Midwinter Nightingale (25 page)

“All the birds and beasts take a rare shine to you these days, Simon,” said Dido.

“It's since I stopped eating meat. Can be a bit inconvenient at times.”

He carefully undid the paper wrapped in silk, which had been wrapped round the pigeon's leg. “This was probably meant for Aunt Titania. She had a messenger service.” He read the words on the paper and frowned in perplexity “No. It seems to
be from
Aunt Titania—must have been written before she died.”

“Maybe the pigeon got lost in the storm. Who's it to?”

“I don't know. Me, perhaps. Or the king.”

“What's it say?”

“It says: 'I was wrong about Chaucer. He adapted the lines from a local poet, Gregory Pollard of Wan Hope:
“And bye the Middel Mere, Oft ye may heare Midwinter Nightingale to human eares tell out Hyr Piteous Tale.”
T Plantagenet.'”

“What does it mean?”

“I don't
know,”
said Simon crossly. Here was yet another puzzle that needed solving, and he was already so tired he thought he could go to sleep for a hundred years—if he ever had the chance to start. “Poor old king,” he said. “He told me he wanted to die at Darkwater because he'd been a boy there. And the nightingales …But we couldn't leave him there with the flood coming.”

“And Alfred's crown wasn't there?”

“No,” Simon said. “I have had a really thorough search. I just pray that it's here somewhere. He might have left it here sometime for safekeeping.”

“There's an awful lot of places to look,” said Dido. She stared up at the high stone walls and ruined arches on the hillside above them. A thousand years ago this place had been a thriving community. King Alfred had been here hiding from the Norsemen and granted it a charter. Even two hundred years ago there had been two hundred monks, growing corn and vegetables, making cider from the apples. But now there were only nine. Brother Mark was the last novice to apply and it did not seem likely that there would be any to follow him.

“It's a bit sad,” shivered Dido, looking out across the frozen Mere.

They were waiting for Sir Thomas Coldacre to arrive. And then they would have to break the news to him that his granddaughter and stepgrandson were both dead.

“That Jorinda,” said Dido cautiously “she was a rum sort of gal.”

“Hasty in her actions.”

“Had you known her long? Met her, maybe, when I was in Ameriky?”

“No. I just met her on the train a few days ago.”

“She said you and she were a-going to get married.”

“She was wrong. There was not the slightest chance of that.”

“I reckon that's just as well. She wouldn't have been right for you.”

“The only person I've met so far,” said Simon, “who would be right for me is you, Dido.”

She shook her head. “Not if you're a-going to be king, Simon. I'd
never
do as queen, never! Not me. It's too high a step from Rose Alley to Saint Jim's Palace. You'll have to look for someone classier. Or turn down the job.”

“I don't think I can do that,” he said unhappily “Then it'll have to be no one at all.”

“Maybe they can find somebody else to put on their throne. Maybe Cousin Alf will turn up yet from Burnham-on-Sea. …”

“Here comes Sir Thomas,” said Simon, squinting across the ice. “He seems to have brought a whole load of luggage with him.”

Sir Thomas had ridden to the Middle Mere on a
weight-carrying hunter, escorted by his man Gribben on another, with a massive quantity of clothes and provisions, including a side of ham and a barrel of liquor. But they had come to a halt on the far side of the channel and, dismounting, surveyed the ice doubtfully.

Simon and Dido walked across to greet them.

“Good day, sir,” said Simon. “I'm Simon Battersea, staying here at present with His Majesty, who is—who is in poor health. And this is Dido Twite.”

“How do,” said Sir Thomas. “Battersea, eh? I used to know your uncle and aunt at Loose Chippings. Rattling fast country around there, and your uncle kept a doocid good pack of hounds. Battersea, hey? You sent me a check for my sheep. More than dismal old Minna of Burgundy ever did.”

“Why, yes,” said Simon. “Those sheep were being disgracefully ill treated. But they are now in the care of the monks here, who will keep them for their wool and are happy to have them. The sheep are happy too. I am not so sure about the bears.”

“Bears,
bears?
I never ordered bears.
Boots
, it should have been, electric boots.”

“I understand from the monks,” said Simon, “that a consignment of boots was washed ashore last week from a wrecked Russian cargo ship. But the electric elements didn't work. Soaking in the water, you know. The monks gave them to the poor. There were a few bears as well who swam to shore….”

“Pesky Burgundians!” said Sir Thomas. “I didn't
know the
king
was here. I've come about some godforsaken Burgundians, got washed up here, I understand, fetched over by that conniving Minna of Burgundy so as to put her no-account nevvy on the throne. But
he's
stuck his spoon in the wall, so I hear, and no loss to anybody— he was my stepgrandson, and a
devilish
cub since he could crawl—and now I hear the Burgundians have stove in their vessel on Querck Bank—so it's said, that right? So I've had all my trouble and expense for nothing, curse them all for a pigeon-brained cack-handed set of blunderheads!”

“I'm afraid you are rightly informed,” said Simon. “Baron Magnus and his son are both dead. The baron died in the fire at Fogrum Hall and his son and the duchess fell off the viaduct.”

“Was Lothar drunk?”

“Yes. And before that he had inadvertently killed his sister by stabbing her with a Saxon spear.” Simon did not add that the killing stroke had been meant for him.

“Eh, dear me. Poor Jorinda. Poor lass. But she was a flighty one, like her mother before her. I knew itd be only a matter of time before she came to no good. So I've had all my trouble for nothing—importing Russian bears and electric boots. To tell ye the truth I'm just as glad to keep King Dick on the throne. But now— hmnnn? I've come to pay off the Burgundians and I reckon to pass the night in the Priory, for it'll be dark in an hour or two. But how to get my cattle across and a
few odds and bits for the night? I take it the monks can furnish me with a room?”

“Oh, yes, there are plenty of rooms,” said Simon. “And I think it will be safe enough if we bring over your luggage piece by piece.”

Accordingly this was done. Sir Thomas walked over first. “Seventeen stone!” he confided to Dido. “Give or take a pound or two. Pon my sainted saddlebag! Am I expected to climb up that unending staircase?”

Dido, however, had found a diagonal approach to the 'warming chamber, where the shipwrecked Burgundians were accommodated, and she took Sir Thomas that way, which was not so steep as the stair, and there were trees to hold on to. Meanwhile Simon and Gribben brought over the two horses and the provisions in a series of trips.

“Fortunate thing!” Sir Thomas explained to Dido as they slowly climbed. “M'granddaughter helped me answer and send off a confounded chain-letter affair— which
I
thought a load of pernicious rubbish, but it has paid off uncommonly well. Money comes in every mail, left me quite plump in the pocket; so I can give those Burgundian rogues enough journey money to send them back to Burgundy. Best thing to do, the way matters have turned out.”

“You pay them to go home?” said Dido. “That's mighty obliging of you, Sir T.”

“Generally works out best that way. Danegeld, you know.”

Dido left Sir Thomas in the warming chamber, talking and giving orders to the shipwrecked Burgundians (luckily their English was far better than his French), and went up to the king's little room. Father Sam and Father Mistigris were there, and Simon arrived soon after.

“Sir Thomas Coldacre would like to come and pay his respects to the king,” he said. “Is His Majesty strong enough to meet a stranger, do you think?”

“He is growing weaker all the time,” said Father Sam in a low worried voice. “I don't know—”

But the king had caught Simon's words.

“Sir Thomas Coldacre?” he whispered. “Nay, he's no stranger. I ken him well. Fine I'd like tae see the callant! Many's the braw run he and I took togither after some canny farrant fox, and many's the grand gaedown and flagon of doch-and-doris we shared togither in those same days. Bring the auld loon in; I'd like fine to have a crack wi' him.”

Father Sam and Simon gazed at each other in amazement. It was a long time since they had heard the king speak so strongly and so connectedly.

Simon went off and soon returned with Sir Thomas, who subsided, creaking, on one knee and kissed the king's hand.

“Sorry I am to see you in such poor shape, sir. But there! I reckon we all come to the end of the run sooner or later. And you're in good hands, I see; Father Sam is as shrewd as any sawbones, and the monks with Father
Mistigris here can surely give ye a fine rousing send-off. But still it grieves me to see ye brought so low. Do ye remember that run we had over Sheeplow Water Meadows when Puffington headed the fox and the huntsman was soused in a clay hole? Lord bless me, how we laughed!”

“Ay well I mind it,” whispered the king. “And the whips all got left ahind! Those were the days, mon, those were the days!”

“Now, Dickie man, is there aught I can do for ye? Messages I can take to folk for ye? Bills paid, mortgages redeemed, aught of that sort? I just paid off all those Burgundian mercenaries, yell be glad to hear; the silly lubbers can't wait to get on the next packet home….”

“Nay, there's naught, I thank ye,” whispered the king. “Auld Aunt Titanias gone afore me; I felt it in my hairt two-three hours agone. All I maun do now is wait for death—but waiting's a sad, unchancy business, forbye! Tis like waiting for a dismal bink of a train that never comes. Do ye think,” he suddenly said to Dido, who was standing at the end of his bed, “Dido, dearest girl, do ye think we'll likewise be obleeged to wait, to wait for meals or trains or meetings in the waurld to come?”

“Croopus,
no
, Your Majesty,” Dido said firmly.
“Nobody
waits for
anything
there!”

“Well answered, my dearie! I'm blythe tae hear that. Ay—come to think—there is
one
thing ye can do to obleege me,” the king said, turning back to Sir Thomas. “This coronet ceremony—King Alfred's headpiece—ye
ken? We're a' waiting for that, and sair fashed, for the coronet's no' to hand; we hae the archbishop here, and the successor yonder”—he pointed at Simon—“but wheer's the cockermoney with which to crown him? Do ye ken wheer it might be, Sir Tammas?”

“Why, yes,” said Sir Thomas, sounding a little surprised, “I see it right there.”

He pointed. “The Lady Adelaide used to be good friends with my daughter, Zoe, at one time, and the Lady A was always a great one for embroidery; she was forever making kneelers for Clarion Wells cathedral or some such ploy She'd long been friends with the prince of Wales (as you were then, sir) before she married him—you. And, one time, you lent her that coronet for an embroidery frame; she told us that. You must have lent it to her again after your own crowning. Do ye remember now?”

All eyes turned to Aunt Titania's needlework equipment, which was lying in a muddle on a wooden stool. Dido went over slowly and picked up the piece of embroidered linen, which was pulled tight over a circular embroidery hoop. She undid the hoop—which was in fact two hoops, one tight inside the other—separated them and dropped the embroidered cloth on the floor. The inner hoop, which had been concealed under the cloth, was made of twisted dark copper studded here and there with pale green peridots.

“Ay, yon's the biggonet,” said the king contentedly. “Well I kenned it wad be certain tae come tae light some-where.
And I'm much obleeged tae ye, Tam, auld friend! Now, let us hirple through this fashous ceremony and hae done with it. Father Sam, are ye there?”

Father Sam, whose eyes had been nearly starting out of their sockets during the previous few minutes, moved forward, took the coronet from Dido and handed it to the king, retaining one side of it.

“Kneel down,” he said to Simon, who silently did so, close to the king's bed.

Dido, standing by Sir Thomas at the end of the bed, noticed that the gale outside had stopped blowing. The room was quite silent.

Father Sam said some Latin words, quite a long string of them. Then he put the copper circlet on Simon's head. Then he waited a few minutes. Then he added a few more Latin words. Dido heard something that sounded like
“Ubi non praevend rem dejidenum”
but Dido knew no Latin. Then he said, “You may stand up now, my boy. That's it.”

Simon stood up. Then they all heard, quite distinctly, a loud blast of dazzling song outside the window. Birds, fluting, sizzling, twittering, jug-jugging, singing their heads off.

“Nightingales,” whispered the king contentedly. “It must be Saint Lucy's Day”

Then he died.

“Oh, confound it!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, scrambling to his feet. “I was just about to fetch my brandy-warmer—Gribben had unpacked it—and give the old
fellow a snort of red-hot aquavit—cockadoodle broth— brandy beaten up with eggs. That would have roused him! Now it's too late. Too late! But how about you, my boy? (Should address you as Your Majesty I suppose, but it's a bit early to start that.) Would you care for a nip of the old stingo? Or you, Miss Dido?” Simon shook his head.

And Dido, crying her heart out on the floor at the end of the bed, made no reply.