Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Grunewald left Somerdale before dawn on the following morning, having enjoyed but a few hours of slumber. He barely felt the effects of his lost sleep, for he was enjoying a mixture of intrigue and alarm which kept his brain lively and his steps energetic. The theft of Tatterfoal could be no good news, but in the face of this emergency, he felt more alive than he had in years. Mr. Green of Hyde Place, and the dissipated life that he led under the disguise, seemed far away indeed.

Grunewald bent his lively mind to the problem with alacrity. Anyone who knew of Tatterfoal must know of the horse’s advantages. The fog which attended upon his every step cloaked the actions of both horse and rider from prying eyes; Tatterfoal’s terrifying appearance, combined with the legends of ill-luck and horror which had grown up around him, kept interfering parties at bay; and he was, besides all this, the fastest mount ever known — when he chose to run. The question of how somebody had contrived to make off with the horse may prove difficult to answer, but Grunewald had no difficulty imagining why somebody would go to the lengths and risks of stealing the creature; he was the perfect accomplice for dark deeds.

And uncatchable. Grunewald harboured no hopes whatsoever of being able to run down whoever had stolen the horse; not if they caught wind of his pursuit, and urged Tatterfoal into flight. His only hope was to position himself cleverly, choosing somewhere the creature was likely to pass through, and by this means contrive to catch sight of whoever had taken possession of his prize mount. The fog was an obstacle, to be sure, but he had retainers aplenty at his command.

He did not judge that Tatterfoal would emerge until after sunset, which gave him some hours in which to make his arrangements. He embarked at once for that area of the countryside in which he had encountered the horse the night before, and set about summoning assistance. Placing himself in, as near as he could judge, the very spot in which he had previously intercepted Tatterfoal, he dismounted from the sadly ordinary mare he had borrowed from the Aylfendeanes’ stables and uttered a string of words rarely heard in England before.

The sun had yet to fully rise, and he stood cloaked in shadow but barely touched by the sluggish, grey light of dawn. His breath steamed in the cold air, and he felt the creeping chill of October seeping through the layers of his coat. He felt a flicker of impatience, then, when minutes passed with no response, and no sound save the faint creaking of the trees in the rising winds.

Then a tiny ball of cold, greenish-pale light winked into being near his face and bobbed a greeting.

‘About time,’ Grunewald growled.

Three others soon joined the first, and then half a dozen more. Grunewald waited until each of the dark, looming trees around him had sprouted lights like bunches of grapes, and the clearing was aglow with wisp-light. Then, still speaking the ancient Darkling tongue, he issued his instructions. When he had finished, the wisps flickered their compliance and streamed away. Soon, Grunewald was left in near darkness once more.

The wisps would spread out across Tilton Wood, dampen their lights to almost nothing, and wait for a glimpse of Tatterfoal. That such subterfuge was necessary was not in question; Grunewald’s pursuit of the goblin horse the night before had ended in disappointment. He had caught up with Tatterfoal, to be sure, but lost him again; and whoever had taken possession of him had abandoned the horse and disappeared. If he wished to catch sight of the rider as well, he would need all the assistance his wisps could give him, and their light alone could reliably penetrate the thick, drifting fog which clung to Tatterfoal’s heels.

The sun rose, though its light was feeble and hidden behind a thick blanket of grey cloud. Grunewald spent the daylight hours recruiting further assistance from the shy leafling fae that populated Tilton Wood, and an occasional hob or hob-goblin tucked into underground burrows beneath the trees. By the end of the day, he was hungry, cold and tired, but he had achieved his goal: the woods and hills surrounding Tilby were alive with watchers, and he had taken care to position some few near to Hapworth Manor.

He had but one task left, that being to hope that Tatterfoal would return this evening.

In this, he was not disappointed. Drenching fog seeped up from the ground almost as soon as the sun disappeared, and the chill night grew colder still. Grunewald did not move from his appointed position. He did not think it coincidence that he had encountered Tatterfoal in the depths of Tilton Wood, and there he intended to stay.

Time drifted past. His hair grew wet and dripping beneath the chill fingers of the fog, and his coat and boots soaked through. After some hours of vigil, he felt frozen to his core and began to shiver.

This hardship he ignored. He stood, immoveable and still, in a cocoon of thick white fog, unable to see more than two feet around him. With nothing to fix his attention upon and naught to do, his mind drifted, turning over myriad notions as to the meaning of Tatterfoal’s theft.

That it had something to do with the Adairs, he could not help but wonder, for Hapworth Manor was situated but a mile from his present position. He had entered the environs of Tilby by chance, the year before, in company with another: an Aylir of Aylfenhame named Aubranael, disguised at the time as a human gentleman. The ensuing caper had amused him, but he had been particularly intrigued by the town of Tilby. Its enveloping woods, called Tilton by the residents, struck him as beyond the ordinary; some quality to its trees and carpeting mosses and its filtering green lights, some note to its verdant aromas, seemed to him unusually primeval — even fae. The town was blessed with an unusually thriving population of fae creatures, though he did not imagine that the townsfolk were aware of it beyond the brownies which took up residence with them.

And then there was the bridge-keeper, Balligumph. Grunewald had travelled widely throughout England, and he knew well how unusual the toll-keeper was. A troll, come out of Aylfenhame to keep the Tilby bridge? It was but a modest crossing at that, too small to warrant any kind of toll. And the price asked for passage was strange, too: not coin, but information.

Oh, Tilby was certainly unusual. Intrigued, Grunewald had remained even after Aubranael had left, and sought to discover more. His enquiries had led him all the way to the Chronicler’s Library in the royal city of Mirramay, in Aylfenhame; and there he had learned… a few things.

The town of Tilby was situated directly across the divide from the ancient Aylfenhame town of Grenlowe. He now suspected that it had long borne close connections with the fae lands, and that the fae had left more than one lingering mark upon the place.

He suspected still more that some of those connections had taken root among the populace of the town — its human populace. This suspicion had been confirmed recently, when a sweet young woman known as Miss Ellerby had discovered Ayliri heritage and the powers to match, and had accordingly become a witch.

That there were more families hereabouts with fae blood, Grunewald no longer doubted; but that they were all as innocently placed, and as inherently harmless, as Isabel Aylfendeane and her fledgling powers, he could not feel confident of. The Library of Mirramay had revealed disturbing hints of powerful Ayliri bloodlines mingled with equally powerful English families, and Grunewald’s misgivings had grown. Even the Chronicler’s records could offer little by way of fixed information, and Grunewald had taken it upon himself to try to discover more.

And now, the business of Tatterfoal. The two things may not be connected at all; but on the other hand, they might. Grunewald kept his mind open to possibilities, and waited.

His thoughts drifted to the hapless maid he had rescued on the previous night. She was wasted on the Adairs, and on service; that he had quickly seen. She had borne her abrupt dismissal with composure, and gamely set out into an inclement night with no fears beyond the reasonable. Moreover, she had been brought face-to-face with Tatterfoal and had proved remarkably impervious to the horse’s terrors. He regretted bearing her along on that venture, but there had not been sufficient time to deposit her somewhere without losing his quarry.

She interested him, and more than a little. Her lack of deference did not offend him; rather, it was refreshing — though if she had spoken to her former masters in the same fashion, he considered it no surprise at all that she had been turned off. Her spirit impressed him, and her wit amused him. It was a matter of some faint regret that he would, in all likelihood, see little of her henceforth — if he ever saw her again.

A faint sound reached his ears through the muffling fog: the breaking of a stick, and the dull thud of a hoofbeat. All thoughts of the black-haired maid fled from his mind; with a strong effort of will he resisted the urge to turn in search of the sound, and continued to wait.

Another thud, and another. Hoofbeats indeed. Grunewald stopped breathing as the sounds came closer. A faint, dark shadow moved in the fog up ahead.

Grunewald whispered a word, and a light flared in the darkness: a wisp had erupted into life. More followed, and within moments the woods were drenched in a stark, piercing wisp-light which blazed through the fog, and revealed the dark form of Tatterfoal.

And his rider. Grunewald felt a moment’s fierce satisfaction, for his subterfuge had worked: his quarry, unaware of any surveillance, had not yet fled. The rider looked sharply around, blinking in the sudden light, and with a wordless cry he applied his heels to Tatterfoal’s flanks and disappeared into the night and the fog.

The encounter lasted no more than three seconds, but it had been enough: Grunewald had seen. What he had glimpsed shocked him to the core, for the rider’s visage had been as familiar to Grunewald as… well, as his own.

Rage filled him. Abandoning his hiding-place, he darted for his mare, swung himself up upon her back and rode in furious pursuit of Tatterfoal, screaming wordless fury. But though he rode long into the night, he never caught up with his wayward goblin mount, or the rider who had stolen the beast’s loyalty.

***

Bess woke to find the hour far advanced. The sun was up and shining full upon Somerdale, which caused her to feel wonder and regret in equal measure. She could not remember the last time she had risen from her bed in daylight; it was a rare thing, even in the heart of summer. In the midst of October, it was unheard of and unthinkable.

Which meant she was shamefully late in presenting herself to her kind hostess.

Worse — or, perhaps, better yet — someone had been into Bessie’s room while she slept. A fire burned in the hearth, and a large jug of fresh water had been set next to the pretty porcelain wash basin which stood upon the dresser. Recognising the work of a housemaid, Bess could only stare. Only a single day ago, it had been her unhappy task to rise in the dark and the cold of the morning and light fires which other people would enjoy. How was it that she had, in so short a space of time, become one of the few to benefit from such labours?

Best not get accustomed, she cautioned herself, for it could not last. Besides, even in the midst of her pleasure at washing her face in clean, warm water, she felt a touch of guilt, for she could sympathise all too clearly with the probable feelings of the maid who had laid out these delights for her.