by Jack
‘We spotted it just as ‘e drove away,’ he replied. ‘We knowed it would come off by end o’ day.’
‘I see. I daresay it was too late to tell the coachman by the time you noticed it.’
Silence, save for the faint moaning of the wind outside in the machicolations.
‘Thrimby, would you mind asking after the under-gardener’s boy on my behalf? I fear he has lately suffered at the hands of our Chief Steward.’
‘Aye.’
There was nothing more that Mazarine could do for the under-gardener’s boy. The earl never took heed of her pleas for better treatment of the servants. Privately the young woman decided that in the morning she would bring the buffeted lad a parcel of food from the kitchens. Presently she cleared her throat and broached the subject uppermost in her mind, which she had been saving until last.
‘And you indicate that Lord Fleetwood is coming home?’ Bird that hovers over moor could only mean one person. Hawkmoor, Lord Fleetwood, officially lived at Kelmscott but was often absent for two or three days, overseeing his estate almost three miles away on the other side of Somerhampton.
‘Aye.’
Thrimby’s conversation had dwindled. Possibly he was working on another few lines of doggerel.
‘Thank—’
The servant’s hands flew to his ears. ‘Don’t say it!’ he cried sharply.
‘Oh!’ Mazarine exclaimed. ‘Forgive me, I forgot. Habits are hard to break. I should say, I appreciate your bringing me these tidings, kind Thrimby.’
Thrimby’s status was unique among the staff in that his deference was neither expected nor demanded. An abhorrence of being thanked was another of the servant’s foibles. By this, Mazarine was almost certain he was no mortal creature, but a wight of eldritch, a beneficent domestic brownie. For some unknown reason no-one in the household ever acknowledged this possibility however, so to avoid causing conflict she never mentioned it either — not after the first time. Once, soon after she had arrived at Kelmscott, she had diffidently asked her guardian, ‘My lord, do you suppose perhaps Thrimby is a brownie?’
Instantly she was aware she had made a mistake. The look he had given her, of cold scorn, made her wither like a flower blasted by frost.
‘A what?’ he had barked, thrusting his face close to hers.
‘A brownie, sir,’ meekly she repeated, stepping backwards.
‘What nonsense! I have no idea what you are talking about. Get your mother’s tales out of your head, you silly girl.’
And that was the end of it. A second suspicion was growing on Mazarine — she had never seen her guardian actually speak to Thrimby, or even occupy the same room. She wondered whether he knew the servant existed. Perhaps he thought it more expedient to feign ignorance of the enigma dwelling right under his nose.
In the kennels the hounds were belling joyously. Their cacophony barely disguised the sound of hooves beating on the gravel of the wide terrace that ran along the front facade of the mansion. A rider was cantering up the drive to the marble portico. It would be him — the only one of Mazarine’s five favourites who dominated her thoughts almost every waking moment; the only one who could make her feel as though she were walking on air, or make her blush and become awkwardly self-conscious, although plainly he never intended to have such effects. Hastily she rang the bell for a footman and requested that he tell the housekeeper to ensure that supper would soon be ready. Then she brushed down her vespertine skirts of mourning silk, prodded ineffectually at her hair — a lavish mane of bronze curls, coiffed that morning by her personal lady’s-maid — and rushed out of the library toward the front drawing-room, glancing anxiously in the flashing multitude of wall-mirrors as she passed.
In the drawing-room a footman wearing Rivenhall livery was lighting the lamps against the drawing in of darkness, and an upper housemaid knelt on the hearthrug before the fireplace, coaxing life into a pile of kindling. She cupped her hands and blew on the reluctant flames, whose leapings were being combated by fitful gusts blasting down the chimney. Mazarine tried to compose herself to meet the newcomer, but could not bring herself to sit still on any of the velvet-upholstered armchairs or divans, and instead paced back and forth. The last roseate rays of the sinking sun slanted through the drawing-room’s recessed window, striking sparkles off the gold braid on the windowseat cushions, setting afire the brass lamps, the candlesticks and the fire-irons. She heard the uneven sound of Hawkmoor’s boots on the marble tiles as he crossed the portico and entered the vestibule, and could contain herself no longer, but glided out to meet him.
Stripping off riding gloves, a tall figure stood illumined in a shaft of late sunlight that raked through the open doors. A swirl of dead leaves had blown in when he entered, and now eddied at his feet. Beyond those doors a groom could be seen leading a black horse away toward the stables. Heat and cold raced through Mazarine’s person, swift on each others’ heels, and she could not take her eyes off the newcomer. Limned in that rose-gold light, he appeared to her like a painting of some marvellous Faêran lord. More than perfect was he; unbearably beautiful, lean and lithe. He was dressed in Dainnan uniform; leather leggings and a shirt of high quality wool with voluminous sleeves, beneath a sleeveless suede tunic reaching almost to his knees and slit down both sides along the length of his thighs. At each shoulder, the Royal Insignia was embroidered — a crown above the numeral fifteen, flanked by the runes J, the hook and R, the sail. At his side his hunting horn swung from a green baldric, and a sheathed dagger was attached to his belt. His hair was Feorhkind brown, like Mazarine’s, but much darker; so dark it was like a swatch of midnight. The long locks, gathered in a black ribbon behind the neck, fell to his waist. Handing his gloves to the head footman, he glanced up. His expression, which had been stern, softened.
‘Good evening, Mistress Blythe.’
‘Good evening, Lord Fleetwood.’
Lord Rivenhall, Hawkmoor’s sire, was also Viscount Fleetwood. As the eldest son of an earl, The Right Honourable Hawkmoor Canty was entitled to use his father’s highest lesser peerage dignity as his own, though he remained a commoner until such time as he inherited the title.
‘You were not expecting me, I understand,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Perhaps there will be some supper in any case.’
‘Most certainly!’
‘Cottrell,’ the young man said to the head footman, ‘will you ask Goodwife Strood to have supper served in the conservatory this evening?’
‘Very good, m’ Lord.’
‘For it is a fair Autumn evening,’ Hawkmoor continued, directing this comment to Mazarine, ‘and I would fain enjoy it.’
This was true. During the last four weeks of Autumn, the Windmonth — Gaothmis — was unseasonably balmy, still tinged with the lingering warmth of Summer. In the conservatory, oranges and limes glowed like spherical lamps on the trees, and ginger plants thrust fragrant leaves from their pots. Ripe figs and grapes dangled from above, although the last of the peaches and cherries had been plucked and preserved for Winter use, and most of the strawberries were gone.
A table was set — according to instructions — for two. Generally the earl, Mazarine’s guardian, took his meals in the lower dining room, a formal and formidable chamber. Mazarine and Hawkmoor preferred the airy greenery of the conservatory, through whose glass walls one could look out, during the day, at the gardens. At nights the view dwindled to orbs of candlelight, but the servants would light the strings of tiny stained-glass lanterns that festooned many of the garden trees. In Mazarine’s opinion these resembled the faerie-lights, or possibly glow-worms, strung through hedges by the siofra when they held their miniature revels.
The siofra were tiny human-like beings dressed in snail-shells and spiderwebs and seedpods. As a child living in the village of Reveswall in the north of Severnesse, Mazarine had often beheld such woodland folk. By contrast, few such entities could be glimpsed in her new home. It seemed that here in the remote south-eastern shires of Severnesse, far from the
trading and passenger routes of the flying Windships and the aerial pathways of Relayers on their sky-horses, eldritch wights — numerous everywhere in Erith — were more adroit and sly at hiding themselves. It made the wild and haunted places seem both emptier and more dangerous. Even the eerie shang-wind seldom blew in this backwater; people hardly bothered to wear protective taltry-hoods, though the law decreed they must carry them at all times.
Folk did, however, adorn their necks with amulets; and some planted rowan trees around their homes and hung bells upon the harnesses of their horses or employed other wards against malign forces. Children were taught the ancient chant cataloguing wight-repellents:
‘Hypericum, salt and bread,
Iron cold and berries red,
Self-bored stone and daisy bright,
Save me from unseelie wight.
Red verbena, amber, bell,
Turned-out raiment, ash as well,
Whistle-tunes and rowan-tree,
Running water, succour me ...’
Nonetheless these precautions were taken chiefly from force of habit and tradition rather than fear of imminent peril.
Together Mazarine and Hawkmoor seated themselves at the white-clothed table beneath the orange trees in the conservatory, and held converse as they dined. Delighted to be the subject of the undivided attention of her distant relative — if indeed they were related at all — yet somewhat nervous lest she say or do anything to mar the occasion, the young woman felt, at first, awkward. It was a rare chance, that they could be alone together. It seemed her guardian continually exerted himself to make certain it seldom happened. The earl would only take himself to town if Hawkmoor was away for several days on business. When his son was in the house he never went out, or if he did, he demanded that Mazarine accompany him.
Mazarine and Hawkmoor had never met during their childhood days, and in those old times she had only encountered his father on three or four occasions, for the Blythes and the Cantys had rarely mixed. She retained vague memories of a well-dressed, aristocratic visitor grabbing her by the chin and forcing to tilt her face up to his for his examination, and of a voice murmuring low, so that her parents could not overhear, ‘Gad, you are a plain little thing, aren’t you! What an Ugly Gosling. Cheer up girl, perhaps you will grow up to be a swan after all!’ At the time she had felt crushed, as if she had failed a test she’d had no idea she was undergoing. On subsequent occasions she’d tried to avoid him.
It was a sheltered life Mazarine had led in such a remote neighbourhood, with a governess to tutor her, and few friends. When she was orphaned, her parents’ executors contacted her last remaining relatives. Though consumed by grief, she had briefly wondered whether, when he encountered her once more, her new guardian would consider she had evolved into a swan or remained a gosling. He had, however, made no comment at all about her looks.
Since her arrival at Kelmscott Hall a few weeks earlier, the orphan had formed a friendship with Laurelia Wilton, an unwed damsel of her own age who dwelled in nearby Clover Cottage with her parents. Professor Wilton was a poor but respectable apothecary whose livelihood depended on selling his home-made galenicals, simples and other pharmacopeia to physicians and chirurgeons in nearby Somerhampton. He occasionally took in boarders to supplement his meagre income. The warmth of Laurelia’s family soon secured them a place in Mazarine’s affections and sometimes she felt as if she had known them for years. Though the earl never invited the Wiltons to Kelmscott Hall, his ward visited them as often as possible, learning more about them as time went on. She was also beginning to be further acquainted with the earl and his heir, and the more she discovered about the latter, the more she wished to know.
‘I trust your farming establishment is thriving, sir,’ Mazarine said shyly, before tasting a spoonful of kale soup.
‘In sooth, the harvest has been bountiful this year, Mistress Blythe,’ Hawkmoor replied, with a warm smile that had the effect on his companion of a draught of strong wine. ‘The corn was of the highest quality, and commanded an excellent price at market. I am fortunate that my land is rich and fertile. The King has been generous.’
The earl’s sole heir possessed an independent living, for he owned an estate of two thousand acres, presented to him by the King-Emperor of Erith as a reward for saving his life. Mazarine was aware that when she was thirteen years old Hawkmoor, then aged eighteen, had joined the famous brotherhood of the Dainnan. When they dwelled at the King-Emperor’s court these elite warriors were royal bodyguards; when they roamed the lands of Erith they were peacekeepers, and always they were ready to fight as soldiers in times of war. The Dainnan name bestowed on Hawkmoor was ‘Rowan’, and he had served with the brotherhood for six years. By the time he turned twenty-four he had risen to the rank of captain, commanding his own company of a hundred and eighty men. That was a year ago.
‘Pray tell me,’ said Mazarine, ‘how did it happen that the King’s life came into danger and you rescued him?’
‘He was travelling through the countryside with his retinue, and I was among them,’ said Hawkmoor, breaking bread onto a porcelain plate adorned with the Rivenhall coat of arms. ‘It was a Summer Progress.’
‘I am not familiar with such an event.’
‘Few natives of Severnesse would be acquainted with it, because His Majesty has never voyaged to these shores. As you know, he keeps mainly to the lands of Eldaraigne and Luindorn and Finvarna. It is his wont, in Summer, to travel from country estate to country estate, staying for a few weeks at each. The peers vie for his patronage — some even build magnificent new wings onto their mansions, purely to provide attractive accommodation. Anywhere the King-Emperor lays his head is afterwards titled the King’s Bedchamber, or the Royal Apartments, and only a select few are permitted to sleep therein, or no one at all ever again, and the hosts will boast of the royal visit for generations to come, as they boast of the King’s father, and his grandfather before him.’
‘It is a wonder there is any grand house left without a King’s Bedchamber, if the d’Armancourt dynasty is so keen on journeying!’
‘His Majesty Progresses only once a year, and stays long at each place. I believe there is no fear of a glut!’
They both laughed.
‘So you were on this Progress, sir?’ Mazarine prompted.
‘Indeed, and we had halted at twilight — it having being a warm day and the King-Emperor needing refreshment — to swim in a cool, clear pool in the shadow of a ferny cliff some twelve or fourteen feet high. It was a fair scene, framed by flowering sedges. Slender waterfalls were hanging down the cliff’s face like silver chains. Dragonflies darted amid water lilies. The Dainnan of course entered the water first.’
‘In the manner of the Tasters at the Assaying before a feast, I daresay,’ said Mazarine, ‘ —- those men who are employed to eat the food before the King is served, to provide a warning by their demise, should it be poisoned.’
‘Precisely! We tested the water in case of danger to His Majesty’s person — in case this fair pool was the haunt of a drowner or some other fell incarnation. We swam, we dived and we sought among the blue-flowering pickerel weeds that grew in the depths, looking for signs of any malicious being such as the Bocan or the dreadful waterhorses, or the emaciated drowners with weed-green hair, such as Peg Powler or Jenny Greenteeth or the Fideal, who can drag a man into the depths with terrible strength. But we found none. What’s more, our horses walked down fearlessly to the edge to drink and that was an encouraging sign, for beasts are generally the first to scent danger. Then we deemed it safe, and all of us left the water while His Majesty plunged in.’
Hawkmoor paused to drink from a chased silver-gilt cup.
‘Our King-Emperor carries with him always,’ he continued, ‘an artefact of special value — the Coirnéad, it is called — a silver-clasped hunting-horn, white as milk. Legend says it is of Faêran craftsmanship, and that if ever the sons of the House of D’Armancourt in dire need should sound the horn,
help will come. Yet in preparation for bathing His Majesty left this treasure in the keeping of my second-in-command.
‘For myself, I donned my raiment, girded myself with my weapons-belt and climbed to the top of the cliff to watch over my liege-lord, though my warriors arrayed themselves about the brink. His Majesty was swimming among the lilies when all of a sudden there reared up from the black-shadowed water a monstrous figure, twice the height of a man and dripping wet. It was, in fact, one of the powerful fuathan; not merely a minor wight to be repelled with simple chants or handfuls of salt. The thing must have been lurking in a lair burrowed into the side of the cliff, underwater, else we would not have overlooked it.’
‘By the Powers! Was it Cuachag himself?’ cried Mazarine. ‘Cuachag, the most terrible of fuathan?’
‘I think not,’ said Hawkmoor, replacing the cup on the table, ‘for had it been he, I doubt whether I would have lived to tell the tale, for what can a mortal man do against one of the Nightmare Princes?’
Mazarine shuddered.
