Rowankind (3 Book Series)

by Jacey Bedford

  Corwen was loyal to the Lady, but Freddie was his brother. And family was family. I didn’t want to see Freddie come between Corwen and the Lady, but equally I didn’t want to see the Lady put Corwen’s loyalty to the test.

  Corwen shook his head. He didn’t know any more than I did. Here in the Okewood, not all the magical creatures were harmless, but the dangerous ones were kept away from the vulnerable. Maybe Freddie needed to take himself off to the depths of the forest and carve out his own territory, away from anyone he could hurt.

  * * *

  I heard voices through the trees, and we quickened our steps. I felt Corwen straighten beside me, setting aside his worries about Freddie for the time being.

  Reverend Purdy’s laughter floated on the spring breeze alongside Livvy’s giggles. Hartington had delivered the child to her family apparently none the worse for Freddie’s threatening behavior. Livvy probably didn’t realize how close she’d come to being savaged.

  But Charlotte did. She glanced in our direction as we entered the glade, and I saw her expression cloud and her lips purse. She mouthed the word, “Later,” and I nodded.

  “Mrs. Deverell, Mr. Deverell, how good to see you again,” the reverend rose from his carved log seat to greet us.

  “Reverend Purdy,” I held out my hand. “I’d curtsey, but I don’t seem to be dressed for it.”

  Wearing breeches was so much more practical in the Okewood.

  Reverend Purdy laughed. He was used to my odd habits, and knew about Corwen and Freddie’s shapechanging, though not, I suspected, about Hartington’s. If he thought about it, he might assume Hartington to be a wolf as well, though that seemed strange as Hartington looked like a stag to me, even in human form.

  “Tea, Father.” Charlotte had only recently begun calling Reverend Purdy father in our presence, and she still sometimes slipped back into calling him Reverend, which was her habit from all the years at Bigbury when her marriage to Henry Purdy had been a secret from everyone.

  Reverend Purdy called Charlotte his daughter, even though she was rowankind. He’d presided over their marriage himself, and proudly recorded it—illegally—in the parish register at Bigbury, his previous church. He’d moved parishes to be closer to his family. For the last few months he’d been the vicar of South Brent, on the very edge of the Okewood, an incumbency avoided by most churchmen because of the rumors that the forest was haunted, which, indeed it was, by the Green Man and his Lady, together with their retinue of wild creatures.

  “Ross, Corwen, will you take tea with us?” Charlotte had a kettle singing over an open fire and a little table made from a slice cut diagonally from the trunk of a fallen ash. On the table was a teapot and drinking vessels that were a far cry from fine china. They looked organic, fired clay in woodland colors that had definitely never seen a potter’s wheel, but they fit the hand comfortably.

  I wasn’t sure how Charlotte had managed to secure the trappings of gentility in this place. All she lacked was a velvet-covered sofa and a harpsichord.

  “What news from the town?” Corwen asked.

  “You heard the church bells?” Reverend Purdy asked. “The war is over.”

  Charlotte looked up. “Does that mean Henry will come home?”

  “I hope so, my dear.” The reverend reached out and patted Charlotte’s forearm.

  “Oh, yes!” Livvy jumped up and skipped around her mother and grandfather singing, “Dad-dy’s coming ho-ome. Dad-dy’s coming ho-ome.”

  “Now, we didn’t say that, Olivia,” her grandfather said. “It’s still a might-be. We hope he’s coming home.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” the little girl asked.

  “Well, it’s a little better than it was before, but we still don’t know.” He patted his knee, and she climbed on it for a whiskery hug.

  Charlotte sighed. “In truth, I’m not sure how much she remembers of him. He’s been gone so long.”

  “We could make some enquiries,” I said.

  “Where would you start?” Reverend Purdy asked.

  “The goblins. Mr. Tingle and Mr. Twomax. They seem to know what’s going on in the capital.” I didn’t tell him they were already watching out for Walsingham on our behalf, as well as for an opportunity to talk to the king. “Tailors are always in the know,” I said, “or they know a man who is. I suspect the goblins have contacts all over the city and beyond.” I certainly hoped so, anyway.

  “I can send a message to the goblins via the Heart’s crew,” I said. “Mr. Rafiq will see it delivered safely.”

  It wouldn’t add to the debt I already owed Mr. Tingle. I liked Tingle and his family. They were magical creatures simply trying to get by in an uncertain world.

  Corwen nodded. It was settled.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said. “Once more we’re in your debt.”

  The Reverend took his leave, and we made ready to confront Freddie about his temper.

  * * *

  Freddie looked as miserable as I felt, curled up in our bower as if it was his wolf’s den.

  He’d stopped snarling now.

  “What’s to be done with you, Freddie?” Corwen glared down at his brother. “You can’t simply remain a wolf and grouch at everyone all the time. Your teeth are too big and your temper too uncertain.”

  “I’ll go and make us all a nice cup of tea.” My lightness of tone covered my concern, at least, I hoped it did. Corwen glanced at me. I’m pretty sure he knew I was cutting and running. He knew me better than I knew myself.

  I headed back in Charlotte’s direction, knowing she wanted a word with Freddie, too.

  Now her grandfather had departed, Livvy was chatting away to Hartington, telling him how Freddie had protected her when they were captured by pirates. I don’t think anyone had explained to Livvy that it was not pirates, but the Mysterium who had treated the rowankind and the magical creatures so harshly. They were supposed to be the law. Livvy didn’t need to know her kind were not protected by law—not yet. She’d discover the harsh realities of life soon enough.

  “How long has he been in wolf form?” Charlotte asked.

  “Too long. Months. And then there was the time in captivity. He stayed in wolf form then to protect the family. No one knew his identity, so as long as he remained a wolf, they couldn’t find out. I think it did something to him.”

  “He may have forgotten how to be human.”

  I shook my head, meaning I hoped not rather than I was sure. Staying in wolf form would kill him. Wolves had a comparatively short lifespan, so Freddie would age quickly. Corwen told me it was something he always thought about and tried to keep his wolf-time short.

  “It’s time the Lady let him change back,” Charlotte said, straightening from pouring the boiling water onto the leaves. “You carry the teapot. I’ll bring the cups and the sugar. I want a word with that wolf.”

  “As do we all,” I muttered under my breath, but Charlotte heard and gave me a steady look.

  “You think he’s a danger?” she asked.

  “I think he’s in danger,” I said. “He’s been in danger from the first day he changed. Maybe if Corwen had been there to help him . . . ” I shrugged.

  “Don’t let Corwen take the blame for his brother’s condition,” Charlotte said. “By the time he found out about Freddie’s change, it was already far too late. And it’s neither Corwen’s fault nor yours that the Mysterium shipped the magical folk off to sea, your Freddie and my Livvy along with them. If it hadn’t been for you two, they’d still be there, or worse, drowned.”

  I sighed as I picked up the teapot. “I know, and so does Corwen, but what he knows and what he feels can’t easily be reconciled.”

  “He’s got a good heart, your Corwen.”

  “Yes, he has.”

  We made our way back to the glade where Freddie was lying with his nose b
etween his forepaws and his ears back, Corwen crouched down on his heels to one side, leaning forward. Freddie wouldn’t meet Corwen’s eyes.

  “Oh, this isn’t going well,” I said to Charlotte.

  “It’s hardly surprising, is it?” she said. “Freddie’s lost everything—the home he grew up in, the life he tried to make for himself in London. He even feels he’s lost his humanity.”

  And he’d lost the love of his life, too, though that wasn’t my truth to tell. Freddie’s special friend, Roland, had left London for Gloucestershire. Freddie and Roland had parted on bad terms, an argument that had probably contributed to Freddie’s self-destructive final run across Hampstead Heath, straight into a Mysterium catch-net.

  Corwen saw us coming and rocked back on his heels. Conversation over.

  Freddie looked up as Charlotte plonked the tea tray on the ground, rattling the cups. He whined.

  “Is that an apology?” Charlotte leaned over and said something to Freddie, so softly that I couldn’t hear.

  He whined again.

  Charlotte seemed mollified. “I’ll leave you to your tea.” She bustled away, and I poured.

  Freddie whined again and nudged my hand with his nose.

  “I accept your apology, Freddie, but will it change anything?”

  He settled down again and lay still.

  I glanced at Corwen, but he didn’t meet my eyes. Something would have to be done about Freddie if he became a danger to people. I knew the Lady wouldn’t hesitate to put him down like a dog if he couldn’t be redeemed. She wouldn’t do it out of hand, though.

  “Talk to the Lady, Corwen.”

  If we told Freddie his life was in danger, it might make him even worse. There were times when I didn’t think he wanted to live as either man or wolf.

  Corwen looked up with a world of hurt in his eyes.

  “I don’t want to leave you now,” I said, “but the Heart will be in Bideford tomorrow.”

  “I know. Go. I’ve asked Hartington to accompany you.”

  I bit back my protests. Corwen knew full well I could look after myself, but I didn’t want to add one more worry to his burden.

  “Then I’ll wear my riding habit and look like a lady. I’m sure it will amuse the crew.”

  That brought forth a smile.

  “As for you, Freddie, don’t give your brother any more trouble while I’m gone.”

  Freddie blinked and put his nose back on his forepaws, for once contrite.

  14

  Heart of Oak

  HARTINGTON AND I set out for Bideford after breakfast. Dressed in a riding habit that was both serviceable and fashionable without being too extreme, I rode Dancer astride. My split-skirt also served to hide my pistol strapped to my hip, easy to get at through a hidden pocket. I wasn’t anticipating trouble, but being prepared never hurt.

  Hartington, looking every inch the country gentleman, rode Corwen’s Timpani, who had been asked, politely, to accept a new rider. Fae horses have a measure of intelligence and understanding way beyond mortal horses—as well as strength, speed, and endurance—which made our journey much faster than the last time I’d traveled this road.

  We reached the outskirts of Bideford just after three in the afternoon by the town clock, then stabled the horses at an inn Corwen and I had used before. We strolled to the quayside, trying to look casual.

  Bideford town’s twisting, narrow streets were lined with pastel-colored cottages clinging to the hillside above the wide Torridge River, only recently contained by a new embankment. Once a major port in the area, handling cargoes of cotton and tobacco from the New World, Bideford had lost much of its trade to Bristol with the rest curtailed by the war with France. Maybe with the war over, the town would regain some of its former prosperity.

  The ships that docked here now were mostly fishing boats and coastal vessels carrying ball clay out and lime in, though if you knew where to look or who to talk to, there were those captains who specialized in the import of certain goods, mostly French, under the noses of the excise men.

  We walked the length of the quay looking for the Heart of Oak, and there she was, at the seaward end, moored neatly with sails furled. She’s a beautiful two-masted tops’l schooner, and she’s all mine. I flushed with pride.

  “Isn’t that the finest ship you’ve ever seen?” I asked Hartington.

  He cleared his throat. “I know very little about ships, Ross. Truly, I’m a land animal in every sense of the word. I can see she’s neatly turned out, but she simply looks like a ship to me.”

  I chuckled, poised to give him a lecture on how her hull was fashioned from the best Bermuda teak and how her clean lines cut the waves like a hot knife through butter, when a roar from on deck interrupted my thoughts. Hookey Garrity was striding down the gangplank—my friend, one-time able seaman, and now captain in my stead. Close behind him at the rail was Daniel Rafiq, our quartermaster, and a gathering crowd of crewmen led by Lazy Billy, Crayfish Jake, Windward, and the Greek. I just had time to wave at them before Hookey swept me up into a bear-hug and whirled me around and around until I thought we should both fall down dizzy.

  “Put me down, Hookey.” I could barely gasp for laughing. “You wouldn’t have done that when I was captain.”

  “Well, you was captain then, Cap’n. Now you’re a lady.”

  “So you think you can take liberties, eh?”

  “Err . . . ” I think he actually blushed, though he was so sun-browned and weather-beaten it was hard to tell.

  “Only teasing.” Hookey and I had been in situations where our gender didn’t make a difference. Despite his roughness, well concealed these days, he was the man I trusted most next to Corwen. “Hookey, do you know Hartington?”

  “I’ve heard of you, sir, but I don’t think we’ve ever shaken hands before.”

  Hookey offered his good right hand, the left being nothing more than a shiny metal hook. Hartington took it.

  “Shall I wait here for you, Ross, if you have business to discuss?”

  I looked up at the crew. “Mr. Rafiq always manages to brew a fair cup of tea; why don’t I introduce you?”

  Mr. Rafiq, born into slavery and educated for high office, had escaped from a sultan’s palace before they could divest him of his manhood. He was the most cultured person I knew. He was also the most formal. He bowed over my hand and then flashed his white, even-toothed smile at me.

  “Mr. Hartington is a friend of Corwen’s,” I said. “I wonder if you might entertain him while I discuss business with Hookey.”

  “With pleasure, Captain.” Mr. Rafiq was the only person on board who never shortened captain to cap’n, but like all the crew he still used my former title even though Hookey was in charge now.

  “And I wonder if you could deliver this note to Mr. Tingle when you get to London. You remember where to find him?”

  “I do, and I will. Do you need me to wait for an answer?”

  “I don’t expect he’ll have an answer for me immediately. I’ve given him an address he can write to.”

  He took the note and slipped it into the pocket of his immaculate yellow waistcoat.

  “Billy, some tea for the cap’n,” Hookey called.

  Lazy Billy jumped to with a will. “Be right there, Cap’n, and Cap’n.”

  I chuckled as he raced away. Billy’s tea was a concoction that was sometimes more rum than tea. “Things don’t change, do they?” I asked.

  “Well, now they might have to.”

  “Aye, Hookey, that’s what I’ve come to talk about.”

  Hookey led the way down to his cabin, which used to be mine, and before it was mine alone, I’d shared it with Will Tremayne, my late husband. I wondered if any remnant of Will’s ghost still lingered here. Will had stayed with me as a specter for three years until finally relinquishing me to Corwen, not tha
t I needed his permission to fall in love again, but I was grateful for his blessing as he passed over the final barrier to a deeper place of rest.

  The crew, however, still thought Will’s ghost was with them when they entered into a skirmish. They used to ask me, “Is the old cap’n still with us?” and I would tell them, “Yes, he’s up front with his cutlass drawn,” and they would close with the enemy with a ferocity that sometimes startled even me.

  Hookey waved me to the old armchair which had been mine, liberated from a ship we’d taken in the Caribbean in that dismal year after Will’s death. The chair both reminded me of my loss and made me smile at the memory of Hookey and Windward huffing and puffing as they manhandled the chair down the narrow companionway and into my cabin, thinking to cheer me up.

  Now the chair was Hookey’s, but I was glad to sink into its depths once more. We shared pleasantries while Lazy Billy brought us tea, and then we got down to business.

  “This damned peace.” Hookey scowled. “I daresay they’ll be releasing prisoners from France, and you know what that means.”

  “Are you thinking of Walsingham? If you are, you aren’t the first.”

  “You were too lenient with him.”

  “Maybe I was, but leaving him a French prisoner of war didn’t feel lenient at the time, especially in his condition.”

  “It’s true enough that we didn’t expect peace so soon.”

  “Do you think it will last?”

  He shook his head. “The French are making no effort to pull back their ships from places where they shouldn’t be. I think they’re using the peace to rebuild their fleet, so it’s my guess they’re doing the same on land. I don’t suppose the British government is doing much different. At best, it’s a breathing space. I give it a year, but in the meantime our Letters of Marque are useless because there’s no enemy shipping to engage.” He took a swig of his tea, laced with rum. “Damn Frenchies.”

  I sipped my tea cautiously, my nose telling me it was likely to kick like a mule. It was half-tea, half-rum, sweetened with sugar, but not softened with milk.