The Witch of Clatteringshaws

by Joan Aiken

  “The mother’s dead,” I said.

  “What’ll we do with this?”

  “You had better take it across the loch and leave it on someone’s doorstep. No Hobyahs on that side of the water.”

  I expected him to argue, and I was prepared to point out that my broom had been stolen, but to my mild surprise he said, “Very well,” and rose vertically into the air, letting out small puffs of steam.

  The sounds of battle were coming closer all the time.

  Tatzen has not shown much concern for my welfare, I thought rather sourly. But otter-worms and humans have different priorities; you have got to make allowance for the fact that they are cold-blooded creatures, partly amphibian. And he had relieved me of a responsibility.

  I went back to my Convenience, skirting round some dozy Hobyahs, and took down my golf club from its hook.

  A golf club is not so good as a broom but is better than nothing.

  I’d go and check on the bundle in five years or so. See how it was making out.

  Best wishes, dear Samuel, from your loving cousin. How are you getting on?

  Malise

  ONE

  The day had not gone well for Dido.

  Simon, now that he was King, found himself obliged to take up residence in Saint James’s Palace, an old crumbling brick mansion built hundreds of years ago in the reign of King John the Second, added to by his son Roger the First, half destroyed by his nephew Augustus the Mad, and then rebuilt, in a makeshift manner, by Henry the Tenth. The result of all their messing about was damp, dark, chilly, inconvenient, and infested with mice and cockroaches.

  “Why can’t I live in my own comfortable house in Battersea?” Simon had suggested to the Privy Council.

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty, that would never, never do,” Sir Angus MacGrind had told him severely. “How would the populace know where to find you? No, no, sir, a king must reside in a palace, with due ceremony and decorum.”

  Simon had invited various friends, among whom Dido was the first, to come and share his quarters. He had put a whole wing of fifty rooms at Dido’s disposal, but she still felt thoroughly uncomfortable in the palace. She hated the dark, chilly atmosphere, and she specially hated the long, boring mealtimes, when she was seated at an enormously long black table among the crowd of old gentlemen who seemed established in the place to keep Simon aware of all the many things he was not supposed to do: among these were the Master of Ceremonies, the Keeper of the King’s Robes, the Conductor of the King’s Music, the Prime Minister, the Royal Physician, the Comptroller of the Privy Purse, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Lord Chamberlain, the Steward of the Palace Pantry.… Nearly all of them had long white beards, many wore wigs, and when they spoke it was in sentences dozens of words long; Dido often found that she had lost track of the beginning before the end came rumbling into its place.

  “Er—er—chumha—ahem—miss! If gratitude might be acknowledged for favors anticipatory to reception, I would like to take this opportunity, young lady, of most respectfully thanking you in advance for obligingly furnishing me—at your own convenience, of course—with the comestible which at present reposes on the hither side of your dexter mandible—I refer to the jalop—hydromel—conserve—or, as the French so felicitously phrase it—confiture aux oranges—”

  “Oh,” said Dido, “you want the marmalade, mister? Here, then—” And she slid the golden jar six feet along the table to the old gentleman who was asking for it (she believed him to be the Conservator of the Royal Game Preserves).

  The dish collided with his coffee cup, which a footman had just filled to the brim, and a mingled flood of coffee and marmalade cascaded onto his muslin cravat and his black velvet jacket, which was stiff with silver embroidery.

  “Oh, glory me! Sorry about that, Your Reverence! If you like to bring your choker along to my room after breakfast—room six-five-seven on the third floor—I’ll do my best to rinse it out for Your Worship—”

  But the old gentleman, rigid with distaste, tutting and shaking his head until his wig slipped over one ear, had already left his seat and hobbled away.

  “It’s no good. I really can’t stand it here,” Dido said later, in the library, to Father Sam. She looked sadly out of the window and across Saint James’s Park, where Simon was reviewing the Household Artillery.

  Father Sam sighed. He too was homesick for his quiet little grotto in the Wetlands. But as he had been appointed Archbishop of Canterbury, he had been obliged to give up his career as a hermit, remove himself to London, and take up residence in the Archbishop’s palace at Lambeth.

  “It may be better after the coronation,” he suggested. “When we have all settled down.”

  Dido was startled.

  “The coronation? But Simon’s been coronated! Hasn’t he? When poor old King Dick took and died, and you put that copper hoopla on Simon’s head?”

  “That was only an off-the-cuff occasion, child. It was not clinching. It was not binding. Now there must be a proper formal ceremony in Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Don’t you remember when King Richard was crowned? Were you not one of the train bearers?”

  “Holy spikes! Yes, I was. D’you mean to say poor Simon’s got to go through all that palaver?”

  Father Sam sighed again. “It will take months to organize. I daresay it cannot possibly take place until July or August. There will be all the arrangements to make—invitations to send to foreign kings and queens.” He paused, then said, “Some kings—William the Ninth was one, John the Second was another—have waited to be crowned until they had married a queen who could be crowned at the same time.”

  “Well, Simon did ask me if I’d give it a go,” said Dido. “But I said no. I couldn’t ever be queen. Couldn’t stand the weight of that thing on my head.”

  Father Sam shook his head, agreeing. “Who’s to blame ye? I understand the king and queen of Finland and their daughter Princess Jocandra are coming to visit next week. Perhaps …”

  Dido gave him a very sharp look.

  “You think Simon ud ask this Princess Jokey just so as to marry her and get the coronating business over and done with? Well, I don’t! Maybe he won’t ever marry. He’s not one to rush at things all in a hugger-mugger.”

  “No—there I agree with you. I believe that Simon will make a very hardworking and conscientious monarch—but I’m afraid his heart is not in the business. If he had any chance at all to decline the honor—and the responsibility—I think he would seize it.”

  “That he would,” agreed Dido. “You’d not see his heels for dust, he’d be back at his painting. But what chance does he have? Seems there’s nobody else a-hanging around waiting to take on the job.”

  “There is just one other possibility—”

  “There is?” Now Dido’s look was even keener. “Who’s that, then?”

  “A Saxon descendant of King Aelfred the Great and King Malcolm of Caledonia. I believe his name is Aelfric—or Aelfred—”

  “Where does he live, this cove? In Saxony?”

  “Nobody seems clear. That is the problem. The Lady Titania—King Richard’s aunt, who looked after him in his last illness—was in communication with Aelfric—or so Simon believed. Letters came for her occasionally by pigeon mail from the north of England.”

  Dido nodded.

  “Ay, I mind Simon saying summat about her. She was a fly old gel, by all accounts. Played both ends against the middle. But she’s dead, ain’t she?”

  “Alas, yes. Came to an untimely end.”

  “Knocked off by the werewolf joker. But didn’t she leave no address where this Saxon feller hangs up his hat—no message, no letter, nothing?”

  “Nothing that could be found. You may recall that Darkwater Manor, where His Majesty was residing during his last illness, was flooded up to the second story, and any papers and writing materials left there were drenched and completely rotted—eaten by fish—illegible—”

  “You’d think,” said Dido, pondering, �
�that if this Alf cove has a claim, he’d a heard of poor old King Dick’s death and would be here, a-banging on the door and making hisself known?”

  “Well,” said Father Sam, “I understood from Simon—who had it from Lady Titania—that Aelfred resided somewhere up in the North country. As you know, communications between London and those regions are somewhat meager—unreliable—”

  “Maybe a messenger could be sent up to those parts?”

  “The Scottish land is a very sizeable area—”

  “Oh.”

  “And the inhabitants are warlike and contentious. There are frequent battles between Picts and Scots, and the Wends invade from across the North Sea; also these factions sometimes combine to attack the southern regions.”

  Father Sam sounded so dubious and dispirited that Dido became a trifle impatient.

  “There must be somebody up around those north lands who’d know about a cove that maybe had a right to call hisself King of England?”

  “Well,” said Father Sam doubtfully, “I do have a correspondent—a cousin, in actual fact—who may possibly have such knowledge—”

  “Famous! What’s his moniker? Where does he live?”

  “It is a woman. Her name is Malise. She lives by Loch Grieve. (The Caledonains call their lakes lochs.)”

  “So—can’t you write a note to this Malise dame, ask if she might know where Alf the Saxon is putting up now?”

  “Our communications are very infrequent—once every ten years—or so—”

  “Then don’t you reckon it’s time you sent her a billy-doo? What does she do for a living?”

  “She’s a witch,” said Father Sam rather hesitantly. “In a town called Clatteringshaws.”

  “Croopus! Ain’t that rum? How come you have a witch for your cousin?”

  “We were at theological college together,” Father Sam explained.

  “That seems rum too! Well, go on! How come you turned into a parson while she turned into a hellhag?”

  Dido was so interested that Father Sam found himself telling her far more than he had ever revealed to any other person.

  “We were great friends in our teens and did everything together—helped each other with our school assignments. Malise was a very promising student. At our academy, the Seminary of the Three Secrets, she won an award as Student of the Year.”

  “Go on! What were the Three Secrets?”

  “There were two, and one to come. The seminary had been founded in memory of three saints, or rather, two—Saint Ardust and Saint Arfish—and one candidate for sainthood—Saint Arling. The secrets were their dying words, words of great power and importance, not to be revealed—or not immediately …”

  “Fancy!” Dido was impressed. “So what happened?”

  Father Sam became distressed.

  “Oh, we did a dreadful thing. Malise and I—we betrayed our trust—”

  “You never!”

  “The college was in the town of Clarion Wells, where our beloved Governor lay dying—had lain for weeks—”

  “And?”

  “We were left in a position of responsibility—and we grievously failed—”

  He looked so upset that Dido felt she had to leave the subject. She tried to comfort him.

  “I daresay it wasn’t so bad as you reckoned. You were only young—anyone can see how sorry you are.”

  “I went off to my hermitage to atone—Malise was sent back to the North Country.”

  Just at that moment the library door opened and two people came in. Dido recognized the voices of Sir Angus MacGrind and Sir Fosby Killick, two court characters whom she particularly disliked.

  Dido and Father Sam were out of view in an alcove containing works on church history, and the two newcomers did not realize that anybody else was in the library.

  “As for that young person who calls herself Dido Twite,” Sir Fosby was saying, “I regard her as a most undesirable influence on His Majesty. The sooner she can be evicted from the palace in some permanent way, the better it will be—”

  “Comes from a family of pickpockets, I’ve no doubt,” agreed Sir Angus. “We can soon deal with her. Ah, here is last week’s Spectator, that is what I was looking for …”

  Their steps receded, their voices faded.

  Dido turned to Father Sam and found that he was wiping a tear from his eye.

  “I bet you’d rather be back in your hermitage, too, wouldn’t you?” she said. “Tell you what, Father Sam—I’m a-going to the North Country to hunt for this Aelfred fellow.…”

  * * *

  Half an hour later, having traversed several miles of corridors and anterooms, Dido was outside the King’s bedroom door.

  “Hey-oh, cully,” she said to the Gentleman-in-Waiting who politely but firmly opposed her entry. “I want a word with Simon. Is he still eating his breakfast?”

  “His Majesty finished breakfast an hour ago,” said the G.I.W., “and has gone to the Cabinet Chamber.”

  “Where’s that, then?”

  “Down two flights of stairs and along to the West Wing.”

  However, the official at the door of the Cabinet Chamber informed Dido that His Majesty had not arrived yet; he was probably to be found in the Audience Hall.

  “Blister my toes,” said Dido, “he don’t half nip around. He’s as hard to find as the Blue Pimpernel.”

  At the door of the Audience Hall Dido discovered a long queue of people apparently waiting for an audience. There were two officials here, whose task it was to sort through applicants for audiences and send as many as possible away. The officials wore white and gilt badges that said AUDIENCE MONITOR.

  When Dido told them she wanted a word with Simon, the senior monitor said, “I am afraid that will not be possible until Wednesday week. His Majesty’s timetable is fully booked until that date.”

  “Rabbit me,” said Dido, “all I want is to tell the boy that I’m a-setting out for oatcake-land; won’t take but a minute—”

  “Not until Wednesday week,” repeated the senior monitor.

  He stepped aside as a page hurried in carrying a tray with one cup of coffee on it. Dido caught a quick glimpse of the Audience Hall and saw that a chair on a red-carpet-covered platform was empty; Simon was not there.

  Oh, plague take it, said Dido, this time to herself. I’ll just have to write him a note. And then I’ll catch a train.

  Father Sam had told her that there was a train that went to Caledonia by way of Roman Wall. “And keep a sharp lookout for highwaymen, or railwaymen.” Father Sam had also given her some journey money; he said that the salary of the Archbishop of Canterbury was far more than he could ever spend. “All I need is a grotto! But there seem to be very few of those in London.”

  “Hey, buster,” Dido said to the page returning from the Audience Hall with his empty coffee tray, “can you tell me where there’s a harness room or a footman’s pantry, where I can find some shoe polish?”

  And she glanced down at her worn footwear, which she had purchased in Nantucket. They could certainly do with some attention.

  “Course I can!” said the page. “All that kind of doings is down in the basement. Just you follow me.”

  He led Dido at a rapid trot through various lobbies, stewards’ rooms, stillrooms, pantries, and fish larders and down two flights of dank brick stairs.

  “You need a glim down here,” said the page, and lit a candle that he took from a shelf at the foot of the second flight. “Now here we are: footwear upkeep venue. Mostly there’ll be a footman or two here, a-polishing away.”

  They had entered quite a spacious underground chamber with brick walls and an earth floor. The walls were lined with shelves on which reposed hundreds of pairs of shoes and boots, and there were racks of cleaning materials, sponges, rags, jars of polish, beeswax, and saddlesoap, besides reindeer horns for boning hunting boots and bundles of straw for scrubbing off mud.

  “Mostly you’ll find the King’s Polisher in here,” said the page.
“His name is Old Giles.”

  The only person at present in the shoe-polishing chamber was Simon, who was thoughtfully polishing the toes of a pair of black shoes. At sight of Dido his face lit up.

  “Dido! The very person I wanted to see!”

  “And am I glad to see you! I thought I’d have to wait till Turpentine Sunday.”

  “Oh, you two know each other. That’s nice,” said the page, and he went whistling back upstairs with his tray.

  “I’ve got a letter for you,” said Simon. “It was addressed to Dido Twite, in care of His Majesty.”

  And he passed Dido a small sealed envelope, which she at once opened and read by the light of the candle. The page had stuck it on the shelf with a lump of saddlesoap.

  “Well, blow me round a corner! It’s from the Woodlouse! I thought he was a goner! I thought he’d been et up by a man-eating pike-fish in the moat of Fogrum Hall. Well, I am pleased! That’s the best bit of news since poor old King Dick handed in his checks.”

  “Who is the Woodlouse?”

  “He was a nice little feller called Piers Crackenthorpe who helped me out of a tight corner at Fogrum; he had this crazy notion of escaping from there by crossing the moat on stilts, but he got shot halfway across, and I thought he was done for; but seems it was the man-eating pike-fish that got shot and little Woodlouse kept going—and now he’s ended up at a place called Willoughby Chase, with a family called Green—he says you know them, Simon? Is that so?”

  “Of course I know them! Sir Willoughby and Sylvia and Bonnie—I know them really well!”

  “It seems that little Woodlouse was in mighty poor fettle, time he’d walked all the way from Fogrum to Willoughby Chase—he’d been half starved and shockingly badly treated at Fogrum—but the two gals, Bonnie and Sylvia, nursed him and cared for him and now he’s a whole heap better. He heard the news as how you was King and he knew that I was a friend of yours, so hoped his letter would find me. Well, I am pleased,” Dido repeated.

  “I’m glad you have some good news.”