Rotherweird

by Andrew Caldecott

Dere Sir,

  You did you gennerel person prowd, you did. A.’

  Oblong felt he had earned a siesta, and yet sleep would not come. The belfry’s frescoes danced in his head. Saxon peasantry, going about their seasonal tasks – the scene did not fit the town’s current hostility to ‘countrysiders’, so where had that come from? Then there was the peculiar image of the cloudy door and the emerging human-animal clones, and the letters MXVII. He instinctively translated the Roman numerals to 1017 – and with a start, sprang from his bed and rushed to his sock drawer to retrieve Robert Flask’s notebook.

  STOLE CAR ASC 1017.

  Oblong cursed his stupidity at missing the glaring connection between MXVII and 1017. The date, and the image in the frescoes of the harvesters in their primitive smocks, provoked a flash of inspiration: ASC referred to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

  By happy coincidence Oblong’s old university notes included a printed summary of the Chronicle’s coverage after 1000. The brief entry for 1017 did not make happy reading: Danes had ravaged their way from Cambridge to Northampton to Bedford, and then into Wessex, a time of unrelieved misery. Nothing connected to Rotherweird, but Oblong remained convinced he was right.

  King Alfred had founded the Chronicle. None of the nine surviving versions were the same, and the original no longer existed. Copies had been distributed to various monasteries, where they had been updated by local scribes. The oldest survivor resided in Winchester. Seven of the nine were in the British Library. His notes cited papers by an expert in early English manuscripts at the British Museum, a Dr Pendle.

  Despite the fact that he was following in Flask’s footsteps and breaching his contract by raking over the past, he reassured himself that a historian’s duty demanded no less. The following morning he took the charabanc to Hoy and found a telephone box. After a relay through various switchboards, he reached his target.

  ‘Donald Pendle.’ More croak than speech, the voice was dry as dust.

  Notebook at the ready, he introduced himself. ‘Oblong, Jonah Oblong.’

  ‘I trust you live up to your name – oblongus, meaning rather long.’

  Oblong ignored him. ‘I’m ringing from Rotherweird School.’

  ‘How strange. You’re the second in six months. As I said to your colleague, weird comes from the Saxon for ‘come to pass’ – your fate, in other words. If you’re ringing about the Chronicle, your

  Mr Flask can explain.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s left us.’

  ‘This is unpaid time, Mr Oblong.’

  ‘I’m sorry—’

  ‘There are only two entries, both for 1017, and similar. They end with a savage winter, but it’s summer that’s interesting.’ Oblong heard the rustling of papers. Flask must have asked the self-same question. He was definitely on the trail. Pendle croaked on, ‘Here is Worcester: “In these days a monster came to the Rotherweird Midsummer Fayre to wed. The place was saved by the Green Man and the Hammer.” And Winchester: “Strange reports from the village of Rotherweird. A Druid priest tells that a monster came to their Midsummer Fair with the midsummer flower. All were saved by the Green Man and the Hammer.”’

  Oblong recalled the curious flowering plant in the fresco. ‘Can you help on the midsummer flower?’

  ‘Rest assured there’s no such thing. I’ve read Beowulf, Sir Gawain and the Flora Britannica. I’ve checked the Library’s works on herbology. And don’t ask about Norse myths, I’ve read them too. As for the Hammer, he sounds like the sort of Dane you wouldn’t want marrying your daughter, but there’s no trace of him either. The Green Man is a universal among vegetative deities and a symbol of rebirth. Find him in churches, pagan sites and hanging outside an excellent pub near Reading. I blame the monks – they were partial to psychedelic mushrooms.’

  ‘I’m mighty grateful.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s time for old Pendle to keep the wolf from the door. And just remember: the Saxon language has seven vowels and six diphthongs, but still informs hundreds of our words. Including goodbye.’ With that envoi, Pendle hung up.

  Oblong felt a ghost at his shoulder. Flask had been there before him, but he had not been prompted by the frescoes. He wondered whether Flask’s note ASC 1017 had come before or after his conversation with Dr Pendle. Moreover, how could such apparent gibberish matter?

  How more knowledge can deepen a mystery, he reflected ruefully.

  *

  Elsewhere the Great Equinox Race was judged exceptional – the first dead heat in a century, and the outsider shown up, the grudging respect for his coraclemanship quickly displaced by his farcical failure to ascend the tower. To the universal revelry, there was but one exception.

  Gorhambury traipsed home, his last formal duty done. He could not raise the rent for April. A mind tuned to toil would fall into disuse, coils of once-hyperactive cabling gathering dust, a recipe for deep depression.

  3

  A Dangerous Play

  The actress’ research into the Sir Veronal’s character stalled as soon as it began – there was nothing of note in his bedroom or library, or indeed, anywhere else. Only the ground floor study held hope, but it was always locked and Sir Veronal had the only key – until by a cunning sleight of hand, she managed to steal an impression in a bar of soap. Getting it to a locksmith on Aether’s Way would be the next challenge. She had been housebound since their arrival.

  Stereotypically, a woman in her position in a comic play would find a stratagem, but she felt the role of Lady Slickstone worked better as a truth-teller. She also doubted that comedy was the right genre.

  ‘I’ve been asked by a Mrs Banter to tea. May I go?’

  Sir Veronal’s forehead twitched. ‘Yes, please do – and investigate a purchase of mine. Your wretched hostess owns Baubles & Relics where I bought some stones – find out where they came from, all she knows. Bargain if you have to.’

  Her interest in him had sharpened since the party. Initially Rotherweird had induced uncertainty, but recently he had changed, acquiring an intensity which, in her experience, his business activities had never provoked. Some grail still eluded him, but she suspected he was closing in.

  ‘Anything I should know about these stones?’

  ‘Only that their provenance is a mystery worth solving.’

  The actress knew better than to probe further. ‘I’ll report back,’ she said.

  With the actress out of the room, Sir Veronal summoned Rodney. ‘I have a task for you. You may reconnect briefly with your former self.’

  He gave his instructions, emphasising the need for caution and noting with pleasure the boy’s increasing deference, to him at least. He then adjourned to his study to record the previous night’s revelations. Frustratingly, he could not summon these lost memories of his own volition. They came only in sleep and, with few exceptions, the earliest and deepest first. His notes remained fragmentary. He recalled his parents’ disbelief at his precocious talents, his mother’s suffocating affection and his father’s suspicious distance. The memory was as much intellectual as visual. He recalled how his desire for change had been satisfied by his removal to the great castle in London, and his mixed feelings at having to share with children similarly blessed, nine to be exact. But unlike them he understood that force of intellect is nothing without force of spirit. The mysterious journey, the change from one cart to another and his arrival at Rotherweird Manor – these images had returned. He recalled even the teaching regime and Grassal’s library.

  Yet they must be preliminaries: somehow, somewhere, by some dark miracle he had acquired the gift of lightning. Every night he blew out the candle in anxious expectation.

  *

  The actress enjoyed her walk, politely acknowledged more than ignored. Modernist productions favoured free movement among your audience.

  Her chosen locksmith on Aether’s Way made no comment on the bar of soap and promised to have a perfect key by six. He insisted on no charge by way of thanks for the party. Valourhand�
��s speech did not appear to have had an adverse effect.

  Mrs Banter greeted her at the door in a cashmere jersey, a smart skirt and elegant shoes. ‘It’s so gracious of you to come, Lady Slickstone.’

  A well-to-do sitting room suggestive of moderate wealth, social ambition and a sound but unimaginative taste would have been the appropriate stage direction. Mrs Banter came across at first as a farce stereotype, the shallow and pushy socialite. She served china tea with a sponge cake, all the social niceties observed.

  ‘I do so like Lapsang,’ said the actress, setting a ladylike tone for the first twenty minutes. Mrs Banter advised on hairdressers, the only nail parlour worthy of the name, and Snorkel soirées. She dropped a few names and cut the cake. Flour spangled her lower lip.

  Her opening move in the real game was surprisingly direct. ‘I fear I have offended your husband.’

  The actress responded in kind. ‘I fear you have.’

  ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘He described you as greedy.’

  Mrs Banter changed gear. ‘I have been ostracised, Lady Slickstone, for my business acumen.’ She produced Snorkel’s letter. ‘Your husband purchased some beads from my shop. I ensured a fair price, as no doubt he would have done in my position.’

  The actress wondered what the script required. She felt the sense of power that improvisation brings. You act as you write – her script. Should she lie, or tell the truth? If the former, how should she present it? She decided that the scene needed more tension. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I assumed I was excluded from the party by mistake. It seems I was wrong.’

  ‘Talk me through it.’

  Mrs Banter gave a subtly edited version of her intervention in the sale before hinting at the solution to her predicament. ‘The problem with the likes of Sir Veronal and Mr Snorkel is reaching them. I need someone of influence to intercede.’

  The actress did not rise. She asked for a description of the stones.

  ‘Like beads without holes – but good colour, and unusual.’

  ‘Worth what he paid?’

  Mrs Banter arched her back. ‘For every odd object, there is a collector willing to pay. Sir Veronal understands that, surely.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  Mrs Banter’s eyes narrowed. ‘One good turn deserves another.’

  ‘I have little influence.’

  Mrs Banter tutted. ‘All wives have influence. They know so much.’ She delivered a cold smile, and the actress felt a prickle of dislike. ‘I like secrets too, which is why I excel at observing when unobserved. I know, for example, that this is the second time you’ve been out of the Manor on foot.’

  ‘Second time?’

  ‘People regard between two and three in the morning as the safest hour to wander the streets undetected, but I have long sight and a commanding view. I knew Sir Veronal would come that morning to buy because I’d seen him and his young friend the night before, huddled round my shop like a couple of carol singers. That’s why I dropped in, just at the right time.’ Mrs Banter paused to let the implications sink in. ‘But of course, you followed that night, no doubt intrigued by such a strange outing. You weren’t with them because you weren’t asked, and you weren’t asked because you weren’t wanted.’

  The actress revised her view. She was not sharing the stage with a farce stereotype. Mrs Banter was an altogether deeper and darker character.

  Mrs Banter’s voice upped a semitone. ‘He wouldn’t tell you the whys and the wherefores, now would he? He’s that kind of man –

  the sort who does not like to be followed – and you’re expected to be that kind of wife.’ Mrs Banter paused. From her bag she produced a leatherbound notebook. On its spine the actress saw the initials Sa-Sl. Mrs Banter patted the book with a proprietorial air. ‘You left the Manor at two-thirteen in the morning.’

  The actress allowed herself a half-smile at this intriguing turn of events. Mrs Banter might not be what she seemed – but then, nor was she.

  The actress countered neatly, ‘He may require an apology. He may even want to recruit you. He’s like that.’

  Recruitment! Mrs Banter’s hatred dissipated. To join the retinue of a knight of the realm! The hard edge to her voice softened. ‘Help me, Lady Slickstone – I never forget a favour.’

  ‘Then tell me where the stones came from.’

  ‘When I’m reinstated to my proper station, I shall do so with pleasure.’

  By way of reply the actress summoned a nuanced facial expression, implying an understanding between women.

  The key she collected on the way back. Hopefully, she now had the wherewithal to hoist her part to new levels.

  True to her interpretation of Lady Slickstone as a risk-taking truth-teller, she revealed to Sir Veronal that Mrs Banter snooped on her fellow citizens. Surprisingly, Sir Veronal seemed more interested in this news than Mrs Banter’s refusal to assist on the provenance of the stones before her restoration to high society.

  ‘Let her stew,’ he said, ‘then we’ll see.’

  Three words of dismissal, three words pregnant with some unspoken plan for the future – annoyingly, Sir Veronal still had all the lines.

  Old History

  1570. The Rotherweird Valley.

  ‘Hieronymus says autumn starts the day after the last full moon in August. He says you can tell from the dew and the spiders.’ Morval Seer holds up her paintbrush. She sits beside a tangle of hawthorn by the river. Her hair is plaited, thick, fine and golden.

  ‘Pig’s bristle,’ whispers Slickstone, his breath catching her neck. You’re a swineherd’s daughter, he implies, count yourself lucky to have my attention. Her skin tightens as he runs his finger from her shoulder to her elbow. She shrugs him off.

  ‘Who do you think you are to say no to me?’

  ‘There is ugliness – and ugliness,’ she replies.

  She enrages him, speaking back, accusing him of ugliness of spirit. God, he wants her. ‘The other women – I have had all three. You’ll find me expert.’

  ‘You think it a science, do you?’

  ‘How would you know? Or are you and that brother of yours bedfellows?’

  She hits him with the back of her hand – not hard, a gesture.

  He smiles. ‘He shows no respect. He will be punished.’

  ‘Hieronymus is Hieronymus.’

  Yet he catches the quaver in her voice – the hostage, the oldest card in the pack. ‘You’ll need a special friend, or his punishment will be harsh.’

  He will not win this particular game, he knows that. She will draw and colour for the Eleusians to save her brother, but that only – and Wynter will protect her so long as she does. He leaves her by the river, trying to catch the tumbling water in paint.

  Her own words sow the idea: you can tell from the spiders. He will bide his time, and then, when her painting is done, she will learn not to fence with him.

  There is ugliness and ugliness.

  1571. Rotherweird Manor.

  Ten years pass from Wynter’s usurpation, the course set from the beginning of his rule – experiment, experiment, experiment. They spend three days a week in Lost Acre, the remainder in record-keeping and analysis. Fortemain is excused, as Wynter shares his obsessive interest with celestial movement and the dynamics of force. Fortemain knows that orthodox theory, with its structure of crystalline spheres, is wrong. There are moving bodies in the heavens that would smash them to smithereens. From time to time Wynter insists on access to his notes, where Fortemain is exploring the interrelationship between the Rotherweird Valley

  and Lost Acre.

  Hieronymus Seer absents himself, pursuing the life he led under Sir Henry, studying unsullied Nature in the confines of the Rotherweird Valley. He justifies his inertia on the pusillanimous ground that Nature will win through in the end, but in truth, he has left his sister to languish and prostitute her gifts. She illustrates the successful experiments (if they can be so described) in The Roman R
ecipe Book – ‘Roman’ being a childish anagram for ‘Manor’. She does so only to spare her brother, but she knows their time is running out. As in a fairy-tale, where death comes with the last leaf’s fall, the book tells her fate. Now there is but one leaf left to fill. Her beauty, she feels, is wasted. She loves Fortemain, but does not dare risk the consequences. The others envy her beauty, all the more for her celibacy.

  The experiments have long ago moved beyond the mixture of mere animal and bird or fish and insect. Slickstone gathers children from the valley’s peasant families and, when they run out, the slums of London. These constructs mostly fail. Secretly she keeps a second book with Fortemain’s help, of these half-viable failures and the stones’ positioning. Maybe one day the process can be reversed and they can be restored to their former selves.

  Then comes the strike: Hieronymus Seer disappears. She hears malevolent talk about a visit to the mixing-point and then the mere in the forest. Fortemain has vanished too. That night Wynter comes and makes her fill the final page. This time there is no creature, just the stones in allotted positions and human silhouettes of no consequence – a soldier, a jester and the like.

  Bole lingers in the doorway, lengths of rope over his arm, a lopsided cat twined round one knee.

  Wynter speaks portentously. ‘I am betrayed. My time is nearly come – you must seek death to find resurrection.’

  So this is Wynter’s madness, Morval realises, a craving for divinity.

  He smiles, and Bole does too. ‘Gods have their monstrous guardians,’ he adds, ‘and the best need angels and demons.’ He adds, as if it were a gift, ‘You will have long life.’

  *

  The sky in Lost Acre is dark as pitch. The Eleusians stand away from the tree for safety as the storm gathers. They usually jeer and cheer, but not today. They are rapt.

  Slickstone’s cage is of iron, not wood, and in touching distance of the mixing-point, only the thinnest of threads holding it back. He is dicing with death. The other men have been weak, choosing to create familiars rather than go in themselves. The bizarre creatures sit on their shoulders or flutter around their heads. He does not think to ask what Wynter has done with the women; women are there to serve, after all.