A Midsummer Tempest (27 page)

Jennifer had the helm. Rupert stood at a rail, peering over. Will sat in the middle of the midmost thwart, holding on. The prince pointed to a thread which twisted and gleamed below. “There’s the Dordogne,” he said. His voice was nearly lost in immensity. “We’ll raise our goal ere dawn.”

“How canst thou tell?” the other man inquired.

“I’ve pored o’er many maps. How strange to see the lands themselves like that. They have no borders. …”

“Me, I’ll buss tha swile, although it be a barnyard where we zettle.” Will flickered an uneasy glance. “No disrespect to any Powers, o’ coua’se. But zea or sky, this messin’ around in boats just ben’t for me. Oh, nothin’ liake it, true! Tha which I thank God’s goodness for, amen.”

“When we are down—unarmored, since the spell can scarcely lift more iron than our blades—maybe thoult think thou didst enjoy this ride.” Rupert gave a sardonic chuckle. “We chatter thus, while miracles go on. Perhaps the saints can pass eternity enrapt in solemn bliss; but we are mortal.”

He stepped astern and lowered himself beside Jennifer. “Shall I take o’er thy watch?” he asked. “How dost thou fare?”

“Most marvelously, since it is with thee.” She gave him a smile which, in the strong subtlety of bone and flesh, under huge eyes and moon-frosted hair, was elven as Ariel’s. Gesturing out: “And many of mine oldest friends are here. The Wains are homeward bound the same as us; to ringing of the Lyre, the Swan takes wing across a river clangorous with light; near Pegasus, the
Princess waits her hero; and from the sunrise quadrant comes Orion, who will bestride the heavens—art thou he?”

Rupert was still before he answered harshly: “Nay, I’m the Scorpion. Thou canst not see where I am on my peril-poisoned path. How could I bring thee … even for my King?”

“I’m frankly tired of hearing I’m too fine!” she flared. At once she grinned. “Though true it is, thou’st ground me down between the millstones of thy duty and thy conscience. When we are wed—Oh, grant me this last flight, for afterward the blueness of new seas for me will only lie in children’s eyes, and melodies from Faerie in their mirth, and high adventure in their growing tall—When we are wed, the foremost task for me will be to tease thy moodiness from thee.”

He hugged her to him. His voice trembled. “Thou’rt far too good for me. But so’s the sun. God gives with spendthrift hand. His will be done.”

The boat flew on through moonlight.

A MEADOW.

Grass was almost as dark as trees, under clouds blown off a rapidly nearing storm-wall. Wind droned, the first-flung raindrops stung, like cold hornets. Stars had been swallowed, but a last few lunar beams touched the boat. It staggered down from the sky, thumped, and lay. The sail flapped wild.

Rupert’s call tore across that noise: “Art thou hurt, Jennifer?”

“Nay, save … save for rattled teeth,” she answered shakily.

“I had to land fast.” He groped to help her out; the gloom thickened each second. “Else we’d been trapped above the overcast, and the moon that bears us is going down.”

“Where be we?” came Will’s voice.

“South of Glastonbury,” Rupert told him. “I can’t say closer.”

“Who can, in this weather? Blacker’n tha Devil’s gut—there went tha moon—heare comes tha rain. Welcome hoame to England.”

“Can we find shelter?” asked the girl as sluices opened above her.

“Not by stumbling blind,” Rupert replied through a wet roar. They could barely see the shadow-form of him point. “Yonder’s north, our direction. We’ll walk cross-country till we strike a road bound the same way. There ought to be houses near it, though we’d better take care who’s inside.”

“Friends to us, if I know my Somerset folk,” Will assured him:.

“Aye, but have the victors begun quartering troops on them? Come, march.”

“Thou’rt riaght, as always. Damnable bad habit o’ thiane, Rupert, bein’ right. For how I wish I could zee tha farmer hereawa, when ’a fiands a zailboat in his pasture!”

A ROAD.

The storm had ended soon after sunrise. Wind kept on, sharp and shrill from the north, driving a smoke of scud beneath a low iron-hued heaven. Rupert, Jennifer, and Will leaned into it, heads down, hands mottled blue, as they tramped along the mud. Water from their garments fell into ruffled puddles. On either side of them ran a hedge, and fields beyond it flat, brown or gray with autumn, the occasional trees begun to go sere and let leaves be whipped off their boughs. A flight of rooks went by, grating forth lamentations.

A bitter, early zeason,” Will said at last. His nose was the sole spot of brightness in the landscape, save for the drip from it. “I doan’t recall no worse.”

“Was ever year more weird than this?” Jennifer replied. She attempted a smile. “See here’s Prospero’s wand my walking staff.”

“An’ his book weights down tha bottom o’ my scrip, underneath food from his island.” Will touched a bag slung around his shoulder. “Anybody caere for a bite?
Nay? Well, I too ’ud swap theeazam pears an’ pompgranites for a zingle bowl o’ hot oatmeal topped wi’ cream an’ honey; an’ this zaber o’ miane ’ud liefer carve a Cheddar cheese than a trail to glory.”

“Or the freedom and safety of thy household?” Rupert rapped.

Will’s lips drew thin. “Pray doan’t bespeak thic, zir. It be hard enough for me aloane to keep myzelf from frettin’ thus. ‘Fear not,’ I tell me, though it doan’t do no good for long; ‘fear not for wife an’ kids,’ I zays, “only for thine own hiade, an’ for whatever Roundhead regiment might anger Nell.’ She’s a big woman, zir; when she milks, tha whoale cow shaekes; an’ as for temper, why, if instead o’ his wretched powder kegs, Guy Fawkes had had my Nell—”

“Hold!” Rupert lifted a hand. “Around yon bend ahead of us—horsemen—Enemy!” His sword flew from its sheath.

They were five who came. One was a fat, middle-aged peasant in long brown coat, baggy trousers, mucky shoes, greasy hat, mounted on an ambling cob. The rest were unmistakable Ironsides. When they saw Rupert’s party, their yells blew down the wind: “Stray Cavaliers—a Puritan boy their captive—Save him! At them!”

“Get backs against this hedge,” Rupert ordered. “Stand fast. Behind me, Jennifer.”

Earth boomed, mud-water splashed, hoofs broke into gallop. Will did not draw steel. Instead, he removed his loaded scrip and whirled it by the strap. Rupert gave him a puzzled look but had no time to say more. The leading Roundhead was on him.

“Yield thee or be cut down!” the man bawled.

Rupert stood firm. The horse reared to a halt. A blade whined from above. Rupert’s met it in mid-stroke. Metal screamed, sparks spurted. Sheer violence tore the rider’s weapon loose, sent it spinning free. Before he could skitter off, Rupert’s left hand had him around the jackboot. A heave, and he was out of his seat, entangled in one stirrup. His charger whinnied and bolted, dragging him through the mire.

Will had let fly the bag. It struck the second cavalryman in his jerkin. He whoofed out air and slumped
across his saddlebow. Now Will unscabbarded sword.

He and Rupert came in on either side of the third trooper. The fourth tugged pistol from belt Jennifer sped his way. “Aye, to me, good lad!” he encouraged her.

“Indeed to thee,” she said. “Accept my staff.” She gave it to him across his wrist. He yelped and dropped his firearm. She whacked him in the nose. He bellowed and clutched at red ruin.

Rupert and Will got their quarry disarmed and dismounted. The prince soared into the saddle. He went after the first horse, which had slowed, caught its bridle, released its erstwhile master, and led the animal back for his friend. Together they rode at the remaining two. Dazed, Jennifer’s victim offered no resistance when Rupert relieved him of weapons and commanded him to earth. The man of the book recovered sufficiently to spur his own beast into headlong southward flight. No one bothered to pursue.

“O Jennifer!” Rupert cried. While he rode about rounding up prisoners, he kept blowing her kisses. She clutched Prospero’s emblem and glowed.

“One escaeped but three captured,” Will said. “Not a bad bag.”

The peasant had sat open-mouthed. Will cantered to him, reined in, and exclaimed: “Why, it be my neighbor, Robin Sledge!”

The other must swallow several times before he got out: “Will Fairweather … back from tha dead?”

“Not yet. However, quick ere I bogie thee, how’s my house?”

“Tha last I heard or zaw, unharmed. Ye be lucky, dwellin’ offzide as ye do.”

Will wiped his forehead, albeit he said merely, “Foarezighted, Robin, foarezighted. When I war after a croft to rent, an’ zaw how thic ’un zits vizzy-vizz tha coney runs—Well. How’d’st thou fall in ’mongst theeazam bad companions?” He jerked a thumb at the muddy, bloody, and disconsolate Parliamentary soldiers.

“Scouts, wantin’ of a guide; not that there be aught left for Croom’ll to fear, or war till you three caeme.”

“Thou’d’st help them cantin’ rebels, Robin? Thou?”

“I’d scant choice when asked,” Sledge said bitterly. “Two zons o’ miane, Tom an’ Ned, be ’listed under tha King. I’d better do what I can to win mercy for ’em, do tha’ live.”

Rupert had trotted up, stopped, and listened. “How goes the war?” he inquired.

“It rocks tow’rd an end, zir,” Sledge sighed. “Tha last o’ tha loyal pulled out o’ Glastonbury an’ onto tha Tor. Thic should’a been better to defend: but him Croom’ll—rebel commander—Well, I zoldiered a bit whan I war young, an’ zince ha’ downed many a pint along o’ veterans what ben’t all witless bags o’ brag; but never have I zeen or heard o’ one liake Croom’ll. ’A must be wiald to catch tha King; for ’a’s drawn in everything ’a got, ne’ miand hoaldin’ that countryzide peaceful; ’a’s laid ’em ’round tha hill tighter’n Jack Ketch’s noose; an’ his guns only stop hammerin’ whan they crunch cloaser inward. From what I zeen, zir, I doan’t give tha King three days, nor
no
chance to slip free.”

Rupert and Will exchanged a look more bleak than the wind.

Abruptly the prince said, “Thanks for thy word, goodman. Thou might’st as well play safe by conducting these fellows further, after I’ve interrogated them about dispositions and so forth. ’Tis not thy fault they were overpowered.” He laughed, not blithely. “True, they’ll have to fare afoot. We’ve need of three horses, also of buff coats and the rest. Well, let them walk, and in their natural buff. They’ll doubtless be grateful for such help in mortifying the flesh and bringing down sinful pride.”

He turned back toward Jennifer.

Sledge stared after him. “Who be thic wight?”

“An acrobat,” Will said.

“A what?”

“One what treads a tightroape ’bove hell. Come, let’s away an’ talk as long’s we can.”

GLASTONBURY TOR.

C
ROMWELL’S
army had started well up the staggered flanks of it. Few men were readily seen on either side. Taking what lee they could in dug trenches or behind trees, bushes, boulders, bluffs, they lay waiting for their officers’ call to make the next advance or the next resistance. Musket fire crackled only irregularly. This was the hour of the cannon.

Those roared steadily, in masses, from the Roundhead stations. Muzzles flashed, missiles rumbled through air, solid shot hammered down and canister burst in shrieking thousandfold, over and over and over. Smoke hung in a bitter blue haze. For the wind had died with afternoon. A pallid sun glimmered, vanished, struck through again, out of slowly dissipating chill gray. Given such calm, the attackers employed a lately invented device: two hot-air balloons they had brought, tethered to float higher than the hilltop, observers in the baskets using telescopes and surveyors’ instruments to spot for the artillery to which they wigwagged down their signals—grotesqueries hanging above town and land like the future itself.

The Royal positions made slight reply. Riding, Rupert said to Will and Jennifer: “The guns are plainly few which our people could drag to the top of this mount. No doubt they’re equally poor in ammunition. They’d’ve been overrun erenow, were it not such labor hauling ordnance uphill against fire.”

“It costs, thic,” said Will. (A dead man sprawled in withered grass.) “Why not just lay ziege?”

“We are the reason.” Rupert’s grin writhed. “Inadequate; quite likely soon refuted.”

“Too laete, I think we should’a cut our hair short, thee an’ me.”

“With Occam’s razor? Nay, not every Parliamentarian goes polled, the more so after weeks of dispute. I think best I be quickly recognizable at need. Meanwhile, wear thine Ironside outfit as if it belonged to thee.”

“Thine plainly does not,” Jennifer murmured.

“Well, I hate seeing a soldier sloppy-unlaced as myself,” Rupert admitted. “However, we mustn’t act apologetic, or timid, or unsure in any way. That’s death—or capture, which could be worse. Behave as if we own the place.” His neck stiffened. “We do.”

Jennifer’s fingers tightened on Prospero’s staff. “‘Twould be too cruel if thou … any of us got killed by a loyal sharpshooter.”

“Aye, we’ve a gap to win across, and must build our bridge with whatever wreckage we find—Hold!” Rupert drew rein. “I spy. … Follow my lead, say naught, obey any command on the instant.”

A trio of fieldpieces—one sacar, two lighter falconets—had appeared as the riders passed a thicket. Shot and bags of powder lay heaped around; wagons and horses must have gone on elsewhere, for none but the crews were in view. Two men to a weapon, they swabbed, loaded, corrected aim, touched match to fuse, swabbed, loaded. … An ensign squinted through his glass at the balloon which was visible from here, notepad held ready for a calculation of how best to lay the next barrage.

Rupert cantered toward them. Discharge crashed; his ears hurt, smoke rankled in his nostrils, echoes tolled. Despite the weather, some soldiers had stripped to the waist. Sweat shone through the dirt on them.
These men who man this post of guns court deafness,
he thought.
How bloodshot glare their eyes from powder soot; how weary must they be from hour on hour, unknowing when they may be blown apart
—
yet still bombard their King in honest effort, methodical, indomitable, English.

“Halt!” challenged the ensign. “Who comes hither? To your muskets, boys!”