Serialized Sunday; The Gypsy's Curse

Enjoy a peek into an author's life with a weekly rough draft excerpt from a work in progress.  This is for your reading enjoyment, Any comments are welcome. Once this book is complete and edited, it may differ slightly from the verision you read here. Those wishing to be given a free ebook copy of the finished novel  must leave a comment with their email address in the comment section. It's my way of giving back to my wonderful readers!  Enjoy this week's post.

The Gypsy's Curse, Chapter Three Part 1

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

        The wind awakened her. It blustered outside and rattled the window panes.

        Zara sat up in the big bed, confused by her surroundings for a brief instant. She was in a manor house, in a warm, dry, comfortable old canopy bed. She wore a clean bed gown that belonged to the lady of the house. Her own meager clothing was draped over the chair to dry. Her sodden, stained slippers had been discarded when she entered the house via the unlatched window on the back side. It was not quite dark up here on the hill as it had been in the hollow by the lake. The grey twilight had given her just enough light to make her way to an upstairs bedroom and collapse.

        The bed was luxurious. She’d never seen the like before. Her experience with sleeping quarters was severely limited to her uncle’s camp wagon and the small cot the Widow Kendall had offered her in the cottage attic. She sprawled on the feather mattress and extended her arms. There were still a few inches on either side of her fingers. Oh, it must be wonderful to be wealthy. Warm, cozy beds. Rooms with fireplaces. Yards and yards of elegant brocade fabric hanging from the bedposts and windows, all matching, not scraps of fabric sewn together willy- nilly to create an illusion of privacy in an overcrowded wagon--Stop it.

         Guilt and shame dampening her spirits, Zara sat up suddenly and curled her arms about her bent knees. She was doing it again; ungrateful wretch that she was. She was mentally comparing the wasteful luxuries of the Gadje against the simple provisions of her mother’s people.  Oh, but it was so grand, this room. She’d never dreamed such places existed in the world. It was a place for a princess in a story book.

        The sun was still hugging the far horizon, as reluctant to rise from its dark, comfortable bed as Zara was to pull herself from her cozy refuge. She stretched, and placed a bare foot on the floor. It was cold, but not terribly so, as the rich carpet had been set down to protect milady’s dainty feet from the frigid reality of an uncaring winter floorboard. She stood and pulled the covers up about the bed and smoothed away any evidence of her presence the night before. Remembering the cottager’s assurance to his wife that he’d come up the hill to inspect the manse today, she hurried to the clothespress and hung the new cotton gown back up on the peg where it belonged. Her fingers caressed the soft fabric with longing before she closed the door on the borrowed gown and slipped into her own worn garments.

       Shoes. Yes, she needed something more substantial than the frivolous slippers she ruined on the way here. She’d cast them down the well in the courtyard last night, mindful that she must not leave any evidence of her passing for the villagers on the other side of the woods to track. Zara knelt on the floor and checked the drawers of the armoire. She found an alluring pile of soft silken garments?stockings, petticoats, garters. Her fingers coveted the costly garments. With reluctance, she closed the drawer and nibbled at her lower lip.

        Being in this house was bringing out the worst in her; the Gadje part she couldn’t deny, no matter how hard she tried. Her father had been wealthy landowner, so she’d been told. Perhaps not as wealthy as the one whose home she had stolen into now, but rich enough. He’d been a selfish, greedy man, so they said, a bad influence even among his own people. Devil seed, they sometimes whispered about Zara when she was a child. Devil’s child. It wasn’t enough that her mother had born a babe from a Gadje man. Such things could be forgiven. It was his reputation that had tarnished her standing in the tribe.

        All her life, Zara was cautioned about not giving in to her carnal side lest she become like her father--evil--given over to the desires of the flesh. It wasn’t fair. She was expected to walk a straighter path than the other children of the tribe. If she showed the slightest yearning for a pretty bauble, it was blamed on her Gadje blood and she was chastened for it, where another girl in the camp would be petted and fussed over for wanting that red silk shawl or that gold locket. Her uncle was the only one who took her part against the other children during the many squabbles. Her mother and grandmother always made her apologize for any disagreement. Not because they thought her guilty, but because they knew that her tainted blood could be brought up by the others and Zara would be exiled if she made trouble among them. And as she was but a child, her mother would be exiled too.

      

Zara didn’t resent her mother or grandmother for their caution--not much. It was hard to hold a grudge against the dead. It did little good. Uncle Lothar took her hunting or he’d let her tag along as he made his rounds to the cottagers to ply his tinkering skills. Aunt Sapphira gave Zara hugs when Cousin Rhys wasn’t watching. Rhys was the leader of their caravan, the oldest male since grandfather had passed on.  He watched Zara incessantly. She knew he was just waiting for a reason to make an example of her to the other children for her wickedness. Lothar always defended Zara against the bully Rhys had become as their chief, but Lothar died last spring, and after his funeral Zara was finally cast out and left to fend for herself.

      A bare branch rattling against the window startled her out of her ruminations. Zara refolded the pretty red silk stockings, placed them reluctantly in the drawer and closed it. Red silk was her weakness. Crimson, the color of blood, the color of the cloak from the Hellfire Club her mother had kept tucked in the bottom of her trunks and took out only late at night when she was alone in the wagon and she thought Zara was asleep. If her father had truly been a rapist, as they claimed, then her mother had secretly been in love with her assailant. A woman didn’t pine after a man who had shamed her and abused her body. Zara saw how her mother fondled the cloak and held it against her cheek, as if mourning the loss of a lover, not a villain. When mother died Lothar burned the cloak, refusing to let Zara have the token of her father’s so cherished by her mother. He spat on it, and cursed the man who wore it, frightening Zara with his vehement response.

      Shoes, girl, sensible boots, and then you must away!   Zara moved across the room in her bare feet. Her stockings as well as her shoes were destroyed. She nibbled her lip, and touched the clean bandage wound around her wounded palm. Surely the lady wouldn’t miss a pair of stockings when she had dozens. Would such a grand lady begrudge a poor girl a pair of stockings from her horde? The lady was probably in London. It was the place that all grand ladies preferred to the country. And surely the woman had other stockings with her.

      The trunk in the corner caught her eye. If there were boots, they might be in there. She opened the trunk and found a sturdy pair of riding boots. Soft black leather--it was like butter beneath her fingers. Zara grabbed them and closed the lid of the trunk, lest her eyes behold something else that her hands might itch to possess. She sat on the bed for a moment, hesitating, resisting the wicked urge to take those red silk stockings. She needed stockings, but not silk ones. Oh, and they felt so lovely against her fingers! There were woolen stockings shoved in the back of the drawer, banished from sight due to their bland, serviceable appearance.

        Zara’s hands fisted about the lovely red silk. She bunched the fabric up, resisting the call of her conscience to put them back in the drawer. If you’re going to steal something, choose something useful, she heard her uncle’s voice in her head.

       She bit her lip and counted to ten, fifteen, and on to thirty.

       In the end, it didn’t matter. Stockings were stockings she told herself as she gathered up her bag and treaded carefully from the room in her new black riding boots. She closed the door, and crept carefully down the hall, listening for the telltale sound of the cottager below the stairs.

      Once she was in the hall, she couldn’t resist peeking in the other rooms before descending to the first floor and making her exit. The house intrigued her. It seemed as if the hallway went on forever. There were doors and more doors as she gazed down the long hall. Zara shook her head. She must appear the simpleton to be so fascinated by a mere house, yet, having grown up in a camp wagon the notion of inhabiting such a grand, expansive home, of staying in one place for more than a week or a month, was vastly appealing.

       Zara entered the room across the hall from the one she had just exited. It was a masculine room, probably the lord’s chamber. The furniture was covered with white sheets to protect it from the dust. The curtains were drawn over the window, blocking out the light. It was a beautiful, peaceful chamber.

       Oh, to have such a room all to myself. The room was wider than three camp wagons put together and twice as long. All of this space for one person? She set her pack on the floor and stood in the center of the room. She held out her hands and spun about slowly. This would be a  place to dream, to be free. To sway to the music in her soul unobserved.

       That was one thing she could not do at the widow’s house, dance. It was in her blood. Her mother had been a dancer. And yet, the widow’s kindness in taking Zara in required a respect for the old woman’s beliefs. Widow Kendall frowned on her urge to move unrestrained, and so, Zara restrained herself, lest she give the woman cause to regret having taken her in.

        She closed her eyes and lifted her arms above her head. The boots with their slight leather heel were cumbersome, not allowing her feet to turn as easily on the carpet as if she’d been barefoot. She was not about to remove them. Zara forgot her loneliness for a time as she let her soul flow through her body, allowed her mind to cease its endless prattle of worried thoughts and recriminations. She gave herself up to the dance.

        A loud clanging of a door reverberated through the manse, stopping Zara’s movements. Someone was here. Probably the old man from the cottage below the hill. She froze and whirled about quickly to gather her bag and find a hiding place. The curtains were drawn. She considered them and just as quickly dismissed the idea. If the cottager came in and opened the drapes, she’d be exposed and hauled off to the nearest jail for trespassing. There was the dressing screen, but it proved equally flimsy. She could hear footsteps echoing on the parquet flooring of the hall below the stairs. She heard low muttering, turned to the door, and stifled a gasp. She left it open. She didn’t dare close it now. The sound would alert them that someone was in the house.  The muttering grew louder, more distinct as the person climbed the stairs and walked slowly down the hall toward the opened doorway.  

Copyright Lily Silver, 2013

Ancient Norse Legends, Anyone?

Ice floes on Bay of Green Bay, Lily Silver 2005

Brrrr, it's winter. It's freezing here in Wisconsin. We've not had a day above freezing for months. And being it's also the season for Thor 2 in the theaters, my mind is turning back to the Norse legends I studied in college a few years ago. I'm also part Norwegian, so that might have something to do with my fascination for Norse legends.

Here's the thing, in the legends, those women are not your typical weak female types hoping for a man to save them.  The legends of the Valkryies are quite impressive.  One story comes to mind about a girl named Brynhild.  

In Saga of the Volsungs, we have vivid depictions of valkyries, or shield maidens as they are sometimes called. The valkyries tend to be human women imbued with supernatural powers. In Chapter 21 of Volsungs, the hero Sigurd is drawn to a great light on a mountain. He climbs the mountain and goes inside a building to find a man lying asleep in full battle armor. Here's the kicker; he removes the sleeping warrior's helmet and discovers it is a woman, not a man. 

Brynhild awakens and tells him that she was stabbed with a sleeping thorn by Odin as punishment for killing a king in battle whom Odin favored. Odin also told her she would have no more victories in battle and that she must marry, meaning she must someday put away her battle array and become like other women. Boo Hoo!  For Brynhild, this would be a true punishment.

Eowyn from Lord of the Rings Valkyrie immortalized!

Sigurd is entranced by her, perhaps because of her status as a shield maiden, not in spite of it. He asks Brynhild to be his teacher and teach him ‘of mighty things.’ Brynhild does so.  Sigurd compliments Brynhild by saying she is the wisest of all women. Rather than being turned off by her warrior persona and her wisdom, he’s definitely liking what he sees. It’s okay for a woman to be strong and smart in the ancient Norse culture. 

in

Not your typical damsel in distress, Lord of the Rings, Eowyn

This passage is significant as it shows valkyries as being considered wise and gives them an additional role of playing tutor to the hero. Brynhild’s battle attire and her warrior persona seem to be taken in stride by those about her. When Sigurd comes calling at her home frequently, he doesn’t seem surprised to find her sitting near the hearth dressed for battle, a helmet on her head and a spear in her hand. Their 'love affair' is not clearly laid out in the sagas, but it doesn't take too much imagination as a romance author for me to picture the pair of them curled up on a bear rug in that mountain hideaway, next to a blazing fire, kissing and maybe a little more . . . .

Another story of the legendary hero Helgi has a valkryrie named Sigrun as his love interest. In the first poem, she flies over Helgi’s vessel, protecting his men as they sail off to battle. At the end of the story Sigrun and her valkyries ride into the battle with him:

“Helmeted valkyries came down from the sky--the noise of spears grew loud—

They protected the prince; then said Sigrun—the wound-giving valkyrie flew, the

Troll-woman’s mount [wolf] was feasting on the fodder of Ravens [corpses] . . . 

 [Sigrun says to Helgi] ‘it is fitting lord, that you should have the red gold rings

And the powerful girl [Sigrun is giving him herself, since he’s won the battle].

        Apparently girl and power were not mutually exclusive terms in Norse culture. And the presence of women in battle does not seem to trouble the men folk too much in these sagas. In fact, they seem to take it as a good omen to have valkyries present.
        I don't know about you, but I'm feeling very medieval about now. I'm chomping at the bit to write a good Norse Romance with a Shield Maiden/Valkyrie as a heroine.  If you're curious to see a good depiction of a shield maiden, watch Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers. Eowyn Rocks as a Norse warrior woman, and she calls herself a shield maiden of Rohan!  

She kills the bad guy!

 The best part of the movie (LOTR The Two Towers)  is when our warrior woman confronts the uber bad guy, the Witch King, the guy responsible for all the evil going on around them. He tells her that she's foolish to resist him and she will die, that no man can kill him. She stabs him, and as he's crumbling into dust, basically disintegrating before her eyes, she removes her helment and says "I am no man!" 

Next Week: I'll share another story of a Shield Maiden who avenged her husband's death, ruled Russia, and then became a Catholic, a woman named Olga, or Helga. She's a real person, by the way.

Where do I find this stuff? It's in the ancient literature of the Norse:

---

 Saga of the Volsungs, 13^th century BCE. (New York, Penguin, 1999), 67-71.

The First Poem of elgi Hundingsbani, The Poetic Edda, Transl. Carolyne Larrington, (New York:

Oxford, 1996), 118.

Serial Sunday: The Gypsy's Curse Post 2

Each Sunday I'm doing a serial thing, no not serial killer, but the protagonist in my story may be a killer! Each week I'll be posting a rough draft excerpt of one of my works in progress, and yes, they will be concurrent, so if you follow along, you'll get the story in the correct sequence. Feel free to comment or add suggestions from time to time. Happy Reading! 

 

Here is part of Chapter Two of The Gypsy's Curse. Chapter two is the hero, Stephan St. John's point of view. He's a rich landowner, although not aristocracy. His father was a rich merchant so he's still considered 'merchant class'.   Stephen has a little problem, as you'll see . . . is he a killer, or does he just indulge too heavily in drink and black out, and those grisly murders are a coincidence? 

Copyright Lily Silver 2014

            London, November 1816

            Stephan St. John flipped the collar of his coat up around his neck and exited his stately townhouse on Grosvenor Square. It was colder than a witch?s teat outside this time of year, and after dark, too, but he wanted to feel cold.

            He wanted to feel something. Anger, lust, hate, hunger. Even cold, yes, that would do.

            "Sir, if you'd just allow me to have the carriage brought around?" Geoffrey, his butler whined as he stepped out onto the front stoop behind Stephan.

            "I'm fine, don't bother." He ground out, annoyed by the butler's toadying. He clasped his walking stick in his fist and descended the stairs to the street. "Don't wait up for me."

            The butler acknowledged his command, stepped back into the house and closed the door.

            Stephan moved past the line of townhouses, past rows orange lit windows with glowing fires behind them, homes with families gathered together in cozy drawing rooms. He marched past feminine trills of laughter and male banter at the soiree four doors down from him, a gathering he'd been invited to, but didn't plan to appear at.

            A tall, sparse figure was headed toward him on the walkway, sporting a familiar limp and equally familiar grey beaver top hat. He cursed inwardly, hoping the dandy didn't recognize him in the shadows as they passed each other.

            "Stephan, is that you"  James Hadley, Lord Cavendish exclaimed, drawing to a dead halt before they passed each other. "I say, you're leaving Lady Carstair's already?"

            Stephan leaned heavily on the brass topped cane in front of him with both hands. "No, Hadley, I haven't been at Lady Carstair's soiree, nor do I plan to be. I bid you good evening." Hoping that would be sufficient, he straightened and started to move past his old acquaintance.

            "Stephan, wait." Hadley placed his hand on Stephan's arm. "Why not come with me? You need diversion. There's a new crop of Debs to be inspected, you know. They've come to town for a bit of shopping and socializing before winter sets in. Their Mamas are priming them for the season next spring, a dry run, you know. It's always amusing to see the new swans glide about, fluffing their feathers, hoping to catch the eye of a seasoned drake."

            "Not tonight, thank you." Or any night, he thought, but didn?t say aloud. "Perhaps we'll meet at White's soon." He started off again. Hadley had the good sense to let go of his arm this time and let him walk on.

            "Damn it, St. John, you need to stop this incessant moping."  Hadley's voice followed Stephan past the next set of stairs.

            Stephan stopped again, tossed his cane upward and caught it lightly in his fist. He kept his back to his companion. Few men would dare call him out so, and on a public street at that. Few men would be brave enough to confront him at all. James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, was an old friend, and thus, he was allowed a bit of latitude where others might find themselves sprawled on the street, their face bruising from a cruel left hook and challenged to meet Lord St. John at sunrise at the opposite end of a sword. Stephan remained still, biting back a sharp verbal riposte as his friend continued to take him to task for his self-imposed seclusion.

            "I know Byron's made it fashionable for men to brood." James went on. "It;s considered romantic according to the ladies, but Julia's been for dead two years. It's time to rejoin society while you still have people willing to have you, that is. Come with me, Stephan, please. You can practice your brooding on the ladies and perhaps break a heart or two into the bargain."

            "James." Gripping his brass wolf head cane, Stephan turned about to face his would be conscience. "I'm in no mood to suffer the inept wiles of a group of adolescent girls fresh from the schoolroom, nor do I wish to endure Lady Carstair's obnoxious attempts to set me up with one of this years darlings she's agreed to sponsor. Leave it alone, old man. You don't know what you're inviting in, if you did, you would be horrified, you would free yourself of any and all connection to me as quickly as possible and advise others to do the same."

            James Hadley laughed. His heels clicked on the cobblestones as he advanced, and placed a firm hand on Stephan?s shoulder from behind. "Such drama! You should take up writing poetry, or perhaps some ghoulish story, like Mrs. Shelly's. I hear she's become more popular at the bookseller than her poor husband, Percy. Where are you off to? I'll join you."

            "I'm going to walk the streets for a while, enjoy the fog." He returned with impatience.  Would this man never cease his carping and let him be?

            "Walk the streets at night to search for Julia's killer! I thought ..."   If James Hadley, Lord Cavendish, had an ounce of sense, Stephan prayed he was calling upon it now. "I thought you gave up on that old game. Its no good, the bloke who did it is long gone. Come, let's go have a drink at White's, please Stephan."

            Stephan ground his teeth, and remained silent. Damn the man, why wouldn't he just leave him to his wandering and cease this incessant carping!  "A drink then."  He muttered, giving in.

            With any luck, James would be drunk in an hour or two and then he could send the bloke to his rooms and be on his way. Stephan wasn?t looking for his wife?s killer any more. He didn't need to, he knew who it was who had slashed her throat and tore out her insides on that dreadful night two years past. It was the devil staring back at him in the mirror each morning.

                                             ____________________________

           Stephan awakened to Brisbane's shuffling movements about his room. Brisbane was pulling his master's riding clothing out of the armoire and setting up his shaving tools. The man was a godsend. Brisbane stayed with Stephan through the grueling months after Julia's death. Brisbane stayed with him when he drank himself into a stupor for weeks afterward and cursed at everyone who dared come near him. Brisbane stayed with him when the constable and the sheriff kept questioning him and doubting his answers. Brisbane stayed close when Stephan doubted himself. Another servant, with less loyalty and less fortitude, would have abandoned his post and sought a more temperate situation with a less volatile master.

         "Good morning, sir." Brisbane offered, seeing that his charge was watching him from the luxurious pillows.

         "It is morning." Stephan replied dryly. He sat up and removed the covers.

          Damn, that brandy didn't make one ounce of difference. He thought that a couple of drinks with his friend James at White's might soothe the beast that haunted his dreams or at least give him a night without dreams. No such luck. His inner demons seemed fueled by the noxious brew, not sedated, as he'd hoped. Last night's dreams were frightful. He was in the woods again, standing over Julia's body, his hands covered with blood. Only they weren't hands, the bloodied forelimbs he held out in front of him were claws.

         

There were other images mixed with Julia's mangled corpse, jumbled pieces merging together that did not make sense.  A wolf, a vicious, deformed sort of animal that most closely resembled a wolf or a bear. A wretched sound of howling echoing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. Darkness, night, the moon above, and the serene lake below the hill he stood on.  Voices in the darkness, shouting, and torches marching through the trees.

          And poor Julia, crumpled like a broken doll on the forest floor, her nightgown shredded and a bloody mass of gore where her lovely ivory throat had once been. She'd been with child, his child, or so he'd been led to believe. Stephan cursed himself for opening the old wounds. It was pointless to harbor bitterness toward a woman who had died a horrible death. She may have betrayed their marriage vows but she was not here to defend herself.

            Stephan emerged from the warm bed with reluctance, his primal desire to remain in the cozy nest for a little longer. That wouldn't do. He'd only court danger by thinking of the dreams or of Julia's death. It was best to get busy, move about, concern himself with estate matters instead of moping about in a self indulgent bout of melancholy.  He stood, stretched, relieved himself, rinsed the dragons out of his mouth and then sat in the chair before the mirror so that Brisbane could make him look civilized for his morning ride.

          The mist intrigued him. Stephan loved Hyde Park at this hour of the morning, before the crush of carriages as the Ton converged on the place in the hope of seeing and being seen. It was nearly deserted, save a couple of other early riders like himself. They, too, seemed content to remain anonymous during their morning exercise.  He allowed his stallion, Hades, to wander as he listened to the birds chirping greetings to one another in the trees nearby. The dew would soon become frost, in a week, perhaps less. As he inhaled the crisp autumn air and surveyed the misty landscape, a peculiar yearning came upon him, the desire to return to his estates.

         He stayed away from the abbey since Julia's death. He shut up the place, vowing never to return to his ancestral home and the bitter memories that festered there. His steward kept him informed of the business end of the estate and the cottagers who lived nearby kept watch over the mansion in his absence.  The people of Huntington Downs were not to blame for his bad choice in a wife. Nor was the house itself at fault for his failed marriage. Yes, perhaps it was time to return to Huntingdon Abbey and face the dour ghosts and monsters straight on instead of trying to run away from them.

          It didn't work. No matter where he went, whether it be Bath where he sought refuge, London or his sister's house in Devonshire. The memories dogged his steps and haunted his every waking moment. He spent enough time trying to evade the ghosts of his past.

          It was time to turn about and confront them.

Copyright, The Gypsy's Curse,  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  

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