Chapter Two
In Which Bess Experiences Two Interesting Things and Finds a Puzzle
The first thing:
In the May-time, a bird on a budding branch can see beyond the curving of the earth—far beyond to where the weak sun comes climbing, pulling itself up from the long dark. And where there is one bird, there will be two, then ten, then thousands, shouting courage to the climbing sun, long before the sons of men arise. It is a music, piping for the blood to dance to.
It danced in Bess’ dreams until it shook her awake, aware in the thinning dark, and drunk with a dream she could not remember. She rose up and went to the window, hugging herself, to find the light of day creeping up at the edge of the black sky. There were lights already in the smithy. She had slept late, then. She wrapped herself up and took her brush out onto the porch, to listen to bird wildness and straighten out her bush of hair.
A morning worth breathing for—chill, but with a hope of something else. Mud was a poor substitute for snow, but primroses were showing now in the paths and the by-ways, and the grass was finding its way out of the dark earth. For all her protestations, Bess felt her blood stir, and knew every inch of her skin on a morning like this one.
Her hair now light and unknotted, she arose and went inside to take her time dressing for the day, a sprigged muslin dress, newly washed, and the one apron she hardly ever wore—the one Sally had embroidered with a rose vine, all across the yoke.
She went into the kitchen and fetched down the basket. Into it, she put Old Alice’s measure of flour, in trade for which Bess would come home with two eggs. But on second thought, by this time underscored with her humming, she cut an extra slice of last night’s bread, spread it with sweet butter, and put that in too, closing the basket over it with satisfaction.
Old Alice was an odd one, who raised roses like children and lived in the smallest cottage out on the far side of the village green all by herself. They called her The Granny, everyone in the village, and called her to help with the birthings, and were more than a little afraid of her; she was not a particularly god-fearing woman—her roses bloomed far too early in the spring and were still blooming nearly till Christmas, her back garden given to strange and unfamiliar herbs. But Bess liked her well enough, and worried over her, so that this little trade, two small eggs for a good measure of flour, was more a daughter-like duty than commerce. And Bess set out for the village with it, as she had every dawning for years.
The sky was fairly light, now she came down from the mill porch. The birds had gone quiet, but the river was up and rushing through the race as though to save its life. She liked the sound of the way beneath her feet, still damp from the rains, but crisp with gravel and lively for all that. She went softly, still humming.
And met her father, rushing down from the road, hair flying. “Bessie!” he called, and the tone of it made her catch her breath.
“What’s wrong?” she yelled, and ran to meet him. He put a hand on her arm and leaned over, panting like an old dog. But when he straightened up again, his face was shining.
“It’s a riding,” he gasped, taking hold of her arm and towing her back up the lane with him. “Not just the guard. He’s out. He’s out.”
“Who’s out?” she asked, impatient now, and stumbling, he was pulling her along so quickly.
“Coming through the village,” he panted. “A procession. Everybody out—just lined up all along.”
“The king?” she asked, and stopped lagging.
“The prince,” he said, and then tugged hard, because she was lagging again. When they got to the bridge, the way was still clear, but Bess could see Sally and the children, hurrying down from the village, and then others, headed for the smithy, or stopping along the side of the road to wait. A farmer had pulled his cart to the side of the road, and his family sat in the back pointing, the children squealing and standing up to peer down the road. Robert and Oz were out in the smithy yard, standing with Alric the draper and few others, and they were peering as well, Robert with his hammer still in his hand.
“Just like the first robin,” the miller yelled happily, as they got within shouting distance of the crowd. By this time, they could make out the heads of the first horses and the golden helmets of the riders gleaming in the spring sun.
“Bess,” Sally called, smiling, and opened an arm for her. “It’s a glorious morning,” Sally declared, enveloping the younger girl and giving her a great squeeze. Then, “Dill,” Sally said sharply, effectively stopping her four year old son, just shy of disappearing through the open smithy doors. Dill turned and gave his mother a narrow-eyed look. “You’ll stay right here, my man,” Sally said, and kept her eye on him as he came stumping back. “Just like you,” Sally laughed, with a light pinch to Bess’ arm. “Always, it’s the horses.” And then to Dill, “Keep near. Just here, please, sir.”
The procession was coming closer, and children ran before it. Village people were now spread all along the road on either side, some walking along beside the horses. “It’s that slow,” Bess said, watching it all.
“It’s been so long,” Sally said. “Last summer since we’ve seen him last. Though they say he takes the southern road sometimes, so we wouldn’t have seen him then.”
“They look so splendid, don’t they?” a woman said.
“They always do, the king’s guard,” another said. “They make me feel so safe when they ride the green, them with their lances and their swords. Certainly, they keep the robbers from the door, bless their hearts.”
“That’s one way of seeing things,” the draper said darkly.
“And why would the prince need so many guards, just to ride the green?” Bess wondered. Because there were at least ten of them, three front and back, two to a side. “Are we so frightening?”
“He’s royalty,” Sally said, as if that explained it all.
On they came, at a walk so sedate, Bess half expected to see old men on those fine horses. But the guards were tall and hale enough, when they finally came close enough to be seen properly. And there was the prince, safe within his bristling cocoon.
“I like the dapple,” Oz said. “Why don’t they ever send him down to us?”
“Shhh—“ Robert said to him. “Wave at the man.”
“Is that him?” Oz asked. “I was too young last time to realize. “Is he old?”
“No,” hissed Sally. “It’s the light hair, is all. They’re all like that in the east, that bright hair with the darkish skin.”
“Well, it looks strange,” Oz muttered.
“Wave,” Robert commanded.
“Why?” Oz hissed back. “He’s not even looking.” And he wasn’t. The prince could have been made of glass or air, for the lightness of his seat on the great white horse and the stillness of his face and of his hand on the rein. It was actually difficult to see him, as though the glinting of the helmets blinded the eyes. And the people themselves might not have been there at all, for all the notice they got from any of the riders. Until a little dog ran out onto the road. Then the guard at the near front corner suddenly became very real, swinging his lance down quick as lightening, And there was Dill, darting out after the dog.
“No,” Sally shouted. But before she could move, the guard had the lance back up and was vaulting from the saddle. Without a word, he took Dill by the arm and marched him back to the side of the road—the dog, tail tucked, close behind. In that moment, Bess looked up. And there was the prince, with his dark face half turned, looking at Sally. Straight at her. But Sally was in motion, darting out to scoop up her son. Then it was over, and the procession moved forward again without a single word.
“Well, that was odd,” Oz said, into the subsequent silence.
“Susan Whipple,” somebody whispered behind them—it was Barkis the Cart—and the crowd of people began to laugh. The laugh rose, spreading with whispers of the name all up and down, and broke the odd feeling to bits, driving it off like feathers before the wind.
“What about Susan Whipple?” Bess asked.
Robert made a rude noise. “It’s just a story,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” the carter said. “I saw it myself. It was a year ago, or two. She did just like the dog there, ran out into the road in front of them. And then pretended to swoon. Fell right down on the road. We feared they’d ride over her. But the same happened. They hauled her to the side and left her there.”
“Why would she do that?” Bess asked.
“Brainless girl,” a woman said happily. “She thought, if he once saw her, she’d have a prince for a husband.”
The draper said, “He was a boy then. He looks to be a man, now.”
And the woman beside him frowned. “I can’t remember his face, somehow. Just that curious beauty of his.” Which caused the men to snort and chuckle.
But Sally was still too shaken to laugh, holding Dill in one arm and whispering to him angrily.
“He was looking at you,” Bess said to her. Sally turned to her. “The prince. He turned his face and looked right at you.”
“No,” Oz said to Bess. “It was you he was looking at.”
And the second thing:
Another such morning, soon after—fresh, secret, the air full of lilac and swelling in the heart. Another such start: on her arm, Old Alice’s basket of flour and buttered bread—and today with Alice’s sharp shears, borrowed for cutting flour bags, tucked inside. Bess came down the mill steps brightly, before the dew had quite set itself into sparkling pearls. It was in that seam of light and dark when dreams drift in raveled flags behind and visions spring up along the way ahead like banks of star flowers.
As Bess crossed the stone bridge, she felt a song welling up. And had just opened her mouth to set it free, when she shut her mouth again, faltering in her step. This morning, there were shadows at the tanner’s turning, lounging back against the stone wall, for all the world as if they were waiting for something.
In that moment, she had a chance to choose—to go forward and brave it out, whatever it might turn out to be—probably nothing at all. Or to go back home. She took another step forward and then the second choice was lost to her, for the shadows straightened up away from the wall and became great boys, and they were smiling, teeth gleaming in the gray dawn.
“Good morrow, lady,” the big one said, making himself so free with the last word, he might as well have licked it up and down.
The grin on his narrow-faced friend widened as he rubbed his hands together.
Her throat closed up, heart suddenly beating wildly. She managed a haughty but neighborly nod, and then fixed her eyes on the smithy door, where light already was spilling, bright and pulsing, onto the path.
“Off to the Granny’s?” Tos said, strolling up onto the way with his hands in his pockets, Mallo close behind. Her step wanted to quicken, but she, unwilling to give them the satisfaction, kept it steady, sure they could do her no harm here, so close to help. Tos dropped into step beside her, leaving Mallo to follow behind, just off to the other side, the one making her palms prickle, the other raising the hair on the back of her neck.
“What’s in the basket?” Mallo asked, managing to make even that sound lewd.
“Flour,” she said, flatly.
“Let me carry it for you, why not?” Tos wheedled, coming too close and putting his hand on the basket. She moved it out of his reach, as he’d known she would, and his hand fell to her hip.
“Don’t,” she hissed, and twisted out from under. They were coming up on the Smithy now, her step finally quickening all on its own.
“Bess, Bess, Bess—” Tos said. “Never a sense of humor. You’re just so easy to bait. But look—there’s the fire coming out of your eyes, and your face all rosy. Enough to make a man lose his good sense. Come on—we don’t mean anything by it. We’re just walking together. Or are you too good to walk with me?”
“I don’t want to walk with you,” she said.
“You shouldn’t have said that,” Tos told her, bearing in on her right side, his arm out behind her. She swerved away to the left before she realized he’d meant her to do just that. His arm had gone around her waist, and with his weight, he forced her off the way, and down into the smithy’s side yard, on the blind forge-side wall of the place, where Robert kept his metal, new and used, with neat piles of lumber and stacks of barrels. Tos had her off balance. She fumbled at the basket, thinking of the shears, but by the time they were off the path and stumbling down the hill, Mallow had taken her other arm, and she was helpless to break away.
It was a dangerous place—on the far side of the smithy from the village, tucked into the forest edge—a lonely little bowl filled with shadow. No witnesses here but the birds and the skulking things in the wood—no help from any but those inside the smithy—who could not hear or see to know.
He slammed her up against the Smithy wall between two rusting piles, and she dropped the basket, trying to get her hands up to push him away, the very smell of him near to making her sick. There was nothing to see ahead of her but his surprisingly massive shoulder and the leering face of his eager friend. Only an empty outcropping of large, pale rocks which she, in her first shock, took desperately for yet another man.
No help, indeed.
She opened her mouth to yell for Robert, but Tos jammed his dirty hand across it, his arm pinning her shoulder back against the wall. She could feel the heat of the forge inside the building, and the hammer resonating through the walls. Robert couldn’t have heard her if she’d screamed a thousand times. Tos’ other hand got busy while Mallo spouted filth at his shoulder.
She bit the hand that silenced her, and Tos snatched it away, grabbing her braid and jerking her head back. “You’ll not be sorry when I’m done,” he said.
She spat in his face.
He didn’t like that. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, eyes narrowed, and kept his hold on her hair—lifting his hand far back for what was sure to be a vicious blow—holding off to whisper dirty threats, for the pure pleasure of seeing her cringe. Which she did, curled against the solid wall behind her.
“I’d think twice,” someone said.
Tos froze, his hand still in the air, then jerked his head around to glare at Mallo. But that worthy was looking round himself, and finally pointed to someone behind them. Tos squinted back over his shoulder, his hand drooping behind.
And there, on the pale outcrop of rock, in the first clear sunray of the morning, was perched a strange figure. It was young by the voice, male by the leggings and the attitude, and flashed a grin out of a remarkably dirty face. The eyes gleamed a weird yellow, the hair shaggy and dark—in fact, the overall aspect of the creature spoke of nothing civilized.
“She won’t be impressed,” this person now warned, shaking his finger at them, the grin and the wolfish eyes the only easily discernable parts of his face.
“Look what we got here,” Tos said, sneering. For the moment, he forgot Bess, turning around to size up the intruder. She darted under his hand, snatching at the shears which had fallen half out of the basket. She pushed away from the wall, but Mallo stood wedged between the piles, between her and the road. She came up short, her mind oddly clear, and took a murderous grip on the shears.
Tos went a couple of menacing steps toward the rock, but the stranger there seemed unperturbed. Still ginning, the creature reached very casually into his sleeve and smoothly drew out the wickedest knife Bess had ever seen.
“I can eviscerate a deer in less time than it takes most men to put their pants on in the morning,” he said conversationally. The knife flashed in the early light as he tossed it carelessly from one hand to the other. “I’ve never done a man quite that way,” he said, thoughtfully, “but I imagine it might be quicker.”
He looked to them as if he expected their opinion. Tos had taken a step back, but was still keeping up a good show of menace.
“Didn’t I hear you say he had some kind of appointment this morning?” the stranger asked, flicking the tip of the knife in Mallo’s direction. Mallo looked surprised and glanced at Tos.
“What?” Mallo said, licking his lips.
“An appointment. A pressing one. Aren’t you late?”
“Ah—” Mallo said, dawn breaking in his head. “As a matter of fact. . .”
Toss cut Mallo a quick angry look.
Mallo leaned in close to him and whispered, “It’s a werewolf, idiot—can’t you tell?” And then, louder, “Don’t tell me you forgot.” Mallo looked back over his shoulder at the crouching, angry Bess, his eyes widening at the sight of the shears. “Forgot what?” Tos demanded. Mallo began to tug at his shirt. “You know,” he said. “You’ll lose your chance if you’re late, now, won’t you? You can finish this business any time.”
Tos took an uncertain look at the thing on the rock, and then back over his shoulder at Bess, who aimed the tips of the shears at his face. He turned back to the stranger and spat. “Another time,” Tos promised.
The man on the rock parted his hands, still grinning. “Any time you like,” he said. “But—” he held up a finger and spoke very sweetly, “mark me. Trouble her again, and you’ll need to learn a new way of doing almost everything.”
Tos surged forward at that. “Come on, then,” Mallo said, hauling back hard on Tos’ shirt. One more snarl and Tos allowed himself to be pulled away. Just as he and Mallo reached the path above, Tos was heard to say, “Now, what chance am I late for?”
There was a moment’s silence as the two of them disappeared, headed toward the tanner’s lane. And then a moment more, in case something should bring them back. But when nothing further happened, Bess straightened herself and took a quick look around.
The wild man was watching her. Those strange, yellow eyes raised the hair on the back of her head.
“Now,” he said plainly, “don’t tell me you hadn’t seen that coming.”
She took a step forward, eyeing the pile of metal that cut her off, and then glancing up at the road. Too far to run, if he was ready to chase. And she could not trust her legs.
He slipped the knife back into what she could now see was a sheath, fastened to his arm. Then he hugged his knees and turned the grin on her. “You couldn’t save yourself,” he said. “And how you hated that.” Then he laughed at himself. “Of course you did,” he said. He began to slip down off the rock, but she took a fighting stance, brandishing the shears.
He held up a hand, stepping back again. “I’m not playing their game, dear heart,” he said, gently. “I’ve had it done to me, and I know I don’t like it.”
“Stay away,” she shouted. Her voice splintered, a million birds fluttering off at once. “And I could have saved myself, you.”
He settled himself back down on the rock and managed to look utterly permanent. “You think so, do you?”
“I could. I could have killed them, and I will surely kill you.”
He laughed. “So, not that keen on reality, then?”
“I have places to go,” she said, stepping back to grope one-handed for the basket, but keeping her eyes and the points of the shears fixed on him.
“You know it was your fault, this.” He waved a hand at the road.
“What was?”
“Did you think you could hold them off forever with your virtuous, lady-like manner? Did it never occur to you that you were baiting them? And did it never occur to you to tell the smith about their winning ways?”
She caught hold of the basket at last, and was tempted to pitch it at him. “And what would you know about me or them or any of it?”
“More than you might think. I know, for one, that every morning, you sit on your porch and brush out your hair.” She sucked in a breath. “And then you take that little basket over the green. Anybody could know that, just by watching, and know where to wait.”
Her heart had next to frozen in her chest. “You’ve been watching me,” she said, going very still. She was thinking of his knife and trying to take in the enormity of what she’d just said. Her world began to tilt.
He leaned back on his elbow. “Not just you, dear,” he said. And with a flourish of the hand, “I watch the whole place. You’d be surprised what can be seen from the tops of these trees. Or through windows once the sun goes down.”
“You little filthy sneak,” she said, and then a niggling slip of memory popped clear. “It was you I saw,” she said. “Stealing one of Jen’s pies off the sill. Last fall, I remember now. I remember your—” She flapped the shears at him, taking in the deerskin and the wild hair—a flash in a shadow. “I thought you were a dog.”
“Only the one pie, was it?” he said.
“What are you?” she asked. “You’re a robber, aren’t you? One of the forest robbers. One of those bloody rotting forest robbers.” And then her eyes went to the tree-line, raking it, sure that a full phalanx of wolf-men would now come leaping out.
“No, no,” he said softly. “Sadly, no. Though it’s true I’ve had the training, and could have been the finest of them, if I’d had the heart for it.” He stretched and slid off the rock with the grace of a cat.
She leapt back, bringing the shears up again as she yelled, “Do not take one step closer, or I will kill you as you stand.”
It was exactly then that Brown Robert came swinging around the corner of his smithy, a hank of twisted metal in his hand. Robert heard the words before he saw Bess, stiffened, then took in the entire shadowy scene and came to his own conclusions. He roared and started for the man, coming straight over the splintered mounds of metal and lumber, murder in his eye and the strip of metal in his hand.
Bess froze for a moment, then dropped the shears and lunged for Robert, yelling, “NO.” She caught hold of his arm and was dragged along for several feet before he registered that fact that she was there and stopped to shake her off.
“Stop,” she was yelling, wrapped around his wrist like a mad cat. “Stop, stop, stop!”
“I’ve stopped,” he shouted. And then he did shake her off, huffing and puffing and looking around for his male target. Which was just where it had been in the first place, and blinking mildly at him. “What’s going on here?” Robert demanded, with Bess sitting in the weeds at his feet.
She looked up at him, said, “Now look what you’ve done,” and started to scream.
“Oh, heaven,” Robert said, threw the metal aside and bent down to pick her up. “Stop,” he said into the noise she was making. But one look told him she couldn’t have if she’d wanted to. So he shook her like a child, and then crushed her against his chest and held her till the noise died down. “And now you’re crying,” he said, disgustedly. He looked up at the rag-bag of a man—still standing there, watching it all. “And what are you? And why is she doing this?”
“She’s had a difficult morning,” the man said, him with his weird yellow eyes.
“And what are you supposed to be?” Robert said. “Some shedding wolf?”
The man smiled.
“Well what happened, then?” Robert shouted, ready to pull out his own hair.
“It wasn’t him,” Bess gulped from somewhere below Robert’s ear.
He pulled her away and looked down into her face. “What wasn’t?”
“You shouldn’t let her go wandering around alone in the dark,” the rag man said.
And that was the end of Bess crying. “He doesn’t ‘let me’ do anything,” she spat.
“I’ll beg your pardon,” Robert said down to her. “But yes, I do.” Bess glared up at him.
“She was set upon,” the rag man went on, “by the two ne’er-do-wells by the bridge.” He pulled out his knife again, and began to clean a fingernail with it.
“That Toss?” Robert asked her, his face going deeply red.
She nodded, then pushed her face into his shoulder, forestalling any scolding that might just come flying her way.
The wolf eyes glanced up at them and smiled. “It turned out all right.” There was a slight flash of the knife. “I discouraged them.”
Bess’ face came up. “He helped a little,” she admitted, sending the wolf a sour look.
“Did you kill them?” Robert asked him. “Because if you did not, I still have that to do.” He kicked hard at an empty wooden barrel and set it spinning.
“Shhh,” Bess said, nestling against him once more. “Do it in a minute. I just need to be quiet now.”
Robert sat down on a barrel and sighed. “Bess,” he said, “I told you—“
“I just need to be quiet,” she said, a little more sharply. Robert subsided, shaking his head. Then he turned his full attention on the stranger, looking him up and down with some interest. “And so who are you, then, if I may ask?”
The yellow-eyed man cut him a frivolous bow, flashing his wolf’s grin, then straightened himself and said soberly, “I am the Silkie.”
“Is that supposed to be a name?” Robert asked mildly.
“It is. A name, a defining. I’m called other things, too, but you won’t have heard them before either, and this one’s by far the nicest. I’ll permit you to call me by it, whatever.”
Robert snorted. “Well, you talk enough.”
Bess sighed, and pushing herself away from Robert, found her legs. “I can go now,” she said.
“Go where?” Robert asked.
“To Alice’s,” she said, as though he should have known.
“You’ve got no blood in your face,” Robert objected. “It’s home to bed for you.”
“I’m going to Alice’s,” she said, beginning to bristle.
“And there she blows,” the Silkie said happily.
“She’ll be waiting for me. I have to go.” Bess cast around for the basket and the shears, finding both mostly undamaged.
“That’s our Bess,” the Silkie laughed.
“I’ll thank you not to ‘our Bess’ in my presence,” Robert told him. And rounding on her, “Of all the lame-brained—“
“I’ll watch after her,” the Silkie said.
Robert, looking him up and down all over again, said “Oh, that’s a great comfort,” just as Bess said, “You certainly will not.”
“She’s not going to come to harm when she’s with me,” the Silkie said, ignoring Bess.
“Oh, aye,” Robert said. “I can tell that by the look of you.”
“I’m going,” Bess said again, slipping the basket over her arm.
“It’s just across the green and back, man,” the Silkie said, exasperated. “I’ll admit, my motives are never altogether altruistic. But what, exactly, do you fear I might do?”
Bess dusted off the basket with her skirt and started off around the piles, staggering a little.
“Bess,” Robert said.
“My legs work,” she said over her shoulder. “And since you’re going to be killing the two of them, I have no worries from that quarter. The sun’s nearly up—I’ve got work to do.”
The Silkie trotted after her.
“Now, you just wait,” Robert said to him.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Bess said, now up on the crest of the road. She turned and smiled sunnily down at Robert. “He can come along if he likes. I’ve always wanted a dog.” And with that, off she went. The Silkie spun and grinned at Robert, tucking the knife back into his sleeve, but flashing his teeth.
“I’ll be watching for you to come back,” Robert warned the Silkie, who gave him a little wave and trotted after Bess.