Midwinter Nightingale (10 page)

If we can't get there before dark, Simon wondered, what will I ever do with them? There are wolves in these woods—bears too, for all I know—and I'm expected; they will be worrying at Darkwater if I don't turn up soon.

As if in agreement with his thoughts, the sheep, who had been dutifully making their way along the forest path behind him with no sound but the patter of a hundred
willing feet, suddenly lifted up their voices in a prolonged and plaintive
baaaa.

Hush, now! Simon admonished them (but in his mind, not out loud), Keep your worry inside your foolish heads; we don't want every meat-eater in the forest alerted to the fact that a hundred Sunday dinners are trotting through their territory!

And in fact a shout coming from a southward direction suggested that the flock's appeal had been picked up by somebody. In a few moments the sound of hooves preceded the arrival of two men, richly dressed and handsomely mounted.

“Hey there! You—shepherd!” said one of the men. “Can you tell us how to find a way out of this mortaceous wilderness?”

Simon's jaw dropped in horror. For here was one of the people he least wished or expected to see: Sir Angus McGrind, the marshal of the king's wardrobe and equerry of state for domestic affairs, a rigid, masterful Scotsman, quick to interfere in any palace affair that came his way, detested by the king and always on the lookout for any business that might increase his own power and importance. But what disastrous rumor had brought him in
this
direction?

Mercifully he had not recognized Simon, who blessed the foresight that had made him put on rough country clothes for this journey, and a stumble of the mare, Magpie, which had thrown him into a bog hole and coated his face with mud.

“Where was you wishful to go, worshipful sirs?” he inquired, putting on a rich Wet-country burr.

“Why, we want to know if there is any mansion or manor in these parts where persons of quality, such as ourselves, might be accommodated.”

“Eeh, no,
that
thurr baint, your honor,” Simon answered at once with the utmost firmness. “Thurr's nob-but barns and shippens—few enow o' them—less you count a tuthree chapels.”

“Ay, chapels. We came across one of those with a crazy old loon of a chaplain who directed us into a bog. But is there no hall, no country seat, no gentleman's abode?”

“Nay, sirs, not as
I
knows on—not less you cater on, norrard an' west'ard, till you spies the rail track, an' that'll take ye, bimeby, to High Edge, where owd Lord Lugworthy has his cassel.”

“Oh, deuce take it! How great a distance is that?”

“Mebbe not moren two hours' ride on your lordships' fine hosses.”

“Devil take it!” grumbled Sir Angus again, turning his horse's head in the suggested direction. “And, by the by, where had
you
that well-bred beast, fellow? She is no forest shepherd's nag. Did you come by her honestly?”

“Ah, the mare be turble sick wi' glanders o' the gizzard,” Simon explained in a suitably gloomy voice. “I be a-taking of her to Goodyer the horse leech in Forest Wells; I be taking her for Farmer Goadby, who lies mortal sick himself wi' a groovy kidney—'tis told how he
caught it from the mare. Fancy that! But Mester Goodyer, he'll have the physic for her, no danger. Tis Farmer Goadby who lies on's deathbed, so they do say. I best be on my way, sirs.” And he led Magpie forward.

“Oh, well. In that case …” Sir Angus quite plainly had had some thought of requisitioning the mare for his own use, but now changed his mind. “Come, Fosby,” he said, spurring his own horse, “let us follow the young fellow's directions without loss of time. The day darkens.” And, as Sir Fosby Killick, the king's physician, followed him, Simon heard him say, “Have you heard of groovy kidney, Fosby? Is it infectious? Is there a cure for it?”

Simon did not catch Sir Fosby's reply.

Greatly relieved to have got rid of the pair and sent them on a wild-goose chase—which might well land them in one of the forest quagmires (And no harm if it does, thought Simon uncharitably)—he pursued his own course in the opposite direction, and the sheep, refreshed by their short rest, followed him trustfully. The news that the two men had come to this spot from a chapel greatly cheered him; he knew there were three chapels in the middle of the forest: Saint Ardust, Saint Arfish and Saint Arling. They formed a triangle with the angles pointing north, west and east; find one of them and he would know which way to go from there.

And, in fact, not more than fifteen minutes later, by following the hoof tracks of the two men, Simon came to a little, semi-ruinous building, set in a tiny clearing surrounded by a ring of tall holly trees. The sheep were
pleased to avail themselves at once of the supper provided by the short grass in the clearing, and so was Magpie. Simon peered into the dark doorway of the chapel and called softly “Father Sam? Are you there?”

“Hush! Yes, I am here, my boy!” Father Sam, a plump, rosy-faced little man in a surpassingly ragged and worn robe and cowl, popped suddenly out of the darkness.

“Second time I've been interrupted in me prayers,” he said reproachfully. “Saint Arling's Day too! Poor old fella, he gets little enough heed paid to him as 'tis. Never mind! Never mind!”

“I am sorry, Father.”

“Never fret, me boy, His Grace'll be that glad to see ye! He's been pining.”

“How is he?” Simon asked anxiously.

“Not too hearty.” The priest shook his head. “The sight of ye will brisk him up, let us hope. But—betwixt you and me—not long for this sad world! And raring to go! So let us hope you can do whatever he's a mind for ye to do, and that way set his poor soul at rest. For there's no question he's pining to follow the Lady Adelaide into the next world, heaven aid him!”

“Just remind me of the way from here, Father, and I'll be off at once.”

“Go between the two biggest hollies.” Father Sam pointed. “And then keep the blackthorns to the left of ye, the whitethorns to your right, and turn sharp to the right
when ye come to a great chestnut tree. Then cross the brook, wind through the yew coppice and Darkwater will lie before ye.” He chuckled. “Finely I misled two grand gentlemen who were here half an hour ago. Lucky they'll be if they reach Clarion Wells by midnight.”

“They certainly will,” Simon agreed, remembering his own misdirections. He jumped on Magpie's back. “Thank you, Father, and good night.”

“I'll be dropping in on His Grace tomorrow, tell him,” said Father Sam. “And thanks to your sheep for trimming my assart grass.” He extended a hand in blessing, then returned inside the chapel to his interrupted devotions.

Following the old priest's directions, Simon had no further difficulty in finding his way to Darkwater Farm, an ancient moated building of dark red brick with twisted chimneys that nestled in a hollow in the deepest corner of the forest. The moat was fed from a mere, or tarn, of some size, which Simon and his flock had to skirt round before they reached the entrance to the house. The water of the lake looked black, but that was because the trees crowded so close around it; in fact the water was very pure and clear. Magpie and the sheep were glad to take a drink before they all processed over a drawbridge, under an archway and so into the main courtyard of the house, which was not particularly large, but with its farm buildings set round a square.

A gatekeeper came forward to greet Simon and then
pull up the drawbridge. “Save ye, my lord Duke! His Grace has been asking for ye these three hours gone! But where in the world had ye those sheep?”

“Thanks, Harry. I'll go to His Grace directly,” said Simon. “I had to rescue the sheep. May they stay here for tonight?”

“Surely they may. They'll save me the trouble of scything the grass. And when they've done that, young Damon can take them over to Pook's Piece. I'll stable the mare for ye, my lord; you hurry on up to His Grace.”

Simon nodded, took some packages from his saddlebags and walked across to the main house entrance. There he was received by a stately old lady in a three-cornered headdress of white buckram and a snowy apron over her black dress, who greeted him by a tap on the cheek with a wooden spoon and said, “Bless you, my boy! My nephew will be happy to see you.”

“How is he, ma'am?”

She merely shook her head in reply and motioned Simon up a flight of stairs.

King Richard IV was a slight but muscular man in his late forties, with reddish hair that was beginning to turn white, a long nose, a weather-beaten complexion and very bright gray eyes. His face was pale under the tan, and Simon, who remembered him as a brisk, active, outdoor character, fond of hunting and sport, was sorry to see how frail and languid he now appeared. He was lying on a daybed in a large upstairs parlor and, though he wore his usual tartan kilt and velvet jacket, was wrapped
in a 'woollen coverlet. At sight of Simon he brightened visibly and would have risen from his couch, but the old lady prevented him.

“Nay nay Richart, bide where ye lie; the laddie can pull himself up a stool.”

Simon greeted him formally “God save Your Majesty!” going down on one knee and kissing his hand.

“Na, na, ne'er mind the formal pishtushery! Cousin Dick will do just fine!”

“Cousin Dick, then.” Simon rose to his feet and found himself a stool. “I am very sorry not to see you better, sir. What can I do for you? Why have you sent for me?”

“Ay, well, ye see how matters are; I'm no' lang for this world. I have my ticket of leave.”

“It makes me very sad to hear you say that, Cousin Dick,” Simon told him truly. But he believed what the king said. “What can I do for you?” he repeated.

“There's two matters on my mind, laddie.”

“Yes, sir. What are they?”

“Maybe three,” the king said thoughtfully.

“And they are?”

“First, the portrait. Ye ken, in Saint James's Palace, there are likenesses of a' the kings of England back to the auld conqueror himself. Well, I'd think shame to pop my clogs and no' leave
my
image behind.”

“If that is all,” said Simon, “I'll be happy to paint Your Grace's portrait. I have brought paints with me as your message instructed, and I'll get to work directly. It will be a pleasure—”

“That's no' all,” said the king. “I'd like fine if ye could make it a family portrait.”

“Family
, Cousin Dick?” Simon was bewildered.

“The puir ones that went before,” explained King Richard. “My boy Davie, he that ended his days untimely up in the North country, and his bonny mither, Princess Edelgarde, who was drowned, and then my ither wifie, the Lady Adelaide, who was killt by a jack-o'-lantern falling on her. Could ye pit them all in?”

Simon was a little more doubtful about this.

“The Lady Adelaide I could; I have seen her many times and could easily do a rendering of her face. And Prince David I can remember well enough …but his mother I am not so sure about.”

“Set yer mind at rest,” said the king. “I've a miniature of Edelgarde: I carry it always.” And he drew out and passed to Simon a tiny oval portrait, no larger than a watch face. It showed a smiling dark-haired girl.

“Ay, she was a fine lassie,” said King Richard fondly. “And there was a gey likeness atwixt her and Davie. Can ye render her from that, Cousin Simon?”

“Oh, surely,” said Simon, receiving the miniature. “I'll start at once. I'll make a sketch first, for you to see if you like it, and start the painting tomorrow.”

“Ay, do so,” said the king. “For there's no time to waste. Maybe a week, no more.”

Simon looked at him anxiously “You said there were three things on your mind?”

“Ay, weel, the portrait is one. Then there's the unchancy matter of His Reverence.”

“Dr. Whitgift, you mean, sir? The archbishop of Wessex?”

“Ay, thon's the one.” The king looked a little embarrassed. “There's a ceremony, ye ken, when a monarch is like to meet his end—eh, ye mind—comes to his final moment….”

“Oh, yes. I have heard something about it; he has to do something with the archbishop.” Simon wondered what could be unchancy about that.

“Ay. But,” said the king, “we don't want His Reverence carfuffling aboot the hoose like a loose cannon until the final moment comes, do we noo?”

“No, I see that,” said Simon. “He's a nice old gentleman, but he'd have precious little to do here. But is there not some farmer who would put him up, or some inn?”

“Dear boy, there's nae farm or village closer than Birk Hill. And that's thirty miles if it is a yard. And anither thing: Folk would get wind of my being in these parts if the auld Reverence was dandering to and fro ilka tuthree days.”

“Nobody knows that you are here?”

“Nary a soul!” said the king triumphantly. “Save yer-self and Madam, and Father Sam and Tammas Lee, who took the message to ye, and he's silent and trustable as a lockit door.”

Simon left that unanswered. He had already decided
not to distress His Majesty by telling him that, after delivering his message, the trustworthy Tammas had fallen, drunk and incapable, between the wheels of two carriages in Westminster Palace yard and received injuries from which he had not recovered. Simon had been informed of the accident and had been at the man's deathbed. Tammas had opened his eyes and gasped, “I didna tell! They made me drunk—I that never touched a drappie in my life, not in all my days—but I didna tell! Say that to His Grace the duke….”

“Don't worry …the duke knows.”

“They twa camstery callants—tell the duke of Battersea—”

“The duke knows,” Simon repeated, but Tammas had already shut his eyes and gone elsewhere.

Now, after a moment's thought, Simon said, “Sire— Cousin Richard—why would Sir Angus McGrind and Sir Fosby Killick be wandering in these parts?”

This news flung King Richard into a great agitation. “Saints save us! Ye saw that ill-visaged pair in these wet woodlands? Ye did not tell them that I was here?”

“Would I be such a fool? They were asking about big houses in the neighborhood; I told them there were none closer than High Edge. They took me for a shepherd and Father Sam had already told them the same tale.”

“Ay, Father Sam's as staunch as a stone pillar.”