Gypsy Moon (24 page)

“No! No! Anything else! You can’t demand
this
of me!” he cried. But only the wind answered his anguish in mournful, funereal moans.

How long Mateo lay on the bank, he could not guess. When he dragged himself up at last, the sky was blacker than any he had ever seen. So, this was it—the moment of truth! Now—with one single, terrible stroke—he must prove himself.

Slowly, carefully, with every attention paid to the slightest detail, Mateo began preparing. He gathered herbs and sweet grasses from the woods and piled them high upon the altar he had built. Next, he walked to the stream and cleaned his knives of his own blood. “Useless stuff!” he sneered. He laid the weapons out on the bank beside the gleaming Gypsy broadsword used only in ceremonies. One by one, he sharpened the blades on a stone. They were in readiness.

He went back to the altar and struck flint to the grasses. They exploded into sweet-scented flame, filling his nostrils with thick smoke and obscuring the one staring eye of Black Sara. Taking his knives and the sword, one by one, he held them in the fire until each was glowing-hot, then he took them to the icy stream and plunged each blade in. Steam hissed and sizzled, rising into the night. He should have tempered the steel in blood, but that would come… all too soon.

There was an eerie silence to the night. He could see the dim glow of the campfire through the trees, but it was deserted. No Gypsies sang or danced or even sat about, puzzling over the mysteries of life. It was almost as if they knew of his desperation, his terrible mission.

Slowly, Mateo pulled on his buckskins. Then, standing tall and determined, he split the silent night with a shrill whistle. He heard the Black Devil answer his call. The great hooves pounded the earth as the magnificent stallion plunged through the forest, seeking his master.

The beautiful animal slowed when he entered the clearing. He stood a few feet from Mateo—nostrils flared, flanks quivering—and pawed at the hard ground. The great head tossed, sending a cascade of black mane rippling in the wind. He neighed, sidestepped, and eyed his master, waiting for a command.

Mateo, the broadsword in his right hand, reached out his left and said softly, “Come.”

The trusting animal pranced forward and nuzzled him affectionately. The feel of the velvety muzzle against his bare chest shot Mateo through with sadness. His heart twisted with pain. They had shared so much, these two. They loved each other better than brothers. They understood and respected each other without words.

He caught the great horse about the neck, burying his face in the thick, silky mane as he raised his sword.

Suddenly, Mateo looked up at the dark sky. “Just one more ride!” he pleaded. But he knew what he must do. And it must be
now
!

Stepping away from the Black Devil, who still gazed at his master with soft, trusting eyes, Mateo raised the broadsword with both hands. His thrust must be swift and sure. He would sacrifice this dearest of creatures, if he must, to save the woman he loved. But he would not see his friend suffer.

The stallion shifted slightly and drooped his head. He neighed very softly as if telling Mateo he understood and was ready to die. Pain raged through Mateo’s body. The muscles of his arms jerked and spasmed. His heart pounded as if it might tear through his chest. His breath was labored, his eyes clouded.

“Now!” he screamed, forcing his arms to move.

Lightning tore through the night sky. The wide blade flashed and glowed as if electrified. Mateo felt it grow hot in his hands even as he aimed for the Black Devil’s heart. Wind howled through the clearing, swirling dead leaves and grass in a whirlwind about man and horse. Mateo tried to thrust downward with his blade, but some unseen hand seemed to be holding his arms. Again the lightning flashed, the sword blazed, and Mateo, palms blistered with heat, screamed and dropped his weapon. He fell to the ground, stunned.

It seemed that he blacked out for a moment. When he was conscious once more of his surroundings, he felt warm breath on his face. He opened his eyes and looked up at the black muzzle nudging his cheek.

He hadn’t been able to do it. He had tried. But something—some force beyond reason—had stayed his lethal hand. In the same instant that he rejoiced, he understood what had happened. His depression deepened and a new, heavier hopelessness gripped him.

Sara-la-Kali hadn’t been fooled for a moment. Once, his great stallion might have been the most precious sacrifice he had to offer. But no more! There was only one thing in life that he could not bear to part with. But to save her, he must do just that.

At every turn, Charlotte Buckland had suffered at his hands. He had taken her sacred virginity when the madness had been upon him. On a second occasion, he’d used her cruelly. He did not deserve her love, yet she’d given it to him unselfishly. He couldn’t ask the holy Handmaiden to spare the woman he loved on his account. And he couldn’t appease her with the slaughter of a sacrificial animal. He must make the ultimate sacrifice in order to save Charlotte. He must, though it would be the end of him.

Mateo stood up and walked to the altar. He touched the jagged, broken edge of the icon. Then he raised his arms to heaven. His voice boomed through the night. “Hear me, Handmaiden! If Charlotte Buckland is indeed the golden Gypsy, whose love could take away my curse forever, I give her to you. I will live with the moon madness to the end of my days. If the Golden One recovers, I promise you I will refuse her—turn my back on her. She will never again know that I love her from my words or actions. And I will take no other to my heart. A Gypsy
Rom
loves but once, and he loves for all eternity. I now make you a gift of my love in return for her life.” His arms dropped to his side. His head drooped. And his voice became a whispered prayer. “Let her live, Sara-la-Kali. Let her live!”

When Mateo turned away, he felt empty and alone. He was angry with Fate, but what purpose could that anger serve? His destiny had been written in the stars long before his birth. He was only a puppet, with the powers of the universe pulling his strings. As for Charlotte Buckland, she was better off without him.

He mounted the Black Devil and headed north, upriver. They picked up speed and flew with the wind through the black night. Now that Charlotte was out of his life forever, he knew what he must do. Although he could never love another, he was Mateo, prince of the Gypsies, and he must have a wife… a Gypsy queen.

“Good Lord! No wonder she’s not recovering. It’s too damn cold in here!”

The army surgeon, Captain Ira Feldston, stood just inside Mateo’s tent, observing the comatose patient. The brazier burned low in the far corner and Feldston noticed that his breath fogged the chill air.

“The cold has nothing to do with her condition, Captain,” Tamara responded angrily. “Gypsy blood is impervious to changes in temperature.”

He stared first at the dark woman beside him and then down at the frail-looking blonde on the pallet.

“But this woman’s no Gypsy.”

Tamara saw no need to discuss Charlotte’s bloodlines with this
gajo
doctor. He was wasting enough time as it was. “Can you help her?”

Feldston was already bending down to lift Charlotte’s limp form from her bed of wolf skins. He was an averagesized man, but his arms were strong from many hours spent as a battlefield surgeon.

“What are you doing with her?” Tamara demanded.

“Surely you have someplace warmer than this small, drafty tent. She needs to be where she’s more protected.”

“The brides’ tent is larger and more comfortable,” Tamara said. “Follow me.”

The captain held Charlotte close and trudged across the compound toward the tent with the blue door. Snow was beginning to fall, but as he glanced about, he saw naked children playing in the clearing. The sight made him shiver. How could they stand it?

A few of the large flakes drifted down onto Charlotte’s cheeks and eyelids, where they melted quickly. She moaned and stirred in the doctor’s arms. He thought her eyes fluttered open for an instant, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Hurry!” he called to Tamara. “I think she’s coming around.”

She sped toward the door and held it wide for him. “Over there, on that pallet, Captain.”

Feldston had no sooner settled his patient in the bed of rabbit fur than she began thrashing about, murmuring in her sleep. He flashed a wide smile at Tamara and his blue eyes sparkled.

“I told you. She’s pulling out of it! Come over here so she’ll see a familiar face if she opens her eyes. Seeing my ugly mug first thing would be enough to frighten her back into a coma, I’m afraid.”

Tamara hurried to kneel beside Charlotte and gave Ira Feldston a bright smile. He wasn’t ugly at all. In fact, she found him quite beautiful when he wasn’t scowling.

“Charlotte, can you hear me?” she asked. “Charlotte, it’s Tamara. Open your eyes, please.”

But Tamara’s soft voice only seemed to agitate her friend further. Charlotte thrashed furiously and kicked off her cover of skins. Her lips moved; she was trying to speak. Tamara and Feldston exchanged hopeful glances. Without realizing it, they both leaned closer, trying to catch her slightest murmur.

“Ma… Mateo,” she gasped out at last. “Mateo!”

“She’s calling for the prince,” Feldston said. “Where is he?”

“I’ll go and find him.”

“Quickly, Tamara!” he said, using her name for the first time.

She turned for an instant and looked into his eyes. “As fast as I can, Ira.”

But Mateo was nowhere to be found. Tamara searched and searched, trudging through the snow, which was coming down fast now and blowing into deep drifts. She called until her voice grew hoarse against the wind. Although she did not know it, Mateo was many miles away by now. Finally she gave up and returned to the tent.

“Mateo… Mateo… Mateo!” Charlotte’s frantic cries greeted her the moment she entered.

Feldston turned an anxious face toward her. “Is he coming?”

“I’m sorry,” she said dejectedly. “I couldn’t find him.”

“Good God! Where could he be? She’s wild. She’s going to hurt herself if he doesn’t come soon and quiet her.”

“I searched everywhere. He simply isn’t here.”

“What about that other chap?”

Tamara frowned, not understanding.

“The fellow with the bear. Is he anywhere about?”

Tamara stared at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t mean Petronovich! Surely Charlotte hasn’t been calling for him!”

“No, no. But I noticed during the performance at the post how very much he and Prince Mateo resemble each other. Perhaps if he were to come, she would think he was Mateo in her present state and calm down.”

“I don’t think it will work.”

“It’s worth a try, Tamara,” Ira insisted.

“I really don’t think it’s wise.”

“We don’t have time to argue about it. Just go and get him. Hurry!”

“Mateo!”
Charlotte’s frantic cry followed Tamara as she dashed out into the snow again.

Charlotte was fighting for survival with everything she had. For a long time, she had been far away, drifting in some netherworld. It was a cold, dark place, peopled by strange forms and filled with terrifying sights and sounds. Always, the cruel light of the full moon followed her. She wanted desperately to escape. Now, at last, she could feel herself drifting toward the surface, but her path was uncertain. Obstacles—distorted and unearthly—loomed in her way. If only
he
would come again to guide her toward the sunlight… to soar with her on their powerful, shared wings.

“Mateo,” she murmured. “Mateo, Mateo!”

She heard voices far away. A woman and a man were hovering over her, speaking in hushed tones. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, trying to hold her where she was, not allowing her to come out of her nightmare. But where was
hel
Where was Mateo?

“Charlotte.” The voice calling to her was rich and deep, colored with the exotic accents she knew so well. “Charlotte, can you hear my words?”

Was he real, or was this another of their tricks? More often than not, they allowed her to see his image, hear his voice, then banished him from her dreams before she could reach his arms.

“She’s not responding,” Charlotte heard the woman say.

But she wanted to respond. Yes! Yes! She wanted Mateo to hear her… to hold her.

“Mateo!”

“I am here beside you, Charlotte.” The words touched her heart at the same moment his hand brushed her cheek.

She must open her eyes. She must see him… make sure that he was with her. They had tricked her before. But not this time, she was sure. The rich voice… the gentle caress. This had to be Mateo!

Summoning all her strength and willpower, Charlotte forced her eyes open. For a few moments, everything was blurred. But she could see well enough to make out his dark curls and the bronze cast of his skin. She reached out a trembling hand to touch his face. He caught it in his and brought her fingers to his lips.

“Mateo!” she whispered, convinced now that this was her lover.

He caught her in his arms and held her close, letting his lips find hers. But the kiss was wrong. It felt hard and cold to her. She pulled away and stared up at him. Slowly, her vision cleared. An instant later, she screamed and fell back on the pallet. They had deceived her again. But this was a more terrible deception than those her troubled dreams had played on her senses. This was real. Petronovich was real!

“Get him out of here!” she moaned. “Get him away from me! Mateo. Where’s Mateo?”

“I told you it would not work,” Tamara whispered to the doctor.

Feldston only shook his head.

“I thought I put on a rather good act,” Petronovich said, his face smug. “The little
gajo
witch simply does not appreciate the finer things in life.”

“Leave us, please,” Tamara ordered, trying to control her temper

“Gladly! Phaedra and I were about to get on with more interesting business when you so rudely interrupted us, Tamara.”

“Oh, Petronovich,” his cousin called after him, unable to resist, “tell Phaedra she had better bring in her purple scarf. The snow might ruin it. Then how would she call in her dog to toss him a scrap?”