A Midsummer Tempest (21 page)

“No heaven for self-murderers, but hell,” wrenched from him.

“I think not in this case—”

“Thou’rt wrong, forever!”

“Where’er the door may lead, I’ll open it.” Jennifer sighed. “’Tis true, the key is cold and hard to lift. Therefore goodnight. Go. Leave me here to pray.”

“To pray for strength in sin? I could not stir.”

She said like a slap: “If thou must cumber me, at least keep still.” In a few steps she crossed to the narrow cot and knelt beside it. Straw ticking rustled at her touch.

He stood for a moment, stumbled about for a moment, until he cried: “Nay, cease it, stop this horror, Jennifer! I’ll aid thee—oh, I will, I will, I will!” He fell likewise to his knees, buried face in hands, and wept with unpracticed roughness.

She came to him, drew his head onto her breast, smoothed his hair, and murmured. He clung to her. “I knew thou wouldst,” she said after a while, “less from the ring than thee.”

“It is … the lesser sin … to save thy soul,” he hiccoughed.

“Speak soft,” she warned.

He withdrew to hunker before her and ask forlornly, “How can I bring thee past the watch?”

Her speech flew sharp. “I’ve thought on this, as prisoners are wont. Go out and tell the sentry that it seems I’m near repentance—’twill explain thy tears—and thou wouldst fetch thy Bible for its power. Bring back as well, though hidden, from thy chest a suit of thine own clothes; I’m near thy size. I’ll don it. Then—oh, quickly, ere the moonrise!—let me down from this window to the court. Its guard, I’ve seen, stands not below the
house but at the portal. Given ample gloom, I can be lowered nigh invisibly. But hasten!”

His mind set, he sprang up. “In thy service, lady mine.” The words were bombast; the readiness wherewith he took back his sword and left the room were not.

From the floor, Jennifer gazed after him. The ring-light glinted off tears of her own. “Oh, hard it is to use him heartlessly,” she mourned, “and from its grave call forth knight-errantry.”

Bells began pealing. She started.
The Angelus,
she thought.
Here in thy land of France wilt thou hear my confession, Mother Mary?

She bowed head over close-locked hands. “I marked him for mine own. I know not how. Some fisher lads who paid some timid calls, a London ’prentice winking in the street: what more knew I of men, or they of me? I thought I saw a glint in Rupert’s glance, then dared not think it of the prince, the prince. But this poor chick—My skill affrighted me. I widened eyes at his vast earnestness, then shyly fluttered them, and sighed a bit; let fingers linger when he helped dismount; drew breath and held it for to flush my cheek and swell my bosom … whilst I crouched alert. Tonight the ring has said there is a chance, and so I hauled him in, struck home the gaff, and mean to leave him gasping on the strand.… Is it a deadly sin if done for Rupert? I fear it is. My sin, my sin, not his.”

She crossed herself, and remained for a time huddled silent.

The door opened. She glimpsed her guard outside, then Sword-of-the-Lord closed it again. His lungs labored but he moved fast. A moment he took to kiss the Book he bore and lay it on the bed. Jennifer had jumped erect. “I wear two suits of clothes, one ’neath the next,” he told her. “Be not alarmed when I take off the first.”

She had to giggle.

After he had removed shoes—drawing from his wallet a pair for her—and the outer tunic, shirt, breeches, stockings: he swung about and threw an arm across his eyes as if this were a game of hide-and-seek. “Upon
mine honor, lady, I’ll not look,” he said, hoarse with embarrassment.

She laughed low and touched lips to his, which almost felled him. “Why, in this darkness I’m a simple blob,” she said. He held his stance.

As she undressed and reclad herself behind his back, she continued: “I’ve bethought me of thy safety—”

“Will I not join thee?” he asked, dismayed.

“’Tis better not. Truly. We’d have to set a rendezvous, and who knows how I must dodge about? Besides, thy disappearance—ye men share a room, don’t ye?—’twould rouse quick suspicion and chase. Nay, come forth churned—thou’rt no actor—to say I refused thy ministrations after all, as if my possessor had twinned. Take to thy bed as if in sorrow o’er it. They’ll question thee in the morning, of course. Say what thou wilt—the truth may be best—but declare I bewitched thee till none could ha’ known what went on. They like thee well, I’ve marked, no matter how they bait thee. Fain’ll they believe, and take the blame themselves for leaving an innocent boy thus alone with a sorceress.”

“I more than half believe the thing myself,” he mumbled.

Me too,
she thought.
I ne’er have felt this giddiness, this swerve and swoop upon a tingling wind, save when with Rupert, and mayhap not then. Is’t but I have no time to be afraid?

“I can’t let thee flee alone!” he said. “Where’lt thou go? Who’ll protect thee?”

“I’ve thought of the English consulate. Belike ’tis Royalist, especially here in Marseilles. If not, there’ll be Royalists elsewhere about. Remember, I know a bit o’ French, to ask my way and—Curse whoever made men’s clothes! Every single button in the wrong place. Wilt thou help? … Nay, don’t tremble. I’m learning how.… Ah. Behold thy boy companion, Sword-of-the-Lord.”

Jennifer moved to the window, where some light remained. The first stars were twinkling forth. He could see that his clothes hung baggy on her, which served to hide the curves beneath. A shining caught his eye.
“Thy hair,” he said frantically. “I couldn’t well bring a hat along, indoors, and forgot—”

“I didn’t. Thou has thy steel. I’ve never doubted thou keepest the edge keen.”

“What? Oh, nay, I beg thee!”

“Haggle these locks off short. They’ll grow back on a live scalp. ’Tis false what’s said about corpses: anyhow, if they fried at the stake.”

He winced, took up the blade he had removed with his outer garb, and obeyed her. Then he stood dumb by starlight, holding the tresses to him.

She grinned from beneath the ragged cut. “So at last thou’st made a Roundhead of me,” she said. “I ought to stroll right by their man in the gateway, if he doesn’t converse.” With a glance at the rooftop opposite, and its chimney starting to show silver: “That’s if I’m begone in the next few minutes. Full moon this night.”

“And what abroad beneath it?” He shuddered.

“Merely me. And … aye, thy love. Let it not live too long. Thou hast a life before thee, dear.” She gave him a real kiss on the mouth. “Farewell.”

In a single movement he dropped her shorn hair, caught her wrists, upheld her as she wriggled onto the sill, and lowered her down the wall. She had less than a yard to go when he released her. Already the blackness had taken her from his sight. Hanging out the window, he heard soles hit stones. Was a word blown upward to him? He couldn’t tell. She was gone. He dragged himself back to stand alone in the room.

THE MARSEILLES WATERFRONT.

T
HE
moon had lately cleared steep eastern hills. It tinged roofs, towers of forts and churches, masts of ships; westward the bay had begun to sparkle above darkness; the sky was more purple than black, stars few and small. Shadows reached thick from buildings along the docks. A breeze slid out of the north, stirring up odors of tar and fish; hawsers creaked, wavelets clucked on hulls.

A squad of the watch tramped from around one side of a warehouse. Lantern light bobbed before them, shimmered off pikes and armor. It touched a slight figure in somber, ill-fitting garments that had just turned the opposite corner.

“Halte-là!”
barked the leader. The person froze. Dark-blond hair, white countenance and collar, made a blur in gloom. The guardsmen quick-stepped ahead.
“Qui va là?”

“Un anglais,”
said a high, faltering voice,
“du groupe qui a loué aujourd’hui ce bateau là.”
An arm pointed to a chebeck which lay some ways off, a lamp betokening sailors left on board against thieves.

“Ah, oui.”
The leader gestured his men to slow down.
“Je m’en souviens. Les parpaillots.”
Contempt tinged his indifference:
“Ca va, passe, garçon!”

Jennifer proceeded openly to cast loose the jollyboat’s painter and climb down into its hull. The patrol had no reason to suppose she had any other errand than some business on the vessel to which it belonged. They soon tramped out of sight. Meanwhile, most softly, she rowed from the wharf.

When well away, she stopped and peeked in her wallet. Luminousness cascaded forth.
The ring is shining yet,
she gloried.
’Tis as I guessed. This boat’s my luck
… aye, see, an unstepped mast, and wind to bear me southward where I’d seek. Where Rupert is! This night is day for me.

Having hidden the sigil again, she got to work, deftly fitting rudder in brackets, lowering leeboard, raising and staying mast, unfurling lugsail and hoisting it on its yard. That was not an unduly hard task; the craft was quite small. Her thoughts ran on:
Poor trusting Sword-of-the-Lord, I’m truly sorry I left thee here behind to bear the brunt, and halfway lied to thee about my plan. But thou wouldst ne’er have let me put to sea, and least of all to steer in search of him.… My Rupert.… I can’t help that I am glad.

The sail flapped, filled, and bellied out. The boat swished forward. Jennifer settled herself at the tiller.
No food aboard nor water
—
and no fear,
she thought.
The ring will not betray me to my death. I may well suffer somewhat on the trip. What matter? I’m no longer starved for freedom, and I will drink me drunk upon salt air.

She sobbed in her joy. Presently she felt it safe to place the circlet back on her finger.
It has not quieted its
radiance. If anything, ’tis burning brighter yet, to show, I’m sure, that I have now begun a voyage leading me unto my love, and even to the triumph of the cause as dear to me as him because of him. Then be my compass,
old enchanted ring.
She cocked her head and smiled into its light.
I wonder, wouldst thou care to hear me sing?

THE QUARTERDECK OF THE TUNISIAN PINNACE.

The ship rode at anchor. To starboard was land, hills and city a-dream, minarets and moonlight making the sight into something akin to a winter forest hung with many-shaped icicles. But the air was warm, still, spiced by fragrances. To port sheened ebony sea, across which the moon cast a shivering bridge. Although high aloft, that disc seemed big, drowned most stars, flooded the deck, turned wan the lanterns hung overside.

Rupert stood by the landward rail. A racked lifeboat
screened him from view of lookouts who, in this safe resting place, were probably dozing anyway. He stared before him, shoulders hunched, knuckles on hips.

And so tonight we’ve come to Tunis town,
he thought.
We only wait for morn to harbor there. Then what? Why did the oracle I’ve worn commence to burn so brightly as we neared, I thought ’twould best lie hidden in my purse: if not to tell me here I’ll find my hope? But in what shape? A borrowed ducal ship whereon to seek the isle, with this for guide? I might have trouble in arranging that. The superstitions of their paynim subjects have made these Spaniards strictest Catholics. If I, a Protestant, play sorcerer
—

A suggestive silken rustle brought his attention around. Belinda came to his side. She had cast her shawl back off a gown cut outrageously low. From her hair and skin lifted an aroma of roses and—something else, disturbing, arousing—or was it simply an older moon-magic than rested in Rupert’s wallet which had made her not patrician any more, but elven?

“Why … greeting,” he said, his voice pitched to the silence. “I … I thought thee long abed. And here thou’rt festive clad.”

“To celebrate our journey’s end? Well, in a certain way.” Her eyes searched his. “I must pretend to gaiety at that—aye, to myself I must—that we’ve come home and I shall be no more a traveler but once again a very proper duchess.”

“I may not yet proclaim myself a prince.” He shrugged. “But then, I’ve not been one in aught than name since infancy.”

She took his arm. “Thou dost deserve it, Rupert. Nay, more than that. The empire of the world!”

Even in this witchy glow, he could be seen to flush. “Thou art too kind,” he said. “Thou hast been ever kind. For me, our voyage was a timeless time of peace and … pleasure … in thy company.”

“And I—what can I say?” She hugged his arm to her. “Must thou go on in hardship and in peril of thy life?” A slim hand curved toward shore. “There’s sanctuary, where thou art beloved.”

He shook his head; the black locks flew. “My King—my quest—”

“What is’t thou seekest, Rupert?” She leaned against him.
“Querido,
thou canst tell me if none else.” She brought his arm around her waist.

His tone harshened: “Can I tell any soul?”

“Not even me?” she asked sadly. “It hurts to stand untrusted, thrust aside, and see the hollowness within thy heart which I would gladly fill to overflowing.”

He sought to move from her, but she came along like the air itself. He almost made to pluck her off by force, then let his free hand drop. She reached across him to take it.

“Thou’st helped me past all reckoning, Belinda—”

“And in return, ask merely to help more. Nor will I pry into thy privacies. Yet think: without some tiny sign of thanks, the will must wilt, and thou must fare unaided.”

She pressed nearer. Fists clamped at sides, he kept his look rigid above her head and stated, “He’s not alone whose honor rides along.” Sweat stood forth on his face. “I warn thee, nay, I beg thee, tempt no further.”

Her laughter blew breeze-soft. “Then by my gallant knight I’m spurned, to boot? Well, I’m the duchess here and do forbid.”

“Belinda, leave me be! They call me rash, but that lies many leagues from lunacy.”

“La luna.
… ’Tis a moonstruck night in truth, our last when we may simply be ourselves.” She brought her body against his. “Cast off thy heaviness. It is so light, so soaring light, so drenched with light, this night.” Waving around: “It chimes with moonlight in each bell of dew, it tones and trembles clear across the sea, it rings off stars, it hushes over us like finest fall of rain in blossom time.” Her fingers returned to pass through his locks. “Our flesh is spun of moonbeams and the air; the dawn of death will strew its frailty; but on this night it dances under heaven. Awake to joyousness in what thou art, a fleeting trick of moonlight in the dark. How long the moon has waited to wax full, how soon again ’twill be a haggard crescent, and afterward a dream to haunt the new! Our tide is at the flood, my dearest dear.”