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 Grunewald’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.’

‘I do, quite. But you will not go unrewarded.’

That interested Bessie a little, for the real Grunewald had never spoken thus to her. He had helped her and bestowed a gift upon her, but in both cases he had done so because he had felt so inclined; some whim or other had been behind his actions, and he had, primarily, pleased himself. He had not tried to couch his assistance in terms of reward for some past or future service. To do so altered their relationship at once, making Grunewald the power and Bessie the supplicant.

‘If it must be so, then it must,’ said Bess. ‘But I trust yer errand shall not take a great deal o’ time, for I have much to do wi’ meself.’

Grunewald grinned and bowed extravagantly. ‘You are kindness itself,’ he said.

‘Oh, beyond anythin’.’

Grunewald looked at Hidenory. ‘I require a witch also.’

Hidenory’s brows rose, and she laughed. ‘I have told you already: I cannot help you. Ask Mrs. Aylfendeane, if witch you require. I am sure she will be obliging.’ This last was spoken in tones of contempt.

Grunewald’s eyes narrowed. ‘I could compel you, if I so chose,’ he said softly.

‘When has that ever been thus? Persuade me and I am yours to command; force me and I shall fight you forever.’

‘And you are not persuaded.’

‘Not in the least. Ask me tomorrow, or the day after. I may be more kindly disposed.’

‘I will,’ promised the fetch, and he sounded as though he meant it. His green gaze returned to Bess; His hand darted out and took hold of her wrist. He gave a sudden, sharp tug, and Bessie fell sideways into darkness.

 

Bessie was proud of herself, for she endured this latest journey through the Darkways without disgracing herself at all. She was interested to note that the Grunewald-fetch navigated the route every bit as confidently as Grunewald himself, and without the smallest hesitation; if anything he (or she) was the more skilled, for Bessie emerged from the passage feeling only mildly nauseated. Grunewald would be highly irritated by that piece of information. She reminded herself to inform him of it at her earliest opportunity.

The fetch brought her into England in a spot she did not recognise. A manor house of moderately impressive proportions rose before her: a large, square property built from blocks of yellowish stone, with grand windows. She stood in the gardens a hundred feet or so from the house, surrounded by hedges and shrubs. Grunewald’s fetch began walking at once up to the great front doors, trusting to Bessie to follow him.

Bess paused only to look about herself, though she scarcely knew what she was hoping to see. Nothing of any use met her gaze; the house sat inert, desultorily illuminated by the little watery grey sunlight that penetrated a heavy cloud cover. The gardens were quiet. She heard nothing save occasional, faint birdsong, and saw no one.

She followed the Grunewald-fetch into the house. ‘Come,’ he called to her, without looking back. Bess followed him through a silent, grand hallway, down a spacious corridor and into a library. He paused only to cast his coat onto the floor, and dropped into a deep armchair. There he sat, watching Bessie from beneath glowering brows. She could make no guess as to his thoughts.

Bess took a chair opposite, without waiting for an invitation. Her position here was precarious, and if she was to achieve her goal, she would have to adapt her approach – but carefully.

What she sought, primarily, was information. Grunewald’s insistence on securing the fairy ointment was not in itself misguided, but she did not think he would achieve as much through its use as he expected. She had no doubt that he would succeed in catching another glimpse of Tatterfoal and his rider, for he was persistent, clever and powerful. But what would he learn from the imposter’s true face, save a conviction that their theory about a blood tie was correct? He would be no nearer an understanding of who this person was, or what he – she – hoped to gain by impersonating Grunewald. And it would be difficult indeed for Grunewald of all people to get close enough to learn anything more.

Bessie, however, had no real obstacles in the way of her doing just that. She was no one of importance; her movements did not have to be concealed, as Grunewald’s would, because they were unlikely to be reported upon in the first place. Having no connection whatsoever to any part of Aylfenhame save Grunewald himself, she would not naturally be suspected of harbouring any ulterior motive that might be injurious to the fake Grunewald’s cause. And if she could convince the lady behind the mask that she served her own goals in assisting the supposed Goblin King, she thought it unlikely that she would be viewed with suspicion.

Happily, Hidenory and the lady fetch had between them inspired her with an idea.

‘What is it that you want of me?’ she said.

‘Why, information!' said the fetch. 'In the first place, my neighbours. How little one knows them, after all! We have met times beyond counting, at private balls and public functions and who knows what else. But on such occasions, one sees nothing beyond the appearance. Ladies and gentlemen all! Their lives wholly predictable! Their concerns identical! But one sees nothing of what may lie behind the façade.’ He pointed one long, thin finger at Bess. ‘But a servant sees all. Is that not the truth?’

‘Aye,’ said Bessie promptly. ‘My former masters’d be shocked indeed if they knew the half of it.’

‘Your former masters,’ repeated Grunewald's imposter, in a thoughtful tone.

Bess wondered if the fetch was poorly informed, and decided to assist. ‘I am in no hurry to return to Hapworth!’ she said, with a strong shudder. ‘The Adair family! So respectable, at least on the face of it!’

Grunewald-the-fetch nodded slowly. ‘That is precisely the perspective I require. How does such a family behave in private?’ He sat forward a little, his bright green eyes burning with eagerness. ‘You have seen strange behaviour in that house, perhaps? Something out of place for a huma—for a high-ranking family? Or perhaps their guests! For is it not the case that they are a popular family, and much visited by their neighbours?’

Bess absorbed these questions, her mind working quickly to discover the reason the fetch had for asking. She could not, as yet, guess at it; but the substitution of high-ranking for the word human offered her a hint. Was he looking for signs of some heritage other than human within the Adair family? It did not surprise her to imagine that others besides Mrs. Aylfendeane may have ancestors of Aylfenhame about which they might be ignorant. But why should this probable sibling of Grunewald’s care anything for the ancestry of the wealthy families of Lincolnshire?

‘I will tell you everythin’ I know,’ Bessie said, leaning forward in her turn. ‘But I would know what you have in mind fer my reward.’ She had imagined a new Bessie to present to this imposter; a version of herself far more grasping than she had ever been, with all the greedy, grand dreams which Hidenory had been so quick to attribute to her.

The fetch found this vision of an ambitious servant full convincing enough to swallow, for he smiled upon her with sunny enthusiasm – the kind of smile the real Grunewald would never think to direct at such as she. ‘What is it you require, little Bess?’ he said. ‘Wealth? Jewels? Those may be easily bestowed.’

Bessie snorted in affected derision. ‘Such baubles! Lovely – and then spent, and gone forever. No, I seek somethin’ longer lastin’. I want a place at Court. A high position, if you follow me.’ She smiled in predatory fashion, allowing her eyes to glitter with a calculation she had never felt.

Grunewald looked her over intently. ‘I believe I understand you. You shall have it, my Bessie, I promise it! Only assist me as you can.’

‘I shall be mighty pleasin’, I assure you.’

‘Then you may begin. Tell me of the Adair family.’

Herein lay the tricky part, for in truth, Bessie had little to impart beyond the commonplace. Servants saw much, to be sure, but she had never seen aught of the Adairs to suggest that they may be harbouring secret powers, or in possession of any blood heritage save plain human. Nor could she muster a recollection of any of their guests that might betray a hidden link to Aylfenhame.

But he need not know that. Moreover, seeing as she could not, as yet, understand the reasons for his inquiries, she saw an opportunity to cast some confusion over his endeavours by giving a great deal of information – all of it false. She trusted that the fetch would be occupied for some time in investigating her lies, and by the time her falsehood was discovered — if it was at all — she would be gone.

So she told him of late-night meetings between Mr. Adair, the elder, and his son. She told of half-overheard conversations among the family, hinting at secret endeavours; and of hearing Aylfenhame discussed, at times when they imagined themselves unobserved. She spoke of overnight visits from various of their neighbours, and circulated rumours of strange behaviour and whispered secrets on more than one part. All this she liberally interspersed with ordinary scandal and mundane gossip, the better to season her lies.

The fetch listened avidly, and questioned her closely about each person among the neighbourhood that she named. When she had at last exhausted her creativity, he sat in silence for some time, tapping the tip of one long finger against his lips.

‘I thank you, Bessie,’ he said at last. ‘You have given me a deal to think about.’

‘Happy to oblige,’ she said cheerfully.

He sat in silence for a minute longer, and then abruptly said: ‘You were born here?’

‘In Lincolnshire? To be sure. I never left it before, until I went into Aylfenhame.’

‘And have you ever chanced to hear word of the Hollow Hills?’

‘Me Ma used to tell of them, afore she died. The In-Betweens, they was also called. Not England and not Aylfenhame, but betwixt the two. They used to say as how, if we was bad, the likes of Tatterfoal’d come out o’ the Hills and take us away.’

‘A charming children’s tale.’

‘Ma expected to scare me, but that weren’t what happened. I always wanted to be snatched away to such an excitin’ place, leastwise until I grew older and realised it weren’t real.’

‘Oh, but it is,’ said Grunewald with a strange smile.

‘So they’re sayin’ now. Some folk says the Piper’s lot comes out o’ there.’

‘The Piper?’ The Grunewald-fetch sat up, an eager light in his eyes. ‘Say more of that.’

Bess told him all that she knew, which was little enough – though she omitted any mention of the visit the Piper’s Rade had recently paid to Somerdale. Her information appeared to be of absorbing interest to the fetch, however, for he sat in avid attention while she spoke, and the moment she fell silent he said: ‘There must be an entrance hereabouts! I had suspected as much! What do the tales say of that?’

‘Not a thing,’ Bessie replied.

This reply did not much disappoint her audience, though he appeared briefly disconcerted. ‘It is of no matter,’ he said thoughtfully, and she imagined he was turning over in his own mind some scheme for the discovery of the entrance, if there was one. But what lay behind his interest in the Hills, and how was it connected to his curiosity about the families of Lincolnshire? Bessie thought furiously, determined to find some way of enquiring without seeming to; but before she could hit upon a course of action, she found herself dismissed, with another dazzling smile. ‘You may go. But not far, Bessie Bell. I will have need of you again.’

Bessie briefly considered making a bid to stay, but she was unwilling to push her luck too far. So she rose obediently enough, and took her leave.

‘You will find rooms prepared,’ he told her as she left.

Directly outside the door there stood a brownie, who bowed the moment Bessie appeared. ‘I am to take you to your room,’ said the little creature, whose ragged trousers and waistcoat had perhaps seen better days some years ago. But he only appeared as a brownie in her right eye; her left revealed a goblin of Drig’s height and colouring. Somehow, she was not surprised.

Bess thanked her guide and followed him up to the first floor. She had been given a large, sumptuous chamber, which pleased both the real Bess and the greedy, luxury-loving character she had assumed. But she did not stay long to enjoy her surroundings. As soon as the brownie-goblin had left, she ventured out to explore the house.

Her wanderings revealed nothing of note. Hyde Place appeared to her in the character of a typical mansion, with nothing untoward to interest her at all. It possessed a full complement of human servants and a number of brownies; those she saw appeared perfectly ordinary to her, and her careful questioning of some few of them availed her nothing. She could not find out that there was anything unusual going on, as far as the servants were concerned, and they seemed wholly unaware that their supposed master was any different. True, his return had been sudden and unannounced, but by all accounts they were used to erratic comings and goings and thought nothing of it.

Bessie could well believe that.

The Grunewald-fetch did not summon Bess again that day. He left the house shortly after sunset, probably to retrieve Tatterfoal and resume his night rides. She was obliged to resign herself to the prospect of an unproductive day, for a search of Grunewald’s study and his library uncovered nothing of either note or interest.

But soon after she retired to her chamber, there came a tap at the door. Upon her invitation, it opened to reveal the same brownie who had taken her up to her room earlier in the day. He swallowed nervously upon beholding Bessie, and looked furtively around.

‘There is… someone to see you, Miss,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Outside, by the folly.’

‘Someone?’ she prompted, rising at once from the chair in which she had arranged herself. ‘Who is it?’

‘It is the bridge-keeper,’ he said in a still softer whisper.

Bess knew of the bridge-keeper, of course. Everyone in Tilby knew of the troll who had, unaccountably, taken up his residence beneath the little stone bridge on the outskirts of the town, and set himself to the task of collecting the tolls. But she had never before met him, and she could by no means imagine what he might want with her now.

She wasted no time in collecting her cloak and putting on her wondrous boots. ‘Where is the folly?’ she enquired, when the brownie seemed intent upon a hasty withdrawal.

‘Behind the house, and over the ha-ha,’ he replied. These directions were not so minute as Bessie could have wished, but the poor creature seemed overcome by the demands of the evening, and withdrew without another word. Bessie was left to follow his instructions as best she could, in spite of the darkness and the fog which had, predictably, rolled over the grounds as the night drew in.

But when she stepped outside, she saw a light bobbing in the darkness — faint and dimmed by the swirling fog, but visible. Bessie followed it, and soon discerned another, and another. A string of wisps guided her steps into the grounds of Hyde Place, and before long she found herself at the base of what appeared to be a tiny, ruined Greek temple which loomed, incongruously, out of the fog.

Beside it she encountered a still more incongruous sight: a troll vastly taller than she and broad in girth, dressed in a neat waistcoat and with a tall hat set atop his riotous curls. He smiled as he saw her approach, setting the two curled tusks at either side of his mouth twitching in a manner Bess found more than a little horrifying, and bowed to her.

‘Bessie Bell, I presume?’ he said.

‘Aye, sir! I am come, by yer request. But what can you be wantin’ wi’ me?’

He gestured, and the soft light of the wisps winked out save for one only. That one hovered over the bridge-keeper’s head, illuminating part of his face in a faint, eerie light which gave his features a most unpromising cast. ‘Stay but a little while, an’ I’ll tell ye everythin,’ he promised.