A Midsummer Tempest (14 page)

Rupert’s bewilderment was yielding to fascination. He cast a look at Holger while he tugged his chin. Finally: “Well, say Prince Hamlet had not died in vengeance, thus making Fortinbras the Danish king, but had, instead, become the king himself. The dynasty had many English ties. He might have come and helped his kinfolk here to overthrow Macbeth, the Scots usurper. Once planted on the isle, the Danes might next remember King Canute, not long agone, and turn on Norman William when he came. Since Denmark only, of the Northern lands, had cannon then, however primitive—”

“Hvad for Pokker?”
burst from Holger.

“Take it easy,” Valeria told him. “He’s from a different time-line. … I wonder, I wonder—” Fairly aflame with enthusiasm, she leaned forward. “Let’s get the theory of this out of the way first, shall we, Rupert?”

Will saw his leader struggle for insight, remarked to Clodia, “I thank the Loard I war not boarn to think,” and clinked his tankard against her wineglass. She smiled straight at him. He choked, “I ne’er wot one could stagger in a chair.”

Valeria was proceeding: “Well, if you can imagine history might have switched onto a different track, take the next step. That is, suppose both outcomes are real. One world where, uh, Hamlet died young; one where he went on to take the Danish crown and stop the Norman conquest. Both happened. Can you accept that?”

“I dare not say what limits God has laid on His creating,” Rupert breathed. “But how can this be?”

“Two whole universes … two whole space-time universes, stars, galaxies, countless planets—differing in a single detail, and of course in the consequences afterward—Except it isn’t like that, really. These universes have always been distinct, from the beginning. It’s just that this is the first point where the differences between them get noticeable. Besides, we haven’t got merely two universes. Nobody’s proved, in my world, whether there’s an infinity of them, or whether the number’s finite but enormous—N factorial, to be exact, where N is the total number of matter and energy particles that exist. … You can picture the cosmoses as lying parallel to each other, like the leaves in a book. That isn’t strictly true, either; they occupy the same space-time, being separated by a set of dimensions—”

“Hold on, Valeria,” said Holger. “Have pity. You’re close to losing me overboard, and poor Rupert looks as if he’s going down for the third time.”

The girl relaxed and laughed at herself. “Sorry. You’re right. Uh, Rupert, think of it this way. A lot of different worlds. Some almost the same as yours, some totally alien to it. In some, for instance, there’s a kingdom of England, A.D. 1644; in others the date is different; in still others, the kingdom never existed. Even the laws of nature may vary. What’s possible in one world is not in another, and vice versa. You follow me?”

Rupert ventured a smile. “Through quicksands, marshes, brambles, rain, and night.”

“And if a person knows how, he can cross between them,” Valeria continued. “You savvy? After all, this is a pocket universe you’re in.”

Rupert drank deep. “At least its beer speaks comforting of home,” he said to Taverner, “though sweeter, like a long-forgotten dream.”

“I know what’s sweeter, aye, a sugartit,” Will whispered. He squeezed Clodia’s hand. After a glance at oblivious Rupert and Holger, she gave a shrug, which quivered in numerous places, and fluttered her eyelids.

“You are from … elsewhere, Mistress … Matuchek?” Rupert asked. “That name is from Bohemia, like me.”

“Elsewhere and elsewhen,” she said, “though the words aren’t especially meaningful in this context. That is, I don’t belong to your future. I doubt if your world will look remotely like mine, by the time it reaches its own 1974. Certainly neither world of Holger’s will.”

Rupert stared at the Dane, who puffed his pipe before explaining in a diffident tone: “Well, you see, I’m a peculiar case. I belong—I was born in—a universe where the Carolingian myths are true. You know, Roland and Oliver and the rest.”

“You’re too modest,” Valeria said.

“No, I just don’t want this discussion to get worse complicated,” he replied. To Rupert: “Never mind how, I got cast into an altogether different time-line—a time-line where magic doesn’t work, except maybe in areas like ESP—or, again, never mind. I’m trying to find my way home. I have had nothing to go on except a spell which carries me through space-time barriers, all right, but doesn’t have any direction to it. After a lot of mishaps—the last was with a clutch of Aztec gods, and I barely escaped in one piece—I’d picked up enough assorted hints and clues that I could fumble myself to this inn. By my good luck, Miss Matuchek was here.”

“I don’t believe that was pure coincidence,” Valeria said. “However, let’s skip that. The point is, Rupert—Holger’s twentieth century and mine are quite alike, rationalistic, industrialized, the Western countries mostly democratic. Only they’re quite unlike, also. For instance, in both of them, the USA and Germany were on opposite
sides in the First World War. But his Second World War, that he fought in himself, was against Germany too—and Japan and Italy—while mine, that my parents fought in, was against the Saracen Caliphate. I suppose the differences were mainly due to paraphysical forces. Either they’re as weak in that adopted cosmos of Holger’s as he thinks, or else nobody there has discovered how to degauss the effects of cold iron, as they did in my world about 1900.”

“Anyway,” Holger said, “on her Earth they’ve made a science and technology of magic—”

“Paraphysics,” she corrected. “Or the Art, if you prefer.”

“Whatever. She’s being very nice to me, giving me some valuable pointers. Maybe she can do the same for you, Mister—Herr—uh, Prince Rupert.”

“Perhaps,” Valeria said dubiously. “A lot would depend on your background. Is it science-oriented like mine? How much math do you know? That kind of thing.” She braced herself with a drink before adding: “Also, to tell the honest truth, I’d want more information about you. No offense intended, but you could be serving some cause I’d think it was wrong to help.”

“Or maybe I would not take help from you,” Rupert snapped. “What are you doing here, in boy’s disguise?”

Valeria smiled. “My, you really are from a different milieu! Well, I don’t mind explaining, if the explanation will make any sense to you. In my home, this is perfectly ordinary female dress for a rugged outing. And as for my purpose, I’m on a field trip, collecting material for a master’s thesis. It’s not so long ago that people in my universe first managed to cross into others. We’re still measuring the parameters—”

“How lawful are your thaumaturgic arts?” Rupert demanded.

She bridled. “Completely legal.”

“Wait, I think I see what he’s after,” said Holger. “You remember, Valeria: I told you how in my world, the Carolingian one, that is, elves are mostly enemies to man. Maybe something like that is true for Rupert.”

The girl spent a moment thinking, before she nodded at the prince. “Okay. Listen, please. Where I come
from, there’s nothing inherently good or bad about the Art. It involves a set of forces. We can use them morally or evilly, wisely or stupidly, same as anything else. Why, my father’s a werewolf, my mother’s a witch, and they’re two of the dearest people you’ll ever meet. Some of my best friends are halflings.”

Rupert had likewise invested time in thought. “I pray your pardon, Mistress Matuchek,” he responded. “I stand myself in dept to Oberon.” (She started, and gave most intent attention to his speech.) “This ring I have of him and of his queen—and from one other—led me here tonight. Ere then, I’m told, its brilliance blossomed high, as we approached that steam train which we seized and drove this day from Yorkshire into Wales.”

“Now, wait a little,” Holger protested. “Oberon I know something about;
ja,
the English Civil War too—in fact, I seem to remember reading about a Prince Rupert who was in it—but steam trains?”

Valeria leaped up. She shivered in body and voice. “Hold it! I may be onto this paradox. Gimme a minute, will you?”

Her pacing shoes clacked beneath the crackle and rumble of fire. Its light wove through candle-gleam, soft over Rupert’s tautness, Holger’s puzzlement, Taverner’s glittering-eyed observation.

Will nudged Clodia. “Mesim a taele’ll shortly start to wag what I know well, an’ would but brush thee off,” he murmured. “We got a common language, thou an’ I. ’Tis oanly partly spoaken with tha tongue. What zay we steal away an’ practice it?”

Valeria whirled. Her finger stabbed at Rupert. “You talked about Hamlet and Macbeth—as if they were both real,” she cried. “Contemporaries, even. You said you’d met Oberon and … Titania … yourself. Well, did Romeo and Juliet ever live? King Lear? Falstaff? Othello? You mentioned cannon in Hamlet’s time. How about, by God, how about a University of Wittenberg already then? Did they have clocks that struck the hour in Julius Caesar’s days? Was Richard the Third really a hunchbacked monster? Did Bohemia ever have a sea-coast? Does witchcraft work?”

To each flung question Rupert nodded, as if these were blows hurled upon him.

“Okay, then”—Valeria tensed—“do you know the name William Shakespeare?”

“Of course,” Rupert said dazedly. “He was the great Historian.”

“That’s it!” Valeria turned to Holger. “If, if you could start in a world … where the Carolingian romances are the literal truth … why not the plays of Shakespeare?” she stammered. “It figures, it figures. They’d’ve been technologically a little ahead of my world since an early period—though just in certain areas—still, their Industrial Revolution commencing in the seventeenth century, and maybe getting tied in with Puritanism—” Swinging back: “Oh, Rupert, we’ve got so much to talk about!”

Holger shook his head. “I think I better go work those problems from the textbook you gave me,” he said.

“Of course. Poor dear. I’ll come help you later on.” She stooped to brush her lips across his forehead. “But I’ve
got
to talk to Rupert as well. Don’t you see? Besides Shakespeare being an idol of mine, I always had sympathy for the Cavaliers. Maybe that was schoolgirl romantics; and anyhow, the issues may not be identical in Rupert’s home. I doubt very much he could absorb the kind of instruction you’re getting. But at least, I must have a certain hindsight over his period. It’s possible I can counsel him, influence events a tiny bit for the better. I feel obliged to try.”

Will climbed to his feet, Clodia undulated to hers. “Beg pardon, loard,” the dragoon said. “Thou wilt not need me moare?”

It took Rupert a second to pull his mind their way. Then he grinned a trifle, rose, and bowed. “I must not,” he responded. “Ladies e’er go over princes.”

“But … princes … they go over commoners,” said Will reluctantly; for Clodia was thrusting curves at his master.

Rupert clapped the soldier’s back. “And commoners o’er ladies, on this night. Myself, I’ll be discoursing till the dawn. May weariness not soften hardihood.”

“Nay, zir, I be quiate firm in my resolve.” Will took the woman around her waist. She sighed toward Rupert. His look had returned to Valeria and Holger. Clodia snuggled against the man she had. They slipped upstairs.

Holger voiced a harsh chuckle and sought his books. Valeria and Rupert settled themselves for conversation. The landlord listened.

THE FOREST. MORNING.

R
AIN
had washed the air glittering clean. Each leaf stood vivid against sun-spattered shadow. Birds rejoiced. It was mild and getting warmer.

Rupert and Will halted at a spring. Water gurgled through a sward which the latter traveler bent to feel. “Plenty dry to lie on an’ catch no wheezles,” he reported. “We should sleep snug like in yonder flyin’ inn.”

“Oh?” Rupert half smiled, half yawned. “Didst thou sleep? I’m nigh as disappointed as Mistress Pulcher.”

“Marry, nay. Never a wink, believe me.” Will spoke dreamily. “Again an’ yet again, a gallop on the sweetest o’ mares. What pity thou got to exercise no moare than thy tongue. Let me tell thee—”

In swift irritation, Rupert snapped: “Spare me an old swiver’s tale. Be glad I spent my time learning what I did. It may prove all that’ll keep thy weasand unhaltered for bragging.”

“I be zorry, your Highness,” Will apologized. “I should’a remembered how tha liakes o’ thee must stay awake an’ afoot for to ward zilly sheep like me. Uneasy hies tha head what caeres for clowns.”

Rupert calmed. “No matter. I ought not to have bared teeth at thee in that wise. But we’re both worn to the bone. Two days and nights without rest! Surely ’twas a magic in the hostel which let us keep strength. Since we left it—” Both men sat down. “A-a-ah-h-h. Corporal Gabriel himself couldn’t blow reveille for me till afternoon at earliest.”

“What do we do than?”

“We’ll to the coast. A matter of fifty or sixty miles, albeit slow ones since we must fare warily. I think well get food, shelter, and help from common folk, for love
of the King. With luck and diplomacy, passage across the Channel. In Holland I’ll coax money from my kindred for continuing on southward.”

Will’s drowsiness retreated. “Than thou’lt follow—Oberon’s rede—an’ not zeek tha Royal camp right off?”

Rupert nodded. “Aye. Those twain from the morrow did persuade me. The woman particularly spoke of horrors that it clogs my throat to utter. True, her history of this hundred-year is not precisely the same as what we know—yet far too close. I’d be traitor indeed, did I act as if unaided man may snatch a happier outcome from the jaws flensing our poor land.”

“What did they prophesy?”

Rupert shuddered. “Worse than a cavalier defeat. The King himself beheaded.”

Will’s jaw struck his Adam’s apple. “Can’t be, my loard!” he gasped. “Why, ’a …’a be tha King!”

“The Stuarts grow no armor on their necks. In truth, the man and maiden told me, this regicide will … did prove, in their worlds, to be but the first through centuries to come. And always the same thing follows, terror, tyranny, those who claim to speak for the people standing on their backs to do it. In England, at last, a restoration—” Rupert hesitated. “Mark, I say no ill of the Prince of Wales; he’s a bright, likely, and likeable youth. But year upon year of exile would corrupt him. His reign would be merry but ruinous. Why, there’d even be war against the Dutch, who befriended me and mine. And they’d smite us on the sea, aye, sail up the Medway with a broom at their admiral’s masthead for scorn. And thus, after the second Charles, erelong his whole dynasty is cast off a throne whose pillars are rotted irredeemably weak. …” Rupert’s fist smote the turf, to thump in its softness. “By God’s own lightnings, it shall never be, if quest of mine may help!”