by Iain Pears
*
The first thing I had to do was to head to Henry’s house and get all the information I could – check on the stability of the whole thing, see how big it had become, do basic tests for growth and resilience. Once that was done, I could perhaps start thinking about who I might persuade to go through and search for Rosie if she didn’t return. For the longer she stayed there, the stronger Anterwold would become. To anthropomorphise again, it would start getting ideas above its station; it would start sending out feelers to try and connect with its past and future, adjusting each to justify and confirm its existence.
I apologise; that’s not what it would do. That suggests a degree of eventfulness, of discrete existence which is not real. It is just that I do not know how to express it in any more accurate a fashion. To put it as crudely as possible, the longer it continued, the more it would try to shunt my future (or past, or wherever it was) out of the way and take its place. I was fairly confident this would not happen but it worried me, because then everything would be down to probability. As I had no idea what Henry’s universe was, then I could not calculate whether it was more or less likely than my reality.
The one thing I hoped was that his house would be empty when I arrived, as I was anxious to have an uninterrupted hour in his cellar. It was about lunchtime, and the middle of the week, so I didn’t think Henry would be there. I parked in a side street nearby, walked round and, unfortunately, spotted his bike outside the front door. What a nuisance. Lovely man. But not at the moment.
23
Rosie was led through the final door – she was convinced they had gone round in circles, they had passed through so many rooms – and into a huge hall. There was a large fireplace; the windows were not merely open, they seemed to have been actually removed so that it was light and airy, with what could only be described as a throne on a plinth at the far end. The servants halted at a little wooden balustrade that ran across the room with only a small gap. Rosie stopped as well, but one inclined his head to show that she was meant to go through. She did so – feeling nervous, as if she was being ushered into some form of court room – and the servants began stamping their feet on the broad wooden planks of the floor.
She was clearly meant to continue, so she started walking again. They started clapping, adding to the noise. She kept going, and they started shouting, ululating like African tribesmen she had seen once on television. From outside, she could hear others as well, joining in the noise, all shouting and stamping as loudly as they could.
Then – silence. Rosie was now confused and alarmed. A door opened and a woman walked – glided really – through it, and placed her hands together against her mouth, and bowed to her.
‘Greetings to you, and peace be with you through all your days, traveller,’ she said in a melodious voice which was so quiet Rosie could hardly make it out. ‘You are welcome to the hospitality of my house, as welcome as if it were your own. May you be comfortable and happy here.’
Rosie realised that this was a very formal, polite sort of greeting which presumably required an equally formal and polite reply. She didn’t know what it was, but ‘Hello’ didn’t seem right.
‘I thank you for your great kindness,’ she said, hoping this would do for a start, ‘and for the hospitality of your great house. May it know peace and happiness all the days it stands.’
Not bad. Not bad at all. It was evidently not what she ought to have said – the slightly perplexed look on the woman’s face showed that very clearly – but it seemed to be acceptable, if unorthodox.
The woman clapped her hands and immediately the others in the room began filing out. The last one closed the great doors, leaving them alone.
‘Good,’ she said in a warm voice. ‘Now come with me. You need some care and attention before the Festivity begins.’
She came close to Rosie and studied her carefully with her deep blue eyes. Rosie did the same in return. She was a beautiful woman, with a delicate face and a way of standing that – to Rosie – made her seem like a queen with her long fair hair under a tiara of glittering stones. She was dressed all in white with a blue sash around her waist. She wore no shoes, but had a ring of gold on every toe. Rosie thought that looked rather good.
‘Forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but who are you?’
‘I am called Catherine, widow of Thenald, Lord and Lady both of the domain of Willdon,’ she replied. ‘Although the conventions of etiquette insist that I am never introduced to anyone.’
‘Why not?’
She thought. ‘Probably because I should not need to be.’
‘You’re the one Jay is so frightened of?’
‘I very much hope so,’ she said with a light laugh.
‘I don’t see what he has done which is so terrible.’
‘Ah, but you seem to know very little. Young Jay has disobeyed the direct command of his master. He has trespassed on my lands and ventured unbidden into the Shrine of the Leader. For the first he could be dismissed from his calling, for the second he could become my property, and his children and his children’s children, for seventy and seven harvests. For the last, he could be cast out of human society for ever.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘It is. His master will scold him, then forgive him. As for the second, it is a law which has not been enforced in my time and I do not intend to revive it for Master Jay. Nonetheless, he has not covered himself in glory.’
‘He’ll be all right, then?’
‘Oh, certainly. Apart from burning ears, he will be returned to you in almost perfect condition. Now, through this door here …’
Lady Catherine led Rosie through a door into a much smaller room which was lined with the most curious shelves the girl had ever seen: lots of square wooden boxes filled with rolls of paper. It smelt of wax and dust and flowers. It was a bit like an office, like her father’s little study, except that it had big windows that opened directly onto the courtyard beyond and was bathed in light, while her father’s was always dark and smelled of stale pipe smoke. ‘What a nice room,’ she said.
‘Thank you. It is where the story of Willdon is kept.’
She said this in a way which weighed the words down with meaning, although Rosie didn’t see what the meaning was. It didn’t seem that serious a business, after all, to have stories. But she nodded as though she understood, and tried to look impressed.
*
While the mysterious visitor was becoming acquainted with Lady Catherine, Jay was being reminded how fearsome his master could be when in a bad mood. He had caused offence in so many different ways it was difficult to know which was going to be the most serious. Making a mess of the introduction was merely the last straw, but what could he do? The girl said her name was Rosie Wilson, and if he had said that, everyone would have burst out laughing. But to introduce her merely as Rosie made her seem like a servant, someone who had only one name. So he had stumbled and invented. So be it. He’d done his best; it was not as if he had time to prepare and besides, the welcome given them had been so unexpected he felt quite proud he had managed to say anything. He’d expected to be thrown into jail; instead they had been progressed through so many levels of greeting – six for himself, the number a scholar might expect, and Rosie was getting even more. Actually to go into the house – that was the sort of thing that only the greatest might expect.
Henary led him into a small room with a chair and a desk and closed the door.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Where should I begin?’
Jay shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but Henary held up his hand to silence him.
‘Just for once, Jay …’ he said.
Henary rested his head in his hands. ‘You really seem quite incapable of doing anything you are told. I cannot tell you how distressed I am that I am unable to punish you over the matter.’
Jay peered at him carefully.
‘The Lady of Willdon has prepared a great festival to mark the fifth annive
rsary of her accession, part of which will now also be to honour the guest you discovered. As the first person to encounter her, you will continue as her escort for the occasion. Please do not smile, speak or show any sign of pleasure, or you will provoke me beyond endurance.’
Jay sat completely immobile.
‘When we get back to Ossenfud I will have dreamed up a punishment which will be time-consuming, difficult and acutely unpleasant for you. Until then, I propose to say no more on the matter, although I trust you will do me the honour of not thinking that I am so addled that I will forget something which will be as satisfying to me as it will be miserable for you.’
Jay, who could not believe his good fortune and could not understand it either, nodded mutely.
‘Now, you have a few hours to prepare yourself, so you will go, bathe and dress in clothes which do not bring disgrace either on East College or on me.’
‘But Master …’
‘Well done. Well done indeed. I believe you have kept quiet for nearly two minutes. That must be a record. If you wish to speak, you can answer questions instead, not ask them. This girl. Her name is Rosalind?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does she come from? Who is she?’
‘I don’t know. She talked a little about herself, but I couldn’t make sense of it. We didn’t have much time. She said she wanted to go home, and kept talking about a light which wasn’t there any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She just said a light,’ Jay replied helplessly.
‘A light? In the woods?’
‘That wasn’t there.’
‘Are you – or is she – playing some sort of elaborate joke?’
‘Believe me, I would not dare at the moment.’
‘A credible answer.’
‘As for her – I don’t know. I don’t think so. She seemed very worried, and annoyed. You should ask her. She was very willing to answer the few questions I put to her. I just didn’t understand the answers.’
‘I will certainly do so. Meanwhile she must be treated with the utmost care.’
‘Why?’ A question. Henary raised an eyebrow.
‘Because, young man, she may well be the key to knowledge of immense importance. We must not frighten her and must not lose her. Your job – and the reason your punishment is to be postponed temporarily – is to make sure my wishes in this matter are respected. You know her already. Did she like you?’
Jay blushed.
‘Perhaps she did. Perhaps she trusts you. You must live up to that trust. Watch over her carefully.’
‘If she has to be protected and kept from others, why display her at a festival?’
‘The festival, not a festival. The grand ceremony to confirm the rule of the domain holder. The etiquette is complicated and precise. Believe me, I would keep her locked away if I could, safe from prying eyes. If that is understood, you may go and prepare yourself, and I will go and meet your fairy.’
*
‘Ah! Henary,’ Catherine said, turning as the door opened. ‘How was that?’
‘Most enjoyable,’ Henary said with a smile.
‘Good. Now, you two know each other already, so there is no need to go through that. Henary has asked to speak with you alone for a while. I trust that is acceptable?’
‘Um … yes. Why not?’ Rosie said. ‘As long as you haven’t been mean to Jay. If you have, I won’t say a word to you.’
Henary appeared to find this answer highly pleasing. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. ‘We are the very best of friends,’ he assured her. ‘All his limbs and bodily organs are exactly where they should be, and I have packed him off for a long bath.’
‘That’s all right, then. What do you want to know?’ she asked. Catherine nodded to them both and slipped quietly out of the room.
‘Well,’ Henary replied, as he gestured for her to sit, waited until she had done so, then sat himself, ‘I would like you to answer a question. How do you speak so well?’
Rosie did her best. ‘Mummy tried sending me to elocution lessons, because she thinks ladies should speak properly, and of course we have to recite poetry at school, you know. I never win, but I do well enough.’
‘So you are a scholar?’
‘A what? Oh, a scholar, I suppose you mean.’ She was perplexed by the way he pronounced the word for a moment. ‘Oh! No. Everyone knows I’m not clever enough for that. Are you a foreigner? I suppose that explains why you talk so oddly.’
‘I’ve always been told my enunciation of the values of the speech is perfect,’ he said stiffly. ‘Skoo-LAIR. Short, then long, emphasis on the second syllable.’
‘It isn’t said like that,’ Rosie said. ‘It’s SKOL-ur. Short o, emphasis on the first. Hard ch.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Are you French?’
The conversation was not going as Henary intended. He walked to a large box in the corner and brought out a manuscript, which he lovingly removed from its protective casing. ‘Would you come over here, please?’ Rosie obediently did as he asked. ‘Now tell me, can you read this?’
She reached out to take it, but Henary grabbed her hand. ‘Careful!’
He was so obviously and genuinely alarmed that Rosie instantly apologised, although she could not see what she was really meant to be apologising for. She craned her neck and peered over his arm.
‘What is it?’
‘A fragment from a document I have been working on for many years.’
‘I’ll give it a whirl. “In the autumn of his life,”’ she read swiftly, ‘“Esilio gathered all his followers, and spoke. ‘My friends, my journey is at an end. You must continue without me, knowing that for you, also, an end is near. This place belongs to all men, all women equal. I will see you no more, until we meet again at the end of time.’ The old man lay down his head and died. He was an hundred and twenty, yet his eye was not dim, nor his force abated.” Well,’ Rosie said, looking up at the reverent face of Henary, ‘that’s a bit odd. All women equal? His eye not dim? It should be “all women equally” and “eye not dimmed”. It must have been written down in a real hurry.’
She noticed to her very great surprise that Henary was looking at her with disbelief. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Do you know what that is?’
‘Not the faintest idea. Sounds a bit like the Bible. You know, Moses and the Promised Land. We get that at Sunday School. It’s the same idea, surely? Old man, leading his flock to a new land and dying just as he gets there.’
‘Yet you read it and find fault.’
‘It’s not hard. The handwriting’s terrible though.’
Henary smiled bravely. ‘We must talk some more,’ he said. ‘Alas, it is now time for you to prepare for the evening.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice.
*
The next few hours were, in Rosie’s opinion, the most wonderful of her life. Lady Catherine returned and led her into a room – a whole series of rooms, in fact – which were full of all sorts of delightful things. Baths, thick cloths, bottles of strange substances; it was warm and comfortable there, with a thick pall of steam from hot water coming from one of the rooms, heavy smells of perfume coming from others.
‘Here I will leave you again,’ she said. ‘You will be in good hands.’
‘What are they going to do to me?’ Rosie asked in alarm.
‘Prepare you for the festivity. We cannot have an honoured guest looking like … well, you are not dressed quite properly. You will be washed, and prepared, and dressed.’
‘You make me sound like a chicken,’ Rosie said. ‘You’re not a witch, are you? I mean, like Hansel and Gretel?
‘Like who?’
‘You know. The story. The boy and a girl who get captured by a witch, and she fattens them up to eat them, then they push her in the oven and escape.’
‘Why do you want a witch? Are you ill? I could summon one from the village if there is something which ails you.’
‘Oh, no,’
Rosie said quickly. ‘No. Not in the slightest. Forget I said it.’
‘Very well.’ She clapped her hands and two women appeared, one scarcely older than Rosie and one about the same age as her mother. They went through the ritual of greeting once more.
‘We will meet again at dusk. Until then you must relax and cleanse your mind and body of all wearisome things.’
She left, and they began.
In the back of Rosie’s mind was still the thought that this might be an elaborate trap – although it seemed a lot of trouble to go to. It might be they were preparing her to become a human sacrifice – she had read about that. Or that they planned to eat her. Or something equally horrible and unpleasant.
But they were so nice and once it was clear they had no intention of listening to her protests – I’ve been doing my own bath since I was six, thank you very much – Rosie accepted that she had no choice but to give in.
Conversation was not very good – Rosie tried to ask them questions, but they just blushed and giggled when she did – so communication was limited to requests and instructions, delivered in a strange accent, very much as though they were speaking a foreign language which they knew only poorly. ‘If you would have the goodness to stand while we remove …?’
They did this, and were much less perturbed by Rosie standing there with nothing on than she was; then they bathed her, and led her to a table where she received her first massage, which she enjoyed greatly once she got used to it, although at the beginning she was still thinking actively about cannibalism. By the end – pummelled as she was – she was so relaxed she didn’t care. Let them eat her! She didn’t mind.
Then another long soapy bath, after which she was dried and anointed again with oil from head to toe. Next they wrapped her in thick towels and began on her feet, which elicited a tutting of disapproval. These they scraped and rubbed, then painted her toenails a bright red and slipped rings over her toes. One gold and two silver on each foot. Her hands were treated similarly.