Midwinter Nightingale

by Joan Aiken

  “Papa! How could you? You have killed my poor pus-sums! And under his cushion I was bringing you a letter from the duchess of Burgundy. I shan't give it to you now.” Jorinda's voice trembled with shock and outrage. “I was going to find opodeldoc to put your toe—”

  “Be silent, girl! Leave me alone. And don't show yourself before me again.”

  Sobbing with indignation rather than grief—for she had not been especially fond of the cat, which she kept simply because it was the fashion to keep a pet at school—Jorinda stumbled toward the door.

  “You go too, boy. And be sure she leaves this house tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “And take that dead animal out of my sight. You can throw it into the moat to feed the pike.”

  “Are there really tiger pike in the moat?” Jorinda whispered as they walked slowly along the passage. “That's what my driver told me.” Her voice was very subdued.

  “Lord, yes! Big as bolsters. Take off your arm in one snap. That's why none of the fellers ever dared run away from school no matter how much old Pennycost beat em. Itd have meant swimming the moat, cos the bridge is pulled up at night. I reckon you musta got here just afore it was hoisted.”

  Lot had picked up a lamp as they left the dining chamber, and he now opened a door and led the way into a room that appeared to be a classroom. There were rows of wooden desks and a strong smell of ink and unwashed boys. Lot crossed to a window that was protected by bars, opened it, pushed the dead cat out between the bars and let go of it. Jorinda heard a splash.

  Lot burst into song.

  “I love little Pussy, her coat is so cold. She's gone to the fishes, she'll never grow old.” He broke off to say, “You must never sing or whistle in front of the Dad. He can't stand song or music of any kind.”

  “It was horrible of him to kill my cat,” Jorinda said angrily, wiping her eyes.

  “Well, what did you expect? He's extra ratty just now, because of his toe, I daresay.”

  “Has he really bought this house?”

  “Bet your boots he has. Because it was Ma's once, and he's glad she's gone.”

  “Where are all the boys? If it was a school?”

  “Most of em decamped—the ones who had parents in this country. There's just enough left to act as servants. And don't I just give it to em. Ha ha ha! Walker!”

  “What's that moaning I can hear?”

  “The wind, most likely.”

  “No, it sounds like a man. Crying.”

  “Oh, 'well,” said her brother easily, “maybe it's one of the brats I had to give a licking to, for not coming quick enough when Pa rang his bell.”

  “Sounds more like a grown man to me.”

  “Well, it's none of your blazing business! Forget it. Now we gotta think how to get you away from here or Pa will be real mad. There's a carrier's cart comes by at seven in the morning, brings groceries and stuff. You'd best go with him; he'll take you to Clarion Wells.”

  Jorinda did not argue. Fogrum Hall was no place for her. She could see that. Even the cheap lodging house in Clarion Wells where she had left Nurse Mara would have been better.

  “Where can I sleep tonight?”

  “In here. The dormitories—the ones that don't have boys in em—are full of rats.”

  “But there's no bed.”

  “Put three chairs together,” Lot told her impatiently “I'll leave you the lamp.”

  He had put it on a desk. By its dim light the spots on his podgy face looked larger and blacker. She certainly did not wish for his company overnight, but she hated the thought of passing the night by herself in this cheerless room.

  To postpone the moment of being left alone, she said, “Will Papa really put you on the throne?”

  “Certain sure. They just have to find old King Dick— wherever he's lurking—and get Alfred's crown off of him—never mind if his head's in it or not, ha ha ha! The Burgundians are due to land any day now; we'll march on London. Hope the Dad's toe is better by then. It better be, ha ha! It'll all go easy as a greased slide.”

  What's in it for me? Jorinda wanted to ask, but did not. Instead she said, “Do you know the duke of Battersea?”

  “Simon Bakerloo? That snotty bastard? O' course I know him. A conceited, stuck-up, la-di-da fellow if ever there was one. He'll soon have the rug pulled from under him. The Dad has no use at all for any of that lot.”

  “Who pays for all this?” Jorinda asked shrewdly. “Burgundians don't come on tick, I bet?”

  “Oh, the Dad has plenty of mint sauce from Mid-sylvania. Also he plans to sell off Alfred's crown to some foreign excellency—the seljuk of somewhere; I forget who. It's a curiosity, d'you see—nearly a thousand years old. Someone has offered him a shovelful of dibs for it. All we have to do is find the old gager and take it off him.”

  “How d'you reckon to do that? Where is the king? Nobody seems to know.”

  “There's one that might.”

  “Who?”

  “Used to be a crony of my ma.” Lot's voice was loaded with spite. “Used to come calling round, all sorrow and smarm. 'Poor dear Adelaide,' all ducky-wucky and itsy-witsy. Carsluith, he was called in those days, till his dad the earl hopped it. Now he's Lord Herodsfoot.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember him. He knows about games. Collects rare games for the king.”

  “Ay. Rare games,” said Lothar, giggling. He left the room, singing, “Goodbye, little Pussy, your claws are so sharp. You made a fine snack for the pike and the carp.”

  Jorinda cried herself to sleep, curled in great discomfort on three chairs.

  , the master of Edge Place, ate, every day, what he called a hunting breakfast. This served as a reminder of earlier times, when he had gone out hunting six days a week. Now Sir Thomas kept a manservant, Gribben, standing behind his chair, whose duty it was to blow on a hunting horn every five minutes. Gribben also tended a brandy-warmer, a large bulbous glass about the size of a football, half filled with cognac, perched in a silver cradle over a lighted candle. At breakfast time this stood by Sir Thomas's plate, ready to pour over the helpings of porridge, eggs, ham, fish curry and buttered toast that followed each other on the daily menu. When the brandy had been poured, it was Gribben's next duty to step forward smartly and set light to it with a burning taper; then Sir Thomas vigorously extinguished its blue blaze with his napkin and bolted down each red-hot course in quick order. If Gribben did not step forward smartly enough, Sir Thomas lashed out at him with a hunting crop, which lay by his plate on the knife side.

  “Make haste, make haste! Hounds will be throwing off any minute now. Scent oughta be breast-high today, no time to lose.”

  “Yessir,” said Gribben, refilling the brandy-warmer, which he did three times at every breakfast, while Sir Thomas chomped on his flaming kedgeree.

  Hounds had not met at Edge Place for a score of years.

  “Hand me that second plateful of ham, Gribben; I'm sharp set. There's a chill in the air today; it may be a long run. I'll need extra rations.”

  “Excuse me, sir, Mrs. Smidge carved that plateful extra thin for Miss Jorinda. We're expecting her sometime today.”

  And indeed at that moment the sound of hooves and wheels clattering over cobblestones was heard down below.

  “That'll be Miss Jorinda now, I reckon,” said Gribben.

  “May the devil fly away with Miss Jorinda! She ought to be at school. Give me that plate of ham. Mrs. Smidge can carve another plateful, can she not? And why couldn't the gal get here in time for breakfast?”

  “It'll be on account of the floods, I daresay. Mortal bad, it's said they are between here and Distance Edge Junction,” said Gribben, passing over the ham and standing ready with his lighted taper. “We're lucky Edge Place stands high on the hillside.”

  Edge Place was an ancient Saxon homestead, built in the shelter of a horseshoe of woodland halfway up the side of the long, commanding rocky ridge of hill known as Windfall Edge that divided the Combe country
from the Wetlands. Like many early Saxon manors, the house stood on stone-built legs over an undercroft, where animals and farm implements were housed, with a great hall and living quarters on the first floor, approached up a flight of stone stairs, and on top of that, a roomy loft, where the servants and children had their sleeping quarters.

  Now the sound of quick footsteps coming up the stone stairs could be heard; the door flew open, and Jorinda came running into the great hall, her fur coattails flying.

  She tweaked off the heavy woollen wig that Sir Thomas wore at all times, planted a loud smacking kiss upon his bald head, then replaced the wig.

  “Sorry to be late for breakfast, Granda! But we met the postman plodding along on his dirty old mule, so I have brought some letters you wouldn't have had till tomorrow. Is there any toast, Gribben? I'm as hungry as a hyena.”

  “Mrs. Smidge will bring you some in a moment, my lady, and a plate of ham.”

  “No ham for me,” Jorinda said with a shudder. “I'm a vegetarian. I 'wouldn't touch meat with a pitchfork, not if you paid me.” She flung her fur coat over one of the chairs ranged around the massive dining table.

  “Vegetarian?” growled Sir Thomas. “First I've heard of it! Stuff and nonsense. Twaddle! Eat what you're served, girl, and don't come these puling, sanctimonious ways in my house!”

  “Oh, but, Granda, it's very, very wrong to eat live creatures!”

  Mrs. Smidge arrived with a plate of toast in time to hear this. Behind her was Nurse Mara with some of Jorinda's bags, on her way to the upper stair, which led out of the great hall.

  “Vegetablarian? What's this new come-over, may I inquire?” muttered Mrs. Smidge to the nurse, who threw up her eyes to heaven.

  “Fallen in love again!” she hissed. Mrs. Smidge puffed out her cheeks resignedly

  “Who is it this time then? Not the postman?”

  “I'll tell you when I've carried these traps upstairs. Is there a cup of tea? I'm parched!”

  Mrs. Smidge nodded and retired to the kitchen, Jorinda calling after her, “Bring me a pot of chocolate, Smidgey, and mind it's really hot and sweet! None of your meagre lukewarm brews!”

  Sir Thomas was puffing and growling over the letters Jorinda had handed him.

  “Russian boots won't arrive for another three weeks.

  Just why, tell me that? Why can't those lazy dolts deliver when they said they would? Laggardly brutes—irresponsible vodka-swilling nincompoops!” He tipped a gill of brandy into his coffee and gulped it down.

  “Russian boots, Granda? What are they? Who are they for?”

  “Clever fella of a Russian invented them—can't be all bad, those Rooshians, can they? Electric boots, help you walk twice as quick—just the article for getting up to London, over disputed ground, at the double.”

  “I should just about think so.” Jorinda was greatly impressed. “But do they really work?”

  “So old Marty Stokes-Belvoir—British ambassador in Muscovy, old schoolmate of mine—so he says. No modern infantry corps should be without em.”

  “Electric boots,” repeated Jorinda, a shade of doubt in her voice. “What exactly is electricity, Granda?”

  “Just a natural force—knocks trees over in storms— produced by friction,” grunted her grandfather. “Find it up there in the sky—two clouds thumpin' together. That's all I know. Rub a lump of amber on a piece of woollen cloth—makes scraps of paper fly about.”

  “I don't see how that can make you walk faster,” argued Jorinda, munching a piece of toast, which she had spread with anchovy paste. “And suppose you are on horseback?”

  “Oh, you couldn't ride. No, no, that would never do, give your wretched mount a wicked shock. But the boots will be just the article for foot soldiers—get them across country at the devil of a pace. Save issuing them with horses.”

  Jorinda's eyes sparkled with interest.

  “Which side are you on, Granda? The Burgundians? Or the United Saxons'?”

  “Hold your tongue, miss! Walls have ears. And it's none of your business.”

  “Granda, it's common knowledge in Bath that if the Burgundians get into power, they are going to ban foxhunting.”

  “What?”

  “Because hunting makes such a mess of the vineyards.”

  “Who says so?”

  “Everybody. So, which are you—?”

  “Hold your tongue, I said!” Sir Thomas, dangerously purple, opened one of his last two letters and stared at it in furious perplexity “What the flaming blazes is this? Knights Templar of Palestina? 'Chain of heroic love and good luck around the globe. All sanctified by His Reverence the Ninth in Succession to the Throne of the World Soul given on the fourth day of revelation at the New Olympus.' What the deuce is all this driveling balderdash, may I ask?”

  Jorinda jumped up from her chair and went to read over her grandfather's shoulder.

  “Oh, it is one of these chain letters, Granda. I know people at school who have had them. Yes, yes, you see, it says you must send it on within twenty-one days, and if you do that, some tremendous piece of good fortune will come your way.”

  “Send it on where? Send it to 'whom?” demanded Sir Thomas.

  “Oh, to anybody you choose. Send it to friends”—or to enemies, Jorinda was on the point of adding, but she caught Gribben's eye, gave him a wicked grin and slid her hand over her mouth.

  “And if I don't send it on, but drop it in the fire, as such a parcel of trumpery foolishness deserves?” snapped Sir Thomas.

  “Let's see, umm …” Jorinda studied the page of small, densely packed handwriting with a frown creasing her black brows and, after a moment, said, “Oh, well, some misfortune will happen to you then; it doesn't tell you what.”

  “So who in the world sent me this piece of rubbish?”

  “Goodness only knows, Granda. One of your friends, I daresay—somebody who wishes you well.” A glint in Jorinda's eye suggested that there was plenty of choice, but she made no suggestion. “I'll help you reply to it, Granda. It will be no trouble at all. Have you any paper? I'll do the twenty copies they say you have to send on. It will be good practice for me; Miss Gravestone kept saying that my handwriting was not sufficiently ladylike.”

  “Twenty copies? I'm supposed to make twenty copies of this total rubbish?”

  In his outrage at such a suggestion, Sir Thomas nearly drank off the boiling balloon glass of brandy. It was deftly fielded by Gribben, who slid it out of reach and substituted the coffee cup.

  “Now, now, sir! Best you take it easy for a minute on the settle, until hounds have met. I'll call you in good time before they draw off; don't you fret your head.”

  But Sir Thomas was reading his last letter, and its contents caused him to explode into a seething incandescence of rage that made his previous vexation seem no more than a mild murmur.

  “What's this, what is this? That pestilent boy—can I never have a day's peace from news about his horrible doings?”

  “Oh, dear, Granda, is it about Lot? I'm very sorry if he has done something to upset you. What is it now?”

  “That brother of yours—oh, very well, half brother— it's not sufficient that he's been expelled from that school of his, Fogrum Hall, for outrageous behavior and burning the headmaster's book—”

  “Burning his book—oh, yes, he did say something—” Jorinda began, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Some book the fella, Pentecost, wrote, was writing— ask me, headmasters ought to be teaching, not writing books; however, that's neither here nor there—your half brother took and burned it. Not only that, but now, it seems, he's been and gone and bought the place, Fogrum Hall, so he can't be turned out. What next?”

  “Bought it?” Jorinda exclaimed in a tone of slightly overdone astonishment. “How could he buy a whole school?”

  “That perditioned father of his—yours—came out of jail, as you may have heard.” Jorinda nodded. Her eyes were very bright and she had trouble holding her tongue
.

  “Well, it seems there is a law—Hogben's Law—prevents prisoners in the Tower from making use of any funds they may have in banks—but that don't apply once they are let out, parently Anyhow, it seems your father, Baron Magnus, seems he has assets, estates, overseas in Midsylvania. Settled a sum on your brother Lothar, bought up Fogrum Hall. And the two of them are living there.”

  “Well, is not that convenient! Are you not delighted? Now Lot and I have somewhere to live and we need not trouble you anymore,” Jorinda suggested innocently.

  “I'm still your guardian till you are of age, miss!” he growled. “And a pesky thankless task it is, let me tell you!”

  “Oh, Granda!” She twitched his wig aside and planted another kiss on the red-hot brow. “You know that you love us, really”

  “Not that diabolical half brother of yours, I don't! I don't love him at all. He's no kin of mine, I thank my stars. The sooner I'm quit of him, the better I'll be pleased. I wish the foul fiend would carry him to Tophet.”

  “But, Granda, if my papa is now so rich from estates in Midsylvania, have you not considered he might be of some help in the Saxon uprising? Or is it the Burgundian?”

  “Fiddle-de-dee, girl!”

  But just the same, despite her grandfather's snub, Jorinda observed a thoughtful gleam come into his eye.

  The kitchen of Edge Place was a modern installation; that is to say, it had been improved by Sir Thomas's wife, Theodora, after their marriage fifty years earlier. The lady came from the ancient Palaeologos family and could trace her forebears clean back to the tenth century, when they were Highnesses of Byzantium. She wished her food to be properly cooked and demanded a high-class Roman cuisine requiring charcoal braziers instead of an open fire in the middle of the kitchen. When she had come to Edge Place, the stable was next door to the kitchen, screened off only by a wooden partition, and sparks frequently set fire to this. Theodora had the kitchen moved upstairs to the living quarters and insisted on a granite sink, cupboards and a table made from a four-legged tree fork with a slab of oak the shape and thickness of a mill wheel jammed between its boughs. There were also wooden stools, for the comfort and respite of the kitchen workers, and on a couple of these, eating oatcakes spread with honey and drinking flagons of mead, were Mrs. Smidge and Nurse Mara.