Janet needed to hear no more. Turning, she rushed back the way she came, her slippers padding along the stone floor that finally took her to the ivy curtain. She fancied she could still hear Lord Dorian’s cruel laughter ringing in her ears as she remerged from the dank, narrow passageway into the sunlight of the cloister.

Leaning back against a wall, she placed a hand on her midsection, feeling her diaphragm rise and fall in rhythm with her panicked breaths. Closing her eyes, she forced herself to steady her breathing, to swallow the terror that rose like bile in her throat.

Her encounter with Ruan - Tam Lin - was no longer a secret; that blood red rose had exposed her. Silently, Janet cursed herself for putting the wretched thing in her hair. But there was little time to think on such things. Already the sun was getting high in the sky. Soon the attendants would come to prepare her for her wedding to Lord Dorian.

Turning, Janet rushed from the cloister, fearful that at any moment she’d encounter Lord Dorian. She slowed when she got to the courtyard so as not to arouse suspicion but quickly realized with relief that it would be nearly impossible to do so. Indeed, she seemed to be almost invisible in the hubbub of the place, which had gotten only busier at midday as visitors began flooding in expectation of the night’s festivities.

A cart laden with freshly killed game nearly rolled over Janet’s foot, forcing her to hop out of the way. A small but plump stag, its life cut short by the arrow still protruding from its chest lay with its head lolling from the back, its tongue dripping blood on the ground as the cart bounced along. The once-noble beast’s body was criss-crossed by the limp carcasses of pheasants in what looked like a feathery funeral shroud. Dead rabbits, hanging by their muscular legs, lined both sides of the cart. Other cars carried baskets of fish, flasks of wine or fruit.

But it was the entertainers who gave Janet the first glimmer of hope that she could escape imprisonment by Lord Dorian and save Ruan from an eternity in Hell.

They were there in droves, minstrels with their lutes and lyres, storytellers and magicians already entertaining passersby with a quick trick or tale. A gaily dressed fire eater shot a stream of flame high in the air, startling a nearby falcon into bating from its owner’s glove. A plump jester waddled past, the bells of his hat tinkling as he walked. A boxy cart hung with streamers of saffron and red lumbered through the courtyard, carrying fortune tellers and other crafty folk with a reputation for doing almost anything for a coin.

Had Janet not been so attentive to her surroundings, she might have missed glimpsing the raven-haired beauty that emerged from the cart. The sight of her made Janet gasp. If the girl had been just a bit taller and a bit more full in the chest, it would was almost like looking at her double. But she was close enough.

Holding her head high, Janet strode purposefully to the cart and rapped on the side. Inside, male and female voices could be heard conversing in some unknown tongue as one of the occupants moved towards the back. A few moments later the wizened face of an ancient-looking crone appeared between the curtains.

“Shall I foretell the pretty lady’s fortune?” the old woman asked, flashing Janet a snaggle-toothed grin.

“I’m in no need of a fortune teller, for I know my fate already,“ Janet said. “I’m to be married here in this castle this night. But I was brought here without my attendants and am not pleased with the ones my Lord has sent to assist me. I’m in need of a serving girl,” Janet said. “Have you one I can hire?”

Janet turned her gaze to the raven-haired beauty, who was dancing for a group of a appreciative men. Her lithe body twisted, serpent like as she turned slowly on the balls of her feet. When she was finished, the men through coins at her feet, which she gathered before running back to the cart.

The old woman turned he her rheumy eyes to the girl. “Muriel?” she asked. She looked back at Janet. “Why?”

“Because she looks strong and able,” said Janet. “And because on the morrow I will be a lady of this castle and would not want to report to my husband that the entertainment has displeased me.” She paused. “Your family will be well paid.”

The old woman pulled her shawl down tighter against the chill and pursed her wrinkled lips, as if considering the matter. Both she and Janet knew the inevitable outcome, but Gypsy pride demanded that the deal at least appear to be negotiated.

“Very well,” the old woman said and then called to the girl in the strange, foreign tongue.

The girl came over and after an intense conversation with the old woman that included wary glances from the girl to Janet and gesticulation on both parts, Muriel finally turned to her new mistress with a resigned look.

“Do you speak English?” Janet asked.

“Yes,” said the girl.

***

Lord Dorian rubbed his thumb roughly over the nipple of the serving girl pressed between his body and the wall of a castle hallway. A lesser man would have perhaps thought it prudent to save his sexual energy for his wedding night. But since his visit to the witch, Crespus’ lust had become larger than he could ignore. The mere thought of fucking Janet at the same time his brother was dispatched for evermore to the outer realms was an incredible aphrodisiac.

The serving girl, a plump little redhead, cried out in pain as he squeezed and twisted her pear-shaped breast. Lord Dorian ignored her cries, spinning her around and raising her skirts as he pushed her forward over his arm. His large hand roamed her fleshy bottom as he appraised it. It wasn’t a particularly attractive bottom, as bottoms go. The cleft was shorter than he liked, and the cheeks lacked the pleasant swell and lift to give them the shape he favored. These cheeks were flatter and a bit flabby. But they were - to his delight - a nearly alabaster white.

He slapped one - hard - and was pleased to see the shape of his hand blossom against the pale skin. Lord Dorian slapped her again in the same spot - twice - and watched again as the red deepened to nearly purple. When the girl tried to stand, he jerked hard on her waist, throwing her further off balance and dipped his fingers into her cleft, sliding it past her tight anus and down into a labia surrounded by a thick, red bush.

He found her slick - not with excitement - but from the normal slickness of a naturally juicy young woman. Good. After enjoying Venus’ and Lillith’s coy reluctance, he liked the idea of taking one who was truly reluctant. The red-haired maid would serve as a nice appetizer before the real treat of forcing himself on the last hope in his brother’s life.

Lord Dorian unleashed his penis and rubbed the tip against the girl’s tight red curls. “Please, my Lord,” she cried, her voice quaking with fear.

“Please what?” he growled.

“Please let me go!” she cried. “I’m a virgin.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Lord Dorian laughed meanly as he guided the tip of his cock into the girl’s passage. “These grounds are full of randy stable boys. I find it unlikely one has not planted his root in such an attractive garden.” He shoved hard into the girl. She screamed. Lord Dorian clamped his hand over her mouth and pulled her against him, pumping his throbbing cock harder into her tight cunny.

He wondered: Would Janet struggle like this? Would she cry and protest his attention only to turn hot and wanton as lust consumed her? That was how it usually was. Usually. He looked down at the red-haired girl pushed over his harm. She wasn’t moving with him, wasn’t moaning. With irritation he withdrew, observing with some moderate surprise the virgin’s blood coating his shaft. So, she’d been telling the truth. But he saw no reason why that should stop his fun. A few pulls on his hard cock and he ejected his seed onto her buttocks, watching as the pearly traces ran down and across the hand-patterns that still remained on her skin.

Then, dropping her skirts he pulled her to standing and turned her to face him. Her face was splotchy and tear-stained. Lord Dorian touched the tip of her nose. “Consider yourself broken in by the best, my little sorrel filly,” he said. “When you look back on this, you’ll realize it wasn’t all that bad a ride.” Then, putting his cock back in his pants, Lord Dorian turned and walked towards the kitchens.

They were a beehive of activity. Three portly women sat on a circle of stools by the fireplace, gossiping as they plucked chickens and pheasants. From time to time, they’d pick up the pin feathers and toss them into the blaze, sending forth the pungent smell of burning feathers. The haze of flour hung in the air above a long table where a contingent of cooks pounded, rolled and shaped dough into pastries, pies and breads. No sooner was one doughy creation pulled from the oven than another was slid in to take its place. Through the kitchen door, men were gutting deer and pigs to put on spits as skinny hounds fought for the steamy entrails that slipped from the freshly split bellies.

The sights and smells were, for Lord Dorian, a familiar reminder of the celebrations he enjoyed in his youth - back before Ruan disappeared in the depths of the Seldom Forest. For a while, it was whispered that no joy would come to the castle again. But when Crespus assumed control he quickly dispelled that notion, hosting lavish feasts.

But none, he decided, would top this one. For this wasn’t just a feast to celebrate his latest marriage but also the secret success of forever ridding himself of the ghost of a sibling that still haunted the woods beyond.

He looked through the leaded windows now towards those woods. Late afternoon shadows were starting to fall. In a few hours time he’d be wedded to Janet. He wondered if she was experiencing pre-marital jitters and if so whether they were interfering with her adjustment to life in the castle.

Climbing the stairs, he made his way to her suite of rooms, passing whispering maids busily preparing rooms for his expected guests. When he reached Janet’s quarters, he walked in through the oaken door without announcing his entrance. After all, he was Lord Dorian. His wives, like his castle, were his possessions. It was not for them to refuse entrance by him to their portals - be those portals to their rooms or to their wombs.

She was seated in front of a mirror, wearing a sky-blue dress that fitted a bit snug across her bottom. Her hair - which had been tied back and adorned with the tell-tale rose just the day before - was hanging in one long, rich wave down her back. Lord Dorian crossed the room.

“Rise,” he said. “Your Lord has entered your chambers and would look upon you.”

She stood and turned. And Lord Dorian felt the blood drain from his face.

She looked like Janet. She was wearing one of the dresses intended for Janet. But the woman before him was not Janet.

“Who are you? And where is my betrothed?” he asked, his voice icy.

“My lady bade me do as I was told,” the girl said, her voice trembling before the obviously angry man. “She said she wanted to pick out a proper gown and had me try them on for her to see. Then she told me to stay here and wait for her and not to leave until she returned.”

“How long ago did she leave?” Lord Dorian asked.

“I don’t know,” the girl replied. “An hour, maybe?”

Lord Dorian clenched and unclenched his fist. He was eager to make someone pay and entertained the thought of hitting the girl. But he changed his mind. The farmer’s daughter would be the one to pay, the deceptive little whore. Any mercy he would have shown her was out of the question now, no matter how pitiful her pleas became. He’d make an example of her, not just for his other wives but for anyone else who considered crossing him.

Turning, he rushed from the room, calling for his guards so loudly that nearly all the castle could hear him.

***

Janet held her breath as she sat wedged between two barrels of grain. All around her she could hear the guards rushing and yelling, pulling drivers from their carts as they searched for her.

Shouts of a reward offered for any man or woman who could find Lord Dorian’s raven-haired betrothed were spreading like wildfire and angry protests joined the guard’s yells and castle workers and entertainers began searching one another’s belongings for signs of the missing woman.

She felt nearly sick with fear as the driver of the cart where she was hiding was questioned by the guards.

“And I’m telling’ you I ain’t seen nothing’” the man said. And he was telling the truth. Janet had slipped into his cart as he was having his fortune told by the old woman, squeezing herself between the barrel at such an awkward angle that her muscles screamed in rebellion.

A soldier shoved the man aside and lifted the cloth covering the back of the packed cart. Pulling his sword he poked at one bag of grain, slicing a hole in its side. Wheat poured out through the slit, piling up just inches away from the tips of Janet’s toes.

Janet held her breath as she sat in the space between and behind the barrels, her back pressed against the side of the cart and listened as the driver berated the guard for cutting the bag of wheat. After a few moments of heated words, the guard moved on and Janet breathed a sigh of relief as the cart jerked and began to roll towards the castle gate.

Looking up at the position of the sun, she could tell the cart was going in the direction of the Seldom Forest. But she dared not make a move as long as she heard the sounds of other travelers on the road. As those sounds died down, she extricated herself from between the barrels and crawled towards the side of the cart, peeking up over the side. She’d planned to jump over the side, but realized when she looked out that they were stiff to far away to make the journey safely on foot before the guard’s caught up with her. She would need a horse.

Janet ducked back down in the cart. Ahead of her the driver swigged from a flask and hummed a tune he’d heard from one of the minstrels. Keeping low to the floor of the cart, reached up for one of the small rocks sitting atop one of the bags of grain.

Janet kept her eyes on the driver as she crept forward, rock in hand. Time was of the essence, and although she didn’t want to do what she was about to do, she knew she had no choice.

The driver tilted hard to the left as the stone smacked into the right side of his head. But to Janet’s distress, he recovered and turned unsteadily towards her.

“What the --” he said drunkenly. Then his eyes grew large in disbelief. “You!!” he cried and grabbed Janet’s left arm in a meaty grip. “You’re that girl they’re looking for - stole away here in my cart.” He rubbed his head and laughed. “I got a knock on my head for sure, but the gold I get for bringing you back will buy enough ale to take the pain away.”

“Don’t count on it," said Janet, and she raised the rock again. This time, her aim was truer and she hit the driver square between the eyes sending him tumbling backwards. Janet looked in horror as blood began to seep from where the jagged edge of the rock had hit him. Had she killed him? He groaned. No, he wasn’t dead, just out. But to be safe, she quickly bound him with leather thongs. She fished through his pocket until she found a small knife and then covered him with the cloth.

Leaping from the cart, she thanked the gods that the roads were still deserted as she led the team of horses to a small wooded area off the path. Using the knife, she deftly cut through the traces of the harness, leaving the large Shire wearing only his bridle. Janet guided him beside the cart, climbed on and used the height of the vehicle to launch herself onto the animal’s broad back. Then she turned his head towards Caterhaugh Dell and urged him into a run.

It wasn’t easy. The Shire was a cart horse not used to running, but Janet drove him like a woman possessed, using a piece of the harness she had cut to whip his flanks each time he showed signs of slowing.

Janet was an excellent rider and stayed her seat as the horse’s long strides ate up the ground separating the castle from Caterhaugh Dell and her beloved Tam Lin. To anyone seeing Janet ride, she herself could have passed for one of the fairy folk, her black hair flying behind the black horse she was riding.

It was owl-light, that time of day when sunlight has almost but not quite surrendered to darkness, when she finally saw the familiar shape of the Twisted Oak. Sliding from her mount’s back, she patted the massive sweat-soaked neck and removed the bridle from his head.

The horse, unaccustomed to freedom, stood there for a moment, opening and closing his mouth as in disbelief over the absence of the bit, before walking over to crop grass that grew at the forest’s edge.

“Thank you, friend,” she said and then, sheathing her stolen knife, turned to run into the forest.

***

Back at the castle, every living soul from entertainers to noble visitors to the dogs in the yard was aware of Lord Dorian’s rage as word spread that the great Lord, the Master, the one man who could have any woman he wanted with just a snap of his fingers had been duped, jilted, rejected by a simple farm girl.

The courtyard now looked like a battleground. Anything that Janet could have been hiding in had been ransacked or turned over - from whole carts to barrels to large pieces of crockery. Stable boys and housemaids were interrogated at knifepoint about what they had seen, and the poor gypsy girl Janet had retained to impersonate her had been stripped and beaten in front of everyone by no less than Lord Dorian himself.

The girl, her hands tied to the top of a post - screamed each time the leather whip lashed the skin of her back.

“I know nothing, I swear,” she cried frantically each time she saw Crespus recoil for another swing. Not that it mattered, for the lord was beating to assuage his own sense of embarrassment more than for any other reason. She had been used - albeit unknowingly - to fool him, and no one made a fool of Lord Dorian.

The girl was unconscious by the time she was cut down and carried by her weeping relations back to her gaily draped cart. Flanked by his guards, Lord Dorian stalked through the castle grounds, searching hidden alcoves for his betrothed while searching the faces of friends and strangers for any sign of amusement at his plight. But even those who did find a humorous irony in the situation knew well enough to keep their faces impassive. Even on a good day, Lord Dorian was unpleasant. On a bad day he’d be unbearable.

He had a reputation for not just enjoying the abuse he inflicted on maids in his household, but also for imprisoning people for no other reason than that it amused him. It was common knowledge that to mock or otherwise run afoul of Lord Dorian was to risk one’s freedom.

The sun was getting low in the sky when Lord Dorian finally realized that despite his best efforts Janet had somehow escaped. He didn’t have to ask himself where she had gone. In the Seldom Forest his brother - his enemy - was waiting for the one woman who could save him.

Summoning the head of his guard, he ordered him to ready his men to ride. He did not say when or where. Even the most steadfast soldiers were reluctant to go into a haunted wood. But Lord Dorian was sure when they reached the forest’s edge he would be able to rally them to go inside and assist him in recovering Janet. As for his brother, well, there would be no need to confront Ruan as long as Janet was back in his custody before midnight. After that, Ruan would be nothing more than a disturbing memory. And the little whore would pay in ways she’d never imagined possible.

***

The tangle of trees leading down to Caterhaugh Dell were even harder to navigate in the dying light. During her first trip to the wood, Janet had approached the journey recklessly with little care for the legends of the fair folk that dwelt in this place. But this time, whether it was because she was just more aware or because it was The Night of the Dead, things were different.

Everywhere, Janet could feel eyes on her. Out of the corners of her own eyes she saw constant motion, fleeting glimpses of shadowy, lithe beings flitting and ducking in and out of shadows. There were noises, too. The leaves weren’t rustling, they were whispering.

“The Queen must know!” she heard one shrill voice say.

“She comes, she comes!” another hissed.

Janet felt stirrings of fear at these strange things, but pushed on nonetheless. With each step, the fey presence grew stronger. Tiny hands slapped her face, leaving tiny stinging imprints. Tiny tears appeared in her clothes even when she knew there were no thorns in her paths. Strands of her hair were pulled hard and tied in knots to surrounding branches, forcing Janet to stop and untangle them. Finally, she took a leather thong and tied her raven mane back, ignoring the fairy jeers that vowed not to be deterred.

She tripped over a log and when she went to rise, a tendril came out of the ground and wrapped itself around her wrist. Janet reached for her knife and cut through it. She was close to Caternaugh Dell now and the forces of the Fairy Queen were stronger than they were the day she’d met Tam Lin there. He’d had more power then, power to attract and facilitate their being together. Now she could feel the malevolent forces of the queen working to keep them apart.

“Tam Lin!” she cried. “Tam Lin!”

But only the wind answered her. Still she pushed on, brushing aside moss and tiny, biting things with wings as she made for the dell.

And finally she was there, where again, she cried out for Tam Lin. “Ruan??” she cried. “Ruan, my love!! I’m here!”

She heard the wind again and something else, the deep riche laughter of what she instinctively knew to be the fairy queen and her court.

“Go back,” the voices whispered on the wind. “Even if you succeed you will wish you had not.”

“Liars!” Janet screamed and sunk to the ground, covering her ears against the negative voices, which grew louder and louder.

She was more afraid than she knew. She was aware of what she had to do - wait here for the fairy procession and grab Ruan from his horse and hold on no matter what. And after that - what had the old woman told Lord Dorian” she’d have to survive tests and torments visited upon her to free the mortal soul of Tam Lin.

Janet shivered as a chill wind blew. Tam Lin wasn’t coming. She knew her next chance to see him would be when the procession came by at midnight. She’d need to preserve her energy. So pulling her tattered cloak around her shoulders, she huddled beneath a tree trying to ignore the fairies that pinched her cruelly while screaming in shrill voices that she would fail.