The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (5 page)

Though but twenty, in her short life Analee had lived through experiences not known to some in a whole lifetime. She glanced at Nelly walking beside her, Brewster’s eldest daughter with whom she had found an affinity. Nelly was a pale, almost ethereal looking girl, taller than average, and with an air of delicacy and sensitivity about her lacking in the rest of his brood.

Nelly was a dreamer, forever gazing into some imaginary world seen only by herself. Compared to sturdy Jane who was only thirteen, Nelly was considered useless by her Mother and father alike, having no aptitude for cooking and cleaning and mending on the one hand, or horse riding on the other. Nelly said little, but Analee was aware of an unspoken sympathy between them from the way Nelly’s great sorrowful eyes followed her about.

Nelly had stopped with her father, and stood, her head on one side, her eyes fastened hungrily on Delamain Castle which looked like some fairy palace in the haze of noon.

‘Imagine living some place like that,’ Nelly said as the procession moved on. ‘Even being a servant there would be a paradise. Imagine, enough to eat, a comfortable place to sleep, clean dry clothes to put on. I would settle for such an existence.’

‘Aye, ‘tis very different from our own,’ Analee agreed, looking again at Nelly, noting her pale tired face – the girl looked almost sickly – her eyes great dark circles as though she slept badly.

Analee, so used to a roving life, never thought of anything different. She could have slept on a bough hanging over a lake such was her adaptability; she could curl up under a hedgerow with only the stars for light, her bundle for a pillow and her cloak for warmth and slumber until the birdsong which lulled her to sleep awakened her again. Analee was used to a completely natural life and, because of it, enjoyed a rude health which she took entirely for granted. The pale countenance and thin body of the girl beside her awakened her curiosity as much as her sympathy.

In the weeks she had spent with the Driver family Analee had experienced her first period of stability for over a year. Until then a ruthless need to move on, to escape from bad memories, had kept her permanently mobile. But in time memories fade and motion, obsessive motion, defeats its own purpose. Analee had become aware of such an exhaustion that when at last she did bed down with the Drivers she realized she was at the end of her tether. Now, after two weeks of good regular meals and sleep under cover, she felt strong, vibrant and healthy, in contrast to the pitiful figure beside her who sometimes awoke her at night on the palliasse they shared in a corner of the tent with her pitiful weeping. But when she gently questioned her during the day Nelly shook her head and said she did not know what Analee meant.

Her reverie was interrupted by a shout from Brewster who halted at the head of his horse. Analee could see a cluster of tents and carts in a field to the right, sheltering below the hill upon which lay tiny Penrith. They had reached another resting place. What would Brewster have for her here? More horse thefts? More sidling glances and groping hands? More hot passionate breathing on the back of her neck?

Analee knew she could not stay long with Brewster and his family or she would commit murder. Her situation was too precariously balanced between trying to placate and please Brewster by her petty acts of pilfering and trying to keep his bulky, clumsy, repulsive body off hers.

‘Thank God we have somewhere to settle for a few days,’ Nelly said, ‘how I hate this life on the road.’

‘Have you ever talked to your father about it? Maybe he would not mind if you went into service in some great house.’

You think I can talk to my father about
anything
?’
Nelly said with unaccustomed spirit in her voice. ‘You think he ever listens to
me
?’

No. Brewster never listened to anyone except sometimes his sons if they shouted very hard. It was Brewster’s loud voice and masterful presence that dominated the family, that cowed his pathetic wife and silenced his children, even the gambolling of the very little ones. Analee could imagine the difficulty Nelly would have trying to convince her father that she found her way of life unsatisfactory.

‘Then you must run away.’

Nelly gave a tired smile, a mirthless chuckle escaping almost unbidden from her throat.

‘You think I can run away so easily? He has tied me to him for good.’

‘But how? How can he do that?’

Nelly’s glance was enigmatic, cynical and worldly-wise. Analee was shocked to see an expression of such despair and disenchantment. Further enquiries were hindered by more shouting from Brewster, who led them into the field where the familiar arc of tents and carts proclaimed yet another gypsy site.

Analee went forward with the kind of delighted anticipation she always felt when she saw her own kind gathered together. Saw the rough familiar faces of gypsy folk, heard the Romany language, smelt the wood fires and the odour of food cooking. Yes, she did belong to them; she was one of them. She helped unload the cart while Brewster and his sons, with many a foul curse, were untethering the horses. Margaret got out the food they had caught or stolen and Jane, the little housewife, started to scamper around with pots and pans, while the smaller ones ran off to gather kindling and the older boys prepared to light the fire and erect the sleeping tents, one for the men and one for the women.

Analee had her place in this familiar bustle and set to with a will. She was hungry. On their journey that day they had caught several rabbits and a few pigeons. Analee’s task was to skin and pluck them while Jane cut up onions and the elder boys were sent with pitchers to draw water from the well. As soon as it was lit Nelly sat by the fire gazing into the flames, huddled over it as though to draw warmth and life from its fierce, crackling heat. Once or twice as he passed her Brewster gave her a savage kick accompanied by curses, but she appeared not to heed him and simply shifted in the direction he had kicked her.

‘I don’t understand what ails our Nelly,’ her Mother grumbled, her face streaked with sweat and charcoal as she placed the pot over the flames, ‘she is worse than usual.’

‘Do you think she may be sick?’ Analee enquired softly, helping Margaret correct the angle of the sloping pot.

‘Sick?’
said Margaret wonderingly as though she didn’t know the meaning of the word.

‘She is so pale and listless; her eyes are ringed so darkly. Her shoulders are so thin.’

‘Aye, she is not a healthy girl. Never has been. It was her chest last winter. We thought to leave her in a poorhouse but none would take her as we are Romany people and do not belong to a town or village. Sometimes I wonder she did not die of the cold last winter as many of our folk did.’

Analee shuddered. She remembered the cold of the previous winter too and thought of her own thin weak body scarcely recovered from her ordeal, tramping through the snow, looking for food and shelter and every time despairing to find it. Each day she thought might be her last.

But the winter seemed a long time ago today as she looked at the sun setting over the majestic lakeland hills in the west, nearer to them now, casting its final beams in a splendid gesture of farewell. Her spirits and her hopes rose at such a magnificent sight and then, in the twilight, she joined the others around the fire to partake of rabbit and pigeon, bread and a flask of ale the youngsters had managed to steal while passing through a village on their way. The young ones were always sent off to do the petty pilfering. Brewster thought it good training for them and watched with admiration their tiny, wiry little bodies scampering craftily through the throng, to disappear and then reappear with booty skilfully hidden under their rags. Peter at seven was a particularly adept thief and Agnes at five was catching up with him.

But Nelly, Nelly had never been a good thief; showed no aptitude for it at all; had been clumsy and awkward and looked to be heading for the gallows even as a tiny child, until Margaret persuaded him not to send her any more. It might have been a good thing if she had swung, Brewster thought savagely, looking at her creased apathetic face through the flames, all the trouble she’d caused.

The chattering good-natured calls of her own folk seemed to Analee like music as she sat by the fire in the darkness, her belly feeling replete with the good fare. Her chin was propped on her knees as she stared at the dancing flames, which seemed to form and reform until they appeared to, make a face – a handsome, noble face, eyes gleaming, mouth slightly curved. Analee shook herself and sat up. The picture of the man in the forest haunted her almost every night, driving out memories she thought she would never forget. She got up to collect the bowls – all licked clean except Nelly’s, which had hardly been touched. Analee was aware of little Toby’s eyes staring greedily into it and with a smile she quickly gave it to him and watched how his skilful thieving little hands, adept at concealment, hastily conveyed the succulent morsels of pigeon and rabbit to his mouth until, in a trice, the platter was empty and Analee proceeded on her way to the water bucket that stood by the women’s tent.

Suddenly the air seemed momentarily still and she lifted her head as the clear silver tones of a flute rang out with such urgency and sweetness that she felt her blood chill because of the memories that took her back so long ago. Then the soft, subtle brush of the tambourine joined in gentle accompaniment to the flute, a haunting vibrant gypsy dance, that made Analee’s toes start to tap and her body sway involuntarily to the sound of music.

She looked up and saw the faces around the many fires in the camp and observed how everyone had fallen silent as if in appreciation of the sweet harmony of the music. Then suddenly a fiddle came to life and the music changed to a merry jog that quickly had youths and maids on their feet while the older ones sat and clapped in time to the music.

Analee impulsively dropped her pots and leapt into the circle formed by the dancers. Now the musicians came from out of the shadows and she saw that the man who played the flute so sublimely was a cripple and leaned on a crutch, while the fiddler was a robust hearty Romany lad and the tambourine was played by a girl about the same age as herself. They stood near the Driver tent and, because of the closeness of the music, Brewster’s sons Alan, Roger and John joined in, clapping their hands, tapping their feet and swirling with the gathering throng. Then with a roar Brewster got up and energetically mingled with the dancers until the only ones remaining were Margaret, even her sallow face transformed by a smile, and Nelly, who gazed apathetically in front of her seeming neither to hear nor see.

But Analee observed none of this. It was a long time since she had danced, since she had even wanted to. She had wondered if the sound of music would ever stir her again. As she whirled, clasping first this hand and then that, the sweating happy gypsy faces passing by her in kaleidoscopic confusion, from the throng of bodies came one that caught her in his arms and threw her in the air then, as she landed, she found her feet stamping time in harmony with a young gypsy lad. Their bodies twirled and bent and spun and jumped until Analee suddenly realized they were dancing on their own, lit by the flames of fifty fires, the circle of watchers panting and clapping, beating time to the music.

Analee felt possessed as she danced, inspired to surpass herself by the agility and grace of her partner. She was unaware of the roaring, shouting and clapping, hearing only the haunting melody as the beat quickened and the stamping grew louder as she and her partner reached the climax of the dance. Then, as he whirled her finally into the air and she sank to the ground, the music stopped and she was aware of smiling faces, laughing and shouting and furiously clapping hands.

Analee remained in a low curtsey, aware of her beating heart, the agonizing shortness of breath. The youth still held hard onto her hand and then he drew her to her feet and bowed, smiling, his face very close to hers, his even white teeth caught brilliantly by the flames. He even brushed her face with his lips and drew her body close to him as the music started again, and the couples who had retired to leave the floor to Analee and her partner, began to dance, this time to the slower rhythm of a love song.

‘How art thou called?’ the young man whispered into her ear. She was aware of his warm breath, the beginnings of a beard on his face, his hard supple male body drawing her even closer to him.

‘I am called Analee. And thou?’

‘Randal. I haven’t seen thee before.’

Analee smiled and her body began swaying to the rhythm again as Randal put his arm around her waist and led her into the throng of dancers.

Suddenly a rough hand seized her and drew her almost to the ground, a sharp painful grasp of her shoulder that made her wince from pain. Randal was pushed roughly away and Analee found herself pressed hard against the gross form and overhanging belly of Brewster. She could feel his hot breath on her cheeks bearing the rank, stale smell of ale and onions.

‘So we have a dancer have we? An acquisition I daresay more useful than a horse thief.’

‘What do you mean?’ Analee said furiously, trying with all her might to strain away from his powerful grasp.

‘There are taverns are there not? Gypsy dancers are much sought after in taverns, ale houses, the castles of the nobility. Aye, we could put thee to good use.’

Analee tried to shake herself free from Brewster and beat vainly on his thick arms with her clenched fist but he only laughed and drew her closer to him, knowing that in the press of bodies under the cover of dark no one would notice them.

‘What am I that I am to be put to good use?’ Analee shouted. ‘Some kind of animal?’

‘Aye, a bitch,’ Brewster said his eyes glinting lustfully, ‘or a mare to be put in foal.’ And suddenly his wide fleshy mouth came down hard on hers. He gripped one of her breasts in his huge hand and squeezed it so tightly that she would have cried out had she not been breathless and choking with the moist pressure of his mouth against hers, his tongue vainly seeking entrance between her clenched teeth.