Bewitched (Bantam Series No. 16) (16 page)

The Voivode was a handsome man of about fifty. His face was very thin, his cheek-bones prominent, but he must, the Marquis thought, have been exceedingly handsome in his youth. Even then he would have had an air of authority about him; a man born to lead, perhaps to rule.

“Saviya will have explained to you,” the Voivode went on, “that the Kalderash are not only smiths but also have a knowledge of magic. It was this knowledge which guided me here.”

“You mean,” the Marquis asked, “that you knew by clairvoyance that Saviya would meet me and that we would fall in love with each other?”

“That is a simple way of putting it,” the Voivode agreed.

Although his English was good he spoke with a very pronounced accent.

“Then I have your permission?” the Marquis insisted.

“There is something I have to say to you first,” the Voivode said, “something which I intended to tell Saviya when she wished to marry.”

Saviya raised her head. The Marquis saw there was a look of surprise in her face.

“You do not know anything about our race,” the Voivode went on speaking to the Marquis, “but you must have learnt from Saviya that no Gypsy girl would ordinarily have been allowed to behave as she has behaved these past weeks; coming first to your house to read your books, and then being constantly in your company.”

“I did not understand it, father,” Saviya said.

“You were permitted such behaviour,” the Voivode explained, “because I knew that this, Saviya, was your only chance of finding yourself a husband—otherwise you would have remained un-wed!”

Saviya was puzzled.

“But why?”

“Because I could not have sanctioned your marriage to any member of our tribe or to any Romany,” the Voivode replied.

Saviya looked utterly bewildered. The Marquis with his eyes on the Voivode’s face was listening intently.

“I have a story to tell you,” the Voivode said.

It was obvious as he began to speak that he had a command of words which the Marquis would not have expected from a Gypsy, even a tribal Chief.

Perhaps it was his Hungarian blood which made him not only eloquent but able to speak with the culture of a man who had lived a very different life from the majority of Gypsies.

It was true also there was magic in the way he made the story seem so real.

Zindelo was the son of the Voivode of the Kalderash in Hungary, and their particular tribe was under the patronage of one of the great Hungarian nobles. Their music gave them a special prestige and they were widely respected.

They were rich; they were accepted as part of the community; and Zindelo was acknowledged one of the most attractive young men that could be found anywhere in the country.

Great ladies smiled on him, but he was exceedingly proud of his Romany blood and he would not seek love outside his tribe.

Nevertheless, at twenty-one he had not found any girl whom he wished to marry and had refused all suggestions from his father that he should settle down.

It was then the Hungarian nobleman, on whose ground they were encamped, was sent by the Tsar of Russia some dancers from St. Petersburg for his private theatre.

A great fete was arranged for their entertainment, and when they arrived Society from all over Hungary gathered to see them dance.

The majority of the dancers were from the Imperial Ballet, but the Tsar had included a number of Gypsy dancers and singers who were widely famed in Russia.

Among them was a young dancer called Tekla with whom young Zindelo fell in love the moment he saw her, and she with him.

They were married and she did not return to St. Petersburg. The tribe wandered around Hungary, Rumania and into Austria, for there was much that Zindelo, now the Voivode, wished to show his bride.

It was when they were in Germany and had suffered some minor attempts at persecution that Zindelo decided they should visit Britain.

They went to the coast and found a ship that was sailing for Aberdeen.

Some thirty of the tribe, mostly young and adventurous like Zindelo himself, decided they would like to visit Scotland and then trek south through England and back to the Continent.

It seemed a great adventure, but unfortunately the passage was very rough.

By this time Zindelo and Tekla had been married for nearly three years and a child born before they left Hungary had now reached the age of fifteen months.

Gypsy children are proverbially strong, but the baby Saviya sickened during the voyage, as did her mother.

The ship nearly foundered, and while Zindelo was exhilarated by the storm, he realised that his wife, never having been to sea before, was distraught not only by her own sea-sickness but with worry for her child.

By the time they reached Aberdeen, Tekla was in a state of collapse.

Highly-strung, her Russian blood made her more prone to melancholy and depression than the other women, and by the time they set foot on Scottish soil, he was desperately worried about his wife and his child.

The baby had refused to eat or drink during the whole of the voyage and was now emaciated and very weak.

Tekla was hysterical with anxiety and her own health had suffered to the point that she was running a fever.

They camped not far from the sea. The weather was cold but invigorating, and soon the other members of the tribe began to recover and take an interest in their surroundings.

There was plenty of wild game to be found on the moorland, and hot stews cooked over a peat fire soon had them laughing and singing again.

But Tekla grew worse and the baby weaker.

“I was sitting beside my tent one evening almost in despair,” the Voivode recounted, “when one of the tribe came to tell me that a woman wished to speak with me.

“She was standing under the darkness of the trees outside the light thrown by the fire.

“When I reached her I saw that she was elderly with strong features.

“ ‘There is something I wish to say to you,’ she told me, ‘but we must not be overheard.’

“We moved a little way into the shadow of the trees.

“What is it,” I enquired.

“I thought perhaps she wanted her fortune told. It is the usual reason for which women approach us Gypsies in whatever part of the world we travel.

“ ‘I have known Gypsies for many years,’ she said. ‘For all their faults they are kind to their children and good parents. I want you to take this child and bring her up as your own.’

“I had had many strange requests made to me, but this was extraordinary.

“I am sorry,” I replied, “we are Romanies. We do not want other people’s children and we do not steal them, despite the stories that are told about us.”

“ ‘If you do not take this child,’ the Scottish woman said, ‘it will die!’

“Why? What is wrong with it?’ I asked.

“ ‘There is someone who wishes to kill it!’

“I looked at her incredulously.

“ ‘It is the truth,’ she said, seeing the disbelief in my eyes. ‘This child belongs to a nobleman but the poor bairn’s mother died in child-birth and her father has married again.’

“She spoke with such sincerity,” the Voivode explained, “that I knew she was telling me the truth.

“ ‘And who wishes to kill the child?’ I enquired.

“ ‘The Master re-married. She was determined to get him almost before my poor mistress was cold in her grave,’ the Scottish woman said with venom in her voice. ‘And now she herself has had a premature baby. It is a girl, and she is told she can have no more.’

“ ‘Is that such a tragedy?’ I asked jokingly, ‘the world is full of women as it is.’

“ ‘In Scotland,’ came the reply, ‘if there is no son, a daughter will inherit—the eldest daughter!’

“I began to see what the woman was trying to tell me.

“ ‘So you mean,’ I enquired almost incredulously, ‘your master’s new wife intends to kill this child so that her own can be their heir?’

“ ‘She will kill her, make no mistake of that,’ the Scotswoman replied. ‘This evening I found her in the Nursery with a pillow in her hands. If I had not come in at that moment, she would have suffocated this poor wee girlee in her cot.’

“ ‘It is sad—very sad,’ I commiserated, ‘but I am afraid I can do nothing. If I were to take the child of a Gorgio, people would say it was stolen. Can you imagine the hue and cry there would be?

“ ‘Please,’ the woman pleaded with me. ‘Please, save the bairn’s life. I would not have brought her to you had not somebody said to me only yesterday that she is dark enough to be a Gypsy. Take her away with you. Who will notice one more baby in your camp?’

“She pulled the child’s shawl away from its face as she spoke. I saw it was very small and had dark hair, thicker than was usual for a child of that age.

“I looked down at it, feeling sorry it must die, and knowing there was nothing I could do about it.

“Then I heard a sudden cry. It came from my tent.

“Turning, I ran away without a word, knowing it was my wife’s voice that called me.

“She was sitting up in bed and she was half delirious. I caught her in my arms.

“ ‘What is the matter? What has upset you?’ I asked.

“ ‘It was a ... dream!’ she cried. ‘I dreamt that Saviya was ... dead! Dead!’

“She seemed to scream the words, and holding her close I reached for a potion of soothing herbs that had been made for her earlier in the day by one of our women.

“She drank it and seemed immediately to grow a little quieter.

“ ‘It was only a foolish dream, Tekla,’ I said. ‘Go to sleep.’

“ ‘You will look after Saviya?’ she begged.

“ ‘I will look after her, I promise. She is asleep. Even the noise you have made has not awakened her.’

“I put my wife down against the pillows, saw her eyes close, and then I looked in the basket on the other side of the caravan where my child was sleeping. She was dead!”

The Marquis saw Saviya had been unable to move while the Voivode was speaking. Her eyes were fixed on his face, and the Marquis felt as if every nerve in his own body was tense for fear he should miss a word of what was being related.

The Voivode went on to say how he picked up his baby daughter in an agony of grief, and as he had done so he wondered how he could tell his wife.

Already she was almost mentally unhinged by the dangers of the voyage and her anxiety over her child.

“I knew then,” the Voivode went on, “that Fate had brought me the answer. I returned to the Scottish woman.”

“You exchanged the babies!” the Marquis exclaimed.

“The woman changed their clothes,” the Voivode replied, “and as she did so she kept repeating how little difference there was between the two children. Both were small and rather under-sized. Both had dark hair.

“ ‘I told you my bairn looked like a Gypsy,’ she said, when I held the living child in my arms and my little dead daughter was in hers.”

“Your wife did not note the difference?” the Marquis asked.

“She was very ill for a long time,” the Voivode answered, “and because I thought it was wise we did not linger in Scotland, we set off south immediately.”

He drew in his breath as if he remembered how anxious he was to leave Scotland.

“Saviya—the new Saviya—never left my arms, and no-one in the tribe had any idea that she was not the same baby that had crossed the sea with us.

“By the time we were back in Europe, I had almost forgotten myself that there had ever been another child, and that it had died because I had been foolish enough to take my tribe to Scotland instead of remaining in Europe.”

“Then I am not your ... daughter!” Saviya murmured, and there was a little throb in her voice as she said it.

“Not of my blood,” the Voivode answered, “but you know that you have always held a part of my heart.”

Saviya’s face was very pale.

“I cannot... believe it!” she cried. “I cannot grasp the fact that I am not a ... Romany.”

“Now you understand,” the Voivode told her, “why I could never have allowed you to marry into the tribe. Our blood must remain pure, and even while to save my wife’s sanity and your life I adopted you, it would have been against my every instinct to allow you, a Gorgio, to marry one of us.”

“You still feel that about... me after all these ... years I have been with ... you?” Saviya asked.

“You know that it is the code by which we live,” the Voivode said simply.

The Marquis did not speak. He wanted to reassure Saviya, but at the same time he knew what a shock this had been to her, and at the moment he was an outsider.

She must grapple alone with something which concerned only herself, because it involved her whole past.

Now the Voivode in a different tone of voice, as if he now set aside past events, said:

“You wish to marry Saviya. Because I cannot insult my tribe by letting them know they have been deceived, I will ask you to marry her according to Gypsy law, and to make this possible I will, if you agree, make you my brother by the exchange of blood.”