by B G Denvil
Now she was interested. “I’ve never been there. I take it it’s within flying distance?”
“Easily,” the squirrel said. “There are huge standing stones, and I have a strong feeling about them.”
“But isn’t a henge an old burial mound? Rosie asked.
“Yes,” agreed the squirrel. “But this is more than that, and mighty interesting.”
“But first, before any darker disasters,” Rosie insisted, “there’s Mandrake’s wedding. He went with Maggs to see the priest at the Piddleton church. Evidently, he said yes to performing the wedding on the porch. Amazing. How does a wizard manage to get married in church?”
“Feeling sorry for Maggs after being wed to that Godwin fellow,” Whistle nodded. “Though she hasn’t exactly grieved.”
“And the party will be here afterwards.” Rosie grinned. “Though I’m not sure how many of our people will want to stand around the church porch. At least they don’t have to go in. But I’ll be there. And Peg and Edna. And hopefully some others. Maggs has made quite a few friends here now.”
Wandering past, Peg was on her way to feed Donald, but when she saw Rosie on the garden bench chatting to the squirrel, she immediately came over and sat there in the sunshine. “We’re discussing the wedding?” she asked at once. “Good. I have a few ideas. And what about gifts?”
“Real ones or conjured?”
Peg and Rosie looked up and saw Edna. “Either or both,” said Rosie. “What do they need? Nothing.”
“I was going to call Twizzle,” said Edna. “He’s out with the donkey again. They adore each other. But I’d much sooner talk about the wedding.” And she swung up her legs and lay in the empty hammock.
“What are people supposed to wear to church, anyway?” Peg asked. “Nothing too frilly? Is there such a thing as a wedding dress, or is that just for the bride?”
“Do churches admit squirrels?”
“Or cockatoos or donkeys or owls or crows?”
“Don’t forget the bats. And what about a fluffy white cat?”
Several of the residents walked past, waved, smiled and lifted their faces to the sunshine. Montague Carp was not lifting his face to anything, but he saw Rosie, Peg and Edna, and politely stopped.
“And when is this wedding business?” he asked.
“Tenth of September,” Edna replied. “Nine days away. First at the Piddleton church porch, and then back here.”
“The church?” asked Montague, horrified. “Anyone would think Mandrake was a human.”
Rosie was busy wondering how on earth she had ever been so infatuated with this creature. Peg answered Montague. “Mandrake, as you know quite well,” she said, “is a wizard of quite some strength. But it is surprisingly true that he is marrying a human.”
With a shiver of revulsion, Montague shook his head. “It should be against the law. It should never be allowed. What a horrifying situation. And you’re actually going to celebrate it here?”
“Yes,” Rosie spoke up at last. “Mandrake is a friend to us all, and although I admit marrying a human is somewhat surprising, he’s entitled to do as he likes. Besides, she’s a very sweet human. I like her.”
A deep and disgusted shade of putrid orange passed over Montague’s face. “Where’s that woman who’s supposed to run this place?” he demanded. “The one with the silly little daughter called Flower or something, She’s a shocking cook. I must say, the food has been a hundred times better just lately. But the woman should keep this house free of humans. They’ll over-run us if we’re not careful. Living under the floorboards and squeaking all over the place.”
“I think you mean mice.”
“And,” he pointed with a quivering finger, “you women are talking to squirrels.”
“Yes, a squirrel,” Edna smiled, “but it’s really Whistle.”
“Squirrels don’t whistle,” Montague glared.
The squirrel refused to introduce himself, but it was exactly at that moment that Twizzle must have decided to show off one of his favourite imitations, and the strident call of a kookaburra echoed out across the grass and paths.
“What is that?” Montague demanded. “A demon? A ghost? I think I shall return to bed until supper time.”
They watched him leave as he shuffled back across the sunbeams and into the house.
Rosie looked at Whistle. “Is that man really a wizard? And a seventy something at that?”
“Getting old,” Peg sighed.
“Now, back to the wedding,” Edna interrupted. “I think I shall buy them a genuine piece of jewellery as a gift. Maybe hatpins.”
“You can have Oswald,” said Rosie. “He’s just a moaning needle these days.”
“He’s of half me,” said the squirrel. “You look after him.”
“I was thinking of rings,” Rosie said. “Some people wear rings for weddings, don’t they? It’s becoming a bit of a tradition.”
“Real or conjured?”
“Real,” said Rosie, “or they might fall off. But I’ve no idea if they make beautiful gold rings in our little village. Perhaps I should fly to Salisbury.”
“I’ll come too,” said both Peg and Edna, as Rosie sighed.
“Good. And there’s something else needs sorting. Alfred wants his tree house back,” she said, “but Mandrake’s room isn’t really big enough for two of them. They should have two rooms, I think.”
“I have another idea,” said Edna. “Why not all three of us conjure up a whole new house for them deeper back in the grounds. A nice thatched cottage with a bedroom upstairs, and a cosy place downstairs, and even a little place for a cooking fire at the back.”
“A whole new house?” Edna clapped her hands. “Now that really would be a lovely gift to both of them. And we can take all week, and really work on it. Not real furniture or wattle and daub, of course, we’d need an army. We shall do it all by magic and produce a tiny palace.”
Everybody loved the idea and began to make plans.
Father George had not been well for more than a week. He could not properly remember the whole village tumbling into uproar, but he did manage to remember the problem of his own sermons. He had not been able to write anything suitable for the past two Sundays, and instead had been forced to tell jokes, sing a Christmas song and explain how to bake the best bread. His congregation did not object, but he couldn’t help feeling something was wrong.
The communal ovens in the main square helped all households, none of which could possibly have room for a whole oven themselves. Folk used to meet and chat while standing in the queue, their unbaked dough ready on a heavy platter in their hands, usually carefully covered by a cloth to keep flies from imbedding themselves.
But the last time Father George had taken his dough for baking, a strange hodgepodge of runny pink slime had dripped from the pottery bowl, and he had been quite upset. Indeed, he had been rather ashamed. No bread, no proper sermons and not even a full congregation most Sundays, let alone anyone taking morning mass on other days.
Eventually, worried as he felt himself disappearing into chaos, he had rung all the bells, they ding-a-ling-ed a bit but he managed to get the tolling accurate, and when all the congregation were standing before him, men on one side and women on the other, he simply read from the New Testament. Since it was all in Latin, he had made his own risky translation, but the village people had evidently appreciated it as they stood quietly with no complaints. Indeed, he had heard that some of the big city churches had begun to install seating for the congregation, but he couldn’t afford that yet. He was intensely relieved when the people all trooped out with no shouting or stamping, but he still had not dared to make up his own sermons and continued reading aloud on Sundays.
So an upcoming wedding pleased the priest very much, and he welcomed the Widow Trout, without remembering just how long ago it was that her husband Godwin had died. Apart from anything else, he had not approved of Godwin, and the frequency with which Maggs had come to church with hug
e bruises on her face, cut and bleeding lips, or a lame stumble, had made him quite concerned. Supposedly, any man was entitled to beat his wife if he felt she had behaved badly, but young Mistress Trout had not seemed the type of woman to behave quite as badly as those injuries suggested.
Now, he was delighted to see the widow was ready and willing, indeed she had seemed positively excited, to marry again. The fact that she wished to marry someone unknown within the village was of no real concern. They were both of age and needed permission from no one; the priest was just delighted to see happy people for a change. His own head was coming back to what he called normal, he was no longer floating in confusion, he could remember some things if not everything, and now he was anticipating the marriage ceremony almost as much as the bride and groom.
Twenty-Three
They stood meekly on the church porch, took each other’s hands and spoke the words after the priest.
Clearly Maggs took those words most seriously, and Mandrake did not. But both stood beneath the Monday sunshine, the tenth day of September, and smiling back at a cheerfully smiling priest.
Mandrake obediently spoke the required words. “I take thee, Margaret Bank, as my wife.”
“And I take thee, Mandrake Tamery, as my husband.” Mandrake pushed the huge width of golden ring on her finger, and bent, kissing her rather lavishly. Then they both disappeared into the church for the blessing at the altar.
Whistle, Twizzle, half a dozen bats, a dozen crows, Cabbage and Dodger, even though they were half asleep, and a couple of confused starlings were all crowded in the large tree next to the church spire, and a very determined crane, which had been passing by, had seen the interesting crowd, and had decided to join in, now it perched perilously on top of the spire itself.
Below stood Donald, feeling thoroughly special as Rosie stood beside him, scratching behind his ears.
Most of The Rookery residents had decided to attend, curiosity overcoming prejudice. Dickon stood proudly as the sheriff, ignoring the donkey, while Dandy Duckett and many others stood just as proudly, ignoring the humans.
Peg, Edna, Alid and Joan had grouped together in comfortable conversation, while one or two customers from the tavern opposite also wandered over, interested to see who was doing what.
“I shall be hoping to see you all here again for the Christening,” Joan told Rosie, Edna and Peg.
Rosie was still wondering what it might be like to have a baby. Pregnancy did not appeal. After all, she had not been born from a pregnancy herself. “Besides,” she muttered, “it seems you’re supposed to have a man. I don’t have a man, and I don’t want anyone telling me what to do.”
She wore a conjured grey silk with black and golden embroidery, while Peg wore her old witch’s ebony. Edna, more creative, wore very bright blue with sleeves in bright green scraping the ground, and bright red shoes. Her usual hat, brimmed in flowers both real and silk, and a combination of feathers from all over England and Scotland, even though half of them flopped down over her nose, or fell out at inconvenient moments.
Maggs wore another conjured gown, this time in pink damask and pink velvet sleeves with cuffs of thick flower embroidery, lace underpinned, and a few inset lapis gems. Her shift, showing below the skirt and high above the gown’s neckline, was creamy satin. The villagers were soon peeping from their doorways and a few came closer to stare, for these were the clothes of a princess, a duchess, even a queen. It was not the sort of thing a local farmer’s sister was expected to wear.
Mandrake, meanwhile, had also conjured his own clothes in powder blue silk and black leather riding boots over his blue hose, showing off the perfection of his legs, and even a little higher as his doublet was the newly fashionable waist high, with a pablum reaching only a little longer. Skin-tight hose were supposed to attract the women, and Mandrake’s certainly did.
Montague did not come, nor did a few others, but as the entire group strolled back to The Rookery, everyone else was waiting.
The minstrel group supplying the music had not been employed, they had been created, but they stood tall and looked as though they knew how to play the lute, rebec, citole, dulcimer, vielle and fiddle, while the most attractive of the magically summoned musicians thrummed on a pair of small drums. They were all a little invisible when the sunlight hit them, and none could speak, but the music, which actually came from the echoing ceiling, was magnificent.
Cups of wine were first handed out to every guest, and they were all encouraged to get plonkers before the food was set in the dining room.
The dancing, laughing, singing and gossiping increased as the second cup of wine was served. Donald sat happily up in the minstrel’s gallery with Twizzle on his head. The donkey was now a cheerfully tubby shape, and Twizzle’s crest twitched with pleasure as he attempted to sing. But he was singing, “Tie my kangaroo down, mate,” instead of the pretty medieval songs being played, and when Rosie whispered that this was the wrong tune and wrong words, the cockatoo called her a wallaby.
Rosie asked what a wallaby was, and Twizzle sighed in sorrowful disgust.
Cabbage was fast asleep on the top of the unlit chandelier, but Dodger was flying around the vaulted ceiling, most of the birds were comfortably sitting on the ceiling beams, occasionally dropping small gifts on those below, and a few wood pigeons sailed in, delighted to add their voices to the others less melodic. Whistle sat on the larger windowsill, and washed his face with his paws.
Amazed to see the contentedly invited birds and animals, Dickon, Alid and Joan spent some time simply staring, but Maggs had now accepted every detail and loved it all.
A little flustered and a little tired, all the guests, including the birds and more unusual arrivals, were soon invited to sit at the great wooden table in the dining room, and settled happily with both Mandrake and Maggs sitting with huge smiles at the head. Cups were filled, and the platters were brought out. Dickon, Alid and Joan were once more startled by the exotic proliferation, but that didn’t stop them eating.
Smoked bacon covered roast duck, roast pork showed off its own covering of crackling, which continued to crackle and sometimes in tune, roast lamb occasionally bleated, and roast beef with a perfume that could not be refused. Roast venison lay in thick wine sauce, and roast pheasant sat in a sauce of sliced parsnip and dark beer.
The spinach dish was crusted with nutmeg and fried breadcrumbs, the Lettice and fish pies were succulent in hard pastry, and a selection of meat pies included every combination of bacon, onion, spies, herbs and chopped meats.
Since none of the meats had ever been real animals, the birds were happy to sit on the back of chairs and ask everyone how they were enjoying the roasts. This did not bother Dickon, Alid or Joan too much as they assumed it was a trick. Amongst the platters of supposed carnivorous luxury, were platters of custards, tarts, berry pies, cream and cheese sauces, with a huge baked cake of tiered lemon, orange, blackberry, soft dough, masses of thick cream and finally a heap of strawberries. Since most of these fruits were completely out of season, Joan kept asking Maggs how on earth they had found so many in such good condition, but Maggs just smiled and advised Joan to ask the cook.
Three courses were served, most of the roast meats in the first course, and pies in the second. Sweet and creamy dishes, however, were included in all courses, and finally there was a considerable amount left over since there had been such a vast amount constantly spread right across the great table.
“Take some of these platters home with you,” Maggs told Joan, well aware that they would often be short of food. She herself had rarely been able to serve anything except small bowls of mixed potage when she was wife to Godwin.
The minstrels continued to play during the meal, but afterwards they played quicker and more joyful tunes as everyone flocked back into the hall. The mystical musicians seemed hard to see up in their gallery, and Joan, Alid and Dickon had no idea of them as illusions. They were, however, most impressive as it seemed they could play any
thing and everything at incredible speed and absolute accuracy.
“What talented minstrels you have,” Dickon told Rosie. “Most impressive. And I must admit, I’m quite amazed at the money that must have been spent on this wonderful feast.”
“Our residents aren’t all poor people.” Rosie smiled.
“Nor do most of them look as old as I would have expected,” he continued, gazing around. “Young Mandrake is clearly a relative and not an aged resident. But many of your people look no older.”
“Friends and relatives,” added Rosie. “The very old residents can’t leave their rooms, so we take the platters to them after we’ve finished. They’re quite happy with that arrangement since they don’t like the noise.”
“Ah, yes,” Dickon accepted the explanation. “Most understandable; the old sheriff was a bit like that.” He grinned. “Found it hard to leave the tavern.”
Rosie laughed more than she might have expected, since it was the first witty remark she had heard Dickon manage in a very long time.
Hand to hand, the dancing began as Edna and Rosie hurried quietly back into the dining room, clicked fingers and thumbs, and cleared away every piece of discarded food, except for the large beef and kidney pie and the half joint of roast chicken in spinach and wine sauce, which were promised to Joan to take home, and a smaller liver and onion pie for Dickon.
The rest simply disappeared.
The dancers in the hall grabbed the hand of anyone not yet active, pulling everyone in a loop of skipping feet and interweaving grins. They circled and circled back, laughing as some dodged under the arms of others, gowns of every colour sweeping the polished floorboards, and the changing pace of the music affecting the speed of the dancers.
Then everyone realised that the bats had joined them, and were sweeping around the ceiling beams, then swirling down to dance through the hair of the women and some of the men, like tiny breezes in the candlelight. The bats squeaked and dived, spinning around a neck, a hand, a head or an arm.