by B G Denvil
The cup did not look ashamed of itself and remained silent. Heaving himself from the bench, the High Court judge stood over Ethelred and blew a small warm breath over the unconscious face and into the eyes. Immediately Ethelred woke, but he was clearly dizzy both in body and mind. He staggered up, stood and fell. Finally, he sat on the daisies and stared upwards at the myriad of leaves and petals.
“Um,” he said, having no idea where he was, nor why.
“Your head is a small jumble,” the judge told him. “I sympathise. But trying to gain power, without the brains to go with it, is the action of a twenty, and so I’m afraid you slip down from a thirty-four to a twenty. However, trying to gain that power without descending into the shadow was a good attempt, and so I bring you up from twenty to thirty-seven. Your dealings with the red cup were the idiot temptations of a twenty-five. So down you go. You kissed the cup. So – down to eighteen. But when the cup then took you, aiming to double your thirty-four with evil, your mind refused to absorb so much shadow, and therefore I bring you back to thirty-five.” He continued to smile. “And so, Ethelred Brown, you have gained one whole grain in your grade, and have risen from a thirty-four to a thirty-five.”
Again, he paused, smiling. “Yet you still fail to appreciate that a wizard’s grade is his reckoning counted not just according to magical power, but on the inner intelligence to use that power within the existing character capacity. And this is why the shadow cup, which seems to have even less intelligence than you, could not instil within you the full doubling of your power with the wickedness it contains and offers, and could only accept you falling into a coma. Not a lot of use to you or it. So – back to the grades.
“The red cup stays here in detention until it accepts its limitations and apologises. Meanwhile I present Ethelred with an opportunity. He remains as a thirty-five – that’s one point extra – and without punishment, as long as he stays here as my guest for a year and takes lessons. Not easy, I assure you, and includes helping others. But a year, if he willingly enters into every compliance demanded, will bring him up in grade to a very wholesome and natural fifty.”
Ethelred was stuttering. “Make it fifty-one?”
“Oh, very well,” Humbugus smiled, “Indeed, I’ll make it a fifty-two. But you must work very hard.”
“Oh, I will,” said Ethelred, flopping back onto the daisies with a dizzy smile of contentment.
“And what about Alice?” asked Rosie.
Humbugus raised one white eyebrow. “The Troilus bug is not present,” he pointed out.
Rosie, Edna and Peg all stared over into the cracked red stone cup. It was entirely empty.
“Where did she go? She couldn’t have climbed out here. “
The red cup sniggered, but then stopped itself hurriedly in case any more cracks appeared. “The female bug,” it said with a pretence of deep shame, “dropped out as we rose from the grounds of The Rookery and fell back to Earth.”
“Oh, blast,” said Whistle.
“Botheration,” said Edna.
“Horrible woman,” said Peg.
“Will she survive the fall?” asked Rosie.
“I believe she will,” Humbugus decided, “since she is too light to break.”
“Then no doubt the wretched woman will turn up again some time,” Rosie sighed. “Never mind, without Ethelred and the red cup, we’ll be much happier. We can arrange a wedding for Maggs and Mandrake.”
“In the meantime,” Humbugus told them, “I’m going for a cup of tea. Anyone want to join me?”
“What’s tea?” demanded everyone together.
“You medieval folk haven’t discovered it yet,” admitted the judge. “You will in time. So come and have some ale instead.” He turned. “Ethelred Brown, you accompany my officials, and they’ll find you a nice comfy room somewhere. Meanwhile, shadow cup, I’m keeping you here until you learn your lesson and keep within your limits. We will know that’s happened once your crack heals up. In the meantime, you can go and sit in the punishment shed. Whistle, you can blow it there. Look, just over there past the stream. Then come back, and we’ll enjoy a glass of beer.” He thought a moment. “No, sorry, that has to be a cup of beer. You don’t have glasses of any kind yet.”
“Glass is too expensive,” Rosie pointed out.
“It’ll be cheap as wood shavings one day, and so will sugar,” smiled Humbugus. “Indeed, cheaper than pottery. But I’ll stick with the times and try not to confuse everybody. So, off to the pub.”
“What’s a pub?” Peg asked.
“Wait and see,” smiled Humbugus. “And by the way, do any of you have your coming of age sceptres with you?”
They all shook their heads. No one had thought of it.
“Shame,” said the judge. “Remember next time you come.”
“We’ll be coming again?” asked Edna.
“Of course you will,” said Humbugus. “What do you think you’ll be doing once you find Alice?”
Whistle whistled. “But the wretched bug’s hard to see. Can’t we just chuck her into the birds’ nests for the crows? Or stand on her?”
“No, no, you’d infect yourself,” frowned the judge. “She needs to come back here and face trial. And don’t doubt it, she’ll be getting a far stronger punishment than Ethelred. His mistake wasn’t wickedness; it was idiocy and an inferior complex. Mind you, all inferiority complexes come from self-obsession – but never mind about that for the moment. Your witch Alice will have a considerable amount to be judged upon and the trial will be a long one. So you’ll be back. And don’t forget to bring your sceptres, small as they are. They mean a lot more than you’ve been able to appreciate so far.”
That sounded interesting. “Alice nicked mine,” said a floating Whistle.
“Then get it back,” sniffed Humbugus. “Anyone would think being dead made you useless or something.”
“And what about my own cup?” Rosie asked. “You gave me that when I did my grade test.”
“Ah,” he answered her. “That’s rather special too. But I can’t tell you about that yet. It’ll have to wait. Now for some cold ale.”
“I have one last question,” Rosie murmured, hurrying to the judge’s side. “What about the red toadstool and the spoon? If someone finds them all, what happens then?”
“That’s a very different matter,” Humbugus told her. “With the silver give and take which Whistle made, copying the light from the shadow, the cup holds the greatest power. One takes – another gives – and the cup resolves the balance. But not with the shadow. The spoon takes, and the cup gives. Giving evil of course, not sweet light. And it is the red toadstool which makes the final decision, and is therefore the most powerful.”
“Should we look?” Edna asked.
“Certainly not.” Humbugus leaned back in his chair within the small bright shelter under the sun which he called a pub. “And if you think you’re strong enough to cleanse such wicked power, then I’m afraid you’re wrong. Maybe you could control the spoon, the cup as we’ve seen, but don’t ever touch the toadstool.”
With mixed ideas and memories, but with an equal level of delight, Rosie, Edna and Peg returned to The Rookery with wide smiles. Ethelred did not accompany them, so there was another empty room ready to advertise, but they had said goodbye to him with an invitation to return should he be free and wishing to do so. Whistle danced off, promising to pop back as the squirrel.
“Meanwhile,” he grinned, “look after Oswald.”
The red cup was not seen.
They landed back home in the gardens beneath the trees, where Donald the donkey stood as Twizzle sat on his back, nibbling at his mane and making soft crooning noises in his ear.
Twenty
“Our wedding day, tenth of September,” announced Mandrake.
Those who heard, clapped. And those who didn’t clap had chosen not to hear.
“Church or handfasting?” asked Rosie.
“A proper wedding,” Mandrake insisted.
“But perhaps here, and not the church, since the priest won’t know who I am.”
“They know you at the tavern.”
“Perhaps,” Edna said, “We could do a ceremony here at The Rookery and ask someone to do the blessing.”
“Who? You?”
“Good gracious no,” said Edna. “But we could ask the High Court judge. He’s a very nice wizard, you know, and a full one hundred.”
“Or even the king,” suggested Rosie.
“I think Maggs might like the idea of the church.” Mandrake added, “I’ll ask her. We decided on the tenth of September, because it’s her favourite saint’s day. Mary, the Lady of Sorrows.”
“You don’t marry on a day of sorrows,” Edna objected.
“How about the tenth?” Rosie suggested. “I’ve no idea about saints. But that gives us time to prepare something special. And she can pop down and ask at the church if she likes.”
Mandrake beamed, “I think that would work nicely dear, most agreeable.”
She remembered how calm every human from the village had become once entering the church. Rosie had originally planned to take the red cup there, until Ethelred took it. Just as long as the priest had no objections to a congregation of people he’d never seen before, even though they lived in his parish.
With no idea where Alice might be, Rosie, Edna and Peg were interested in how Little Piddleton had been affected by the disappearance of the red cup, and flew for a quick cup of wine down at the Juggler and Goat.
The tavern was quiet, and Bob, cheerful and polite, brought over the cups they asked for. “How’s it been lately?” asked Peg carefully.
“Oh, you know,” smiled Bob. “As always.”
“There was – a bit of fighting when I came last,” Edna said with equal care.
Bob seemed surprised. “Really? Don’t reckon I remember that,” he said, scratching his head.
“And you don’t remember Dickon arresting everyone twice over?” asked Rosie.
Even more puzzled, Bob set down the cups and frowned. “No, Dickon, poor chap,” he said. “Poor lad’s been overworked ever since being sheriff proper. When the previous sheriff died, it was a shock for all of us. Poor old fellow. But he never was much good at his job, you know. And his death was sad, like it would be with anyone in a nasty accident like that. But Dickon’s taken over the job and he’s doing well. Justice and responsibility.”
“Are we talking about the same person?” said Peg, staring.
Bob was slightly offended. “Why take against our Dickon?” he demanded. “Always been a good chap, and works as hard as a rayker, he does.” He stuck his hands back in his apron pocket. “Well-liked too, is our friendly sheriff. Always welcome in here.”
Rosie whispered across to the other two as soon as Bob walked away. “The red cup certainly made a difference, now it’s gone, life isn’t just back to normal, no one even remembers the madness.”
“And there’s the church,” Edna pointed through the window. “Very pretty, and I do like the spire. Most impressive. As for the coloured glass windows, I think I should copy that for my bedroom. It seems very likely we’ll be visiting there for Mandrake’s wedding.”
“Odd man.”
“Always was,” said Rosie. “But he’s the happiest wizard at The Rookery, so we can hardly say he’s doing the wrong thing.”
“But a human!”
“Better,” Rosie answered. “We certainly don’t have to worry about her magic going over to the shadow side.”
“Talking of humans,” sighed Edna, “we ought to visit her brother’s farm and see just what’s happening there. If that has also returned to normality, it will be such a relief.”
Rosie wasn’t sure that the woman Joan Bank had ever been a pleasant human, but anything was possible. So they finished their ale and set off again. Firstly, to the sheriff’s office.
Dickon sat behind his table smothered in papers, parchments, spilled ink and broken quills. He looked up as he heard entering footsteps and immediately smiled.
“I’m delighted to see visitors,” he said, standing politely. “Welcome, ladies. Can I help? I do hope nothing is wrong.”
“Nothing at all,” Rosie assured him.
“Well, that’s excellent news,” Dickon said with a somewhat hopeful smile. “Perhaps you just wanted to say hello?”
“Not entirely,” said Rosie in a hurry. “But we did feel we should invite you to a wedding that’s taking place on the tenth of September. We are hoping the church will be free, but if not, then it’ll be a big celebration at The Rookery.”
Dickon blinked. “You’re getting married, Mistress Rosie?” he asked with obvious disappointment.
“No, no,” she smiled back, a little flattered. “The widow of Godwin Trout is marrying one of my friends. I think you’ve met him. Mandrake Tannery. A very happy couple.”
The memory of Mandrake arrested in his cells, and of Maggs disappearing entirely when accused of her husband’s murder, seemed to flicker at the back of Dickon’s mind without full comprehension. “A widow?” he asked, trying to concentrate. “She’s completed the grieving period, I hope. Otherwise no church would announce the marriage blessing.”
“Um,” said Rosie, with no knowledge of this procedure. “Yes, all done, I’m sure.”
“And the banns called?” But Dickon was now smiling. “But since they only need to be called one day apart, there’s time for that. No problem.”
“Maggs is happy now,” Rosie added. “Her husband Godwin was cruel.”
He frowned, puzzled, and finally said, “I’m delighted to hear it, mistress. And I thank you for the invitation. I shall be delighted to attend. Let me know where, and I shall be there.”
“Don’t work too hard in the meantime,” Edna grinned.
“I’m afraid Sheriff Gill left a good deal of documentation unfinished,” Dickon sighed, his expression changing abruptly from frown to smile and back again twice over. “But no matter. I enjoy my work. Especially here in Little Piddleton, where folk are so quiet and generous. There’s rarely any trouble.”
“Good to hear,” smiled Rosie as they left.
Walking on past the thatched cottages, the bright sunshine on the fields and the country folk off on their business, Rosie, Edna and Peg aimed for the Bank’s farm. It was quiet when they arrived. Rosie looked down for the entrance to the tiny tunnel she had noticed before, and although sure she was looking in the same place, there seemed to be nothing there. It had been stamped back into the grass, with the tiny hole quite invisible.
She knocked at the farmhouse door, and Alid opened it with a very wide smile. “Ah,” he welcomed them inside, “the lovely young woman who I believe now runs The Rookery. I’m delighted to see you, Mistress. It’s a wonderful thing you do, taking the old and decrepit into your home.”
Without informing him that it wasn’t quite like that, Rosie responded, “I enjoy the company. And I have some special news. I hope you’re pleased.”
“Where’s your wife?” Peg asked as they all trooped into the little solar, with sunbeams through the tiny mullions. They sat, happily noticing the general atmosphere of comfort.
“Oh, my dearest Joan is just coming,” he said, and called, “Joan, my love, are you coming to meet our guests?”
The woman burst through the open door, placing a large platter of oat biscuits and a jug of ale with cups on the table. She was not at all as Rosie had expected. Her face was no longer a scowl of inner fury, but a wide somewhat toothless smile. “I’m ever so pleased to see you, my dear,” she told Rosie with seemingly genuine welcome. “Will you introduce me to your charming friends?”
“Edna and Peg,” Rosie said, “residents of The Rookery. They’ve been – er – looking forward to meeting you. And we have a special invitation for both of you.”
Joan poured the ale. “We were thinking of the same, weren’t we, my love.” She looked towards Alid. “There’s good news, and we are – um – increasing in two d
irections. Firstly, we have harvested a good crop this year, and have income enough to feel blessed for the coming months. And the other increase,” she blushed, “I’m delighted to say we are expecting our first baby Bank around the end of the Christmas season. We are so excited, aren’t we, my dear?”
“Thrilled,” exclaimed Alid. “Maggs will have her first niece or nephew.”
Rosie knew only too well they’d need a long conversation once they got back home. For the effects of the red cup were clearly strong, yet also confusingly mixed. Most of the entire village had forgotten virtually everything except their names. No one seemed to remember Godwin or his death. Now it seemed that Alid had forgotten more than Joan, since Joan had forgotten her disagreeable temper, but remembered meeting Rosie.
Clearly it had been Joan who had continued to drink from the cup. Rosie was becoming just as confused herself. But she summoned a sweet smile and the words to fit.
“Congratulations, I’m thrilled to hear it,” said Rosie, hoping that nothing would go wrong again. “Maggs has an invitation for both of you too, though I’m sure she’ll want to come and invite you herself. But since we’re here already, I’m pleased to tell you that Maggs is getting married. She’ll be marrying our own friend Mandrake Tannery on the tenth of September.”
Joan leaned forwards and kissed her cheek, which Rosie felt was strangely uncomfortable. “Send her all our love,” Joan said, with Alid joining in, arms wide and joyful. “If we have a little girl,” Joan added, her eyes softly dreaming, “I think we should name her Margaret. I was thinking of Agnes after darling Alid’s mother, but Margaret seems more exciting. Poor girl, her husband used to beat her, you know. He was quite nasty.”