Midwinter Nightingale

by Joan Aiken

As it happened, Simon had a hundred pounds on him, in paper money, which had been hastily thrust on him by the lord chamberlain when he had been asked to search for the missing king. But he was certainly not going to part with it to these fly-by-night characters.

  “I could let you have a couple of pounds,” he said cautiously “But what do you want money for? How do I know you'd make good use of it?”

  He noticed Harry give him a warning glance.

  “Us'ud take meditation lessons,” said the man unexpectedly. “Into meditation in a big way, us Real Saxons be! Oswin there, he can rise right off the ground when he's meditated for half an hour or so. Alwyn can too.”

  “What do you need meditation for if you're an army?”

  “Binds us together like brothers.”

  “Oh, very 'well!” said Simon. He pulled two gold sovereigns from his pocket. “Here you are. Now will you allow us to go on our way?”

  “Certingly, guvnor,” said the man heartily. “And very much obliged to-ee. You be our brother now. Don't-ee go below this height, mind, in the woods, for the dam's due to bust anytime—there she goes, hark!” he added, as a distant dead sound, between a throb and a thump, quivered through the forest. “Now the water'll come up in a hurry, and bad luck to all the roe deer and foxes that haven't shifted their quarters already….”

  “Talking of animals,” said Simon, “you live in the woods; have you seen any beasts that look like bears lately?”

  The green man grinned. “The bears was the Burgundians' big mistake,” he explained. “Ordered em from Muscovy, they did, and a pretty penny they Rooshians asked for em, so I'm told—and they all took sick, no use to anybody, so they turned em loose in the woods. Boots was what they had ordered, but bless your soul, they Rooshians don't understand a word of Burgundian, simmingly, and bears was what they got. Thank you, young mister, a safe journey to ye.”

  He and his comrades melted away among the trees. Then, suddenly, he was back again. “They sheep, gaffer? They be yourn?”

  “Why, yes,” Simon said. “I bought them—paid for them. Why?”

  “If ye didn't want them, we could find a use for em.”

  “I do want them.”

  “No matter.” He was gone again.

  Simon and Harry picked up the carrying poles. The sheep reassembled themselves under the chair.

  “When, when shall we get there?” fretted the king.

  “Very, very soon now, Cousin Dick. I can see the spire of Saint Arling's Chapel ahead, past those holly trees.”

  As they struggled on—both Simon and Harry exhausted by this time, and even the sheep seemed tired— Simon suddenly said, “I wonder what was the matter with the bears?”

  out of the lift at the cellar level, she had the presence of mind to scoop up a handful of half-burned candles that lay on the floor before venturing out. She knew that she must waste no time in removing herself, for Lot would surely come down after her as soon as the lift returned to ground level.

  It was pitch dark down there. She lit one of her candle stubs, packing the rest into her pocket. Beyond the lift entrance, facing her, she could see a warren of narrow, brick-built vaulted passages that led away in half a dozen directions. Impossible to know which to choose, but the choice must be made fast, for she heard the lift creak and groan as it started on its upward journey.

  She took the passage on the extreme left and started along it, noticing that its walls were lined with wooden wine racks containing hundreds of bottles. Wow! Lot must enjoy himself down here, she thought. I bet he often comes down here. Maybe I shoulda taken one o' the other passages, but maybe they are all the same, stuffed with wine bottles.

  Before she had gone very far, she almost tripped over a bulky object that lay on the floor of the passage. The object seemed to be a canvas sack containing coins. Realizing that she was almost on the point of collapse, weak and trembling, Dido sat down on it. It chinked. A sack of sixpences, she thought. Who was saying summat about a sack of sixpences? And then she remembered that it was the Woodlouse…. Something about Baron Magnus having lost his power because a sack of sixpences fell on him …But, if so, why would he keep it in the cellar? You'd think he'd want to get rid of it! But maybe somebody else put it in the cellar?

  I must sit still for a moment, thought Dido; my legs feel about to buckle.

  In the past couple of hours she had seen two people whom she liked and respected ejected from life as horribly and heartlessly as if they had been wasps or rats. That Piers, she thought, was a real spunky little character, in spite of being scared to death most of the time— and for good reason: He chose to help me and did help me, and he was game as a little cock-sparrer when it come to crossing the moat on stilts. Though, mind you, that was a clung-headed thing to do and I only wish I'd stopped him. But he would go….

  And, as to what they had done to Frankie Herodsfoot—it didn't bear thinking about. But she couldn't help the thoughts; they would push in. Dido had encountered Lord Herodsfoot some years ago. They had met on a Pacific island where he was searching for unusual games to entertain the former king, King Richard's father, and Dido was on a roundabout way home to England from New Cumbria. And a right decent cove he was, Dido remembered, a bit vague and wandering in his ways but just as sound as a nut when you got to know him. Why did they ever have to keep him in a box? How long was he in that box? No, it don't bear thinking of.

  Just the same, she had to think of it, and the thought was so wretched that she stood up, clambered past the sack of coins and started walking fast. I wonder which is the worst of those three? The old duchess is even nastier than my ma—which is saying a good deal; and young Lot is just about as stupid and spiteful as they come— and a drunk, as well; and as for that Baron Magnus, if I had to choose between him and a snake for company on a desert island, I know which I'd pick.

  Far in the distance she heard the lift creak.

  Odds cuss it, thought Dido, now what'll I do? If it's Lot on his own I reckon I can dodge him. I can play hide-and-seek down here in this rabbit warren of a place as well as he can—probably better, drunk as he is. But suppose he's brought some of those Black Hoods down with him?

  She strained her ears, listening. A small amount of time went by—five minutes, perhaps. Then Dido began to hear voices. I might as well get to hear what they're saying, she thought.

  Strangely enough, the voices did not come from behind her, where the lift was, but somewhere ahead. The narrow, twisting passage made the sounds echo confusingly, but she was fairly sure of the general direction. Blowing out her candle, she crept softly along, guiding herself by touching the wooden wine racks on either side; there was just room for a smallish person to pass between them.

  Now the wine racks gave way to damp brick walls— Dido could feel moss growing between the bricks—and the passage sloped quite steeply downhill. Also the air began to feel cold, and then colder, and then very cold indeed. And a faint bluish light began to glimmer ahead. Lord a mussy, thought Dido, what the pink blazes am I getting into?

  But curiosity urged her on. The voices were louder now. The darkness changed to flickering twilight. And suddenly she found a cold metal railing barring her way. She stood still, clutching the rail and looking down at a strange scene.

  Below her lay a huge vaulted chamber the size of a small cathedral. The walls, which curved up into an arched roof, were of brick. Looking sideways, Dido could see other entrances besides hers, some higher, some lower, like gulls' nests in a cliff. The air was bitterly, bitterly cold. And this was because of the white substance that filled the great space up to a level only a few feet below where Dido stood. The white substance was ice.

  Dido now remembered that, when they were up in the attic, Piers had told her something about the icehouses, several of them, that lay underneath Fogrum Hall. “When Lady Adelaide's grandfather lived here, they used to chop the ice out of the lake when it froze in winter and store it in the icehouses for ice puddings and drinks in summer. And Ba
ron Magnus had ice fetched when there was that cold spell last month—something to do with the Black Pilgrimage, I heard him tell Her Grace the duchess….”

  Shivering, Dido looked down at the huge circular floor of white. There was a ladder attached to the wall below her leading down to it. The other entrances, she guessed, were for when the ice level was higher or lower. At present the great storeroom seemed about half full.

  Somebody—a person—was lying on a couch, ringed by about fifty burning candles, in the middle of the ice. And the boy, Lot, was leaning over the safety rail of another entrance, waving a brandy bottle and shouting raucously,

  “Hey, Dad! Dad! You gotta listen to me! You gotta listen!”

  He's wholly drunk now, thought Dido; that boy is as stoned as a newt.

  “Dad! You must listen to me! Dido Twite's cut loose and she's somewhere down here. If we don't collar her, she'll do something bad—pinch all our grog maybe. She'll find a way out. Dad, d'you hear what I'm saying?”

  After a long pause the figure on the couch spoke.

  How can he stand it down there on the ice? Dido thought.

  “How dare you, boy? How dare you come down here disturbing me when you know my rules?”

  Dido thought, I sure wouldn't want someone to speak to me in that voice.

  “But, Dad! It's really, really important! She probably knows where the king is.” Lot took another swig from his bottle.

  “Wretched boy! You have brought my soul back. From the dead city. From Chorazim, where they wait for the Third Coming. You brought me back before my time there was done. How can I work my revenge if you bring me back? Three human hearts were needed to start me on my journey, and you—you poor fool—must come trespassing.”

  “Trespassing!” yelled Lot in a fury. “You forget who I am! I'm the queen's son! They wouldn't put you on the throne! Half mad, half wild beast—and shut up in the Tower fifteen years for a lot of murders….”

  Used as she was to bad language from her father and his associates, Dido shook with shock at the venomous stream of curses that now issued from the figure on the couch. She supposed it must be the baron, though he was strangely bandaged up, like a mummy, like a dead person. Dido could not imagine how he endured lying there just a few inches above that deadly cold floor. And he'd been here since yesterday, she reckoned, if he had come down here when he'd left the room saying he was going on the Black Pilgrimage. What did he mean, “Three human hearts were needed”? Did he kill three people? I sure am glad no one has noticed me up here.

  She was even more relieved next moment when a new voice broke in.

  “You may as well hold your peace, Magnus Rudh, Cantacuzelos Albecchini! For your luck is running out.”

  “Luck? What luck have I ever had? Shut up in that vile prison, obliged to be civil to that dolt of a doctor, insulted, traduced—and for what? Because that man wanted my wife! He didn't have her for long! And what in perdition are you doing here—hell hag! Serpent!”

  “Come to pay a neighborly visit. And to ask a question.”

  Dido, peering sideways from her doorway, could get no more than a glimpse of the person who was speaking to Magnus. She was tall and female, judging by her voice and the triangular white headdress she wore.

  “That sack of sixpences will be your undoing, Magnus, old enemy from the past,” she went on composedly. “That and your loving children. What a pair! Your son can't wait to be rid of you, and your daughter is at this very time setting up the process for your annihilation.”

  “My daughter? That worthless hussy? What has she got to say to anything?”

  “She is angry, resentful because she hoped you would give her a father's loving welcome.”

  “Why should I? What did she ever do for me?”

  “What indeed? And all she can do you now is harm. But I could prevent that, Magnus, brother, if in return you could tell me something.”

  “Why should I stir a finger for you?” he snarled.

  “Why? To save yourself from a very unpleasant fate. But that is up to you! You have failed—have you not— in your attempt to reach Chorazim and regain your former strength.”

  Lot, who had occupied the past few minutes in swallowing copious gulps from his bottle, now upended it and threw it down on the ice with a crash.

  “Ask me,” he bawled, “the Dad's no more use than a wooden ship's figurehead. Black Pilgrimage, indeed! Hic! That's three useful workboys from the school he went and killed—and for what? Sos he could—hic!— have a nap on the ice for three days. Aunt Minna thinks he's a total loss.”

  “Oh, be quiet, you horrible sot!” snapped the lady in the headdress. “You should hear what your aunt Minna thinks of you…. Listen, Magnus: Your wife, my cousin Adelaide, when she married Prince Richard of Wales, had a desk, which she left behind in Fogrum Hall. Do you happen to know where that desk might be?”

  Silence from the figure on the ice.

  “Do you know where that desk is?” the lady repeated.

  Ho! thought Dido. He may not know where that desk is, but I know. But what's in it that's worth such a lot? Worth saving his life for? There was naught in the desk but an old diary. That ain't summat to make a song and dance about. Is it?

  Lot, evidently not at all interested in his mother's desk and its contents, now withdrew, apparently to help himself to another bottle. But in a moment he was back in a state of boozy excitement.

  “I say! Here's a go! Some of the wine racks are alight! There's a bonfire burning back there! You best hoist yourself up smartish, Dad, if you don't want to be toasted like a sardine—and you too, Aunt Titania. Ha ha ha! That'd be a lark, wouldn't it? I'm off, lickety-split!”

  In fact Dido, turning to look back, saw a red glow behind her and smelt a strong hot smell of burning wood and alcohol. Mercy, she thought, there's enough stingo back there to make this place hotter than a smith's forge. I reckon it's time for me to make an exit too.

  The passage behind her was blocked with gouts of flame and puffs of black smoke. But in front of her was the ladder leading down onto the ice. She ducked under the rail and clambered silently down. She noticed that Baron Magnus was slowly rising to his feet and unwinding his white wrappings. He did not notice Dido, nor did Lot, who was dancing about singing, “This old man, he played one, he played nick-nack on my rum, nick-nack-paddywack, give a dog a bone, this old man he won't get home!”

  Silent and unremarked, Dido skirted round the side of the great ice-filled chamber, keeping in the shadows, far distant from Baron Magnus and his ring of candles.

  Opposite the ladder she had come down, she found another, leading to another, larger entrance above. Maybe this is where they bring the ice from the lake, she thought. Maybe I can get out this way. She began to climb the ladder but, when halfway up it, was arrested by a fearful shriek. She turned to see something that would haunt her for years to come.

  Magnus had been slowly, clumsily hoisting himself up a ladder. The one I came down, Dido thought. His movements were vague and uncoordinated, as if he were only half awake. But when he was just a few rungs from the top, a thin stream of silvery molten metal came spurting out of the entrance above him, splashed down on him and completely coated him with a glistening layer. Flames instantly burst from him and he burned like a torch. One moment Dido saw him on the ladder; next minute there was nothing left of him or the ladder but a black filmy wisp, which blew away across the ice.

  Stunned, Dido pulled herself up into the dark entrance above.

  Dido had taken to escape from the ice chamber was far wider than the one by which she had entered. Carts loaded with ice from the lake could have driven along it. After ten minutes' fast trotting, she felt confident enough to relight her candle. She was hollow with hunger, as she had eaten nothing since those cucumber sandwiches with the archbishop; she was desperately tired and shocked. But still a faint spark of hope burned in her heart, for at least she was alone and free and perhaps on a track that would lead her out of Fogrum Hall
and away from its dreadful inhabitants. What would happen to Lot? Would he escape the fire or die in it like his horrible father? And that old girl? Who could she be? She had addressed Baron Magnus as brother, so she must be connected—unless of course she was just being sarcastic.

  What a crew, thought Dido. I hope I never run into any of em ever again. She was horribly disconcerted to be addressed by a voice that hailed her from close behind.

  “Dido? Are you Dido Twite?”

  A figure drew out of the dark, caught up and ran beside her. Glancing sideways, Dido saw that it was a girl, perhaps her own age. Dark hair and bright eyes could be seen in the candlelight, that was all.

  “What's it to you who I am?” Dido said gruffly.

  “Oh, don't worry! I am not going to give you up to my odious father and brother. They can burn to death for all I care. And I hope they do.”

  Then she don't know what already happened to her da, Dido thought.

  “I hate them both! That's why I brought a witch bottle to put under the house. It cost a lot but it was worth it.”

  Blimey, thought Dido. She sure is a cool one. What about the other folk in the house? Don't they have a say?

  “What about the old lady?” she asked. “The one he called a hell hag?”

  “Was there an old lady? I don't know anything about her,” the girl said carelessly. “My name's Jorinda, by the way. Jorinda Coldacre. You know Simon Bakerloo, don't you?”

  “Kind of,” Dido said cautiously.

  “I'm going to marry him,” the girl announced.

  Dido gasped, but kept her thoughts to herself. They were far from happy.

  “So that's why I want Simon to be king, and not my stupid brother.”

  “Could S-Simon be king?”

  “Oh, yes. If the old king dies and gives Simon Alfred's crown, it's a dead cert.”

  “I see.”

  “At first,” the girl confided, “I was on the side of the Burgundians.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aunt Minna, the duchess of Burgundy, is bringing them over. They are going to land at Marshport and march on London and put my brother on the throne. And then I'd be the king's sister. But I think it's better if I marry Simon and then I'd be queen. Don't you think so?”