Elsa's screams wrenched off; she stared, amazed, as the young woman stepped forward, her face all sympathy, crooning, "Poor Elsa, poor, poor lass!"
Elsa took one halting step forward, then collapsed into the stranger woman's arms, sobbing and sobbing as the pieces of her mind began to pull themselves together again, and her heart began to realize the horror was past.
"Oh! Tis so great a scandal, Maria!" the woman said as she hauled her bucket across the village common.
" 'Tis in truth, Rillis! That Their Majesties should so defy the Abbot!" Maria answered, hefting her own bucket.
"The Archbishop, thou dost mean," Matilda sniffed. "An thou wilt hold Their Majesties wrong in opposing him, goodwives, thou must needs call him 'Archbishop' now."
A goat looked up and bleated as they passed.
"I will not say that, Tilda." Maria frowned. "Who hath raised him, eh? Only himself."
"Hath he not the right to so do, Maria?" Rillis demanded. "He is the highest priest of the land!"
"Why, so might thine husband proclaim himself squire, Rillis. Would that make him so?" Maria demanded as they came to the village well.
Rillis started to giggle, and clapped a hand over her own mouth. "For shame, Maria! To make me laugh at mine own husband! Wherefore didst thou not speak of thine own?"
"For that her Rolf would not dare to term himself aught she might decry." Matilda swung her bucket up to the well curb. "My Jack, now, scarce would have pride enough to term himself a plowman."
"Only for that he would then have to plow, Matilda. He might, though, call himself a layabout."
Matilda managed to convert her peal of laughter into an indignant snort.
"Well, so much for the follies of mankind, my godsibs," Maria sighed, laying hold of the crank. "Now for the wisdom of womankind. Shall we have some water for the cleansing of our houses?"
"And for the pot." Rillis set her hands on the crank from the other side. "Up with the bucket, now!"
"I shall have a sip of it first," Matilda decided, bending over to peer down into the gloom. "Ah, 'tis so cool and… ahhhl" She screamed.
Maria nearly let go of the crank, but not quite—which was a good thing, because Rillis did. "Matilda! What—"
But Matilda was past speaking; she cowered back, hands over her mouth, pale and trembling.
"What can it be she hath seen?" Rillis turned to look, and drew back with a gasp. "Maria! Let go!"
"What dost thou see?"
"A dragon's worm! Tis a horrid thing, with a gaping maw and scales of sickly yellow! Its wings have sprouted, and its tail hath a sting! Maria, let go't"
Maria heard a furious hiss from the well, seeming to fill all the air about her. She let go of the crank as though it were a live coal. It spun, and the well rang with a scream so high-pitched they could scarcely hear it, dwindling, gaining echo, till the bucket splashed.
The three women stared at one another, horrified. Rillis found her voice first. "What now shall we drink?" She whispered.
"Drink be hanged, godsib! What shall we do when 'tis grown!"
"It shall not grow."
The three spun about.
She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but she bore herself with the authority of a knight's lady. She wore peasant's clothes, as they did, but of a richer fabric and more vivid colors, and she came toward them with a gentle smile, but a look of grim purpose in her eyes.
"Who art thou?" Maria breathed.
"I am a witch of the Royal Coven," the stranger answered. "As for thy worm, behold!" She stepped up to the well and frowned, gazing down at it.
The three women glanced at one another, then plucked up their courage and stepped up to peek.
They saw the worm shrink and harden, hissing furiously as its wings grew and spread, till the hissing stopped and there was scarcely any body at all. But the wings were huge, a foot across at least, and of so marvelous a swirl of rainbow hues as to make the women gasp. It drifted up from the well, a magnificent butterfly—but, harmless though it was, they ducked out of its way as it rose above the curb and hovered inside the well for a moment. The stranger frowned at it, and it sped away, rising to glide off into the forest on a vagrant breeze.
The stranger relaxed, and there was a sheen on her forehead as she turned to the three women. " 'Twas no true worm, but a crafting of witch moss. 'Tis sped now, and shall trouble thee no more."
The women stared; then Maria found her voice. "Who… who crafted it?"
"Some malicious witch who doth strive 'gainst Their Majesties' rule."
"What if that witch doth transform it to a worm again?"
"Why, then, I shall banish it again—I, or another like me." The young woman gave them a radiant smile. "Fear not, goodwives—the King and Queen do ward and care for their folk."
She turned and moved away into the forest. The three women stared after her in the heat of the midday sun.
Then Matilda straightened, a gleam in her eye. "Well, godsibs! Shall we have a tale to tell this even!"
Dinner was done, and the grown-ups wandered out of their cottages to stand in groups, chatting, while the children ran about, tagging each other and wrangling—a normal Gramarye village evening.
"Hear the Word of the Lord!"
Where the preacher had come from, no one knew, but they all stilled and looked at him, with .more dread than surprise on their faces. The clergy had not been bringing good news lately.
" 'Put not your trust in princes,' saith the Lord! And in truth, he who would put his faith in our princes, in Tuan and Catharine today, would be foolish indeed!"
The people stared, galvanized by the words of treason they were hearing. Even the children began to realize something was wrong, and one by one ceased their games and turned to listen.
"Tuan and Catharine have sought to usurp the powers of the Church! The King and Queen have scorned the word of the Lord Archbishop! They have adhered to a profligate and sinful Church in defiance, and have thus rent this land of Gramarye asunder! And as is done with the people of the land, so is done with its substance! Even now forces build to rend the very soil itself! Verily I say unto thee, in three minutes' time the earth shall quake!"
The villagers burst into a panic of yammering disbelief. Here and there rose a cry of despair, and a few turned toward their cottages.
"Naught will be damaged!" the priest cried. "Or at the least, very little! The ground will shake, aye, but shall only tremble; it shall not heave! This is but the Lord's warning, not His devastation! Hearken! Heed!"
Somewhat reassured, the peasants turned back to watch him again. The priest straightened, smiling, sure of his control…
And the seconds passed.
And passed. And passed.
The priest frowned, and the folk began to murmur. "Assuredly three minutes have come and gone!"
"Aye, most surely! Hast thou felt a quake?"
"Nay, not so much as mine oxen make as I follow the plow."
The preacher was scowling now, fists clenched, forehead beading with sweat. People saw, and fell silent again, staring at him—but nothing happened.
" 'Tis a mountebank," somebody muttered.
"Aye, 'tis a jester who did cut his own tonsure," a goodwife agreed.
"Dost seek to mock us, fellow?" A bulky peasant stepped forward, anger in his voice.
"I am a true friar of St. Vidicon!" the priest shouted.
"Any may don a robe and paint a bit of wood for his breast," another beefy peasant sneered. "What, fellow! Dost take us for fools?"
"Stand away from me," the priest commanded, but trepidation hollowed his voice, and he stepped backwards, and backwards again, as the big peasants closed in on three sides. Behind two of them he saw a slighter man smiling, and glared at the man. But the peasant only smiled wider, and it was a hard and threatening smile.