The Assassin's Wife (26 page)

A clap of thunder woke me to awful darkness. A brooding tension, taut as a bowstring, quivered in the air. Ominous thunder rolled. Momentarily, I shrank against the tree-trunk pressing my face into its bark but the uncanny atmosphere drove me to action.
 

Wrapping my cloak around my head and shoulders, I ran towards the road, desperate for some sign of human life. Lightning tore across the clouds in a jagged cut briefly illuminating the countryside in silver. Forced to a standstill, I cowered under another ear-bursting crack. Its echo scarce died away before another shaft of lightning blinded me.
 

Fat drops of rain began to fall. Plopping and bouncing, increasing in speed and strength, the deluge quickly turned me into a sodden creature. Blundering ahead, I barely made out the wagons clustered like circled sheep against the road-side. Some stocky horses huddled against a hedge, draggled heads hung in stubborn misery.
 

Boldly, I approached the wagons.
 

Faces loomed before me; faces young and old; faces neither friendly nor hostile; dark, foreign faces, openly curious.

An old woman leaned down. Her eyes gleamed smoky-dark, her smile enigmatic. She seemed somehow familiar. When she reached out a scrawny arm, I took it without a second thought. For her years she proved surprisingly strong. She hoisted me up into the wagon and those around her drew back a little to allow me space. I sat a moment, dripping and panting while the dark faces watched as if I were a rare wild beast which might at any moment spring upon one of them and tear him to pieces.
 

Lightning flashed. Under the wagon, an old, grey dog, crouched against the wheel, began to whine. I murmured my thanks, but the woman touched my arm so softly the words died into silence. So we sat, mute and immobile, while the rain fell in long needles and pools of water gathered in the grass.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said at last. “Welcome.”

Behind her, I heard a collective sigh and knew some important step had just been taken.

Chapter Thirty-Four

How did Mara recognise in me the strange ability Brother Brian called the Sight? I hadn’t been an hour in her company before she asked me about it. While rain tumbled from an angry sky I sat in the shelter of the wagon recalling the days of my childhood, telling her how I’d come to realise I was different from others, an outsider in my own village. And Mara listened. Something in her silence encouraged confidence and I saw myself back in the chapel after Mass and eight years old again.

“My mother sent me to the priest for telling lies. But they weren’t lies. I saw spirits ever since I can remember. I thought everyone saw them. Only Brother Brian believed me, and he told me I’d been chosen for some special purpose—” Tears choked off my words for I’d had no news of the priest since I’d written my letter. In my mind I saw suddenly the dust kicked by cantering hooves, the jouncing leather saddle-bag by the rider’s heels.
 

Mara’s hand touched my wrist, light as the brush of a leaf. “The messenger travels a long road,” she said, as if she could see my thoughts. “But there are many stopping places and many hands exchange the contents of his pouch. There are eyes greedy to read, but take heart, for the letter will reach its destination.”
 

“But how will he find me?” I cried out. “How will he know where I am?”

“How does the bird know the way to fly home?” Her eyes stared deep into mine, so my fright ebbed away under their calm, liquid scrutiny. “Trust is the key to understanding. Now you must trust me to show you the way to interpret your Sight. We’ll begin tomorrow.”

* * * * *

At Mara’s feet, the candle-flame cast a flickering light over the smooth surface of the crystal. In it, darts of fire trembled blue, green and purple. I screwed up my eyes in an effort to search its core. For a while it seemed shadows moved, but when I realised this was only a trick of reflected light I shook my head in frustration.
 

“It’s not the way I see.”

Mara laughed huskily. Looking up, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement as if watching a babe trying to stand for the first time.

“There’s no way better than another,” she said in her deep voice. “In time you’ll learn to see this way.”

“Is it important?” Her lazy reaction to my failure puzzled me.

She shrugged her shoulders, implying no cause for concern.

“Why should I
need
to learn other ways?”

Mara smiled so the deep wrinkles about her eyes gaped like cracks in the dry earth. Leaning back, she regarded me with patient tolerance. “Your natural skill is a thing unpolished.” She waved her hands as if to catch an explanation. “It’s like rough stone. If you want to learn to control such a gift, you must look deeper. The true drabardi must interpret the meaning of what she sees. You’ve a good inner eye, but things come to you as—” She waved her hands again. “They happen without warning. I can teach you how to catch the pictures and open the door to that inner world where true wisdom lies waiting.”

Her strangely accented words flowed over me like the sonorous voice of a river. Captured by her promise to teach me to understand what it meant to be a seer, I turned again to look into the crystal.

“No more today.” She wrapped black fabric around it. Seeing my disappointment, she laughed again and patted my hand. “Tomorrow we’ll look again and I’ll teach you how to use the cards. You must learn quickly, for our time together will be brief.”

Taking my face in one gnarled, brown hand, she smoothed back my hair with the other. Her black eyes probed deep into mine. “You’ve a long road to travel, child,” she said. “Sometimes the way will be hard. There’ll be heavy burdens to carry and promises to keep. You’ll have joys too, but like the wings of the swallow, they move swiftly, and can’t be held captive. When the stones cause you to stumble, remember the path has already been chosen. The inner voice will guide your steps. Many will seek your help, for you’ll be a keeper of secrets.”

I opened my mouth in shock—Hadn’t Mistress Evans told me this too? I began to tell Mara how I came to be travelling alone, the events that prompted my flight, but she placed a finger on my lips in the old signal for silence. “No need,” she said, nodding her head sagely. For a moment our eyes locked and I felt as if she’d looked into me and read all there was to know.

“You think me a crazy old woman, but you’ll remember my words one day and know I’ve spoken truth. You must learn the ways of the Roma, for among my people those who walk with the spirits have an honoured place. We are just travellers, and you must join us on the journey a while. With my people you’ll be safe. By the time we reach the city you’ll have made some important decisions and be ready to move on to the next stage of pilgrimage. Sleep now.”

She blew out the candle and the shelter plunged into darkness. As I hugged my blanket around me, I made out the distant glow of the camp-fire. For the first time in months I no longer felt alone. Perhaps this sense of kinship arose because these people were outsiders too. They owned no dwelling place, bore no allegiance to anyone outside their own tribe. Noisy, lively and quarrelsome, they delighted in danger and scorned those in authority. Though I’d feared arrest for vagrancy, they showed no such anxiety. They were accustomed to persecution.
 

Certainly they aroused curiosity wherever they went for their ways and customs were very different from ours.

“We are the Roma,” Luri said as we sat by the camp-fire. Pride shone in his swarthy face. “We have our own laws, our own rules. We are family. We keep together and defend our own people. We stay apart from the gaujo.”

“Gaujo?”
 

Luri laughed showing white teeth. “You are gaujo,” he said. It’s the name for people who are not Roma.”

My acceptance within their community I owed to Mara, for whilst Luri was their leader, she enjoyed the status of an elder. I felt surprised, and strangely moved that she had chosen to train me, as one might an apprentice, in the ancient arts.

“Mara is the Puri Dye, the old mother,” Luri told me. “Very special. Listen to her wisdom.”

“Wolfsbane,” Shangula said, thrusting the flame-coloured flowers so close to my face I flinched. She grinned mischievously. “For bruises,” she explained, dropping the daisy-like blooms into the cloth bag she carried around her waist. Mara had entrusted her to teach me the various uses of plants and herbs. Beyond us, at the edge of the woodland, Akasha gathered the leaves of a tall dark plant, smiling as if mulling over a secret.
 

“What’s this?” I knew the woolly, hoof-shaped leaves for coltsfoot and the Roma used them to soothe coughs and diseases of the chest but I tried anxiously to distract Shangula. The two young women could not long be together without enmity. Shangula provoked Akasha for she thought her a rival. Both possessed a fiery beauty, but Shangula’s sharpest weapon proved her quick-witted malice.
 

“Coltsfoot.” She spat the answer. No one fooled her easily. Sly amusement danced in her black eyes. “Yon skinny crow will need a potent brew if she wants to keep Dev’s attention for much longer.” She nodded in Akasha’s direction.
 

I rolled the coltsfoot leaves without speaking. Dev, Akasha’s man, was well-noted for his roving eye. As he moved around the camp, Akasha watched him closely, her vigilance betraying her anxiety, reminding me of poor Eleanor’s devotion to the king.

Dev seemed much taken with Duka, Luri’s daughter, a shy fawn of a girl, no more than fifteen, but with a delicate quality that drew men to her. Every evening Dev lingered by her father’s cart, and though he feigned interest in Luri’s words, all the womenfolk saw how his eyes followed Duka.
 

“Duka’s young and pretty. Yesterday I saw Dev helping her gather firewood,”

Shangula said just loud enough for Akasha to hear.
 

“It’s a shame you’ve no man to fetch and carry for you, Shangula,” Akasha said. She threw back her raven hair, her lovely features distorted by a sneer. “Then you wouldn’t be so envious of others.”
 

“Why choose one when many wait in attendance? It’s the timid creature that fears to walk alone.” Shangula taunted with a wicked smile. “The tamed hinds herd together, while the stag seeks out the youngest and most beautiful from those just out of reach.”

“Mara asked me to find some borage. Can you help me?” I moved close to Akasha. The pain in her eyes told me Shangula’s spiteful comments had found their mark.

“I’ll show you where it grows.”
 

As we moved away under the shadow of the trees, Shangula called after us. “If it’s something to ease the heart that’s needed, I’ve some lovage.”

Amongst the Roma, this herb is made into a love potion to arouse the affections of any man who has lost interest in his lover.

“Perhaps you should keep it for yourself, Shangula,” I said ingenuously, “for I think Mara has no longer any desire for a lover.”

Shangula’s laughter rang scornful but I knew she wouldn’t bear me a lasting grudge. I had Mara’s protection and goodwill.

* * * * *

“Everyone must work, no matter their age,” Mara told me, when I returned with the herbs. She pointed to the women and children weaving baskets from osiers, the men carving and fashioning tools. “We’ll sell these at markets to buy food or things we need. Any money left is given to me for safe keeping.”

“How did you become travellers?” I watched her divide the herbs into smaller bags.

“Travelling is the Roma way of life,” she replied, sniffing the borage. “We rarely stay more than a few days in one place. The stories say we left our homeland in search of a lost dream of peace. We follow the way of the wind, and are carried like leaves from place to place. We harm no one and return at last to the earth, just as old leaves fall and make way for new.”

“Outsiders call us Egyptians,” said Shangula. She sat beside us braiding her shining hair. “No one knows if this is where our people truly began.”

“I’ve travelled many roads.” Mara handed me some acorns. “Even as a baby I travelled. I saw many places, France, Italy, Spain—And I was taught respect for nature, to take only what is needed. The herbs and plants you’ve gathered today will make medicines and charms. The Roma believe the earth offers her fruit to everyone.”
 

Each morning we took to the road on foot or in carts drawn by stout horses, and at nightfall built camps at the roadside or in the woodland. Mara showed me how to make a fire, while the men built dome-shaped shelters from twisted hazel branches which they covered with blankets for the night.
 

In the villages, the men entertained with displays of tumbling while the women, flamboyant in their long coloured skirts and tinkling jewellery, danced with a wild stamping and clapping that made the heart race. Their dark-skinned, “foreign” appearance and colourful, strangely fashioned garments always attracted much attention. Though the villagers often stood in hostile clusters, clearly under an unwilling enchantment, they gaped curiously at these brightly dressed strangers who spoke in an outlandish tongue. It brought some interest to their dull, plodding lives. Only the children would gather eagerly to devour the spectacle of tumblers and dancers leaping and twisting in a whirl of rainbow magic.