Angel in the Woods

by Rachel Starr Thomson

  It was the shopowners’ attention Nora really wanted, and it wasn’t long before she had it. For all the dizzying humanity in the streets, not many paid us a second glance, and I soon felt useless. Our little corner was in capable hands. I wandered away into the crowd. Dimly I remembered the Giant’s intent that I play protector to my companions, and so I made a point of staying near enough to the cart that I would hear them if they called.

  Among the tents and stands and pony carts that made up the market a few more permanent buildings stood. The busiest of these was a tavern. It had been months since I had last had a drop of beer to warm myself, and I wanted it now. I walked into a haze of pipe smoke and tobacco, through which men shouted and laughed, and someone in a back corner was singing, off-key and a little off-colour.

  I knew very well how threadbare my pockets were and that a drink was never to be had for nothing. Still, I hoped to convince the tavern-keeper that I would pay for it, one way or another, on a better day.

  A big burly man with a red beard squinted at me through the darkness and waved his hand. “Away with ye,” he said. “I’ve no time to trouble with penniless beggars.”

  I drew myself up. “I am no beggar, sir,” I said. “I am the son of a nobleman.”

  He looked at me out of a half-cocked eye, his lip partly pulled up from his teeth. “And I’m the son of the almighty khan,” he said. “Get off!”

  There were men in the tavern attuned to his words. In minutes I was unceremoniously thrown back into the cold air. I half-landed, half-rolled in the street, near a narrow ditch where refuse and dirty, melted snow flowed together. A pair of rats skittered and fought over something old and once-edible near my head, uncaring that the boots of a hundred men trod all around them. As I raised myself to my knee, my eyes scanned the crowd—and zeroed in on a face I knew. A rat’s face.

  The gypsy from the woods.

  I had unfinished business with the rogue. I scrambled to my feet and shouted. “You there!”

  He turned and saw me. His expression changed from its usual sly and cunning look to one so vile and condescending that I could not bear it. I threw myself at him and bowled him to the ground.

  The Gypsy curled up and covered his head with his arms as I rained blows upon him, demanding apologies, explanations, some balm to my much wounded pride and pent up anger. He shrieked like the coward he was, and suddenly I felt hands on my arms and shoulders and waist, and I was being dragged away.

  “Let me go!” I shouted, struggling against the hold of the townsmen. “The wretch! He is up to no good, I tell you! A murderer!”

  I whirled around. A large black carriage blocked out the sky just behind me. Guards in purple livery stood sternly around it, and I saw that the men who now held me wore the same uniform. An imposing grey head, belonging to a woman of impossible age with a dragon’s mien and a sharp eye with which she now regarded me, leaned out of the window.

  “On what grounds do you accuse him, young man?” the woman asked.

  Her voice, her entire bearing, demanded that I answer. I wrenched my arms free of the guards and crossed them, meeting the woman’s glare with one of my one. “He tried to kill the Giant of the Woods,” I said.

  Chapter 12

  lady brawnlyn

  The woman stepped down from the carriage, imposing in her regality. Despite her evident age she stood straight and strong. She was taller than I, and I felt dirty and exposed before her eyes. She wore all black, from the covering of black lace on her head to the shoes on her feet. It was the traditional garb of a widow, but richly made and proudly worn. The guards stepped back and inclined their heads as her feet touched the ground, and she strode forward with her cane in her hand until she was close enough to tower over me.

  “A great mystery,” she said. “You accuse this man—” she pointed to the gypsy, still lying on the ground, with the end of her silver-tipped cane—“of attempting to murder a man who is not here present. A man whose existence I have long been given to doubt. And who are you to make such wild claims? Defend yourself well, for all I can see is a troublemaking scrap of a boy.”

  During this speech the gypsy raised himself from the ground, casting furtive, hopeful glances from the widow to myself and nervously wringing his hands. I could hardly bear it.

  “I am the son of a nobleman,” I answered, and I gave the name of the province wherein my father’s estate lay. The guards looked at each other with a new air of respect for me, which I was gratified to notice. “I claim what I know to be true, for I was with the Giant when this creature attacked him, by stealth and artifice and without provocation.”

  “Do you then know this man?” the widow asked. “This Giant of the Woods who gives so many cause to fear?”

  “I do,” I answered. “He is a good man. I have trained with him, all this fall and winter.”

  The widow nodded, the signs of thought playing across her face. Then she looked down at the gypsy, who cringed away from her. “You,” she barked. “Does this young man speak truth?”

  “Please, your ladyship,” the gypsy answered. “I am a man who will defend myself when I am attacked, and the Giant did attack me without cause.”

  The widow raised her eyebrow with disdain. “A man who will defend himself, indeed,” she said. “You are a coward. Only a moment ago you lay shrieking on the ground while this boy pummeled you. Every eye here saw it.”

  The gypsy ducked his head as the guards and the gathering crowd tittered with laughter. His loathsome head turned crimson beneath his thinning hair.

  “Your humiliation is punishment enough for cowardice,” the widow continued, “but you are here on charges far more serious. Guards!” She turned, calling several of her men to attention. “The law must inquire further into this matter,” she said. “Escort our friend to the gaol and tell the sheriff what has here transpired.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the chief of the guards answered. Unceremoniously they hauled my opponent away. I watched him with go with mingled pleasure and disappointment, for now he was quite out of my hands.

  “Now, young man,” the widow said, her attention fully back to me. “If you will be so kind as to help me back into my carriage, I would like a word with you.”

  I stepped forward and offered her my hand, aware that I was being honoured. When she was seated comfortably again in her coach, she called me up after her.

  I settled into the padded black seat opposite the widow, letting the opulence of the coach sink in and bring back memories of my old life. It seemed a lifetime ago that I had belonged to the world of nobility. I had never intended to leave it entirely—only to seek my own fortune, to make a name for myself, and to return home a great man. My adventures had thus far been very different than I had anticipated. Seated in the widow’s coach, surrounded by the scent and feel of riches, I suddenly felt closer to my goal than ever I had since I had first entered the woods.

  “Do you know who I am?” the widow asked me.

  I nodded, drawing on the history lesson the Pixie had given me. “I suppose you to be the Lady Brawnlyn,” I said, “mistress of a very great estate in these parts.”

  She nodded. “You are correct in your suppositions. I am mistress of a very great estate indeed—this town and the towns outlying all belong to me. My late husband acquired great wealth and lands before he died. He ruled them well.” A shadow passed over her face. “Though there has been… some trouble in our borders.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” I said.

  She smiled a thin-lipped smile. “You may perhaps be of help,” she said. “I have been in need of someone like you.”

  I was surprised, and did not attempt to hide it. “If I can be of assistance to you, madam, by all means call upon me. I am surprised to hear that you have no one.”

  “I am a wealthy woman,” she answered me, “but not in descendants, nor in trust. I have one daughter, no sons. I do not trust my guards. They are what they are… but I need something of better stock.”


  “As I said,” I answered, “I will be of help in any way that I can.”

  She smiled, the same joyless, no-nonsense smile. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “I will see you in my house this day next week. I shall send a coach and four for you. Where do you live?”

  I shifted my feet uncomfortably. “If you please, ma’am,” I said, “I would rather come on my own.”

  She raised her eyebrows and nodded. “Very well. I will see you after the noon meal.”

  With little more in the way of ceremony I was dismissed, and the Widow Brawnlyn rode away in a great clatter of dust and wheels. The townspeople parted before her. They paid her homage by doffing their caps and muttering to themselves.

  I had by now been gone some time, and when I made my way back to the fur stand Nora greeted me with stormy eyes. “Where have you been?” she asked.

  I bristled. “Things have happened,” I answered, intending to go into detail.

  “Yes, they have,” Nora said. “For example? I have sold all my furs, without help. And the Pixie has disappeared. In all of your wanderings, you wouldn’t happen to have seen her?”

  Chapter 13

  the widow’s commission

  The Pixie saved me the need to answer by appearing at that very moment, wrapped in her dark winter cloak. With a nod to the two of us she began to take down the wooden stands Nora had used to display the furs.

  Nora voice held a warning note. “Pixie…”

  The Pixie looked up from her work. Her eyes were pleading. “I went to see a friend, Nora, that is all,” she said.

  Nora sighed. Her face, like the Pixie’s, was full of emotion, but I could not read it. “Why should you defend yourself?” she asked at last.

  Without another word she bent down beside the Pixie and got to work. Neither one of them was happy. The Pixie’s face was flushed, perhaps with shame, perhaps with the stubborn elation of having been out and free against everyone’s wishes to the contrary. I did not flatter myself that I knew her so well I could tell the difference.

  The wooden stands were heavy, so I volunteered to tie them back on to the bottom of the wagon. Nora went to tend to the horse while I did so, and the Pixie bent down beside me.

  “I saw it all,” she whispered. “What trouble are you in?”

  I nearly hit my head on the bottom of the wagon, so surprised was I. The Pixie’s tone was stern and not a little threatening. I had never pegged her for a blackmailer, but I knew now that my secret might very well cost me. And secret it was. Until that moment I did not know it, but I did not want anyone from the castle—Nora, or the Giant especially—to know what had happened, or what had come of it.

  I peered out from under the wagon at the Pixie’s exquisite face, shadowed by her cloak and the mischief that hung axe-like over my head. “No trouble at all,” I rasped, trying to whisper and not doing terribly well at it. “Everything has been nicely settled.”

  The Pixie raised an eyebrow and whispered back, “That woman was the Widow Brawnlyn. A noblewoman!”

  I grew annoyed. “And I am a nobleman’s son.”

  The Pixie leaned a little closer and lowered her voice even more. “The Angel won’t care much about that.”

  Nora rounded the wagon at that moment and I banged my head on the side of wagon as I clambered to my feet. I shot the Pixie a warning look. She replied by folding her arms and smiling smugly. I thanked my lucky stars that she was standing behind Nora, where the expression on her face couldn’t be seen by anyone but me.

  As we were ready to go, I headed back to the front of the wagon. Somehow Nora made it there before me and snatched up the reins. “I’ll drive,” she said. There was enough question in her voice to flatter me a little… she was asking. I nodded and climbed into the back, made far more unwelcoming by the absence of furs to cushion its wooden sides. The Pixie climbed in after me and leaned against the opposite side of the cart as Nora clucked to the pony with a snap of the reins. We started down the road, through the town and back toward the castle.

  “Not a word,” I hissed.

  “No,” the Pixie said back. “Not a word.”

  I was content. I would go to the Widow Brawnlyn in seven days, as I had promised. The Pixie would not give me away… but I knew that I would eventually pay for her silence.

  * * *

  I left the castle while the Giant was out. The sun was climbing in the sky. The woods were cold but bright in the late morning light. I had some understanding of the Giant’s habits from the time I had spent with him in the woods and was thus fairly certain I knew how to miss him, both as I went out and as I returned. Nora was busy with the children as I left. Three had engaged her in an argument of sorts while a smaller one pulled on her skirt and begged for a drink. She barely had a harried nod to spare me when I announced that I was going hunting.

  The crisp air greeted me, rife with adventure. I drank it in with every step I took, my old cudgel resting on my shoulder. I felt tremendously alive. Every sense was standing at readiness. The danger of meeting the Giant in the woods, and thus being forced to an explanation I did not want to give, only heightened my enjoyment of the day. The widow had recognized my worth. Her summons had told me that I was to be a hero at last, and I felt myself to be one—every inch of me.

  I was out of the woods ere long. In the town where I had first met the Pixie, I found the blacksmith on his way to the great house of the Family Brawnlyn. I convinced him to take me along, and as we journeyed I sat beside him and drank in the countryside. It grew tamer as we neared the mansion. The woods were fewer; the fields broad and pastoral. The flat landscape made me think of the moors around my own home and reminded me once again that I was at last taking steps to fulfill my destiny. Why I put so much stock in the Widow’s summons I cannot now say; but then it seemed to me that she opened the door to the world.

  The mansion itself was a dark grey edifice, veined with climbing vines that in the summer would burst into the green of ivy leaves, but which were now a dead brown. There were gardens all around the house, well-kept but full of strange, wild things, frozen in the twisted mien of winter. I learned later that it was the Widow’s taste to surround herself with that which was wild and dark; with that which suggested danger. A wide stone drive led through the weird gardens to a pair of high oak doors, above which the heads of gargoyles leered down. It was an old house and the stonework was grim and imposing.

  There was activity about the place, but it was subdued. A flock of crows on a low stone wall flapped as someone disturbed them beyond the left side of the house. The blacksmith took himself away to the stables on the right. I walked alone, like a vagabond with my stick over my shoulder, up the drive to the oak doors.

  Hardly had I knocked when the doors swung inward and a servant bid me enter. He led me across a polished floor of grey marble toward another set of doors. We had not yet reached them when I felt eyes on me. I turned to look around the sweeping greatness of the room. A magnificent staircase curved up toward the gloom of the upper stories like a road leading into the clouds, and on it stood a young woman: dark, stormy, and strikingly beautiful. My heart moved at the sight of her, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. Her presence was commanding, yet there was something cold in the eyes as she descended the staircase, holding her hand out to me. I took the slender fingers and bent to kiss her hand. Even as I did, the Widow Brawnlyn stepped out of the shadows.

  “My daughter, Lady Genevieve Brawnlyn,” she said.

  I looked up at the beautiful face and said, “My lady.” Genevieve nodded in reply, and turned her eyes to her mother. I followed suit.

  “I am glad to see you here,” the Widow said.

  “I told you I would come,” I said.

  “Yes,”she answered, holding out her hand that I might pay homage to her as I had to her daughter. “But not every young man is as good as his word. I thought you were. I am glad to see that I was correct.”

  “Your judgement is fine,” I answered. T
he Widow seemed pleased. She gestured toward the sitting room from whence she had come, just off the grand hall. “Let us sit,” she said.

  We entered the room together, the butler a shadow at our heels. He bore a silver tray with various delicacies. The Widow settled into a cushioned chair, its ornately carved arms glowing red and gold in the light of the oil lamps. The drapes were drawn; there was no natural light in the room. Genevieve sat beside her mother and did not say a word. There was another chair on the other side of the Widow, and here that grand lady indicated that I should sit. I did, and leaned forward, caught up in the mysterious aspect of the room and its inhabitants.

  “Please, my lady,” I said. “Tell me why you have called me here. Your hospitality is gracious, but you said I could be of assistance to you.”

  The Widow smiled, barely. She unfurled a fan of darkest red and fanned herself with it. “Yes,” she said. “Tell me, young man. Have you any experience at arms?”

  I nodded. “As every young nobleman does. I can quit myself well in any contest.”

  “And in leading men?” she asked. “You seem like a leader.”

  I did not tell her that for nearly two seasons now I had been first a loner in the forest and then a water-carrier for a houseful of girls. I had, once or twice before I left home, been respected by other young men like myself who trained together in the ways of the higher classes. I affirmed her suspicion that I could indeed lead others.

  “Tell me,” she said. “What do you know about this province of mine?”

  I looked down at the rich carpet. “Very little, I’m afraid,” I said. “I have been confined to one small piece of it nearly since my arrival. It seems to me a very rich land. Very beautiful.”