by E. D. Walker
A clatter of hooves sounded in the cobbled yard, and Lord Stephen’s voice called out a cheerful welcome. A softer tenor answered him, and Beatrice stiffened her spine as Master Llewellyn entered her home.
The magician was a tall man and gangly, with a shock of blond hair so pale it was almost white. His eyes were likewise an almost colorless pale blue, but his skin was nut-brown and freckled as a farmer’s from all the traveling he did about in the open air. He didn’t look like a wicked sodomite—he looked like a poor clergyman or a clerk. He certainly didn’t look like an all-powerful magician. But then, he didn’t look like a killer either, and that she knew him to be. Or a co-conspirator, at least, even if he did not wield the knife.
Llewellyn offered her a respectful bow. “Baroness.”
She wanted to spit on him, scratch his face, order him whipped. She wanted to hurt him and all the rest who had harmed her brother, dishonored her family. But she could not. So she dipped in a curtsy, her smile aching on her face, and murmured, “Welcome to my home, Master Llewellyn.”
His mouth twitched in amusement, as if he could hear the curses that lay behind her pleasantries. Perhaps he knew too how powerless she was to hurt him.
“Come, take some refreshment.” Stephen was already drawing Llewellyn off, one hand under his elbow.
Llewellyn gently disengaged himself. “Your pardon, my lord, but I had rather speak at once to the midwife you mentioned, to get a proper idea of the situation here.”
Stephen let out a small hmph and drew closer, dropping his booming voice low. “She’s a madwoman, Magician, and my wife is a new mother, prone to worry. But I thought it best to have you out here. Just in case.”
Llewellyn’s gaze flickered to Beatrice, then quickly away. He patted Stephen’s arm. “You did the right thing. All will be well.” The magician turned to Beatrice. “My lady, would you send for the midwife?”
“She is already here within.” Beatrice had given Mary space in the women’s apartments, not wanting to make the old woman walk home alone after their encounter with the fairy. Besides, she wanted Mary close by in case…just in case.
Stephen frowned and opened his mouth to say something.
Beatrice whirled with an ostentatious swirl of her skirt. “I will see to our guest, dear husband. All is properly arranged. Never fear.” With that, she led Llewellyn deeper into the castle to his suite of rooms. One of her ladies, Petronilla, paced along behind them, hands tucked demurely into her belled sleeves. Two servants brought up the rear, carrying several heavy bags taken off Llewellyn’s pack horse.
Once Beatrice left Stephen’s presence, her throat began to prickle, as if all the words she wished to hurl at Llewellyn’s venomous head were clawing for their freedom.
“When did this trouble start?” Llewellyn’s voice was quiet, his tone even.
You must work with him. He has knowledge you do not. He can save your son. Beatrice gritted her back teeth. “A few days ago. The Fair Folk tried to take a farmer’s child. Came right up to the door. A few days after that, they tried to switch out another woman’s baby with one of their own.”
“Hmm.” He frowned and drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the stone wall as they walked up the stairs.
Beatrice stopped and faced him, folding her arms in a defensive stance. She was a stair higher, but he was uncommonly tall, so they ended up at about eye level with each other.
He raised one eyebrow, his face bland. “My lady?”
“What can you do to help us?”
He blew his breath out, and a notch appeared between his brows. “I don’t know.” He softened his voice. “But I believe the midwife’s story, and I will do all that is within my powers to help you.”
“Why? Why would you help me?” Why would your king and his kin let you help me?
He tilted his head as if baffled that she would even ask. “Because no one should lose their child.”
Flustered, she spun away from him, hurrying up the rest of the stairs. How awful to be a woman, to need a man to fight for her, to keep her son safe. She would do anything for her child and yet that wasn’t enough for this world. She pushed open a door to one of the guest suites. “These are your chambers, Master Llewellyn. Let me know if there is anything else you require.”
Mary clattered into the hallway from the lady’s hall upstairs, looking like an animated bundle of rags as she scurried over to Llewellyn. “My lord magician?”
He bowed at the waist to the crone, an uncommon show of respect. “Madam. And you are?”
“Mary. Midwife in town.” She jerked her chin at Beatrice. “Did you tell him about the kelpie?”
Beatrice’s cheeks burned. “Not…as yet.”
Mary just shook her head and started into Llewellyn’s room. He blinked in surprise. Mary paused on the threshold and jabbed her finger at Petronilla. “You, we don’t need you. I’m chaperone enough for the baroness.”
Petronilla cast Beatrice a startled and somewhat scandalized glance. Beatrice waved that away. “It’s all right. Do as she says.” With an annoyed trill, her lady-in-waiting took herself off.
Beatrice shook her head. The great concern of preserving her virtue was endlessly (and exasperatingly) amusing to her. She’d had no virtue to speak of for years now.
Still, even if you are a whore and a scandal, it is far more important that you at least not be seen as one. The performance of virtue was important; the possession of it mattered very little. She wished she’d learned that—and discretion—sooner in her life.
Llewellyn held the door open for her, and Beatrice lifted her chin haughtily as she passed. The whole concern was largely moot in this case anyway if Llewellyn truly did prefer men. A boy-lover was hardly likely to accost her, after all.
The two servants entered and set Llewellyn’s luggage on the floor by his bed. Mary made a small sound of pleasure and wasted no time digging about inside Llewellyn’s saddlebags. “What have you brought, then, Magician?”
Beatrice tensed, worried the midwife would offend him. But Llewellyn only made a small amused sound, then crossed to his bags and began unpacking his treasures for them. Beatrice wandered to the trunk in the corner, ready to put the items away as they emerged.
The first item from his luggage was a chain-mail shirt, followed by a second. “Pure iron each.” He handed one to Mary. The midwife nearly dropped it and, after a small pause, he offered the second to Beatrice. Her curiosity overcame her distaste, and she took the chain mail from him, careful to use two hands to take its weight.
“These won’t protect the children, of course,” he said. “But I thought it best to bring them. In case. Fairies hate iron. It burns their skin and makes them ill.”
Beatrice sniffed. “I know. And we’ve already provided salt from our own stores to all the women in town, so they can draw salt circles around their cribs.”
“Good, good. And horseshoes over the doors?”
“Aye,” Mary replied.
Llewellyn smiled approval, then went to a cushioned chair and arranged himself in it. He motioned for them to sit with him. Mary immediately folded her slight form into the other seat.
Beatrice hovered behind her own chair, antsy and unwilling to sit. “Chain mail and advice we didn’t need? Is that all you’ve brought to help us?”
Mary sent her a startled look, then pinched her mouth closed. Llewellyn’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline, and his jaw worked for a moment as he fought whatever angry reply he might have made. Beatrice felt a small surge of triumph. She was the lady of this castle. As such, he owed her deference, he owed her courtesy. It was perhaps unbecoming in her to bait him when she knew he could not respond in kind, but she didn’t particularly care.
Llewellyn dropped his gaze from hers, but his face remained bland. “Well, I brought this.” He fished something out of his robes, lifted a chain over his head, and then tossed the bauble to her.
Beatrice caught the flat, round object between her palms. The item was a
small river stone with a large hole worn through.
Mary gasped and snatched the stone away from Beatrice, holding it to her eye to look through the hole. “A seeing stone?”
“Yes.”
Beatrice clenched her fists in her skirts. “And what is that?”
Mary answered before Llewellyn could. “It lets even those without the Sight see the Fair Folk’s true selves.” She handed the stone back to Beatrice.
Beatrice frowned and flipped the stone over on her palm, then back again. The kelpie last night had been unsettling enough. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see its true self.
“The stone can help us determine if any of the babies have already been taken,” Llewellyn said.
Mary huffed. “They haven’t been switched. I’m certain of that.”
“As a precaution, we could check.”
“If you’d like to waste your time.”
Beatrice bit her cheek to keep from grinning. The midwife, for all her bedraggled appearance, was not a bit overawed by the king’s magician. Perhaps that was one of the benefits of being “mad”—you could say what you liked to people. Or perhaps it came from being the best midwife in the county. Mary should have been cowed by a king’s magician, but the midwife seemed to regard this meeting as one professional speaking to another, sharing trade secrets. Llewellyn was harder to read.
He looked at Beatrice, pinning her with his gaze. “So, those are all the tricks I’ve brought. Perhaps now you two could tell me about last night?”
Mary slid Beatrice a questioning look. Beatrice waved permission. “Tell him what you like.” Even about the kiss, if that could help. With her son in physical danger, her good name was the least important consideration at the moment. Besides, Llewellyn came from the king’s court. He already knew all about her.
She crossed to the window slit and stared out at the bustle of the court below. Mary told her tale, and Llewellyn asked the occasional question. Beatrice ignored them, wishing once more that her husband had not sent for the man. Llewellyn didn’t seem like he’d be much help, and all he did was bring back bad memories for Beatrice: that dark knife edge she’d walked for weeks after her brother’s death, wondering how she would live, whom she would have to sell herself to just to stay alive.
A crow startled her, landing on the ledge almost on top of her hand. She fell back a step, but the crow stayed put, cocking his head to stare at her out of one eye. “Shoo.” She flapped her hands, trying to scare him off.
The bird only ruffled his feathers and gazed at her with his dark, beady eyes. Slowly he lifted his foot high to show her the message tied to his leg.
Beatrice stepped forward, then stopped herself. She weighed the seeing stone in her hand, then set it gently on the worktable without raising it to her eye. If the crow was more than a crow, she would still have to get the message off his foot anyway. Better not to know.
The bird obligingly held his foot out, watching her all the time. Behind her, Llewellyn and Mary had fallen silent. With shaking hands, Beatrice untied the missive. The vellum crinkled in her hand as she fisted her fingers around it. The crow let out a hoarse caw, then took off. He circled the castle once before Beatrice lost sight of him. Mouth dry, Beatrice unrolled the scrap of vellum. The handwriting was thin and spidery, and it took her a long moment to decipher the words:
You wish to meet?
Our Queen would be delighted to break bread with you.
Come to The Hill at sundown.
Bring whomever you like.
Even the magician.
A knock at the door made her jump about a foot and crush the vellum against her chest. Llewellyn let out a shaky laugh, then stood and opened his door. “Yes?”
The newest page stood there, gawky and awkward still. “A farmer from the village is here, asking for Mad—asking for the midwife. He says his wife’s time has come.”
Mary pushed to her feet with a grunt. “That’ll probably be Tom Plowman, I expect. His woman is due any day now.” She started for the door.
Beatrice took two quick steps and caught Mary by one worn sleeve. “But the Fair Folk. They want to meet tonight. That’s what the message said.”
“Ah, can’t see what they’d want with my old bones.”
“But—”
Mary cupped Beatrice’s cheek, her eyes kind. “The magician will help you, lass. This is his business, and now I must return to mine.”
Beatrice shook her head and looked away, her throat tight.
With a half-exasperated sigh, Mary took herself off, the page trailing after her.
“I will, of course, come with you to the meeting, my lady,” Llewellyn murmured.
Bitterness coated her throat. “So kind of you.”
Chapter Four
Mary hustled through the castle courtyard behind the gawky page. “Who was it sent for me, lad?” she asked again.
The boy lifted slim shoulders. “One of the farmers. I don’t know his name.”
“All right.” It had to be Tom. His wife was the closest to her time. If it was any of the others… Mary shook her head. She would deal with that when the time came. If the time came.
The lad stopped, and she bumped into him. He steadied her with a hand against her shoulder, then turned and pointed. “That’s the man.”
Mary recognized James from the village. He was a blacksmith, not a farmer, but the page was new to the town. She turned to thank the boy. He was scurrying away to the castle already. He cast one uneasy glance back, then broke into a run.
Mary voiced a soft sigh. Witch, they called her, and crone. She didn’t mind it much anymore, but it always hurt when the children ran away from her.
The blacksmith rushed over and took her arm. He pulled her just outside the gates, hurrying her along. “Thank goodness you’ve come. It’s my wife. She’s having a terrible hard time. I’ve brought a horse, if you’ll ride.”
“Of course.” Mary hitched her skirts high and swung easily into the saddle of the shaggy black horse. James’s wife was about six months along. The babe was probably lost already, but there might be a chance to save the mother. Mary bent in the saddle, holding her hand down to help the blacksmith up. The horse sidled beneath her, anxious to go. She patted his side reassuringly. “Hold on now.”
Still on the ground, the blacksmith met her gaze, and his mouth widened in a toothy grin. “Enjoy your ride, Mad Mary.”
“What—”
The man’s eyes rolled over black, and then his clothes shifted to feathers, his arms to wings.
Mary opened her mouth to scream, “Hel—”
The horse took off in a bounding leap, and she bounced hard in the saddle, her teeth jarring together, the breath knocked out of her. She twisted and pushed, trying to throw herself off as the horse gained speed over the bare fields behind the castle. Some invisible force held her in place, like a strong hand pushing her shoulders down.
Mary groped for the iron ring around her neck, but it was gone. Of course. She never could have been trapped like this if she’d still had it. The page. Bribed or enspelled, he’d lifted it off her, no doubt.
The horse tossed his head and a loud, braying laugh filled her ears even as a familiar voice echoed inside her head. No, no, crone. It’s just you and me now. It was the voice of the smug fairy from the night before. The kelpie.
She pinched her eyes closed even as her heart punched away inside her aged old bones. Kelpies drowned their prey. Mary fumbled for her pockets and pulled her knife out. It wasn't good solid iron, but the blade was better than nothing. The reins from the bridle snapped out, slapping against her wrists like whips. The leather thongs wound around her wrists, tying them together and binding her more securely to the saddle.
The fairy-horse tossed his head with a delighted neigh, painfully bruising her rump as he increased his speed. He broke through the tree line, and a branch whipped Mary in the face, scratching her cheek. Up ahead, the glittering slither of the river came into view.
&nb
sp; ***
Stephen insisted on accompanying Beatrice and Llewellyn to the meeting, which she hadn’t foreseen but probably should have. Her husband was an old campaigner, a soldier in his bones. She only hoped he wouldn’t do something foolish.
He did try to stop her coming at all but Llewellyn, surprisingly, intervened. “The Fair Folk sent the message to her. They might hide themselves if she’s not there. And speaking to them is the quickest way to resolve this situation.”
Stephen didn’t like it, but he agreed. So it was they set out on horseback for the forest edge a little before sundown. As they passed the castle gates, a crow took off, and Beatrice wondered if it was the same one carrying word back to his masters. Beatrice had Stephen, Llewellyn, and several men-at-arms with her as well as Petronilla, the bravest of her ladies-in-waiting. Practically a small army. Yet somehow, she had felt safer last night with only Mary for company. The horses sounded overly loud as they moved along the forest path, the snort of their breath, the jingle of harness, the crunch of their hooves over the branches.
Her gut roiled, acid burning in the back of her throat. Llewellyn too seemed on edge, holding his reins tight, keeping one hand near the hilt of his sword—which was pure iron, she noted. He wore one of the iron shirts under his surcoat, and she’d seen him loop the seeing stone on its chain over his neck.
They reached the small clearing near the road in good time, and Stephen dispatched his men to various strategic positions around them with crossbows and swords. The men had to leave their horses behind in the care of a squire while they tromped through the thick trees and bushes on foot.
Darkness fell, the trees’ shadows crawling over the ground toward them like approaching enemies. The pinkness of the sun disappeared behind the tree line, lanterns were lit, and still they waited. Beatrice’s horse stamped her foot and tossed her head, trying to back away from the trees, but Beatrice tugged on the reins and forced her mount to subside. “Easy.”