Midwinter Nightingale (5 page)

Baron Magnus frowned, shrugged, murmured,
“Odious, odious noise! Repulsive tune! I wonder if he is aware how much I hate all tunes?
Perhaps
not …But the poor fellow means no harm, I feel
almost
certain….” And he moved toward the table, while the doctor, opening his bag, withdrew a small phial, containing one white pill, and a silver flask, from which he poured a portion of port wine into a glass that stood ready for him.

The cell occupied by Baron Magnus was wedge-shaped, accommodated to the round tower that contained it. The furnishings were simple—a bed, a table, two chairs and a curtain across one corner, where toilet things were housed. Meagre light from two small slit windows high up was augmented by many candles. The dark stone walls were hung with rich tapestries embroidered with forests where wolves, stags and huntsmen endlessly pursued one another among many-branched trees. Costly carpets covered the floor.

“How piercingly sad this is!” sighed the baron, reseating himself at the table. “How very,
very
much I shall miss our evening conferences, my dear doctor! They have furnished the gladsome summit of each day. And yet, my good friend,” he added, as the doctor approached him with the glass of port in one hand and the pill, a very large one, held between finger and thumb, in the other, “yet, my dear doctor, my days passed in this unsought, unplanned seclusion have not been wasted— far from it.” He pointed to a massive pile of leather-bound volumes stacked against the wall.

“All these works have been imbibed, absorbed, committed
to memory. I emerge from custody a far wiser, better-informed being than the sad, resentful fellow who first reluctantly entered this melancholy edifice. I shall have so much to impart to my dear wife—ah—forgive me!” he said, as the doctor, startled, spilled a splash of port wine on the tablecloth. “Allow me!” The baron pulled a snowy kerchief from his pocket and wiped away the drop of wine. In doing so he accidentally flicked the pill that Dr. Blisland was proffering. It fell on the carpet.

“Forgive me!” the baron exclaimed again, and bent from his chair to retrieve the pill. “Here it is, quite safe! I shall swallow it forthwith.” He did so. “And now I shall imbibe this superlative wine, which I suspect, my dear sir, is furnished from your own cellar—am I not right? I do not believe that the prison medical service would ever supply such a superior vintage. But I seem to have surprised you, dear Dr. Blisland? What can I have said that caused you so to start?”

“It—it was just—” stammered the doctor, greatly embarrassed, “it was just that—has Your Excellency forgotten that Lady Adelaide—er—passed away some years ago?”

And was married to the king at the time, he might also have said, but did not.

“Ah, yes, indeed. Indeed. This prison solitude inculcates a certain slowness of wit, a grievous lethargy of memory. Of
course
my poor dear Adelaide died some time ago—a most unfortunate occurrence, was it not? Now I begin to recall the circumstances. Something fell
on her from above, did it not, as she was attending divine service?”

“Er—yes—that is so,” replied the doctor, deciding to pass over the fact that when she died, the Lady Adelaide had been married to King Richard IV for some years and was queen of England. Poor thing, she's dead anyway, so he can't harm her now, supposing he should wish to, he thought, remembering the baron's litany of screaming, raving denunciations and threats as he was dragged from the courtroom.

“I shall gnaw their vitals! I shall chew their tongues. I shall pull off their fingers and use them for bookmarkers; I shall dangle their bodies in my moat for the pike to finish off. I shall make them sorry they ever saw my face!”

His own distorted face had been almost unrecognizable as he shouted these threats; suffused with hate and fury, he had looked more like a wild beast than a human being.

How remarkably different from the way he appears now, thought the doctor, studying the baron's gentle, smiling countenance. What a wonderful effect those pills have had on him, to be sure! I shall write an article for the
British Medical Journal
, he decided, recorking the empty port flask, about the beneficial effects on L.A.D., Lycanthropy-Aggravated Dementia, of Saint-Peter's-wort with evening primrose and rose of Sharon imbibed daily with a moderate dose of vintage port wine. Why, at one time, that man who now sits, so gentle, sensible and
chatty, across the table from me, at one time he actually believed, and would have others believe, that he was a …

“Poor,
poor
Adelaide,” sighed the baron, picking up his glass and inspecting it, to make sure there was no drop of wine remaining. “How greatly she must be missed. But I shall be overjoyed to embrace our dear son, Lothar—I am sure he resembles his beloved mother. I am very sure he will be a comfort to his poor widowed father.”

That
he won't, thought the doctor uncharitably

He stood up.

“Well, Baron, this is goodbye, then? Unless you plan to remain in town and should wish to avail yourself of my services at any future time?”

“No, no, my dear friend, I am for Great Distance and Fogrum. But—should I at any time return to the metropolis—I shall take it as an act of friendship if you will dine with me at Armorica House?” He showed his very white teeth in a beguiling smile as he said this.

“A safe journey home to you, then.”

“Dear me! The dwellers on the South Bank seem uneasy tonight, do they not? Something appears to be troubling them. I wonder what it can be?”

“It is the winter cold, I daresay,” said the doctor, with another shiver. “The lions in their cages are accustomed to warmer climates—”

“But the wild wolves are of a hardier temper,” the baron said, smiling again. “This cold weather stirs them
up to sing for their supper. I like to hear them at it! I shall miss their nightly anthem when I quit these quarters, hospitable in that respect if in none other. No, dear Doctor, I do you an injustice.
You
have always been a kindly host with your healing medicine and your agreeable talk.
That
I shall also miss. What a contrast to my royal cousin Richard, who has paid no single visit in fifteen years.” A single malignant flash came and went in his dark eyes.

“Er—I—I believe he was instructed by his councillors of state—” the doctor said, stammering slightly.

“Doubtless, doubtless. But now I must delay you no longer. Adieu, my dear sir.”

He made the doctor such a deep and courtly bow that he seemed unaware of the hand extended by Blisland, who, after a moment's hesitation, bowed likewise and then tapped on the door in the prearranged signal for the guard to let him out.

“Evening, your lordship,” called the guard through the doorway as he let out the doctor. “Me and Sam'll bring up your supper in a brace of shakes.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself, my good man,” returned the baron in his gentle voice. “I do not wish for any supper. I do not find myself at all hungry.”

“Oh? Very good, sir—if you say so.” Having shot the bolts, the guard clattered away down the stair, whistling as he went. A frown of vexation darkened the baron's face, and the yellow light gleamed momentarily in his eyes.

“That tune again! Always that idiotic tune he whistles. But not for much longer …”

Crossing his cell, the baron stood before one of the figures in the tapestry, a huntsman engaged in drawing his bow. He was life-sized, and the two pouches he wore, doubtless intended for game or weapons, had been cunningly unstitched at the top so as to render them capable of holding real articles. Into one of these the baron dropped a pill that he had concealed in his kerchief. The bag already held several hundred pills.

“There, my dear, dear, dear friend,” murmured the baron. “There goes the last of your offerings. Now we shall see what we shall see.”

Downstairs the gatekeeper gave an irritable kick to the two heavy sacks of silver coins that were still impeding the passageway.

“Why don't those sorbent treasury messengers come when they're supposed to?
Now
what am I to do? I have to lock the outer gate and those sacks'll be underfoot all night. Here, you, Anderson, take and put them up on the roof, will you? They'll be safe enough up there, the gulls and ravens won't swipe em and the messengers ull be justly served that they have to go the extra distance in the morning.”

“What, me? Carry those heavy sacks up all those stairs? Who do you think I am? Hector Herculoosoe?”

“Go on, man, you don't have to take them both together. Make two trips of it.”

Still grumbling profusely, the assistant guard did as he
was ordered. The heavy sacks chinked and jingled as he struggled with them up the winding stairway.

When he came back after depositing the second one by the roof parapet, he said, “There! I hope you're satisfied. It's pouring cats and dogs, enough to melt the seals and rot the sacking. Why people want to pay good money to see some peacocks and hear wolves howling, blow me if I know! And now I'm going off duty”

Upstairs in his pie-shaped cell, the baron rubbed his hands slowly and lmgermgly together, then sat down to wait out the last twelve hours of his fifteen years' imprisonment. His pale face was unmovmg and inexpressive as marble, but his eyes shone like molten steel.

•••

Two small tugs,
Smith
and
Jonej
, were guiding His Majesty's ship
Philomela
through the sandbanks and shallows of the Thames estuary on a dark and foggy winter night, when they were intercepted by a rowing boat that sh one a blue light.

“Philomela
ahoy!” shouted a voice.

“Rot and sink you!” grumbled the master of
Smith.
“What's all this? Piracy in London River?”

“No, there's a civilian passenger aboard
Philomela
thats urgently wanted by His Holy Nibs.”

“Ah, and how do we know that's a true tale, not just Banbury sauce?”

“I've a password.”

“Let's hear it, then.”

“Lower a dinghy. Can't go bawling passwords over nine yards of Thames water.”

“That's so.”

The message was thus relayed and the password whispered: “Pendragon.”

“That'll do,” said
Philomela
, satisfied. “Who's the passenger that's wanted?”

“Young female by the name of Dido Twite.”

“We'll drop her over the side, then.”

After a short interval, this was done. The passenger, a small dark figure, with her baggage, was deposited in the rowing boat, which pulled rapidly away for the Essex shore. And the ship with its convoy proceeded upriver.

“So why do I have to be off-loaded in this mirsky capsy way in the dead o' night without a word's warning?” grumbled Miss Dido Twite as two dim blue lights on the Essex coastline drew closer.

“Can't tell you that, ma'am. But there's a fellow ashore will soon make all pi am.”

This promise was not immediately kept. A light curricle with a driver and one passenger and two impatient horses waited at the rear of the landing stage, which was situated on a dark, deserted stretch of marshy riverbank. The moment Dido and her small bag had been bundled into the carriage, the driver cracked his whip and the horses set off at a gallop.

But even in the dark Dido had recognized her fellow passenger. His height and bulk were unmistakable.

“Podge! Podge Greenaway! What's all the mystery about?”

“His Holy Nibs will tell you that. I better not go spilling any beans” said Podge. “For the matter o' that, I've not many to spill. Tis all to do with a pal of yours painting a picture. That's all /know.”

“Painting a picture? Croopus! Does that mean that Sim — ?”

“Whisht, gal! Walls have ears, and so do hedges. All I know is that a message came to me and Dad, asking where was you. And all we knew was that you'd gone to visit friends in New England but was expected back sometime around Christmas.”

“That's so,” agreed Dido. “And I hitched a ride back with my pal Captain Hughes on his frigate. I been visiting my friends Nate Pardon and Dutiful Penitence on Nantucket Island. And why the pize shouldn't I do that?”

“No reason on earth why you shouldn't,” said Podge. “But there's been a heap of different kinds of trouble a-brewing up here — I can't tell you more about that, but His Reverence will — and there's a big question that nobody can answer — except, seems you might be able to.”

“A question?” Dido was really puzzled. “Is it about S-?”

“Hush up, dearie! We better not talk about it anymore till we get to where we're bound. Shan't be lona; now.”

“Oh, very well, tol lol. Tell me what else has been happening. … I been away nearly six months, remember.”

“There was a big flood up north in Humberland—lots of folk drownded. And the flood came washing down the coast and did a lot o' damage to towns in Essex and Kent. But London was spared—except the new tunnel under the Thames got flooded out and a lot of wolves drownded.”

Both of them fell silent, thinking of Dido's father, whose music had been played at the opening ceremony for the new Thames tunnel, and who, not long after that, had been killed by wolves in Saint James's Park.

“How's Sophie?” Dido asked then, shaking herself briskly.

“Sophie? She's wonderful peart!” A note of fond pride came into Podge's voice.

“Can I go and see her tomorrow?”

“No, dearie, you can't, for she's away visiting cousins in Hanover. But she'll be back in two-three weeks and you can see her then, and you can see little Greena-whizz too—”

“Ohhh!” exclaimed Dido. “Has Sophie been and gone and—?”

“Yes, she has! I'm a dad!”

“But, staying in Hanover? Are we pals with Hanover now, then?”

“Oh, yes, we've signed a big treaty of friendship,” Podge said. “It's the folks down south who are giving us trouble now. The Burgundians. But His Reverence'll likely give you the tip on all that.”

“Burgundy,”
said Dido. “Where's that?”

“Way down south, past Finisterre and Ushant.”

“Well, rabbit me if I can see why His Holy Nibs should want to tell me about Burgundy! Let alone fetching me outa my berth for the pleasure. I was hoping to come along and take a bite of breakfast with your da and your brother Wally after we tied up in the port o' London.”