Midwinter Nightingale

by Joan Aiken

  “No, that would be the cellars. First it stops at the pantry.”

  “And what am I supposed to do while you go a-pad-dling across the moat?”

  “This part of the house isn't used now. The butler left, so did the footmen,” said Piers confidently. “There's lots of empty rooms you could hide in. And all the cellars. And I'd go to Willoughby Chase and find your friend Simon and come back for you.”

  To Dido there seemed so many imperfections in this scheme that she hardly knew where to begin arguing. But as she opened her mouth to protest, Piers pulled a large brass lever and—to her astonishment and dismay—the whole cumbrous contraption began moving slowly downward, shuddering and jerking and giving off, as it did so, a series of ear-piercing groans accompanied by a loud continuous grinding shriek.

  “Holy halibut!” said Dido. “I reckon no one has used it for a while.”

  Even Piers looked a little worried. “We'll just have to hope that no one hears,” he murmured.

  There were enamel discs set in the wall by the brass handle, marked A, P, C and I. “I expect P is for pantry and C for cellar.”

  “What about I?”

  “I dunno. Perhaps it's the ironing room.”

  “Let's hope it isn't the interrogation room, where they ask the questions.”

  “Anyway we're only going as far as P,” said Piers, with his fingers on the lever.

  Dido had half expected the lift to break the aged cables that held it and plummet down the shaft. But this did not happen. It descended slowly—so slowly indeed as to give her a new worry that someone, alerted by the tremendous racket, would come running to the butler's pantry, and they would find a reception committee waiting for them when they came to a stop.

  They watched the wall sliding past—stone, brick, beams, plaster—then, jolting and shuddering, the lift came to rest.

  “See! What did I tell you?” whispered Piers in triumph. He worked the two stilts, which were about seven feet long, out of the lift.

  The butler's pantry was a small square room, lit by a gas bracket, with shelves holding dusty glasses and a large stone sink. The lift occupied one wall. At a right angle to it was a window looking out onto the moat. Beyond the window lay dark water, gleaming and rippling under the arc lights. To Dido it looked unbelievably menacing but Piers eyed it with cheerful confidence. The thought of walking on stilts, something he knew how to do, had acted like a tonic on his anxious nature. Now it was Dido who was filled with doubt and apprehension.

  “Honestly, Woodlouse,” she whispered, “don't you think you'd better let me work out some other plan? That moat gives me the hab-dabs.” She thought of the squirrel. “Suppose you was to slip, or land one o' the stilts in a pothole?” But Piers had opened the casement window and negotiated the stilts through it. He sat on the windowsill, feet outside, holding a stilt in each hand.

  “Don't you fret your head! The water only comes up to the third hole. I'll get across in a couple of shakes. And then I'll go up north to Willoughby Chase and find your friend Simon.”

  “He may not be there! And you don't even know the way.”

  “I'll ask.”

  He steadied the stilts, leaned forward and stood up on them. After a moment or two he began walking slowly standing still for a moment after he had planted each pole in its new position. Dido held her breath.

  Then—as when she had watched the squirrels playing—she saw time stand still. The small walking figure vanished; she had a prevision of the moat empty and turbulent, the water whirling and splashing up….

  “Piers! Come back!”

  “So this is where you got to!” said a voice behind her—a familiar voice full of relish and menace. Dido spun round. There stood Lot, grinning all over his spotty face, holding a pistol, which he was carefully aiming at the figure of Piers, now about twelve yards away, doggedly making his way across the water.

  Lot was evidently drunk. His face was flushed, his eyeballs were red, his breath reeked of brandy.

  “No!” cried Dido sharply. “Don't!”

  But he did. His finger was on the trigger and he fired. Piers toppled into the water. There was an instant commotion and a wild whirl of splashing.

  “That fixed him,” said Lot with great satisfaction. “Wretched little slug! There won't be much left of him by this time. And now it's your turn.” He was clumsily reloading the pistol.

  Dido did not wait. With the croquet mallet she knocked the gun from his hand, then sprang back into the lift and pulled the lever.

  “Viper! Vixen!” gasped Lot, rubbing his wrist. “Just you wait a moment till I fix you!”

  But the lift bore Dido downward into the dark.

  my hearing aid,” lamented the king. “And my keys—where are the keys of the palace?”

  The first twenty times the king had put forth this question, Simon had offered a truthful answer: “Your Majesty never had a hearing aid. And the keys of Saint James's Palace are back in London in the prime minister's pocket or with the lord chamberlain.”

  But as rational answers did not satisfy the king any longer, Simon now said, “Look, here are your keys,” showing him a bunch borrowed from Harry the aged porter, and, “Here is your hearing aid,” displaying a lump of candle wax, warmed at the fire and squeezed into a complicated shape. With this the king would be satisfied for a short time; then he would ask the questions again.

  In the past two days the sick man had become distinctly weaker—more rambling, more confused, less able to do anything for himself. And where in the world was Madam? She had gone off into the woods yesterday afternoon, as was her habit, but she had not come back when the time came to put the king to bed. Simon had had to do that, assisted by Mrs. Wigpie, the elderly housekeeper. Nor had Lady Titania come back at breakfast time.

  “It's not a bit like Madam to stop away overnight,” fretted the housekeeper. “Tis not like her at all! I jest pray she isn't caught in a flood; they say half the country this side of Wan Hope Height is underwater, and the lake level rising all the while. What'll we do if the dam goes, Mester Simon? We divna stay here; the auld hoose'll be flooded up to the second floor. What shall we do with His Grace?”

  “We'll have to move him somewhere else. And I believe we should do it today. Is there a cart or a carriage?”

  “Nay, Madam took the dogcart and the auld pony There's only your Magpie and the carry-chair—and all they blessed sheep.”

  The sheep were another cause of worry. What would become of them if the level of Darkwater Mere suddenly rose by twenty feet? The only bright spot in this anxiety was that the sheep now had such total trust in Simon, they followed him whenever he went out of doors. Which could be a nuisance at times.

  “What is the carry-chair?”

  Leaving the king in the care of Harry—all the other old servants seemed to have vanished, frightened away by the threat of a flood—Simon accompanied Mrs. Wigpie to a harness room next to the empty coachhouse, where he found an ancient leather sedan chair.

  “Twas used by Madam's granfer, time he busted his hip out hunting,” explained the housekeeper.

  The sedan chair had carrying poles front and back and was intended to be borne by two men. But it also had two iron wheels underneath. Simon tested its weight, lifting one of the poles, and wondered if he would be able to pull it along with the king inside it.

  “Harry could help ye, happen,” suggested Mrs. Wigpie.

  Simon dragged the sedan chair out into the main courtyard. Even without a passenger it was fairly cumbrous, for it had a solid wooden framework, and the seat, roof, sides and front flap were made of massively thick leather, probably ox hide. There was a wooden step for the passenger's feet, and a strap to hold him in position. Just as well, Simon thought, considering how frail and shaky the king had become. All we need is for him to fall on his nose.

  “But where can we take him that's safer than here? Oh, I do wish Aunt Titania were back!” Simon exclaimed, half to himself. But then he recalled tha
t mysterious note discovered in the old lady's work-basket. Who was Cousin Aelfric? Barnard Castle lay far to the north in the principality of Bernicia, which was ruled by Oswin Cantaguzelos. Oswin was no friend of King Richard, because he sided with the rulers of Elmet and Lindsey, lands that lay immediately north of London and were in constant dispute about boundaries and customs duties. Could Titanias cousin Aelfric be another contender for the English throne? If only the king were in his right mind! If only it were possible to ask him these questions! But in his present state that was not to be thought of; if he was able to understand at all, they would only distress him dreadfully.

  “I'm afeered summat bad's overtook poor Madam. 'Tis not like her to stay away so long wi'out leaving word. And 'tis my thought that we should get His Worship away directly. Look at the level of the watter, Mester Simon; 'tis up to the bridge already. In another hour or so, the bridge'll be underwatter.”

  Mrs. Wigpie was right, Simon saw.

  “If only it didn't rain so hard! We must take the chair over to the door so that His Majesty isn't exposed for more than a couple of minutes.”

  They did this; then the king was wrapped in several quilts with an oiled silk cover over all, and Simon, with Harry's help, carried him downstairs to the courtyard door. This was by no means an easy task. The king had become so thin that he was not very heavy, but the thinness made his joints and skin acutely sensitive, and he whimpered and groaned and exclaimed that the pain was atrocious, they were killing him, where in the world did they think they were taking him? In the rain too!

  Were they mad? Where was Aunt Titania? What was going on?

  Some of the layers of quilts had to be peeled off, or they would never have been able to pack the patient and his wrappings into the sedan chair.

  “Where are we taking him?” asked Simon, when His Majesty had been strapped in, and the apron-front buttoned into place, despite the passenger's cries that they were putting him in prison, they must let him out at once, it was a monstrous crime to fasten him up so, in the dark too!

  “I reckon we'd best carry him to Father Sam's chapel,” Harry said. “That is uphill from Darkwater. Twon't be flooded out yet awhile. And Father Sam will surely know the likeliest spot to keep clear of the floods.”

  “Can you help me to carry him as far as that?”

  Harry shrugged. “Never know till you try,” he croaked.

  “What about you, Mrs. Wigpie? Will you come along with us?”

  The old housekeeper shook her head. “I'll stop here, boy, up in the attics. I've carried a dozen lardy cakes up there, and apples and watter for tea. An' I carried your beautiful picture up there and all His Grace's bits and pieces. The attics won't flood. But here's a little bag of needments Madam packed up for him—in case of flooding—with his toothbrush and nightshirt and his hearing aid.”

  “I thought he didn't use a hearing aid,” said Simon, ashamed that he had not thought of these simple necessaries himself.

  “No, but Madam said he would soon need to, and that time'll soon be here…. And if Madam should come back before the flood, I can tell her where ye've gone. Now make haste! Watter's over the bridge this very minute.”

  She was right. Old Harry grabbed the two front carrying poles, Simon took up the rear pair and they splashed through an inch of water that was flowing over the timbers of the bridge.

  The sedan chair, with the king in it, was very heavy. At first it was almost more than Simon thought he could manage, and he was extremely worried about old Harry.

  “Can you do it?” he called.

  “Got to, han't I?” Harry called back.

  Going in front, Harry chose the way and struck up a footpath that led away from Darkwater Mere. “'Tis a shorter way to Saint Arling's Chapel, but over high ground. More of a climb, see, but us won't be flooded this way, nor like to meet any unfriends.”

  Simon had let out the mare, Magpie, on a long leading rein, and the owl, Thunderbolt, perched on her saddle. He had considered harnessing Magpie between the carrying poles, but dismissed the idea. However, to his amusement and Harry's astonishment, they had not gone more than a hundred yards from Darkwater Farm when the flock of sheep came bustling after them. A dozen sheep squeezed together under the sedan. The height of their backs from the ground was just enough to support its floor and the carrying poles. And this made an immense easement to the weight on the human carriers' arms and shoulders.

  “Well, by gar!” exclaimed Harry. “In all my born, I never knowed such a thing! They blessed wethers makes a fair heap of difference. Reckon they'll keep His Grace right snug in there, as well!”

  In fact it was plain that the warmth from the wool and the trotting animals underneath him had a very soporific effect on the king; for the first ten minutes, a stream of complaints and lamentations had issued from inside the chair, but these soon died away.

  “You don't think he's dead inside there?” Simon queried anxiously. Harry peered through the peephole.

  “Nay! Sleeping like a dormouse!”

  The sheep too were silent; the only sound made by the procession as it snaked along the woodland path was the squelch of a hundred feet, human and animal, on the sodden, rain-soaked forest floor. Simon was worried about the weather. The rain, which had been continuous for three days, was showing a tendency to change its character; the gray, sullen sky now came wandering down in snowflakes.

  “How long will it take us to get to Saint Arling's Chapel this way?” he asked Harry.

  “Matter o' forty minutes—don't we meet no hindrances.”

  There were remarkably few hindrances at present, Simon thought, mentally crossing his fingers. The forest seemed strangely empty; there were no rabbits to be seen, no squirrels, no foxes, no deer. Could they all have fled, seeking higher ground? The only wildlife he thought he saw, a couple of times, and that a long way off in the dim distance, were two bulky shadowy creatures, far too large for foxes and the wrong shape for deer—could they possibly be bears? The idea was so unlikely that he did not even mention it to Harry.

  But now there came a small interruption to their quiet progress: The owl, Thunderbolt, suddenly and silently took off from Magpie's saddlebow, lifted into the boughs overhead and returned next moment to perch on Simon's shoulder, clutching a white pigeon.

  “Well, I'm blessed! What have you brought me now, Thunderboy?”

  “Pears to me that pigeon be carrying summat a-wrapped round is ankle!” called Harry. “Best we stop a minute and you take a look, Mester Simon.”

  Conveniently the path here twisted between hip-high boulders. Harry and Simon were able to rest the carrying poles on these rocks and take a much-needed rest; and the sheep gratefully strayed away to munch the greenery on the forest floor.

  Thunderbolt gently let go his hold on the pigeon, who seemed uninjured but affronted at his sudden capture and shook his disturbed feathers to rights before fluttering away. A small packet had been attached to his leg, wrapped in oiled silk. Simon undid the wrappings and unfolded the paper inside them. He read: “Dear Cousin Titania: Snow and terrible weather up here hinder our troop setting sail at present. Best you go to F.H., as I told you in my last letter, to see what they are up to. Pray do your best to keep you-know-who alive. Aelfric Bloodarrow.”

  Oh, dear, thought Simon. Nobody is as simple as they seem. Not that Aunt Titania did seem particularly simple. Where is F.H. and what can she be doing there?

  Frowning, he showed the paper to Harry, who said, “Nay, I'm no scholard, Mester Simon. And don't-ee read it out loud to me; trees have ears, I'm thinking…. Best we be on our way.”

  But before they could move on, an arrow sang between the trees and stuck quivering in the path just ahead of the sedan chair. A voice cried, “Halt! Don't move!”

  Simon hastily slipped the paper into his pocket, just as a fair-haired man moved out onto the path ahead of them. He was dressed in tattered gray-green clothes that were a cunning match for the autumnal foliage still hanging on the
branches. He had an arrow notched in his bow, and looking past him, Simon could see a number of other men, similarly dressed, similarly armed, in among the trees.

  “Don't move!” the man warned again. “Our shafts are tipped with devil's claw juice; one of these through ye and you'd turn up your toes afore you could take another step.”

  “Who are you?” Simon asked quietly. “And by what right are you stopping us?”

  “URSA, that's what we are, young mister,” said the man.

  “URSA, what is URSA? I never heard of it.”

  “You shall, very soon, young sir! URSA will soon be a power in this land.”

  “What is it?” asked Simon again. He looked questioningly at Harry, who shook his head.

  “United Real Saxon Army!” said the man proudly. “Soon, I tell ye, you'll be hearing more of us. We're a proper match for all those Armoricans and Burgundians.”

  “But why are you stopping us?”

  “We aim to put down the tyrants. We need money.”

  “We are not tyrants! We are taking a—a sick friend to Father Sam at Saint Arling's Chapel.”

  “Let's see your sick friend.”

  With great caution, Simon undid the buttons of the sedan's leather apron front.

  The green-clad man peered in and was evidently somewhat taken aback at the sight of the king's pale, sleeping countenance. Plainly he did not recognize it.

  “Wha—who—is it dinnertime? Where am I?” quavered the king.

  “Don't worry, Cousin Dick, we shall be with Father Sam directly,” Simon reassured him.

  “I'm thirsty! I have a pain in my toe! A pain in my tooth! I'm hungry!”

  “Very soon, dear Cousin Dick, we shall be able to take care of all those things. Will you kindly let us pass?” Simon said to the green man. “You can see that our friend is very ill.”

  Querying looks passed between the green man and his mates in the trees.

  “Got any cash on you?” he asked hopefully.