Carola Dunn

by The Magic of Love

  “You’re not another nasty trick to lure me within reach of the hounds?” he growled, his pointed ears pricked forward.

  “No, indeed. There is little hunting in the King’s Forest. It is wide, with few bridle-paths, and His Majesty has no use for it, that poor madman. The trees and thickets are left to grow too densely for horses and riders to pass without more caution than huntsmen care to exercise.”

  “And you?” he asked, still suspicious.

  “I am a wer-fox,” Reynata said sadly. “At the new moon I am a girl for two or three days. At the full moon I become a vixen, willy-nilly, though in between, as now, I can choose which form to adopt.”

  The dog-fox grinned, his long tongue lolling between sharp white teeth. “How wise of you to pick a fox’s form when you can. Who would want to be a human—if these woods are truly safe?”

  “As safe as anywhere.”

  “I’ve come across the moors from Somerset way, the Vale of Taunton Deane. Too many huntsmen there by half! Mayhap I shall stay a while.”

  “I know a true vixen in need of a mate. If you follow this rabbit path down the hill to the ivied sycamore, then turn along the valley towards the setting sun, you will cross her trail.”

  “And with luck a rabbit’s, too.” Nodding his head in thanks, the fox loped off, his feet silent on the soft leaf-mould. In a moment, he vanished into the shadows beneath the undergrowth, the white tip of his brush last to disappear.

  Reynata gazed after him, envious. He would find his mate, settle down, and in the spring a new litter of adorable, squirming, rusty-red cubs would appear. How simple life would be if she were all fox!

  Or all girl.

  With a sigh, she trotted on towards Wick Towers. Lord Drake was home at last, with a company of grand friends. The heir to the earldom had been away in London for months—and Reynata had counted every day.

  Tonight his father, Lord Androwick, was giving a ball at the mansion on St. Andrew’s Hill. Wistfully, Reynata wondered if Lord Drake’s engagement was to be announced. Had he brought home a beautiful, well-bred, blue-blooded young lady to be his wife?

  Not that it would make any difference to Reynata. A foundling brought up by a wise-woman in a cottage in the woods could never aspire to be his bride, even if she were not a wer-fox. Simply to dance with him was far more than she dared wish for. Her best hope was to watch him dancing.

  Walls, fences and hedges meant to keep out strangers were no barrier to a small fox. A swift shadow, she sped across the park and through the shrubbery to the terrace outside the ballroom. The curtains at the French windows were closed, but careless servants had left a slight gap at the bottom. Crouched on the cold flagstones, glad of her thick russet coat, Reynata peered in.

  The ballroom had not been used since Lady Androwick died in childbirth nearly two decades ago. Reynata had once before peeked in, to see chandeliers and rows of chairs all swathed in holland dust-sheets.

  Tonight a thousand wax candles sparkled on crystal teardrops above and on the jewels of fine ladies below. Gowns the hues of the gayest meadow-flowers swirled around dainty feet in matching satin slippers. Gentlemen in coats of black, blue, or guardsmen’s scarlet bowed and skipped and twirled their partners. The lively music made Reynata’s paws twitch.

  Rapt, she pressed her quivering black nose to the pane. There was Master John, the earl’s youngest, hopping away like mad. There were handsome Master Damon and Master Basil, smirking at the pretty young ladies promenading on their arms. There were neighbouring gentryfolk she recognized, and Lord Androwick himself, a tall, lean gentleman somewhat stooped with age, not dancing but walking about looking important.

  And there was Aldwin, Lord Drake. Reynata’s heart leapt. Taller than his tall brothers, golden-haired where they were merely blond, broad of shoulder but slim, and newly elegant in his London-made coat, he outshone the thousand candle-flames.

  Naturally his partner was the most beautiful girl in the room. Her hair was as golden as his. Sapphires glinted at her throat and her lace-trimmed gown was the blue of the sky in midsummer. She floated down the set at his side, and when they stopped at the end, he smiled and bent his head courteously to listen to her.

  A soft fox-whimper rose in Reynata’s throat. She had not expected this moment to hurt so much.

  The music ended. Ladies and gentlemen bowed and curtsied. Lord Drake and his partner came towards the window, she laughing as she fanned herself vigorously with an ivory fan. Reynata poised to flee.

  * * * *

  Aldwin was bored. After the London Season, he had been invited to half a dozen country house parties. He had to return the hospitality, but he longed for freedom to take up country pursuits again, to delve into managing the vast estate which would be his.

  His father had suddenly decided, last winter, to permit his heir to go up to Town, to acquire a little polish and look about him for a suitable wife. Aldwin had gathered all the Town bronze he wanted, and he had enjoyed the process, but now he was tired of constant frivolity.

  Lady Flavia was the epitome of frivolity. She was stunningly beautiful, and she had not an idea in her head besides catching a husband. If he stood up with her for a second consecutive dance —and the next was a waltz—he would have to take her in to supper. Her expectations would soar through the roof.

  For a horrid moment he thought she would accompany him out to the terrace, which would call for an immediate declaration. But he had read her aright. As he opened the French window, a blast of chilly air entered. Lady Flavia shivered and held back.

  “It is too cold by far!”

  “There will be a frost tonight, I should not wonder, the first of the autumn. You must not risk taking a chill. But I am wearing a coat, and desperate for a breath of fresh air. Here is your friend, Lady Otterton. I shall leave you to her care.”

  With that, he strode out and closed the door firmly behind him. To deter her from following, he stepped to one side, out of the light cast from indoors. After a moment his eyes adjusted to the pale moonlight.

  Seeing a cloaked, hooded figure, a tall woman, standing at the top of the steps down to the lawn, he moved towards her, slowly, so as not to startle her into flight. “Who is there?”

  “I just wanted to see the dancing, my lord.” A soft, low voice. “I would have run away if she had come out, but I knew you would not be angry.”

  “Not a bit of it. You sound familiar, but I am out of touch with local matters. You’re from the town? What is your name?”

  “I...I think I had best not tell.”

  “As you will. Listen, the music is starting. Dance with me, mysterious maiden.”

  “Oh yes, if you please, my lord.”

  He could tell she had never waltzed before, but he was a good dancer, liked to dance. She quickly followed his lead and caught the rhythm. In spite of her heavy cloak, she was light as thistledown in his arms. And oh, bliss! she did not chatter. He whirled her about the terrace.

  Her face was raised to his, but in the deceptive moonlight he caught only brief glimpses of dark eyes, a tender mouth, never her whole countenance at once.

  As the music ended, he demanded, “Who are you? Tell me your name.”

  “Best not,” she murmured. “I must go.”

  Slipping from his arms, she ran across the terrace and down the steps. He hurried after, but when he reached the top, there was no sign of her. Nowhere for a person to hide—she had vanished into thin air.

  “A fairy creature?” he mused, and he returned, slightly regretful, to the mundane frivolity in the house.

  Chapter II

  High above the early-morning mists twining among the tree trunks, a jay screeched a warning. Reynata raised her muzzle and sniffed the air. No scent of danger came to her nostrils. The warning was against herself.

  Today she stayed on the bridle-path, for her rush-woven panniers, though light and empty, were liable to catch on twigs and thorns if she strayed. In spite of the encumbrance, she moved much faster
on four feet than she could have on two.

  She came to the edge of the wood, where the ride debouched onto a cart-track. The hedge on the far side of the track hung heavy with crimson haws, scarlet hips, and wreathes of yellow and orange briony berries. The field beyond the hedge had been reaped and gleaned a fortnight since. Most leaves were still green, but autumn was well on the way.

  Huddled under a convenient bush, Reynata glanced each way along the track. No one in sight. She moved back behind a screen of undergrowth and shrugged the panniers from her back.

  How she metamorphosed, she had never been quite sure. She decided to change; the universe turned inside out; and there she stood, human again and—most puzzling of all—already wearing the clothes she had put on earlier that morning. Grandmama, though she was a wise-woman, could not explain it, though she suspected it meant Reynata was not a natural wer-creature but bewitched. Reynata had long since stopped bothering her head about it.

  Grandmama, Reynata’s foster-mother, still strove to understand the chains of magic binding her fosterling.

  One winter day, nearly twenty years ago, on her way home from market, Gammer Gresham had heard a whimper and found a starving fox-cub cowering behind a fallen treetrunk. She had carried it home under her cloak, to succour. To her wonder, when she opened her cloak she found a human babe.

  None of her spells sufficed to prevent the girl-child’s transformation back into a fox at times. She had brought Reynata up to accept the way she was, helped her learn to control the change when possible, and loved her whatever her shape or form.

  In human shape, Reynata’s form was tall and slim. She bore herself with the natural grace of a wild animal. Her features were a trifle too pointed for beauty, a hint of her alter ego matched by the fox-red hair which she wore in a thick plait down her back. Eyes the translucent brown of a woodland stream completed the picture of an attractive young woman who turned the heads of townsmen and farmers’ sons alike.

  Yet none came courting.

  The lads trudged through the woods to the wise-woman’s cottage to purchase love potions for the merry, rosy, buxom village girls. To Reynata they spoke with the same polite respect and slight uneasiness as to Gammer Gresham herself. Perhaps it was because the witch had raised her from infancy, or perhaps a hint of her dual nature had somehow spread abroad.

  Her aloof demeanour did nothing to lessen their wariness. As long as every full moon forced her to go upon four feet, she could never marry.

  Not that she had the least desire to give her hand to any of the lumpish fellows. Her heart she had given away long ago.

  Now, on the edge of the wood, she smoothed the skirts of her high-waisted, grey, homespun woollen gown, brushing off a twig or two from the hem. She pulled up the hood of her forest green cloak, for beyond the shelter of the trees, the air had an autumnal nip. The panniers, detached from each other, became two commonplace baskets.

  Reynata stepped out onto the track and turned towards the nearby town.

  Middlecombe was a small town, a large village really, but in this corner of England cut off by forest and moor and the Bristol Channel, its weekly market was important and always busy. Here country-folk mingled with town-folk, and the local gentry were often to be seen. Even the Earl of Androwick, the preeminent local landowner, frequently came down from Wick Towers to greet his tenants and browse the stalls.

  Lord Androwick was a passionate collector of rarities. Up at the Towers, he had cabinets filled with curious objects: tiki gods from the South Seas, an iridescent dragon’s scale as hard as iron, fossilized fish and ferns, a harpy’s egg, a piece of Merlin’s cloak with strange patterns which changed before one’s eyes, even an Egyptian mummy. In his aviary dwelt among others an archaeopteryx, a parrot who recited Homer in Classical Greek, a blue-footed booby, a gryphon, and a pair of pink flamingos. His walled gardens and conservatories sheltered such novelties as the giant marigolds of Peru, rhododendrons from the high Himalayas, passion-flower vines with intricate blooms and juicy purple fruit. He had an ash grown from a cutting of Yggdrasil, the Norse world-tree, and a hawthorn grafted from the tree planted at Glastonbury by St. Joseph of Arimathea, which blossomed every Christmas Day. Prized above all others was a persimmon tree from the mysterious Asiatic empire of Japan.

  “Grown from a seed of the golden apples of the Hesperides,” he was wont to tell visitors. “This year it has set fruit for the first time, four of them. Like medlars, they must be eaten very ripe. How I long to taste them!”

  For fear of thieves, the eccentric earl allowed no strangers to approach Wick Towers. Pedlars of curiosities brought them to Middlecombe market, where his lordship condescended to inspect their wares.

  With him, as often as not, came one or more of his four sons. Today, as she filled her baskets with flour, salt, yeast, and yarn, Reynata saw the fair heads of all four tall young gentlemen passing through the crowds.

  Lord Drake! Would he recognize her as the girl he had waltzed with three nights ago?

  She concentrated on watching the weighing of two ounces of raisins, a treat Grandmama dearly loved. The stall-holder hastily threw in a few extra, though the measure was good. Gammer Gresham had never been known to harm anyone with her spells, but it was just as well to be sure.

  The purchase completed, Reynata moved on, and came face to face with Lord Androwick’s two middle sons.

  “Good-day, Miss Gresham,” said Master Damon, with a bow made insolent by the sneer on his otherwise handsome face. He looked her up and down in a way which made her wish she had not thrown back her hood and unfastened her cloak in the increasing warmth of the sun. “Finished your shopping? Come along to the Green Dragon. We’ll take a private room and I’ll treat you to something special.”

  His insinuating tone betrayed his meaning, confirmed by his brother’s snigger.

  Meeting his sly eyes with a stony look, Reynata bobbed a curtsy. “I have not finished my errands, sir,” she said firmly, fastening her cloak as she turned away.

  Master Damon grasped her arm. “Not so fast! We’ll go with you, to make sure none of these louts offers to lay a hand on you. Come along, Basil.”

  They fell in on either side of her. Reynata racked her brains for a way to escape their mischievous attentions. None of the market people would come to her aid, for the earl’s known power far outweighed the wise-woman’s reputed abilities.

  She started at a fast pace towards a stall selling lamp-oil.

  “Ha,” exclaimed Master Basil, “she’s in a hurry to find out what you have to give her, Damon.”

  “Since she’s so eager, you’d better give her a little something, too.”

  “Damon! Basil! Father wants....” Lord Drake came to a halt before the three. “Reynata! Miss Gresham, I should say, for you are quite grown up now, are you not?”

  He bowed, with a smile which made her heart turn over. Despite his words, however, it was the sort of smile a young man gives to a favoured child. Aldwin, Lord Drake, still saw her as the little girl who had joined in his and his brothers’ games in the King’s Forest. She had played Maid Marion to his Robin Hood, captive princess to his Sir Galahad, Flora Macdonald to his Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  Was it because Master Damon had always been cast as the Sheriff of Nottingham, the ogre, or Butcher Cumberland, that he had turned out such a bully?

  Reynata curtsied to Lord Drake, with a shy smile. If she was still a child to him, he was more than ever the hero of her dreams. If his face had not the near-classical perfection of Master Damon’s, how much pleasanter it was to look upon!

  “I am sorry to deprive you of your escorts, Miss Gresham,” he said. He had never believed Damon and Basil intended to distress or hurt her, putting down their nasty tricks to overexuberance, even as he rescued her from the effects. “My father wishes to show them a cockatrice he thinks of purchasing.”

  “A cockatrice!” said Basil in horror.

  “Otherwise known as a basil-isk,” Lord Drake quizzed him.
“I daresay you’d be immune to your namesake’s deadly gaze—but it’s dead and stuffed, never fear. Miss Gresham, pray tell Mistress Gresham I mean to call upon her sometime in the next few days.”

  “Grandmama will be very pleased to see you, my lord.”

  “Come along, fellows.”

  A summons from the earl was not to be disobeyed. Sulkily Damon and Basil went off with their eldest brother.

  Watching, Reynata saw them join Lord Androwick and John. John was Reynata’s age but seemed to her much younger. A good-natured youth, he too had always been prey to his middle brothers’ tricks, which he fell for much more easily than she did, being not overendowed with common sense.

  Common sense dictated to Reynata that she complete her errands as swiftly as possible and leave for home before Damon and Basil were free to harass her again.

  Half an hour later, she turned off the cart-track onto the bridle-path which led through the woods to Grandmama’s cottage. She walked on in human shape, for the baskets were now too heavy and awkward for a fox to carry, even if she could have set them as panniers on her own back. The path wound uphill and down, the slopes so easily covered on four feet now a wearisome trudge.

  Growing hot, Reynata took off her cloak and stuffed it into the lighter basket. When she came to a brook, she put down her load and knelt on the bank, to dip her handkerchief in the cool water and wipe her face.

  The stream’s chuckkling drowned the muffled beat of hooves on leaf-mould until the riders were nearly upon her.

  “Another minute and we’d have caught her bathing!” cried Basil as Reynata sprang to her feet.

  “No matter.” Damon swung down from the saddle and pounced. “It won’t be a minute’s work to strip her. Well met!” he went on with an ugly grin, his grip tightening painfully on her upper arms. “There’s a nice, soft bed of moss over there will suit us to perfection.”

  Chapter III

  Aldwin Drake moved through the marketplace, greeting his father’s people, flattered by their evident pleasure in his return. At twenty-six, he had never been away from home before for more than a few days.