Page 1 of Lady Elinor’s Elf

Many Generations Before Our Story Begins…

Night would be falling soon, without doubt.

The shadows were lengthening, darkening, and the sounds of the forest shifting from whimsical birdsong to the rustle of night creatures awakening beneath the dense thickets of ferns and bracken.

Lady Jeanne Molyneux and her manservant Alun rode along the grassy path, each aware that they drew nearer their destination with every passing minute. And each aware that it might be dark before they arrived.

“Would ye risk a faster pace, m’Lady?”

Alun’s voice caught Jeanne by surprise, so focussed was she on keeping her mount to the narrow path.

“Would that we could,” she replied, shaking her head. “I dare not, Alun. Should Bertina lose her footing…”

“Aye, m’lady. You’re right indeed. But…” he hesitated. “His Lordship will worry.”

“I know. We’ll be making the last part of our journey in the dark. But it cannot be helped. I must get home as soon as possible.” She shrugged. “My husband survived his Crusade, thank God. I’m sure he’ll not worry himself to a shadow if we’re a little late.”

“Very well, ma’am. If you’d like me to ride in front…”

She shook her head. “I feel much safer with you at my back, Alun. You know what they say about these woods…”

“Aye, Mistress, that I do.” His sigh was audible. “’Tis risky, indeed.”

Jeanne smiled. Alun was Welsh through and through. And he believed in the tales of mystery and magic that swirled around this part of the country like soft clouds of fog rising from the ground at sunrise.

The tales of this wood, for example, and the alleged inhabitants who were more magic than substance.

Jeanne had grown up with the Welsh tales of mysterious beings, had listened intently to her nurse as she told endless stories about the little ones, Ellyllon she called them. Welsh elves.

Even though Jeanne was now a woman, and wed to a practical Welsh lord, she still found herself intrigued by those charming fables, and a smile curved her lips as she wondered if tonight might be the night she met one.

Then Bertina, her favourite mare, slowed slightly as the path roughened and rocks thrust up at irregular intervals. Jeanne clutched the reins and settled herself as comfortably as she could on her saddle, dismissing all thoughts of magical creatures as tales told to children.

The woods fell quiet as the two riders moved along a shadowed path—tall fir trees mixed with gigantic oaks formed a ceiling above them, and the only sound was the thud of the horses’ hooves on the turf.

Jeanne’s heart beat faster, despite her common sense. These were magic woods, after all.

She could see little, but her senses were wide awake, and for a moment…there… “Alun, wait…” She drew Bertina up and held her still, as Alun came alongside.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she frowned. “Something…I heard something from over there, I think?” She pointed a little way off to the left.

“I don’t hear…”

“There. There it is again.” Jeanne handed him the reins and worked her way off the horse, landing softly on the grass. “It’s a cry. Someone is in trouble, or maybe it’s a wounded creature. I cannot ignore it.”

“My Lady,” whispered Alun. “Please get back on your horse for the sake of Dewi Sant …”

She ignored his plea. “I’m sure any saint would encourage me to offer aid to the needy, Alun. Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.” Passing him the reins to her mount, she smiled reassuringly. “It is probably nothing, but I’d never forgive myself if I ignored a cry for help.”

Without waiting for a reply, she eased into the hedgerow, finding places where the undergrowth was thin and walking easy. The sound, whatever it was, had come from this area, she knew, so every step was cautious, and she stopped frequently to listen.

And soon her diligence was rewarded. But what she saw shocked her almost out of her riding boots.

A clearing, quite small and ringed with mushrooms, lay half in darkness and half in the dying light of day.

Inside the clearing, a slight pale figure struggled awkwardly, held fast and crushed beneath what looked like a huge fallen branch. The small whimpering cry came again, and Jeanne rushed forward.

“Oh no,” she breathed. “Let me help you…”

The girl, for that’s how she appeared, moaned. “Oh please, mistress, I cannot move my legs, nor lift such weight., and ’tis…’tis hard to breathe…”

“Perhaps I should call my servant.”

The look on the child’s face told a tale of its own. “Please, no, I must not be seen.” She closed her eyes. “It would mean trouble for me.”

Surprised at how delicate she was, and recognising the fear in her eyes, Jeanne simply nodded and began to move the log aside.

She was cautious, not wanting to injure herself, but found that by inching the log little by little, she could shift it enough to reach the child’s hands and help her finally claw her way out from beneath.

It took several long minutes, but it was worth it to hear the little sigh of relief.

“There,” she caught her breath. “I believe that’s freed you of the weight, at least. Are you injured?”

The girl rubbed her shins, then stretched and twisted, groaning a little, but obviously able to move.

“I think not, mistress, I thank you. I shall carry some ripe bruises, to be sure, but I would have been caught here in the dark without your help.” She looked around.

“And this is not a kind place for my people when the sun goes down.”

Jeanne tilted her head to one side. “Do you live near here? I have a horse that could carry us both, and you may ride with me back to your home, if you’d like?

You shouldn’t be walking far after such injuries.

I’d be happy to take up behind me, or you can come with me, and we’ll send a message to your family… ”

The little girl eased herself to her feet, long fair hair falling like silk around her shoulders and down onto what looked like it had once been a lovely flowing gown before the branch and the muddy ground did their damage. She turned and stared at her rescuer for a moment or two.

“You are kind indeed, but no.” She stared into Jeanne’s eyes. “We share a world, Jeanne Molyneux, but we are not the same.”

“What? How…I don’t…”

All of a sudden, Jeanne’s skin prickled as the hairs on her body rose in response to some strangeness in the air around her. She sucked in a nervous breath.

“Hush.” A pale hand touched Jeanne’s arm, surprising her with its warmth. “You have saved my life this night, my Lady, and I owe you more than I can repay.”

As Jeanne watched, eyes wide, the little figure grew taller, and her gown transformed into clean and shining silk.

“I don’t understand…”

“I am Ellyll. Tylwyth Teg . And I will repay my debt.” The little figure stepped toward Jeanne, who retreated a little.“Don’t be afraid, fy plent ? I mean you no harm…”

“But…”

“Shh. A blessing, Jeanne. A blessing for you—and for the son whom you have yet to meet.” Her small shining hand touched the mound beneath Jeanne’s gown, where a growing babe rested.

“This child will be the father of a line that will carry your loving heart, your caring, and your bravery.” Her intense gaze made Jeanne slightly dizzy.

“And whenever needed, the Ellyllon will guide and guard, until such time as the need for kindness and magic disappears.”

With those words, the glowing figure of the Ellyll simply vanished.

“Mistress?” Alun’s voice shattered the silence around Jeanne, and she blinked.

“Did you see that?” She spun around to Alun.

“See what, m’Lady? I couldn’t hear nor see you, and I was that worried…”

“How long have I been in here?”

“You just got off your horse a moment or two ago…” He neared her, a worried frown on his face. “Did you find what made the noise?” He stared at her. “Are you sure you’re well enough to ride again?”

She sighed. “I think so. Yes, I definitely think so.” She touched the mound beneath the kirtle. “I have to get my son home in time for his father to welcome him.” She moved toward the hedge once more. “And it was naught but a small fox calling for a mate.”

“Er, yes, of course, m’Lady.”

She let him help her remount her horse. “Alun, what does fy plent mean?”

His eyebrows rose. “Why, it means ‘my child’, Mistress. A good and loving way to talk of your…um…” He gestured to her belly. “But ’tis an ancient Welsh term, not much used nowadays. I’m surprised you know it.”

Jeanne smiled, aware that she’d shocked him. He didn’t believe that she knew a boy rested next to her heart, but she was convinced that what that lovely little Ellyll had prophesied would come true.

And it did.

Shortly thereafter, Jeanne and her husband welcomed a hearty and healthy baby boy, who lived a long and happy life, fathering a large family of his own, and beginning a line that flowed through many generations—to the day a girl child was born to Sir Anthony and Lady Cecily Molliney of Molliney Hall.

They named her Elinor.