Once Upon an Autumn Eve (19 page)

In the darkness of the border, the creature fell away, yet his fingers were still entangled in her tresses, and she was nearly dragged from the saddle, and she felt as if her hair was being yanked out by the roots. Of a sudden she was free, the Satyr gone, and Nightshade hammered on through the blackness and beyond, out into sunlight and an open field.

Panting, her heart racing, Liaze kept the stallion running, the mare and geldings galloping in tow. The princess looked behind, and nothing, no one, no Satyr, came charging after.

She was free of the Oak Forest and its perils, and she burst into tears and wept uncontrollably, to her own dismay.

23

L
iaze reined back on Nightshade and slowed him and the mare and geldings to a walk. She loosed the reins and gave the stallion his head and let him choose the trail.

As the black wended between sparse thickets and a few stands of timber, with low rolling hills to the fore, Liaze gained control of her emotions and berated herself for weeping like a silly goose. She cleaned her long-knife of Satyr blood and slid it into its sheath. She removed the beeswax from her ears and reveled in the trilling of birds, of the humming of insects, of the clop and breathing of her horses and the creak of leather, and the soft wafting song of the gentle breeze. As she listened to the surround, Nightshade came upon a trace of a road. Wagon ruts marked the way; it was a two-track farm lane used to reach the field they had left behind, though whatever crop it had held—most likely hay—had been harvested.

They followed this route and soon came in among other fields: grain mostly—rye, barley, wheat—though here and there grew turnips and squash and other vegetable crops.
By the reach of the fields, it has to be an extensive croft.
Soon Liaze’s suspicions were confirmed, for she came unto a large farmhouse—
With numerous rooms, no doubt; a considerable family must live here; prosperous, too
. Behind the dwelling sat a great byre; abundant cords of firewood lay under a wide, sloped roof held up by tall poles; on beyond, several round grain storage sheds squatted next to a silo; a number of other croft structures were scattered here and there.

Liaze reined Nightshade into the yard, and a yellow-haired, matronly woman in a fine-woven linen dress the color of a clear sky at noon stepped onto the porch and shaded her eyes and watched as the princess rode nigh.

“Might I have some water for me and my horses?” Liaze asked.

“Indeed you might,” said the woman, gesturing toward the side of the house. And as Liaze rode past: “Oh, my, you’re a fille,” declared the woman, stepping down from the porch and walking alongside. “I thought you a warrior, dressed as you are and riding that big black horse.”

“Would that I were,” said Liaze, glancing back in the direction she had come. “It would have made things easier.”

“Oh, you didn’t pass through the Forest of Oaks, now, did you?”

“Indeed I did,” said Liaze.

The woman’s brown, golden-hued eyes flew wide. “Oh, you poor child, did they keep you long?”

“They did not keep me at all,” said Liaze, reining Nightshade to a halt at a watering trough, an axle-driven, bucket-chain pump at one end atop the stone rim of a well.

“Then you are certainly warrior enough, or very skillful, or extremely fortunate,” said the woman.

“I think the Fates themselves were watching over me,” said Liaze, dismounting, a faint smile on her face.

As Liaze turned the wheel-crank ’round and ’round to spill water into the trough, the horses crowded forward, though on their long tethers the geldings gave Nightshade considerable leeway.

With the vessel three-quarters full, Liaze stopped turning the wheel and ducked her head under the surface next to Pied Agile and, after a moment, came up sputtering.

“Oh, dear,” said the woman. “Let me get you a towel.” She rushed to a side door and into the house and quickly returned with a soft cotton cloth.

Liaze patted her face dry and then briskly rubbed her hair, wincing occasionally, for her yanked-upon scalp was yet tender, especially where strands had been torn loose.

The woman said, “Would you like a cup of hot tea and perhaps a bite to eat?”

“Oh, I would treasure it,” said Liaze.

The woman eyed the packhorse goods and said, “Well then, why don’t you give your animals a bit of grain while I prepare, and then you can tell me what in Faery you were doing coming through that most dreadful Forest of the Oaks.—Oh, and I am Madame Divenard, but at times my sisters—one on each side—call me Midi, as can you.”

“And I am Liaze of the Autumnwood,” replied the princess.

“Well and good,” said Midi, smiling. She turned and hastened toward the house, calling back over her shoulder, “Now hurry, for I shan’t be long.”

 

“. . . And that’s why I had to come through the oaks,” said Liaze. She took the last bite of buttered and honeyed biscuit, and washed it down with bracing hot tea.

“Well, my dear, that’s quite a tale. And, oh, from what you’ve told me, you’ve crossed the four twilight borders that your Sir Luc rode going the opposite way.”

“Did Luc come past your croft?”

“If he did, Liaze, then it was when my sisters and I were busy elsewhere.”

Liaze’s face fell, and she sighed. “Always before, I had confirmation that Luc rode this way, what with Caillou and Matthieu’s corroboration. But now it seems . . .” Liaze’s words fell to silence.

Madame Divenard reached across the table and patted the princess on the hand. “Fear not, Liaze, from what you tell me, the black follows the way.”

Heartened somewhat, Liaze asked, “Do you know of any witch living nearby, or of a woodcutter—an armsmaster—named Léon?”

“Non, but someone in the village might know,” said Midi.

“Village?”

“Oui,” said Midi, gesturing in the direction Liaze had been faring. “Ruisseau Miel is but an afternoon’s ride hence. You go down my lane until you reach the main road, and then follow it onward till you come to the town. A sign will point the way.”

Liaze stood. “Then I’ll be going now, for if someone there might know of a witch or a woodcutter, I—”

“But Liaze,” protested Midi, looking up at her, “you have had little rest and a terrible experience in the Forest of Oaks. Surely you can stay here one night and catch up on your missing sleep.”

“Non, Madame Divenard. My horses and I can last long enough to reach this town you speak of; it is there we will rest.”

Midi sighed and stood, and then brightened. “It has but one inn, L’Abeille Occupée, with quite a good stable. Its kitchens are, um . . . adequate, and the wine, eh . . . tolerable. L’Abeille is where the honey buyers stay when they come in the honey season.”

“Then, merci, madame, I shall always be grateful for this respite you have given me.”

Midi smiled and said, “And I shall be certain to tell my sisters of this venture of yours . . . as far as it goes, that is. And, oh, Liaze, may you find what you seek.”

Liaze and Midi stepped from the farmhouse and to the horses, and Liaze removed the nosebags and packed them away, and let the horses have another small amount of water. Then she mounted up on Nightshade and bade Midi “Au revoir,” Midi replying in kind. The princess wheeled the black about and rode to the lane and onward.

And when she had gone from sight, the lush farm fields and the large farmhouse faded away, and the matronly woman, smiling to herself, silently vanished as well.

 

Dusk was falling when Liaze reached the small village of Ruisseau Miel, and as she rode down the main street, she saw a signboard proclaiming a rather modest inn to be L’Abeille Ocupée—a depiction on the board of a honey bee at work echoed the name of the inn.

Liaze’s eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep as she gave the horses over to the hostler. Wearily she trudged into the inn and engaged a room. Before going upstairs, she had a meal, and, given her rations over the past several days, the “adequate” food tasted rather scrumptious to her palate, as did the “tolerable” wine.

She barely got through her hot bath without falling asleep, and when she collapsed onto her bed, slumber came on instant feet.

 

It was nigh noon when next she awoke. She found her undersilk garments and leathers cleaned and ready to wear, and her boots polished and well aired. She washed and dried and took care of her feminine needs and got dressed.

Down to the common room she went, and though the hour was late, she broke her fast with delicious eggs and rashers and well-buttered toast and honey and tea, a splendid meal to her mind. Afterward, she looked about for the innkeeper, but he was nowhere to be seen, and so she walked out to the stables and spoke to the horses and stroked them.

The hostler told her to take care, for the black was untrustworthy. “Why, he had a ruckus with another stallion, but when they were moved to stalls at opposite ends they both settled down. Even so, tried to nip me, he did,” said the man. “I dodged just barely in time.”

“I tap him on the nose when he gets feisty,” said Liaze. “That puts him in his place. You should do the same.”

“Oh, no, not me,” said the stableman. “I just keep a sharp eye on them all . . . and never let down my guard.”

Liaze laughed and then frowned and after a moment said, “As a hostler, you must know of all the comings and goings hereabout.”

The man lifted his chin in modest pride. “I suppose I do.”

“Well, then, know you of a witch nearby?”

“Witch?”
The hostler flinched back from Liaze and made a warding sign. Then he vehemently shook his head. “I don’t have any doings with witches, mademoiselle, and don’t ever plan to.”

“Neither would I,” said Liaze, “but I have a score to settle with one.”

The man relaxed a bit, yet he looked at her warily, as if she were someone ready to nip him. Finally, he said, “Non, mademoiselle. I know of no witches nearby. None afar either.”

“Whom would I talk to about such?” asked Liaze. “Someone who is familiar with the area.”

The hostler’s brow furrowed and then cleared. “Claude, I think.”

“Claude?”

“The innkeeper. He speaks with folks from all over. Buyers who come for the honey in season. Oui, Claude is the one.”

“Ah, I see. But he seems to be absent for the nonce,” said Liaze.

“Goes fishing this time of day. Down to Honey Creek. Trying for the big trout that hangs out in the deep pool. Ha! As if anyone will ever catch that lunker. But he’ll be back come midafternoon. Till then you’ll have to deal with Odette.”

“Odette?”

“The serving maid, though I doubt she knows ought about witches.”

“Merci, um . . .”

“Paul, my lady,” said the hostler, touching the bill of his cap.

“Merci, Paul. I’ll wait for Claude to return.”

Liaze stepped away from the stalls and went outside, and she walked through the village streets, noting in passing a small café, and a dry-goods store with a milliner and tailor in residence. There was a barber who also seemed to be a chirurgeon, and across the street a—Liaze stopped in her tracks—a bookshop.
A bookstore in a hamlet this small? Luc told me there was one in the village he and León delivered cordwood to, an establishment that never seemed to do any business, but for Luc’s own.

Liaze stepped over to the store, and when she looked in, the place was empty, abandoned, though the sign above yet proclaimed it to be the COIN DU LIVRE—the Book Nook.

Next door was a shoemaker-and-leatherworker’s shop. Liaze stepped in and a man with an awl and a length of belt in hand looked up from his bench. “May I help you, mademoiselle?”

“Oui. The bookstore next door: has it always been empty?”

“Non, my lady. Only recently did the owner—Jaquot—move away. I don’t blame him. I mean, even though he appeared to be prosperous, it seemed he never had any customers, but for that Luc boy.”

Liaze’s heart leapt into her throat, and tears filled her eyes, and for a moment she could not speak. Finally she managed, “Luc? Luc was here?”

“Oui, demoiselle, but not for a while.” The man lay down his awl and belt and stepped around the table. “Are you well?”

Liaze took a deep breath and said, “Oh, yes, monsieur.”

“Here, mademoiselle,” said the leatherworker, and he offered her a dipper of water.

“Merci, monsieur,” said Liaze, sipping a bit from the hollowed-out gourd. Again she took a deep breath. “I am looking for Luc; a witch snatched him up and flew away.”

The man made a warding sign and said, “A witch, you say? We know nothing of witches in this town, only that some are vile and others are not. Ah, mademoiselle, but if Luc has been taken, then Léon needs to be told this dire news.”

“Léon, his foster sire, is he nearby?”

“Oui. A half-day walk down the road and off into the woods.”

“Tell me how to get there.”

 

Dusk was drawing down on the land, when, astride Nightshade and towing Pied Agile and the geldings, Liaze came into the clearing where stood a small, one-room cote, with a modest horse barn off to one side.

She rode to the cottage and dismounted and tied Nightshade’s reins to the hitching post near the door. Then she stepped to the planked panel and knocked.

A tall, redheaded man bearing a lantern opened the door. He raised the light on high for a better look, and surprise filled his pale blue eyes. “Might I help you, mademoiselle?”

“Armsmaster Léon?”

He glanced at the silver horn at her side and looked at Nightshade nearby and frowned. Finally he answered, “Oui.”

Liaze followed his gaze and said, “I have come about Luc.”

“Luc? Has something happened to Luc?”

“Oui.”

The armsmaster blanched and moved aside, and Liaze stepped in through the doorway.