Midwinter Nightingale

by Joan Aiken

  “Er—I—I believe he was instructed by his councillors of state—” the doctor said, stammering slightly.

  “Doubtless, doubtless. But now I must delay you no longer. Adieu, my dear sir.”

  He made the doctor such a deep and courtly bow that he seemed unaware of the hand extended by Blisland, who, after a moment's hesitation, bowed likewise and then tapped on the door in the prearranged signal for the guard to let him out.

  “Evening, your lordship,” called the guard through the doorway as he let out the doctor. “Me and Sam'll bring up your supper in a brace of shakes.”

  “Pray do not trouble yourself, my good man,” returned the baron in his gentle voice. “I do not wish for any supper. I do not find myself at all hungry.”

  “Oh? Very good, sir—if you say so.” Having shot the bolts, the guard clattered away down the stair, whistling as he went. A frown of vexation darkened the baron's face, and the yellow light gleamed momentarily in his eyes.

  “That tune again! Always that idiotic tune he whistles. But not for much longer …”

  Crossing his cell, the baron stood before one of the figures in the tapestry, a huntsman engaged in drawing his bow. He was life-sized, and the two pouches he wore, doubtless intended for game or weapons, had been cunningly unstitched at the top so as to render them capable of holding real articles. Into one of these the baron dropped a pill that he had concealed in his kerchief. The bag already held several hundred pills.

  “There, my dear, dear, dear friend,” murmured the baron. “There goes the last of your offerings. Now we shall see what we shall see.”

  Downstairs the gatekeeper gave an irritable kick to the two heavy sacks of silver coins that were still impeding the passageway.

  “Why don't those sorbent treasury messengers come when they're supposed to? Now what am I to do? I have to lock the outer gate and those sacks'll be underfoot all night. Here, you, Anderson, take and put them up on the roof, will you? They'll be safe enough up there, the gulls and ravens won't swipe em and the messengers ull be justly served that they have to go the extra distance in the morning.”

  “What, me? Carry those heavy sacks up all those stairs? Who do you think I am? Hector Herculoosoe?”

  “Go on, man, you don't have to take them both together. Make two trips of it.”

  Still grumbling profusely, the assistant guard did as he was ordered. The heavy sacks chinked and jingled as he struggled with them up the winding stairway.

  When he came back after depositing the second one by the roof parapet, he said, “There! I hope you're satisfied. It's pouring cats and dogs, enough to melt the seals and rot the sacking. Why people want to pay good money to see some peacocks and hear wolves howling, blow me if I know! And now I'm going off duty”

  Upstairs in his pie-shaped cell, the baron rubbed his hands slowly and lmgermgly together, then sat down to wait out the last twelve hours of his fifteen years' imprisonment. His pale face was unmovmg and inexpressive as marble, but his eyes shone like molten steel.

  •••

  Two small tugs, Smith and Jonej, were guiding His Majesty's ship Philomela through the sandbanks and shallows of the Thames estuary on a dark and foggy winter night, when they were intercepted by a rowing boat that sh one a blue light.

  “Philomela ahoy!” shouted a voice.

  “Rot and sink you!” grumbled the master of Smith. “What's all this? Piracy in London River?”

  “No, there's a civilian passenger aboard Philomela thats urgently wanted by His Holy Nibs.”

  “Ah, and how do we know that's a true tale, not just Banbury sauce?”

  “I've a password.”

  “Let's hear it, then.”

  “Lower a dinghy. Can't go bawling passwords over nine yards of Thames water.”

  “That's so.”

  The message was thus relayed and the password whispered: “Pendragon.”

  “That'll do,” said Philomela, satisfied. “Who's the passenger that's wanted?”

  “Young female by the name of Dido Twite.”

  “We'll drop her over the side, then.”

  After a short interval, this was done. The passenger, a small dark figure, with her baggage, was deposited in the rowing boat, which pulled rapidly away for the Essex shore. And the ship with its convoy proceeded upriver.

  “So why do I have to be off-loaded in this mirsky capsy way in the dead o' night without a word's warning?” grumbled Miss Dido Twite as two dim blue lights on the Essex coastline drew closer.

  “Can't tell you that, ma'am. But there's a fellow ashore will soon make all pi am.”

  This promise was not immediately kept. A light curricle with a driver and one passenger and two impatient horses waited at the rear of the landing stage, which was situated on a dark, deserted stretch of marshy riverbank. The moment Dido and her small bag had been bundled into the carriage, the driver cracked his whip and the horses set off at a gallop.

  But even in the dark Dido had recognized her fellow passenger. His height and bulk were unmistakable.

  “Podge! Podge Greenaway! What's all the mystery about?”

  “His Holy Nibs will tell you that. I better not go spilling any beans” said Podge. “For the matter o' that, I've not many to spill. Tis all to do with a pal of yours painting a picture. That's all /know.”

  “Painting a picture? Croopus! Does that mean that Sim — ?”

  “Whisht, gal! Walls have ears, and so do hedges. All I know is that a message came to me and Dad, asking where was you. And all we knew was that you'd gone to visit friends in New England but was expected back sometime around Christmas.”

  “That's so,” agreed Dido. “And I hitched a ride back with my pal Captain Hughes on his frigate. I been visiting my friends Nate Pardon and Dutiful Penitence on Nantucket Island. And why the pize shouldn't I do that?”

  “No reason on earth why you shouldn't,” said Podge. “But there's been a heap of different kinds of trouble a-brewing up here — I can't tell you more about that, but His Reverence will — and there's a big question that nobody can answer — except, seems you might be able to.”

  “A question?” Dido was really puzzled. “Is it about S-?”

  “Hush up, dearie! We better not talk about it anymore till we get to where we're bound. Shan't be lona; now.”

  “Oh, very well, tol lol. Tell me what else has been happening. … I been away nearly six months, remember.”

  “There was a big flood up north in Humberland—lots of folk drownded. And the flood came washing down the coast and did a lot o' damage to towns in Essex and Kent. But London was spared—except the new tunnel under the Thames got flooded out and a lot of wolves drownded.”

  Both of them fell silent, thinking of Dido's father, whose music had been played at the opening ceremony for the new Thames tunnel, and who, not long after that, had been killed by wolves in Saint James's Park.

  “How's Sophie?” Dido asked then, shaking herself briskly.

  “Sophie? She's wonderful peart!” A note of fond pride came into Podge's voice.

  “Can I go and see her tomorrow?”

  “No, dearie, you can't, for she's away visiting cousins in Hanover. But she'll be back in two-three weeks and you can see her then, and you can see little Greena-whizz too—”

  “Ohhh!” exclaimed Dido. “Has Sophie been and gone and—?”

  “Yes, she has! I'm a dad!”

  “But, staying in Hanover? Are we pals with Hanover now, then?”

  “Oh, yes, we've signed a big treaty of friendship,” Podge said. “It's the folks down south who are giving us trouble now. The Burgundians. But His Reverence'll likely give you the tip on all that.”

  “Burgundy,” said Dido. “Where's that?”

  “Way down south, past Finisterre and Ushant.”

  “Well, rabbit me if I can see why His Holy Nibs should want to tell me about Burgundy! Let alone fetching me outa my berth for the pleasure. I was hoping to come along and take a bite of break
fast with your da and your brother Wally after we tied up in the port o' London.”

  “Well, I daresay you still can,” said Podge comfortably. “And 'welcome! If His Reverence don't give you breakfast, that is. Here we are, now, this is his riverside hidey-hole.”

  All this time they had been driving through marshy meadows with an occasional patch of scrubby coppice-wood, thorn, alder and willow. Dido guessed that they were still close to the Thames River, for they crossed numerous tidal creeks by narrow wooden bridges. Dawn was still several hours away, but the foggy dark was faintly lighter than it had been an hour ago. Dido could now see ahead of them a little one-story building surrounded by a very neatly trimmed hedge.

  As the curricle came to a stop by a picket gate, a dark figure armed with a musket emerged from the shadow of the hedge and sharply demanded a password.

  “Pendragon!”

  “Pass in, then. But only one of ye. His Revrince don't want a whole passel of callers.”

  “That'll have to be you, then, dearie,” said Podge. “But His Reverence won't bite ye.”

  “No. Now I remember the old guy,” said Dido. “I met him once before, when King Dick was being coronated.”

  She made her way cautiously along a narrow path through a very neat front garden that seemed to be laid out as a miniature landscape with model 'windmills, streamlets crossed by cockleshell bridges, dwarf trees, tiny thatched houses and toy storks nesting on roofs.

  Funny sort o' thing for a grown guy to occupy himself with, thought Dido, who did not particularly admire the garden. Specially seeing as how he's the archbishop of Winchester and Wessex. You'd think he'd have better ways of passing his time.

  But then she remembered that the archbishop was known to be a great friend of the king, Richard IV, whose principal hobby was collecting ancient games and playing them with his friends and his wife, Queen Adelaide. But she had died a few years ago. So who does the poor old codger play his games with now? Dido wondered as she tapped at the door.

  “Come in,” called a gentle voice, and she stepped into a shabby but cozy little room with a rag rug on the brick floor, three wicker armchairs, a kitchen table and a great many shell-framed pictures on the walls. A small coal fire burned in the old-fashioned range, and a kettle hummed on the hob.

  The old gentleman, who was seated in one of the armchairs, gave Dido a very sweet smile.

  “No need for you to present any credentials, my child,” he said as Dido gave him a respectful bob, “I remember you very well from our pleasant tea party after His Majesty's coronation, when you carried King Richard's train.”

  “Yes. And I remember Your Reverence,” said Dido, relieved that she need not present credentials, for she had not the least notion what they were. “You ate nineteen cucumber sandwiches.”

  “Aha! And you ate seventeen! I have had a few sandwiches prepared for you, recalling that happy day. To think that was nearly six years ago! How time does fly”

  Dido accepted a cucumber sandwich from the plate he offered her, thinking that she would rather have a bowl of hot chowder. But it was kind of the old gager to have them made—she did not think he had made them himself, as they were very neat, cut in tiny squares; whereas he was very untidy, wearing a robe made from a worn gray blanket, canvas slippers and over his shoulders a shabby woollen shawl with a great many holes and dangling ends of'wool. The only items that suggested he was an archbishop were his purple silk shirt and a great amethyst ring on his right hand.

  He poured hot water into a brown teapot with a ring of blue forget-me-nots round its middle and handed Dido a cup of tea, which in her opinion would have been better if he had waited a few more minutes for the tea to brew.

  But she said, “Thank you, Your Worship,” and sipped it gratefully enough. It was hot, after all. “Can I help you, mister, in some way?” she presently asked, as the archbishop seemed to have sunk into a kind of daydream.

  Or nightdream, thought Dido, listening to the far-off cry of a heron or bittern out there in the dark on the marshes. I wonder that coming and perching out here in this boggy spot don't give the old guy shocking rheumatics. She glanced with some disfavor round the dank little sanctuary.

  “You can call me Dr. Whitgift,” he replied, rousing up a little. “And, yes, it is hoped very much that you may be able to help me and my colleagues in a most difficult, delicate, anxious affair.”

  “O' course, Your Honor—Doc Whit,” said Dido, more and more puzzled. “Any way I kin be useful, I'll be glad to. But what's the hocus?”

  “You are great friends, are you not, with His Grace the duke of Battersea?”

  After a moment's puzzlement, Dido said, “Oh, you mean my pal Simon, him as used to lodge with my da in Rose Alley? Sophie's brother?”

  “Yes, my child.”

  “Sure, I know the feller well. Him and mes served each other several good turns.”

  “Just so. Well. Now.” The archbishop suddenly stood up, revealing himself to be a good deal taller and thinner than Dido had remembered. He took several nervous turns about the room, picking shells off the mantelpiece and replacing them, opening the door suddenly and looking out, opening the window likewise and thrusting out his head, as if he feared there might be eavesdroppers outside.

  Then he beckoned Dido close to him and whispered, “Have you any notion where the duke of Battersea might be at this time?”

  “Ain't he in his house? Bakerloo House? Alongside the park?”

  “No, my child, he is not there.”

  “Or he might be at Loose Chippings castle, somewhere up north? He has a deal of property in those parts, I fancy”

  “No, a search has been made in those places, without any success.”

  “Blimey,” said Dido, suddenly anxious, “you don't think Simon has been took and scrobbled by some havey-cavey fellers—Hanoverians, maybe? But no,” recollecting, “us and the Hanoverians is all cobbers now, ain't we? Would it be that other lot, then? Burgundians, is it?”

  “Whisht, child!” The archbishop laid a thin, frail finger on his lips. Then he beckoned her closer and whispered, “It is true that the Burgundians are no friends to our poor dear king. I know that well. Thank Providence, very few people in this world are truly wicked, but I have reason to believe that the duchess of Burgundy is a most evil person. She hates dear King Richard.”

  “Well—then—”

  “And another most evil person, unfriend to our king,” whispered the archbishop, “another most maliceful, untrustworthy character, Baron Magnus Rudh, a friend of the duchess, has just been released from jail, after vowing to be revenged on all those who put him there.”

  “Well then,” repeated Dido, “can't somebody—as it might be the chief constable—can't he lay that pair by the ears?”

  “Ah, but they have done nothing, as yet, to justify such an arrest. So far as we know, that is….”

  “But if they are such a danger to the king—or Simon—can't they be warned?”

  “But that is just the difficulty my child. We have lost the king!”

  Dido gaped at him.

  “You've lost—?”

  “We have lost the king! We do not know where he has got to—where he can be!”

  “Croopus!”

  “And that is not the worst of the matter,” Dr. Whitgift whispered miserably. “For His Majesty is not at all well. In fact—not to put too fine a point on it—he is at death's door.”

  “What ails the poor old gager?”

  “He is afflicted with a suppurating quinsy—the very same indisposition that carried off his father and his grandfather.”

  “Is he being looked after by a doctor?”

  “We don't know,” lamented the archbishop. “But we think—this is our only hope—that the duke of Battersea must be with him. They are firm friends, and as you perhaps know, the duke of Battersea is the next heir to the throne, since the death of Prince David of Wales.”

  “Is he?” said Dido, startled. “No, I didn'
t know that. Simon is? Nor I didn't know Prince Davie had died.”

  “Yes, that happened a few months ago in the northern city of Holdernesse. He gave his life to save a friend. News of his death, I fear, will have been the final blow to King Richard's declining health—coming after the death of his much-loved Queen Adelaide some time ago. They had not been married very long.”

  “But—hey—hold on,” said Dido. “Prince Davie was seventeen or so, warn't he?”

  “Ah, his mother had been King Richard's first wife, Princess Edelgarde of Flint. She was drowned crossing the Irish Sea—such an ill-fated family …”

  His voice faded away.

  “So,” said Dido, bypassing all these deaths, “so King Richard is missing and also my pal Simon Battersea. No one knows where they're at, that right? How long they been gone?”

  “Nobody knows that precisely The king, of late, has been leading such a reclusive life, because of his health. No public engagements. The only person allowed to look after him was a relation, an old lady he calls Madam, who has been his devoted nurse and taken care of him ever since childhood.”

  “So he and Simon, and this old gal, have all been missing for no one quite knows how long? Holy Peggotty!

  What a mux-up,” Dido said. It was plain that she thought but poorly of the people whose job it was to take care of the king. “Ain't there anyplace he might be likely to go? Some hideout, a castle in the mountains or a country cottage—like this one here?”

  “Well, there are Osborne, Balmoral, Sandringham, Glamis—but a search has been made; he is not at any of those places. The duke's sister is overseas at present. We had hoped that you, being his friend, might know of some sequestered country residence of his—or a cottage belonging to friends—someplace frequented in childhood, an inn, even—?”

  Dido grinned a private grin, remembering what Simon had told her about his childhood. He had run away from an orphanage and lived in a cave in a forest for years, looking after a flock of geese. She did not think it at all likely that he would take the dying king to such a refuge.