The Stolen Lake (Wolves Chronicles)

by Joan Aiken

"Some influence that had been blocking his mind was suddenly removed," said Bran, appearing with his usual unexpectedness.

  "Yes, you old schoolmaster!" said Holystone, clapping him cheerfully on the back. "But what influence?"

  "That we shall no doubt discover when we reach Bath."

  As dawn was approaching, King Mabon now suggested that they should halt and take breakfast where they were, in order to arrive at Bath tolerably rested and refreshed, since nobody had any idea what kind of reception might be waiting for them there. Accordingly fires were lit, wine was mulled, yams thrust into the embers to roast, and sausages toasted on sticks. Dido, who was ravenous after her day's solitary confinement and starvation in the city of Sul, could hardly bear to wait for the food to be ready.

  "Was he very angry—the old guardian? When he found I was gone?" inquired Elen, coming to sit by Dido on a folded toga.

  "That he was! Poor old Whiskers."

  "When you are gone

  I'll cry all day—

  My tears will wash

  My feet away—"

  sang Bran, coming to lower himself on the ground beside the girls.

  "Mister Bran—why do you think Mr. Holy got his memory back?" Dido asked.

  "I expect we shall discover that one of the people attempting to prevent his return suddenly lost the power to do so."

  "Why should that happen?"

  Bran shrugged. "In several ways. We shall see soon enough, no doubt."

  When they resumed the march, Bran rode alongside the two girls. Dido would have liked a long conversation with Mr. Holystone—there was so much she wanted to ask him!—but she could quite see that he had a lot of important affairs to discuss with King Mabon and Captain Hughes. Bits of their conversation came floating back: "Dissident elements in Hy Brasil ... abolish practice of head shrinking ... joint action to exterminate the aurocs ... improved conditions in the silver mines..."

  "Bran," said Dido, "do you think Queen Ginevra will let him do all those things? I reckon she quite likes those shrunken heads."

  "Who can tell?"

  "I'd a thought you could. Can't you tell the future?"

  "After a fashion, yes, I can. But, if you recall, I can do nothing to affect it. Only continue to remind people that free will exists."

  "What's free will, Mister Bran?"

  "In Bath's happy city

  Where the girls are so pretty

  How free was my will

  As I freewheeled along

  Why, even a sparrow

  Can choose broad or narrow

  And a man can choose daily

  Between right and wrong..."

  sang Bran.

  "You'll never get a sensible answer out of him," said the princess. "Not when he's in this mood."

  "Bran," said Dido, "how come you knew Mrs. Vavasour so well?"

  The princess looked doubtfully at Bran, as if wondering how he would take such a personal question. But he answered readily enough. "Why, who should know her better than I? I was married to her for five hundred years or so—sweet Nimue! Dear Nynevie! And to show her wifely affection she threw me into an enchantment and shut me up under a stone—rather like you, Princess, but for a deal longer."

  "You were married to Nynevie? Then are you sorry she's dead?"

  "Of course I am. You can't be married to somebody and not have some feeling for them—however wicked they may be, or how badly they treat you."

  Elen rode in silence for a long time after this exchange.

  Now they were very close to Bath, approaching it from the southern aspect, over Odd Down, one of the foothills of Mount Damyake.

  As they came near enough to distinguish individual objects, Dido saw that the walls of the city were lined with silent watchers; news of their approach had evidently gone ahead of them to the city. The great south gate was closed; but when they came within fifteen hundred yards of the walls, it slowly swung open.

  "Humph," muttered Lieutenant Windward, who happened to be riding beside Dido at that point (she and Captain Hughes had been provided with ponies). "I don't much care for the look of Mount Catelonde. Or Damask, come to that." Great, thick, oily black piles of smoke kept knotting and piling upward from Catelonde's crater, every now and then pierced by a gush of sparks or flame; and a distinct bulge had appeared on the shoulder of Damask—"like a boil about to burst," as the lieutenant pointed out.

  He went on: "I only hope the superstitious folk in Bath don't connect it with Holystone's return and decide that he's a bad halfpenny and Grandmother Sul don't want him. Or we'll all be in the basket!"

  Now there was a change in the order of march.

  Holystone rode out ahead on his lively black pony. The fitful sunlight (coming through immense clouds of black volcanic smoke) fetched gleams from his diadem and the hilt of Caliburn; he looked very kingly.

  But Captain Hughes muttered testily, "All very well, but, bless my soul, I wonder if that's wise? It only wants one marksman with a musket—or crossbow..."

  Holystone, however, rode on steadily across the stony plain, and his troop quietly followed him.

  When he reached the gate, he looked up, without speaking, at the black heads of the watchers, crowded like starlings on the walls at either side.

  One of King Mabon's heralds spurred forward and blew a loud blast on a bocina, then bawled resonantly through a trumpet-shaped wooden mouthpiece: "The High King, Artaius Mercurius Ambrosius, true son of Uther Ambrosius, Pendragon of Cumbria, Lyonesse, and Hy Brasil, returns in peace to his city of Bath Regis."

  There was a long moment of hushed silence following this announcement; then the whole city of Bath almost lifted off the ground in deafening response. Bells clanged till the steeples rocked, muskets were discharged, bocinas clamored, horns rooted and tooted, rattles clacked, and over and above and through all the other sounds, human voices could be heard shouting joyfully, "Welcome, welcome to our Rex Quondam! God bless Mercurius Artaius! God bless King Arthur!"

  Holystone was evidently much moved. He got off his pony for a moment, knelt to kiss the threshold of the gate, then, quite simply, wiped his eyes on the pony's mane. As he was about to remount, a boy, still blackened from work in the silver mines, came running to offer him a huge key, shaped like a basilisk, which was apparently the key to the city of Bath. Holystone received the key on its cushion, made some remark which set the boy laughing, then handed it back, swung himself into the saddle, and rode on up Damask Street.

  It was as if no one had been sure that he was really coming; as if they could not quite believe their luck until they had the evidence of their own eyes. Now, as he rode slowly along, windows opened, and bunting hastily rolled out of them to hang in brilliant stripes down the front of the white houses; ropes flew on arrows across the streets, and trails of pennants followed; in three minutes the whole route was transformed to an avenue of dazzling colors.

  By the time they had turned the corner into Ertayne Street, people had fetched out festive costumes, were running from their doors fastening red and green kerchiefs round their necks, pinning on gaudy aprons, tying streamers on their hats. Dido, looking sideways at the dancing, waving, shouting, screaming, exuberant crowds who fluttered bright handkerchiefs, blew kisses, and tossed flowers, could hardly believe that they were the same surly, scowling citizens she had encountered on her previous visit.

  But there were very few children.

  Now, as they turned right again and came into the big cobbled palace yard, Dido saw that as many as possible of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain had been hustled out of the museum, quickly polished up, and set on plinths: the basket, drinking horn, halter, knife, cauldron, whetstone, garment, pan, platter, chessboard, and mantle. The chariot had unfortunately fallen to pieces during its hasty removal, but the drinking horn, pan, and platter shone bravely, and somebody flung the mantle, moth-eaten but gleaming with red and gold embroidery, over the rump of Holystone's pony. He pulled out his sword and held it up in salute; it was greeted by
a hushed, breathing murmur: "Caliburn! He has Caliburn!"

  Somebody had also brought along the Four Ancient Creatures from the zoological garden, and there they were, blinking and yawning in wickerwork cages: the Ousel of Cilgwri, the Stag of Redynvre, the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyrd, and the Eagle of Gwern Abwy. Holystone laughed when he saw the aged creatures, and called teasingly, "Old you may be, my ancient friends, but I am older yet! Still there is work for us to do!"

  Now the crowd quieted down, for in all this joyful excitement and hubbub there had been no sign from Caer Sisi, the royal palace. In fact, when Holystone turned the head of his pony in that direction, great jets of steam suddenly shot from the ground in a ring all round the palace on its island, as if to protect it from intruders.

  "Dear me! That's a highly ingenious form of defense," muttered Captain Hughes, who happened to be beside Dido just then. "I must send a memorandum to the war office about it. A barricade of scalding steam—most effective. Expensive, of course ... I am not sure that it would be practicable in His Majesty King James's dominions." He added thoughtfully, "I am afraid it gives no very encouraging clue as to Queen Ginevra's intentions."

  Holystone halted his pony a safe distance from the steam jets and sat regarding them. The herald came up beside him again, blew another blast on his bocina, and declaimed, "The High King Arthur, Rex Quondam et Futurus, stands here outside his palace of Caer Sisi. Who bids him welcome?"

  "That's a tactful way of putting it," commented Captain Hughes.

  After one revolution of the rotating palace, three people emerged from the smaller door at the top of the steps: the grand inquisitor, the vicar general, and old Mrs. Morgan.

  Now the jets of steam slackened down until they were only about two feet high, and the two men, Gomez and Fluellen, picked their way forward, edging between the spouts with some care, and advanced until they were within speaking distance of Holystone.

  "Are you in truth Artaius Mercurius, son of Uther Pendragon?" demanded the vicar general.

  "I am!" replied Holystone.

  "What proof do you give in confirmation of your statement?"

  "The mark of Gwydion on my arm"—he bared it—"and the sword Caliburn in my hand."

  "Under whose recognizance do you come?"

  "King Mabon, ruler of Lyonesse, and Caradog, son of Caradog, guardian of the Pass of Nimue."

  The two men consulted together. Mrs. Morgan went back inside the castle after a very sharp scrutiny of Holystone. Gone to tell the queen, Dido guessed.

  The two officials consulted together, and Gomez announced, "It is enough! We accept your recognizance, Pendragon, son of Uther. Advance to be greeted by your loving queen!"

  "So I should hope!" tartly commented Captain Hughes.

  Now there ensued a long pause. Dido expected that the castle would stop spinning, that the great doors would open; but neither of these things happened. Maybe they've forgotten how to stop it, she thought to herself; or more likely the machinery's gone wrong, rusted after all this time.

  Whether this was the case, or whether the queen was still doubtful of her caller's legitimacy, the castle continued to revolve. However, after several more turns (and evidently with considerable difficulty, owing to her girth and lack of mobility) Queen Ginevra herself presently emerged through the rotating door and stood at the top of the black marble steps. A throne was hastily carried to the spot by several guards. She sat down on it.

  Then, in a faint, high, weary, but carrying voice, she called, "Arthur, son of Uther. Rex Quondam! Come forward and be recognized by me!"

  Holystone walked forward, crossed the bridge, and mounted the steps. Under his beard he was very pale, Dido noticed. She also noticed, with some surprise, that the queen did not seem to have made any particular alteration in her garments or coiffure. She still wore the flowing white robe, like a nightdress, and the plain circlet of diamonds over her lanky hair.

  Evidently Lady Ettarde had not come up to scratch in the matter of festive robes.

  For that matter, where was the mistress of the wardrobe?

  Glancing round, as this thought occurred to her for the first time, Dido noticed Silver Taffy not far away, edging through to the front of the crowd. He was leading somebody by the arm.

  A man in the crowd near Dido could be heard to mutter, "The queen looks more like his mum than his wife, don't she?"

  And a woman snappishly replied, "Well, he's been reborn and she hasn't. Some people have all the luck!"

  The vicar general in ringing tones proclaimed, "Welcome, Arthur, Rex Quondam, to your faithful, devoted, loyal, and long-suffering queen Ginevra, who has waited for you these thirteen hundred years, keeping your kingdom safe for you. Great be their reward who remain faithful in adversity!"

  "What hadversity did she have to put up with?" somebody murmured. "She's never gone hungry!"

  Queen Ginevra's high voice was heard to exclaim, "Arthur! It really is you!" in a tone of genuine astonishment.

  And he answered steadily, "Yes, it's I. Guinevere—Jenny! It's been—it was good of you to wait for me so long."

  And, stepping forward, he bent down (the queen looked like a fat white dumpling beside his spare erectness) and kissed her on her broadish brow, above the pouched, poached-egg eyes, below the greasy white hair.

  Dido, glancing at Elen, who was on her left-hand side, noticed that the princess looked likely to faint. She was swaying dizzily in her saddle. Leaning across, Dido grabbed her arm. "Put your head right down on your pony's neck!" she hissed.

  "Why, husband, did you stay away so long?" the queen was asking in a complaining tone. "And why, when you did come back, did you go to Lyonesse first? And then come here at the head of an armed force?"

  Dido did not catch Arthur's reply. Silver Taffy had come up to Captain Hughes and greeted him with a grin and a wink.

  "Got back then, I see, sir! No problems? Found the young ladies, all right and tight?"

  "Certainly," said the captain coolly. "And you—what have you been doing? Where have you got that poor devil Brandywinde?"

  "Oh, he's here, sir—just behind me. Well, the first thing I did," he laughed cheerfully, "was to put paid to my auntie Ettarde's account. She won't sew anybody's shroud, not ever again. She lies spitted like a partridge among her tuckers and farthingales!"

  "What, you wretch—" began the captain, in a tone of horror. But Taffy only laughed, and moved farther toward the front of the crowd, pulling Brandywinde behind him. The latter appeared wholly confused, as if he did not know where he was, or what he was supposed to be doing.

  Meanwhile, it was plain that the reunion between the queen and her husband was not going very well. Ginevra continued to scold poor Holystone for his slowness in returning to her. He looked miserably depressed. The queen's eyes had turned to their mirror-blankness, reflecting only the patchy, smoke-flecked blue sky. At this moment Catelonde gave a loud, angry rumble.

  Poor Mr. Holy, Dido thought. He just can't act loving enough toward her—who could? And that's what she can't stand—o' course she can see that he don't like her one bit. Anybody could see that. He can't help himself. Oh, why do I have to feel sorry for people all the time, however nasty they are?

  "You are a very faithless, untrue, unkind husband!" Ginevra suddenly cried shrilly. "How do I know what you have been up to all these years?"

  King Arthur's return to his wife was going horribly wrong.

  Mabon called out angrily, "What about you, you miserable woman? I hadn't been going to say anything about it, if Gwydion was really fond of you—let bygones be bygones is my motto—but what about my daughter? What about Elen? You had her abducted—twice! You were going to murder her!"

  Ginevra turned her sightless eyes in his direction.

  "I had to do it," she said complainingly. "It was the will of Sul. I had to survive, for the good of the kingdom." And she repeated, "It was the will of Sul."

  "Sul be blowed!"

  "Oh, hush, Papa!"

  No
w Silver Taffy, shrewdly perceiving that the mood of the crowd was changing and turning hostile toward the queen if she was not prepared to welcome Arthur, strode out in front of the people and shouted, "Yes, and what about all our girl-children, that she said were taken by the aurocs! We all know what really happened to them! What about them, you old she-hyena?" He turned to the crowd and shouted, "She had them! She murdered them—every one!"

  There was a gasp of horror from the throng.

  But at this point Elen, suddenly recognizing Silver Taffy, exclaimed, "Why, but that is the man who took me prisoner for the queen—you hateful monster! Whose side are you on, you double traitor?"

  Forgetting her previous faintness, she pointed an accusing finger at Taffy. And Hapiypacha, as if he had been waiting all day for this signal, launched himself like a javelin toward the pirate. Taffy went gray with terror at sight of the snow leopard bounding toward him; he spun round, wailing, and fled along Westgate Street. Hapiypacha bounded lightly after him, and in a moment the pair were out of sight; there was not the least doubt as to what would happen.

  Into the silence which followed this grim occurrence came the whining voice of Mr. Brandywinde: "And what about her wickedness and witcheries? Turned my fingers to blobs of dough, she did—look, friends"—and he exhibited them. "Can't even spread bread and butter! Compensation, there ought to be, for all she done—the tongues cut out, the shrunken heads!"

  "Ay, so there ought!" shouted the crowd.

  Queen Ginevra looked bitterly at the sea of faces confronting her. Incomprehension and despair were on her flabby features and in her shining, sightless eyes.

  "Oh!" she cried out piercingly. "How can any of you understand me? I hate you all! But"—to Holystone—"I hate you worst of all!"

  Holystone said hoarsely, "Guinevere, you have been a selfish, wicked woman—an unkind shepherdess, preying on your flock. I condemn your actions, and I repudiate you!"

  "Oh—you brute! It was for you! I did it for you!"

  With a dreadful, raging, moaning cry, a shriek that went through the hearts of her people like a saw through tissue paper, Queen Ginevra turned from Holystone and pushed her way into the revolving door, which reached the head of the steps just at that moment.