‘Harold. Our son has worked wonders, and here is a king honouring him and treating him as a friend,’ she said proudly. ‘Don’t you look at me like that, Harold, for today I have spoken. And the Queen of Lancre has invited me to come and visit her,’ she added with satisfaction.
There was a bleat from Mephistopheles, and as Geoffrey’s father turned to stamp away, the goat turned its back and aimed a square set of devilish hooves right onto Lord Swivel’s rump. Followed by a raucous fart that almost – but not quite – covered up the noise of the man falling flat on his face.
‘A most usefully offensive goat,’ Geoffrey murmured to McTavish, who had come to stand by his side.
The old stable-lad looked around. ‘And one your father cannot touch,’ he said with a wink. ‘Not with that fancy coat on its back.’ He sniffed. ‘My word, though, Mephistopheles isn’t easy on the nose – he whiffs even worse than I remember.’
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but he can climb trees. And use a privy. Even count. He’s a strange creature; he can turn a dark day into a clear one. Look into his eyes sometime.’
And McTavish looked, and then hastily looked away.
fn1 Shawn Ogg, in another of his royal duties.
EPILOGUE
A Whisper on the Chalk
TWO DAYS AFTER the battle, Tiffany led one of the farm horses up to the hills above the farm. It was a perfect early autumn’s day. There was a wonderful cerulean sky, buzzards screaming overhead and a clear view towards the distant mountains of Lancre, their tops still covered in snow even at this time of year.
There were always a handful of sheep up in this part of the downs, whatever the weather. At this time of year there were half-grown lambs kicking their heels and chasing about while the ewes grazed nearby. Here was a well-known landmark for those who knew. A special place for sheep and farmers alike. The place where Granny Aching now lay beneath the turf.
Only the iron wheels of her hut and the old pot-bellied stove with its chimney were still visible, but the ground, the ground was holy: Tiffany came to look at it every time she felt the world grinding her down, and here, where the wind never stopped blowing, she felt that she could deal with anything.
With the help of the horse and a strong rope, Tiffany hauled the rusty wheels out of the turf where they had been embedded, and painstakingly greased and coaxed them back together. Rob Anybody had watched her for a while after she had rebuffed his offer to help, then departed with a puzzled look on his face, muttering about geases, and what he’d like to do to them.
The following day, Tiffany went to visit old Mr Block, the local carpenter. He had once made her a doll’s house when she was a little girl; now she had a bigger home in mind.
He was pleased to see her but was startled when he discovered what she wanted from him.
‘Mr Block, I would like you to teach me to be a carpenter. I am going to build myself a hut – a shepherding hut.’
The carpenter was a kindly man and offered to help. ‘You are a witch,’ he said. ‘I’m a carpenter. A little hut like that wouldn’t take me long. Your granny was very good to our family and you helped my sister Margaret. I’d be happy to do it for you.’
But Tiffany was very definite. ‘That’s nice of you,’ she said, ‘but all the work on this hut must be done by me. It will be mine, from top to bottom, and I will pull it to where the larks rise. And I’ll still be a witch when anyone should call. But there I will live.’ On my own, she thought to herself. For now, anyway, for who knew what the future might bring . . . And her hand crept to her pocket, where she had Preston’s latest letter to savour.
And so Tiffany learned carpentry every evening after her day’s work was done. It took her some weeks to finish it, but eventually there was a new shepherd’s hut stationed close to Granny Aching’s grave.
There were three steps up to its wooden door, a horseshoe and a tuft of sheep’s wool – the sign of a shepherd – already nailed in place there, and the roof arched over a small living space into which she had built a bed, a little cupboard, a few shelves and a space for a wash basin. From the bed, she could see out of a small window – see clear across the downs, right to the horizon. And she could see the sun rise, and set, and the moon dance through its guises – the magic of everyday that was no less magic for that.
She loaded up the old farm horse again with the bedding from her little room in the farmhouse and her few possessions, said goodbye to her parents and headed up the hill in the late afternoon sun.
‘Are you sure, jigget, that this is what you really want?’ said her father.
‘Yes, it is,’ Tiffany replied.
Her mother cried and handed her a new quilt and a freshly baked loaf of bread to go with the cheese Tiffany had made that morning.
Halfway up the hill, Tiffany turned to look down at the farm and saw her parents still arm in arm. She waved and carried on climbing without looking back again. It had been a long day. They were always long days.