Sons of an Ancient Glory (36 page)

From what Tierney had seen, Greco was anything but reasonable. And while the women might not be slaves, they seemed to be treated with a certain heavy-handedness that left little doubt as to their standing in the camp.

“You are attracted to my sister?” The question was asked easily enough, but Tierney heard the slight edge in Jan's tone.

He shrugged off an answer. “Like I said, she's only a kid.”

The other boy's hands stilled as he met Tierney's eyes over the fire. “Zia is not considered a child among the
Rom
, but a young woman, to be cherished and closely protected.”

He paused, again taking up the harness in his hands. “You and I are friends, Tierney Burke,” he said quietly as he went on working. “Your household extended aid and kindness to me when I was injured. Indeed, had it not been for you and the
Seanchai
, I might have died. But please understand that our friendship would be of no account whatsoever should you ever disregard our laws. The
Rom
is loyal to his friends—but only when his friends are loyal to the
Rom.
”

The pleasant buzz going on in his head made it difficult to take anything seriously, but Tierney gave a solemn nod, as if to indicate his understanding and acceptance.

On his knees in the pantry, Sandemon heard the sound of stamping feet behind him and knew the child was on the march.

He sighed, hauled himself upright, and turned around.

“Whatever are you doing in the pantry, Sand-Man?”

Her petulant tone and thunderous frown told him immediately that young Annie did not care in the least what he was doing, that her real mission most likely had nothing to do with him.

Nevertheless, he would humor her. “Mrs. Ryan insists we have a mouse. I am setting a trap to appease her.”

“Sure, you would
not
kill a wee mouse!” Annie stood rigid, her hands on her hips, one eyebrow arched, a foot thrust forward. The wolfhound, who had been standing in the middle of the kitchen eyeing a loaf of bread on the counter, now came to join the exchange.

Sandemon recognized the girl's battle posture, and quickly moved to defend himself. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leveled a stern look on her. “Have you ever known me to kill a living thing, even a mouse? Shame on you, child, for even thinking it! I have set a catching trap, not a killing trap. If the mouse is foolish enough to enter, he will merely find himself confined until I can rescue him.”

“Oh.” She appeared satisfied—and not at all interested. “Where is Tierney Burke, by the way? Have you seen him tonight?”

Amused at the way she managed to turn the boy's full name into one—
Tierney-Burke
—Sandemon replied, “I'm sure I do not know. Is there an emergency?”

She gave a saucy toss of her braids and fixed him with a thoroughly guileless look. Of late, the child had been practicing the fine art of being a woman. “Of course not,” she said airily. “If there
were
an emergency, why would I be looking for Tierney Burke?”

“He seems a competent young man.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I suppose he's sneaked out again.”

Sandemon sensed he was being tested. “Is that a question or an observation?”

“You must know what he's up to,” she countered. “I saw him once, with my own eyes.”

Sandemon
did
know. But he had not realized that anyone else suspected. Young Tierney was most enterprising, and evidently well-experienced at slipping in and out at all times of night.

“Artegal helps him, you know,” Annie announced rather peevishly. “He leaves the kitchen door unbolted so Tierney Burke can come and go as he likes. It strikes me that they are
both
deceitful.”

Sandemon frowned at her. “It strikes
me
that you know entirely too much, that apparently there has been a considerable amount of prying on your part. And it strikes me as well that it is long past time for you to retire.”

Instantly her face screwed up, a mirror of the child she used to be. Just as quickly, she regained her dignity. “I don't require as much sleep, now that I'm older.” She paused, but when Sandemon said nothing in reply, she turned to the wolfhound. “Come, Fergus, we might as well go upstairs. Sand-Man is cross tonight.”

Sandemon smiled as he watched them go, the girl flouncing out the door with deliberate impudence. The wolfhound was right at her heels, glancing back only once with a longing eye at the bread.

Alone again, his mood turned solemn. The child's comment about Artegal's complicity in Burke's late-night antics reminded him of a situation that was worrisome, to say the least.

He was aware of the irascible footman's duplicity, of course. Moreover, he suspected him of slipping spirits to the boy. He had passed by young Tierney's quarters when the door was partly ajar, and the stale, sour odor from within was unpleasantly reminiscent of the days when the
Seanchai
had been given to the drink.

For months, he had suspected Artegal of being a secret tippler, but as the man's vice didn't seem to affect his job, Sandemon had made the decision to hold his tongue, at least for the time being. This collusion with Tierney Burke, however, was a different matter entirely. If Artegal was indeed giving the boy alcohol, in addition to encouraging his deceit, was it right to allow them the protection of silence?

He didn't think the
Seanchai
had a hint as to what was going on between the footman and the American boy. These days, when the young master was not busily involved with his family or the school, he was working intently on the final editing of Father Joseph's famine journal, readying it for publication. He seemed unaware of anything amiss in the household.

But Morgan Fitzgerald was far too shrewd and discerning to be duped indefinitely. He would eventually discover the truth, and when he did, he would no doubt give young Tierney reason to regret his actions.

In the meantime, Sandemon was still troubled by his responsibility in the situation, still concerned that his silence might only make matters worse. His first loyalty was to the
Seanchai
, after all. Wherever the incorrigible Tierney Burke was sneaking off to—and he had his suspicions about the boy's nocturnal exploits—there was always the risk that his surreptitious behavior would bring trouble on Nelson Hall.

There had already been more than enough grief in this house. Sandemon sensed that the time was approaching when he would have to take steps to prevent more.

He decided he would start by confronting Tierney Burke. He would face the boy with what he knew and give him the opportunity to tell the
Seanchai
himself.

With a deep sigh, he drew a chair up to the table to wait. Tonight when the errant young rogue came sneaking into the kitchen through the back door, he would not find an empty room.

As soon as Greco and the other men came back to the fire, somebody called for music. Across the camp children came running, and at the same time the women began to gather in. One of the older men started to sing, and soon others joined in, Jan and his brother among them.

The Gypsies sang with full, strong voices and deep emotion. Sung in a language that Tierney could not understand, the lyrics sounded ancient and sad. Some of the older men had tears in their eyes as they lent their voices to the music.

The song ended, and Greco stepped into the circle of men who had crowded about the campfire. He began to hum what sounded like a dance tune, the rhythm brisk, the melody happy. The other men and boys took up the humming, then burst into song, clapping and beating out the rhythm with their feet.

Someone among the young men called for Jan to get his violin, and with a faint smile he left the fire to fetch it. By the time he returned, leaping into the open space near the fire, the other men had moved back to give the Martova brothers more room.

Fascinated, Tierney got to his feet, clapping with the rest of the Gypsies as the usually thunder-faced Greco began to circle the campfire, his strong white teeth flashing to the obvious mirth of the music as his boots pounded out a hailstorm of staccato beats.

But it was Jan who captured his interest and held it. Tierney knew next to nothing about music, had never played an instrument in his life, and in fact had never understood the passion of those who did. But as he stood there watching and listening to his new Gypsy friend, his instincts told him that Jan Martova was an exceptional violinist, a master of the string and bow. He could almost feel the power and the artistry in those long, slender hands as they coaxed one enchanting tune after another from the violin.

The music grew in intensity, and a second dancer joined Greco, then another, until an entire throng of men and boys had entered the dance. Tierney was disappointed when Zia attempted to lead some of the women into the circle, only to be stopped by Greco's restraining hand. One curt shake of his head, and she backed away from the others.

Tierney couldn't help but wonder if Zia would have been allowed to dance had an outsider like himself—a
Gorgio
—not been present.

At last Jan ended the set of dances with a flourish and a grin, and there was much hand clapping and bursts of whistling. This time when the young violinist touched his bow to the strings it was to evoke a slow, tender melody, so achingly beautiful and sad that a shiver ran down Tierney's spine.

It was almost as if Jan Martova were playing the strings of his heart. He felt his own emotions accompanying the violin as bittersweet memories and old dreams came rushing up, swelling his mind, stealing his breath.

Something about this music called up feelings from deep inside him, from a place he hadn't even known existed. If Jan Martova's music could accomplish such a thing with someone as unmusical and heretofore uninterested as himself, what kind of magic would it work on those more sensitive to such things?

Right then and there he decided that Jan Martova must play at Nelson Hall, for Morgan. Perhaps it would help to gain a measure of acceptance for his Romany friend.

Another hour passed, an hour of music and dancing and merriment, before Jan finally stopped playing and came back to the fire. “Come,” he said to Tierney, “I want you to see my
vardo
—my wagon.”

He led him to a small square wagon that had been pulled away from the others, but was still parked not too far from the camp. It was obviously new, its deep-toned natural oak walls freshly varnished, with shutters painted bright blue. A variety of symbols—flowers, moon, and stars—had been stenciled here and there as decoration. Fitted at the rear of the frame, in between the wheels, was a large box, presumably used for storage.

Jan opened the double doors at the back, bowed formally to Tierney, and said, “Welcome to my home, Tierney Burke.”

Following him inside, Tierney let out a low whistle. “Some digs,” he said, turning to look at the Gypsy. “This is yours?”

Jan nodded. “I built it.” Again, the faint note of pride without arrogance.

Impressed, Tierney's gaze swept the room. “You
built
this?”

Jan grinned. “With a little help from Greco and my cousins,” he said. “It took us many months. I don't really need my own wagon, of course, since I have no wife as yet. But Greco's
vardo
is quite crowded, with Elena and the younger children, and I was beginning to feel in the way.”