Authors: Elizabeth Marie Pope
"Will you be quiet!" he whispered savagely.
"How can I be quiet when I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to be quiet about?" Kate hissed back.
"I had a dog in Norfolk once that trusted me."
"I'm not a dog," Kate informed him fiercely, "and I'm not completely blind or witless either. What did you go and do this afternoon when you'd sent me back to the house?"
"Do?" said Christopher. "Why, what the other pilgrims do. I went up to the Holy Well and threw my gold ring into the water, speaking my troubles aloud, so that Those who rule over the Well could hear me."
"I don't believe you."
"You tell me what I did, then. After a time, a voice spoke out of the Well, and it answered me."
"It didn't. You couldn't have done anything so lunatic. And even if you did, it was probably only an echo in the shaft."
"Then it knew its own mind remarkably well for an echo. It said I was to go and come back here again in the evening, as soon as the sun was down. Not being one to argue and dispute over every word of command, like some people, I went. I wanted the time myself, to see you and be sure you were safely out of the way before — "
"But, Christopher!" Kate broke in uncontrollably. "I don't understand. Why should they want you to come back here? What did you say to them? Why in the name of heaven did you say anything at all?"
"I told you this afternoon, I like to play games with my own money."
"What do you mean?"
"Never you mind," said Christopher. He had turned his head and was looking away up the valley in the direction of the castle. "Be still," he murmured under his breath. "Don't move. Keep behind that rock. You'll know soon enough; it's coming." Then he was gone.
Kate had no idea what was coming. She could see only the curve of the cliff wall to her right; and straight ahead of her, through the narrow jagged crevice between the two great stones, only a strip of grass and flowers with the pathway winding through them to the dark entrance of the cave on the other side of the little bay. The next instant even this was blotted out. Christopher had moved around to the front of the crevice, and was standing with his back against it.
Then in the silence Kate heard a faint scutter of pebbles and the creak of a boot. Somebody was coming down the path from the castle.
"Stop where you are," said Christopher.
"Very well, sir." It was Master John's voice, speaking composedly. He might have been any steward acknowledging an order from his master's brother. The creak stopped.
There was a long pause. Then, quite suddenly, Kate was aware that Christopher was moving again. The crevice opened; the strip of grass and flowers swung slowly back into view. She could see the shadowy wall of cliff opposite — it was already shadowy in the deep gorge — and Master John over to her left, waiting at the last dip of the path. Christopher was beside him. Neither of them had said another word; but as if in some common understanding, they had both turned and were looking intently at the dark opening of the cave among the rocks.
In the shadows of the cave something was coming up out of the Well. Kate was too far away to see exactly what it was. It appeared flickering for a second on the lip of the curbstone, heaving itself up on two long thin crooked arms like a spider's; then it had a knee on the ledge, and sliding over to the ground. It seemed to be a tall figure dressed in gray, a shifting gray like the shadows around it, and it moved as silently as a shadow. It drifted over to the dark entrance of the cave and hovered there, waiting.
Kate thought afterwards that she must have shut her eyes for an instant, like a child hoping against hope that it was all only a bad dream. When she opened them, everything was still there, Master John at the head of the path, the gray creature at the mouth of the cave. Christopher was walking across the grass to meet it. The creature was advancing a step or so to meet him. They stood together and spoke in very low voices to one another. Kate could not hear what they said. The parley, or whatever it was, did not last very long. It ended with the creature reaching into the draperies at its breast and drawing something out, a small object, like a phial or a flasket. Christopher took the thing and drank what was in it. Then he knelt down, and the creature bent over him, putting its shadowy hands on his shoulders and murmuring to him in a soft, rhythmical whisper. Presently it nodded, as though satisfied, drew Christopher to his feet, and went back into the shadows of the cave. Christopher remained standing exactly where it had left him. He was so still that he might have been turned to stone.
The creature came out of the cave again. This time it was carrying a child in its arms. She was a little girl — Kate could see the long yellow hair curling and tangling against the gray shoulder — motionless, evidently asleep.
The creature went to Christopher and gave the child to him, saying a few words as it did so. Christopher turned and began to cross the grass, moving stiffly, as though he were walking in a dream or trying to make his way step by step through deep water. His eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead of him, and his face was completely blank. Every vestige of understanding and will had been wiped out of it. He did not appear to know what he was doing, only to be going through a set of motions that had been laid down for him, like a piece of clockwork. He plodded to the head of the path and put the little girl into Master John's arms. Then he said, spacing it out like the clock striking, one thick, clogged word at a time:
"Take — her — back — to — my — brother."
"Very well, sir," replied Master John imperturbably.
Christopher said again in that strange voice: "Take — her — back — to — my — brother." Then he swung around as if obeying an order and went plodding over to his master.
The creature put its hand on his shoulder again, and drew him with it into the shadows of the cave. Kate could not see what became of them after that. In the bluish twilight the entrance to the cave was only a black hole among the rocks.
Master John shifted the sleeping Cecily to a more comfortable position against his shoulder, and said very quietly:
"You can come out now, Mistress Katherine."
Kate's heart lurched sickeningly into her throat.
"Come out," Master John repeated. "I know where you are."
Kate cowered back against the kind cliff as if she could somehow flatten herself into it and vanish.
"Mistress Katherine," said Master John patiently. "You can come out of your own accord, or I can send a couple of serving men up from the castle to fetch you. Take your choice. It makes no particular difference to me."
Kate took her choice. Anything was better than to be dragged out kicking and struggling like a rabbit from a hole. Master John stood aside courteously to let her go down the path to the castle ahead of him.
Old Dorothy was waiting on the terrace in front of the great hall. She came hurrying down the steps to meet them, her hands stretched out and the tears pouring down her wrinkled face. "Oh my lamb! my lamb!" she sobbed, reaching for Cecily. "Come to old Dorothy! Oh, my lady's own child! Mistress Katherine, if I ever spoke ill of the Young Lord I take it back! I take it all back!"
Master John merely put Cecily into her arms with a curt: "See to her!" and went on past her up the steps.
The evidence room had a door on the terrace, so that carters and grooms and gardeners with business to do could get to him without trailing their muddy boots in and out of the great hall. He pulled open the door and bowed. "In here, Mistress Katherine," he said.
The little room was very plump and clean and commonplace, rather like Master John himself. There was a big table covered with papers and account books; more account books were ranged tidily on a shelf against the smooth whitewashed wall. Under the shelf was a great iron-bound chest. The floor had been polished and strewn with fragrant herbs — meadowsweet, rosemary, thyme. A pleasant handful of fire burned on the hearth (for the summer nights were growing chilly), and Master John's after supper morsel, a platter of cheese and ripe pears, was laid ready for him on a joint stool beside the modest wooden armchair.
Master John turned the key in the lock and glanced around him with the air of a man who finds himself at home again after a long day. He put another log on the fire and lit the new wax candles in the seven-branch stick on the mantelpiece. Then he sat down in the armchair, leisurely crossing his legs, and beckoned Kate to come over to the hearth.
"I want to have a little talk with you," he said. "You're shivering, Mistress Katherine. Shall I stir the fire? Or would you care for a glass of wine?"
Kate shook her head, but she came over to the hearth and knelt down to warm herself as close to the flames as she could. Her hands felt icy cold, and she was shivering uncontrollably.
"Just a little talk," said Master John, leaning back in the armchair. "To make our positions plain to one another, like two reasonable human beings. Do you know, I have always thought well of you, very well indeed? You and I are two reasonable human beings, Mistress Katherine. We are, if you do not mind my saying so, the only two reasonable human beings anywhere about Elvenwood Hall. The People of the Hill are not (to speak between ourselves) reasonable human beings, and as for Christopher Heron — "
"What did they do to him?" Kate cried out before she could stop herself.
"Oh, that?" said Master John. "That was nothing — merely to quiet him for a little, until they were sure of him. He'll be over it in another hour or two: believe me. They have no intention of actually taking his wits away from him, or doing anything else that might weaken or spoil him for the — " he paused to select the exact word he wanted: "ceremony."
"What ceremony?"
"They have a great many ceremonies," explained Master John. "This is the one on All Hallows' Eve."
"Are they going to use him to pay the teind? For the human sacrifice? Is that what you mean?"
"What I mean?" asked Master John. "You can't have understood me, Mistress Katherine. I'm not one of Those in the Well. The teind means nothing to me. I only supply certain goods and certain services to certain people and am paid a certain reasonable price for it; your own grandfather did the same every day of his life. Do you think he ever asked whether the buyers would make a good use of the wine or the corn or the wool before he'd strike a bargain with them? Why should he? It was no concern of his. Neither is it any concern of mine. And if Christopher Heron chose to strike a bargain with them on his own account, that is no concern of mine either."
"What bargain?"
"I should think it would be clear to you by this time."
"Did he tell them that they could have him instead if they gave Cecily back?"
"I believe it was something of the sort," said Master John. "He seems to have assumed — rightly — that if they were given the choice, they would prefer to have him. As well as I can judge (for I know very little of such matters) the whole purpose of this ceremony we were speaking of is to get for oneself the force and power of the — " he paused again: "participant. Now it stands to reason (if one reasons as they do) that Christopher Heron would serve their ends much better than a child like Cecily. You and I may think him deplorably reckless and passionate and foolish, but neither of us can with justice deny that for the purpose of this ceremony he would be a young man of extraordinary power. It is partly a question of his mere strength, breeding, vigor, and comeliness, and partly (I am arguing as they might) the fact that he would be doing the thing of his own free will. I have been given to understand that when the participant in the ceremony is terrified or reluctant — as a small child is likely to be — there is always some risk that a portion of the power may be lost or kept back. With Christopher Heron, on the other hand — but I am sure that you see what I mean."
"Yes," said Kate helplessly. "I see what you mean."
"I thought you would." Master John reached out and chose a pear from the platter at his side. "However," he went on briskly, "as I told you before, all this is no concern of ours. What you and I have to consider — "
He took a small silver knife from the pouch at his belt, and weighed the pear in his hand for a moment. Then he began to cut it delicately into thin slivers, all precisely the same size.
"I am sure," he said, "that you must see that my position at this time is a very trying and painful one for me."
"I can see that it may well be." Kate straightened up and sat back on the floor, cautiously regarding him, trying to assess the exact meaning of that last sentence. She had stopped shivering. The talk was finally moving in a direction where she felt herself to be to some extent on her own ground, away from the dark, alien, mysterious world of the Fairy Folk. She knew better than to take Master John's word that he was an honest trader, like her grandfather, but he was at least a dishonest trader, not a heathen magician dealing in spells and charms and human sacrifice. A dishonest trader would be concerned first and foremost with his own profits and his own safety. He would not be the sort of man to stick by a bad bargain out of pure loyalty to his partners, and if he could be convinced that his position was trying and painful enough —
"Wouldn't it be better to cut loose from them entirely, before it's too late?" she inquired, doing her best to sound lightly assured, almost indifferent. "You'll never be able to explain to Sir Geoffrey how all this has happened."
"The ceremony should be safely over long before Sir Geoffrey comes back. He isn't returning until some time after All Saints' Day. Randal brought me word this morning that he may even put it off to the Christmas season."
"But when he does come, Cecily will still be back here at the castle, and Christopher will have gone instead. How do you think you can possibly account for that?"
"Be reasonable, Mistress Katherine. You know — and I know — that it would be easy enough to account for it. Don't you remember old Dorothy saying over and over again that he'd killed the child to get the whole inheritance for himself? These reckless and high-spirited young men are sometimes sadly ambitious. He didn't kill her; when the time came, he couldn't bring himself to do that. He gave her to a band of wandering tinkers — or was it gypsies? Yes, on the whole, I think it had better be gypsies — and bribed them to take her out of the way and see to it that she stayed lost for the rest of her life. Fortunately, his miserable confederates became panic-stricken — or did they quarrel with him over their pay? No, that won't do; they became stricken with panic and remorse at what they had done, and decided instead to bring the child to me and break away from him entirely, before they were caught. Christopher Heron broke away when I accused him of it, and fled rather than face Sir Geoffrey once the truth was known. What else could he do? Sir Geoffrey is a stern man at the best of times, and he was harsh enough with his brother even when he thought it was only a question of his being foolishly careless with Cecily."