Dragon Hoard and Other Tales of Faerie

by Cathleen Townsend

The gargoyle’s attention sharpened as a hook lodged itself around the pillar to his right. A soft, “Got it,” from the ground, and the rope tightened. It was far too late for anyone to be at church. What was the girl doing?

  The pronged hook holding the rope slid a fraction of an inch. He strained as he never had before, to reach the thing and hold it safe, but he was frozen, imprisoned in rock. Useless to the girl when she needed him.

  His entire being surged with relief when her head appeared next to him. At least she had not fallen.

  Yet. “You know (gasp), working out at the gym (gasp), just doesn’t take away age.” She hauled herself up, inch by terrible inch, arms shaking. “There.”

  She reached over to pat his cheek. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Then she reached under her jacket and withdrew a flask. She wiped her mouth afterward and said, “Shit. Now what? That was the last goal I had.”

  After another pull, she had to wipe her eyes as well. Then she fell against him, weeping, and the flask fell from her fingers to crash down on the streets below.

  “What the hell, I’ve got enough in me already.” This was apparently a cue for more weeping, and small horrible whimpers as she struggled to keep the tears in check and failed.

  The ledge was too small. Only her arms around him and the foot she’d wedged against the pillar were keeping her here. And her arms were shaking. Her whole body shook as sobs wracked her body.

  He strained. Surely he must not be required to watch her fall to her death. He was certain he had never been so cruel.

  “So, you won’t be seeing Steven anymore,” the girl said. Silver threads in her hair reflected the moonlight. “He’s got someone else now. Tiffany! It’s like a bad joke—even a bimbo name. Except that it’s happening to me.”

  She wept again and reached for her flask, peering over the edge. The gargoyle longed to hold her fast, but she caught herself in time.

  “Well, that nearly solved that. You know, I wouldn’t even mind. Everyone always had something for me to do. And I told myself it was okay, that I was spending my life for the ones I loved. Except now, none of them want me anymore. I guess all the things I did for them weren’t that important after all.”

  What? He loved everything the girl did. He treasured every gesture, every word. His soul cried out in supplication, but his stone prison was absolute.

  The girl’s foot slipped.

  The gargoyle’s wing snapped open. He pulled her close and whispered a single word. “Fideles.”

  He remembered his name.

  Trojan Wargames

  The beaches of Troy were quiet as the sun’s last light gilded the rows of tents and ships. Warriors lounged before fires with wine cups, dining on fish and roasted goat. Slaves attended their masters, binding the wounds of the less fortunate. Achilles sat alone in his tent, gazing in despair at the body of his childhood companion, Patroclus. In the city itself, Hector enfolded his wife in his arms, trying to ease her worries of the morrow with kisses. Olympus would decide his fate, but not just yet.

  High above, the many-pillared halls of Olympus were well-lit. In the center of the throne room sat a vast marble table. Fine gold plates held a few remaining squares of ambrosia. Three gods sat on each side tonight, with Zeus presiding from his throne at the head of the table. In the center was an exquisitely drawn map, with mountains, cities, and oceans rendered in fine detail. Every immortal’s attention was riveted on the Aegean coast.

  Since the Trojan War began, every night was game night on Olympus.

  Zeus gathered the six-sided dice, and the faint clink caused the whispered conference of the gods to cease as effectively as a shout. The corners of Zeus’s lips turned up, and he prolonged the moment before releasing the dice with a practiced flick. They rolled to a stop, showing a three and a two, not enough to beat the previous eight. The gods on Team Troy groaned. Aphrodite gestured to the hulking Ares and golden Apollo, and they drew together, discussing how they could recoup Troy’s losses before the next toss.

  Gray-eyed Athena traded smug looks with Poseidon and Hermes, the other members present from Team Greece. Poseidon said, “Achilles will receive special armor, then.” His tone was bored, but amusement lurked in his sea-green eyes. He was as quick to erupt in anger as the sea itself, but Greece’s latest gains had restored his good temper.

  Aphrodite’s own blue eyes narrowed. Troy had Greece nearly beaten, driven back to their ships due to her brilliant argument between Achilles and the Greek king. Now Achilles, a piece she’d gone to great lengths to neutralize, was back in the game.

  “We could always try another side bet,” Athena said. The willowy brunette’s tones were soothing, keeping all traces of excitement from her voice. Athena’s side bets had so far scraped a lead for Team Greece from what had been a losing position.

  “What an excellent idea,” Apollo responded without missing a beat. Team Troy could use some guile as well. “How about a new demigod? Aphrodite versus Athena for who is the mother. The winner can choose the father, and he will henceforth lead a charmed life.” It was a brilliant strike at Team Greece’s weakness. Aphrodite had already undergone pregnancy cheerfully, but Athena had never lain with a man in her life.

  Athena shot back a steely gaze filled with barely-contained anger. “Sex is hardly worth the inevitable complications.”

  Aphrodite laughed. “You have no idea what you’re missing. That’s taking wisdom entirely too far.” A pleased smile, one that mortal men would cheerfully kill for, curved her lips as her hip shifted forward and she smoothed back a lock of blonde hair. All the male team members sighed.

  Apollo grinned. “And just think how great the make-up sex will be later.” Aphrodite hadn’t been getting along with her husband, Hephaestus, since the game began. He rarely bothered to show, and when he did, he often sided with Team Greece. It was an insult really, considering all the work Aphrodite put in for Team Troy. They’d need great sex to be on speaking terms again.

  “That will be enough,” rumbled Zeus. If his queen showed tonight, sex would be an unfortunate topic. He’d fathered enough demigods that it was a subject best avoided.

  Aphrodite batted her eyes one last time at Poseidon to annoy Athena, but she subsided. It was enough that she’d shown her rival that battle strategy wasn’t everything. Again.

  Poseidon stepped forward, attempting to head off yet another confrontation between the two goddesses. The battle between Hector and Achilles tomorrow was too important to cancel because of squabbling. “We could pick a hero to have a charmed life regardless.”

  Athena gave Poseidon an appreciative glance. “An excellent idea. I want Odysseus.” The wily charmer had just the right sort of guile to appeal to the wisdom goddess.

  “Then I want Paris.” Aphrodite smiled as she saw that bolt sink home. Athena would never forgive Paris for choosing Aphrodite over her. It was a pity the prize she’d won, the golden apple, was sitting on a small table at home. It would have been the perfect time to pull it out and polish it in front of Athena.

  Poseidon sighed and Apollo took a turn at peacemaker. “Perhaps we’ll even throw in that his wife will be faithful to him while he’s been away.”

  He met Aphrodite’s eyes and she nodded. Paris living a charmed life would be the perfect victory over Athena. Besides, Odysseus’s wife was head over heels in love with her husband anyway.

  Zeus laughed. “It’s more than the king of Greece will get.” All the gods joined in. The hubris of Agamemnon had angered them all. Whether or not the king conquered Troy, he was sailing home to an extremely unpleasant surprise. It had taken several evenings to work out the details.

  Zeus picked up the dice. “A two through a six, and Troy’s champion lives. An eight through a twelve, and Odysseus returns safely home.”

  “What if you roll a seven, brother?” asked Poseidon, his eyes sparkling with mirth. He had a good idea what the answer would be.

  “If I roll a seven, then I get to choose who will live
.” Team Troy and Team Greece traded glances and shrugged. Zeus had to get the occasional reward.

  Zeus rattled the dice and threw, and all eyes followed them until they displayed a four and a five. Athena broke into a pleased smile—Odysseus would live. She should have specified more details about how he would return home, but that would’ve opened the discussion to the same protections given to Paris. And Paris was going to die. Unpleasantly, if she had any say in the matter.

  “Are we ready for the main event?” Aphrodite asked, trying to move past her loss. “The outcome of the battle tomorrow between Hector and Achilles.”

  Apollo said, “Hector has always offered us sacrifice, but Achilles’s piety is lukewarm at best. And Hector fights to defend his city. He should get the advantage.” Team Troy often let silver-tongued Apollo speak for them.

  “Achilles fights to avenge his slain comrade, Patroclus,” Poseidon reminded him.

  “Only because Hector was defending his city from him,” countered Apollo. Athena assumed an angelic expression. It had been one of her best strategies, driving the Trojans back from the ships and getting Achilles back into the war in one fell swoop.

  “Achilles wouldn’t have been out of the war at all if it wasn’t for King Agamemnon’s pride,” added Aphrodite, with her most winsome expression. Team Troy needed this victory.

  “We’ll give you the advantage for a return consideration,” said Poseidon. “If the Greeks win the overall contest, I get to choose the trick to get inside the walls.” He was tired of Athena getting all the concessions for Team Greece.

  “Only if they’re warned,” Apollo insisted. “Give the women and children a chance to get away.”

  Poseidon shrugged. It wasn’t as though the Trojans had believed any of their seer’s other prophecies.

  A hush fell as Zeus picked up the dice. He glanced around the table. “For total of two through seven, Hector wins. All other throws and the victor is Achilles.” Several gods exchanged exasperated glances; they knew which throws would win for their team. Zeus could be insufferably pompous at times.

  All the gods craned forward as the dice tumbled to a stop. A five and a three. Team Greece erupted into cheers, and Team Troy exchanged rueful looks.

  The next morning, Hector kissed his son before meeting his wife’s eyes. “It is in the hands of the gods now,” he said gently, with a parting caress. She lifted her chin and blinked back tears, to lend him strength.

  Hector squared his shoulders and signaled to the guards to open the gate. It was time to face Achilles.

  A Fair Exchange

  The first thing Lottie saw when she opened her eyes was the gold coin lying next to her pallet.

  She squeezed them shut again. Surely this was a dream, and she wanted to enjoy it before it went away again. Still, the possibility that it was not was too urgent to ignore.

  The coin was still there.

  Carefully, so as not to wake her father on the other pallet, Lottie slid her arm out and picked up the coin. She bit it, and her tooth marks showed nothing but gold underneath.

  It was real.

  Lottie slipped the coin under her pallet, her mind reeling with the possibilities. She must be careful. If her father found out, the gold would be turned into nothing but drink, and this great chance would be lost. Her only hope of escape.

  Lottie rose and dressed, and as she milked the cow and fed the chickens the coin kept intruding into her thoughts. Her only marketable skill was spinning and weaving cloth, but she couldn’t sell it in the ragged dress she was wearing. She could do nothing so bold as to buy a nice gown, although the idea filled her with longing. But her father would merely sell the gown for drink. What could she buy that her father wouldn’t notice?

  Flax and more wool. And some dye. She’d make her fine dress, and a shirt for her father, too, so he wouldn’t be angry. With this coin, she could spin and weave more cloth for sale. That would bring in coppers which her father could spend at the alehouse. As long as he had drink, he’d be content, or as close to it as he ever got.

  Lottie made a breakfast of boiled eggs and gruel, and her father sat on his stool, bleary-eyed. “Don’t eat that,” he snapped as Lottie reached for an egg. “I need to eat later. I can’t live on grass like the sheep.”

  He was soon gone, driving their sheep and cow out to the pasture next to the mill. Lottie tied a drab kerchief over her hair. She couldn’t hide who she was, but she would do her best to be unremarkable. If tongues wagged, her father might hear.

  Lottie left a cup of milk for the fairies and drank the rest, before taking the coin and tucking it into her kirtle. She strolled to the marketplace, trying to seem as though she hadn’t a care in the world, although the wild thudding of her heart seemed it would give her away by itself. She kept her eyes on the ground and prayed.

  The moneychanger’s stall was set up for privacy, thank heaven, so as soon as she slipped inside, she was safe. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the selection of lovely trinkets for sale. Scarves so fine her fingers ached to touch them, lovely beads that sparkled even in the dim light, and a brooch of real gold, gleaming in solitary glory.

  “How can I help you, miss?” the slight, hook-nosed proprietor asked.

  Lottie had meant to ask him to merely change the piece into something she could spend without comment, but he’d be more likely to keep silent if she was a customer. “I would like to buy something pretty,” she said, and then wanted to kick herself as he reached for the brooch. “If it’s not too dear.”

  A smile came and went on the older man’s face. He reached for a set of wooden beads, painted blue and yellow. “This will cost you a mere twenty coppers.”

  “Ten coppers,” Lottie shot back, but then her voice faltered. “Only no one must know.”

  He smiled, and the dicker was soon settled at fourteen. Lottie pulled the gold piece from her kirtle, praying he wouldn’t ask her where it came from.

  But the man took it without comment and gave her change in silver, and at Lottie’s request, copper as well. Lottie hid the silver under her kirtle and went out to do battle in the marketplace with copper. Tongues would wag if she had silver to spend today. She had no reason to own any yet.

  Hours later, she was richer by more flax than she’d ever been able to grow. She had enough wool to make herself a shawl and her father a warm smock, a generous quantity of beautiful blue dye, and a pot of ale. She left the last two coppers next to the ale on the table.

  That evening she began spinning the wool, and for many evenings after. Her father’s smock came first, and he took it with a pleased grunt, never asking where the wool came from. Her new shawl was much warmer than the old one, although she dyed that one the same deep blue, and sewed it into the underside of the new one. Winter was coming.

  All winter she spun and wove cloth on her loom. The calluses on her fingers cracked and bled, but she kept going, switching over to weaving when the pain from spinning grew too great. It took seven spinners to keep one weaver going, but she had only herself. She worked long hours by firelight, trying to make up the lack.

  Spring brought new wool from shearing, and she spun still more and knitted new socks to cushion their wooden shoes, along with more cloth for sale. Lottie began going to the marketplace to sell her wares, and she sewed herself a fine blue dress to do it in. She brushed out her flaxen hair and left it loose on her shoulders, although she used a band of woven blue to pull it back from her face.

  The donkey Lottie bought cost her a beating that night, the pot of ale notwithstanding, but it was worth it, as was the beating for the small cart. Now she had something from which to sell her wares. Her stack of coins quit dwindling, held steady, and began to increase. Lottie was able to pay her father a copper every market day and still add to the pile.

  Carl Smithson, burly and bearded, stopped at her stall one week, and ran an approving eye over her lengths of linen and wool for sale. “I have no woman to sew for me. What would you charge to do tha
t as well?”

  She wanted to say, “I’ll do it for nothing, if you’ll just come back,” but she dickered for the new smock and promised it within a week. She dyed it a warm brown to match his hair and added strips of blue to the neckline, sleeves, and hem. She was careful to work only when her father was not home or asleep. If he saw the new smock, he would take it for himself.

  She set up the next market day, trying not to look like she was waiting for anyone in particular. But at the sight of Carl coming toward her, she smoothed her hair quickly and brought the smock out from beneath her stack of fabric.

  “Good morning.” The flash of white teeth in his face made the sunny day even warmer.

  Lottie cleared her throat. “I have your smock right here.” She set it in front of him on her cart.

  He shook it out and held it at arm’s length. “Now this is too fine to wear in the fields.”

  “I…I’m sorry. I thought you might like…I’ll make you a plainer one. I won’t even charge you.” The words tumbled out, and Lottie felt the blood rush to her face. What was wrong with her? This was no way to impress a man.

  But Carl’s expression was gentle as he put the smock down. “I can use something fine to wear on market days.” Then he grinned, and his brown eyes grew even warmer. “But I still need a plain smock. Since I lack more coin, will you barter?”

  Lottie swallowed. “Of course. Do you grow flax? Or I could use turnips or flour.” She’d take anything, as long as he didn’t leave and never return.

  Carl said, “Flax it is, then.” He reached forward and gently touched a lock on her shoulders. “To match your lovely hair.”

  Lottie looked down, cursing the blood that rushed to her traitor face, but she forced her eyes back up. “I’ll sew it this week.”

  He took her hand, gently, as if unsure what to do with it. He finally gave it a squeeze and said, “Till next week, then.” He put the coppers in her hand and left.

  Lottie took several deep breaths, trying to look as though this was any other transaction. The last thing she needed was for her father to find out. For all that he seemed to not care for her, she had no doubt he wouldn’t approve of her trying to get away. She shot a quick look at the old dame selling eggs next to her, but she was busy gossiping with her neighbor.

  The next week Lottie sewed two plain linen smocks. She made certain only one was visible at a time, and she gave the first to her father when it was finished.

  He showed more interest in the copper coin that came with it, but he nonetheless put the smock on before he went to the alehouse. Lottie sighed as he left. It wouldn’t even stay clean for the night. Her father was a quarrelsome sort; it might well come back torn.

  Lottie pulled out Carl’s smock, to finish putting in the hem. It was undyed and plain, but she nonetheless put her finest stitches in. Unlike her father, she’d never heard of Carl losing his temper. She whispered a prayer, that he think well of her when he wore it. And that he would like it enough to barter for something else. She had no excuse to seek him out.

  Lottie was on pins and needles all day at the market, although she tried to act as though nothing was unusual. She smiled and bartered, putting away her coins carefully, but every footstep was a broken promise of Carl’s coming.

  A fiddler set up in the green just as she was readying the cart to go home, and she forced herself to hum along with the tune. Music this fine shouldn’t be wasted. Perhaps Carl had a sow with a new litter, or the goats could have gotten into the grain. He might have had to mend their coop to keep the wolves from the chickens. There were a hundred things that could’ve happened. It might mean nothing at all.

  “Thank heaven you’re still here.”

  Lottie whirled around, a delighted smile tugging at her lips. Carl was bearing a heavy armload of flax, already beaten out, with a soft cloud of carded wool on top. “Oh, Carl, that’s far too much─”

  “Not at all.” He gestured to the smock she’d made him, now covering his broad chest. “This is a fine garment, worth more than I paid. I’m just evening things up.” He set his load onto the cart and swept a bow. He was even wearing the smock she’d made.

  “Well, then I’ll have to make you another.” Lottie bit her lip, hoping she hadn’t been too bold.

  Carl took a step forward and reached for her hand. “That would be wonderful. But for now, I hear a fiddle playing. I’m wearing this fine new smock, and you’ve got a lovely dress on. Shall we dance?”

  Lottie nodded, then had to steady herself on her donkey as a flood of misgivings washed over her. Her father would return soon, and he would not be pleased to find no ale pot waiting on a market day.

  But she couldn’t say no to Carl—not that she wanted to. She’d try for a middle ground. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long. My father will expect me home soon.”

  Carl smiled. “Then we’ll have to make the time count.” He tied up the donkey and held out his hand with a challenge in his eyes.

  Lottie’s misgivings fled with the feel of Carl’s strong fingers. The only important thing in the entire world was the way Carl threw his head back when he laughed, the rhythm of their dancing feet, and his warm brown eyes looking into hers.

  She gave up counting the dances. This was worth anything. Her father wouldn’t want to beat her too badly, not when she could keep the good brown ale coming in. Although from the way Carl held her eyes, perhaps soon her father would have to get his own ale. She’d give her father most of her coin when she left. That would sweeten his temper, although she’d better have Carl offer it to him.

  When the fiddler finally stopped, she faced Carl. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  Carl shook his head and kept hold of her hand. “I should apologize for keeping you, but that was too wonderful to have it end after only a few dances. Will I see you next market day?”

  Lottie caressed his fingers with hers, although she felt her cheeks color at her boldness. “Yes, I would like that very much. And I’ll make you something else.” Perhaps she’d sew a pair of breeches, sturdy enough for farm work. She could dye them brown, like his smock.

  Lottie whirled back to the cart—she’d almost forgotten. She pulled the new smock out and said, “This is for you.”

  Carl gave Lottie’s hand a kiss before he took it. “I’ll think of you when I wear it.” His eyes smiled at her before she turned to go.

  With every step Lottie took toward home her dread grew, until her stomach was nothing but knots. Her father would be furious; she’d never been this late before. Perhaps she could tell him she had a new customer; that was even true. He’d paid her well in advance for several pieces of clothing. Even if you only looked at the day in terms of barter, she was well ahead. It wouldn’t be enough to avoid a beating, but it might take some of the sting from the blows.

  Lottie stowed most of her money away in her hidey hole in the shed and milked the cow. She left it all for the fair folk tonight. If she brought it in with her, Father would only hurl it across the room. She grabbed the jug of ale and put it on top of the wool and flax. It was a heavy load, but at least it wouldn’t be damaged by being tossed around, and it was something for her father to take his anger out on besides her. The ale was in no danger at all.

  She was right about the last. As soon as she opened the door, the ale jug was grabbed from her hand. Then her father’s fist hit her head, and Lottie sprawled on the ground, her burdens spilling around her. There was no time for any explanation.

  “You filthy slut—now you’ll dirty the house as well.” But her father wasn’t done; he hauled her up by the hair and threw her into the wall, hard enough to crack the daub. “Flaunting yourself in public, dancing with men. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  The blow that followed brought tears to Lottie’s eyes, but she bit down on the cry of pain. “Father, he’s a new customer—”

  “Oh, you’re taking money for spreading your skirts now? So that’s why you’re making good money all of a sudden.”<
br />
  “No! Never,” Lottie cried, and covered her face and neck as several blows landed on her back and shoulders. A gob of spit struck her hand, but she stayed still as it trickled down and landed on her good blue dress.

  “Clean up this mess.” The door slammed, and Lottie dropped her arms.

  Her father knew about Carl. But what could he do? He had to go to the mill every day; it was the only way to earn his living. He wouldn’t risk having no ale. Lottie would take her donkey, her spinning wheel and loom, and build her own daub hut. Summer was almost here.

  And perhaps Carl’s family would allow her to build it near their farm. She’d gladly sew for them in return. Carl’s mother had died in childbirth last year, and his sisters were too young for much sewing. Carl had a father and two grown brothers. They would be enough to keep her safe even from her father.

  But even if she had to build a hut somewhere else, she had to get out now. If she didn’t, she might never get another chance. If she didn’t, she might not get another chance. Father had thrown her hard enough that it was only good fortune that she hadn’t broken a bone.

  Grimly, Lottie cleaned up the mess and gathered her things. The loom took a maddening amount of time to take apart, and the spinning wheel and loom took up most of the cart. She filled in the spaces with her clothing, and tied the load Carl had brought with her blanket on top. Her father was welcome to the rest. Their one-room cottage would likely be rank and stinking within the week.

  She was just turning to go when the door slammed open, and Lord Duvall entered, followed by her father, who said, “There she is, my Lord. What did I tell you? Lovely enough to tempt any man, and her spinning and weaving is pure gold. Worth a pretty penny, that one is.”

  Lord Duvall peered at Lottie more closely. “Could you not have been more careful? Her face is swollen.”

  Lottie turned to her father in horror, but he didn’t even look at her. “So have her spin until she’s pretty again, my Lord. It only takes a few days.” Not a trace of regret showed in either his face or his voice.

  “A week, most likely,” the man said in disgust. “Very well. I’ll take the girl and her wheel. You may have this.” A purse hit the table.

  “Father, please, I would pay more than that as a bride price─”

  “The deal is done, woman. Hold your tongue if you wish to keep it.” Lord Duvall headed for the door. “Follow unless you want my men to bring you. I guarantee you will not find them gentle.”

  At least she was allowed to bring her donkey and cart. The lord rode on ahead, and his two retainers led her to his manor. It was a weary walk, at least five miles, but she had no way to escape. Her money was tucked into her bodice, but it wouldn’t be enough to buy her freedom. She’d have to keep her eyes open; there had to be a chance to slip away.

  But as soon as they arrived, Lottie and her things were taken to an upstairs room, and the door was locked from the outside. She threw herself down on the bed. Sobs wracked her body, and hot tears soaked the fine down pillow.

  “Why do you weep?”

  Lottie jerked her head up. The room had been bare when she came in, except for the bed and a chair. But now, a curious person was standing next to the bed. He was barely three feet tall, slender, clad in brown breeches and coat, with a shirt of undyed linen. His hair and eyes were a dark brown, and he even had a brown felt hat.

  She stood and wiped her eyes. “Who are you?”

  He smiled. “I am careful of sharing my name. But since you have left me many cups of milk and did not wish to go with those men, I followed. Why are you here?”

  Lottie swallowed. “I think…that is, I hope I’m here to spin and weave. My father sold me to the lord of this place. They allowed me to bring my spinning wheel and loom. I…if I could work off the debt, there is another place perhaps where I could go.”

  “Very well,” the brown man said. “I can spin if you will weave. But what will you pay me?”

  “I─” Lottie’s hand went to her purse, still under her bodice, but something about the man led her to think that money wasn’t what he wanted. She went instead to her pile of belongings and drew out the little necklace of beads. With a last regretful stroke, she held it out. “Will you take this? It’s the nicest thing I own.”

  He nodded and tucked it away, and without further speech, he began loading the distaff with flax.

  Lottie reassembled her loom. By the time she was done, the brown man already had the first spindle full. Whoever said it took seven spinners to keep a weaver busy had never worked with a fairy. He spun all the flax and wool into thread and still had time to help her thread the loom.

  They worked all night. When the first daylight hit the room’s leaded glass window, they had a dozen yards of the finest linen, with another two yards of the smoothest wool Lottie had ever woven. She was an adept spinner and made excellent thread. But the brown man’s thread was lighter and smoother than any she had ever seen.

  He gave her a bow at the end, and when he straightened back up, he was gone.

  Lottie blinked and rubbed her eyes. She was tired, but certainly not so weary that she was seeing things. Or not seeing things, as it were. She couldn’t even call out to him; she didn’t know his name.

  The door opened, and two servants came in, maids, to judge by the curtsey they gave her.

  Terribly conscious of her bruised face, Lottie drew herself up. “I need a tub large enough to dye my fabric. Lord Duvall will want the fabric dyed.” It would take the last of her blue, but she was out of flax and wool already. If the lord wanted more fabric, he’d have to supply her with something to make it with.

  The two maids exchanged glances, and one of them left and came back with an older woman, who carried herself with an air of authority. She ran a careful hand over the linen and wool, and her brows shot up. “Very well. A dye bath will be prepared.” She hesitated, then added, “And perhaps a bath for you as well.”

  Lottie dipped her a curtsy. “Thank you. I’m rather stiff after working all night. And…could I be given more flax and wool? I used all I brought with me last night.”

  The housekeeper met her eyes gravely. “It will be arranged.”

  Lottie’s bath wasn’t in the river, but in a special room, in a tub filled with warm water. She sighed as she slipped in. It was pleasant and soothing, but the river might have given her a chance to slip away.

  She woke with a start to find the water had cooled. “Miss, will you be wanting out of the tub now?” The maid held out a large drying cloth.

  Lottie nodded. “Thank you, yes.” But she ignored the fine green gown the girl offered and wore her everyday dress instead, of serviceable brown linen. She wanted no more debts. She would work off what she owed the lord, and then beg him to let her leave.

  The maid took her to another room, where her fabric was soaking in a tub. Lottie took the paddles and turned the fabric several times, making certain the dye got into every inch of cloth. “I will need to return in an hour to pull the fabric from the dye and hang it in the sun,” she said, but the girl shook her head.

  “You must go back to your room, miss,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  At least there was a fine breakfast laid out. Lottie drank the wine, ate the boiled eggs and buttered bread, and fell asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.

  When she woke, it was late afternoon by the angle of the sun. Lottie sat up to find she had slept through several deliveries. There was a thick pile of beaten flax and another of smooth carded wool, bleached white. Her dress had been washed and folded, and her blue linen and wool were folded next to them. Another meal had been laid out. She put half of the spiced meat into rolls, looked around in desperation, and hid it in a kerchief under the bed. There was no other hiding place.

  As soon as the maid left with the plates, Lord Duvall entered. “They tell me you have been busy.” His eyes swept the room.

  Lottie bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, Lord. I wove you lengths of linen and woo
l.” She walked to the small table which had been brought in, but when she turned to give them to him, he was already standing next to her.

  He shook out the linen first. “Indeed. I see why your father praised your weaving. I will have more dye provided for you tomorrow as well.”

  Lettie bowed her head. “Thank you, my Lord. I will do my best.”

  He shot her an inscrutable look, and said, “See that you do.” He sauntered out again, and Lettie sagged onto the chair in relief. Then she shook herself and began loading the distaff with wool. It was so smooth; surely she could at least get close to the fairy’s work. He might not choose to help her again.

  “Do you wish to work alone tonight, then?” Even though she was hoping for it, the brown man’s voice made her jump.

  She swallowed and met his gaze. “No, I desperately need your help.”

  “And what do you offer?”

  Lottie went to her sack of belongings and drew out a woven band. It was blue, with a pattern of flowers in undyed flax woven into it. She’d used it to pull her hair away from her face on market days. “All I have is this. The spinning is not as fine as yours, but it is truly the best I have. And I saved you some supper.”

  He nodded gravely. “It is enough.”

  That night went much the same as the first, except the flax and wool were so fine that the cloth was finer still, and there was more of it. Lottie ran her sore fingers over the linen and felt nothing but smooth, gossamer-light cloth, without a single snag. Surely this exquisite fabric would be enough to pay back Lord Duvall for whatever he’d paid her father.

  She turned to thank the brown man, but he was already gone.

  When her door opened perhaps an hour later, a brunette lady in a fine blue gown entered before the maid. Lottie rose from the bed, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes, and gave the woman a deep curtsey. Surely this woman was noble.

  Her voice was remote and displeased. “I have been told you weave fine cloth.”

  “Yes, my Lady,” Lottie replied. She walked to the table and gestured to the folded offerings on it.

  “Hmm. This would look lovely in yellow,” the noblewoman said, fingering last night’s work. “And the blue is suitable as well. At least he found someone who can do something useful this time.”

  Cold feet of dread ran up Lottie’s spine. “My lady, I was hoping that since the cloth pleases you, perhaps I have repaid the money the lord spent for me. I would be happy to send you more, but…please, may I leave now?” Surely this woman had the power to release her.

  Surprise showed on the lady’s features. “You were not brought here for your ability to weave. You will be released only when my husband tires of you.”

  The blood rushed to Lottie’s face, and she knelt at the lady’s feet. “Please, will you help me get away? I will gladly send you more cloth if you will save me from this.” She turned her face up to plead, but the lady’s disapproving look filled Lottie with dread.

  “Of course not,” the noblewoman said. “My husband would simply replace you with another. And I will have your fabric if you stay.” Her mouth tightened. “I may not interfere in my husband’s amusements.”

  Lottie collapsed to the ground, weeping. “Please, my Lady,” she begged, but the noblewoman merely swept from the room. When Lottie struggled to her feet, the beautiful cloth was gone. Along with her only hope for freedom.

  Lottie threw herself on the bed. Carl’s face filled her thoughts, laughing as they danced, but that only made her sob more. A single hour would be all she would ever share with him. She would never feel his strong fingers holding hers again. She would be used, for her labor and her body, and she would be discarded only when the lord was tired of her.

  Only two days ago, her life had been filled with hope. It took a long time to cry herself back to sleep.

  When she awoke, great piles of flax and wool had been laid out, along with a sumptuous meal. Lottie didn’t eat any of it. She had little enough to offer the brown man. And he was the only one who might aid her in this place.

  She pulled out all she had left to offer him. Enough fabric to sew him a new smock, if he didn’t mind a blue shirt to go with his brown breeches. Her small purse. He could have the wheel and the loom as well, if only he would help her escape.

  When she turned around from setting everything out, he was already there. “I see they have left you more flax,” the brown man said. “What do you offer me tonight?”

  Trembling, Lottie offered her remaining possessions, but the fairy shook his head. “I left you the gold piece, and the value of the purse is not equal to that. The cloth is merely what you have left, not the best you have to give. If I help you tonight, you will promise me your firstborn child.”

  Dread washed over Lottie, and she felt the blood run from her face. “P-please,” she begged. “I cannot promise that. I will not sacrifice my child to save myself.”

  The brown man shook his head, and his brown eyes were grave. “I have listened today where you could not. You will be kept for the lord’s use until a child thickens your body. They will keep you afterward, but the babe will be killed. You would be saving your child.”

  A horrible vision of the future stretched out in front of her. “Is there nothing I can offer you for my freedom?” she cried out.

  The fairy nodded. “But freedom is no small thing. It will require a great gift in return.”

  Lottie scrubbed the tears from her face. She had to think. She couldn’t imagine the brown man being harsh to a child. It was as though he was bound to a code that he must honor before he could help. It was up to her to find a way.

  “Then will you take not only my firstborn, but all the others who come after? Only not take them away, but live with us, as part of our family? You could be their beloved uncle, and I would treat you as my own kin.”

  A smile appeared on the fairy’s solemn face. “The gift is more than sufficient. Shall we begin spinning?”

  “But…are you not going to help me leave?” Lottie asked.

  The brown man nodded, seeming surprised. “Of course. But these people have taken your good wool and flax, taken also the cloth we made from them, and offered you nothing but pain in return. We will leave before dawn, and this time we will bring the fruits of our labors with us. No one will see you when we go. Locks cannot hold me, and my glamour will hide us.” He smiled. “If I am to be your family, then I will not send you to your young man empty-handed. As old as I am, I can surely give you better counsel than that.”

  Lottie fell to her knees and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her breaths were ragged, and her gratitude swelled her throat. She finally pulled back and wiped her eyes. “If you are to be part of the family, then I will have to call you something. Brown man isn’t enough.”

  He smiled. “You were not so far off—a brownie I am. But my name is Rumplestiltskin.”

  Afterward

  Dragon Hoard and Other Tales of Faerie began with my desire for more fairy tales that felt true to the spirit of the original stories. It’s one thing I’ve noticed—many fairy tale retellings have nothing like the feel of the Brothers’ Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, or Perrault. I know some people have fun turning genre conventions inside out, and there’s an audience for that sort of thing, which is fine. But I loved the originals, even with the abundant plot holes. Later on I began filling them in for my own satisfaction.

  We were poor when I was young, and I was an only child. When I was school-age, my parents went visiting friends in the evening quite often. Sometimes the houses we’d go to would have kids, and we would play board games or watch a children’s movie if one happened to be on. (Remember, this was back in the long-ago—before VCRs or DVDs.)

  But many times there were no children, and my parents were very strict. I was not to be seen or heard by the adults at all. I had many evenings sitting quietly out of the way, waiting for the adults to stop talking so we could go home.

  One
evening a kind lady noticed me nodding off in the corner, and she gave me a marvelous book. It was old, published in the Forties. The binding was fragile, but it had over a thousand pages, printed on thin paper with double columns, like a Bible. It was a collection of children’s literature with all the old standbys—Mother Goose and The Three Little Pigs and such—but it also had poetry by Shakespeare, and whoever had compiled it had chosen versions of folklore that required me to stretch to read it.

  It became my most treasured possession. I devoured tales of Thor and his mighty hammer, the terrible tragedy of Troy, and the wide array of fairy tales from different cultures.

  I never saw that woman again, and many times I wished I could thank her. She casually lit a fire in my mind that was nurtured later by the likes of Tolkien, Lewis, and McKillip. It blazed so brightly that it has yet to die down.

  In the spirit of the original gift that was given, I’ve made this ebook permanently free. (Amazon has reset the price to $.99 twice already. If that happens again, let me know via my blog at cathleentownsend.com, and I’ll send a free PDF while I request the price be dropped again.)

  If nothing else, I hope it’s a fun hour or two for fairy tale enthusiasts. But I’m really hoping that somewhere, and a bonfire will be lit in someone’s heart like it was in mine.

  If you want to read more free tales, I’ve blogged quite a few of them here: https://cathleentownsend.com/my-stories/.

  I send out still more free short stories to folks who sign up for my newsletter here: https://cathleentownsend.us11.list-manage2.com/subscribe?u=d4df6499616ceb5616209f224&id=e61d41e332. In addition, you’ll get reduced prices for early orders of my upcoming novels and other various deals as they occur to me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cathleen Townsend is a California native who absolutely loves the incredible beauty of her home state.

  She’s an avid reader and writer, particularly of fairy tales and other forms of fantasy.

  She lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills with her husband, Tom, a puckish white horse, a border collie and a German shepherd, as well as a cat who’s sure he can whoop any dog, any time.

  You can find out more and contact Cathleen at https://cathleentownsend.com.

  If you enjoyed Dragon Hoard, please leave a review wherever you downloaded the book. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy—a simple, “I thought it was a fun read,” would be greatly appreciated.