The Witch of Clatteringshaws (10 page)

“
You
took him?”

“Yes, my sister Hild, who was the Queen’s waiting-maid, was just about to dump him in the Clothes for Charity bin. The Queen had died, you see, and I suppose Hild didn’t want the responsibility.”

“What happened to Hild?”

“Oh, the Hobyahs got her. She was a total loss anyway; a nasty nature and no use at all. Queen Ethelfleda was dead, and King Malcolm died in the battle.”

“But what happened to the baby?”

“I’m telling you. I gave him to my friend to take care
of, and
he
left him at the Eagles nursing home. I’m afraid Tatzen thought it was a hospital. And by the time I called in, on one of my district visits, the place had changed hands several times. The McClans had bought it and were using Fred as a boy-of-all-work. I know, I know. I should have looked in before, but, but, but time passes so fast when you are a witch. Luckily …”

Malise did look a little shamefaced.

“Anyway there was a king on the English throne, so it didn’t matter.”

Dido was scandalized. “The McClans have treated Fred abominably! He has a permanent black eye. And he’s only about half the weight he ought to be. Who is your friend, anyway?”

“He is a tatzelwurm—the last of his species left in Europe. There used to be a few in the Swiss or Austrian Alps but none have been seen in recent years. They have spinal spikes, head like an otter, wings, and paws with claws. Semiamphibious. Very intelligent. Very good friends.”

“Your friend is the Monster?”

“Of course!”

“Leftover from the Ice Age also?”

“Probably. But now, about Fred—”

“Who has been writing letters to King Dick’s aunt Titania about a claim to the throne?”

“The McClans, I suppose. I’ve a notion they planned to substitute Desmond for Fred.”

“Piers and I will take him back to London and leave him in the care of Father Sam. Don’t you think that is the
best thing to do with him? But we need money for the train. Ours was stolen—that’s why we are working at the Eagles. Can you lend us some money?”

“I haven’t enough for train fares. People mostly pay me in food—if they pay at all. Yes, Cousin Sam would be a good choice to take charge of the boy—he has sense, he’s a responsible person. Ever since that sad lapse at the saint’s deathbed—”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Dido. “The first two saints—Saint Ardust and Saint Arfish—ain’t they past their tell-by date by now? Three years and nine years? Somebody must have what they said written down, mustn’t they?”

“Maybe. The bird must know them as well; he has them in his memory.”

“What bird? That parrot?”

It was hanging by a claw from one of the hooks in the wall.

“Yes. He belonged to Cousin Sam when we were students. He remembers everything he hears. And he was there at the death of Saint Arling. But among all the things that he says, who could possibly tell which were the saint’s last words? He is so talkative.”

“ ’Tis vain to cast your net where there’s no fish,” agreed the parrot.

“But there might be some way to get the right words out of him.”

As if in protest at this suggestion, the parrot suddenly flew out of the window.

“He’s gone to Cousin Rodney,” said Malise carelessly.

“All the way to London?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you—King Simon is up here just now with an army.”

“
Simon
is up in Scotland? Why didn’t you
tell
us?”

“I forgot! There has been a Wendish invasion and Simon, with my cousin Rodney, has come up to fight the Wends. I expect Rodney can give you some money for the train fare. By the way, in the meantime, watch out. There’s a couple of slippery customers staying at the Monster’s Arms. They probably want to get rid of Fred. So keep a sharp eye on them—”

There was a whistling and a scratching on the roof above them, and then a thumping
twang!
as if somebody had dumped a heavy metal harp on the cement surface.

“That’ll be my friend, come to fetch you home,” said Malise. “It’s a bit too risky at this time of night with the Hobyahs. There are so many of them—they are like piranhas. They just munch up anything they come across.”

No sooner had Fred gone off to sleep, curled in his bundle of sacking under a shelf in the glasshouse, than he was rudely thumped and shaken awake again.

“Come on! Out of that, you! You gotta come with us!”

“Why? Where?”

“Shut yer gob!”

Fred was hustled, half dragged, half carried, out of the greenhouse, out of the gate, along Alarm Clocks Road to the tall deserted tenement building called Mackintosh’s Rents. The street was empty and dark; nobody witnessed this abduction. He was hauled through the street door and up a dozen flights of dusty stone stairs.

Fred was so accustomed to ill treatment that he made no outcry but took what was being done to him with resignation, as the sort of usage that might be expected at any time. The recent kindness he had received from Dido and Piers was something quite out of the common, and probably he was now due for weeks of bullying to redress
the balance of good and bad fortune. He didn’t even think of trying to escape; the two men were large and strong; he had not the least hope of being able to wriggle out of their grasp and run off. On the contrary: he made himself as limp as possible in order not to provoke more cuffs and thumps than he was already receiving.

When they had reached a room that was probably on the top floor of the building, he was jerked to a standing position and his arms were tied behind him with what felt like a piece of rag.

“Now then! Stand there! Speak up! Answer what you’re asked, or ye’ll get a ding on the ear!”

The room was minimally furnished and dimly lit by two candles set in a dish on a stool.

Fred saw two more men seated on chairs facing him. One was fat, with thick lips, and wore a wig; the other, younger, had a harsh, dark face and untidy black hair; both were handsomely dressed. A fume of brandy came from them. They stared at him intently.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the fat man.

“Fred.”

“Fred what?”

“No more. Just Fred.”

“How old are you?”

“I dunno. No one ever told me.”

“Why is your eye shut?”

“Because it hurts! Des—someone threw a stone at it.”

“Have you always lived at the Eagles?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“I dunno. Fourteen—fifteen years maybe.”

“Have you brothers or sisters? Is Desmond McClan your brother?”

“Sakes, no!” said Fred thankfully.

“Where are your parents?”

“I’ve none.”

“Did anybody ever send a letter to you?”

“A letter? No. Forbye I canna read. Who’d write to me?”

“Did anybody ever operate on your face?”

“Operate? What’s that?”

“Cut it open. Peel your skin off. Sew it up again.”

“Havers! No.”

“What do you know about Desmond McClan?”

The answer “He’s a mean, stupid bully” trembled on Fred’s tongue, but he kept it there and only said, after a pause:

“Nae thing. I’m no’ great with him. He don’t talk to me.”

Except to bawl me out and throw stones at me, he might have added, but did not.

The fat man said, “This is a waste of our time. This cub is no good to us; will never be any good to us. If he is—is the one we are searching for, he is too stunted and backward to be any good for our purpose. He can’t even read! His IQ is that of a half-wit.”

“Humph,” said the other man. “I’m inclined to agree with you. But he’s a loose cannon. Suppose … someone else … gets hold of him and puts him forward as a claimant. He’s a pawn—slice it how you like, he might be thrust in our way.”

“True. That is quite true. What do you suggest, then?”

“Dispose of him.”

“How?”

The thin man glanced toward the window, which was half open—had probably been left open for the last ten years.

Fred, half guessing their intentions, began to tremble. He could not help it. A cold night wind blew in through the open casement, making the candles flicker. Fred thought of the nine-story building, the black drop to the street below, the granite cobbles. He remembered his kitten, which Desmond had hurled out of the bedroom window. All its bones had been broken.…

He opened his mouth to plead for mercy but shut it again. What was the use? Those men put no more value on him than a used match or a chewed apple core.

The fat man barked an order.

The casement was thrust open to its fullest width. Fred’s two abductors picked him up by the feet and shoulders and balanced him on the windowsill.

“Don’t!”
he began to gasp, but there was no time; one hard shove dislodged him from the sill and hurled him out into the black air.

“That’s solved
that
problem,” said the fat man.

As dawn began to break, Simon decreed a rest for the Ninth Army. He reckoned they might have marched about half of the distance they had to cover.

The men sat down and dug their way into the sacks of hard-boiled eggs donated to the army by kind ladies when the train stopped at Northallerton station. Simon overheard a few grumbles: “Thirsty work, hard-boiled eggs is,
on their own. Wouldn’t mind a nibble of cheese or a sup of beer!”

“All right, you lot!” Simon shouted after ten minutes. “Let’s be on our way!”

The track they were on clung to the side of a valley. Ahead, it curved round a hill.

A gray parrot came flying from behind them and alighted on Rodney’s shoulder.

Simon, ahead of the others, rounded the bend on the road, then came to a startled stop.

Ahead of them, on the other side of the valley, was the force they had come to fight. The track ran down, crossed a bridge, then rose again to where the foreign army was stationed, glittering red and gold, with the new-risen sun fetching flashes from muskets and shields, spearheads and musket barrels.

They had horses. And small cannons mounted on wheels. And they outnumbered the English force by at least two to one. The cannons, which looked very impressive, were drawn by wide-horned oxen.

Like the English army, the Wends had apparently paused to eat breakfast and water their beasts, which were being led in groups down to the river that ran along the valley bottom.

“Humph,” said Rodney Firebrace, who had walked up beside Simon. “I reckon this is where you need to negotiate.”

“Negotiate what? They could beat us hollow. Look at them. There are twice as many of them. And their guns—”

“True. But we are on higher ground, Ah, look—they want to talk.”

The foreign force had now caught sight of the advance part of Simon’s army on the opposite slope. They could not see it all, because of the fold in the hillside. They could not see that they had the numerical advantage. A group of leaders, down by the bridge, were shaking their heads, obviously discussing the situation.

“Look, here’s someone who wants to parley,” said Firebrace.

“Aaarkh,” said the bird on his shoulder. “A castle that parleys is half taken.”

“I’ll go down to the bridge and see what they have to say,” said Rodney. “That fellow is waving a yellow flag.”

“I’m coming too,” said Simon.

“This is where you have to remember King Canute and Edmund Ironside.”

“Why? I never met either of those guys.…”

Several of the group at the bridge fell back, leaving a tall rangy fellow in a steel helmet with wings and a fat, compact dark-bearded man in royal-looking clothes.

“Ah, good morning,” he said in fluent though heavily accented English. “I am Albert the Bear, Count of Ballenstedt, founder of the Ascanian line, Margrave of Brandenberg and heir of Pribislav.”

“Good morning,” said Simon. “I am Simon Battersea, King of England. Er—can I inquire about your intentions—what you mean by arriving here in this warlike manner?”

That should have been better put, he thought. I’m no good at this kind of thing.

“You like to fight?” said King Albert the Bear. “Ve Vends enjoy fighting. But this is not a good spot to fight.”

“Why did you stop here?”

“Vell, ve have to. Because the sign say so.”

Albert pointed to a triangular road sign. It said,
STOP
.
TOADS CROSS HERE
.

Behind Simon, Firebrace muttered, “This is definitely a case for Canute and Ironside.”

Simon suddenly remembered about them. Father Sam had told him.

“I’ll tell you what, Your Majesty,” he said. “Instead of involving our troops in a battle in this narrow, muddy spot, why don’t you and I have a personal combat? Like King Canute, son of Sweyn the Dane, and Edmund Ironside? Don’t you think that would be more—more sporting and economical?”

“Quarterstaff or smallsword?” said King Albert alertly.

“Whichever Your Majesty prefers.” And heaven help me, thought Simon, for I know as little of one as of the other.

“Can you find my smallsword?” he said to Firebrace. “I think I left it somewhere in the baggage train.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty. And I’ll cut a quarterstaff out of that holly bush.”

“Vun moment,” said King Albert, who meanwhile had been conferring with his adviser. “Vilf Thundergripper reminds me that I have been suffering from severe cramp in my left leg. Not good, not good for personal combat!”

“Oh, that is a pity,” said Simon. “Then what about—”

“Vilf Thundergripper suggest that instead of combat ve play a game of
hnefatefl
.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Firebrace. “My king will be delighted to take Your Majesty on at
hnefatefl
.”

A Wendish gentleman-in-waiting was sent off at the double to the supply cart at the rear of the Wendish armed column.

“For heaven’s sake!” whispered Simon urgently to Firebrace. “
What
is
hnefatefl
and how do you play it?”

“Oh, it’s a Saxon board game. You’ll very soon get the hang of it. There is a board with eighteen squares—”

The board—a very handsome gold and leather one—was quickly brought and set out with its pieces on a handy tree stump.

“The game is a kind of religious allegory,” Firebrace murmured in Simon’s ear. “There is a piece called the
hnefi
, that’s the king, he’s bigger than the others, and the common pieces are called
hunns
. The game starts with the king in the center square, and he has to try and escape to the edge of the board without being captured. A capture is made by trapping an opposing piece between two enemy pieces. That can be done on rank or file but not diagonally. And any piece can move orthogonally.”