by Greer Gilman
From the back of the rout, a taunting voice said: “Singed his petticoats, more like."
White hand on the sword hilt. “Go your ways. Here's naught of your concerning."
"Nay, by yer leave, sir,” said a woman, “our discerning's May. We bear it; ye mun bid us in."
"And if she bear it, then ‘tis luck,” said another with a rainwet garland on a staff, and shook it so the poppet danced. The water on the leaves rained down on Margaret. “Here's green to halse ye and this hall."
And half the revellers began confusedly to sing, a clash of carols.
But a high voice, hoarse with chanting, sang, “Me petticoat is lost, I left it at me granny's..."
A marrow-deep bass took it up, “But I'll fetch it back i't morning..."
"Peace, all on yer.” In the doorway stood a woman in a cap and pattens, tall, ungarlanded, a box of bonefire in her hands. Down the long dark hall behind her stood another door, wide open to the silvery green. Bobbing, they swung to her, silenced. Keys at her belt. Was her courtier and captor huntsman to this lady? Margaret sank into a deep obeisance. A girl tittered. “That'll do,” said Cap and Pattens, and quirked her chin upward. Margaret rose. Pattens turned to the men and maids. “Cold by t'door; come, speak thy piece.” And at her beckoning, the garlander stood forth, rosepink with audience, wind-wantoned, petal-patched. They spoke their verses, turn and turn.
"How far have ye wandered?"
"By moonwise til morn."
"What got ye by moonlight?"
"What's yet to be born."
"Out o frost, fire; and ashes to thorn."
"Halse ye and this hall!” the May girl said, and shook her garland, so the lady danced within its orb.
"In, summer!” cried the throng.
And the doorkeeper swung it wide. “Hey's down.” Another quick upward nod, and two or three blown girls went lingering to the byre and kitchen. “Nowt here nobbut rain to sup. Good ale within, and banketting. Come yer ways.” Giggling and straggling, turning to stare, they obeyed, the hoarse voice and her tipsy swain last of all.
Yon duck has swallowed a snail
Now isn't that a wonder?
And it all came out it tail, it tail,
It tail, it tail,
It tail, it tail!
And split it arse asunder, Gossip John.
When they'd all gone in, the woman with the keys turned to Margaret and the stranger. “Cold by th’ door, Master Grevil.” Still he stood, with a face like the morning, doubt and glory. “Clapping craws? Here's fire within. Sack posset.” He roused and they followed through the long cross-passage open to the kitchen garth, and into a high dim hall, arch-timbered. Rather gloomy, with a dank and doggish air. The fire was out, the hearth swept bare.
"Mistress Barbary,” said the man, and set his prize forward.
Unheeding both, the woman knelt at the hearth. From her pierced earthen pot, she took a heap of embers, and rekindled the fire. “Tind ashes, take light.” She sat back on her heels and watched it blaze, then rose, brushing her apron. A woman neither young nor old, close-grained and workworn as the haft of a rake. More tarnish than silver.
"Stockins,” she said to the man. He shifted, dripping. There were puddles at his feet. “Gan up and doff yersel, Master. Lass'll not melt."
"Mistress Barbary,” said master to maid. His voice shook with awe, with triumphant terror. “See.” He looked at Margaret as if he'd picked her like a flowering branch. As if she were made of snow. Of lightning. “Is she not? What think you?"
The woman looked her up and down: tawdry finery. Smutched face and draggled petticoats, clagged feet.
"I'd get her dry."
* * * *
So many faces, and all strange.
Garlands askew and singed petticoats. Faces glowing and heavy-eyed, giddy with waking or sullen with ale. Twigs of heather caught in frazzled plaits; a flecked breast starting from a pair of stays, tucked in with absent hands. New-bladed beards. A pair of startling blue eyes gazing from a mask of ashes. A wreath turned round and round in work-rough hands, between great gawking knees. Her kind.
O brave new world.
She was dizzy with the scent of it. Ale and woodsmoke and wet sheep, sharp sweat and wilting flowers.
Windows open to the green and rain.
No Master Grevil in his deadleaf jacket, when she turned to look; no passage to the door. Past all the thronging bodies, thick as bees, there lay a hearth and fire.
Down one long wall stood a dresser, crowded with plate: pewter and blue china, a few fair days amid the grey and gleam. It was dressed with green boughs, flowering and sleeting down, from bud to bare twig.
Laid out on a board were ranks of round dishes, white and gold, pranked out with knots of violets. A year of moons laid out in bowls of curds and cream, a moon of suns in frumenties and tarts. Gallipots of sweet spicery, a dish of sorrel and salmon. Hare pasties. Honeycomb. Margaret swallowed, lightboned suddenly with want. A quiddany of quinces, apricock marmalade. Green cheeses. Cakes and ale.
All untouched. They were waiting; all but a child in a feathery flat bonnet, half under the table with a black dog, licking a bowl. His elders had a rarer dish to sup.
Two breathless maids bore in a kit of syllabub, afoam; they set it on the dresser, slopping over in their haste, swiping up. They kicked off their mucky pattens with a scuffle and clang, unkilted their skirts, all agog. “Is't ower?"
"Not until thou's come, Doll Kickpail,” called a man.
Mistress Barbary whist them with a glance. “Craw's hanged and world's ended,” she said dryly. “Would yer finish wi’ a jig?” She turned to Margaret. “Hey's down, this morning o't year. Come yer ways in."
That dance she knew: not these words, but their tune, the cadence of ritual. My lady had schooled her well. Margaret dropped a deep slow curtsey to the room.
When she rose, they were gaping. One or two horned their hands.
Barbary took a loaf with a green man's face baked into it, within a plaited wreath of bread. Clove eyes and sunburnt cheeks. Not a wood god, but the Sun in grain. She broke a piece, and held it out to Margaret. “Hallows with ye."
Margaret, hesitant, broke bread, and murmured, “And with you."
And at that, at last the household stirred. The Sun was torn to pieces, hand to hand, and devoured by a rabble of rantsmen. A gabble rose. Barbary stalked to the fire and set the kettle on.
The nine-day's wonder began.
Margaret sat dripping by the fire in a crowd of maids and men, her cup filled, her ruined finery appraised with rue and wonderment.
"Silk tiffany and cloth o silver. She mun be a princess o Lune."
"Prigged petticoats,” said a sharp-faced man. “I doubt she's nobbut a tinker's lig-by, feigning daft. She'll wait while we's abed, and slip t'latch til him."
"Take silver and gold."
"Burn hall about our ears."
A maid scoffed. “That ‘un? Couldn't catch moths wi’ a candle."
A hind in a garland of wilted ivy, a great tawny man, drank deep. “What I think, is she's some great lord's lightborn. She were put to nurse..."
"Wi’ a bear?” said the piper, bag and chanter by his knee.
"Wi’ a vixen,” said the taborer. “And braids of her nurse."
"...wrapped I’ yon petticoats. There'll be a mole on her."
A hind nudged his neighbor. “Eh, Jack, will we look for't?"
By the hearth sat a fair girl, untousled, brooding on a bowl of dainties like an ogress on a fondling child. She shook her head. “Sad ruin o velvet."
"Like a tinker out sleepwalking."
"Ashes?” said a wispy child, and blushed in confusion. “Not Ashes, but..."
"Ashes I’ May? Thou noddy. Imbers I’ January.” The scoffer drained her mug and held it out.
The ale went round again. The rain beat. The parliament of birds went on, owl and raven, wren and grouse.
"I knaw,” cried a sonsy lass, “'Tis that lady left her lord
and featherbed to gang wi’ AEgyptians. In and out of a song."
"And wha'd tumble yon mawkin?” said a blackavised young man.
"Blind beggars,” said a dark girl dancing. Cat face and clustering curls. “See at me. I's getten red shoon."
"Should have yon silver mantle.” The young man glanced at Margaret, half mockery and half appraisal. All intent. A trig, dry, thirsty fellow, like a wasp on a damson. “As good hang it on a flaycraw as yon whey-face and ginger."
"Nay, a lady'd thee and thou us. See'd her bobbing at Wick Billy, same as a lord."
"Well, she didn't fall I’ last rain."
"She did. Out o't moon."
"D'ye not see her bare toes? Mad Maudlin, lating after Tom o Cloud."
"Clarty feet, aye, but not hyself. Soft as my hand."
"Soft as thine head."
A hale old blue-eyed shepherd quavered: “His naunt"—he quirked his chin at his master's hall—"were stolen at her handfast. Away wi’ t'fairies. They's gey fond o green fruit."
Barbary brought Margaret a dish of curds and cream and set it in her lap. Margaret tasted. Sharp-sweet and dowset, bronzed with nutmeg. And syllabub, ladled from the frothing bowl, and spangling on the tongue. O my. And buttered toasts. A banquet of rarities, and no enjoying it. As well eat honey in a hive.
All about her, they buzzed and pinched and pried and gazed.
"Happen she could be,” said the shepherd. “I's heared folk gan there and back, and no more changed than delf in a dunghill."
"Cracked delf,” another said.
"And painted."
"I thowt t'fair folk was fair."
"Thowt they was green. And lived on cresses."
Behind her, surreptitiously, a wench pinched salt on her.
"See'd her flicker,” said a gangling lad. “Try toasting-fork, it's iron."
"Hey, Crook Tom, thou minds t'awd Mistress Grevil?"
"Dead. Aye, dead and tellt.” The shepherd drank. “She'd not be walking."
"Nay, but her sister that were lost, young Mistress Annot. Were she russety?"
The shepherd pondered, deep in his mug. “Aye, she were an Outlune vixen, same as this. Airs and graces."
"What, this hedgebird?” sneered the sharp-faced man. “Beggar's velvet."
"A mooncalf."
"It's a changeling, I tell ‘ee."
"A by-blow."
"A drab."
"Set her on shovel, and awa’ up t'chimney."
Margaret cowered on her cutty stool. But Barbary was speaking, not over or behind, but to her. “How came you by Law?"
Darkness. She remembered nothing but abyss and roaring. Salt sting on her lips. Closing her eyes, she saw a storm-changed beach, a coffer, cracked and spilling cinnamon and mace. A shivered virginals. She saw an orange lying by a tarry hand. Bewildered, she said, “I was shipwrecked."
They howled.
"Drowned, by Dawcock!” cried the fiddler. “Here's a mermaid or a swan."
"Mind thy fingers, wench, he'll have ‘em for fiddlepegs."
"What I say, she's a selkie. So what yer do, see, is yer fold her fell up in a kist. So's she can't swim away."
"If she was a selkie, she'd be bare as a needle."
"If she's seawrack,” said a fattish fellow in drabbet, “then she's waif and stray. So finder keeps her, and he cracks her open."
The kitchen boy looked up. “My gammer see'd a ship once,” he said. He licked his thumb dreamily, a shine of honey on his sooted cheek.
Mistress Barbary spoke. “Aye, but what ship? And what sea?"
Margaret saw the Lantern at her mast, the milkwhite shining of the Skein, the river and the road of death. The room swung. She fixed on the grey eyes as on a horizon. “I know not."
"What do they call you?"
By no name. Crows’ meat. Hole to fill. “Thou."
Someone giggled. “Not sharpest knife I't drawer."
"Hold thy clap!” said Barbary. Turning back, “Are you honest?"
"Please you?"
"Do you lie with men?"
"Madam, I know none.” If Barbary saw else, she said nought. Held Margaret's gaze and nodded. Then turned. “Dolly Jack, Jack Handsaw, Nick—if any on yer game wi’ her, I s'll turn thee out ont road, bare arse and beggarstaff."
The sharp-faced man looked innocent. “By kit's catgut, her vixen is as safe wi’ me as wi’ t'master.” Two or three laughed maliciously. One whistled a snatch of song.
But now the maids were clinging and wittering and twisting their aprons. “She's not staying here, is she? In our bower?"
"She'll elf us locks by night."
"Pinch us in our beds. Black and blue."
"Thou can pinch hyself I’ bed well enough, Hob Ellender,” said Barbary. “And thou, Cat Malison, if thou'd comb thy hair, she might tangle it.” She turned to the company. “And hasn't she broke bread wi’ us? And eaten salt?” Back she turned to Margaret, shivering by the fire. She held out her bunch of keys. “Will you break nowt nor take nowt, nor call craws down upon this hearth? Swear it.” The old tune.
Margaret touched cold iron to her brow. “I swear."
"Then have thy keeping o this household, fire and fleet, until next hallows and a day."
Margaret curtsied again, rather shakily. The room roared and dizzied. The last of her command was crumbling, clods from pale roots.
"Come up, then.” Barbary took up a jug and aired linen, and led her away.
Behind them, a girl called out to the company, “Well, I's for a jig. Clap us intil it."
* * * *
Margaret followed her new mistress across the stone-flagged passage: back though the hall, where dogs and embers drowsed and mumbled on the bones of winter; through a low, dark room, half workroom and half parlor, full of snips and snaps of leather, bales of fleeces, glints of brass. Up a winding stair of oak. They came to a high room open to the rafters, panelled, with a stripped and shrouded bed. Swept bare. A bower once; a garret. There were planks in the roofbeams, thick-starred with apples drying, hung with bunches of greyed herbs, sweet and bitter. “T'awd mistress were an Outlune woman. Kept her stillroom.” Turning cattycorner, Mistress Barbary undid a low door, like a cupboard in the chimneystack.
"There."
A low bed with a faded patchwork; a joint stool; a candlestick. Another blurred and faded patchwork at the window, made of glass and green and rain.
Barbary set the jug of water on the sill.
"Will I undo thee?"
Here too. Margaret shivered, waiting to endure. She dreaded what the sharp-eyed servant must see: the welts and bruises of her flawed virginity, the blood-dabbled smock. The cards. O hallows, would she find the cards?
"Here's a knot,” said Barbary, softly. She let fall her hands. “Get on,” she said. “And wash thysel. Thou's mucky. Bed's clean.” She turned and rummaged in a kist.
A sleeve fell, stiff and heavy as a scab. Another. Spoils of dead queens drowned. Broideries rebroidered, trailing snarled and ravaged threads. Past mending. Rags of lace like last year's February. Waist and stomacher; petticoat and stays. Her sullied shift. A strange world, Cloud, she thought: all changing. Cloud and water, moving in the air; the sky unstayed. As if she laid aside the bands of heaven. Naked, Margaret dove into the coarse clean smock wrapped round the stone bottle. Warm. Tears started at the touch of it. So strange and light. So strange. She blinked them back; poured out the water for her hands and feet.
"Take these.” Margaret turned. Barbary shook out an jacket and petticoat, ink-blue, the blue of midnight. Wool. “Her waiting-maid as were. Mek three o thee. Thou pin it up.” She bent to the welter of tumbled clothes and gathered them. “That's as fine linen as ever I see'd, yon smock. Moon'll blanch it."
Gone.
No lock on the door.
Margaret stood at the window, looking out at the green. Thea? Cold here. Not the changeless cold of Law, but sudden. Kind unkind. No answer. They would hunt her. In a storm of ravens, in a shadow at the door. She mus
t keep watch. Keep silence on her birth. She shivered. Colder here than in my lady's tower. Bone-cold. And she ached. How long had she been travelling? Turning back the quilt, she wrapped herself and huddled on the bed. A long road out of Law. For all her will to wake, she nodded.
Hush, ba, sang the wind.
Norni?
Here and nowhere. A remembrance. In their tower, Norni rocked an empty cradle by a fire of bone. At her knee, small Margaret held a tangle of bright silks; she saw a pale boat, rocking on a river of bright milk. Imbry's ship. Her sister's. Milk-twin and mother, child and nurse, they wove her journey between them, skein and song; made cradles in the air, of air. Then came a wind in the door, a rattling. The fire crouched and leapt.
Margaret started awake—keys jangling? No. She drew breath. No. Wind in the ivy. Wind. Her heart slowed, steadied. Soft featherbed. Small rain. Unmooring, she remembered leaves blown backward in a vanished book, untelling winter. At the story's spring, she slept. But in the ease of driftedness, her mind still crouched at ward, a cloud full of thorns.
* * * *
Perseis, At Rise
"The morning Starre doth lie this daybreak in the Thorn," a later Margaret, turning from her glass, will write, "wherein she joyeth most, her Pleasaunce and her Powre; Slae now falleth back and Hulver upriseth..."
In the green dark of another morning, Annot rose. She laid aside her mantle and her gown of black for petticoats of green, May mourning; mirrorless, she combed her leaf-red hair, and as she braided it all down her back, she sang beneath her breath. ” ... and a thought come in her head to run in the wood ... “ She left my lord's ring and my lady's baubles—though she traced the earrings with a finger, half-regretfully: her chains became her well. She left her needle in her work, too nearly done: the one unfinished sleeve. ” ... to pull flowers to flower her hat ... “ A smock to be bedded in, a shroud. Too fine for the greenwood, to sully and snag. But she wore her old ring that had been her grandam's, her namesake: that she kept.
An Lightwode. And she turned it round on her finger. Wode I fall?
She'd cast cavels for this chance; bid Ashes for a tale. And happen she'd return a maid among her maidens all, green-garlanded, enchained; or happen she'd be lost forever. Lost like Perseis, to wander barefoot in the wood above, the sky; and bloodfoot on the Road. She had the tale of it by heart; had played it, most pathetically, before her bedpost and a velvet bolster and a brace of crooked chairs. But thou art mazed, sweet fool. The wood is dark. And I th’ moon's daughter in these rags of cloud Shall bear thee light...?