Midwinter Nightingale (18 page)

“If you say so.”

“It goes down to the butler's pantry. And there's a window in the pantry that opens onto the moat.”

Piers was plainly so carried away by his notion of walking on stilts through the water that he had become oblivious to any difficulties or drawbacks. Walking on stilts was something he could
do.
He dragged the poles inside the lift, where they only just fit, resting corner-ways from floor to ceiling. Then he carefully inspected the levers and dials that operated the hydraulic system. There was no door; the lift was a three-sided box.

Dido was much more dubious. Stepping in beside Piers, she eyed the levers with suspicion. “Are you sure, if you pull that thing, that it won't just drop straight to the bottom?”

“No, that would be the cellars. First it stops at the pantry.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you go a-pad-dling across the moat?”

“This part of the house isn't used now. The butler left, so did the footmen,” said Piers confidently. “There's lots of empty rooms you could hide in. And all the cellars.
And I'd go to Willoughby Chase and find your friend Simon and come back for you.”

To Dido there seemed so many imperfections in this scheme that she hardly knew where to begin arguing. But as she opened her mouth to protest, Piers pulled a large brass lever and—to her astonishment and dismay—the whole cumbrous contraption began moving slowly downward, shuddering and jerking and giving off, as it did so, a series of ear-piercing groans accompanied by a loud continuous grinding shriek.

“Holy halibut!” said Dido. “I reckon no one has used it for a while.”

Even Piers looked a little worried. “We'll just have to hope that no one hears,” he murmured.

There were enamel discs set in the wall by the brass handle, marked A, P, C and I. “I expect P is for pantry and C for cellar.”

“What about I?”

“I dunno. Perhaps it's the ironing room.”

“Let's hope it isn't the interrogation room, where they ask the questions.”

“Anyway we're only going as far as P,” said Piers, with his fingers on the lever.

Dido had half expected the lift to break the aged cables that held it and plummet down the shaft. But this did not happen. It descended slowly—so slowly indeed as to give her a new worry that someone, alerted by the tremendous racket, would come running to the butler's
pantry, and they would find a reception committee waiting for them when they came to a stop.

They watched the wall sliding past—stone, brick, beams, plaster—then, jolting and shuddering, the lift came to rest.

“See! What did I tell you?” whispered Piers in triumph. He worked the two stilts, which were about seven feet long, out of the lift.

The butler's pantry was a small square room, lit by a gas bracket, with shelves holding dusty glasses and a large stone sink. The lift occupied one wall. At a right angle to it was a window looking out onto the moat. Beyond the window lay dark water, gleaming and rippling under the arc lights. To Dido it looked unbelievably menacing but Piers eyed it with cheerful confidence. The thought of walking on stilts, something he knew how to do, had acted like a tonic on his anxious nature. Now it was Dido who was filled with doubt and apprehension.

“Honestly, Woodlouse,” she whispered, “don't you think you'd better let me work out some other plan? That moat gives me the hab-dabs.” She thought of the squirrel. “Suppose you was to slip, or land one o' the stilts in a pothole?” But Piers had opened the casement window and negotiated the stilts through it. He sat on the windowsill, feet outside, holding a stilt in each hand.

“Don't you fret your head! The water only comes up to the third hole. I'll get across in a couple of shakes.
And then I'll go up north to Willoughby Chase and find your friend Simon.”

“He may not be there! And you don't even know the way.”

“I'll ask.”

He steadied the stilts, leaned forward and stood up on them. After a moment or two he began walking slowly standing still for a moment after he had planted each pole in its new position. Dido held her breath.

Then—as when she had watched the squirrels playing—she saw time stand still. The small walking figure vanished; she had a prevision of the moat empty and turbulent, the water whirling and splashing up….

“Piers! Come back!”

“So this is where you got to!”
said a voice behind her—a familiar voice full of relish and menace. Dido spun round. There stood Lot, grinning all over his spotty face, holding a pistol, which he was carefully aiming at the figure of Piers, now about twelve yards away, doggedly making his way across the water.

Lot was evidently drunk. His face was flushed, his eyeballs were red, his breath reeked of brandy.

“No!” cried Dido sharply.
“Don't!”

But he did. His finger was on the trigger and he fired. Piers toppled into the water. There was an instant commotion and a wild whirl of splashing.

“That fixed
him,”
said Lot with great satisfaction. “Wretched little slug! There won't be much left of him
by this time. And now it's
your
turn.” He was clumsily reloading the pistol.

Dido did not wait. With the croquet mallet she knocked the gun from his hand, then sprang back into the lift and pulled the lever.

“Viper! Vixen!” gasped Lot, rubbing his wrist. “Just you wait a moment till I fix you!”

But the lift bore Dido downward into the dark.

my hearing aid,” lamented the king. “And my keys—where are the keys of the palace?”

The first twenty times the king had put forth this question, Simon had offered a truthful answer: “Your Majesty never had a hearing aid. And the keys of Saint James's Palace are back in London in the prime minister's pocket or with the lord chamberlain.”

But as rational answers did not satisfy the king any longer, Simon now said, “Look, here are your keys,” showing him a bunch borrowed from Harry the aged porter, and, “Here is your hearing aid,” displaying a lump of candle wax, warmed at the fire and squeezed into a complicated shape. With this the king would be satisfied for a short time; then he would ask the questions again.

In the past two days the sick man had become
distinctly weaker—more rambling, more confused, less able to do anything for himself. And where in the world was Madam? She had gone off into the woods yesterday afternoon, as was her habit, but she had not come back when the time came to put the king to bed. Simon had had to do that, assisted by Mrs. Wigpie, the elderly housekeeper. Nor had Lady Titania come back at breakfast time.

“It's not a bit like Madam to stop away overnight,” fretted the housekeeper. “Tis not like her at all! I jest pray she isn't caught in a flood; they say half the country this side of Wan Hope Height is underwater, and the lake level rising all the while. What'll we do if the dam goes, Mester Simon? We divna stay here; the auld hoose'll be flooded up to the second floor. What shall we do with His Grace?”

“We'll have to move him somewhere else. And I believe we should do it today. Is there a cart or a carriage?”

“Nay, Madam took the dogcart and the auld pony There's only your Magpie and the carry-chair—and all they blessed sheep.”

The sheep were another cause of worry. What would become of them if the level of Darkwater Mere suddenly rose by twenty feet? The only bright spot in this anxiety was that the sheep now had such total trust in Simon, they followed him whenever he went out of doors. Which could be a nuisance at times.

“What is the carry-chair?”

Leaving the king in the care of Harry—all the other
old servants seemed to have vanished, frightened away by the threat of a flood—Simon accompanied Mrs. Wigpie to a harness room next to the empty coachhouse, where he found an ancient leather sedan chair.

“Twas used by Madam's granfer, time he busted his hip out hunting,” explained the housekeeper.

The sedan chair had carrying poles front and back and was intended to be borne by two men. But it also had two iron wheels underneath. Simon tested its weight, lifting one of the poles, and wondered if he would be able to pull it along with the king inside it.

“Harry could help ye, happen,” suggested Mrs. Wigpie.

Simon dragged the sedan chair out into the main courtyard. Even without a passenger it was fairly cumbrous, for it had a solid wooden framework, and the seat, roof, sides and front flap were made of massively thick leather, probably ox hide. There was a wooden step for the passenger's feet, and a strap to hold him in position. Just as well, Simon thought, considering how frail and shaky the king had become. All we need is for him to fall on his nose.

“But where can we take him that's safer than here? Oh, I do wish Aunt Titania were back!” Simon exclaimed, half to himself. But then he recalled that mysterious note discovered in the old lady's work-basket. Who was Cousin Aelfric? Barnard Castle lay far to the north in the principality of Bernicia, which was ruled by Oswin Cantaguzelos. Oswin was no friend of King
Richard, because he sided with the rulers of Elmet and Lindsey, lands that lay immediately north of London and were in constant dispute about boundaries and customs duties. Could Titanias cousin Aelfric be another contender for the English throne? If only the king were in his right mind! If only it were possible to ask him these questions! But in his present state that was not to be thought of; if he was able to understand at all, they would only distress him dreadfully.

“I'm afeered summat bad's overtook poor Madam. 'Tis not like her to stay away so long wi'out leaving word. And 'tis my thought that we should get His Worship away directly. Look at the level of the watter, Mester Simon; 'tis up to the bridge already. In another hour or so, the bridge'll be underwatter.”

Mrs. Wigpie was right, Simon saw.

“If only it didn't rain so hard! We must take the chair over to the door so that His Majesty isn't exposed for more than a couple of minutes.”

They did this; then the king was wrapped in several quilts with an oiled silk cover over all, and Simon, with Harry's help, carried him downstairs to the courtyard door. This was by no means an easy task. The king had become so thin that he was not very heavy, but the thinness made his joints and skin acutely sensitive, and he whimpered and groaned and exclaimed that the pain was atrocious, they were killing him, where in the world did they think they were taking him? In the rain too!

Were they mad? Where was Aunt Titania? What was going on?

Some of the layers of quilts had to be peeled off, or they would never have been able to pack the patient and his wrappings into the sedan chair.

“Where
are
we taking him?” asked Simon, when His Majesty had been strapped in, and the apron-front buttoned into place, despite the passenger's cries that they were putting him in prison, they must let him out at once, it was a monstrous crime to fasten him up so, in the dark too!

“I reckon we'd best carry him to Father Sam's chapel,” Harry said. “That is uphill from Darkwater. Twon't be flooded out yet awhile. And Father Sam will surely know the likeliest spot to keep clear of the floods.”

“Can you help me to carry him as far as that?”

Harry shrugged. “Never know till you try,” he croaked.

“What about you, Mrs. Wigpie? Will you come along with us?”

The old housekeeper shook her head. “I'll stop here, boy, up in the attics. I've carried a dozen lardy cakes up there, and apples and watter for tea. An' I carried your beautiful picture up there and all His Grace's bits and pieces. The attics won't flood. But here's a little bag of needments Madam packed up for him—in case of flooding—with his toothbrush and nightshirt and his hearing aid.”

“I thought he didn't use a hearing aid,” said Simon, ashamed that he had not thought of these simple necessaries himself.

“No, but Madam said he would soon need to, and that time'll soon be here…. And if Madam should come back before the flood, I can tell her where ye've gone. Now make haste! Watter's over the bridge this very minute.”

She was right. Old Harry grabbed the two front carrying poles, Simon took up the rear pair and they splashed through an inch of water that was flowing over the timbers of the bridge.