by Joan Aiken
The bear was wagging its head to and fro, evidently getting considerable relief from Simon's massage. Its mate sat nearby, patiently waiting to be treated.
“I suppose you have got the king hidden in that sedan chair,” Jorinda said. “Wretched old man. Is he still alive?”
“Hold thy tongue, miss,” growled Harry, who had taken a strong dislike to Jorinda, “'tis no business of yourn.”
“Well, it is if I'm going to help you,” she said. “I'm on your side, now Pa's dead. And I'm sure you shouldn't stay with the king in this drafty spot. The Burgundians are sure to land very soon and there will probably be a battle. You had best get the king into shelter so you can go through the coronet ritual. I suppose you have got King Alfred's coronet? Besides, it's getting colder all the time.”
Simon did not wish to explain to this tiresome girl that they were waiting for Father Sam. He did not wish to tell her anything at all. He wished strongly that she would go away. Much of what she said was true, and he wished it were not.
“Those are my grandfather's sheep, aren't they?” she said. “The ones he sold to the Burgundians. You took them. The Burgundians will be in a rage about that.”
“I paid for the sheep,” Simon said, moving over to the second bear, which rubbed its great heavy head lovingly against him. “They were being disgracefully ill treated. Where is your cat?”
“Oh, it got killed,” Jorinda answered carelessly. “My father killed it. He couldn't stand animals. By the way, I saw your friend Dido Twite this morning. She was in my father's house.”
“You saw Dido?”
“At Fogrum Hall, yes. I've no idea what she was doing, or how she got there.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, today. Early. I gave her a cake.” For some reason she giggled. Simon accidentally pulled the bear's ear. It turned and bit him, but gently.
“What was Dido doing there?”
Jorinda was tempted to say, “She was running away after setting fire to the house,” but something about Simon's manner, his piercing look, made her too nervous to lie.
“Where did you get the bears?” she asked hastily.
“What was Dido doing at Fogrum Hall?”
“I really haven't the faintest idea! Those bears belong to the Burgundians, don't they? Aunt Minna ordered them by mistake.”
“Aunt Minna. Who is that?”
“The duchess of Burgundy. I had lunch with her and Aunt T in Clarion Wells. Aunt Minna said the food at Fogrum Hall was disgusting, so she moved to the Royal Hotel. That was before the fire. And then, while we were having lunch, her majordomo came in and told her that Pa had died in an accident; he was burned in a stream of molten silver. Not very nice, was it?” Jorinda shivered a little. “Aunt Minna was planning to put Lot on the throne, but I think she's changed her mind. Have you got Alfred's coronet?”
With a strong effort, Simon prevented himself from glancing anxiously toward the sedan chair. Father Sam had provided the king with several hot bricks and had administered a warm posset of eggs, honey, mead and horse chestnut, which, he said, would be beneficial for the patient's blood flow and would help him to sleep on the journey. It had worked well. But where was Father Sam? Why didn't he come? Soon the sun would set— not that the sun had ever been visible that day; gusts of wind still hurled snow in all directions. And how they were ever to get the sedan chair across the viaduct without Father Sam's help Simon could not conceive.
“When you and I are married,” Jorinda said to Simon, “I can tell you I shan't allow a lot of animals in our house. Animals are nothing but a messy nuisance.”
Simon's jaw dropped. He stared at the girl in utter astonishment. The very last thing in the world he wanted was to be married to this person.
“Who said anything about our getting married?”
She gave him her long, long sparkling look.
“I did! It 'will be 'wonderful! You'll see! We must get married! We'll make the handsomest couple in the English Isles!”
At this moment a mournful cry came from the sedan chair.
“Help! Help me! Where is everybody?”
And Simon's owl, Thunderbolt, came flapping hurriedly from the window slot.
“Oh, murder!” said Simon.
“Oh, my laws, Mester Simon!” cried old Harry. “Look there! Now what are we a-going to do?”
He pointed to where the rail bed ran out of Wanmeeting Wood. A rider on a black horse was galloping along it toward them.
“Oh, no!” cried Jorinda in dismay. “That's my wretched brother, Lot! I hoped he was dead. Go away, Lot! Go right away, you horrible beast! Nobody wants you here!”
“You hold your stupid tongue!” yelled Lot. “Nobody wants you anywhere at all!”
Seen close to, Lot looked dreadful. Apparently he had escaped from the fire at Fogrum Hall, but not without being quite badly burned; half his face and his left arm were dark red, his clothes were black tatters and the hair on the left side of his head was singed to stubble. He was clutching one of the Saxon fighters' green spears, and he galloped his horse straight at Simon, who was standing beside the sedan chair.
“I always hated you, Battersea!” he shouted. “You filthy scum. I'll lay it was you who burned down my house!”
He flung himself off the horse and drove his spear hard at Simon, who jumped aside. But as he did so, Jorinda threw herself in between her brother and Simon. She received the spear full in her throat and died instantly.
Cursing and grunting with fury, Lot struggled to drag the spear back out of Jorinda's throat, but while he was trying to do this, one of the bears came and wrapped its great furred clawed arms round him.
“Let go of me! I'll kill you; I'll get you!” shouted Lot, apparently unaware that his adversary was not human.
At this moment a carriage and pair came rattling along the rail bed and two ladies precipitated themselves from it.
“Lothar! Lothar!” they screamed. “What are you doing there? Come back at once, at once! Control yourself!”
Simon, staggering to his feet, stared at the women in disbelief. One of them was large and stout; he guessed her to be the duchess of Burgundy. The other was the lady Titania.
She took no notice of Simon. All her attention was focused on Lot.
“Lothar! Listen to me! Stop shouting! Leave that bear alone and come here. Stop shouting! Calm yourself.”
“That piece of scum burned down my house!”
“Ridiculous rubbish. Your own sister did that.”
The bear let go of Lot, who lurched to his feet, staring at the two ladies.
“Your aunt Titania is right,” announced the duchess severely. “If you are hoping to be king, Lothar, you must learn to control yourself.” She stared with deep disapproval at the body of Jorinda. “Did you do that? Answer me! Stop cursing and swearing, take a deep breath and come here!”
But Lot did not obey her. He did not answer. He was changing, in a silent, visible and terrifying manner. His teeth were becoming fangs; they grew longer and longer. His eyes blazed. His hands stretched and narrowed into paws with long claws. Thick dark fur sprouted over his face and neck.
He began moving slowly, menacingly toward the two women, who cried out in alarm and scrambled back into their carriage. The horses, screaming in terror, galloped off wildly along the viaduct, with the carriage lurching and swaying behind them. Lot vengefully pursued it. The viaduct parapet was no more than knee height. One extra-violent lurch of the carriage sent the whole rig over the embankment; Lot, who had just hurled himself at one of the horses, went with it.
Next minute a distant crash and splash came from far below.
“Lord a mercy!” breathed old Harry. He and Simon stared at each other in silent consternation. Then Simon went, almost mechanically, to soothe Lothar's black horse and tether it beside his own mare.
“What's happening? What in the world is going on?” called the king piteously from behind his curtain.
“We had a bit
of trouble, Your Majesty,” called Simon. “With Lothar.”
“Cousin Dick! Cousin Dick!”
“Cousin Dick. But the trouble is over, thank heaven.” Simon opened the flap of the sedan chair and did his best to give the king a reassuring smile. Then he turned round to see Harry, with a certain amount of effort, lift Jorinda's body and push it over the parapet. There was another splash and crack of breaking ice.
“Oh, dear,” said Simon. “Was that the right thing to do?”
“Best she should join her brother,” grunted Harry. “She were a no-good wench. A real hussy. Thinking to marry you! What next? And as for him …”
“But she was killed defending me.”
“Only accidental. She never helped another body in her life, less 'twas by mistake. Don't waste your sorrow on her. What we got to worry about is how to get Himself down to the Priory afore darkfall.”
“And in good time,” exclaimed Simon, “here comes Father Sam!” He peered through the curtain of snow, which was falling faster now. His voice almost cracked with astonishment and joy “Father Sam and Dido!”
down the hill beside the sedan chair. She had undone the leather curtain so that the king could see out, and she was holding a slow and disjointed conversation with him.
“Do I know you?”
“I carried your train at Your Majesty's coronation. A fine affair it was. All those oranges dangling on the pillars of Saint Paul's—”
“Oh, do call me Uncle Dick, my dear girl.”
“Sure, if you say so, Your Maj—Uncle Dick—and the congregation all munching on almond cookies—”
“And, havers, I'd no say no tae one o' they almond cakies at this present.”
“Maybe they'll have some over yonder,” said Dido hopefully, scanning the spiky outline of the monastery perched on its mount, fitfully glimpsed through gusts of snow.
Lot's black horse had been harnessed between the two rear carrying poles; the poor beast was so tired and shocked that it offered no resistance to this unusual arrangement, did not even take fright at the two bears who padded companionably alongside. The sheep, docile and humble, trailed in the rear, and old Harry rode Simon's Magpie. Simon and Father Sam bore the two front carrying poles, and the whole party proceeded at a cautious and creeping pace down the zigzag path, which was both steep and slippery The gale had not abated; driven snow scoured their faces and their goal seemed a daunting distance away across a wide expanse of island-studded white flatness, which appeared and disappeared behind clouds of sleet and spume.
Father Sam was explaining to Simon why it had taken him such a long time to make his way to the viaduct.
“The Saxon Army, poor dear fellows, their commander Egbert Wetwulf is so very much taken up with what they call 'reflection prowess'—a very worthy tactic I am sure it is, very worthy indeed, never a doubt of that—it puts the whole army in thought accord with one another, hardly any need for speech, they tell me, and of course that is excellent, excellent; it turns them truly into a band of brothers. But, ye see, while they are, as they call it, reflecting—they sit cross-legged and pass into a deep, deep trance; some of them even levitate, rise a little way into the air—but that, d'ye see, means they are somewhat immune to outside influences; they hardly see nor hear. Well! So there they all were! And I could see that if they were not roused from that insensibility, they might very likely freeze to death in such weather as we are having. And if the Burgundians were to arrive at such a time—it hardly bears thinking of. So I felt it my duty …”
“A good thing you did,” Simon agreed. “I suppose Lothar must have grabbed one of their spears as he rode by. I wonder how he knew we would come this way?”
“I imagine Lady Titania Plantagenet must have told him.”
“Why? I thought she was on the king's side, devoted to him.”
“She has—had—the gift of augury.”
“What's that?”
“Foretelling what is going to happen. She must have known what would come to pass …up to a point at least. Your young friend has it too.”
“Dido has? I don't get it.”
“Not a comfortable gift,” said Father Sam, shaking his head. “At present, in Dido it is only latent …like that wretched boy with his wolf persona. He, at least, is no loss. Nor his scatterbrained sister. A pity she had not come across the Saxon Army. She would have done better with them. A set of excellent, high-minded lads. I told them it was their duty to go and argue with the Burgundians before engaging in warfare and they agreed to try that method….”
“Is that the railway up there?” the king asked Dido. “Do you think I could be in time to catch the five-thirty train to Back End Junction, where I might change and get the express to King's Cross?”
Dido was cautious.
“I wouldn't depend on that, your Maj—Uncle Richard, sir. If I was you, I'd stay overnight at the Priory. I daresay the monks in that place are a very decent set of 'welcoming fellers and will cook you a fine dinner.”
She certainly hoped so. It seemed like a hundred years since those cucumber sandwiches.
The king was anxious and melancholy.
“Do I belong here?”
“Not here, perhaps, Your Royalness, but soon we'll find where you do belong.”
“I have left myself behind—”
“You'll find yourself, I reckon, when you're in a nice bedroom with a cup of hot soup inside you….”
“My dear … I wonder if you can advise me. I feel I am very close to my latter end. What I chiefly wish to know is this: In the next world I shall find my two dear wives waiting: my dearest Edelgarde, the mother of Davie, and my equally dear Adelaide. Now, shall I have to introduce them to each other? Or will they have become known to each other already? And what about my son?”
Dido gave this some careful thought.
“Don't you reckon, Your Maj—Uncle Dick—that everybody knows everything, once they get there? And don't need to be told nothing?”
“Yes. Yes … I believe you may be right. I do hope so. That would take a great weight off my mind. Another question that troubles me: this religious establishment whither we are tending. Do you ken if they harbor any nightingales in their policies?”
“Policies?”
“Estates, demesnes—”
“You got me there, Uncle King. But—even spose they have nightingales—ain't they birds that sing in summertime? Not very likely they'd be yodeling around in weather like this.”
“Oh,” said the king sadly. “I wonder if you are right.”
Dido wondered why His Majesty had such a wish for nightingales. Something to do, perhaps, with that business the old archbishop had been clacking on about— the coronet ritual? Mercy, what a long time ago that seems, thought Dido, the old gager and his tea things in his spooky little hidey-hole on the bank of London River. Only a few days ago …
She was reminded of the archbishop's riverside retreat, because they had now arrived at just such another bankside area—a dank willowy neighborhood with clumps of reeds and bulrush and a wooden slipway running down under the flat white surface of snow-covered ice. There was a tumbledown open-fronted shed, with a bench, under a clump of willows, and a bell hanging on a rope from a branch.
“Do we ring the bell?” asked Simon.
Father Sam shook his head.
“There'd be no point. The bell's for the ferry. But there can be no ferry so long as the Middle Mere is iced over. What we have to discover is, will the ice bear us?”
Simon pried a sizable rock from the side of the track and hurled it as far as he was able onto the ice. Nothing happened.
“But one rock isn't as heavy as two horses and five people and a sedan chair.”
“And two bears,” said Dido. “And a flock of sheep.”
“Send the bears out,” said Father Sam. “See if the ice will bear them.” He laughed heartily at his own joke, but Simon was scandalized.
“Why put them at risk? They didn't ask to be sent to
this country. I'll go.”
“No, no, my boy, that would not do,” Father Sam said hastily. “You are next in succession to the throne. Harry had better go.”
“I can't swim,” grumbled Harry.
“I'll go,” snapped Dido, who found this discussion a silly waste of time. “I swim like a herring—though let's hope I don't need to.”
She set out with caution on the ice, which, under a couple of inches of snow, was extremely slippery. And, once she was fairly out in the channel, away from sheltering banks and thickets, the wind, icy and buffeting, made it hard to keep upright.
Peering ahead, she saw clumps of rush and snow-covered islets. And, from time to time, between gusts of snow, she had a glimpse of the high-arched monastery buildings climbing the steep slope on the far side of the channel. To her right the high silhouette of the viaduct appeared and disappeared in the storm. Somewhere down there, under the ice, between those tall stone legs, lay a shattered carriage and four horses and some drowned people. A grim thought. Not that any of em's much loss, thought Dido. Lot and Jorinda—what a pair! And the two old gals—one of em at least as bent as a buckle. The duchess was certainly no angel and t'other one, according to Simon, seemed to have been playing both ends against the middle.
Now, rounding an islet sprouted over with frozen willow wands, she could see her way clear ahead. This was probably the main channel, where the current would be strongest and the ice was likely to be thinnest. Wish I had a pair of skates, thought Dido. She remembered a winter in London when the Thames had frozen, and in Rose Alley where she lived there had been only one pair of skates among seventy children. Belonged to Sindy Rogers, the ironmonger's kid, but she let us all have a go. Didn't take long to learn. Hey, there's a feller in black a-waving on the far shore. Does he mean yes, it's all rug, come along? Or does he mean go back, the ice won't hold ye? Well, I'm a-going and hope for the best. If the ice won't hold, he can blame well jump in and haul me out.
But the ice did hold. And in another five minutes Dido was safe on the farther bank, having her hands enthusiastically shaken by a long-legged lad in monk's robes, who cried, “Welcome! Welcome to the Priory! Welcome indeed! Father Mistigris would be here himself to 'welcome you, but a ship has foundered on the seaward side of Otherland Bank and all the brothers are down there helping to rescue the crew. But I see there are others of your party…. Do you want to signal them to come, now we know the ice will carry them?”
