We were happy, that summer. We worked as we were accustomed and sang whenever we had breath for it - all the tunes of the day, but especially the ballad of the mosswife and the knight. The mosswife's part was mine, for my father claimed the knight's role and my mother declared it would be time enough for her to personate her mother when she was old. My sister's voice, though pleasing, was less suited to dramatics than mine, and so I delighted in straining to better the cracked old tones of my part until my grandmother herself approved my rendition.

We sang often at leisure, but oftener at work, for the ballad tells how knights are not trained in the housekeeper's art, and my mother was determined that I at least should not suffer that want. She bent all her woods-magic to the task - the same magic that once dirtied my grandmother's neat cottage so much as to drive a young knight to despair. This spell my mother often cast, and by our labor we undid its work, until my sister and I were well-versed in the art she desired for us. At last we also learned the spell, for the training of our children in turn or for safety should bandits come on the house, for none, she said, would look for plunder in such a house as that. And at last, near the close of that summer, my mother was secure enough in her work that she set out with my father to visit the mosswife in her woodlands, my sister and I keeping the cottage until their return.

Three days since they had left us a thunderstorm blew up over the woods, and crashed and rattled and howled about the cottage such that we both awoke in fright, beyond hope of sleeping more. We sat up with a lantern, Hannah and I, starting at every noise and staring out the window to see what might chance in the stormy night. We had sat so for hours when the noise came: the crash of a heavy fist against the door, as if by an angry someone demanding entry!

We sat fear-frozen at first, thinking but one thought between us: that our grandmother had warned us against other fey things, less kind than she, in the forest nights. Then the thunder crashed again and the lightning flared, and I ran to the window to see - a man armed and armored, sodden with the storm, still hammering with his fist (for he did not see me). I ran to Hannah and told her of him in whispers; and we shivered as the door shook under his blows.

"Hide you in the washroom," I told her, "and leave me to work the spell if he should get in." It was a measure of her fear that she went without a word to the lean-to, where there was cover and a door in case of need. I waited until she was gone and said the spell: a few words only, twisting on the tongue, and a pinch of dust, lifted and blown away.

In that moment our mother's tidiness vanished: the dishes sprang to stove and tabletop, all freshly grimed with stew-leavings; the pots and pans were scorched and caked with grease and piled about; my father's stockings heaped themselves in corners, all suddenly sweated and torn. Cobwebs spun down to the floor, with dust trailing after; the window was suddenly black and the walls mottled gray; even the candles guttered and melted away, dripping wax liberally about. The lantern tipped over and went out; the fireplace choked with soot; the ashes leapt out and mingled with twigs and dirt all round the floor. With a glance I was satisfied. I caught up a tattered brown shawl of my mother's and, casting it over my head, crouched in the corner to wait.

I was none too soon. The pounding stopped and the latch rattled curiously; then the door crashed open and a dark figure appeared. "Hallo the house!" he cried, but I made no answer.

Cautiously he stepped in, stumbling on the doorsill, with only the light of the storm to see by. A smaller figure came after him, shadowed and silently moving.

Thunder rumbled and died and the room was in darkness - long enough that I nearly thought them fey, for surely no bandit would stand it so long. Finally a spark flashed and the small one lit a taper, that cast haunting crooked shadows about the littered floor. By that uncertain light they stood and looked long about them, speaking in whispers. Still and silent I sat in my corner, in hopes that they would depart - but then the larger one spoke aloud, the smaller one swung closed the door, and they sat themselves down at our table, dishes and all! I began to fear they would stay till dawn and discover me - or my father, returning, might surprise them and be killed!

I do not know even now what put the thought in my head - perhaps the long sword like my father's the larger one wore - but I thought suddenly of the family ballad, and reasoned that if a knight such as my father had feared a mosswife, such invaders as these might easily be frightened and flee The storm was passing; the sky was growing light, though the rain still fell. I had little time, so I acted ere I could doubt or be found.

They were talking softly in the near-darkness; they never heard me creep from my corner in the dark to the door. I pulled the shawl tight about me and felt with my hand for the latch - then I flung wide the door and stomped my foot loud, and screeched out, "Who's this then, that's broken into my poor cottage and eaten my good supper from off my table?" (Of course they had eaten nothing, but the dishes put it into my head and it rang as true as the rest.)

They both jumped up, hands on their swords; but the larger one composed himself and bowed, and his companion followed his lead.

"Forgive our intrusion, goodwife; we meant no harm," the large one said. "We lost our way in the storm and have but taken shelter against the night. Be patient a little, and with the sun we shall take our road."

He was fair-spoken enough, more so than any bandit seemingly, and no fey would claim shelter against a mere storm - unless he meant deception.

"No harm, is it now?" I screeched. "And my poor door all broken and my good supper ate, and my little chickies frighted and gone so I'll have no more? No, it's thieves you are, and thieving will be paid - or maybe I'll take my supper after all!" I let my voice fall away there, the mosswife's voice when she tells the knight he'll be her dinner, then, and I hobbled in close to the small one, since he frightened me less. "My supper's gone, aye, but I've caught you now, haven't I so? And this little one would make me a fine feast, isn't it so?"

I thought they would attack me then, for the larger one sucked in his breath and gripped his sword, and the smaller one tensed in the darkness. I was ready to duck and leave them free to the door - but the small one spoke up bravely, a strong young man's voice that trembled only a little at first.

"Surely, goodwife, there's aught else we may do for thee?" he said. "For I've but little meat to my bones yet, and I fear my taste would not agree with thee."

"My squire speaks true," the large man - a knight then? - said gruffly. "Thou'lt find us poor eating sure, for I am old and tough as he is thin. But come, name what service we may do thee to ransom our lives."

For all my fear I bit my tongue hard so as not to laugh - for they believed me! They truly took me for an old mosswife! Perhaps they were honest travelers then, a knight and his squire, or if bandits, at least well-frightened ones! I knew prudence would have sent them away that moment, but I feared it might betray my deception - no mosswife would free such captives without some service done. There was vainglory in it too, as I see now, but to a boy's mind then it was simple caution to set them a task before I set them free.

So I said cunningly, "A fine supper you ask me to lose, sir thieves! What task shall I set you, then, to prove yourselves true?"

"But name thy wish, goodwife, and in honor it shall be done," said the knight, and in the dawning light the squire nodded too.

It was too good a chance to let pass: I followed the family ballad.

"Then clean my poor cottage, good sirs, without fail, and ransom your lives with the mop and the pail!"

"It shall be done," said the tall knight - and my heart leapt for very joy.

There was one thing yet to make sure of, for Hannah had hidden in the washroom and it would never do for them to find her there. I shuffled ahead to the washroom and peered inside.

The dark little room was empty. The door was a little ajar; she must have crept away in the darkness, when the storm passed. So with an easy heart I showed them tubs and buckets and mops and brooms, and settled into my corner as they began.

It was lighter now: at last I could see my captives for who they were. The large one was a knight surely, in a mail coat with a device of green and silver; beneath it he wore green also, all sopping and bedraggled from the storm. His hair and beard were streaked with gray and well-trimmed, and he wore a circlet of dull metal around his head. He laid aside his mail as he set to the task, but I saw that he kept his sword.

At last they had nearly cleared the table, and made a bare beginning on the floor, and I determined to send them away before the sun was much higher, lest they stumble on my parents returning. But before I could so much as rise I heard a voice I knew well raised in song - my sister, walking in the woods and singing as the maiden in the ballad had sung!

The squire dropped his broom and ran outside; I heard him speaking to my sister as her song ceased. The knight went to the door and stood unsmiling. His hand strayed once more, uneasily, to his sword. Then the squire called and he stepped forth, and the door swung closed behind him.

I scurried to the window and saw with astonishment - not my sister only - but my father and mother, just emerging from the forest! They stopped in surprise at seeing the strangers. The knight's head jerked up as he saw them - then his hand left his sword and he strode forward, crying, "Upon my life, 'tis Sir Robert Hallerton and his lady! Sir Robert, we have missed thee at court these seven years and more!"

And then - and then my father went to his knee before the knight, and my mother and my sister curtsied to the ground! " 'Twas by my liege's pleasure that I absented myself," said my father, and there was a note in his voice that I had never known before.

"Not my pleasure, Sir Robert - say rather my folly, and my pride," said the knight - the king! "We've missed thee sore, good friend, and I'll not be so foolish a second time." He reached out his hand and raised my father up, and then he smiled.

"You come in good time, Sir Robert," the squire - the prince? - said, "for we stand in peril of our lives, unless...."

"Unless, highness?" my father asked with concern.

The king looked a little rueful as he replied, "Unless these ladies here show us mercy - for the mosswife of this cottage caught us unawares last night, and but that we scour her cottage clean, our lives are forfeit to her supper!"

I thought I heard a little laugh from the woods, and I know my father's eyes looked straight into mine. "The mosswife, sire?" he asked.

"Even as my father says," said the prince shamefacedly, "unless some other crone lives here who offers to eat travelers for her supper."

"None that I know," said my father. "The mosswife, then - where does she bide? Is she within the cottage yet, or off to the woods?"

"Within," said the king, but his face was puzzled.

"Call her forth," my father told him.

The king turned on him with a frown and a question, but the prince turned quickly and sang out, "Good mosswife, wouldst favor us with a sight of thy presence?"

I was caught. I could creep out the washroom door, or hide within, but my father would know the trick at once and my lot would be worse than before. There was naught I could do but come forth bravely - and I did, remembering that I was a knight's son - but I first pulled the shawl back over my head, and hobbled like the old mosswife as I came out the door.

"Is this she?" my father asked.

"It is," the king said, but he looked more puzzled yet, to see the 'mosswife' come docilely forth.

"Wouldst favor us with a sight of thy face, good mosswife?" my father asked, merry-eyed.

I took a long deep breath and fixed my eyes on my father - but for all of me they flitted back to the king as I pushed back the shawl and stood straight before them.

"A lad?" the king burst out angrily. "What urchin art thou, that durst threaten the life of a king?"

I looked at my father, but he stood silently watching. So I pulled myself the straighter and answered, "The son of Sir Robert and of his lady the mosswife's daughter!"

Again I heard the faint laugh in the woods - my grandmother's laugh; but she remained hidden. I watched the king fearfully - but then heard another voice, my sister's, from where she stood by the king's son.

"A lad and a lass alone, sire," she said. "How were we to know armed men in the night meant us no harm?"

The king looked from one to the other of us, then smiled harshly and suddenly. "How came Sir Robert's house in such disarray?" he demanded.

I flinched at that, but my mother stood strong and answered, " 'Tis but the family manner, sire, when strangers come to our door. I'll answer they meant no harm by it."

The answer seemed not to please him: he turned on my father. "And is the king then a stranger in this house?"

"Alas that he is, sire - for we have waited on his visit this seven years and more, and now that he comes he finds us thus unready," my father answered, and his eyes were still merry in the face of the king's scorn. I shrank back in fear, but that suddenly the king's anger left him and he laughed instead.

"Very well, lad, thou'rt pardoned," he cried. "Not even a king may face so many unconquered! But see thou knowest me better at our next meeting."

A lump came suddenly to my throat, but I managed something between a nod and a bow. Then the king's eyes left me, and I fled unashamed to the shelter of my lady mother's smile.

"We have horses, sire, if you will..." my father began.

" 'Twould earn my gratitude, Sir Robert," the king said. "The storm came on us suddenly and we were separated from my hunters. They will fear for my safety - after such a night as this."

They had turned to walk from the cottage when my grandmother - every inch the true mosswife - burst from her woods and came flying towards them.

"Less haste, less haste, lord king," she cried. "A promise was made, for the ransom of two lives, was it not? And if the lad fears to hold to it, the mosswife does not - for cleaning is hungry work, is it not, good sirs?" She smiled and showed her teeth, and the king's son flinched away from that grin.

"Thou durst..." the king began in anger, but his son pushed in front of him and made her a courtly bow.

"Most assuredly will we keep our word," he said, "if these ladies will consent in their kindness to aid us." He glanced at my sister then, so that she blushed red, and continued, "for you know, good mosswife, that knights are not trained in the housekeeper's art."

My grandmother laughed then, loud and long, and before she was done the rest of us were laughing as well, even the king, forgetting his anger again. The king and his son kept their word, and scrubbed our little cottage so that it shone when the king's hunters finally came on us. We rode with them to the king's city, my parents and my sister and I, and lodged in the king's own house until our own was made ready once more.

Before the year was out my sister had walked with the king's son and consented to be his wife, and as to myself, I had training equal to any knight's son's and was knighted myself, by the king's own hand, on the eve of my twenty-first year. My father was restored to the king's favor and his good name, which I have carried on - but you will not have heard it. For I have long since grown tired of courtly life and returned to the cottage by my grandmother's woods; and if any speak of me yet they say only, in the country manner - Sir Simon of the Wood.

(c) 2001
By Annie McAndrew
All Rights Reserved
Biography