The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (11 page)

Before her own downfall, her own exclusion from her tribe, Analee had seen – sometimes, not often, because although the gypsy code of sexual ethics was strict, it varied from tribe to tribe – wrongdoers punished in this way. More often she had seen on her wanderings old gypsy women without an ear, or a nose, or an eye missing – mutilations carried out for transgressions committed in their youth. Men of course got off much more lightly; but didn’t men anywhere?

Even though Analee was free, belonged to no tribe and conformed to no custom, she accepted Randal’s right to behave as he had. Now he was claiming the ancient gypsy right to marriage by abduction. He was taking her bound to the gypsy camp where he came from, to the
phuri-dai,
the head woman, or to the chief of the tribe who would offer them the bread and salt which were the traditional elements of gypsy marriage.

Randal had explained it to her on the night after her abduction. Until then he had said nothing at all. After the meal he had motioned to the others to leave him and Analee alone and then he had squatted on his haunches, stirring the embers of the fire with a long stick while Analee, hands free but feet firmly bound, sat helplessly before him.

‘You knew I wanted you, Analee. I had never wanted a woman like you ...’

Analee said nothing at first, her eyes smouldering like the embers of the fire. She wanted Randal to know with what contempt she regarded him and what he had done. But he just squatted there stirring the burning wood, his dark, lean face reflective.

‘So you take me by force ...’

‘It is the only way. The
phuri-dai will
have to marry us because I have captured you for my bride. If the
phuri-dai
knows you have lain with
a gadjo
your head will be shaved, maybe your nose cut off.’

Analee shuddered. Randal she might one day be able to get rid of; but a lost nose or an ear or an eye could never be recovered.

‘You know I will not be happy with you Randal. Why don’t you let me go? I have been free for so long, on my own. I belong to no tribe ...’

‘You do now,’ Randal said firmly. ‘You belong to me. I have captured you.’

With that he got up and stamped out the fire, then went to join the others. Analee had lain down where she was and tried to sleep, aware of the family coming back and bedding down for the night, of the watchful eyes of Randal or Hamo gazing at her every time the bonds cramped and she woke.

The cart rolled on and Randal and Hamo steadied it on either side, taking care to see that Benjy was alright, but having no regard for her at all. She was a chattel, a piece of merchandise tied with string. Even Benjy gazed at her with contempt and Selinda avoided her altogether. She had laid with a
gadjo
– she had committed a grave sin. They knew it, somehow they knew it.

On the third day they came to the camp outside the old town of Carlisle not far from the Scottish border. This was where the Buckland family had its roots. In so far as they had a home this was their home. Those too old to travel lived here permanently and the young ones came and went.

In the distance, as they approached the camp, Analee could see the smoke rising from the many fires, the tents and one or two wooden huts that gave the nomadic camp an air of permanence. Usually when Analee saw a gypsy settlement she felt a sense of belonging, of homecoming – a rest from her wearisome wander ing, a reminder of former, happier days. But now she looked at it with terror. What would happen? Would Randal, full of vengeance, report her misdeeds? She would be taken before the
kriss,
an assembly of the elders who meted out justice, and without a doubt she would be punished. No, at best all she could hope for was marriage to a man she didn’t love, who had killed her lover, or at least maimed him.

Brent. How often had Analee thought of Brent during that slow tedious journey along the narrow road. They had been attracted from the beginning, and it was fitting that they had come together in the moonlight, in a forest like they had first met.

She had known that it was meant she and Brent should make love and in her heart, even now when it seemed hopeless, she had a feeling she would see him again and that it would happen again. How this would be achieved she knew not. It was the power of her gypsy’s second sight, a gift she knew she possessed. She had known that she would wander and then there would be a time of great difficulty, a dark cloud in her life. Then she would be happy again. All this she knew, but how and why were veiled from her.

This was the time of the dark cloud. How long would it last?

As Randal and Hamo led the cart into the camp, ragged children ran towards them, hands were raised in greeting. Some called out. One or two looked curiously into the cart. Randal neither smiled nor responded to greetings but, with his face set, led the horse to the large tent that stood in the centre of the field. Outside a swarm of children played happily and women bustled backwards and forwards between tents and fires preparing the midday meal. The men were busy mending pots and pans, or grooming beyond recognition for resale horses they had either stolen or bought very cheaply. Outside the large tent an old woman sat puffing a clay pipe and beside her sat a man younger than her by many years, but old just the same. Randal left the cart where it was before the tent and with Hamo went over to speak to the couple sitting outside. The old woman’s toothless mouth cracked in a joyful grin and her hands reached up to clasp and embrace him. Then they listened carefully while he pointed to the cart where Analee sat alone. Benjy had been helped down by his brother and was now hobbling towards the large tent where he was also greeted and embraced. Then the old man got stiffly to his feet and leaning on a stick walked slowly with Randal over to the cart.

He gazed at Analee, saying nothing, then he chuckled. ‘You have captured yourself a fine bride, son. Well ... does she consent?’

He spoke in
romani
and Analee caught the nuance in his voice. Randal didn’t reply but looked at her. Analee thought of the face without a nose, the hideous one-eyed crones ... She nodded.

‘Good.’

The man seemed satisfied and Randal’s face relaxed. He smiled at Analee and helped her out of the cart. She stood cramped on her tired legs, unable to move and Randal picked her up and carried her over to the big tent placing her roughly on the ground in front of the tent, almost throwing her in fact.

‘This is Rebecca ... the
phuri-dai,’
he said motioning to the old woman. ‘This is Lancelot her son. My father Rander Buckland was married to Lancelot’s daughter’s sister-in-law. We are all Bucklands and all related. Lancelot is the head man of the tribe.’

Analee nodded that she had understood and tried to sit up. Her legs were stiff. The old woman was looking at her enigmatically – not unsympathetically, but in a way Analee didn’t completely understand.

‘Untie her, Randal,’ Lancelot said. ‘You have her consent.’

‘Oh, she has consented?’ the old woman said in a voice firm despite her years.

‘She nodded,’ Lancelot said, ‘when I asked her if she consented.’

‘You must hear her say it,’ Rebecca said. ‘Then we have her bond and can untie her feet.’

‘Do you consent to be the bride of Randal Buckland who has claimed this right by capture?’ Lancelot intoned solemnly. Again Randal looked at Analee, his face impassive, his chin tilted, his stance proud. It made him feel a man to have captured Analee, like a gypsy brigand of old. Even though he had tied her up and had given her no chance she was still his by right of capture. Forced capture. She was reluctant, Randal knew. How she must hate him. Her eyes burned with resentment and her nostrils flared like a horse that refuses to be broken in. He had seen that stubborn refusal before in the eyes of an untamed horse; but he tamed them in the end. Oh yes, he did; and then it was sweet to see how meekly they submitted – as Analee would to him. In his mind’s eye he could see her body glistening in the moonlight responding to the demands of the
gadjo,
giving willingly of herself.

His eyes grew bright with desire at the memory of the sight, which mentally he had dwelt on many times. Analee was a fitting prize to capture, stubborn, untamed, but – oh – what booty for the man who lay with her.

‘You must say it, woman. Say the words,’ Lancelot said.

 Analee looked at Randal, at Hamo, at Benjy ... they all gazed stonily at her. Even Selinda showed no pity ... She had sinned with a
gadjo.
If the tribe knew she would have her hair cut off, at least, perhaps worse ... Analee saw the look in their eyes, the unified hostility and knew they would all condemn her. She fingered her nose ... ‘I consent,’ she said.

All those who had gathered around to witness the strange ceremony clapped and shouted. The expression in Randal’s eyes and that of his family changed from suspicion and hostility to relief, even to gladness. She had submitted. There would be no more trouble from Analee now.

‘Let us have the bread and salt at once,’ Randal said, bending to untie Analee’s legs, ‘and we can be wed.’

Rebecca looked surprised.

‘You wish it so? You do not wish a proper gypsy wedding with dancing and feasting?’

‘We can feast later,’ Randal said laughing, chafing Analee’s ankles to make the blood run through. ‘Now that I have this prize I do not want her to escape me again!’

Analee, astounded, gazed at Randal. How could this man force her into a marriage when he had hardly spoken a civil word to her in days? Randal who had been so kind before, so adoring, seemed to hate her ... but he wanted her, she knew that. He had seen her make love in the moonlight; goodness knows how long he had watched, maybe he’d seen everything. He’d been inflamed. Randal wanted her as Brent had. All men were the same. Well it might as well be got over. There was an inevitablity about it. Marriage to Randal would not be forever; she knew that. Her second sight had told her that this was just a dark cloud, a bad time. One day the cloud would pass and the sun would shine again ... and Analee, the wandering gypsy, would be free.

The gypsies in the camp were excited by the unexpected news of a wedding and immediately ceased the tasks in which they were engaged to run to the tent of the
phuri-dai
who would perform the marriage. Most of them had seen Randal and his family come in with the cart, and many had seen Analee unceremoniously taken out from it, her feet bound, and dumped on the ground in front of Rebecca.

It was a long time since there had been a marriage by capture in the camp. What they did not know was whether the captured bride was willing or unwilling. If she were willing it meant that she and her
tomnimi,
her betrothed, had met secretly, had been denied permission to marry by her father. The man had thus made a show of forcing her, but in fact she had gone willingly to stay a while with him and consummate their union. Now the marriage would consecrate this physical union that had already occurred, and then the bride and groom would return to the girl’s father and a reconciliation would take place. But if the bride were reluctant, if she had been forced against her will, then after the wedding the bridegroom would do his best to woo her, to win her love – for true love was an essential element in gypsy lore. He would go to the
cohani,
the sorceress, and obtain from her spells to win the heart of his captured bride.

Now, as they hurried to the tent looking forward to the feasting and dancing that would take place later in the day, the tribe did not know what was the case with the bride that Randal Buckland had brought home tethered in
a cart.

Although Lancelot was the leader of the tribe, the undisputed head was his mother Rebecca, the
phuri-dai.
She did not know how old she was, but some thought over a hundred years of age. She, his mother, knew how old Lancelot was and he was nearly eighty. She was said to be able to remember as far back as the Civil War and the execution of the King and that was nearly a hundred years ago.

Rebecca had held dominance over the Buckland tribe gathered outside Carlisle for so many years that there were few who did not remember her as
phuri-dai,
even the very old ones. In her youth she had been a great beauty, something of a
cohani
herself, a weaver of magic spells, a fortune-teller of reknown. She had been married three times, all to members of her own tribe – maybe more, she couldn’t remember – and she had fifteen children, at least; she couldn’t be quite sure of that now.

Everyone in the tribe was related to her one way or another and as she waited, a new rug around her shoulders for the ceremony she was about to perform, her old eyes still bright, still piercing, noted where everyone was and what they were doing.

Rebecca, in her long life, had seen many enforced marriages – and knew every variation of betrothal and marriage within gypsy lore. She had seen willing brides and reluctant brides, passionate brides and those whose feelings towards their husbands were cold. On the whole gypsies wanted warm romantic love to bless the marriages but, being human, Rebecca knew you could not always have what you wanted.

Randal’s bride, she had known from the moment her wise old eyes saw her tossed on the ground, was very reluctant, very unwilling. Randal may perhaps have done better to have thought again; but she knew what Randal was – headstrong, a law unto himself. He had wanted this woman and he had captured her. God knew from where. She looked foreign; she was so tall that Rebecca felt she could not possibly have hailed from these parts where the women were medium or small in height. Maybe not even from England. She had a glowing olive skin and dangerous-looking dark eyes. She was a beauty alright; but she would give Randal a bad time if she wanted to.

Soon he would come to her or to Reyora, the
cohani,
and ask for spells to bind his bride to him. Rebecca slowly shook her head. Even strong spells would be difficult to tame that one, she thought.

Standing quietly, by the tent Analee too was watching the preparations, noting how everyone put down what they were doing and hurried to where the old
phuri-dai
was sitting. And the
phuri-dai,
she saw, was watching her – an old, old wise-looking woman, and shaking her head.