Midwinter Nightingale by Joan Aiken Page B

Fancy that! But Mester Goodyer, he'll have the physic for her, no danger. Tis Farmer Goadby who lies on's deathbed, so they do say. I best be on my way, sirs.” And he led Magpie forward.
    “Oh, well. In that case …” Sir Angus quite plainly had had some thought of requisitioning the mare for his own use, but now changed his mind. “Come, Fosby,” he said, spurring his own horse, “let us follow the young fellow's directions without loss of time. The day darkens.” And, as Sir Fosby Killick, the king's physician, followed him, Simon heard him say, “Have you heard of groovy kidney, Fosby? Is it infectious? Is there a cure for it?”
    Simon did not catch Sir Fosby's reply.
    Greatly relieved to have got rid of the pair and sent them on a wild-goose chase—which might well land them in one of the forest quagmires (And no harm if it does, thought Simon uncharitably)—he pursued his own course in the opposite direction, and the sheep, refreshed by their short rest, followed him trustfully. The news that the two men had come to this spot from a chapel greatly cheered him; he knew there were three chapels in the middle of the forest: Saint Ardust, Saint Arfish and Saint Arling. They formed a triangle with the angles pointing north, west and east; find one of them and he would know which way to go from there.
    And, in fact, not more than fifteen minutes later, by following the hoof tracks of the two men, Simon came to a little, semi-ruinous building, set in a tiny clearing surrounded by a ring of tall holly trees. The sheep werepleased to avail themselves at once of the supper provided by the short grass in the clearing, and so was Magpie. Simon peered into the dark doorway of the chapel and called softly “Father Sam? Are you there?”
    “Hush! Yes, I am here, my boy!” Father Sam, a plump, rosy-faced little man in a surpassingly ragged and worn robe and cowl, popped suddenly out of the darkness.
    “Second time I've been interrupted in me prayers,” he said reproachfully. “Saint Arling's Day too! Poor old fella, he gets little enough heed paid to him as 'tis. Never mind! Never mind!”
    “I am sorry, Father.”
    “Never fret, me boy, His Grace'll be that glad to see ye! He's been pining.”
    “How is he?” Simon asked anxiously.
    “Not too hearty.” The priest shook his head. “The sight of ye will brisk him up, let us hope. But—betwixt you and me—not long for this sad world! And raring to go! So let us hope you can do whatever he's a mind for ye to do, and that way set his poor soul at rest. For there's no question he's pining to follow the Lady Adelaide into the next world, heaven aid him!”
    “Just remind me of the way from here, Father, and I'll be off at once.”
    “Go between the two biggest hollies.” Father Sam pointed. “And then keep the blackthorns to the left of ye, the whitethorns to your right, and turn sharp to the rightwhen ye come to a great chestnut tree. Then cross the brook, wind through the yew coppice and Darkwater will lie before ye.” He chuckled. “Finely I misled two grand gentlemen who were here half an hour ago. Lucky they'll be if they reach Clarion Wells by midnight.”
    “They certainly will,” Simon agreed, remembering his own misdirections. He jumped on Magpie's back. “Thank you, Father, and good night.”
    “I'll be dropping in on His Grace tomorrow, tell him,” said Father Sam. “And thanks to your sheep for trimming my assart grass.” He extended a hand in blessing, then returned inside the chapel to his interrupted devotions.
    Following the old priest's directions, Simon had no further difficulty in finding his way to Darkwater Farm, an ancient moated building of dark red brick with twisted chimneys that nestled in a hollow in the deepest corner of the forest. The moat was fed from a mere, or tarn, of some size, which Simon and his flock had to skirt round before they reached the entrance to the house. The water of the lake looked black, but that was