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.

 

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