Midwinter Nightingale (6 page)

“Well, I daresay you still can,” said Podge comfortably. “And 'welcome! If His Reverence don't give you breakfast, that is. Here we are, now, this is his riverside hidey-hole.”

All this time they had been driving through marshy meadows with an occasional patch of scrubby coppice-wood, thorn, alder and willow. Dido guessed that they were still close to the Thames River, for they crossed numerous tidal creeks by narrow wooden bridges. Dawn was still several hours away, but the foggy dark was faintly lighter than it had been an hour ago. Dido could now see ahead of them a little one-story building surrounded by a very neatly trimmed hedge.

As the curricle came to a stop by a picket gate, a dark figure armed with a musket emerged from the shadow of the hedge and sharply demanded a password.

“Pendragon!”

“Pass in, then. But only
one
of ye. His Revrince don't want a whole passel of callers.”

“That'll have to be you, then, dearie,” said Podge. “But His Reverence won't bite ye.”

“No. Now I remember the old guy,” said Dido. “I met him once before, when King Dick was being coronated.”

She made her way cautiously along a narrow path through a very neat front garden that seemed to be laid out as a miniature landscape with model 'windmills, streamlets crossed by cockleshell bridges, dwarf trees, tiny thatched houses and toy storks nesting on roofs.

Funny sort o' thing for a grown guy to occupy himself with, thought Dido, who did not particularly admire the garden. Specially seeing as how he's the archbishop of Winchester and Wessex. You'd think he'd have better ways of passing his time.

But then she remembered that the archbishop was known to be a great friend of the king, Richard IV, whose principal hobby was collecting ancient games and playing them with his friends and his wife, Queen Adelaide. But she had died a few years ago. So who does the poor old codger play his games with now? Dido wondered as she tapped at the door.

“Come in,” called a gentle voice, and she stepped into a shabby but cozy little room with a rag rug on the brick floor, three wicker armchairs, a kitchen table and a great many shell-framed pictures on the walls. A small coal fire burned in the old-fashioned range, and a kettle hummed on the hob.

The old gentleman, who was seated in one of the armchairs, gave Dido a very sweet smile.

“No need for you to present any credentials, my
child,” he said as Dido gave him a respectful bob, “I remember you very well from our pleasant tea party after His Majesty's coronation, when you carried King Richard's train.”

“Yes. And I remember Your Reverence,” said Dido, relieved that she need not present credentials, for she had not the least notion what they were. “You ate nineteen cucumber sandwiches.”

“Aha! And you ate seventeen! I have had a few sandwiches prepared for you, recalling that happy day. To think that was nearly six years ago! How time does fly”

Dido accepted a cucumber sandwich from the plate he offered her, thinking that she would rather have a bowl of hot chowder. But it was kind of the old gager to have them made—she did not think he had made them himself, as they were very neat, cut in tiny squares; whereas he was very untidy, wearing a robe made from a worn gray blanket, canvas slippers and over his shoulders a shabby woollen shawl with a great many holes and dangling ends of'wool. The only items that suggested he was an archbishop were his purple silk shirt and a great amethyst ring on his right hand.

He poured hot water into a brown teapot with a ring of blue forget-me-nots round its middle and handed Dido a cup of tea, which in her opinion would have been better if he had waited a few more minutes for the tea to brew.

But she said, “Thank you, Your Worship,” and sipped it gratefully enough. It was hot, after all. “Can I help
you, mister, in some way?” she presently asked, as the archbishop seemed to have sunk into a kind of daydream.

Or nightdream, thought Dido, listening to the far-off cry of a heron or bittern out there in the dark on the marshes. I wonder that coming and perching out here in this boggy spot don't give the old guy shocking rheumatics. She glanced with some disfavor round the dank little sanctuary.

“You can call me Dr. Whitgift,” he replied, rousing up a little. “And, yes, it is hoped very much that you may be able to help me and my colleagues in a most difficult, delicate, anxious affair.”

“O' course, Your Honor—Doc Whit,” said Dido, more and more puzzled. “Any way I kin be useful, I'll be glad to. But what's the hocus?”

“You are great friends, are you not, with His Grace the duke of Battersea?”

After a moment's puzzlement, Dido said, “Oh, you mean my pal Simon, him as used to lodge with my da in Rose Alley? Sophie's brother?”

“Yes, my child.”

“Sure, I know the feller well. Him and mes served each other several good turns.”

“Just so. Well. Now.” The archbishop suddenly stood up, revealing himself to be a good deal taller and thinner than Dido had remembered. He took several nervous turns about the room, picking shells off the mantelpiece and replacing them, opening the door suddenly and
looking out, opening the window likewise and thrusting out his head, as if he feared there might be eavesdroppers outside.

Then he beckoned Dido close to him and whispered, “Have you any notion where the duke of Battersea might
be
at this time?”

“Ain't he in his house? Bakerloo House? Alongside the park?”

“No, my child, he is not there.”

“Or he might be at Loose Chippings castle, somewhere up north? He has a deal of property in those parts, I fancy”

“No, a search has been made in those places, without any success.”

“Blimey,” said Dido, suddenly anxious, “you don't think Simon has been took and scrobbled by some havey-cavey fellers—Hanoverians, maybe? But no,” recollecting, “us and the Hanoverians is all cobbers now, ain't we? Would it be that other lot, then? Burgundians, is it?”

“Whisht, child!” The archbishop laid a thin, frail finger on his lips. Then he beckoned her closer and whispered, “It is true that the Burgundians are no friends to our poor dear king. I know that well. Thank Providence, very few people in this world are truly wicked, but I have reason to believe that the duchess of Burgundy is a most evil person. She hates dear King Richard.”

“Well—then—”

“And another most evil person, unfriend to our king,”
whispered the archbishop, “another most maliceful, untrustworthy character, Baron Magnus Rudh, a friend of the duchess, has just been released from jail, after vowing to be revenged on all those who put him there.”

“Well then,” repeated Dido, “can't somebody—as it might be the chief constable—can't he lay that pair by the ears?”

“Ah, but they have done nothing, as yet, to justify such an arrest. So far as we know, that is….”

“But if they are such a danger to the king—or Simon—can't they be warned?”

“But that is just the difficulty my child.
We have lost
the king!”

Dido gaped at him.

“You've lost—?”

“We have lost the king! We do not know where he has got to—where he can be!”

“Croopus!”

“And that is not the worst of the matter,” Dr. Whitgift whispered miserably. “For His Majesty is not at all well. In fact—not to put too fine a point on it—he is at death's door.”

“What ails the poor old gager?”

“He is afflicted with a suppurating quinsy—the very same indisposition that carried off his father and his grandfather.”

“Is he being looked after by a doctor?”

“We don't
know,”
lamented the archbishop. “But we think—this is our only hope—that the duke of Battersea
must be with him. They are firm friends, and as you perhaps know, the duke of Battersea is the next heir to the throne, since the death of Prince David of Wales.”

“Is
he?” said Dido, startled. “No, I didn't know that.
Simon
is? Nor I didn't know Prince Davie had died.”

“Yes, that happened a few months ago in the northern city of Holdernesse. He gave his life to save a friend. News of his death, I fear, will have been the final blow to King Richard's declining health—coming after the death of his much-loved Queen Adelaide some time ago. They had not been married very long.”

“But—hey—hold on,” said Dido. “Prince Davie was seventeen or so, warn't he?”

“Ah,
his
mother had been King Richard's first wife, Princess Edelgarde of Flint. She was drowned crossing the Irish Sea—such an ill-fated family …”

His voice faded away.

“So,” said Dido, bypassing all these deaths, “so King Richard is missing and also my pal Simon Battersea. No one knows where they're at, that right? How long they been gone?”

“Nobody knows that precisely The king, of late, has been leading such a reclusive life, because of his health. No public engagements. The only person allowed to look after him was a relation, an old lady he calls Madam, who has been his devoted nurse and taken care of him ever since childhood.”

“So he and Simon, and this old gal, have all been missing for no one quite knows how long? Holy Peggotty!

What a mux-up,” Dido said. It was plain that she thought but poorly of the people whose job it was to take care of the king. “Ain't there anyplace he might be likely to go? Some hideout, a castle in the mountains or a country cottage—like this one here?”

“Well, there are Osborne, Balmoral, Sandringham, Glamis—but a search has been made; he is not at any of those places. The duke's sister is overseas at present. We had hoped that you, being his friend, might know of some sequestered country residence of his—or a cottage belonging to friends—someplace frequented in childhood, an inn, even—?”

Dido grinned a private grin, remembering what Simon had told her about his childhood. He had run away from an orphanage and lived in a cave in a forest for years, looking after a flock of geese. She did not think it at all likely that he would take the dying king to such a refuge.

“But look, Reverence,” she said thoughtfully. “If the poor cove is dying—maybe he wants to die in peace without a lot of fussation.
I
should, if I were him. Can't you just let him alone?”

The archbishop let out a squawk of utter disapproval.

“Dear child—no! A thousand times no! The king of this realm to die all by himself without assistance—'without the proper ceremonies, 'without the consolations of religion, 'without witnesses, evidence, proof, medical testimony …? Besides, there is the coronet ritual—”

He cut himself short abruptly.

“What's that?” asked Dido. “What is the coronet ritual?”

The archbishop said, rather stiffly, “It is a very private, sacred, royal ritual shared by the dying monarch and his archbishop of Wessex. I can tell you no more than that about it. But I may say that without it, the monarch's passing can hardly be considered legal—or even constitutional….”

“Oh, now I get it,” said Dido. “What you want is for me to find the king afore he hops the twig, so you can do this coronet thing with him?”

“Indeed, indeed! For if His Majesty should unfortunately pass away without due process, there might be very considerable doubts and difficulties as to the succession.”

“Ah, now I begin to twig your lay. There's no son to inherit. So, what's Simon? How does he come into it?”

“The Bakerloo family are cousins of the Tudor-Stuarts, both equally respectable, well connected and ancient, both being descended in direct parallel lines from Uther Pendragon and so from Constantine the Tyrant.”

“Don't sound all that respectable to me,” said Dido. “Ain't there any other cousins who might step in?”

“Princess Adelaide—before she married His Majesty—had formerly been married to Baron Magnus Rudh, who traced his descent from Vortigern Aelfred, king of the West Saxons, as well as a very ancient
European family—she had a son by that connection, but what became of him I have not been informed. However, if he is alive, he might consider that he has a claim.”

“What was his name?”

“I am not certain that I ever heard it.”

“Mind you,” said Dido, “if I know Simon—and I
do
know him pretty well, he's as decent a young feller as ever came walking down the pike—I wouldn't reckon on his being all that
willing
to step in and have a crown stuck on his head. Who'd say thank you to have sich a job dumped on them? I ask you? He's an easy, free-acting kind of cove; he likes to paint pictures. I don't see him sitting on a throne and being obligated to marry some princess.” Here she grinned to herself. “Who'd want that? I'm dead certain Simon wouldn't. Maybe he spirited old kingy away on purpose sos to wriggle out o' the net….”

“If he did so, he did very, very wrong,” said the archbishop severely.

“Well, I wouldn't blame him if he did. Not one bit.”

“Just the same, child, can you help us to locate them? Rack your brain, cudgel your memory—some passing allusion, some chance recollection may return to help us.”

Dido sat silent, racking and cudgeling as directed. Absently she ate the last cucumber sandwich.

“Ain't there any other cousins?” she asked presently.

“Some Plantagenets, I believe—and some illegitimate
descendants of Henry IX and the duchess of Dee, a young female formerly known as Polly Stone—I believe there is Aelfric of Bernicia—”

“Don't sound too promising.”

Dido brooded with her chin on her fists.

Presently she noticed that the archbishop appeared to have fallen into a doze.

She had been on the point of making a suggestion, but now she decided to keep silent. And, thinking over the notion that had struck her, she felt more and more strongly that if the king had suddenly taken a fancy to go into hiding—possibly with Simon for company—he had a right to be left to his own devices. A perfect right! After all, thought Dido, a king oughta get better treatment than common people—not worse. If he's sick and wants peace and quiet, that's what he oughter have. It had suddenly occurred to Dido that the person who might well know King Richard's whereabouts was Mr. Greenaway, the father of Podge, who presided over a huge warehouse near Green Bank in the middle of London's dockland. The king used to go and chat with him, Dido recalled, and drink his apple punch and ask his advice about all sorts of problems. Mr. Greenaway knew Simon too.