The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (4 page)

No, it had felt real enough. Brent knew he must find her again; to taste once more the excitement that he lacked now and craved – an adventure with a beautiful woman, and a horse thief at that!

But she was no ordinary thief, no ordinary gypsy, of that Brent felt sure. He had had many casual encounters with beautiful women – albeit none so romantic as in a forest glade in full moonlight – and sometimes pleasure had followed and sometimes it hadn’t. But whether he lay with them or not they were usually quickly forgotten, appreciated but unremembered. Some called him the will o’ the wisp of love, a man whose affections were incapable of real depth or emotion.

But this was a woman he wanted desperately to know, an unusual woman ... one he would not forget. He had scarcely slept a wink all night thinking about her. He was determined to find her.

Had his brother known what sensuous thoughts were passing through Brent’s mind, he would have exploded even more. But the brothers, so dissimilar even to look at, didn’t share confidences. Their inner reactions to the task ahead typified the eldest and youngest of the Delamain brothers, as different as nature could make them – George dark and thickset with a dour complacent countenance, as though he had known from an early age the importance of his place in life and intended to prevent anyone else from usurping it. This particularly applied to his younger brother, tall, fair like his Mother from the noble Allonby family, and with a charm and ease of manner and a fascination for women that George so conspicuously lacked.

After an hour’s ride they were at the outskirts of the town within sight of the castle on the hill, flag flying boldly, and George grimaced with distaste.

‘How I detest fairs! The scum of the county gather here! A chance for whoring and dissipation and all manner of evil-doing.’

‘And commerce, brother,’ Brent said solemnly. ‘I believe you do not disapprove of that?’

‘Indeed I do not. Some of my cattle and sheep are this very day to be sold and a stronger breed of Herdwick purchased in order to try and survive our savage winters. Yes, and I want to see for myself some new equipment about which I have heard for ploughing the land. But the rest of the fair ... bah!’

‘Let us split up then, brother. You to see about your business and I after the horse thieves!’

‘Ah,
you’ll
have no luck,’ George retorted. ‘If I know you you will be dissipating yourself in the tavern and among the women. You’d not recognize the nags if you saw ‘em. What is to become of you, Brent, I know not. Idle and stupid!’

Brent’s face darkened at these unjust and unfair remarks. Even though he knew they were partly inspired by jealousy, he also knew that his clever and astute brother had the power not only to wound emotionally, but to inflict real physical hardship on him and his Mother and sister after his grandfather died. Suppressing a retort he said:

‘Shall we part then?’

‘Aye, and see you bring the thieves back with you!’ George called back contemptuously, summoning his servant and urging his horse up Boroughgate, which was away from the main body of the fair.

Once George had gone Brent’s good spirits returned. Possessing a happy and ebullient nature he was seldom depressed for long. And oh! it was such a perfect day for a fair! The smells and sounds of the market seemed to beckon to him. Tethering his horse to a post, he strolled along the streets by the river, savouring the jostle about him, the frenzied enjoyment of life. Stalls lined the streets selling all manner of goods – fine carpentry, jewellery, woollen cloth, silks, ribbons, shoes and gloves made in Carlisle. The food stalls groaned with cheeses, loaves of fresh baked bread, gingerbread, jams, quinces, jars of furmety, newly churned butter. And the clothes and colours – everyone decked in their best; corpulent merchants and owners of land with their smiling, satisfied-looking wives parading on their arms.

Everyone tried to stop him, sell him something, but Brent walked on smiling and bowing when occasionally he saw someone he knew.

‘Tell your fortune, sir, tell your fortune!’

Brent shook his head and was about to pass by the gypsy who sat on a stool by the side of the road dressed in traditional gypsy garb – long skirt and embroidered blouse, scarf tied about her head, gold rings in her ears. Her black eyes gazed boldly up at Brent, reminding him of those other gypsy eyes and on impulse he stopped and extended a palm for her inspection. The gypsy grasped his hand and studied it eagerly.

‘Ah, a wealthy man, I see, a lord without a doubt.’ The smooth well kept hand was a certain indication of quality, and so was the cut of his cloth and the high polish on his boots. ‘And a long and happy future for you, my lord, with a beautiful fair wife and many children to grace your lordship’s hearth and ...’ she glanced up at him to see how he was taking these unremarkable deductions, ‘other happiness too besides, my lord, for I think you do like the company of ladies ...’

Brent smiled.

‘Aye, I do that. Tell me ...’ he gave her a silver shilling and leaned forward. ‘Do you know a gypsy girl who works with horses? Very striking, a beautiful lass she is.’

The woman looked startled.

‘You ask me for
a gypsy
girl who works with ‘orses? ‘Tis like looking for a starling in a field of birds when the hay is being cut.
All
gypsy girls have to do wi’‘orses one way and another ...’

‘But this is a
very
attractive girl, a clever rider. Unusual I would say ...’

‘Ah,’ a cunning look came over the fortune teller’s face, ‘you would not be from the magistrate would you, my lord?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that!’

‘But you is talking of
stealing
‘orses, isn’t you my lord?’

‘No, no, leave it then. Here is another shilling for your trouble.’

Brent smiled again and strode off. After all it had been most unlikely that the first gypsy he met would know his mysterious woman. On the other hand he’d heard they were a close community.

‘Wait my lord, wait!’

The call came from behind him and as he glanced over his shoulder, the gypsy woman was waving to him. Brent hurried back, his spirits rising.

‘Yes?’

The gypsy leaned confidentially towards him.

‘If
my lord could part with a sovereign I think he would find what I have to say not unhelpful.’ Calmly she extended a grimy palm towards him. Brent took a gold sovereign from his waistcoat pocket and placed it in the middle of her hand watching her fingers curl greedily over it.

‘Well?’

‘They
say,’
she leaned over closer, ‘that Brewster Driver had a girl working for him. No one knows where she came from or why, but she is very comely and good on horseback. I ain’t seen her myself; but those who have say she is southern and gives herself airs, though what she is doing with Brewster Driver, God knows.’

‘She is his
woman
?’
Brent cried with horror. The gypsy gave a lewd cackle.

‘Well, I’m not saying she is and I’m not saying she isn’t. Brewster Driver is a law to himself; but he does have a wife and goodness knows how many children and ...’

‘Where do I find Brewster Driver’?’ Brent said sharply.

‘By the ‘orses in the field up yonder my lord across the river. He is a big man – very strong, very short tempered. Be careful you do not pick a quarrel with him, my lord, if you value your pretty face.
A very
pretty face, my lord, it is. One the ladies love I’ll warrant.’

Brent, bestowing his charming smile, briefly thanked the woman and went swiftly over the bridge and up towards the field where a few horses stood chafing and whinnying, some being led off the field, some on to it. Prospective buyers poked their flanks and looked into their mouths, or watched them being paraded in a ring. Brent gazed about him with dismay. There was such a clamour, combined with the smell of hay and dung, that he knew not which way to turn.

‘Looking for a ‘orse, sir? Fine gelding?’

A small ferrety man holding a tired looking horse by a thin piece of rope was gazing hopefully up at Brent.

‘Do you know Brewster Driver?’

The man looked crafty; Brent proffered a shilling. The man bit it and put it in his pocket.

‘I do know him, but he is not here.’

Brent’s heart sank. ‘Then where can I find him?’

‘They say he’s gone.’

‘Gone
where?’

‘The next place, sir, the next place. We gypsies move on. Maybe Newcastle, maybe Penrith; but you can see how few nags there are left sir. The fair is nearly over ...’

Brent turned away biting his lips with disappointment. Of course Brewster would have disposed of his stolen horses as quickly as he could and got out.

‘You could try the camp sir. Maybe he is still there. Up yonder past the cattle pens.’ The man pointed to where Brent could see gypsy tents in a field. But there was an air of bustle, and many small carts piled high with goods and children were already on the move. The roads in northern England were bad and the gypsies travelled mainly on foot or by horse, steadying the narrow carts which contained their tents and other worldly possessions. He threw the man another shilling and ran towards the gypsy settlement.

Those who were left gazed with interest at this tall elegant gentleman, with the fair hair curling over his ears and fine clothes, looking about him. It was very seldom you saw such a person coming among gypsies.

Brent stared at the faces gazing impassively at him, dark, canny gypsy faces. An invisible implacable wall separated them from him. What was he doing searching for a strange gypsy girl anyway. What would he do when he found her? For the first time the ludicrousness of the situation struck Brent – what a wild, madcap thing for him to do! This was why his brother George thought him such a fool. If he knew about it he would say how like Brent it was, running after a woman he’d lusted for as he’d straddled her body on the forest floor in the moonlight. How like Brent to put the needs of the flesh before anything else – his inheritance, his grandfather’s death, his very existence in this uncertain world. Brent turned away back towards the town.

‘Are you looking for someone, sir?’

A tiny dark-haired creature gazed up at him out of great brown solemn eyes set in an elfin face. He was no more than ten or eleven years old.

Brent smiled at him kindly. ‘Do you know Brewster Driver, lad?’

The boy nodded. ‘Everyone knows Brewster Driver, sir.’

‘And is he here?’

Brent’s heart beat faster again; the boy was pointing. Brent followed the direction of his finger.

‘Where, boy? Where?’

‘That was where his tent was, sir, there in that spot. They loaded the horses and moved out early this morning.’

Brent’s eyes fixed on a long empty space between two other tents whose occupants were on the point of moving too. Brewster Driver had gone.

Analee walked alongside the cart as the small procession made its slow way along the road from Appleby to Penrith, some thirteen miles distant. The small children ran after the riders in front, and Brewster Driver strode at the head of the horse that pulled the cart. His elder sons rode on the horses they had kept from a previous night’s forage to Delamain Castle.

To one side of them was a river and far away in the distance the dim outline of Lakeland hills; but immediately to the east were the Pennines over which Analee had come. Sometimes a low bank of cumulus cloud made the mountain range seem very high, and at others the sky was clear and the ridge of purple-topped hills, some of them still capped with snow, was so clear that even the sheep grazing on them could be seen.

They had camped overnight by the side of the River Eamont which wove its way towards Penrith, sometimes narrow and sometimes broad. Nearby was the huge redstone castle of Brougham, surrounded by a moat and heavily fortified. The gypsies took care to keep well out of sight of the castle and its inhabitants, caring little for the thought of the dungeons which lay below the water level.

The second day on the road dawned fine and warm and Brewster Driver and his family set off early, while the birds were chirruping their early morning songs, to creep past the castle before the owner and his guards were awake. Sometimes wandering gypsies disappeared altogether, captured by some robber baron who slaughtered the men, raped the women and turned the children into slaves ... or so the fearful stories told around camp fires went.

Analee felt light at heart and a little song came spontaneously to her lips. The flat, green valley through which they walked was interspersed with hillocks and copses. Well cultivated fields were watered by little streams which ran from the high ground to feed the Eamont.

The sun came up and warmed her back bringing her a feeling of luxury and ease. Suddenly, in imagination she was no longer a gypsy, but a grand lady surrounded by servants, adorned in silks and wearing fine jewels ... Analee shook herself; for a moment it had seemed like a vision. It was the thought of the nobleman, the beautiful
gadjo
who would gladly have taken her in the forest. But what then? Would he have carried her off to his home, set her up in style? Why, no! He would have cast her aside, or at least ...

Suddenly Brewster halted and pointed into the distance with his crop where, on the outskirts of a forest, was a large pile with crenallated battlements, gothic spires and a square Norman tower. Surrounding it were lawns and paddocks, a church and various small cottages and outbuildings such as belonged to a great house.

‘See, the village of Delamain and its castle! Minus a horse or two, and seeking us doubtless!’

Brewster gave a harsh laugh and Analee felt her flesh grow cold and her heart miss a beat.

‘Ah, but we’ve put them off the scent,’ Brewster continued, resuming his walk. ‘They’ll have gone off to Appleby looking for us, and see, yonder lies Penrith.’

Brewster pointed ahead and in the distance Analee saw a town perched on a forested hill; they were entering wooded country.

No, he would have given her to the magistrate, the tall stranger with the bold eyes. Analee tossed her head and decided to put him forever out of her mind.