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.”