The Tales of Aylfenhame Compendium

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Now, before we get too carried away with the story, allow me t’catch ye up on a few small matters.

I ought t’make clear that I knew nowt o’ this at the time, an’ sorry I am that it was so, for matters might ha’ been much less complicated-like later on, if I had. Still, to be all-knowin’ is beyond the power of any bein’, much as I may wish it otherwise.

Grunewald, though. Grunewald I did, and do, know. He’s a bit of a legend in these parts. He’s a witchifier, like Hidenory—thick as thieves, them two—but for reasons known only to hisself, he’s made his home in England. ‘Gentleman Grunewald’, they call him, for he likes to pass hisself off as a gentry-cove. Mighty talented he is at it, too. Nobody knows what he really looks like, but nobody much cares.

At the time o’ tellin’, Gentleman Grunewald was loiterin’ about in Nottinghamshire. He ‘ad a house right on the edge o’ Sherwood Forest, an’ thas where our good friend Aubranael was goin’.’

On the other side of Hidenory’s door, Aubranael found a large mansion house. The door opened onto the hallway, quite as if he had come through the front entrance. The building was old, and the decor eccentric: a frieze ran around the walls near the ceiling, depicting nymphs and satyrs frolicking with a variety of woodland creatures, and the rest of the walls were panelled with wood and painted dark green. His heels clacked loudly on the stone floor as he crossed it.

‘Hello?’ he called. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, and no answer came.

Aubranael stood, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable. Here he was in someone else’s house, with no particular invitation, and not a soul in sight to greet (or, indeed, repel) him.

He waited for some time, unwilling to call again. Then, just as he was filling his lungs for another shout, he heard footsteps approaching.

A grand staircase stood immediately before him, its gilded banisters carved with a plethora of foliage and its steps made from pale stone. It was upon this fine contraption that a figure finally appeared: a tall, spare figure, dressed similarly to Aubranael, and with a fine head of tousled (in fact, rather mad) red hair.

‘Morning!’ said the figure brightly, and trotted energetically down the stairs. ‘My deepest apologies! I was still dressing, late though it is. It is these dratted neck-cloths. I can never get them quite as I wish.’

What is a neck-cloth? Aubranael wondered dazedly. He supposed the person must mean the complicated white fabric construction which adorned his neck, the folds of which looked impossibly complex to Aubranael’s eye. It struck him of a sudden that he, too, might have to manage this aspect of his wardrobe henceforth.

‘Are you Grunewald?’ Aubranael enquired.

The man’s eyes—a bright, leafy spring green in hue—sharpened, and his expression turned wary. ‘I am known as Frederick Green,’ he said with a polite smile.

Aubranael nodded, satisfied that he had found the right person. His host’s face had shown no trace of confusion or puzzlement whatsoever. ‘My name is Aubranael,’ he said, and bowed—this time without losing his hat. ‘Hidenory has sent me to you.’

‘Ah!’ said Grunewald, or Green, and his eyes brightened. ‘A project! This is tremendous. I was growing awfully bored.’ To Aubranael’s surprise, he took a tiny painted box from some concealed spot within his clothes, opened it up, and took a pinch of something from inside. Then he put his fingers to his nose and inhaled.

Aubranael blinked at him.

‘Snuff,’ said Grunewald. ‘It is quite pleasant; you’ll try it sometime. But where was I?’ He hid the box again, watching Aubranael’s face through lazily narrowed eyes—an expression which, Aubranael felt sure, concealed a tremendous alertness and sharpness of mind. ‘Why did Hidenory send you?’

Feeling desperately awkward, Aubranael tried to explain his circumstances in the briefest and most impersonal manner he could manage. He felt that he carried it off fairly creditably, and to his relief Grunewald did not appear to take against him for knowing that his handsome face hid a decidedly less attractive reality.

‘Ah, yes—poor fellow—quite understand,’ said Grunewald. ‘Isn’t Hidenory marvellous? Very skilled, she is—very skilled. Now then, you must have a powerful reason for adopting this amusing facade—am I right? I wish you to tell me all about it.’

Aubranael began the story. As he spoke, Grunewald guided him to a small parlour which was as madly decorated as the hallway, and waved Aubranael to a chair. A tray of tea things was already set out, somehow, and it had not been there long, for the cup that Grunewald presently handed to him contained steaming hot tea. Aubranael sipped gratefully at it as he told his tale; the day had been long and eventful, he appeared to have skipped the night altogether, and he was quite tired.

Grunewald nodded along enthusiastically, devouring several small cakes and tarts as he listened. He handed over a small plate piled high with more treats, still warm from the oven. ‘Eat them all,’ he advised. ‘I should think you’ll need to, after all that.’

Aubranael, being ravenous as well as tired, was happy to follow these instructions. The cakes tasted marvellous, and he polished off three in quick succession as Grunewald ruminated on his story.

‘So!’ said his host said at last, ‘there is a lady in the case! I might have guessed. There usually is.’ He beamed at Aubranael. ‘Well! Then you will be needing—let’s see—clothes, carriages, a good house—all the necessaries for impressing a lady. Nothing could be simpler. Where did you say she is living? Tilby?’

‘Yes,’ Aubranael said around a mouthful of cake. He swallowed quickly, and as Grunewald continued to look at him blankly he added: ‘It is in a place called Lincolnshire.’

‘Ah! Lincolnshire. A fine county, not too far off.’ He paused, thinking, as Aubranael ate two more tarts. ‘Yes! Absolutely. No question about it. I shall go with you.’

‘Oh, no!’ Aubranael demurred. ‘Such a deal of trouble for you—I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Not at all,’ Grunewald interrupted. ‘It will be an adventure! I am, as I think I already said, quite bored.’

Aubranael began to smile, charmed by his new friend’s enthusiasm and irrepressible good cheer. He was secretly relieved to know that he would have a companion through the coming weeks, and Grunewald’s calm acceptance of his true face heartened him as well. They were two of a kind, Grunewald and Hidenory; neither had made any bones about his lack of beauty. Perhaps because they dealt so freely in glamour themselves, they felt that mere reality was unimportant.

But then, both had chosen handsome faces for themselves… perhaps it wasn’t quite that simple.

Grunewald sprang up from his seat in a fine show of energy and clapped his hands together. ‘Good! Capital! Best get on. We have a great deal to do.’

‘I—thank you—’ Aubranael began, realising that he had failed to respond to his host’s offer of accompaniment.

‘Not at all,’ Grunewald said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘I ask only that it be entertaining, this projected adventure. No doubt Tilby will be a lively place, with plenty to do.’ He smiled hopefully at Aubranael, who spread his hands.

‘I know nothing about it,’ he admitted.

‘Well, we shall see. Now, your name. It is perfectly excellent, but it will not do in these parts. You will need something more English, and preferably unremarkable.’

‘Like Frederick Green,’ Aubranael noted.

Grunewald beamed. ‘Precisely. Let me think a moment.’ He did so rather visibly, staring into space and scrunching his brow. ‘I have it! Aubrey! Ha, ha! It is perfect.’

Aubranael frowned. ‘It is perhaps too similar?’

‘It is to be complete concealment of your identity, is it? Even from the lady? Very well. It shall stand as your first name; no one ever uses those.’ He thought some more. ‘Aubrey Stanton. How do you like that?’

Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Aubrey Stanton. Mr. Stanton. Aubranael turned it over in his mind, and found that he liked the sound of it. It was, as Grunewald had said, very English, and quite unremarkable. ‘It is excellent,’ he said with a shy smile.

‘Capital!’ said Grunewald. ‘Well then, Mr. Stanton. Let us see to the matter of your wardrobe.’

If Aubranael had expected to be taken to a tailor’s shop for his new garments, he was mistaken. Instead, Grunewald conducted him up the grand staircase in the hall, up another flight directly after, and then up two more increasingly narrow and winding staircases before he finally stopped before a bright red door and knocked upon it. He went inside without waiting for a response, and Aubranael followed.

Beyond the door was a large room, and inside the room were several goblins. They were all furiously busy with piles and piles of fabric, thread and assorted tools. Aubranael could not determine precisely what they were making, but the fact that they all wore exquisitely tailored coats like Grunewald’s seemed to offer a clue. The coats sat oddly on their spindly frames, looking completely incongruous with their knobbly elbows and knees and their greenish-brown skin.

As Grunewald entered, they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at him—and then at Aubranael as he followed his host inside.

‘Hey! We are busy!’ said one, waving a half-finished coat in illustration of his point.

‘Lovely work,’ said another, eyeing Aubranael’s coat. ‘Yours, sir?’

Grunewald shook his head. ‘Hidenory’s.’

‘Ahhh! May I touch it?’

‘No.’

The goblin’s shoulders drooped, and Aubranael felt rather sorry for the creature. Grunewald forged briskly ahead, however, allowing him no opportunity to intervene. ‘My guest is in need of your assistance! Two or three coats, please, at the least. The usual range. Quickly, quickly! We have much to do.’

The goblin tailors chorused an assent and instantly swarmed over Aubranael. Knotted ropes borne by nimble goblin hands circled his waist, chest, shoulders, arms and neck—even his legs and head. Rough goblin voices shouted out measurements, and a scriber chalked everything up on a blackboard.

Then there was a flurry of activity as fabrics were sought for, offered for approval, chosen and discarded. Grunewald asked Aubranael’s opinion on a variety of hues and shades, but all he could do was nod dumbly at them all. What did he know of the differences between dark blue and dark red with his (borrowed) colouring? What did he know of wool or cotton or superfine or whatever else? Grunewald soon stopped asking, and settled the decisions himself.

Choices made, the goblins leapt into activity, swarming over the long tables set up throughout the room and throwing fabrics around with terrific energy. Grunewald quickly shepherded Aubranael out of the room and shut the door on the goblin tailors. ‘Better leave them to it,’ he said wisely.

Aubranael blinked. ‘Why are they here?’

‘No idea at all,’ Grunewald replied cheerfully. ‘They turned up at the house—oh, a long time ago. I gave them this room and they’ve been here ever since.’

‘Making coats?’

‘Yes. They love it above anything.’

‘Do you pay them?’

‘Pay them? My dear fellow, do you have any idea how much they cost me in food, not to mention cloth and so on? No idea at all what they do with most of the things they make—sell them, for all I know. Making a few for me and mine is the least they can do in return.’

Aubranael had the feeling that Grunewald was not being entirely honest with him; that he was holding back some important piece of information that would have clarified the situation considerably. He had to be satisfied with this, however, as Grunewald had already opened the next door in the long passageway—a blue one—and gone inside. Aubranael hastily followed.

He was greeted by a scene remarkably similar to the first, only these goblins were all wearing voluminous, snowy-white shirts over their patched knee-britches. Aubranael had to submit to another episode of frenzied measuring as Grunewald ordered shirts for him—‘Ten at least, please, and quick about it!’—and then they were moving on once more through a yellow door, and then a green one, a brown one, a purple one and an orange, behind each of which lay another team of tailors. This mad procession continued until Grunewald had ordered trousers, waistcoats, boots and shoes, hats, neck-cloths and nightshirts. At last he turned to Aubranael and said, with unimpaired cheer, ‘Those will be ready by morning, I should think! Shall we see about the carriage next?’

Aubranael, who felt completely drained, would have preferred a few minutes’ pause in this whirlwind of activity, but he could not think of a way of saying so without displaying an intolerable degree of ingratitude. So he said nothing, and followed in silence.

Grunewald chattered chummily about commonplace things as he led his guest back through his enormous and complicated house and out into a coach-yard, but Aubranael’s thoughts were too busy to pay much attention. Ready by morning, he’d said? Which morning? For the windows in the goblin tailors’ sequence of rooms had all appeared to display a different time of day, from dawn to the depths of night.

And why did Grunewald have such an astonishing quantity of goblins living in his peculiar house, all delighted to do his bidding? Had they been calling him “sir” or “sire”? Aubranael eyed his new friend, wondering whether the true form hidden behind his handsome facade might prove to be somewhat shorter, knobblier and greener.

Grunewald caught him at this covert surveillance, and smiled. ‘Don’t overthink it,’ he recommended, and winked. ‘Now, then: we shan’t need anything new, I shouldn’t think. Just a few alterations!’ He set about delivering instructions to yet another crew of goblins, these armed with the tools of blacksmiths, upholsterers and engineers. As they leapt to do as he asked, Aubranael merely sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes.

Aubranael’s tireless host kept up this ruthless routine for most of the day, pausing only for meals (to Aubranael’s immense relief). The food was always excellent; he pictured to himself a kitchen full of pies, syllabubs and flummeries, cakes, breads and all manner of good things, probably prepared by a small horde of goblin chefs.

Night had fallen, and remained for some hours, by the time Grunewald’s limitless energy finally began to flag. ‘Sleep a little!’ he said, clapping Aubranael on the shoulder. ‘We’re almost ready to depart. Capital day’s work. Only need to collect your wardrobe in the morning, and off we’ll go. See you bright and early!’ He pointed Aubranael in the direction of a closed door—a plain white one, this time—and disappeared behind the one opposite before Aubranael had chance to reply.

‘Good night,’ he said belatedly. Venturing into his assigned room, Aubranael paused only long enough to take note of the enormous bed—large, soft and deliciously comfortable-looking. He would have fallen straight into it, but a pair of goblins approached.

‘Let us help you with that, sir,’ said one. They each took hold of his coat and began to drag it off him; it was a tight-fitting garment and it took considerable effort from both of them to prise it away from his shoulders. He wondered vaguely how he would ever get it on again.

The rest of his attire came away rather more easily, and his goblin attendants speedily replaced them with a nightshirt and cap. Aubranael was as unused to the process of being dressed and undressed as he was to the garments themselves, but he was far too tired to object. The moment the night-cap had been twitched into place on his head, he turned back the covers of his glorious new bed, collapsed into it, and instantly fell asleep.

He was woken sometime later by an offensively loud clanging noise. Opening his bleary eyes, he dimly perceived a goblin standing near his head, banging a gong.

‘Wake! Wake! Master says to get up!’

‘I’m awake,’ Aubranael grumbled. He had not slept enough, and the goblin’s appalling racket threatened to give him a headache. But these things mattered not a whit when he remembered where he was. Today was departure day! How long would it take to reach Tilby? Perhaps he would see Miss Landon again this very day!

He leapt out of bed, and submitted with impatience to his goblin attendants as they encouraged him to bathe, and then reassembled his strange but handsome attire. The coat required almost as much effort to restore as the rest of the dressing process combined.

At last—bathed, shaved, groomed and dressed, his hair wet and his heart light—Aubranael followed a goblin guide down to the dining chamber, to find a noble breakfast already laid out. Grunewald was there, sipping a cup of chocolate as he perused a stack of newspapers. ‘Eat plentifully, but quickly!’ he advised. ‘The coach is all ready to go, and so must we be, soon.’

Aubranael followed these instructions with gusto. A flutter of nervous wings in his belly rather damaged his appetite, but he forced the food down—he had never enjoyed being hungry. This task completed, he went with Grunewald back to the main hallway.

A pile of clothes was stacked near the front door. An enormous pile of clothes. It spread across so much of the floor as to partially block the doorway, and towered almost to the ceiling.

‘They may perhaps have been a little too enthusiastic,’ Grunewald said thoughtfully. ‘No matter! We will take it all.’

As if these words had been a signal, a line of goblins streamed into the room and began to take parts of the pile away through the huge front door and into the large coach that stood waiting outside. The tower quickly collapsed, dumping quantities of shirts, boots and waistcoats onto the heads of the goblin porters. Undeterred, they clambered free and resumed their task, not stopping until all of the garments had been taken away.

Surveying the coach, Aubranael frowned. Large it may be, but he had no notion at all as to how the porters had managed to fit all the clothes inside. By his reckoning, they would need at least four coaches of similar size, but no others stood waiting.

‘Don’t overthink it,’ Grunewald said gravely, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Come now. Hat—’ he plonked Aubranael’s tall hat unceremoniously onto his head—‘Greatcoat’—he threw a voluminous, shockingly heavy mess of fabric into Aubranael’s hands and quickly shrugged into his own ankle-length coat—‘and we are away! Come along!’

He strode out of the door and stepped into the coach, Aubranael following close behind. ‘I hope you are feeling rested,’ Grunewald said as they settled themselves inside, ‘for we have much to do!’

‘Do?’ Aubranael said blankly as the coach—manned, to all appearances, by humans rather than goblins—began to move. ‘What can we possibly do in here?’

‘I will teach,’ Grunewald beamed, ‘and you will learn.’

‘What am I learning?’

‘Etiquette, my dear fellow! The rules of gentlemanly behaviour, and all that. If you think the Faerie of Aylfenhame are irrational, wait until you see how the folk of England behave.’