Witchfog Page 3

  Stories and Tales

  Lunch brought more mysteries. Only Sir Philip and I dined at the little trestle table set out in the hall. I wondered if he ate like this even without company. I had never considered how people dined when they lived alone. Even I, an orphaned only child, always invited a bevy of friends and relatives to my house for dinner. That was how things worked. But my cousin couldn’t have many friends and relatives out here on the edge of the wild, dark moors.

  “So, my dear,” he said as we finished our main course and sat back to await dessert. “I said I would tell you the legend of Wayland Smith, although I confess it is not a cheery tale for lunch. Would you like to hear it, anyway?”

  I felt an unexpected pulse of dread, but I pushed it away. What harm could there be in an old story?

  “Yes please, uncle.”

  He smiled warmly and steepled his fingers, an expression of acute concentration on his face. I realised that the correct telling of this story was very important to him.

  “In the lands where the English first came from, long ago, there was a smith called Wayland. He was the son of a king, but he chose not to live a royal life. Instead, he worked for a living, making the finest swords the world has ever seen. He was strong, and talented - but he was not happy.

  “For Wayland had lost the woman he loved. She was a swan-maiden, an elf princess who he captured one night when he thought her just a swan he could cook for his dinner. When she changed into a beautiful woman right before his eyes, he immediately fell in love and took her as his wife. She loved him in return and bore him a son. But fairy women cannot stay in this world for ever, and after seven years she was forced to leave Wayland and return home. He awoke one morning to find her gone forever, leaving him with his infant son, and a magical ring she had made especially for her lost love.

  “So, Wayland worked, and his work became his life. His swords were incredible because he poured all of his passion and heartbreak into them. Unfortunately, this caught the attention of King Nidud, who wanted one of Wayland’s swords- and he wanted it fast, because he was already at war, and looked likely to lose. In desperation, he offered his own daughter as payment for the sword. Wayland realised that he needed a mother for his son. He thought a princess would be a fine wife for a king’s son, and so he agreed. He made the sword and sharpened it to such an edge that Nidud could slice his enemies in two without them even feeling the blow.

  “But Nidud was not a man who kept his word. He refused to hand his daughter over to Wayland, saying he would not allow her to be debased by the dirty hands of a blacksmith. Enraged at the insult, Wayland charged straight into the battle camp of Nidud- but he was a smith, not a warrior, and he stood no chance. Nidud had him captured, hamstrung, and imprisoned on an island. Here, alone, his wife and son both lost to him now, Wayland was forced to work day and night forging swords for Nidud. All of his belongings were taken from him, even the precious ring given to him by his fairy wife.

  “The sons of Nidud were young, and curious. They knew nothing of the smith’s history, but they were curious about the fine swords he made. They would sometimes row over to his island and watch him as he worked. Once or twice, they even brought their sister, the young princess, who had no idea of her father's promises to Wayland. Mostly, the smith ignored the princes. They were not cruel like their father, and they did him no harm. He thought perhaps they might free him when they came of age.

  “But one day, Wayland awoke from terrible dreams of his lost wife calling out to him in anguish. He felt again the pain of her loss, and the agony of being separated from his son. He did not even know whether the boy still lived. When the princes and their sister came to call on him, he could barely manage a single word, so great was his anger towards their family. And as the royal children sailed away, he saw the ring on the princess’s slender white finger- his fairy wife's ring. That was when Wayland Smith swore to take revenge.

  “When the princes next sailed to his island, Wayland was waiting for them. He killed them, and out of their dead bodies he forged some of his most beautiful work. Their skulls became goblets, wrapped in bands of the most exquisite metalwork. Their eyes he disguised as bright jewels and set them into fine gold bracelets. He made their teeth into a delicate brooch. Then he sent the goblets to the king, the bracelets to the queen, and the brooch to the princess. All this time, the king had no idea where the princes were, supposing them to be off adventuring somewhere.

  “With no reason to suspect Wayland, the princess came to visit him alone, intending to ask that he repair the fairy ring, which had developed a mysterious crack. But when she arrived, Wayland put the last part of his revenge into action. He-”

  At this point, Sir Philip seemed to come to himself, and recollect that he spoke to a young unmarried woman. He blushed and stuttered a little.

  “Well, my dear, there’s no need for gruesome details but, suffice to say, when the princess left the island, she found herself with child. Wayland knew that the king would kill him for this, but he had taken the ring from the princess’s hand, and it gave him strength. Inspired by the thought of his lost swan-maiden love, Wayland built himself a pair of wings, both delicate and strong. He strapped them to his arms, which were powerful from his years of smithing, and from the ways they had compensated for his damaged legs. With those wings, he took flight, disappearing off into the west in search of his fairy wife. And that was the last men ever heard of Wayland Smith.”

  “What an odd, ghastly story,” I said, fascinated despite myself. “I can’t even say whether or not I find Wayland in the wrong. What on earth compelled someone to have him depicted in a tapestry? It’s hardly an enjoyable tale, or one of spiritual enlightenment.”

  Sir Philip shrugged. “Who can say, my dear? Perhaps it was a man who wanted to remember his Germanic roots.”

  Our dessert had now arrived, a rather rustic oat-topped apple pudding, and conversation died away as we ate. Once the meal ended, Sir Philip gallantly offered to escort me up to my room for an afternoon rest. He left me at the door, and I slipped into a loose nightgown. I noted with unease that the light shining through my window was no longer bright and clear. Lunch had not taken so long; it must only be early afternoon still. As I stood at the window, gazing out onto the driveway, I saw what I most feared. Fog rolled in, still faint, but hovering in drifts over the lake. It made no sense. After a sunny morning, where could this mist have come from?

  With a sudden, unexpected desperation, I wished I knew where Mr Amberson was.

  As if in response to my thoughts, an abrupt knock sounded on the door.

  “Just a minute,” I called, yanking my dressing gown out of the pile on the armchair and wrapping it tightly around my nightgown. I pulled the door open, and there was Mr Amberson, looking down at me in concern.

  “Apologies for disturbing you ma’am, but - the weather - I wanted to see if you-”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him, trying my best to smile comfortingly. “A little unsettled, I admit, but it’s only fog. Thank you for being so kind as to enquire after my welfare.”

  “It’s nothing, ma’am,” he said, but made no move to step away and close the door.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He still did not step away from the door. I could not, of course, invite him in. What did he expect me to do?

  “Can I help you with anything in particular, Mr Amberson?”

  He seemed reluctant to answer, but he could hardly stand there in silence all afternoon.

  “Ma’am, I’m concerned that you might… become unwell. Like you did yesterday. From the fumes, as you said. I would feel more comfortable if you had company. Could you perhaps sit with Mrs Pender, or your uncle?”

  I should have told him to leave me alone and remember his place. In London, I probably would have done. But his words tapped right into my unease, and he had already reminded me once today that I might well owe him my life. I sighed, thoughts of a restf
ul afternoon slipping between my fingers.

  “Just this once, I will humour you. But please do not make a habit of issuing orders.”

  “Ma’am.”

  He still stood there, and I realised that he waited for me to go in search of Mrs Pender with him.

  “I have to get dressed!” I told him irritably and slammed the door in his face. I pulled the curtains firmly over the windows, blocking out the thickening fog. It was already growing dark - perhaps lunch had lasted longer than I thought. The story had taken quite some time, after all. I pulled on my recently discarded day dress and marched out of the door, crashing straight into Mr Amberson, who hadn’t moved an inch. He grabbed my arms to steady me, which was utterly humiliating.

  “I’m quite all right,” I told him, although he hadn’t asked. “Do you know where we might find Mrs Pender?”

  “I expect that she’s in the kitchen,” he told me, and must have sensed my alarm. “There’s a nice warm sitting area by the hearth, and this is a quiet household. I’m sure she’d happily talk to you for a while.”

  What a dull day this was turning out to be.

  Mrs Pender was indeed in the kitchen and seemed delighted at the prospect of tea and a little chat. Mr Amberson vanished, leaving me to settle in the high-backed chair beside the fire. The kitchen was far cosier than I had imagined, and overall a well turned-out room. It did not remind me in the slightest of the frantic, painfully loud kitchen in the basement of my London townhouse, or even the cavern of a room at Beechwood, my country home.

  “How are you finding Yorkshire?” Mrs Pender asked as she poured me tea. “I’m told it’s nothing like London! Not that I’ve ever left the county, of course.”

  I could barely imagine life without the annual rhythms of travel across the country.

  “I am greatly impressed by the natural beauty,” I told her. “It’s rather different from Berkshire, where I grew up, but stunning in its own way.”

  “It’s old country,” Mrs Pender said, placing a cup of tea on the small table in front of me, and settling herself into the chair opposite. “These hills are like the bones of England, and just as strong.”

  “Indeed,” I said, sipping cautiously at my tea. Mrs Pender did not seem the type given to flights of fancy.

  “Please forgive me,” she said, almost as if she had read my thoughts. “Too long in this strange old house gives me excess time for reading the Romantic poets.”

  I laughed, back on familiar ground. “So you’re a poetry fan are you, Mrs Pender? With that gloomy tapestry in the hall, I would never have thought this a house for poetry.”

  “It’s a horrid old thing, isn’t it? I’m always telling Sir Philip to have it burned, but he seems to have a sentimental attachment to it.”

  “I suppose this whole house is rather a family heirloom.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to insult your family.”

  “Not at all,” I reassured her. “Sir Philip is a distant relation, on my mother’s side. I have no particular links, although my mother did always speak fondly of her cousin Philip.”

  “He’s a good man,” said Mrs Pender, already back on her feet and tidying away her cup. She might feel uncomfortable talking about her employer with a visiting relative. I had been rather insensitive with the conversation topic.

  “Perhaps you might tell me a little about the history of the Hall,” I said, trying for a safer direction. I certainly had enough time to kill before dinner. A pair of maids had drifted into the kitchen and begun chopping meat and vegetables, so I surmised that preparations could go on without the direct supervision of the housekeeper.

  “Well, now, I’m no expert,” Mrs Pender began, and I sensed that she was gearing up for a lecture. I prepared to listen closely for any useful tidbits. I would need all the help I could get if this visit was to be a success.

  “There aren’t any records of the house’s earliest roots,” Mrs Pender told me. “The oldest parts of the present structure are from the sixteenth century, although there have been a lot of changes over the years. This was a medieval house before that, with a great hall on the site of a much older Saxon mead hall. Even before the Saxons set foot in England, there was a house on this site although it was only a simple farmhouse back then. Sir Philip is very proud of how long Killston Hall has been in the family - since before the Norman Conquest, he likes to tell people, though I couldn't say how true that is. The newest part is the wing off the hall, built about fifty years ago. It was a poor quality job, though, as you see, and likely to be torn down soon enough. But Sir Philip would never admit it. That wing was his father’s last work on the house and he’s rather fond of it.”

  “So, Sir Philip doesn’t particularly encourage change?”

  “Not in the house, no. He’s a supporter of social change in many ways, but in this house, he likes to keep to the old ways.”

  This boded well for my quest. I had feared that modernisation works on the Hall might have changed it beyond recognition. There was hope after all.

  “How long have you been here, Mrs Pender, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Oh, I’ve been at the Hall since I was a girl. Started off as a housemaid and worked my way up.”

  Squinting at her over my teacup (while trying to be unobtrusive), I realised that it was hard to gauge Mrs Pender’s age. A heavy cap shadowed her face, and her layers of clothing obscured her shape. She sounded like a mature woman, but she might pass as anything from thirty to sixty. I had taken her for plump and plain, but perhaps I should look more closely.

  I tore my eyes away, focusing firmly on finishing my tea. The housekeeper was not my business.

  “Lady Lily?”

  Mr Amberson had reappeared. I noticed with a start that the view from the kitchen window looked entirely clear. The fog had vanished from sight. What strange weather I had been encountering in Yorkshire. It hardly seemed to operate on the same meteorological laws as the rest of England.

  “Yes, Mr Amberson? Can I help you?”

  “I hate to interrupt, ma’am, but could we discuss the matter of my fee?”

  I glanced sideways at Mrs Pender, but she seemed unfazed by such a blatant financial discussion. These things were probably rather different among the lower classes.

  “Very well, Mr Amberson. Perhaps if we step out into the hall?”

  He nodded in agreement and held the door open, allowing me to precede him into the hallway, the same one I had originally entered through. I couldn’t quite fit the various parts of the Hall together, couldn’t separate out the tangle of corridors and staircases, or construct a mental map of the many twists and turns I had taken so far. Searching this house would take a great deal of work.

  “I am happy to pay you the fee that we agreed upon, Mr Amberson, plus a small bonus for your assistance with my bag.”

  “Actually, I wondered if you would be interested in extending my employment,” Mr Amberson said, and hesitated for a second. “I think I might still be of use to you for a little while. Both with the matter of the fog… and with whatever it is you came here to find.”

  Had I been so obvious?

  “My visit to my cousin is no business of yours,” I told him sternly. “You can seek employment elsewhere. I have no use for a manservant.”

  “I would feel uncomfortable leaving you. I do not wish to suggest that your uncle cannot protect you, but I suspect that you have not been entirely honest with him. I don’t wish to criticise, just to help.”

  “Your concern is appreciated. But I do not need a nursemaid, and I do not need help with any sort of nefarious mission. How ridiculous! I will pay you what I owe you now, and that will be the end of it.”

  I pulled my purse out of the pocket of my little bag, never far from my grasp and counted the correct number of coins into his hand. He said nothing. I stormed off into the convoluted bowels of the house, leaving him to vanish into the shadows behind me.

  Morning on the Moors

  When
I woke the next morning, dawn only just lightened the sky. Or perhaps it was later than I thought. With these thick grey clouds, gauging time proved to be difficult. It was as if Killston Hall sat under a perpetual dim twilight. Dinner had been a civilised enough affair, if a little early for my taste. With nothing else to occupy me, I retired to bed soon after the meal, pleading exhaustion from my long journey. I found the bed a trifle hard, but nothing to complain about.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t look as if a maid had bothered to visit my room yet this morning. The fire was cold and dead, and my clothes still lay on the chair where I had left them the night before. Evidently, the household was unused to catering for visitors, especially London ladies with high standards. With a sigh, I pulled my dressing gown from its place at the end of my bed and prepared to face the morning alone. I rebuilt and lit the fire myself, careful not to let any soot touch my silk dressing gown, brought to me all the way from China by a handsome explorer.

  Once a slight spark of heat warmed the autumn chill of the room, I stood and stretched out the last traces of sleep, letting my gaze drift out of the window. Fog wreathed the hills, although the gold of the delicate ferns still showed through the white. Dying leaves slipped from the trees that lined the drive, falling to join the dull brown heap alongside the gravel.

  Movement by the front porch caught my eye, and I stepped closer to the window to have a look. I was not the only one up so early. Mr Amberson closed the door behind him, making scarcely a noise as he crossed the gravel driveway and headed for the stables. He must be leaving. That was not surprising, given how clear I had made his lack of employment prospects, but I still felt a pang at his failure to say farewell. Perhaps I should have offered him an extra reward, in thanks for finding my bag. No doubt I had been a somewhat troublesome employer even if I had paid him well enough.