Royal 02 - Royal Passion by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online Page B

Italian, Mara thought there was too much truth in it for amusement.
    The gypsies straggled back into camp as darkness began to fall. They came in ones and twos, some of those returning alone no older than four or five years. It was not uncommon, according to Estes, for children of that age to forage for themselves, begging at farm doors or stealing chickens and geese by “fishing” for them with a baited hook on a piece of line. They seldom became lost. There were trail markers left by the gypsies for each other, small arrangements of stones or twigs called patterans that always pointed the way toward reunion with the band, whether it was stationary or traveling. Because no one paid much attention to them, these youngsters were highly efficient at gathering information useful to the tribe.
    The gypsy men tended the horses and did odd repair jobs around the camp before throwing themselves on the rugs around the central fire. The women cleaned the turkeys brought by several of the children, throwing the refuse to the waiting dogs. They stuffed the birds with herbs and onions and set them to roast over the coals of a separate cook fire. The children played, chasing each other around the caravans or knocking a ball about with a stick. The old violinist began to play. A man picked up the mandolin, strumming it, and they were joined by someone else on a concertina. A young woman, stirred by the music, pushed away from where she leaned on a caravan and began to dance. Her hair, held only by a fillet around her forehead, spilled in a wild black tangle down her back. Her eyes were dark and lustrous with pleasure. Her blouse of soft cotton hugged her body, while her skirt swirled around her in its bright-colored fullness, now outlining her hips, now lifting to show her knees and thighs. She swayed as if in a trance, whirling; her legs and arms, feet and hands, moving in smooth, natural rhythm, a pure interpretation of the night and the moment and the sweet passion of the music.
    The evening advanced, but none seemed to care about the hour or even to notice it. Food would be forthcoming when it was ready. Babies who cried were given the breast at once or fed bits of meat or bread soaked in wine or goat's milk before being put to bed. The elderly nodded, half asleep. In the meantime, life was life and meant to be lived. Who knew what the next hour might bring? Let the music play. Dance. Sing. To Mara, watching, it seemed a beguiling philosophy.
    She did not hear the arrival of the prince. Whether it was truly as silent as it seemed or if it was just that she was lost in the music and the dance, she could not tell, but one moment she was alone, the next he was beside her.
    No particular welcome greeted him. His presence was accepted as natural, as if he were one of them. It was surprising to Mara. She had expected some acknowledgment, some form of honor. There came an opportunity to ask him about it later, when the turkeys had been carved and handed around and the camp, intent on eating, was quiet.
    "I am the son of the boyar ,” he said. “What honor should there be for that?"
    "I don't know since I have no idea what you mean by boyar ."
    "In my part of the world, the boyar is the owner, the ruler. It's the title my father holds over these people."
    "He owns them?"
    "No one ever really owns a gypsy; the old boyars only thought they did. But because my father's father, and his father before him, cared for their ancestors, fed and clothed them and gave them work while letting them come and go at will, this band still gives our line the right to the title. It means little except for the remembrance of ancient privilege, ancient loyalty."
    "But if this band comes, as I suppose they must, from your country, what are they doing here in France?"
    The glance he sent her was opaque."Wanderers, outlaws, victims with hungry hearts, they come and go. Must there be a reason?"
    "I thought perhaps it was because you are here."
    "Why? Is that what