Midwinter Nightingale (8 page)

“Put me on the throne,” said Lot with immense self-satisfaction. He was contemplating himself approvingly in the hand mirror and did not notice the look his sister gave him.

“Why not himself?”

“Wasn't born in this country. That rules him out.”

Jorinda wrinkled her brow. “I'm sure there were plenty of kings who weren't. What about William the Conqueror? He was born in Normandy”

“They've changed the rules since then.”

“I'd think Pa would soon change them again.”

At this moment, with an anguished caterwauling, Jorinda's cat, which had been left in its basket in the hall and had taken all this time to scratch a hole through the
basketwork, managed to push open the door and make its indignant way toward its owner.

“Oh, poor pusskin! Was it a starving pussums, then? Here, have a bit of ham.”

Jorinda took a fragment of fat from one of the used plates on the table. But, before she could give it to the cat, Baron Magnus, his eyes glittering with rage, hoisted himself from his armchair, took six limping, swooping steps toward the animal and wrung its neck.

“I hate cats. I will not have animals like that creeping and sneaking about this house,” he hissed. “Pray remember that! And you, girl, do me the kindness to get out of my sight. And out of this house!”

“Papa!
How could you? You have killed my poor pus-sums! And under his cushion I was bringing you a letter from the duchess of Burgundy. I shan't give it to you now.” Jorinda's voice trembled with shock and outrage. “I was going to find opodeldoc to put your toe—”

“Be silent, girl! Leave me alone. And don't show yourself before me again.”

Sobbing with indignation rather than grief—for she had not been especially fond of the cat, which she kept simply because it was the fashion to keep a pet at school—Jorinda stumbled toward the door.

“You go too, boy. And be sure she leaves this house tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

“And take that dead animal out of my sight. You can throw it into the moat to feed the pike.”

“Are there really tiger pike in the moat?” Jorinda whispered as they walked slowly along the passage. “That's what my driver told me.” Her voice was very subdued.

“Lord, yes! Big as bolsters. Take off your arm in one snap. That's why none of the fellers ever dared run away from school no matter how much old Pennycost beat em. Itd have meant swimming the moat, cos the bridge is pulled up at night. I reckon you musta got here just afore it was hoisted.”

Lot had picked up a lamp as they left the dining chamber, and he now opened a door and led the way into a room that appeared to be a classroom. There were rows of wooden desks and a strong smell of ink and unwashed boys. Lot crossed to a window that was protected by bars, opened it, pushed the dead cat out between the bars and let go of it. Jorinda heard a splash.

Lot burst into song.

“I love little Pussy, her coat is so cold. She's gone to the fishes, she'll never grow old.” He broke off to say, “You must never sing or whistle in front of the Dad. He can't stand song or music of any kind.”

“It was
horrible
of him to kill my cat,” Jorinda said angrily, wiping her eyes.

“Well, what did you expect? He's extra ratty just now, because of his toe, I daresay.”

“Has he really bought this house?”

“Bet your boots he has. Because it was Ma's once, and he's glad she's gone.”

“Where are all the boys? If it was a school?”

“Most of em decamped—the ones who had parents in this country. There's just enough left to act as servants. And don't I just give it to em. Ha ha ha!
Walker!”

“What's that moaning I can hear?”

“The wind, most likely.”

“No, it sounds like a man. Crying.”

“Oh, 'well,” said her brother easily, “maybe it's one of the brats I had to give a licking to, for not coming quick enough when Pa rang his bell.”

“Sounds more like a grown man to me.”

“Well, it's none of your blazing business! Forget it. Now we gotta think how to get you away from here or Pa will be real mad. There's a carrier's cart comes by at seven in the morning, brings groceries and stuff. You'd best go with him; he'll take you to Clarion Wells.”

Jorinda did not argue. Fogrum Hall was no place for her. She could see that. Even the cheap lodging house in Clarion Wells where she had left Nurse Mara would have been better.

“Where can I sleep tonight?”

“In here. The dormitories—the ones that don't have boys in em—are full of rats.”

“But there's no bed.”

“Put three chairs together,” Lot told her impatiently “I'll leave you the lamp.”

He had put it on a desk. By its dim light the spots on his podgy face looked larger and blacker. She certainly did not wish for
his
company overnight, but she hated
the thought of passing the night by herself in this cheerless room.

To postpone the moment of being left alone, she said, “Will Papa really put you on the throne?”

“Certain sure. They just have to find old King Dick— wherever he's lurking—and get Alfred's crown off of him—never mind if his head's in it or not, ha ha ha! The Burgundians are due to land any day now; we'll march on London. Hope the Dad's toe is better by then. It better be, ha ha! It'll all go easy as a greased slide.”

What's in it for me? Jorinda wanted to ask, but did not. Instead she said, “Do you know the duke of Battersea?”

“Simon Bakerloo? That snotty bastard? O' course I know him. A conceited, stuck-up, la-di-da fellow if ever there was one. He'll soon have the rug pulled from under him. The Dad has no use at all for any of that lot.”

“Who pays for all this?” Jorinda asked shrewdly. “Burgundians don't come on tick, I bet?”

“Oh, the Dad has plenty of mint sauce from Mid-sylvania. Also he plans to sell off Alfred's crown to some foreign excellency—the seljuk of somewhere; I forget who. It's a curiosity, d'you see—nearly a thousand years old. Someone has offered him a shovelful of dibs for it. All we have to do is find the old gager and take it off him.”

“How d'you reckon to do that? Where
is
the king? Nobody seems to know.”

“There's one that might.”

“Who?”

“Used to be a crony of my ma.” Lot's voice was loaded with spite. “Used to come calling round, all sorrow and smarm. 'Poor dear Adelaide,' all ducky-wucky and itsy-witsy. Carsluith, he was called in those days, till his dad the earl hopped it. Now he's Lord Herodsfoot.”

“Oh, yes, I remember him. He knows about games. Collects rare games for the king.”

“Ay. Rare games,” said Lothar, giggling. He left the room, singing, “Goodbye, little Pussy, your claws are so sharp. You made a fine snack for the pike and the carp.”

Jorinda cried herself to sleep, curled in great discomfort on three chairs.

, the master of Edge Place, ate, every day, what he called a hunting breakfast. This served as a reminder of earlier times, when he had gone out hunting six days a week. Now Sir Thomas kept a manservant, Gribben, standing behind his chair, whose duty it was to blow on a hunting horn every five minutes. Gribben also tended a brandy-warmer, a large bulbous glass about the size of a football, half filled with cognac, perched in a silver cradle over a lighted candle. At breakfast time this stood by Sir Thomas's plate, ready to pour over the helpings of porridge, eggs, ham, fish curry and buttered toast that followed each other on the daily menu. When the brandy had been poured, it was Gribben's next duty to step forward smartly and set light to it with a burning taper; then Sir Thomas vigorously extinguished its blue blaze with his napkin and bolted
down each red-hot course in quick order. If Gribben did not step forward smartly enough, Sir Thomas lashed out at him with a hunting crop, which lay by his plate on the knife side.

“Make haste, make
haste
! Hounds will be throwing off any minute now. Scent oughta be breast-high today, no time to lose.”

“Yessir,” said Gribben, refilling the brandy-warmer, which he did three times at every breakfast, while Sir Thomas chomped on his flaming kedgeree.

Hounds had not met at Edge Place for a score of years.

“Hand me that second plateful of ham, Gribben; I'm sharp set. There's a chill in the air today; it may be a long run. I'll need extra rations.”

“Excuse me, sir, Mrs. Smidge carved that plateful extra thin for Miss Jorinda. We're expecting her sometime today.”

And indeed at that moment the sound of hooves and wheels clattering over cobblestones was heard down below.

“That'll be Miss Jorinda now, I reckon,” said Gribben.

“May the devil fly away with Miss Jorinda! She ought to be at school. Give me that plate of ham. Mrs. Smidge can carve another plateful, can she not? And why couldn't the gal get here in time for breakfast?”

“It'll be on account of the floods, I daresay. Mortal bad, it's said they are between here and Distance Edge
Junction,” said Gribben, passing over the ham and standing ready with his lighted taper. “We're lucky Edge Place stands high on the hillside.”

Edge Place was an ancient Saxon homestead, built in the shelter of a horseshoe of woodland halfway up the side of the long, commanding rocky ridge of hill known as Windfall Edge that divided the Combe country from the Wetlands. Like many early Saxon manors, the house stood on stone-built legs over an undercroft, where animals and farm implements were housed, with a great hall and living quarters on the first floor, approached up a flight of stone stairs, and on top of that, a roomy loft, where the servants and children had their sleeping quarters.

Now the sound of quick footsteps coming up the stone stairs could be heard; the door flew open, and Jorinda came running into the great hall, her fur coattails flying.

She tweaked off the heavy woollen wig that Sir Thomas wore at all times, planted a loud smacking kiss upon his bald head, then replaced the wig.

“Sorry to be late for breakfast, Granda! But we met the postman plodding along on his dirty old mule, so I have brought some letters you wouldn't have had till tomorrow. Is there any toast, Gribben? I'm as hungry as a hyena.”

“Mrs. Smidge will bring you some in a moment, my lady, and a plate of ham.”

“No ham for me,” Jorinda said with a shudder. “I'm a
vegetarian. I 'wouldn't touch meat with a pitchfork, not if you paid me.” She flung her fur coat over one of the chairs ranged around the massive dining table.

“Vegetarian?” growled Sir Thomas. “First
I've
heard of it! Stuff and nonsense. Twaddle! Eat what you're served, girl, and don't come these puling, sanctimonious ways in my house!”

“Oh, but, Granda, it's very, very wrong to eat live creatures!”

Mrs. Smidge arrived with a plate of toast in time to hear this. Behind her was Nurse Mara with some of Jorinda's bags, on her way to the upper stair, which led out of the great hall.

“Vegetablarian? What's this new come-over, may I inquire?” muttered Mrs. Smidge to the nurse, who threw up her eyes to heaven.

“Fallen in love again!” she hissed. Mrs. Smidge puffed out her cheeks resignedly

“Who is it this time then? Not the postman?”

“I'll tell you when I've carried these traps upstairs. Is there a cup of tea? I'm parched!”

Mrs. Smidge nodded and retired to the kitchen, Jorinda calling after her, “Bring me a pot of chocolate, Smidgey, and mind it's really hot and sweet! None of your meagre lukewarm brews!”

Sir Thomas was puffing and growling over the letters Jorinda had handed him.

“Russian boots won't arrive for another three weeks.

Just
why
, tell me that? Why can't those lazy dolts deliver when they said they would? Laggardly brutes—irresponsible vodka-swilling nincompoops!” He tipped a gill of brandy into his coffee and gulped it down.

“Russian boots, Granda? What are they? Who are they for?”

“Clever fella of a Russian invented them—can't be
all
bad, those Rooshians, can they? Electric boots, help you walk twice as quick—just the article for getting up to London, over disputed ground, at the double.”

“I should just about think so.” Jorinda was greatly impressed. “But do they really work?”