My caravan accommodation was cleaner and more comfortable than any I could have obtained at inns along our way. Many English people believed a myth about gypsies—that they were a dirty people. Nothing could have been further from the truth. I had wondered, when I first arrived in the camp, why each family transported so many large washtubs. I soon found out that the upper body and the lower body were never washed in the same tub, nor with the same cloth. The same applied to clothes—upper body clothes in one tub and lower body clothes in another. This explained why gypsy women wore skirts and blouses as opposed to dresses. And, as if the above was not extreme enough, men and children washed with one set of tubs, and women with another. I suppose it goes without saying, then, that bedding and dishes could not be washed using the same tub!
The weather never bothered these people: rain, wind or shine they were joyful just to be at liberty to wander —a sentiment which I shared completely. My beautiful horse felt the same, I believe, for he never tired of moving forward. Destiny had been a stabled horse all his life, and I suspect the constant stimulation was a great motivation for him. I very much enjoyed riding a horse male-fashion, and found I had far more stamina in the saddle this way.
The captain had not wavered in his pursuit of my affections, despite warnings from his grandmother, and I must confess that by the time we reached the
Late on the Sunday that marked a fortnight on the road, we made camp outside a coastal village on the outskirts of Marseilles.
The caravan of gypsies never entered Italy via the Alps, as the freezing cold and snow would hinder their journey. It always proved faster, and gave them far less grief, to travel through lower France and take the coastal route via Nice.
I had wandered away from camp to gaze upon the azure waters of the gulf and ease my stiff legs and rump, which were always numbed by the end of a day in the saddle. It was here that Chavi sought me out for a little chat.
Not being the kind of woman to beat around the bush she came right out and demanded that I release her grandson from my enchantment.
‘I have not put a spell on the captain.’ I chuckled at her assumption, until I saw how grave the expression of the old gypsy woman was.
‘You have indeed,’ Chavi accused, ‘and well you know it! I am not speaking of a spell woven with a potion or a chant,’ she said to forestall my impending denial. ‘I speak of the charm that a heroine might have upon a humble male soul, awed by her deeds and strength of character.’
‘I note that you do not consider it might be the heroine who has been enchanted,’ I countered. What was the point of denying my attraction when she could see straight through me?
‘Cingar is not the man you truly love,’ Chavi pointed out, which shocked me slightly and angered me a little too. ‘And he never will be,’ she added firmly, knowing I was in doubt. ‘Just toying with my grandson’s emotions is placing the entire future of our family in great jeopardy.’
Now I thought that she really was exaggerating and she knew it at once.
‘Let me tell you a little of our customs and then you may decide if I am delusional or not,’ she offered, and I agreed.
It seemed that washing was not the only aspect of gypsy life that was subject to many taboos. For as Chavi spoke I fast came to realise that the little affair I had been contemplating so lightly could cause Cingar to be branded as
‘It is social death.’ Chavi wrapped up her case. ‘Anything Cingar wears or touches would be contaminated, including his future wife and offspring, and their offspring and so on.’
‘You can stop there, Chavi,’ I assured her. I felt sick to the stomach when I considered the near-disaster my desire had caused. ‘I can see that there is precious little point to saving a man from prison to have him banished instead.’
‘You must reject Cingar firmly, as soon as possible, and free his heart to embrace other interests,’ Chavi instructed rather than asked.
‘Cingar’s friendship means a lot to me. How can I do this without hurting him?’ I had been doing a fair bit of flirting with him lately.
‘Simply tell him the truth,’ Chavi suggested, more sympathetic now that I had been safely diverted from her grandson. ‘Tell him that your heart belongs to another…this, he will understand.’
‘But the man of my heart is a traitor to the rest of me,’ I said, although aware that such a confession was not entirely truthful.
Chavi took my hands and held them firmly as she briefly went into trance. ‘It is your own reasoning that betrays you, not your husband.’
I gasped, for I had never once let slip that I was married having placed my wedding band with my valuables before I met up with the Charon clan. ‘But he lied,’ I protested, and yet I did not pull my hands from hers. I wanted her to prove me wrong about Devere.
‘The gravity of that lie hangs on other assumptions you have made, and expecting the worst of everyone involved. But what if you have misjudged some of these situations—then, truly, how grievous is the offence of your beloved?’
I gasped at the shock that shot through my being at her words. The ‘what ifs’ of the past six months bombarded my brain all at once. What if Lord Hereford had died of natural causes? What if the real intent of this brotherhood was merely to protect me? What if the brothers’ prediction of Hereford’s death had come from prophecy, rather than murderous intent? Then they would have been warning Hereford against marrying me, rather than threatening him! What if Devere did love me? Even in arranged marriages there could be great love.
Chavi released my hands. ‘I know I can trust you to do the right thing.’
I had to wonder if Chavi was polishing my husband’s image in my eyes in order to take my focus off Cingar. Still, she had given me plenty of other incentives not to entertain a romance with our dear captain. ‘I shall speak with him tonight.’
