by Jack
Solemnly they looked at the silver objects in the open casket; picked through them, held them up shimmering in the snow-shine and examined them. They had a discussion amongst themselves. Then the king pointed to Mazarine’s treasure and spoke again.
‘It be lang-banks-gaet tae bring yon Laird Fleetwood back frae da verra t’reshold o’ deat’. We’se doe what du axes us, ma hinny, bit faith we maun hae a gud koab. Dis be niver eno’ siller.’
‘Not enough silver? But I can get no more. What else would you have from me? I will give anything that is in my power to give!’
A broad smile stretched the little fellow’s mouth. As soon as the words had left Mazarine’s lips she regretted them, for once a promise is made to wights it must be kept, or severe retribution is exacted upon the tergiversater.
Once more the little people conversed with one another. At length the king turned to the damsel and said, ‘We will tak’ dy furst brun bairn.’
‘My what?’
‘Aye, dy furst brun. Dat’s da teind.’
A kind of coldness began in the core of Mazarine and burned along her veins to her fingertips.
‘But sir, I have no child.’
‘Ane day ye might.’
‘If I ever do, and if I give my first born child to you, what would you do with him or her?’
‘We’d treat em kind and raise da bairn tae be oor servant.’
‘Your servant in Trowland? Or on your gypsy wanderings?’
At this question the king merely laughed, and his subjects followed suit.
I may never bear a child, Mazarine though feverishly, even if my love, by any miracle of fortune, should live and we should be wed. If he dies, I will never marry. Besides, I have given my word to these people, and I fear — perhaps without cause — that my loved ones might be made to suffer in some fashion if I break it.
The little king crossed his arms in front of his chest and cocked his head to one side, fixing Mazarine with a bright and beady eye. ‘What say ye?’ he demanded.
The situation is urgent. In desperation I am forced to agree, for Hawkmoor may not survive another night.
‘Very well then,’ she said at length. ‘Let the bargain be struck!’
One of the fiddlers resumed his scraping and the stunted merrymakers began again to prance and leap excitedly, as if in celebration of this news, yodelling and whooping in shrill tones. Some gathered any scattered coins and dropped them back into the casket, before closing the lid and bearing their treasure swiftly away.
‘We s’ll come this verra nicht tae do our wirk,’ the little king announced. ‘Noo mun du gie us dy strik alang!’
‘I do not understand, sir!’
‘Dy consent tae cross dy t’reshold!’
It was vital to use caution when conversing with eldritch creatures. Words had immense power; they were binding contracts. Careless phrases could be fatal. ‘Very well. You may cross the threshold of Clover Cottage,’ said Mazarine, carefully choosing her words, mindful of Thrimby’s advice. As if they had caught her meaning and welcomed it the dancers leaped higher, shouting gleefully.
‘Leave da hoose doors unlockit,’ the Trow-king instructed the damsel, ‘and tak awa’ a’ da charms. Leave da krankin’ man laenerly and blow oot da lamps. Stir-na from der bols and tie up da yalkie-dogs.’
Mazarine stood hesitating while the little king expertly twirled the silver spoon in his hand. She would rather these peculiar beings had given her some medicine to take back to the sick man in the cottage, than have them pay him a visit themselves.
‘Whyfor be dee a’solistin’, ma hinny?’ asked the king, glancing at her slyly. ‘Be ye o’ a mind to jine da dancin’?’
‘No sir! I was wondering whether you might entrust me with the healing unguent, or philtre, or whatever it may be that you would bring to Lord Fleetwood. I could administer it myself and save you the trouble.’
‘Ach!’ exclaimed the wight, grimacing hideously as if he had just been insulted. ‘Away wi’ ye, awa’ wi’ ye noo. Fare dee well!’
With that the Trow-king appeared to dismiss his human petitioner, who felt it would be discourteous, not to mention perilous, to stay longer. Recalling Thrimby’s warnings she strove against her inner desire to throw herself sobbing at the feet of the quaint little monarch and beg him to hand over a miracle cure on the spot. Instead she bowed respectfully, expressed her gratitude without saying ‘thank you’, hastened to where Professor Wilton’s doleful mare waited, and rode away through the snow.
* * * *
Laurelia and Wakefield ran out of the cottage to meet the rider, their faces glowing with relief that she had returned to them. ‘Does he live?’ Mazarine called out as soon as they were within earshot, and they assured her that yes, the patient still clung to life.
It was not yet midnight. As soon as the damsel set foot indoors she hurriedly explained to the household what must be done, as far as she could interpret the Trow-king’s instructions, and quietened their protests by saying, ‘We have no choice. If we cannot save him by other means we must try any chance, no matter how outlandish it seems.’
Therefore, as the curious little king had ordered, they left the doors unlocked, tied up the dogs, removed all the charms about the premises, left the sick man alone and blew out the lamps. Then they shut themselves into their bedchambers, climbed into bed, pulled up the covers and waited in the dark. The night was windless and completely still. In the hearth the fire burned low. Not a sound came through the gloom besides the steady drip-drip of melted snow running off the chimney. Hours seemed to drag on without end. Across miles of snow came the far-off chimes of the Somerhampton town bell striking twelve, but it was long past midnight when the edges of hearing were brushed by soft duckings as the cooped hens stirred in the yard, and the patter of light footsteps on the doorstep, and the faint squeaking of hinges.
The floorboards creaked.
Suddenly the iron hand of fear gripped Mazarine. What if I have been tricked into letting in a pack of gypsies who might harm him, or rob us, or both? Quelling the notion as a mere folly she steeled herself to remain beneath her coverlet and make no sound.
Presently the floor-planks creaked again, the hinges complained and the hens clucked sleepily. When all had been quiet for what seemed a lifetime, Mazarine could wait no longer. She jumped out of bed, lit a lamp with shaking hands and ran into the sick-room on her bare feet. The other members of the household were not far behind. She held the lamp close to the pillow. Golden lamplight washed across the attractive countenance of Hawkmoor. He was sleeping peacefully at last, healthy colour tinging his skin in place of the ghastly pallor. Mazarine and her friends glanced at each other, scarcely daring to hope.
While Mazarine resumed her place beside the sick-bed, Goodwife Wilton and the maid Tansy scoured the house, checking to see whether anything had been taken. All was in its proper place.
‘Nothing has been stolen,’ said Laurelia’s mother. ‘I am convinced something excellent has happened here this night!’
In the morning Hawkmoor opened his eyes for the first time.
They brought him water and gruel. When he had sipped he fell back against the pillow. ‘Mistress Blythe, where are you?’
‘I am here, Fleetwood!’
‘I had a strange dream,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I saw children crowding around this bed. Upon my eyes and mouth they let fall raindrops, glistening with a sweet white light.’
‘By all that’s extraordinary,’ said Professor Wilton in astounded joy, ‘I declare, the patient is recovering!’
Then all trouble and woe fell away from Mazarine and a blissful sense of peace enfolded her. Hawkmoor would live. He had survived the duel but there would be no legal consequences, despite the rule that the outcome was to be decided by the slaying of one of the combatants. On that fateful day he had been declared dead on the field of battle and Master Squires had been officially proclaimed the victor — nothing could change that proclamation, not even thi
s miraculous recovery.
Even as she rejoiced Mazarine said to herself, I will not tell anyone of the terrible bargain I made. There is a chance it may never need to be fulfilled, and to confess would be to cause unnecessary anguish.
Fleetwood remained extremely weak. All that month he lay abed, with Mazarine never far from his side. Inevitably, during this time they confirmed their love for each other and cleared up all misunderstandings. Happiness acted upon the young man like a tonic. As he grew stronger he began to look for diversions and one day he asked a favour of her.
‘Will you read some of your poetry to me? For I would fain have the honour of hearing what none have heard before.’
For a single moment only, Mazarine hesitated. With a smile she said, ‘I can refuse you nothing!’ and went to fetch her books of writings. From that juncture, she sat beside him and read to him every evening, and it was not long before she began to write once more. Then she knew at last that love had brought her back from the lands of sorrow.
Miraculously, as Hawkmoor convalesced, the old fuath-stricken wound on his calf began to heal. By Winter’s close when he had fully recovered, all the scars had vanished and, to the joy of everyone, he was no longer lame.
* * * *
CHAPTER EIGHT
Limping, lumping, tripping, thumping,
Clumsy dancers in the night.
Don’t be tricked; though they seem graceless,
Trows can move as fast as flight.
By the first month of Spring, Sovrachmis of the Primroses, Wakefield Squires and Laurelia Wilton had become man and wife. Hawkmoor employed the young scholar as his own scrivener and bestowed on the couple life tenure, rent-free, in the best cottage at Southdale Farm. No longer would Wakefield have to trudge to Somerhampton to work in the mayor’s office.
With the change of season celebrations again broke out across Erith, marked by the traditional symbols — coloured eggs and candles, a procession of ewes decked in garlands of green leaves tied with pale yellow ribbons, and weddings. Mazarine ceased to wear mourning. She celebrated her twenty-first birthday on the third day of Sovrachmis, and on the twelfth day she and Hawkmoor were married. Henceforth the damsel would be known in society as Mazarine Canty, The Right Honourable The Viscountess Fleetwood.
For two years and one month the earl must serve his sentence in Somerhampton Jail where, in respect for his station, he received better treatment than the majority of the prisoners. He was quartered in the well-appointed section of the jail reserved for those aristocrats who, for various reasons, had not succeeded in bribing their way out of their legal difficulties. Ever the dandy, he remained as much preoccupied with his cosmetics and curls in prison as he had been outside, and as unpopular. To satisfy his creditors he was forced to sell Kelmscott Park. With the money from Mazarine’s inheritance the newly-weds purchased the estate.
After their wedding Lord and Lady Fleetwood went to live at the Hall, where Thrimby greeted them hospitably, as if he were the true owner, which Mazarine sometimes felt he was. Hawkmoor dismissed Ripley and his cohorts, but provided liberally for the servants who had proved themselves faithful and true. Those who had spied on the couple in the early days were not penalised, for they had been driven by fear, not greed, and they begged forgiveness. As for the young laundry-maid and the under-gardener’s lad, they received promotions and a significant increase in wages. Thrimby, on the other hand, declined to discuss wages, behaving as if insulted when the topic was mentioned.
Now that the heavy burden of care had been lifted from their shoulders, the young bride and her friends rejoiced. Those who had been separated were finally united; the sick had been cured, the steadfast rewarded and wrong-doers punished. It seemed, at last, that all was well. Often the young bride looked upon her handsome husband and recalled how she had almost lost him. She treasured every moment they spent together. Their days of bliss together flew past on wings of sunlight and apple blossom, but after half a year, the merriment faded from Mazarine’s demeanour. She became withdrawn and thoughtful.
‘What ails you, my love?’ Hawkmoor would ask, putting his arm around her waist. ‘Tell me, that I may put it right!’
‘It is nothing,’ she would say, brightening. ‘Nothing at all.’
At nights she lay awake staring at thin spindles of moonlight slanting between the curtains of the great, canopied bed.
A child was on the way, and she knew not what to do.
As time went on her misery deepened. Already she loved the unborn child more fiercely than life itself, and her every waking moment was spent trying to plan an escape from her predicament. Soon, she knew, her condition would become apparent to others and there would be no hiding the truth.
At length she revealed the news of the child to Hawkmoor, whose wonder and pride knew no bounds. His happiness, however, was shortlived, for no sooner had she told him than she began to weep. He held her in his arms until the sobs died away, then questioned her. ‘I made a bargain for your life,’ she confessed. ‘I promised to give our first-born child to those who saved you!’ She dared not look at his face, for the shock and sorrow she would read there.
Presently her husband said calmly. ‘Be comforted, my love. We will find some way out of this plight. If they were gypsies who dared to ask this monstrous thing of you, then unless they break in and steal our child, they shall never touch him. He shall be guarded day and night.’
‘I believe them to be trows. ‘Tis unlikely they were human.’
‘If they were wights,’ said Hawkmoor, ‘that is another matter — for I fear they will take what is due to them, no matter what barriers are thrown in their path. Yet do not despair! There is always hope.’
Thrimby greeted the tidings of the expected child by performing a jig on the drawing-room hearth-stone, during which he stumbled over his ragged hose and had to kneel down to straighten them. While still on his knees he glanced up, an enlightened expression brightening his pinched features as if an idea had just struck him. ‘Well, sain my bones!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now who would ha’ thought! So this is what ‘tis like to be short!’ — whereupon he resumed his little dance, still on his knees, as if to sample being a dancer of low stature. After falling over and bruising his elbow he stood up. ‘That’s enough of that!’ he said, ‘I’d rather eat my hat!’
‘Gentle Thrimby,’ said Mazarine, ‘you have rescued us from dire straits twice before — once when you sent a message to Lord Fleetwood bidding him return home, and once when you told me how to save his life. We ask your help a third time, and I hope ‘twill be the last.’ After entreating the servant to make himself comfortable in the drawing-room with herself and her husband, she explained the terrible bargain she had made.
When she concluded her tale Thrimby shook his head sadly, and with some vexation. ‘T’was trows, not gypsies that ye saw,’ he said with a snort, wriggling uncomfortably on his tapestry-upholstered armchair, ‘and if ye should withhold the payment ye ‘ave promised, or try substituting gold, or silver, or the wealth of kings, this bargain to evade, ye’ll not succeed. A life was pledged. Yer promise has been made. And if ye try to ‘ide yer child they’ll find ‘im without doubt. Though ‘e be under lock and key the trows will steal ‘im out. They’ll carry ‘im away into their kingdom underground, which he can ‘ardly leave, for with enchantment ‘e’ll be bound.’
The notion rendered the listeners speechless with dismay.
‘At all costs we must stop them from taking our child,’ Hawkmoor said presently.
‘It may not be possible,’ said Thrimby, so intent on thumping at a lumpy cushion he found irksome that he forgot his rhyming. ‘If ‘tis possible, ‘twill will not be easy. Trows is a formidable force. It is said that they possess a smatterin’ o’ governance over the weather, and that some ‘ave mastered the art of makin’ weed-stems fly, or old ploughbeams, or bundles of twigs or grasses, so that they can climb aboard and go ridin’ through the air! ‘Ave ye ‘eard them stories?’
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p; ‘Not I! Tell us, pray!’ said Mazarine. ‘If we are to thwart the trows we must know as much as possible about them!’
‘All right’, said Thrimby, and tucking up his outsized feet to sit cross-legged in the armchair, he began. ‘One night after sunset a gentleman saw a band o’ trows go by in a cloud of dust, and they was shoutin’,
“Up horse, up hedik,
Up we’ll go riding bulwand,
And I know I’ll ride among you.”