Free The Bitterbynde Trilogy by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

contribution.
    â€œI heard a story of the Buggane not long ago, from a peddler in the last road-caravan. Seems a girl was working outside her house in Glyn Rushen, which is not far from the Great Waterfall—she was cutting up turnips for the pot, when the Buggane came roaring along in a man’s shape, picked her up, slung her over its back, and made off with her toward its home under the pool before anyone had time to save her. But the lass was lucky—she still held in her hand the knife what she had been slicing turnips with. Just as they reached the pool she cut through her apron strings and was able to get free and run home like the wind, all the while in terror thinking the thing was coming behind her.”
    â€œThat be not unlike one of the tales of the Each Uisge,” mused an understeward. “Seems a good idea to wear an apron around the haunts of these water wights.”
    â€œYou’d look a right gowk in a pinafore,” snorted the buttery-maid.
    A half-deaf cellarman with crow’s-feet engraved at the corners of his eyes now roused himself.
    â€œWhat about the old Trathley Kow what haunts the village of Trathley, in middle Eldaraigne?” he shouted. “He’s a bogie more mischievous than bad, but they’ll never see him leave.”
    â€œOn my troth! I hope he never does go,” said the understeward. “He’s always good for a fine story, the prankster that he is. Always he finishes his jokes with a laugh like a horse’s whinny, at the expense of his dupes!”
    â€œI heard a good tale of the Trathley Kow,” offered a dimpled chambermaid, “which happened to two young men from a village near Trathley. It being a holiday, they had arranged to meet their sweethearts one afternoon at a stile by Cowslip Lane, but lo and behold, when the lads arrived there they saw their sweethearts across the meadow, walking away. They called out, but the lasses seemed not to hear, so the lads ran after them. On they went, for two or three miles, but although they went as fast as they could the young men could not catch up! They were so mindful of watching their quarry, they did not much look where they were going, and to their dismay they found themselves up to their knees in a muddy bog. At that moment their sweethearts vanished with a loud ‘Ha ha!’ and there was the Trathley Kow instead. Well, as you can imagine, the lads got themselves free of the muck in a trice and took to their heels at once. That waggish wight pursued them over hill and dale, hooting and mocking them. They had to cross the Shillingswater to get back home, but in their fright they both fell in! They came up covered with weeds and mud, and of course, each took a look at the other and immediately mistook him for the Trathley Kow!”
    The chambermaid’s audience fought to contain its merriment.
    â€œGo on, go on,” begged the stoker, red in the face, his eyes watering.
    â€œBawling with terror, they fought each other off and ran to their separate homes, each telling a story of having been chased by the Trathley Kow and almost drowned in the Shillingswater!”
    The listeners stuffed their fists in their mouths, from whence burst sounds like escaping steam.
    â€œWell,” Hoad the Toad interjected darkly, “those foolish lads are fortunate they did not live closer to the mountains.”
    The mood dampened.
    â€œWhy?” piped up a spit-boy dutifully.
    â€œWell, if they went out a-walking like that, the Gwithlion would have had them for sure.”
    â€œAh, the Gwithlion,” said Brinkworth, nodding. “Wicked wights they are.”
    â€œWhat do they do, Master Hoad?” inquired the spit-boy.
    â€œHideous hags they are,” said the ostler, “hideouser than old biddy Grethet, if your brain can invent such. They mislead and waylay travelers by night on the mountain roads. Sometimes they take the form of goats. Not content with roaming