Home From The Sea: The Elemental Masters, Book Seven

by Mercedes Lackey

  Still… Nan readied herself. Because she wasn’t going to allow people who were her friends get punished for doing nothing wrong without a fight.

  “How dare—” Gethin roared, and Mari stepped right up to him and made an odd little gesture, as if she was gathering up something in one hand. Gethin’s words were literally choked off, and he fell into a fit of shocked coughing. What had she done?

  Some magic with water, I suppose. Made him choke on his own spit for a moment, maybe. Clever! Nan thought

  “Don’t you come blathering to me about what I dare and dare not, Gethin Selch,” she said, her eyes flashing. “The bargain was that you sent me men to court me and a teacher. You never said, not once, that the teacher was not to court me. You should be pleased I picked the teacher, since if I had not, I would be telling you this minute you had better send me more men.” She sniffed with disdain. “It seems the ones you sent cannot hold their own with a woman who knows her own mind.”

  Gethin gaped at her, eyes wide, as if he could not believe what he was hearing, and then he spluttered, trying to get words out past his anger and shock.

  “Fortunately, with the boys, you also sent a man,” she continued, and reached for Idwal’s hand. “So. With this good man, I’ve made my choice, the marriage is made, the Bargain is set.”

  Finally Gethin found his voice again. “I never told you that you could steal away my Druid!” he bellowed.

  “You never told her she could not, either,” Idwal pointed out, moving to stand beside Mari, and putting his arm around her shoulders. “Nor did you forbid me to do what the others were doing.” His lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smirk. “Perhaps you should have considered that when you sent me. It’s not as if I were already mated, after all. I am also free to set my fancy where I will, and this is where I will.”

  “The Bargain is set,” Mari said, stubbornly. “And the marriage is made and there is nothing you can do about it but accept what has come to pass with a good grace.”

  Gethin’s face darkened with rage, but it was clear that he knew he was beaten. “The Bargain is set,” he growled. “The marriage is made.” He started to turn, then turned back. “And consider your own words in the Bargain, Mari Prothero,” he added.

  Then he stalked out of the door, heading for the sea. The door slammed shut behind him, and there was silence but for the surf for a long, long moment.

  Nan relaxed, as did Sarah. Neville gave a derisive quork, and Grey made a very rude noise.

  Idwal laughed. “Well said, birds,” he chuckled. “And thank you for being here, friends. Gethin is an intemperate man, and I think there might have been more consequence than confrontation if you had not been here, and willing to stand with us.”

  Nan didn’t know how he had been aware she had been ready to launch herself right at the Selch clan-chief, since he’d had his back to her and Sarah, but it was clear that he had known, and that was all she needed.

  “It was only fair,” she pointed out. “We are your friends, and we are not going to stand and watch as you get put in a bad situation. Besides, he made the Bargain in the first place, and since he wasn’t more careful of how he worded it, he has only himself to blame.”

  Sarah started laughing at that. They all turned to look at her curiously.

  “Oh… you know, in all of the stories, it’s the human that has to be careful of how he makes bargains with the Fair Folk,” she pointed out. “I think half the reason he was so angry was because today it was the Selch that got hoodwinked by the human!”

  Idwal gave Mari’s shoulders a squeeze; Nan could see that she was shaking a bit, though whether it was because of repressed fear or relief, she couldn’t tell. They both sat down again, but Mari didn’t seem to have any more appetite. Nan hardly blamed her.

  They spoke of trivialities for a while—of the preparations that Nan and Sarah were making for winter, some description from Idwal of the sorts of weather they could expect, and of the sorts of provisions that Idwal thought they ought to lay in, here at the cottage. “Lord Alderscroft has given us a fairly generous allowance,” Sarah mused. “You know, we hadn’t actually gotten you a wedding present yet. Would you object to some provisioning? We could have the lion’s share of it waiting for Daffyd to ferry over from Criccieth if you like, if you’d rather Constable Ewynnog didn’t know about it.”

  Mari had recovered enough to answer normally now. “That… that would be just splendid!” she said. “And yes, I really would rather the constable knew nothing of what comes into this house. Anything he sees that he can’t account for, he is going to assume came from wrong-doing.”

  “Then tell us what you need—and then tell us what you want—and what we get for you out of the wanting part will be the surprise,” suggested Sarah. Nan nearly chuckled at that; knowing Sarah as she did, she also knew that Sarah was probably going to arrange for every bit of whatever Mari wanted to be purchased, counting on Daffyd to never look a gift horse in the mouth and overcome his daughter’s objections.

  So the two of them encouraged Mari to name off all manner of things, including some she clearly thought were the height of extravagance, and Sarah wrote them down on the back of one of her sketches, until they were interrupted by a tap on the door. Idwal opened it to find Rhodri standing there, with Daffyd behind them, both of them with creels full of spider-crabs.

  “Is it safe?” Rhodri said nervously, peering into the depths of the cottage as if he expected Gethin to jump out at him at any moment. “Is he gone?”

  “It’s as safe as it is ever going to be when Gethin is involved,” Idwal told him. “And yes, he’s gone. I would keep clear of the clan-hall if I were you. At least for a time. He’s going to blame the lot of you for this.”

  “Of course he is,” Rhodri said, crossly. “When has Gethin ever accepted blame for anything on himself. Not that there should be blame!” he added hastily, with a little bow in Mari’s direction. “You made your choice as was your right! And you outwitted him.”

  “I didn’t actually intend to, at least, not in that way,” she replied ruefully. “It just came out that way.”

  “And now you sound as if you regret your part of the Bargain,” Idwal teased, feigning hurt. “Am I suddenly turned troll because now you have me?”

  “No!” Mari exclaimed, and flung herself at her husband to glue her lips to his in a most passionate and unmistakable manner—

  “I believe I’ll boil some crab,” Rhodri said hastily, backing out of the door.

  “We’ll join you!” said Nan, and she and Sarah quickly edged past the two, and shut the door behind them.

  15

  THE wedding was almost an anti-climax, so small and simple it was, with just the girls standing as witnesses and signing the book. Somehow Daffyd and the parson managed to keep Constable Ewynnog from finding out about it, so they did not even have his unwelcome presence in the old chapel. Sarah had given Mari one of her artistic gowns for the wedding so that she looked like a splendid princess of the ancient times, with her hair streaming loose down her back. The preacher was quite startled when he saw her, and Idwal could not restrain his pleasure at seeing her. The minister also seemed surprised that Mari did not put up any sort of resistance to the marriage, and perhaps she and Idwal should have made more of an effort to keep up the façade, but without the constable present, neither of them wanted to be bothered. They did, however, slip quietly out of the chapel and out of Clogwyn without encountering anyone else, so it probably didn’t matter what the minister thought.

  Then it was the frantic spiral from autumn to winter. The girls found that autumn was the busiest season of a country year; everywhere there were crops to be brought in, hay to be cut and dried and brought to barns, animals to slaughter, food to preserve. The weather at harvest time was always chancy in Wales, and every good day had to be leapt upon and worked as long as anyone could stand. Everyone helped everyone else, and the helpers got the gift of a share of whatever was being har
vested, thus ensuring everyone got some provisioning for over-winter in the form of trade-for-labor. Even the fishermen of Clogwyn participated, by bringing in huge catches of fish for pickling and salting, handing over part of the catch to those who came to help. Nan was amazed at how quickly people moved on the good days. She would not have believed that so great an expanse of land could be harvested in so short a time. Constable Ewynnog was beside himself; it was clear he found all of this helping and giving to be entirely suspicious and unnatural.

  Squire’s fields were left last, not out of meanness, but so that he could give a great feast to everyone around about. He had, for the most part, more than enough labor to bring the harvest in himself, since he not only had his own tenants and laborers but hired some of the itinerant harvest-workers that passed through every fall. But he preferred to leave his fields last unless the weather made it imperative that he rush the harvest, so that everyone around could come to his Harvest Home.

  It was quite the celebration. Every hand was pressed into duty in the Manor kitchen and at ovens and pits and fires outside too. Nan and Sarah got to introduce the populace to the succulence of the spider-crab, and it was clear that there would be no more tossing away of the monsters when they were caught.

  There were gallons of beer and ale and cider; a roasted pig and a young roasted bull, too old to be called a calf, but not considered, by the squire, as good enough to be allowed to grow up to breed nor strong enough to be gelded and raised as an ox. There was oat pottage and cream, oat bread and wheat bread, potatoes, and cheese, fish in plenty and no one was allowed to leave the least little bit hungry.

  Nan and Sarah were quite amused at some of the curious customs, which until now they had only read about. The last sheaf of the year had been left standing in the middle of the field and the men threw their sickles at it until one of them cut it down. It was bound and braided and called “The Mare,” and the men tried to smuggle it into the Manor without it getting wet, while the women threw water at them. This year, the men were successful, despite a couple of the handsomest almost being stripped to their smallclothes by women looking for the Mare, and the successful smuggler was given a shilling. The Mare was then hung in the rafters, and the Mare of the previous year taken down and burned; the seed from it had been thrashed out and mingled with the seed to be sown next spring “to teach it to grow,” or so it was explained to Sarah. A couple of the young men of Clogwyn made very public presentations of beautifully carved wooden spoons to young ladies, which baffled both the girls until it was explained that these were Welsh love spoons and this was essentially asking for the girl’s hand in marriage. Fortunately both of the young women had been prepared for such a presentation and both were willing, but Nan could easily imagine such a bold declaration backfiring on the hapless fellow.

  There was a game played which Nan viewed with a little alarm, where six men with their arms linked in pairs would toss people who had been laid across the arms up in the air several times. She couldn’t be persuaded to join, certain she’d end up dropped on her head.

  Then they all sat down to eat again, and when the sun was down and everyone was full, the smaller bonfire that had devoured last year’s Mare was built to a great size, the fiddler came out and the dancing began. Nan and Sarah didn’t know the dances, so they had to watch, but they enjoyed it for all of that.

  That marked the end of the hardest of the work. There was still canning and making of jelly, smoking and drying, thrashing and stowing, but it wasn’t the frantic business of getting everything in before the weather turned.

  Which it did, and the cold rains came, and after the rains, the snows.

  But the cottage stayed dry and warm, and when the weather wasn’t terrible, Nan and Sarah went down to the cottage by the sea to keep Mari company. Idwal and Rhodri went out with Daffyd now, making his work much lighter. Mari did the chores or sewed, a great deal of sewing as it happened, because shortly after Harvest Home it was pretty obvious the child-bearing part of the Bargain was going to be fulfilled by summer. So Sarah read Pride and Prejudice while Mari sewed and knitted baby things, and Nan worked on baby napkins and bedding. The cradle came down from the rafters, and Idwal nearly drove Mari half mad with trying to anticipate her every possible need or desire.

  When the weather was terrible, Nan and Sarah stayed at home, feeling altogether lazy and luxurious as they wrote reports for Lord Alderscroft or read, or did handwork, or Nan practiced her cookery. The week was only broken by Sunday—services with the squire and dinner afterwards, or services at the chapel and a brisk ride back in the pony-cart. Only Neville ventured outside now, and even he preferred to drowse with Grey beside the warm stoves.

  Then came Christmas, which had always been a great deal of fun at the school, but which was something altogether different at the Manor. Suddenly the quite old place was alive with the squire’s children, their spouses, and their children. The nursery overflowed, and Nan and Sarah were pressed into service to keep the smaller children occupied with games and stories. Not that they minded at all; the children were all on best behavior, mindful not only that being naughty would mean coal instead of presents and candy but that there were worse things that might befall them.

  One of the “worse things” turned up the evening before Christmas.

  There was a terrible pounding on the door and everyone ran to see. Managing to peek out a window, Nan saw the most horrific apparition on the doorstep—what looked like a horse’s skull, swathed in a white sheet, bedecked with draggled ribbons and snapping at the gathering of men around her. There was a fellow in a fine suit and a top hat, what looked like two men dressed as Punch and Judy who kept swatting each other with inflated bladders, and a crowd of others in their best outfits. The skull was led by the man in the top-hat, and as soon as the whole family was gathered around the door, the children shrieking with fear and excitement, the group outside began to sing.

  “Open your doors,

  Let us come and play,

  It’s cold here in the snow.

  At Christmastide.”

  Squire cleared his throat, took a sip of the port he had in his hand, and bellowed his reply through the door.

  “Go away you old monkeys

  Your breath stinks

  And stop blathering.

  It’s Christmastide.”

  The besiegers were not deterred.

  “Our mare is very pretty.

  Let her come and play,

  Her hair is full of ribbons

  At Christmastide.”

  “What is this?” Nan whispered to one of Squire’s daughters.

  The young woman whispered back. “’Tis the Mari Lwyd, the Grey Mare. She is brought ’round like this at Christmas and… well, wait, and you’ll see.”

  There was expectant waiting. The adults conferred among themselves. Finally the squire cleared his throat again and called through the door. “Mind! There’s ladies present! Watch your language!” Then he sang.

  “Instead of freezing,

  Take the Mari home,

  It’s past your bedtime

  It’s Christmastide.”

  The Mari Lwyd romped and snapped her teeth, and the group outside prepared to do battle. But it was a battle such as Nan had never seen before, a battle of wit and song, with rhymed verses crying insults on those on the other side of the door, sharp barbs that flew thick and fast amid a great deal of laughter. Nan got the feeling that if the ladies and children hadn’t been there, a lot more indelicate things might have been said, for several of the rhymes hinted at some extreme salaciousness, terrible secrets that would be exposed if the squire did not let them in. It was clear both sets of singers knew each other—and their potential weaknesses—very well.

  Finally the squire capitulated, and the entire party came in, with the Mari snapping at the children deemed “naughtiest” during the year, half-frightening, and half-exciting them. There were cakes and ale all around, a shilling dropped in the cup of ever
y one of the singers, and then the party went on to the next destination and that was more than enough excitement for the children, who gladly went to bed after it.

  The children all made charms called calenigg, hard green apples with three twigs for legs and split almonds stuck into it so it looked all spiky. A small candle was stuck into the top, along with three tiny sprigs of evergreen, and the whole was brushed with bitter almond oil. These got put in every window; Nan was told that they brought good luck and the luck would last as long as the calenigg did.

  Christmas Eve brought carols and taffy-making, but everyone went to bed early. The girls were warned that this was because Christmas Day began earlier than they might expect, and so when they were roused by the sleepy maid before the first hint of dawn, they were not surprised. Off the entire group went in a caravan of carts and the old coach that seldom got pulled out, Squire and family to church, Nan and Sarah parting with them to go to chapel, where dawn was ushered in with a service of all carols, quite unaccompanied, called Plygain. Nan found herself unexpectedly moved by the singing; everyone in the congregation seemed to be in perfect tune, and the Welsh reputation for beautiful part-singing was certainly upheld.

  They rejoined Squire and his family and came back to the Manor for a great day of feasting and presents, more taffy-making, games, and more singing.

  The next day, Boxing Day, Nan and Sarah took presents and two great baskets down to Mari, Idwal, Rhodri, and Daffyd, and got most welcome presents back—and how on earth they had managed to keep the things secret with Nan and Sarah in and out of the cottage, neither of the girls could imagine. Mari had covered two little boxes with an intricate mosaic of shells no bigger than a baby’s fingernail; Daffyd had carved them intricate spoons—though not love-spoons—out of whalebone. And Idwal and Rhodri had gone diving for treasures.

  Idwal had used his magical powers to clean the objects once they had been found… they weren’t things of gold, or even much silver, and perhaps they would not have meant much to anyone but the recipients, but they were, well, perfect.