Gypsy Jewel (6 page)

“Which still does not give us one whit of insight into Nicholas’s master plan,” Damien pointed out.

“Precisely. That is why it occurred to me, after our last visit, that your idea about a different kind of infiltration makes perfect sense. The Russians clearly expected spies in St. Petersburg, and took severe steps to silence our internal networks. I don’t need to tell you how many have been caught and killed, but suffice it to say that we are badly crippled at this point as far as news from the north goes.”

“Which suggests to me not only a different strategy, but a different course entirely,” Damien said.

“Yes. It’s amazing how much more successful a plan might become with only a slight twist of logic to make it completely invisible to others. For example, I’ve been thinking how much more effective we could be if we planted someone in a less obvious place.”

“Other than St. Petersburg, you mean?”

Lord Raglan nodded. “It is far too obvious for my taste. I think we would see results faster and easier if we made an indirect route toward Moscow, skirting the larger towns and provinces, listening instead for the rumors among the common folk. As you know, even the most outrageous rumors usually have a grain of truth hidden somewhere in their core.”

“Are you suggesting native spies?” Damien frowned as he considered that idea. He’d spent enough years in the East to know how loyal certain factions were. Especially among Russians, who were descended from closely-knit tribal groups, there was a fierce patriotism that could not be easily bought or sold when it came to their country.

The older man read Damien’s expression and shook his head. “No, I know that would likely only complicate things, or come back to haunt us in the end. But you know the people here better than I. What do you think would be the best way to undertake such a feat?”

Damien thought a moment while he finished his tea. Setting the chipped cup aside as carefully as if it were fine porcelain, he rose from the crate he had been using as a chair and paced the length of the tent as he spoke.

“One of our best men, someone who speaks Russian well, could be outfitted as a peasant or tradesman and sent on a circuitous route toward Moscow. His reports would be sent back either by bribes or carrier pigeons, though I think the birds would be the safer route.”

Lord Raglan nodded his approval. “Go on.”

“He would have to be convincing enough to get into the confidence of the locals. It would take time — several months to cover a stretch from here to Moscow and back across enemy lines.”

“Suppose he took a longer route, say through the Caucasus, by way of Rostov,” Raglan suggested.

“It would mean a month longer, but it might be worthwhile to avoid detection,” Damien mused. “The enemy is expecting us to strike directly at the capital. We’ll have to lull them into thinking we’ve given up. It could work.”

Lord Raglan allowed himself the luxury of a smile, something he hadn’t done in months. Like Damien’s father, the Earl of Somerset was generally a sober, conservative man who rarely displayed emotion. This war was the closest he had ever come to real despair, but he was careful not to let his men see that. It had been agonizing to watch British ships sitting in full view of Sevastopol with ready supplies while his soldiers died for want of a pair of boots. This bloody, stupid war had tried his patience dearly. Lord Raglan looked older than Damien had ever seen him as he passed his hand over his graying brow.

“You’ve run with gypsies before, haven’t you? You mentioned it once before in a previous conversation,” he said, gaining Damien’s surprised glance and a hint of a grin.

“Yes. It was a long time ago, when I was a far more impulsive youth. I ran away from my father to spite him on a trip to Paris, and joined a band camped on the outskirts of the city. I was sowing my wild oats, I guess, and stayed with them for several weeks.”

Raglan chuckled at the thought. “I can imagine your mother’s reaction.”

“Marcelle was distressed,” Damien admitted, a twinkle in his blue eyes to recall his beautiful
Maman
wringing her hands and scolding him shrilly. He had returned long-haired and filthy and wearing a grin a mile wide. It was less pleasant to remember the whipping Edward had given him for worrying his parents so much, but Damien saw now that he’d probably deserved it.

“Then you know their ways,” Raglan continued thoughtfully. “It occurred to me that gypsies are free to move anywhere, from country to country, without passports and the like. They apparently consider themselves a separate nation.”

“Exactly. Subject to the rules of no land, nor bound by invisible borders. Though they have been persecuted for years, some countries still give them free passage to go where they will.”

“It would seem a perfect cover for our agent,” Lord Raglan said. “And I consider you the prime candidate for such a venture.”

Damien raised a hand in immediate protest. “Wait a minute, James. I didn’t claim to be a gypsy myself. You have to be born into a band to have true kinship with their kind. The closest an outsider, or
gajo
, could ever come to gaining their trust would be what’s called a
romani rei
, though they rarely grant that privilege to anyone nowadays.”

“Seems to me you could earn that rank quickly enough, if you worked at it,” Raglan mused. “What does it take to prove yourself to them, anyway?”

“Every band differs. Some only require that you accept their ways, like the Manouches did outside Paris, but the Romany in general are often an exacting lot and have unpleasant initiations. I’ve heard of men being asked to steal or kill for their tribe. Sometimes marriage is the only direct way in, though that’s hardly the least painful route, in my own estimation.”

Lord Raglan grinned mischievously. “But I should think that would be the easiest way in for you, Damien. I’ve seen precious few ladies at court who could resist your charm.”

Damien sighed and shook his head. “You might be surprised. There’s no telling with gypsy girls. Now granted, James, it’s a good idea, but I don’t relish the thought of being deep in the heart of the Russian front like that without access to weapons or a means of communication. It could take months to get the tiniest scrap of valuable news.”

“But as you pointed out before, we have nothing now, and it would certainly be worthwhile if we could bring this war to a close. If only we knew the czar’s intentions …”

Damien paused his pacing to think for a moment. But when he made up his mind, he did so quickly and without reserve. “All right,” he said, “I’ll give it a shot. But I’ll need support from you, patience from the queen, and a considerable dose of courage for my own part.”

Raglan smiled. “My boy, I don’t think you’re lacking for that in the slightest. As for support and patience, I personally guarantee that if you make this attempt for England, you’ll be buried in medals back home. Which, as you can see, is a bloody sight better than being buried
here
.”

I
T HAD GROWN UNEXPECTEDLY
warm during the night, and April thrashed restlessly under the blankets on her pallet in the wagon. Knowing the men of the band had all gathered in the king’s tent to mull over her fate had not made sleeping any easier, and the dreams she did have were full of strange, frightening shadows and sounds.

April tried not to disturb Tzigane, but when she sat up at last with tears streaming down her face, her muffled sobs caused her foster mother to whisper across the wagon.

“Hush,
chavali
,” Tzigane soothed, using the same gypsy word for daughter that she had so often crooned in baby April’s ear. “All will be right in the end, you will see.”

April knew then that Tzigane had not slept either, but also lay awake and listened to the fateful murmur of the men outside. She wished she could believe the seer, but the prickle on the nape of her neck told April that something bad was going to happen.

Tzigane saw the young woman clench the patchwork quilt in her hands. By the thin stream of moonlight coming through the open cooking vent in their wagon, her lovely fair features were touched with silver cobwebs of shadows and her hair gleamed palest gold. Tzigane saw the glistening silvery teardrops on her daughter’s cheeks.

“I could run away,” April choked out, but there was no heart in her words. To leave the Lowara would be to lose her heritage and her life, and banishment would be better than such a coward’s choice.

“Tonight you can do nothing but get some rest.” Even superstitious Tzigane could be practical at times. “Morning may bring a solution to us, who knows? You will only call to the dark spirits if you let such thoughts take over.”

April wondered how her mother stayed so calm. “Have you seen something else in the cards?” She hated to admit it now, but she hoped Tzigane had seen something good, and that it was going to come true.

Tzigane was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was raspy with age, and April was painfully reminded that this woman who had saved her as an infant was no longer young and strong.

“Daughter, I have always told myself that when the time was right, I would show you something that would change your life. Seeing only darkness surrounding you now, I think that there is no better time than this. If nothing else, you may be comforted to know that I have planned for your future, and have not forgotten the joy you have brought me.”

April was bewildered. She knew Tzigane kept a small cache of gold coins securely knotted in a kerchief under her bed, for she had shown April where to find the money if ever she should meet with an accident and April was left alone. But aside from that and her pack of tarot cards, April knew of no great treasure which Tzigane had that could avert the calamity they were facing now.

“I don’t understand,” she said as her mother sat up and fumbled for a tallow candle to light. “What could you possibly share with me now that would make any difference?”

“On this day, perhaps nothing.” Tzigane sighed to admit it, blowing on the candle as she struck a spark to light. “Ah. That’s better. Now I can see your pretty face when I give you your rightful
sumadji
.”

“Inheritance?” Now April was openly curious against her will, and temporarily forgot her troubles to swing her legs over the side of her bed and lean toward the
phuri dai
.

“Yes. I have kept it hidden for years because you were too young to understand, and I was afraid if the others should find out.”

April tingled with the suspense of it. Her voice dropped to a whisper to match Tzigane’s as she asked, “Is it so terrible then?”

By the candlelight Tzigane’s eyes glowed like golden coals. “Terrible only in that man is greedy, and what he see, he wants. The same is true for woman, but to a lesser degree. However, none must know of what I show you now — your birthright and your heritage.”

Tzigane reached around her own neck to lift a small velvet pouch dangling from a plain cord. She had worn the amulet for years, telling everyone it contained a magic pebble for good luck, and none had questioned the fanciful old seer.

April remembered seeing the worn green pouch many times, though Tzigane usually kept it hidden under her blouse. Now she pulled it off and handed the smooth little sack to April. She felt it curiously for a moment, looking at her foster mother in confusion.

“Isn’t this your magic rock? It feels like it.”

Tzigane smiled, her amber eyes glinting by candlelight with secret knowledge. “No,
chavali
,” she whispered triumphantly, “it is
your
magic rock. Open it.”

As April’s trembling fingers fumbled with the tight drawstring, Tzigane went on to explain, “When I found you, a tiny babe in the woods, you were naked and completely exposed to the cruel snows. But around your neck there was this pouch, this little mystery …”

April gasped as she shook the velvet bag open and something round and hard tumbled into her palm. There, reflecting prisms against her face, lay a huge and perfectly faceted diamond, the secrets of her origin stored in its sparkling clear depths.

“Even King Jingo does not know of it. After I brought you back to camp, I was careful to hide it once I saw what it was. I have kept it secure at my breast all these years.”

April rolled the beautiful gem in her fingers. “What does it mean? Who would put such a valuable thing around a baby’s neck that they abandoned to die? I don’t understand.”

Her mother heard the upset in her voice. Putting an arm around her, Tzigane said, “I have only guesses to make, and have made many over the years. Perhaps your mother had to hide you from evil, and intended to hurry back when she could. Maybe the jewel was stolen, maybe you were too … who knows? Your past is silent even in my cards. But the jewel is worth a great deal, and its sale would last you to the end of your days.”

Instead of comforting April as intended, the tale only embittered her. “So I was cast off like an unwanted kitten to die, with a thing of great worth wrapped around my neck. Why did my mother not just strangle me and be done with it?” She tossed the glittering gem back in the pouch and pushed it at Tzigane. “I don’t want it. And no
gajo
would buy such a gem from a gypsy, they who call all of us cutpurses and thieves. I would be hung if I tried to sell it in a city.”