pale against the bear rug, causing a painful hunger in his body. Xendar, involuntarily, gave a low groaning sound deep in his throat.
Kavà’s eyes flickered open. She saw a dark shape looming over her and tried to scream. But the man fell on her, devouring the sound of her terror and turning it with ravenous lips into a whimper of desire.
She relaxed, yielded. She knew this man. She ached for him. How often she had dreamed of the time when he would seek her out and give her the love only their eyes had dared speak of in the past.
“Xendar,” she moaned between kisses. “Xendar, I am yours. Take me!”
Sensing her husband’s absence, Valencia touched the empty spot next to her and found the coarse animal hair still warm from his body. Where did he go these nights when he left her? What did he do? In a part of her heart that she kept guardedly locked, Valencia held the answers to these questions. But she dared not turn the key and confront the truth.
The whispers of Xendar’s transgressions were never spoken to Valencia’s face. But a Gypsy woman hears all… knows all. Had it not been for her insatiable passion for the man, she would have cast him from her tent long ago. But the few times she had tried to accuse him, the stroke of his wondrous hands, the touch of his lips to her breast, and all was lost. She craved him the way a drunkard craves his wine. Still, tonight something was different. She had sensed it for hours.
She rose from her bed, still holding Saint Sara to her breast, and peered out. The wind was on the rise, sending strange, silver-edged clouds scudding across the wizened face of the moon. On nights like this, her body ached for the nearness of Xendar, for the strength of his arms about her and the reassurance of his heart beating its fierceness next to her own. Suddenly, the blood pounded in her ears like waves of the great sea battering the sands. She felt her need rising with the nerve-shattering force of an erupting volcano.
It was then that Valencia heard his urgent whispers: “Yes, my wild one. Bite me! Scratch me like a cat in heat! Move with me… Ride with me. Feel my fire enter your flesh!”
The words and a woman’s accompaniment of sighs seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Valencia’s dark eyes surveyed the calm scene—fancifully carved and painted
vardos
drawn up around the camp; a circle of tents like her own around the fire; horses standing at rest after their long day’s haul into the mountains; stiff-haired, yellow mongrels drowsing in the shifting moon shadows. But no sign of Xendar.
The sighs grew louder, more urgent. Valencia knew the woman was nearing that magic moment when the world exploded, leaving only blinding bits of stardust in its wake and a feeling beyond the words to describe it.
Gathering her whispering skirts about her, Valencia crept toward the sounds. She stopped suddenly, feeling something like death clutching at her heart.
“No, Xendar!” she breathed.
Valencia recognized the ecstatic cry that rent the silence of the night. Her bare feet hardly touched the ground as she flew toward Kavà’s tent. She threw back the flap and stood frozen in sick horror and disbelief. The sacred icon dropped from her hand, shattering into two jagged pieces at her feet.
Her husband lay atop her sister, sending the last seeds of his passion flooding through her.
Now it was Valencia’s scream that filled the night.
“Marimé!
Unclean!
Marimé!”
Instantly, Xendar rolled away from Kavà, covering his face with his crossed arms at the sound of his wife’s accusing words.
“No, Valencia!” His voice quivered with terror. “Please, no!”
Kavà, her delicate golden body naked and shivering, lay where Xendar had left her. Valencia noted the smear of blood on her thighs, proclaiming the death of her virginity.
“He
raped
you!” Valencia whispered, horror seeping through her like the venom of a poisonous snake. “My own husband!”
Valencia stared from one to the other. Kavà made no move to defend her lover. Her plum-colored lips parted, but no sound came from them. She lay rigid while Xendar cringed away, his taut muscles glistening still with the sweat of his lust. Surely, Valencia thought, her sister’s glazed eyes reflected her terror of the man.
Aroused by the wronged woman’s screams, the others in the camp gathered at the tent. They waited silently to hear Valencia’s pronouncement—the women with a feeling of the rightness of it in their hearts, the men shrinking back in dread at the thought of the certain curse to come.
The wind hushed and Valencia’s voice echoed in the stillness: “I pronounce Rom Xendar
marimé
—unclean! For breaking his marriage vows and tainting the virgin body of my own sister, he will be cast out. No more one of the
Rom
—not of our race—and without
familia,
he shall roam the woods alone forevermore. And should fruit come of this forbidden union, it will carry the curse of the father from generation to generation. In the name of Sara-la-Kali, Sara the Black, handmaiden to the sisters of the Virgin Mary and patron saint of all Gypsies, I call down this curse upon the one whom I have called husband!”
A tortured sound escaped Xendar’s lips. The fire hissed and flames leaped upward as Valencia whirled from her pleading husband to point a golden-ringed finger at the moon, which was now as naked as Xendar himself.
Her words came out in a mournful chant. “At the time of the full moon, your suffering shall be great, even as mine is this night. You will feel the shame my sister has felt. You will quake and cry for mercy as your mind and heart relive this unspeakable deed. A thousand demons shall possess your soul.”
With Valencia, the rest of the Gypsies picked up the chant: “Xendar is
marimé, marimé, marimé
! Xendar is unclean, unclean, unclean! Xendar is cast out, cast out, cast out!”
They drew his blood, throwing rocks and sticks at the “rapist,” chasing him out of the camp. As he stood alone at the edge of the deep woods, Xendar turned a final, pleading gaze upon his wife. At his look, Valencia’s heart twisted with pain, then softened as she recalled their exquisite nights of love.
Raising her arms for silence, Valencia gave Xendar a parting gift—a hope, faint as it was, for the future.
“This curse which I lay upon the head of Xendar will be lifted from him and those who issue from the strength of his passions only through the love—true and faithful—of a golden Gypsy. He may search the earth for such Gypsy fire as it will take to cleanse him, and may Sara-la-Kali aid him in his quest.”
Out of the night, a lone raven with wings as black as Valencia’s hair swooped down, screaming, his grating cry punctuating the curse. The Gypsies covered their heads to protect themselves from the diving fiend—perhaps the spirit of Sara the Black herself, called up by Valencia’s angry words.
Valencia, ignoring the fear of the others, turned her back on her husband, never to see him again, but to be reminded of him for the rest of her life.
For out of Xendar’s unholy union with Kavà came a son, Croate. And Croate fathered Lassim, and the son of Lassim was named Strombol. When Strombol married Zolande, queen of the Gypsies, their child—dark and beautiful—was called Mateo.
Mateo inherited Valencia’s curse… and learned to fear the full moon.
The same fiery Gypsy moon that had cast its spell over Xendar, Kava, and Valencia, enflaming their passions almost a century before, now shone down with a gentler light on the bluegrass fields of Fairview Plantation in the heart of Kentucky’s horse country.
The moonlight softened the scene—glossing over the fences that needed mending and the peeling paint of the once proud white-columned mansion standing on the hill. The fortunes of the Buckland clan of Fairview had shifted with the tides of the Civil War, which had taken its master and consumed its riches. But on such a soft summer night, one could still imagine Fairview’s former glory—the elegant balls, the festive horse shows, the golden-haired daughter breaking hearts with a sigh and a smile.
A stray moonbeam laced its way through the curtains at a second-story window to weave a pattern of silver and shadow over Charlotte Buckland’s face and gleam in the silky hair fanned out over her pillow. The light caught one of the tears on her cheek and turned it for an instant into a tiny diamond.
Charlotte wasn’t sleeping. How could she sleep? Jemima Buckland’s announcement at dinner had shaken her too dreadfully. She was still struggling to comprehend her mother’s news.
Yes, she loved Fairview, and yes, she would do
anything
to save her family home from the auction block. Those were the impassioned words she had spoken to her mother not a week before. And she had meant what she’d said. But never—not in her wildest nightmares—had Charlotte imagined that her mother would take the word “anything” so literally and use it against her in such a way.
Now she was trapped… imprisoned… held powerless in the brutal arms of fate!
Charlotte’s storm of protest at her mother’s pronouncement had gotten her nowhere. Jemima Buckland, her determination not shaken in the least by her daughter’s outcry, had calmly responded, “You may leave the table now, Charlotte, and go to your room. And while you are up there, you might consider the fact that your choice of husbands has been limited, to say the very least, since the war. As for finding a man for you with enough money to save Fairview, I had given up all hope of that until now. Winston Krantz is the answer to my prayers.”
Charlotte had not been surprised by this last statement. Jemima Buckland had been encouraging Major Krantz’s attentions since he first arrived in the area, seeking out Fairview and its owner because of the horse farm’s reputation for fine thoroughbreds. Charlotte had sensed all along that her mother had secret plans for the U.S. Cavalry officer. But she had assumed that Jemima wanted the man for herself. At something over thirty, Major Krantz was, after all, much closer to Jemima’s matronly age than Charlotte’s tender nineteen years. He was attractive enough, for an older man, and what he lacked in wit, charm, and hair he made up for with his eagerness to please. It hardly seemed strange to Charlotte that her mother had determinedly flirted with him, encouraging the major to woo her.
Winston Krantz had lost his wife to scarlet fever the same year that Jemima was widowed when Federal bullets cut down Albert Buckland on the bloody field of Shiloh. They seemed a perfect match. It would be a comfortable and companionable second marriage for them both, Charlotte had reasoned maturely. She had even allowed herself to grow accustomed to the idea of the major as her mother’s husband, even if she couldn’t visualize him as a replacement for her beloved father. But to think of marrying him herself… Why, she couldn’t begin to imagine such a thing!
A breeze ruffled the lace curtain, drawing Charlotte’s attention to the bright Kentucky moon peeking in her window. When she was no more than three, her father had taught her to wish on the moon. He’d always tell her, with a broad grin and a flash of his almost black eyes, “Most people say to wish on a star. But we Bucklands are a bold clan, with big dreams. We make big, bold wishes. To get what we want, it takes a wish on the full moon.”
Charlotte felt a new lump in her throat at the thought of her father. She missed him desperately, especially at times like these when she needed his help. He would never have forced her to marry without love. Albert Buckland had been a sentimental romantic who believed that the world turned for love alone. And Charlotte was, indeed, her father’s daughter in this above all else.
Tying the curtains back so that her words would have clear passage to the moon, Charlotte leaned her elbows on the sill and stared up, her hands folded as if in prayer. “Now, listen to me, moon,” she began, feeling only slightly foolish. “I’m in
big
trouble, and my daddy promised you’d help. You’ve got to get me out of this. I will not marry Major Winston Krantz! I don’t care if—”
A quiet knock at the bedroom door cut off Charlotte’s plea in midsentence.
“Who’s there?” She bristled, sure that her mother had come up to reinforce her earlier command. But she relaxed, sighing with relief, when her grandmother answered, “Open up, child. It’s Granny Fate.”
Fatima Lee Buckland, her father’s mother, had disappointed Charlotte by uttering no word of protest after Jemima had announced her startling news at dinner. Granny Fate, like her son, had always taken Charlotte’s side in the frequent disagreements between mother and daughter. However, Charlotte had supposed, because of her silence earlier tonight, that Granny Fate had known of the marriage plans in advance and approved.
But perhaps the moon wasn’t Charlotte’s only ally in this matter after all. She scrambled out of bed to open the door for her grandmother.
Fatima Buckland swept into the dark room like a miniature whirlwind—silk skirts snapping and gold bracelets jangling while her heavy gardenia perfume swam in the air.
Without a word, she lit the bedside lamp and turned to her granddaughter. “There! That’s better. I like to look into those Buckland-brown eyes when I’m talking to you.”
Charlotte didn’t want Granny Fate to see that she’d been crying. She cast her gaze down, whispering, “Mama always says I should have been born with blue eyes like hers… that brown eyes don’t become a blonde.”
“There’s nothing wrong with brown eyes!” Fatima snapped, defending her own as well as Charlotte’s. “A man can stare deep and long into dark eyes and never see the bottom of the secret pool where a woman keeps her heart hid. But you look into blue eyes and everything’s just laying right there on the surface for the taking. I was gazing into your mama’s blue eyes all evening, and I didn’t care a bit for what I saw there.”
“I won’t marry him, Granny Fate.” Charlotte’s statement was a faint whisper in the quiet room, but for all her lack of force her point was clear.
“Jemima says he’s rich.”
Charlotte couldn’t tell from her grandmother’s statement whose side the fiery old woman was on. She looked carefully into Fatima Buckland’s lined face but could read nothing there.
“If she wants his money, why doesn’t
she
marry him?” Charlotte’s voice was a near wail now.
“Don’t think she wouldn’t—in a minute—if he asked. That was ’Mima’s plan in the beginning. But it turned on her. She still thinks of you as a child, and she hadn’t considered that her beau might be more taken with a younger, sprightlier filly than a saddle mare that’s long since been broke and rode.”
“But if Mother loves Major Krantz, how could she bear to let me marry him, much less force me into it?”
“Love’s got nothing to do with this, child. It’s a simple matter of economics to ’Mima now. Your mother’s a hard woman. She needs the tax money for Fairview, and she’s willing to put her own daughter on the block to get what she wants. It’s just like in the old days of the slave market. The bed wench brings the highest price, and the older and more foolish the buyer, the more he’s willing to pay.”
Charlotte felt her cheeks burning at her grandmother’s frank comparison. And besides being embarrassed, she felt confused. She hardly knew her own mind, or so it seemed at the moment. She could see her mother’s point. Fairview
must
be saved! She couldn’t agree more with that. But at the same time, the idea of marrying a man she knew she could never love, for financial security alone, filled her with a kind of sick rage. This was
her
life! And she was a human being—not horseflesh to be bartered and bid over.
“I won’t marry him,” she repeated. Her hands clenched into fists as she said the words, as if she were holding tight to her freedom, her very life.
A slow smile started deep in Fatima Lee Buckland’s eyes and soon lit her whole face. Gold rings glittered in the lamplight as the old woman reached out and stroked her granddaughter’s cheek with long, slender fingers. Her voice held a warm, quiet force. “No Buckland woman in history has ever been sold into marriage against her will. And I certainly will not allow my own granddaughter to be the first!”
“Oh, Granny!” Charlotte cried. She rushed into her grandmother’s open arms, her whole body suddenly feeling weightless with relief.
“Hush now! No more tears. That time is past.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte said. “It’s just that I’m so relieved. I thought you agreed with Mother. That the two of you were going to force me…”
“Agree with ’Mima? Me?
Lord, honey, if that woman said the night was black, I’d swear it was white just to get her goat! I haven’t agreed with your mama since the day she wormed her way into the Buckland family.”
“Granny Fate!” Charlotte stood away, shocked by her grandmother’s vehemence and her choice of words. She’d always known that there was no love lost between the two women, but since that often worked to her advantage, she had never questioned the cause of their antipathy.
“I’m sorry, child. I shouldn’t have let that slip.” Fatima Buckland studied her granddaughter’s face for several moments, as if trying to decide whether or not to go on. Finally she said, “Charlotte, you’re a grown woman now, and I’m
not
sorry I said that! It’s time you realized that the world isn’t made up of fairy tales and sugar plums. I think your daddy’d want you to know how things were so you won’t feel any guilt about going against your mama on this marriage.” She paused and nodded agreement with herself before continuing. “An eye for an eye and a bride for a bride, that’s what it comes down to.”
“Granny, I don’t understand.”
“You’re fixing to, honey.” Fatima Buckland grasped Charlotte’s hand and led her to the bed, where they both sat down. Granny Fate took a pillow in her hands and toyed with the tattered lace on its edge, not meeting her granddaughter’s gaze as she went on. “My Albert missed his chance at love. Your mama trapped him into marrying her, honey!”
Charlotte gasped but said nothing.
“Jemima Lewis came out here from Maryland to visit some cousins and find a husband. She was a pretty-enough thing and bright, too. But seems there’d been some scandal about her back home, we found out later, and she wasn’t considered proper marriage material where she came from. So ’Mima came here on her matrimonial mission. The Bucklands being the wealthiest landowners in these parts, she zeroed right in on my boy. Albert had his heart set on another, a sweet, dark-haired girl named Valinda. But that didn’t faze Miss Jemima Lewis. She flashed those big blue eyes and flirted with Albert till the whole county was talking about it.”
Granny Fate paused, shook her head, and took a deep breath, as if she were about to plunge into deep water.
“’Mima’d been here near to the end of her stay—a
long hot
summer. I was getting ready to breathe a sigh of relief at seeing the last of her, too, I can tell you. Then just the day before she was to go, up she flounced to the front door of Fairview, that aunt and uncle of hers escorting her, real formal-like. I felt a storm brewing before the full blow struck. Sure enough, it came! Announced to me, she did, in the presence of her aunt, with those big blue eyes of hers shining bright, that my Albert’d got her with child.”
Charlotte couldn’t contain her shock, but Granny Fate’s full attention was on her tale.
“I figured it was an out-and-out lie, but when I confronted Albert, he admitted that there was a chance her story might be true. Poor boy! My heart went out to him. He said that at a barbecue early in the summer he’d got liquored up pretty good with some of the other boys and couldn’t remember anything about that night except that he’d spent a good deal of it with ’Mima Lewis and she’d been mighty flirtatious and tempting. He knew his duty, even though it pained his heart to do it. He went straight off over to Bluefield to tell Valinda their engagement was off. He knew the only honorable course was to marry ’Mima. He did, but he was a sad-eyed groom, if I ever saw one.”
“Oh, Granny!” Charlotte was near tears again at the thought of her chance conception causing her father such pain. “I wish I’d never been born!”
The old woman hugged her tight and shushed her. “Wasn’t your fault, honey. You didn’t come along for four long years. No, sir! As I suspected from the first, ’Mima’s story was pure fiction. Those kinfolks of hers must have been laughing through their teeth at the wedding. Imagine, marrying off used goods to the only son of the wealthiest family in these parts! She was no more carrying Albert’s child than I’m carrying a striped mule right this minute! She even admitted to Albert, first time they had a fight, that he’d never touched her that night.”
Charlotte sat silent, feeling numb, when her grandmother finished.
Suddenly, Fatima Lee Buckland bolted up from the bed and whirled about the room in an unexpected show of pleasure and excitement. Falling to her knees before Charlotte with her skirts flared in a bright circle on the floor, she clasped her granddaughter’s hands and smiled up at her.
“Don’t you see, honey? All that’s in the past. So many years I’ve been holding all this bottled up inside me, just bursting to let out all the hurt and disappointment to make room for hope. Now’s our chance—yours and mine! My Albert loved you better than life itself. He must have curled up in his grave tonight to hear what ’Mima was planning for his daughter. He wouldn’t have allowed it, and neither will I! You’re going to know the love your daddy missed when he had to give up his Valinda.”