A Midsummer Tempest Page 3

  The girl stayed looking after the smoke-plume.

  Prudence stiffened. “Jennifer!” she said aloud.

  The girl blinked. “Oh.” She turned her face from that horizon. “Aye. Indeed. I come.”

  At the other end of the drawbridge, she paused to pet the watchdogs. Their tails dithered, they thrust muzzles into her skirt and laved her hands with interminable tongues.

  “You’re too familiar with those nasty hounds,” Prudence scolded. “They’re loud and dangerous.”

  “Well, not to me.” Liveliness rose afresh in Jennifer. “Who else e’er gives them love?” She pulled ears and scratched necks. “There, Skull; good Bones.”

  “You are too foolish fond of animals.” Prudence’s glance went away, along the railroad to the last sight of the train. “And he,” she mumbled, “the very Beast of Revelation—”

  Jennifer went on into the house. Her servant followed. The butler closed the door.

  iii

  THE OBSERVATORY TOWER. NIGHT,

  RUPERT took eye from telescope. “So I have seen the moons of Jupiter, and mountains on our own,” he murmured. “It feels right strange.”

  “Did you not know erenow?” Shelgrave asked.

  “I’d heard, of course,” Rupert said, “but seldom had the time to think on it, except three years at Linz when I was captive; and other things then occupied my mind. Nor have I known an optic tube this good. I can forgive you much, Sir Malachi, for that you’ve opened heavens up to me.”

  He waved around sky and earth. A moon approaching the full enfeebled most stars but not the tawny planet. Light lay hoar on lawns, distant fields and hillcrests, black bulks of treetops; it ran down the river like spilled mercury. Against it, the lantern was dull which stood outside a rooftop storage shack. The various instruments had been removed from this and erected at the parapet, where they resembled tongues thrust out above snag teeth of merlons. Nearby, shadowy save for the glimmer on casques, breastplates, and halberd heads, those four soldiers who had the nighttime warding of the prisoner stood rigid. Doubtless they disapproved of what was going on.

  The air was quiet, mild, full of green odors. Crickets creaked.

  Rupert rested hands on bedewed stone, looked upward, and went on in the same low voice: “Now can I truly feel how we are crew aboard a ship that plies around the sun.”

  Beneath his high-crowned hat, Shelgrave’s frown was barely visible. “Beware,” he clipped. “Though God is merciful to us and lets us sweeten careworn sleeplessness—how well I know—with His astronomy, yet Satan can make this another lure. A moving earth is clean ’gainst Holy Writ.”

  Rupert raised brows. “I am no theologian, but I’ve known right godly men who’ve told me otherwise.” His vision strayed across the guards. It made him hunch his back. Curtly: “No doubt you will deny the world is round.”

  “Oh, nay, I don’t. That is acceptable. It has indeed been known since ancient times. Why, even in a dim and pagan Britain, before the Romans came, the fact stood forth.”

  Rupert’s resentment drowned in interest. “How so?”

  “Did not the anguished Lear cry out, ‘Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!’? I dare not claim the great Historian divinely was inspired; but with most scholars, I do believe he rendered truth exactly.”

  “I’ve often wondered,” said Rupert in some excitement “On the Continent so many records flamed away with Rome that he’s well-nigh the only source we have … for an existence back in Grecian times of a first Kingdom of Bohemia, which had a seacoast, or a prior Russia. But did he draw on fact or on mere legend? How can tradition keep inviolate the virgin truth down tempting centuries?”

  “When it is borne by God’s own chosen people,” Shelgrave answered solemnly. “They are the English, he their chronicler.”

  The ghost of a grin flickered on Rupert’s mouth. “Well, I am half an Englishman. Say on.”

  Shelgrave paced back and forth, hands gripped beneath his coattails, talking rapidly. “How else will you account for English folk—and such they are, in character and speech, both elevated nobles and low commons—before the walls of Troy, in Theseus’s Athens, in Rome and later Italy, in Denmark—save that the English race has spread out north from some old southern land which they must leave? And when we study well our English Bible, ’tis plain to see who our ancestors were: none but the ten lost tribes of Israel! Descendants who did settle by the way have melted into those localities and thus have mostly lost their pristine nature. But in far Britain they have stayed themselves, no matter Roman, Saxon, Dane, or Norman—who’re after all related in the blood. And though they were beguiled by many lies, like Israelites since days of Abraham, they always kept a seed of truth alive, which flowered in the great Historian.”

  Rupert tugged his chin. “It may be so. … I slept once in his house.”

  Shelgrave halted. “You did?”

  “A year ago upon this month. The Queen had lately made return to England with troops and money. I escorted her to Oxford where her royal husband was. It happened that we spent a night in Stratford. His own granddaughter and her man inhabit the selfsame dwelling, and they made us welcome. Next day I said a prayer at his grave.”

  Rupert leaned again on the battlements. Before his eyes lay the gracious remnants of the abbey. He half pointed. “If you are deep into antiquity,” he asked, “why do you seek to blot its glories out?”

  Shelgrave joined him. The Puritan’s voice harshened. “We will restore the true antiquity—Jehovah of the Thunders—and His Son who scourged the money changers from the temple—alone in heaven and in the soul of man. My lord, I thought you were a Protestant.”

  “I am a Christian first,” Rupert replied, still soft-spoken. “In spite of errors, yon walls have been a fortress of the truth.”

  “When once this man-consuming war is past, I’ll have them razed, plow up their very dead, and house mine iron engine on the site.”

  “Barbaric! Why?”

  “To keep away the spooks that still are seen ofttimes by trusty men to haunt those ruins and the wildwood there.” Shelgrave gestured across his land. “’Tis true the Roman Church at first was pure, when good Augustine preached unto the Saxons. But in the Serpent crept with heresies and paganisms—worst in Western realms, where Celtic so-called Christians held their rites in Ireland, Wales, and Glastonbury itself—”

  “They say that Glastonbury was Avalon.”

  “If so, it grew corrupted after Arthur. And likewise hereabouts, the Catholics soon made their peace with diehard heathen ways. A saint and not a god went forth in spring to bless the fields—what was the difference? The May and Morris dances were obscene, and Christmas nothing but a solstice feast. The folk continued to make offering of corn and milk and rites unto the elves, the while their priests did wink at it—aye, claimed that Puck himself became a Christian sprite!”

  Shelgrave plucked Rupert’s sleeve. “Make no mistake,” he hissed, “they do exist, those things, as witches do, and fiends, and Lucifer, to mock the Lord and spring the traps of hell. I have a German book that you should read, Malleus Maleficarum, which explains it, and tells what tortures will call forth the truth, that fire and water then may cleanse out evil or rope and bolster smother it.”

  Rupert considered him for a while, under moon and stars, before he said: “And yet you are a student of astronomy! I think I’d best go downstairs to my cell.”

  iv

  A ROOM IN THE TOWER.

  BEYOND its walls hung gray weather, sun hidden behind overcast and occasional drizzle. Cattle, grazing in a nearby paddock, were a fantastic red upon deep green. Through an open window rawness invaded, against which popped the musketry of a hearthfire.

  Rupert had been figurative in describing his quarters. The chamber was broad, comfortably furnished, its brick padded by rugs and tapestries. But he had shoved most things aside to make space for a worktable. There he stood driving a burin across the wax on a copper plate. From time to tim
e he took a bite of bread and meat or a swig from an ale cup.

  A rap resounded on the door, barely to be heard through oak and iron massiveness. Rupert grunted annoyance. It evaporated when Jennifer appeared. One of the sentries on the staircase posted himself in the entrance.

  “Why, welcome, lady. What a fine surprise.” The prince bowed. Though he wore stained smock, breeches, and slippers, while her garb was costly if plain and dark, his was the courtliness. She flushed, twisted fingers together and dropped her gaze.

  Rupert stretched cramped muscles. “What should I thank for this?” he asked. With a grin: “And where’s your keeper?”

  “I … slipped from her,” the girl whispered. “She never would have come.”

  “Aye, rustle in her starch and sanctity into my den of brimstone? Hardly Prudence!” Rupert laughed aloud. “But why’ve you come to visit this first time in these four sennights I’ve teen counting here?” His merriment faded. Advancing to loom over her, he said carefully, “Your uncle doesn’t like it very well, in spite of saying naught—I know the signs—he doesn’t like that we are much together in walking, talking, playing chess or draughts, you singing to the pipe of my recorder … and that’s in public view—” He remembered the Roundhead in the doorway and gave him a wry look, repaid in acid. “Ah, well, you have a chaperone of sorts.”

  “There is no need” She spoke toward her clasped hands. “Your Highness is an honorable man. I came … because you’ve long been shut away. … I feared you might be sick.” The green eyes lifted in search, “But you look hale.”

  “I am.”

  “Thank God.” It was no command—a prayer.

  “’Twas sweet of you to fret. Since we’ve been having such a rainy spell that naught’s to do outdoors, my restlessness has turned itself to art, as erst in Linz, and soon I was too captured by the work to wish to leave it, and sent out for food.” Rupert studied the girl. “Now instantly I know how I have missed you.”

  “Oh—” She swallowed. “May I see what you are doing, Highness?”

  “An etching of St. George against the dragon, not yet triumphant but still locked in strife.” She accompanied him to the table. Untrained, her look was mainly to the drawing from which he worked.

  “How marvelously real,” she breathed.

  “And suitable to this our age,” he said, turning grim. “Well, thank you, Jennifer.” He tried to shake the mood off. “Will you not seat yourself awhile and chat?”

  He placed chairs opposite each other before the hearth. She waited to take hers until he had settled down, shank across knee, fingertips bridged, glance quizzical. A smile eased the severity which most often possessed his countenance.

  “In many ways, this place is just like Linz,” he remarked, “including, yea, another damosel.”

  Jennifer stiffened. Firelight flickered across her face, its crackle went beneath her voice. “Who was she?” After a moment, in confusion: “Pardon my forwardness, lord.”

  “Naught calls for pardon, lady. Though, ’tis odd—have I not told you of Count Kuffstein’s daughter? You’ve asked so eagerly about my past—which no man’s loth to tell a pretty maid—I thought you had my whole biography.”

  “No, you’ve passed lightly over those three years when you were prisoner in Austria.” She leaned toward him. “I understand. The likenesses give pain.” Her tone was troubled. “Then do not speak of them to me, Prince Rupert.”

  “I think I’d like to, if you will not mind,” he said slowly.

  “Then do.”

  Her gaze never left him. His went to the hues which wove in the fire. “This seems to cast a thawing warmth,” he mused, “across a child born to the Winter King.”

  “The Winter King?”

  “His nickname’s new to you?” Rupert said, bending a startled attention back onto her. “Why, thus they called my father, for he reigned that single season in Bohemia. I know you know how England has been roiled by politics of the Palatinate.”

  “I am not learned, your Highness,” Jennifer replied humbly. “As you’ve heard, I’m from a wild and lonely Cornwall coast. I got no schooling till I was fourteen, and in the years since then have been kept cloistered.” Impishness broke through; she wrinkled her nose and giggled. “Please quote that not to Uncle Malachi.”

  Rupert laughed too, with a malicious glance for the sentry and his fellows. They were out of earshot if voices stayed low.

  “You’ve told me almost nothing of yourself,” he realized.

  Her bosom rose and fell. “There’s nought worth telling, Highness.”

  Gravity came back upon him. “Jennifer,” he said, “with charm and merriment and … simply caring, you’ve kindled stars in this eclipse of mine. Today I see I’ve taken them for granted. I don’t think I’ll be here much longer—” At her strickenness, he nodded. “Aye. Reports come daily in how Cavaliers are everywhere in rout before the Roundheads. The London roads will soon be clear of them, and I’ll be taken thither. … Well, my lady, if ever you have thought of me as knight, although upon the side opposed to yours, give me your token as in olden time—but let it be a memory of you. Tell me your life, beginning at its dawn. No matter if I’ve heard some parts before.” He grimaced. “Remind me that you are by blood no Shelgrave,”

  Did she flush, or was it only red fire-glow? She stared into the flames awhile before abruptly turning to him and saying: “If you’ll do likewise, Prince.”

  “A handselled bargain.” Trying to laugh afresh, he reached over and laid his fingers about hers. She gasped, then clung; tears trembled on her lashes. The peering Puritan in the doorway bent neck around and muttered to a comrade.

  Rupert released Jennifer and leaned against his chairback. “Not quite a fair exchange,” he observed: “because, you see, I’ll hear what’s mostly new—d’you understand I have not heard who your own father was?—while you’ll be getting yarns I fear are shopworn.”

  “How can a tale of bravery wear out?”

  Rupert squirmed a little. “Speak. Ladies first.”

  She responded hesitantly: “As you may know, my mother and aunt were daughters of Horatio Binstock, a Yorkshire merchant—Congregational, though easygoing, not a strict reformer. Mine aunt wed Malachi but had no issue. My mother, younger, wilder, then eloped with Frank Alayne, half French, half Cornishman, the captain of a ship … and Catholic. Her father having died, Sir Malachi avenged the slight by causing Dad’s discharge. Thereon my parents had to seek his homeland, a hamlet on a rugged, wooded shore where he could be part owner of a boat that fished, bore freight, or smuggled as might be.” She raised eyes from lap; finding his fixed upon her, she lowered them again. “There I grew up, the oldest child of four. Mine only education was some French from Dad and friends of his from ’cross the Channel. When Mother died, I must at ten be mistress, take care of those my siblings, and of Dad, who soon was drinking headlong as he’d lived. He drowned one autumn four years afterward. I fear we’d seldom been inside a church; but still the minister was good enough to write to London, to mine aunt and uncle. They, being childless, took us for their wards.”

  “How fared you with them?”

  “Oh, they’re not unkind—at least to us; the servants go in terror. We’d never been thus fed or clothed or housed. And we learned letters and … the true religion.” Jennifer brightened. “And London is a fable come to life—those glimpses of it which I chanced to get—”

  “Where are the other children?”

  “Left behind, with Mistress Shelgrave, when Sir Malachi came north last year to see to his interests. He feared, like many, you, the dread Prince Rupert … would enter London soon … and might well sack it. … In both was he mistaken, I’ve discovered. … My sister’s small, the other two are boys; but I, he said, had best come here for … caution.”

  “It seems he thought his wife could safely bide,” Rupert said dryly.

  The Roundheads, who had been huddled in a ring, dispatched one of their number downstairs. The tw
o by the fire did not notice.

  “And that is all my little life, your Highness,” Jennifer said.

  “No, no, the barest bones.”

  She raised her head. The light played ruddy in her braids. “Your turn, my lord,” she challenged. “Thereafter comes the flesh for both of us—” She stopped, gasped, and buried blood-hot face in hands.

  Rupert hastened to cover her dismay with speech: “Let’s cast my bones and study how they fall. You’ve often heard them rattle, but you’ve asked it. My mother was a daughter of King James and Anne of Denmark. She wed Frederick, Elector of the Rhine Palatinate. They were a loving couple—thirteen children despite misfortune, I the fourth of them. Well, when the Protestants in Prague had cast the Emperor’s envoys out a palace window, they asked my father if he would be king of free Bohemia, and he accepted. There I was born, but had not seen a year before the Imperial armies overthrew him. Their crown discarded for a crown now lost, my parents wandered fugitive about till they found refuge in the Netherlands. ’Twas granted for the blood of Silent William that flowed within my father’s veins. His widow and offspring still know straitened circumstances. Together with my brother, Prince Maurice, I early went to war, first in the aid of Frederick Henry, Prince of Orange, then, with Swedish help, in trying to regain the Electorate our oldest brother claims. But what was gotten turned out to be me, for three years in the care of Graf von Kuffstein at Linz while people dickered my release.” Seeing her more calm: “You’ve heard all this.”

  She summoned courage to answer, “No, not about that maid.”

  “Oh, she was Kuffstein’s daughter, hight Susanne. He was a good old man who liked me well and hoped that I would join the Church of Rome. So far as he could rule, my bonds were light—except for being bonds—not unlike here, including the most welcome company of a delightful damsel whom I’ll ever remember with affection and respect.”

  “I dare not hope to be … a new Susanne.”

  “You will be while this head is on its neck.”