Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  “Isn’t that Robin?” Then came the rustle of skirts in the grass. The little bay with the bright white star on his nose was unmistakable. Neither did it help when the treacherous beast put up his nose and huffed a greeting at the girls.

  Will, not knowing what else to do, lay back further closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Not holding one’s breath when you know someone is coming up to you was quite difficult, he found.

  Two pairs of feet approached to within a few yards of his head.

  “Oh really, Will Shakespeare,” an unimpressed voice giggled, “It’s only us. You don’t have to pretend.”

  Reluctantly he opened his eyes. Kate Baker and Anne Hathaway stood above, looking down their pretty blue skirts at him. Kate’s hand was over her mouth stifling what few giggles she could, but Anne looked unimpressed. It was Kate that had so impudently addressed him—Anne was not one for idle laughter.

  The Hathaways were large landowners from Shottery, and also good friends of Will’s father, so he and Anne had seen a lot of each other growing up. Though he had some experience with girls, Anne was quite another story. As Richard Hathaway’s eldest daughter, she was something of an heiress in the district, and Will was of the firm opinion that this had gone to her head. She was twenty-four to his sixteen, and so adult as to make her almost alien. She had a sweet enough dimple, and fine straight hair of amber gold, but hardly said a word. Will had long ago decided that she was arrogant and thought herself above the poorer Shakespeares. If Will had to admit to a fault, it was that he did not like people thinking he was inferior. It only made matters worse that she was so much older than he.

  “I knew it was you,” he replied with unfelt bravado. “I was composing.”

  “Composing what?” Kate chirped, noticing his paper and ‘pen’ and trying to peer over his shoulder. “A love ballad? Oh do let me see—who can it be for?”

  Though he had in truth not even written a line yet, Will flinching hid the paper. He had never shown anyone any of his work—it was too raw, too fresh and untried. How he could ever bring himself to expose it he didn’t know. It was just there was too much of his soul in it. Countless ballads and sonnets had gone to the flames untested by other mortals.

  “Oh it can’t be that bad,” Kate tugged at his sleeve.

  “No,” Will growled, now feeling foolish, but even more unwilling to let this silly girl see his distress.

  “Oh come on, Kate,” Anne stepped in, prying her friend’s fingers from Will’s arm. “Leave the boy be. Let him write in peace.”

  So many girls did not understand, because so few of them were taught how to set pen to paper, that Will found himself gaping up at Anne. Kate gave up with a huff of anger.

  “Oh keep your silly thing, “she looped her arm in her friend’s. “I don’t want to see it, anyway.” She gave her companion an impatient little tug, and swirled her skirts, as if it was he that had been at fault all along—bothering them!

  As they departed Anne locked gazes with Will, gave him a smile, and then rolled her eyes. The boy stifled a chuckle as the two girls wandered back up the river. Perhaps Anne wasn’t as bad as he had thought; anyone who understood his creative urges was something unusual.

  Slumping back in the grass again, Will tried to chase after the dissolving fragments of the poem. Rolling over on his back he fished out the bread and cheese. The distractions were gone, but they had taken his inspiration with them. His head which up until now was crammed with ideas suddenly ran dry. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. Certainly his writings wouldn’t get him anywhere in the world. What was the practical purpose of it all? Why would God have given him this talent, this drive to create if he wanted him to be a mercer, or a glover for the rest of his life?

  It wasn't fair. But young Will had already observed that there were many things not fair in this world. Surely there had to be shepherds and milkmaids out there bemoaning their fate too, so why should little William be any different?

  Robin sidled over, demanding the two wizened apples with a sharp snort. Will grinned and relented, enjoying the waffle of the horse’s breath on his open hand. He had already learnt the value of savouring small pleasures.

  The papers almost unnoticed fluttered out from under his leg, and rustled through the grasses, moving away from him as the idea had fled. Dropping back to the grass with a sigh, Will closed his eyes and concentrated on the far more animalistic pleasures of the hot summer sun on his face, and the cool caress of the wind on his cheek. The only sounds were the chatter of the river and the occasional contented chomp from Robin lingering nearby. If only it could all be this simple, this easy to pass away in a haze of unknowing, not thinking of the future or the present, only each crystal sensation.

  The boot nudging him in the side made Will start up, all too ready to give Kate and Anne a sharp reprimand. The pair of violet stern eyes looking down at him gave him pause.

  A lady towered over him, but a lady unlike he had ever seen. Everything about her, from the dark green overskirt hitched up enough to show the fine stitching of the underskirt to the bonneted head proclaimed her class, and yet there was something different about her. A mixture of challenge in the eye, and set of the jaw, made her seem quite different to the other ladies he had seen in Stratford, even Sir Richard’s wife. The dark curl on her cheek was like the spill of night on the pale moon, and he thought she was beautiful enough to make women weep, and men go quite mad.

  Will could have lain there forever examining every flawless inch, had she not inserted her boot once more into his side. “Get up boy, I have a job for you.”

  Blushing scarlet, he rose, trying to hide his naked feet in the grass. He had never seen this woman before that was sure, but she appeared to know him. Not far from Robin he could now see, was a fine looking dappled stallion grazing. How both rider and mount had managed to come up so unannounced he couldn’t imagine.

  “My lady,” he stammered, trying to decide what on earth a gentlewoman could be doing this far from the road.

  His confusion and embarrassment made no difference—she ignored it. “I hear you skill with this,” she produced a small slim book from the folds of her sleeve, and waved it at him like it was a weapon.

  For a good few seconds Will stared at it. “Yes, my lady, I can both read and write well enough.” He thought it best to undervalue his skills until he knew what she wanted.

  “Good then," she gifted him a small shadow of a smile. “You may teach me.”

  Will only barely refrained from pinching himself, surely there had to be some mistake. Most gentles allowed their women to learn to read at least if not actually write. He had the feeling it was some terrible joke—or even worse. He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. A woman of her station could not be out alone, and certainly shouldn’t be talking to a man—even a young one. The trouble it could cause was not inconsiderable.

  “My lady, there are others who are better suited to teaching you, surely?” Will backed away, fearing some sort of trap.

  She gave him an odd look, tapping the book with the nails of one hand. With a little twist of her mouth, she replied concisely enough, “Certainly there are. But I have recently returned to England, and my husband does not know I cannot read. It would shame me for others to find out. You, I do not think will tell—you are therefore the most suitable. You shall come here every second afternoon for a few hours and teach me.” It was not phrased as a question.

  The whole thing was a scandal, and yet despite that Will was smiling. A sweet subtle charm had worked his way round the edges of his common sense, made in part of the lady’s beauty, and the rest in the secrecy of it. It would be good to have a little something that was his alone, in a world that had taken his university dream away. Brushing hair back from his eyes, Will’s foolish grin broadened—but then reality hit him, with the whip like snap of a voice all the way from the glovers, “But my father, lady...”

  The violet eyes brooked no arguments. “I think yo
u will find that there is no problem there, young Will. We women have ways of getting what we want.” She reached across, and the surprisingly heavy weight of the book slide into his hands, “You may study this until we meet. I wish to know all that it says.” With that she turned to her horse, summoning it with a low whistle, and a snap of her fine fingers—fingers with no gloves on. She mounted with grace, and economy that a man would never have been able to match.

  He blinked; feeling his heart begin to beat again, a sudden thought giving him enough nerve to grasp her mount’s bridle before she could leave. “May I at least ask your name, milady?”

  She frowned, looking down at him from the tall stallion’s back. “You may call me Sive.” Seemingly reluctant to even part with that, she jerked the reins and shouldered the horse past Will, and in a surge both were up the green bank and gone.

  They left so little trace behind it could all just have been an odd dream if it were not for the book still nestled in his hand. The name she had thrown to him was an unfamiliar one, it could have sprung from Greece, or Padua, or a thousand other places he had never seen. Still as Will stood there in shock, it sat heavily in his mouth, ripe and full of promise.

  * * *

  “So what do you think of my boy?” Sive turned her head as the silver haired Puck form sprang into being behind her. She didn’t need to look to know that he was grinning.

  Carefully, and firmly adjusting his nimble Fey fingers so they rested only about her waist, she corrected him, “He is not your boy, Puck.”

  “He is too, my lovely Sive, as much mine as his parents. Who do you think got him through all those scrapes and fights?”

  “And I’m sure got him into as many, and besides I do not think that the path is that clear yet. He still has a way to go.”

  Bayel snorted and jogged sideways a little. The stallion had never been fond of the energetic Fey; there had been too many incidents of tugged and plaited fetlocks, and nasty surprises in the hay. Sive calmed him with a pat and a soft word.

  Puck’s fingers were now winding flowers into her hair, and for once he was being gentle—and even more remarkably silent.

  “What use is the book, Sive?” he asked, the scent of his conjured roses lingered in her nostrils.

  “It is something I found in Mordant’s hall—it may well be nothing, but it is all I have found in my time there. I need to know my husband’s ways—and I could hardly ask him to teach me to read, now could I?”

  “But still—an interesting choice of tutor, cousin, plenty of other mortals to teach you such things, why young Will?”

  She was beginning to become displeased with his tone. Living in this realm had changed Puck, she sensed, in ways that were not at all suited to her purpose. Sive chose to remain silent.

  “And your name, cousin,” Puck went gamely on, “You gave him your true name. Surely such a thing is not wise—why, pray tell, did you do it?”

  A part of the dark goddess flinched, for in truth she didn’t know. The boy had asked something she hadn't prepared for, and her true name had popped out. Certainly that was not something to be proud of, in fact it was downright foolish to give a mortal such power, but when his wide grey eyes had looked straight up into hers, the truth had escaped. It was a mistake Sive was sure she would later regret. Still it was not an error she needed pointed out to her. “It means nothing, Puck.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught Puck’s smile. “Mighty strange, cousin—especially from you.”

  Through gritted teeth, Sive tried to manoeuvre the subject in the direction she wanted. “It is time for me to judge what use I can put him to. Time to see if Brigit was right.”

  His fingers stilled in her hair, and she heard a long drawn sigh wrung from his body.

  “Why, Puck?” Sive said, “You're concerned over the mortal?”

  “He has a good soul,” Puck muttered, “And a kind heart.”

  Sive almost laughed, “A soul, Puck? My, you have been too long among these humans.”

  “Seems to me,” he replied with a twist of his lips, “You told me to look after this boy—so you shouldn’t get angry when I do.”

  Sive heard the tone. She pulled Bayel up and slid to the ground, wanting to see the look in the other’s eyes. He sat cross-legged on the stallion’s back and did not meet her gaze. “Puck,” she warned, “This boy has but one purpose—to aid me. I neither want to know about his soul, nor care about it—and you should not either. Do not become too attached to something that is essentially a tool. It might be sacrificed later.”

  “I would never have thought it," Puck was in a very rare, very angry mood, “But you are in danger of being as bitter and twisted as your brother. Can you really only see the value of the boy to your cause? He is a person, a good one.”

  Caught off guard by such fire, Sive took a step back. Puck’s form was bristling, very like the feline shape he had chosen to wear all those mortal years. No one barked at her—least of all, this foolish Trickster. Her eyes went dark with power, and a thrust of her Art sent Puck sprawling from Bayel’s back. A thick clump of grass broke his fall, thus stymying any satisfaction she might have got. Though uninjured Puck didn’t bother to arise. Instead he glared at her, with eyes gone pale with anger, as Sive once again mounted. She feigned interest in her skirts’ placement, trying to find the words to explain herself; how a month in Mordant’s hall had frozen her heart and made her more afraid than she had ever been. What were the words to describe the dark alien things she had seen, and even more, felt in that dreadful place?

  But she only knew sword and battle, so she did not answer his question. “I must return to the Fey, Puck—Mordant may well visit his hall tonight. It would be better for us if I was there to greet him.”

  Puck, who had still not moved, sniffed, “Laying the honey on a bit thickly there, Mordant is not a fool.”

  Sive threw back her head, and laughed at the sky, “Dear Puck—he is no match for me.” She fixed him with a piercing look, gladdened to see him squirm a little under its application. If he only knew the real truth of what she faced daily he might well sympathize, but sympathy was something Sive would not have. Sternly she went on, “But your job isn't done, Puck. Guard the boy, watch him well, great power is stirring within him. He could be a danger to himself at this stage. If there is any danger—you may have to reveal yourself to him. Do not be afraid of that.”

  “He may not take kindly to being used, dearest cousin,” Puck smiled, showing his slightly pointed canine teeth, but the smile did not extend to his chill eyes. “Beware—these mortals have developed claws since you last meddled in their affairs. Perhaps you should consider that before you wreck this young one’s life.”

  Bayel stamped and snorted, jigging sideways as he caught the waves of rage and Art washing from both Fey. Sive ground her teeth in scarcely controlled hostility. She had never seen Puck like this before, not so serious, not so deadly. But still, she reminded herself, she was the stronger—she had more experience at winning than he. She turned the stallion in tight demanding circles around the other Fey.

  “You have chosen an ill time to develop a conscience Puck—very ill indeed. Either you serve me—or you risk seeing all our people fall away. I think even you would find that unacceptable.” With a sharp word to the stallion, she cut through the Veil, and rode Bayel back into the Fey. Her parting words fading as magic sealed the gate. “Think on that Puck, should you dare consider getting in my way.”

  As the faint strains of the Fey realm dissipated into the air, Puck’s anger faded, replaced with an almost overwhelming sadness. He had not the Sight, but he would have been the total fool that many took him for, if he could not see that trouble was brewing, faster and in greater proportion than Sive could imagine.

  “Silly, beautiful cousin," he murmured, “One day you will regret these choices.”

  But as always she had not paused to listen.

  6

  Praising what is lost Makes the remembra
nce dear.

  Puck was gone, Sive stolen, and none of those bright Fey Brigit had once been part of dared to break Auberon’s command. So Brigit was alone, more completely alone and bereft than ever. It was enough to make anyone bitter, she thought, huddling next to the dying hearth fire. She was now a pariah. With so much misery around, she could be forgiven for thinking on better times when she and the dazzling Anu had been the centre of the Court.

  Brigit’s throat tightened at the thought of her lost one, and she poked the fire to life against the sudden chill.

  They had been close as sisters, as close as any other motherless children, though they had a mother. The Goddess might indeed be all things, and yes love and beauty was her domain, but so was harshness and death.

  Firstborn of the Fey, they had all found it impossible to love Her in the intimate way of a mother. So Brigit had turned to her older sister, making of her a vessel of admiration and love. Anu had been more worthy of affection, accepting it with good grace, but never using it against her. The emptiness burned in Brigit. Even now her whole being was hollow with the loss.

  The fire spluttered and hissed on the hearth, bringing little heat to her aging bones, and the temptation was very great to change that, to become what she had once been.

  Brigit the Blessed had forsaken youth and beauty on that long ago day, in the wake of her sister’s disappearance. And it was that day too she’d laid her curse on the Hall of Auberon.

  Brigit sighed, pulled the grey shawl tighter about her shoulders, trying to keep the memories at bay. The world had been a young precious thing when she and Sive’s mother were born. They had treated it lightly too, imagining as all young things do that it would always be the same. They were immortal and beautiful. Change, when it came, was both violent and shocking.

  Those fearful days of the Unmaker when each day might have been the last, Brigit now realized, was when she’d been most alive. How they had trembled with fear, and laughed, and loved with great abandon. They had thought them the worst of times.