Free Born to Trouble by Rita Bradshaw Page A

Pearl got sicker and sicker, the fever that was ravaging her body sending her temperature soaring.

Chapter 6
    The sun was at its height. It shone on the raven-black hair of several brightly dressed young girls with Gitano complexions and big gold hoops in their ears, sitting in a giggling circle plaiting rush baskets with deft brown fingers. In the field behind them were horse-drawn caravans and tents of all shapes and sizes, the smoke from numerous woodfires and the shouts of squabbling children and barking dogs filling the air.
    The gypsy encampment had arrived early that morning, but to an onlooker it would have appeared they’d been settled in place for some time, such was the order prevailing. Horses had been put to grass, washing hung on lines constructed between trees, fowls were pecking about for scraps, and children were being bathed in the big wooden tubs the clothes had been washed in. Clothed all in black, gnarled old women with saffron skin and forbidding eyes sat on the steps of gaily painted, round-roofed caravans with babies on their knees, while younger women with harassed faces were bent over great black pots suspended above woodfires, stirring something or other in the cavernous depths. A group of men were sorting through a number of salvaged pans, metal buckets and kettles for those worth mending and selling; others were preparing rabbits and hedgehogs for cooking, still others chopping wood for the fires or inspecting the horses they intended to trade later. All was bustle and life, noise and chatter.
    Some fifty yards or so from the encampment, three young boys were returning home with two pheasants caught by their lurcher dog. They were brothers, the eldest sixteen years old, and all had the swarthy fresh complexions, sturdy limbs and bright eyes which came from living and working in nature’s own atmosphere. The two younger boys having gone slightly ahead, the eldest’s attention was caught by the dog which was behaving strangely, whining and pawing at the foot of an old tree higher on the bank.
    ‘We’ve got all the food we want for today, Rex. Leave it.’ Byron Lock whistled to the dog and then frowned when he continued to scratch at the tree roots, grumbling deep in his throat. This wasn’t like Rex. Byron had trained the dog himself from a puppy, and he responded immediately to his every command. Calling to his brothers to take the birds they’d poached back to the camp where his mother would soon have them plucked and in the pot, the youth climbed up the bank and made his way to the dog. At his approach, the animal became still and sat down, but did not budge from the spot.
    Byron crouched down and looked into the base of the tree, which he saw was one big cavity. A good storm and it would be down, he thought, in the moment before he saw the small figure of a child curled up inside. He started, making the dog jump and bark, but the child – a girl – didn’t move.
    His heart thumping hard, he put out his hand and felt the little body. It was warm, and when he slid his fingers under the chin, he could feel a rapid pulse. She was alive then. Breathing out his relief, he sat back on his heels. As he did so, the child stirred, muttering something unintelligible. ‘Wake up, little ’un.’ Byron reached into the hole again and shook her gently. ‘Come on, wake up. Time to go home, wherever home is.’
    She stirred again, giving a low moan, and as his hand moved to her forehead he felt it was burning hot. Again he sat back sharply. They’d moved camp from their usual summer place near Newcastle because the hot weather had caused the fever to become rampant in the town.
    Byron stood to his feet, glancing at the dog who stared back at his master trustingly. ‘Guard.’ Turning, he slid down the grassy bank and began to walk towards the camp. He didn’t need to check if the dog had obeyed him.
    The laughing circle of girls called to him in the gypsy tongue as Byron passed by, but although