by Jack
‘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.
&nbs
p; ‘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,
