The sun rose, though its light was feeble and hidden behind a thick blanket of grey cloud. Grunewald spent the daylight hours recruiting further assistance from the shy leafling fae that populated Tilton Wood, and an occasional hob or hob-goblin tucked into underground burrows beneath the trees. By the end of the day, he was hungry, cold and tired, but he had achieved his goal: the woods and hills surrounding Tilby were alive with watchers, and he had taken care to position some few near to Hapworth Manor.
He had but one task left, that being to hope that Tatterfoal would return this evening.
In this, he was not disappointed. Drenching fog seeped up from the ground almost as soon as the sun disappeared, and the chill night grew colder still. Grunewald did not move from his appointed position. He did not think it coincidence that he had encountered Tatterfoal in the depths of Tilton Wood, and there he intended to stay.
Time drifted past. His hair grew wet and dripping beneath the chill fingers of the fog, and his coat and boots soaked through. After some hours of vigil, he felt frozen to his core and began to shiver.
This hardship he ignored. He stood, immoveable and still, in a cocoon of thick white fog, unable to see more than two feet around him. With nothing to fix his attention upon and naught to do, his mind drifted, turning over myriad notions as to the meaning of Tatterfoal’s theft.
That it had something to do with the Adairs, he could not help but wonder, for Hapworth Manor was situated but a mile from his present position. He had entered the environs of Tilby by chance, the year before, in company with another: an Aylir of Aylfenhame named Aubranael, disguised at the time as a human gentleman. The ensuing caper had amused him, but he had been particularly intrigued by the town of Tilby. Its enveloping woods, called Tilton by the residents, struck him as beyond the ordinary; some quality to its trees and carpeting mosses and its filtering green lights, some note to its verdant aromas, seemed to him unusually primeval — even fae. The town was blessed with an unusually thriving population of fae creatures, though he did not imagine that the townsfolk were aware of it beyond the brownies which took up residence with them.
And then there was the bridge-keeper, Balligumph. Grunewald had travelled widely throughout England, and he knew well how unusual the toll-keeper was. A troll, come out of Aylfenhame to keep the Tilby bridge? It was but a modest crossing at that, too small to warrant any kind of toll. And the price asked for passage was strange, too: not coin, but information.
Oh, Tilby was certainly unusual. Intrigued, Grunewald had remained even after Aubranael had left, and sought to discover more. His enquiries had led him all the way to the Chronicler’s Library in the royal city of Mirramay, in Aylfenhame; and there he had learned… a few things.
The town of Tilby was situated directly across the divide from the ancient Aylfenhame town of Grenlowe. He now suspected that it had long borne close connections with the fae lands, and that the fae had left more than one lingering mark upon the place.
He suspected still more that some of those connections had taken root among the populace of the town – its human populace. This suspicion had been confirmed recently, when a sweet young woman known as Miss Ellerby had discovered Ayliri heritage and the powers to match, and had accordingly become a witch.
That there were more families hereabouts with fae blood, Grunewald no longer doubted; but that they were all as innocently placed, and as inherently harmless, as Isabel Aylfendeane and her fledgling powers, he could not feel confident of. The Library of Mirramay had revealed disturbing hints of powerful Ayliri bloodlines mingled with equally powerful English families, and Grunewald’s misgivings had grown. Even the Chronicler’s records could offer little by way of fixed information, and Grunewald had taken it upon himself to try to discover more.
And now, the business of Tatterfoal. The two things may not be connected at all; but on the other hand, they might. Grunewald kept his mind open to possibilities, and waited.
His thoughts drifted to the hapless maid he had rescued on the previous night. She was wasted on the Adairs, and on service; that he had quickly seen. She had borne her abrupt dismissal with composure, and gamely set out into an inclement night with no fears beyond the reasonable. Moreover, she had been brought face-to-face with Tatterfoal and had proved remarkably impervious to the horse’s terrors. He regretted bearing her along on that venture, but there had not been sufficient time to deposit her somewhere without losing his quarry.
She interested him, and more than a little. Her lack of deference did not offend him; rather, it was refreshing – though if she had spoken to her former masters in the same fashion, he considered it no surprise at all that she had been turned off. Her spirit impressed him, and her wit amused him. It was a matter of some faint regret that he would, in all likelihood, see little of her henceforth – if he ever saw her again.
A faint sound reached his ears through the muffling fog: the breaking of a stick, and the dull thud of a hoofbeat. All thoughts of the black-haired maid fled from his mind; with a strong effort of will he resisted the urge to turn in search of the sound, and continued to wait.
Another thud, and another. Hoofbeats indeed. Grunewald stopped breathing as the sounds came closer. A faint, dark shadow moved in the fog up ahead.
Grunewald whispered a word, and a light flared in the darkness: a wisp had erupted into life. More followed, and within moments the woods were drenched in a stark, piercing wisp-light which blazed through the fog, and revealed the dark form of Tatterfoal.
And his rider. Grunewald felt a moment’s fierce satisfaction, for his subterfuge had worked: his quarry, unaware of any surveillance, had not yet fled. The rider looked sharply around, blinking in the sudden light, and with a wordless cry he applied his heels to Tatterfoal’s flanks and disappeared into the night and the fog.
The encounter lasted no more than three seconds, but it had been enough: Grunewald had seen. What he had glimpsed shocked him to the core, for the rider’s visage had been as familiar to Grunewald as… well, as his own.
Rage filled him. Abandoning his hiding-place, he darted for his mare, swung himself up upon her back and rode in furious pursuit of Tatterfoal, screaming wordless fury. But though he rode long into the night, he never caught up with his wayward goblin mount, or the rider who had stolen the beast’s loyalty.
***
Bess woke to find the hour far advanced. The sun was up and shining full upon Somerdale, which caused her to feel wonder and regret in equal measure. She could not remember the last time she had risen from her bed in daylight; it was a rare thing, even in the heart of summer. In the midst of October, it was unheard of and unthinkable.
Which meant she was shamefully late in presenting herself to her kind hostess.
Worse – or, perhaps, better yet – someone had been into Bessie’s room while she slept. A fire burned in the hearth, and a large jug of fresh water had been set next to the pretty porcelain wash basin which stood upon the dresser. Recognising the work of a housemaid, Bess could only stare. Only a single day ago, it had been her unhappy task to rise in the dark and the cold of the morning and light fires which other people would enjoy. How was it that she had, in so short a space of time, become one of the few to benefit from such labours?
Best not get accustomed, she cautioned herself, for it could not last. Besides, even in the midst of her pleasure at washing her face in clean, warm water, she felt a touch of guilt, for she could sympathise all too clearly with the probable feelings of the maid who had laid out these delights for her.
Derritharn was still asleep, and Bess left her to slumber. She was touched anew to note that Derri had also been provided for in the night. A tiny wash basin and jug were laid out for her, too, together with a clean (albeit still ragged) dress, and a hearty-looking breakfast. This would be the work of Somerdale’s household brownies. Bess was heartened to see that they were as ready to welcome Derri as the Aylfendeanes were to welcome Bess herself. Having completed her ablutions, brought some semb
lance of order to her tangled black hair and changed her dress, Bess was able to go down to breakfast, comfortable in the knowledge that her friend was well taken care of.
Still, it went sorely against the grain with Bess to leave such a fine guest room and descend the main staircase to an even grander hall. She had to resist the temptation to search for a hidden, plainer staircase somewhere which would take her straight to the kitchens. She owned only two dresses, and even the finest of them was but faded red cotton. It had been old when she had received it, a cast-off begrudgingly bestowed by her former mistress. Now it was shabby and frayed, and Bessie felt like an imposter sweeping down the main stairs in such a garment.
But she was here by invitation, and a far kinder and more genuine invitation than she had ever before received. She dismissed such feelings, lifted her chin, and endeavoured to appear comfortable and unconcerned.
This lasted only until she arrived at the bottom of the staircase and realised that she had no notion of where next to go. She hesitated, unwilling to venture through any of the closed doors or down the corridors without some idea of where to present herself. If she were to intrude somewhere she was unwelcome, she would swiftly lose Mrs. Aylfendeane’s goodwill, and then what would become of her?
As she was considering this problem, a door opened and the housekeeper she had glimpsed before – Mrs. Glover – appeared.
‘There you are,’ said Mrs. Glover without ceremony. ‘There is breakfast for you in the kitchens.’ She turned away at once, leaving Bess to follow as she could. Bess was more than content to do so; feeling, secretly, relieved that she would not be expected to take her breakfast anywhere as grand as her bedchamber had been.
But Mrs. Aylfendeane’s voice prevented her escape. ‘Ah, Bess!’ she said. ‘It is Bess, I believe? I am glad you have found your way down.’
Bess turned back. Her hostess stood in the middle of the hall, looking even more beautiful and marvellous than she had in the darkness of last night. Her sumptuous hair was coiled atop her head in a fashionable style, and arranged into ringlets in front. Her gown was of some kind of silk, Bess judged, though it was finer and stranger than any she had seen before, for it shimmered in three shades of green simultaneously, and rippled like water even when Mrs. Aylfendeane was standing still. A butterfly with violet wings sat at her waist.
‘Ma’am.’ Bess made a curtsey, which, to her horror, was returned.
‘Mrs. Glover? Bess will take breakfast with us in the parlour, if you please.’
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. I thought that the young person would be more comfortable in the kitchen.’
‘Miss Bell has endured a very difficult day and conducted herself remarkably well. Nonetheless, I believe she requires a little cosseting to fully restore her.’ Mrs. Aylfendeane smiled at Bess. ‘Besides which, Miss Bell, I am eager to speak with you about your adventure.’
Bess could hardly refuse. She followed her hostess into a pretty parlour which, she was relieved to discover, was not too grand, and accepted a chair at the table. A gentleman also sat there; Mr. Aylfendeane, presumably. He was as well-dressed as his wife, in a cerulean waistcoat and snow-white shirt of similarly remarkable fabrics. He was also uncommonly handsome, with pale brown skin, long hair as black as Bess’s own tied into a tail, and eyes of an unsettling burnished bronze colour. Bess received from him a smile every bit as kind as his wife’s as she took her place at table.
There was no sign of Mr. Green.
Bess realised, belatedly, that the food was set out upon a sideboard behind her, and she was expected to serve herself. Too late; for as this darted through her brain, she found a plate set before her by Mrs. Aylfendeane herself. Mr. Aylfendeane filled up a cup of chocolate for her and set it by the plate.
For the first time in her life, Bess had no idea what to do or say. She was too far out of her depth. She ought rightly to be serving them, in the proper way of things! Or not even that, for serving at table was too high a duty for a mere housemaid.
She also failed to hide her feelings as completely as she was used to do, for Mr. Aylfendeane observed her distress. ‘T’ain’t quite a usual household, this,’ he said, and not at all in the refined accents Bess had expected. ‘Ye’ll get the hang of it in a minute.’ He winked at her, and applied himself to his own chocolate.
‘Oh dear, that is true,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane as she sat down. ‘I had not considered! It must seem very odd to you, and perhaps we have made you uncomfortable. But I hope you will overlook our blunder – or mine, indeed, for my husband has anticipated your feelings.’
Bessie blinked. The lady of Somerdale was apologising to her? ‘I can truthfully say, ma’am, that I have never been treated so kindly in the whole course of my life.’ Good heavens, the food alone was so far out of the ordinary way that Bess hardly knew how to eat it. There were fresh bread rolls with butter and preserves, three different cakes, and tea, together with the pot of chocolate. She had never enjoyed such a variety of food before, nor in such quantity; the pile upon her plate might ordinarily be expected to serve her for two breakfasts.
Nor was she accustomed to eating the moment she rose; ordinarily she would have completed some two or three hours of work first.
Mrs. Aylfendeane seemed nonplussed by Bess’s statement, and her face darkened with some thought Bess could not identify. ‘You came from Hapworth Manor, I understand?’ she said.
‘Aye, ma’am.’ Bess said no more, for the extent of her hunger had at last penetrated through her haze of confusion, and she attacked her breakfast with energy.
‘Mr. Green imparted some details of your story to me before he left the house,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane, partaking of her own breakfast in a far more ladylike fashion than Bess was proceeding to do. ‘But I should like to hear it from your own lips, if you will indulge me.’
She would have to wait until Bess had finished eating, for having begun, she could not bear to stop. She felt as though a year had passed since her last meal, and nothing would do but that she clean every scrap of food from her plate, and every drop of tea and chocolate from the cups and pots set before her as well. Mr. Aylfendeane watched these proceedings with obvious amusement, but Bess could not feel abashed.
Once her meal was complete, Bess began to talk. She sensed that Mrs. Aylfendeane’s question came from real interest, and from her expression when she spoke of Hapworth Manor, Bess risked a guess that the Adair family were not among the Aylfendeanes’ favourite people in the neighbourhood. Even so, she softened some of the details of the event which had led to her expulsion from the Manor, and dispatched that part of the story as rapidly as she could. She hurried on to the moment when she had met Mr. Green – if that was his real name, for she distantly recalled his being addressed as something else at Somerdale.
When she had finished, both of her hosts sat for a moment in silent thought. Then Mrs. Aylfendeane said: ‘You hit Edward Adair with a bucket?’
Bess blinked. ‘Aye, ma’am.’
‘You hit him in the head with a bucket?’
Bess braced herself for disapproval – until she realised that the lady was trying to resist an apparently strong urge to laugh. Mrs. Aylfendeane soon gave up on the futile endeavour and laughed heartily indeed, clapping her hands in satisfaction. ‘I can scarcely think of a person more deserving! I applaud you. Grunewald said you were out of the common way, and he is perfectly right.’
‘Grunewald? Ain’t he called Mr. Green?’
‘He is, when he chooses to be. But you have already had full opportunity to observe that he is not altogether an ordinary gentleman.’
‘I reckon he is cracked in the head.’
‘Oh? Why do you say so?’
‘Anyone who goes up to a nightmare and pats it on the nose is missin’ somethin’ in the way of sanity.’
Mr. Aylfendeane grinned at that with obvious appreciation. ‘I hope ye told ‘im as much yerself.’
‘No sir! I ain’t nearly mad enough. If he can m
anage Tatterfoal like he was a bitty-lamb, he could eat the likes of me for lunch.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Mrs. Aylfendeane. ‘Grunewald would not hurt you. He has proved as much! He does not like to spread it about that he is not plain Mr. Green, but he has taken no objection to your being fully aware of it. He has not threatened you, has he?'
Bess snorted. 'He don't need to! He were kind to me when I needed it, and I am grateful to him to be sure. But I maintain he’s as mad as they come.'
Mrs. Aylfendeane nodded, and sipped her tea with enviable calm. 'It is a strange business, to be sure. Did you ever hear of Tatterfoal before, my love?' This last was addressed to her husband, whose brows rose at the question.
'Mm. That I 'ave, though not a great deal. In the past, it was said t' be the favoured mount o' the Goblin King, an' never abroad but wi' his blessin'. As t' whether that's still true, ye'd have t' ask ̶ '
'How interesting,' said Mrs. Aylfendeane, with a quick glance at Bess. 'I hardly think the Goblin King would terrorise our poor county with fog and nightmares, however.'
'Aye, well. As t' that, His Majesty's famously hard t' understand.'
Bess thought back to last evening. What had Mr. Green said? I have not the faintest notion what you are doing partying abroad in England without your master’s leave. Tatterfoal's master was the Goblin King? A king of Aylfenhame? But if that was true, how came Mr. Green to know anything about it?
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 4