Tatterhood Read online

  ‘I want to hear the priest,’ she said, ‘but I’ve no Sunday clothes.’

  So the man fetched her out a gown, as bright as leaves from the copper wood, and led out a chestnut horse as well, with copper trappings to match.

  When at last she rode to church, Splintersmock looked so fine and grand that everyone, prince and peasant alike, was thrown into wonderment. They heard nothing of the sermon, so busy were they with staring, and at the end when Splintersmock rose to leave, the prince fell over himself in his hurry to help her. But Splintersmock opened the door herself, heavy as it was, and closed it, too, losing only a copper glove that got snared on a nail. When the prince ran to hold her horse, she was already up and mounted.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the prince asked.

  ‘From Waterville,’ she said.

  ‘And where is that?’ said the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Dark behind, light before, the prince won’t see me any more.’

  And she disappeared.

  The prince was left holding Splintersmock’s glove, coppery and soft, and spent the rest of the week searching far and wide for the land of Waterville. But no matter where he looked, it was not to be found.

  The following Sunday, the prince called for a towel.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Splintersmock.

  ‘What good would that do?’ the others said. ‘You know what happened last time.’

  But Splintersmock kept nagging until they said yes, and ran upstairs with her wooden frock rattling. The prince rushed out. When he saw who it was, he snatched the towel and smacked it in her face.

  ‘Pack yourself off, you ugly troll!’ he said. ‘Do you think I’ll use a cloth that’s been blackened by your foul fingers?’

  So Splintersmock went down and begged instead to go to church.

  ‘What do you want with church?’ said the kitchen crew, ‘you who are so foul?’

  But in the end the cook let her go.

  Splintersmock went to the cliff-face and rapped until the man came out.

  ‘I want to hear the priest,’ she told him, ‘but I’ve no Sunday clothes.’

  This time he fetched a gown far finer than the first – bright as leaves from the silver wood – and he brought a grey horse with silver trappings to match.

  When she arrived at church, the folk were crowding outside in the churchyard waiting, and the prince was as gallant as ever and eager to hold her horse.

  ‘No need for that,’ Splintersmock told him.

  Once again, there wasn’t a soul who heard what the priest had to say – all were so taken with gaping at the silvery maid, and none more so than the prince. Again, when the sermon was ended, he sprang forward – and again Splintersmock ignored him. She managed both door and horse, and all she lost was her riding crop, which snagged on a post.

  ‘Where are you from?’ the prince asked.

  ‘From Towel-land.’

  ‘And where is that?’ said the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Light behind, dark before, the prince won’t see me any more.’

  And she was gone.

  The prince could make neither head nor tail of it, and though he travelled far and wide asking the way to Towel-land, there were none who could help him.

  The following Sunday he called for a comb. Once again, Splintersmock begged to take it. The cook scolded her for making so bold, foul and clattering as she was, but when Splintersmock didn’t let up, the cook gave in and said she could. Up the steps she clattered and the prince heard her coming. He barged from his room, grabbed the comb, threw it after her and went to church with his hair in knots.

  Splintersmock begged to go too.

  ‘You, who aren’t fit to be seen in company, you clattering troll!’ the cook cried. ‘The prince might catch sight of you.’

  ‘There’s plenty else for him to be catching sight of these days,’ said Splintersmock, and so the cook at last agreed to let her go.

  It went as it had before – the mountain, the stick, the man and the dress – only this time the dress was the finest yet, bright as apples from the golden wood, with the matching horse as grand and high-stepping as a royal steed.

  When she rode to church, prince, peasantry and priest were all there waiting in the churchyard. They crowded into the church behind her, everyone together, scrambling and goggling, staring at Splintersmock throughout, with the prince more smitten than ever.

  However, this time the prince had ordered sticky pitch to be smeared in the church entrance so that when the sermon was over and Splintersmock rose to leave, she would need the prince’s help to get over it. But Splintersmock ignored both prince and pitch, placed her foot square in the middle, lifted her kirtle, sprang across and stepped outside. All she lost was one of her golden shoes, stuck fast in the pitch like a star in the night sky.

  The prince asked, yet again, where she was from.

  ‘From Comb-land,’ said Splintersmock.

  ‘And where is that?’ asked the prince, to which Splintersmock replied, ‘Light behind, dark before, the prince won’t see me any more.’

  The prince didn’t know what became of her this time either, but he kept the golden shoe and spent many a long day searching for Comb-land. In the end, desperate and weary, he made an announcement. Whoever could snugly fit her foot into the shoe must surely be the one he was seeking.

  Once word was out, women came crowding from all corners – young and old, lively and dull, pretty and plain. But whichever way they squeezed their feet, there wasn’t one who could wear the shoe comfortably. At long last, Splintersmock’s own stepmother brought her daughter along to try. As fate would have it, the stepsister’s foot slid into the shoe – as slick as if it were cut to size.

  The prince was horrified. No matter how he squinted, and no matter which way he tilted his head, he couldn’t see his loved one in this wench; nor could he convince himself that copper or silver or gold would ever transform her into the lovely maid he had met in church. But he had to do as he’d pledged. A wedding was prepared and the stepsister dressed as bride.

  As they rode to church, however, they heard a bird sing out, ‘Slice of heel and slice of toe, the serving girl’s shoe is full of blood.’

  The prince looked around, but there were no serving girls to be seen. The bird called out again, ‘Slice of heel and slice of toe, the serving girl’s shoe is full of blood.’ The prince looked again, but there were only lords and ladies in the wedding procession.

  The bird sang out once more and, this time, when the prince looked round, he saw blood on the ground beside him. Looking more closely, he found it was dripping from the bride’s golden shoe; and when he removed it, he saw that both heel and toe had been sliced in order to make the shoe fit.

  After that the wedding was stopped, and every serving woman and wench from the castle was called for and made to try the shoe. But still there was none who could wear it.

  ‘And Splintersmock, then?’ said the prince. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘What, her!’ said the cook. ‘She has the feet of a workhorse.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said the prince, ‘the others have tried and so, I suppose, should she.’ But by this time the prince was so weary, he almost didn’t care who tried the shoe.

  So Splintersmock came in her wooden gown – rattling and clattering, greasy and foul.

  The others laughed. ‘Now Splintersmock shall try her luck and be a princess too,’ they said.

  Splintersmock ignored them. She took the shoe and slipped her foot into it – as easy as poke into pie. Then she undid her wooden frock, let it crash to the floor, and stood there in her golden gown – gleaming and glistening, stately and proud – and on her other foot was the matching shoe.

  Well, when it dawned on the prince who Splintersmock was, he didn’t know whether to blush or bluster. But in the end he kissed her, right then and there in front of everyone, and Splintersmock must have kissed him back because, that very day, there was a wedding after all.
r />   The Goosegirl

  Long ago, in the far, far north, when queens lived in wooden houses and princesses wore clogs, it was possible to walk from one kingdom to the next in a single day. Or, if not one day, then two. Or three.

  In one such kingdom there lived a goosegirl who tended the king’s geese. She watched over them as they grazed by day, and slept amongst them in the straw by night. The girl was hardly a fit sight for the king’s estate, but in those days – when bathtubs were rare and even queens had tangles – a little muck was counted as none at all; and besides, a goosegirl was little better than a goose.

  Now the king had a son, and he was at an age when marrying was on his mind more often than most things else. In fact, he was ready to travel the world in search of a bride. To lighten his task, the king sent painters far and wide to make portraits of any royal maidens they might find. It was from these pictures that the prince would make his choice.

  As it was, the goosebyre was underneath the loft where the prince had his bed. The ceiling of this byre was so low, and had such great windy gaps in it, that the goosegirl knew nearly everything that went on above her head. Among other things, she knew of the marrying that was on the prince’s mind.

  Well, the goosegirl had a few things on her own mind to match.

  She started making it her business, therefore, not just to graze the geese, but to graze them along the paths where the prince might walk.

  ‘Is that you, then, little goosegirl?’ the prince would say in passing, to which she would reply, ‘Indeed it is. Here I sit, biding my time, waiting for the prince to come by.’

  With a glance at her grimy wrists, the prince would say, ‘He’s hardly for the likes of you to be awaiting!’ – but ‘Oh, yes!’ the goosegirl would respond. ‘Not only shall I meet him, but I shall have him,’ while to herself she added, ‘for as I intend, so it happens.’

  Now, from looking at the paintings, the prince had seen a princess whom he liked better than the rest. He liked her so well, in fact, that he walked across several kingdoms, in as many days, to ask her hand in marriage.

  It was a pleased and footsore prince who returned with his betrothed.

  As it happened, this prince had a stone. It was no ordinary stone, but one which he consulted on matters both great and small. It told him what he wished to know, and understood the hearts and minds of all who went near it.

  When the princess arrived, therefore, the goosegirl called her aside.

  ‘If you have ever loved another before now,’ she whispered to the princess, ‘or if there are secrets in your heart you don’t want the prince to know, then take care not to step on the stone which he puts by his bed. If you do, the stone will tell him everything.’

  Well, this princess did have secrets, and the goosegirl’s news alarmed her. Not only were her secrets many, but they were of a kind that she would rather not share with her prince.

  So she begged for help, and the goosegirl hatched a plan.

  This is what happened. In the evening, instead of sitting with her betrothed, the princess delayed until the prince grew bored with waiting and went to bed. Then, while the princess remained with the geese, the goosegirl climbed the stairs to the loft.

  It was as well she did.

  The prince – who had placed his stone by the bed – was lying awake and listening for his princess. When the goosegirl trod on the stone, bold and square, he called out, ‘What sort of person is it who now climbs in beside me?’

  The stone replied, ‘A maiden clean and true.’

  This would have surprised the prince if he’d seen the state of her fingernails but, satisfied with the stone’s reply, he turned his thoughts to the tickling of trout and was soon asleep.

  Then, much later that night, the princess came and lay in place of the goosegirl. Thus, when the prince turned to wake her in the morning, there she was – just as if she had always been there.

  However, when they got up the prince spoke again to his stone.

  ‘What kind of person is it who now climbs down?’ he asked.

  ‘One who has pledged her heart three times,’ the stone replied, ‘to sweethearts other than thee.’

  When the prince heard this, he was confused and cross. He changed his mind about the princess and didn’t like her so much any more, so that she had to go home while he returned to the portraits in search of another.

  Find one he did. As he set off to propose, however, the goosegirl took her flock to graze beside the path.

  ‘Is that you, then, little goosegirl?’ said the prince in passing.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ the goosegirl replied. ‘I’m sitting here because I mean to meet the prince today.’

  The prince looked at her dirty feet and said, ‘He’s hardly for the likes of you to be awaiting!’ – to which the goosegirl responded, ‘I shall meet him, and I shall have him, too!’ while to herself she added, ‘for as I intend, so it happens.’

  Well, with the second princess it went much as it had with the first, except that when she got up in the morning, the stone revealed she had loved six others before agreeing to marry the prince. The prince fell out of love with her, too, and sent her on her way.

  Even so, he thought he would try a third time to find the princess of his desires: one who was as clean and true in the morning as she had been the night before, and who wasn’t likely to sigh over former sweethearts.

  Well, if the prince was determined, so was the goosegirl. As he set out to win his next bride, the goosegirl sat herself once more in his path.

  ‘Is that you, goosegirl, sitting there again?’ said the prince as he passed.

  ‘Yes, here I sit,’ she said, ‘biding my time while I wait to meet the prince.’

  He glanced at the goosegirl’s tangled hair – twisted as it was with straw, and brown with dung – and said, ‘He surely isn’t for the likes of you to be awaiting.’

  ‘I shall have him yet,’ replied the goosegirl, and to herself she added, ‘for as I intend, so it happens.’

  The prince had to trudge far, and search wide, before he found another princess he thought he liked. Even so, she had a number of habits he was forced to overlook.

  When this princess arrived, the goosegirl took her aside and told her what she had told the others.

  ‘The stone answers every question,’ the goosegirl warned, ‘and you can be sure the prince will ask.’

  Now, this princess had so many secrets that she kept her hand across her mouth at all times, in case one of them should come bursting out. When she heard the goosegirl’s news she almost swallowed her lips in fright.

  But with a little encouragement, she turned out every bit as willing as the first two had been. Again the plan was hatched, and again the goosegirl went upstairs under cover of darkness to lie in the prince’s bed.

  Again the prince asked, ‘What kind of person is it who now climbs in?’, to which the stone replied as before, ‘A maiden, clean and true.’

  But it happened – as it sometimes did in those days – that the prince had grown suspicious. Instead of turning his thoughts to the ploughing of fields and then falling asleep, he stayed awake and waited for his visitor to doze off. Then he leaned across and slipped a ring onto her finger.

  Once the prince was asleep, however, the princess came and chased the goosegirl down to the byre where she belonged, and laid herself in the bed so all would seem right in the morning.

  Back with the geese, the goosegirl found the ring on her finger, and tried to take it off. But no matter how she spat on it, or loosened it with goose-grease, or chafed and wrestled it against her knuckle, the ring stuck fast and wouldn’t budge.

  In the morning, when the prince woke his lady, he noticed the ring was nowhere to be seen. He said nothing, however, but asked again, ‘Who is it that now steps on my stone?’

  ‘One who has known nine sweethearts,’ the stone replied.

  When the prince heard this, he was so offended that he sent the princess off within th
e hour. Then he demanded of his stone why it was that his princesses, so clean and true at night, turned out to be so fickle in the morning. The stone had no choice but to explain.

  ‘Do you mean it was the goosegirl,’ asked the prince when the stone had finished, ‘whom you described every evening as steady, clean and true?’

  ‘Clean, true, and sharp as fish hooks besides,’ replied the stone.

  If she has the ring, thought the prince to himself, it will be as the stone has told me. In which case, it may be best that I take her as wife.

  He set out in search of the goosegirl and found her on a hillside, tending the geese as usual. But he saw at once how she had tied a cloth round one of her fingers.

  ‘Is that you sitting there, little goosegirl?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed it is,’ said she.

  ‘And why is it,’ said the prince, ‘that you have bound your hand with that filthy rag?’

  ‘I’ve cut myself,’ the goosegirl replied.

  ‘Show me the wound,’ said the prince.

  But the goosegirl refused.

  The prince offered to loosen the cloth himself, but the goosegirl hid her hand, and when he reached forward to grasp her, she pushed him and twisted away.

  Then the prince lost patience and lunged at the goosegirl, grabbing so hard that she had to kick and struggle to keep him off. Pretty soon they were tussling so rough among the geese that the rag unravelled of its own accord, and fell away.

  And there was the ring, gleaming gold against the muck.

  Well, the goosegirl couldn’t deny a thing, and nor did she intend to. The prince took her back with him and had her scrubbed and combed till he barely knew her. Then in clothes both gilded and fine – and with the ring stuck to her finger – the goosegirl married the prince and became queen after all.

  … simply because, as she intended, so it happened.

  When the Hen went into the Hill

  There once was an old widder-woman lived way up and under a hill – she and her three fine daughters. They were dirt-poor and needy and owned nothing more than a hen: and a scrawny, pecking thing it was, too, all moulting and bald. Even so, it was the apple of the widder-woman’s eye and she watched and nursed and minded it, early and late. But one day, suddenly, the hen disappeared. The widder-woman went out and about, all around the hut, clucking and calling for it, but search as she might, the bird was gone and stayed gone.