A Midsummer Tempest Read online

  Jennifer leaned out a window. Sweat stained her gown and channeled the grime on her features. “What do you want?” demanded Nobah Barker, who sat across from her. He was still more wilted by the heat, battered by the incessant jounce and sway, then she was; his reddened eyes resented her.

  “A breath of breeze,” she snapped through rattle and creak. “Is that forbidden?”

  “’Tis immodest, Mistress Alayne, thus to thrust one’s maiden self upon the public view.”

  She grinned in unfriendly wise. “Wherefore you stay within, Reverend? Well, let me be entirely lost to shame. Let me take a horse, not suffocate here.”

  “Nay. How couldst thou receive instruction? Thou. Hear, I must chide thee as I would a child.”

  “Why, then I’ll address thee as I would a dog.”

  “Peace!” he yelped. “Oh, if I might chastise thee with stripes, flog forth the scornful devil which possesses thee! How thou wouldst weep thereafter, and beg my forgiveness for this insolence wherewith thou tormentest mine every waking hour!”

  “I’ll strike a bargain,” said Jennifer. “Spend no more of thy waking hours in my presence, and thou’lt get never a bad word from me.”

  “Nay. Thy guardian did charge me most strictly to have a care of thy soul and strive unremittingly to mend its illness. Methinks he was mistaken in forbidding corporal punition; ’twould surely have eased the anguish inflicted on me. However, I comply, I submit. Unto the task of recapturing the wayward lamb do I screw myself. Come within. Sit and hearken. That’s an order.”

  Jennifer ignored it. Leaning as far as possible, she waved at a peasant girl tending a flock of geese which cropped the ditch. “Hallo, sister, hallo!” she cried.“Je suis ta soeur—see, I learned some French o’ my dad—little sister, free sister, pray for me in my prison. Prie pour moi.”

  “Wanton! Papist! In, I told thee!” Barker stormed. He threw arms around her waist and dragged.

  She swung about in his clasp to rake nails across his cheek. He let her go. They both sat back, breathing hard, he dabbling at the blood-beaded scratches. After a moment she said like stones falling: “This time I warned you, Barker. Seize me again, and ’twill cost you an eyeball at least.”

  “I … violence … wildness … thou’rt truly afflicted—” He stiffened into a sort of calm. “Thine uncle did authorize what force might be needful to carry out my task. I hold that that may include the compelling of thy body.”

  Jennifer sighed. “Liefer than have thee touch me more, I’ll stay quiet.”

  Barker struggled to smile. “My child, I pity thee. Indeed, the pain I endure on thine account will earn me palaces in heaven. So fair without, so foul within—and yet, beneath that filth which wizard Rupert conjured into thee, may still abide a soul as pure as the driven snow.”

  “Aye, cold enough, and driven where it would not be.”

  “Cold? In this weather?” He lifted a bottle. “Here, behold how I return good for evil and offer thee water.”

  “Not from a neck your lips have sucked.”

  “Thou hurtest me, Jennifer, woundest me here.” He laid palm on breast.

  “Aye, thou painest me too.” She touched her rump.

  It passed him by. Shaking the container, he said, “Maybe as well thou refusest. ’Tis nigh empty. Preaching’s thirsty work. Therefore, in God’s cause I’ll finish it.”

  He did, set it on the floor, inflated his lungs, and stated: “I shall continue my discourse which was thus rudely interrupted. It is, thou wilt recall, upon the eighteenth chapter of Leviticus, having to do with unlawful lusts, and we had reached the twenty-third verse, which closes: ‘… it is confusion.’ A veritable sign from heaven, that I should be at this exact passage when thou didst cry out unto the goose girl—because that showed forth how thou dost commit confusions, albeit not those specified in the chapter, I hope. Worst, of course, is that thou didst ask for a Papist prayer—horror, horror—but thou hast also a worldly miscomprehension. That thou couldst call yon person free, captive as she is in both flesh and spirit, demonstrates how thou’rt wholly ignorant of matters political—indeed, of the very definition of freedom.”

  Jennifer stared out the window.

  “A moment, ere I explicate.” His black coat cut off her view as he himself leaned forth to call: “Throckmorton! Dost see a sheltered spot ahead?”

  “A hedge, sir, a mile hence,” the driver answered.

  “Well, whip up the horses, and make halt there. The Lord’s business does not wait.” Barker sat down again, crossing his thighs rather tightly. “Where was I? Ah, yes. I have been inquiring and studying of the French situation, from that military envoy I met on the steamer and in Calais from the English consul whilst our transportation was being purchased. Industry, Jennifer, industry and an open mind are the sure eastern and western pole stars whereby we steer toward truth—worldly truth, that is, the divine sort being always a matter of revelation and special grace. Uh-h’m! Know, then, the new King Lewis is a mere child, and the true ruler of the land is an Italian cardinal. How can France be free if she wears the collar of a Roman cleric?”

  Jennifer could not forbear to say, “Though ’tis a Catholic land, they tolerate Protestants.”

  “Ah-ha! A Catholic land. That means they tolerate Catholics too, does it not? Wherein lies freedom there? Nay, those who would die to scorch error from their country are forced, cruelly forced to live in very earshot of its preachments. Furthermore, where’s a Parliament of godly men, responsive to the people, such as has sat in London, unchanged by any dissent, these four unbroken years, and will sit as long as is necessary to reform every citizen? France groans beneath feudal monarchy. Archaic laws and usages bind her natural leaders hand, foot, and mouth. In consequence, progress languishes. Behold for thyself, child. See how yonder old cottage stands just where ’twould be advantageous to pass a railway. Hast thou observed a single smokestack or enclosure? The time lost each year in holidays and festivals is a national disgrace.… Throckmorton, hurry along, I told thee!”

  “We’re well-nigh there, master,” came the reply.

  “I’ll give you this,” Jennifer said: “that to judge by all the stops we’ve been making, the French cannot prepare food—or is it drink?—that agrees with your English constitution.”

  “’Tis the work of Satan, seeking to hinder me,” Barker stated, “and that thou art spared the flux is an ominous token.” Hopefully: “Or hast thou need to go this time, after me?”

  “Nay, heaven hast not yet vouchsafed me that sign of its feelings which it considers appropriate to you. But I will step out whilst you’re busy and rest me by the waters of Babylon.”

  The coach halted. The footman flung wide its door and extended a handful of hayballs. Barker seized them and made for the hedge as fast as he could waddle.

  Jennifer followed, more stiffly than she was wont after this long, cramped ride. She almost gave the footman a word of sympathy; he might have been a statue in gritty plaster, save for his woeful sneezes and snuffles. But he was Rupert’s enemy. Standing in what shade the vehicle cast, she stretched herself, muscle by muscle, while she looked widely and wistfully outward.

  Boots scrunched hard-baked earth. Sword-of-the-Lord Gerson had dismounted. Holding his steed by the reins, he approached to within a yard of her, stopped, shifted from foot to foot, made a timid salute when she noticed him. His downy cheeks were redder than even the summer day would warrant.

  “How are you, Mistress Alayne?” (She could barely hear him.) “Can I help you in aught?”

  “I am weary unto death,” she answered. “And … let me think … aye, thou canst do me a great kindness.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Hold,” growled Righteous Gerson from his saddle. “The witch will have thee pledge a treachery.”

  “Oh, nay,” said the girl. “This would be a boon not to me alone, but to our whole merry band of pilgrims. Take Nobah Barker’s tongue and stuff it down his throat.”

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nbsp; Three Roundheads laughed. Another slapped his thigh and remarked, “A pretty notion; but, lack-a-day, ’tis too long to fit and too waggly to seize.”

  Righteous Gerson frowned. “Show respect,” he ordered. “He’s our minister. Who else would hold divine service for us in this land of Belial?”

  Jennifer wandered to the roadside, sat down on her heels, and ran fingers among its wildflowers. “Good day, you blossoms blowing here in France,” she murmured. “I bring you greetings from your English cousins, and thank you for your messages to me—O poppies bold as freedom’s blood and banner, and bindweed white as Rupert’s lofty plume.”

  Again she heard feet shuffle close, and rose to meet Sword-of-the-Lord. His head hung, he bit his lip and said miserably, “Can you … not name … a proper task for me? I’d give these eyes to see you happy, mistress.”

  Her mouth softened. “Thou’rt kind,” she said low.

  “Who could be else, to you?” He smote fist in gauntlet. “I know. Myself, I can’t believe that you’re possessed. The fiends may well fly mothlike tow’rd your soul, but char and shrivel in its radiance.” (She smiled at his wavering words, half touched, half amused.) “You’re lion-loyal, though it be misguided. Can I not find for you one lonely comfort? I’d cherish that beside me when I sleep.”

  “I’ve marked how thou dost ever wish me well, despite the gall I ladle from the heart,” she replied slowly. “’Tis time I give forgiveness—and ask it.” After a moment: “I’d like a drink of water from thy flask.”

  “At once! If only ’twere ambrosia!” He unslung the leather bottle at his belt, dropped it, picked it up, wiped it clean with shaky hands and his neckerchief, and nearly fell to the ground himself when he tried to bow as he passed it over. She swallowed thirstily. After she gave it back, he stared at it for a while, then, as if charging a rampart, raised it for a quick swallow of his own. When he lowered and stoppered it, a look was upon his face as if he had received communion.

  Barker emerged from behind the hedge. Now he walked easily, rubbing his hands. “Well, brethren, shall we be upon our way?” he called. “Or shall we take a rest for half an hour? Methinks we should, that ye may likewise hear my discourse to our straying lamb.”

  “O God,” Jennifer said skyward, “if Thou’st forsaken me, I understand.”

  Sword-of-the-Lord breathed, aghast, “You’re being driven mad—to blasphemy?” He clapped free hand on weapon hilt and marched to stand before Barker. His led horse loomed behind him like a wall. “Ha’ done!” he cried. “Can you not see what harm you wreak? ’Tis bad enough that she must be a captive and made the means of what she thinks betrayal. To hear you drone and rant and whine all day could make her feel that hell will be relief.”

  His brother spurred close, shouting, “Thou whelp, leave off thine insolence!”

  Sword-of-the-Lord held his ground and said in desperate stubborness: “’Tis not. Hark. There are … there are ways and ways to preach. Theology will scare the savage off who’d gladly hear Christ’s simple words of love, while Joshua’s more fitting for a soldier, and—Well, this lady’s altogether steadfast; to batter her with God won’t break that down; it will but force her to repel the Name.”

  “What eloquence,” Righteous fleered. “Art thou in holy orders?”

  Jennifer came to take the boy’s arm. “Nay, he is merely showing common sense,” she told them. “Is it too rare for ye to recognize? Why blame him if he look on me as human instead of as an object? From such lips I might hear words that did not seal mine ears.”

  Barker swelled with indignation. “Thou darest, shameless hussy—” he began, spraying the neighborhood.

  “Hold, good sir,” broke in Righteous. “I know my brother … and her somewhat, too. Maybe—Let’s talk o’ this in confidence.”

  He vaulted from his stirrups and drew Barker aside. They whispered together. The remaining Roundheads stared in their various fashions at youth and maiden. Sword-of-the-Lord shrank into himself, overwhelmed by what he had done. Jennifer breathed something which caused him to straighten, fiery-visaged, dry-mouthed, and resolute as a Maccabee.

  Nobah Barker and Righteous Gerson returned. The minister cleared his throat. “We will essay it, then, in these next days,” he said, “until we come to Mar-sales and our work. If this our charge is cursed with such poor taste a homily grits her teeth, and can’t digest it, then we must give her soul a coarser fare and hope that that may prove her heavenly fodder.” To Sword-of-the-Lord: “My boy, we’ll let thee try to be her mentor. She favors thee, as nearest to her age. We’ll even let her ride a horse by thee, a ways apart from us. Descant thy best. We’ll see if mildness of this kind may melt the ice of her, that logic failed to break. If thou shouldst bring her to repentance, lad, I’d say that God has called thee to the Church, and I myself will teach thee how to preach. But if thou fail’st—”

  “Why, matters won’t be worse,” Jennifer said. “O God”—through tears—“Thy pardon! Thou dost not forsake.” Laughter burst forth. She skipped on the road and caroled:

  “A weary age

  That felt the rage—”

  “Has this released thy madness, ravening?” sputtered Barker. “Stop or be bound!”

  She obeyed instantly. “I’m very sorry, sir,” she said, folding hands and casting eyes downward. “Hereafter I will strive to mend my ways.”

  “It woo-woo-works,” marveled Sword-of-the-Lord. “The cure’s begun … already.”

  “We’ll see as we continue on our road.” Barker sounded less than ecstatic. “Each man of you will lend his horse in turn and join me in the coach”—he brightened—“and we will talk. Wilt thou be first, good Sergeant Righteous Gerson? Thou canst then hear me practice my next sermon.”

  Jennifer and Sword-of-the-Lord didn’t notice. They were looking too deeply at each other.

  THE GUN DECK OF THE TUNISIAN PINNACE.

  Cannon were drawn back and lashed down behind their ports. Likewise shut was a door in a forward bulkhead. A screen erected aft marked where the junior officers’ quarters began. The time was sunset, but light still came down through ventilation gratings to tinge deck planks violet and make brazen snouts sheen amidst shadows. There was no real wind; the ship ghosted along with barely a sound or surge.

  Rupert paced from the stern. His head was bent till the hair hid most of his face. His fists clamped and unclamped. Amidships, his regard fell on one of the guns. He stopped. Seeking distraction, he ran knowledgeable hands across its sleekness and stooped to heft a ball from the rack beside it.

  A thud brought him alert. A hatch cover was tilting off the deck. Who’s that in the powder magazine? he thought, and crouched to peer from the carriage.

  Will Fairweather’s head poked up, swiveled around, flashed a smile through gloom. “Nobody about,” he said most quietly. “Liake I reckoned. Let’s leap to it, though.”

  He slid the cover aside, scrambled forth, stood to buckle his belt. Niña the maidservant came after, her hair and gown rumpled. “Fasten thy girdle, ninny,” he reminded her. She tittered.

  Rupert rose and trod forward. “Buenas tardes,” he said.

  Niña squealed. Will jumped, before he emitted a rackety laugh. “Ah, my loard. Thou’st lost no skill at reconnaissance. Nor lost caere for tha needs o’ thy poor zoldiers, I trust.” To the dismayed girl: “Fear not. ’A can keep a tactical zecret. Do thou taeke caere liakewise, my little messenger pigeon, to let nothin’ drop. Now, fly along, preen thyself ere thou must attend thy mistress, an’ in thy miand rehearse our next coup.”

  He slapped her on the behind. She cast a glance half apprehensive, half roguish at Rupert’s looming form and pattered off. Will replaced the hatch cover.

  The prince sighed and shook his head. “How dost thou do it?” he wondered.

  “In the usual way, zir,” answered the dragoon. “Or if thou’d’st know how I persuade ’em, when I’m no beauty, why, zir, ’tis a girt fallacy that women caere for looks in a man as men caere fo
r looks in a woman. Attention, my general, attention’s what they wish, shy at first for to show respect, brash laeter for to show interest; an’ then, o’ coua’se, ’tis tha good acts which recall us to tha staege.” He bowed. “Not that faeme, high birth, an’ handsomeness ben’t useful, zir, moare or less in thic order. But by themzelves tha’ just zit there, doin’ naught. Tha general could ’a royalized half England had ’a obzarved tha zignal flags flyin’ everywhere around him.”

  “Enough prating.” Rupert turned harsh. “How long hast thou been at this?”

  “Longer than moast, zir, she tells me. However, there’s another zuperstition, that meare zize—”

  “In time, thou dolt!” Rupert sighed and spread his hands. “Oh, no matter.” Stern again: “I’m chiefly shocked to find a soldier of mine using for his lechery a … a powder magazine.”

  Will snickered. “Art afeared we’ll touch it off? Zooth, she’s planty hot. We did zeek tha hoalds first. Zir, I can repoart no woman aliave’ll keep that mood after a dozen cockroaches ha’ run ticklefoot across her belly. Well, Tunis be at peace an’ no pirates looked for. Thus few zailors come by heare; none poake into yon ammunition locker. An’, zir, I can liakewise repoart the smell o’ gunpowder works on women like catnip.”

  Rupert gave up an unequal contest. As a Parthian shot, he said, “Thou’st loaded a single breech under sea conditions, and yet durst generalize?”

  “I know who’d love bein’ generalized,” Will guffawed, “as well as boarded, berthed, oaverhauled—”

  With an open-handed blow, Rupert knocked him sprawling. “Get out of here before I kick thee hence!” the prince roared.

  Will clutched his ringing ear. “Foargive me,” he whispered. “I forgot thine honor, loard.” He crept to his feet and went unsteadily aft, beyond the screens toward the ladders.

  Rupert remained among the guns.

  I’m sorry, mine old friend, went through him. Forgive thou me. I stoned a harmless rook because he cawed and chanced to sound like words which flayed a nerve. He paced. Oh, I’m no pup; I’ve winded it myself: and Mary was a scentless butterfly whose tints I only dimly can remember. He stopped. Belinda—Jennifer—this quest of mine will likely end in that this pulsing flesh lies quiet, meat for dogs, or that these ribs provide a white cathedral for the fish.–.–.–. Of course, there’s heaven, Euclid-perfect heaven. His fist beat the cannon beside which he stood, up and down, up and down. Or Jennifer—devoted, chaste, bucolic, betrothed to me by hurried heathen rites I scarce recall—a maid from those romances Cervantes laughed into oblivion.… And then this ring. I own ’tis served me well. But to what final end? The Devil’s wares, or simple Faerie gold, go off like leaves in sudden killing frost and midnight wind, which leave mere skeletons against the sky.–.–.–. What is this ring, and what is she who gave it? Belinda is entirely of our earth. But likewise is Hernán—more woundable—who gave me refuge in a bitter hour—Argh! I must cease this childish whimpering. Is common decency so burdensome? He regarded his hand with astonishment. Why, look, I’ve hammered blood from out my fist. I’d best invent a likely accident.