Midwinter Nightingale (15 page)

Well, the voice was right, Dido reckoned. I shan't see that squirrel ever again. But whose was the voice? How did it
know?

She was so perplexed by this mystery—wholly different from anything that had ever happened to her before—that, for a moment, she forgot the three people sitting in silence on the platform.

She almost wondered if she could be dreaming. But no, the ropes around her tethered wrists were tight and sore, she ached all over, she was hungry and tired and longed to lie down; No, it ain't a dream, she decided. I wouldn't ever dream a thing so spooky as those three mum-dumb ones up on the stage. Won't they
ever
open their mouths? Are they trying to play some sort of game with me?

Finally the boy spoke.

“Wouldn't you like to know what some of those things in the glass cases are?” he said. He had a teasing, gloating voice. He couldn't wait to tell Dido something that would frighten her. Dido noticed that the two adults made quick gestures of disapproval as if he had diverged from some plan. But they said nothing.

Dido said, “You want to tell me. So go ahead.”

“See that thing like a suit of armor? That's called the Iron Duchess. Do you want to know what it's for?”

“Not partikkle,” said Dido. “I'd druther know what I've been brought here for.”

“See the front section of the Iron Duchess? When that rope is untied, the front part slams down and shuts. Suppose there was a person inside. See those two spikes where the person's eyes would be? See those spikes lower down? How'd you like to be in there when that lid was shut down? Eh?
Eh?”

Dido considered.

“I'd be too short for it,” she concluded. “My head ud only come halfway down its chest. Now,
you'd
be just about the right height for it, I reckon.”

The boy seemed a trifle disconcerted.

“Well, there's plenty of things here that you
would
be the right size for,” he said after a moment's thought. “See that thing? That's called the Boot. Your legs are shut in it, then they hammer in iron wedges to break your knees and your shinbones. You could never walk again. How'd you like to have that done to you?”

“I'd rather have a slice of bread pudding,” said Dido. “How come you don't offer your visitors any refreshments?”

The woman on the platform stirred impatiently “Enough of this foolishment,” she said in a flat, heavy voice. “Girl! Answer the questions I shall put to you. Your name is Dido Twite?”

“Certingly, ma'am,” said Dido.

“And you are a friend to this duke of Battersea?”

“Simon Bakerloo? Yus. I knows the chap.”

“Do you know where he is at present?”

“Haven't a notion. If I'd a been left in London,” said

Dido, “stead o' being hauled off into the middle of nevermore, I'd ha' been looking for Simon myself…. Maybe he went to Hanover. His sister Sophie's there.”

“Who has told you this?” said the 'woman sharply.

“Blest if I remember….” Dido was vague. “Some chap on the ferryboat, I guess.”

“Do, do let me try her in the Boot, Aunt Minna!”

“Be quiet, boy! You are no help at all.”

“That ain't true!” cried Lot. “I bet I could get her to tell us! You see those axes, girl? You see those wooden blocks? You know what they are for? See those iron screws? Those are for thumbs! You wouldn't be able to crack walnuts at Christmas once you'd had your thumbs squished in one of those.” Lot grinned evilly at Dido.

“Hold your tongue, boy,” said the white-haired man. His voice was light and weary; something in its tone made Dido shiver. He don't care about anyone or anything, she thought; he'd watch me being sliced into rashers and not blink an eye. But there's summat on his mind. I wonder what? He ain't easy. I can feel it. Those other two are scared of him, though, and he knows it.

“You very likely are not aware of this,” said the woman, “but the king is in great danger. He is gravely ill. Baron Magnus has the receipt for a compound, handed down in his family for hundreds of years, which could cure the king's malady. We need to find him and offer this remedy, do you see? Any day now it may be too late.”

Oh, yes, and I'll believe that when I see pigs wearing knee boots, thought Dido.

She said politely, “But why are you telling me this, ma'am? If you think that
I
know where His Grace is, you're fair and far wide o' the mark. Saint Jim's Palace is where you oughta be asking. Search me if I know why you think I can help you.”

The woman said smoothly, “I believe you also know Francis Carsluith, Lord Herodsfoot?”

Dido was startled.

“Why, yes,” she said after a moment. “I met the guy two-three years ago. On an island it was, dunnamany miles away from here. Come back on a ship with him…. But he's mostly off ferreting about in the back o' beyond, a-searching for games. … I reckon he knows more about games than any other feller around.”

The woman said, “Lord Herodsfoot's knowledge of games can be of little service to him at present.” She clapped her hands together sharply. The two hooded men behind Dido stepped forward. “Open the box!” ordered the woman. The men carried leather pouches attached to their belts. From these they took hammers and chisels.

Dido had vaguely observed that there was a wooden crate on the floor to the side of the stage, but she had paid it no heed, all her attention being concentrated on her three captors. The crate, or chest, was long and narrow; it looked as if it might contain croquet mallets or hockey sticks. Wisps of straw could be seen sticking out from under the lid, which was nailed shut. The two men prized up the lid and dropped it on the floor.

“Look inside, girl,” said the fat woman. Dido stood up, walked forward and looked into the box. What she saw nearly made her heart stop beating.

Lord Herodsfoot was inside.

Dido had met him on a Pacific island, had traveled back to England with him on His Majesty's sloop
Thrush
and had grown to know him well. He was in his thirties, a thin, active, intelligent man with fuzzy fair hair. Now she could only just recognize the shriveled, corpselike creature huddled into the chest among a packing of straw, like a dead bird in a nest.

Was he dead? No, there was a faint movement of breath in the concave chest, which was half covered by some filthy rags of shirt. The mouth was half open, the eyes closed. But they opened slowly and looked at Dido. There was no recognition in them.

“What ve you
done
to him?” whispered Dido.

“Will I give im a prod, ma'am?” said one of the men.

“Wait,” ordered the woman.

The boy Lot left his seat on the stage and, with his hands in his pockets, strolled round and stared down at the man in the box. He said, “Once he came and gave a talk to us at school about Inca games. Stupid stuff! Only fit for five-year-olds.”

The woman said to Dido, “You see what happens to people who don't help us. We keep them in storage till they mend their ways.”

Dido gulped. “How d'you mean, won't help you?”

“He, of all the king's friends, is most likely to know the
location where the wretched man has chosen to secrete himself…but no persuasion will exact the information from him. So—”

“Are you going to feed him to the fish, Aunt Minna?” cried Lot with the liveliest interest and enthusiasm.

The fat woman frowned, but gave an order to the two men, who nailed the lid back onto the crate, taking no particular pains over the job. Then they unhooked the rope from the contraption that Lot had referred to as the Iron Duchess. This caused the front section, with the spikes, to fall into place with a loud clang. At the noise, Lot smirked at Dido, who felt an icy prickle of the spine. Supposing a human had been encased inside that metal suit! But what was happening in front of her was far worse.

She said hoarsely, “You
can't
—you can't—” She tugged at her bound hands.

“But we can, my child,” said the duchess of Burgundy. “Furthermore, we can do either of these things to you. And many more.”

A length of cord was wound loosely round the long wooden crate. The hook dangling from the ceiling pulley was slipped under it.

“Lift!” ordered the duchess. “Lift now and swing it.”

She and the white-haired man removed themselves, without haste, from the platform as the crate, with Lord Herodsfoot inside it, began swinging, faster and faster, across the platform toward the great sheet of glass.

“No!” cried Dido. “No, no, stop it,
stop!”

But they did not stop. With a final tremendous crash of splintering glass, the crate swung clean through the great window; the cord round the crate loosened and flew off. The wooden case fell into the water. Its trajectory caused it to land near the farther bank of the moat. Dido, from where she stood, could see the eager commotion as all the inhabitants of the water hurtled toward the box and its contents.

“It will take them less than a minute to get inside that lid,” observed the duchess. She turned to the two men. “See that the window is replaced. At once.”

“Yes, my lady” They bowed and left the room.

“Now do you understand, girl?” said the duchess. “I hope you have learned by this example not to temporize with us.”

Dido was shaking with shock. She had not the least idea what temporize meant. She said slowly, as if the words were coming into her head one by one, “Well, ma'am, the only place I can suggest is an island on a river in Scotland. It's called the Garple Burn. There's a mighty lot o' nightingales on that island; my pa made up a song about them for His Majesty:

“Be quiet, girl,” hissed the duchess.

The white-haired man looked as if he was about to faint. He darted a poisonous glance at Dido.

The boy Lot took a flask from his pocket and drank a hefty swig from it.

Collecting herself, the duchess asked Dido, “You think the king might be on that island?”

“He was very fond of it, my friend Owen Hughes told me…. Used to go fishing …”

“Hmnnn. We shall have it inspected.”

Two things then happened. The white-haired man said urgently to the duchess, “Margaret, I must set off,
without delay
, on the Black Pilgrimage. To the city of Chorazim.”

“Oh, no!
Why?
Why must you?”

Dido shivered. This announcement filled her with cold fright. She had never in her life heard of the city of Chorazim, but she felt certain that it was a bad place.

The white-haired man left the room. At his departure Dido felt a huge sense of relief, but the duchess seemed decidedly put out by his announcement. “That will delay all our plans,” she muttered.

Lothar grumbled. “It's perishing slow round here. I could do with a B & S. What do you say, Aunt Minna? And what d'you want to do with the gal? Put her in a box like old Whiskers?”

“First we will send to Scotland, to this Garple Burn Island—”

There was an interruption. A bell rang; there was a knock at the door and commotion in the passage outside, and a voice called, “Madam, there's a messenger from Marshport—Captain Zeal—he says it's urgent.”

“Oh, very well, let him come in. Why in the world your father must choose just now for his inconvenient pilgrimage I simply cannot fathom.”

“Something to do with the crown, perhaps,” said Lothar, bored. Then, apparently hit by an idea, he asked Dido, “Say, gal, d'you know about Alfred's crown?”

“Alfred's crown,” said Dido slowly. “No. I can't say I do.”

But into her mind floated a memory of Dr. Whitgift saying something about the coronet ritual. That'll be what they're after. That'll be it, no question. I'm glad I put them on the wrong track with that Scottish island. Hope they waste days looking for it…. But then she had a terrifying thought. Suppose there is such a place? Suppose that's where King Dick really is? That song seemed so real….

Meanwhile a bearded man in a military uniform had come into the room and was engaged in a low-voiced consultation with the duchess. Dido, whose hearing was razor-sharp, picked up a phrase here and a phrase there. “…urgently need supplies for the troops when they land …”

She tried to listen through Lot's exasperating gabble: “Of course
I
shall be king as soon as the old man kicks it. Maybe before. D'you understand, gal? Before that I'm going to change my name. The fellers used to sneer at Lot Rudh—used to call me Lottie and Rednosed Rudy. What do you think of Simbert Lamnel …?”

“Boots for the troops ordered from the Continent have not yet come to hand …”

“…or Lamkin Simbeck or Purbeck Warkin …what do you say to those?”

“…and the flock of sheep expected by the commissariat department have not arrived yet; they were expected a week ago….”

“…or Warbert Purnel, which do you think is best?”

“Oh, I should choose Purbeck Lamkin. I reckon the troops ud go for that in a big way,” Dido answered inattentively.

The duchess was saying, “Yes, yes, no doubt very inconvenient, but
I
am not to be troubled by such minor matters. Have you news from Caledonia, from Bernicia? It is crucially important to keep track of the movements of those northern Saxons.”

“You are not listening to a word I say,” grumbled Lothar. “I think Simkin Purbeck is best.” He gave Dido a vicious poke to call back her attention. “Stupid gal! I say, I say, Aunt Minna, shan't we chuck her in the moat like Curlylocks?”

“No, I have not done with her yet.”

The two hooded men had returned with an outsize pane of glass, which they leaned against the wall.

“Find a box for this one,” the duchess ordered them, indicating Dido. “Put her back in the shell room, let her eat air for a few days, maybe a week. Then we'll see if she has anything more to say….”

“Can I tickle her up a bit, Aunt Minna?”

“Yes, I suppose so, but don't damage her—not yet.” The duchess's voice diminished as she walked away. The last thing Dido heard her say was “Come to the map room.”

The two men grabbed Dido by her arms and towed her away along the passage to the room where she had been before. “We'll find a box to fit you,” they promised, and left, locking the door. Dido hoped this meant that Lothar could not get in. She did not at all fancy the prospect of being tickled up by him.