by Nina Clare
‘Have you wares?’ she asked in a business-like tone, thinking he might offer a wand.
‘Wares, snares, tares, and bears, have I,’ said the roamer with a wink. ‘The only thing I don’t carry is cares.’
‘Bears?’ said Myrtle, glancing about.
‘Grease from the ferocious werebear. Nothing like it for candles to burn ten times as long as tallow. But you’ll not be wanting bear-grease, I’ll warrant. Fine lady as yourself will be wanting something pleasant. Fae spider lace for your gowns? Unicorn horn for your hair rinse? Ground mermaid’s pearls for your tooth powder?’
‘Do I look like a coquette?’ said Myrtle. ‘What have you got that’s useful?’
‘Useful? For what purpose, O dark-haired damsel? For the purpose of catching a husband?’ He winked again. ‘For a curse to fell a foe? A charm to rise to the pinnacle of your profession, dwarvish tin to glamour into gold?’
‘I said useful.’
The roamer feigned a look of hurt. ‘Those are me best lines. So, what do ye want?’
It was then that Myrtle noticed a shadowy form moving from under a bramble bush. It was some kind of dog-like creature, though not any dog she had seen before. Its eyes were red as garnets. And now that it was inching towards the fire pit, she saw that it had scales, not fur. It was no dog; it was a—
‘Dragon?’ breathed Myrtle in wonder.
‘Get back,’ the roamer growled at the creature. ‘Ye shall get your breakfast when I say so. It’s over fond of rabbit,’ the roamer said. ‘Greedy little beast.’
The dragon made a noise like a bark, and a soft red puff escaped from between his teeth.
‘It’s very small,’ said Myrtle. ‘A young one?’
‘Young enough,’ said the roamer. He tugged on a chain at his side and the dragon gave a piercing cry and slunk back into the shadow of the bush.
‘You’ve got him bound,’ said Myrtle, looking at the fine, fae-metal chain about the dragon’s neck.
‘Course I have. Would ye wish for a dragon to be flying over your duck ponds and sheep pens? Am I not a responsible roamer?’ He spooned a taste of something from his cooking pot and smacked his lips. ‘Mortal game is so bland,’ he said mournfully, then reached into a tin beside him and took a handful of dried leaves in all colours, throwing them into the pot. ‘One has to add an unearthly amount of seasoning. Now what was it ye were wanting? Something useful, ye said.’
‘It looks thin.’ Myrtle could not take her eyes off the dragon. She moved nearer the creature, and it crawled towards her, but the roamer gave a yank on the chain, causing the dragon to retreat, crying out again, with a puff of red smoke.
‘Get away from it, maid. ’Tis a vicious creature. I’ll not be responsible for ye getting that pretty black hair singed from your scalp.’
‘Stop yanking that chain,’ Myrtle said, her eyes blazing with indignation. ‘You’re hurting it. What kind of chain is it, that it should cause him so much pain?’
‘The kind of chain that keeps a dragon in check,’ replied the roamer. ‘Do ye want your woodlands burned down? Your thatched barns yonder ablaze? Am I not a responsible roamer?’
‘It looks too small do such damage.’ She peered harder at it, trying to discern its shape. ‘Is it a whelp? Does it have any flame?’
The dragon’s eyes glowed from beneath the shadow of the bramble bush. They met Myrtle’s and in that meeting of eyes, something pierced Myrtle’s heart so sharply that she caught her breath. It wasn’t a physical pain, but some strange response, as though in the moment of meeting, there was an anchor of bond placed between them. She had felt nothing like it before, and did not understand what it meant. But she had to rescue it. She had to rescue him, and take him back to where he belonged.
‘Where’s his mother?’ she demanded.
The roamer shrugged. ‘What am I, an all-seeing sorcerer or an all-knowing Wisewoman? I’m just a humble trader, me. A responsible roamer, am I not?’
Myrtle had already cast her eyes round at the roamer’s scattered belongings. He was a responsible roamer all right – responsible for the mystery of Dame Hobbler’s washing going missing from her line, judging by the jumble of linen shirts and woollen socks she saw in one bundle. And responsible for the sudden disappearance of all Farmer Mitchell’s prize pheasants, judging by the brace of birds hanging from a branch.
‘So, what did ye come for, pretty maid?’ He tasted his stew again, smacking his lips as he gauged the flavour. ‘What I’d give for salt from the mermaid lagoon,’ he sighed.
‘Have you any magic?’ Myrtle still watched the dragon, but roused herself to remember what she was there for. ‘Such as… a wand?’
‘A wand?’ He laughed and shook his head and resumed stirring his pot, chuckling to himself.
‘Why do you laugh?’
‘If I had a magic wand, would I be camping out amongst imps? If I had a magic wand, wouldn’t I be sleeping in some fine bed and dining on roast beef instead of a skinny rabbit?’
Myrtle’s hope sank. It was true. Why would he be here, not three miles from Highbury, if he’d had the use of a wand all this time?
‘I could sell ye magic to find a wand, if there was one to be found,’ said the roamer, stirring his pot carefully.
‘I don’t think I care for your kind of magic.’ Myrtle recalled all the tales of mishaps and disasters that came about from purchasing something from a roamer.
‘Perhaps I may have a finding charm. One that can find fae objects, even if they’ve been be-spelled to stay hidden.’
‘Only royal magic can do that.’
The roamer lifted his eyes from his pot and narrowed them. ‘You know a good deal about magic. I daresay you know that royal magic is dear. Very dear indeed. How could a plain, humble roamer as myself have such a treasure to hand?’
‘Probably from trading dragons and other creatures to those who would use them in their own dark magic,’ Myrtle said evenly.
His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again, as though he were regarding her in a new light.
‘You would also be a wanted roamer, wanted by the royal court if you were carrying royal magic procured through transactions with anti-royalist darklings.’
He only smiled, but it was a careful smile. ‘Ye suppose a good deal, little raven-haired maid with eyes that be too blue to be mortal. Ye should take care that your imaginings don’t land ye in trouble.’
‘I think you are the one who needs to take care not to land in trouble,’ countered Myrtle.
‘I may have some charms.’ He sprang to his feet and tugged out a large leathern pack from the mound behind him. He rummaged through the pack and pulled out some ghastly looking things, like black beetles on a string.
‘No, indeed!’ said Myrtle. She stepped back, holding her nose.
The roamer grinned. ‘So, ye don’t care for witches’ charms, hey?’
‘I want nothing from you,’ said Myrtle, stepping further away. He clearly didn’t have the wand, and she was not going to remain breathing in his noxious presence any longer. But a shift from the patch of brambles drew her eye back to the creature huddling beneath it. She could see the glow of his eyes as it watched her, and she could sense its misery even without trying. She stared at it, trying to make sense of the strange emotions the creature was rousing up in her.
‘But I’ll take the dragon.’ She rummaged in her pocket. Her uncle gave her a gold sovereign at the start of each term when she left his large and lonely mansion to return to the school. ‘A real sovereign. Not fairy gold.’
He snorted. ‘Say ten gold sovereigns, little raven, and ye might be closer to the mark.’
‘It’s not a purchase. It’s the recovery of stolen goods. My patroness is the Green Lady, and I have a duty to recover a living thing stolen out of Faerie.’
Myrtle was making this up as she went, but the roamer looked uneasy at the mention of the Green Lady.
‘This is merely a goodwill offering,’ Myrtle said, holdi
ng up the coin. ‘Take it, and I’ll desist from reporting you to the Wild Man and the Knight of the Well.’
The roamer flinched at those names. But he soon rallied. ‘I hear word that the Wild Man of Hartfield has lost his wildness, and the Knight of the Well has turned farmer and is knightly no more.’ He grinned, but she sensed a flicker of fear behind the smile.
‘The Wild Man is still in communion with the Green Man,’ replied Myrtle. ‘And if the Knight of the Well has not been tried for some time, it does not signify that he has lost his strength. His sword still hangs in its place. Lightbringer has not lost its edge through the short passage of mortal time.’
‘Don’t speak that name,’ said the roamer, putting up a hand as though to ward off the image of Lightbringer, the famous sword of old.
‘Just give me the dragon, and I’ll leave you to make your own way out of the county.’ A thought came to her. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked. ‘The border is closed.’
‘Perhaps your Wild Man and your knightly sword-bearer ain’t been taking good care of the borders.’
‘I won’t let you walk away from here dragging that creature on your vile chain without alerting them.’
The roamer laughed. ‘Do ye know how many gold sovereigns the northern dukes would pay for a young dragon? Why, they’d be falling over themselves to outbid one another.’
‘Only so they can raise him up for sport,’ said Myrtle coldly. ‘I won’t have it. You hand him over or face the Green Man and Green Lady.’
‘Don’t ye fear my curses, little raven?’ he leered. His glamour had been slipping away as his fear and anger rose. Gone was the look of a handsome youth, now his features sharpened and twisted, but he still looked young. He was an inexperienced roamer, Myrtle thought. That was of some advantage to her.
‘It is you who should fear me,’ said Myrtle, summoning up a confidence she only partly felt. But she was not leaving without the dragon. There was something connecting her to that creature, and she was not leaving it behind.
She drew herself up tall, lifted her chin, and gave the roamer her best glare.
From childhood she had known the feeling of light, fierce and bright, gathering behind her eyes when she was roused by strong feeling. She had not understood why people looked back in fascination, or away in fear, when she looked at them with the feeling of this odd light. It had disturbed her as a child, and she had soon learnt to keep her emotions under control that she might not feel the sensation rising.
As she grew older, she found she could control the level of power. She could give a mild glare, enough to make troublesome schoolgirls obey her without question, or she could make a stronger one, the one that Rue called her Faerie-queen glare; the one her uncle had called unnatural.
Now she was allowing all her anger at the roamer’s cruel capture of the dragon to rise into a magnificent glare, such as she had not allowed herself to display in many years. The roamer was not immune to it. He started back at her.
‘What are ye?’ he growled, fear passing across his features. He took out a small key and unlocked the end of the chain from a padlock on a tree trunk. ‘Ye shall regret this, ye little witch,’ he warned, holding up the end of the chain. Myrtle drew near to take it. ‘The gold,’ he muttered. ‘Let me see it.’
She held out the sovereign.
‘Move it closer to the creature,’ said the roamer.
The request was odd, but she did as he said, moving nearer to the creature huddled on the ground. It crept towards her; the chain holding it back only inches from Myrtle’s hand. To Myrtle’s astonishment, the creature’s head, on its long neck, changed from dark, stormy blue to a shade of gold. The roamer yanked the chain back, and the creature yelped and hissed red puffs, and his head returned to the colour of storm clouds.
‘Give it,’ said the roamer, nodding at the sovereign. The transaction was made and Myrtle took hold of the chain.
Before turning away, she bent down, pulled her knife from her pocket, stabbed it into the cooking pot to bring up the stewing rabbit. She tossed it through the air to the little dragon, who leaped at it with a squeal and gobbled it up in a flash.
‘Oy! That’s my dinner!’ yelled the roamer, rushing to his pot to see if ought was left. ‘What did ye do that for!’
‘Two reasons,’ called Myrtle over her shoulder as she stalked away. ‘First, the thing is half-starved, and second, for calling me a witch!’
24
Foretelling and Guessing
‘What do you think of these, Emma?’
Mistress Weston held up a pair of linen table napkins.
‘The cream,’ said Emma decidedly. ‘What do you think, Harriet?’
Harriet looked between the napkins. One was a light shade of cream, and the other was a light shade of… cream. ‘Um…’ said Harriet, glancing between them.
‘Ivory or cream?’ Mistress Weston prompted.
‘Oh, to be sure, the cream,’ said Harriet, pointing at one napkin.
‘That’s the ivory, Harriet,’ said Emma with a smile.
‘Do you think the napkin colour will clash with the candles?’ Mistress Weston fretted.
Harriet looked at the orderly rows of new candles, lining the length of the table in their silver candelabras. The candles were a soft shade of… cream.
‘No, indeed,’ Emma assured her friend. ‘The candles are but half a shade darker.’
‘I do so want it to be perfect,’ said Mistress Weston.
‘And so it will,’ said Emma. ‘Your first Yuletide feast in your new home will be absolutely perfect.’
Mistress Weston lifted a glass and held it up to the light at the window. ‘I must ask Hannah to polish these again,’ she murmured. ‘She seems rather distracted of late. I’m sure I asked her once already today.’
Emma recalled the conversation she’d had some time ago with Mistress Baytes on the subject of Hannah Hazeldene. She had never repeated it to Mistress Weston, finding such general gossip vulgar. Had it been an account of some young lady of consequence seen in a compromising scene with a young man, she might have taken an interest in the matter; but a housemaid and a steward’s son held none of her notice.
‘She’s so preoccupied,’ Mistress Weston continued, frowning at the glass, ‘that I wonder if she has not a sweetheart to occupy her thoughts. She gets a dreamlike look in her eye as though she is some maiden in a romance. I was assured when I hired her that she was a sensible girl.’
‘I’m sure she is,’ said Emma. ‘I did hear something regarding her and the son of Master Knightley’s steward, which may explain your suspicions.’
‘Did you indeed!’ Mistress Weston put the glass down to examine Emma instead. ‘I wish you had said sooner. It explains a good deal.’
‘It was only gossip,’ said Emma. ‘I did not think it worth repeating.’
‘I thought Mistress Larkin had her heart set on her son marrying the eldest Martin girl,’ said Mistress Weston.
Harriet felt the usual lurch in her stomach to hear the name of Martin mentioned.
‘You are familiar with the Martin family, are you not?’ Mistress Weston asked Harriet. ‘Is there to be a match between the eldest girl and the Larkins boy? He’s a handsome young man, and if he’s as hardworking and honest as his father, he would make a good match for any young lady of his class.’
‘I don’t believe Elizabeth Martin has any desire for matrimony at present,’ Harriet said quietly, remembering with a pang that while Elizabeth had no wish to marry anyone, her brother Robert Martin did. Or had. Likely he had already forgotten all about Harriet after receiving her letter of refusal.
‘Enough of other people’s desires at present,’ said Emma brightly, dispelling all dangerous talk of Robert Martin. ‘We have enough to think of in arranging our own. How much we are all looking forward to tomorrow evening.’
‘How glad I am that your father is coming to give the blessing of the Green Man’s bounty,’ said Mistress Weston, lifting the n
ext wineglass to the window. ‘I feel sure once our home has received the blessing, we will be absolutely safe, and then he may come.’
‘Safe?’ said Harriet, her curiosity piqued. ‘And who is it that may come?’
‘Why, Harriet,’ exclaimed Emma, ‘have you not heard of young Master Weston?’
‘Master Charmall,’ corrected Mistress Weston. ‘Frank had to take his aunt’s name. He is Master Frank Charmall.’
‘Oh, to be sure,’ said Harriet, recalling the stories of the young boy who grew up in Faerie. ‘He was taken away to live in Faerie, in an enchanted castle, and has not been seen these seven years. Was he turned into a bear?’
‘No, dear,’ said Emma. ‘The bear story is another young man. But Master Frank Charmall was indeed taken into Faerie and adopted by his wealthy aunt when he was a small boy. Poor Master Weston has barely seen him, for his son is rarely permitted to enter England, is that not so?’
‘It is just as you say,’ said Mistress Weston, moving down the table, lifting each glass. ‘But recently Frank was able to get a letter sent to us while he was close to the border, in the south.’
She addressed her tale to Harriet with a mix of satisfaction and anxiety.
‘There is a little island called Fortune, where there is an opening between Faerie and England at certain times of the year, and Frank was able to venture over the border for a while, and messages were sent back and forth between Frank and ourselves.’
‘He writes a very good letter,’ Emma added. ‘Such an elegant hand for a man.’
‘And he wrote to say that he would beg of his aunt that she might release him to visit his father, in honour of our marriage. And so, the Green Man’s blessing would be most welcome, for it always includes the spirit of hospitality, does it not?’
‘It does indeed,’ Emma assured her.
‘Master Charmall’s aunt sounds very disagreeable,’ Harriet observed.