Midwinter Nightingale

by Joan Aiken

  “Why don't you get your dad and mum to take you away?”

  “How can I? My dad is the governor of New Galloway. That's south of New Cumbria. A letter takes three months to get there.”

  “I'd run off,” Dido said.

  “You can't. The moat is full of tiger pike. And alligators. They'd gnaw you to bones before you could swim to the other side. They pull up the bridge at night. Besides, where'd I run to?”

  “Why are you in here now, locked up with me? Did you do something bad? Oh, do come out and stand up sos I can see you.”

  The Woodlouse slowly uncurled himself and stood up. He was very small, much smaller than Dido, dusty and untidy, and his face was somewhat streaked with tears. He might be about twelve, she thought.

  He said, “They put me in here to make you understand that you have to answer their questions. They can make you. They have all kinds of ways of making you answer. Thumbscrews and other things. A thing called the Boot that breaks the bones in your leg. Awful things. The Iron Duchess. And, of course, if you don't tell them what they want to know, they will do things to me too. Like where he burned me. You can see the marks.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Dido. “What's your real name, Woodlouse?”

  “Piers Ivanhoe le Guichet Crackenthorpe.”

  “Well, Piers, for a start, I can't tell these people what they want to know, cos I don't know it myself. So that puts you and me in a bit of a fix, doesn't it?”

  “They'll probably kill us,” said the Woodlouse. He sounded almost resigned.

  “How many boys are there in this school?”

  “Used to be about three hundred. But all those left who could, when Dr. Pentecost quit and Lot and his dad took over. The only ones here now are those with parents overseas. Like me. About forty, I reckon.”

  “Are they decent coves? Or wrong 'uns?”

  “Mixed. You see those fingers on the windowsill?” Dido did see them. She had been wondering what they were—half a dozen of them, small and dusty, about the size of clothes-pegs.

  “They belonged to a couple of fellers,” said the Woodlouse, shivering, “whose dads wouldn't pay the increased school fee. Lot planned to send the fingers to the parents. But the fellows ran away and jumped from the dormitory windows into the moat.”

  “What happened?”

  “The tiger pike got them. So Lot didn't send the fingers. There'd be no point. He told me to show them to you instead.”

  “I see,” said Dido again.

  Footsteps came to the door and stopped outside. The key turned in the lock.

  manservant at Edge Place, had been sent on a pensioned-off hunter to the town of Clarion Wells to post off the chain letter. (Growing bored at the task of making twenty copies, Jorinda had reduced the number to six, which were respectively dispatched to her ex-headmistress, the duchess of Burgundy, the prime minister, the chancellor of the exchequer, the foreign secretary, the minister without portfolio and the archbishop of Wessex, whose envelope lacked a stamp.)

  “And get some scarlet satin ribbon while you're in town, Grib,” added Jorinda, “and a bag of macaroons from the pastry cook's. Smidgey is no hand at those.”

  “Ay, m'lady.”

  “And while you're in town, Gribben, you might keep a lookout for the duke of Battersea.”

  “Battersea, missie? Duke? What like of person would that be, then?”

  “Dark hair. Very handsome. Wears a shabby old gray duffle coat, but you can easily see he's quality And he may have a hundred sheep with him.”

  “The ones Old Sir was so mad about?”

  “Yes; but Granda's not to know where they've got to. Those sheep were going to be butchered to feed the Burgundian army! Sheep have a right to a say in their own destiny.”

  “Err,” said Gribben. “Old master'll be rate put-about if he don't get paid for em.”

  “Oh, what do I care about that? Sheep are living, individual beings! Animals should not be our slaves!”

  “Arr,” said Gribben. “And what should I say if I see the gentleman? The dook?”

  “First, mind you find out where he's staying. Get his address. Second, tell him—tell him he's very welcome to come and call here.”

  “Urr. But what'll Old Sir say to that?”

  “Never you mind! And don't dillydally all day in the town,” said Jorinda, suddenly cross. “You tiresome old man!”

  Gribben stuck out his lower lip so far that he could have balanced a walnut on it, mounted his aged horse and rode off. Jorinda went back to her attic bedroom under the roof, where she had cut up various articles of her wardrobe and bedclothes and was pinning together a huge patchwork quilt, its colors mainly red and white, with the Battersea coat of arms and the name Simon Bakerloo across the middle.

  “Laws, miss, that's handsome,” exclaimed Lucy the chambermaid, called in to sweep the snippets of material that lay ankle-deep all over the floor. “How many patches have ye sewn?”

  “Two,” said Jorinda. “Would you do some for me, Lucy?”

  “Love ye, no, miss, I haven't got the time! Mrs. Smidge'd be after me like a rattlesnake did I stop my work for such a fribble.”

  “Fribble! It isn't a fribble!”

  But Lucy had already left.

  Half an hour later she came back, however, to say, “There's a kind of waygoing peddler woman at the back door, missie. Would ye care to see what she has in her pack?”

  “Of course I would!”

  Jorinda flew down to the undercroft, where the peddler woman had spread out her wares on a sheet draped over a bale of straw. She was a tall bony woman with copious white hair swept back and pinned behind her head under a scarf. Her clothes and skin were wrinkled and brown, her eyes a brilliant gray. She gave Jorinda a cordial reception.

  “Now here's a lady as I can tell knows what's what! I'll be bound you can tell a hatchet from a herring gull, my dearie. See all these fardels I have—the very best quality you'll find this side of the River Tigris—needles, hair dye, mouse-skin eyebrows, strings, lappets of lace, starch for powdering hair, strips of lead for curlers, hair ribbons, fans, face patches. None but the very best, as you'll see, lady dear.”

  “What's that?” asked Jorinda, pointing to a bulging stoppered bottle of thick green glass seamed over with silvery scratches. It bore a kind of rainbow bloom. It was corked, sealed over the cork with red wax and had a cloth cap tied on over the wax.

  “That? Oh, that is something you'll not be needing for a while's while, my lady love; 'tis only a witch bottle.”

  “A witch bottle …what's that?” At once, Jorinda was filled with curiosity

  “Why, dearie, if you believe some evil person has put a curse on you—or is like to—you make yourself one of these bottles. Or, you pay some person as has the power to make you one.”

  “What's in it?”

  The peddler woman glanced to the right and left and, seeing there was nobody at hand but themselves in the undercroft, whispered, “Piss! And hair from where the piss comes from! And an eyelash from that same person, and nine bent brass pins.”

  “What in the world do you do with it?”

  “Bury it under your enemy's house, dearie, and it'll make him sick to death. Or his house will burn down. Or both. But you surely don't need such a thing, bless your pretty face! You don't have no enemy, I'll be bound.”

  “N-no,” said Jorinda thoughtfully. “Perhaps not, but I'll lay my granda could use it. He's forever quarreling with Lord Scarswood. And he—” However, she thought better of what she had been about to say and picked up a peacock-feather fan.

  “This is pretty”

  “Ah, but ye don't want to go for to buy that, my dearie. Peacockses feathers is terrible misfortunate. That's another kickshaw to give to an unfriend, not to buy for your own use. Now, this ivory fan, that's more suitable for a young lady such as yourself.”

  It was also much more expensive. But Jorinda bought it and also a bunch of hair ribbons, a tortoiseshell comb and some beautif
ul flowered Spitalfields silk.

  While paying for these purchases, she asked, casually, “Did you hear of the young duke of Battersea being seen in these parts? A handsome young gentleman riding on a piebald mare? With an owl on his shoulder?”

  “A young gent riding a piebald with an owl on his shoulder?”

  The peddler looked vague, as if there might possibly be some such recollection in her mind, but if so, it was from a long way in the past. At last she said, “I do seem to mind there was such a person seen, some months back. Maybe 'twas in Clarion Wells. Ay, Clarion Wells it was, and he was heading northward toward Wan Hope Heights.”

  “No chance he was making for Darkwater and Three Chapels?”

  “Nay, lovie, Darkwater burned down, didn't you know? Tis all blazed away to cinders, so I did hear. The ghosts have their way at last!”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Darkwater was allus beset by a tribe of ghosts from crusaders' days, my dearie. Now they will have the place all to their own selves. Was that all you wished to buy, then, my lady?”

  Jorinda looked long and thoughtfully at the witch bottle but in the end decided against it. For one thing, it cost ten pounds.

  “You needn't expect you'll get a princely allowance from me, my girl, now you are back at home!” Sir Thomas had snarled at her only that day at breakfast. “Times are hard, the vines failed, rents are down, takings are dwindling and if you choose to come home before term has ended, that don't help me any, for old Madam Whatsername, your headmistress, won't take a penny off the fee, the skinflint! So you'll have to manage on bread and scrape like the rest of the household.”

  “Of course, Granda,” Jorinda had said meekly, though she noticed that “bread and scrape” for Sir Thomas consisted of his usual four-course breakfast.

  “Yes, thank you, that is all,” she told the peddler. “But if you should see the duke of Battersea on your travels, you might tell him that he will be very 'welcome here.”

  “Ah, now, my lady duck,” said the woman, regarding her with brilliant eyes, “don't-ee waste heart's breath on that one; he'd bring ye naught but grief and tantrums. Give me a silver sixpence, do-ee, and I'll cross yer palm and bring ye better news.”

  “There couldn't be better news,” objected Jorinda, but she found a sixpence in her purse and impatiently laid it on her palm, from where the peddler woman swiftly removed it and stowed it away among her brown draperies. “Now then, let's see what fortune has in store for 'ee.” She bent her shawled head over Jorinda's hand.

  “Shall I be a queen? Or the king's sister?” Jorinda asked eagerly.

  “That's what they all ask! That's what they all wish to hear! Every milkmaid and chambermaid.”

  “I'd have more chance than a milkmaid, I should suppose!” Jorinda grumbled.

  “Nay, my pretty, your queens is all in the past, leading back a thousand years to the royal house in Byzantium.”

  “I know all about them. Granda goes on about them for hours together.” Jorinda was impatient. “What lies ahead? That's what I want to know.”

  “I'll tell ye what, mistress.” Suddenly the peddler was serious and emphatic. “There's one lies in yer path as has power to do ye mortal harm, somebody as is close kin to ye. Somebody of the male sex as would not scruple to use ye very ill. Keep yer course away from that one; don't ye touch so much as the hem of his coat! Or ye'll be in danger—and worse than danger of this world—danger of things beyond this world, beyond all we know!”

  Her speech was so fierce and vehement that Jorinda was startled into silence. Biting her lip, she watched the peddler swiftly gather all her wares together and pack them into a canvas sack, sling it over her shoulder and stride away down the grassy hill. “Mind what I say, now!” she called back.

  Acting on a sudden impulse, Jorinda ran after her and made another purchase. As she walked back toward the house, there came the sound of a trotting horse in the other direction, and she turned to see old Gribben come out of the woods on his flea-bitten gray.

  “Did you find the duke of Battersea?” she called hopefully as he dismounted.

  “Nay, that I didn't,” he answered grumpily. “And I got yer ribbon, but there was nary a macaroon to be found. Here.” And he handed her a small bundle.

  “Oh, that's too narrow! That's no use at all.”

  “Twas all they had. Some folks is never satisfied. An' I picked up a bundle of mail for Old Sir, and there's one for you—here.”

  “For me?” Jorinda was all agog. “Maybe it's from the duke—oh.” Her face fell as she saw the writing on the cover. “It's from my brother, Lot. What does he have to say, I wonder?”

  “Dere Sis,” Lot had written, “if you have good Ideez for a king's name, send them.” Then there was a series of names, some crossed out—Simbert Lamnel, Warbert Purbeck, Lamkin Simbeck, Purnel Warkin—in careful print. Under these, Lot had written, “Sum O the boyz used to laff at my riting. Now their sory. Ha ha!”

  “Wasn't there any talk in town about the duke of Battersea …and the sheep?” Jorinda asked Gribben.

  He was stabling the mare among the pillars of the undercroft.

  “No, there warn't,” he growled. “But I bought a couple of newspapers for Old Sir. Simmingly the archbishop of Wessex has bin found a mangled corpus outside his front door. That won't worrit Old Sir nor grieve him overmuch, I reckon.” And he stomped off up the stairs, leaving Jorinda openmouthed at the foot.

  She was about to follow Gribben and put away her purchases when she noticed a post-scriptum on the reverse of Lot's letter.

  “Dad sez do U no were king has hid king As crownet? Thatz the trump card dad sez. If so cum bak an tell him.”

  Knitting her brow over this, Jorinda went up to her grandfather, who was exploding with rage over a communication he had received in the mail.

  “Some smooth-tongued insolent fellow has the gall to send me a bank draft for that missing flock of sheep— calls himself the duke of Battersea! I daresay he's no more the duke than I am the seljuk of Rum. How do I know if this is worth the paper it's written on?” Furiously he waved a slip of paper.

  “Bank of Battersea; it looks respectable enough, Granda. How much is it for?”

  “Two hundred pounds. That's twice as much as that Burgundian agent fella was offering,” snarled Sir Thomas. “That's suspicious in itself!”

  Jorinda's cheeks were glowing. “Just as I thought! I knew he'd be true and staunch!”

  “What are you gabbling about, girl? Now, here's a bit of news in the paper: Whitgift of Wessex done in by wild beasts, gnawed to death on the Essex marshes—”

  “Oh, dear! And I had just sent—”

  “Well, I can't say I'll weep millstones over him. I mind when he was a lubberly young curate riding a wrong-footed cob, out with the Sheepwash Hunt, and he headed the fox. Never saw such a sapskull in all my days. Nay, he'll be no loss. They'll have to appoint a new one, though, right smartly, for King Dick's on his deathbed, it's said, and there's that doleful business of King Alfred's mortarboard to be gone through.”

  “Mortarboard, Granda?”

  “Oh, some mumbo jumbo got to be gone through before the next fellow can be sworn in as eligible for the throne.”

  “If the Burgundians should take over this country, Granda—”

  “Never you mind about the Burgundians, miss! I'm sick and tired of the Burgundians! I'd rather take my chance with the other lot. Anyway, politics ain't a fit subject for young females.”

  “But you like the Burgundians, don't you, Granda, because they plan to buy your vineyards and turn them into orchards and hop gardens? They say there's a big field of ice floating down from polar regions….”

  “Hold your tongue, gal; I've changed my mind. Plain Saxon's good enough for me.”

  Changing the subject, Jorinda said, “Granda, I've had a letter from my brother Lothar inviting me to go to Fogrum Hall. It's not a school any longer, you know. Lot has bought it with money our father gave him and he's liv
ing there and—and our father is there too….” She hesitated over this but went on hastily “And they want me to come there; they've changed their—shall I go there, Granda?”

  Sir Thomas exploded again. “No, miss, you shall not! What? Go and consort with that precious pair? Riffraff if ever there was! Your scapegrace brother—expelled from every decent school, even Fogrum, where he was only accepted because it had once been his mother's home and she was queen of England—a useless, good-for-nothing hobble-de-hoy if ever there was one. And as for that father of yours, I'm sorry he ever took up with my girl Zoe. An ill day that was for her! A man who is a byword and a nayword all over Europe! They should never have let him out of the Tower; that was the only place for him. No, miss, I shall not permit you to go and live with them!”

  “I might run away,” threatened Jorinda.

  But at the back of her mind she heard again the peddler's words: “There's one lies in yer path as has power to do ye a mortal harm …somebody of the male sex as would not scruple to use ye very ill …”

  She ran up to her bedroom and went to stare at herself in a mirror that she had found in the root cellar and hung on her wall. She kept it covered by a shawl in case it was really valuable and she was forbidden to have it. It was oval, framed in large pearly stones the size of walnuts.

  Jorinda frowned at her reflection, pursed up her lips, smiled so that dimples appeared in her cheeks and then let out a ferocious growl. She put out her tongue at the mirror image and crossly twitched the shawl back over the glass.

  She hid a large box under her bed.

  the doorway, thinking the king was asleep. But the invalid suddenly raised his head from his pillow and said, “Is it today or tomorrow?”

  “It's today, Your Majesty”

  “Cousin Dick, Cousin Dick …”

  “Cousin Dick. I have brought a draft of the family portrait for you to look at …if you feel up to it?”

  “Deed an' I do. Bring it here, laddie, and rest it on the old Madam's chair.”

  Simon had sketched his draft on a piece of board the king's aunt had found for him—it was probably the top of an old table—which he had scraped and rubbed flat with sandpaper. On this he had drawn a family group: the king between his first and second wives, his son Davie, a boy of about twelve, kneeling on the ground in front of the adults. The people sat in a room with tables and chairs, but behind them stretched a huge open landscape, mountains, forests and lakes.