by Joan Aiken
‘Y-yes,’ stammered Dido, who was a good deal shaken by the speed at which all these things had happened.
The boat was rushing towards the Deptford shore. Just here, south of the river, was a small boatyard; by its entrance a great tangle of frozen nets lay draped over the bank.
‘Aim for the nets!’ Wally shouted as he put the tiller across. Dido flung herself out, and, ducking under the boom as it swung over, Wally followed her. Both of them rolled, winded, gasping, but otherwise uninjured, on to the pile of nets. And the Margrave’s ice-yacht, with the two groaning men huddled on its bottom boards, sped on eastwards, towards Woolwich Basin, where the river was not yet quite frozen.
Dido picked herself up and said, ‘What’ll us do now?’
‘Run like the very devil,’ said Wally. ‘See those black dogs over there? Only they ain’t dogs –’
A sinister howling came to them over the ice.
‘Wolves! Croopus, Wally!’
Since the wolves were north of them, where the river curved in a great U-bend, Wally and Dido ran southwards, towards the heights of Blackheath.
‘They are going to catch us!’ panted van Doon. ‘I cannot run any faster – I have a bad pain in my side.’
‘Then we must hide,’ said Is, who had not complained about her bruised and bleeding feet. She looked around them at the wizened thorn trees, at the wild heathland, veiled in snow; she scraped the ground with her bare foot.
‘Quick – lie down. What a mussy it snows so.’ She pulled up armfuls of dead, frozen bracken and made van Doon huddle into the hollow she had thus created. Then she spread the bracken on top of him, thumping it down, flattening it, until it looked like any other part of the forest floor. Then she huddled down beside him, pulling more bracken over herself. ‘Lucky those perishers ain’t got bloodhounds,’ she remarked, ‘or they’d nabble us for sure. This way we got a chance.’
Indeed the coachman, gravedigger, and two footmen ran right past where they lay. One of the men trod on the Slut’s hand. Soon they were out of sight and out of earshot.
14
AT ST JAMES’S Palace, a grand ball was being held, to conclude the day’s festivities. Mr Twite’s music was played. The king was there, looking a little awkward and melancholy, because he was acquainted with so few of the nobility and gentry who were gathered to do him honour. But he danced several times with Princess Adelaide of Thuringia, a plump, plain, kind-faced lady in orange satin and steel-rimmed glasses.
‘Och,’ he sighed to her, ‘fine I wish I was back in bonnie Scotland and awa’ from a’ this clamjamfry.’
Princess Adelaide squeezed his arm comfortingly. ‘Ach, never mind it, liebster Richart! We will come to know them together, these people, in a little time, you and I. When we are married we shall live among them very happily, you will see. They are all good, kindly people, I am sure.’
‘All except this one,’ muttered the king, as the Margrave, elegant in white satin and huge pearl buttons, approached him.
On his way, Lady Maria intercepted the Margrave.
‘My dearest Eisengrim! Your music! Your musician! What a delight! What a rapture! We are exhilarated – liberated – transported! I, for one, believe that music could heal any trouble in the world.’
‘Thank you, dear lady,’ said the Margrave briefly, and moved on towards the king, who said, ‘Transported! Yes, and that’s just what you are going to be. And not before time.’
‘Shall I withdraw, liebster Richart?’ said the princess.
‘Na, na, my lass, this will take but a minute. Ha! Eisengrim! I bid ye good evening.’
‘Good evening, majesty,’ said the Margrave. Then, leaning closer, he murmured, ‘This party has now gone on long enough. Tell them to leave; I have several matters to discuss with you.’
‘Och, no, I’ll not bid them leave,’ said the king. His tone was placid, but his gaze was steady and his mouth set very firmly.
Eisengrim’s eyes flashed. ‘You had best do as I order,’ he was beginning, when the king, leaning forward, said to him gently, ‘Tak’ a gude, close look at my neb, Eisengrim. Do ye see a scar on it? No, ye do not. I think ye may be under a wee misapprehension. Ye may think that I am Maister van Doon; whereas, I am Davie Jamie Charlie Neddie Georgie Harry Dick Tudor-Stuart, very much at your service. Now do ye understand? I will end my ain party at my ain convenience, when I so choose, and at naebody else’s bidding at a’. And as for ye, Eisengrim, ye may thank yer stars that ye are a Hanoverian subject and protected by diplomatic immunity, for, if not, ye wad be clapt in the Tower o’ London afore ye could say Killiecrankie! But as matters are, these gentlemen will escort ye hame to Cinnamon Court, and I’ll require ye to be oot o’ this country, for gude and a’, by sunrise tomorrow, or worse may befa’ you. And now, I bid ye gude nicht.’
After saying which, the king very pointedly turned his back on the ashen-faced, speechless Margrave, and, still holding the arm of Princess Adelaide, walked away.
Four large, red-faced Officers of the King’s Household, wearing kilts and carrying claymores, surrounded the Margrave and accompanied him to the door in close formation.
‘I think we are lost, little one,’ said van Doon, after he and the Slut had been walking through the thorny, snowy woods for a couple of hours.
‘I think so too,’ said Is.
‘And night is coming.’
‘Yus.’
‘And I believe I can hear the howling of wolves in the distance.’
‘Me too.’
‘I am not at all happy about our situation.’
‘Nor I’m not, neither. And,’ said Is, ‘I reckon we better run. Them wolves is getting tarnal close.’
‘I do not think I can run any more. The pain in my side is getting worse. And,’ said van Doon, ‘I do not see the use of running if we do not know where we are running to.’
‘Now hold up, mister,’ said Is firmly. ‘We didn’t come all this way to knuckle under now, and get eaten by wolves. At least I didn’t. ’Sides, I think I can maybe see a light over there in the trees.’
Dragging the Dutchman after her, she ran, slipping and sliding in her bare feet, through the snow.
While the ball was taking place in St James’s, Mr Twite was conducting a concert in St James’s Palace Yard, nearby. He had rather expected to be invited to conduct the musical ensemble provided for the ball, but, to his slight surprise, no such invitation had been received.
‘It is of no account,’ said Mr Twite philosophically. ‘More people will hear my music outside,’ and he had set up a platform in the middle of the Yard. Here, for several hours, the music that had already delighted the spectators along the processional route was played again, heard and enjoyed by a large enthusiastic crowd.
‘More, more!’ they shouted. ‘Play it again!’
Standing on his platform, delirious with joy and success, waving his baton, controlling his players despite the snow and wintry wind, Mr Twite was probably the happiest man in London.
Yet gradually the crowd began to trickle away. The hour was late, the cold was severe and growing more so; by now the grand coaches of the gentry at the king’s ball had all rolled off homeward. In the king’s palace the lights began to dim and go out, all but the two that always stayed burning above the Royal Standard, which, fluttering red and white on the pole, showed that the king was in residence.
If they only knew what I know, thought Mr Twite, watching the crowd.
He had not observed the Margrave being escorted to his carriage by four burly Scotsmen.
As the crowd in the palace yard dispersed, it seemed to re-form again. Some people went away, but others came. The ones who left were all adults, and the ones who came were all children. Little by little the whole of the huge area was filling up with children.
Must be all the lollpoops in London, thought Mr Twite. I read somewhere there was ten thousand of the little perishers, and now I believe it. And they’re all here, a-listening to my music. Very nice,
to be sure! but not very remunerative.
But what the deuce! Eisengrim and I, between us, have got the king of England in our pocket. And I have got Eisengrim in my pocket.
For a long time the children thronging around Mr Twite appeared to enjoy the music every bit as much as their elders had done: dancing, jumping, singing, clapping and shouting.
After a while, though, there came a change. And this change followed a whisper, which started on the outskirts of the crowd and spread inwards and sideways with the speed of sparks through stubble.
D’you know what he did? That music feller – let ’is own daughter be scrobbled by the Margrave.
’E did? How?
Eisengrim sent an ice-boat with them two bad ones on board – Boletus and Morel. They picked up Dido Twite and Wally Greenaway and took ’em down to Deptford where the ice is thin – dropped ’em in and drowned ’em like a brace of kittens.
How d’you know?
A message come to Wally, telling what they planned, and he told his dad, and his dad told my dad, and my dad told my mum, and my mum told Mrs Watkins, and Mrs Watkins told Peggy Watkins and Peggy Watkins told me.
Cor!
D’you know what that feller as calls hisself Bredalbane did? He drowned his own daughter. The one as is called Died o’ Fright. Friend o’ Wally Greenaway. He took and drowned the pair of them at Deptford. With his own hands.
That chap what’s conducting the music – know what he did? He took and drowned his own daughter
As the whispers ran through the crowd, Mr Twite started to feel uncomfortable. Something was wrong, but he did not know what. His musicians, too, were beginning to look tired and nervous.
‘Time to stop, guvnor,’ they told him. ‘We’ve just about played ourselves to a standstill.’
‘Oh, very well. Very well,’ conceded Mr Twite. ‘But I wish to see you tomorrow, at Cinnamon Court, in the rehearsal room, at nine sharp. We are going to be very busy from now on!’ He waved them goodbye, and they hurried thankfully away.
Mr Twite was about to follow them, but somebody stood in his path, and then somebody else jostled him. And a third person tripped him up.
‘Now, what is all this?’ said Mr Twite impatiently. ‘Let me past, if you please. I am the Master of the King’s Music. I am not to be justled and hostled by a parcel of lollpoops.’
And he tried to hum with an air of nonchalance:
‘Oh riddle me riddle me rassity
And hey ding a dong ding a ding
I am known for my sense and sagacity
And the beautiful songs that I –’
A stone flew, and hit him in the mouth.
‘Come, come, now!’ said Mr Twite, wiping away mud, and possibly a tooth. ‘I will say nothing opprobrious on this occasion because – but –’
Another stone flew, and then several more. Mr Twite began to run. He raced into the park, followed by the whole crowd of children. They yelled and flung objects – anything they could pick up – eggs, oranges, shoes. Mr Twite ran desperately across the park towards the river; but the storm of stones, shoes, and other articles became fiercer and fiercer. At last, he crumpled and fell to the ground.
At the sight of his fall, the children halted. They looked at him doubtfully from a distance. He still stirred feebly and moaned.
‘Come out of it,’ suggested a boy called Handkerchief Harry. ‘We’d best leave him be. He ain’t much hurt – I don’t think. He’ll pick hisself up, soon as we’re gone. We don’t want the beaks arter us, saying we done him in. We never. He’s just a bit dazed, like.’
Everyone agreed. Without wasting a moment, the crowd of lollpoops took themselves off, disappearing speedily along alleys and narrow streets, drifting rapidly eastwards towards the part of London they had come from. In five minutes the park was empty, except for Mr Twite.
But the wolves had come across the river, at Charing Cross and Lambeth, at Westminster and Millbank; roaming and sniffing, they scoured around Victoria and Pimlico, along the Strand, up Whitehall, and across St James’s Park. They found Mr Twite lying among the missiles that had stunned him, and they quite soon finished off what the children had begun.
Wally and Dido, running from the wolves across Blackheath Waste, had several times to fight a rearguard action against their attackers, using what weapons came to hand, fenceposts and branches and rocks.
‘Murder!’ panted Dido, warding off a snarling beast with a shrewd thrust from a holly-spike, ‘I’ve never known the wolves so umbrageous as this. I reckon it’s scanty pickings where they come from. They seem half starved.’
‘Keep it up,’ gasped Wally. ‘Don’t weaken! I see a light over thataway.’
‘I thought Simon – puff – and his mates – puff – were supposed to have cleared all the wolves outa this part o’ the country? All they seem to have done is aggravated them.’
‘Maybe some more came over from France,’ suggested Wally, dealing a hurried thwack at a large grey beast which was on the point of leaping at Dido from behind. ‘This way – get closer to me! Now – a quick dash over the open space. That looks like a house – or a shed.’
‘Thanks be!’ panted Dido. ‘Maybe it’s where – my sis lives – must be – somewhere hereabouts – that Simon said she –’
The door of the building opened. Light poured out. A voice called anxiously, ‘Come this way – quick! We have guns – but we daren’t fire in case of hitting you –’
‘Sophie!’ shouted Dido in delight. ‘Lawkamussy, am I glad to hear your voice!’
Ten seconds later, she and Wally tumbled over the threshold, with half a dozen wolves snapping at their heels. Sophie discharged her musket among the wolves and slammed the door in their faces.
Inside it took Dido’s dazzled eyes several minutes to adjust to the light. (When Simon escorted Sophie to stay with Penny, he had forethoughtfully brought along a supply of lamp-oil, coal, flour, dried meat, books, and other supplies, enough to last for several weeks; as well as several new tea-cups.) As soon as their eyes stopped streaming, Dido and Wally saw a comfortable interior with beds, curtains, hangings, and a blazing fire.
In one of the beds lay Mr van Doon.
‘Croopus,’ said Dido. ‘What’s he doing here?’ Then she saw her sister Penny. ‘Wotcher, Penny? How’s tricks? I’m right pleased to see you.’
‘Well, Dido! How are you?’ Penny said rather stiffly. But little Is rushed to Dido and hugged her about the knees.
‘Dido! Poor Mr van Doon is proper poorly! Those chaps was a-going to kill him and I undid ’im and we run and run, and it give ’im a pain. Will ’e be all right?’
‘Well I’m blest,’ said Dido. ‘How in turkey’s name did you come to be on the spot?’
‘I just followed,’ said the Slut simply. ‘When ’e left Bart’s, I followed. And when ’e got into the king’s coach, I watched my chance and hid in the boot. And when they stopped, I got out. And it was a good thing I did, for they was goin’ to knock ’im on the head and bury ’im.’
Wally and Dido stared at one another.
‘Lord amighty,’ said Wally. ‘So much for His Nabs saying he was a-going to ship the king off to some island. He never had no sich intention.’
‘We might a guessed,’ said Dido. ‘Him and my pa’s just about as crooked as a pair o’ croquet hoops.’
The Slut began to cry.
‘Now what’s to do?’ said Dido. ‘You saved the feller, didn’t you? You done real well for a little ’un. He’ll be all rug, don’t you fret, with Sophie and my sister Penny a-caring for him.’
But the Slut continued to sob bitterly. ‘It’s Figgin. My cat Figgin! There’s nobody to feed him, the house is empty, and all those wolves about – what’ll he do?’
‘Oh, scrape it!’ began Dido. But then she looked at little Is more gently and said, ‘Don’t take on so! That cat’s as shrewd as he can hold together. He fetched you grub, didn’t he? He went down the chimney of Cinnamon Court and saved Sophie? He won�
��t be nobbled by no wolf, don’t you worry. It’s ducats to dumplings you’ll get back and find him awaiting for you.’
‘But when?’ demanded the Slut tearfully.
This was no easy question to answer.
For six days the blizzard raged without abating; more and more wolves found their way on to the heights of Kent. It was unsafe for the inmates of Penelope’s barn even to step outside the door. When they fetched snow, to be melted down for water (since the well had frozen), they went in pairs, one with a pail, the other with a gun. But they were running short of ammunition; Simon, when he brought the supplies, had not reckoned on such a long visit. Nor on so many guests.
‘One biscuit and one carrot a day from now on!’ announced Penny one evening, looking grimly at the depleted larder.
‘Not for Mr van Doon!’ wailed the Slut. ‘He’s too poorly. He can have my carrot.’
Penny’s hard face softened a little as she looked from the anxious Slut to the ailing Dutchman.
‘I am indeed grieved that I give you this trouble, Miss Penelope,’ he said weakly.
‘You can’t help it, mister. I know that. Here, Is, you boil up Mr van Doon’s carrot in a teacupful of water. He can take it easier that way.’
The Slut busied herself with cookery. Dido and Wally were sharpening spikes and hardening their points in the fire for defence against wolves when the bullets ran out. Sophie, always skilful with her needle, was at work helping Penny cut out and stuff more animals – seals, badgers, racoons.
Presently the Slut, having served van Doon his frugal meal, squatted down by his bedside and sang to him in a threadlike but tuneful little voice, while Penny absently joined in, supplying an alto part.
‘Rum and rhubarb and raisins,’
sang the Slut
‘Is good when you’re under the weather,
Rum and rhubarb and raisins,
Taken singly or all together.’
‘I was a-going to say that little Is could come and stay with my dad, when we get outa here,’ Wally murmured to Dido, as they sat and whittled. ‘If she got nowhere else to go. But maybe . . .’ He looked at Penelope busily sewing by van Doon’s couch and the Slut, cross-legged beside her.
