Authors: Tori Phillips
A grim smile wreathed Tonia’s lips. “Look at me, my lord,” she continued in honeyed tones. “And behold a woman most unmercifully wronged. I am the spirit of Lady Gastonia Cavendish.”
Sir Roderick Caitland wet his tights before he fainted in a heap.
For the first time in over a week, Tonia joined her parents for the evening supper. Following her surprise appearance in the great hall, her sister Alyssa had been hurriedly dispatched across the fields to Wolf Hall, where Guy had instructed her to remain indefinitely. Alyssa was only too happy to be perpetually entertained by Kitt’s merry company.
After Tonia had withdrawn, Guy revived Lord Caitland and his terrified servant. Both men could not wait to flee the house and were astride their mounts within a quarter of an hour. Now at the end of that disquieting day, the Cavendishes enjoyed a quiet meal together.
Guy drained
the malmsey wine from the bottom of his goblet, then he gave his eldest daughter a wry look. “Well, sweetling, I must commend you. Your sense of timing was exquisite.”
Celeste, looking much healthier since she had changed from her tight bodice to her loose dressing gown, patted Tonia’s hand. “
Mais oui, ma chère,
the expression on that little man’s face was like choice wine to me after what he had said and done to us.”
Tonia smiled at her mother. It was the first time in weeks that she did not have to force a smile. “When I heard Pappa’s shouting, I knew who was here. ’Twas time that I did something for myself. The revenge was sweet, even if he was only a lackey of the true evildoer.”
Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “Northumberland, he is the wicked mind behind this evil plot. I have known of John Dudley for many years past, but I never suspected that his ambition had so blinded him that he would commit murder. This affront needs to be addressed.”
Celeste put her hand on her husband’s arm. “But not tonight, nor this week,
mon cher.
You hit a sore spot with Lord Caitland when you mentioned the King’s health. Mayhap Edward is closer to death than we suspect. Once the Princess Mary is secure on the throne, the wind will blow from a different direction throughout this land. I counsel patience.”
Guy covered her hand with his. “As always, you are the voice of moderation. We will wait and see what develops—for a while.”
Tonia placed her hand over her stomach wherein lodged Sandor’s child. Would their babe ever see its father? She could not believe that Sandor had deliberately seduced and abandoned her. His love had been too intense and real. The appearance of the King’s minion armed with the dreadful box was proof that Sandor had arrived safely in London some weeks ago. Tonia could not bear to think that he might have been executed to keep the secret of her death forever in a grave. Fate could not be that cruel.
“How
now, Tonia?” Celeste leaned toward her daughter with a look of concern in her violet eyes. “Feeling unwell again?”
Shaking her head, Tonia looked away. Would her mother tell Pappa of her pregnancy here and now? Tonia braced herself for the verbal whirlwind that would erupt.
Guy lifted her chin with his forefinger. “Tears. Tonia?” he asked with deep concern.
She bit her lip. She could not break his heart just yet—at least not until she had mended her own. She glanced down at her palm and traced the hairline scar there.
Blood of my blood, where are you?
“Aye, Pappa, a drop or two,” she confessed aloud. “You have no idea how good ’tis to be home.”
The Tower of London
Mid-August 1553
F
or the third time within a month, the cannons on the walls of the Tower fired a ceremonial salute. Pressing his face against the stout bar of his window, Sandor strained to catch the shouts he heard coming from the Thames River boatmen. Though great events were happening beyond his cell’s door, Sandor learned little from his guard, other than the fact that young King Edward had finally succumbed to his wasting illness and had died on July 6. The first round of the Tower’s cannon fire marked the boy-king’s passing. Church bells all over London tolled the death knell and counted out Edward VI’s scant fifteen years of age.
Even before
the King’s death had been announced to the populace, the Tower had turned into a hive of activity, though why, Sandor could not glean from Stipe, his dour jailer.
“Eat
yer victuals and pray,” was all that the bald-headed man said.
“Pray for what, friend?” Sandor asked, half-afraid to learn the answer.
“Fer salvation,” Stipe replied as he locked the door behind him. When the cannons boomed again a few days later, Sandor heard a few voices below his window shouting “God save the Queen.” When he asked Stipe for details, all he got was a sneer in return.
“Ye think ’tis Mary Tudor on the throne, does ye? Ha, not so! We are ruled by another wench.”
Sandor chewed on this piece of news while he gnawed on the hard rye bread that was his breakfast. He could not think who this new Queen could be unless the Lady Elizabeth, Mary’s half sister, had finally been legitimized by Parliament. He shook his head. Kings, queens—what did these
gadje
rulers matter to him except as a possible release from this windy prison? Sandor could think of no woman, except his beloved Tonia.
He prayed that she had not starved to death at Hawksnest, waiting in vain for his return. Worse, he feared for her safety. He begged Black Sara to protect Tonia from the King’s men who searched for her. What must his beloved think of him? Did she believe that he had left her to her fate? Sandor gritted his teeth. Nay, Tonia loved him with her life’s blood. She would never doubt his fidelity.
“Minek mange kado trajo kana naj man bold ogsago?”
he sang an old Rom lament under his breath to soothe his troubled soul. “What is my life when I have no joy?”
When I have no sweet Tonia to hold in my arms at sunset?
“I shed bloody tears and I am homesick for you, my beloved.”
The week
passed by as the previous weeks had passed, with no news, no release and little hope. Sandor’s lifelong training had taught him to take each day as it came, without expectations or anticipation. Worry about the future was wasted energy. Tomorrow would come soon enough, with its own worries.
Since meeting Tonia, Sandor had undergone a complete change in his philosophy. He had begun to dream of the future, with Tonia by his side. He could not imagine the two of them riding down unknown country roads, seeking nightly shelter on the wayside. His childhood fantasies resurfaced—dreams of living in a real cottage with a permanent roof over their heads and a stoutly built fireplace to warm them in winter. Sitting alone in his cheerless prison, Sandor allowed his mind to touch upon all sorts of
gadje
ideas. At least, thinking of them kept his mind alert.
When the cannons boomed for a third time, Sandor did not give his jailer a chance to escape without answering his questions. When Stipe brought Sandor’s dinner of thin pottage and more stale bread, the Gypsy backed the man into a corner.
“Whyfore the cannon? Who has died? What news,
gadjo,
or I will put a curse upon you that will wither your manly parts.”
Sandor had no idea what sort of a curse could do such a dire thing, since only women dealt with magic as a general rule, but this simpleton didn’t know that. Like most
gadje,
he thought all Gypsies were witches and wizards.
Beads of sweat popped out on Stipe’s brow. He made the sign against the evil eye. “’Tis no matter to ye or me,” he blathered. “’Tis only that the new Queen Jane ’as been sent down, and now we ’ave Queen Mary, God bless ’er. She should ’ave been queen in the first place, seeing that she is old ’Arry’s true daughter.”
Sandor
had never heard of this Queen Jane, but her fate was no concern of his. He wondered what the much-oppressed Mary Tudor would be like now that she finally held power in her hands. More to the point, what would Her Majesty do with him? He turned away from the nervous jailer and stared out of the window that overlooked the river.
Stipe backed toward the door. “Ye best keep yer spells to yerself, Gypsy scum. The new Queen is a pious lady and methinks she will frown on such witchcraft.”
Still staring out the window, Sandor waved him away as if the man were nothing but an annoying fly. The jailer slammed the door to show his displeasure.
Miraculously Sandor’s release came a few days later with no advance warning. Stipe merely flung open the door, jerked his thumb toward the stairwell beyond, and growled, “Yer free, and good riddance to ye, says I.”
Sandor blinked at him. “Tell me true, Stipe, is this some trick to lead me to the gallows?”
The jailer curled his lip. “If’n the choice was mine, I’d of ’ung ye two months ago and thrown yer body on the refuse ’eap fer the dogs to eat.” He shrugged. “But now ’is ’igh and mighty lordship, the Duke of bloody Northumberland, is ’isself fast locked in the Tower, and faces his death this very day. Yer released by order of the Queen. If’n I was ye, I’d be on the first fast boat back to froggy France, and I’d count meself lucky.” It was the longest speech Sandor had ever heard Stipe utter.
He grinned
at his jailer. “My thanks, friend.” Before Stipe could change his slow-moving mind, Sandor snatched up his cap and cloak, then followed him through the door and down the narrow spiral stairway to freedom. Only one thought drummed on Sandor’s mind—Hawksnest and sweet Tonia.
“Oy,” said Stipe, stopping before the final gate into the Tower’s Middle Ward. “About me privates—ye didn’t…do anything, did ye?”
It took Sandor a moment to realize that the jailer still worried over his alleged power to curse him. He gave Stipe a broad grin. “Nay, friend, for your good service this day, I promise you
years
of vigor. Enjoy it well!”
Stipe grinned for the first time. Only then did Sandor realize that the man had barely a tooth in his head. “Ah well, then, that’s that,” he gloated with obvious pleasure.
Sandor left him quickly and strode toward the stable by the Byward Tower. His heart nearly stopped when he did not find Baxtalo there. One of the tack lads informed him that young Demeo had taken the horse away with him when he had been released.
Hurrying through London’s crowded thoroughfares, Sandor hoped that his family had not left the heath for their summer swing through the countryside. The Springtime Feast of the Kettles was three months past when Rom families traditionally decamped from their winter’s lodgings. Summer market days and village fairs brought out many people who sought the Gypsies’ skills with horses, blacksmithing and fortune-telling. Sandor shouted his relief when he climbed Hampstead Hill and saw the Lalow family’s
vardo
still under a copse of trees. The wagon sported a new coat of red paint and fanciful decorations.
In answer
to Sandor’s call, Baxtalo jerked on his loose tether and dashed to meet his master. Sandor embraced his horse with soul-satisfying joy. “I find you with God, my good friend, and tomorrow we will go to find our Tonia.”
Uncle Gheorghe limped around the side of the
vardo.
To Sandor, the old man looked pinched and drawn.
So the hand of sickness still lies on his shoulder.
Sandor lifted his cap in greeting. “I find you with God, my uncle!”
He covered the ground between them in several easy strides, then embraced the man who had been a second father to him. Gheorghe felt like a sack of loose bones in Sandor’s arms. His uncle settled himself on the wagon’s top step. He gave his nephew a hard stare with his watery eyes.
“So the
gadje
finally grew tired of feeding you?”
Sandor seated himself on the lower step. “Aye, Uncle, it seems the new Queen had no further need of me in her Tower.”
Gheorghe muttered a curse under his breath. “This Mary Tudor is surrounded by many priests,” he observed. “She is said to be very holy and strong-minded, like her father before her. ’Twill not bode well for the likes of us.”
Sandor nodded. Like his uncle, he realized that the new Queen would seek to cleanse England of her late brother’s religion and return the people to the teachings of Rome. Any purge of heretics would naturally include the Rom, who lived under sufferance on the fringes of English society, with a blind eye toward the old Act of 1530 against the “outlandish people calling themselves Egyptians.” Once again, the wind would change. Sandor felt it in his bones—bad times were coming.
He changed
the subject. “I am surprised that you are not already on the road, Uncle.”
And thankful that Baxtalo is still here and looking so well.
Gheorghe shrugged. “My fever comes and goes. Old Towla was determined that we remain after the others left. Methinks she knew you would return soon.”
“Aunt Mindra? Demeo? They are well?”
His uncle gave a quick nod. “They are down at Covent Garden Market today. Demeo is a-scrumping among the vendors for our supper, while Mindra reads palms and tells the
gadje
a pack of lies for coppers and silver.” He chuckled as he contemplated the cleverness of his wife and son.
“But you, Sandor—” he stabbed the air with a bone-thin finger “—you have done nothing. Instead, you send the King’s soldiers here to badger me with questions. All you had to do was strangle the woman up north and cut out her heart. How was that so hard?”
Sandor guarded his tongue. He had spent the past two months practicing how he would explain Tonia to his family. He could not lie to his uncle as he could to a
gadjo.
The Rom never lied or stole from each other under the pain of banishment from the clan.
“The woman is dead to the world,” Sandor hedged, choosing his words with care. “I delivered the heart to the Constable, as you told me to do. Beyond that, I know nothing.” He plucked a blade of the bright green grass growing at his feet, and chewed on it. Its bitter taste reminded him of his blessed freedom.
Gheorghe grunted
. “Let destruction eat that pack of Englishmen! Tonight we will sing and feast on whatever odds and ends Demeo finds at the marketplace. Tomorrow, we will travel south to Dover. ’Tis high time we returned to France.” He spat on the ground. “Pah! I have never much liked these English. No joy thrives in their cold blood.”
Sandor cleared his throat. He had never before seen his life’s path so clearly as now. “Then I wish you
baxtalo drom
—a lucky road, my uncle. For my part, I will stay here.”
Gheorghe narrowed his eyes at him. “Did they drop you on your head while you were in the Tower? Have all your brains dribbled out of your ears?”
Sandor took a deep breath. There was no way to escape his uncle’s prodding except to tell the whole truth, no matter how much it would cost Sandor. As his foster father, Gheorghe deserved to know. Perhaps he would understand Sandor’s decision. After all, his uncle had once been young and in love.
“I am married again, Uncle.” He showed the stunned man the thin scar on his palm. “We have mixed our blood together. We are one.”
Gheorghe whistled through his chipped teeth. “Have you been a-wooing one of the Buckland girls this past winter, or did this lightning strike recently?”
“I married while in the north…to a
gadji.
” Sandor held his breath and waited for the ax to fall.
Gheorghe looked as if he had been thunderstruck. Then he stood, turned his back on Sandor and entered the
vardo.
He shut the lower half of the door before turning to look at the man he once called son as well as son-in-law. With painful difficulty, Gheorghe drew himself upright and pulled back his shoulders.
“You
know the law of the
kris,
” he told Sandor in a cold, hollow tone. “You have defiled yourself beyond all reckoning. Begone from my fireside so that you do not taint my family.”
Though he had expected this reaction, its reality stung Sandor to his core. “She is a good woman, Uncle.”
Gheorghe sliced the air with the flat of his hand. “Enough! Your words hurt my ears. Take what is yours and leave before my family returns. I do not wish my son to witness your shame. My sister would weep if she saw her son now. Your name will never be spoken again. You are dead to us.” He spat on the ground at Sandor’s feet, then slammed shut the top half of the double door.
Sandor hung his head. “The dice are cast,” he murmured to himself.
“And the cards told the truth,” said his grandmother behind him.
Sandor spun on his heel to see the tiny woman with her bright-colored striped shawl covering her snow-white hair. She sat on a low stool before her bender tent. “Do you also shun me, Towla? I am now unclean.”
She chuckled. “Come inside, my
tarno shushi,
” she said, calling Sandor by her pet name for him since his childhood. “We will drink some elderberry wine and talk before you go down your road. I have a tale that will interest you.”
Her kind words and loving smile nearly unmanned him, even if she had called him a little bunny rabbit in broad daylight. Sandor swallowed down the knot that had risen in his throat. He ducked under the bent hickory poles that supported the tent’s buckram skin. Inside, Towla settled herself on the tight-woven colorful blanket that covered the ground. Beside her lay a wineskin with two salt-ware cups on a wooden tray.
“Close
the flap,” she instructed him, as she arranged her colorful red and yellow skirts around her. “I have been waiting a long time for you.”
Sandor released the leather thong that held back the front panel of the tent. In the semidarkness, Towla lit the candle in her lantern. Then she took out her velvet bag. Sandor immediately recognized his grandmother’s
tarocchi
pouch.