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 Gálvez) and I thought she would enjoy this story.

Author's Note: References in this story to: Queen of Cups - Gitano - King of Swords

Spanish & Gitano glossary:
huarachas - 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

Un día nuevo
by Maril Swan

Part Three of eight

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.

Continued in Part Four of Eight