Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

by Charlotte E. English

  Derritharn stirred in her swaddling cloak nest. 'Tis a difficulty,' she acknowledged. 'I will stop sleeping, and start thinking instead.'

  But Bess's straining eyes alighted, at last, on something new: a faint light, shining in the distance. 'Stay a moment!' she said. 'Feast yer eyes on that.'

  Derri peeked out of the cloak, and squeaked her approval. 'Perhaps it is an inn!'

  'That's my thinkin' too,' agreed Bess. But she was forced to revise her ideas, for it soon became apparent that the lights were moving. 'Nay! Tis a traveller. Mayhap a coach. One of them bigguns, wi' the lanterns atop.' Her heart lifted at the thought, for if it was a mail coach or some such, she could entreat the driver to take her up with it.

  If she could contrive to halt it. The contraption approached rapidly, and soon she could hear the sounds of hoofbeats. It was driving faster than it ought, she thought, given the conditions. She had no light with her, nothing to announce her presence. Indeed, she was in danger of being run down if she tried to stop the coach, for the driver could not possibly see her until he was almost on top of her.

  Ah well. If she did not make the attempt, she was like to perish of damp and chill and hunger before she found any shelter. She positioned herself in the road, near enough to the edge to jump out of the way if she had to, and waited.

  'Bess-Bess…?' said Derritharn as the hoofbeats grew louder.

  'Oh,' said Bessie. 'Aye, you'd better get down. I wouldn't like for the both of us to be flattened.'

  There was no time for more. Horses loomed abruptly out of the mist: a matched pair, black as night. Bess tensed, her heart pounding wildly as the equipage barrelled down upon her.

  The horses snorted and neighed in surprise at finding an obstacle in their path, and one of them shied. Bess heard a male voice cursing. She waited until the last possible instant before leaping aside, heart palpitating with terror — and hope, that her foolish gambit had been enough.

  For a moment it looked as though the carriage would not stop, and Bess's spirits sank. It bowled on, sweeping past her in a flurry of wind and the scent of sweating horse, and was swallowed up by the mist once more.

  But the sound of hoofbeats slowed, and then stopped abruptly. It was not the gradual fading of the horses disappearing into the fog, and Bess's hopes rose again. She clutched a shaking Derritharn to herself and stepped back into the road, hurrying after the coach.

  When she grew nearer to the vehicle, she was able to see at once that it was not a mail-coach after all, nor anything nearly so large — or so promising. It was a gentleman's carriage, the kind that seated but one or two, and the driver was the sole occupant. Oddly, there was no sign of the lanterns she had seen in the distance.

  Its owner sat up high, gentling his startled horses with soothing words. His head turned slightly as Bess approached, and she knew he was aware of her presence, but he neither spoke to her nor looked at her until his horses had ceased their restive behaviour and stood, quiet and calm, once more.

  Then he stared down at Bess.

  In the darkness, she could discern little about him. He wore a dark coat or cloak and a wide-brimmed rain hat, which contrived to conceal his figure and much of his face. She could neither see nor imagine the expression of his eyes, and must attempt to judge his reaction to her presence by the quality of his silence alone. Which was no easy feat.

  Bess tried not to feel afraid, and failed. Weariness defeated her, and the remembrance of Edward Adair's ungentle attentions of only a few hours before. She was in no fit state of mind to be encountering another lone gentleman tonight, by herself, and with no hope whatsoever of help, should matters go awry. But she could not retreat either, for he was her only hope of assistance.

  'You are out late,' he said at last. 'And alone?'

  'Yes, sir.' His tone had not been altogether unwelcoming, but nor had it been kind. 'I am in a spot of trouble, and must beg yer aid.'

  She felt it to be a hopeless request as she spoke, for she knew herself to be far from the type of female he would have any inclination to assist. But he did not bark a negative and instantly drive on, as she had expected, and a flicker of hope flared in her heart.

  He looked away, in the direction of his horses and the empty road ahead. Bess felt that his manner expressed some sort of frustration. 'You may have it, provided that assisting you does not interfere with my endeavour.'

  'I need shelter,' she replied. 'An inn or sommat will serve me well, if you know of one in the neighbourhood. Failin' that, a barn or a stable or anythin'.'

  'We are miles from any inn, and where there is no inn, there is no stable either.'

  'A farm?' said Bess, with failing hopes.

  He sighed irritably. 'I haven't the smallest notion. It has not occurred to me to consider the question of local farms.'

  'Fair enough. Them as drives carriages got no cause to worry about such things.'

  'Those, my dear girl,' said the gentleman blandly, but with a hint of annoyance. 'Those who drive carriages, and it is have in this context, not got. Quite apart from which, this is not a carriage but a curricle.'

  'That's the way,' agreed Bess. 'Find fault wi' my speech, and you set yourself nice and high over the likes of me.' She smiled as she spoke, but her words were born of frustration. It was of no use to her for him to quibble, either about local geography or about her grammar.

  The gentleman looked at her through narrowed eyes. 'Some would call it unwise, to give sauce to your betters. Especially when that better is a stranger, and you are alone, and it is late at night.'

  Bessie patted the nose of the nearest of his horses. 'No sauce, sir,' she said blithely. 'I'm admirin' yer strategy. Tis a sound one, and I'm thinkin' you've had some practice.'

  He sighed deeply, and the reins twitched in his hands. She thought for an alarming instant that he was going to drive away and leave her after all, but he did not. 'Where did you come from, infernal wench?'

  'Hapworth Manor.' Bess did not care to elaborate, but it did not appear that she needed to. He looked sharply at her as she spoke the name of the Adair family home, and his silence spoke volumes.

  At last he said, 'I should not feel interested in such a deplorable minx as I fear you will prove to be, but it seems I cannot help it.'

  Bess grinned. 'You know pluck when you see it, sir.'

  'That I do. Up you come, then. There is but just room enough, I imagine, though you will have to hold that bag of yours upon your lap.'

  Bess clambered up at once, taking care neither to drop nor to reveal Derritharn, and settled herself upon the seat next to the gentleman. 'Thank you for your help, sir. I was at me wits' end.'

  'As well you might be. It is no night to be abroad.' He set his horses in motion and the carriage — curricle — moved off at a smart pace. The wind was cold, and Bess sat huddled around Derri for warmth.

  'There is a blanket on the floor,' he said briefly. 'You may use it if you wish.'

  Bess required no second invitation. She felt around upon the floor near her feet, and her frozen fingers soon discovered a heap of something thick and soft. She drew it over her legs and tucked her hands beneath it, grateful for the warmth it soon imparted.

  Her reluctant companion was silent for some time, and she received the impression that he was concentrating too intently to have any attention to spare for her. He would have to, of course, in order to successfully drive his curricle through the darkness and the fog. Which raised the question in Bess’s mind: what manner of fool took any kind of carriage out on such a night? And alone, at that?

  ‘I suppose it’s an urgent endeavour,’ she said at last. The words emerged a little oddly, for her lips had frozen stiff in the chill wind.

  He glanced at her sharply, as though he had forgotten her existence. ‘It is pressing. I ought, perhaps, to have warned you of its nature before I took you up. But leaving you behind alone would have been far more unwise, I believe.’

  Bess absorbed that. ‘It is some manner of dange
rous undertakin’, I collect.’

  ‘If it is successful. If it is not, we will merely be chilled to the bone and mightily bored.’ He glanced her way once more, and added, ‘Or rather, I will be. It is my hope that I will be rid of my passenger before too long.’

  ‘I ain’t the troublesome sort,’ Bessie offered.

  ‘You are already causing trouble. Or complications, which is much the same thing.’

  ‘Aye, well. ‘Tis all much more troublesome to me, as it happens.’

  ‘No doubt. Incidentally, “I am not troublesome” would be correct.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  He stopped speaking abruptly, and she once again felt that his attention had travelled far from her. She began to say something else, but he hushed her with a few words, and she fell silent.

  He reined in his curricle, and they sat in strained silence for some moments. He was listening hard, but she had no notion what he was listening for.

  ‘If you should happen to see eyes in the dark,’ he said after a time, and in a languid, conversational tone, ‘I beg you will mention the fact.’

  ‘Eyes in the dark,’ repeated Bessie. ‘Right enough.’

  He said nothing more.

  ‘I suppose it’d be too much to ask why you are expectin’ to see such a thing?’

  ‘I have not time for your questions. Be silent, or I shall be forced to abandon you.’

  Bess was left to speculate as to the meaning, and probable owner, of the eyes in question. It did not sound especially promising, but then there was nothing in the phrase by itself that ought rightly to inspire the shiver of dread that ran over her skin at the idea. He might merely be looking for a cat, or some other such creature. She would blame her unsettled feelings upon the depth of the night, the thickness of the fog, the chill in the air, and her own lingering tension from the events of earlier in the evening.

  This approach functioned perfectly to restore her calm – at least, until she saw the eyes.

  They had been clattering up and down lowish hills for some time, by which she judged them to be adrift somewhere in the midst of the Lincolnshire Wolds. Having slowly ascended a hill somewhat taller than the rest, they reached the peak and began to descend; and as they bowled into the valley at its base at a ground-eating trot (a petrifying pace, considering that the fog still concealed virtually everything around them), Bess saw a flicker of bright, sharp light like blue flame, floating in the mist some way off to her left. She stared hard into the fog, and realised with a thrill of horror that the twin motes of light resembled eyes.

  ‘Mister?’ she said.

  ‘Green,’ he replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mr. Green.’

  ‘I ain’t askin’ for yer name, though it’s right nice to know. I’m happenin’ to mention the fact that them eyes you was lookin’ for are right over yonder.’ She pointed.

  He stared in the direction she indicated, and let out a low hiss. The sound shocked Bessie, for it was wholly at odds with the cultured speech and refined manner of a gentleman that he had hitherto displayed. ‘Hold on tightly,’ he said, and in spite of his apparent displeasure the languid tone had not left his voice. ‘We are going to pick up the pace a little.’

  He flicked the reins, and his horses dashed into a canter – and then, to her disbelief, a gallop. They careened wildly through the fog at a terrifying speed – and then, to crown Bess’s horror, the curricle veered off the road and plunged into the woods. Their pace did not in the slightest degree slacken. Rank upon rank of shadowy black tree-branches loomed out of the blank whiteness and reached bare, twiggy fingers for Bess; she hunched in her seat, dipping her head low, and their grip missed. Branch after branch went sailing overhead and away, while the trunks of the trees and black, shadowy bushes loomed and faded on either side of the curricle. Derri shifted in Bess’s grip, squeaking with terror, but Bess could only clutch her tiny friend and pray.

  All the while, those flickering eyes of cold flame danced ahead of them, always out of reach.

  ‘How is it that you can see where you’re goin’!’ shrieked Bess.

  ‘In fact, I cannot!’ said Mr. Green. ‘We are not guided by my eyes.’

  This made no sense to Bessie. Was it better or worse if some unknowable power guided the curricle through the maze of the woodland? How was it possible? It began to be apparent to Bess – if the cold-burning eyes were not enough of a clue – that she had been taken up by no ordinary gentleman.

  The eyes grew suddenly larger, and Bess stared in horror into the depths of blue, frozen fire burning with a malevolent glare. This she bore with fortitude, though her heart beat quicker than she had ever known in her life.

  She was rather more startled when Mr. Green – hitherto civilised in his behaviour, if a trifle odd – suddenly let out a vast cry; a terrible, dark sound loaded with incomprehensible words. Then he dropped the reins and leapt from the curricle with another horrific shout. The curricle continued on without slackening its pace in the smallest degree, proving that Mr. Green really had not been guiding its progress at all.

  Bess clutched the seat and hung on grimly, resisting the temptation to throw herself from the wildly racing vehicle before it could contrive to plough into something, and kill her outright.

  It was not, she thought, the most relaxing night of her life.

  Just as a scream bubbled its way up into her throat and threatened to tear loose, the curricle’s frantic pace finally slowed, and the vehicle came to a stop. This development did not please Bess as much as she would have preferred, for she had fetched up at the feet of the most frightening creature she had ever beheld in her life.

  It was a horse, or something along those lines. Far larger than any horse had any right to be, it towered over the curricle – and therefore over her, in spite of her normally advantageous position atop the seat. Its hide was dense, roiling storm-cloud, or so it appeared to her (possibly fanciful) eye. Dark grey laced through with night-black and frozen-white, the horse blended into the fog as though it wore the inclement weather like a cloak.

  Its eyes were those she had seen in the distance: enormous, winter-blue and crackling with impossible flame.

  Bess’s breath stopped.

  ‘Tatterfoal,’ she breathed.

  ‘That he is,’ said Mr. Green, who stood at the beast’s head. ‘Have you ever seen a mightier steed?’

  Bess could find no words with which to respond. Her fool of a preserver (if he could be called such) appeared to be trying to befriend the beast. Bess decided on the spot that he was cracked in the head.

  Tatterfoal? All the county knew of the nightmare creature. Some tales named him a horse, others a donkey, but all agreed that he was a fell beast indeed, wicked as winter and twice as cold. He had walked the hills of the Wolds many long years ago, terrifying unwary travellers and leading them astray. He took over a person’s reason, so the tales said; hopelessly bewitched, they wandered blithely into the winter-struck woods and were never seen again.

  These were tales of a long-lost menace; none had heard tell of Tatterfoal’s presence for generations. But mothers still used its legend to keep their children in order, and to discourage them from venturing too far from the fireside. It worked, because Tatterfoal was terrifying.

  And Mr. Green was chatting with it.

  ‘There, foolish beast,’ he said conversationally. ‘I have not the faintest notion what you are doing partying abroad in England without your master’s leave. It had better be a good explanation, for he will be more than a little displeased with you otherwise. Hmm? You did not have his leave, my dear pony, for he would remember granting it. Would he not, now? That is the gravest falsehood, and you had better not tell any more of those.’

  Bess listened to half of this speech in a state of powerful terror, expecting any moment to see the fell beast snap her foolish driver’s head off and then come after her. But before many words had passed his lips, it became apparent that no such calamity was imminen
t. She could find no explanation for Tatterfoal’s apparent docility; nor for the fact that Mr. Green had, by all appearances, deliberately set out into the fog with the intention of encountering precisely this monster.

  It was enough, for the present, to feel that her own life was not in imminent danger. Bess sat in rapt contemplation of the scene as Mr. Green continued to talk nonsense to the nightmarish horse.

  But in the midst of this one-sided conversation, Tatterfoal abruptly reared, kicked up its heels and galloped away. Roiling wisps of storm-grey cloud shot through with lightning trailed after it, and dissipated without trace into the fog. Mr. Green stared after the vanished horse in open-mouthed dismay, and then fell to calling and cursing with growing rage. He spoke words Bessie could not understand; they burst forth in a torrent of anger, dark and snarling, and she could not suppress a shiver at the menace they seemed to carry.

  But Tatterfoal did not return.

  Mr. Green fell silent at last, returned to his abandoned vehicle and climbed back into the driver’s seat. He gathered up the reins, but this time he made no pretence of employing them to set his horses in motion. He merely waved his hand and muttered, ‘Off we go, then,’ and the horses turned themselves and began plodding back in, presumably, the direction of the road they had left behind some time ago.

  Bess waited in expectation of receiving some manner of explanation, but none was forthcoming. At last she said, ‘Tis not that I mean to pry, you understand. But that were… Tatterfoal.’

  ‘That it were.’ Mr. Green’s lips twisted in annoyance. ‘Was. That it was.’

  ‘And it seems to me that he were kind enough not to swallow you whole.’

  ‘He would not dare.’

  ‘By that I am to understand that you are more terrifyin’ than Tatterfoal.’

  Mr. Green glanced sideways at her. ‘You are positively overflowing with questions.’

  ‘Ain’t that natural enough? Considerin’ what just happened in front of my eyes.’

  ‘I thought you might be frightened.’