Rosamund tried to meet the peddler’s eyes sternly, but after a moment she was forced to drop her gaze to her scratched hand. This irritated her more than ever, and she said crossly, “Go your ways and let me work, discourteous man.”
“In what courtesy have I failed so sorely?”
“You might have given better warning of your coming, goodman,” Rosamund said. “Or waited, at the least, until I’d withdrawn my hand. Now I’ve scratched myself and my berries are scattered, and all for your foolish lack of thought.”
“Why, then, I’ll make amends,” the peddler said. He lowered his sack to the pathway. Before Rosamund could protest, he was crouched at her side, reaching delicately among the hawthorn branches with long, slender fingers.
Rosamund studied him with interest, and a few misgivings. She did not feel afraid, though the Widow had often warned her daughters against the vagabonds and rogues who sometimes haunted the byways of the countryside, but she did not feel at ease with the man either. He was too contradictory; his actions and his hands were more those of a gentleman than a rogue, and they gave the lie to his pack and ragged clothing. Rosamund leaned forward slightly, hoping to catch a better glimpse of the peddler’s face.
The peddler turned, and held out his cupped hands. “Bring your basket hither,” he commanded.
Rosamund did as she was told. The peddler’s eyes smiled at her from the shadow beneath his hat; then he tilted his hands and poured a stream of hawthorn berries into the basket.
“Is that enough to quit me of your displeasure?” he said, dusting his long fingers. “Or will you demand the golden apples of the sun, or three feathers from the firebird, before you let me go?”
“I had not thought that bush held so many berries,” Rosamund said, staring at the shiny red pile that lay atop the herbs she had gathered earlier.
“Oh, I’m well versed in finding the nooks and crannies where such things hide,” the peddler said in a careless tone. “But am I quits with you?”
“Aye, and I must offer you my thanks as well,” Rosamund said. “Alone I’d never have gleaned so much.”
The peddler winced and rose quickly. “Then I’ll go along my way. Fare you well, sweet maid.”
“I am named Rosamund Arden,” Rosamund said as the peddler stooped to shoulder his pack. She felt she had misjudged the man, and, wishing to make amends, she added, “My home is just ahead, there by the forest. I’m sure you’d be welcome if you wish to stop and show your wares, though we’ve little coin with which to buy.”
For a moment, the peddler hesitated; then he shook his head. “I’ll walk along with you a little way, but I’ve too far to go tonight to break my journey now.”
“You are a most uncommon peddler,” Rosamund commented as she picked up her basket and fell into step beside the man.
“How say you so?” the peddler said, giving her a sharp look from under the brim of his hat.
“Why, because I’ve never known a peddler who refused to show his wares,” Rosamund replied lightly, though she was still thinking of the man’s speech and manners.
“Then I must answer that you’re as uncommon as I,” the peddler returned. “For, setting aside the fairness of your face—and, Rosamund, you are uncommon fair—I’ve never met a maid who did not blush and run from wayfarers of my ilk, unless a table spread with ribbons lay between.”
Rosamund, who was by this time blushing furiously, looked down at her basket and said nothing. She was not unaccustomed to hearing her charms made much of by the hopeful youths of Mortlak, but the peddler’s praise, dropped so casually into the middle of another subject, seemed more truthful and more serious than the exaggerated flattery of her would-be suitors.
“What’s this? Struck dumb?” the peddler said. “I cry you pardon, Rosamund.” His tone was half teasing, half serious, as if he meant more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.
“You make yourself too free of my name,” Rosamund said tartly. They had almost reached the two rose trees that stood on either side of her mother’s gate, and she felt that the peddler’s boldness deserved some rebuke before she had to leave him.
“Why, then, I’ll make you free of mine,” the peddler responded, and then his eyes widened, as if he had said far more than he had intended.
“You need not, an it would discomfit you,” Rosamund said quickly. “Or else I’ll give my promise not to speak of it, save to my mother and my sister, Blanche.” It had occurred to her that the peddler’s evident reluctance to give his name might be due to fear of the Queen’s justice.
The peddler looked at her as she stood at the gate between the two rose trees, her expression a blend of curiosity, concern, and kindness. His lips twisted in a smile full of self-mockery. “Nay, I’ll not ask it of thee, Rosamund. I am called John, though I was baptized Thomas.”
Rosamund’s cheeks reddened once more at the peddler’s use of the intimate “thee,” but all she said was, “Will you not come in?”
“The offer’s kind, but I fear I must refuse it,” the peddler said. He studied Rosamund a moment longer, then leaned forward and broke a twig from the rose tree beside her. He bowed awkwardly, hampered by his heavy pack, and held out the rose, full-blown and richly crimson. “Yet pray accept a token of my gratitude.”
“Fie, rogue, to offer me my mother’s roses! Have you no shame?” Rosamund said, but she took the flower from the peddler’s hand and laid it gently in her basket.
“Little enough,” the peddler replied cheerfully. “Farewell, gentle Rosamund.”
“Farewell,” Rosamund said. As he started down the path toward the forest, she whispered under her breath, “And God go with thee, John.”
The peddler’s step faltered, and Rosamund feared that he might have overheard her whispered words. He straightened almost at once, however, and continued toward the forest without looking back. Rosamund gave a little sigh, and turned to go into the cottage, glancing down at the rose tree beside the gate. The leaves were limp and darkening toward winter dormancy, and where the full-blown roses had hung in midsummer there were now only the small, hard knobs of the rose hips.
Wide-eyed, Rosamund looked from the rose tree to the crimson flower nestled in her basket. Then she turned a thoughtful gaze toward the forest. The peddler was already out of sight among the trees.
Within the forest, the peddler’s stride lengthened. By twilight he had reached a small stand of young beech trees, near the brook where Rosamund and Blanche had found wild onions. There he paused. He swung his sack to the ground and opened it, then began to strip off his ragged clothing. The fading light showed him to be a much younger man than he had seemed in his peddler’s garb; he looked to be in his mid-twenties, and well formed.
From his canvas sack, he drew a doublet and breeches made of brown velvet, a starched white ruff, silk hose, and a pair of narrow shoes with pointed toes. Swiftly, he donned the finer clothes, shoving his tattered rags and broad-brimmed hat into the sack in their place. When he had finished, he rose and shouldered the sack once more. Whistling through his teeth, he left the stand of trees and crossed the brook.
A breath of warm air greeted him as he passed under the boughs of the first great oak tree, just outside the copse. He smiled, noting the crystalline quality of the twilight and the sudden absence of the signs of coming winter. Heaving a deep sigh of satisfaction, he glanced around to choose his path.
Under the next oak, a figure moved out of the shadows. “Welcome, John,” said a clear, cold voice. “How went thy travels?”
The man called John turned. “Hugh!” he said in a tone of pleased surprise. He dropped his canvas sack to the ground and embraced the other man. The two were nearly of an age, and they shared the same high forehead and dark, wavy hair. Their heights were identical, too, and both men had wide-set brown eyes and square, determined chins. But Hugh’s eyes and smile held a coolness that set him apart from John, despite their physical resemblance, and the unearthly composure of Faerie was pr
esent in his expression and his stance.
“‘Tis good to see thee, brother mine,” John said, smiling warmly.
“It’s good to have thee home at last, and safe,” Hugh said. He returned the smile, and though it could not be described as warm his expression came closer to it than anyone familiar with the denizens of Faerie would have expected.
“What brings thee out to wait for me?” John asked.
The vestige of warmth left Hugh’s face. “Ill tidings. Yet I’d not have thee hear them from another tongue. Thou art aware that Faerie’s Queen hath long been little pleased by all thy wanderings?”
“I am.”
“Her patience hath now reached its end,” Hugh said bluntly. “She hath decreed thou mayest not, for any cause, depart from Faerie more.”
A black and yellow bird sailed across the sky above, its wings gleaming golden in the setting sun. John blinked, as if he did not believe what he had just heard. “How if I should turn this instant and cross back to mortal lands?”
“The border would not be there for thee to find,” Hugh said with visible reluctance. “She hath bespelled it against thee, that thou mayest not discover it without aid. And there’s none in Faerie that will aid thee ‘gainst the Queen’s command.”
John stared blankly for a long moment; then his lips thinned. “Why has our mother done this?”
“She is Queen, and fears for Faerie and for thee,” Hugh replied. “If she hath another reason, I know it not.” A breath of cool air stirred the leaves of the oak above him, and their rustling sounded loud and foreign in the clearing.
“Does she mistrust me?” John said in a tight voice.
Hugh shrugged. “It’s possible. There are those among her councillors who’d gladly urge her to it. Thy travels in the mortal world have not endeared thee to the greater part of Faerie, and there are many who mislike thy human blood.”
“Thou hast as much of mortal blood as I!”
“Thou speakest truth, yet thy ties to humankind are greater,” Hugh said. His pale face was inhumanly calm. “Our father had thee baptized.”
“Yet I chose Faerie freely,” John said angrily. “I’ve given no one cause for this harsh treatment!”
“Calm thyself,” Hugh advised. “The court meets for revels three days hence, on the Eve of All Hallows‘. Thou mayest then lay thy case before the Queen.”
“And if she denies me?”
“Why, then, thou‘lt spend the winter here, as thou hast always done, and speak to her again at May Eve,” Hugh responded. “It’s not so great a matter, after all.”
“Belike it seems not so to thee,” John said. “In me, it rankles.” He sighed and picked up his sack, then paused and looked at his brother. “Yet I am glad thou wast the bearer of these tidings, however ill they sit.”
Hugh gave a small, dispassionate smile of acknowledgment, and the two brothers, one more fay than mortal, the other far too mortal for Faerie comfort, walked side by side into the deep woods.
The shadows beneath the great oak tree remained empty as the twilight deepened. The stirring of the air ceased, and all was still, dark, and silent. The only movement was the all but imperceptible blending of the evening shadows with the growing gloom of night.
Shortly after moonrise a shiver ran through the leaves of the tree. A gnarled figure dropped into the open space below the boughs. He was short and twisted, with skin like wrinkled brown leather; his hair and beard were stiff and wiry, and several shades darker than his skin. His loose tunic was made of oak leaves stitched together, and he wore a red cap shaped like a toadstool. The smell of crushed moss rose strongly from beneath his flat, splayed feet, but he seemed not to notice. He glanced about him, snorted once, and leaned back against the tree, grimacing ferociously.
His wait was brief. A second figure joined him almost at once. It, too, was small, but there its resemblance to the first creature ended. Moonlight shone silver on its slick, scaly skin, and its mouth was wide and full of sharply pointed teeth. It was completely hairless, and there were webs between its fingers. A close-fitting garment of grey silk was wrapped about its loins; otherwise its skin was bare.
“Am I late?” the scaly creature asked without preamble.
“Madini’s later,” the first being growled.
“Didst thou suppose she would be otherwise? But check thy anger; see where she comes.”
As the second creature spoke, a tall, black-haired woman stepped into the circle of moonlight. She moved with unearthly grace, and the beauty of her face was the cruel, sharp-edged beauty of the great ones of Faerie. Her eyes were dark, and her lips were very red. She wore an elegant green gown of shot silk embroidered with gold sequins. “Wherefore hast thou summoned us, goblin?” she said imperiously.
“An thou‘dst learn it, call me not goblin,’ ” the brown-skinned dwarf replied, scowling. “Thou knowest my name.”
“Thou‘lt waste away to nothing, ere thou gettest aught of courtesy from Madini,” the silver-scaled creature said. “Come, Bochad-Bec, speak thy news.”
“The Queen’s eldest bastard is back,” the dwarf replied.
“John has returned?” snapped the woman called Madini. “Has he had speech with his brother?”
“Aye, beneath this very tree,” Bochad-Bec said with sour satisfaction. “So he’s warned of the Queen’s displeasure. He’ll speak to her at All Hallows‘.”
“Devils take him and tear out his tongue!” Madini said violently. “He’ll throw my plans awry.”
“Our plans, surely?” said the silver-scaled creature delicately. It paused and waited, but Madini said nothing. “I see but little reason for thy low spirits,” it went on. “To postpone our work will do no harm.”
“Thou‘rt wrong in that,” Madini snapped. “The land of Faerie’s balanced like a juggler’s plates; the longer we must hold our hands, the greater grows the chance that, by some accident or careless spell, that balance will be overset, and Faerie sent sliding toward the mortal world.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought.
“Then, if thou‘rt set on it, why can we not proceed as we’d intended?”
“And have those foolish humans catch John’s power before the whole of the Queen’s court?” Madini said scornfully. “Thou‘rt a fool, Furgen.”
“How so?” Furgen said, flashing its pointed teeth in the moonlight. “Or are there none at court who dislike John and mortals?”
“None who would cross our Queen’s most slender whim to say so,” Madini retorted bitterly. “Her fondness for her sons is known. ”
“What boots it? Will we, nil we, the human sorcerers will send their spells to seek for Faerie power on All Hallows’ Eve. If we do not guide those spells, they must still find something. If—”
“Hugh’s the greater menace,” Bochad-Bec interrupted. The dark boughs of the oak creaked overhead as if in agreement. “He’s human, and at court.”
“Thou‘st told us that till we have tired of hearing it,” Madini said. “Hugh’s blood is but half mortal, and his mind is wholly Faerie. ’Tis John whose wanderings keep our land close-tied to the mortal world.”
“If I may finish?” Furgen said. Madini nodded, and Furgen went on. “If we guide the human’s spells, as we had planned, then John will be struck helpless. What matters it that all the court may see? They’ll blame the humans, Dee and Kelly, and not think of us.”
“Thy point’s well taken,” Madini said, looking suddenly thoughtful. Her lips widened in a slow smile. “Yes, ‘tis well indeed; I’ll do’t. All Hallows’ Eve shall be John’s bane.”
“It’s easy to say,” Bochad-Bec muttered.
“‘Twill be easy, too, to do, an ye follow my direction,” Madini said. “Keep watch on the human wizards, Furgen, lest our preparations fail through some mischance of theirs. We’ll meet again All Hallows’ Eve.”
“If thou‘lt have it so,” Furgen murmured.
Madini nodded regally, and departed. The remaining two conspirators peered thro
ugh the darkness after her for a moment; then Furgen said, “That one’s ambition may soon reach so high that she’ll too easily forget those who aided her.”
“Then we must remind her,” Bochad-Bec said, scowling. The two exchanged glances of perfect understanding, then faded into the silent, moonlit forest of Faerie.
CHAPTER · THREE
“The two girls were very fond of each other, and always went out together. Sometimes Snow White would say, ‘We will never part,’ and Rose Red would answer, ‘Never, as long as we live. ’ Their mother encouraged them in this, and always added, ‘You must share whatever you have with each othef.”’
THE WIDOW ARDEN ACCEPTED ROSAMUND’S STORY, and the unseasonable rose she carried, with outward calm. Inwardly, she was seriously unsettled. Like her daughter, the Widow strongly suspected that the “peddler” had been more than mortal, and she knew that Faerie folk seldom showed themselves to mortals, even within their own borders. The peddler’s unexpected visitation, therefore, made her profoundly uneasy. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do to turn away Faerie interest in her daughter, or so she told herself.
This conclusion was not, in the strictest sense, correct. Though the townsfolk called her “wisewoman” because of her knowledge of herbs, the Widow had more right than they knew to be so named. She seldom made use of her knowledge of magic, and when she did it was the lesser spells of scrying or protection to which she turned. Even then, she kept her proceedings carefully hidden. The Widow had no mind to be among the women hanged each year as witches.
The thought of using a scrying spell to seek the truth of Rosamund’s encounter certainly crossed the Widow’s mind. She dismissed it at once. If the hosts of Faerie so much as suspected that she might try to spy on them, she would be in even greater trouble than if she were caught in mid-spell by a church informant. The Widow had gone to great lengths to remain, if not on good terms with her unearthly neighbors, at least in a position of neutrality. She was not willing to endanger that neutrality out of unproven fear.
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