Bessie Bell and the Goblin King

by Charlotte E. English

  The boat which had inexplicably taken up its residence in the middle of the Lower Green interested her fractionally more. It was of moderate size, though large enough to carry a fair number of people. A single, tall mast rose from its centre, upon which was hung an enormous sail which glittered in the moonlight. In the boat’s prow stood an Aylir woman dressed in trousers and a long coat.

  Gathered in a knot near the base of the boat were a number of people Bessie recognised: Grunewald, Drig, and Mr. and Mrs. Aylfendeane. Grunewald looked up as Bess approached, but instead of the expected scowl, she received a brilliant smile.

  Mrs. Aylfendeane saw Bessie an instant later, and beamed upon her. She looked tired; her skin was paler than ever, and smudged with dark shadows beneath her eyes. But she was obviously in fine spirits.

  ‘Bess! I had hoped you were still with Grunewald. How glad I am to see you.’ She bestowed a friendly salutation upon Bess, and her husband did the same. She did not appear to resent Bess’s abrupt departure from her house, which somewhat relieved Bessie’s mind. No one had ever treated her with such kindness as the Aylfendeanes, and she would be sorry indeed to offend them.

  Bessie could imagine only one errand that could bring the Aylfendeanes into Gadrahst so late at night, and send Drig scurrying to fetch his master with such a total abandonment of his customary lethargy. ‘Tis a pleasure to be seein’ you likewise,’ she said with a smile. ‘You have succeeded, I collect?’

  Mrs. Aylfendeane laughed. ‘I see what you mean, Grunewald!’ she said incomprehensibly. ‘I have been successful,’ she said to Bessie. ‘To my infinite surprise, and relief!’

  ‘I never doubted ye could manage it,’ said Mr. Aylfendeane, with a wink at Bess.

  ‘Indeed, without Tafferty’s help I should not have achieved it at all! Of that I am certain. And I have received the assistance of Sophy and Aubranael besides, for they were kind enough to travel into England with the express purpose of supporting my endeavour. I owe my success, in large part, to my friends.’

  The attention of the group passed from Bessie, and she took the opportunity to surreptitiously observe Grunewald. His posture suggested that the precious delivery had been tucked away in his right-hand pocket, and she drifted a little closer.

  Now to consider her options. She needed some of the fairy ointment Grunewald now possessed, if she was to carry through the secret plans she had been developing. But how to acquire it? She could not ask Mrs. Aylfendeane to make more; the materials must all be used, and she had no money to procure more. Nor did she imagine that Grunewald would willingly share his new supply with her, whether she shared her intentions with him or not. He had never been in favour of her interfering in his affairs, and what she proposed to do in his service would surely not be well received.

  There remained one alternative.

  Memories of Bessie’s early years were not among the proudest of her life. Motherless and left much to her own care, she had been adrift upon the streets, and had learned one or two abilities which she had since striven to forget. It gave her no pleasure to dart her hand into Grunewald’s pocket and extract the tiny wooden pot she found therein; nor to briskly whisk off the lid and remove a dab of the curiously cool-feeling salve it contained. The lid was replaced, the pot returned to Grunewald’s pocket and her stolen dab of ointment secreted inside her glass jar, all in the space of barely fifteen seconds. The Aylfendeanes, deep in conversation with Grunewald, never so much as glanced at her. Only Drig's eyes flicked Bessie's way, but if he had observed her activities, he said nothing.

  Having tucked her spoils away inside the deep pocket of her new cloak, Bessie was free to rejoin the conversation in all apparent innocence.

  Mr. Aylfendeane said, ‘Curse it, we almost forgot. When was the last time ye paid a visit t’ Hyde Place, Grunewald?’

  Grunewald’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not for a few days.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Isabel. ‘We feared that might be the case. You have been seen at home, you know, by more than one observer. The impersonation is holding, and no one has doubted that it was you in truth, except for Tal and me. Your fetch has contrived to take possession of your house.’

  Grunewald thought that over, his eyes gleaming oddly. ‘How ill-mannered,’ he finally decided. ‘And yet, how obliging.’

  The Aylfendeanes cast him twin expressions of surprise. ‘Obliging?’ repeated Isabel.

  ‘Why yes, for two reasons. Firstly, I now know where to find him, and may proceed at once to the great unmasking. Secondly, it will be simplicity itself to conceal myself within my own household staff, and by this means spy upon his movements. We shall soon know all, I assure you.’

  The plan worried Mrs. Aylfendeane a little, Bessie observed, but her good sense saw the wisdom of it. Little more was said, and the company soon afterwards broke up. It was evident to all that poor Mrs. Aylfendeane had abandoned everything to the pursuit of fairy ointment, including her sleep, and her husband was fully justified in soon afterwards escorting her back into the boat. Bess watched this process in some confusion, unsure how a beached vessel could be expected to restore its occupants to England – until it rose into the air in a great gust of wind, and vanished in a cloud of white mist.

  Bess took advantage of the flurry of departure to apply a faint smear of the ointment to her left eye. The jar was safely secreted once more before Grunewald turned to her. ‘Interestin’ conveyance,’ she remarked.

  ‘Quite a wonder,’ Grunewald agreed. He shimmered oddly in her altered vision, as though two versions of himself walked together. But in the moonlight, she could discern little more. ‘There used to be a great many, until the conflict I mentioned earlier,’ Grunewald continued. ‘But some of the lost wonders of Aylfenhame have lately returned, and the ferry’s one of them.’ He was in a fine flow of spirits, and Bessie recognised the effects of unexpected hope upon his state of mind. He escorted Bessie back into the palace, Drig wandering along beside them both with his bubble pipe in full flow. Bess thought Grunewald might mention the small matter of her total disobedience, but he did not.

  He did, however, stop halfway back to the conservatory, and examine her with an arrested expression. ‘Something is different about you, baggage,’ he said, looking her over.

  Bessie waited. She now received a clear view of Grunewald’s face and form, under the soft but illuminating lights of Aviel’s elegant passageways. She did not dare to close her right eye, in order to obscure the red-headed, green-eyed Glamour that he wore; but doubled up with that familiar visage was a second image, and quite different. The real Grunewald was as tall as his illusory persona, but instead of the pale, human skin he had chosen, his was ash grey. His features were not wholly dissimilar to his adopted face, but they were sharper and harsher, as though deeply graven in stone. His hair was white and long, tied back into a neat tail, and his ears bore the elongated points and curled tips of an Aylir. Only his eyes were the same: large and sharp and bright, bright green.

  Those eyes – and ears – interested Bessie in particular, for it suggested to her that Grunewald was not of full goblin blood. He had an Aylir ancestor, she was certain of it. But had it been his mother, or perhaps a generation further back?

  Unaware of her enlightened scrutiny, he examined her attire and finally said: ‘Is your gown—?’

  ‘Altered? Yes, considerably.’ Bessie kept her face composed, showing nothing of her true thoughts. She wondered why it was that he maintained the façade, and whether she would ever know.

  It took Grunewald a moment’s reflection to guess how the change in Bessie’s gown had come about, and then he laughed – rather relieving her mind, because he might with reason have been angered by her cheerful appropriation of his table’s unusual properties. ‘A fine ensemble,’ he complimented her.

  ‘A warm ensemble,’ she corrected him with a smile. ‘And I thank you for it. My fingers behave as fingers are supposed to, cold as it is.’

  ‘Functional fingers! I am delighted to
hear it. And now, I am away to England.’

  Bessie nodded, unsurprised that he made no mention of taking her along. ‘Are you certain you’ll know the imposter, when you see his real face?’

  ‘Fairly. It must be someone that I know – or someone I should know, if our shared surmise is correct. And if I do not, I will discover it by other, stealthier, means.’ He paused, perhaps expecting Bessie to speak again, but she merely nodded. ‘What?’ he said with a teasing glint. ‘No importunate requests to come along?’

  ‘Take me along wi’ you,’ said Bessie obediently. She composed her features into a beseeching expression, and even contrived to flutter her lashes just a trifle.

  ‘No.’

  Bessie sighed. ‘Why raise the topic, if yer only goin’ to say no anyway?’

  ‘It amuses me.’

  ‘Disappointin’ me is amusin’ to you?’

  ‘Excessively.’ He grinned at Bessie’s annoyance, his eyes twinkling. ‘Or perhaps it’s the way you smile at me when you are attempting to be winsome.’

  Attempting? Bessie scowled at that, and folded her arms. ‘Away wi’ you, before you win yerself a beatin’.’

  Grunewald gave a flourishing bow. ‘Drig. See to the lady’s comfort.’ He gave the order without even glancing at his diminutive retainer, and then strode off.

  Drig looked critically at Bess, and adjusted his hat – flat, wide-brimmed and berry-red, today. ‘So I am to play nurse,’ he said flatly.

  ‘No! I am not in need of nursin’. But I have a better idea.’

  Drig’s sour look turned into frank suspicion. ‘I am all agog to hear it.’

  Bess beckoned him away to her room, though he followed with ill grace. Once the door was safely shut behind them both, she began with, ‘Drig! I may need you to take me into England.’

  Drig blinked, and his eyes narrowed. ‘You barely tried to persuade our Gent,’ he said shrewdly. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would say you wanted to be left behind.’

  ‘His ways and mine must part for a time,’ she said serenely.

  ‘Then why England?’ Drig squinted at her. ‘You are planning something devious. I can all but smell it on you.’

  Bess gave an affirmative nod. ‘We are goin’ to Hyde Place. Or I am, leastwise.’

  Drig stared at her in horror. ‘You are trying to intercept the fetch? What’s in your mind, madwoman?’

  Bessie beamed sunnily upon him. ‘Many excitin’ plans, Drig, but I’ll need you to bring them off! Will you help me?’

  ‘If helping you helps our Gent, then I must,’ he said sourly. ‘But I do not like it! You should know that!’

  ‘Your objections have been heard,’ said Bess merrily, ‘and disregarded.’

  Drig sighed deeply, took out his pipe, and sought comfort in a string of indigo bubbles. ‘You will see us both killed,’ he predicted.

  ‘Never!’ said Bessie stoutly. ‘Trust me, Drig! We will untangle this mess yet, and our Gent will be mighty pleased wi’ us both.’

  Chapter Eight

  Tha’ Bess has a lion’s heart, an’ no mistake! Though between you an’ me, she could mayhap be a mite too confident. Well, Drig’s a goblin o’ stout heart too, an’ he were willin’ enough to help. But Grunewald ‘ad trusted Bess’s safety to him, an’ he were a touch worried. What manner o’ mess might she get ‘erself into, wi’ no help but his? So he sent word to me. Oh, I knew Drig, right enough! I know most fae as sets foot in Tilby, or near-abouts.

  As fer Tatterfoal an ‘is rider, well! They kept up the mad antics fer three nights together, then vanished out o’ Lincolnshire fer a time. After that though, they was back, an’ the fog came in again wi’ them. Afore all o’ that – back in the summer a ways ̶ we ‘ad the Piper harin’ about wi’ his merry musical band, tryin’ t’ uncover two types o’ people: them as was lost to the Torpor after the conflicts, like my good friend Sir Guntifer. And them as has Aylfenhame blood and don’t know it, like the new Mrs. Aylfendeane. He can’t spot it any more’n I can, but he can draw it to the fore wi’ his enchantments an’ his music. Such were the case wi’ Isabel.

  It entered me ‘ead tha’ the two things might not be unrelated. Some mad fetch of a Goblin King ridin’ Tatterfoal all over the Wolds at a time when folk long slumberin’ ‘ave been wakin’ up, an’ folk like Isabel learnin’ there’s more to ‘em than ever they suspected? What if Lyrriant ain’t the only one interested in wakin’ folk up? An’ what if the Grunewald lookie-likie’s fixin’ to wake up a different class o’ folk than the Piper? I ‘ad to investigate.

  An’ my folk, they says to me, “Mister Balligumph, tha’ Tatterfoal an’ rider seems like they’s lookin’ fer somethin’…”

  Drig kept a watch on Hidenory’s rooms. He had strict orders to inform Bess the moment Grunewald appeared, if he did at all.

  Bess did not have to wait long, which reinforced her belief that the court of Aviel concealed a spy. Late in the morning after the Gaustin’s departure, Bessie was wandering about the great hall of Aviel, on the watch, when a goblin even smaller than Drig sidled up to her and tugged once upon the skirt of her gown.

  Bess looked down upon him, eager hope flaring in her heart. ‘Yes?’

  The goblin, yellow-skinned and sumptuously dressed, leaned towards Bess and muttered, ‘Idriggal sent me to tell you: Hidenory’s chambers.’

  He departed before Bess could speak, and she left the great hall herself immediately afterwards. She had familiarised herself with the location of Hidenory’s rooms, and she went directly there and knocked upon the door.

  ‘Hidenory!’ she called, and opened the door. ‘I wanted to talk to you about – oh!’ She made a show of surprise upon seeing Grunewald there, and then smiled warmly upon him. ‘Grunewald! How gravely you were missed.’

  Grunewald – or the fetch, as he indeed was – flashed the familiar, sardonic grin and said in Grunewald’s own voice: ‘Why, Bess! I had no notion that you cared.’

  He omitted the gibberish upon which they had agreed, but Bessie no longer required this sign in order to discern the truth. Bess, indeed! He had been informed of her association with Grunewald, then, but had not learned of the Gaustin’s odd nickname for her.

  This version of Grunewald was fractionally shorter than he, she judged, though in other respects he was not vastly different in looks. His skin was a darker grey and his eyes bright blue instead of green, but his features bore a distinct resemblance to the Goblin King’s. There was no sign of Ayliri heritage, however: his ears were as human in appearance as Bess’s own, and his eyes lacked the distinctive size, shape and faint slant of the Aylir. Looking upon him, she did not think that she and Grunewald had strayed far from the truth when they had speculated about a family connection.

  It took Bessie rather longer to realise that something else was different about this Grunewald. It was no he at all, in fact, but a she. With her white hair bound tightly back, and some manner of enchantment (Bess supposed) altering her voice, it was easy enough for her to pass for male. And despite the resemblance to Grunewald, there were differences enough to suggest that her mother had not been either goblin or Aylir.

  Hidenory stood with her arms folded, looking sourly displeased about something. When Bess looked at her, Hidenory minutely shook her head.

  ‘I am sorry fer bargin’ in on yer conversation!’ Bess said to Hidenory. ‘I had some news from Tilby I thought you might find interestin’, but I can come back when you’re not busy.’

  Hidenory looked puzzled at this mention of Tilby, as well she might; but as Bessie turned back to the door, she was rewarded by a word from the Grunewald-fetch: ‘Stay a moment, Bess.’

  The voice was convincing indeed; with her back turned, Bess could almost have sworn that Grunewald himself spoke the words. She turned back with an inquiring look, and found herself scrutinised with a familiar expression of intent interest; Grunewald had frequently examined her in the same way.

  ‘I require your company,’ the fetch said, in Grune
wald’s most imperious tones.

  Bess congratulated herself upon a successful gambit. She had hoped that mention of Lincolnshire, and especially Tilby, would pique the interest of the fetch. But she must not appear too eager, for she had rejected the real Grunewald’s teasing suggestion that she might wish to accompany him. So she lifted her brows, and said with some asperity: ‘I am no subject of yours, Majesty! You cannot order me about as you do wi’ your goblin-folk.’

  Those eyes gleamed amusement, exactly as the real Grunewald’s often did when he looked at her. She blessed the stolen fairy ointment, without which she would have been hard-pressed to discover that this was a fetch at all. ‘How true. But I require you nonetheless.’

  ‘For what?’ Bessie said, setting her hands upon her hips. ‘I am mighty busy wi’ my own business, as you should well know, and I dunnot have the time to go harin’ about wi’ you. Do you not have retainers enough?’

  The fetch folded his – or her – arms and looked down upon Bess with an uncompromising air. ‘None that know Lincolnshire so well as you do. A denizen of Tilby is exactly what I need.’

  Hidenory broke her silence to interject. ‘Then Bessie is precisely the person to take with you! For she is a native of that place.’ When Bess looked at her, Hidenory smiled brightly, with no obvious trace of the malice that could only lie behind such a statement. Bessie tried not to feel stung, for Hidenory must realise that this was not Grunewald. Only ill-nature could prompt her to send Bessie into England with a person of unknown motives, and dangerous abilities – even if she sought to protect Grunewald from Bessie’s supposed machinations.

  But it coincided with Bess’s desire, so she smothered a flicker of anger and made a show of exasperation. ‘If yer Majesty demands it.’