Midwinter Nightingale (22 page)

what had once been a dark strip of barren land on the edge of the coast but separated from the mainland by the Middle Mere, a long, narrow freshwater pool, reputed to be bottomless. Over centuries the monks of the Priory had cultivated the strip of land, creating vineyards, orchards, gardens and fields of corn where there had been nothing but a rock-crowned hummock of sand. In flood time or at spring tides, it was cut off, and at all times it was inaccessible except to those who knew their way through the mazy swamplands, the clumps of willow and alder whose roots were exposed at low tide, the beds of reeds and rushes, the slow-moving streams that changed their courses from week to week. Mist often lay among the islets for weeks on end; flocks of wading birds, swans, pelicans, herons and storks, inhabited the channels.
There were quicksands into which unwary travelers had sunk and never been seen again.

On the seaward side of Otherland a shingle bank, twenty miles long and forty feet high, ran from the Priory down to Wan Hope Point. Ships were often wrecked on this bank, as the currents that swept down it were fierce and treacherous. Local shipping knew better than to come anywhere near the coast thereabouts, but generations of wreckers had lit bonfires on the shingle bank—which was known as Querck Bank—to entice strange ships to their doom.

King Richard's grandfather, Angus the Silent, had decreed that the railway be extended from Marshport to the Priory land so that the cargoes and wreckage from foundered ships could be transported inland. “Otherwise,” he said, “yon canny monks get it all!” This was true, and the railway was begun. But, due to one reason and another, it was never finished during the lifetime of King Angus, and since then, funds to finish it were not forthcoming. A grand viaduct had originally been built, connecting the highest point on the mainland with the rocky crag that formed the pinnacle of Otherland Mount, but the rail track had never been laid across the viaduct and the rubble bedding of the track had been much worn away by the passage of time. Few chose to approach Otherland on foot by that route; the dizzy height of the viaduct, two hundred and fifty feet, was enough to deter most people, and then there was a dauntingly steep climb down at the seaward end.

On Father Sam's advice, Simon had chosen this approach to Otherland because floodwater had greatly increased the width of the marshy channel down below; in any case there did not seem to be any ferryboat, and if there had been, he did not see how the sedan chair was to be loaded into a boat.

But now, within a stone's throw of the entrance to the viaduct, he was starting to have grave doubts as to the 'wisdom of this choice. In fact he was beginning to think he had made a terrible mistake. Old Harry was not encouraging.

“We'll niver get told gentleman across yon footway!” he lamented. “Niver! I've come as far as my old pins'll bear me, Mester Simon; they on't take me across yon devil's causeway, I'm telling you! Nor the sheep don't like it, neether, Mester Simon. Look at them!”

It was true. The sheep did look very dispirited. Many of them were lying down on the snowy rail bed; others were dismally nibbling at bits of bramble and brushwood that sprouted along the gritty side of the permanent way. And Simon's latest protgs, a pair of Russian bears, were hunkered down with their heads sunk between their shoulders, and forepaws dangling, the very picture of dejection.

“I do wish Father Sam had caught up with us,” Simon said.

Father Sam had given Simon excellent directions for skirting as quickly as possible round the flooded forest.

“But when ye get to the Middle Mere, there's a
problem,” he had said. “Ye'd never find your own way through the waterways; ye'd have to find a boatman. And the boatmen may be paddling any otherwhere in the floods, the way things are just now. So you'd best take the high way. I'll come up with ye as fast as I can but I've a couple of sick folk to visit—ye can't disappoint sick folk—and I'm afeered those boys in the URSA may be needing medical advice. But I'll haste after ye as fast as I'm able; we'd best meet at the end of the viaduct, where the permanent way runs out of Wanmeeting Wood.”

So that was where Simon was now waiting with his companions.

And that was where Jorinda found him. She was riding a hired horse, a bay hack, which started and shied at sight of the bears, so she reined in at the edge of the wood, dismounted and tied her horse to a tree.

“So
this
is where you've got to!” she said. “Aunt Minna thought as much. Do you know that you can be seen on the skyline? Clearly! Not very sensible, was it? Aunt Titania said that was what you would do. Now that my father is dead, they will probably support your claim to the throne. What on
earth
are you doing to that bear?”

Simon was massaging its ears.

“The damp air gives them a headache,” he said. “They are used to a dry winter cold.”

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.