The Beast and the Briar: Book One of the Seven Realms Saga

The Beast and the Briar

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Book One of the Seven Realms Saga

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ROBERT DREW

Copyright © Robert Drew 2020

All rights reserved. The right of Robert Drew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be altered, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including, but not limited to, scanning, duplicating, uploading, hosting, distributing, or reselling, without the express prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of reasonable quotations in features such as reviews, interviews, and certain other non-commercial uses currently permitted by copyright law.

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and businesses are purely products of the author’s imagination and are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, places, or events is completely coincidental.

The Beast and the Briar by Robert Drew

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

ONE

Faerie Stories

"LONG AGO, ENGLAND, IRELAND, Scotland, Wales, and all the lands on the continent were ruled, not by men, but by the immortals. Some people called them the Fair Folk, others knew them as the People of Peace or the Good Folk, and still others thought of them as the Wee Folk, though they were not all of them small.

In truth, there were as many different types of faeries as there were races among mankind. There were tiny piskies and spritely spriggans, terrible sluagh and tricksy pucas, monstrous trolls, industrious dwarves, raving goblins, boggarts, brownies, and many, many more. Yet of all these many peoples only one ruled on high. They were called the sidhe and they were as cruel as they were beautiful…"

Auntie Aisling, interrupted the young boy, were they really cruel? Were they cruel as the king?

Hush up now, Thomas, scolded a voice from the room below, let your aunt finish the story.

Yeah, Thomas, added his twin sister, with the air of someone who was trying very hard to sound just like her mother.

Aye, they were cruel; cruel as the king and crueler besides. They lorded over the other Fair Folk and over men. They used their beauty, their grace, and their influence to play people like fiddles. They could wind us round their little finger in an instant. Why, with a wink and a smile, a sidhe woman could make even the most virtuous knight forsake his vows.

The young girl who spoke was only thirteen years old, though she had the look of a girl several years older. She had sprouted like a weed at ten, towering over her playfellows and siblings both. Yet, it wasn’t simply her height that made Aisling Mason appear older, it was the harried look that hid behind her pale green eyes, which were the color of grass in the heat of summer.

Or it might have been the premature lines in her youthful face, lines that disappeared entirely when she smiled, but that always crept back in when worry took her. Then there was the single streak of white that shone like a beacon amidst her sleek mane of flaming ginger hair. She was thin and rangy, having only just begun to show the signs of womanhood in her figure.

At thirteen, Aisling had already lived a troubled existence, one that many of her friends and remaining family members had also experienced. It was the year of our Lord 1530, the time of Henry Tudor, Henry the VIII they called him, and England had just finished suffering one of the most devastating plagues ever to befall her people.

They called it the Sweating Sickness, for that’s what it was, a disease that came upon you of a sudden and bathed you in your own cold sweat. The pain and anguish that followed were but a few symptoms of the devastating malady. The most severe of them was sweat, which seemed to flow like a sieve out of every pore, draining the life from its victims. It had taken thousands of Aisling’s countrymen and the disease had been so severe that even the king himself had fled London for fear of succumbing to it.

When it had finally abated, Aisling’s mother and father, her aunts and uncles, her three older sisters, and two of her three older brothers had all been taken. All that remained of the Mason family were Aisling and Jonathon, her eldest brother.

In time, Jonathon met the young woman who would become his wife. Eleanor Smith had also lost most of her family to the sweat, all save her mother, who died soon after the wedding.

Jonathon and Ellie had two lovely children, twins in fact, a boy and a girl. They named them after their parents: Thomas for Jon’s father and Mary for Ellie’s mother.

Aisling, who was barely eight when their parents had died, came to live with Jon and Ellie. She was the best aunt the twins could hope for, and regaled them with tales of the Fair Folk, tales she had heard from her old gran, stories her mother and sisters and brothers and aunts had told her a thousand times; tales she knew by heart.

The children loved those stories. They pestered her night and day to tell them, but Aisling didn't mind. The stories were as important to her as they were to the children, more so, because they were the only remaining connection she had to her childhood before it had been forever marred by fear and sickness and loss. They were a light in the dark for Aisling, a link to simpler, happier times that she wanted to convey to her niece and nephew.

Currently, Aisling was sitting cross-legged next to the small cot the twins shared in the loft above the family’s small home. It was a simple, straw mattress sewn by the same loving hands that had made the twins’ single blanket and shared pillow. Aisling may not have been her sister-in-law’s equal when it came to cooking or housework, but she was a dab hand at sewing just about anything, from bed linens to tunics. It was a skill, like her storytelling, that she had inherited from her mother.

Aisling also slept in the loft, right next to the five-year-old twins on a much smaller, much less comfortable bedroll. It suited her though, at least there she could keep an eye on the little ones. It was her most important job around the house, after all.

As she finished her faerie tale, the twins found that despite themselves, they couldn’t seem to stay awake. One after another they fell into dreamland, first Mary, then Thomas. When she was sure they were both sufficiently tucked in, she descended the ladder to the other main living area on the ground floor, and went over to join Ellie on the hearth rug.

They do love your stories, said Ellie, with a thankful tone in her voice.

Eleanor Mason was darning a pair of her husband’s socks, which had seen their fair share of use over the past few weeks and were in dire need of repair. Aisling looked over at the socks and at the dreadful job her sister-in-law was doing, and gently snatched them out of her hands.

Here, Ellie. Let me, she said with a grin. Bless you, dear, replied the other.

Aisling’s sister-in-law was a plain but pretty girl, with dark brown hair and light hazel eyes that shone almost blue in the sunlight. Her nose was like a button and her cheeks, which were ample, positively filled the whole of her freckled face when she smiled. She was not as tall nor as lanky as Aisling. Childbirth, it seemed, had a plumping effect on her body, but it suited her. Her increased bust and slightly chubby arms made her appear even more motherly than her already motherly temperament conveyed.

Where’s Jonathon? He’s not back from the village yet? asked Aisling, placidly.

I suspect he’s gone for a night hunt on his way home. Harry Tanner saw a herd of deer in the wood yesterday and it would be good for us to have one or more of them salted for the winter so we don’t have to dig into any of our own livestock. He should be back by morning.

Aisling was only half listening, but frowned as she began the laborious task of undoing Ellie’s haphazard stitching. She began to sew the sock anew. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy talking to Ellie, but the moment she had uttered the words ‘night hunt’ her mind had wandered off. All at once she remembered the thousand stories she had heard about the dark and terrible things that lurked in the forest at night.

She always worried about her brother, but that worry had become much more persistent after the Sweat. Jonathon, his wife, and the twins were all that she had left in the world. If anything ever happened to them, she didn’t know what she would do.

Eleanor noticed Aisling’s expression and placed a hand on her shoulder saying, Jon will be fine, Aisling. He’s done this a hundred times before.

Her sister-in-law’s words did little to comfort her, but she smiled up at her appreciatively.

She finished darning the first sock, turned it right-side out, and moved on to the second, rattier one.

He needs new socks, she said, deftly changing the subject. Perhaps I’ll make him some, if we’ve any wool left after it goes to market next week.

Eleanor’s motherly instincts seemed to take over and she smiled warmly at her sister-in- law. Though she wasn’t more than a few years older than Aisling, Ellie could always tell when she was lying or deflecting, and most importantly, she could tell when something was bothering her.

It’s late, dear. Let’s go to bed. You can sleep down here tonight if you like, in the bed with me. No need to squeeze up between those two for once, suggested Eleanor.

Aisling shook her head.

That’s all right, Ellie, she said. I don’t mind. Besides, it lets me keep an eye on them. Eleanor smiled again, hugged her tightly, and with that, the two went off to bed.

The next morning, Aisling was awakened by the sound of placid hoofbeats coming up the dirt road. She sat up in bed with a start, knocking her forehead against the rafters. The resounding THUD stirred the two children sleeping next to her and Eleanor below.

Are you all right? asked Ellie, groggily.

I’m fine, replied Aisling, rubbing the soon-to-be goose egg on her forehead. Your father’s home, little ones.

The two children, still in their night shifts, leapt from their bed then carefully down the ladder and out the front door. Aisling put on a shawl and followed suit, walking barefoot into the cool Autumn grass outside the house. Her brother Jonathon had already dismounted his horse and was kneeling down, hugging his children tightly and giving them kisses on their tiny foreheads.

Jonathon Mason was a tall man, as were most of the Masons before their untimely demise. He was broad-chested and his arms were strong and muscled, toned by two decades of hard work. He had a scruffy, brown beard and his unkempt brown hair, ginger in his youth, had small flecks of red in it whenever the sun hit it just right. His dark, kind eyes were the color of evergreen trees and when he smiled, his face crinkled at the edges, much like Aisling’s.

Morning, string bean, he said warmly, looking over his children's heads at his younger sister.

Jonathon stood up slowly on weary legs to greet Aisling, and his children reluctantly released him. She padded over to him and gave him a hug, the top of her head coming almost past his chin.

You all act as though I’ve been missing for weeks. I was only gone a day and a night, he said with a laugh.

We just missed you is all… began Aisling.

We all did, added Eleanor as she made her way out in her nightdress to greet her husband, kissing him on the lips. Did you get anything for the pelts? Catch any deer?

Indeed, I did. A few coins for the rabbit, pretty much what I expected, but a silver for the beaver and the otter both. Also caught an old buck as well, it’s down by the barn, still draining. Should be enough to hold us off when the snows come. What have you all been up to?

Auntie Aisling told us about the sidhe, papa! shouted Mary.

Yeah, and she told us about the elf king and the giant wars and how the elves play tricks on people! added her brother.

Did she now? said Jon Mason, smiling down at his children.

Uh huh! And she said we gotta make sure we stay outta the woods while we’re on our own ‘cause the sidhe still hide out there under faerie mounds or in faerie rings sometimes, Mary proudly explained.

That’s very good advice. You should definitely heed your auntie’s words, he said. I’m afraid Papa needs to sleep now, loves.

Aisling could tell he was exhausted, beyond exhausted even. It was a wonder he hadn't fallen from his horse. Still, despite his weariness, he managed to pick Mary up and put her on his shoulders as he made his way towards the house.

Once inside, he put his daughter down and trudged over to the bed where he plopped, face first and still clothed, down onto the straw mattress.

Breakfast first, Jon, scolded Eleanor.

I’m not hungry, he mumbled, with his eyes still closed.

You are. I know you haven’t eaten since you left the market yesterday evening. Get up, take your boots and those filthy clothes off, and have something to eat before you rest, she instructed.

Too tired even to argue, Jonathon pushed himself up and began to clumsily remove his filthy boots. Meanwhile, Aisling took the children up to the loft to get them out of their nightshirts and into their day clothes, after which she did the same. By the time they got back down the ladder, Ellie had eggs and porridge ready for them all. In no time at all, Jon had finished his breakfast, abandoned his dusty clothes, and was snoring loudly in the bed. Aisling, Ellie, and the children finished soon after.

Aisling, could you grab Jon’s clothes and add them to your washing today? I need to take care of these dishes and with him out…I’m afraid I’m going to have to go down and begin dressing the buck, whispered Eleanor.

Sure, Ellie, replied Aisling. Kids, come outside and help me with Papa’s clothes.

Thomas and Mary both scooped up a few of pieces of Jon’s soiled clothing each and tottered outside with them. Meanwhile, Aisling grabbed up his traveling cloak and boots, placed them atop a rather large basket of washing, and went outside to the wash bucket.

Unlike the other women of the village who usually headed down to the washhouse to do their laundry, Aisling preferred to wash the family’s clothes at home near the well, which thankfully sat on the family’s property. That way, she could keep an eye on the children if she needed to. The wash bucket was out in the back of the house, a stone’s throw away from the well.

Aisling told the twins to go play and proceeded to fill the bucket with water from the well. Once it was full, she hauled the clothes over and began to scrub them thoroughly in the water before hanging them on a long cord which she had tied between two trees. As she stood there, laying the drenched garments out on the line, she took in everything around her. Life was simple in their little part of the world and Aisling liked it that way.

While many of her peers still had dreams of becoming wealthy merchants, fighting in a war, or marrying a rich man, Aisling only wanted to stay home. Maybe she would raise a family, or if she didn’t, simply care for her niece and nephew. After everything she had suffered, the loved ones she had lost, and all the innocence that had been stolen from her, one could hardly blame her for enjoying the simple things.

She had just sat down on a stool and began the difficult task of scrubbing the hard, crusted mud off of Jonathon’s boots when suddenly, Thomas and Mary came running over to her. Thomas was holding his hands together gently, cupping one over the other and looking extremely worried.

Auntie Aisling, we found it over in the hedge. It’s really hurt… he said, his voice quaking.

Aisling bent over to look into Thomas’ cupped hands, but couldn’t seem to see far enough inside of them to discern what he might be holding. A moment later, she saw an almost imperceptible fluttering in between his fingers.

What have you got there, Thomas? she asked.

It’s a bird, said Mary, who was on the verge of tears already. His wing’s hurt. He can’t fly, explained Thomas.

Aisling gently took his hands in hers and began to prise them open, while simultaneously dropping the fluttering creature into her own.

The bird that fell into her hands was small and brown. A swath of red streaked through its tail. Its right wing, and indeed most of its feathers, were disheveled and appeared as though they had been forced into many different directions. Aisling gently prodded at the injured wing, drawing a faint, pained cheep from the tiny bird.

We’ll need to set this if we’re going to make it better, Aisling explained to the children, while holding out the bird’s injured wing for all to see.

We’ve got to help it, Auntie Aisling! wailed Mary.

Yeah, we got to make him strong! agreed Thomas.

Aisling, still smiling, led the children inside the house. After a few minutes of rummaging through her sewing kit, she pulled out a small, weathered swatch of cloth, bunched it up slightly, and placed it atop the kitchen table. Then, she gently laid the bird down in the center of it. It twittered appreciatively, but weakly.

Thomas, go outside and find me two teensy tiny sticks, ok? she requested.

The young boy, all too happy to be of some use, ran outside quick as a shot to complete his task. Meanwhile, Aisling helped Mary up onto a chair so she could watch and then began gently smoothing out the little bird’s ragged feathers as best she could.

When Thomas returned not five minutes later, his tiny arms held what looked like a bundle of sticks of every size. After she had picked the two absolute smallest, Aisling reached into her sewing kit and took out a spool of royal blue thread. Using skills honed by nearly a decade of sewing work, Aisling expertly assembled a tiny splint on the bird’s broken wing.

When she was done, the minuscule bird flexed the splinted wing and let out a doleful but contented twitter. Thomas and Mary, unaware that their voices tended to carry in the small space of the house, let out twin cries of jubilation that simultaneously roused their sleeping father from his very deep slumber, and turned the bird’s feathers back into an agitated ruffled mess.

What in the…what’s going on over there you three? shouted Jonathon Mason, in a tone tinged with both exasperation and morbid curiosity.

The children and I found an injured bird, Jonathon. They were just excited because I managed to splint its wing, explained Aisling.

It looks so pretty, added Mary. Yeah, said Thomas.

Huzzah, replied Jonathon. Why not take it outside for a bit, loves?

With that, Aisling, the children, and the new passenger of her apron pocket, headed back outside to finish the laundry.

A few hours later, Eleanor made her way from the shed back up to the house. Her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to brush prior to her dressing the stag, was untidy and flecked with blood as was her apron and much of her dress. In her hands she held a small basket of offal and a few cuts of good venison.

It was in moments like this, when Aisling beheld her sister-in-law’s outright and unabashed tenacity, that she appreciated why her brother had sought to marry her. She remembered her own mother, plucking chickens and draining hogs, and for the briefest of moments, she felt sad again.

Yet no sooner had the feeling drifted into her heart than the bird in her pocket began to sing. It was a low song, a twitter and a tweet that started out meager and became melodious. The children, who had been playing at tag, stood stock-still in the midst of their game and listened intently to the song.

It was birdsong, but birdsong unlike anything she had heard before. It made Aisling feel both elated and melancholy all at once. It was as