A Midsummer Tempest Page 21

  “I’ll hear you out.”

  “This news has but lately reached me, when the woman’s warders returned and mine agents brought posthaste word from Africa. Meanwhile, freed of Rupert’s cursed presence, our armies have gone from victory to victory over the forces of Satan—”

  “Speak not thus,” Cromwell rapped. “Charles remains my King.”

  Shelgrave was taken aback. “But … forgive me, General … was Charles Stuart not himself in command of the host which this day you met and broke? Hasn’t he withdrawn behind those walls, and don’t you propose to storm them on the morrow?”

  Cromwell’s fist lay heavy on a map. “His evil geniuses are one thing,” he said. “The king’s own person—” After a second; “Parliament must decide that As for my immediate task, here’s the last Royalist muster of any consequence. And it was mostly patched together from such rags as blew in on every wind, from every other battle lost. A final onslaught, and England will have peace.” Prophecy flickered out of him. “Say on, Sir Malachi.”

  “Does it not strike you strange, General, that they should come to this precise country for their last stand? ’Tis flat, save for the Tor and a few lower hills; open; hard to defend. Why not the Mendip range—or, better, Wales?”

  “We’ve questioned captured officers. They wonder too. ’Twas the King’s express wish, they relate.” Cromwell rubbed his massive jaw. “I’ve thought he thought, being no military expert, here’s a famous old town in the midst of strongly Royalist countryside, with communications southward. Faulty reasoning, of course.”

  “I wonder too what put that thought in him.” Shelgrave spoke low. “Glastonbury … the heart of ancient Britain … where Christendom first came unto this isle, say High Church legends, though in eldritch guise, when Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail and thornwood staff which flowers yet each Christmas … its abbey ruins where folk swear they see, of moonlit nights, the phantom monks hold Mass. … Glastonbury, which was Druid ere ’twas Christian, and Celtic Christian ere ’twas even Roman, and which some say was Arthur’s Avalon … its hinterland aflit with Faerie folk, who still are given secret offerings. … Is it not strange the King’s last stand is here, two days before the night of equinox?”

  Cromwell scowled. “Make plain your meaning.”

  “I am trying, sir.” Shelgrave’s reply was as harsh. “I tell you from experience, Prince Rupert is Lucifer’s own agent, sent by him to halt us in our scouring from this land idolatry and mystery and hell. Now I have learned that he’s alive, at large. What darkling legions is he leading hither?” He seized Cromwell’s shirtcuff. “This is the word I came to give you: Strike! Send forth Jehovah’s lightnings from your guns; smash, scatter, and ride down Philistia; leave in this place of trolls no King, no priest, no soldier, wizard, witch, or stone on stone to greet Hell-Rupert and afford him aid! Then must he skulk back to his smoky den”—Shelgrave’s voice broke, his face writhed—“he and his bitch who was mine own pure maid—” Controlled again: “And England will be safe. But don’t delay.”

  Cromwell stayed unshaken. “That’s not my wont. Nor is it to stampede. ’Twas a stiff battle, and my men need rest. Tomorrow, aye, we move upon the town. And as for fiends and sorcerers, what reck their bolts men armored well in righteousness?”

  The vision ended.

  Will Fairweather cackled laughter. “Our darklin’ legions, hey?” he cried. “Liake Caliban? Nay, ’a an’ Ariel ’ull stay behiand. I doubt my measter’s magic has tha strength to lift them from this plaece where tha’ belong. Zo lead thy hoast to victory, my loard: one row-foot hoa’seman, lackin’ but a hoa’se; one wench clad liake an out-at-elbows boy!”

  “No talk,” said Rupert, who had stood as if cast in metal. “We have one seeing more to come.” The staff rose like a wan beacon above the sinking red fire, toward stars, white-rimmed cloud wrack, moon in frantic flight. “Show me my King. My final fiat. Gimel.”

  As if with their last might, the flames formed the ring. It enclosed an upstairs room, well-furnished, not too brightly lamplit for an open window to reveal, across roofs, a view of Glastonbury Tor. Several men sat around a table, some in faded finery, some in soiled soldier’s garb, all drained by weariness.

  Rupert started at sight of the largest. “My brother … ach, Maurice!” he whispered. Then toward the smallest: “His Majesty.” For Charles was a tiny man, though he bore himself so erect, even now his dark handsomeness was so neatly groomed, that the fact did not stand forth. Rupert recognized others. Goring the villain, Digby the conniver, he thought flashingly, Eythin the greedy: what fine Cavaliers. I’d liefer have a bluff and honest Cromwell. No matter what one’s side in any strife, some allies would make better enemies. … Well, there are dear Maurice and good Will Legge and my beloved ever-kindly kinsman—

  “Is that thy brother?” Jennifer asked. “He looks fine indeed.”

  He silenced her with a gesture which was the sole gentle thing about him. Voices rolled.

  “Make never doubt, tomorrow they’ll attack,” Maurice was saying dully. “They’ll batter down our pitiful defense, as they have done to city after city. Thus Glastonbury will soon be sunk in fire, like any ship that flies the Stuart flag when pounced on by the Navy that was yours. They’ve cannon for’t—including most of ours.”

  “Why did your Majesty insist we meet and rally hereabouts, upon a plain as flat as we’ve been beaten?” lamented Eythin.

  Charles overlooked the insolence; it was born of desperation. “I know not,” he answered.

  They stared at him. He gave them the least of smiles. “I had a thought … a dream … a sense … a murmur … a feeling here was right, and our last hope,” he said.

  “A witch did brew that dream, your Majesty,” Digby mumbled.

  Charles shook his head. “Nay, Puritans abhor the mildest magic, and any magic flees away from them, who will not own God also made the elves. Was it a sprite who sang within my sleep? I venture not to think it was a saint.”

  “Whate’er it was, it lured us to our doom,” said Goring.

  “Now, wait, that is not fair,” objected Legge. “Remember, sirs, we did hold council more than once between us, agreeing Somerset might not be best, but any other place was nigh as bad, so sorely are we hurt since Marston Moor. What have we truly lost by coming here?”

  “The war,” snapped Eythin.

  Goring formed a gallows laugh. “’Twas lost already. We are spooks hallooing ’round awhile before the dawn—the winter dawn, our graves more snug than it.”

  “What shall we do?” King Charles asked. “I hate to yield my sword, but more would hate to see this fine old town bombarded, fired, and plundered, uselessly.”

  “Worse would be yielding up your royal person,” Maurice said.

  The King winced. “How much more anguish is this carcass worth?”

  “Whilst you’re alive and free, the cause is too,” Maurice declared. “How well I know, whose mother is your sister!”

  “You are no walking rack to hang a crown on,” Legge added, “but the embodiment of countless hopes.”

  Maurice glanced around the table. “If we’ve lost England, we’ve not lost the world,” he said. “We may yet get our King across the Channel. For that, we can’t stay in this rat-trap burgh. Let’s move, before the enemy can act”—he pointed at night and height—“to yonder hill. Dug in upon its crest, we can cast back a hundredfold assault.”

  “Then lie besieged,” snorted Eythin. “They’ll thirst and starve us out.”

  Maurice nodded. “Aye. But we will have bought those days, you know—mayhap to smuggle him away disguised; mayhap to raise the peasants in our aid and cut a seaward road like Xenophon; mayhap—I cannot tell. We’ll likely fail. But surely we will fail, attempting naught.”

  Their eyes went to the King. For a space he stared at his fingers locked on the table before him. At last he sighed: “The prince has right. Ridiculous it is. Yet for the sake of folk who’ve trusted us, if God allow,
we’ll raise our exile banner, that they may dream defeat will have an end.”

  He rose, went to the window, stood gazing out with hands clasped behind his back. Most softly he spoke. “There will be other times, my comrades. There will be a day of trumpets. This we must believe. Now when all flags guide corpses to the sea, and ships lie hollow on a smoking shore, broken of bone, and windy shadows weave a dark about tall widows turning whore to feed gashed children, I must say that more days shall remain than hobnailed victors thieve. And if our iron’s broken, there’s still ore—stones of our sharded cities lying free to sharpen it—and if you should perceive rust and the dimness in us, do it silently.”

  The vision guttered out, and the fire beneath.

  Rupert shouted into night: “We must away to England ere too late!”

  “Too late for what?” fluted Ariel.

  “To help, or die for him.”

  xxii

  THE ISLAND.

  AGAIN it was night, but calm and warmer than before. The moon had just cleared the heights, yellow, an edge bitten out by that murk which lay everywhere on land. The bay and the waters beyond glimmered. Five stood by that boat which had brought Jennifer. While it was still beached, its mast had been raised and sail unfurled.

  “Here is the hour when we may start our flight,” Rupert said. “Let us embark. This day was long to wait.”

  “’Twas far too short for me, that breath of peace, belike our last, we shared in beauty’s home,” the girl replied.

  Hope jumped in him. “Thou’lt stay behind in safety, as I wish?”

  “And let thee go?” She summoned a laugh. “Thou art a darling blockhead.”

  “I fear she really must accompany,” Ariel said. “What feeble spells thou’st learnt can barely serve when there are moonbeams to uphold this craft she came here in, diminutive though ’tis. Thou’d’st not get far ere morning brought thee down, save that the presence of a virgin maid has always strengthened magic.”

  “Well I know!” Rupert snapped. “Stop babbling—” His tone changed, “Nay, I’m sorry, Ariel.”

  “I would that I could help thee further, Prince.” The elf’s wings quivered, glow and glitter against forest blackness. “But far from home—surrounded by cold iron—”

  “Thou’st aided us beyond our giving thanks.” With infinite care, Rupert bent over and clasped the minute hand in his enormous one.

  “Because ’tis for the Old Way thou hast drawn thy sword: the wholeness of the living world. Farewell.”

  “Farewell.”—“Farewell.”—“God keep thee well.” Words went caressing among them. Ariel fluttered aloft to touch Will’s brow and brush lips across Jennifer’s.

  “Good-by,” the dragoon said gruffly to Caliban. “Enjoy tha brandy I’ve bequeathed.”

  The monster didn’t hear. His shaggy head never stirred from staring at the maiden, though the rest of him shook with pain. “Thou never wilt come back again, Miranda?” he rasped.

  “Only in dreams, I fear,” she answered. Moonlight caught sudden tears. “But always, always I will remember thee, dear Caliban.”

  She ran forward, kissed him, and fled to the boat. Rupert and Will had already boarded. The prince stood holding Prospero’s staff on high, the book laid open across his other arm. As Jennifer sprang into the hull, he called: “Our spell is cast; the unseen tides now flow to bear us off. Zain. I conjure thee, rise!”

  Silently, smoothly, the vessel lifted. Will looked downward, gulped, squeezed his eyes tight shut, and folded himself as small as possible in the bottom. Jennifer gasped once, then leaned out and waved as long as she had sight of the island. Rupert stood before the mast, staff aimed at the North Star.

  Awhile Ariel followed. When he returned, Caliban had not moved on the beach. “What, art thou petrified?” the flyer asked. His japery trembled.

  “She kissed me,” the monster whispered.

  “Aye. Her sweetness breathes across the whole horizon.”

  “Thou dost not understand. She kissed me. Me.” Caliban shook mane and shoulder. “She did. She does. She will. It cannot die until I do. What need I more than this? How wonderful the world is, Ariel.”

  “Ah, well, I’m glad for thee.” The spirit clapped him on the back. “Come to thy rest. I’ll sing thee lullabies of Jennifer.”

  Ariel flitting, Caliban trudging, they went on into the woods.

  THE BOAT.

  It scudded before a breeze which was part of the enchantment. Nonetheless a hush dwelt in heaven, only deepened by a low thrum in the lines. This far aloft, air was so keen that breath smoked white as the few drifting clouds. Earth rolled vast and vague beneath. Forward, aft, overhead, and right, a purple-black ocean was crowded with stars; to left went the westering moon. Radiance ran down the sail until it lapped the gunwales.

  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,” Rup
ert 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.”