the pail with a cloth and set it by the churn.
“The cream, it’s quite delicious,” said Flic, and glanced at Buzzer. “And she agrees.”
“Good morrow, Monsieur Maurice,” said Borel.
Maurice bobbed his head and returned the greeting and said, “I thank you, my lord, for setting aside a goodly amount of wood.”
“Did I wake you? If so, I am sorry. I was working out a problem.”
“A problem, my lord?”
“Yes. You see, I thought that I had reached an impasse, a cul-de-sac, but as I wielded your axe, I realized I hadn’t. At least, not quite. I will go to the town and see if there is something of truth to the rumor you spoke of, something that might send me on my way. Perhaps I can find someone therein who knows ought of Lord Roulan and Chelle, or where this Rhensibe might dwell.”
“Oh, my lord prince,” said Charite, as she ladled out great spoonfuls of eggs and slid sausages onto Borel’s plate, “ ’fi were you, I wouldn’t have ought to do with Rhensibe. But as to perhaps finding Lord Roulan’s estate and the duke and his daughter-assuming the vale and all were carried away by that black wind-well, that’s a noble goal, and we wish you good fortune in that.”
Her eyebrow cocked, Charite looked at Flic and slightly lifted her platter of breakfast fare, but he waved her off, saying, “None for me, thanks. I’m full of rich cream from Madame Vache, and so is Buzzer.”
“As you wish, Sieur Flic,” Charite said, and she spooned out eggs and sausage to Maurice, while he passed the biscuits to Borel.
Charite looked at wagging-tail Brun and said, “You can have what’s left over, Monsieur Dog.”
“Come look!” called Maurice.
Borel placed four copper pennies on the table, and then took up his bow and stepped through the back door to join Maurice and Charite.
They stood behind the cottage and watched as Flic and Buzzer flew over the fields of crops and the byre and cote, over the pond and well, and over the green pasture where Madame Vache grazed contentedly. They could hear the Sprite calling out something or mayhap even singing, Buzzer’s humming wings accompanying Flic. Yet what the Sprite cried or sang, they could not quite hear, though it was definitely lilting words of a sort, mayhap in a language unfamiliar.
Finally, Flic and Buzzer came spiralling down and landed on Borel’s tricorn, and Flic said, “There, I’ve blessed your entire stead, Monsieur Maurice and Madame Charite. What good it’ll do, I cannot say, for I’ve not done such a thing until now.”
“Oh, Sieur Sprite, we thank you, we thank you,” gushed Charite happily, beaming in gratitude. She elbowed Maurice in the ribs, and he humbly added his own thanks as well.
Borel made a slight bow and said, “Madame, Monsieur, I thank you for your hospitality, and if I am ever back this way, Maurice, I will tell that tale of my pere and mere’s enchantment and how Camille managed to dispel the glamour. But now we must hie to the town, for Chelle is entrapped somewhere and I would set her free.” Borel then turned to Brun and spoke a word or two, gutturals mixed within, and the dog seemed to take heart, and his tail curled up o’er his back.
Charite rushed into the cottage and then came running back out, a cloth sack in hand. “There’s biscuits and boiled eggs and dollops of honey in a jar and apples and cheese and a bit of salted bacon. I wouldn’t want you to go hungry on your way to town.”
“Mother,” said Maurice, “town is but a half a morn away, and I am sure they won’t starve ere they get there.”
“Well, you never know, Maurice,” snapped Charite. She turned to Borel and her voice softened. “What with enchantments and magiciens and sorcieres and Fairies and other such strange things on the road, you never know.”
Borel tied a length of rope to the top of the bag and looped the improvised sling over his head and across one shoulder. Then he raised Charite’s fingers to his lips and kissed them, she to simper coyly. The prince shook hands with Maurice and turned on his heel and stepped ’round the cottage and through the gate and set off down the trace toward the river gleaming in the distance, Maurice and Charite following him to the fence and calling out their adieus, proud Brun barking his own farewell.
Borel strode onward; after a while he looked back to see Charite scattering grain for the chickens, and Maurice in the bean field plying his hoe.
“What was it you called out as you were flying about and blessing that stead?”
“Oh,” said Flic. “I was merely singing an old song about the richness of the land and the luxury of the rains and the goodness of those who husband the crops and care for the beasts and tend such. Whether you can call that a blessing, well, I couldn’t say. And whether or no it will do ought whatsoever… hmm…” Flic shrugged a shoulder and fell silent and Borel strode on for the river crossing, he, too, saying nought, for he knew nothing of blessings either.
In later days and thereafter, though, it would be said by those who should know of such things that Maurice and Charite had the most fertile and prosperous farmstead in the realm, no matter the seasons or weather.
“Do you really think that someone in town might know something of Rhensibe and where Lord Roulan’s estate might be?” asked Flic.
Borel shrugged. “Perhaps. Then again, mayhap we can find one of the Fey Folk that Maurice spoke of. If they are truly Fey, then they might know of something that will give us an inkling as to where to go next.”
“Perhaps,” said Flic. “Yet if I were you, I’d be careful of what Fey Folk say.”
Borel broke out in laughter.
“What?” said Flic.
“Oh, Flic, my innocent. Don’t you realize that you are as Fey as any? Should I be wary of your words?”
“Humph!” snorted Flic. “I should say not. After all, I am not speaking of Sprites and such, but of the true Fey Folk.”
“ True Fey Folk? And just who might they be?”
“Well, um, er… oh, I know: Fairies, that’s who. Those and-” Flic’s words jerked to a halt, but then he whispered, “Oh, my, perhaps that’s one of them now.”
Flic pointed, and just ahead on the riverbank sat a crone, mumbling to herself and picking at her considerably long nose.
As Borel drew near, she whirled about and screeched, “Where have you been! It’s quite late, you know, and I can’t wait here all day.”
26
“Madame,” said Borel, “are you speaking to me?”
“Of course, you fool,” snapped the partly bald, scraggly-gray-haired, warty-headed crone, the old lady dressed in filthy rags, wooden-soled sandals on her dirty, misshapen feet, the shoes held on by half-rotted leather straps across her insteps. “Do you see anyone else here?”
“I am here,” said Flic. “I am someone else, and so is Buzzer.”
“Pah!” sneered the wrinkled hag. “You little pip-squeak, you can’t carry me across the river, while this big lummox of a man can.”
Flic frowned. “Pip-squeak? You call me a-?”
“You wish me to bear you across, Madame?” said Borel, interrupting Flic.
“Have you no ears, or are you total a dolt? Didn’t I just say so?”
“Leave her be, my lord prince,” said Flic, now thoroughly irritated. “Let the old fool wade.”
“Is that food you’ve got in the sack?” queried the snaggletoothed crone. “I smell food, and I am hungry.”
“Indeed, Grandmother,” said Borel. “Let me offer you some.” He unslung the cloth bag from his shoulder and
