Serial Sundays: The Gypsy's Curse

      

Here it is, Chapter Three part II for your reading pleasure:  

 Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

“Worry, worry, worry. Wind’s pickin’ up,” the breathless voice chanted, as if repeating a worn out song. “Winter storm a comin’, ain’t no one in his right mind going to be outdoors today pokin’ about the master’s house. I told her. But Annie, she does more than her share o’ worryin’. Worry, worry, worry, and when it’s done and everything’s all right, don’t she go out and find more to worry over! Wears a fella out, she does. Worry, worry, worry . . .”

       

  It was the cottager, Zara realized.  He was inspecting the manor, just as he promised his wife last night. She moved quickly to the armoire. She opened the door and slipped inside before the man discovered the door to this room was ajar. She sat down carefully behind the hanging clothes and drew the cabinet door closed behind her.

         “Ah, what’s this?” The man entered the room. “Open door, but nothing disturbed.” He chatted to himself. “No squirrels, here Annie, my love. They don’t open doors, now, do they? But they do leave a fearful mess behind.”

          Zara held her breath, and tried, unsuccessfully, to still her thundering heart. She feared he might be able to hear the loud clattering beneath her ribs, and discover her hiding place.

         “Aye. But a ghost will open a door now and then, won’t it?” The gruff voice continued. “Mayhap her ladyship’s been visiting the old place, looking for her lord. He’s not here, milady.” The voice shouted, as if trying to tell a very deaf spirit her quest was a useless one. “He’s in Lunn’un. Hasn’t seen fit to visit the home place since ye left us so sudden. Can’t bear the memories, I wager.”

         “Jasper!” A woman’s voice called from somewhere below. “Where are you?”

         “Demm it, woman. Give a man a chance, would ye?” The man called out, exasperated with the woman who had dragged him from his warm lodgings in the early morning hours to inspect the manor for would be four legged trespassers. He muttered to himself a little more as he shuffled about the room. She heard him pause at the window and rattle the latch.

          Please don't open the cabinet, she prayed. Even pressed tight into the back of it, behind the shirts and jackets she would be noticeable. The cabinet wasn’t that deep, after all.

The uneven gait moved toward the door. After a moment, it closed with a defining thud.

He was gone from the room at least. It would be a while yet before he and his wife left the manor house if they were checking it, room by room, to make certain it was secure against the woodland creatures seeking shelter for the winter. She?d just have to be quiet until they left and try not to suffocate amidst the masculine clothing in the tight, coffin-like space.

*   *   *

          

Stephan returned to the townhouse with sense of purpose he hadn’t felt for a long time.  The prospect of returning to the abbey was invigorating. He didn’t realize just how much he missed his family home. The winters in the Lake District were not terribly harsh. They were tolerable, as his father used to say. The foliage dressing the trees would be gone by now, of course, and the fields stripped of their verdant glory. All the same, he felt a small stirring of excitement in his breast. He was going home, to the family seat, to the place he knew and loved as a boy. The woods and the paths winding about the lake were old friends. Perhaps, they would offer him solace this time around, instead of pointing stark, accusing branches at him as he passed along the road in the carriage, as it seemed they had when he’d fled the dark manse.

          Huntley was shocked when he informed the butler of his decision to spend the winter at the abbey. The old man gazed at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. Huntley didn’t say it aloud, but the question was in his eyes. Why, they asked with an impertinence made possible only from decades of service to the same family, would you wish to return to the place where your wife was murdered?

          Snapping his morning newspaper open, Stephan didn’t bother to answer the burning question in the old butler’s rheumy eyes. He simply began reading the news, and waited for the man to exit the room and carry out his wishes for the packing to commence. He’d have to send word to Maria in Derbyshire that he would not be attending the Christmas festivities at her husband’s estate this year after all.

          It shouldn’t come as a surprise to his sister, as he hadn’t attended them last year, either. He’d been in mourning. Maria coaxed him to commit himself to attending the annual Christmas house party this coming year when he’d spent a month brooding under her roof over the summer.  Maria, his baby sister was not one to tiptoe around a problem. She prided herself on being able to confront it head on. And thus, she’d confronted Stephan about his retreat from polite society. The chit had rung the duns over his head until he promised to attend her gala event this year. The holiday party was always a huge success and Maria had become famous for her ability to keep Christmas in a grand style since she became a Duchess.

          Well, she’d get over her disappointment, wouldn’t she? With over fifty house guests to attend to, she could hardly claim to miss him. And a quiet, uneventful Christmas spent at Huntingdon Abbey would be preferable to one spent here in London. He made that mistake last year, believing his presence in London would be overlooked as he was still in mourning. It had been just over a year, and he dared to hope the holidays would not find him.  Thanks to friends like Hadley, Christmas had been forced upon him because he had the audacity to be residing in town during the holiday.  

           Stephan took a sip of his lukewarm tea and ignored the eggs and rashers on the plate before him. He didn’t have an appetite for them this morning. Nothing cook made would tempt him. His life had been reduced to nightmares when asleep and wandering the streets of London during the night to avoid the demons clawing at his soul. Sometimes, he didn’t recall how it was he’d returned home. He blacked out. If he were given to strong drink, he’d blame the spirits for blocking his memory of the previous night’s events.

           It was a different spirit than mere alcohol that dogged his steps.

           Madness?  It was a possibility or merely an excuse.

           He scanned the headlines. The bold black print letters assaulted him.

           Heinous Murder in THE SLUM DISTRICT OF LONDON.

          The word murder jumped out at him, accusing, like the fingers of a preacher pointing directly from the pulpit. He read on, his hands rattling the thin paper as he did so.  A couple had been brutally murdered last night while enjoying a tryst in a secluded grove at Covenant Gardens. The man’s neck had been twisted and broken according to the constable, while the woman’s throat had been slashed.    

          The woman’s torso appeared to have been torn open by wild dogs before the couple were found early this morning by an attendant of the gardens. This was the third such murder in town in the last month, authorities said.

          Stephan uttered a curse under his breath, and set the paper on the table. His mind wandered back to last night. James Hadley had accompanied him to Whites. They sat before a fire, drinking and talking, or rather, James did most of the former while he did most of the latter. He didn’t remember leaving Whites, nor did he recall James taking leave of him there. What he did have was a strong impression of wandering through the streets last night, dangerously close to the gardens where the murder took place. It wasn’t a clear memory, but rather a fractured jumble of images that seemed more dream than reality.

          He brushed the curl from his damp brow, and concentrated on finding that shred of reality.  There were sounds of a couple laughing, and the strong scent of sex. How he knew that, he couldn’t fathom. There was the bittersweet taste of copper on his lips. The cool, night air had embraced him. The heavy fog lent a welcome shroud to his silent passage as he meandered through the hedges.

Stephan took a sip of the now cold tea, his mind frozen by the numb reality that he might have been in that district last night.  Had he gone to the Gardens after leaving the club? If so, had James been with him?  Could James exonerate him of any wrongdoing?

          Did he need to be exonerated?

          He released his breath, disturbed by the working of his own mind. He was being unreasonable. An old family curse had nothing to do with his current melancholy, or his detached thoughts. It was boredom, he told himself, taking up the paper again to peruse the financial page. A faint knocking sound at the front door gave him a start. He slapped himself mentally for his nervousness. He had no reason to be on edge.       

          The butler entered the dining room. “You have a caller, my lord. A young--er-- woman.” The old man corrected. “She claims you instructed her to come here last night. She gave me your card, sir, said you promised to reimburse her for her services to you last night.” The butler held up his calling card. “Do you wish to see her, sir?”

Copyright Lily Silver 2013

Rough Draft Sunday: A gypsy girl, a wealthy widower . . . love and intrigue

Each week, I will post an excerpt of the story "The Gypsy's Curse"  A work in progress. If you've followed this blog you know that I started sharing this a few years ago in serialized form. Here it is again, starting from the beginning. Each Sunday will feature a chapter of the novel In progress. You can follow along on the blog, or you can go to my website for more updates.  Happy reading!  This will be published in Summer of 2014.

Free Rough Draft entries; The Gypsy's Curse Post # 1

"The Gypsy's Curse" by Lily Silver. This a serialized version of an novel that will be published in Summer of 2014.  
About the Story:  The Gypsy's Curse takes place in 1816.  Zara, the half-blood gypsy girl has been made an outcast from her caravan because it is believed she bears the devil's mark. When her Gadja patron, a kindly old farm widow who has taken her in is murdered Zara is suspected of the crime. Zara takes refuge in an empty old manor house. When Stephan St. John returns to his ancestral home to face his own demons, he believes Zara is a ghost haunting him.

  Prologue
The sheriff marched resolutely to the center of town, hammer in hand, and the decree tucked under his arm. He stopped at the billet post, dug into his coat pocket, and produced two thick nails. He slipped them into his mouth, the blunt ends in, sharp points hanging out, and pressed the decree against the wood board. The sound of his hammering echoed about the village square as he posted the warrant given him by the local magistrate.
Wanted for questioning regarding recent murder in Lexford Woods:  Young woman of gypsy blood described as short, slim, with dark hair and bright green eyes, of approximately a score in age. The gypsy is known to frequent these parts with a local caravan, but has recently been traveling alone. Distinguishing features include a scar on the left side of her face, above the eye, and a fresh wound to the hand. The woman is armed, and considered a prime suspect in the murder at the farm of  Widow Kendall and her visiting nephew, one Jasper Leeds of Hampsell Place.
        Once finished, he marched straight toward The Griffin's Lair for a shot of whiskey. It might be an hour shy of noon, but he sorely needed a shot of courage after the grisly scene he'd been called to this morning at Widow Kendall?s farm. The bodies of the poor souls were still swimming before his eyes, the jagged wounds, the slashed flesh and the horrified open eyes.
        Worse for it, the stench of their gore stuck in his nostrils. Even with a sound washing with plenty of lye soap, he doubted he?d be able to escape that putrid smell of human innards split wide open like a gutted deer for weeks to come.
        Wanted for questioning!  Ha, that was a bunch of rancid tripe on the part of the magistrate. All that fancy talk of evidence, motive and guilt verses innocence was fine and good for a man like Magistrate Collins, who sat behind a desk all day and didn't have to hunt down a vicious killer himself. When face to face with evil a man didn?t argue with the devil, he took action and saved the lives of those who depended upon him.
         If he caught the little whore she'd wish she never been born. Question her about what, for pity sake? Why she'd mutilated two God fearing souls in the middle of the night.  He shook his head. The world had worked just fine without these intelligent blokes always throwing a cog in the works and bringing everything to a dead halt with their grand talk of rights and habitual corpses! Oh, she'd hang for sure when they found the bitch. He'd hang her on sight and send a message to all her kind to stay away, for good.
 Chapter One
The Lake District, England, 1816
         The Devil's Mark! That was their excuse. That was the reason she had been thrust out into the world of the Gadje, coldly cast out of her tribe and exiled from the family she'd known and loved.
          Zara trudged on through the woods. She pulled the woolen shawl tight about her shoulders, and pushed on. Her progress was slow as she was walking into the wind. She was tired and hungry. She?d spent last night in a cave, without a fire, lest the townspeople see the flame and discover her hiding place. The cave had been damp and cold. She finished the last of the bread and cheese she?d taken from the Widow?s kitchen before setting out on her long trek to parts unknown.
         It was late autumn. Snow would soon be dusting the woods. The small streams and creek beds would freeze over. The rivers would remain a source of water throughout the winter, but most rivers were surrounded by towns and farmsteads. As a child of nature, she knew she must find shelter soon or she might die from exposure to the harsh winter nights. Lothar taught her how to track animals and trap game from the time she was able to walk. Her uncle had unwittingly given her the tools to survive without being dependent on another. Thank the fates for Lothar and his practical, pragmatic nature. He gave her knowledge to the woods and the creatures that inhabited it that most girls of her tribe would envy. He took her with him on his forays into the bush to trap dinner, when other girls were kept close to the fire to learn other skills from their mother's knees. But winter's harsh pall left even the best trappers in her tribe with empty pouches when they returned to camp. That was why the caravan traveled south for the winter months.
         A deer had come across her path at dawn, when she was filling her cask with water at the icy stream, but Zara had no weapon with which to bring down such a fortuitous bounty presented to her from the wood spirit. She had no gun and no bow and arrow. Just a knife, a large hunting knife Lothar had given her when she was ten years old. Even if she had such weapons, she didn't think she would have been able to fell the gentle eyed doe. Like her, the animal was alone in a world full of hunters, alone and without hale companions or the protection of a great horned mate.
         She stopped for a moment to recover her breath and examine her hand. Her fingers were numb from the cold. The bandage was stiff, almost frozen to the scored flesh. At least the cold weather had offered her some assistance. The outer bandage was dried from the cold; there would be no fresh flowing blood to give the hunter's hounds a trail to follow.
         As if in protest to her hard won peace of mind, deep baying echoed the distance behind her. Zara smashed her lips together and hurried up the steep hill, as uncertain of her destination as she was of her present bearings. She returned to the woods two nights past, after awakening in the farm house to find the widow and her reprehensible nephew dead beside her. She had no memory of what happened. She?d awakened on the floor of the parlor just before dawn, with Lothar's knife in her dominate hand, and the painful gash splitting the palm of her other hand.
        Zara knew she'd be blamed for the murders, regardless of the mysterious circumstances, simply because of her origin. A gypsy, even a half blood gypsy was always blamed for any misfortune that fell on the people nearby. If a pig or goat went missing, a horse took ill or a barn burnt to the ground, it was always the gypsies, so the Gadje claimed.
       Some villages were better than others, more accepting of their visits. They were tolerated and allowed to trade with the town for a week or driven on without even being allowed to rest their horses by angry Gadje men with guns. Each time they set up camp in a new place, the men of her band made wagers amongst themselves as to how long it would be before the Gadje showed up with guns and pitchforks, demanding that they move on to the next town. It was her misfortune to be banished when her tribe was traveling through a hostile region instead of a more tolerant one.
       As she crested the rise of the steep hill, Zara leaned against a stark, majestic oak to recover. There was a sharp stitch in her side. The silver steam of her rapid breath wreathed about her in the cold air. She was so tired. Her chest ached and she feared she might be courting the dreaded lung sickness after spending two nights out in the cold, damp November woods with no fire and no shelter. She?d walked hard for days, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Kendall Farm as she could. She didn?t dare stop to rest until she found a shelter, as she feared if she stopped too long, she would not have the will to get back up and keep going. An abandoned barn or cottage would see her through until spring. By then, perhaps the locals would have forgotten she had resided with the Widow Kendall for a time and she would no longer be hunted like an animal by the people of the town. In the spring, when the snow melted, she?d head south and try to find a caravan traveling northern to take her in. It seemed a good plan, to her fevered mind, and she scanned the valley below for a possible refuge.
       The landscape below was very beautiful. In spring and summer, it would be a veritable paradise. It would be a wonderful place for the caravan to make camp, and perhaps stay for longer than a week or two. A picturesque lake was banked by tall willow trees. The lake skirted a fenced in pasture. A deep longing burgeoned forth unbidden. This would be a delightful place to live, in a small cottage near the lake, nestled between the two hills, a cozy place---Zara gasped. She covered her mouth and made the sign with her dominant hand to ward off the evil eye. She was alone, but still, it wasn't good to let her Gadje blood rise to the fore. And settling in one place, setting down roots was foreign to her mother's people, it was his father's influence, his taint in her blood that made her yearn for such wanton things.
       She turned her mind back to the task before her, finding shelter before nightfall. There had to be a farm nearby or some estate, if there was grazing land below. She studied the beguiling landscape. Not one building. She squinted, and placed her hand over her eyes. Perhaps, just past that stand of trees on the opposite end of the valley . . .?
      The sun was lowering in the sky. It would be dark within hours.


        The dense woodlands gradually gave way to gentle rolling hills of prime pasture land.  Zara made it to the lake shore and stopped briefly to rest and to study the landscape. She saw smoke in the distance, around the curve of the lake, and knew there must be some cottage or farm ahead that might do nicely for her purposes. A farm would have outbuildings, a stable and hay mow where she could settle for the night. A cottage might be trickier to manage as most cottagers had only a lean to for their livestock, not a separate standing barn.
       A mound of hay would be lovely for a bed. She could almost sleep standing up if she closed her eyes. And getting out of this harsh wind would go a long way toward stopping the chills that racked her body. Zara shook her numb hands, hoping to bring some life back into them. Her feet, without adequate boots, were starting to hurt. These silly shoes the widow gave her were useless for walking long distances. They were a lady?s shoes, meant to serve little purpose but adorn the feet of a woman who spent her days sitting by the fire, sewing or reading. She was grateful to Widow Kendall for her kindness, but trying to make her into a lady of leisure had been a foolish plan on both their parts. Zara didn?t have coin or family connects, so becoming a lady would do her little good. She had no means of support, no property, and no family to depend upon. Not anymore.
         In hindsight, Zara realized that she should have taken a little time to hunt about the cottage for sturdy boots before she ran away. She?d been frightened when she awakened. It seemed more prudent to make a hasty retreat than to waste time searching for suitable clothing. It was a wonder she?d thought to grab the loaf of bread and hunk of cheese in the kitchen as she rushed past them on her way out the back door.
          Fog was coming in off the lake. Curses.  As if it weren?t hard enough trying to make her way through unfamiliar land on foot, nature had to conjure another hurdle for her to overcome.
        

Zara paused again, holding her side. That stitch wasn't getting any better. It was just above her ribs, in the vicinity of her lungs. She exhaled a frosty breath and tried to think of warm thoughts to replace the angry, bitter ones swirling in her head. She imagined coming upon a welcome fire, being offered a bowl of soup by fellow travelers and a warm bed in a wagon when she came around the bend along the lake shore. It wasn?t likely, her negative side nagged, but the idea did help her keep walking.
        Twenty minutes later, she stopped in her tracks. The smoke from a fire teased her nostrils. She hugged herself and turned about, scanning the woods that embraced the lake shore for a sign or path leading to a shelter. The overgrown ferns and brambles had shed their leaves, making it neigh onto impossible to discern a path in the growing twilight. She listened. There were the usual murmurings of the night creatures, the chirping of a squirrel as it chided its mate for not finding sufficient grain to get it through the winter, the rustling of feathers of the pheasant as it settled in the brambles for the night. And the snort of a stag in the near distance.
        ". . . up at the manor . . ." the voices drifted on the breeze. So, there was a manor house close by. That was good, if she could just figure out which direction to go. She held her breath, trying to decide which direction the voices were coming from.
        "go up there tomorrow.  .  . have a look about. Sir Stephan won't be back until spring, woman, what's all the fuss about?"   
         The voices came from her left. Zara made careful steps in the direction of the disgruntled male voice.  She tested the ground lightly with her foot before setting it down, lest she snap a twig and warn the inhabitants of the cottage nearby that someone was lurking about. As she followed the muted sound of conversation, the aroma of wood smoke grew stronger and so did the smell of roasted venison and potatoes. 
         If Uncle Lothar were with her he?d gesture for her to search for a stray chicken in the yard while he kept watch. Taking small, insignificant items from an unwitting cottager was considered a talent by her mother's people, a source of pride by which many a young child gained the respect of his elders. Children were encouraged not to take anything larger than they could put in a pocket, such as a handful of carrots from the garden or something they might carry easily, such as a chicken. She'd been raised to believe it was right to trick the Gadje out of their possessions, a sign of the tribe's superiority over the strange people who built houses and fenced in land, forbidding others to enjoy it and calling it their own. The gypsies didn't take big items, such as a cow or a horse but they were often accused of doing so. They believed in trading with the Gadje for large items or selling their talents until enough coin could be earned to purchase a necessary item. And as they were travelers, they didn't need all the fancy possessions the Gadje filled their houses with, they only needed the essentials, what would fit in wagon.
         Zara would not take anything from the people arguing in their cottage.  Since living with the Widow Kendall she came to see the seemingly innocent sport her people taught their children in a different light, from the perspective of the victim. Widow Kendall had very little to live on. She'd suffer if they took potatoes from her garden or eggs from her laying hens.
        "Oh, go-on wit ye!" It was a woman's voice, but that didn't mean it didn't have an undercurrent of strength. "T'ain't saying you should rush up there tonight, but we must see the house is secured for the winter. Can't have squirrels gettin' in from the attic like last year. They made a terrible mess of madam's wigs and left droppings from the nursery to the kitchens."
         Through the trees, she could make out a dim light, a window in the darkness. The window was opened, and two loaves of fresh bread were sitting in the sill, cooling in the night air. Zara's mouth watered at the rich aroma. She willed herself to stand firm in her attempt to leave the cottagers be and just listen to find out which direction the manor house might be. Oh, that smell was heaven, promising sheer delight to her empty stomach. She stepped from the woods into the small clearing that surrounded the neat house. A horse neighed a few feet from the back door. A dog gave a low growl from inside the window.
          "Hush, Laddie." The man's voice responded. "Lie down now. It;s just Old Joe out in the stall, reminding us he's needing his oats, too." 
           Zara waited, near breathless, not making the slightest movement until the dog relaxed.
          "I don't know what yer all upset about woman." The man continued, "The master won't be coming back to Huntingdon Abbey and his lady won't give a damn 'bout her wigs or her fancy clothes where she's lying. I'll go up the hill tomorrow and have a look, now leave me be."
          Up the hill. Zara rolled her lips together. She was in a flat hollow next to the lake shore. She'd been walking along the shore for miles and the surrounding land was mostly flat pasture land. She had to find the hill, and there would be a mansion, one with a shed or a stable, at least. Perhaps more outbuildings where she might take up residence for a few days, until she was rested and strong enough to travel further south.
           Hunger clawed at her. Zara?s stomach felt open and raw. It hurt just thinking about how lovely that freshly baked bread would taste on her tongue. The smell of it was damn near killing her. She staggered forward, her hands within reach of the open window. The warm light of interior was inviting, the soft candle glow, the smoke from the fire, the welcoming images of home. In her desperate state, the bread captured most of her attentions, singing to her, whispering an ancient song of seduction. Ah the soft texture of it on her tongue, and the promise of warmth and fullness the small brown loaf promised--it was too much--too much.
           The jaunt up the hill was not as steep as she anticipated. Fortified by the half devoured loaf she held in her hand, Zara trudged on up the embankment, hoping to find the promised shelter at the crown of the hill.  Huntingdon Abbey. She'd never heard of the place. That was a good thing, she noted, as she tore another jewel of soft, comforting warmth from the stolen treasure in her hand and lifted it to her mouth. It meant she was far from the Kendall farm, very far, for the kindly old woman knew and talked about everyone in her small village and the surrounding countryside, even the manor born. Yet the widow never mentioned Huntingdon Abbey in her many conversations with Zara, if they could be called that, as the woman nattered on in the evenings about the lives of everyone within her local 'tribe', the village, as Zara and the widow sat by the fire sewing or spinning wool into yarn. 
            As she crested the hill, Zara stopped at the sight ahead. She clutched the quarter loaf to her chest, and sighed her delight. It was a huge old stone building, with arched windows and tall spires piercing the moonlit sky. An ancient place, full of ghosts and spirits, she hoped. Huntingdon Abbey . . . she heard about the old monasteries and abbeys belonging to the Gadje religion, many of them destroyed by their own kind in fits of anger as rival beliefs had torn the Gadje of this land apart.
         Her tribe had talked about the old Gadje wars over spiritual beliefs and the widow also had been fascinated by the tragic stories of the sacred places. They were ruins, many of them. Stone fortresses built for the seers and scribes of the Gadje clans, the revered ones who lived within and maintained the writings and traditions of the ruling faith. Until another one replaced it by the rulers of the Gadje clan. Some of the old monasteries were razed, and others like this one, were given to the wealthy men of the rival faith as rewards for loyalty to the King.
          Pro--test--ants--was that the odd name the old woman had used?  
       Yes, that was the word. Those loyal to the King of England during the bloody belief feuds a few centuries past were given these grand fortresses of the old religion and so many of them were made into ancestral homes. Zara was intrigued by the dark mountain built by men as she moved across the damp lawn. It was an empty, soulless monstrosity glaring down at her with a gaping maw as the pointed crests of the rooftop rose up into the sky like the razor edged spines of a sleeping dragon.
        It would do until she was able to recover her strength and press further south, toward the gypsy tribe's winter camps. It would shelter her from the elements, but as she reached the outer walkway leading to the arched stone doors, a premonition washed over her. This place was mired in tragedy and sorrow. If she entered this lonely, forsaken place, would the dragon release her again or would she be swallowed up in its malingering darkness forever?  
   End of Chapter One, The Gypsy's Curse, Copyright Lily Silver  

If you crave a little more of the story, go to my website at lilysilver.webs.com
to read the next chapter.  Click under the Free Serial Novel tab to find the story.