The lady Margaret sits in her bower, clad in a raven black dress, sewing a black silk ribbon onto her black lace bonnet. She is in deep mourning for her father, who had been the baron for this part of the county. She intends to wear the bonnet to his funeral the next morning.



She is kept company by her two little serving girls. One busies herself tidying the room while the other carefully pulls a silver comb through her lady's hair. Nobody speaks, not one word passes their lips.



The lady finishes her work and inspects the stitches. She is not the most accomplished seamstress, but she is competent enough, it'll do.



She stares out of the window and into the distance, as the girl makes the last few passes with the comb. She looks upon the fields that are now hers, the small gently flowing river and out to the Chaster's wood, where her father used to take her to pick wild roses.



Once the girls finish their work and her hair is combed, she dismisses them. They curtsey and leave the room in silence. The elder is twelve, the younger just nine. Their mother had been a maid to her mother. Both women have long since died and the girls have been in her service practically from the day they learnt to walk. Although they are much younger than their mistress, they feel protective of her and hate to see her so sad. They hope she will find a husband to take care of her soon. Maybe he will be among the twenty four lords expected tomorrow.



Wild Roses, her father's favourite flower. The perfect flower to decorate her bonnet.



Whenever she and her father visited the forest, he would always warn her never to go alone, unaccompanied by an elder. He told her the ælfen dwell there and any young maid on her own would have to pay a terrible toll for trespassing in their woods. He may have been the lord of the manor, but the faierie folk do not obey the laws of men.



His harshest warning came for the night. He made her swear, with her hand on the bible, that she will never, ever go into the wood after dark. Not even with an army. Night time is when the queen of the ælfen is awake and looking for any human soul she can capture. Every seven years, on all hallows eve, the faieries pay their tithe to hell. A tithe of christened men and women. This is where they get their power. The soul of a young virgin girl is worth a hundred married men, but she will take either just the same.



And Gretta is a virgin. She has been kept safely away from all men and boys her whole life. No male servants were allowed to serve her and she was never in the company of any visiting gentlemen without her father present. His greatest desire was for her to keep her maidenhead, until he found the right man for her to marry. A task he unfortunately never completed.



There had been one potential, from a good family, just a couple of years older than his beloved daughter. He believed they would make a perfect match. Tragically the boy died before the betrothal could take place. Gretta was just a young girl at the time and hadn't been informed of her father's plans, there was no need for her to know.



She thinks about the roses. All these years she kept her promise to Daddy and never went to the forest without him. Now he has past, she sees no reason to follow his silly and old superstitions. Probably all his talk of faierie folk and the queen of ælfen was just his way of scaring her away from danger in an interesting manner. Surely wild beasts were much more likely to attack than a mythical ælf? She doubted her sensible father really believed in such things.



It's a bright, sunny day in early May. The fertility festival has not long past. The sunlight is warm on our lady's face, but a cool breeze reminds her it is not summer in England just yet. She lifts up her skirts so she can walk briskly and keep them clean as she trudges over mud and grass. When she comes to the stream, she hitches them up further, to a little above her knees, then nimbly makes her way across. She hops from one stepping stone to the other, the way she has done countless times before.



Soon she is in the merry green wood. She easily navigates her way through the dense forest. Every tree, bush and log is familiar to her, like old friends.



She reaches the clearing where the giant rose bush grows. A thousand years old or more, it is said. Daddy would always bury two silver coins in the earth somewhere around. He said it was to pay the faieries for their roses and so long as too many weren't plucked, they would be left in peace.



Gretta has no time for that. Without a care, she pulls a branch down. As soon as the stem breaks she feels the tight grasp of a hand around her slender wrist. Feels, but does not see. The hand is there, she knows it is, it's unmistakable. She tries to pull her arm away, it yanks her back sharply. Yet her eyes see nothing.



She spins around to face her assailant and to her surprise is faced with a young man around her own age. Not just any young man, the most beautiful boy she has ever laid eyes upon. Nobody in her household can compare. She meets his gaze, his eyes are the most enchanting shade of grey. For a moment she is stunned, she says nothing. She doesn't even try to break the grip he has on her.



He is the first to speak.



"How dare you come into this wood and pull these roses down, without asking leave of me, my dear."



"This forest stands on my father's property. Now that he is dead, it belongs to me. I shall tear down branches and come and go as I please, without asking leave of any man."



"Surely your father told you, there is a heavy price a young maid must pay to pass through these woods alone."



And with that he wraps his arm about her waist and carries her into the long grass. He lays her down for what she anticipates will be a savage rape. However, no. He does not force himself upon her, merely holds her. Holds her firmly in his strong arms and doesn't let her go.



The lady fights and kicks and thrashes, trying to get free. She grits her teeth, bucks her hips and pushes back with all the strength she can muster. The young man holds her down and looks at her with his soft grey eyes.



Her resistance begins to wane. When she looks back into his shining eyes, she knows he doesn't mean to hurt her. They are full of lust and desire, but they are not the vicious eyes of an attacker. She loses the will to fight him.



He plants a soft kiss on her forehead. The first male lips, other than her father's, to touch her. An unfamiliar feeling rises up from the pit of her stomach. She cannot tell what it is. It is almost like a sickness, except it is not unpleasant. It is a feeling she doesn't want to go away.



Another kiss. This time on the apple of her cheek. She closes her eyes as the feeling threatens to overwhelm her. His lips touch her again, now on the chin. She is dizzy and quivering with anticipation



He presses his lips to hers. A sensation so divine she could scarcely have imagined it. Her mouth instinctively reacts to his. Somehow, she knows how to kiss him back. It is a reflex, as natural as breathing.



He releases her arms. She holds him to her and runs her fingers through his silk like hair. He lifts her skirts up, high over her thighs and undoes the garments which imprison his proud manhood.



She accepts him into her willingly and eagerly. It hurts, but not more than she can bear and she bears it gladly. She wraps her legs around him and keeps him there. She feels her own body drawing him deeper. Until this moment, she didn't know such a union with a man was possible.



For some time they lie together in sport and play. A young lady and her gentleman, consuming each other's bodies, becoming one soul. Until finally, the blessed, ecstatic release of climax for them both. He gives his seed to her and she takes it from him into herself.



When it is over she wishes to ask the young man his name, but she cannot find him. No sight nor sound of him remains, not even his footprints in the earth, only the lingering memory of his touch.



Night is falling. Whether there be a faierie queen or not, it is dangerous to be alone in the dark. As she straightens her clothes in preparation for her brisk walk back, she finds a small bunch of pink rosebuds. Just enough to flower her bonnet.



She heads for home, clutching the tiny bouquet and wearing a green gown. Thoughts, fears, all kinds of emotions racing through her mind and body. She runs.



****



Four and twenty lords arrive the following day. They pay their last respects to the father and offer their condolences to the daughter.



None would be so crass as to make overt gestures towards her at such a time. However, each hopes, in their brief moments with her, to leave an impression. An impression deep enough to lead to marriage. Her father's Barony is not large, nor particularly wealthy, but it is in a strategic position on the Scottish boarder. In the game of chess that is feudal England, every clod of turf is important and this is one piece they aren't going to let go of easily.



Then there is the lady Margaret herself, of course. She is known for her beauty and elegance, as well as her purity. Everyone knows the lengths her daddy went to in order to preserve her virginity. She alone, without the land, would make a perfect wife. The kind of lady men fight to their deaths for.



Everyone notices how pale and wan she looks, but thinks nothing of it. In the midsts of such grief it is to be expected. In time, the colour will return to her milk white cheeks. As she sits among the mourners, not one would guess the adventure she had in the Chaster's wood, retrieving the pretty pink flowers she wears in her bonnet. But her two little serving girls, they know their mistress well. Although they can't tell what, they know something has changed within her.



****



The following months do not pass well for our lady. She is besieged by suitors everyday, none of whom she has the slightest intention of marrying. However, she won't be able to avoid it for much longer, things are getting serious. It has been said, the king may get involved, if the situation is not resolved soon. She must make an alliance.



But for Gretta there is a much more pressing concern. She has refused to see anyone for the past three months and for the past few weeks hasn't even left her bower. The only servants to attend to her have been the two young sisters.



She is forced to address the issue, when the youngest asks what everyone in the household has been thinking and gossiping about.



"My lady, which lord or gentleman shall give your babe his name?"



Her sister gives her daggers. She knows it is not their place to say anything about it, but the whole house has noticed their mistress's petticoats grow shorter. It is obvious she has loved too long and now she goes with child. Rumour has even spread outside the county and far away, the lady Margaret's purity may have been exaggerated.



Although she is taken aback at first, Gretta had been expecting it. She answers the girl.



"My dear, there is none among them I would treat so well. Alas, this baby will never be born."



The older girl has wisdom way beyond her years and sends her sister away. She realises what Gretta is planning. Probably a fall from the bower window or opening a vein during the night, but she thinks she knows a better way. She has heard of a certain bitter, grey herb, which grows in the forest. If made into a brew, it can untwine baby and mother.



As she combs Gretta's hair with the silver comb, she tells her mistress what she knows. The lady sits, with skin as clear and as green as glass, looking out towards the Chaster's wood.



Then the girl says something to make Gretta's blood run cold. She offers to go and find the herb herself. She jumps to her feet and grabs the child by both shoulders, shaking her violently.



"Never go there! Do you hear me? Never! If I hear you have gone anywhere near that wood, I shall take a branch and beat you until you cannot stand. Am I clear?"



"Yes, Mistress. Please, Mistress, you're hurting me."



The girl is frightened. She has never seen Margaret so angry. The lady has barely said a cross word her whole life and now she is threatening to beat her.



She lets her go and dismisses her coarsely. The little one runs out of the room without a curtsey, trying to choke back the tears. Gretta is sorry to have hurt her, but hopes she put the fear of god into her, enough to keep her away from that damned forest forever.



She sits alone and thinks about the herb, she is intrigued. It sounds like just the thing she needs to solve her problem, but fears she might be too far along for it to work. Still, it's worth a try.



She wraps herself in her woollen mantle. It is late October and the air is cold. She heads straight for the wood, as fast as she can tear.



It doesn't take her long to find the grey herb. She crouches down and rubs the leaves. The scent is unmistakable, sage. She takes hold of the stem and is about to pull, when she feels his fingers, warm and strong, wrapped round her wrist again.



His voice in her ear whispers, "Leave it alone, my dear."



This time she has come prepared. She spins around in a fury and lashes out with a knife. A knife cast from pure silver. She hacks and slashes in all directions and screams,



"Faierie!"



She hits nothing. The blade simply slices through thin air. The young man, the faierie who so beguiled her, is not there. Yet she can hear his voice.



"Why do you pick that bitter little herb, my love? Do you wish to destroy the bonny bairn we made in our play?"



"I shall never bear the child of a forest ælf!" Her cheeks are blood red with rage, no longer a sickly green. She has been so frail and ill these past months, but one touch from him and the life has come back into her. She holds her knife to her belly. "If you don't let me take the herb, then I will cut the child from my body."



Just then she feels his arms around her from behind, pulling her to him, holding her, cradling her gravid middle. As he speaks, she can feel his hot breath on her neck.



"I shall hold you tight and fear ye not, for you are my own true love, the mother of my child."



She drops the silver blade and he takes her down to the ground. He enters her, she does not resist. He has his way with her, hungrily, forcefully, urgently. She is passive, but receives him readily and with gratitude. She needs to be taken by him, to feel his ravenous passion for her. He needs to be inside her, to claim her once again, as if his progeny growing within her wasn't enough. All these months she has been yearning for him to fill her, to complete her.



He sinks his teeth into her neck a grunts like a wild creature of the forest as he gives her his sacred pearlescent liquid. She whimpers and trembles and welcomes the hot gush within her.



Once the deed is done, she twists around to face him. She expects to find him vanished, but no, he is there. He is looking at her with those same kind, grey eyes he looked at her with on that day in May.



"Tell me faierie, what is your name?"



"I'm no faierie, Jorie. I was christened as well as thee. I am the young Tambling."



"Jorie? Only my father called me that...But, how could you?...Tambling?"



She is very confused. She hadn't told him her name was Margaret, let alone the particular diminutive her daddy used for her. How could he know?



And Tambling, she knows that name. When she was a child, she heard about a boy called Tambling. They never met, but her father had been allies with his. The boy had died, or so everyone thought.



He tells her that seven years ago, he rode into the forest after dark and was knocked from his horse. He surely would have died, if the ælfen queen had not offered him a choice. He could stay with the faierie folk or he could return to his family. Of course he wanted to go home, but that came with a terrible price. He had seen the faieries in their true form and the penalty for this, is to be blinded.



So with a heavy heart, he agreed to live in the Chaster's wood for the rest of his days. The faierie queen put a curse on him, ensuring that he could never leave. Since then, his greatest pleasure was to follow and watch the young lady Gretta and her father, the baron who called her Jorie, whenever they came to pick roses. For six and a half long years he had lusted after her, craved her flesh, until finally she came alone.



So what now? She is glad her young man isn't a faierie. However, she can no more marry a cursed man than an ælf. What shall become of her and the baby she carries?



Tambling has one last terrible thing to tell her.



"Do you know what day it is?"



"It is the first of Hallowtide, the eve of all Hallows day."



"Tonight the faieries pay their tithe to hell. Souls of earthly men and women, due every seven years."



When the queen gave him the choice to stay or go, she did not tell him that his soul was to be payment for the devil, he would be condemned eternally to hell.



"If a curse can be made, it can be broken," the lady says hopefully.



"Aye, but it is too late," he tells her, his eyes forlorn, full of sadness. "Perhaps ye had better use the herb."



With those words, he is gone. She doesn't see him move, he is just no longer there. As she stands and adjusts her skirts, a bundle of sage tumbles out from the folds. She sits back down on the forest floor and weeps.



She cries and cries. She cries for the first time since her father died. She cries like she has never cried, as far as she can remember. She weeps for Tambling. She weeps for herself. She weeps for the unborn babe, she longs to rock in her arms more than she ever thought possible.



****



Gretta awakens, it is dark. She is alone and she is cold. So very cold. She is nearly frozen stiff and can't feel her fingers. She cried herself to sleep on the bare ground, right where the young Tambling had left her. Night has fallen.



Tabdak Tabdak, Thabalup



The sound of galloping horses. In the distance, but getting closer, fast.



She lifts her stiff, frigid body, as quickly as she can. It's difficult, her muscles and bones ache and she is heavily pregnant, but she manages to get to her feet and take cover in the under growth. Her eyes start to adjust to the darkness and she can just about make out vague shapes in the moon light filtered through the leaves above.



Tabdak Tabdak, Thabalup!



Blind terror courses through her body. Her heart is beating its way out of her chest. They are near. She sees them as flashes of movement between the trees. She tries to stay silent, but her heavy breathing seems so loud. Her eyes are wide, staring straight ahead at the charging horses.



Tabdak Tabdak, Thabalup! Tabdak Tabdak, Thabalup!



Closer and closer. A coal black stallion races past. So close she can almost taste its sour, pungent aroma. Next a chestnut brown colt. Close enough for her to feel its heat.



Lastly, a steed, as pure and as white as the driven snow. This one holds no fear for her. She is drawn to it. Instead of letting it on its way, she leaps out in front. A dangerous move. The animal very nearly runs her down, it surely would've killed her. Luckily he manages to stop just in time, rearing up on his hind legs, neighing and snorting.



The lady doesn't back down, she stands firmly in her place. She does not move her eyes from the equine's face, not for the briefest moment.



Once the horse settles, she throws her arms around his neck and buries her face in his mane. He is calm and still. He is the father of her child.



How she can tell, she could not explain. She just knows, it's visceral, intuitive. She could see him, her true love, her husband, regardless of the form he takes, no matter what beastly shape he is turned into.

