Cecilia Dart-Thornton was ‘discovered’ on the Internet after she posted the first chapter of her unpublished trilogy to an Online Writing Workshop. Subsequently an editor contacted her, and within a few weeks Time Warner (New York) had bought her three-part Bitterbynde series. On publication the books were acclaimed in Amazon’s ‘Best of 2001’, Locus Magazine’s ‘Best First Novels of 2001’ and the Australian Publishers’ Association Award: ‘Australia’s Favourite Read of 2001’. In Australia they reached the top of the Sydney Morning Herald bestseller list. They have also received accolades in the Washington Post, The Times, Good Reading Magazine, Kirkus Reviews and more.

 

Cecilia’s books, including the four-part Crowthistle series, are available in more than seventy countries and have been translated into several languages.

 

* * * *

 

The Enchanted:

A Tale of Erith

 

Cecilia Dart-Thornton

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Don’t you go down by the river, my darling,

Nor through bluebell woods to the old ruined mill.

Those are the haunts of the strangers, my darling,

As ancient as starlight, they linger there still.

 

 

As evening drew nigh, Mazarine stood in the bay window of the library, looking out across Kelmscott Park. Sweeping lawns rolled down to the lake, which lay like a shattered mirror fallen from the sunset sky, reflecting clouds as red as flame. Unseeing, the young woman gazed out through distorted panes, past the distant chimneys of Clover Cottage, towards wooded hills stitched with glimmering streams, where clandestine trees, long-shadowed, bowed darkly before the wind.

 

The oaken panelling of the chamber in which she stood had been polished, over the years, to the sombre glow of antique amber. Floor-to-ceiling shelves upheld vellum-bound volumes; chartreuse, tawny, sable, their spines embossed with gilt lettering. On the mantelpiece the inner cogs of the mahogany clock went click! as a ratchet alternately caught and released a gear that unwound the spring and moved the hands. Ticking clocks, the sombre glitter of old gold, the gleam of polished wood — these were the trademarks of Kelmscott Hall.

 

Mazarine had not lived long at the Hall — only since the demise of her parents last Uainemis, at the beginning of Summer. Having no siblings with whom to commiserate, she mused longingly on her lost family, clutching to her breast the tilhal-locket on its necklace chain which held their portraits in miniature: her mother, who had taught her the lore of eldritch creatures and, sitting by the fire on long Winter evenings, related thrilling legends of immortal Faêran knights sleeping for centuries beneath some long-forgotten hill; her father, who had often taken her riding through the woods near Reveswall, identifying every herb and flower, bird and beast they had encountered. Now both those dear ones lay beneath the green turf — sleeping the other sleep, that which is a gift belonging only to mortal beings. The tenet that had carried Mazarine unscathed through loss and catastrophe sprang from the conviction that somehow she and her loved ones would all meet again, never to be separated.

 

Until she came of age to inherit her vast fortune, she must perforce dwell here at Kelmscott, in this remote backwater of Erith far from her childhood home in northern Severnesse, under the guardianship of her mother’s distant cousin, the Earl of Rivenhall. Though the circumstance carried its own drawbacks, she was determined to make the best of it.

 

Beyond the library window two figures moved into view on the lawns, one small, one hulking — the under-gardener’s young apprentice, followed by the Chief Steward, Ripley. In Mazarine’s opinion, Ripley was nothing but a bullying ruffian, but her guardian held the fellow in high esteem, having given him leave to dwell, rent-free, in a small house on the grounds; an abode far superior to the cottages of the gamekeeper and the gatekeeper. The young woman watched in consternation as the man gesticulated threateningly, while the under-gardener’s boy quailed. Presently Ripley cuffed the lad over the side of the head, knocking him down. An involuntary cry escaped the watcher’s lips, but before she had time to throw open the casement and give voice to her indignation the lad had picked himself up and run off. Ripley turned on his heel and went swaggering away in the opposite direction.

 

If the Chief Steward was repulsive to Mazarine, she found his master, the Earl of Rivenhall, equally so. To compensate, there were five creatures hereabouts — other than the gentle horses and the enthusiastic hounds — that made life bearable and even enjoyable. These included the Wilton family who lived at neighbouring Clover Cottage, and two others. A door creaked on its hinges as one of those others now entered the library.

 

‘The master will be late, but someone nears the gate,’ said a high-pitched male voice. ‘Beneath the leaves so green, ‘oo rides to Mazarine?’

 

‘Oh, Thrimby,’ said Mazarine, turning toward the shadows from which the voice had emanated. ‘You are up early.’ Barely distinguishable in the twilight gloom cast by tall, carved bookshelves, the eccentric servant’s spare, shrunken form was clad in ragged breeches, a patched waistcoat and a threadbare jacket. Mazarine wondered how long it took him to compose the little rhymes of which he was so fond. Thrimby was never seen during the day — and rarely at night, either, for he was reclusive. It was his wont to rise after the rest of the household had retired to their bedchambers, and to steal away at cock-crow to wherever it was he made his own bed. Mazarine could only assume that her guardian tolerated Thrimby’s odd habits because of the exceptional service he provided. Every morning the entire mansion — and it comprised a veritable warren of rooms — would be shining spick and span from chimney pots to cellars, largely due to Thrimby’s unsurpassed exertions. Day in, day out, he accomplished the work of a whole bevy of chambermaids, scullerymaids and footmen; moreover he never complained and never seemed to tire. A gem indeed. Mazarine strongly suspected he was not human. At his announcement of a visitor, her heart had begun fluttering like a trapped butterfly. ‘Why will my guardian be late?’ she asked. ‘And who is coming here?’

 

A triumphant smile gleamed out of the dimness. ‘Wielder of the Kelmscott seal will be late for evening meal, for ‘is carriage lost a wheel. From the tower’s top we saw bird that ‘overs over moor, lame and weary and footsore.’

 

The heart of Mazarine jumped more wildly.

 

‘A wheel came off the earl’s coach?’ she said, endeavouring in vain to keep her voice steady. ‘I hope he remains hale,’ she added without conviction. ‘How do you know these things, Thrimby?’

 

She heard the servant sigh. Perhaps he found it an effort to keep composing jingles on the spot. Or perhaps not — it might come naturally to such an unusual fellow as Thrimby.

 

‘We spotted it just as ‘e drove away,’ he replied. ‘We knowed it would come off by end o’ day.’

 

‘I see. I daresay it was too late to tell the coachman by the time you noticed it.’

 

Silence, save for the faint moaning of the wind outside in the machicolations.

 

‘Thrimby, would you mind asking after the under-gardener’s boy on my behalf? I fear he has lately suffered at the hands of our Chief Steward.’

 

‘Aye.’

 

There was nothing more that Mazarine could do for the under-gardener’s boy. The earl never took heed of her pleas for better treatment of the servants. Privately the young woman decided that in the morning she would bring the buffeted lad a parcel of food from the kitchens. Presently she cleared her throat and broached the subject uppermost in her mind, which she had been saving until last.

 

‘And you indicate that Lord Fleetwood is coming home?’ Bird that hovers over moor could only mean one person. Hawkmoor, Lord Fleetwood, officially lived at Kelmscott but was often absent for two or three days, overseeing his estate almost three miles away on the other side of Somerhampton.

 

‘Aye.’

 

Thrimby’s conversation had dwindled. Possibly he was working on another few lines of doggerel.

 

‘Thank—’

 

The servant’s hands flew to his ears. ‘Don’t say it!’ he cried sharply.

 

‘Oh!’ Mazarine exclaimed. ‘Forgive me, I forgot. Habits are hard to break. I should say, I appreciate your bringing me these tidings, kind Thrimby.’

 

Thrimby’s status was unique among the staff in that his deference was neither expected nor demanded. An abhorrence of being thanked was another of the servant’s foibles. By this, Mazarine was almost certain he was no mortal creature, but a wight of eldritch, a beneficent domestic brownie. For some unknown reason no-one in the household ever acknowledged this possibility however, so to avoid causing conflict she never mentioned it either — not after the first time. Once, soon after she had arrived at Kelmscott, she had diffidently asked her guardian, ‘My lord, do you suppose perhaps Thrimby is a brownie?’

 

Instantly she was aware she had made a mistake. The look he had given her, of cold scorn, made her wither like a flower blasted by frost.

 

‘A what?’ he had barked, thrusting his face close to hers.

 

‘A brownie, sir,’ meekly she repeated, stepping backwards.

 

‘What nonsense! I have no idea what you are talking about. Get your mother’s tales out of your head, you silly girl.’

 

And that was the end of it. A second suspicion was growing on Mazarine — she had never seen her guardian actually speak to Thrimby, or even occupy the same room. She wondered whether he knew the servant existed. Perhaps he thought it more expedient to feign ignorance of the enigma dwelling right under his nose.

 

In the kennels the hounds were belling joyously. Their cacophony barely disguised the sound of hooves beating on the gravel of the wide terrace that ran along the front facade of the mansion. A rider was cantering up the drive to the marble portico. It would be him — the only one of Mazarine’s five favourites who dominated her thoughts almost every waking moment; the only one who could make her feel as though she were walking on air, or make her blush and become awkwardly self-conscious, although plainly he never intended to have such effects. Hastily she rang the bell for a footman and requested that he tell the housekeeper to ensure that supper would soon be ready. Then she brushed down her vespertine skirts of mourning silk, prodded ineffectually at her hair — a lavish mane of bronze curls, coiffed that morning by her personal lady’s-maid — and rushed out of the library toward the front drawing-room, glancing anxiously in the flashing multitude of wall-mirrors as she passed.

 

In the drawing-room a footman wearing Rivenhall livery was lighting the lamps against the drawing in of darkness, and an upper housemaid knelt on the hearthrug before the fireplace, coaxing life into a pile of kindling. She cupped her hands and blew on the reluctant flames, whose leapings were being combated by fitful gusts blasting down the chimney. Mazarine tried to compose herself to meet the newcomer, but could not bring herself to sit still on any of the velvet-upholstered armchairs or divans, and instead paced back and forth. The last roseate rays of the sinking sun slanted through the drawing-room’s recessed window, striking sparkles off the gold braid on the windowseat cushions, setting afire the brass lamps, the candlesticks and the fire-irons. She heard the uneven sound of Hawkmoor’s boots on the marble tiles as he crossed the portico and entered the vestibule, and could contain herself no longer, but glided out to meet him.

 

Stripping off riding gloves, a tall figure stood illumined in a shaft of late sunlight that raked through the open doors. A swirl of dead leaves had blown in when he entered, and now eddied at his feet. Beyond those doors a groom could be seen leading a black horse away toward the stables. Heat and cold raced through Mazarine’s person, swift on each others’ heels, and she could not take her eyes off the newcomer. Limned in that rose-gold light, he appeared to her like a painting of some marvellous Faêran lord. More than perfect was he; unbearably beautiful, lean and lithe. He was dressed in Dainnan uniform; leather leggings and a shirt of high quality wool with voluminous sleeves, beneath a sleeveless suede tunic reaching almost to his knees and slit down both sides along the length of his thighs. At each shoulder, the Royal Insignia was embroidered — a crown above the numeral fifteen, flanked by the runes J, the hook and R, the sail. At his side his hunting horn swung from a green baldric, and a sheathed dagger was attached to his belt. His hair was Feorhkind brown, like Mazarine’s, but much darker; so dark it was like a swatch of midnight. The long locks, gathered in a black ribbon behind the neck, fell to his waist. Handing his gloves to the head footman, he glanced up. His expression, which had been stern, softened.

 

‘Good evening, Mistress Blythe.’

 

‘Good evening, Lord Fleetwood.’

 

Lord Rivenhall, Hawkmoor’s sire, was also Viscount Fleetwood. As the eldest son of an earl, The Right Honourable Hawkmoor Canty was entitled to use his father’s highest lesser peerage dignity as his own, though he remained a commoner until such time as he inherited the title.

 

‘You were not expecting me, I understand,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Perhaps there will be some supper in any case.’

 

‘Most certainly!’

 

‘Cottrell,’ the young man said to the head footman, ‘will you ask Goodwife Strood to have supper served in the conservatory this evening?’

 

‘Very good, m’ Lord.’

 

‘For it is a fair Autumn evening,’ Hawkmoor continued, directing this comment to Mazarine, ‘and I would fain enjoy it.’

 

This was true. During the last four weeks of Autumn, the Windmonth — Gaothmis — was unseasonably balmy, still tinged with the lingering warmth of Summer. In the conservatory, oranges and limes glowed like spherical lamps on the trees, and ginger plants thrust fragrant leaves from their pots. Ripe figs and grapes dangled from above, although the last of the peaches and cherries had been plucked and preserved for Winter use, and most of the strawberries were gone.

 

A table was set — according to instructions — for two. Generally the earl, Mazarine’s guardian, took his meals in the lower dining room, a formal and formidable chamber. Mazarine and Hawkmoor preferred the airy greenery of the conservatory, through whose glass walls one could look out, during the day, at the gardens. At nights the view dwindled to orbs of candlelight, but the servants would light the strings of tiny stained-glass lanterns that festooned many of the garden trees. In Mazarine’s opinion these resembled the faerie-lights, or possibly glow-worms, strung through hedges by the siofra when they held their miniature revels.

 

The siofra were tiny human-like beings dressed in snail-shells and spiderwebs and seedpods. As a child living in the village of Reveswall in the north of Severnesse, Mazarine had often beheld such woodland folk. By contrast, few such entities could be glimpsed in her new home. It seemed that here in the remote south-eastern shires of Severnesse, far from the trading and passenger routes of the flying Windships and the aerial pathways of Relayers on their sky-horses, eldritch wights — numerous everywhere in Erith — were more adroit and sly at hiding themselves. It made the wild and haunted places seem both emptier and more dangerous. Even the eerie shang-wind seldom blew in this backwater; people hardly bothered to wear protective taltry-hoods, though the law decreed they must carry them at all times.

 

Folk did, however, adorn their necks with amulets; and some planted rowan trees around their homes and hung bells upon the harnesses of their horses or employed other wards against malign forces. Children were taught the ancient chant cataloguing wight-repellents:

 

‘Hypericum, salt and bread,

Iron cold and berries red,

Self-bored stone and daisy bright,

Save me from unseelie wight.

Red verbena, amber, bell,

Turned-out raiment, ash as well,

Whistle-tunes and rowan-tree,

Running water, succour me ...’

 

Nonetheless these precautions were taken chiefly from force of habit and tradition rather than fear of imminent peril.

 

Together Mazarine and Hawkmoor seated themselves at the white-clothed table beneath the orange trees in the conservatory, and held converse as they dined. Delighted to be the subject of the undivided attention of her distant relative — if indeed they were related at all — yet somewhat nervous lest she say or do anything to mar the occasion, the young woman felt, at first, awkward. It was a rare chance, that they could be alone together. It seemed her guardian continually exerted himself to make certain it seldom happened. The earl would only take himself to town if Hawkmoor was away for several days on business. When his son was in the house he never went out, or if he did, he demanded that Mazarine accompany him.

 

Mazarine and Hawkmoor had never met during their childhood days, and in those old times she had only encountered his father on three or four occasions, for the Blythes and the Cantys had rarely mixed. She retained vague memories of a well-dressed, aristocratic visitor grabbing her by the chin and forcing to tilt her face up to his for his examination, and of a voice murmuring low, so that her parents could not overhear, ‘Gad, you are a plain little thing, aren’t you! What an Ugly Gosling. Cheer up girl, perhaps you will grow up to be a swan after all!’ At the time she had felt crushed, as if she had failed a test she’d had no idea she was undergoing. On subsequent occasions she’d tried to avoid him.

 

It was a sheltered life Mazarine had led in such a remote neighbourhood, with a governess to tutor her, and few friends. When she was orphaned, her parents’ executors contacted her last remaining relatives. Though consumed by grief, she had briefly wondered whether, when he encountered her once more, her new guardian would consider she had evolved into a swan or remained a gosling. He had, however, made no comment at all about her looks.

 

Since her arrival at Kelmscott Hall a few weeks earlier, the orphan had formed a friendship with Laurelia Wilton, an unwed damsel of her own age who dwelled in nearby Clover Cottage with her parents. Professor Wilton was a poor but respectable apothecary whose livelihood depended on selling his home-made galenicals, simples and other pharmacopeia to physicians and chirurgeons in nearby Somerhampton. He occasionally took in boarders to supplement his meagre income. The warmth of Laurelia’s family soon secured them a place in Mazarine’s affections and sometimes she felt as if she had known them for years. Though the earl never invited the Wiltons to Kelmscott Hall, his ward visited them as often as possible, learning more about them as time went on. She was also beginning to be further acquainted with the earl and his heir, and the more she discovered about the latter, the more she wished to know.

 

‘I trust your farming establishment is thriving, sir,’ Mazarine said shyly, before tasting a spoonful of kale soup.

 

‘In sooth, the harvest has been bountiful this year, Mistress Blythe,’ Hawkmoor replied, with a warm smile that had the effect on his companion of a draught of strong wine. ‘The corn was of the highest quality, and commanded an excellent price at market. I am fortunate that my land is rich and fertile. The King has been generous.’

 

The earl’s sole heir possessed an independent living, for he owned an estate of two thousand acres, presented to him by the King-Emperor of Erith as a reward for saving his life. Mazarine was aware that when she was thirteen years old Hawkmoor, then aged eighteen, had joined the famous brotherhood of the Dainnan. When they dwelled at the King-Emperor’s court these elite warriors were royal bodyguards; when they roamed the lands of Erith they were peacekeepers, and always they were ready to fight as soldiers in times of war. The Dainnan name bestowed on Hawkmoor was ‘Rowan’, and he had served with the brotherhood for six years. By the time he turned twenty-four he had risen to the rank of captain, commanding his own company of a hundred and eighty men. That was a year ago.

 

‘Pray tell me,’ said Mazarine, ‘how did it happen that the King’s life came into danger and you rescued him?’

 

‘He was travelling through the countryside with his retinue, and I was among them,’ said Hawkmoor, breaking bread onto a porcelain plate adorned with the Rivenhall coat of arms. ‘It was a Summer Progress.’

 

‘I am not familiar with such an event.’

 

‘Few natives of Severnesse would be acquainted with it, because His Majesty has never voyaged to these shores. As you know, he keeps mainly to the lands of Eldaraigne and Luindorn and Finvarna. It is his wont, in Summer, to travel from country estate to country estate, staying for a few weeks at each. The peers vie for his patronage — some even build magnificent new wings onto their mansions, purely to provide attractive accommodation. Anywhere the King-Emperor lays his head is afterwards titled the King’s Bedchamber, or the Royal Apartments, and only a select few are permitted to sleep therein, or no one at all ever again, and the hosts will boast of the royal visit for generations to come, as they boast of the King’s father, and his grandfather before him.’

 

‘It is a wonder there is any grand house left without a King’s Bedchamber, if the d’Armancourt dynasty is so keen on journeying!’

 

‘His Majesty Progresses only once a year, and stays long at each place. I believe there is no fear of a glut!’

 

They both laughed.

 

‘So you were on this Progress, sir?’ Mazarine prompted.

 

‘Indeed, and we had halted at twilight — it having being a warm day and the King-Emperor needing refreshment — to swim in a cool, clear pool in the shadow of a ferny cliff some twelve or fourteen feet high. It was a fair scene, framed by flowering sedges. Slender waterfalls were hanging down the cliff’s face like silver chains. Dragonflies darted amid water lilies. The Dainnan of course entered the water first.’

 

‘In the manner of the Tasters at the Assaying before a feast, I daresay,’ said Mazarine, ‘ —- those men who are employed to eat the food before the King is served, to provide a warning by their demise, should it be poisoned.’

 

‘Precisely! We tested the water in case of danger to His Majesty’s person — in case this fair pool was the haunt of a drowner or some other fell incarnation. We swam, we dived and we sought among the blue-flowering pickerel weeds that grew in the depths, looking for signs of any malicious being such as the Bocan or the dreadful waterhorses, or the emaciated drowners with weed-green hair, such as Peg Powler or Jenny Greenteeth or the Fideal, who can drag a man into the depths with terrible strength. But we found none. What’s more, our horses walked down fearlessly to the edge to drink and that was an encouraging sign, for beasts are generally the first to scent danger. Then we deemed it safe, and all of us left the water while His Majesty plunged in.’

 

Hawkmoor paused to drink from a chased silver-gilt cup.

 

‘Our King-Emperor carries with him always,’ he continued, ‘an artefact of special value — the Coirnéad, it is called — a silver-clasped hunting-horn, white as milk. Legend says it is of Faêran craftsmanship, and that if ever the sons of the House of D’Armancourt in dire need should sound the horn, help will come. Yet in preparation for bathing His Majesty left this treasure in the keeping of my second-in-command.

 

‘For myself, I donned my raiment, girded myself with my weapons-belt and climbed to the top of the cliff to watch over my liege-lord, though my warriors arrayed themselves about the brink. His Majesty was swimming among the lilies when all of a sudden there reared up from the black-shadowed water a monstrous figure, twice the height of a man and dripping wet. It was, in fact, one of the powerful fuathan; not merely a minor wight to be repelled with simple chants or handfuls of salt. The thing must have been lurking in a lair burrowed into the side of the cliff, underwater, else we would not have overlooked it.’

 

‘By the Powers! Was it Cuachag himself?’ cried Mazarine. ‘Cuachag, the most terrible of fuathan?’

 

‘I think not,’ said Hawkmoor, replacing the cup on the table, ‘for had it been he, I doubt whether I would have lived to tell the tale, for what can a mortal man do against one of the Nightmare Princes?’

 

Mazarine shuddered.

 

‘Yet if not Cuachag, then something close,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Something potent.’

 

And he described the ensuing events so evocatively that Mazarine felt as if they were unfolding before her eyes.

 

Water sluiced from the fuath’s brawny shoulders and from the grassy mane that grew right down its back. The face was ghastly in appearance, for where the nose ought to have been there was only a punched-in hole, like a miry puddle. This manifestation was clad all in ragged green garments that looked to be fashioned of waterweeds. Waist deep, it raised its enormous arms, splaying webbed fingers, and thrashed the water with a spiked tail. Clearly it was intent on doing harm to the King-Emperor, who perceived his danger. He knew he had no chance, but faced the monster bravely, prepared to wrestle it with his bare hands undaunted; ready to die like a true monarch.

 

It all happened quickly. As soon as the wight appeared, the Dainnan guards had dived into the pool. In that space — an eye’s blink — Hawkmoor perceived that the rescuers could not swim to the King in time, so he sprang to his feet and made a great leap off the cliff onto the fuath’s shoulders. The water-giant began to bellow and sway like a forest tree in a storm, but the young warrior wrapped both his legs about its neck and one arm about its great slimy skull. He hung on, though being jerked hither and thither like a fish flapping on a hook, meanwhile trying to draw his dagger from its sheath, for the banes of the fuathan included cold steel, which would vanquish them instantly.

 

At the very least, Hawkmoor’s object was to purchase more time for his men to reach the King. But as he pulled the knife from its scabbard, the fuath swivelled its head and sank its toxic fangs into his calf. He did not know if he uttered any sound — they told him later that he shouted with rage as he plunged the dagger into the wight’s eye socket, but he had no recollection of it. The creature collapsed, generating huge waves that almost swamped the men, but some reached the King and bore him safely to land, and others swam to the Dainnan leader as the waters were closing over his head, for he was drowning, half-insensible, still hanging onto his foe as if clinging to his very life, and its inky, eldritch blood was swirling through the gleaming waters. They could hardly prise their leader away from the monster, though it was dying, or metamorphosing — for those immortals could not perish, only diminish. Presently the fuath shifted into the shape of an insignificant water-spider and scooted away, leaving its vanquisher at death’s threshold.

 

They dragged Hawkmoor from the water. The King’s Chirurgeon tended his wounds, but advised there was scant hope the patient would live beyond a day. He lived, nonetheless, to make the journey back to court on a litter, and there he lay on his sickbed for three months in fever and agony, and it was beyond the power of the best chirurgeons and carlins to say whether or no he would pull through.

 

Hawkmoor laughed without humour. ‘Be that as it may, you know the outcome, Mistress Blythe,’ he continued. ‘I did live, but only as three-quarters of a man, for when I healed I was,’ — he paused an instant — ‘as you see me now.’

 

‘Fie! I beg you, do not do yourself such discourtesy, my lord!’ cried Mazarine.

 

‘Afterwards, the heart went out of me,’ Hawkmoor said quietly, ‘for now that I can no longer leap over a stick the height of myself, and stoop under one the height of my knee, and take a thorn out from my foot with my nail while running my fastest, or barely even walk straight, being forced to limp askew, like some old gaffer, I no longer wished to be Sir Rowan of the Dainnan brotherhood. They asked me to stay as an instructor and tactician, but I refused to be relegated to that status. I want the life of active service or nothing.’

 

‘Yet you live,’ Mazarine said earnestly, ‘and that is sufficient.’

 

‘Do you think so?’

 

‘Indeed! Besides, your lameness is so slight it is hardly noticeable.’

 

‘Hardly noticeable to you, perhaps, but not so slight.’

 

She understood, then, that it was with great effort and pain that her companion forced himself to walk straight, so that none should perceive what he considered to be his weakness. At the same time she felt grateful and elated that he had allowed her to see past the bluff — it signified that he placed great trust in her; that he believed she would not betray his confidence by letting anyone else know what agonies it secretly cost him to play the part of a man who was fully hale.

 

‘As some compensation,’ she said, ‘you won Southdale Farm for your courage and quick thinking.’

 

‘Which allows me independence,’ he said. He did not need to add, from my father. Mazarine was well aware — for it was common knowledge — that there was no love lost between the earl and his heir.

 

The earl had, on occasion, declared he would cut off his son’s inheritance. This threat, however, had never exerted any effect on Hawkmoor, who desired only a roof over his head and food on the table. Jewels and gold held no allure for him. As for the titles, for which he cared scarcely a whit, they would always remain his by right as long as he was considered his father’s progeny, and who could prove otherwise?

 

Hawkmoor did not resemble the earl at all in appearance or manner. Mazarine had once overheard the servants whispering that the two were not, in fact, related by blood — a rumour which might have cast aspersions on Hawkmoor’s mother, had public sympathy not been largely on her side.

 

‘Little wonder she strayed, if stray she did,’ people murmured. ‘Such ill-treatment she received at his hands! Poor creature — no surprise she died so young.’

 

‘Some say the first Lady Rivenhall was forced to take a lover to fulfil her husband’s desire for an heir! He wanted to keep his title from going extinct!’

 

‘Really? What a scandal!’

 

‘For the master is barren, they say, barren as a mountain peak forever under snow. He could not get a child on any of his other wives, could he!’

 

‘Aye, and what happened to those wives, that’s what I’ve always wondered! It can’t be pure chance, to be made a widower three times.’

 

‘Hush! If Ripley should hear you — or worse, the master himself — your own husband will soon be widowed, I’d warrant!’

 

‘Well, who’s young Fleetwood’s real sire, d’ye think?’

 

‘I wouldn’t hazard a guess. Nobody knows. Nobody ever will, I s’pose.’

 

Mazarine banished the stale hearsay from her thoughts. A footman was stalking through the foliage of the conservatory, bringing another course on a silver-gilt salver, and the sour-faced butler was pouring more wine. Half-heartedly she wished he would not — she was unaccustomed to such quantities and it was going to her head, but it seemed to take the edge off her nervousness. Indeed, she felt flooded with delight to be in the company of this handsome young gentleman, whom she had quickly come to admire, trust and love as no other.

 

He was saying something about Thrimby, in response to which she said, ‘How I envy Thrimby his ability to make up rhymes on the spot! It is clever of him, to be sure!’

 

‘Do you have a desire to speak in rhyme, Mistress Blythe?’ her companion bantered.

 

‘Perhaps not to speak rhymes, but at least to write them. I used to compose poetry ...’ Mazarine broke off.

 

‘But no longer? Why not?’

 

‘I —’ The young woman wrestled with a sudden upwelling of sentiment. She could not trust herself to speak, being afraid that if she confessed the reason, she might burst into tears, and tried to mask her fragility by pushing a piece of glazed parsnip around her plate with her fork. Presently she regained control. ‘Forgive me.’

 

Her dinner companion gazed upon her with infinite tenderness. ‘Pray, let us speak of nothing that discomposes you, Mistress Blythe. Behold, I brought you a gift!’ From his pocket he took a small parcel, which he handed to her. ‘I purchased them from a passing pedlar on my way here. Is the colour permissible for those who wear mourning?’

 

Grateful to be distracted from her sorrow, Mazarine unwrapped the parcel. Out spilled a handful of shimmering silken hair-ribbons. Their colour was deep purple, like a stormy sky.

 

‘Indeed, I have often seen this lovely colour combined with mourning-dress,’ the young woman said with shy delight. ‘Gramercie, sir! I will wear them tomorrow! Now in return for your kindness I will answer your question, for I have regained my composure. Writing poetry was once one of my favourite occupations. On that fateful day when my parents set off to call on a friend whose company I found excessively tedious, I begged to be spared the outing so that I could stay home and work on my latest epic. My mother and father met their deaths on that drive.’ She need not explain the manner of their passing; Hawkmoor knew the details only too well. As their carriage was crossing a bridge, a wheel hit a large stone lying in the road. The equipage overturned, toppled over the parapet and fell into the fast-flowing river. ‘Now,’ Mazarine concluded, ‘guilt prevents me from writing any more.’

 

‘Guilt?’ interposed Hawkmoor with a puzzled frown.

 

‘I cannot help wondering — what if my presence in the carriage had somehow been able to prevent the accident? My weight — slight though it be — might have balanced the equipage and stopped it from tipping over, or perhaps I would have been more alert than they, and foreseen the collision that was about to happen and warned the driver to swerve in time.’

 

Her companion shook his head. ‘You are too harsh on yourself, Mistress Blythe.’

 

‘Be that as it may, sir, since that day I have locked my books of writings in a chest. I will no longer be a poet.’

 

Clearly Hawkmoor perceived her returning distress, for he embarked on a more light-hearted topic. Their discourse grew more animated and playful, until by the time dessert was served, Mazarine was so exhilarated by the fragrance of the spice plants, the wine and the enchanting proximity of Hawkmoor, that she abandoned herself to jocosity.

 

‘It is your turn to talk,’ she said. ‘I am eating raspberry pudding. No, pray do not make me laugh — I have a mouthful. No please, that’s so cruel while I am eating!’

 

‘It is your turn, I insist upon it!’ Hawkmoor said amusedly.

 

‘Not at all! You see, the reason why our friendship is so amicable is because it is based around me eating while you talk.’

 

‘Really?’

 

‘Really. And you see, I eat raspberry pudding every day. That is why you will just have to make certain we are together every day!’

 

Mazarine’s supper partner was just about to frame a reply when a commotion from the direction of the kennels heralded a new arrival at Kelmscott. Abruptly, all gaiety ceased.

 

‘Who is coming in, Cottrell?’ Hawkmoor demanded, throwing his serviette down on the table. His features had settled into their former stern expression.

 

The head footman bowed. ‘I cannot say, m’lord. Methinks it is likely to be Lord Rivenhall.’

 

The imminent approach of Mazarine’s guardian was like a dousing of icy water upon the young woman’s mood. For a short while, in the company of Hawkmoor, she had managed to divert herself from the sad mood that had attended her since her bereavement. It had not been so long ago, after all, that the loss of her parents had changed her life forever. She started up from her chair, but Hawkmoor said, ‘Pray do not be disturbed on my sire’s account, Mistress Blythe. Let us finish our meal.’

 

She thought he spoke angrily, and if any of her merriment had remained, it now fled. Hesitantly she resumed her seat, though she could not eat or drink, or even speak, and in silence they waited. At length the rumble of voices and the clatter of boots announced the earl’s advent, and the man himself approached, shouldering past the branches of the orange trees, his valet and two of his bodyguards in his train.

 

He doffed his travelling cloak and threw it aside for the valet to retrieve. A gentleman of middle age, he was elegantly attired in a long, pleated surcoat split at the sides, dark blue cross-gartered hose, and a heavy coat, sumptuously embroidered. His head was ornamented with a rondelle hat of blocked felt, brimmed by a stuffed ring of cloth, gold-netted, tied beneath his chin with thin black ribbons. From beneath the hat a profusion of glossy brown ringlets cascaded over his shoulders. The earl was quite the fashionable dandy. His person, however, failed to match the gorgeousness of his coiffure and garments, for his face was heavily jowled, the flesh blotchy and veined in the places where his cosmetic powder had rubbed off, and his belly, though corseted in a stomacher, was swollen, through over-indulgence, to a solid paunch.

 

His eyes squinted at Hawkmoor from between flabby folds of flesh. ‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped, without preamble or greeting. ‘I thought you were to be absent for three more days!’

 

‘Good evening to you too, sir,’ Hawkmoor said calmly. ‘I finished my tasks early. And you? You seem a trifle ill at ease — you are well, I trust? You come late.’

 

‘And you have dined without me,’ said the older man. ‘You could not wait.’

 

‘For that I must apologise,’ said Mazarine, repressing her resentment of the intruder’s rudeness for courtesy’s sake and starting up a second time. ‘The fault was mine —’ Her guardian turned his attention to her.

 

‘Ah, Mistress Blythe,’ he said, grasping her hand and favouring the back of it with a moist kiss before she knew what he was about. He bared his flawless teeth in a smile. ‘Come, let us to the drawing-room. This wilderness is not a fit place for a man to recover his powers after the excessively provoking string of events to which I have been subjected this evening.’ Without further ado he propelled his ward away, his plump fist pushing at the small of her back, so that she had no choice but to go where he directed. She heard Hawkmoor striding unevenly in their wake, cursing under his breath.

 

As soon as they reached the drawing-room the earl dismissed his bodyguards. He bade his valet pull off his coat for him, remove his shoes and loosen the laces of his stomacher, though he kept his hat on, as was his wont. ‘The cursed coach broke down on a lonely road through the forest!’ he fumed, slumping in a chair before the drawing-room fireplace and throwing one stout leg over the arm of it. To a hovering footman, ‘Where is the mulled wine, for Providence’s sake? I called for it hours ago. And bring me my evening robe!’ To the chamber at large, scowling: ‘How such a mischance could occur I know not. Something came loose. As head coachman, Ogden ought to have seen that all was in order before we departed. It was his responsibility. Since he was not worth his pay I dismissed him and sent him packing as soon as we arrived home. Fleetwood, I charge you to hire a better scrivener than this idle coachman you got for me.’

 

‘I never hired him in the first place, sir. That was Ripley’s achievement, if you recall.’

 

‘Do not mince words with me, pray. I am ill-used enough as it is. To top off my woes, while I was waiting half the night for the acorn-headed footmen to screw the wheel back into place and make some repairs, we were assailed by a troupe of gypsies!’ The earl stared about the room with an air of baffled contempt.

 

‘Gypsies, my lord?’ asked Mazarine, who felt she ought to make some sort of response to fill the ensuing void of silence.

 

‘That is what I said, is it not? A great gaggle of ‘em in the moonlight, hopping about like fools to the hideous squeakings of their fiddlers. Gypsies near the borders of my land! I shall have them run off the estate if they dare set foot within my bounds!’

 

A butler entered with a jug of mulled wine on a tray. He poured some into a goblet while his master snapped his fingers, ‘Hurry up! Hurry up!’ after which the peer proceeded to refresh himself with deep draughts.

 

‘What did they look like, these gypsies?’ Hawkmoor asked. Mazarine glanced sharply at him. It was unlike him to contribute to a conversation with his sire unless forced by necessity.

 

‘Why would you want to know?’ the earl retorted gratingly. ‘They looked like all the rest of their kind, of course — half-sized, ragged folk, their hair long and straggling and greasy, clinking with silver bracelets and hoop earrings, limping and hopping as if they were all lame as three-legged frogs, ha, ha!’

 

Mazarine saw Hawkmoor wince at this remark, but he merely said, ‘They drove no covered wagons?’

 

‘Did I say they had wagons?’

 

‘You did not, sir. Which makes me suspect they may not have been gypsies at all.’

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

‘By your description they were trows.’

 

‘Zounds! Sir, do you not have ears to hear? How many times do I have to repeat myself? Amershire is free from all sinister wights! Trifling oddities such as griggs and harmless types of waterhorses might hang around in certain places, but mere tricksy tom-fools, nothing perilous. Unseelie things simply do not come this far south-east. Any half-wit knows that.’

 

Mazarine wanted to interject, ‘You are deluded!’ She lacked the courage, however, to speak so forcefully, being a comparative newcomer in the earl’s household. Furthermore, she was alarmed to perceive that Hawkmoor was swiftly losing patience with his abrasive sire, and might at any moment cease to tolerate his uncouthness. If that should happen, bitter words would pass between the two, and she lived in dread of Rivenhall’s heir being banished from the house. Life at Kelmscott Hall would be far less bearable without him.

 

Fortunately, at that point her guardian’s valet hastened in carrying his master’s evening robe, a voluminous affair of carmine velvet edged with ermine, which he helped him put on. The earl slumped back into the chair, swallowing more wine.

 

‘Now I return to my own domicile,’ he said, ‘only to find my heir engaged in an intimate dinner with my ward. What am I to think, eh? Perhaps you have been sweet-talking her, eh Fleetwood? Trying to worm your way into her affections? Well, I shall have none of that nonsense, do you understand?’

 

To her horror, Mazarine saw Hawkmoor turn pale with wrath. He glanced briefly in her direction and his glance intimated silently, ‘For your sake, I will leash my anger — but only for your sake.’

 

‘Good night, Mistress Blythe,’ he said. Without another word he spun about and strode from the room, his gait studied, perfectly even and precise, regardless of the price in pain.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

When those we love have ceased to tread the earth

And, winged, flown beyond our mortal ken,

Then wither poetry, music and mirth,

And only love can bring them back again.

 

 

Hawkmoor kept his distance from his sire whenever possible. He and Mazarine formed a tacit agreement to limit their meetings to times when the master of Kelmscott was elsewhere. Ever since he had discovered them dining together, the earl had made it clear that he strongly disapproved of their forming an attachment, and derisively voiced his scorn of such a possibility at every opportunity. When Hawkmoor was out of earshot he would disparage the young man to Mazarine. She began by defending him, but ceased as soon as she understood that this merely provoked her guardian to outbursts of greater vehemence.

 

Nevertheless, by dint of quick thinking and the earl’s intemperance, they did manage to steal moments together in the presence of none but Mazarine’s lady’s-maid. The earl had a habit of late-night carousing with such of the local land-owners as shared his fondness for inebriation. On mornings when he lay late abed, inconvenienced by over-indulgence on the previous night, Hawkmoor and Mazarine enjoyed hours to themselves. On one such morning they sauntered arm-in-arm through the walled herb garden.

 

‘Tell me of your home in the distant north.’ Hawkmoor suggested, idly toying with a plucked stem of tarragon.

 

‘Why, you yourself, sir, have travelled through lands as far-flung as any!’ the young woman replied, laughing.

 

‘Aye that is true, but I have never visited Reveswall, so tell me, pray!’

 

‘Well, it is a fair land, though anyone who travels along a country road at dusk might spy slanting eyes, emerald or topaz, watching furtively from the hedges and winking out as quickly as they appeared; or hear the sound of laughing and sobbing, or shrill voices talking gibberish, or high-pitched singing, or the faint strains of music played on bagpipes, thin reed whistles or fiddles.’

 

‘Ah, yes. Such phenomena are observed everywhere in Erith. Go on!’ Hawkmoor prompted, observing his dinner companion’s enthusiasm with evident pleasure. ‘What was one of the oddest things you ever saw?’

 

‘Once, when walking home along a familiar path through the meadows at evening, my father and I spied a thing like a donkey’s head with a smooth velvet hide, hanging on a gate. We knew not what to make of it. Cautiously my father approached this peculiar incarnation, but suddenly it turned around, snapped at his outstretched hand and disappeared! I cried out, startled, and asked my Papa what it was.

 

‘“I believe,” he said, clearly somewhat rattled though unhurt, “it was something called a Shock.”

 

‘“What do Shocks do?” I enquired.

 

‘“As far as I am aware, they merely hang on gates,” said Papa. “They are seldom seen. Little is known of them.’”

 

‘I have never heard of such a creature,’ said Hawkmoor, shaking his head. ‘There are strange things in Erith more numerous than can be catalogued by humankind.’ They talked on, drifting from subject to subject, and eventually he said, ‘Next week I must interview applicants for the position of scrivener and book-keeper to my father. He has demanded this of me, insisting that it is my duty to perform such tasks for him.’

 

‘Scrivener? Does he not already employ a scrivener?’

 

‘No. He has always looked after his own accounts — which is why his finances have fallen into a chaotic state.’

 

‘That is hardly imaginable!’

 

‘To all appearances my sire is wealthy, Mistress Blythe, but he is not as well off as in years past. He has a growing number of creditors, for he spends considerable amounts of money on a variety of pleasures whenever he goes to town.’ The young man twirled the sprig of tarragon in his fingers.

 

‘Forgive me if I sound presumptuous, my Lord, but why should you be the one to find him a scrivener?’

 

‘No forgiveness required, Mistress Blythe. My sire will not bother himself with sifting through the applicants. He has faith in my judgement of men, at least, for it was I who engaged the services of Tom Glover, the truest of men, the most honest and capable manager for my own estate. Southdale Farm thrives under his direction.’

 

‘How many have applied for the scrivener’s position?’

 

‘Six-and-twenty.’

 

‘Then you will indeed be kept busy! I daresay you have a hundred matters to attend to at Southdale, yet you will be forced to remain here, interviewing book-keepers. Perhaps you will find it tedious.’

 

Hawkmoor’s gaze met hers in the sunlight, and she saw her face reflected in his dark eyes. So handsome was he that it was thrilling to look upon him.

 

‘I can no longer find it tedious in this house, Mistress Blythe.’ And in case she had overlooked the message he added, ‘Not since you arrived.’

 

Stars were stabbing ice-white fractures into the dusky heavens beyond the glass roof. Mazarine found herself at a loss for words. Hawkmoor had quite unexpectedly bestowed on her a compliment, which was uncharacteristic of him — his manner was usually quite reserved. She tried to cover her delighted confusion by bending down to examine a patch of blue-flowered rosemary. What could he mean by it? Surely she was ascribing too much significance to his words — after all, she was no beauty, and he, achingly beautiful, was a kind of lodestone attracting all the eligible young ladies of the district.

 

Straightening up, she regained her composure and the two of them began to conjure ways to make tedious interviews with book-keepers interesting; inventing scenarios that became more and more farfetched, until at length each comment, no matter how trite, set off another peal of laughter.

 

* * * *

 

In the second week of Gaothmis, Hawkmoor kept his promise to his sire. Ensconcing himself in his book-lined study, he interviewed the two dozen applicants for the position of scrivener.

 

On another morning when the earl was still snoring abed, Mazarine and Hawkmoor were taking the air in the shrubbery, their elbows linked. As usual they were accompanied by Mazarine’s lady’s-maid Odalys, who trailed after them, deliberately shuffling her feet through the fallen Autumn leaves to make them rustle, for she liked the sound. Lost in some reverie, she was humming an ancient tune called ‘Bogles in the Hedges’.

 

‘I wish that your coming-of-age would befall tomorrow, Mistress Blythe,’ said Hawkmoor as they strolled. At unguarded moments like this, he allowed himself to limp; it eased the torment of wrenched and poisoned sinews that had healed awry.

 

‘I too!’ Mazarine replied. ‘The third of Sovrachmis is but six months away, yet it feels like six years. I am more than ready to assume responsibility for my life and my fortune on my twenty-first birthday.’

 

‘I can hardly wait for that day,’ said Hawkmoor

 

‘Why?’ Mazarine asked nonchalantly, feeling her pulse accelerate.

 

‘Oh the bogles in the hedges,’ tunelessly sang Odalys at their backs, ‘the drowners in the sedges, the warners in the mountains and the asrai in the fountains ...’

 

Mazarine could not help laughing at her maid’s rendition, and Hawkmoor joined in, both trying to smother their hilarity so as not to cause offence.

 

‘I do believe she learned that lamentable ditty from Thrimby,’ said Mazarine.

 

‘Ah, the matchless Thrimby!’ said Hawkmoor, with a smile of such marvellous comeliness that it thrilled his companion to her very fingertips. Amongst the brilliantly coloured foliage of the crimson glory vine that crept upon a stone wall, a blackbird began to sing. By then the companions had lost the thread of their conversation.

 

‘I must leave you soon,’ Hawkmoor went on, gazing thoughtfully down at Mazarine — for he was a good deal taller than her, being two inches more than six feet in height. ‘I can see the day’s first applicant approaching along the driveway.’

 

Mazarine had witnessed some of the comings and goings of the hopefuls. Unexpectedly she now beheld, walking around the side to the servants’ entrance, a young man with a scholarly air, whose face and form she knew well. ‘Wakefield!’ she cried. Releasing her escort’s arm she ran up to the newcomer, through the fading glory of the golden abelias whose cast-off leaves were strewn upon the footpaths like handfuls of shining coins. ‘Master Squires! What a wonderful surprise!’

 

The new arrival stopped in his tracks and regarded Mazarine with astonishment. ‘Mistress Blythe!’

 

A comely young man in the sober dress of a clerk — dyed in shades of dark blue and slate — and a soft grey cap with a rolled woollen brim, the applicant turned out to be an old friend of Mazarine’s, her companion of early years when she and her parents had lived in the north. Overjoyed to see him, the young woman took his arm with artless eagerness, enquiring as to the health of his parents who, he assured her, were quite well and still dwelling in their old abode.

 

‘Fleetwood, where are you?’ Mazarine cried, turning back with shining face. ‘This is a childhood friend of mine, Master Wakefield Squires! I have not seen him these six or seven Winters, since he left Reveswall to travel the world. Master Squires, pray allow me to introduce you to my cousin, Lord Fleetwood.’

 

Hawkmoor had caught up with them. He stood gravely regarding the newcomer, who bowed. ‘At your service, sir,’ he said, to which Hawkmoor responded with a murmured courtesy. Mazarine was about to launch into a happy exploration of the events in their lives since last they parted, when she recalled the object of her old friend’s visit.

 

‘I daresay I had better leave you to conduct your business,’ she said, ‘but afterwards, Master Squires, will you oblige me by taking refreshment in the front drawing-room?’

 

‘I would be honoured, Mistress Blythe.’

 

‘Splendid! I will have Odalys conduct you there at the conclusion of your interview. Fleetwood, will you join us?’

 

Hawkmoor shook his head. ‘Five other appointments await me this morning,’ he replied. ‘Besides, I am certain you two have many reminiscences to mull over, and my presence would only be an intrusion. Delighted to meet you, Master Squires — shall we proceed indoors?’

 

Wakefield stood aside to allow Mazarine and her cousin to enter at the side door, before bring up the rear with Odalys. Above their heads, unnoticed, a scowling face peered down at them from a second storey window.

 

* * * *

 

Over the next few days Mazarine was unable to secure more than a few brief moments alone with Hawkmoor, for as usual the earl created obstacles to their companionship at every turn, and besides, the young man was fully occupied with numerous tasks. After an intensive week of interlocution Hawkmoor narrowed, down the list of applicants to three young gentlemen, one of whom was Wakefield Squires.

 

Late one night at the end of the week Hawkmoor was leaning on his elbows at the desk in his study. The window in front of him gave onto a view of the ornamental lake. In its depths on nets of constellations hung the moon’s reflection, like a giant platter of polished pewter. The rest of the household was abed — all save one.

 

A pattering, as of mice’s feet, roused the young man from his brooding. ‘Thrimby, is that you?’

 

The servant moved into a shaft of starlight. Though he was a small fellow, and wizened as though ancient in years, he carried cleaning implements on his shoulder as if they weighed nothing, and moved nimbly, like a youth. Hawkmoor had no notion of his age. Thrimby had been at Kelmscott ever since he could remember, quietly busy at his nocturnal chores, always wearing his ragged clothing and his worn-out slippers. His old nursemaid had warned her charge never to offer the servant new garments. ‘For,’ she had cautioned, ‘if you do, he will go away and never come back.’

 

‘Why?’ the child Hawkmoor had wanted to know.

 

‘Because he is a brownie, though some refuse to acknowledge the fact. Brownies depart forever if you thank them or give them clothing. If Kelmscott Hall were to lose its brownie it would be much the worse for the family.’

 

His old nurse was always right, so he had heeded her advice.

 

‘What can I give him to show gratitude?’ he had asked.

 

‘A bowl of fresh, creamy milk each day, a hunch of soft bread. Sometimes a handful of herbs. That is all. Oh, and domestic wights such as brownies approve of mortal folk who are tidy and hardworking. They despise slovenliness and loathe being spied on. Therefore be diligent and allow him his privacy, I dread to think what would happen if we were to lose him!’

 

She had died of old age in her dreams, his nurse, and been buried in the local graveyard, having been the closest approximation to a mother he had ever known. His father’s next two wives had not been permitted to show interest in the lad; they had to put forth their charms exclusively for the earl.

 

‘Aye ‘tis Thrimby ‘ere, young master,’ said a voice like the swivelling of rusted hinges. ‘Ye be sleepless, eh?’

 

‘I am.’

 

‘Pinin’, no doubt.’

 

‘Pining? What makes you say so?’

 

‘Blind Freddy could see it.’

 

‘Well, and small wonder if I am.’

 

‘She returns your affections,’ said Thrimby, whisking a few token motes of dust off the top of a pile of books with a bouquet of plumy feathers.

 

Presently Hawkmoor replied, ‘Your comments are of a very personal nature, Thrimby.’

 

‘And why should they not be? I’ve knowed ye since ye was a little ‘un, young master. I know all that goes on in this ‘ouse, and I tell ye, she returns your affections, is owt wrong wiv that?’ Screwing up his odd little face the servant squinted at the young man.

 

‘Nothing is wrong with it,’ said Hawkmoor, shrugging.

 

‘Wot’s wrong wiv you then?’ Thrimby lifted a corner of the hearthrug and swept furiously under it with a straw besom.

 

“Tis true, I am heavy of heart. I flattered myself that she would accept my offer of marriage once she turned twenty-one,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Now I am not so certain of the future.’

 

‘Don’t let the old master stand in yer way!’

 

“Tis not him.’Tis Squires.’

 

‘Wot, that bookish young gentleman? I can’t see it, meself.’

 

‘She dotes on him, Thrimby. She has invited him to take elevenses with her twice this week. That makes three meetings in the space of seven days.’

 

Vigorously rubbing a brass lamp with a polishing rag, Thrimby said, ‘In that case, send ‘im packin’ young sir. ‘Tis your call. A master never need explain to those who serve in ‘is domain, for he may ‘ire and fire at whim and nobody can gainsay ‘im. And if a servant fails to please by causing damage or unease, ‘e’ll find ‘imself outside the door among the starving and the poor.’

 

He subjoined, rhyme-less, ‘But you don’t ‘ave to ‘ire ‘im in the first place!’

 

‘Very good!’ said Hawkmoor in a brief flash of admiration for the spontaneous jingle. ‘It is indeed my “call”, as you put it,’ he continued. ‘I wish only for Miss Blythe’s happiness, and so I shall do what I believe is best.’

 

Thrimby stared at the young man for a long moment, sighed profoundly, scratched his head and resumed his housework.

 

* * * *

 

Hawkmoor recommended to his sire that Wakefield Squires be hired.

 

Whereupon that young scholar was grilled by Chief Steward Ripley, regarding his ability to keep his employer’s affairs to himself, and his willingness to sign an Agreement of Secrecy whose stipulations, Ripley assured him, would be pursued vigorously, were the signatory ever to break his word. This brawny thug gave the young man to understand that he meant ‘vigorously’ in a very physical sense, in consequence of which Master Squires had second thoughts about taking on the position, and said so, causing the earl to step in, saying he was satisfied that only a gentleman who took the contract seriously would consider throwing away such a lucrative and highly sought-after situation, and this was precisely the kind of employee he had been looking for, and Ripley must be excused for his exaggerations because we are all civilised creatures, and Lord Rivenhall would never countenance ruffianly behaviour from his staff.

 

Subsequently Master Squires reconsidered, for the earl could be both charming and persuasive when it suited him. The young scholar took lodgings at Clover Cottage with the Wiltons, thereafter commencing to appear at the earl’s side door early every morning and work all day in his study in the west wing. Assiduously he dedicated himself to writing letters and keeping the books or, to be more accurate, sorting them out, for he discovered the accounts to be in an almost inextricable state of chaos.

 

Mazarine was pleased to have her childhood friend so close at hand, although a niggling doubt prompted her to ask Hawkmoor whether he had hired Wakefield for her sake.

 

‘Not at all,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘I assure you, Miss Blythe, he was the best candidate.’

 

And instantly Mazarine regretted having asked such a question, for it would appear to cast doubts upon Hawkmoor’s integrity. He must have supposed she believed him capable of disloyalty to his father, a breaker of his promise to choose the featest man for the job. Yet it was too late and the thoughtless words could not be unsaid, though she apologised, which only seemed to make matters worse.

 

From the time of Master Squires’s engagement, Hawkmoor no longer appeared as warm towards Mazarine as before, but cold and formal. She wondered whether she had done anything else to upset him, and agonised over it, and felt, as when they had first met, uncertain in his company.

 

Fully cognizant of the reason for his heir’s reserve and revelling in it, Lord Rivenhall continually invited Master Squires to dine with the family. Mazarine was amazed that such an arrogant swank as her guardian would invite an employee to dine at his own table, but Hawkmoor grimly understood, and took his meals in subdued silence, leaving the chatter to Wakefield and Mazarine who, encouraged by the earl, indulged in recalling their childhood adventures.

 

Once or twice after dinner Mazarine quietly asked Hawkmoor if he were in good health.

 

‘I am indeed. Gramercie,’ he merely replied, and walked away with symmetrical poise.

 

If the young master kept himself aloof from Mazarine, he confided his inmost observations to industrious Thrimby, on the nocturnal occasions when that mysterious personage made himself apparent.

 

‘I find myself in constant turmoil, Thrimby,’ said he, sitting once again at his desk by the window, ‘restraining my sorrow and wrath. I can assure you, it goes hard with me. I would leave this house, if not that I crave to be near her, under the same roof. Yet it is torture knowing she is infatuated with another, and my father slyly adds to that torment with his teasing.’

 

‘I tell you, ‘tis you,’ insisted Thrimby, frenziedly scrubbing the hearth with an enormous brush of boar’s bristles. ‘You, she fancies.’

 

‘Why then does she spend so much time with him?’

 

‘They share memories of ‘appy child’oods, that is all!’

 

‘She is more often in his company than in mine.’

 

‘Because the master contrives to separate the two of you.’

 

‘I am not convinced!’

 

‘Suit yourself, young master.’ Dunking the brush zealously in a pail of rinsing-water, Thrimby continued,

 

‘When jealous thought uplifts its ‘ead, it crushes trust until it’s dead,

 

And tortures love’s reality. Then joy and satisfaction flee.’

 

He resumed scrubbing. Soap bubbles flew up like flocks of tiny birds.

 

‘To be honest I am not jealous, Thrimby,’ replied Hawkmoor. ‘I merely wish to make Mistress Blythe happy, and if she would be happier with him than with me, then that is how it must be.’

 

“Tis true enough that ye be not the jealous kind, young master. As blind, deaf and dumb as a mole wearing ear-muffs mayhap; as self effacin’ as a snowman jumping into a frying pan, maybe, but not the jealous kind. As sacrificial as a worm wot offers itself to a blackbird to save the other worms ... ‘

 

‘Yes, yes, Thrimby, much obliged; that’s enough. I do comprehend your rather insulting point. But I will not be persuaded otherwise.’

 

* * * *

 

When Wakefield was working on the accounts and Hawkmoor was away at Southdale, Mazarine occupied herself with her hobbies — watercolour painting, sketching, collecting foliage and flowers for pressing, and writing letters to the friends she had left behind in northern Severnesse.

 

Most often the earl was in his study in the west wing, arguing with Master Squires, or closeted in the library with his Chief Steward, plotting recondite strategies, or out shooting game with some of his louche companions — country gentlemen from around the district, or sleeping off the effects of a night’s carousing in his own halls or the halls of his hunting companions.

 

Unexpectedly one afternoon, the earl summoned Mazarine to his side.

 

‘It is my wish to conduct you on a progress through this house, my dear,’ he said, offering her his arm in its brocaded sleeve. ‘It occurs to me you have not yet viewed all its glories. I think you will be pleased with what you see!’

 

Bemused, she capitulated, passing her hand through the crook of his elbow. They strolled leisurely from chamber to chamber, along galleries, up and down staircases wide and narrow, through ‘secret’ passageways behind the walls and out along balconies and roof-walks. The house’s interior decor seemed to include an inordinate number of mirrors and, as they passed them, Mazarine’s guardian took every opportunity to glance at his image, whereupon he would adjust his latest millinery acquisition — all feathers and jewelled brooches — or rearrange his luxuriant shoulder-length ringlets or pick at his gleaming teeth with a silver toothpick he kept in a tiny ivory box in some inner pocket of his sleeve. Mazarine, in rustling black silk, walked calmly by his side. At length they arrived at the Long Gallery, whose row of tall windows provided extensive views of the grounds. The rear wall was decorated with paintings of the current earl from boyhood to manhood, captured in various magnificent attitudes; winged and graceful, flying in the clouds; sternly commanding, standing at the helm of a Windship; courageous and dauntless, galloping into battle on a white charger; sensitive and poetic, reclining beside a pool, trailing his unrealistically slender, pale fingers among the waterlilies.

 

In front of the latter work of art, the earl paused and, turning to face his ward, grasped both her hands in his.

 

‘May I speak to you candidly, my dear?’

 

Nonplussed, dumbfounded and suddenly anxious, Mazarine nodded. She tried not to meet his eyes, which resembled two pools of half-cooked albumen congealing in pink bowls.

 

‘You see, my dear,’ the earl said earnestly, ‘it is an unfortunate fact that, despite what blandishments your fond parents have no doubt lavished upon you, your physical attractions are, shall we say, limited. To be frank, your features are plain, your character is dull and you possess few accomplishments. One tries to be optimistic, however I am afraid that in the normal course of events you cannot hope to attract a husband of any worthwhile status. Due to our family connections I am, nevertheless, prepared to overlook your dearth of charms and, if you are careful to continue pleasing me, I might one day offer you — yes, you — the title of Lady Rivenhall!’ He paused to survey the effect of this good news, but when there was none — no doubt because the young lady was overcome with appreciativeness — he continued, ‘Being raised to such high estate would benefit you in numerous ways. You would be able to make the most of your ordinary looks with fine raiment, cosmetics and coiffure, because I, being widely acknowledged as a paragon of style, would condescend to teach you myself.’

 

Mazarine, who had kept her eyes cast down throughout the entire monologue lest her guardian detect that she had begun to feel unwell, was trying hard to mask her reaction. The preposterous old fool! she said to herself, How could he so much as dream I would accept him? I fear I must feign gratitude at this ludicrous proposal. I must keep the peace in this house for my own sake, until I am twenty-one — then I shall be free!

 

‘I know what you are thinking,’ said her guardian. At these words a cold wire threaded itself along Mazarine’s spine. He had it wrong, however. ‘You are thinking that Fleetwood, who has tried to flatter his way into your good graces, might undergo a fit of apoplexy if he does not get his way. Yet fret no more on the matter, my dear — the boy’s peevish tantrums can be taken care of. You understand of course that he feels no real attachment to you. It is merely that without your compliance a cripple such as he has small chance of snaring himself a wife. By rights he ought to be wheeled around in a bath chair. He feigns straightness of limb, but his tricks fool nobody. Everyone knows of his wry gait, and eligible young ladies of good breeding and fortune find such skewedness unacceptable, there is no doubt of it.’

 

Hold your tongue! Mazarine told herself desperately. Let him rant. They are only words ...do not let him provoke you!

 

‘Dear uncle,’ she forced herself to say at last, ‘how generous you are. Pray excuse me, I am so overwhelmed by your kind offer that I find myself indisposed.’ With that she hurried away, one hand plastered to her brow as if she were suffering some malaise of the head.

 

‘I shall send whatsername your maid to your chambers,’ her guardian shouted after her, turning away to glance in the closest mirror.

 

Instead of going directly to her suite, Mazarine detoured by way of her uncle’s study. She knocked at the carved oaken door, pushed it open cautiously and peered inside.

 

‘Do come in, Mistress Blythe!’ said Wakefield, replacing his quill in the pen holder and jumping to his feet. Piles of papers and ledgers towered around him, burdening the desk, the cabinets and the floor. ‘I have not yet taken a break for elevenses, so I may interrupt my work for a few minutes, at least. My word, you do look downcast! Pray take a seat on the divan. Shall I ring for your maid? Or some cordial?’

 

‘No, no! I would rather speak with you alone,’ cried Mazarine. Once she was seated beside her friend she said diffidently, ‘Wakefield, I know I can confide in you. The thing is, I am in love with Fleetwood.’

 

‘I know,’ the young clerk said cheerily. ‘I have known since the moment I first saw you together, and I am uncommonly happy for both of you, for I feel certain that that worthy gentleman returns your sentiments!’

 

‘Perhaps,’ Mazarine replied dubiously. ‘Perhaps not. For, you know, it might be difficult for anyone to love me in that way, because I am —’ she hesitated, embarrassed, and averted her face ‘— it must be admitted, I am not very pretty ...’

 

‘Not pretty!’ cried Wakefield, half rising from his chair, ‘Not pretty? Where in Aia did you get that idea?’

 

‘I have always believed...’

 

‘What nonsense!’ Wakefield plumped himself down again and leaned forwards. ‘If you will pardon my bluntness, Mistress Blythe — Mazarine, if I may presume on our friendship — in my humble opinion you are one of the most beautiful creatures in Erith!’

 

‘You are trying to reassure me, Master Squires. It is most kind, but —’

 

‘Say no more on the subject!’ Wakefield said with mock severity. ‘I can see you are deluded. One good stare into a looking-glass should tell you of your beauty, but clearly you are blind to it. Nevertheless accept my word, and believe in your mind if not your heart, that you are indeed extraordinarily comely! If you will not be convinced, try asking your house-brownie. Eldritch wights cannot tell lies, so perhaps you will place confidence in him!’

 

‘Oh, so you have glimpsed Thrimby?’

 

‘Yes, why not?’

 

‘I suspect my uncle never has.’

 

‘Perhaps Thrimby will not let him!’

 

They both laughed. It was a relief for Mazarine to converse mirthfully and freely with her friend after the unpleasant rhetoric to which her guardian had recently subjected her.

 

‘Now that you have entrusted your romantic secret to me, Mistress Blythe,’ Wakefield murmured, waggling his eyebrows, ‘I have a similar arcanum for your ears alone!’

 

‘In sooth? Tell on!’

 

The young man leaned closer and began to whisper in Mazarine’s ear. It was at that moment that Hawkmoor chanced to pass by the study door — which Mazarine had left ajar — his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting of the hallway. He glanced inside. The two confidantes were positioned out of view, but one of the earl’s ubiquitous mirrors — a vast, shimmering expanse, like a frozen skating-pond in a heavy gilt frame, fastened to the wall above the mantelpiece — revealed their reflected images; the two heads bent together in a most intimate pose as they whispered together. That single glimpse was enough for the heir of Rivenhall. Despairing, he hastened away.

 

Meanwhile Wakefield was murmuring, ‘Mistress Wilton and I are troth-plighted!’

 

Mazarine’s chime of delighted laughter smote Hawkmoor like a blow as he retreated along the passageway. In the study, the next few minutes were given over to Mazarine’s congratulatory utterances and her showering of praises upon the person of Laurelia Wilton.

 

‘Keep the news to yourself, pray, dear Mistress Blythe,’ said Wakefield. ‘Laurelia and I cannot be wed until I have scraped together a little more capital to ensure our financial security.’

 

‘The matter is safe with me!’ Mazarine assured him. ‘But hush! I hear my uncle’s voice. He is coming. I would rather avoid him!’ Taking her leave of the clerk she flitted noiselessly out of the study through a secret passage that opened behind a hinged bookcase — a way she had discovered by herself, and which she was fairly certain the earl was unaware of.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Misunderstanding leads to jealousy

Or hate or anger — sometimes to all three.

Our motives, though of high integrity,

Are lost if not presented limpidly.

Through etiquette, reserve or courtesy,

We misconstrue good purpose constantly.

 

 

After the earl’s declaration Mazarine found it more difficult than ever to catch a moment alone with Hawkmoor. She wished only for an opportunity to ask him why he had become so distant, and whether she had inadvertently caused any offence, but it was as if Steward Ripley, the bodyguards and most of the other servants — including even the under-gardener — were spying on her. Any time she believed she was on the verge of being able to converse with Hawkmoor unobserved, whether indoors or out, some member of the household would appear casually around a corner, supposedly labouring at an important task — re-pointing the masonry, inspecting the beams for woodworm, hunting for truffles, searching for the earl’s lost snuff-box — always just within earshot.

 

‘Prithee, take yourself elsewhere!’ Mazarine would beg.

 

‘Alas, mistress, his lordship appointed me to this task. I cannot disobey!’

 

In exasperation Mazarine would suggest to Hawkmoor that they move to a more secluded spot. If he could be persuaded to do so, it was only to be surprised by yet another employee appearing at their elbows. There was no privacy to be had at Kelmscott Hall. Furthermore, the earl would not hear of his heir and his ward going off together on any jaunts outside the estate. He came up with a remarkably ingenious set of excuses to thwart such excursions and, since he was master, his word was law. Besides, to make matters worse it began to dawn on Mazarine that Hawkmoor, too, was avoiding situations likely to bring them together.

 

Away over the hills thunder grumbled. The wind was rising. As evening drew in, a storm was rapidly approaching from the distant coast. Mazarine, passing through the darkening galleries of Kelmscott in the west wing, heard the echoes of men’s voices. Drawing near to her guardian’s study she stopped outside the closed door. The utterances were muffled. Mazarine, however, had not paused to eavesdrop; she merely wished to ascertain who was within, for Hawkmoor was due to arrive home at any time, and if the earl was preoccupied she intended to seize the opportunity to speak in private with the object of her affections. At length she was satisfied that the room did indeed contain the earl, deep in conversation with Ripley. Doubtless the two connivers would be conducting their vigorous discussion for a good long while, for by the gravity of their tones it sounded as if they dwelled on serious matters, probably pertaining to the series of disasters Master Squires was uncovering in the earl’s ill-kept records of monies owed and monies due.

 

Hastening to a window overlooking the driveway, Mazarine gazed out. The evening skies hung heavy and sullen, bruised with rainclouds. A flash of white light briefly illumined the figure of a horseman on the avenue, between the outlines of tall cypress trees stencilled against the sky. Hawkmoor was here already! Picking up her skirts the damsel rushed along the gallery at speed. Down the stairs and out the door she flew, finally intercepting the new arrival as he let his horse walk to the stables beneath an arbour dripping with the magnificent amber, gold and ruby leaves of the climbing plant known as ‘crimson glory-vine’.

 

At Mazarine’s appearance the rider halted. He turned towards her with a look of sad enquiry, holding the reins of his steed loosely in his right hand. As so often, his masculine beauty struck the girl with force. Momentarily, she became tongue-tied. She who hesitates, loses, her mother used to say, and abruptly it was true, for a groom appeared from the stables, and the moment was lost. Hawkmoor dismounted — without betraying the slightest evidence of any twinge, so well had he schooled himself — but denied the reins to the servant and stood holding them, while his horse nodded its long head and chewed on the bit. The groom waited, eyes respectfully cast down.

 

‘Mistress Blythe,’ Hawkmoor said. With his other hand he swept off his hat. She noticed that his heavy hair was working loose from its band at the back of his head. The wind, stronger now, was whipping strands about his face. Her skirts billowed in the gusts, and coloured leaves came showering around them both, like a carnival.

 

‘I wish to speak with you,’ she stammered.

 

‘I am at your service.’

 

‘A little more privacy would be fitting ...’

 

‘Certainly.’ Hawkmoor dismissed the groom, who bowed and trotted away. Together Hawkmoor and Mazarine walked towards the stables. The horse was eager to get to his haybox, and tugged on the reins; Hawkmoor caressed the steaming arch of the animal’s neck and soothed him with gentle words.

 

Diffidently, Mazarine endeavoured to order in her mind the best way to broach the subject she dreaded. Presently she drew breath and opened her mouth, but once again she had left it too late. The keening of the wind and the low mutter of thunder running back and forth across the horizon had masked the sound of boots crunching on gravel.

 

‘What?’ bellowed the well-known voice of the earl, and in another few strides he was with them, Ripley close at his shoulder, and a couple of bodyguards loitering ominously in the background.

 

‘What passes here? Do my eyes deceive me, or do I see my own heir consorting with my ward, behind my very back? Do I deserve such thanklessness as this, that as soon as I look the other way the two of you are colluding secretly together? Mazarine, I hold you not responsible, for you are but a child, but you sir, have you no respect for your sire, no sense of filial devotion?’

 

The earl’s flabby face was empurpled with emotion. Mazarine felt the heat of shock and indignation burn her own cheeks. Her companion, however, remained cool.

 

‘I may converse with whomsoever I wish,’ Hawkmoor said icily. ‘Your view is unreasonable.’

 

‘Do you dare defy me, you halting ingrate?’ the earl’s voice rose in pitch until it became a squeak. ‘Insubordinate pup! You itch only to take my place and inherit my money and title. ‘Tis true is it not? Eh?’

 

Hawkmoor regarded his sire expressionlessly without deigning to reply, which attitude provoked the earl to greater wrath. He clenched his fists, quivering as if he longed to smite the calm and self-contained young gentleman who confronted him.

 

Placing her hand beseechingly on her guardian’s arm Mazarine said, ‘I beg you sir, do not be angry with Fleetwood! He has done nothing amiss. I only asked to speak with him, that is all.’

 

‘Oh, so that is how it stands between you two, eh?’ The earl rounded on her. ‘She tries to protect her favourite, while he hides behind her skirts like some cringing cur!’ Pushing his face close to Hawkmoor’s, the earl snarled, ‘Go, sir! Get out! From this hour forth you are banished from my house. I disinherit you, as I ought to have done at your birth, for your slut of a mother was faithless. All that is yours will be thrown out upon the sward — let your servants pick up the pieces if they will.’

 

Mazarine uttered a gasping cry.

 

‘Gladly will I go,’ said Hawkmoor. He bowed curtly to Mazarine, leaped upon his steed with extraordinary agility, and galloped away.

 

As if to emphasize the drama of the moment a clap of thunder split open the skies overhead, and rain came sluicing down in torrents.

 

Desolation enfolded Mazarine.

 

* * * *

 

The skies wept all night, as did the earl’s ward, alone in a deep armchair in the library. She was barely aware of the occasional noises of energetic housework emanating from different parts of the building, generated by Thrimby attending to his tasks. Before sunrise next morning the servant popped in and said without preamble, “E were somewhat envious o’ the bookish chap, were the young master.’

 

‘Fleetwood? Envious of Master Squires?’ Mazarine looked up and dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

 

Thrimby, obsessively whisking a bunch of feathers in a cloud of dust over by the bookshelves, said, ‘Aye.’

 

‘Surely not!’

 

‘Aye, but ‘e woz, mark ye. Thought ye liked Squires more’n ‘im.’

 

‘I had no idea! In that case I must send him a message assuring him of my truest affection!’

 

Immediately Mazarine fetched paper, ink and quill, and penned a note which she sealed with red wax and gave to her loyal lady’s-maid, with instructions to have it delivered swiftly and in utmost discretion to Southdale Farm. The reply came back that afternoon — Lord Fleetwood had not rested the previous night at the farmstead but had tarried there only for long enough to change horses. Declaring that he would catch the next post-chaise heading for the west coast, he had galloped away to town. Whither he had gone, no one could say — out of Amershire, certainly; possibly out of the country. The household at Southdale knew of no way to contact him and had no notion of when he would return.

 

After this precipitate departure the earl’s behaviour towards Mazarine became conciliatory in the extreme, as if he wished to curry favour with her, to make amends for his outburst.

 

‘Let us dine together more often, my dear,’ he would say, ‘without the intrusion of any of these young pups. Let us ride out together in my coach! Poor creature — you do look downcast. Allow me to cheer you up! Come to town with me and I shall buy you a new hat, or a lap dog!’

 

For Mazarine the only consolation for these trials was that the earl, aware that Lord Fleetwood had gone far away, allowed his ward to make daytime excursions without him at her side. It appeared, too, that he had got wind of Master Squires’s attachment to Laurelia Wilton, and felt reassured that there could be no intrigue between Mazarine and the clerk. Often, Mazarine and her maid, escorted by one of the Kelmscott equerries, would ride over to Clover Cottage. Filled with foreboding, she unburdened herself to her most trusted confidantes.

 

‘Soon, I am certain,’ she said to Laurelia Wilton on one such visit when they were alone together, ‘my guardian will ask me to be his wife. I shall refuse — but I fear what will happen next, for he is a ruthless man!’

 

‘Surely he would not use violence against you!’ Mazarine’s friend was horrified. Pinned loops of light brown hair, straight as corn silk, framed her heart-shaped face as she sat in the parlour working at her embroidery. Her gown was pale blue, her favourite colour.

 

‘I am not certain ...’ said Mazarine.

 

‘Thrimby bides in Kelmscott Hall. He will see that you come to no harm.’

 

‘Ah yes, the illustrious, industrious Thrimby. But I do not know the extent of his powers.’

 

‘He is an eldritch wight, is he not? A faerie-creature of the seelie kind?’

 

‘Perhaps. Who knows? Even if he is of that race, he is not of the powerful ones. Domestic wights may be lightning fast and expert at cleaning — also good at eavesdropping and spying — but I would not wager on their winning a battle with the master or any of his hired thugs.’

 

‘My dear Squires tells me your guardian’s finances are in disarray,’ said Laurelia. ‘He is close to ruin! If he can no longer pay these hirelings, he will have to let them go.’

 

‘I do not believe he is quite that desperate, yet.’ Mazarine sighed and added, ‘He professes affection for me, but I fear he is only after my inheritance.’

 

‘Nobody is in any doubt of that,’ Laurelia retorted tartly, ‘which is no insult to you. I only mean that the earl is incapable of love for any creature other than himself.’

 

‘He shall not lay his hands on any more of my parents’ money!’ cried Mazarine. ‘Already the executors pay him a sizeable pension for my upkeep. Oh, it has been odious beyond belief, this misunderstanding with Fleetwood. I only wish he would return swiftly! Where can he be? How I long to undeceive him! How I long for his support!’

 

Hawkmoor, nonetheless, did not return.

 

Weeks passed. During Nethilmis, the first month of Winter, itinerant strangers were glimpsed on several occasions, roaming in Kelmscott Park. On each occasion when Ripley and his henchmen got up a posse to throw the ‘gypsies’ off the property, they had already disappeared.

 

‘Not gypsies, I am certain of it,’ Wakefield said to Mazarine and Laurelia one evening as they took their ease by the parlour fire at Clover Cottage. ‘As sure as Thrimby is a brownie, they are trow-folk — or hilltings, or Grey Neighbours as they are sometimes called. Trows, roaming abroad from their hidden lands beneath the hills.’

 

‘People around here believe that trows seldom stray into these parts,’ said Laurelia.

 

‘Then they had best be careful,’ said Wakefield, ‘for he who remains ignorant of the ways of wights puts himself at risk.’

 

‘Why?’ Mazarine asked. ‘I do not know much about trow-folk myself. Though other kinds of wights aplenty haunt Reveswall, trows are rare. Are they so unseelie?’

 

‘Not unseelie in the way the fuathan are unseelie,’ Wakefield replied, ‘for they are not destroyers of humankind, but neither are they always seelie. For the most part they neither help nor hinder human beings. Sometimes the trow-wives enter people’s homes by night, in search of a basin of clean water in which to bathe their babies.’

 

‘I thought wights had to be invited to cross the thresholds of humankind,’ said Laurelia.

 

‘At some time in the past,’ Wakefield answered, ‘a householder must have given them permission to enter that particular abode, and being immortal, they may keep that permission for generations of men until someone revokes it. The trow-wives depart by cock-crow, without doing harm, and might even leave a silver sixpence behind if they are pleased with the cleanliness of the establishment. They must be gone to Trowland before sunrise, else they will become Erithbund and forced to roam aboveground until sunset. On occasion whole tribes dance by moonlight, and on other occasions they take it into their heads to steal.’

 

‘Steal what?’

 

‘Silver ornaments. They love silver. And milch-cows, sometimes, for the cream. Or people.’

 

‘People ?’

 

‘Indeed,’ said Wakefield, ‘and when they carry people off to live with them in Trowland, they leave a replica in their victim’s stead — a crudely carved post or log, which for a few hours remains wrapped in Glamour’s illusion. When the enchantment wears off, it can easily be seen that the replica is nothing more than a piece of wood.’

 

‘Do the trows hurt the stolen ones?’

 

‘No. They keep them as servants, bound by invisible, intangible chains. Those who are thus enchanted may never return to the lands of the sun.’ After a solemn hiatus he amended, ‘In almost all cases.’

 

‘What do you mean almost all cases?’ asked Mazarine, leaning her elbows on her knees. ‘Is there any chance people who are trow-bound can escape?’

 

“Tis not impossible,’ said Wakefield, ‘though ‘tis unlikely.’ And he told the story of Katherine Fordyce, a woman who had died at the birth of her first child. ‘At least, folk thought she had died,’ said the storyteller, ‘but she had, in fact, been taken by the trows, and an effigy left in her place. You see, her family and friends had forgotten to sain her when her child was born, which was how she fell into the power of the trows. She dwelled quite comfortably among the Grey Neighbours but the enchanted cannot escape Trowland unless some human creature chances to see them and has presence of mind enough to repeat the phrase, Glide be aboot wis. The only mortal man ever to spy Katherine again was a man named William Nisbet, who was walking up a slope near her old home when it seemed as if a hole opened in the side of the hill. He looked in and saw Katherine sitting in what he described as a queer-shaped armchair, and she was nursing a baby. There was a bar of metal stretched across in front to keep her a prisoner. She was dressed in a white gown which folk later knew, by William’s account of it, to be her wedding dress. Nisbet thought she said to him, “Oh, Willie! What’s sent you here?” and he answered, “And what keeps you here?” to which she replied, “Well, I am hale and happy, but I cannot get out, for I have eaten their food!” William Nisbet was so taken aback that, alas, he forgot to say “Glide be aboot wis”. Katherine, being enchanted, was unable to give him any hint, and in a moment the entire scene disappeared.’

 

‘And has no one glimpsed her since?’ enquired Mazarine.

 

‘No.’

 

‘How long ago was she stolen?’

 

‘About five hundred years.’

 

This sobering fact reduced the company to silence. They sat pondering the story’s significance while in the hearth, a log went up in sparks and collapsed in cinders.

 

* * * *

 

Nethilmis, the Cloudmonth, ushered in the Winter of 1038. Bands of ‘gypsies’ were seen more frequently in the district as the cold weather deepened. Across Severnesse, and indeed across the whole of Erith, the populace was preparing for the midwinter Imbrol Festival with traditional celebrations that would farewell the old year and welcome in the new. Plum puddings wrapped in calico were boiled in cauldrons. Choirs rehearsed the old songs that told of holly and ivy and sleigh rides, and huge logs burning in hearths.

 

Three months remained until Mazarine’s twenty-first birthday, and the earl dedicated the first weeks of Winter to paying court to his ward. She remained adamant in her rebuffs. Perceiving that she was not to be convinced he appeared to become increasingly desperate, particularly when the bailiffs came knocking on his door brandishing letters of demand. It was highly embarrassing for a gentleman in his position, he cried indignantly, not to mention insulting, to be subjected to petty demands from commoners. Nonetheless the bailiffs would not be dissuaded, and put him on notice to pay his dues or suffer the consequences.

 

Soon afterwards a liveried messenger rode out from Kelmscott Hall under escort by a heavily armed guard. He carried a sealed package containing a letter of utmost importance. No one save the earl and his chief steward knew to whom this significant missive was addressed, or what instructions it conveyed. Even Thrimby had not managed to discover anything about it.

 

Mazarine continued to avoid her guardian, desiring only that time would swiftly bring her the day of freedom. She bade her lady’s-maid tie Hawkmoor’s purple ribbons in her hair every morning, and every evening she laid them out carefully on her dressing table. At nights she lay awake for hours.

 

Two days later, her fragile equanimity was once again shattered.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Let those who would their loved ones keep

Sain them, and be well-planned,

Lest they be taken while you sleep,

To that Enchanted Land.

 

 

Early one bleak morning when snow-clouds were gathering in the skies, a new messenger came cantering with brisk determination along the avenue of cypress trees flanking the driveway. The rider was arrayed in the livery of the District Court. He bore a notice, addressed to Mistress Mazarine Blythe of Kelmscott Hall, and insisted on being present in the front drawing-room when she unrolled the scroll, which had been tied with official red ribbon and imprinted with the waxen seal of the Judiciary of Severnesse. After deciphering the contents, Mazarine let fall the parchment, swaying as if she, too, were about to drop to the floor. Her face blanched like paper. Master Squires, hovering concernedly at her side, supported her, helping her onto a nearby stool.

 

‘May I presume to look at this dispatch, Mistress Blythe?’ he murmured.

 

Too faint to utter a word, Mazarine nodded weakly. Master Squires picked up the scroll and read it to himself.

 

‘Severnesse Shire Court, East Riding, Amershire.

 

21st Nethilmis 1038.

To Mistress Mazarine Blythe,

Kelmscott Hall,

Borough, of Breckmouth.

East Riding, Amershire.

 

Regarding Your Agreement with The Right Honourable The Earl of Rivenhall.

 

Madam,

 

The Purpose of this Letter is to give formal Notice of the Breach of your Verbal Promise of Marriage to The Right Honourable The Earl of Rivenhall, dated 1st Nethilmis 1038.

 

Please be advised that due to your Failure to honour this Agreement, the Plaintiff is entitled to claim Damages and asserts he is left with no choice but to refer this Matter to the Court of Severnesse. You are required to attend a Hearing at the Somerhampton Law Courts on 14th Dorchamis, 1031.

 

Signed: A. C. Sotheby,

Clerk, of Courts.’

 

‘By the Powers!’ Wakefield exclaimed, throwing down the scroll, ‘There must be some mistake!’

 

‘No mistake,’ said the earl peremptorily, bursting into the room with his usual entourage in tow. The court messenger bowed politely; the earl returned the salute with a nod. ‘Mistress Blythe made her vow of marriage to me before witnesses, and on that premise I based the planning of my finances. Now that she has gone back on her word I face ruin. I would forgive her, soft-hearted fool that I am, were she to honour her vow, but should she fail to return to her senses, I must demand recompense, as anyone in my position has a right to do.’

 

Mazarine, pallid and shocked, looked upon her guardian. ‘Never would I have believed that anyone could be so black-hearted,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I have done nothing to harm you. How you could drum up these lies to wrong me is beyond comprehension.’ Rising to her feet she added, ‘I cannot stay a moment longer beneath your roof. This day, this very hour, I will depart, whether or not you give your leave. I have done with you.’

 

‘You may not depart!’ shouted the earl. ‘You are under my jurisdiction!’ and he stepped forward, lifting his hand as if to strike the girl.

 

Instantly Wakefield Squires blocked his path. ‘Recollect, if not your honour as a gentleman, then the presence of the agent of the Judiciary,’ he said, shielding Mazarine with his body, whereupon the earl backed away. His bodyguards glowered, glancing sideways at their master as if hoping for an order to lay rough hands upon this upstart. The earl, however, was too canny to display mob violence in the sight of the messenger.

 

‘You are discharged forthwith, Squires,’ he said, ‘and be careful I do not have you served with a claim for damages, for you have foully mismanaged my accounts.’

 

‘Threaten away,’ said the young man. ‘The law is greater than you, and justice will be done.’ He offered Mazarine his arm and together they left the room.

 

So it happened that Mazarine and her maid departed with haste from Kelmscott Hall, in the company of Master Squires. They took refuge at Clover Cottage, where Professor Wilton and his wife insisted that Mazarine dwell until she came into her inheritance.

 

That night, it began to snow.

 

* * * *

 

Dorchamis, the Darkmonth, brought with it Winter Solstice and the traditions of Imbrol. The first day of the month was New Year’s Day, also called Littlesun Day. Right across the lands of Erith uproarious celebrations ushered in the new year, 1039. Enormous bonfires like burning palaces blazed on snowy hilltops. Indoors, garlands of red berried holly adorned the rafters, green ivy festooned inglenooks, sprigs of mistletoe dangled above the doors and wreaths of fir and spruce needles encrusted with pine cones decorated the tables. The human populace exchanged presents, feasted on rich fare, danced, imbibed large quantities of various beverages, sometimes quarrelled and occasionally fell down.

 

Wakefield Squires was fortunate enough to be offered a position in the mayor’s office in town. The remuneration was better than that which he had received at Kelmscott Hall, and he accepted the job with delight, commuting daily on foot through the snow.

 

Midwinter was the season when some Erithan maidens, inquisitive about the possibilities that lay beyond the boundaries of mortal knowledge, deliberated on the alarming and intriguing feasibility of venturing into the wild places during the long nights of Dorchamis, to find out whether the Caillach Gairm, the eldritch blue crone as ancient and fierce as Winter, should decide to appear and present them with a coveted Staff of Power in exchange for whatever mortal asset she might wish to take for herself — the colour of their hair and eyes, their power of song, a finger or a toe, or more ... If the girl felt that the consequences were too onerous, she would refuse to strike the bargain, yet it was a terrible decision to make, knowing that never again would she be offered that opportunity.

 

Neither Mazarine nor Laurelia craved the power of a carlin’s Wand. Laurelia floated with her beau on joyous clouds of romance, but Mazarine’s heart ached. She had lost the one she loved, and now, to compound her misery, she had been wrongfully accused, and faced a trial. Her friends comforted her, and in return she tried her best to appear cheerful as she joined the Imbrol festivities.

 

‘Will you obtain the services of a lawyer?’ Laurelia asked Mazarine, as the entire family sat around the fire in the parlour of the cottage, sipping mulled wine. Professor Wilton, a doughty gentlemen with grizzled whiskers and a receding hairline, occupied a rocking chair. His wife, a small woman in a gown of brown kersey, sat near the fire toasting crumpets on a long-handled fork, while his daughter nestled close to her betrothed on the divan. Mazarine’s maid Odalys was mending petticoats while the Wiltons’ maid-of-all-work, Tansy, perched upon a hassock alternately sewing buttons on a shirt and caressing the ears of the two pet dogs that lay stretched out on the rug. It was unusual for employers to mix so familiarly with their servants, but both Odalys and Tansy were considered to be almost part of the family.

 

‘No,’ said Mazarine. ‘I am innocent — that is defence enough, surely? I will speak the truth and the truth will prevail.’

 

‘My dear girl!’ Professor Wilton exclaimed in dismay. ‘Pardon my presumption, but surely you cannot consider demeaning yourself by speaking in court! A gentlewoman of noble birth ...’

 

‘Nonetheless, sir, I will do it.’

 

The apothecary sighed. ‘Perhaps you will think better of it eventually.’

 

‘I thank you for your solicitude, Professor Wilton, but I see no reason to change my mind. Besides, I cannot afford such expenses until I come into my inheritance. Until I am twenty-one, there is only a meagre income supplied to me, for keeping Odalys.’

 

‘We could find some way of borrowing the money,’ suggested Laurelia. ‘It could be repaid as soon as you reach your majority.’

 

‘Gramercie, dear friend,’ said Mazarine, ‘but I am convinced that hiring a lawyer will not help me. Before Lord Fleetwood went away, our discussions used to range over many topics, including the judicial system of Amershire. Three magistrates preside at Somerhampton Law Courts, so he said, and it is generally held that verdicts are largely influenced not by one’s lawyer, but by which judge is allotted to one’s trial. The allotments are chosen by ballot, so the outcomes are partly dependent on the luck of the draw, and partly on the merits of the case.’

 

‘That does not seem fair!’ exclaimed Laurelia.

 

‘Nevertheless, Mistress Blythe is right. That is the way it works,’ her father said.

 

‘What of these three magistrates?’ Wakefield wanted to know.

 

‘The best of them all is Judge Innsworth,’ said Mazarine. ‘She is wise, strictly impartial, and fair in her sentencing. Most folk hope to go before her. I hope I shall.’

 

‘Most folk? Why not all?’ asked the young clerk.

 

‘Because she is strictly impartial!’ said Mazarine.

 

‘The worst judge, for Mistress Blythe in particular,’ said Professor Wilton, courteously inclining his head in Mazarine’s direction, ‘would be Hackington-Cluny, for he is a crony of her guardian’s; a hunting and gambling companion and an oft-times visitor at Kelmscott Hall. There is not a drop of impartiality in that fellow’s blood. I suspect he can be flattered, bought or cajoled into doing or saying anything at all. No doubt he owes the earl a few favours.’

 

‘I fervently pray that Mazarine will not have to be tried by such an immoral character!’ cried Laurelia, scandalised. ‘If this is common knowledge, why do the authorities not relieve the rogue of his post?’

 

‘He wields influence over many citizens in high places.’

 

‘What an outrage! And the third magistrate?

 

‘Judge Rotherkill falls into a class somewhere between the other two,’ her father replied, ‘for he is neither as perceptive or just as Innsworth, nor as corrupt as Hackington-Cluny. Indeed, as far as I know he is not at all corrupt. His judgements and sentencing, however, leave a lot to be desired, in my opinion.’

 

‘I have no fear of Rotherkill,’ said Mazarine. ‘As long as it is not Hackington-Cluny who holds my future in his hands, I will not be afraid.’

 

‘Yes, that gentleman is indeed a formidable threat,’ said Goodwife Wilton, breaking her silence and looking up from her stitching, ‘but to my mind there is one to be even more wary of, who has even fewer scruples and a greater propensity for violence, and that is the earl himself!’

 

Two weeks after the Imbrol Festival, Mazarine, in the company of Laurelia, Professor Wilton and Master Squires, boarded an enclosed sleigh borrowed from a wealthy neighbour of the Wiltons. The neighbours’ coachman, Tofts, rode postilion on the near horse of the pair. He blew the coachman’s signal for ‘start’ on his coach-horn, being rigorous in observing these formalities — whereupon the horses lunged forward, the tiny bells on their harness tinkling, and off they glided over the frozen road to the Somerhampton Law Courts.

 

It was just before sunrise. Peering through the thick glazing of the window, Mazarine observed the shadowy countryside through which they passed; woodlands and meadows whose snow-dusted shapes were just beginning to be picked out in glitter by the pre-dawn light. Largely uninhabited by mankind, save for the odd, courageous woodcutter or lime-burner, the vales and hills of Amershire were the secret haunts of countless unhuman, immortal incarnations, elusive and rarely seen. One had to be cautious of them, however, if one wished to arrive safely at one’s destination. There, for example, in that breeze-rattled, leafless hazel thicket, might dwell Churnmilk Peg, eldritch guardian of the ripe nuts in Autumn, who would burst out angrily at you if you tried to steal her harvest. Or that grove of wild apple trees, their black boughs now snow-laden — might be guarded by a colt-pixy who would chase away an apple-thief and curse him with ‘cramp and crooking and fault in his footing’. Winter, too, had its preternatural manifestations; in particular the sullen Brown Man of the Muirs and the blue-skinned crone, the Caillach Gairm, who roamed abroad at this, her season of greatest power.

 

A farmer’s sledge approached out of the gloom from the opposite direction and Tofts blew the call for ‘Near Side’, meaning that he would keep to the left and the sledge should pass on their right. The farmer looked mystified but tipped his hat convivially as he went by, and Tofts gave him a condescending nod.

 

Dimmed by a range of clouds along the distant hills, the sun’s glow was broadening when the sleigh came to the stone bridge that spanned Tybeck Stream and slid to a halt. No beast would cross this bridge without intervention, for it was under eldritch guardianship. The horses shivered, tossing their heads and prancing nervously between the shafts. The presence of wights always made animals excited or uneasy. As for any human pedestrians who set foot on the bridge — if they were not careful to observe formalities they would find themselves being flung over the parapet into the icy water. Standing up in the stirrups, Tofts called out authoritatively, ‘Riverside Dan! Riverside Dan! Let us cross the Tybeck Span!’

 

Bubbling water gurgled around the granite stanchions. A curlew whistled. After a protracted moment the sleigh lurched into motion again; the horses, sensing some kind of release beyond human ken, trotted briskly across the bridge.

 

Close to the town of Somerhampton some churls on the way to market had carelessly overturned a sled of winter root vegetables in the middle of the road. Imperiously, Tofts sounded ‘Clear the Road’ on his horn, as if he were the driver of the King’s Royal Coach. Rolling their eyes and shaking their heads, the peasants, well-muffled in coats and gloves, righted the sled and piled their worts back into it while Tofts waited impatiently.

 

At last they bowled away once more. Tofts signalled ‘Slacken Pace and Steady’, as they passed through the gates of the town, and finally ‘Pull Up’ outside the Law Courts. By this time the passengers’ ears were ringing with all the coachman’s blaring signals.

 

The building that housed the Somerhampton Law Courts was as majestic and solemn as befitted the proceedings that took place therein. Up and down the exterior colonnade milled an army of bespectacled scribes making copious notes on sheets of paper, and a bevy of stern guards keeping the peace. A few idlers and loafers had positioned themselves at the arched entrance portals, stamping their feet and huddling into their scarves, their breath condensing like smoke on the cold air. They ogled the new arrivals.

 

‘Ooh, who’s that?’

 

‘I believe ‘tis the earl of Rivenhall’s ward! What an enchanting young creature! I wonder what she is doing here.’

 

‘Perhaps she has been called as a witness in some trial.’

 

‘Look down the road — here comes a dashing turnout! Whose is the coat of arms blazoned on the doors?’

 

‘Why, ‘tis the earl himself!’

 

Mazarine and her companions were conducted inside to a cold, lofty chamber large enough to accommodate fifty persons but containing two sentries, a clerk, a junior clerk, a hunch-backed usher and a cluster of be-wigged gentlemen in black robes, solemnly clutching vellum-bound documents, who turned out to be the earl’s legal advisors.

 

‘Yours is the first case of the morning, m’lady,’ said the usher with a bow. The stench of stale beer drifted from his garments. ‘Where is m’lady’s defence counsel, if I may be so bold as to enquire?

 

‘I have none. I speak for myself.’

 

Giving a resigned shrug that expressed a certainty of doom, the usher guided the newcomers to their seats, where they waited in trepidation to discover which magistrate had been allotted to their chamber. A mild disturbance at the other end of the room accompanied the appearance of the earl and his steward.

 

Presently the bailiff announced the arrival of the magistrate.

 

‘All rise. The Honourable Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill, presiding.’ A sigh of mingled relief and disappointment passed through the company as they stood up.

 

Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill seated himself at a high bench behind a counter of polished walnut, and peered at the defendant from beneath a white wig. Weatherbeaten was his visage, the mouth turned downwards at the corners. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched at the end of a pointy beak of a nose. As everyone resumed their seats Wakefield murmured, ‘I mislike the look of this character. He has the world-weary air of a man who believes he has seen all and knows all, and whose jadedness has worn away any genuine sentiments he might once have felt.’

 

‘Methinks you are too discouraged,’ said Professor Wilton.

 

‘The man seems an automaton!’ Wakefield insisted. ‘I’ll warrant he will not judge the case on its merits but merely apply the formula he uses for all lawsuits of this ilk!’

 

‘Let us hope the formula is wise and just,’ said Mazarine, who was tightly clutching the back of the bench in front of her.

 

‘Silence!’ warned the clerk of courts.

 

The session commenced with the allegations against Mazarine being read out by the clerk. The plaintiff’s chief counsel was given to opportunity to speak, which he did, employing his eloquence so cleverly that for one absurd moment Mazarine herself was on the point of wondering whether she was, in fact, in the wrong. ‘And furthermore,’ the lawyer appended, ‘Mistress Blythe has absconded from beneath my client’s roof without permission and, by law, ought to return home immediately!’

 

This was an unexpected sting in the tail of his oratory. Catching Laurelia’s indignant eye Mazarine mouthed the word, Never.

 

The defendant was then permitted the right of reply. She stood up, as graceful and dignified as a young willow tree, but a shudder passed through the court officials and the earl’s counsel, who considered it indelicate for a gentlewoman to thus make a spectacle of herself — not to mention unfair for depriving worthy legal gentlemen of their livelihood.

 

Summoning her courage, Mazarine spoke clearly and concisely, presenting her version of the facts and explaining her innocence of the charges. She answered all questions straightforwardly and with such an air of honesty that it seemed clear to her friends that there could only be one verdict — she must be exonerated. When she sat down and all the giving of evidence was over, quietude reigned, overlaid by the scratching of quill-pen nibs on paper.

 

‘Well done!’ said Laurelia, giving her friend’s hand a squeeze. Mazarine smiled, then glanced sideways at the earl’s coterie. They looked smug.

 

Judge Rotherkill, expressionless, appeared to be deliberating. The waiting seemed intolerable.

 

Some imperceptible signal must have passed between the magistrate and the clerk of courts, for presently the latter intoned, ‘All rise for the judge’s decision.’

 

Respectfully, the chamber’s occupants obeyed, though the earl’s coterie managed to make it look as if they were about to stand up in any case, and the order had simply happened to coincide with their own inclinations.

 

‘Humankind,’ pronounced Judge Sir Lupton Rotherkill, leaning forward and gazing at the court over the top of his spectacles, ‘unlike eldritch-kind, is capable of telling lies. Not only capable, but adept. In a disagreement such as this no man can be certain who is telling the truth, for it is one person’s word against another’s. The question of who is in the right must be decided by Providence. Therefore I bynde both the plaintiff and the defendant to this command: that to decide the issue they, or their representatives, must fight a duel with swords.’

 

Expressions of shock rippled through the audience. The earl looked angry and Mazarine felt stunned. A clamour of voices broke out in the courtroom.

 

‘Silence!’ roared the clerk, whereupon the hubbub subsided.

 

‘If the defendant or her representative wins,’ continued the magistrate, ‘Providence will have decreed that her version of events was the truth, whereby the plaintiff must pay her one thousand golden guineas as recompense for the inconvenience, in addition to court costs. If the plaintiff wins it proves he told no lie, and the defendant must honour her promise by marrying him. She will also pay costs.

 

‘According to common law,’ he added, ‘women, the elderly, the infirm of body, and minors may name champions to fight in their stead. On the allotted day the combat is to begin before noon and be concluded before sunset. The litigants must be present in person. Before fighting, each litigant must swear an oath disclaiming the use of gramarye for advantage in the combat.

 

‘Whoever wins the contest,’ Judge Rotherkill concluded, ‘wins the case. Until the matter is decided in this manner, the plaintiff and the defendant must neither see nor speak with each other. The duel must be fought before the end of this month — Dorchamis the Dark. If it fails to take place, both parties will be held to be in contempt of court and fined accordingly. If one party fails to appear and field a champion, they will lose the case.’

 

There was no time to collect one’s thoughts; the judge had spoken, and the usher hurried both groups out of the courtroom so that the next candidates might enter.

 

* * * *

 

In the overcast skies the clouds were pressing down as if more snow was threatening. Mazarine and her companions were keen to depart with all speed from the town, where knots of gawkers and loiterers stared at them inquisitively as they exited the building. They repaired to the sleigh without delay.

 

‘Swords!’ Professor Wilton exclaimed disgruntledly as he stepped into the vehicle. ‘Swords! Trials by combat at common law in Erith are generally carried on with quarterstaffs!’

 

Wakefield closed the door, Tofts blew his horn officiously and off they slithered once more. As Laurelia unwrapped parcels of bread and cheese and Professor Wilton handed around small bottles of cider, Mazarine said without hope, ‘I cannot afford to hire a skilled swordsman. My guardian will win.’

 

‘Not at all!’ said Professor Wilton. ‘We will find a champion for you, dear lady. Never fear!’

 

‘We have two weeks!’ said Wakefield. ‘We shall begin the search straight away!’

 

‘That Judge Rotherkill is an utter beast,’ said Laurelia feelingly. ‘Fancy leaving it to fate to decide, and so brutally!’

 

‘At least he did not order me to go back to Kelmscott,’ said Mazarine.

 

The journey home proceeded uninterrupted save for the obligatory halt before Tybeck Span, and they returned to Clover Cottage before noon.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

True justice is elusive, caught in truth and falsehood’s dance;

But equity is rarely found when all is left to chance.

 

 

That night at Kelmscott House, the earl and seven of his cronies reclined by an enormous blaze in the Long Gallery, discussing the day’s proceedings. After doing justice to an eight course meal, they settled in for a long night’s drinking. Two butlers were kept busy running up and down the stairs to the cellar, fetching more bottles and firkins. No music or singing was called for; the earl was not partial to such entertainments, but there was much bragging and telling of bawdy jokes until the small hours of the morning. So intent on their carousing were these merry gentlemen that they failed to notice certain scufflings and shiftings in the wainscots and corners, but when at last they lost consciousness, sprawled in various undignified positions across the furniture with legs akimbo and open mouths dribbling, the strange little servant Thrimby appeared from behind a tapestry wall-hanging and, by the light of the dwindling fire, regarded them with some disdain. To himself he muttered,

 

‘You pukin’ fools wot snore like drains,

With milk for blood and bone for brains,

Think ye that Thrimby will stand by

Submissive? Nay! I prophesy,

As Mazarine doth seek strong arms

For to defend her from your harms,

Then will I find the one she needs

And ye may rot like blighted weeds!’

 

With that, he scooped some ashes from the hearth and strewed them over the person of the senseless earl. For good measure, he also removed one of his master’s shoes and threw it on the fire before leaving the room. As it blazed it sent stinking fumes into the room, making the snorers cough in their sleep.

 

One person had borne witness to this from an ill-lit corner. A young laundry-maid, though exhausted from her day’s labour, had been unable to sleep. She was worried by the presence of the drunken louts on the premises. Once, late at night, not long ago, one of the earl’s inebriated cohorts had barged into the servant’s quarters and tried to molest her; she had managed to escape and hide, but the memory, the fear, was indelible. She felt miserable, too, without Mistress Blythe in the house. Well-practised in silence she stole through the house in Thrimby’s footsteps, to see what he would do next.

 

The wizened creature proceeded to the side door, then out through the conservatory — plucking a few weedy leaves here and there as he passed — to the stables. There, curled up in a pile of straw against the warm body of a sleeping horse, lay the under-gardener’s boy. Peeping through a chink in the walls the laundry-maid saw the youngster awaken and sit up, while Thrimby spoke to him. She strained her senses to catch his words.

 

‘Ye must repeat the message three times,’ Thrimby was instructing, ‘then drop in these sprigs of wormwood and dandelion and sweetgrass. Now speak up loudly, mind! None of yer mumblin’! Afterwards depart, and make it quick, and make no sound and do not look back. Can ye do this?’

 

Clearly terrified, the boy emitted no sound.

 

‘If you do not go, no one will,’ said Thrimby, ‘for it goes hard wi’ me to leave these premises. Do not be afeared! If ye do as I say, naught will ‘arm ye.’

 

‘What is the message?’

 

‘Say this: ‘I call thee, Lord Fleetwood, wherever ye stray.

Your love be in danger on this very day

She needeth a champion as never before

Make ‘aste, never sleep till ye ride to ‘er door.’

 

The boy nodded tightly.

 

Thrimby took a small flask out from the tattered depths of his clothing and thrust it roughly towards the lad. ‘Take this. If ye feel cold the drink will warm ye. Go now.’

 

‘Now? At night?’ The lad stared, aghast.

 

‘The best time.’

 

‘But ‘ow will Lord Fleetwood be found?’ asked the boy. ‘No one knows where ‘e bides!’

 

‘Leave that to me and mine,’ said Thrimby. ‘There be ways o’ finding folk. There be ways o’ sendin’ messages across Erith. Fear not. Play your part and word will get through.’

 

Shivering with cold or fright the lad scrambled to his feet, wrapped his woollen coat about him and disappeared into the night.

 

The laundry-maid felt a sweet sleepiness stealing over her; reassured, now, by the notion that Thrimby had matters in hand. Yawning, she made her way to her pallet in the attic.

 

Next morning she could hardly wait to snatch a moment alone with the under-gardener’s boy.

 

‘I saw you with Thrimby. Where did you go last night? What did you do?’

 

The lad paled, and shifted restlessly. ‘I went through the snow to the pool in the dell, down past the old apple-orchard,’ he murmured, ‘and there I knelt at the brink and leaned my head over. There was bits of ice floating in the black water. It was like a broken looking-glass. I could see me face starin’ back at me.’

 

‘Sain thee!’ said the laundry-maid, drawing back and gazing at him round-eyed, as if she had never beheld him before. “Tis a wonder you did not catch your death o’ cold!’

 

‘I had to say a rhyme that Thrimby made me learn,’ said the boy, ‘and I threw in some leaves. That were all.’ He looked troubled, and fidgeted with his fingers.

 

‘That was not all was it? What else happened?’ The girl edged closer, glancing warily over her shoulder in case of eavesdroppers.

 

‘I shouldn’t ha’ turned around. It gives me evil dreams.’ After hesitating a moment, the lad continued, ‘As I walked away, all I could think of was, Don’t look back! Don’t look back! But at the last moment I did look back and I saw something rising from the water, but oh! I cannot speak of such a sight, beautiful as a dream but so queer and wrong-like that I knew in me ‘eart it were perilous to look any longer! I wanted to scream but knew I must not make any sound, so I ran home as fast as me poor tremblin’ legs would carry me.’

 

‘Sain thee!’ the laundry-maid repeated. ‘I ain’t never going near the apple-orchard dell again!’

 

‘Me neither,’ said the lad.

 

* * * *

 

The day of the duel was set for the last day of the month, the thirtieth. Mazarine had requested that the period of preparation be extended to its furthest limit, to allow her enough time to find a champion. She had, however, failed in that quest. Possessing only a mere pittance of an income, she could not afford to hire any swordsman at all, let alone a skilled and famous mercenary from the outlands such as the earl had employed, claiming that he himself was too infirm of body to participate in the contest.

 

‘When the time comes,’ Mazarine said to Wakefield, ‘will you speak for me on the field of honour and avow I have no representative?’

 

‘I will if necessary,’ said Wakefield, ‘but instead, allow me to be your champion. I am a passable swordsman.’

 

‘I will not allow it!’ said Mazarine. ‘Meaning no disrespect to your prowess, Master Squires, but what chance has any citizen against a professional swordsman? You and Laurelia are to be married, and that’s an end of it. What a foolish notion, though kindly meant!’

 

‘Yet if you have no champion you have no hope,’ said Wakefield.

 

‘There is always hope,’ replied Mazarine, though she did not believe it. In truth she was resigned to her fate, a state of mind which bestowed upon her an air of serenity. It was obvious that Lord Rivenhall would win the contest by default and she would be forced to marry him one dreary morning, thus putting her entire inheritance in his hands. Before nightfall of her wedding day, she decided, she would dress herself in beggar’s rags and trudge on foot all the way to her old home in the north, where she would find work as a nameless kitchen maid — an honourable profession, if a lowly one.

 

Unbeknownst to Mazarine and her friends, while they had been searching for a champion who would risk his life for little or no fee, Steward Ripley — henchman to Mazarine’s erstwhile guardian — had by flattery and ruse, managed to gain the confidence of Tansy, the maid-of-all-work employed in the Wilton household.

 

Tansy was a simple lass who loved her employers. In her breast a slow fire of anxieties smouldered and Ripley knew how to fan them all to flames. She wondered: Might she, Tansy, be replaced by the lady’s-maid Odalys if Mistress Blythe’s stay were lengthened? Would Laurelia be arrested for harbouring a fugitive who should by rights be dwelling beneath her legal guardian’s roof? Would Miss Blythe’s presence bring the entire household into disrepute? Would Master Squires fight a duel and be killed, leaving Laurelia forever bereft of her true love?

 

The masterful Steward Ripley could sweep away all the causes of Tansy’s qualms, he told her, if only the maid could secretly keep him supplied with information concerning Clover Cottage and everything that went on there, until the day of the duel. There might be one or two other ways in which she could help, as well.

 

After much persuasion, half relieved, half scared, Tansy agreed to comply.

 

The appointed hour swiftly approached.

 

* * * *

 

A wintry gale came blowing across the crystalline landscape, roaring in a thousand voices. To fight the bitter cold, enormous fires heated the Long Gallery of Kelmscott Hall where, on the night of the twenty-eighth the earl was imbibing grape brandy and playing at dice with his cronies.

 

‘I say, Rivenhall,’ said one gentleman, ‘that ward of yours seems pretty cool and confident.’

 

‘Indeed, Cluny? I had not noticed. I never see the minx, y’know. It is against the court’s edict.’

 

‘She appears a self-assured wench, though. What d’ye make of it?’

 

‘Why, I make nought of it. What is your meaning?’

 

‘My meaning is, surely she would not be so unruffled if she had not hired, in secret, some swordsman whom she believes will defeat your man, Henry what’s-his-name.’

 

‘Henry Ide of Knightstone. My man is famous, Cluny, surely you have heard of him!’

 

‘Quite. And I’d warrant your wench has found someone equally as famous, else why so smug?’

 

The earl laughed forcedly, dismissing the suggestion as ludicrous, but after that moment he fell quiet and sat staring broodily into the fire, cradling his wine cud in his hands. The jovial gentlemen were still carousing at midnight when without explanation their host left them, summoned his Chief Steward, and shut himself in the library with him. Dozing or inebriated, his cronies hardly missed him; those who noticed his absence cared little, as long as they could continue to drink his brandy.

 

Next day Ripley passed a secret message to the Wiltons’ maid, Tansy. On the eve of the duel the girl, with pounding pulse, followed his orders and mixed one of the apothecary’s galenicals with the dogs’ supper. Named ‘Wilton’s Surpassing Remedye for Sleeplessnesse’, it was made from agrimony, cinquefoil, elder, linden, passionflower, poppy, purslane and hemlock ...

 

* * * *

 

That night at Clover Cottage the wind rattled the doors and moaned in the eaves. The entire household was asleep in bed when the window to Mazarine’s bedchamber was quietly opened from the outside, and the earl climbed in. Though tipsy, he was sufficiently in control of his faculties to be able to move stealthily. The dogs, motionless in deep slumber or death, failed to hear or scent the stranger.

 

Mazarine woke with a start when the intruder clapped a hand across her mouth. Leaning so close to her that his ringlets and the ends of his hat-ribbons tickled her face he whispered, ‘Now hear this, you little fool. First thing tomorrow morning you must officially agree to this cursed marriage, or your friends will suffer. There is no need for this duel. Do you understand? Nod and I will let you speak. Cry out and I will hurt you.’

 

Mazarine pretended to be too dazed with sleep and fright to comprehend, though her cunning adversary saw through the ruse. He commenced to make further threats, his murmurings muffled by the wind’s shrieks and lamentations, which masked, too, the hoof-beats — faint at first — of a rider drawing near.

 

At the rear of the cottage Ripley, lurking in wait with the earl’s horses, heard nothing over the creaking of bare branches and the soughing of icy airs; neither did he see the young man on the far side of the building, who flung himself down from his steed’s back and strode with uneven gait to the threshold.

 

In the grip of her captor, Mazarine struggled. Just then there came a loud hammering at the front door.

 

‘Hold your tongue!’ the earl whispered, clamping his hand more firmly over Mazarine’s mouth. ‘Do not give me away! My men are surrounding this house and at my order they will set upon anyone I choose to name!’

 

Over the sighs of the wind Mazarine, frozen in her captor’s grip, heard Professor Wilton’s footsteps as he trotted along the passage to the door, then the click of lock and latch and the sound of his voice jovially raised in greeting:

 

‘Lord Fleetwood! Unlooked for and heartily welcomed!’

 

On hearing this name pronounced, Mazarine felt her blood race.

 

‘Come in, pray!’ cried the apothecary. ‘How odd — I wonder why the dogs did not announce your visit! By the Star -— they are still sleeping, the lazy creatures!’

 

Under his breath the earl cursed. ‘If you betray me, Mistress Blythe, I will give the signal for my fellows to kill your leman,’ he said softly. ‘That is, if I do not slay him myself. Do you understand?’ This was worse than any other threat. Fearful for Hawkmoor’s life, Mazarine nodded. The earl subtracted his paw from her mouth and, drawing his sword, stood facing the closed door of her bedchamber.

 

A moment later Professor Wilton rapped on the other side of the portal.

 

‘Wake up, Mistress Blythe! Lord Fleetwood is here to see you!’

 

The earl touched his finger to his lips and shook his head warningly.

 

‘Tell him I cannot,’ Mazarine called out weakly from amongst her pillows. She climbed out of bed and stood shivering on the floor in her bare feet, her nightdress ruffled by cold gusts from the open window.

 

A brief consultation took place outside her door, followed by the beloved voice of Hawkmoor saying, ‘Mistress Blythe — Mazarine! Pray come out to me, for I have ridden hard this night to reach you!’

 

Again the earl shook his head. Mazarine nodded vigorously to signal acquiescence, in an attempt to forestall him from suddenly flinging open the door, rushing at Hawkmoor and running him through.

 

‘Mazarine!’ Hawkmoor called.

 

His life hung in the balance. All that protected him from the earl’s blade was the door itself, and her wits.

 

She had to save him. Her heart was breaking.

 

Opening the door half an inch only, Mazarine said, through the aperture, ‘Go away. I will not meet with you.’

 

‘I do not believe it,’ said Hawkmoor, and the pain in his voice was as sharp as a blade of ice. Over and over she tried to dissuade him from entering the room but he was persistent. Eventually, in desperation, she forced herself to declare in the most convincing tones she could muster, ‘Lord Fleetwood, I detest you. How can I speak more plainly? I wish you would go away and never return.’

 

This proclamation was greeted by deep silence from beyond the bedchamber, during which Mazarine suffered Hawkmoor’s unspoken agony as deeply as her own. It was as if her heart had been torn open and thrown down to bleed on the floor. Outside the cottage, the sad songs of the wind were fading as it fled east across the snowscapes. Soon afterwards the young man swung himself onto his horse and rode away, but the household was stirring and the intruder made his escape through the window before he could be found out.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

‘Where did you go last night Johnnie? Where did you go last night?’

‘I went down to the orchard pool, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

‘What did you see in the water, Johnnie? What did you see in the water?’

‘I saw my face in a mirror, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

‘What more did you see last night, Johnnie? What more did you see last

night?’

‘Only shadows or vanities, mother, but I’ll never go there more.’

 

 

As soon as the earl had galloped off with his servant and Mazarine was certain he was clear of the place, she ran weeping from her room and told the Wiltons — who had heard with some puzzlement the hoof-beats of two riders hastening away after Hawkmoor’s departure — everything that had happened.

 

‘What?’ roared Professor Wilton, scandalised. ‘That blaggard under my very roof? By the Powers, if I were a younger man I’d punch him in the nose!’

 

‘Are you hale, Mazarine?’ Laurelia enquired solicitously, ‘did he harm you?’

 

‘I am unhurt!’

 

‘Why, the courts should be informed of this outrage!’ fumed Laurelia’s mother. ‘Just fancy, that reprobate sneaking into our very home!’

 

‘No, pray! I will never have to do with the courts again if I can help it!’ said Mazarine feelingly.

 

Her revelations were followed by a teary confession from Tansy, hanging her head in shame, who confessed that the dreadful episode was entirely her fault and declared she must leave the Wilton’s employ instantly. The dogs could not be roused and she shrieked in horror that she had accidentally killed them, until the professor assured her that the dose she had administered was less than lethal, and prevailed upon her to remain in his employ.

 

Wakefield announced that he would saddle up the professor’s old hack and ride immediately for Southdale farm —’For that is where Lord Fleetwood is staying, I’ll warrant!’ — to inform Hawkmoor of the news and bring him back. The family protested —’No man should go galloping out alone on such a cold and windy night! The weather is bad enough but ‘tis the least of the perils one might encounter in the darkness! Wait until morning, and we will send a messenger.’

 

At length good sense prevailed and he agreed to abandon the scheme. Nonetheless no one went back to bed that night. They huddled over a meagre fire listening to the fading sighs of the breezes in the chimney, until the stillest of dawns rinsed the sapphire-pale meadows and woods with a tincture of honey melted through amber.

 

The messenger was duly sent, but he returned with bad news. Hawkmoor was not at Southdale Farm. He had not visited there since his banishment from Kelmscott House. No one at the farm knew anything of his whereabouts.

 

Wraith-like clouds came swarming across the sky, and in the misty halfdight snowflakes drifted down like swans’ feathers.

 

‘I do not believe,’ Mazarine said brokenly to Laurelia, ‘that anyone could feel more wretched than I.’

 

There was, nonetheless, no time to mourn. The duel was set to take place that very day. The outcome was a forgone conclusion; Mazarine must conceded defeat, for she had no champion.

 

In the middle of the morning the snow ceased to fall. Clouds tore themselves into long shreds and floated away in the path of last night’s wind. The landscape sparkled gorgeously. Trees with salt-white foliage of snow were stamped like cut-outs against a deep blue sky, their shadows flung across a carpet of white velvet all powdered with diamond-dust.

 

According to tradition the combat was to be held at Firgrove, the ancient ‘field of honour’ — a forest clearing surrounded by rank on rank of ancient snow-laden fir trees more than a hundred feet tall. In this spot gathered Sir Lupton Rotherkill, several other members of the legal profession, the litigants, their seconds and supporters, constables, marshals and numerous members of the public who were prepared to brave the cold and the perils of the forest for the sake of a spectacle. It was a day to witness blood spilled on the snow.

 

Slender mists drifted between the trees and the frosty morning was dull. Several folk carried lanterns on poles, whose light flowered out with golden petals. Men were efficiently shovelling the snow aside, freeing a space for the combat to take place. This would be a relatively clandestine event, because the King-Emperor in far-off Caermelor disapproved of duelling to the death, and had all but banned it throughout Erith. In various backwaters such as Amershire, the practice endured, though it was never advertised. It was a strange, silent gathering in a still, majestic setting illuminated by glimmer and pale snowlight.

 

To add to the weirdness, a shang wind began to rise.

 

Rarely did the preternatural wind blow in the south-east of Severnesse, and when it did, there were few tableaux to be seen. As soon as most people sensed — by a prickling at the nape of their necks — the beginnings of an unstorm, they were quick to put on the taltry-hoods whose fine mesh lining of talium metal insulated human thoughts and passions from the ghosting-effect of the shang. This eerie effect could draw upon the energy of human emotions to imprint upon the atmosphere translucent images of events involving intense passions such as love, joy, fear, sorrow, wonder. Each time the shang wind breathed across the land, those same scenes would be revived like silent reflections upon the air, and play themselves out again, over and over. When the shang winds wafted, then would appear dreamlike visions. Century after century the visions hung in the air, gradually fading to nothingness — battles, suicides, lovers’ trysts, celebrations, partings ... it was too much to bear, which was why the laws of Erith decreed that all must wear the taltry hood when the unstorms rose, on pain of dire punishment.

 

In the forest surrounding Firgrove there remained three tableaux still substantial enough to be descried. There was the Pinned Lad — a woodcutter’s lad upon whom a tree had fallen, transfixed without his taltry when the unstorm rose, crying out for help in agony as his leg was crushed. There were the Runaway Lovers — two young people eloping by moonlight, in their haste forgetting to take their taltries; the unstorm had caught up with them as they ran away hand in hand, ardently in love. Their wind-painted story had a happy ending; so too did the tableau of the Swinging Child, an innocent sweeping back and forth joyfully upon a rope-swing its father had made for it, heedless of needing a protective hood. Long ago the tree that once supported the swing had died and its fallen limbs had been carted away for firewood. The phantom-child swung in mid air, eternally young, eternally ecstatic, quaint in its old-fashioned costume.

 

Further away on the main road to Somerhampton the Highway Robbery, generated sixty years earlier, repeated itself. In the town square the Mayday Dance around a be-ribboned pole flickered dimly into view, dating from six centuries before, and in the forests more distant there was the phantasmic Burning Cottage from about a hundred years ago.

 

And on the gravel driveway of Kelmscott could be viewed the Homecoming of the Third Earl, an ancestor of the current proprietor. So delighted was the reckless young man to be returning home after a long sojourn overseas that he leaned bareheaded from his carriage, waving and singing, while the unstorm blew. What song he sang, no one now could recall, for he had long lain in the graveyard on the hill, but his misty coach-and-four regularly bowled up the driveway when the shang wind stirred.

 

Too, the unstorm made the edges of real things glitter — leaves, icicles, footprints — as if all was spangled with faerie-dust. It was a beautiful event to behold, though bizarre and unsettling. After it passed, it left no mark — unless anyone had been unwise enough to go without the taltry and allow passion to rule.

 

There was passion aplenty at the field of honour, where everyone was hooded. The face of Mazarine — who stood with her friends — was as colourless as the newly fallen snow that lay along the firneedles. She could see her guardian on the other side of the cleared space — which was mushy with foot-ploughed ice crystals — shoulder to shoulder with his cronies and Ripley and a few cowled strangers, amongst whom, doubtless, was the famous swordsman everyone had been talking about. The earl was splendidly arrayed in gorgeous raiment, with peacock plumes fountaining from the hat beneath his taltry, his expertly curled hair dangling in spirals to his shoulders.

 

The eldritch wind sprinkled rainbow scintillants on the snow.

 

When all were assembled, the Master of the Field shouted out, ‘The defendant is a woman. Who stands forth to represent the defendant?’

 

As agreed with Mazarine, Master Squires was to reply, ‘The defendant has no champion,’ whereupon the Master of the Field would call out his question twice more, the third call being the final one. Then the plaintiff’s champion would be thrice summoned, and when he appeared, the day would be declared in favour of the plaintiff. It was all a formality, but it had to be undergone.

 

Master Squires moved into the clearing. To Mazarine’s surprise, the young clerk made no answer to the first call. A second time — ‘Who stands forth to represent the defendant?’

 

‘I do,’ said Wakefield, saluting the Master of the Field. Throwing off his cloak he revealed the metal plates he was wearing beneath. The armour, battered and rusty, looked as if it had been borrowed from some aged knight whose glory days were long past.

 

After a moment’s shocked pause, Mazarine and Laurelia ran forward and took the young man by the elbows, Laurelia whispering urgently into his ear. The crowd was murmuring excitedly.

 

‘This gentleman appears for me against my wishes!’ Mazarine cried loudly. ‘I will not have him fight on my behalf!’

 

‘He has volunteered,’ said the Master of the Field, ‘and you must accept him, unless another offers to take his place. Then, if there is argument, the law will decide.’

 

No matter what they did or said, Mazarine and her friends could not dissuade the young man. ‘For, surely Hawkmoor will come soon,’ he said. ‘Then he can take my place.’

 

‘Hawkmoor has no knowledge of this duel!’

 

‘I’ll warrant you do not give him sufficient credit.’

 

The earl and his cronies, meanwhile, were laughing behind their hands.

 

An ink-stained clerk against a mighty warrior ...

 

With a sigh the unstorm swept away, its jewellery glints fading. The atmospheric charge dissipated.

 

‘The plaintiff has pleaded “infirm of body”. Who stands forth to represent the plaintiff?’ then demanded the Master of the Field.

 

All heads turned toward the earl’s coterie. The public was eager to set eyes on the eminent swordsman. A tall man stepped forward, throwing back his taltry-hood. Dark hair spilled forth, tied back with a band. The cloak fluttered to the ground, revealing fluted scallops of armour with a golden sheen. The watchers gasped.

 

This was not the famous mercenary from the outlands everyone had expected. Instead of Henry Ide of Knightstone, there stood the earl’s own heir.

 

Half-hidden amongst the crowd, Mazarine felt as if her breath had been snatched away. This was impossible. As the onlookers gaped in amazement Hawkmoor drew out his sword and ceremonially raised it vertically in front of his face, saluting the judge, the Master of the Field and the earl.

 

‘The mercenary, Ide, has been paid to depart,’ he said with composed certitude. ‘I am the heir of Rivenhall; therefore it is only fitting that I represent my sire. It is a matter of duty and honour.’ He sheathed the weapon.

 

‘This man has volunteered,’ the Master of the Field said to the earl, ‘and you must accept it. Unless,’ he added ceremonially, ‘another volunteers to take his place.’

 

A clamour arose from the onlookers.

 

Mazarine’s erstwhile guardian began to rage and bawl but he could do nothing to alter the situation.

 

Steward Ripley said in his master’s ear, ‘Providence appears to be generous, sir. The clerk is clearly no fighter, and when he is slain, you will win the hand and property of the fair damsel. That is the likeliest outcome, since Fleetwood, though lame, is proficient in the arts of war.’

 

‘He has undermined and betrayed me!’ fumed the earl. ‘He dismissed my champion without my permission or knowledge! And why? And why? That is what I would like to know!’

 

‘If any other champion is to volunteer for either side, let him step forward now!’ announced the Master of the Field. He looked about expectantly. Silence and stillness greeted his words. No man in the crowd dared moved so much as a toe, lest it should be deemed they were offering themselves in combat. Three young lads whose lack of years made them immune to this danger ran around the edges of the clearing, sprinkling handfuls of salt as a ward against wights.

 

‘Why indeed?’ murmured Ripley. ‘Perhaps he has tired of his infatuation with the wench and wishes to see the family estate preserved for his future use. For, surely he is aware that the property will have to be sold if you do not get the girl’s money to pay off the creditors.’

 

‘More likely he has done this to spite me,’ fumed the earl, ‘and to show off. It’s as much as to say, I with my useless leg am a better man than your best mercenary —’

 

He broke off as the Master of the Field proclaimed, ‘No other swordsman having appeared for either side, the combat must now begin!’

 

A short scream pierced the air. Mazarine, distraught in the arms of Laurelia’s mother, was overcome by horror that two of her dearest friends were to be set against each other. ‘Fleetwood believes I have renounced him. He still supposes I love Master Squires!’ she gasped.

 

‘Then he will slay Wakefield!’ cried Laurelia, sinking into her father’s arms.

 

‘I know him better than that,’ Mazarine cried brokenly. ‘He will do the opposite. I fear his intent is to sacrifice himself for my sake. I cannot let him die without knowing the truth. I must tell him!’ detaching herself from the embrace of her protectress she called out, ‘Fleetwood! Fleetwood, hear me!’

 

Her voice, however, was drowned by the hubbub of the throng, and it was too late, for the duelling-space had been cleared and the marshals pushed the crowd back. Grim-faced, the two competitors faced one another inside the circle and the contest must begin.

 

‘There is some plot afoot,’ the earl growled in a low voice. ‘No doubt the clerk has some tricksy gramarye working on his behalf, else why would he be so bold? Against eldritch powers a mortal man cannot compete.’

 

‘Not so!’ said Ripley. ‘To use enchantment is to cheat. It is forbidden.’

 

‘Forbidden maybe, but who’s to prove it and what would be the use after the limping pup is cut down and I am ruined?’

 

As if in response to the earl’s doubts, the Master of the Field ushered forward a carlin, a woman of wisdom and power, robed in Winter’s shades of blue and grey. Her forehead was adorned with a painted blue disc, and an embroidered stag’s head decorated her left sleeve. The carlin, whose slight stature and middle age belied her abilities, scrutinised the combatants through the hole in a self-bored stone, an artefact that possessed the power to unveil the disguises of gramarye.

 

‘I see no Glamour on either of them, nor on their weapons,’ she said, before withdrawing with a scowl to the hindmost ranks of the crowd. Patently she disapproved of such bellicose goings-on.

 

‘If Fleetwood is slain you will be well rid of him!’ Ripley muttered to his master.

 

‘And none too soon!’ agreed the earl, who was too preoccupied with suspicion and indignation to notice that the under-gardener’s boy, inconspicuous among the gathering, was bestowing upon him a look remarkable for its vehement and speculating character.

 

‘So,’ whispered the lad, so softly that none could hear him, ‘you would see your own son slain for your greed, would you, you old wretch? I shall know what to tell the rhymer!’

 

Trials by combat at common law in Erith were carried out on a duelling ground of sixty feet square. Each litigant was allowed an iron shield, and could be protected by armour, provided that they were bare to the knees and elbows, and wore only leather shoes on their feet. Both combatants were properly clad.

 

Into the hush the Master of the Field bawled, ‘The combat is to begin upon my signal, and conclude before sunset. Before fighting, each litigant must swear an oath disclaiming the use of witchcraft for advantage in the combat.’ He stated the oath, which both men repeated after him: ‘Hear this, ye justices, that I have this day neither eat, drank, nor have upon me, neither bone, stone, ne grass; nor any enchantment, sorcery, or witchcraft, whereby the law of mortal man may be abased, or the law of eldritch forces exalted. So sain me.’

 

‘Either combatant may end the fight and lose his case by crying out the word “craven”, which acknowledges “I am vanquished”. The party who does so, however, whether litigant or champion, will be punished with outlawry. Otherwise fighting will continue until one party or the other is dead. The last man standing wins the case. Champions, before I give the signal, do you have any final requests?’

 

‘I do,’ said Hawkmoor.

 

‘What is your will?’

 

‘I wish for a private word with my adversary.’

 

‘Granted, but first you must both lay down your weapons.’

 

Both champions did as the master of the field ruled, and met one another in the very centre of the field of honour. There Hawkmoor bent his head and whispered something to his opponent, whereupon the latter, whose stricken countenance was ashen pale, now took on an expression of dazed puzzlement.

 

They parted, walked back to their positions, and took up their swords.

 

Laurelia whispered, ‘Mazarine, what can you mean? Why do you believe Lord Fleetwood will sacrifice himself?’

 

Her friend was sobbing. ‘He wants to save me. Knowing I could not afford to hire a skilled swordsman, he had two choices; either he could volunteer as my champion and risk losing the fight to a mercenary who had the advantage over a crippled man, or he could represent the earl and throw the fight. He chose the latter ...’

 

‘Oh! But surely —’ Laurelia was prevented from saying more, for the Master of the Field raised his right hand.

 

‘Champions,’ he shouted, ‘Lay on!’

 

The duel began with the contenders circling one another warily, weapons at the ready. Hawkmoor was a skilled swordsman — far better than Wakefield, who handled his blade as clumsily as if he had hardly so much as touched a weapon in his life. This inequity was plain to the watchers, to whom the outcome appeared so inevitable that they had ceased betting on it. They waited, downcast, for Hawkmoor to win. Their mood was low; they had expected a’ close fight of fire and fury, between two worthy adversaries — not the slaughter of a well-meaning but misguided pen-pusher by one who was infinitely his superior. Some turned their faces away, unwilling to witness the sad death of such a courageous young man.

 

Steel chimed on steel. The snow slid treacherously underfoot and both combatants were hard put to keep their balance. Wakefield flailed his weapon as a thresher might beat at a stook of corn. Plainly, Hawkmoor could have finished off his opponent at any time, had he chosen to do so.

 

‘Leave off! Leave off!’ Mazarine screamed, struggling to break free from the restraining grasp of her friends. They would not let her approach the duelling-circle, which was patrolled by marshals whose job it was to shove all would-be trespassers unceremoniously out of the way. ‘Stop the fight!’ Mazarine cried. ‘Hearken — I will marry Lord Rivenhall. There is no need for this!’

 

Summoning every ounce of effort she shook off her well-meaning captors, ran through the crowd and burst into the cleared space. At that moment Wakefield had his back turned, but Hawkmoor, who was facing her, had her in full view. The combatants had just mutually disengaged to take a brief respite from their efforts. Both were breathing hard; Wakefield staggered as if he were about to topple over. Having torn a purple ribbon from her hair Mazarine flourished the streamer aloft, calling Hawkmoor’s name aloud. In that instant the young lord’s gaze met hers and his eyes flashed, as if in recognition or farewell. He drew his sword into the vertical position, point upwards, and bowed in formal salute. One of the marshals seized Mazarine by the arms and pinioned her, but from the moment Hawkmoor had set eyes on the damsel he stood motionless. She stared, uncomprehending, as his opponent, half blinded by sweat, unaware of her presence and delirious with exhaustion, resumed his unskilled swiping. Hawkmoor did not move so much as a finger, nor did he flinch when Wakefield, who had been stabbing wildly at the air, chanced to strike him hard below the ribs.

 

Blood gushed. The crowd gave a mighty, gasping shout: it was a mortal blow.

 

Lord Rivenhall’s champion sank to the ground, which now seemed thickly strewn with bright rose petals. The marshal released Mazarine, who ran to the wounded man and fell to her knees, cradling his head in her lap. Like a black swan against the crimson snow she drooped over him in her mourning raiment, while Wakefield stood dazedly by, swaying unsteadily, his sword arm hanging limply by his side.

 

The dying man’s blood-soaked hair fanned out across Mazarine’s skirts. ‘I love you,’ she sobbed, her lips close to his beautiful face. ‘I love only you. I was forced to send you away from the cottage because Rivenhall had broken into my bedchamber and vowed to kill you if I betrayed his presence.’

 

Hawkmoor, his handsome face as pale as the marble of a tomb, looked up at her one final time, sighed once, and swooned.

 

Wakefield uttered a hoarse shout of horror. The sword fell from his hand. ‘He told me he would permit the death blow,’ he moaned. ‘I would not believe him!’

 

The Master of the Field crouched beside Mazarine. He felt for the pulse of the fallen man, and put an ear to his chest, then shook his head and rose to his feet.

 

‘I declare,’ he said, ‘that the victor is the champion of Mistress Blythe!’

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Over and over old battles are fought,

Dearly — so dearly was victory bought

Centuries earlier. Yet in these days,

When the shang wind blows the conflict replays.

Over and over wraith-lovers must part;

Fond kisses, sad looks and a desolate heart.

Over and o’er the dim shipwreck plays out —

Seen, but unheard, drowning sailor-ghosts shout.

Triumph and sorrow, delight and regret,

Are printed on winds that can never forget.

That which time’s passing forsook and let go

Returns in a vision when unstorm winds blow.

 

 

Without delay the constables moved in to take charge of the earl who, the moment his representative was unexpectedly struck down, had made a desperate attempt to fight free of the crowds and make good his escape.

 

‘You’re for the shackles, my lord!’ said the Chief Constable smugly, bustling him away. Steward Ripley made no attempt to impede the instruments of the law but stood by, grimacing.

 

‘Liar! Liar!’ the crowd jeered as the earl was escorted from the clearing. Evidently they considered that Providence had ruled accurately. Rivenhall was a deeply unpopular citizen.

 

Laurelia’s father supported Wakefield as he tottered from the scene, and the body of Hawkmoor was borne away on a litter.

 

‘Put him in my sleigh!’ cried Mazarine, her voice raw with pain. ‘As his nearest free living relative I claim him!’

 

Through the wintry landscape Mazarine’s hired sleigh drove, and on the way her tears fell upon Hawkmoor like pearls, half-frozen. It was not until they had almost reached home that she thought she noticed something that made her spirits leap with a mighty lurch. Was that a tiny flicker of his lids?

 

‘Professor Wilton,’ she gasped, hardly daring to shape the words lest they prove to be unfounded, ‘I believe Fleetwood lives yet!’

 

And it was true. Extraordinarily, by the slimmest of threads, a thread that unravelled by the minute, the young man still clung to life.

 

At the cottage Laurelia’s father devoted all his energies to ministering to the patient. On a bed Hawkmoor lay, hovering between life and death, while Mazarine nursed him. All that night she kept vigil at the patient’s bedside. Her friends took turns to keep her company, praying to Providence that Hawkmoor would be saved. Despite all efforts he remained without consciousness; unspeaking, unmoving, his lashes dark against the waterlily pallor of his skin. At length Mazarine dozed, dreaming that her sweetheart lay dead upon a catafalque. When she wakened, weeping, he still lived, the slightest of pulses beating in his temples.

 

Come morning, Professor Wilton said, ‘There is no hope. I am sorry, Mistress Blythe. He will soon cross death’s threshold.’

 

‘As long as he breathes I will continue to hope!’

 

On the second night Mazarine sat drooping by Hawkmoor’s bedside when all others were abed. In his slumber he now twisted and struggled, as if doing battle with an invisible foe, and his skin was hot to the touch. The wind, blowing from the direction of distant Somerhampton, carried the notes of the town hall’s bell tolling the stroke of midnight. As the note faded from memory Mazarine gave a start, for someone stepped towards her from the shadows and the stillness of the house, and it was none other than Thrimby.

 

‘Fear not,’ said the withered creature, laying a small paw-like hand gently on her arm.

 

‘My friend!’ exclaimed the young woman, trembling. ‘I supposed you never stirred from Kelmscott Hall. How came you here?’ for she had heard no sound of his approach — no footsteps, no knock at the door. Even the dogs, though fully recovered from their dose of hemlock, had stayed silent.

 

‘Never mind,’ said Thrimby, glancing about the room. ‘Alas, the young lord chose to slight good Thrimby’s sound advice. Instead he chose to throw the fight, and now he’s paid the price.’

 

‘Did you send for him, Thrimby? Did you ask him to fight on my behalf? He wanted to be certain Rivenhall lost the duel, so instead of following your suggestions he allowed himself to be struck down. He is terribly ill ... oh, it is too much to bear!’

 

‘Ye must be swift to outwit death,’ said Thrimby, ‘for there’s one way to save,’ he paused for effect then went on, ‘your love who’s near his final breath, and keep him from his grave.’

 

‘Save him?’ Mazarine gasped. ‘How?’

 

‘Be strong, have courage and take heed. Trows hold a healing spell — so you must seek them with all speed if you would make him well.’

 

‘I would indeed make him well,’ Mazarine said vehemently. ‘Tell me what I must do, dearest Thrimby! How shall I find the Grey Neighbours and how should I entreat them to help?’

 

‘Thrimby knows where to find them!’ The shrivelled fellow leaned even closer to Mazarine, so that she could smell the strange scent of him, like the leaves of wormwood after rain, and he told her what she must do.

 

‘Tomorrow eve the moon shines bright

Upon the winter snow,

Then you must face the threats of night

And solitary go.

 

Beside the frozen forest pool

They’ll hold their revelry

Where wind and stars and wild things rule;

But you must fearless be.

 

Bring silver as the promised fee,

But wear no warding charm.

Show courage, truth and courtesy

And they’ll do you no harm.’

 

He told her more, then sat at her feet with his arms curled around his bent knees and sang an odd little song. Mazarine’s head began to nod and she fell into another doze. When she awoke Thrimby was gone. She looked out of the window but all footprints had been obliterated by the gently falling snow.

 

Somehow Hawkmoor clung to life throughout the following day. Mazarine informed her friends of what had passed, and told them she had made up her mind to follow Thrimby’s directions. ‘Beside the frozen forest pool can only mean Coome Pool, which lies on the other side of Firgrove,’ she said.

 

They tried to persuade her not to attempt such a foolhardy enterprise. Wakefield Squires, once he had rested a day or two, was barely troubled by the bruises he had sustained during the duel. ‘To ask you to wear no wight-repellent charm, in the dead of night?’ he exclaimed. ‘No talisman, no iron, nothing of the colour red? What is Thrimby thinking of?’

 

‘To go alone into the forest at midwinter? What are you thinking of, Mazarine?’ cried Laurelia.

 

‘How can you be certain they are truly trows, these creatures Thrimby has found in the forest?’ asked Professor Wilton. ‘If they turn out to be gypsies, then they are not bound by the same codes as immortal beings. Gypsies, being humankind, can tell lies and break promises. Even if these folk prove to be the Grey Neighbours, you will not necessarily be safe. Quite probably you will be throwing your life away!’

 

‘I would rather be dead than watch him die,’ declared Mazarine. ‘It is perilous, but I will dare! And no one who is my friend will gainsay me!’ She gathered together all her silver ornaments — filigree bracelets, rings, chains — and exchanged all her gold coins for silver, then placed the entire hoard into her jewel-casket, closed the arched lid and locked it.

 

That night, against all advice from her companions, she borrowed Professor Wilton’s grey mare and, wrapped in her warmest cloak, rode out alone, according to Thrimby’s instructions.

 

By the radiance of the full moon she entered the dim forest and travelled along the narrow winding paths. When she came close to Coome Pool she dismounted as Thrimby had bidden, tied the mare to a tree-bole and continued on foot, carrying the casket. The air nipped and slapped at her face. Fear set her trembling; with every step she expected to be set upon by unseelie agencies of the night, and torn apart. Every shadow might harbour some malignant incarnation waiting to pounce.

 

Presently the faint strains of fiddle music came to her ears, so thrilling yet hair-raising that it was as if the fiddler sawed upon the listener’s very nerve-strings. As she climbed to the top of a rise she witnessed a throng of figures dancing beside the pool.

 

Mirror images of the tall, glacial fir trees that in places crowded to the water’s brink hung suspended in the broad expanse of ice. Through the boughs brilliant moonshine struck in glinting lances. Half a dozen bonfires flamed from the snow like flowers of crimson glass. In the night sky the lunar orb hung close to the horizon; a gigantic disc, palely shimmering, against which the dancers were silhouetted in black.

 

The quaint folk moved clumsily. Some cavorted in a bounding, ludicrous style, others danced artistically, with elaborate though irregular steps. By the silver radiance of moon and the red glow of flame they danced to a thin music like the piping of reeds, backed by a boisterous beat made by rattling snares and the deep, rhythmic thud of a bass drum.

 

The human watcher stopped a little way off, in the shelter of the trees. The revellers kept up their antics without appearing to notice her, and she dared to edge closer, dreading that they might suddenly disappear, for if they were wights then they would loathe being spied upon, like all of their kind. Though she moved slowly across the hummocky snow she made no secret of her approach, so as to avoid being accused of stealing up to catch them unawares.

 

The closer she came to the dancers and musicians, the more clearly she perceived them. Surely they could not be gypsies, for they were too outlandish to be human! Like children, they were small and slight in stature. Their heads were large, as were their hands and feet. Their long noses drooped at the tips and their drab hair hung in lank strings. Each and every one of them stooped and limped to varying degrees. All were clad in rustic raiment dyed several shades of grey, or else weathered and washed to greyness, and the women — or trow-wives — wore fringed shawls tied around their heads. In counterpoint to their plain clothing, silver metal glinted like starlight at their wrists and necks, their ears and ankles.

 

Mazarine was not more than twenty yards away when the music stopped in mid-flight and, as one, the revellers turned to stare at her. When a figure started up from a hummock close at hand she jumped, and almost dropped the casket.

 

‘Whit be dee after, ma vire, whinkin’ here sae brauely ootadaeks?’ said a deep voice.

 

The speaker confronting her on the low mound looked like a dwarfish man, though bigger than the rest, and fiercer looking. A silver fillet encircled his greasy locks and he was wearing a cloak embroidered with silver thread. By his size and relative magnificence he looked to be their leader, or their king. A heavy ornamental chain chinked and swayed about his thick, short neck, and earrings like polished coins dangled from his lobes. Inexplicably he carried in his hand a large silver spoon with a curved handle and a deep bowl, rather like a soup ladle. His dialect resembled the common language of Erith, but not so closely as to be fully intelligible.

 

Mazarine barely comprehended his meaning but, falling to her knees in a deferential pose, she stated her case, begged for his help and offered the gift of the casket, unfastening the lid. The others gathered around, speaking in some unfamiliar language. The young woman was terrified, yet at the same time she could not help feeling something akin to both pity and liking. There were children amongst these folk, and some of the wives carried babies in their arms. These strange, shrunken people seemed innocent and simple yet, in some unfathomable way, dangerous. Above all, there was that about them which felt alien; something indescribable and incomprehensible in human terms.

 

Solemnly they looked at the silver objects in the open casket; picked through them, held them up shimmering in the snow-shine and examined them. They had a discussion amongst themselves. Then the king pointed to Mazarine’s treasure and spoke again.

 

‘It be lang-banks-gaet tae bring yon Laird Fleetwood back frae da verra t’reshold o’ deat’. We’se doe what du axes us, ma hinny, bit faith we maun hae a gud koab. Dis be niver eno’ siller.’

 

‘Not enough silver? But I can get no more. What else would you have from me? I will give anything that is in my power to give!’

 

A broad smile stretched the little fellow’s mouth. As soon as the words had left Mazarine’s lips she regretted them, for once a promise is made to wights it must be kept, or severe retribution is exacted upon the tergiversater.

 

Once more the little people conversed with one another. At length the king turned to the damsel and said, ‘We will tak’ dy furst brun bairn.’

 

‘My what?’

 

‘Aye, dy furst brun. Dat’s da teind.’

 

A kind of coldness began in the core of Mazarine and burned along her veins to her fingertips.

 

‘But sir, I have no child.’

 

‘Ane day ye might.’

 

‘If I ever do, and if I give my first born child to you, what would you do with him or her?’

 

‘We’d treat em kind and raise da bairn tae be oor servant.’

 

‘Your servant in Trowland? Or on your gypsy wanderings?’

 

At this question the king merely laughed, and his subjects followed suit.

 

I may never bear a child, Mazarine though feverishly, even if my love, by any miracle of fortune, should live and we should be wed. If he dies, I will never marry. Besides, I have given my word to these people, and I fear — perhaps without cause — that my loved ones might be made to suffer in some fashion if I break it.

 

The little king crossed his arms in front of his chest and cocked his head to one side, fixing Mazarine with a bright and beady eye. ‘What say ye?’ he demanded.

 

The situation is urgent. In desperation I am forced to agree, for Hawkmoor may not survive another night.

 

‘Very well then,’ she said at length. ‘Let the bargain be struck!’

 

One of the fiddlers resumed his scraping and the stunted merrymakers began again to prance and leap excitedly, as if in celebration of this news, yodelling and whooping in shrill tones. Some gathered any scattered coins and dropped them back into the casket, before closing the lid and bearing their treasure swiftly away.

 

‘We s’ll come this verra nicht tae do our wirk,’ the little king announced. ‘Noo mun du gie us dy strik alang!’

 

‘I do not understand, sir!’

 

‘Dy consent tae cross dy t’reshold!’

 

It was vital to use caution when conversing with eldritch creatures. Words had immense power; they were binding contracts. Careless phrases could be fatal. ‘Very well. You may cross the threshold of Clover Cottage,’ said Mazarine, carefully choosing her words, mindful of Thrimby’s advice. As if they had caught her meaning and welcomed it the dancers leaped higher, shouting gleefully.

 

‘Leave da hoose doors unlockit,’ the Trow-king instructed the damsel, ‘and tak awa’ a’ da charms. Leave da krankin’ man laenerly and blow oot da lamps. Stir-na from der bols and tie up da yalkie-dogs.’

 

Mazarine stood hesitating while the little king expertly twirled the silver spoon in his hand. She would rather these peculiar beings had given her some medicine to take back to the sick man in the cottage, than have them pay him a visit themselves.

 

‘Whyfor be dee a’solistin’, ma hinny?’ asked the king, glancing at her slyly. ‘Be ye o’ a mind to jine da dancin’?’

 

‘No sir! I was wondering whether you might entrust me with the healing unguent, or philtre, or whatever it may be that you would bring to Lord Fleetwood. I could administer it myself and save you the trouble.’

 

‘Ach!’ exclaimed the wight, grimacing hideously as if he had just been insulted. ‘Away wi’ ye, awa’ wi’ ye noo. Fare dee well!’

 

With that the Trow-king appeared to dismiss his human petitioner, who felt it would be discourteous, not to mention perilous, to stay longer. Recalling Thrimby’s warnings she strove against her inner desire to throw herself sobbing at the feet of the quaint little monarch and beg him to hand over a miracle cure on the spot. Instead she bowed respectfully, expressed her gratitude without saying ‘thank you’, hastened to where Professor Wilton’s doleful mare waited, and rode away through the snow.

 

* * * *

 

Laurelia and Wakefield ran out of the cottage to meet the rider, their faces glowing with relief that she had returned to them. ‘Does he live?’ Mazarine called out as soon as they were within earshot, and they assured her that yes, the patient still clung to life.

 

It was not yet midnight. As soon as the damsel set foot indoors she hurriedly explained to the household what must be done, as far as she could interpret the Trow-king’s instructions, and quietened their protests by saying, ‘We have no choice. If we cannot save him by other means we must try any chance, no matter how outlandish it seems.’

 

Therefore, as the curious little king had ordered, they left the doors unlocked, tied up the dogs, removed all the charms about the premises, left the sick man alone and blew out the lamps. Then they shut themselves into their bedchambers, climbed into bed, pulled up the covers and waited in the dark. The night was windless and completely still. In the hearth the fire burned low. Not a sound came through the gloom besides the steady drip-drip of melted snow running off the chimney. Hours seemed to drag on without end. Across miles of snow came the far-off chimes of the Somerhampton town bell striking twelve, but it was long past midnight when the edges of hearing were brushed by soft duckings as the cooped hens stirred in the yard, and the patter of light footsteps on the doorstep, and the faint squeaking of hinges.

 

The floorboards creaked.

 

Suddenly the iron hand of fear gripped Mazarine. What if I have been tricked into letting in a pack of gypsies who might harm him, or rob us, or both? Quelling the notion as a mere folly she steeled herself to remain beneath her coverlet and make no sound.

 

Presently the floor-planks creaked again, the hinges complained and the hens clucked sleepily. When all had been quiet for what seemed a lifetime, Mazarine could wait no longer. She jumped out of bed, lit a lamp with shaking hands and ran into the sick-room on her bare feet. The other members of the household were not far behind. She held the lamp close to the pillow. Golden lamplight washed across the attractive countenance of Hawkmoor. He was sleeping peacefully at last, healthy colour tinging his skin in place of the ghastly pallor. Mazarine and her friends glanced at each other, scarcely daring to hope.

 

While Mazarine resumed her place beside the sick-bed, Goodwife Wilton and the maid Tansy scoured the house, checking to see whether anything had been taken. All was in its proper place.

 

‘Nothing has been stolen,’ said Laurelia’s mother. ‘I am convinced something excellent has happened here this night!’

 

In the morning Hawkmoor opened his eyes for the first time.

 

They brought him water and gruel. When he had sipped he fell back against the pillow. ‘Mistress Blythe, where are you?’

 

‘I am here, Fleetwood!’

 

‘I had a strange dream,’ he whispered. ‘I thought I saw children crowding around this bed. Upon my eyes and mouth they let fall raindrops, glistening with a sweet white light.’

 

‘By all that’s extraordinary,’ said Professor Wilton in astounded joy, ‘I declare, the patient is recovering!’

 

Then all trouble and woe fell away from Mazarine and a blissful sense of peace enfolded her. Hawkmoor would live. He had survived the duel but there would be no legal consequences, despite the rule that the outcome was to be decided by the slaying of one of the combatants. On that fateful day he had been declared dead on the field of battle and Master Squires had been officially proclaimed the victor — nothing could change that proclamation, not even this miraculous recovery.

 

Even as she rejoiced Mazarine said to herself, I will not tell anyone of the terrible bargain I made. There is a chance it may never need to be fulfilled, and to confess would be to cause unnecessary anguish.

 

Fleetwood remained extremely weak. All that month he lay abed, with Mazarine never far from his side. Inevitably, during this time they confirmed their love for each other and cleared up all misunderstandings. Happiness acted upon the young man like a tonic. As he grew stronger he began to look for diversions and one day he asked a favour of her.

 

‘Will you read some of your poetry to me? For I would fain have the honour of hearing what none have heard before.’

 

For a single moment only, Mazarine hesitated. With a smile she said, ‘I can refuse you nothing!’ and went to fetch her books of writings. From that juncture, she sat beside him and read to him every evening, and it was not long before she began to write once more. Then she knew at last that love had brought her back from the lands of sorrow.

 

Miraculously, as Hawkmoor convalesced, the old fuath-stricken wound on his calf began to heal. By Winter’s close when he had fully recovered, all the scars had vanished and, to the joy of everyone, he was no longer lame.

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

Limping, lumping, tripping, thumping,

Clumsy dancers in the night.

Don’t be tricked; though they seem graceless,

Trows can move as fast as flight.

 

 

By the first month of Spring, Sovrachmis of the Primroses, Wakefield Squires and Laurelia Wilton had become man and wife. Hawkmoor employed the young scholar as his own scrivener and bestowed on the couple life tenure, rent-free, in the best cottage at Southdale Farm. No longer would Wakefield have to trudge to Somerhampton to work in the mayor’s office.

 

With the change of season celebrations again broke out across Erith, marked by the traditional symbols — coloured eggs and candles, a procession of ewes decked in garlands of green leaves tied with pale yellow ribbons, and weddings. Mazarine ceased to wear mourning. She celebrated her twenty-first birthday on the third day of Sovrachmis, and on the twelfth day she and Hawkmoor were married. Henceforth the damsel would be known in society as Mazarine Canty, The Right Honourable The Viscountess Fleetwood.

 

For two years and one month the earl must serve his sentence in Somerhampton Jail where, in respect for his station, he received better treatment than the majority of the prisoners. He was quartered in the well-appointed section of the jail reserved for those aristocrats who, for various reasons, had not succeeded in bribing their way out of their legal difficulties. Ever the dandy, he remained as much preoccupied with his cosmetics and curls in prison as he had been outside, and as unpopular. To satisfy his creditors he was forced to sell Kelmscott Park. With the money from Mazarine’s inheritance the newly-weds purchased the estate.

 

After their wedding Lord and Lady Fleetwood went to live at the Hall, where Thrimby greeted them hospitably, as if he were the true owner, which Mazarine sometimes felt he was. Hawkmoor dismissed Ripley and his cohorts, but provided liberally for the servants who had proved themselves faithful and true. Those who had spied on the couple in the early days were not penalised, for they had been driven by fear, not greed, and they begged forgiveness. As for the young laundry-maid and the under-gardener’s lad, they received promotions and a significant increase in wages. Thrimby, on the other hand, declined to discuss wages, behaving as if insulted when the topic was mentioned.

 

Now that the heavy burden of care had been lifted from their shoulders, the young bride and her friends rejoiced. Those who had been separated were finally united; the sick had been cured, the steadfast rewarded and wrong-doers punished. It seemed, at last, that all was well. Often the young bride looked upon her handsome husband and recalled how she had almost lost him. She treasured every moment they spent together. Their days of bliss together flew past on wings of sunlight and apple blossom, but after half a year, the merriment faded from Mazarine’s demeanour. She became withdrawn and thoughtful.

 

‘What ails you, my love?’ Hawkmoor would ask, putting his arm around her waist. ‘Tell me, that I may put it right!’

 

‘It is nothing,’ she would say, brightening. ‘Nothing at all.’

 

At nights she lay awake staring at thin spindles of moonlight slanting between the curtains of the great, canopied bed.

 

A child was on the way, and she knew not what to do.

 

As time went on her misery deepened. Already she loved the unborn child more fiercely than life itself, and her every waking moment was spent trying to plan an escape from her predicament. Soon, she knew, her condition would become apparent to others and there would be no hiding the truth.

 

At length she revealed the news of the child to Hawkmoor, whose wonder and pride knew no bounds. His happiness, however, was shortlived, for no sooner had she told him than she began to weep. He held her in his arms until the sobs died away, then questioned her. ‘I made a bargain for your life,’ she confessed. ‘I promised to give our first-born child to those who saved you!’ She dared not look at his face, for the shock and sorrow she would read there.

 

Presently her husband said calmly. ‘Be comforted, my love. We will find some way out of this plight. If they were gypsies who dared to ask this monstrous thing of you, then unless they break in and steal our child, they shall never touch him. He shall be guarded day and night.’

 

‘I believe them to be trows. ‘Tis unlikely they were human.’

 

‘If they were wights,’ said Hawkmoor, ‘that is another matter — for I fear they will take what is due to them, no matter what barriers are thrown in their path. Yet do not despair! There is always hope.’

 

Thrimby greeted the tidings of the expected child by performing a jig on the drawing-room hearth-stone, during which he stumbled over his ragged hose and had to kneel down to straighten them. While still on his knees he glanced up, an enlightened expression brightening his pinched features as if an idea had just struck him. ‘Well, sain my bones!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now who would ha’ thought! So this is what ‘tis like to be short!’ — whereupon he resumed his little dance, still on his knees, as if to sample being a dancer of low stature. After falling over and bruising his elbow he stood up. ‘That’s enough of that!’ he said, ‘I’d rather eat my hat!’

 

‘Gentle Thrimby,’ said Mazarine, ‘you have rescued us from dire straits twice before — once when you sent a message to Lord Fleetwood bidding him return home, and once when you told me how to save his life. We ask your help a third time, and I hope ‘twill be the last.’ After entreating the servant to make himself comfortable in the drawing-room with herself and her husband, she explained the terrible bargain she had made.

 

When she concluded her tale Thrimby shook his head sadly, and with some vexation. ‘T’was trows, not gypsies that ye saw,’ he said with a snort, wriggling uncomfortably on his tapestry-upholstered armchair, ‘and if ye should withhold the payment ye ‘ave promised, or try substituting gold, or silver, or the wealth of kings, this bargain to evade, ye’ll not succeed. A life was pledged. Yer promise has been made. And if ye try to ‘ide yer child they’ll find ‘im without doubt. Though ‘e be under lock and key the trows will steal ‘im out. They’ll carry ‘im away into their kingdom underground, which he can ‘ardly leave, for with enchantment ‘e’ll be bound.’

 

The notion rendered the listeners speechless with dismay.

 

‘At all costs we must stop them from taking our child,’ Hawkmoor said presently.

 

‘It may not be possible,’ said Thrimby, so intent on thumping at a lumpy cushion he found irksome that he forgot his rhyming. ‘If ‘tis possible, ‘twill will not be easy. Trows is a formidable force. It is said that they possess a smatterin’ o’ governance over the weather, and that some ‘ave mastered the art of makin’ weed-stems fly, or old ploughbeams, or bundles of twigs or grasses, so that they can climb aboard and go ridin’ through the air! ‘Ave ye ‘eard them stories?’

 

‘Not I! Tell us, pray!’ said Mazarine. ‘If we are to thwart the trows we must know as much as possible about them!’

 

‘All right’, said Thrimby, and tucking up his outsized feet to sit cross-legged in the armchair, he began. ‘One night after sunset a gentleman saw a band o’ trows go by in a cloud of dust, and they was shoutin’,

 

“Up horse, up hedik,

 

Up we’ll go riding bulwand,

 

And I know I’ll ride among you.”

 

‘The gentleman thought this scene so wondrous that ‘e repeated the words, and straight away found ‘imself up in the air in the middle o’ the band, seated sideways on a mugwort stem. They flew along until they ‘lighted on the roof of an ‘ouse. Luckily for ‘im, the Grey Neighbours paid ‘im no attention. The gentleman ‘eard them sayin’ that a woman was in labour within the ‘ouse, and that when she were delivered, she would sneeze thrice, and if nobody sained her they would exchange ‘er for an image and take ‘er with ‘em. So when she sneezed the gentleman said, “May the Star sain you,” whereupon the trows vanished in the blink of an eye. The man climbed down and entered the ‘ouse, where ‘e was received with cordiality, but the story goes that the ‘illtings raised a gale, so ‘e weren’t able to get ‘ome for a week.’

 

‘They were angry with him for cheating them!’ exclaimed Mazarine. ‘It seems they are powerful enough to stir up the very winds!’

 

‘Some o’ them may be powerful enough,’ said Thrimby.

 

‘Which ones are we dealing with?’ asked Hawkmoor. ‘The weak or the strong?’

 

Thrimby shook his head once more. ‘Alas,’ was all he said in reply.

 

The three conversed together throughout the night until cockcrow, and much was said, and much was planned. At the close of discussion, however, when a wan gleam of dawn trickled through the shutters and they were about to wend their weary way to bed, Thrimby uttered a grim warning that echoed in Mazarine’s mind ever after —

 

“Tis risky,’ he said grimly. ‘There’s no knowin’ if the deal can be undone.

Ye must not ‘ave false confidence this battle can be won.

Remember as ye rock yer babe and sing yer cradle-song,

Trow gramarye is ancient as the ‘ills, and thrice as strong.

Prepare yerselves to face the worst. Ye owe the trows their due.

‘Tis likely they will take their fee no matter what you do.’

 

Said Hawkmoor sharply, ‘In that case, I will make preparations forthwith.’

 

* * * *

 

And so it passed that within two sevennights all plans had been laid. The couple, dressed in disguise and accompanied by their entourage, boarded a white-sailed seaship at the Port of Raynemouth. In secrecy their ship weighed anchor and headed down the coast. Turning west she passed through the strait separating Severnesse from the cold southern land of Rimany, where dwelled the Arysk-folk whose hair and skin was the colour of rime. Thence to the southernmost cape of Eldaraigne the vessel journeyed, though her progress was slow, for it seemed the wind was ever against her. During a brief sojourn in Eldaraigne to take on supplies, neither Mazarine nor Hawkmoor set foot on shore, and their servants were forbidden to mention their names, or their port of origin or their destination.

 

From there the captain set course north-west along the passage between Luindorn and Eldaraigne. Far in the distance on the starboard side the passengers could see the walls and towers of the great city of Caermelor. Onwards they sailed up the coast of Luindorn. A hundred nautical miles away to the east, they knew, lay the Royal Isle of Tamhania, veiled in its enchanted mists. None could make landfall there without knowing the password that would part those vapours and allow vessels to reach safe harbour. The ship was not bound for Tamhania, however, but for Finvarna, that western land of rugged coastlines and cloudy heights; of deer with giant antlers, and red-haired warriors in kilts who could recite entire sagas from memory, and who held contests in games, feasting and ‘having the last word’.

 

In the far north of Finvarna, Lord and Lady Fleetwood’s party at last disembarked. The seaship sailed away, while the party travelled on by carriage and wagon, into the west. Finally, when they had arrived at the loneliest castle in the most remote outpost of Finvarna they rested. Atop a gaunt cliff the stronghold stood, overlooking ocean waves that roared as they smashed themselves to pieces against jagged rocks. Gulls wheeled, mewing, through the granite battlements and turrets. Here the party remained, incognito, until Mazarine’s time should come.

 

* * * *

 

In the Spring of the year 1040 a comely, healthy boy was born in the castle by the sea. When he was three months old Mazarine and Hawkmoor publicly named him ‘Richard’.

 

After the naming ceremony at Castle Creig-Ard, local guests congregated in the formal gardens to drink to the baby’s health. Harpists were playing melodious airs and folk were conversing cheerfully, when in the midst of the celebrations a curious little figure popped unexpectedly out of the gathering, right next to the spot where Mazarine stood holding the baby in her arms. The stranger was robed in grey, and his deep hood partially obscured his visage. Before the proud mother could comprehend his purpose, he lightly touched her child’s left palm with a bony finger, leaving a small dot, greener than emeralds. ‘Richard Canty be marked fur wis,’ he said clearly, ‘and whan he be twall munts and ane day auld, we will av him.’

 

Having made that vow he bowed, walked away and somehow vanished among the assembly. ‘Stop that fellow!’ Mazarine shouted in horror, trying to wipe off the mark with her handkerchief. The baby began to wail. A hue and cry was got up, and people began running to and fro.

 

In a moment Hawkmoor was at his wife’s side. ‘What’s amiss?’ he asked.

 

‘A stranger has put a mark on our darling’s hand, see?’ Mazarine held up the tiny pink-and-white hand of the baby, displaying the emerald dot in the centre of the dewy palm.

 

‘A strange stamp indeed,’ said Hawkmoor, examining it closely.

 

‘I tried to scrub it off,’ said Mazarine, with tears starting in her eyes. She showed him the square of white linen, whose centre was stained light green. ‘But to no avail. It seems indelible!’

 

‘Keep the handkerchief in a safe place,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘I’ll take a guess it might be of some use to Thrimby when we ask him what to do.’

 

‘Thrimby? But he is not here with us!’

 

‘Aye, but now that we have been discovered we must return to Kelmscott Park. Clearly there is nowhere in Erith the Grey Neighbours will not find us. We will be better off at home, where at least we will have Thrimby to advise us.’

 

‘Of course!’ Mazarine agreed. ‘You are right.’ She choked back tears.

 

Though Lord and Lady Fleetwood made light of the event to their guests, their hearts weighed heavy. For them, the very sunlight had drained out of the day. Retainers searched high and low, but the mischief-maker could not be found, and the celebrations concluded early.

 

* * * *

 

As soon as travel arrangements could be finalised the family voyaged back to Severnesse. On the first night at Kelmscott Hall, Lord and Lady Fleetwood took the child and hurried to the kitchens in search of Thrimby. They found him in the scullery, zealously polishing a frying pan.

 

‘Good master and good mistress, I be glad,’ he said, ‘ta see ye safely back here with the lad. A bonny ‘un, clean-limbed and bright of e’e! And did ye do with ‘im as I told ye?’

 

‘We did, Thrimby,’ said Hawkmoor, ‘but an appalling thing has come to pass. The Grey Neighbours tracked us down. They have daubed our boy with a mark, and no amount of soap and water will remove it!’

 

Thrimby dropped the frying pan with a crash that startled the child and set him bawling.

 

‘By the Powers!’ the domestic squeaked, too aghast to form a rhyme, ‘The mark o’ the trows!’

 

‘I tried to rub it off before it dried,’ said Mazarine.

 

‘Ye did? What did ye rub it with? Quick lass, I must know!’

 

‘A handkerchief—’

 

‘Did ye keep it? I must see it!’

 

Mazarine produced the cloth, which she carried in the aulmoniere hanging from her waist-belt. Thrimby stared at it then folded it up and placed it in one of the patched, ragged pockets of his threadbare coat. Solemnly he gazed up at the young mother, who was endeavouring to console her baby.

 

‘I’ll keep this now.’ he said. ‘Ye did right, master and mistress. Ye did all that can be done. The mark will never come off until the ‘illtings ‘ave been paid full price. Did the one who marked the little ‘un say any thin’ to ye?’

 

‘He said they would come for our son a year and a day after his birth. That is all. What should we do? Where can we go to hide?’

 

‘You cannot ‘ide. ‘E’s been marked. There’s nowt for it now but to wait.’

 

So they waited, the entire household, and the seasons of that year rolled by too quickly, and the child grew.

 

* * * *

 

Also fast approaching was the date of the earl’s release from prison after the completion of his sentence. The young couple had no wish to associate with the man who had made their lives miserable in numerous cruel ways. Now a pauper, Lord Rivenhall was friendless; nevertheless Hawkmoor made arrangements for his future accommodation at a cottage on the edge of the Southdale Farm estate. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘no matter what ill deeds he is guilty of, he is still, I suppose, my father. I owe him shelter, at least.’

 

On New Year’s Eve the earl was walking through the prison yard on his way to bed after partaking of a celebratory evening meal, when he fell down insensible upon the cobblestones. Deeming him intoxicated the warders carried him off bed, but next morning he awoke lopsided. His left side was paralysed and he slurred his words, though he still retained the power of speech and his faculties of reason.

 

‘He has suffered the elf stroke!’ the prison chirurgeon diagnosed. ‘Elf-archers have hit him with their elf-shot!’

 

The warders searched half-heartedly in the prison yard for flint arrowheads. It was said that if the barb that had caused the stroke was found, the victim could be cured. No tiny stone chevron, however, could be discovered. Unable to walk, the earl was confined to his bed and chair. On hearing this news, Mazarine and Hawkmoor pitied him and resolved to care for him under their own roof when he was discharged.

 

Early in the year 1041 Lord Rivenhall was set free. Hawkmoor sent a carriage to bring him to Kelmscott Hall, where Mazarine had engaged nurses to take care of him. Still fussing with his appearance the earl uttered no word of gratitude on his arrival, but commenced to demand attention night and day. He was surly and argumentative, and refused to take off his cap even when being bathed. His once-gorgeous curls lost their lustre and became as tangled as a rat’s nest.

 

At Mazarine’s request, Professor Wilton attended the patient twice weekly.

 

Once, having returned to Clover Cottage after such a visit, the apothecary found that one of his galenical phials was missing. In hindsight he was unsure whether he might have forgotten to replace it in his medicine case, and sent a messenger to the Hall to ask whether a small glass bottle had been found. Mazarine enquired among the household servants, but no one had seen the container and the matter was eventually forgotten.

 

* * * *

 

That year the dying days of Winter were bitingly cold. At Kelmscott Hall, servants kept the hearth-fires well-stoked. When evening fell, Mazarine and Hawkmoor entertained a company of friends in the drawing room, while their child crawled freely about the floor. He was growing stronger and bonnier day by day, though he had as yet not a tooth in his head, and the fine bronze filaments of hair that had rubbed off on his mattress after his birth had, so far, not reappeared.

 

Silent in his wheelchair by the fire the earl sat huddled in a shawl. With his head sunken between his shoulders and a severe black cap tied over his straggling ringlets he appeared more like a grotesque, maned vulture than a man.

 

The tables were arrayed with wine and dishes of sweetmeats. Merry was the company, and at length the lady of the house arose to take her place at the harp so that she might sing to them, when the child, in his efforts to pull himself to his feet, took hold of the leg of a small marquetry table. The table teetered and Hawkmoor’s wine goblet toppled, spilling its crimson contents upon the carpet. Laughing, the mother scooped up her child, but some of the scattered droplets splashed onto her hand.

 

Picking up a hand-bell she rang for a servant.

 

‘My darling, we must watch you every minute, mustn’t we!’ said Mazarine, fondly kissing her child’s brow. A housemaid appeared with basins and cloths to clean up the mess, but before she had begun her task Mazarine started to scream.

 

‘My hand is burning! Oh, it is on fire!’

 

Quickly she placed the child in his nursery-maid’s lap and bent double, clutching her hand to her breast. ‘Cold water! Bring cold water!’ she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. The housemaid offered her the basin and, gasping, she plunged in her fist. ‘Do not touch the wine!’ Mazarine cried, and the servant backed away from the slowly spreading red pool on the floor. By this time all those present, save the earl, had sprung to their feet. They watched, appalled, as the red pool fizzed and steamed, and all colour bleached from the carpet in that spot.

 

‘Hush, hush bonny Richard!’ said the nursery-maid, rocking the whimpering child in her arms to placate him.

 

Hawkmoor placed his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. ‘1 shall send for Professor Wilton!’

 

‘No need,’ she replied. “Twas but a few drops, swiftly washed away. The water has soothed the hurt.’

 

‘The wine was poisoned,’ exclaimed Hawkmoor, whereupon all heads turned and all eyes regarded the earl with suspicion.

 

Revealing his perfect teeth in a grin like a death’s head he said in rasping tones, ‘I cannot walk. How could I do it?’

 

Said Hawkmoor harshly, ‘Enough, sir! I have had my fill of you and your tricks. I will not suffer my family to endure a viper in our midst.’ And so saying, he banished the earl to the east wing; the most remote and secluded apartment in the house.

 

* * * *

 

It was with apprehension that Lord and Lady Fleetwood quietly celebrated their son’s first birthday. Their every waking moment was plagued by dread of what might befall next evening at the appointed hour, a year and a day from the moment of his birth. Their minds were somewhat eased by the fact that trows — or gypsies — had not been seen in eastern Severnesse for twelve months, and Hawkmoor was inclined to believe his son was safe. Thrimby and Mazarine opined otherwise.

 

‘Away they’ll steal ‘im,’ Thrimby muttered pessimistically. ‘In ‘is place they’ll leave a carvin’ of ‘is face and body on a stock of wood. Their call no mortal e’er withstood.’

 

‘We have nailed charms over every door and window,’ Hawkmoor reminded him.

 

‘They will avail ye nought, my lord,’ Thrimby said. ‘When trows come seekin’ their reward no charm can stop them — neither lock, nor bar o’ iron or wood or rock.’

 

‘Yet we cannot just sit back and do nothing!’ Mazarine retorted. ‘We must try, even if we are doomed to fail!’

 

‘Ye’ve done all that I asked of you,’ said Thrimby, ‘so far, but there be more to do, in preparation for the hour of doom when wights put forth their power. Be brave and follow my advice to cheat the ‘illtin’s of their price, but know that if ye thwart the trows their vengeful wrath ye will arouse!’

 

‘We care nothing for what revenge they might wreak upon us,’ said Mazarine, ‘as long as our child is secure!’

 

‘In that case,’ said Thrimby, ‘this is what you must do.

If we cannot defeat them, then at least

We’ll make full sure their access is decreased!

Tomorrow night bar ev’ry path and gate,

Seal ev’ry window on the whole estate,

Stop ev’ry cranny, lock and bolt each door,

Strew salt in handfuls round about the floor,

Tell servants to be quieter than a mouse —

No sneeze or whisper must disturb the house.

No matter what occurs, do not cry out —

All will be ruined by a single shout!

Upon the precious child put ample charms.

His mother must retain him in her arms,

And when all these amendments are in place,

The father should hold both in his embrace.’

 

‘When will they come?’ asked Hawkmoor.

 

‘Not till the darkness falls, you can be sure,’ replied the eccentric fellow, ‘For though the sun’s bright blaze they can endure, they do not like its touch, and shun the day. To move by moonlight is their chosen way.’ Regarding the listeners earnestly he said, ‘Think well of Thrimby — this is all I ask! Now, are you braced to undertake this task?’

 

‘Of course we are!’ said Mazarine.

 

Raising one hand the servant added dramatically, ‘Mark ye, if you take this step you can never go back!’ His audience stared at him in awe and some fear, whereupon he relented, saying, ‘Don’t mind me, I were just tryin’ to add some theatrical spice to the situation.’

 

The young couple smiled, comprehending that he had merely tried to invoke a little mirth to ease their minds, but Mazarine said, ‘Dear Thrimby, I believed you incapable of lying. How, then, are you able to exaggerate?’

 

‘It all depends what you make of it,’ he answered,

‘And how you make the words and meaning fit.

For never mind what step you take, or when,

You never can go back and start again,

Unless you hold Time’s keys within your hand

That past and future flow to your command!’

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

Remember as you rock your babe and sing your cradle-song,

Trow gramarye is ancient as the hills, and thrice as strong.

 

 

Wakefield and Laurelia had been admitted into the secret of the bargain with the trows. On the fateful night they insisted on staying at Kelmscott Hall with their friends, to provide what support they could.

 

After calling the servants together Hawkmoor addressed them, saying, ‘Grave peril will surround Kelmscott Hall this night, so heed my instructions, for lives depend on your compliance. Until sunrise you must all remain indoors. Do not allow yourselves to be lured outside, no matter what occurs. Neither door nor gate nor window must be opened. Seal yourselves in! Stopper your ears and your mouths too, for you must speak no word during the dark hours and indeed, make no sound at all — not so much as a whisper or a sneeze. Nobody in the household should cry out, under any circumstances. Those of you who feel daunted by this prospect have my permission to depart from this house for the night and we will think no ill of them. Those who remain must swear to adhere to these directions.’

 

Every member of the household staff vowed to comply, and sombrely went about their tasks.

 

After an early supper Hawkmoor and Wakefield patrolled the premises with Goodwife Strood, the chatelaine, and the new Chief Steward, making certain that every door and window, large or small, was locked and barred — including the portals in the lonely wing where Lord Rivenhall sulked.

 

‘What if the old master calls out?’ asked Goodwife Strood. ‘He would do it, methinks, just out of spite, beggin’ your pardon, sir.’

 

‘Never fear,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Every evening he demands one of the apothecary’s sleeping draughts, quaffs it to the last drop and snores till morning. His nurses will see to it that this night is no different.’

 

At day’s end family and friends gathered in the drawing-room, prepared to keep vigil throughout the night. Footmen built up the fire and lit as many candles as possible, but no brightness could dispel the sense of disquiet charging the atmosphere. Outside in the western sky, clouds of scalding gold were melting in a flood of blazing rubies. One of the upper housemaids went about closing the shutters, blocking out the last glimpse of the sunset. To Mazarine it felt like being locked in a cell.

 

Flames licked at the logs in the fireplace, throwing out wraith-like shadows that writhed curiously on the wall hangings. Up and down the solemn quietude of the great house, long corridors, cavernous galleries echoed every creak of contracting wood, every whisper of sifting dust. Those who waited in the deepening evening strained their senses in an effort to detect what was brewing, unseen, in the surrounding darkness. Out there, evening mists would be rising from the lake, curling in stealthy streamers through the shrubbery and around the house. From beyond the walls came no sound. All was as quiet and still as if the world had ceased to exist. No breeze blew, no night-owl called; no leaf rustled, no twig scratched on a windowpane.

 

Only in the drawing-room was there any noise; the whisper of flames, the ticking of a clock, the low breathing of the people there assembled and the occasional sigh. When a log in the fireplace fell in with a crash, everyone jumped. A footman quietly added more fuel to the burning pile.

 

Hours passed.

 

Mazarine, in rose-pink silk, sat with Hawkmoor at the centre of a circle of salt thickly strewn upon the floor. They remained wide awake, every nerve stretched to its utmost. Bedecked with little charms of amber and rowan-wood, the child slept in his mother’s arms. The lace collar of his dove-white frock framed his apple-cheeked face, soft as velvet, abandoned to dreaming.

 

At midnight there came a soft knock at the front door; rap-rap-rap.

 

Those who had fallen asleep in their chairs awakened with a jolt. The child opened his eyes. Without a word Mazarine gently clasped him in a firmer embrace. Her husband encircled them both with his arms.

 

‘We are here for Richard Canty!’ The low-pitched, resonant command seemed to penetrate to the very foundations of the premises.

 

The baby began to fret.

 

‘Bring oot Richard Canty! Richard Canty, come!’

 

Those who stood guard in the drawing-room gave no answer. They listened, they waited, they scarcely drew breath. Their hearts hammered.

 

Once more the voice called out and received no reply. Presently, through the taut silence, the listeners could clearly hear the clatter of footsteps departing from the door, and straight away the dogs in the kennels began to howl and bark furiously, as if disturbed by an intruder. Their tether-chains rattled and cracked as they hurled themselves forward to their limits.

 

Still nobody spoke.

 

It was the child who broke the uncanny hush in the drawing-room. Suddenly he was squirming and writhing in his mother’s grasp, as if trying to wriggle free, wailing at the top of his lungs. Mazarine held him more tightly, with Hawkmoor’s strong arms encircling her.

 

Creamy clouds of cooing arose all around, and a mighty flapping of wings from the courtyard, as flocks of birds erupted from the dovecote. Out in the stables the horses began to neigh. A series of crashes and loud bangs erupted as they pranced and plunged, trying to kick down the walls. Next came the whoosh of ignition and the roar of flames; evidence of an inferno being kindled in the stables. The horses shrieked, striking out with their hooves, as if endeavouring to escape a conflagration. At this, Hawkmoor closed his eyes and buried his face in his wife’s hair, for he loved his horses as his best friends, and it cost him dearly to refrain from rushing to the door.

 

The child was struggling to wrench himself from his mother’s hold. He, alone of the company, gave voice. He cried and squirmed until he was red in the face, but Mazarine, tears streaming down her face, would neither speak nor let him go. Meanwhile, outside in the kennels and stables the tumult increased.

 

All at once Mazarine felt herself seized by paralysis, as if crammed into a narrow iron coffin. With a scream of rending metal, every door and window in the house flew open.

 

A deep voice bellowed, ‘Richard Canty!’ The awful summons was like the roar of measureless waters plunging through caverns that had never known the sun. ‘Comes da call, Richard Canty! No midder’s airms be Strang eno’ tae hold dee! Bearin’ wir mark, bald and toot’less, if dee canna traivle, krieckle tae wis!’

 

Desperately, Mazarine held on to her child. The other watchers in the room were bound to the spot by the same invisible chains that constrained her. Nobody besides the infant could move. A powerful suction seemed to be dragging at the interior of the house, like the pull of a tidal wave; so intense that had they not been made as rigid as stone they could not have resisted it. Mazarine’s gown billowed as if blasted by a hurricane; her hair tumbled from its pins and whipped about her face. Her arms ached from holding so tightly to her precious bundle, and she felt her husband’s limbs tremble as he strove to keep his embrace intact. Minute by minute — or hour by hour, they strove against the terrible pressure.

 

At last every door and window slammed shut simultaneously and immediately they were free to move again. The child ceased to wail. Total silence clamped over the house. The fire had gone out and even the clock had ceased to tick. Time hung in suspension.

 

“Tis over,’ said Thrimby.

 

‘Yes,’ whispered Mazarine, peering at him through her tangled locks, ‘yet I am more afraid than ever, now that we have tricked them of their fee. Their vengeance will be severe.’

 

Hardly had she spoken when the eaves almost lifted off, and the house was rocked by a sudden gale, threaded by wild laughter. Boomed the voice, ‘Richard Canty bald and toot’less! Tae be oor servant in Trowland, ane life be as guid as another!’

 

Thrimby rushed to the nearest window, reached up and threw open the shutters. ‘Look!’ he shouted.

 

Save for Mazarine, who would not allow her child near any aperture, the company joined him at the fenestrations. Looking out across a landscape illumined by fading stars and the pale, waxing, predawn glow, they beheld none other than Lord Rivenhall himself, in his velvet robe, crawling and rolling down the lawns towards the shrubbery, where indefinable shapes milled in the dimness. Away went he, bald-headed without his wig of ringlets, shrieking indistinctly from his gummy mouth, his false teeth abandoned on the grass like the washed-up skeleton of some odd sea-creature. Despite all his effort and will, he was obeying the summons of the trows.

 

Said Hawkmoor, his voice rough with mixed emotions, ‘Oh. It comes to me now. His name is Richard Canty. Had I known it was for this reason that Thrimby bade me pretend to name the child after his grandsire, I would not have done so with such blitheness.’

 

On all fours the earl scrambled into the shrubbery, whereupon the laughter and the wild wind swirled once about the walls, then swept away towards the distance.

 

‘Thrimby, what have you done?’ Mazarine asked the servant-poet, who now stood before her hugging himself and rocking back and forth on his toes, as she rocked the child.

 

‘I took yer ‘andkerchief, as ‘twere some charm,’ he said he with a grin, ‘and rubbed the trow mark on the master’s palm.’

 

Dumfounded, Mazarine grasped the full meaning of Thrimby’s deed. For the first time she permitted a spark of hope to awaken in her spirit. ‘Will they not be angry and seek vengeance for the substitution?’

 

‘Nay, I’ll warrant they will not wrathful be. They found it droll, and laughed full merrily!’

 

‘But what does it mean, ‘if dee canna traivle, krieckle tae wis’?’

 

‘It means if you cannot walk, then crawl!’ cackled Thrimby. ‘Aye, crawl like a babbie, or like the old master, on ‘is bony knees!’ He scowled. ‘That stingy wretch, that hairless grasping fop who primped and preened himself from toe to top, who laughed on Firgrove’s field, and felt no pain to think his heir, young Hawkmoor, would be slain. Bah!’

 

Far off a rooster crowed. Behind the horizon the sky was paling.

 

‘Now comes the dawn-sun’s fiery brand,’ said Thrimby, ‘and trows must flee into their land beneath the ‘ills, else they’ll be bound on Er’th till sunset comes around.’

 

Or perhaps someone else said it, for when Mazarine looked around, Thrimby was nowhere to be seen.

 

The peaceful radiance of the springtime sun spread its blessing across the land. Everyone burst into conversation, exclaiming over the night’s events. The doors were unbarred, whereupon Hawkmoor accompanied by Wakefield and a retinue of household staff hastened outside to survey the damage to the premises. Others stepped out, their joy tempered with awe, to greet the new day. An under-housemaid re-kindled the fire while Mazarine paced around the chamber, too on edge to feel sleepy. In her arms, worn out but secure, the child slumbered.

 

‘What has happened to us on this strange night?’ Laurelia asked wonderingly, walking beside her friend. ‘I confess, I am bewildered.’

 

‘My darling boy’s true name,’ said Mazarine, ‘is not Richard but Westwood. We named him twice, as Thrimby advised — once in a secret ceremony at Creig-Ard, then in public, in case the trows had got wind of our whereabouts. It is the name first-bestowed that is the true one. By such tricks as this we tried to keep our son safe from the trows, but we could not guess that they would take Lord Rivenhall instead! Away in the east wing he was struggling, I daresay, against their summons as my darling was struggling in my arms — yet we could not know what was happening to him, and would have been powerless to prevent his leaving in any case.’

 

‘I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw the earl’s bald head!’ said Laurelia. ‘Now it is clear why he always wore those hats. I daresay the cap tied beneath his chin was holding his wig on.’

 

‘Bald?’ echoed Mazarine.

 

‘Indeed, and toothless, too, as bald and toothless as your bonny babe here, yet nobody ever knew, because the earl’s vanity would not let him admit to it!’

 

Presently, a shout was heard from one of the courtyards. Soon afterwards Hawkmoor re-entered the room, followed by the stable-boy and the master of hounds, who was carrying what appeared to be a small log of wood.

 

‘All is well!’ Hawkmoor cried. “Twas all Glamour; neither beast nor fowl nor outbuilding has been harmed or damaged — but look here! We found this limb of moss-oak leaning against the wall of the kitchen gardens.’

 

The wood had been cut to his son’s exact height, and crudely carved into the shape of an infant resembling him.

 

‘A trow-stock!’ exclaimed Hawkmoor in disgust, and he bade the servants fling the wightish effigy on the drawing-room fire, where it burned fiercely until it fell to ash.

 

* * * *

 

From that day forth the earl was never seen again — except, possibly, once. After seven years the laws of the land decreed that he was extinct, and his titles then passed to his heir. The new Lord and Lady Rivenhall enjoyed a long and happy life together with their seven children, but ever after, their first-born son Westwood Canty, Lord Fleetwood, was curiously drawn to the wild places.

 

When he was eighteen years of age — tall and strapping, the very image of his father — Westwood was walking home along a sunken road one Summer’s evening when he sat down oh a milestone to rest. The last twinkle of the sun’s rays had just vanished below the tree-tops and an eerie afterglow suffused the landscape. The road clove between two hills, with steep, leafy banks rising on either side. Seated on the stone Westwood happened to glance up. He jumped to his feet, astonished at what he saw. On the other side of the road an opening ran into the hillside. He felt certain it had not been there a moment earlier. In that hollow place stood a speckled cow, and if he was not mistaken she was Southdale Farm’s very best milch-cow, which had died a year ago. Even more impossible was the figure that squatted on a three-legged stool, milking the cow into a wooden pail; a shrunken, shrivelled old man with a pushed-in mouth and a head as bald as an egg. A metal bar extended from one side of the opening to the other, as if to prevent his exit. This apparition, who was wearing fine clothes with a dirty lace collar and cuffs, looked up at young Westwood and grimaced, but cordially grunted something that might have been ‘Good evening’, had his lips not flapped indistinctly over toothless gums.

 

Westwood bowed and wished him the same.

 

The ancient gaffer seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, and Westwood thought about an old phrase his mother had taught him during his boyhood years, in case he ever chanced upon someone who was trow-bound, which seemed to be the case here. While he scratched his head and tried to recall the exact words the old man filled up a cup with frothy milk and offered it to him with a gummy smile. Westwood took the vessel, put it to his lips and was just about to drink when he remembered that those who eat or drink trow food become trapped in Trow-land forever. Aghast, he threw down the cup. As the contents splashed across the road the old man shrieked and the entire scene disappeared.

 

Westwood hastened home without pausing until he reached his door. Afterwards he recalled the phrase his mother had taught him, but he was never sure whether what he had seen that evening had been real, or whether he had fallen into a doze, there on the milestone, and it had all been no more than a dream.

 

* * * *

 

Afterword

 

‘The Enchanted’ takes place in Erith, the setting for my Bitterbynde series. It was a joy to return to that fantastic yet familiar world after so long an absence — to the shang winds, the towers of the Relayers and the flying ships. Not least, it was a delight to revisit the myriad seelie and unseelie wights of Erith; in particular the trows, that interesting race from the folkloric traditions of the Orkney and Shetland islands.

 

The idea for the story came to me some while ago. Whenever I have a story idea I jot it down for future reference, and wait until the time is right for it to become fully fledged. Kelmscott Hall is, of course, titled in honour of William Morris. The name ‘Mazarine’ simply arrived with the protagonist, but it refers to a beautiful, deep shade of blue, one of my favourite colours.

 

— Cecilia Dart-Thornton

 

* * * *

 

Notes on the text of ‘The Enchanted’

 

The Shock appears in County Folk Lore Vol. I ‘Gloucestershire’, ed. ES Hartland 1892, ‘Suffolk’ ed. Lady EC Gurdon 1893, and Leicestershire and Rutland,, ed. CJ Billson 1895. It is also mentioned in The Bitterbynde Book I: The Ill-Made Mute by Cecilia Dart-Thornton, Tor, 2001.

 

The Tale of Katherine Fordyce is told in ‘The Home of a Naturalist’ by Edmonston and Saxby, in County Folk-Lore Vol. Ill, Orkney and Shetland Islands, pp. 23-5, Folklore Society County Publications, 1901.

 

Trows, being creatures from the folklore of the Shetland Islands, speak a Shetland dialect.

 

‘Up horse, up hedik’ is based on an anecdote in Shetland Folk Book Vol. Ill ed. TA Robertson and John J Graham, Shetland Times Ltd., Lerwick, 1957. Also mentioned in The Bitterbynde Book 1: The Ill-Made Mute by Cecilia Dart-Thornton, 2001.

 

The Trows Come for Their Payment was inspired by and partially quoted from ‘Sandy Harg’s Wife’, in R.H. Cromek’s Remains of Galloway and Nithsdale Song, London, 1810, p. 305. Another version appears in The Crowthistle Chronicles Book 2: The Well of Tears by Cecilia Dart-Thornton, Tor, 2005.