Midwinter Nightingale Page 5

  “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.

  What was that that Podge had begun to say—something about painting a picture? I'll not worrit His Reverence with this right now, case it's nought but a wild goose chase, Dido decided. I'll go ask Mr. Greenaway first what he thinks. Podge out there will take me to his da; it can't be far from here. Maybe King Dick has holed out there in the warehouse.

  But firstways and foremost, I reckon that poor old Royalty oughta have a say in whether he's hunted out of his hidey-hole or left on his lonesome.

  That is, supposing the cove is still alive, she suddenly thought, a horrid possibility striking her.

  Well, I'll ask Mr. Greenaway what he thinks—he's got a lot o' sense—and then I'll get back to His Holy Nibs.

  She scribbled a note in a notebook that lay on the kitchen table: WILL BE IN TUTCH—YORS, DIDO and. let herself quietly out the door. She wouldn't be sorry, she thought, to get away from the archbishop's dank little hideaway.

  The moment she was outside, a thick black sack enveloped her from head to foot, and something that felt heavy as a tombstone slammed her hard on the back of her head. Her knees buckled, her eyes shut and she fell forward into a pit of nothingness.

  pay you,” said Jorinda to the driver, jumping out of the hackney coach.

  “Beg parding, miss, but I druther have the cash here and now, or your bags stays on the roof.”

  “Oh, bother! You tiresome man! Wait a moment, then—”

  She ran up the moss-grown steps to the big double doors of Fogrum Hall and rapped lustily on them with the handle of her umbrella—for rain was falling steadily—rattled the latch and called, “Open up, within there! It's Mr. Lot's sister—Miss Jorinda—open up, I say!”

  After considerable delay the doors were slowly opened and an elderly head thrust out.

  “Who's that making such a clamoration at this time o' the evening?”

  “It's me, Miss Jorinda! I need money to pay the coachman's fee who brought me here. Can you settle him? Or send for Master Lot.”

  “Nobody said to me as you was expected, miss.”

  “Well, I'm here now, so will you please do as I say? My bags are on the coach roof.”

  Grumbling and reluctant, the porter finally made his slow way down the slippery steps, paid the jarvey and struggled up again with Jorinda's luggage, making several trips and complaining more bitterly each time about the weight of the bags and the lack of consideration shown by people who arrived unexpectedly at an hour when all decent householders were about to lock up and retire for the night. “Lucky the bridge wasn't pulled up yet.”

  “Where is my brother?”

  “Master Lot? He's with His Lordship, o' course.”

  “My father? Is my father out of prison and here already? Oh, that is capital! I did not think he would be here so soon. Take me to them at once.”

  “Dunno as ow they'll be that happy to see ye—females ain't over and above 'welcome hereabouts.”

  “Will you kindly stop boring on and take me to the baron! And you might bring some tea and bread and butter—or tell someone else to. I'm sharp set!”

  Mumbling and growling even more, the porter dumped the bags and cat basket in the middle of the hallway and started limping along a dimly lit stone-paved passage without looking to see if Jorinda was following him. But she did so, treading close behind, exasperated at his slow shuffle.

  Presently he knocked at a door.

  “What is it?” shouted a voice impatiently.

  “Beg pardon, me lord—there's a young lady here says she's yer lordship's daughter. Miss Jorinda, she says her name is.”

  There was a flat, flabbergasted silence from be
hind the door for a moment or two, then a younger voice called, “Send her away!”

  “I will not be sent away!” exclaimed Jorinda. “I never heard such rude, hateful rubbish! I am his lordship's daughter. Let me in directly!”

  She gave a vigorous poke with her umbrella to the aged porter and another to the door, which swung open, and she marched into the room.

  It was a dining room, dimly lit by a number of oil lamps. A low red fire burned in the hearth and the remains of a lavish meal were scattered on a fair-sized table. But Jorinda had eyes only for the two people who sat in armchairs on either side of the fireplace.

  She approached the white-haired man.

  “Sir! I am your daughter, Jorinda! My mother was Zoe Coldacre, who died at my birth. I have come here to love and cherish you!”

  “Oh, for mercy's sake, my good girl! Let us not have any sentimental nonsense of that kind, I beg! I assure you that I could hardly be less interested if you were Queen Cleopatra's daughter.”

  After uttering these words the white-haired man gave her a long, cold, smiling, distasteful appraisal. She observed that his left leg and foot were swathed in bandages and that—for some reason—he held a gold-framed hand mirror at which he glanced now and then.

  “But, sir! Papa! Do I not remind you of my mother? Of Zoe Coldacre? I am the living image of her! Everybody says so!”

  “I have only the very scantiest recollection of your mother, my good girl. Our connection was extremely brief. Now, will you please go away—far away—and never come back? Even supposing that you are my daughter—which I take leave to doubt—what possible use would I have for a daughter? I am already cumbered with a son, which is tiresome enough, but has to be borne.” And he threw a glance that was by no means indulgent at the other occupant of the room.

  Even Jorinda's extremely self-confident nature was fairly quelled by this unwelcoming reception, though she felt, deep inside her, that given time and favorable circumstances, she could certainly win her father's favor and fondness. In the meantime she was not particularly sorry to find that her brother seemed held in no better esteem. When they were younger, living in royal grace apartments in Saint James's Palace, Lot had often teased and plagued her and made her life miserable. After he had been sent to school and she to Coldacre, they had met only on his brief visits there, and she looked at him now with some curiosity to see how he was turning out.

  Not particularly well, she decided. True, he had grown very bulky and tall, but his complexion was pasty. His face was not at all handsome and it wore a smug, self-satisfied expression: Plainly he was delighted at his sister's unfavorable reception. His thick, dust-colored hair stood up all over his head in spikes, and his skin was marked by some red, angry pimples.

  Eats too many greasy cakes, decided Jorinda. He always used to.

  “Papa, what happened to your leg? Was it something they did to you in prison?”

  “Oh, really, you wretched girl, will you please go away and stop pestering me?”

  “I know a lot about looking after legs,” persisted Jorinda. “Granda was always breaking his, out hunting, and now he has terrible gout. Nurse Mara taught me—”

  “That old witch. Is she still alive?”

  “Yes, but what did happen to your leg, Papa?”

  “A sack full of sixpences fell on it,” Lothar informed Jorinda. His voice was decidedly malicious, as if he relished his father's slightly ridiculous mishap. He refilled the wineglass that stood on a table near his elbow and took a gulp.

  “Sixpences?”

  “From the roof of the Tower. They had been left there for safekeeping, and the idle, good-for-nothing guard, to save carrying it down a few hundred stairs, dropped it over the battlements. It fell on Pa's toe, just as he was leaving. How we did laugh!”

  “Were you there, then?” Jorinda was surprised. “When he was released?” It's not like Lot to act the dutiful son, she thought. What did he hope to gain from it? Money, probably.

  “O' course I was. And what's more, I brought the sack of sixpences away with us. I love sixpence, pretty little sixpence!” he sang in a loud raucous voice.

  “Stop that infernal row this instant!” hissed his father. Their eyes met. Lot abruptly quieted down and took another swig of wine.

  “Did they give you leave from school, then?”

  “This ain't a school anymore. After I burned old Pentecost's book that he was writing—”

  “Hey, wait—who is old Pentecost?”

  “The Beak, o' course! So he fired me from the school. Or would have. But just at that time, Pa was due to come out of jug, so Pa bought Fogrum Hall, lock, stock and barrel; old Costpenny got the sack and Foggers Hall belongs to Pa and me now.”

  Jorinda glanced at Baron Magnus and saw that he was inhaling from a jeweled vinaigrette with an expression that made her shiver slightly; she did not quite know why. There was something cold, folded and withdrawn about his look. Not quite human.

  “Why did you burn old Pentecost's book?” she asked her brother.

  “Oh, I dunno. Just for a jape.”

  “Stupid sort of jape.”

  “Better than what's happened to some of the other folks that the Dad didn't care for.” Lot sniggered. “The archbishop, the doctor, the jailer—they've all had their quittance….”

  “Will you two pray leave this room if you are going to whisper and mutter to each other.”

  “Sorry, Pa.”

  “But, Papa dear, is your toe really broke? Or is it sprained? May I not take a quick look at it? For inflammation of the members, an opodeldoc plaster is «sovereign. When I sprained my ankle hunting, Nurse Mara put one on …and the pain went in a twinkling! I promise you!”

  “It is not the pain!” ground out the baron. “Do you think I would care about a mere pain?”

  “What then?”

  At that moment there was a tap on the door, and an exceedingly small, grimy boy entered, laboring under the weight of a heavy tray. This he bore with great difficulty as far as the table, then retreated, after a terrified glance at the baron, and scuttled out the door, leaving it open.

  Lothar immediately went over to inspect the tray and picked up a slice of bread and butter from it, which he folded into four and crammed into his mouth.

  “Hey!” protested his sister. “That was meant for me.” And she quickly poured herself a cup of tea before he could move on to that.

  “It ain't so much the toe itself,” Lot told Jorinda in an undertone, nodding toward their father. “It's the aftereffects of being clobbered by a sack of silver shekels.”

  “Why? What is it? What aftereffects?”

  “Why, sixpences are silver, don't you see? Lordy, it was funny! The sack bust open and the sixpences was rolling all over the shop. It's like being hit by a silver bullet, don't you see?”

  “What has their being silver got to do with it?”

  “Don't you know, you dummy? Silver breaks the power of a you-know-what.” Lot let his voice sink even lower so that Jorinda could hardly hear him. “That's why he's in such a wax. Now he finds he can see himself in the glass. Puts him in a real bate.”

  “Should he not?”

  “O' course not! Didn't you know that? He's mad because I had the sack fetched here. Something special has to be done with it.”

  Now Jorinda began to recall various dark hints dropped by Nurse Mara in conversation with her grandfather's housekeeper Mrs. Smidge. Looking about the room, she saw there were half a dozen hand mirrors lying about.

  Lothar picked up one of these and handed it to her.

  “Can you see yourself in the glass?”

  “Why, naturally!” Her round pink face dimpled at her in the mirror; her dark eyes sparkled. How can Father not like me, not think I'm pretty? she wondered. She asked Lot, “Should I not be able to?”

  “If you were one of them, you wouldn't be able to.”

  “Can you?”

  “Ay,” he said sourly. “I can. But sometimes the chang
e comes on after age twenty-one—so they say”

  “So Pa's lost his power…. How queer. Does that matter?”

  “People won't be so scared of him. A leader has to be able to terrify his followers.”

  “Who is he going to lead?”

  “The Burgundians, o' course.”

  “What about the duchess of Burgundy? Doesn't she lead them?”

  “Oh, she don't count. She's only a female. Pa will soon drop her in the basket.”

  “I wouldn't be so sure of that. Not long ago she came and talked to us at school. Told us not to let our brothers push us around. She looked like a tree that's been growing for five hundred years. Shouldn't think anybody'd push her around. So, what does Pa plan to do?”

  “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!”