The Stolen Lake

by Joan Aiken

  And he hunched his shoulders, turning his back rudely on the captain, who felt justifiably irritated. He had enough troubles of his own without being snubbed by this wretched little twopenny-halfpenny fellow.

  Ignoring Mr Brandywinde's sulks, Captain Hughes inspected the room, walked across to the window, glanced indifferently at the magnificent prospect of Bath encircled in its ring of volcanoes afforded by the window (which was very high; they were at the top of the Wen Pendragon tower, which, in its turn, was at the top of Beechen Cliff); then, discovering a second door which stood ajar, the captain went through it into a second room, where he found a large loom, already strung with the warp for a carpet or a piece of tapestry. A door beyond the loom led on, and he discovered a circular suite of rooms, all interconnected and furnished with various materials for indoor occupation: a piano, a kiln and quantity of clay, paints, canvas, wool and needles, mathematical instruments, sewing equipment, canes, rushes, pipes, flutes; there was even a harp. What the captain did not find was any other exit apart from the bolted door through which he had been thrust by his captors.

  'What the deuce is this place – a college?' he demanded, returning through a door opposite that from which he had started. 'Or does Queen Ginevra propose to keep her prisoners at work weaving carpets?'

  The British Agent looked up at him with dismal bloodshot eyes.

  'Oh, no,' said Brandywinde. 'She don't give a rap what happens to us. Unless we're some use to her. No, this ain't a college. It's a prison. But it's also King Arthur's Castle. Where he's supposed to be residing till he's healed of his wound.'

  Forgetting his sulks, he imparted this information in a tone of condescension.

  'Oh, what fustian!' exclaimed the captain irritably. 'He is not really dwelling here, I collect?'

  'O' course he ain't! But a good few o' the townspeople believe he is, an' that suits the queen's book an' keeps them contented. Every month or so she buys another set o' flutes or some wool and a crochet-hook "Just to keep His Majesty diverted during his illness." That's what all that clobber is in the other rooms.'

  'The jailors know it's not so.'

  'Ay, but they're all dumb.'

  'Why does she keep up the pretence?' asked the captain, shivering despite himself. 'Does she really believe it herself?'

  'Not that he is here. – Oh, who knows what she believes?' said Mr Brandywinde morosely. 'But, whether she believes it herself or not, the rumour that he's in here is enough to keep King Mabon, or Ccaed-mon of Hy Brasil, from invading and snapping up New Cumbria for themselves. A sick king is better than none.'

  'Oh. Ha. Hum. I see. Why the deuce didn't you tell me all this on the Thrush?' demanded the captain.

  'Eh? Oh – well; I never thought you'd get as far as Bath Regis,' Mr Brandywinde said evasively. 'And -and – about to set sail myself; preoccupied with plans for departure -'

  'So why did you not embark? Why are you here in prison? And where are your wife and child?'

  At these questions, to Captain Hughes's horror, his companion began to whimper distressingly. Tears coursed down his cheeks; he rocked himself to and fro.

  'Oh, I am a wicked wretch!' he lamented in a thin reedy voice. 'I did wrong – dreadfully wrong – and now I'm being punished for it; and what's worst of all, I didn't even benefit from my wrongdoing. On the contrary! Oh, my hands! My poor hands!'

  'Why, what the devil did you do?' inquired the captain without much sympathy.

  'I sold that child of yours, Twitkin, Tweetkin, whatever the name is, to Lady Ettarde, for our passage money. Five hundred gold bezants.'

  'Sold Miss Twite to Lady Ettarde?' exclaimed the captain in wrath and astonishment. 'As a slave, do you mean? How can you have sold her? She was not yours to sell!'

  'Oh, I shouldn't have done it, I know!' blubbered Brandywinde. 'And anyway it didn't do me a particle of good – because those two cursed witches, Morgan and Vavasour, swore they never got their hands on the brat – the little monster escaped – they wouldn't give me the ready after all – the cheating harridans! So the boat sailed without us, and my wife and child are lost forever, and worst of all – '

  'What became of your wife and child?'

  But at this question Mr Brandywinde went wholly to pieces, rocking, gulping and gibbering. The only words Captain Hughes could distinguish among those he gasped out were, 'Hunted to death – to death!'

  A grisly thought flashed into the captain's mind.

  'Hunted? Good god, you can't mean that hunt in the forest -?'

  'If she can't get 'em by other means, she'll send her hell-hounds after them!'

  Captain Hughes shuddered. He said, uncertainly,

  'Do, pray, man, pull yourself together.' He had not the heart to ask any more questions; the subject was too dreadful; and no more sense could be got from Mr Brandywinde for the time; the little Agent wept and trembled and shivered, moaned that he wished he were dead, and then in the next breath voiced a longing to get his hands round the throat of Lady Ettarde and strangle her. 'Only how could I?' he wailed. 'My hands don't work any more!'

  'How do you mean?' demanded the captain, exasperated after an hour or so of these continual lamentations. 'Your hands do not appear to be injured or crippled? I can see nothing amiss with them.'

  'But there is! She overlooked them. She was angry -said she would teach me to cheat her – not that I had any intention of cheating her, indeed, indeed I didn't! She blew on my fingers, she said, "From now on they will be as soft as paint-brushes, that will teach you not to bamboozle me," – and they are, they are, look at them. I cannot even tie my cravat.'

  'Oh, fiddlestick, man. This must be moonshine! A mere disorder of the senses. Let me see you tie your neckcloth.'

  But if it was a delusion, it was a very deep-seated one. Mr Brandywinde fumbled limply and hopelessly with the linen neckpiece, as if his fingers had lost the power of obeying his will; and, later, when one of the guards opened the door and thrust a basin of thin soup into the room, Captain Hughes was obliged, with disgusted reluctance, to feed his fellow captive like a baby, while Mr Brandywinde whimpered and sobbed and snuffled, repeating that he was a wicked wicked wretch and he wished that he were dead.

  Early next morning Mr Windward was informed that a letter had come from Her Mercy for Miss Dido Twite.

  'Fancy her remembering my name!' said Dido, impressed, and she opened the note. It was an engraved card, bidding her present herself at the palace between the hours of four and five that afternoon.

  'Humph!' said Windward suspiciously. 'I hope there isn't anything skimble-skamble about this. What do you think Dido had best do?' he said to the others. They were all assembled, shivering, in the cactus-gardens behind the Sydney Hotel.

  'Tell you one thing; if I go, I ain't a-going to put on that fancy court rig again,' said Dido. 'I was perishing well frozen in it yesterday, except jist in the Palace, an' it's turned a lot colder today, and I felt a fool in it. I'll jist wear my breeks and duffel jacket.'

  'Multiple and I had best come with you.'

  Somehow, without further discussion, it had been accepted by all of them that Dido had better keep the appointment. Lieutenant Windward went on, 'Plum and Gusset can stay to keep an eye on poor Holystone.'

  'Let's take a dekko at that big map of Cumbria that hangs in the hotel lobby,' said Dido. Try and see how long it'll take us to get to King Mabon's place, if we go.'

  'What about the Grand Inquisitor, though?' said Mr Multiple. 'You say he didn't want us to go to Mabon.'

  'I don't trust him,' said Lieutenant Windward. 'He looked about as straightforward as an adder. I reckon he has his own axe to grind.'

  'So we diddle him too? Pretend we're just pretending to visit Mabon?'

  'Just so's we don't get into a mux ourselves, about what we're a-going to do,' said Dido.

  'I think maybe we should visit Mabon,' said Mr Multiple. 'Maybe he's a right 'un. There must be some good coves somewhere in these frampold parts. All we know about Ma
bon is, he took the lake because he had his daughter stole. You can't blame him for that.'

  The trio that set out for the palace that afternoon (they went by street-car, in order to save money) were in very poor spirits. Dido was worried about Mr Holystone, whose fever had somewhat abated, but who remained alarmingly pale and comatose. The other two were troubled about the fate of the captain. And who was to say that this unpredictable queen might not today take offence and throw the rest of them into jail?

  Moreover the air, as evening approached in this upland region, became icily, bitterly cold, and thinner than ever, so that they were continually obliged to gasp for breath, as they crossed the Palace yard; Mr Multiple could not stop coughing, and Dido had a stitch in her side. They stopped in the middle of the big cobbled square while she clutched her chest with both hands, panting like a flounder. A black-cloaked wooden-legged man, observing their predicament, advised Mr Multiple to buy some rumirumi lilies. 'Cavendo tutus,' he remarked.

  'What the blazes are rumirumis?' coughed Multiple, drawing a long, difficult breath.

  Without replying, the lame man (who wore such a high stack of hats pulled low over his brow that his face was invisible) went to one of a row of flower-stalls along the side of the square and purchased a handful of long-stalked large dark-pink trumpet-shaped blossoms with deeper splotches of colour in the calyx, and fibrous spiny leaves. 'You sniff those,' he said, returning to the three travellers, 'you soon better, sic itur ad cura.'

  His remedy, indeed, proved remarkably efficacious. After sniffing at the big velvety potently-scented trumpets for a few minutes, all three gringos found themselves able to breathe more easily.

  'Must have oxygen in 'em,' remarked the lieutenant. 'Mighty useful kind of plant. Best take some with us up the mountains. Thank you, indeed, sir,' he said to the Cumbrian, who had started to limp away. 'Pray allow me to reimburse you.'

  'It is nothing, nihil, nihil,' the man called back. 'Mens sana in corpore sano!' His voice sounded familiar to Dido, who suddenly exclaimed, 'I do believe it was that Bran again! Did you notice a white bird peering out o' one of his hats?'

  But Bran, if it were he, had already vanished down a side-street.

  The glassy palace shone green and iridescent in the cold evening light. The sun was about to set behind the black cone of Mount Damyake, and the palace, slowly revolving on its islet, caught the last flash of the descending orb.

  Lieutenant Windward, who had been studying Mr Multiple's guidebook, informed them, 'The palace is properly known as Caer Sisi.'

  'That just means Spinning Castle,' said Mr Multiple, who had studied the book too.

  They had to wait for a complete revolution of the palace to get in, and were half frozen by the time that the bronze door with its whirling panels came round to face them.

  'Quick!' said Windward, and they all hurled themselves through.

  But, once they were inside, Dido's escorts were not allowed to proceed any farther. They were firmly shown into the waiting-room with the shrunken heads, and only Dido was permitted to climb the stair and continue into the great throne-room where Queen Ginevra reclined on her day-bed.

  'Dearest child!' Her Majesty greeted Dido with a wide but languid smile. Like many of her subjects, Queen Ginevra had a set of silver teeth. 'So kind of you to come so quickly in answer to my summons,' she added, swallowing a handful of pills.

  'I only come when you said,' Dido replied matter-of-factly.

  'Touchingly considerate. You guessed I might be feeling lonely. Ah, no one can guess, though, the depth of my loneliness. Yet people are so kind to me! They all indulge me – my dear, dear subjects!' The queen threw up her eyes in roguish amazement. Dido stood looking at her silently.

  'Do take a seat, my dear. Ah . . . the steps . . . a trifle hard .. . let's see .. . perhaps a cushion . . .'

  Groping feebly among her draperies, Queen Ginevra at length found a small grey bolster. Using as little energy as possible, she nudged it over the edge of the couch, so that it rolled down the steps and landed at Dido's feet. It appeared to be made of cobwebs. Rather gingerly, Dido sat on it.

  'Now we can have a lovely gossip,' said the queen. 'I want to hear all about you.'

  What she really meant was that she wanted to talk about herself; she embarked on a long and rambling history of her childhood. 'My father was a darling man; utterly devoted to me; but what chance did he have? None. Mother saw to it that he spent all his time at the Saxon wars, and he died when I was only seven. And she – I'm sorry to have to say it – but she had a really

  hateful nature. She could be a perfect fiend! I've always been sorry that Quondam (that's my pet name for Arthur, you know) and I didn't have any children; I longed for a child, to make up to her for all I had to suffer . . .

  'However when my darling Rex Futurus comes back again, then perhaps . . .'

  Her voice trailed away dreamily. Dido, staring at the queen, thought she seemed much too old to have children; although her skin was strangely smooth, as if constantly anointed with nourishing creams, there were deep, deep wrinkles round her eyes; and her puffy hands were spotted like two pale toads. There was something even odder about her today than on the previous visit: hazy, disjointed; Dido wondered if she were a trifle bosky?

  'Do you think the king will come soon?' Dido inquired politely, wondering where all this was leading.

  'I'm sure he will, dear; as soon as you get back my stolen lake for me, sweet child! And then we shall all be so happy! I hope you will stay with us and be our dear little guest. But in the meantime I want you to be a real friend to me; I can see how very perceptive you are, my love, and that is so rare! I have had various little friends among the Cumbrian children, but their intelligence is not of a high order.'

  'There don't seem to be many kids at all in this country,' said Dido, wondering if this was why Queen Ginevra's army was depleted, and if the queen would say anything about Aurocs, and if it would be wise to mention the safe-conduct across the frontier.

  '. . . Unfortunately . . . no . . . that is so. But when my dear Quondam returns, all will be different. Meanwhile, we have to count our little blessings as best we can,' said Queen Ginevra, receiving a silver bowl of gruel from Doctor Jones, who handed it to her with a deep ceremonious bow, casting a sharp glance at Dido as he did so. 'My evening collation,' the queen explained graciously to Dido. 'It is such a treat to chat to a young friend while I partake of it; nothing is quite so tedious as to eat a nuncheon alone.'

  She dipped a spoon into the gruel, which was of a very thick consistency, and perfectly white.

  'Bone porridge, dear,' she informed Dido. 'Prescribed by my doctor. When you have a life as full of trials and sorrows as mine, your meals must be light, but very sustaining.'

  The porridge (though it looked exceedingly nasty) reminded Dido that she was hungry too.

  'Your Royalty,' she said, having glanced round to make sure that Dr Jones was out of earshot (but who knew how many listeners were hiding behind the curtains), 'I reckon I will go on that errand to King Mabon, that is, if you still wants me to? So – if you'd jist give me that travel permit you said as how – '

  The queen looked for a moment almost disappointed. What might have been a flash of irritation passed over her face.

  'Permit?' she replied vaguely. 'Permit, child?'

  'To climb Mount Damyake and see where the lake was pinched from. And then,' said Dido doggedly, 'go on to King Mabon, like you said.'

  'You are sure you want to do that? It is so enjoyable,' said the queen, 'to have you here and get to know you. One so seldom gets to know anyone really well. A person that one knows well,' she added obscurely, 'can do one so much more good than a stranger.'

  This queen, thought Dido, is as nutty as old great-aunt Bella. Only thing to do is to humour her. Like Aunt Bella used to shout, 'The end is coming!' on Battersea Bridge, and the only way to get her home was to agree.

  'I can come back and see you again,' she said. 'Arter
King Mabon's sent back your lake.'

  'Ah,' said the queen. 'True. But I wonder,' she murmured to herself, 'I wonder if I am being practical? Will Mabon return the lake? Or should I keep the bird in hand – two birds in hand – should I forget about Arian-rod? But then, my dear Quondam – sweet Quondam -how could I be sure of his return?

  'When you have waited a very long time for someone,' she said, fixing Dido with a glassy eye, 'your mind becomes tired – perplexed – you hardly know what to do for the best.'

  Dido, remembering nutty old Aunt Bella, became a little sorry for the queen.

  'Don't you worry, Ma'am,' she said kindly. 'I daresay he'll turn up all right and tight.'

  Suddenly the. queen's face became suffused with dusky colour, turned to a mask of rage.

  'You expect he will turn up!' she hissed. 'Who are you, to predict when the Pendragon will see fit to return? Here! Take this!' And she contemptuously tossed down her silver porringer, which, more or less by chance, Dido caught. When she looked up again, she saw that the queen had put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, through which, to judge by the angle of her face, she was staring at Dido. Dido could not be sure, because the lenses were like two small mirrors; they threw back reflections of the grey-curtained room, but the queen's eyes could not be seen behind them. Oneway glass, Dido thought; what a naffy notion!

  'Now I will show you what you are worth,' said the queen bitingly. 'Look at yourself in the side of that dish.'

  The silver bowl was highly polished; yet, rather to her surprise, Dido could not find her own reflection in its curved side, either upside down or the right way up.

  'Not there?' Ginevra's voice was mocking now. 'Nor in my glasses?' She leaned towards Dido, who peered warily at the two shining discs. 'Not there either? How about in this?' She passed Dido a small hand-mirror, its silver back and frame encrusted with diamonds. That, too, showed the long shadowy room with its cobweb hangings; but no Dido.

  'Rum lot o' looking-glasses you got round here,' said Dido, firmly, to cover a most uncomfortable feeling inside her.