Chapter Three – Mother Shipton’s Blessing
“March 1561
My Dear Catherine,
As you suggested in your previous letter, travel in Yorkshire is passing vexatious, but then again not without its lighter moments. With the courts sitting at Beverly, Perkin and I were present in Knaresborough to witness a most remarkable ceremony. To whit, he burial of one Mother Shipton, a local personage of some note. Intrigued by the large and mournful crowd, I chanced to ask a rude mechanical who she was. He feigned great surprise at my ignorance, but was mollified when he realized from my superior speech that I am not, as he put it, from those parts.
Apparently Mother Shipton hailed from the alarmingly named Dropping Well. They say that she was born in a cave, in the early years of good king Henry VII. In these places it really wouldn’t surprise me. Apparently she possessed magical powers, especially the gift of prophecy. They do say that she only used her powers in the service of others. That, my dear Catherine, would never stand up in a court of law.
You will be glad, I am sure , when I tell you that I did not give voice to my thoughts. However , it does seem to me that here we have a creature which, in another town or dare I say it, another county, would be condemned as a common village witch. Yorkshire folk, though, seem remarkably tolerant of behaviour by one of their own , for which they would only too quickly condemn those born in other shires.
The mechanical with whom I spoke seemed convinced that her prophecies have been recorded and bound by a scrivener, who wishes that they may be widespread throughout England for the better governaunce of the country ! God forbid that the guild of scriveners should ever admit such a plain patch into their brotherhoods !
Knaresborough having provided its share of amusement, thence swiftly to Beverly. “
Extract from “The Letters of Robert Etchingham , Man of Law”
Harold Halfdan repeated his instructions.
“I want you to tell me all about your dealings with Mother Shipton.”
The potion was already working its enchantment, and Robin Inkpen was unable to resist it any longer, and he began to speak.
“ I was born in Knaresborough in the year 1528, the same year that the blessed Queen Katherine gave birth to the King. My father, and his father before him, were all scriveners,
I cannot recall the first time that I heard of Mother Shipton. Everyone knew of her, or so it seemed. A great white witch who used her powers for the common good, if that’s possible. You remember the great plague year of 1559 ? Great swathes of Yorkshire, in fact the whole of the north were devastated by the Black plague ? Well, my father died first, then my sister Kate. My mother took ill and the physicians could do nothing. As for your magicians, they refused to even try, the plague being, in their words, ‘a non-magical condition’.
What choice did I have ? The only thing might save my mother was going to see Mother Shipton. She lived in a cave, you know ! Called Dropping Well, of all things. Well, I don’t mind admitting that I wondered what sort of creature I’d find coming out of the cave to greet me, but as I walked up that well-trodden path , all that was there was a little old woman, not even particularly ugly, though I suppose that her nose was a little crooked and misshapen.
She knew who I was, and what I wanted, without me having to say a word. She said, and I remember this quite distinctly,
“Come no further, Robin Inkpen. Take this woollen cloth. Soak it within my well here. Place it on your mother’s forehead when you arrive home. The fever will pass during the night. “ She handed me a small square of worsted cloth, and turned to go back into the cave.
It was then that I made my big mistake. Fatal.
She didn’t ask for any payment, and I was worried that she might turn up and try to force some payment or service from me later on. This could be very embarrassing. So I called her back and asked her what she would take from me. I did not want to be under obligation to her, you see. She refused to say. So I made up my mind. It was well known that Mother Shipton could see into the future, but she framed all of her prophecies into the form of verse. I thought carefully about what skills I could use to pay her back for what she had done, and the answer came to me.
I followed her into the cave, and this was a great rudeness of me, because she had told me to come no further. Even though I was in my 31st year I was still rather immature and presumptuous.
“Mother Shipton, “ I said, “for what you have done for my mother , I swear, as a member of the honourable Guild of Scriveners of the city of York , that I will take your wondrous verses, and set them down for you, so that they shall be preserved for the future use of the people of England, at no expense to yourself.”
She seemed rather annoyed when I made my little speech. She took a hazel stick, and for a moment I thought that she was going to hit me with it, but she waved it over my head and said,
“There. I have just freed you from that rash oath. Go home and cure your mother, boy. “
I persisted.
“ I mean it. I say again, I swear that I will take all the verses that you can give me, and write them down so that your wise words will spread far beyond this cave. “
Again, she made the waving gesture with the hazel wand and said,
“ For the last time I free you from your oath. Don’t swear such things again, for even I can’t free you from it a third time. You have no idea what you are actually saying. “
Well, she was right there, and I really should have listened to her. But this was a matter of stubborn pride, and it made me deaf to the sense in what she was saying. So once again I said,
“Then for a third time I, Robin Inkpen, swear that I will immortalize your verses at my own expense, whatever may be the consequences. “
Mother Shipton began to scold and cluck like a mother hen.
“Well, Robin Inkpen, if its prophecy you want, then I shall give you this one, and not in verse neither so that you may the more easily understand it. You will get no joy from the rash oath that you have made, although you will have my verses to write, since your oath binds the two of us now. Just remember that I tried twice to free you from this obligation. So when you reach the depths of your despair and rue this day, do not curse my memory. Give me your arm.”
I had no idea what she intended to do, but I did as I was told. She passed her wand once up and down the length of my forearm. When she removed it I felt a stinging, a burning, itching sensation and so I scratched at it. As I did so a bright red mark appeared on my arm. A mark in the unmistakeable shape of a carrion crow. Mother Shipton then said that this was the visible sign of the invisible and unbreakable bonds which I had forged for myself with the oath. Then she sent me away to tend to my mother. As for the verses, she said nothing more that day.
Just as she had promised the fever left my mother that night and she regained her strength. The next day I walked to the cave with my pens and my parchments, fully intent on starting to carry out my oath. But Mother Shipton would not come out, and I found that I could not go in. There was nothing which I could see that was blocking my way, but as I came nearer to the mouth of the cave the mark on my forearm began to sting again, with a pain which began to feel as if the Devil himself was fastening his claws upon me. So I had to return home , and go about my business.
That night Mother Shipton invaded my dreams. I am choosing my words carefully here. I did not dream of Mother Shipton, but somehow she forced herself into a dream which did not concern her in the least. Imagine that she had made herself infinitesimally tiny, and had physically crawled into my mind while I was dreaming. Perhaps that’s how she did it – I don’t know if such things are possible, but then I’m not a magician. Whatever, I awoke the next day to find that the verses of her prophecies were there in my head, in the place where the dream had been. What is more, the mark on my forearm had turned black.
I will not lie to you, I had serious second thoughts about carrying out the work, not least because I remembered her words about heartache and suffering. But I was scared that my mother would drop dead if I didn’t live up to my word. However the only time I could devote to the commission was my own spare time, and let me tell you that being as I was the family’s sole breadwinner I had precious little of that to go around, I can assure you. For all that I was a member of the Guild, valued clients of my father began to look elsewhere, and I had to prove myself by becoming not only the best scrivener for miles around, but also the quickest. There was always work that needed doing more urgently than completing my oath. As a result Mother Shipton’s verses actually took more than two years to complete.
Here’s a strange thing that I recall. As I completed my work on each verse I found that the memory of it left my mind. Completely. It was as if the words had poured themselves out of my head and onto the page. I could always remember the next verse to come, but never the one I had just fastened to the parchment. By the time I had completed all of the verses Mother Shipton had died. And I felt so empty , since there was nothing left of her inside my head once the last verse had been captured on the parchment.
In one way I was sad. I’d always seen myself ceremoniously striding into her cave and presenting her with w beautifully bound manuscript of the verses. But I was also quite relieved in a way as well. It seemed to me that at least the whole business was over now.
Even before Mother Shipton’s body was cold, so it seemed, rumours started to circulate. I had told no one about my copies of the verses, not even my own mother. Yet within days of completing the task I found that I was receiving secret offers of wild sums of money to produce copies for various worthies. Don’t condemn me for this. I had an ageing and infirm mother who needed support and three plain looking sisters who needed dowries to make them the least bit attractive to would be husbands. Better men than me would never have resisted the temptation either.
It was my own Guild of Scriveners who took action against me. They were probably doing me a favour, for if it had been left to the church they would probably have tried me as a witch , just for writing down Mother Shipton’s prophecies. As it was the Guild only expelled me, and forbade me from scrivening, being as my actions were against the interests of the Guild. Now I can see what they did as being almost an act of charity. At the time I wept and screamed at the injustice , and I am sorry to say that I did even curse the day that I ever met Mother Shipton. The day that I did that my mark burned bright red, and caused me no end of pain.
So I could not stay in Knaresborough, and I could not be a scrivener, that was made clear to me. I had to leave and to learn new skills. So Robin Inkpen the scrivener became Robin Naylor, the carpenter. I worked apprentice rates for many masters for many years before earning my guild mantle, for persistence as much as for any demonstration of skills acquired. Before I was expelled from the scriveners I made a score or so of copies of Mother Shipton’s verses. They do tell me that cheap and inferior copies of copies of my copies can be bought for a few copper coins in any market of the North Thrithing of Yorkshire now. I have never laid quill to parchment for more than ten years now. That is all. “
Harold Halfdan gave Robin a few moments to collect his breath and his thoughts before he spoke.
“You don’t like magicians very much, do you ?”
“No, I don’t. They are all lazy and ignorant parasites – present company excepted. It wasn’t just the church that wanted to persecute me over Mother Shipton’s verses, you know. The York Guild of Magicians, your lot, wanted me killed. That didn’t do a great deal to endear them to me. “
Harold didn’t reply.
“Well ? Is that all you want from me ? I don’t know anything more about Mother Shipton.”
Harold shook his head.
“I know that you don’t. But you can’t go yet.”
“I beg your pardon ?”
“ I want you to stay here. Please. “
Robin sat down, surprised that the magician had asked , not ordered him to stay. Anyway, Harold was still talking,
“ I need your help. I will pay you either as a scrivener or a carpenter, whatever you think is a fair price. But it’s your help that I must have, and nobody else’s.”
“ Don’t be so mysterious, Master Halfdan. What do you honestly think that I can do for you which nobody else could do better ? I’m a terrible carpenter, you know.”
“ I know. I know plenty of better carpenters, and believe it or not I even know of a few better scriveners. But that’s not the point. They can’t help me. Only you can. “
“Why do you keep saying that ? What is it that makes you so certain that I’m the only person who can do whatever it is you want ? “
Harold rolled up the sleeve of his robe which covered his right arm.
“Because, Robin Inkpen, “ he proclaimed solemnly, pulling his sleeve up past the elbow to reveal a black mark , in the shape of a crow, “ you see that I too have been marked with Mother Shipton’s blessing. “
Saturday 15 September 2012
Chapter Two - Robin Inkpen
Chapter Two – Robin Inkpen
“Halfdan (Old Norse – lit. Half – Dane )
The Halfdans are a respectable North English family of magicians of limited abilities. As the name suggests the family has its roots in Scandinavia, and is supposedly the result of an east Anglian noblewoman, Aethelfryth, and a Viking magician of limited skill and prestige, who was one of Guthrum’s followers.
The Halfdans are first recorded in the ancient Danelaw of England, and have traditionally owed allegiance to the Magicians Guild of York, although there have been Halfdan members of the Durham Guild as well.
Halfdans are characterized by skill in several forms of minor magic, notably divination, and simpler forms of weatherweaving. In certain generations of the family some individuals have exhibited skill at charms. Although this is uncommon.
The Halfdans are traditional allies of the Grimm, Scarthorpe and Havelock families, and tend to marry within these family groups.
From “The Magical Families of England – a concise Genealogist’s guide “ by Guilford Westhope, of the Royal College of Genealogists
It’s quite unusual not to know your true name, and Ermine had wanted to know his for a long time. While it wasn’t really an all-consuming desire, it was like a sort of itch, which would go away for a bit when he didn’t think about it, but every now and again would jump right back into the forefront of his mind. And there’s only one thing you can do with an itch, and that’s scratch it. As he made a point of saying to Harold Halfdan at least twice a week, it wasn’t a lot to ask to let him have his own name. Especially considering that even if he did have a real name, then it would be about the only possession that he did own. His clothes, his shoes, his cooking pots, the stinky straw mattress he slept on and the bedbugs that infested it all belonged to Harold. And Harold was not the kind of man who would ever allow you to forget a thing like that.
It was worse, somehow, because Harold was not an ordinary man. He was a magician, and a member of the Honourable Guild of Magicians of the City of York no less. As a magician, Harold had ways of finding things out. To be precise, names were something of a speciality to him. So either Harold was lying or he really couldn’t find out Ermine’s real name, and if that was true then it was very strange indeed. And Ermine didn’t believe that Harold actually was lying to him either. The old man was capable of it, sure, but Ermine couldn’t see anything that he had to gain from it.
“Tell me again how you made up my name.” Ermine demanded, early in the morning, two days after the hiring fair. Harold rose grumbling from his filthy chamber. Personal hygiene was never very high on the list of Harold’s priorities, and his sleeping quarters were not really fit for sheep, let alone human beings.
“Do you never get tired of that ? Boil me some water and an infusion of burdock. “ Burdock. Every morning the same routine. Some days Harold would not stir from his filthy mattress until he had drunk two beakers full of the stuff. Ermine privately thought that Burdock possessed some magical properties which filled the old man with enough grumpiness and gloom to last the whole day. Personally he thought that the taste was bad enough to leave you miserable for a fortnight.
When he brought the steaming mug to his master, Ermine returned to the attack.
“So ? How did you get my name ? “ The old man sighted,
“It’s not your name. I don’t know your name. It’s a use-name. Big difference. “
“Alright. How did you get my use-name, then ?”
“Well it wasn’t exactly a work of genius. Not quite twelve years ago I had just made my annual appearance before the Guild in York. You know that it is required by statute ? Yes, and very inconvenient it is , too. I was walking home, by way of the Great North Road. It is an ancient roadway, and is also called Ermine Street. When I reached the thirteenth milestone I saw something, a strange sight, laid up against the milestone. A bundle of rags, which was moving. So I picked it up, and inside I found you.
You were a curious package too. No sound at all as I approached, and yet as soon as I came abreast of the milestone you put up a cry loud enough to frighten even the ghosts in the barrows. “ Harold took a deep gulp from his beaker.
“Even then you were an annoying little gyet. “ Ermine took the beaker which his master had emptied by now, and refilled it from the cauldron on the hearth.
“Was that all that was there, then ? A bundle of rags.”
“That’s all that was there. A bundle of rags. Plain, dirty rags, with no sign at all of where they came from. No overturned cart, no dead body by the roadside ditch, no hastily scribbled note on a piece of parchment. Not even a footprint in the snow. “
“And you didn’t try to find out where I had come from ?” Harold tutted. Ermine had asked this question before, and he knew that it got under Harold’s skin. Good.
“ Of course I did. My magic wasn’t good enough. Not that I have to prove anything to you, but I tried every divination spell in the book – and quite a few which aren’t – standing out there on that bitter , wintry road by the thirteenth milestone, chilling my bones to the marrow. I tried even harder when I got you back to my lodgings. Nothing. Nothing provided me with the slightest hint about you. Except – “
“- Well ? “
“ Don’t be stupid, boy. I’ve told you all this before. What I found out is that you do have a name. That is certain. But I can’t find it. So you have to make do with a perfectly good use-name – Ermine for Ermine Street and Stone for milestone – as in thirteenth. “
Ermine went to see to the cauldron which had begun to hiss as it over boiled. When he returned he remarked
“It’s not a very good use-name.”
“It’s a perfect fit, then, because you’re not a very good apprentice. Standing around waffling all day long about names and use names and expecting me to repeat stories which you’re heard a hundred times before. I bet you haven’t even fetched the parchments yet. “
“You watched me do it yesterday to make sure that I took the right ones. “
“Well, lay them out ready in the sanctum. Then I want you to go down to Jack Gilby’s in the village. I want those eggs he owes me for finding his wife’s ring. You can say that if he doesn’t pay me today, then I shall be telling his wife exactly whose finger I found her ring on. “
Ermine did as he was told, and humped the pile of parchments from the floor where he had left them the previous day. He carried them to the shed, which Harold rather pompously called his sanctum. It never occurred to him to wonder what was actually written on them, and it would have done him no good even if he had been at all curious. For Harold Halfdan had never actually got round to teaching him how to read.
The job done, Ermine snatched up his woollen cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, then set off on the trudge towards the village. Even if Jack Gilby paid up without an argument, which looked unlikely, he’d still be gone for the best part of the day.
“He wants me out of the way when the carpenter comes. “ he muttered to himself. “ Well, Ermine Stone, if he thinks he is keeping secrets from me, then he has another think coming. I can find things out as well. “
Talking to himself was a habit Ermine had developed pretty much as soon as he could talk at all. Somehow it was a lot more comforting than talking to Harold.
****
Of course Harold wanted Ermine out of the way . Robin Inkpen was due to arrive before noon, and Harold was determined that Ermine should not find out that carpentry was the last thing that he wanted from this man.
Harold had never thought of himself as a great magician, which was just as well, since he wasn’t. His magic was not all that strong, and he’d never been the least bit interested in studying, or working at performing and practicing forms of magic that didn’t come naturally. But the one thing that Harold could do a lot better than many far greater and more powerful magicians was divination. Divination is the process by which a magician uses magic to find whatever it might be that they are looking for. Most of the time this would be an object. Sometimes it might be a piece of information. Less often it might even be a person. Harold Halfdan didn’t need a carpenter, not this or any other day. But he had a very particular need of the services of Robin Inkpen. And this was because Robin Inkpen had been a scrivener, a professional writer. He had been a master scrivener who had given it all up, and no longer belonged to the Scrivener’s Guild. Which meant he could be bought, if the price was right.
Even though they had never met , divination told Harold that Robin Inkpen was now eking out a living as a carpenter, a poor one, admittedly, and that he would be found in the Bakewell hiring fair. Divination also told him that Inkpen would be arriving at white Scar farm within the hour. What it didn’t tell Harold was whether Robin Inkpen would agree with his scheme. Harold couldn’t predict how the carpenter might react when he outlined his plans, and his needs. Which was another important reason why Harold needed Ermine well out of harm’s way when the carpenter arrived.
Harold was a little irritated when he spotted Robin Inkpen , and noted that he hadn’t made much of an effort to dress up for his job. Which was rather hypocritical considering the patched and filthy state of his own clothes. Still, it was a sorry figure that was soon standing in the doorway of the farmhouse a little over an hour after Ermine had left. His carpenter’s mantle was stained with mud, and badly torn, and his shoes were worn out, and his hose were threadbare. He was a bit of a mess.
“I’m here. Where do you want me to start ? I’d best get cracking straight away. “
“Good morning Robin Inkpen. Where are your tools ? “ The old magician beckoned for the younger man to enter the building, but he remained where he was, a matchstick figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“I . . . I didn’t bring them. “He looked up from the floor , and straight into Harold’s eyes. “Be honest with me. You don’t want me to do any carpentry at all, do you ? You don’t want a carpenter. “
“What makes you think so ? “
“You keep calling me Robin Inkpen, for a start. Nobody has called me by that name for more than five years. As you already know, I’m sure. “
Rain began to drizzle gently in the courtyard between the farm buildings, and so Robin Inkpen stepped across the threshold. As he did so Harold assured him that he meant him no harm, and that all could work out to his advantage if he stayed a while and listened.
“ I suppose I’m sorry that I shocked you with your real name like that. Even at my time of life a man must have a little fun every now and then. But I needed to make sure that you would come – and look, here you are after all. Have a drink. “ It was an order , not an invitation, and although Robin did not refuse he kept his eyes warily on the old man as he poured them both a mug of steaming burdock from the cauldron. When the first couple of sips seemed to confirm that Harold wasn’t trying to poison him , Robin relaxed his guard just a little , and asked,
“What do you really want from me, then ?”
“Information.”
“About what ?”
“Your past. Your scrivener past.”
“No. Sorry , but no. That book is closed, and I’m not opening it again for anyone. “
Harold sneezed. He sniffed again, and then blew his nose on a loose cobweb , hanging from the ceiling.
“Yes, I was afraid that you were going to say that. That’s why I had to put a little something extra in your burdock. You’re going to truthsay for me.”
****
Truthsaying is a branch of magic in its own right. It is concerned with the use of magical means, such as Harold’s potion, to compel people, or creatures, or objects to speak or reveal truth on command. Harold was by no means an expert practitioner, but he’d had two days to concoct and refine the potion. Even the few drops which Robin had drunk would be effective.
Although Robin’s lips tried to form the word ‘no’, the sound which emerged between them was a steady affirmative. With a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, Robin Inkpen realized that the magician wasn’t quite the doddering old fool he appeared to be. Harold had enchanted him with a truth spell or a truth potion, and that meant he could ask Robin whatever he liked, and Robin would have to tell the truth.
Harold leaned forward, and spoke in a very low voice,
“Robin Inkpen, this is very important. I want you to tell me all about your dealings with Mother Shipton.”
“Halfdan (Old Norse – lit. Half – Dane )
The Halfdans are a respectable North English family of magicians of limited abilities. As the name suggests the family has its roots in Scandinavia, and is supposedly the result of an east Anglian noblewoman, Aethelfryth, and a Viking magician of limited skill and prestige, who was one of Guthrum’s followers.
The Halfdans are first recorded in the ancient Danelaw of England, and have traditionally owed allegiance to the Magicians Guild of York, although there have been Halfdan members of the Durham Guild as well.
Halfdans are characterized by skill in several forms of minor magic, notably divination, and simpler forms of weatherweaving. In certain generations of the family some individuals have exhibited skill at charms. Although this is uncommon.
The Halfdans are traditional allies of the Grimm, Scarthorpe and Havelock families, and tend to marry within these family groups.
From “The Magical Families of England – a concise Genealogist’s guide “ by Guilford Westhope, of the Royal College of Genealogists
It’s quite unusual not to know your true name, and Ermine had wanted to know his for a long time. While it wasn’t really an all-consuming desire, it was like a sort of itch, which would go away for a bit when he didn’t think about it, but every now and again would jump right back into the forefront of his mind. And there’s only one thing you can do with an itch, and that’s scratch it. As he made a point of saying to Harold Halfdan at least twice a week, it wasn’t a lot to ask to let him have his own name. Especially considering that even if he did have a real name, then it would be about the only possession that he did own. His clothes, his shoes, his cooking pots, the stinky straw mattress he slept on and the bedbugs that infested it all belonged to Harold. And Harold was not the kind of man who would ever allow you to forget a thing like that.
It was worse, somehow, because Harold was not an ordinary man. He was a magician, and a member of the Honourable Guild of Magicians of the City of York no less. As a magician, Harold had ways of finding things out. To be precise, names were something of a speciality to him. So either Harold was lying or he really couldn’t find out Ermine’s real name, and if that was true then it was very strange indeed. And Ermine didn’t believe that Harold actually was lying to him either. The old man was capable of it, sure, but Ermine couldn’t see anything that he had to gain from it.
“Tell me again how you made up my name.” Ermine demanded, early in the morning, two days after the hiring fair. Harold rose grumbling from his filthy chamber. Personal hygiene was never very high on the list of Harold’s priorities, and his sleeping quarters were not really fit for sheep, let alone human beings.
“Do you never get tired of that ? Boil me some water and an infusion of burdock. “ Burdock. Every morning the same routine. Some days Harold would not stir from his filthy mattress until he had drunk two beakers full of the stuff. Ermine privately thought that Burdock possessed some magical properties which filled the old man with enough grumpiness and gloom to last the whole day. Personally he thought that the taste was bad enough to leave you miserable for a fortnight.
When he brought the steaming mug to his master, Ermine returned to the attack.
“So ? How did you get my name ? “ The old man sighted,
“It’s not your name. I don’t know your name. It’s a use-name. Big difference. “
“Alright. How did you get my use-name, then ?”
“Well it wasn’t exactly a work of genius. Not quite twelve years ago I had just made my annual appearance before the Guild in York. You know that it is required by statute ? Yes, and very inconvenient it is , too. I was walking home, by way of the Great North Road. It is an ancient roadway, and is also called Ermine Street. When I reached the thirteenth milestone I saw something, a strange sight, laid up against the milestone. A bundle of rags, which was moving. So I picked it up, and inside I found you.
You were a curious package too. No sound at all as I approached, and yet as soon as I came abreast of the milestone you put up a cry loud enough to frighten even the ghosts in the barrows. “ Harold took a deep gulp from his beaker.
“Even then you were an annoying little gyet. “ Ermine took the beaker which his master had emptied by now, and refilled it from the cauldron on the hearth.
“Was that all that was there, then ? A bundle of rags.”
“That’s all that was there. A bundle of rags. Plain, dirty rags, with no sign at all of where they came from. No overturned cart, no dead body by the roadside ditch, no hastily scribbled note on a piece of parchment. Not even a footprint in the snow. “
“And you didn’t try to find out where I had come from ?” Harold tutted. Ermine had asked this question before, and he knew that it got under Harold’s skin. Good.
“ Of course I did. My magic wasn’t good enough. Not that I have to prove anything to you, but I tried every divination spell in the book – and quite a few which aren’t – standing out there on that bitter , wintry road by the thirteenth milestone, chilling my bones to the marrow. I tried even harder when I got you back to my lodgings. Nothing. Nothing provided me with the slightest hint about you. Except – “
“- Well ? “
“ Don’t be stupid, boy. I’ve told you all this before. What I found out is that you do have a name. That is certain. But I can’t find it. So you have to make do with a perfectly good use-name – Ermine for Ermine Street and Stone for milestone – as in thirteenth. “
Ermine went to see to the cauldron which had begun to hiss as it over boiled. When he returned he remarked
“It’s not a very good use-name.”
“It’s a perfect fit, then, because you’re not a very good apprentice. Standing around waffling all day long about names and use names and expecting me to repeat stories which you’re heard a hundred times before. I bet you haven’t even fetched the parchments yet. “
“You watched me do it yesterday to make sure that I took the right ones. “
“Well, lay them out ready in the sanctum. Then I want you to go down to Jack Gilby’s in the village. I want those eggs he owes me for finding his wife’s ring. You can say that if he doesn’t pay me today, then I shall be telling his wife exactly whose finger I found her ring on. “
Ermine did as he was told, and humped the pile of parchments from the floor where he had left them the previous day. He carried them to the shed, which Harold rather pompously called his sanctum. It never occurred to him to wonder what was actually written on them, and it would have done him no good even if he had been at all curious. For Harold Halfdan had never actually got round to teaching him how to read.
The job done, Ermine snatched up his woollen cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, then set off on the trudge towards the village. Even if Jack Gilby paid up without an argument, which looked unlikely, he’d still be gone for the best part of the day.
“He wants me out of the way when the carpenter comes. “ he muttered to himself. “ Well, Ermine Stone, if he thinks he is keeping secrets from me, then he has another think coming. I can find things out as well. “
Talking to himself was a habit Ermine had developed pretty much as soon as he could talk at all. Somehow it was a lot more comforting than talking to Harold.
****
Of course Harold wanted Ermine out of the way . Robin Inkpen was due to arrive before noon, and Harold was determined that Ermine should not find out that carpentry was the last thing that he wanted from this man.
Harold had never thought of himself as a great magician, which was just as well, since he wasn’t. His magic was not all that strong, and he’d never been the least bit interested in studying, or working at performing and practicing forms of magic that didn’t come naturally. But the one thing that Harold could do a lot better than many far greater and more powerful magicians was divination. Divination is the process by which a magician uses magic to find whatever it might be that they are looking for. Most of the time this would be an object. Sometimes it might be a piece of information. Less often it might even be a person. Harold Halfdan didn’t need a carpenter, not this or any other day. But he had a very particular need of the services of Robin Inkpen. And this was because Robin Inkpen had been a scrivener, a professional writer. He had been a master scrivener who had given it all up, and no longer belonged to the Scrivener’s Guild. Which meant he could be bought, if the price was right.
Even though they had never met , divination told Harold that Robin Inkpen was now eking out a living as a carpenter, a poor one, admittedly, and that he would be found in the Bakewell hiring fair. Divination also told him that Inkpen would be arriving at white Scar farm within the hour. What it didn’t tell Harold was whether Robin Inkpen would agree with his scheme. Harold couldn’t predict how the carpenter might react when he outlined his plans, and his needs. Which was another important reason why Harold needed Ermine well out of harm’s way when the carpenter arrived.
Harold was a little irritated when he spotted Robin Inkpen , and noted that he hadn’t made much of an effort to dress up for his job. Which was rather hypocritical considering the patched and filthy state of his own clothes. Still, it was a sorry figure that was soon standing in the doorway of the farmhouse a little over an hour after Ermine had left. His carpenter’s mantle was stained with mud, and badly torn, and his shoes were worn out, and his hose were threadbare. He was a bit of a mess.
“I’m here. Where do you want me to start ? I’d best get cracking straight away. “
“Good morning Robin Inkpen. Where are your tools ? “ The old magician beckoned for the younger man to enter the building, but he remained where he was, a matchstick figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“I . . . I didn’t bring them. “He looked up from the floor , and straight into Harold’s eyes. “Be honest with me. You don’t want me to do any carpentry at all, do you ? You don’t want a carpenter. “
“What makes you think so ? “
“You keep calling me Robin Inkpen, for a start. Nobody has called me by that name for more than five years. As you already know, I’m sure. “
Rain began to drizzle gently in the courtyard between the farm buildings, and so Robin Inkpen stepped across the threshold. As he did so Harold assured him that he meant him no harm, and that all could work out to his advantage if he stayed a while and listened.
“ I suppose I’m sorry that I shocked you with your real name like that. Even at my time of life a man must have a little fun every now and then. But I needed to make sure that you would come – and look, here you are after all. Have a drink. “ It was an order , not an invitation, and although Robin did not refuse he kept his eyes warily on the old man as he poured them both a mug of steaming burdock from the cauldron. When the first couple of sips seemed to confirm that Harold wasn’t trying to poison him , Robin relaxed his guard just a little , and asked,
“What do you really want from me, then ?”
“Information.”
“About what ?”
“Your past. Your scrivener past.”
“No. Sorry , but no. That book is closed, and I’m not opening it again for anyone. “
Harold sneezed. He sniffed again, and then blew his nose on a loose cobweb , hanging from the ceiling.
“Yes, I was afraid that you were going to say that. That’s why I had to put a little something extra in your burdock. You’re going to truthsay for me.”
****
Truthsaying is a branch of magic in its own right. It is concerned with the use of magical means, such as Harold’s potion, to compel people, or creatures, or objects to speak or reveal truth on command. Harold was by no means an expert practitioner, but he’d had two days to concoct and refine the potion. Even the few drops which Robin had drunk would be effective.
Although Robin’s lips tried to form the word ‘no’, the sound which emerged between them was a steady affirmative. With a sinking feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, Robin Inkpen realized that the magician wasn’t quite the doddering old fool he appeared to be. Harold had enchanted him with a truth spell or a truth potion, and that meant he could ask Robin whatever he liked, and Robin would have to tell the truth.
Harold leaned forward, and spoke in a very low voice,
“Robin Inkpen, this is very important. I want you to tell me all about your dealings with Mother Shipton.”
Part One - The Mark of the Crow - Chapter One - The Hiring Fair
Part One – The Mark of the Crow
Chapter One – The Hiring Fair
Hie with me, Marion, on my fine horse
The hiring fair waits us at Hardingstone Cross
. We’ll find us a carpenter, now we be wed
To build us a crib and a marital bed
To build us a table and fine rocking chair
Gallop, my beauty, to Hardingstone Fair!
- Traditional nursery rhyme ( anonymous )
In the early spring of 1573 Harold Halfdan came to the town of Bakewell, in the shire of Derby, to visit the Hiring Fair. He was accompanied by a twelve year old boy. Nobody had ever asked about the boy, but if they had, then Harold would have introduced him as his apprentice, Ermine. At that time hiring fairs were a regular occasion in most market towns, especially in the countryside. Craftsmen and tradesmen of all the many and varied guilds who were looking for employment would gather in different areas of the marketplace. This would give would be masters a chance to inspect them, and to hire them if they saw fit. It was also a chance to exchange gossip and news about business, and other things besides.
Old Harold rarely bothered with the hiring fairs. If people needed a magician then they knew where to find him, he reckoned. He wasn’t especially keen on working for complete strangers either. Still, now the time had come when he couldn’t avoid being there, and this made him particularly sour and angry. To be honest, he was never really a bundle of laughs at the best of times.
Harold and the boy entered the square from the eastern side, by the courtyard of the Angel’s Rest. As they passed by they were called over by a large man, who was standing by the door of the tavern, holding a large pot of beer on his large pot of a belly.
“Hello sir ! What are you looking for, might I be as bold as to h’ask ?”
“A carpenter.” Harold carried on walking without looking at the man, who put his mug down on the cobblestones by the doorway and hurried after Harold, hastily snatching at the back of his cloak.
“A carpenter, you say ? You’re in luck, sir. I’m a carpenter!”
Harold swung around, and looked at the carpenter for the first time. Fixed in Harold’s gaze the man left go of the cloak, and he said nothing.
“I know what you are, “ said Harold, slowly, and emphatically, “ but luckily for you , Simeon Dale, you are not the carpenter that I want. “ Cowed, Simeon Dale touched his forehead, then slunk back to the doorway of the tavern, and picked up his pot again.
When they reached the covered stalls at the centre of the marketplace the boy, Ermine, asked ,
“What’s wrong with him , then? He’s a carpenter. “
“Yes he is, “ replied Harold in a scornful, irritated voice, “ but not the one I want, as I said. You never listen.”
“Yes I do, “the boy persisted, “I listened when you called him by his name. “
Harold snorted,
“So ? I know everyone’s name. Or I can find them out. “
“Except mine!”
Harold didn’t quite stop walking completely, but his pace slowed almost to a standstill when the boy brought this up again. He shook his head, and started to walk more quickly again, muttering,
“True. Except yours. I don’t know your true name, and this is something which I’d find a lot easier to bear if you didn’t keep reminding me of the fact all the time. For now you are Ermine, and you can be grateful for that. “
“What kind of a name is that, anyway ? “
“Enough of a name for one of your tender years. Now shut up ! My man will be hereabouts, and I will not have him put off by your endless drivel. “
At the end of the square diagonally across from the Angel’s Rest a church perched rather uncomfortably. Harold looked over towards it, then pointed a bony finger, and muttered a few words in Norse under his breath. The grey clouds overhead parted just slightly, enough to allow a stiletto of light to illuminate the tower for just a moment. It was enough to allow the gnomon on the sundial to cast its shadow, and Harold was satisfied that he was on time. He walked forward towards a group of men idly chattering by one of the stalls. This one was decorated with a painted wooden sign which showed a crossed hammer and adze. The sign of the Carpenter’s Guild.
“I have one month’s work for a good carpenter.” Harold announced. All six faces turned towards him. “My farmhouse is several miles from here. There’s work enough doing repairs, and making the place fit to live in again, to keep one of you busy I dare say. How about you ?”
Harold addressed the leanest, hungriest and most miserable looking individual of the group. Ermine could hardly imagine a less likely looking carpenter for Harold to have chosen. He was very thin, but without showing any evidence of the kind of wiry strength for carrying out any sustained physical activity. He stood there staring dully at Harold, round shouldered, with a slight stoop, squinting as if even the grey light of a Derbyshire spring afternoon was painful to his eyes.
“What do you say ? “ continued Harold, “You up for the job ? “
The carpenter raised his right hand , as if not quite sure that he understood Harold correctly, and as he did Ermine noticed that the tips of his fingers were stained, mostly black or blue, but also in places with red, green and gold.
“Are you offering me work ? “ The other carpenters seemed to find this hard to believe as well. They laughed, and one of them went so far as to ask Harold if there was something wrong with his eyesight, or his mind. Harold looked at the largest and most aggressive of them, and said,
“Maybe, but there’s certainly nothing wrong with my hearing, Jake Lambton.” Hearing his name spoken in this way by a magician he’d never met before was enough for the big man, and he turned his back on Harold, quivering ever so slightly as he did so.
“Do we have a deal ? “ Harold had turned back to the thin carpenter. “Or perhaps you get so many offers of work that you can afford to turn it down ? “
“Nay, master, that I don’t, although I don’t care for the sarcasm. When do I start ?” Harold nodded and began to walk back towards the tavern end of the square, expecting the carpenter to keep up.
“I’ll give you two days to put your affairs in order and sort yourself out. Then you can join me. White Scar farm, a few miles east of here, on the road to Buxton. “
“I know it. I thought it was deserted. “
“It was. When I’m gone, it probably will be again. But for now, it’s not.”
“Very well. I shall see you two days hence , master. “
“Call me Harold. No, don’t. Call me Master Halfdan.”
“Whatever you like. I’ll see you in two days’ time, Master Halfdan, and then we’ll do some work.”
Harold laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound.
“Indeed we will, Robin Inkpen. Indeed we will. “
Chapter One – The Hiring Fair
Hie with me, Marion, on my fine horse
The hiring fair waits us at Hardingstone Cross
. We’ll find us a carpenter, now we be wed
To build us a crib and a marital bed
To build us a table and fine rocking chair
Gallop, my beauty, to Hardingstone Fair!
- Traditional nursery rhyme ( anonymous )
In the early spring of 1573 Harold Halfdan came to the town of Bakewell, in the shire of Derby, to visit the Hiring Fair. He was accompanied by a twelve year old boy. Nobody had ever asked about the boy, but if they had, then Harold would have introduced him as his apprentice, Ermine. At that time hiring fairs were a regular occasion in most market towns, especially in the countryside. Craftsmen and tradesmen of all the many and varied guilds who were looking for employment would gather in different areas of the marketplace. This would give would be masters a chance to inspect them, and to hire them if they saw fit. It was also a chance to exchange gossip and news about business, and other things besides.
Old Harold rarely bothered with the hiring fairs. If people needed a magician then they knew where to find him, he reckoned. He wasn’t especially keen on working for complete strangers either. Still, now the time had come when he couldn’t avoid being there, and this made him particularly sour and angry. To be honest, he was never really a bundle of laughs at the best of times.
Harold and the boy entered the square from the eastern side, by the courtyard of the Angel’s Rest. As they passed by they were called over by a large man, who was standing by the door of the tavern, holding a large pot of beer on his large pot of a belly.
“Hello sir ! What are you looking for, might I be as bold as to h’ask ?”
“A carpenter.” Harold carried on walking without looking at the man, who put his mug down on the cobblestones by the doorway and hurried after Harold, hastily snatching at the back of his cloak.
“A carpenter, you say ? You’re in luck, sir. I’m a carpenter!”
Harold swung around, and looked at the carpenter for the first time. Fixed in Harold’s gaze the man left go of the cloak, and he said nothing.
“I know what you are, “ said Harold, slowly, and emphatically, “ but luckily for you , Simeon Dale, you are not the carpenter that I want. “ Cowed, Simeon Dale touched his forehead, then slunk back to the doorway of the tavern, and picked up his pot again.
When they reached the covered stalls at the centre of the marketplace the boy, Ermine, asked ,
“What’s wrong with him , then? He’s a carpenter. “
“Yes he is, “ replied Harold in a scornful, irritated voice, “ but not the one I want, as I said. You never listen.”
“Yes I do, “the boy persisted, “I listened when you called him by his name. “
Harold snorted,
“So ? I know everyone’s name. Or I can find them out. “
“Except mine!”
Harold didn’t quite stop walking completely, but his pace slowed almost to a standstill when the boy brought this up again. He shook his head, and started to walk more quickly again, muttering,
“True. Except yours. I don’t know your true name, and this is something which I’d find a lot easier to bear if you didn’t keep reminding me of the fact all the time. For now you are Ermine, and you can be grateful for that. “
“What kind of a name is that, anyway ? “
“Enough of a name for one of your tender years. Now shut up ! My man will be hereabouts, and I will not have him put off by your endless drivel. “
At the end of the square diagonally across from the Angel’s Rest a church perched rather uncomfortably. Harold looked over towards it, then pointed a bony finger, and muttered a few words in Norse under his breath. The grey clouds overhead parted just slightly, enough to allow a stiletto of light to illuminate the tower for just a moment. It was enough to allow the gnomon on the sundial to cast its shadow, and Harold was satisfied that he was on time. He walked forward towards a group of men idly chattering by one of the stalls. This one was decorated with a painted wooden sign which showed a crossed hammer and adze. The sign of the Carpenter’s Guild.
“I have one month’s work for a good carpenter.” Harold announced. All six faces turned towards him. “My farmhouse is several miles from here. There’s work enough doing repairs, and making the place fit to live in again, to keep one of you busy I dare say. How about you ?”
Harold addressed the leanest, hungriest and most miserable looking individual of the group. Ermine could hardly imagine a less likely looking carpenter for Harold to have chosen. He was very thin, but without showing any evidence of the kind of wiry strength for carrying out any sustained physical activity. He stood there staring dully at Harold, round shouldered, with a slight stoop, squinting as if even the grey light of a Derbyshire spring afternoon was painful to his eyes.
“What do you say ? “ continued Harold, “You up for the job ? “
The carpenter raised his right hand , as if not quite sure that he understood Harold correctly, and as he did Ermine noticed that the tips of his fingers were stained, mostly black or blue, but also in places with red, green and gold.
“Are you offering me work ? “ The other carpenters seemed to find this hard to believe as well. They laughed, and one of them went so far as to ask Harold if there was something wrong with his eyesight, or his mind. Harold looked at the largest and most aggressive of them, and said,
“Maybe, but there’s certainly nothing wrong with my hearing, Jake Lambton.” Hearing his name spoken in this way by a magician he’d never met before was enough for the big man, and he turned his back on Harold, quivering ever so slightly as he did so.
“Do we have a deal ? “ Harold had turned back to the thin carpenter. “Or perhaps you get so many offers of work that you can afford to turn it down ? “
“Nay, master, that I don’t, although I don’t care for the sarcasm. When do I start ?” Harold nodded and began to walk back towards the tavern end of the square, expecting the carpenter to keep up.
“I’ll give you two days to put your affairs in order and sort yourself out. Then you can join me. White Scar farm, a few miles east of here, on the road to Buxton. “
“I know it. I thought it was deserted. “
“It was. When I’m gone, it probably will be again. But for now, it’s not.”
“Very well. I shall see you two days hence , master. “
“Call me Harold. No, don’t. Call me Master Halfdan.”
“Whatever you like. I’ll see you in two days’ time, Master Halfdan, and then we’ll do some work.”
Harold laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound.
“Indeed we will, Robin Inkpen. Indeed we will. “
Prologue
Prologue
In her mind’s eye the old witch watched as the ragged magician walked through the wind and snow, muttering obscenities all the while. She had created a marvelous blizzard, and the snow was so heavy that the magician could barely see more than a foot in front of his face. He could hear, though, as she knew that he would, and he heard the baby begin to cry just as he was approaching the thirteenth milestone. Closer, closer, he came, and finally as he picked up the bundle that she had left there so carefully, protected from the storm by magic, her face grew calm, and she knew that her work was done.
She opened her eyes, and turned to look at the Hooded One, who was waiting for her at the entrance to her cave.
“Alright, “ she grumbled, “ I’m coming. I’m finished now. “
In her mind’s eye the old witch watched as the ragged magician walked through the wind and snow, muttering obscenities all the while. She had created a marvelous blizzard, and the snow was so heavy that the magician could barely see more than a foot in front of his face. He could hear, though, as she knew that he would, and he heard the baby begin to cry just as he was approaching the thirteenth milestone. Closer, closer, he came, and finally as he picked up the bundle that she had left there so carefully, protected from the storm by magic, her face grew calm, and she knew that her work was done.
She opened her eyes, and turned to look at the Hooded One, who was waiting for her at the entrance to her cave.
“Alright, “ she grumbled, “ I’m coming. I’m finished now. “
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