UN DIA NUEVO

By Maril
maril.swan@sympatico.ca

This story is also available in Maril's original formatting on her fanfic site: Quill & Sword:

http://www3.sympatico.ca/maril.swan/quillnsword/QoS_stories

and click on the "Un dia nuevo" link. In fact, click on all of her stories :-) You won't be disappointed!

DISCLAIMER: The characters from the Queen of Swords are copyright to Fireworks Productions and Paramount. No infringement of copyright is intended nor revenue expected from their use. The story plot and other characters are copyright to the author, Maril Swan.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: To Elizabeth Milligan, a fine writer, who edited this story and spent a great deal of her own time to help craft it to its final form. To Margie Milan whose ideas and suggestions inspired several details, and for her help with the Spanish terms. And to Carmen Carter, because she is a great fan of Marta (Paulina Galvez) and I thought she would enjoy this story.

SPANISH & GITANO GLOSSARY:

huerachas - sandals made of thin strips of leather, worn mostly by peasants
gitano - Gypsies; gitana - female Gypsy
payos - non-Gypsies
múlo - an evil spirit released from a dead body which is angry because
it's dead or has been wronged
marimé - contamination - either by a múlo or other source
remuda - a herd of horses
abuela - grandmother
barrio - district

The sweet soft strains of a violin floated in from the verandah, causing Tessa to pause then smile. She can't sleep either, the young woman thought with a pleased grin. At least I shall have some company. Tessa turned her footsteps toward the sound. On opening the door onto the verandah, she saw Marta, her fine features sharply outlined in the cool white of the moonlight. The Gypsy woman sat comfortably in a wicker chair, the violin tucked under her chin, with her eyes closed as she softly ran the bow over the strings, evoking a poignant melody that echoed in Tessa's heart. She plays so beautifully, Tessa thought, drawing in a long calming breath. The terror of her nightmare receded as she gazed on the serene countenance of Marta, her strong presence a bulwark against Tessa's fears. As she moved onto the verandah, the sound of her footsteps startled the other woman. Marta's eyes flew open, then softened. She set aside the violin and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Tessa crossed the verandah to stand next to Marta's chair, touching the violin reverently. "Why did you stop playing?"

"I thought you wanted something." Marta stirred, somewhat cramped from sitting so long, and began to get up, only to meet Tessa's restraining hand.

"Am I so demanding you must stop what you are doing to see what I want?" Tessa asked, slightly vexed and hurt. "Maybe all I wanted was to hear you play." On a sudden impulse, Tessa sat on the floor next to Marta, leaning against her and laying her head upon Marta's lap. The flagstones beneath her were still warm from the day, and she sighed contentedly. "Remember how we used to sit like this when I was a child, Marta? When I had a nightmare, you would keep me close, and play for me."

"And you would fall asleep. So much for my playing," Marta said, her throaty chuckle gently jibed as she lay her hand fondly on Tessa's hair, smoothing it away from her brow. "Did you have another nightmare like the other night?"

The young woman nodded. "Only much worse this time. They seem to get more terrifying each time I have one." Tessa's voice trembled. "I'm almost afraid to fall asleep any more."

"Perhaps if you tell me the nightmare, it will not return."

Tessa shook her head. "No. I want to forget it. Just play something for me. You know so many tunes. I don't remember ever hearing the same one twice." She laughed softly. "When I was younger, I wondered how you could know so much music. I still do."

"I'll tell you a secret," Marta said, leaning forward to whisper in Tessa's ear. "I make them up." The Gypsy woman sat back, chuckling as Tessa shook her head disbelievingly.

Picking up the violin, she began a soothing melody. She could feel the younger woman relax against her, the dark head grow heavier on her lap. She still needs me, Marta thought with a soft smile. Perhaps as an oasis of peace in the chaos her life has become. Perhaps just to let her return to her childhood now and then, when her adult life overwhelms her. It is enough for me. Marta sighed with contentment while plying the bow gently across the strings. Around them the night sounds continued like a symphony accompanying her violin--the sudden shrill call of a bird, the low hooting of an owl and the gentle stamping of the horses in the stable.

Marta let her mind roam back over the years to when her Tessa was very young, and her sleep was disturbed by terrifying nightmares. They had begun just after Don Alvarado had left Spain to return to California. The child would awake and seek her out, appearing suddenly in Marta's room, her wan, frightened face close and peering down to see that Marta was still there. Tessa's greatest fear was that she would be left completely alone--that Marta would also leave her as her father had, or die as her mother had. It had taken months for these nightmares to subside as the young girl learned to trust that Marta would stay with her always.

Now they are back, Marta thought with dismay. What terrors does she face in her dreams now? She never tells me but I know they are dreams of death--hers or mine? Marta moved carefully from her cramped position, trying not to disturb the sleeping girl whose warm weight lay heavily against her leg. She placed the violin on a side table, and settled back onto the wicker chair, preparing to spend the rest of the night on the moonlit verandah.

She started as Tessa mumbled something. "I thought you were asleep, querida. What did you say?"

"I asked why couldn't you sleep, Marta?" Tessa turned her face to meet the other woman's dark eyes. "Did it have something to do with the letter you received from Spain today?" Marta's sharp intake of breath and sudden paroxysm told Tessa her friend was deeply disturbed by that letter. "Of course, it's none of my business. But if you want to talk about it, this seems to be a good time, when neither of us can sleep." Tessa laid her head back on Marta's lap, not expecting an answer. She has her secrets too, Tessa thought, and she knows how to keep secrets, that's for sure. She smiled to herself, remembering the fencing lessons and their time with the gitano. Marta had never told anyone, especially Don Alvarado.

The silence lengthened. Marta gazed down at the dark head on her lap, stroking the silken hair, and considered whether to answer Tessa's question. Her brow furrowed as she tried to control the sudden turmoil this innocuous-seeming question had evoked. She tensed, dreading the decision she had to make. How to answer such a question? With a convenient lie? I cannot lie to my baby, she thought. How would I feel if she lied to me? She wants the truth, and she will have it. Marta took in a long, steadying breath. "It is a long story, going back to before we met, Tessita. Get us a glass of wine, and I will tell you."

Marta's tone intimated her story might change things between them. Tessa was uncertain suddenly if she really wanted to hear this truth; she half-wished she had not asked for it. Rising from the flagstone floor, Tessa went into the villa. She returned a few minutes later, bearing a tray with two glasses and a wine bottle and set the tray on the side table. Tessa seated herself as before, waiting expectantly for Marta to begin her tale. Marta poured some wine for each of them and saluted her companion silently, taking a long sip from her glass. In vino veritas, she thought solemnly. I think I will need a lot of this to get through this story. She gazed pensively into the ruby liquid, watching the dancing moonlight fracture and fragment on its surface, and realized her hands were trembling.

Taking a deep breath, Marta spoke. "The letter was from an old friend in Barcelona. She told me someone I had known a long time ago had died." Marta paused, and Tessa could feel her agitation, her tension.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Marta. Who was it, a friend, a relative?"

"My husband." Marta heard Tessa gasp and felt her sudden, sharp movement against her leg. She smiled wryly, waiting for the flood of questions that must follow. Instead, there was a prolonged, strained silence.

Finally, Tessa said tentatively, "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?"

"I was afraid. Afraid it might make you feel differently about me. You are very young, Tessita, and you still think in terms of good and bad, black and white. And you are part of a different race, a different culture. I was afraid you wouldn't understand." Marta lapsed into an introspective silence, letting the soothing night sounds seep into her while she gathered the courage to tell her story.

SPAIN 1799 - LATE SPRING

Tonio held up his hand. Behind him, the line of eight wagons stopped; their jingling and rattling ceased, leaving a vacuum of silence broken only by the stamping and huffing of the impatient draught horses. He held himself perfectly still, listening intently as he soothed his nervous horse. The faint rumble of approaching wagons came toward him. He turned to the caravans behind him, an anxious look in his eyes, his glance resting upon his sister and her daughter in the first caravan.

His sister, Luisa, gathered her daughter to her side protectively. A small woman, Luisa radiated an aura of authority with her snapping dark eyes and the rigid set of her jaw. She was a force to be reckoned with, as Tonio knew. Though he was the leader of their band, he deferred to his sister for help with major decisions. Her daughter was very much like her mother, Tonio noted, with a finely sculpted face and eyes that seemed to look upon the world with curiosity and intelligence. He watched her move closer to her mother, and take Luisa's hand for reassurance.

The young girl experienced a jolt of fear as they awaited the appearance of the wagons. Was it their own people or soldiers? Marta watched her uncle on his black Andalusian, taking comfort in his stolid presence. Uncle Tonio sat erect, easily controlling the spirited horse. His dark hair was speckled with grey, as was the drooping moustache that graced his wide mouth. It was a mouth made for grins and laughter. He wore a brown leather jacket, made by his own hand, under which was dark vest trimmed in bright colours. Her uncle was a small man, with a wiry slim body, full of energy and vigour.

Marta stared apprehensively at the narrow trail ahead, watching for the wagons whose sound was now ominously loud. She glanced around the deep woods, realizing there was no cover. It was an old forest with many wide spaces among the trees. Her little band followed this byway, known only to the gitano, trying to stay off the main thoroughfares to avoid the payos who were once again at war in Spain. She didn't understand what the war was about, only its effects on her people. They tried to remain invisible to the combatants, stay out of the way of their battles. It had nothing to do with the gitano, for to them one government was as bad as another. That was what Uncle Tonio had said, and he kept his little troupe safe, staying on the move, and hiding in places only the gitano could find. The vurma, hidden messages left by gitano for each other, told Tonio where to avoid and what paths to take. So far, the war had not touched them except for the privations they experienced.

A rider appeared suddenly from around the bend in the trail ahead. As the horse trotted toward them, Marta could see her uncle visibly relax. His face creased into a wide grin as he turned to shout, "Gitano! They're our people!" He kneed his mount forward to meet the other rider. For several minutes the two men conversed animatedly, like old friends, then the other man wheeled his horse and cantered back down the trail. Tonio returned to the caravans, his face alight with pleasure.

"Luisa, everyone, we will make camp here. The other band will join us," Tonio said loudly. "Move the wagons off the trail, into the trees to make room for the campfires."

**********

Marta stood outside by their caravan, tending the cooking pot, while inside, her mother opened up the caravan windows to let in fresh air and light. The two bands camped along the edge of the narrow trail, leaving the centre for the campfires and a wide pathway of open space. As Marta watched, the gitano prepared their meals, visiting with among the caravans and setting up tables for trading their wares. This trade gave the bands something new to sell to the payos, other goods to offer for food. Marta could see her Uncle Tonio deep in conversation with the men from the other band, his face serious one minute, and laughing the next. Over the din of the camp noises, she could hear his unusual barking laugh. It always made her smile.

As evening fell, a large communal meal was shared amongst all the people. Each cooking pot held something different and delicious, prepared by the women of both bands. Marta carried her bowl to each of the pots, choosing from each, entranced by the savoury smells. She sat beside her mother on some blankets near the campfire, silently eating her meal while observing the colourful activity of the gitano, her people. She smiled contentedly. This is a good life, she thought. If only the payos would leave us alone, we could be happy like this forever.

With their meal finished, Marta took the bowls to their caravan, and washing them, put them away. She strolled down the narrow trail toward the line of caravans flanking the other side from their band. Many of the dozen caravans had small tables set up in front to show off the goods they had to trade. Marta paused at each, viewing their wares and talking with the artisans.

Suddenly, an arm gripped her waist and swung her around; she heard a merry chuckle close to her ear. Paolo, her betrothed, grinned widely at her surprise and indignation, as she struggled to free herself from the lean strength of his arms. He set her down gently, his black eyes dancing with mischief as he prepared for the scolding he expected. The grin widened showing his strong white teeth, a contrast with the darkness of his handsome face. His black hair flopped into his eyes, and he brushed the locks away carelessly, drawing his eyebrows into a mock frown. "You have ignored me all day, Marta. When we are married, you will not be able to neglect me so. I will have you all to myself then." He laughed good-naturedly, watching the colour rise in Marta's cheeks.

"Paolo!" Marta began sharply, then she smiled. His infectious good humour always turned away her anger just when she was about to rebuke him for the liberties he often took with her. She shook her head. "You frightened me! Don't do that again," she added lamely, knowing he would. She gazed into his jet eyes, fringed by those long lashes and at that mobile mouth with its frame of black moustache, and had to smile. He was incorrigible. Never serious for a moment. But she liked him. He took her out of her own tendency to brood on things, and made her laugh. That was what had attracted her to him when they had met six months before at a large encampment of gitano. It was an annual gathering in honour of their patron saint.

Paolo was part of another band, and he had noticed her immediately among her own people. And he had made Marta notice him with his crazy antics. Paolo was a born entertainer, with a marvellous tenor voice. He came to her caravan, and sang her love songs. She tried to ignore him but for the entire two weeks of the encampment, Paolo courted her relentlessly. He poured flowery compliments into her ear, making her blush and push him away. He persisted, and at the end of the two weeks, he had asked her to marry him. Marta, rather swept off her feet, had consented. Luisa, her mother, had stepped in firmly when Paolo respectfully asked for permission to marry her daughter.

"In two years," Luisa had said, her gaze unwavering from Paolo's young face. "She will be sixteen then, and if Marta still wishes it, you may marry. Until then, you keep your distance and show her respect. Understood?"

Paolo had flushed with anger at the long engagement, then at the suggestion he would treat Marta in any other way. "Two years is a long time to wait, señora. But, I would wait forever for Marta." He gave Luisa a weak smile which did little to hide his disappointment. Then his ebullient spirit reasserted itself. Only two years. In two years, he would be nineteen. That wasn't so old. He looked up at Luisa, who was seated in her caravan. "May I join your band for those two years, señora? If we are to marry, it would be a good time to get to know each other better--while we wait."

Luisa had asked her brother, Tonio, their troupe leader, and Tonio had readily agreed. Paolo had other skills they could use in their band. Besides being a singer, he was also an artist with metal, a maker of fine jewellery, a crafter of useful objects. So Paolo had joined them and quickly became a favourite with his unflagging good humour and ready smiles.

And now, as he gazed on Marta, standing only a foot away, his eyes took on an intensity that warmed her cheeks. Paolo gently touched the unruly auburn hair that floated about her beautiful face like a multicoloured halo. His fingers grazed her dusky cheek, travelling down to her firm jaw, and across her full lips. On an impulse, he took her arm and pulled her away from the wagons, out of the firelight, and a short distance into the forest. He gently pressed her against a tree, moulding his lean length against her. She could feel his heat, his urgency and his passion as he kissed her, as he had never dared before. A sudden uprush of feeling washed over her, making her scalp tingle, making her lightheaded, and the same urgency possessed her, to get closer, to make this kiss never end.

Suddenly, he pushed himself away, and swore vehemently. "Why must we wait to be married, Marta? Why can't we marry now? I am in torment!" His breathing was loud and ragged as he stepped back. More quietly, he added, "I promised your mother I would show you respect." He hung his head and added, "I'm sorry. I have not been respectful. Let us go back to the camp."

Marta leaned against the tree for support, the unwonted sensations having taken her by surprise. She felt weak, her legs would hardly move. Her heart was racing. She took several deep breaths to regain her composure.

"Paolo," she said shakily. "Mama wants me to learn everything she knows about healing. And she wants me to be a bit older before I marry. Do not be angry with my mother. She is doing what she thinks best."

Paolo seemed to collect himself and taking Marta's arm, began to walk back toward the camp. "I don't see why you can't continue to learn about healing when you are married to me. But, we must do as you mother advises. I can wait if I have to." He grinned suddenly, like the sun coming out after a brief violent storm. "But it won't be easy, with you as constant temptation. Especially after that kiss!"

Coming back into the firelight of the camp, Marta searched with her eyes for her mother. She saw Luisa engaged in an intense conversation with Rodolfo, the leader of the other band. Rodolfo was swarthy like all of the gitano, but he had a hardness in his dark eyes that repelled Marta. Something about the black brows that beetled over his shifty eyes kept her on her guard around him. Marta wondered what they were arguing about, and walked over toward them, leaving Paolo with a promise to return.

Seeing Marta joining them, Luisa said, "There is a young man in their caravan who is very sick. Rodolfo wants me to attend him. Come with me, Marta. We will have a quick look to see if there is anything we can do for him." Following Luisa into the other camp, Marta watched as Rodolfo strode toward one of the caravans, then opened the rear door, dropping a step for them to enter.

"The maid should not see this," he growled. "It would sicken her, and give her nightmares."

Luisa brushed by with a disdainful look. "Marta is my daughter, and my apprentice. If she is to become a healer, she needs experience." Luisa climbed up the step into the caravan, making it rock slightly.

From the open door, a sweet, fetid smell wafted out to Marta--like rotting meat. Her stomach roiled and she took several deep breaths to calm it. Ascending after her mother, she suddenly held her hand to her mouth. The stench was intolerable inside the caravan! Swallowing hard, she moved beside her mother and looked on such a wretched sight, her heart turned over. On a narrow pallet lay a young man, his face so wan he looked dead. Only the slight rise and fall of his bare chest suggested life was still inhabited that pale body. Covering his lower parts was a dirty cloth, and on his right leg was a wad of discoloured material that reeked of foulness.

Luisa sucked in a deep breath as she pulled the cloth away from his leg. Marta saw his eyelids flutter then still. His lips were blue and drawn back from his white teeth, like the rictus grin of death. He already looks like a corpse, Marta thought in horror. While Luisa examined the wound, Marta gazed with fascination on his face. A payo, she noted, but French or English? She couldn't tell. His hair was dark red as was the meagre sprinkling of hair on his chest. His pale skin was freckled lightly.

Her mother shook her head, muttering under her breath, then moved aside for Marta to look at the wound. "See here, Marta," Luisa said. "The infection from the wound has gone all through his body. It is putrefied and poisonous. There must be a bullet still somewhere in that mess of flesh."

Marta shuddered, her stomach lurching, threatening to expel its contents as she studied the young man's leg. It was swollen and tight, with red lines radiating from the wound, which suppurated a noxious liquid. The smell alone made her nauseous, but the sight of that gory flesh made her bolt from the caravan to breathe in some fresh air, and regain her control.

Rodolfo was lounging against his caravan. He laughed when he observed her wan face, her trembling hands. "I told you not to go in there. Such sights are not for the squeamish," he said scornfully.

She shot him an angry glance, and returned to her mother. Luisa was wiping the boy's brow with a cloth, her face set in a scowl. "Wait here. I must speak to Rodolfo." The older woman moved past her daughter quickly and left the caravan.

Marta took the cloth and moistening it, laid it over his forehead. He sighed, and his eyelids fluttered then opened slightly. His mouth moved as if he were trying to speak. Marta took a dipper and filled it with water, using her finger to moisten his parched lips. She lifted his head to pour a small amount of water into his mouth, then waited for him to swallow. He sank back into oblivion with a shallow sigh. As she dampened the cloth again to apply to his feverish skin, she noted the contrast between her own dusky hand and his milk-white body. She had never been so close to a payo before, and was fascinated by the difference. Each time she touched him, something like a current pulsed between them. Her touch enlivened his dormant body as if some power from her was giving him strength, new life. She pushed his lank hair from his forehead, and he shivered. What is this, she wondered. I feel we are connected and my touch revives him. As if he is trying to live, and needs my strength.

Outside, Luisa had beckoned Rodolfo over. "How did you let his wound get into that condition? His leg should be taken off. It is poisoning his whole body." Her sharp voice penetrated the caravan, making Marta start.

The young man groaned, his lips moved and he grabbed Marta's arm in a feverish grip. "Don't let them...take my leg. I'd rather die," he gasped, then lapsed back into unconsciousness with his hand still clenching her arm. Superstitiously, Marta thought of the angry spirit that could infect her if he died just then. A múlo, she thought with a shudder, then thrust the superstition aside. I don't believe in marimé, or that a múlo can contaminate my body. She carefully removed his hand, and went outside to where her mother and Rodolfo were talking.

Luisa's sharp voice seemed to intimidate Rodolfo as he whined an explanation. "Señora, we have no healers amongst our band. My woman did the best she could."

"Where did he come from? How long has he been like this?" Luisa asked. She gave Marta an anxious look, then concentrated on Rodolfo.

"We found him three days ago on this trail. He was unconscious, and his wound was very bad. It was full of maggots. My woman cleaned it as well as possible, and has been tending him every day."

"Well, Rodolfo, I can do nothing for him. He will be dead in a day or less. He hasn't the strength to survive an amputation which is the only thing that could have saved him."

"Caramba! And I had hoped for a reward for turning in a deserter. You can see he is a soldier. He must be a deserter. Almost a week ago, there was a terrible battle, a massacre. The English attacked the French soldiers, and the villagers helped the English. The French were butchered. No one survived, except perhaps, that one," Rodolfo said, gesturing at the caravan with his thumb.

Marta listened in alarm, knowing the young man could hear everything, even if he seemed unconscious. She stepped between her mother and Rodolfo. "Señor, if the young man dies in your caravan, it will become marimé, and his múlo will haunt you for your unkind thoughts of him. You will have to cleanse your wagon by destroying it with fire, and everything that touched him." Marta watched as Rodolfo's eyes widened and he gasped. "But if you place the young man in our care, you will not have to worry what happens when he dies. You will be far away, and his múlo cannot touch you."

She heard her mother inhale an indignant breath, but dared not look at her. She waited for Rodolfo's superstitions work on him.

Rodolfo's eyebrows drew down over his black eyes, his gaze shifted uneasily to the caravan; it would be expensive to replace. "You are right, señorita. The boy should be in your care. I couldn't get a reward for a corpse anyway." He strode away quickly without looking back as if fearing the demon spirit was already pursuing him.

Luisa expelled her pent-up breath and snapped, "Marta! What are you thinking? We cannot do anything for that boy. He is nearly gone. And what about Tonio? It is up to him who joins the band or not. You have taken upon yourself a responsibility that you cannot uphold."

"Mama, think about this. His fate may not be to die yet. What if Fate sent us across his path to save him? How can we not try?" Marta said passionately, taking her mother's hand.

Luisa pressed her daughter's hand affectionately. "Marta, remember when you were a little girl? You used to bring me wounded birds and animals, and you would try to heal them. What happened to those creatures?"

Marta looked down. "Most of them died," she said quietly. "But, Mama, he is not a wounded animal, even if he is a payo. He deserves a chance."

"What if he does not? What if he is a deserter who left his men to save his own life? Does he still deserve a chance then?" Luisa could see by the determination in her daughter's face that she would be unmoved by any reason. Luisa shrugged. "I will speak to Tonio and if he agrees, we will take the boy. For all the good it will do," she cast over her shoulder as she moved across the trail to her own camp.

Marta climbed back into the caravan. In the dim light of a small lamp, she studied his face--and her own reactions to him. //He does not want to die,// she thought. When I touch him, I feel the flickering candle of his life growing stronger. I can save him. He wants me to. She placed her hand over his heart, dismayed by the intense heat radiating from his fevered body as she felt him quiver. He knows I am here, his body responds each time I touch him. She shook her head in wonder. Is this the power of healing?

**********

The following morning, the other band began to break camp. Four of their men carried the young man on his pallet and set him down outside Luisa's caravan. One of the men placed a canvas knapsack beside him. Without a word, they retreated hastily to their own wagons. They were obviously glad to be rid of him. No one wanted to be contaminated by the angry spirit of this young soldier after he died.

As the caravans of the other gitano moved down the trail, Luisa knelt by the pallet to examine the young man. He looked worse in the fractured sunlight angling down through the leaves. She pulled away the filthy cloths covering his leg and looked more closely at the wound. Taking a deep breath, she probed gently. He moaned in pain but did not open his eyes.

Marta knelt beside him and took his hand. She felt it clench weakly then go limp. Her mother shook her head solemnly. "It is in the hands of God, Marta. All I can do is reopen the wound and try to find the bullet. As long as that lead is in his body, it will continue to poison him. It is a small chance, but the only one he has." Luisa quickly instructed Marta what supplies she would need from her caravan, and the girl hurried to fetch them.

Setting everything on a clean cloth on the ground, Marta watched as her mother skilfully performed a primitive surgery with a sharp knife. Then using her fingers, she probed for the bullet. All the while, Marta held his hand, feeling his pain as it ebbed and flowed through him. He never came to full consciousness, but he groaned and writhed, forcing Marta to hold his other leg still while her mother searched for the bullet. Luisa suddenly expelled a long-held breath as her bloody fingers retrieved a small lump of lead from inside the wound.

"There," she said with satisfaction. "That is the bullet. Now we need to cleanse the wound. Pass me that tincture, Marta." She gestured to a corked flask sitting on the cloth. Luisa poured a light-coloured fluid over the wound. It foamed and the young man howled suddenly with pain. "Hold him still!" her mother said sharply as he tried to lift himself away from the source of his agony. Luisa poured more of the liquid into the wound, then placed a clean cloth loosely over it.

"Hand me the tonic." Luisa accepted another flask, and unstoppering it, tried to force some of the fluid between his clenched teeth. Despite his weakness, he turned away once he tasted it. Luisa handed the flask to Marta. "You try to get him to drink this. It will help purge the lead out of his body. He must drink it."

Marta moved to put his head on her lap, and felt him relax with a deep sigh. He trembled from the pain and exertion, but she sensed he responded to her. "Please, señor. Open your mouth, and sip this tonic," she instructed, gently placing the flask near his lips. "If you want to live, you must drink this." Obediently, he opened his lips, allowing her to pour the fluid into his mouth. He gagged as he swallowed.

"I think that's enough, Marta,'" her mother said, smiling with pride at her daughter. "You can give him more later. Now, he needs to rest."

Luisa stood up, then bent to gather her medicaments from the cloth. Her smile disappeared, replaced by a troubled look. "Tonio said we could stop here for a few days to rest the horses, and give the boy a chance to recover before we move on. Your uncle is a kind man. I hope you appreciate how much danger having this payo here may bring upon us. If he is a deserter, then we can be accused of helping him to escape. I think you remember how swift and cruel is payo justice when used against us."

A shaft of anxiety shot through Marta at the enormity of what she was asking of her people. Why should they care if one payo, more or less, died? They were careless enough about gitano lives. Yet, Uncle Tonio had allowed him to remain among them, giving him a chance to live. In the same circumstances, would this young man try to save one of her people? Did it matter really if he would or not? She must do what her instinct told her--try to save him. Marta carefully moved his head to the pallet and got up. His pallid face was turned up the filtered sunlight, the rays catching the dark red of his hair, glinting it with golden highlights, his red-gold lashes rested upon his pale cheek, and she suddenly thought he was beautiful. A shocking thought, she pushed it away uneasily. I'm a betrothed woman, she reminded herself forcefully, as she strode away quickly.

************

Over the next several days, the caravans remained in their temporary camp on the trail. The men set snares to trap small animals for meat, while the women, including Marta, scoured the woods for anything edible. All the food was brought back and shared amongst the small community. The war had left most of the countryside bare of food as the armies passed through, leaving the peasant farmers to starve. The gitano knew how to live off the land, and these skills saved them from the fate of the thousands dying of hunger in Spain.

Luisa tended her young patient diligently, applying poultices to the wound while Marta watched or helped. Under Luisa's care, he seemed to be improving though still unconscious most of the time. His fever remained high, and at times he was delirious, mumbling or crying out incoherently. Marta tried to lower his temperature with cool cloths, washing him down and letting the soft spring breezes waft over his damp body. She continued to administer the potion her mother made for him. He drank it obediently during his few periods of semi-consciousness. Other than his desperate plea to save his leg, he hadn't spoken again, nor opened his eyes fully. The young man travelled in his own dark landscape between life and death, and many times, Marta feared Death had come to claim him. Yet her touch always brought a response. Marta almost felt she was holding the slender thread of his lifeline in her own hands, and she could not let it go.

**********

The respite from travelling allowed the others to work on their caravans--making repairs, fixing harnesses, seeing to the health of their horses. Paolo set up his portable forge, and spent most of his time making things from metal. He was a master jewellery craftsman, and his wares sold well in the larger towns where there was still money. In the smaller towns, his knives and other household implements were popular though the folk haggled unyieldingly over the prices. Paolo's unflagging good nature when he gave way on the bargain allowed the buyer to feel they had made the best of their purchase. He usually sold everything he made, and was constantly busy creating new items from various metals. Any gold coins he received, when not needed for food, he melted down to make jewellery -- rings, earrings, broaches.

On the third morning, Paolo saw Marta bending near the young soldier, wiping his forehead with a cloth. An unwonted flash of jealousy ripped through him as he watched her tenderly laying the cloth on his brow, touching his body with her gentle hands. Like a summer storm, as soon as it arose, the feeling was gone, replaced by a sudden impulse for mischief. He arose from his worktable, picking up something he had made, and crept toward her. She seemed unaware of him until he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her high into the air, then set her down with a merry laugh.

Before she could rebuke him, he opened his hand and displayed two small loops of gold. With a wide grin, he offered them to her. "A gift, Marta," he said with a roguish twinkle in his eyes. "Golden earrings, which pale beside your own beauty, but I hope you will wear them for me anyway." His smile softened as he watched her tentatively take the earrings from his hand, studying them intently, while a pretty flush rose to her cheeks.

"I should not accept these, Paolo. They are so fine, so valuable. You could get a lot of money for these beautiful earrings." He gently closed her hand over the earrings, then leaned toward her and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, Paolo. I will wear them for you always," she promised warmly.

"And soon," Paolo said, "I will make a band of gold for you, and you will be mine forever." He took her in his arms and held her close, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, and the exotic herbal scent that arose from her warm body. He was intoxicated and could have held her forever. Suddenly, he felt Marta push back and noticed Luisa descending from her caravan with a reproachful look in her eyes.

"Look, Mama, what Paolo has given me." Marta showed her mother the earrings, and Luisa sent a warning glance toward Paolo, then smiled.

"They are beautiful, Paolo. A very fine gift." With that, Luisa turned to the young man laying on the pallet, and began to remove the poultice from his leg, preparing to replace it with another.

**********

Later that day, Marta was tending the soldier's wound when she felt a change in him. He moved suddenly, and Marta started as she glanced into his face, seeing his eyes wide open and watching her intently. Fever-bright and blue-green, those eyes captured hers, and Marta sensed a feeling of recognition in him. It was as if he knew her.

He tried to moisten his parched lips, and Marta quickly fetched the water pannikin, and held it to his mouth. He drank thirstily, and sighed, his eyes never leaving hers. "I dreamed I was with the angels," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. "And now I awake to find it so." He smiled while reaching up to touch her cheek. She warmed to that touch, unnerved by the intensity of the feeling, and her own reaction to him. Her pulse raced, a wild gladness burst in her. He would live! In her joy, she had the sudden impulse to hold him closely, protectively. Instead, she tried to move away, but he caught her hand.

"Whenever I thought I was slipping away, I felt someone calling me back." That blue-green gaze searched her face, then his eyes hardened. Hoarsely, he said, "You were the one. You saved my life. Damn you! You should have let me die!" He dropped her hand and turned away.

Marta was taken aback by his sudden coldness. "You didn't want to die. I could feel it," she said sharply. "Why would you say such a thing?" She arose abruptly, picking up her basket, and left him staring after her as she made her way into the woods surrounding the small encampment.

The young man pushed against the pallet he lay on to lever himself to a near sitting position. He gazed around, a bewildered expression on his face. Luisa hurried over from the other side of the camp at seeing him awake at last. She helped prop him against the wagon, the effort nearly exhausting his meagre strength. Somewhat breathlessly, he said, "What is this place? Where am I?"

"You are safe in our camp, señor. We are the gitano, and you have been with us for three days. My daughter and I have been tending your wound, and it is healing remarkably well. I had nearly given you up for lost, but Marta had faith you would recover." Luisa smiled with obvious pride. "My daughter has the makings of a fine healer."

"Gitano? Gypsies? Why would you try to save my life?" He shook his head despondently. "If you only knew what I've done, you would have let me die."

"Only God decides who lives and who dies. It was not your fate to die yet, young señor. Perhaps there is something in your future you must do, and it was not yet your time." Luisa touched his stubbly cheek gently, and smiled into his young face. "Now, would you like to be shaved? It might make you feel better, more comfortable."

He rubbed his hand ruefully over his rough cheeks, and grinned self-consciously. "I don't think I have the strength to hold the razor, señora. But, I would like to be shaved."

Luisa turned toward the rear entrance of her caravan, saying over her shoulder, "I will do it. I used to shave my husband, though that was a long time ago. I hope I can still hold the razor steady." She laughed gaily at his look of sudden uneasiness.

**********

He was sleeping when Marta returned from her excursion in the woods. She had found some green plants to add to their dwindling stores of food. We'll have to move on soon, she thought with dismay. The edible foods in this area are nearly gone. Does he have the strength to stand the journey? Her gaze travelled over his cleanly-shaven cheeks, his handsome features softened in sleep, and felt a heaviness somewhere near her heart. He looked so vulnerable. Even when awake, there was pain in his eyes - not just from his leg wound, but from another source. She shook her head. What is happening to me? He affects me in a most disturbing way. I must try to stay away from him. I'm betrothed to Paolo.

Looking down the line of caravans, she spied Paolo working at his forge, and turned her steps toward him. Her uncle Tonio was talking with him, and both acknowledged her with a smile as she neared the worktable. Tonio reached out to give Marta a quick affectionate embrace. "How is our miracle worker today?" he jested, glancing at Paolo. "Will the young soldier be up dancing the flamenco tonight?" He laughed heartily with his odd bark, making Marta laugh also.

"He will recover from his wound, Uncle Tonio, but it will be a while before he is able to walk, much less dance." Marta smiled at the two men, then a serious expression crossed her face. "We are having little luck finding anything edible around here. I think the young payo is well enough for us to continue travelling. We need to move on to find food."

Tonio nodded. "Yes, Paolo and I were just discussing that. We will break camp tomorrow. Our trail takes us north toward Barcelona, though we won't go that far. The war was not as savage there from what I've heard. We may be able to sell or trade our goods for food in the smaller towns." Tonio paused, then added, "Tell Rafael he will have to make room in his caravan for the boy. Once we get near enough to a town, we can let his own kind take care of him."

"I don't think that is a good idea, Uncle Tonio. From his accented Spanish, I am guessing he is French. He would not be welcome in any Spanish village. They might even kill him, there is so much bitterness against Napoleon."

"What shall we do with him then? We can't keep him with us for long. He belongs among his own people." Tonio regarded his niece with affection. She had grown into a well-formed and beautiful young woman. Watching the rapt expression on Paolo's face, Tonio smiled with satisfaction. She has chosen well, he thought. Paolo will be a good provider, and a good husband.

"I don't know, but it is too soon anyway to think of leaving him somewhere. He is just now conscious, but very weak. A few weeks and his wound will be mostly healed, and he can decide for himself where he should go." Marta glanced back at the pallet laying next to her wagon, at the sleeping figure upon it.

Tonio followed her glance, a worried expression in his eyes. "I'll speak to Luisa. She may have some idea what to do with him. I fear his presence may bring trouble to us, that is all."

"I know, Uncle Tonio. The sooner he is gone, the better I will feel too," Marta said with perhaps more feeling than she intended. "If he is a French soldier, he is a danger to us." Looking down, she added uncertainly, "Perhaps it would have been better if I had not interfered, and let him go with the other band. He would be dead by now, but we would not have this problem. I am sorry I am putting us all in this danger."

"Marta, you have a tender heart. You did what you thought was right, and I am proud of you." Tonio touched her jaw gently, tipping her face up to his smile. "You will someday be a great healing woman like your mother."

**********

On the following morning, a bright spring sun shone down on the narrow trail as the caravan wound its way through the deep forest. In the heavy canopy of the treetops, the songs of birds accompanied the travellers, and squirrels raced across the branches overhead, scolding the humans for disturbing their peace. Luisa handled the reins of their caravan while Marta walked beside. She was glad of the exercise as she enjoyed the scents of the verdant earth and moist warmth of the old forest. It's like walking through a cathedral, Marta thought, remembering the one time she had entered a huge church in a city in Andalusia. But this seems more sacred, closer to God, she mused with a slight smile.

Her thoughts went to the young soldier laying on his pallet in her brother, Rafael's caravan. The jolting of the wagon must be causing him agony, she thought with a pang of empathy. But, we must keep moving or we will starve. The brightness of the day dimmed suddenly as Marta considered again the danger of having a French soldier among their band. She now knew more about him as she had spoken with him when he woke that morning in Rafael's caravan. She had come to change the dressings before the gitano began their day's journey.

He had opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness, and then with a chagrined expression, looked away from Marta. She noticed his distress, and said, "You are feeling better today, señor? Perhaps now you can tell us your name. I'm Marta," she added, a slight flush coming to her cheeks. His gaze was rivetted upon her face in a most disconcerting way.

"Edouard de Villiers," he said finally, nodding his head in a quick bow. His voice was soft and deep; his Spanish spoken slowly and deliberately, and delightfully coloured by a French accent. "I must apologize for my boorish manner yesterday, Marta. I am deeply obliged to you and your mother for saving my life. I can never repay your kindness." He took her hand, and placed a reverent kiss on the back, holding on for longer than mere politeness required.

Marta was flustered by this gallant gesture. No one had ever kissed her hand before, and she was unsure how to respond. Embarrassed, she had pulled her hand away, warmth still pulsing where his soft lips had touched.

She had quickly tended his wound, finding it healing with amazing speed. The swelling seemed less and it no longer suppurated the poisonous fluid. She noted the pair of crutches that Rafael had made for Edouard, lying beside him. When he is stronger, he will be able to get around by himself, she thought with satisfaction.

Now, walking beside the caravan, Marta glanced up at her mother, and thought with pride, My mother's medications work wonders. The payos would call her a witch, but she is as good a doctor as any man, and probably better than most. Luisa believed in the herbs and remedies she learned from her own mother, passed down through generations of healing women. For several years, she had been teaching Marta her healing lore. Marta absorbed everything, taking in the knowledge in preparation for the time she would be a healing woman herself, and pass it on to her own daughter. She smiled at the thought, my own daughter. Yes, when I marry Paolo, we will have a daughter for me and a son for him. That picture vanished suddenly, replaced by a chill that made her shudder. Fate is warning me, she reflected with alarm. I am presuming too much. It may not come to pass that I have children. She crossed herself quickly to ward off the evil of tempting Fate to overturn her plans.

**********

Later that day, the caravans had stopped and Marta climbed into Rafael's caravan to tend the payo's wound. She gasped and hurried to his side. The young man was thrashing and delirious, crying out incoherently. She tried to wake him. His eyes opened though he didn't seem to see her. They were wide and staring as if they were looking on another landscape that horrified him.

"Señor, señor," Marta said, shaking him gently. He gripped her convulsively by the arms and pulled her to his chest, his breath panting in her ear. He trembled violently against her. She tried to push him back but he hung on like a drowning man.

"I can't...I can't...bear it," he said brokenly. His chest heaved as he tried to get his breath. Slowly, he seemed to come back to the present and loosened his grip. "I'm sorry, señorita."

"What can't you bear? Perhaps if you tell me, you may find it is not so terrible after all."

He laughed harshly. "If I told you, you would wish you had left me to die." He let her go abruptly and dropped back onto his pallet, averting his face.

"Did you have a nightmare, señor?" Marta asked. His touch had awaked something she feared to feel, and she knew she should get away from him. But somehow, she couldn't leave him to face his demons alone. "If you tell your nightmare, it will not return. So I have been told."

He shook his head. "This was no nightmare, Marta. It was real. If only there was a way to cleanse the mind of such memories." He covered his eyes and clenched his jaw, making the fine bones stand out whitely against his flushed face. "You and your people have been so kind to me, and I don't deserve it. I'm a coward and a deserter. I left my men to die and ran for my life," he said tonelessly. He groaned with agony, the sound piercing Marta's tender heart.

She moved his hands from his eyes, making his look at her. "Tell me."

He searched her face for several seconds, and Marta could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said, "We met a contingent of British soldiers near a small village and a battle began. I was hit in the leg and fell. As I tried to get up again, I saw..." He stopped and trembled. "I saw the villagers coming at us from behind the British ranks. They hacked our fallen men to death with anything they had. No mercy was shown. I had never seen such savagery before and I knew it was only a matter of seconds until someone saw me. I dragged myself into the nearby woods, then got up somehow, and ran. I ran until I fell unconscious. When I awoke, I was in terrible agony from my wound, but I got up and ran some more. Anything to put that horrific scene behind me. Eventually, I must have passed out from loss of blood. I suppose the other Gypsy band found me, though my memory is quite hazy until a couple of days ago."

Marta saw the pain in his eyes and the fear that she would hate him for what he had done. "You would have died if you had not saved your own life. What point would have been served by throwing your life away in a hopeless cause? Fate has preserved you."

"That's how you see it? I see it as an act of pure cowardice. I didn't want to die, and I ran. Left my men to be slaughtered. It was a dishonourable act and I should die for it." His tormented face wrung her heart, but Marta realized that nothing she could say would assuage this pain. There was no medication or tonic for the anguish in his mind. Still, she had to try.

"You have done no harm to anyone, Edouard! But you have saved your family the pain of losing you. Do you think they would be comforted to know you had died bravely, one of the many corpses left behind in that slaughter? How many tears would your mother weep over your medals, wishing she had you instead?" Marta said passionately. Very much shaken, Marta arose quickly and left him, feeling his eyes upon her as she climbed out of the caravan. She leaned briefly against the wheel, agitated by the emotions he stirred in her -- compassion, protectiveness and something she dared not think about.

**********

A few days later, they camped beside a wide, clear stream. Marta refilled all their water vessels, then the small water barrel that was strapped to their caravan. The women went a long distance downstream to bathe and wash their clothes; the sounds of their laughter echoed through the forest. Marta joined the other women, mostly older than herself, as they refreshed themselves, playfully splashing and paddling in the shallow forest pool. Wearing only her white shift, Marta bathed and washed her hair, then wandered along upstream a little way. She noticed fronds of watercress waving on the stream bottom, and bent to pull up some of the peppery-tasting greens. The sound of a male voice surprised her, and she nearly fell backwards into the creek in sudden alarm.

"Is there enough watercress for me also?" Edouard asked, smiling appreciatively, as his eyes took in the way her wet shift clung to her lithe form. The sun sparkled in the drops of water in her auburn hair as it hung in long soft curls over her breasts. He was reminded of the beautiful paintings of Venus rising from the sea. She raised her hand to her flushed cheek in an endearingly self-conscious gesture he had often seen her do before, and his heart seemed to burst within him. In her innocence, she had no idea how her beauty and goodness affected him.

As his eyes travelled over her, their warmth and intensity seemed to burn her; she felt exposed and vulnerable, but his look told her she had nothing to fear. His expression softened as he waited for her to speak. "How did you get here?" Marta asked in a hushed voice.

"Your brother helped me. I am becoming much stronger every day, thanks to you, Marta. Your gentleness has given me new life," he said. He leaned forward as if to close the distance between them, his eyes never leaving her face. "I owe you everything," he added, in a passionate whisper.

Almost against her own volition, Marta moved toward him as if in a trance; those blue-green eyes held her and drew her. He was sitting on a fallen log near the stream; his upper body was bare as he had been bathing by himself. He stood up, and reached out his hands. She took them, stepping into his embrace. For a long moment, he clasped her closely; she could feel his heart beating wildly, like her own. "Marta," he whispered against her ear as he brushed the damp curls away from her neck. His fingers trailed along her jaw, then across her lips. She parted them as if to speak, but all that escaped was a soft sigh. Instead, she pulled his head toward her, pressing his lips gently at first, then with a passion that shook her. His arms tightened so she could hardly breathe.

He released her abruptly. "I'm sorry, Marta. You belong to another man. I'm behaving dishonourably. I'm sorry. " He ran his fingers through his red-gold hair, his features tormented. Picking up his crutches, Edouard struggled up the embankment of the stream and limped back toward the camp.

Marta watched him go, too shaken to move. What am I doing? What is happening to me? Her body burned with unfulfilled desire. She felt ashamed and yet tormented by a longing to hold him again, to feel those lips on hers again. She bent to the clear stream and cupped some water to her face to cool her heated cheeks. The seductive pull of the current against her legs urged her to let go, and be carried away like the turbulent tumble of the water over the rocks. The riotous noise of the stream an echo of her own blood pulsing chaotically through her veins. Some madness has possessed me, she thought desperately, then laughed ruefully. And I warned Rodolfo that Edouard's múlo would infect him...but it has infected me instead.

The voices of the other women came to her as they waded back upstream from their bathing. She retraced her steps and retrieved her clothing, her mind in such turmoil, she moved automatically, hardly knowing what she did.

**********

Tonio decided they would remain by the stream for a while to rest the horses, and enjoy the abundance of fresh foods available in the area. Marta threw herself into activity, foraging with Luisa for fresh greens and mushrooms, collecting herbs for drying. She kept away from Edouard as much as possible, only going near him to tend his wound. Even those few moments seemed too intimate. She kept her eyes lowered, not wanting to meet his, not wanting to see what was there. With practiced efficiency, she dressed the wound without speaking and left him quickly. In the openness of the camp, there was no opportunity for another such unsettling encounter as the day at the stream. Marta made sure it would not happen again as she maintained a careful distance from the powerful temptation he produced in her.

On the fifth morning, the horses suddenly became restive and anxious, nickering and grunting with alarm. Rafael, whose skill with horses made him very much in demand in any town they visited, went among them to settle them. The horses were picketed inside a rope enclosure a little distance from the camp. He walked in their midst, and they followed him nervously. Something they had scented was frightening the horses. Rafael, attuned as he was to their moods, became nervous himself.

A sudden rustling from the forest caught his attention, then six armed soldiers moved out from behind the trees, their rifles raised, bayonets at the ready. Their abrupt appearance caused the horses to panic and they rushed back and forth in their enclosure, trying to flee. It was all Rafael could do to quieten them.

He stepped outside the pickets and said, "Señores. Welcome. I am Rafael." His voice sounded steady but his nerves were jumping as he watched the soldiers advance. The camp was only a short distance away. There were only six of them against over twenty of his people, but the soldiers had guns. It was an advantage his own people did not have. "We are peaceful people," he continued. "Non-combatants, as you can see. Please, lower your weapons. You have nothing to fear from us." He raised his opened hands placatingly. If they shot him, it would hopefully alert the others in the camp to run for their lives. Rafael kept absolutely still as he awaited their answer, his eyes searching for their leader. Their uniforms, though soiled and worse for wear, were the red serge of the British army. In alarm, he thought about the French soldier who was travelling with his people. How could he get the soldiers to move on without going into the camp?

"We're lost," one of the British soldiers said, his Spanish just barely intelligible. "We have been without food for a whole day. Could you spare us a meal? We can pay." The young soldier lowered his gun, and stepped forward. The others maintained their readiness, not having been ordered to follow his lead. "I'm Lieutenant Ames, of His Majesty's Twenty-First Regiment from Bristol," he said with a smart salute.

Under his black shiny helmet, Rafael could see the sandy hair that matched the moustache and mutton-chop whiskers on his freckled face. His blue eyes seemed old though his face was young. Too much war and death, Rafael thought as he searched those eyes for malicious intent. "If you wish to set up a camp here, señores, I will go to our camp and fetch you a meal and some water." Rafael watched the men tensely, hoping they would follow his suggestion.

"No need to set up a camp, Gypsy. We'll just eat our meal and be on our way. Lead us to your camp." Ames turned to speak to his men in English. At his command, they lowered their weapons, and formed up in a line behind him, their eyes wary and watchful. Gesturing to Rafael, he said, "Let's go."

"How did you know to come this way?" Rafael asked as he trod ahead of the phalanx of soldiers.

"We smelled the campfire and knew there had to be a habitation or some people nearby. We got detached from our battalion a few days ago, and got lost in this confounded forest. We're trying to get to Tarragona. Perhaps you could point us in the right direction after our meal."

"Of course, Lieutenant. I would be pleased to help you on your way," Rafael replied as he passed between his caravan and his mother's, leading the soldiers into the ring of caravans of their camp. A cry of alarm met him as the soldiers formed up into a line behind Rafael and the lieutenant. "It's all right," Rafael said, "They only want a meal. Let us show them our gitano hospitality." He glanced around as the others exchanged anxious looks.

Luisa stepped down from her caravan. "If you gentlemen want to wash before your meal, I will provide you with the soap and towels." She handed the clean linens to the lieutenant, then added. "We will have a meal for you very soon. Please make yourselves comfortable."

Beckoning to the other women, Luisa gathered them together. As she delegated tasks to each, she said softly in Rom, "The sooner they eat, the sooner they will be gone, let us hope. Now, hurry and make the food."

Ames handed the towels to another soldier, then said, "You two, go and bring the horses. And be quick about it. The rest of you, get washed." He grinned at Luisa as he picked up the ewer and poured water into a basin sitting on a makeshift table. Picking up the soap, he scrubbed his hands and face, then dried them with the towel. "Thank you, señora. I feel much better for that," he said with a graceful bow. He sat down on a log placed near the campfire, and glanced around the camp with interest. His eyes widened as Marta walked back into the camp from an excursion in the woods, a large basket filled with greens balanced on her hip.

Seeing the soldier reclining near the fire, Marta froze. Her mouth opened in sudden fright as she glanced around looking for Edouard. She dared not ask where he was, but could not see him anywhere in the group. Her stomach clenched as she met the lieutenant's insolent gaze, his pale eyes seeming to see through her clothing. She straightened and went to join her mother who was preparing some meat for the soldiers. In Rom, she said in an urgent undertone, "What are they doing here? Do they know about..."

Luisa shushed her quickly without looking around. "He went out into the woods with Pico a short time ago. They were going to try to trap some rabbits. Pray God they don't return before these soldiers leave! Now, help me get their meal ready. They said they would leave after they eat. Sooner gone, the better for all."

**********

"Well, señora, that was an excellent meal. We thank you. Here is payment for the food." The lieutenant held out a coin and dropped it into Luisa's hand. With his boot, he nudged one of the soldiers who had been napping by the fire; he awoke with a startled snort. "Come on, McGee, get the rest up. It's getting late and I want to get on toward Tarragona before nightfall. Rafael said it's only a couple of days' ride from here, and this trail meets the main road eventually. Let's get moving."

"I have packed up some extra food for you, Lieutenant," Luisa said, handing him a linen-wrapped package. "There should be enough for another meal at least. By tomorrow afternoon, you will come to a small town where they have an inn, and you can get more food. Vaya con dios." She stepped back as the soldiers formed up in a line, preparing to march out.

At that moment, Pico stepped from between two caravans holding a brace of rabbits aloft, followed by Edouard. The boy's grin froze as he saw the soldiers turning toward him, then looking past at Edouard.

"Well, what have we here!" the lieutenant said, pulling out his pistol. His keen eyes took in Edouard's appearance. Although Edouard was wearing a pair of tan breeches that had belonged to Luisa's husband and a black shirt loaned to him by Rafael, it was obvious by his skin and hair colour, that he didn't belong to this tribe of dark-skinned people. "And who might you be, señor? You're not a Gypsy."

Suddenly, Edouard felt like one of the rabbits they'd caught, hopelessly trapped. The other soldiers had raised their rifles, awaiting their commanding officer's orders. Edouard glanced toward Marta, seeing the terror in her eyes, then looked around at the rest of the gitano. All were frightened. He had brought this trouble into their midst.

Leaning heavily on his crutches, he limped forward. With a quick salute, he said in French, "Captain Edouard de Villiers, of the Fourteenth Legion." His teeth were clenched with pain, but he held himself erect as the lieutenant approached him with the pistol aimed at his heart.

"Well, Captain, if you really are a captain, you are very far from your own troops. And what might a French soldier be doing among this rabble? Deserting?" The lieutenant spoke in fluent French. He gazed at Edouard, looking up at his superior height as if searching for a sign of fear. There was none.

"I was badly wounded, and was found on this trail. These people have taken care of me, nothing more. I am not a deserter, Lieutenant, nor are they aiding the enemy. They have just shown me the same kindness they would show anyone. They do not take sides." Edouard's eyes met the lieutenant's without wavering. Any sign of weakness now could cost everyone their lives. He knew what armies did those who collaborated with the enemy. He had seen whole villages routed and burned, and brutal killings on a mass scale.

No one moved as the lieutenant seemed to be making up his mind about the situation. Finally, he said, "You're under arrest, Captain de Villiers. You are now a prisoner of war." Turning to one of the soldiers, he said, "Tie him up. We'll take him with us to Barcelona."

With a derisive look, Ames glared at the assembled gitano. "You weren't going to tell me about him, were you? Just let us ride off and keep him safe here. Under the articles of war that makes you all collaborators. But, I'm a merciful man. Instead of the usual punishment, I will just take one of your fine Andalusian horses. Bring me your best mount, and do it now," he shouted, making everyone start. His face was florid with rage. Rafael hurried to the horses and brought out his own favourite, a black mare with a white flash on her forehead.

"Saddle it with my saddle," Ames commanded, "and put another saddle on my horse for the prisoner." He fixed Luisa with a malevolent stare. "Let this be a lesson to you. Next time you find a wounded soldier, leave him to his fate."

"And if he is one of yours, señor?" Luisa returned evenly, her black eyes shining with anger. "Should we leave him to his fate?"

Without a word, the lieutenant turned abruptly and mounted Rafael's spirited horse, taking a few moments to control her fear of the new rider. "A fine piece of horseflesh, Rafael. You have trained her well." He wheeled the horse and said to his soldiers, "Get the prisoner on the horse, and mount up."

"My knapsack, Lieutenant, must go with me. It has my papers, and my army tunic." Edouard nodded toward the canvas bag laying near Luisa's caravan. The lieutenant gestured to one of his men to pick it up. The soldier tied it on the saddle horn of Edouard's horse. "Merci, Lieutenant," he said respectfully.

It took two soldiers to lift Edouard into the saddle. His mouth was tight with pain, a fine sheen of perspiration shone on his face from the struggle. With his hands tied in front, and lashed to the saddle, Edouard was led from the camp, the reins of his horse in the hands of one of the soldiers. He cast a look back at the gitano, searching for Marta's eyes. A grim smile crossed his lips for a moment when he saw her, then he resignedly turned around, and the small troop moved down the trail and out of sight.

A collective sigh seemed to emanate from the gitano when the soldiers were finally gone. No one spoke for a long time, while the terror of the last minutes began to wear off. Finally, Tonio spoke up. "We have been lucky today. It could have turned out very badly for all of us. Let us give thanks in our hearts for our deliverance." He bowed his head, and his lips moved in a silent prayer.

The other gitano blessed themselves and prayed also, all but Marta. Her eyes held a stricken look; she could hardly breathe for the grief that threatened to spill over into tears. She lowered her eyes, trying to regain control over her emotions, her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Edouard's last look tore at her heart. How could it be his fate to be saved only to be taken away to die at the hands of his enemies? It made no sense. Her people were relieved he was gone. For a moment, she almost hated them all for their callousness.

The prayer over, the gitano went about their usual tasks, subdued by their near escape. There was no laughter, only quiet conversation. Marta took her basket to Luisa's caravan, setting it on the step. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if she were learning to do each thing anew. So preoccupied was her mind that when her mother touched her arm, Marta jumped convulsively. Luisa smiled at her daughter with an affectionate, understanding look.

"Marta, he will be all right. The English treat their prisoners well, I have heard. They will put him in a prison camp until the end of the war, then send him home. Do not worry about him."

"His wound is hardly healed, and may get infected again. Who will keep it clean, change the dressings?" Marta looked away, not wanting her mother's keen eyes to see what was written in hers so clearly. She had fallen in love with Edouard, though she had struggled so hard against it. In her young life, she had never felt such an agony of loss. How was she to endure it, she wondered. How to get past this moment, then the next.

As the day faded into twilight, Marta held her grief in check, waiting for a moment when she could be alone. But in the gitano camp, there was little privacy; everyone lived their lives in full view of the others. There were few secrets among them. Only in the comforting darkness did Marta feel she could give in to her sorrow.

**********

Edouard felt every step the horse took as his leg throbbed painfully. Hours passed as the little troop made its way single-file along the narrow trail. Edouard's horse was second in line after Ames. The lieutenant was obviously pleased with himself as he rode on his prancing mare. She was beautiful and spirited, quick to the hand and knee.

As darkness gathered in the forest, Ames called a halt. "No point in trying to go any further tonight. We'll make good time tomorrow and be in Tarragona the day after." He slid from the saddle, then stroked his new mount with evident pleasure. "She's a beauty, eh, men? And a bargain at twice the price," he laughed maliciously.

The other soldiers joined in the laughter, while Edouard fumed inwardly. Although he didn't understand the lieutenant's words, his gestures were clear enough. Ames had effectively stolen that horse! Edouard knew the value of that mare to Rafael; her bloodlines bred true Andalusians which Rafael trained and sold for a high price. Her loss was a financial blow to the whole gitano band.

Ames glanced at his prisoner. "Get the Frenchie off his horse," he said in English. "Don't worry about being too gentle." Two soldiers hauled Edouard from the saddle and he crumpled to the ground with a loud groan, his face white and contorted with pain. Ames gestured at a tree near the path, and said, "Tie him up there. You, McGee, make a fire and get the meal ready." Having assigned the tasks, the lieutenant unsaddled his horse.

"Fillmore," he said to the young soldier who had just finished tying Edouard to the trunk of a large oak tree. "Picket the horses."

"Yes, sir," the soldier said, taking the reins of the lieutenant's horse and leading it a short distance away from the camp. He tied the horse's reins to a low hanging branch and went back to bring the other horses. Satisfied all the horses were secured, Fillmore returned to the campsite where a tantalizing meal awaited, thanks to the generosity of the gitano women. The young soldier pulled his meal kit out and filled his metal bowl with the food laid out on the clean linen cloth. At length, Fillmore gestured to Edouard and asked a question of the lieutenant.

Ames replied harshly with a cruel laugh, then looked around at the shocked faces of his men, defying any of them to dispute him. The soldiers averted their eyes, concentrating on their food bowls.

Edouard watched this reaction, not understanding their language, but was keenly aware of some disturbance among them. No one looked his way. He felt his scalp prickle with a sense of imminent danger, his chest seemed to tighten, making it hard to breathe. Finally, he called out to the lieutenant in French. "It is considered humane to feed a prisoner of war. When do I receive my portion?"

As Ames met Edouard's eyes, it was obvious the lieutenant was relishing his prisoner's discomfort. Edouard was tied in a seated position with his hands behind him. His arms were aching, and his leg wound was giving him hell. The malicious look on Ames' face showed that this made the situation all the sweeter for the lieutenant as he got up and strolled over to his captive.

He squatted beside Edouard and smiled coldly. "You don't need any food where you're going, you French bastard. Tomorrow at sunrise, you'll face a firing squad." Ames laughed harshly as Edouard's face blanched. "You didn't actually think we were going to drag your useless carcass all the way to Tarragona, did you? You'd only slow us down, be another mouth to feed." Ames tapped Edouard on the chest for emphasis. "Besides, this is how I pay back for all those comrades I lost in this accursed war. And thanks to your Napoleon, I've lost a brother. I had to watch him die in agony from a bullet in the gut, no medical help anywhere. You're actually getting off easy compared to that. My men are pretty good shots, and at least one of their bullets should kill you."

Ames arose, chuckling to himself, then turned and added, "Make your peace with whatever God you believe in, Captain. Tomorrow, you'll meet him face to face." He guffawed loudly and went back to the campfire where a very subdued group of soldiers watched him, their expressions guarded and wary.

Edouard felt cold, his teeth began to chatter, and though he tried to suppress it, his body trembled violently. Despair made him slump against the tree for support as he gazed sightlessly into the darkening forest. His life would end tomorrow, and there was nothing he could do, but wait for it. So many things left undone in his short life. Now he could never do them. The image of Marta arose in his mind, and he felt warmed by the remembrance of her vibrant face, her dark, keen eyes. And those lips he had only kissed once. He held onto that image like a shield against the terror of Death, coming for him as inexorably as the dawn.

**********

A sudden loud sound awoke her, and Marta started up in her narrow cot. It sounded like thunder, or a gunshot. She looked around the dark caravan, listening for another noise, but only heard her mother snoring softly on the other side in her own cot. Marta's heart was pounding hard against her ribs as she realized she had awakened from a nightmare. Or was it a premonition? It had taken her a long time to fall asleep, heartsick as she was. Was the dream a foretelling of some danger, some evil? Was Edouard in some danger? Somehow Marta knew he was; she could feel it.

Marta moved quietly, retrieving her clothing and putting it on carefully, trying not to disturb her mother. She sheathed her dagger in her boot, then slipped out of the wagon, and headed for the rope corral where the horses were kept. Her presence disturbed the sleeping horses, but she used the training Rafael had given her to quiet them. She took a large stallion by the bridle, and led him out of the corral. She walked him down the trail a short distance, before climbing upon his back. With a quick pressure of her knees, she urged the horse into a trot, keeping low over the withers to avoid tree branches. Once well past the camp, Marta prodded the horse into a canter. As she rode, she tried to formulate a plan. What was she doing out in the middle of the night, riding toward certain danger? She kept her mind blank, concentrating on watching and listening for any sign of the soldiers.

After several hours, the scent of a campfire came faintly to her nostrils. She pulled the horse up and sniffed, then smiled bleakly. The camp must be somewhere just ahead. Her mouth was dry with fear, and it took all her will to urge the horse to walk on toward the source of that smoke. As the smell grew stronger, Marta dismounted the horse and led him along the trail. The horse grunted and she heard responding grunts from other horses a short distance away. Tying her horse to a low branch, Marta proceeded up the trail until she could see the other horses. Stealthily, she moved among them, untying their reins, and prodding them toward her own mount. Reluctantly, the horses shuffled away. Marta then took the reins of her brother's mare and led it to her own where she tied the reins to the same branch. The two horses greeted each other familiarly. Marta left them to return to the campsite which must be just ahead. As she slipped among the trees, she could see a tiny light, the embers of the dying campfire, and several figures bundled on the ground around it.

Trembling with terror, Marta pulled out her dagger, and crept closer, scanning the group for Edouard. Her heart turned over when she saw him, tied to a tree with his head drooped on his chest. She moved stealthily to come up behind the tree, each step crackling the leaves and twigs underfoot, sending jolts of fear through her at each sound. Marta clamped her hand over Edouard's mouth as he jerked awake. She whispered urgently in his ear, "Be still, Edouard! It's me. I've come to get you out of this." With a quick slice, she cut the ropes, all the while, watching the sleeping figures only a few feet away. One of the men mumbled in his sleep and turned. Marta froze in panic until he resumed his snoring.

Edouard rolled away from the tree, his arms leaden from the tight ropes, and his leg almost refusing to hold his weight. "It's impossible," he whispered. "You can't save me. Save yourself. Go!" But his warning went unheeded as Marta dragged him to his feet, taking most of his weight on her shoulders. Edouard scooped up his knapsack as they moved quietly away from the camp. He was panting with pain as she half-carried him with agonizing slowness toward the horses.

Edouard leaned against the horse, almost too exhausted by his ordeal to mount. "You must try, Edouard," she said with quiet urgency. "Let me help you." She put her hand where the stirrup would be, allowing him to place his foot there, then pushed with all her strength to assist him onto the horse's back. Edouard's involuntary groan as he swung his wounded leg over to straddle the horse, frightened the other horses. They whickered loudly.

The sound must have alerted the sentry for he suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, his rifle aimed straight at Edouard. Without thinking, Marta threw her dagger and struck him on the leg, making him fire harmlessly into the forest. The deafening echo of the gunshot seemed to reverberate forever as she hurried to retrieve her weapon. She was horrified by what she had done, as she pulled the dagger from his leg. The soldier was bleeding but in no danger of dying, she noted with relief. She heard one of the soldiers near the campfire say, "What was that?" and then a shout, "The prisoner's gone!"

Marta flung herself onto her brother's horse, and headed out into the forest, away from the trail. Edouard followed, and the other horses, their herd instinct taking over, ran behind them. The crack of several rifles exploded in the quiet woods, then the whine of a bullet whizzed by her and smacked into a tree, sending up a shower of splinters. More shots and the sounds of angry shouting followed them, diminishing as the riders and horses put a safe distance between themselves and the soldiers.

After a half hour of fast riding, Marta reined her horse and slid off, panting with weariness. Finally, she said, "I must leave you here. If you go straight west," pointing in the direction they had been heading, "you will come to another path. It leads to a village and then to a main road that follows the coast to Barcelona."

With great difficulty, Edouard dismounted and limped over to Marta. He took her shoulders in his hands and looked softly into her eyes. "You saved my life." He pulled her close, holding her gently. She could feel his heart beating fast and he seemed to be having difficulty getting control over his emotions. "They were going to kill me," he said somewhat incredulously. "In the morning, they were going to shoot me." He shuddered violently and tightened his hold. "You can't leave me now, Marta. I need you."

She pushed him away, with a shake of her head. "I must get back before I am missed. Good-bye, Edouard." She brushed his lips softly with her own and turned to get back on her horse.

"You can't marry Paolo, Marta," he said hoarsely. "You don't love him, do you?"

Marta regarded Edouard for a long moment, uncertainly, then answered faintly, "I care for him."

"Would he want to marry a woman who loves another man?" Edouard closed the distance, trapping her against the horse. "Stay with me, Marta. Marry me. I can give you a good life. Everything you could ever dream of. I'm a rich man." He paused, searching her eyes but she looked away quickly. "My family has a chateau in Provence. We grow the best grapes and make the best wines in France. Marry me, Marta and you will never want for anything again. I promise."

Edouard touched her cheek tenderly, then reaching behind her head, pulled her closer, touching her lips with his own. She sighed heavily as she leaned toward him, moulding her body to his as the kiss deepened into a passion that made her dizzy, her legs like water.

Suddenly, she broke away. "I couldn't marry you, Edouard. Your people would never accept me. It would never work. Believe me, I know."

He caught her hand, pressing a fervent kiss into the palm. "It would. My mother will love you, as I do. France isn't like Spain. We are more tolerant of differences. When we're married, we'll go to France, to my chateau. Please, Marta. Say yes. Say you will marry me."

"And what about my people? If I break my betrothal to Paolo, it will dishonour my family. They might even have to pay a penalty for it to Paolo's family." Marta looked with frightened eyes at the lightening sky. "Already, I am in trouble. They probably know I have gone. It is nearly dawn. By the time I get back, the sun will be up. How can I face them? What will they think?"

"I will ride back with you and explain. All will be well. I will leave you with your people, where you want to be." He touched her cheek gently, then took the bridle of his horse, preparing to mount.

But Marta was already shaking her head, a despairing look in her eyes. She laughed mirthlessly. "It's already too late now. After this, Paolo won't want to marry me. He would feel I had betrayed him by trying to save you, by coming after you this way." She paused, then said so softly he strained forward to hear, "I do love you, Edouard. God help us." She moved into his arms again, this time without restraint.

**********

The sun lit the forest with a filtered light as the two riders wandered among the trees, trailed by the other horses. At one point, Marta turned and tried to chase their small remuda away, but the horses trotted back a distance, then continued to follow. "What can we do with them, Edouard?" she asked worriedly. "We can be accused of horse theft if we are caught with these army horses."

Edouard glanced unconcernedly at the group of horses, plodding along behind them. He laughed. "We'll leave them in the first village we come to, in exchange for food and lodging. How about that? Let the town folk worry about them." He chuckled with exhilaration and reached across to hold her hand. His face was transformed with love as he gazed upon her features. "We'll get the priest in the first village we come to, to marry us. If you still want to, that is," he added uncertainly, watching her face. Since early that morning her emotions had seemed to run the gamut from fierce passion to utter despair. He wasn't sure what she was feeling now, only what he felt as he touched her - the need to constantly be near her, in contact somehow with her body, her mind. She was closed to him now, shutting him out of herself as she gazed ahead into the green light of the forest. He needed her to be aware of him, to acknowledge his presence. If his leg wound was not so painful, he would have got off his horse, laid her down upon the soft earth and made love to her again. But, the throbbing ache in his leg told him he had damaged his wound somehow with the riding and the other sudden activities. He could hardly concentrate on anything other than the pain.

After a long silence in which Marta seemed to be lost in her own rueful thoughts, he finally asked, "How far is this village?" His voice was hoarse with exhaustion.

She started as he spoke. "Only a little more distance, maybe another half-hour," she said compassionately. Her eyes softened as she studied his face. "Will you be able to make it?"

He brightened and said, "Yes. I will be all right. After the priest marries us, we can go to your people and announce our marriage. It will be a cause for celebration, once they get over their surprise."

Marta hunched her shoulders and shook her head. The eyes she turned to him were stricken and anguished. "I am dead to them now," she said quietly. "After this, my name will never be spoken again, as if I had died." She turned back to gazing unseeingly ahead, leaving Edouard in an agony of self-recrimination.

He wanted to bring back the joyous moments of the early morning when she had passionately and freely given herself to him, but since then, she seemed to have gone somewhere else, somewhere he could not follow--into herself. He couldn't seem to find a way to reach her. A long, melancholy silence hung between them as they rode along the forest trail, both lost in their own thoughts, oblivious to the beauty of Nature surrounding them.

The trail began to open up gradually with hedgerow-lined fields on both sides--small farmsteads of extreme poverty, rude hovels and rangy cattle, starveling children and tumbledown buildings. The desolation left by the war was evident in this poor community. Folks in the fields stopped to watch the riders plodding down their road toward the village. It was an unusual sight--a dusky-skinned woman dressed in exotic, colourful clothing and a fair-haired man who was practically dropping from the fine-looking horse he rode, followed by a group of riderless horses. They caused quite a stir among the onlookers as they passed into the village.

The road wound along through the village, past small cottages much in need of repair, around chickens, pigs, dogs and children as they made their way to the tiny church near the far side of the small town. They reined in at the church, an old wooden structure with peeling paint, and broken roof tiles, its little graveyard badly overgrown with weeds. A goat nonchalantly munched the grass around the gravemarkers, only pausing to watch the humans dismounting their horses, then continued without concern.

Edouard leaned against the horse for support, his face pale with suffering. He panted harshly from the effort of getting off the horse. Marta came to his side, and lifted his arm over her shoulder, supporting his weight as they moved toward the church door. Inside the cool dimness of the church, she found a chair and he sank down on it with a groan.

The altar light cast a ruddy glow over the carved images in the nave, and the few lighted candles hardly illuminated the gloomy interior. Above in the belfry, pigeons fluttered and cooed, disturbed by their sudden presence. Marta hesitated, looking around the church as if she was unsure of what to do.

Edouard started to rise, saying, "I'll go find the padre." At that moment, a brown-cassocked figure emerged from the gloom at the right of the nave. He blinked in surprise to find anyone in the church, then came down to meet these unusual visitors.

Glancing from Edouard to Marta, then looking her up and down, he pursed his lips in evident distaste. "What may I do for you, señor?" he asked, addressing himself to Edouard. Edouard noted out of the corner of his eye that Marta had wrinkled her nose at the priest's unwashed smell, and the odour of wine on his breath. She moved away slightly.

Edouard smiled radiantly at Marta, then the priest. "We wish to marry - today, right now. Will you marry us, padre?" he asked.

The priest cast a disdainful glance at Marta, then leaned toward Edouard. "I should speak to you privately first, my son." Turning to Marta, he said curtly, "Would you give us a few moments alone?' Without waiting for her answer, he turned his back to her as she left the church.

Laying his hand paternally on Edouard's shoulder, he began, "I know what the lusts of a young man can be, young señor. The torments of the flesh. But," he looked over his shoulder to be sure they were alone, "you do not need to marry this sort of woman to get what you want. Stay with her for a few weeks, then you'll tire of her. Give her some money, and send her back to her own people. Think carefully before you make a big mistake, my son."

Edouard began to tremble with rage, clenching his jaw to bite back the words he longed to hurl at the priest. He had never been tempted to strike a priest before, but it was all he could do to keep his balled fists at his sides. In a carefully level voice, Edouard said, "Padre, would you hand me that knapsack?" The priest picked up the canvas bag and gave it to him. Edouard pulled a small clasp knife from his pocket, and slit the bottom seam of the bag. He pulled out a small leather purse, then withdrew a coin from it. "Will this cover the costs of the ceremony?"

The priest eyed the gold coin greedily. It was likely a long time since he had seen any real money with only the meagre offerings of his poor parishioners to keep his body and soul together. He took the coin, and placed it carefully inside a pocket of his stained cassock. "If you insist on this marriage, that will do nicely," he said caustically. "You will need two witnesses. Go down the street a few houses, and bring the two women who live there. They can stand up with you. I will go and prepare for the ceremony." He turned and walked down the aisle with affected dignity. Edouard forced himself to his feet, and limped outside where Marta was waiting by the horses.

"He didn't want to marry us. I could see that very plainly," Marta said solemnly. "Maybe this is not a good idea, Edouard. We should think it over more carefully." She glanced at the ground and Edouard could sense her uncertainty widening the distance between them.

"Who cares what he thinks?" Edouard moved to her side, and pulled her close. Tipping her chin up to look into his eyes, he added, "It's only what we feel that counts. We will be married today, Marta, mi amada, mi corazon." Gently disengaging himself, he continued, "We must get two witnesses for the ceremony. Let us go ask those two women," he said, gesturing up the narrow road at an old woman and a younger one standing at their gate watching them.

"Hola," he hailed them as he and Marta approached. "Would you do us the honour to be witnesses at our wedding?"

The old woman leaned on the gate for support and gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Her frail shoulders were covered with a fringed, much-patched black shawl and her wizened face was lined with innumerable wrinkles while her jaw worked like a cow chewing cud. She turned to the younger woman and shouted, "What did he say?"

The younger woman leaned to her ear and said loudly, "He wants us to witness their marriage, Mama." The old woman nodded vigorously.

Edouard limped forward and pulled out the leather purse, bringing out a gold coin to place on the old woman's gnarled hand. She stopped chewing and gasped, looking from Edouard to the coin, then to Marta. Her daughter exclaimed, "Madre de dios! So much money, señor!"

Marta rested her hand gently on the old woman's. She spoke directly into her ear. "Would this money also purchase a meal for us, abuela?"

"Of course!" The old woman beamed on them, squeezing the coin tightly into her palm. "Cecilia, go in and make a nice meal for these young people."

"After the ceremony, señora," Edouard interjected. "We will enjoy your meal then. Please come with us now to the church. The priest awaits us." Edouard opened the gate, and with a slight bow, allowed the two women to precede them toward the church.

The wedding ceremony was brief, almost perfunctory, as if the priest was anxious to get it over with. When he made his marriage vow, Edouard took off his family ring and placed it on Marta's finger where it slipped around loosely, being much too large for her slender finger. Until that moment, Marta had seemed to go through the ceremony with a sense of unreality. Edouard knew it was all happening so fast, she hardly had time to think. Now, as she gazed on the ring, a radiance filled her face with sudden joy as she looked on her new husband. Edouard saw the transformation and felt his own heart would burst--she was happy! They were married and she was as glad as he. He embraced her tenderly, unable to speak.

The priest intoned the rest of the blessings, then with evident misgiving, shook Edouard's hand and wished the newly married couple good luck. "Here is your marriage document," he said gruffly. "You sign your names here, and the witnesses here." When all had signed, he gave the document to Edouard, then strode back into the sacristy without a backward glance.

Nothing could dampen their happiness as they followed the two women back to their tiny cottage for the wedding meal. Edouard leaned heavily upon Marta, but he felt light as air. He kept kissing her cheek, giving her ardent squeezes until her face was quite flushed with embarrassment. "Edouard," she whispered, "we are in a public place." But he could see she was secretly pleased by his amorous attentions.

"Wait until later," he whispered with a mischievous chuckle.

The rose in her cheeks deepened and she smiled up at him. Marta squeezed the heavy gold ring on her finger as if to reassure herself of its reality. My husband, she thought, savouring the phrase in her mind and trying to get used to it. My husband. She felt his solidity, his body heat as she helped him toward the cottage. And overall, the giddy sensation being free, of being with the man she loved. It made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. So many emotions were assailing her at once, she hardly knew how to deal with them all. She clung to Edouard with a pressure that made him wince slightly as he smiled down into her tear-brilliant eyes.

Inside the tiny cottage, the two women bustled about, setting out bowls and cutlery, and preparing such foods as they had in store. At one point, the younger woman, Cecilia, went outside and returned with some fresh eggs.

Marta was fascinated by the small hovel. She had never been inside one before. When the gitano peddled their goods to the payos, they always had to wait on the doorstep, never being invited in. It almost seemed strange that two people would need so much space, she thought, as she gazed around the low-ceilinged structure. The main room was a combination of kitchen and dining area, the rough wooden table occupying a large portion of the space. The cottage was tidy and clean, fresh rushes covering the earth floor. There were two doors on the far wall whose use was unclear to Marta. How many rooms did they need, she wondered.

The old woman busied herself by the fireplace, stirring the contents of something in a large pot which hung over the flames. Finally, the meal was ready, and the food was laid out, both women watching deferentially as the newly married couple helped themselves to the assortment of items in the bowls. There were vegetables, cooked eggs, sliced meat, cheese, bread and cider.

Marta had never eaten food prepared by payos before, and tried everything. She found it bland but palatable, and ate hungrily. Until she tasted the meat. She put it down hastily, and whispered to Edouard, "Don't eat the meat, it will make you sick."

He leaned to her ear and whispered back, "Only married an hour, and nagging me already." He chuckled at her offended look. "But I like it," he added with a quick kiss on her earlobe.

The meal ended, the young couple arose, and gave their thanks. "Where would we find an inn for the night?" Edouard asked Cecilia, her mother being too deaf to hear his question.

"There is a large town down this road about two hour's ride. It has an inn." Cecilia took Marta's hand and pressed it warmly. "May your marriage be blessed," she said feelingly. "Vaya con dios." Marta returned her a quick embrace, kissing her cheek. She gave the same embrace to the older woman, and they departed the cottage.

**********

The countryside they travelled was settled by old farmsteads whose small fields were demarcated by stone and rail fences. The warm autumn breezes blew across the fields of barley and oats, waving like a golden sea. If the war had left scars in this district, they were covered by Nature's abundant mantle.

The sun felt good upon their shoulders as they rode in companionable silence, hands linked across the horses. Each time Marta glanced at Edouard, his eyes were already upon her as if he couldn't get enough of looking at her. The intensity of his gaze made her blush with joy.

At length, the outskirts of the town appeared ahead, and Edouard gave a relieved sigh. Marta said, "Your wound is very painful still?" He nodded, then smiled a little wanly. She could see he was exhausted; they had been on the horses since early morning and it was now almost dinnertime. "I will gather some herbs and make a poultice for it when we get to the inn."

"I had something else in mind for when we get there," he said, a wide grin on his handsome face. She flushed darkly and glanced down, a shy smile gathering at the corners of her mouth.

"You must let me tend your wound," she said firmly.

He pressed her hand warmly, and said with a laugh, "Nagging, again."

**********

The inn was an ancient building with sepia-coloured roof tiles, and whitewashed stucco walls. It stood near the centre of the large town, as if the town had grown around it. Edouard had gone in to arrange for a room while Marta took the horses, including the six which continued to follow them, and put them into the inn's stable.

Just down from the stable was a smithy from which Marta could hear the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer as he pounded on some metal. She stepped down to the open door of the smithy, and saw a large broad-chested man holding a horseshoe in a pair of tongs while he hammered loudly, sending a spray of sparks off the hot metal. Eventually, he looked up and his eyes widened in surprise at seeing her standing there. "What can I do for you, Gypsy?" he asked brusquely in his very deep voice.

"Would you be willing to trade me two saddles for six horses?" she asked.

"Saddles for horses? What kind of barter is that? Are the horses stolen?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

"No. We just don't need them, but we do need saddles. If you wish to see the horses, they are in the stable." She turned back toward the stable, and the blacksmith hesitated for a moment, then followed. "Here are the horses," she said pointing to the stalls. The smithy immediately went to look at the Andalusian mare and stallion. Marta said quickly, "Not those. They are worth more than all six together. The others."

"All right, we have a deal," the smith said as he emerged from the last stall. Marta could almost feel his glee at such a bargain. Any horse was worth more than a saddle, and he was getting four horses virtually free. He spat on his hand and held it out, but Marta shook her head.

"First, let me see the saddles."

The smith grinned appreciatively at the young Gypsy woman, as if he could see she would drive a harder bargain. "Come with me. I have some new saddles and a few old ones, well worn in. You may take your pick."

He walked to the rear of his smithy, forcing Marta to pick her way around metal objects, the forge, a water barrel, and finally into a small room where several saddles hung on racks. She looked each over carefully, examining the leather minutely as her Uncle Tonio had shown her, running her hand over the saddles searching for lumps or other imperfections that could become sore spots on either horse or rider.

"These are poorly made, " she declared, turning to face the smithy. He scowled and began to protest, but she put up her hand. "Do you have any others?"

He shook his head, obviously fearing he would lose the deal. "I will throw in the bridles, saddle blankets and a saddle bag for each. It is the best I can do."

"Hmph," she said, beginning to move toward the door. "Too bad. I had hoped for better. We will see what we can do in the next town." She passed the smith and walked back through his shop to the front entrance, stopping when he called her.

"Señora! Don't be hasty! We can still strike a deal." He hurried to catch up to her, then said, "I will shoe your horses for you, and give you a supply of oats to take on your journey. Also, a couple of canteens to carry water. Do we have a deal?" He watched her face eagerly as she considered these offers, then he grinned widely as she nodded, putting out her hand.

"We have a deal, señor." With a quick handshake, Marta left the smithy and returned to the inn, a wide smile on her face as she thought about the horsetrading she had just engaged in. It is an even trade after all, she thought with satisfaction, and he thought he would get the better of me. She chuckled to herself as she entered the inn, looking for Edouard.

He was seated at a table with a flagon of wine in front of him and a mug in his hand which he was just raising to his lips. "Where have you been?" he asked with slight irritation. "You took a long time putting away the horses."

"I was getting us some saddles," she replied with a mischievous smile. "We'll need them for the journey to Barcelona."

He grunted and took a sip of his wine. Marta sat down and looked around the inn. It was the first time she had seen the inside of one of these buildings as well. It felt oppressive and gloomy. The heavy beams of the low ceiling were blackened with age and smoke, and the wood floor was dark and deeply marked where many feet had traversed. The lingering scent of overcooked food, spilled wine and mould pervaded everything. How can people stand to be inside these places, she wondered.

"I have arranged for our room," Edouard said finally, making her start. "The landlord is getting it ready for us now." His face was tight with pain, his eyes nearly closing from fatigue. Marta hoped the room would be ready soon or she would have to waken him from this table.

An elderly man stepped down from a staircase on the other side of the room, and made his way toward their table. He was of small stature and had a rolling gait, caused by his enormous girth. His apron stretched tightly over his huge belly, making Marta gape. She had never seen anyone so fat. Her own people never had more than they needed to eat, and were generally lean and wiry. This evidence of excess was a revelation to her. The landlord smiled affably at Edouard, then looked uncertainly at Marta, his smile disappearing. "Señor, señora," he said, "your room is prepared." He rubbed his beefy hands together nervously, then added, "The room is payable in advance, señor, if you please."

Edouard pulled out his leather purse and extracted a gold coin, offering it to the innkeeper. The man's eyes widened and he reached out eagerly. Marta said, "Señor, how many days' lodging is that coin worth? Two weeks?" She regarded the man closely, defying him to lie to her.

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he said, "Yes, two weeks, señora." He turned to Edouard, and asked solicitously, "Would you like your evening meal now?"

Edouard glanced at Marta, and she nodded. Edouard replied, "Yes, landlord. Bring my wife and me a good meal. We have travelled a long way today."

When the innkeeper had gone into the kitchen, Marta turned to Edouard , a slightly vexed expression on her face. "Edouard, if you keep giving away your gold so freely, there will soon be nothing left. What will we do then? How will we pay for our lodgings in Barcelona or passage to France?"

He laughed unconcernedly. "I'm a rich man, Marta. This is nothing compared to what I have at my disposal. Don't worry so much about money. Counting coins is not for you any longer."

"I don't count coins, as I've never had any," she replied sharply. "But when these coins are gone, where will you get more? You are not in France, you are in Spain, an enemy country. We will be lucky just to get on a ship without being arrested."

Edouard took her hand and placed the purse in her palm. "You are the practical one. You take care of the money."

To his surprise, she took the purse and placed it in her pocket, tying the drawstrings to her belt. A smile played over her face. He understands, she thought, how things are done with my people. Looking after the family money is the woman's job. She touched his hand fondly.

Edouard was taken aback. He expected her to resist, and make him keep the money. He was disconcerted that she would take it. Was this evidence of a hidden desire for wealth? She admitted she had never had money, and he had just given her a small fortune. He almost wished he had not suggested her taking the coins to look after. Money changes things, he thought.

The innkeeper returned with a tray laden with their meal, followed by a younger man, likely his son. They laid out the cutlery and plates, then took the tops off the steaming vessels, releasing aromas that made Marta's mouth water. She realized she was very hungry. The son poured mugs of beer for each, then set the jug on the table, and retired to the kitchen. The innkeeper hovered by the table, awaiting Edouard's verdict on the meal. Marta could see he obviously did not concern himself with her opinion, as he assiduously ignored her, focussing completely on Edouard.

Edouard tasted the food, then said to Marta, "What do you think, my dear wife? Is this not a good meal?"

Marta tasted her meal and replied, "It is excellent. Thank you for this fine food." The innkeeper bowed curtly and left them, joining his son in the kitchen.

"The boorish toady," Edouard grumbled, glaring at his retreating back. "How dare he treat you like that!"

"It's all right, Edouard. I'm used to it. The gitano are not welcome in most places, especially small ones like this. They think we're thieves or worse. They're fear us in case we cast evil spells on them." Marta stopped as Edouard began to laugh.

"Well," he chortled, "you certainly cast a spell on me." He took her hand and kissed it ardently.

**********

Edouard sat on the edge of the bed, breathing in gasps. The struggle to climb the stairs to their room had cost him great pain, and he had winced at every step. Marta felt each twinge as if had been inflicted on her own body, so sensitive was she to him. Now, he tried to smile, a wan ghost of an effort flitting across his lips. "I will be all right, Marta," he assured her, looking into her concerned eyes. "I just need to rest for a minute." He laughed harshly. "This is supposed to be our honeymoon."

She eased him back onto the mattress. He relaxed and followed her with his eyes as she poured water from the ewer into the washbasin, then rinsed a cloth to cool his forehead. He seemed slightly feverish. Within minutes, his eyes fluttered closed and he fell asleep.

Marta wandered to the casement window and opened it up more fully, leaning on the sill. The long summer twilight was waning toward dark as she gazed out into the courtyard behind the inn. Beyond the small yard was a large field with some cattle grazing in it, then the deep forest. And somewhere out there in the darkness, my people are wondering where I am, what has become of me. How can I get a message to my mother, to tell her I'm all right? Marta felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes, and tried to suppress them but they fell in spite of her efforts. She longed for her mother with an ache so keen it was almost physical. She bent double, holding herself tightly and wept silently.

Edouard stirred, then opened his eyes, and listened, his heart breaking for her. "Marta," he said softly. "Come here by me." She turned her reddened eyes to him, then moved into his open arms. She lay next to him for a long time as he smoothed her hair, trying to soothe away the pain she was suffering. He had no words, only the gentle touch of his hands as he caressed her cheeks, wiping the tears, kissing their saltiness away with his lips.

He touched her lips with his, brushing their softness, parting their fullness with his tongue as he encouraged her to open her mouth to him. Her breathing quickened as his tongue eased into her mouth, encountering her tongue. She resisted at first, as if she didn't know what he wanted. Then, as his tongue played with hers, she opened up to him fully and with a sudden fierce passion. Her response made his dizzy, and he tried to keep himself in check as he explored her mouth. He would go slowly this time, he promised himself. Not like this morning when their lovemaking had been urgent, hurried. He would take his time, and show her the pleasure she had missed.

He moved onto his side, watching her eyes lose their wariness and uncertainty as he stroked her back caressingly, slowly bringing his hand to the front below her breast. Then languidly, he lifted its warm weight, sliding his thumb across the hardening peak. He heard her moan softly, the sound igniting a fire in his veins, and he forced himself to push her away gently, lifting her to a sitting position beside him.

He unlaced the front of her blouse, parting the material, then said, "Let me take it off for you." Her eyes were dark with passion and she trembled. From desire, from fear? He didn't know. He lifted the blouse over her head and laid it on the floor. "Now the skirt," he urged. She undid the belt, and loosened it, allowing him to slide the garment down her body and off onto the floor with her blouse. She shivered with pleasure as his hands followed her body's contours from her knee to her breasts. She was still covered by a linen shift which hid her from his eyes.

Taking her chin in his hand, he drew her lips to his once more, delighted when she opened her mouth without prompting, and engaged his tongue with hers in a playful, seductive dance. A groan escaped him as he gripped her tightly to his breast, leaving her almost breathless. He released his hold, and moved his mouth to her neck, following the smooth column to her chest, then travelling lower, encountering the top of her shift. He lifted his head and smiled. "I want to see all of you. You're so beautiful. Please. Take off the shift."

Her face grew crimson, and she turned away modestly. Even bathing with the women of her band, she could not be seen naked; it was not done. She felt his hand move down to her knee, then glide up her thigh to the hem of the shift. She trembled as his hand travelled slowly up her leg, exciting her beyond all rational thought. She wanted him to see her, to touch all of her. He pushed slowly, inching the garment over her stomach then up to her breasts. "Lift your arms," he whispered. She allowed him to pull the garment over her head, then covered her breasts with her hands. She felt exposed, vulnerable suddenly.

"Beautiful!" he whispered as he pulled her to lie beside him once more. She let him move her hands away, replacing them with his own, gently stroking each breast and teasing the nipple with his fingers. He slid his lips along her breast, then took the tip into his mouth, sucking softly, nipping lightly with his teeth. The effect was immediate and electric. She moaned and arched toward him. He moved his hand toward her stomach, playing along its smoothness, making her shiver. Then lower, finding the deft and its moistened interior. He slid his finger inside, felt her pressing against his hand. Her body instinctively knew what it wanted, needed and he offered it to her, as he stroked the soft moist warmth of her. She gasped suddenly, then shuddered in ecstasy, unaware that he watched her, as her face clenched then relaxed as the spasms passed.

Her dark eyes sought his, something new alight in their depths, something as old as time, as old as humanity. She understood now the secret that had been withheld from her. An enigmatic smile played across her face for a moment, then concern. He had held himself back to give her pleasure. It should be returned. A gift for a gift.

Marta sat up, then reached down and undid the buttons on his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders and off, caressing his skin as she did. Her heart was beating wildly as her gentle hands returned to his shoulders, stroking along the muscles, down his rib cage and chest, tracing the outline of him as if to memorize his shape. This long, lean body she had bathed so often while he was unconscious was now alive to her touch, and she savoured his deep sighs and moans, as she felt her every move awaken new pleasures in him. I know this body so well, and yet I don't know it all, she thought in wonder, revelling in the textures of his skin, the wiry curliness on his chest, the tautness of the muscles. His body was a mystery to be explored with her hands, her eyes, her lips.

Tentatively, she caressed his chest with her hands, then moved to touch his nipples with her fingers. He sighed and shivered with delight. She kissed the nipples, then teased them with her tongue as he had hers, this time causing him to writhe and groan.

She reached for the belt of his trousers, and undid the buckle, pushed it open, then moved to the buttons at the front. Her fingers were awkward and uncertain so he helped her by undoing the rest himself. He slid the pants off carefully, avoiding the bandage over his wound, and laid back to watch her. Her hand slid down his abdomen, finding his erect phallus. At first she seemed unsure of touching it, then he moved his hand over hers and wrapped her hand over its warm length. He pulled her down on his chest and kissed her with a violent passion, his lips bruisingly hard but she returned his passion with a ferocity of her own. With an effort, he swung himself over her, then resting his weight on his elbows, entered her. His breathing was harsh, and his heart hammered against his chest, but he forced himself to wait until he felt she was ready. He began to move slowly; he felt her pulse against him, then increasing the momentum as she pressed him further into herself. The rippling spasms began deep inside her and carried him on a crest that took him higher than he'd ever been before. He groaned aloud, shuddering with pleasure, then gradually subsided.

For a long time, they lay wrapped together, their breathing quietening, just gazing at each other. Eventually, Marta moved, pulling up the blanket against the chill breeze from the open window which blew across their sweat-sheened bodies. She nestled closer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a strong reassuring beat that she would hear for the rest of her life. A quiet smile crossed her face. I have given up everything for him, she thought. I would do it again if I had the choice. Her eyes closed, and she slipped into a peaceful sleep beside her husband.

**********

Edouard smiled contentedly as he watched Marta wading in the stream. It had taken all his convincing to get her to go on this picnic. She had insisted his leg needed more rest. He chuckled to himself, recalling last night and this morning. She had not been overly troubled about his resting then, he thought, with a glow of warmth beginning to race through his body. Her graceful movements, so natural and unaffected, filled his soul with a deep aesthetic pleasure. Like Aphrodite, or Venus, he thought, as perfect as a statue, yet so filled with life. As if feeling his eyes on her, she turned with a shy smile. The dappled sunlight on her upper body made patterns of light and dark, while the ripples from the stream reflected the colours of the rainbow over her legs.

"I wish I was a painter," he said, getting up from his reclining position on the bank. "I would save this moment forever. You are so beautiful, like a goddess." He limped down the bank, having picked up the soap and cloth as he went. They had planned to enjoy a leisurely bath here in this secluded woodland stream. He stepped carefully into the stream, making his way toward her.

"I will bathe downstream," Marta said, taking the soap and cloth from him.

He raised his eyebrows quizzically, a bewildered expression on his face. "Why?"

"It is our custom," she replied. His brows knitted and he shook his head in confusion. How to explain to him about marimé, she wondered. That gitano men fear to be contaminated by women. That gitano women always bathe and wash their clothes downstream from the men to avoid the men being contaminated. She realized he wouldn't understand what she didn't understand herself. "We just do", she said finally, turning to wade away from him.

Edouard caught her arm gently, and made her face him. "Perhaps it's time to start a new custom." He took the soap and cloth, began to work up a lather, then with gentle strokes, rubbed the cloth over her back. She shivered from the sudden cold; her shoulders were rigid from this unwonted attention. Then as he moved from her back to her front and over her breasts, the pleasant sensation of his circular motion on her body and the slippery sensuality of the soap removed her inhibitions. She began to relax, enjoying the voluptuous feel of his hands moving over her.

"I think I will like these new customs," Marta said, with a coy smile.

**********

Tessa had scarcely moved for a long time, and Marta paused her storytelling, wondering if she was sleeping. The younger woman stirred, turning her face up to Marta. "That's not the end, is it? Surely there's more to this story. Aren't you going to finish it?" she inquired eagerly.

Marta took a sip of her wine, then set the glass aside. It tasted like ashes. "There is a lot more, Tessita. And yes, I will tell you the rest."

The younger woman sighed wistfully. "It must have been wonderful to be so in love. How I envy you that."

"Wonderful. And painful. It came with a high price, Tessa." Marta settled back on her chair, meditatively looking up at the stars, at the constellations that heralded a dawn not far off.

After a long silence, Marta began again. "For two weeks, we stayed at that inn. I found it strange at first, sleeping inside a building. I had lived all my life in a caravan, always travelling. To stay in one place so long and in such a large building was beyond my experience. I wasn't sure I liked it very much. But with Edouard's wound, healing though it was, I felt the inn was the best place for us."

"Not only was his wound healing well, but Edouard also looked better, stronger, regaining some of his weight." Marta chuckled self-consciously. "It was a real honeymoon for us. We made love almost anywhere, anytime. We were shameless." Marta laughed softly again at the sharp intake of breath from Tessa. She enjoyed shocking the younger woman.

"Of course, it had to end sometime. Edouard wanted to go back to France, to his chateau. I wanted to postpone it as long as I could. I was afraid to face his family, his society. I knew they would reject me." Marta felt Tessa's hand press hers affectionately, encouragingly, and a warmth of love spread through her. A sudden pressure of tears threatened, but she took a deep breath, then continued her story.

**********

Edouard hobbled back and forth in their small room, their temporary home. Agitation marked his quick movements as he paced, emotions chasing across his handsome face. "Marta, it is time we left this place and travelled to Barcelona. My wound is well-healed now. I only have a slight twinge when I try to do too much." His face softened at her distressed look. "I know you are fearful of the unknown, of a new country and strange new customs. But, Marta, I will be by your side. I will never let anything or anyone hurt you." He limped to her and took her in his arms, enfolding her closely. "You are the dearest thing in my life."

Marta felt trapped by this ultimatum. Edouard wanted to leave tomorrow. Like a death sentence, she knew the time would eventually come when they would have to resume their journey. But, she wasn't ready yet to confront his family, to see the disdain in their eyes when they saw he had married a gitana, a Gypsy girl. She couldn't face it. Why could they not stay here forever? I could find work, she thought desperately. With my healing knowledge, I could earn money for us. Another man might consider this proposal, but she knew Edouard would not. He had too much pride in himself, his ancestry, to allow her to carry him as a burden. He had resolutely set himself to become stronger so he wouldn't have to lean on her for support when he walked. He would never let himself become dependent on her. She knew that, and was proud of him for it. Inevitably, he wanted to go home, and resume his life. And take her with him to France. Every time she thought of it, she could hardly breathe for the terror of it.

Edouard was speaking and Marta brought her attention back to him. "...and we have enough gold to buy our passage once we get to Barcelona. After that, it is only a matter of getting to Provence. Once I'm back in France, I can get a letter of credit on my family name, and all the funds I require to get us there in style, in comfort. It will be so wonderful to be back home, Marta. Wait until you see the chateau, and the vineyards! Grapes as far as the eye can see. And our winery! It is a modern marvel. Vintners come from all over to learn from us." His young face was alight with enthusiasm as he went on describing his home and its environs. Marta tried to see herself in that picture and could not. Her heart chilled, but she kept silent and listened to the music of his voice.

**********

The road from the town followed the ocean, through small fishing villages and past an imposing Roman ruins. Marta had never been on this route before, her people preferring to remain in the relative security of the deep forests. As Marta and Edouard travelled, they found a welcome from the fishing folk, who provided them with meals and a place to sleep at night. Marta had managed to extract from their former landlord some coins of smaller denominations for a gold piece, and this she used to pay for their meals and lodging. Edouard was constantly amazed at her canniness with money, in spite of his earlier misgivings.

After four days travel, the city of Barcelona appeared on the horizon. Marta gaped in awe. She had never seen such a large city before, as it loomed up before them. So many buildings of such incredible height, and so many people in one place. She felt a clutch of fear as they rode past the harbour toward the city. The harbour and the port were crowded with French soldiers! Dozens of ships lay at anchor and roped to the quays. She shot an anxious glance at Edouard and saw the worry on his face.

"Let's get away from this district," he said quietly. "We'll find a room somewhere far from here and think what to do."

No one noticed them as they made their way through the crowded streets. There were too many people going about their daily business to wonder about the fair-haired man and the dark-eyed beauty who rode beside him. Indeed, the clamour of the city beat about Marta's ears and violent smells assailed her nostrils -- horse dung, offal, rotting seaweed and the all-pervasive scents of humanity. She longed suddenly, and with an intensity that shook her, for the quiet of her camp and the moist earthy scents of the forests. Glancing around, she wondered, how can anyone live in this? The sheer immensity of the city frightened her, made her feel small, anonymous--feelings she had never experienced before. She watched as people passed ragged urchins begging for coins, mutilated veterans who held their hats out for donations, painted women shilling their favours for money. You could die here on the street, she thought, and no one would care, or even stop to help. Her heart went out to the wan little waifs, their pinched faces desperate for food.

"Edouard," Marta said, "we should give some money to those children. They are starving." She turned her horse toward a small group of children huddled together, squatting on the street, ignored by the passersby.

Edouard grabbed her bridle and shook his head violently. "It would be worth your life to show you have money to those children. I have seen many such in Paris, and they are ruthless and desperate. Don't be misled that they look helpless and weak. They are not. They are dangerous." He looked at her fondly, then a concerned expression crossed his face. "Marta, you must never venture into the streets alone. You can see what the war has wrought here. Peasants from the outlying farms have come into the city for protection, or because their crops have all been taken by the armies. Orphan children fathered by soldiers and abandoned to fend for themselves, women who have had to take to prostitution because their man is gone and they have no other means of support. The war has brought poverty and starvation here, and you must be constantly on your guard against the parasites who infest this city."

As he spoke, Marta cast a long, sorrowful glance at the children, then looked away. Edouard was probably right, though those pitiable tots wrung her heart. The problem was too big, her coins too few to

help them. They made their way slowly through the throngs of horses, carts, people to a less busy district with long rows of old buildings. It seemed to be a street of residences, and Edouard stopped to ask a woman sitting on one of the steps if there were rooms to let anywhere.

"This building has a room, señor," she answered, in her strangely accented Spanish. "Ask for the concierge and he will show it to you."

Edouard turned to Marta. "Wait here with the horses. I will go in to see about the room." With an effort, he slid from the saddle and limped into the building. Marta felt a moment of panic at suddenly being left alone in this big, frightening city. The woman on the step looked her over curiously, her eyes taking in Marta's colourful clothing, her dusky skin tone and tangle of auburn hair.

"Gitana?" the woman asked finally, her dark eyes narrowed.

Marta had a sudden urge to deny her heritage, but then lifted her chin, staring straight into the woman's eyes, and said, "Yes, I am gitana." She smiled uncertainly at the woman, who seemed to take a while to consider her own reaction, then she smiled back.

"We don't have many of your kind in Barcelona," she said. "We are Catalans here, though our language is forbidden to us." She lowered her voice and added conspiratorially, "But we still speak it among ourselves. Like your Rom language," she said with a wink.

The woman's cautiously friendly manner warmed Marta toward her, but she remained seated on her horse, holding the reins of Edouard's horse. "There are many French soldiers here, " Marta said. "And many ships. Is the city held by the French?"

"No, señora. They are taking them back to France. The war is over, thank God! When I see the last of those French devils it will be like heaven on earth. We have suffered in Barcelona, perhaps not so much as other places, but enough to want to be rid of those vermin. My husband was killed by the French!" She spat these words out with such vehemence that Marta was suddenly concerned for Edouard. In spite of her joy that the war was over, she felt fearful. Would anyone give them a room once they knew he was French? Was his life in danger here with so much bitterness against the occupying armies?

A few minutes later, Edouard emerged, smiling with satisfaction. "I have got a room for us, Marta. And the concierge says there is a stable on the next street where we can keep the horses. Let us take them there now, and get settled into our room." Edouard swung back into the saddle and started down the street.

Marta glanced back at the woman who winked again, and gave her an approving nod. The woman said, "Your man is very handsome." A wide grin creased her face.

Marta blushed and answered, "My husband, and thank you. I think so too." She twisted the ring as if for reassurance, then kneed her horse forward to catch up to Edouard.

**********

"I am so glad the war is over, Marta. But this complicates things with so many soldiers around the harbour. I will wait a few days to see if they have taken most of the soldiers onto the ships, then go and arrange our passage. We may have to stay here a few weeks until we can get a ship. There are banks in Barcelona, and I may be able to get a letter of credit on my name. My family has a very well-known reputation, and we sell our wines in Barcelona too." Edouard paced their tiny room, seeming unnaturally tall as the ceiling was just a few inches above his head. He had to duck under the door jambs of the ancient building. The pensione was located in an old area of Barcelona called the Barrio Gotico -- a district of beautiful architecture and very narrow streets.

Their room was sparsely furnished with only a narrow bed, barely wide enough for both, a table with two chairs, and a chest of drawers. Not that it could have accommodated more items, Marta noted ruefully. There was only a small space to move about in despite its meagre furnishings. The walls were painted a light blue which had worn away over the years showing the undercoating of white in places. The dark plank floor squeaked when they walked on it, and the bedspring made a racket when they laid upon it. Edouard joked the bed supplied music for their lovemaking.

Over the following week, Edouard and Marta ventured out for walks to familiarize themselves with the city, enjoying the pleasant fall warmth and the pageantry of colour in the buildings and the markets. They went to the Rambla often, strolling like native Barcelonians among the many stalls, buying foods here and there as they went. And they watched the harbour from the top of Montjuich, observing the soldiers debarking on the ships, and waiting for an opportunity to book their passage to France.

Marta felt she could wait forever, so uncertain was she about meeting his family. But as the days passed, and their small cache of money dwindled, another more immediate worry surfaced. Would they be able to pay for their passage? The shortages of food and lodgings drove the prices of everything up, and the money was disappearing alarmingly fast. Edouard had been unsuccessful in trying to get a letter of credit from the Barcelona bank. They had no intention of helping a Frenchman no matter how noble his family. Despite his breezy assurances that all would be well, Marta could see Edouard was very concerned too.

At the beginning of the second week, Edouard dressed with particular care in some used clothes he had purchased on the Rambla, preparing to go out. "I will try to get our passage today, Marta," he said, taking her into a swift and ardent embrace. He held her by the shoulders, gazing concernedly into her eyes. "If you go out to eat, do not go very far, querida. This city is still a dangerous place for a lone woman."

"I'll go with you, Edouard." Marta picked up her shawl, but Edouard shook his head.

"The harbour is no place for you right now. I'll go. I don't know how long it will take to find a ship going to France that is not carrying soldiers. Please stay here so I won't have to worry about you." With a long, passionate kiss, he held her tightly, then was gone.

Marta stared at the door for long minutes, a wave of panic washing over her. She felt cold, then hot, struggling to breathe. She knew it was a premonition but couldn't move, much as she wanted to call him back. She was frozen, immobile, her hands clenched by her sides as she contended with this terrible anxiety that held her in its thrall. Finally, she broke free and hurried downstairs into the street, staring in the direction he would have taken. There was no sign of him as she had expected.

"Would you like some coffee, señora?" The woman Marta had met on the steps a week earlier was leaning out of her window, calling down to her. "Come up and have some breakfast with me."

With a last look into the street, Marta went back inside and up the stairs. The woman already had her door open, and stood waiting for her. "You looked so sad when your man left, I thought you could use some cheering up," the woman said. Marta took a closer look at her. She was small and slight with her greying hair pinned carefully in a bun at the back of her head. Her clothes were patched meticulously and clean despite their shabbiness. Her dark eyes had the keenness of a bird, missing nothing. "My name is Eva," she said. "My husband was killed in the war, and I have a small pension from the army to live on." While she was explaining, she had taken Marta's arm and pulled her into the room, closing the door behind her.

"I'm Marta." She didn't offer any other explanation, and the woman didn't press her.

"Sit here," Eva said, pulling out a chair similar to the ones in Marta's room. In fact, Marta noted, the room was almost a duplicate of her own. Eva bustled to the small fireplace and lifted a kettle from which she filled a pot on the table. The warm aroma of coffee wafted to Marta and she realized she was hungry. Eva pulled out a block of cheese and a loaf of bread, slicing ample portions for each of them. "Eat, take all you want," Eva urged. "You're too skinny. Men like women with meat on their bones, though," she added, pointing to her ceiling," your husband seems to like you just fine."

Marta realized her room was above Eva's. She wondered in embarrassment what Eva could hear, then blushed furiously thinking of the noisy bedspring, much to the older woman's amusement. Eva's laughter wheezed through her lungs and she coughed uncontrollably for several moments, finally getting control with a few sips of coffee. "I have been suffering from a chronic cough for weeks," she said. "It seems to be getting worse." She dabbed at her lips with a linen handkerchief, then smiled a bit self-consciously at Marta's concerned look.

"I have some experience with these things," Marta said. "Perhaps I can help. My mother taught me many remedies for coughs. We can try some of them if you wish."

"Gypsy medicine?" Eva said uncertainly. "Well, maybe it is worth a try. I find it hard to sleep sometimes with this cough. It's a wonder you don't hear me coughing my lungs out at night. But then," she added with a wink," perhaps it isn't."

They ate their meal in companionable silence, then Marta insisted on examining Eva to look for the source of her problem. "If I can get some black mullein," Marta said, "I can make you a tea that should take care of that cough. The plant grows everywhere so it shouldn't be hard to find here. I will look for some tomorrow."

The older woman smiled gratefully, and touched Marta's hand. "Thank you, my dear girl." She looked into Marta's eyes and added sadly, "Since my husband died, I have been very lonely. I have no children, and most of my relatives live on poor farms, very far away. I hope we will become good friends."

Marta was grateful, too, for the diversion that Eva gave her. It filled up some of the time she spent waiting for Edouard to return. Later that morning, she left Eva and went back to her own room. For the rest of that day Marta watched from the window in her room, then went downstairs to search the street. Her appetite was gone, but she ate automatically to keep up her strength. As night fell, Marta sat in her room on the bed, starting at every footfall, every voice in the corridor. But the door never opened. The whole night she sat, her eyes burning with fatigue, listening and waiting, hugging herself tightly against the desperation she began to feel. Finally, she fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, Marta pulled on her shawl, determined to find out what had happened to Edouard. She walked hurriedly in the direction of the docks, through rundown poor districts. It was obviously a rough neighbourhood, and more than once, she was approached by men who thought she was a prostitute. One man became so aggressive, she had to pull the dagger from her boot to emphasise she was not interested in his proposition.

The harbour was a huge warren of quays and warehouses, shops and taverns. Her heart sank as she gazed about, trying to decide where to start looking. It seemed impossible to find anyone in that busy port. There were still many soldiers on the quays and ships in the bay, awaiting their human cargo. Nowhere did she see his familiar form, and she feared to ask for him among the soldiers. As she walked by groups of sailors, working on loading the ships, the remarks cast in her direction made her face flame with humiliation. Let them think what they like, she thought indignantly. I will find Edouard whatever it takes. With her chin high, she marched past the soldiers who were lounging on the quays, trying to see where one would book a passage on one of the ships. Perhaps that was where Edouard was. Maybe he was detained by the need to provide some documents or money. Maybe he was trying his luck again at one of the banks.

For hours, Marta prowled the port, ignoring the catcalls of the soldiers and sailors, and brushing off the more importunate men with a harsh word or a threat. There was no sign of Edouard anywhere. Her eyes were sore from the brightness of the sun, she was hot, and her head ached from lack of sleep. Wearily, Marta made her way back to the pensione, and into her room. Too tired to eat, she fell asleep immediately.

**********

She awoke suddenly. The room was getting light as dawn approached. A sound near her door alerted her to someone trying to open it. Then Edouard stepped in. Marta gasped, her hand went to her throat as she looked at him. He was wearing a new French uniform!

He came forward quickly to embrace her, and held her tightly. He could feel her trembling, trying to keep her emotions under control. "Marta, I'm so sorry I couldn't come sooner. I know how frightened you must have been." He moved back and looked into her eyes. "I went to the port and tried to find a ship. But I was recognized by a soldier I had known in one of the regiments. He alerted his commanding officer and I was arrested. I managed to convince them I had come to the dock to get my passage back to France to rejoin my regiment. I showed them my wound and they believed me. So, they gave me a uniform and took me back into the army." He sighed heavily and sat down on the bed. "Such a catastrophe!" he murmured. "We never should have come here. If only I had known the war was over, we could have waited awhile." He shook his head dolefully, and took her hand, kissing it and pressing it tightly.

"Marta, I have to go back on one of those ships to France. But as soon as I get there, I will send for you. I will write you instructions at the Barcelona post office, and soon we will be together again. Here is the passage money," he said, handing Marta the purse he had taken to buy their berths on a ship. "And here is my pay." He smiled at that. "At least they keep good accounts and I received back pay for the weeks I have been absent from the army."

Marta couldn't find her voice; it seemed stifled by the pressure around her chest. She wanted to protest, but was frozen by shock. She could scarcely breathe. He was leaving her alone in this big city. Finally, she stammered, "How long...how long will it be until you send for me?"

Edouard rubbed his hand over his face, wearily, sadly. "I hope it will only be a month. Maybe less if we have good winds to get us to France. We will land at Marseilles where there is a large encampment. Most of the soldiers will be paid out of the army there so they can return to their farms. The officers will be allowed to resign their commissions once we're on French soil. I will contact my father and he can send a carriage to take me back to the chateau. But I will wait for you in Marseilles with the carriage. We will ride home in style, as I promised." He gave her a weak smile, trying to encourage her as well as himself to bear this heartbreaking separation.

She could see he was as troubled as she, and tried to be brave, not distress him further. "I will be all right, Edouard. I have already made a friend. Do not worry about me." She embraced him tenderly, then passionately as she realized this would be the last time she would see him for a long while. He responded, and soon they were making love with an urgency and passion that was fierce and desperate. Afterwards, exhausted, they lay side by side for a long time.

Reluctantly, he gently disengaged himself and said, "I must get back to the temporary barracks. I should not even be here. Hopefully, I have not been missed. My ship leaves today on the noon tide." He arose and began to pull on his uniform. When he was dressed, he lifted her and held her close. He swallowed several times, trying to say what was in his heart. "Marta," he whispered against her ear, "I love you beyond my own life. I will always love you." He hesitated, overcome by emotion, then said, "Whatever comes, believe me, you are the one true love of my life."

Marta could hardly see through the mist of tears that finally began to fall. She tried to suppress them, but couldn't. "I love you, too, Edouard. I will wait for you to send for me." She kissed him tenderly on the lips. "As long as it takes, I will wait."

With a hurried, "Goodbye, my love," Edouard rushed from the room, and was gone. The sound of his boots on the staircase diminished and Marta ran to the window to watch him as he limped away.

**********

All that morning, the longboats ferried the soldiers to the waiting ships, as Marta watched, hoping for a last look at her beloved. From her vantage point on a hill near the port, she could only distinguish a sea of blue uniforms on the docks. As noon approached, several of the ships drew up their anchors, and unfurled some of the sails. With inexorable slowness, the ships moved toward the harbour mouth and disappeared around a point of land. Was Edouard on one of those ships? He must be, she thought, I feel such emptiness suddenly, like part of me is gone. She turned her steps back toward her pensione, hardly aware of the warm autumn sunshine that poured over the beautiful city of Barcelona.

She was climbing the stairs toward her room when suddenly Eva's door opened and the woman stepped out. Glad of a friendly face to help overcome her melancholy, Marta turned toward her.

"How dare you show your face here!" Eva snapped viciously. "How dare you bring a French soldier into this house! And I took you for a friend. What kind of woman consorts with the enemy? Collaborator! Traitor! Gypsy puta!" she yelled then spat on the floor at Marta's feet, slamming the door in her face.

Emotions warred within Marta for several long seconds as she stared at the door-- humiliation, anger, sorrow. With a heavy tread, she mounted the steps to her room. Once inside she threw herself on the bed, finally giving way to her grief. She must have fallen asleep as a peremptory knocking awoke her and she felt disoriented for a few seconds.

She straightened her clothing and wiped her face, then answered the door. The concierge stood there, his steely grey eyes piercing her like spikes. "I want you out of here," he  growled harshly. "Get your things and be gone today."

"Why?" Marta was so completely shaken she almost had to hold the door for support.

"Because I won't have one such as you in my house," he said acidly, looking her up and down in a very insulting manner. "Señora Eva told me about the French soldier, supposedly your husband."

"We are married. I can prove it," Marta said in a tremulous voice. Then a sudden fury overtook her. She didn't have to prove anything to him. In a firmer voice she said, "I am paid up to the end of the week. So either I stay until then, or you give me back some of my money." Drawing herself up, she glared straight into his hostile eyes.

He seemed taken aback for a second by her sudden show of spirit then said, "Come to my room and I will refund part of your rent. But you will go today." He turned on his heel and descended the stairs.

Marta closed the door and leaned against it. Madre de dios, where will I go now? I don't know any other place in this city. What a fate I have brought upon myself, she thought in despair. If only I could have foreseen what would happen. Would I still have done it? She sighed heavily. Mama always said there is a pattern to it all, and we are part of that pattern but we don't know what part. What good is going to come of all this, she wondered heavily. I can't spend more time thinking about this. I must find another lodging before nightfall.

With quick motions, she gathered their few belongings and folded them into the knapsack that Edouard had left. Slinging it over her shoulder, Marta went down to the concierge's room and knocked. He answered immediately and thrust a handful of coins at her. She accepted them and he closed the door without a word.

**********

Hours of trudging the narrow streets of the barrio brought no luck. There were no rooms to be had in that area. As night fell, Marta felt near to despair. She went into an ancient church to rest, settling on the steps that led to the choir loft. Comforted by the familiar aromas of incense and candlewax, and the sacred quiet, she was soon asleep. A loud sound awoke her and she realized it was dawn and someone had just come into the church, banging the door. A priest walked down the aisle, then turned as he heard her moving to get up. "Who's there?" he said anxiously, his voice echoing around the vaulted ceiling.

Marta stepped into view, and the priest relaxed. He smiled at her. "We sometimes have dangerous people taking shelter in here," he said. "I was afraid you might be one of those." With a closer look at her, he frowned uncertainly. "Did you spend the night in here?" he asked with a trace of annoyance.

"Yes, padre. I had nowhere else to go. I didn't mean to fall asleep here, just needed to rest a while."

"You need a place to stay? I might know of a place." He gave her instructions to a certain address, and added, "The lady who owns the pensione is very strict about her guests. She will not allow male visitors in women's rooms. Do you understand? Also, you may not stay here again. This is not a refuge for vagabonds," he said sternly.

Marta flushed and thanked the priest. She turned to go, then went to the rows of candles, taking a candle and lighting another with it. She dropped a coin into the metal box and knelt to say a prayer for Edouard's safety, and her own.

***********

Marta's timid knock was met by a large stern-faced woman in her middle-age, dressed in black crepe which billowed about her ample frame. Her grey hair was pulled back severely from a pouchy, soft face. But her black eyes were anything but soft as they regarded Marta standing below her on the front step of the pensione. "Yes," she said impatiently in a deep, almost masculine, voice. "What do you want, Gypsy?"

"The padre of your church said you might have a room, señora. I wish to rent it for a while, maybe a month." Marta kept her tone respectful, deferential.

The woman looked Marta up and down with a sneer on her face. "The padre was mistaken. I have no room to let to you, girl."

"Do you know of another place I might find a room, señora?"

"I don't know of any respectable place that would have one of you Gypsies. Now take yourself off before I call the militia," the woman snapped haughtily. "Of all the nerve..." she said indignantly as she tried to close the door but Marta had caught hold of it and held it for a moment.

"Faith, Hope and Charity," Marta said, in an angry rasp, "But the first of these is Charity." She let the door go and it was slammed shut. Marta tugged her shawl around her and marched down the steps, her face crimson with rage and humiliation. She had never met with such blatant prejudice before, always shielded by her band from direct contact with it. She knew the payos despised them, but never before had she felt the soul-scorching sting of such race hatred aimed at her. For blocks she walked, oblivious to her direction, trying to rid herself of the rage burning inside.

At length she stopped, realizing she was in a neighbourhood she had never been in before. I suppose I am lost, she thought despondently, but what does it matter? When you have no home, one place is as good as another. The tenements in this district were old and shabby, but in one window she saw a sign advertising a room to let. She went in and rang for the concierge. A slatternly woman came out of a room down the corridor and eyed her suspiciously. "What can I do for you?" she said in a rasping voice.

"I would like to rent your room, señora," Marta said, half-expecting another rude rebuff. To her surprise, the woman gestured to her and led the way up a rickety staircase and onto the third floor of the old building.

"This is it," the woman said, throwing the door open with a disinterested gesture. "Take it or leave it. Rent in advance every week."

Marta entered the room and glanced around. It smelled of urine, garbage and other noxious odours she preferred not to try to identify. The only furniture consisted of a shabby bed, a much-scratched table and a chair. A tiny window looked out onto a courtyard filled with bins and garbage in which a straggly tree and some shrubs struggled to grow. "How much is the rent?"

The woman seemed to be sizing her up, and said, "Ten escuderos a week."

Marta laughed scornfully. "Ten escuderos for this?" she said, gesturing into the refuse-filled room. She started to go back toward the stairs when the woman caught her arm.

"For you, senorita, eight escuderos." The woman gave Marta a gap-toothed smile and wheezed such a foul breath at her, Marta turned her head quickly.

"I will give you five...no more." Marta waited while the woman huffed with indignation while making up her mind.

"All right. Five escuderos a week. And you take out your own night soil. Pay in advance." The woman held out a grimy hand and Marta counted five coins into it.

"Is there a key for the door, señora?" Marta asked.

The woman guffawed loudly, sending another blast of foul air at Marta. "A key! What do you think this is, a fancy hotel? Just put your chair against the door at night, señorita. And," the woman added, looking Marta over, "I would strongly advise you do. We have some rough men living here." She waddled away, laughing to herself, leaving Marta in her new room.

**********

The days ran into weeks as fall turned to winter. The temperature dipped during the nights and Marta shivered in her unheated room. She could ill afford to spend money on such luxuries as extra blankets. Her stock of coins dwindled alarmingly as she waited for a letter from Edouard. Every week, she went to the main post office in Barcelona to see if any mail had come for her. Her face became familiar to the elderly clerk and he seemed sad each time he had to disappoint her.

The first few days of her residence, Marta spent cleaning her room of all the refuse and scrubbing everything from the floors to the walls, and all the furniture. The arduous task gave her something to occupy her mind and keep the feeling of desperation at bay.

As her money diminished, Marta realized she would have to find work to keep herself until Edouard sent for her. Once the room was habitable, she considered what sort of work she was fitted for and had to acknowledge that her only choice was domestic service. Her healing knowledge would challenge the doctors who were jealous of any usurpers to their profession. Marta had heard about the witch hunts and burnings, and though it had not occurred in Spain, she wanted to take no chances. Being a lone gitana in this city was dangerous enough.

All through the winter, Marta trudged through the chilly streets, with only her shawl for warmth, asking at every place she could think of if there was any work. She soon found out that with the swarms of peasants taking refuge in the city, there was no work to be had. All open positions were taken immediately by friends and relatives of those already employed. Even more against her was her race-- no one would hire a Gypsy. Their unwarranted reputation for thievery and mischief precluded any chance she had of gaining anyone's trust. Many doors were slammed in her face before she even asked for work.

The only ray of hope came six weeks after Edouard's departure. When she entered the post office, the old clerk spotted her immediately and began to wave a letter, as he grinned with joy for her. She rushed over and took it from him with trembling hands. Too anxious to go home to read it, she hurried outside and sat on a nearby bench. She tore open the seal and read avidly. The words swam before her eyes as she read the letter over and over, searching for the instructions on how to join him in Marseilles. His letter was ardent, and filled with exclamations of love, but all he really said was his wound was fine, he would be released from the army soon and his father was coming to meet him in Marseilles with a carriage. There was no mention of sending for her.

Marta sat for a long time with the letter squeezed in her hand, fighting off the sudden panic that threatened to engulf her. Of course he would send for her! He just hadn't been able to make the arrangements yet. There must be some complication that he had not foreseen. His next letter would explain it all. She took several deep breaths and got up, heading back into the warren of streets to the dingy tenement she lived in.

As the winter wore on, her store of money finally was gone. She got behind in her rent, and dodged the concierge so she wouldn't be dunned for the money. She ate only once a day to conserve what few coins she had. The Andalusian mare and stallion were gone long ago. She had no other items of value to sell, except for Edouard's ring, and she could not bring herself to part with it--just in case.

Finally, one cool day in February, the concierge caught her on the stairs to her room, and demanded the rent money. She waggled her grimy finger at Marta and threatened, "If I don't have the money by tomorrow morning, out you go. I could rent that room any time for twice what you're paying."

"Only because I cleaned it and made it worth more," Marta retorted angrily. Watching the woman's face turn a bright red with rage, Marta immediately regretted her outburst.  It had been another unsuccessful day of looking for work, and she was tired and hungry. Also, Edouard's second letter, which she had received that day, only said he was at his chateau and all was well with him. No money or instructions to join him came with it. Marta's spirits were at the lowest ebb that she could ever remember. And now this.

"Why don't you do what the other women here do, sell your body for money?" the woman goaded. "Or find some nice man to keep you. At least you could pay your rent!" she shouted.

Marta brushed by her furiously and shut her door firmly. Leaning against it, she tried to catch her breath so overwrought was she by the confrontation. She was seething at that woman's suggestion of how she could earn some money. What kind of woman does she take me for, Marta thought hotly, her cheeks burning with humiliation.

And the ultimatum--by tomorrow. Tears of hopelessness coursed down her cheeks as she shook her head. There was no chance of getting any money by then. She sat down on the bed and wept until she fell asleep.

The dawn found her chilled and miserable. She arose and washed in the icy water of her basin. Then, with heavy movements, she packed the knapsack, preparing to be evicted from her room. She did not have to wait long. The concierge hammered on the door, shouting loudly through the panel. "Give me the rent or get out!"

With all the dignity she could muster, Marta opened the door and strode by her without a word or backward look. Once on the street, she began to tremble, partly from the chill breeze that swept down the narrow street, and partly from the terror of having no place to stay nor any means of getting some food. She had not eaten since early the day before. As her stomach rolled with hunger, she recalled the poor urchins she had first seen on entering this city. I'm one of them now, she thought. No one will help me, so I must look to myself only. She walked toward the Rambla where there were food carts and many people.

**********

Tessa stood up suddenly, her eyes blazing in the moonlight. "The bastard! How could he do that to you, Marta? He said he loved you! How could he leave you to starve in a strange city!" She strode across the flagstones a short distance, hugging herself tightly against the storm of emotions that seemed to have assailed her.

"He didn't understand the situation, Tessa. In his second letter, he suggested I go to stay with my people until he could arrange things. He couldn't know that was the last thing I could do. Even if my people would have taken me back, my pride wouldn't let me. How could I return to them and admit to such a mistake? How could I admit to being such a failure in my life? And who knows what Edouard encountered when he got back to France? " Marta watched with a tolerant smile as Tessa shook her head violently.

"How can you be so forgiving? He abandoned you!" From across the verandah, Marta could hear Tessa's laboured breathing. She could see that Tessa was furiously angry and upset.

"It was a long time ago. In the past, Tessa." Marta arose and stretched her cramped muscles, then walked over to Tessa. She took the younger woman's hand and pressed it gently. "You can't change the past no matter how much you would like to. Do you want to hear the rest?"

Tessa turned away and stared out onto the moonlit hacienda gardens, and the fields beyond, getting her emotions under control. "I don't know, Marta," she said softly, "I'm not sure I want to know any more. I had no idea..." her voice trailed away and she was silent for a long while.

"Come on, Tessa. You're braver than that," Marta chided as she pulled Tessa back to the chair, and seated herself once more. "Perhaps you would be more comfortable in a chair, than on the cold flagstones." But Tessa sat down by her again, and laid her head on Marta's lap.

"This will do fine, Marta. Go on with your story."

**********

It was a simple matter to grab an item of food from one of the carts. All she had to do was wait until the vendor was busy with a customer then slip her hand over the food and walk away with it. In the days that followed, Marta became adept at getting food in the Rambla, always keeping to the most crowded areas and at the busiest times. A bigger problem was finding places to sleep. Each night presented the problem anew as she searched for any place that could provide shelter. Sometimes she hid in buildings under construction, sometimes in the churches. Sometimes she had to defend herself against the ruffians who prowled the streets at night looking for the unwary or helpless.

Hunger was her constant companion as she roamed the streets of Barcelona, always searching for food or shelter. She continued to go to the post office but no more letters arrived. The old clerk shook his head sorrowfully when he saw her, so changed was she from the lovely young girl whom he first knew. She had a haunted look about her now, her eyes were wary and bitter. And he saw the hopelessness there when he had to tell her there was no letter that day. On her last visit, he gave her some coins to buy a meal. At first she refused, then when he insisted, she took the money and promised to repay him.

One day as spring was beginning to show in the buds on the trees and the balmy warmth of the days, Marta found herself walking in a new neighbourhood. She had not eaten since the day before and was tired and light-headed from hunger. She was passing by a high wall, part of an enclosure around an estate, and leaned against it for support. The aroma of fresh baked bread came to her and she trembled with the need for food. Without thought, she climbed over the wall, and dropped onto the other side, looking around warily. She was in a large yard with several buildings behind the main villa. No one seemed to be about and she made for a small building, the bakery she assumed, where the wonderful odour emanated. Rushing inside, she saw a row of loaves cooling on the oven hearth, and grabbed one. Not waiting to get away, she began to devour the bread, while glancing around like a feral animal.

"What do you think you are doing?" a voice cried from the doorway. A large buxom woman stood there, barring her escape, her dark eyes fixed on Marta as she tore the bread apart and ate it. "How did you get in here?" The woman picked up a bread paddle and started toward her but Marta leapt away agilely. The abrupt movement made her dizzy and suddenly things started to fade then go black.

When she came to, she was lying on the floor and firmly in the woman's grasp. Marta pleaded, "Please, señora, let me go. I swear I will never come here again."

"I should call the militia and have you arrested!" the woman said, glaring into Marta's eyes. On seeing the terror there, the woman's face softened though she maintained her grip. "You look half-starved, girl. When was the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday, señora. Please, be merciful. Don't let them throw me into the jail. I have heard such stories..." Marta stopped, unable to go on and trembled with fear. The horrors of the prisons were whispered about by the denizens of the underground society she now inhabited. If they sent her to prison, she would die as so many did.

The woman frowned as if seeing something in Marta that made her pause. "Wait here and don't try to run away. I will return. I am not bringing the militia, so don't worry." She left Marta alone in the bakery and then returned in a few minutes with a large mug. Helping her to a sitting position, she gave Marta the mug. It contained some kind of broth. Never had anything tasted so good. The woman made Marta drink it slowly, giving her pieces of the loaf she had stolen. "Don't eat so fast. You will make yourself sick," she admonished. After Marta had finished her meal, the woman said, "What is your name, girl?"

"Marta, señora. Thank you for the food. I will go now." She tried to get up, but the woman restrained her with a gentle grip on her arm.

"Where are your people, Marta? What is a Gypsy girl doing in Barcelona by herself?" The woman's kind face and softhearted manner undid Marta. She pressed herself to the woman's bosom and began to weep. At length, she was able to tell her story and the woman held her tenderly for a long time as if considering something. "You look like you could be strong enough if you were well-fed," she said finally. "Would you like to work?"

At first, Marta could not believe her ears. Work? The woman was offering her work? "Yes, I would very much like to work, señora. Anything. I will do anything!"

"Our laundress has gone and got herself pregnant and has married. So she has left us with no laundress. My mistress just asked me yesterday if I knew anyone who could do the job. Would you like that kind of work, Marta?"

Marta sat up and embraced the woman fervently. "Oh, yes. I would. Mil gracias, señora, mil gracias."

"My name is Arabella, so you can stop calling me señora. I will go and speak to my mistress now. I'm sure she will hire you. Don't say anything about the bread. I will say you are a friend of my sister's or something like that. Leave it with me." Arabella stood up and left the bakery. Marta watched her go, partly in fear that she would return with the militia and partly in hope that she would fulfill her promise of work.

**********

"And that was my life until I saw a sad little girl sitting alone by a fountain. The rest you know. The mistress was your aunt, of course, and Arabella was able to convince her to hire me. The letter I received from Spain yesterday was from Arabella. We kept in touch even after I moved to Madrid and then here."

"What about Edouard? Did you never hear from him again?" Tessa asked.

"Yes. A letter came for me about two years after I started working for your aunt. It wasn't from Edouard; it was from his family lawyer. The letter said our marriage was annulled as it wasn't considered to be legal. The priest had never recorded the marriage in the church registry. The document also said I was not to use his family name. I never had used it, but I kept the ring and the marriage certificate." Marta was silent for a few seconds, then added, "They sent me a legal document, written in Latin, that said the marriage was dissolved." She laughed shortly. "As if a piece of paper could dissolve the sacred vows we made. As far as I was concerned, we were still married, no matter what the paper said."

"And that is why you couldn't marry Paolo. I wondered when we were with your people, why you wouldn't marry him. He seemed so handsome and so in love with you."

"Yes, Tessa. That is why." Marta sighed deeply. "About a month after Edouard left, I managed to send a message to my mother through a gitano troupe that was in the city. They were trades people and were going south where I knew my own people were. I told my mother everything in the letter, and begged her forgiveness. A few weeks later, Rafael showed up at the pensione and I gave him back the horses. He was very angry with me for the hurt I had given our mother, and said she hadn't forgiven me. He hoped that all would go well with me in France and left, taking with him another message that I wrote to Mama. I didn't hear from them again for nearly two years, though I sent Mama a letter and told her I was working for the Doña. Rafael came again and told me the band was camped near the city, and I should come to see my mother. She wanted to see me at last! She forgave me."

Marta kept a thoughtful silence for several minutes, then sighed lightly. "In Arabella's letter, she said there is a small legacy for me at a bank in Barcelona - one thousand Francs. It would seem he didn't forget me after all."

Tessa looked up at Marta, and saw the glint of tears in her eyes. "Even after all this, Marta, you still love him, don't you? How is it possible after what he did to you?"

"I once read a passage somewhere that said love is stronger than death. It may be. At first, I was very bitter against Edouard. As time went on, I became resigned to my fate. I could never marry. Then, my life became full and I could not imagine how it could be better." Marta rested her hand on Tessa's shoulder and squeezed gently. "I also realized that the blame rested as much on me as on Edouard. He had never planned to hurt me, and I'm sure he was tormented by what he felt he had to do. He had a place in his society, and I would never have fitted into it."

"He was a coward! Some people are born into nobility, but that doesn't make them noble," Tessa said, an angry edge to her voice. "And some people, like you Marta, are noble of heart regardless of their origins. If there was an aristocracy of the heart, you would be the queen," she added passionately.

Tessa paused, a pensive expression on her face. "I'm ashamed to admit it, but I never wondered about your family name. It never occurred to me to ask." Tessa shook her head ruefully. "I must apologize for my own arrogance."

"It isn't important. I never used Edouard's name, and I gave up the right to use my mother's family name. I have gotten by just fine without one," she laughed.

"Marta," Tessa said seriously, "I would be honoured if you would use Alvarado as your family name."

For several minutes, Marta said nothing, too overcome to speak, then she said softly, "Thank you, Tessa. I will think about it." She settled back onto the wicker chair with a weary sigh.

"Well, Marta, it's too late to go to bed and too early to be up. What shall we do now?"

"Let's just sit here and wait for the sun to come up on a new day."

THE END

©February 2001 - Un Día Nuevo - Maril Swan

Hope you enjoyed reading the story as much I enjoyed writing it.
--Maril