Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Oh, I was,’ Bessie agreed comfortably. ‘Until I saw His Scariness actin’ like a placid pony on a jaunt through the park. And then I was curious instead.’

  ‘I am afraid your curiosity is destined to remain unsatisfied.’

  Bess might have pressed him further, but that it occurred to her that the fog was dissipating. Nay, had dissipated; barely a wisp of it was left, for all that it had been as dense as a winter blanket only a few minutes before.

  ‘Now, that’s mighty strange,’ she said, twisting in her seat to look about herself. She could not see much more of the wood than before, as the sun had not yet risen. But she could see the wide trunks of aged trees rising all around her, bark black in the darkness.

  ‘Tatterfoal brings the fog,’ said Mr. Green. ‘Have you not heard that before?’

  ‘Nay, that’s no part of any legend I ever heard.’

  Mr. Green grunted.

  ‘Come to think of it, Tatterfoal ain’t been seen in a hundred years. So they say.’

  ‘Oh, not nearly so long as that.’

  Bessie sighed, and fell silent. Clearly, her probing would avail her nothing; Mr. Green would be neither tricked nor persuaded into explaining himself.

  ‘Bess-Bess,’ came a faint whisper from within her cloak. Bessie peeked inside. ‘Be wary of him,’ said Derritharn.

  Bess did not need to be told. Despite his kindness in taking her up with him, the rest of his behaviour clearly proclaimed that he was no ordinary English gentleman. She did wonder what else Derritharn had detected that prompted her to issue a special warning, but she could not question the brownie on that point without their being overheard.

  ‘You should know,’ said Mr. Green in a bland tone, ‘that I have very sharp ears.’

  Oh. ‘Come on out, then, Derri,’ she said. ‘May as well, if your hidey-hole’s discovered.’

  Derritharn poked out her nose, and shivered violently. ‘I’ll not, if it is all the same to you. That there is a cold wind.’

  Mr. Green snapped his fingers, and a moment later a ball of faint light materialised in the air over Bess’s head. The light grew rapidly in strength, until she could see her surroundings clearly.

  ‘Course,’ said Bess, gazing at the mesmerising silvery glow. ‘There be will-o-the-wykes followin’ in yer wake as well. I might have expected as much.’

  ‘They are fond of me,’ said Mr. Green. He sat looking intently at Bess, and she returned his scrutiny while she had the opportunity, for she was mightily curious about the strange fellow whose assistance she had been forced to beg.

  His figure remained a mystery inside the great black driving-coat he wore, and the rain hat still covered some part of his face. But she could see that he was unusually pale of complexion, with a firm mouth sardonically tilted at the edge. She caught a flash of bright eyes as he briefly met her gaze.

  ‘It is not every day one encounters a plague of a curiosity-ridden housemaid wandering the roads at all hours, and alone,’ he said. ‘When she turns out to be bearing a denizen of Aylfenhame secreted inside her shabby wool cloak, then I would say it is a unique event indeed.’

  Aylfenhame. The word repeated inside Bess’s mind, growing larger with every echo. Aylfenhame was the fae realm, separate from England but sometimes accessible – at least, to the fortunate few. Or unfortunate. The tales of the realm of the Ayliri, as its human-like denizens were known, were myriad and varied. Some spoke of wonders and riches and magics marvellous beyond belief; others of black-hearted curses and nightmares, like Tatterfoal. Some few of its creatures chose to live in England, like Derritharn and her kin. Most, however, remained aloof from Bess’s world, and never came there.

  ‘Are you a denizen of Aylfenhame?’ she said, unabashedly brazen.

  He chuckled. ‘Do I not look human enough, to your eye?’

  ‘I cannot tell,’ said Bess at once. ‘Not under all that cloth coverin’ you up from head to toe.’

  ‘Well, it is far too cold to strip for your amusement this evening.’

  Bess blinked. ‘I—’

  His sardonic smile widened. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hm.’ She eyed him with displeasure. ‘You like to divert me questions by tryin’ to shock me.’

  ‘Ah. And you are not easy to shock. That I have had ample opportunity to observe.’

  Thinking of the hideous vision of Tatterfoal and her decision not to run away screaming, Bess nodded affirmatively. ‘Though not for lack of tryin’ on your part.’

  ‘Mm. Do stop plaguing me with questions, however. I must decide what is to be done with you.’

  The curricle found the road and lumbered back onto it. There it paused, stretched across the road, apparently waiting.

  ‘Dunnot trouble yourself,’ said Bess. ‘Me and Derri will decide what to do wi’ ourselves. Just take us to an inn, or some such place.’

  ‘I could do that,’ he agreed. ‘But I do not think I shall.’

  Derritharn shivered, and clutched at Bess’s cloak. ‘Alas and woe, for ‘tis too late to be wary!’

  Mr. Green rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Silence, creature. I am not going to harm your human.’

  ‘Settin’ me down someplace safe would go a long way towards reassurin’ us both,’ said Bess.

  ‘Which is precisely my intention, but an inn will not do. No—do not speak, if you will be so kind. You are not in full possession of the facts. Being observed in my company will have done your safety little good, tonight.’

  ‘Well, then, I wish you had left us in the road!’ said Bess, with some asperity.

  Mr. Green made no response to this sally. He muttered something Bess did not understand and the curricle stirred into motion once more, righting itself upon the road by way of a right-hand turn. The horses began to trot and then to canter, bowling smartly along under the now-visible moon.

  ‘I did not precisely understand the extent of the peril, at the time,’ Mr. Green said at last. ‘Even if I had, only a blackguard would leave a young woman alone upon the road past the midnight hour. And whatever else I may be, Bess-Bess, I am not a blackguard.’

  ‘You,’ said Bess with dignity, ‘may call me Miss Bell.’

  He laughed delightedly at that, then tore off his hat and tossed it away with a flick of his wrist. ‘What an intriguing young beast you are.’

  His hair proved to be red and wild, and worn longer than was typically fashionable for a gentleman. Bess watched it whipping in the wind, and considered. What could be the motive behind this stranger’s actions? The things she had seen tonight would have had her scoffing in disbelief, only a few hours before.

  But strangely, she did not feel in any danger from him, in spite of Derritharn’s obvious unease. In fact, she could find nothing that might account for her brownie friend’s distrust. Edward Adair’s mere presence had always made Bess uneasy, from the first moment she had encountered him; something of his nature had shown itself in his manner and his behaviour right away. But in spite of this gentleman’s comfort with such nightmares as Tatterfoal, Bess did not feel the same concerns about Mr. Green. He had spoken brusquely to her, but in essentials he had been naught but kindness.

  Always supposing that he did intend to convey her to safety. Perhaps he intended to take her somewhere out-of-the-way, where she would be beyond the reach of help. Bess frowned as she attempted to picture this scene. Somehow, she could not believe it of Mr. Green – not least because he seemed wholly uninterested in her person. He scarcely seemed aware that she was female.

  Perhaps she was being a fool to trust him. She would listen to Derri, and be ready to run at the first sign of trouble. Accordingly, she sat tensely beside him throughout the rest of the strange journey, clutching Derri in one arm while the other rested atop the mean bundle of possessions she had managed to bring away with her.

  But flight did not prove necessary. Their journey ended some twenty minutes later, when the curricle drew up outside of a mansion house. It was not nearly so large as Hapworth Manor,
but it was substantial enough: the residence of wealthy people. The moon shone silvery upon its pale stone walls, and many windows glittered faintly in the darkness.

  ‘This is Somerdale,’ said Mr. Green as his horses came to a stop. ‘It is the home of some friends of mine. They will treat you well, and keep you safe. I am also certain they will assist you in finding a new place.’

  He meant a new place in service, of course, and it was natural that he should assume she would want to take up another position as a maid. But as he uttered the words, Bess knew without doubt that she never wished to work in service again. Never. The beginnings of a new plan had taken hold in her mind, and she had every intention of pursuing it.

  That, however, was none of Mr. Green’s business. She permitted herself to be assisted down from the curricle, still prepared to flee if it should prove necessary. As Mr. Green marched up to the front door and rapped loudly upon it, Bess held a whispered consultation with Derritharn.

  ‘What think you, Derri? Now’s our chance to run, if we want to get away.’

  Derri shook her head. ‘Nay, he spoke truly. This place is safe.’

  ‘Oh? And how do you know that?’

  ‘Because it is Somerdale.’

  ‘That makes no sense to me.’

  ‘Did you not hear of the Aylfendeanes?’

  ‘The wha… oh! You mean Miss Ellerby?’

  ‘That I do. They live here.’

  ‘Well then, that makes sense after all.’ And it did. The neighbourhood of Tilby had been lively with interest over the story of Miss Isabel Ellerby, several weeks before. The young lady had fled a perfectly respectable – indeed, advantageous – marriage in favour of wedding herself to an Aylir. Out of Aylfenhame. Bess had never set eyes upon any of the people in the tale, of course, and she had half imagined it to be the purest nonsense; as unlikely a story as that of Tatterfoal. But they were said to have settled near Tilby itself, defying the disapproval of the more censorious of the town’s gossips.

  And if Derri believed it…

  Bess clutched her cloak more tightly around herself, overtaken by a sudden and surprising hope. Oh, goodness! If she had been able to choose one place in the whole of Tilby to flee to after her ordeal, this would be her choice. Could the story really be true?

  Mr. Green had succeeded in eliciting a response, and the front door opened. A middle-aged woman – probably the housekeeper – stood framed there, dressed in a nightgown and with a shawl around her shoulders.

  ‘You must wake your mistress, with my apologies,’ said Mr. Green. ‘There is an urgent matter requiring her attention.’

  Did he mean her? Bess was unsure how she felt about being characterised as an urgent matter. It sounded most unpleasant. But the housekeeper made no objection, which suggested that she knew Mr. Green. She disappeared inside the house, and Mr. Green beckoned Bess herself forward.

  Bessie caught up her bundle of clothing and approached. Within moments she was standing in the hall of Somerdale, abruptly aware of how uncomfortably cold she was. She felt an undesirable degree of discomfort besides, for the grand owners of Somerdale could not wish to be roused from their beds over a mere maid such as herself.

  But she was no more blessed with options now than she had been to begin with, so she waited. Within a few minutes she heard footsteps upon the stairs, and the light of a candle approached to join that of the single flame burning in the hallway.

  ‘Grunewald!’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Whatever is the matter? I hope nothing is amiss with Sophy—oh!’

  The woman stopped before Bess, and looked her over. Bess had quieted some of her discomfort by composing a little speech in her mind with which she hoped to pacify her would-be hostess, but every word of it fled when she saw who was to be burdened with her problems.

  The woman was taller than Bess herself, and might be taken for human. But even in the wavering light of the candle, Bess could see that her abundant brown hair was threaded through with tendrils of pure gold; not the “gold” of bright blonde but real, shimmering gold. Her eyes were faintly slanted, and an odd, pale green colour Bess had never before beheld. Her face was uncommonly beautiful, and a hundred things about it proclaimed that she was not human at all.

  Bess gasped, unable to help herself. The tale was true! Not only had Miss Isabel Ellerby married one of the Ayliri, but she was Aylir herself.

  Miss Ellerby – or rather, Mrs. Aylfendeane – was kind enough to ignore Bess’s reaction. ‘Dear me, I see that something highly untoward has happened,’ she said with a kind smile. ‘Are you very cold indeed? I think that you must be. Mrs. Glover, would you be so kind as to prepare the lavender room for our guest? With as many hot bricks as can be spared, please. Oh, and do have a bath drawn!’

  Bess heard these instructions with disbelief, and growing alarm. Perhaps, in the poor light, Mrs. Aylfendeane had failed to observe the nature of Bess’s garments. ‘Oh no, not for the likes of me!’ she said. ‘Not that I wouldn’t be grateful for somewhere to sleep ̶ ’ and Bess swayed on her feet as she said this, aware anew of the extent of her exhaustion ‘—but any out of the way chamber’d do for me, ma’am. In the attic, mayhap.’

  But Mrs. Aylfendeane merely patted her shoulder. ‘Nonsense. You are chilled to the bone, and require proper care if you are not to be ill. Stay a moment, Mrs. Glover.’ She turned to Mr. Green, who stood in silence inside the huge front door. ‘Will you be staying, Grunewald? I hope so, for the hour is far advanced.’

  ‘I ought not, but perhaps I must,’ he said. Bess thought he spoke of reluctance without feeling it; his manner was more suggestive of wariness.

  ‘Those instructions again for Mr. Green, Mrs. Glover,’ said the Aylir lady. ‘The jade room.’

  Mrs. Glover went away, and Bess set down her bundle of clothes. She felt awkward – more than awkward – dropping such a mean parcel upon the polished hardwood floor of this grand hall, but she was simply too tired to carry it any longer. The bundle was collected shortly afterwards by a footman, who bore it away up the stairs. Bessie was ushered after him by Mrs. Aylfendeane herself, and with the greatest kindness. The room she was shown too was far too grand, of course, but Bess barely noticed – except to register that a tiny brownie-sized cot had been set up for Derritharn, with its own hot brick.

  It stood to reason that the Aylfendeanes would be prepared to host fae guests, of course, but Bess was so touched by this extra gesture that she felt tears start to her eyes. So much solicitude struck her on the raw, after the disastrous day she had suffered through. Mrs. Aylfendeane would hear nothing of her thanks, however. She merely instructed Bess to appear at any time she chose in the morning, and that breakfast would await her. Then she withdrew.

  Bess waited only long enough to ensure that Derri was comfortably settled before she collapsed into bed. It occurred to her, distantly, that it was the softest, warmest, most delicious bed in which she had ever taken her repose. She had little opportunity to relish these facts, because within seconds she was asleep.

  Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘About time,’ Grunewald growled.

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

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