Page 37 of The Knucker King

It is also why she does not like marriage or men, Bramble interrupted, his tongue lolled from his mouth. Except for John the Fisher, Avice does not mind him.

Trewoofe’s head snapped up, and Ashling gave an indignant chime at being knocked from his perch. “Who is John the Fisher?”

If Avice did not know any better, she could have sworn that the Knucker sounded jealous. She bit back a smile at the thought. Trewoofe: The Lord of the Underneath, the King of the Well, and the Keeper of the Good Neighbours, envious of a human villager.

Green-eyed of Jonathan Fisher. Surely not? Avice put the Knucker out of his misery. “John is my best friend,” she stated simply. “Except for Bramble and Ashling, of course.”

The Wisp pealed, and the Grim thudded his tail against the frozen ground.

“Good,” Trewoofe chuffed.

The shadows had lengthened during their conversation, and Avice yawned. It had been one full night and day since she had slept, her eyes were so tired they hurt.

The Knucker stood. “I will let you rest, little witch. I plan on hunting soon. When would be best for me to return with a share for you?”

The midwife counted on her fingers. “Four days from now, it is the Lord’s Day. I will attend service in the morning. In the afternoon, I should be free. I would love a visit from you.”

Trewoofe’s tail whipped back and forth. “Then, I shall see you four afternoons from now. You can eat something besides…” He wrinkled his nose. “…pickled vegetables.”

Avice let out a guffaw, and Trewoofe joined her with his rumbling-laughter, shaking the frozen ground she sat on. After she let out every chuckle she had, the midwife stood. Avice hugged the Knucker’s foreleg in farewell, and he lowered his head so his chin touched her lower back. She reluctantly let go before finally turning in for the night.

15

Chapter 15

Avice

Four days later, a loud banging at her door had Avice groaning from her pallet. She was warm and toasty beneath her furs. She cracked her eye open and studied the dim, dawn light that cut through the shutters. The midwife grumbled and pulled her blanket over her head.

“Avice!” John shouted from outside. “You promised you would come with us!”

No.

Her limbs were as heavy as cauldrons and eyelids puffed up like pastries. Avice rolled from the pallet, the shock of the cold floor through her thin nightgown had her jolting awake.

“Avice!” John called.

Bramble stuck his wet nose through the hair that covered her face. Wake up, you know he will not leave. You made him a promise.

“God’s blood!” she cursed, shoving herself to her feet.

She stomped over to the door and threw it open. Her attention snapped to how flushed and rumpled John looked: his red hair hung loose from its fastening, his usually smart cloak was partially open and mis-tied, and his green eyes were bright as Spring shoots.

A smirk cut across Avice’s face. “What have you been up to Mister Fisher?”

“Shush!” he hissed, glancing over to Nell, who was lingering by the holly bushes, chatting to the Pillywiggins.

“A new dalliance?” she continued, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Avice!” He pushed the loose curls from his face.

“Who is the lucky man?”

She knew he preferred the company of men.

She had caught a younger Jonathan and the blacksmith’s son in the fields a few turns of seasons after she moved to Lamorna. At the time, she had let out a shocked gasp. The two men had quickly pulled up their hose and rushed to explain. Avice did not care that they preferred the company of each other. She was happy that they found comfort being together. More, she was envious. Of their frantic touches, their moans, and the pleasure they found in one another’s bodies.

She wondered what that was like.