Midwinter Nightingale (14 page)

“He'll doze off now for some hours,” she whispered. “Tis the best thing for him. When he is awake, he sometimes frets himself into a fever about Alfred's crown.”

“Alfred's crown, ma'am? What is that?”

“Oh, it is one of those nonsensical rituals that men invent for themselves,” she grumbled. “Grandfather did it, so Papa did it, so I must do it and my son must
certainly
do it! Such troubles as those bits of foolery lead to! There is an old copper coronet, legend has it that it once belonged to King Alfred, and it has come to be the regular practice that when the king of England is on his deathbed, he must pass the coronet—which Alfred is supposed to have worn round his helmet when he fought the battle of Wedmore—the dying king must hand the coronet over to the archbishop, who then puts it on the head of the heir to the throne.”

“Oh, now I understand what Cousin Richard was saying about His Reverence. But is the crown not here?”

“Most
unfortunately my nephew seems to have forgotten what he last did with it. It is like the Christmas tree decorations,” the old lady went on impatiently “Used only once a year—less frequently than that in this case— put away in some safe corner in between times, and who is to say where that corner may be? My nephew's valet might have known.”

“Can we not ask him, ma'am?”

“He died last summer, bitten by an adder—such a pity Such a useful, knowledgeable man.”

“Perhaps the archbishop is keeping the crown?”

“No, that is not at all likely. My nephew is fond of Dr. Whitgift but has no confidence in his good sense. He is one of those saints, you know, who are quite useless when it comes to practical affairs. No, Richart would never have left the crown with him.”

“Would it be in Saint James's Palace? His Majesty's official residence?”

“Most unlikely Richart hates Jim Place—never spends needless time there. No, I am certain the crown would not be in London. It is most likely to be somewhere about this house…. But where, is the question.”

Lady Titania sighed again, and Simon did too. During the past four days he had thoroughly explored Darkwater Farm, looking for a room that might serve as a studio, and he had discovered that it was the most amazing rabbit warren of Lilliputian medieval chambers, some with doors no more than four feet high, once used by tiny ancestors; there were passages only two feet wide, windows no bigger than dinner plates, narrow twisting stairs and huge black beams thrusting across rooms, or vertical pillars supporting ceilings that were crusted and black with four centuries of smoke. To hunt for King Alfred's crown in this aged dwelling would be like searching for a grain of sugar in an ants' nest.

“Then,” said Simon, shifting from this daunting prospect, “His Majesty keeps referring to nightingales. Is that—” He hesitated, then went on firmly, “Is that because his mind is—is distracted by fever? Or are there,
in fact, nightingales in the woods around Darkwater, even at this time of year?”

“Have you not read your Chaucer?” inquired Lady Titania rather severely.

“I beg your pardon, ma'am?”

“Geoffrey Chaucer, the poet. His
Book of the Forest
, written when he was king's forester of the Wetlands?”

“My lady, I'm afraid that my education was mostly lacking. A large part of my childhood was spent in a cave, you see, along with some geese.”

“Was there no public library at hand?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Oh! Well, this poet, Chaucer, wrote some lines about Darkwater in his Forest poem:
'By Darkwater so stille, Oft ye may heare Midwinter Nightingale for human ears tell out her piteous tale.'
Darkwater has always been famous for its nightingales.”

“I see. When was Chaucer?”

“Fourteenth century.”

“And the nightingales are still here?”

“They do not, of course, perform their full repertoire in winter,” acknowledged Lady Titania. “But even so, you may hear them sing from time to time. And there is a well-established local legend that when the king of England lies on his deathbed, all of them will sing all night.”

A thoughtful silence fell between them. Then Simon said, “No wonder His Majesty is so concerned. Midwinter Nightingale. That would be on Saint Lucy's Day?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder how the story started?”

“Oh, I started it,” said Lady Titania. “I have the gift of prophecy. Sometimes I can look at a hand, or a face, and tell what is going to happen to that person in the future. Not always—but sometimes. Would you like me to look at your hand?”

“No, not at all, thank you, ma'am,” said Simon firmly. “I don't want to know ahead.”

“Very sensible! And just as well, for I'm not sure that I could do it with you. Some are clear; some are not. You have a friend called Dido, I believe?”

“Yes. She is in Nantucket just now.”

“No. She has recently returned to this country.”

“Oh, I'm very glad to hear that. She might be just the person to find King Alfred's crown.”

“Perhaps. Just at present,” said Lady Titania, “I have the impression that she is in considerable peril.”

“Dido
is? Where?”

“She is in most disagreeable company. With Zoe Coldacre's malevolent husband and that unpleasant dyslexic boy, her stepson. And that truly evil woman, Minna Mortimer, the duchess of Burgundy. Whenever trouble is brewing, you may be sure that Minna has a hand in it.”

“But Dido—?”

“Yes. Your friend Dido,” pronounced Lady Titania, “is at this time in grave danger.”

rapidly along the corridor by two large male persons; she could not see their faces, for they wore black hoods, but she could tell their sex from their size and voices.

“Where do we take her?” asked one.

“To the conference chamber,” said the other.

Dido wished furiously that while talking to the Woodlouse she had had the sense to ask him to cut through the rope that tied her wrists. But perhaps he wouldn't have had the courage, she thought. Poor little weasel, he seemed to have had all the spunk drained out of him.

The two men climbed a flight of stairs—this was very uncomfortable for Dido, since the edges of the stairs caught her on heels and thighs—and carried her into a large, well-lit room, where they let go of her so that she fell on the floor.

“Stand up,” said one of the men. When Dido did not do so immediately, he kicked her.

“Do as we say, or you'll get worse than that!”

Angrily, Dido scrambled to her feet. She might have said something that would certainly have led to trouble, but at that moment three people came into the room and climbed onto a platform that was between Dido and the immense window, and she was so startled and interested by their appearance that she held her tongue. A man following the three dumped a heavy canvas sack, which sounded as if it held money, on the floor near the platform. Then he left, shutting the door behind him.

The three people consisted of a spotty boy, a hugely fat woman and a white-haired man.

The boy was known to Dido; she remembered having seen him several times at the court of King Richard. His name was Lothar or Lot. And a horrible pest he was, she recalled. Always playing disgusting jokes and making spiteful remarks. He was Queen Adelaide's boy, because she had been married before, and he was sore because he'd never be king. His dad was in prison for something bad. Ask
me
, thought Dido, King Richard made a rare mistake marrying somebody who had an old husband in jail. He mighta known that would lead to trouble.

The boy Lot was bigger now, and spottier, but otherwise he seemed unchanged. He gave Dido a malicious smirk and said something in a low voice to the fat lady that made her nod with a grim smile.

She'll be the duchess of Burgundy, I reckon, Dido
guessed. She remembered Dr. Whitgift saying, “A most evil person. She hates dear King Richard.”

The duchess certainly looked evil. She had a fat pale face and eyes that lacked any expression. They were like two pickled onions, Dido thought, and her mouth was a thin slit, painted bright red, like a line under the wrong answer to a sum. She had a huge white headdress with a central cone from which flapped a muslin veil and two large white wings like elephants' ears. Must be hard to manage in a gale, thought Dido. But I guess she isn't often in a gale.

It was the third member of the trio who made the most impression on Dido. During her travels in America, she had seen rattlesnakes, and this man reminded her of a rattlesnake; he had the same deadly stare.

The three people sat down on red velvet upholstered chairs. Since they sat in silence and did not address her, Dido took the initiative.

“Good evening, folks,” she said politely. “I sure would like to know why you took the trouble to fetch me all this way…. That really queers me. And I'd not say no to a bite of supper.”

The sound of her own voice cheered her a bit. It sounded so sensible.

Since they did not answer, she looked about the room. It was large, lit by gas lamps, and had rows of chairs facing the platform. Maybe it was a classroom. The window, behind the platform, was huge and went right down to the floor. Through it, Dido could see the moat,
floodlit by a row of tall gas lamps on the farther shore. The water, Dido noticed, looked dimpled and active, as if it contained a lively fish population. Tiger pike, the Woodlouse had said. And alligators. Dido wondered how large they came.

The walls of the conference room were adorned with stuffed animals' heads and glass cases containing tools and weapons. “They have all kinds of ways of making you answer,” the Woodlouse had said. “Awful things.” Dido did not care for the look of the implements in the cases. Still less did she fancy the thing like a suit of armor with a hinged front section attached to its forehead; the front part was hoisted up by a rope attached to a pulley in the ceiling. What was
that
for? Dido wondered.

Since the three people on the platform maintained their silence, Dido calmly dragged out a chair from the front row and sat down on it. One of the two hooded men who stood behind Dido moved swiftly forward, but the white-haired man on the platform made a slight negative gesture with his gloved hand. The man stepped back again. Dido said politely, “Excuse me, folks. I had rather a hard day
and
a night of it. You won't take it amiss if I help myself to an apple and pear.”

Silence from the platform.

To disconnect herself from their chilly stare, Dido glanced beyond them, through the great pane of glass and across the moat. She noticed that two squirrels were chasing each other in and out of the clumps of reed that grew on the moat bank. Dido was able to see them quite
clearly in the bluish light that shone down from the gas lamps; they twirled their tails, bounded in and out of the reeds, sometimes jumped clean over each other. They were plainly having a good time.

Those three in the red chairs don't know what a fine game's going on behind em, Dido thought. Their bad luck. She sat back in her own chair, took some steady breaths and tried to imagine that she was still aboard His Majesty's ship
Thrush
, watching the antics of dolphins or flying fish.

But then a bad thing happened.

Swerving to get away from its mate, one of the squirrels bounded to within an inch of the moat's edge. And a man-sized fish exploded from the water, grabbed the squirrel by one leg and vanished below the surface. It happened with such lightning speed that Dido could hardly believe what she had seen. But the squirrel was gone. Its playmate seemed sad and astonished, ran this way and that, hunting for its lost friend, and at last went slowly up the bank and vanished from view in the shadows beyond.

Dido had had an odd experience before the giant pike pounced on its prey

Watching the squirrel at the water's edge, she saw the action freeze, as if time had come to a stop, as if she were looking at a static picture of two squirrels among some rushes. Then, loud and clear, like a voice telling her a fact from a history tale, words hummed in her ear:
You will never see that squirrel again.
Next moment, the picture
moved; the fish shot out of the water, snatched the squirrel and vanished.