A Midsummer Tempest (5 page)

Rupert plucked his arm away, though cloth ripped between the fingers. “Sir, have done,” the prince said through stiff lips. “If any fault is here, it lies with me. I spoke a thing which made the maid grow faint.”

Jennifer sank to the floor and wept into her hands. For a while Rupert and Shelgrave traded glares. At last the Puritan declared: “I have to take your word for that, my lord, but must insist that she no longer see you, and hope that you will soon depart.”

“I too,” growled Rupert.

Jennifer raised her head, shook it, climbed back to her feet and stood fist-clenched, choking off sobs and hiccoughs. “Come,” ordered Shelgrave. He beckoned and marched out.

She looked at Rupert like a blind woman. “Farewell,” she got forth.

Few had heard a like gentleness from him: “And fare thee well, bright lady.”

Alone behind a shut door, he sought a window and stood staring out into the thin rain. There went within him:

A dear, high-hearted lass—but oh, how young, and shieldless as the youthful ever are! My birth was barely seven years before; but I have ranged and roved and reaved so much that on this day of heaven’s tears I feel it is an old man who’s to be beheaded. I hope she’ll find a better, safer love, and bear him many children like herself, yet keep my memory aglow the while, and sometimes smiling warm her soul at it.

Will Mary Villiers do the same in Oxford?

O Richmond’s Duchess, I have been thy servant—thy servant only, gorgeous butterfly—the most thou wanted—and thy husband is my staunch supporter—I’d not shame a friend, no matter what a hollowness I have where thou shouldst be and art not.
He straightened.
Well-a-day,
he told himself,
let’s cut a few more lines in wax, my lad, not imitate the sky, which doesn’t mourn as first we thought, but merely sits and snivels. For Fortunes’s wheel has many turns to go, and where ’tis bound for, none but God may know.

KIRKSTALL ABBEY. MORNING.

M
ANY
of the spare old walls remained. Ivy up their sides, grass in floors and flagstones, rooks and bats which were the sole congregation of the church, had not had time to finish what Puritans would hasten. The clustered buildings blocked off view of the manor, and view from it.

Jennifer passed between guesthouse and common room, into the cloister. Leaves that climbed everywhere about her glittered with water, and puddles shone like metal. This dawn had finally seen sun. A few bits of white fluff drifted across blue dazzlement. Birds jubilated. The breeze making stray dandelions nod was cool and damp, however. The girl shivered a little and sought what warmth might be stored in the corner of nave and transept.

Her face was pale, save for darknesses around the eyes. Fingers strained against each other. Her glance drifted from unbelled belfry to crumbled punishment cell. She said into vacancy: “I hear the linnet and the lark declare that we have seen all murkiness depart. The flowers flaunt their hues through brilliant air, and it is only raining in my heart. When yesterday I heard how great thy woe, a lightning bolt struck lurid hellfire white; I heard the thunder toll, the stormwind blow, and nothing else through centuries of night.” She sighed. “But day must break, and gales lie down to rest, and sunshine hunt the clouds across the sea. Alone in nature is the human breast, where grief, like love, may dwell eternally.” She bent her bared head. “Unless there come an ending of thy pain, I must forever stand and wait in rain.”

After a moment:
But not in death that ending, my beloved! Thou didst dissemble far too skillfully. I never
knew how deep thy shackles gall or that beneath thine easy pleasantries the block and ax are lurking
—

A noise brought her around “Oh! Who’s this?”

The man who had slipped into the close halted at a reassuring distance. His frame, long and gaunt as a famine, buckled in an attempt at a bow. “Will Fairweather’s tha name, good my mis’ess.” The voice bobbed up by his Adam’s apple made rusty an otherwise soft Southland tone. “An’ today, at last, I can stand on the style of it. Be not afeared; you may fiand me a Tom o’ Bedlam, but ’a war harmless long’s they left his rhinoceros in peace, an’ I don’t ’spect you’ll twingle miane.”

He tapped the nose which dwarfed the rest of his head. As if cowed by that overhang, his brow and chin sloped backward, though some stubble fought a rearguard action. His smile showed crooked teeth, and little pale eyes twinkled beneath sandy hair. His smock was too short for him. Beneath breeches of better stuff spraddled shoes worn-out and holeful, evidently the best he could beg into which his feet might squeeze.

“Art thou a vagabond?” the girl asked slowly.

“Not quiate, mis’ess. A man o’ parts—theeazam parts for tha time bein’. Uh, you be Jennifer Alayne o’ tha Shelgrave house, ben’t you?”

“Aye. But in the months I’ve dwelt here, I’ve come to know the neighborhood—”

“An’ not me, eh? I pray you, listen. I hope in due coua’se to make everything as clear, an’ to your gain, as a verse o’ Scripture; call it a mica profit. But first I make boald to ask”—abruptly he was stretched tense—“how cloase a friend you be to Prince Rupert.”

Jennifer sagged against the wall, whose ivy rustled and dripped. She closed her eyes, opened them again, and breathed.

“Ah.” Will Fairweather nodded. “I thought as much. Well, me tha zame, mis’ess. If you knew how I’ve waited for this chance—! Thic mighty snuffle you hear comes from a month o’ skulkin’ in wet brush. Always you’d be with him, which meant four zurly Roundheads to boot—and how I wished to boot ’em!—or you war along o’ zomeone else, oftenest a walkin’ rail topped by a prune.”

“Prudence!” Jennifer could not help herself, she must laugh.

“I’d plenty o’ that—”

“I escaped from mine today, to be alone.”

“Well, now we must boath leave prudence behind, mis’ess, for time’s breathin’ up our arse. Word goes, no Cavaliers be left under arms in East England, an’ the rest be driven too far west an’ zouth to have any way o’ raidin’ ’twixt here an’ London. I think tha word be true. Countryfolk mark zuch things better an’ pass ’em on faster than tha gentry might think, tha’ havin’ to fret ’bout crops what might be trampled an’ women what might be zampled. Zavin’ your reverence, mis’ess. Anyhow, tha way lies clear for hustlin’ Prince Rupert off to tha Tower, an’ I doan’t zuppose Parly-ment’ll be laggard about an invitation.”

“No—”

Jennifer shook herself, straightened, and sped across the yard. Catching his hands, she cried: “Canst thou help him?”

Will stopped grinning.
“We
can, lady.”

“Who art thou? What art thou? Dear God—”

“Nay, a different Person has thic post. I be but a tenant farmer from Somersetshire, ’listed in tha dragoons when tha King raised his standard, got near Prince Rupert on account o’ bein’ good at caerin’ for animals. ’A kept no few—white dog, monkey, an’ moare—tha Puritans yammered ’a must be a wizard an’ theeazam his familiars, but ’twar zimply that ’a liaked pets … an’ outzoldiered his foes … an’ I chatter a lot, doan’t I?”

Jennifer glanced around, “Well, I may be missed and tracked any minute. B-besides—keep me not hooked!”

Will hunkered down to scrub sleeve across a low fragment of wall. “Than zit, mis’ess, an’ bear with me for tha love we boath bear him an’ tha King.”

The King?
thought Jennifer dazedly.
No, not the King, that heavy Scot on England and
on English faith and freedom—or thus I lately have been told—But Rupert—She let herself down, clasped her knees, and stared. The ungainly figure shambled back and forth, talking:

“I’m only half desperate in trustin’ you, good lady.
I’ve no choice—nor you ’bout me, if you truly wish him well—but I’ve heard everywhere as how you be kindly, mirthful, tolerant, a very zouth pole to thic northward-frozen stick your guardian. Moareover, I’ve dwatched you from afar as you walked alongzide my general, an’—There’s tha one field where Rupert lacks shrewdness an’ courage.” Will shook head and clicked tongue. “Not that ’a’s never planted palms on its hills, or with rod an’ staff comforted what’s in tha valley; zuch doan’t stand to reason, though it do to attention. But either virtue in a woman maekes him shy, or ’a’s always too occupied with war to scout a sweeter terrain an’ wage a merrier campaign. Anyhow, I zaw moare in your gait an’ stance than I think ’a did, or you yourzelf, maybe—” He jerked to a stop. “Hoy, I could light a fiere with your cheeks!”

“Go on or go away,” snapped Jennifer.

“Forgive me; I be a barnyard fowl. Knowin’ tha eagle Rupert—Well, to speak honest, I ’listed as much to have holiday from wife, ten kids, an’ plow—not that I doan’t cherish ’em, understand; ’tis only that they get to be, well, many—as much for a chance o’ sport, an’ maybe loot, as for my king an’ tha Oald Way. But than I came to know Rupert. … On Marston Moor, befoare his eyes, I deserted him.”

The wound in the voice made Jennifer sit erect. “He bespoke a once trusty man,” she said indistinctly, “who let his dog go free to die, and fled.”

Will cocked a fist. “’Twarn’t my fault,” he rasped. “A blockhead groom—Well, I found scant space for ’splainin’ mongst tha blades. An’ when I zaw him trapped, it sim me best I slip free an’ trail after him. What help might another prisoner be?”

“How didst thou follow him?” Jennifer wondered.

Will shrugged. “Mis’ess, I’ve poached my whole life, from Mendip Hills to Channel, from Avon River to Ex-moor—an’ moast ’round mine own hoame, in zight o’ Glastonbury Tor but a countryzide damnably low, flat, oapen—If I couldn’t track a Roundhead, five miles behind an’ given no moare zign than his farts, why, dangle me aloft for tha crows on charges o’ havin’ cut off in their prime his Majesty’s hares.

“At first I mingled with tha enemy, passin’ for one o’ them in tha turmoil.” His manner Weakened. “An’ turmoil ’twar whilst tha’ butchered tha women.”

Jennifer started. “What women?”

“Camp followers mainly, though zome war honest wives. An’ when did bein’ a whoare, or bein’ Irish, merit death? Yet tha Roundheads put ’em every one to tha zword on thoase charges, not troublin’ ’bout a trial.” Will spat. “I think milord Jesus might have zomewhat to zay on thic, come tha Last Day. Meanwhile, let’s hoape our Rupert wins free to smite ’em hypocrite an’ sly.”

The girl stared before her. “I’d give a world to disbelieve thee.” She hauled her regard back to him. “Well, what then?”

“I kept near tha leaders’ tents, zaw him taken into one an’, next morn, stuffed in a cloase-guarded coach. I loped along on the verge o’ sight; miane, tic be, not theirs, tha’ not lookin’ for an escoart”

“You
could
?”

“A man afoot can run down a hoa’se or deer, if ’a be in condition for it an’ patient. An’ I’d no carriage to pull, indeed no weight on me zave cloathes, armor, two zwords, an’ a few pennies which, h’m, a zartin Roundhead had no further use for. I zaw tha prince delivered to his manor an’ reckoned they’d keep him hereawa for a bit. Zo it behooved me to zettle down likewise, watch what happened, an’ twitch a quiet tail before luck’s mousehoale.”

“Where might you bide?”

“Around about. ’Twould be wrong to name names, but this land grows Stuart loyalists like thistles. A haymow heare, a backdoor dish o’ beans an’ bacon theare, a plump an’ lusty goodwife whose husband’s long absent in tha war—There be plenty wanderers, not just tinkers but tha uprooted. Takin’ due care, I’ve drawn no moare notice than was needful in reconnoiterin’ tha local gossip.”

“And for Rupert!” Jennifer leaped to her feet. “Hast thou a plan? What can we do to, to save him?”

Will took a stance and peered long at her. “Thic depends on you, Mis’ess Alayne.”

She confronted him. “
How
?”

“Let’s first zee if I grasp tha nettle right,” he said with a new hesitancy. “’A’s locked into his rooms, too high in that as-tro-logic tower for a jump out a window, an’ zentries beyond his door … each night. Ben’t thic zo?” (She gave a stiff nod.) “By day ’a may walk abroad, in limits, but never beyond zight o’ his warders unless tha’re content just to zurround tha jakes. No help in thoase hours, the moare zuch when our allies be o’ night.”

“Allies? Who, in his aloneness?”

“I’ve followed tha Oald Way, an’ zometimes on it met others unliake me,” said Will ambiguously. “Let’s first break him loose, shall we? Around my waist, underneath this farmer garb I’ve begged sine ’twould be unwise for a full-clad dragoon to go clumpin’ about—I’ve coiled a roape. It could as well go inzide your skirt. If you can slip it to Rupert, he can snake out thic window we bespoake, this very eventide.”

“Christ have mercy! I’ve been forbidden to see him”

“Surely you can brass yourzelf off as havin’ a special message or zome zuch need, get by tha men at his door, zay unzuspicious words whilst you let tha roape an’ a noate of explanation fall behind zomethin’ what bars their eyes but not his. Can’t you? Tha … others … tell me you’ve stomach for great deeds; an’ heare’s a mere schoolgirl prank.”

“Well—but ’tis not that easy, Will. The watchdogs would clamor—”

“Not if you quiet them. Zo I be toald.”

Now she peered at him for a time. Drops clinked from leaves onto stone. A cloudlet crossed the sun and made a moment’s chill.

“Who told thee?” she asked.

His look grew steady as hers. “I could zay ’twar a peasant who’d watched you befriend two four-foot slaves; but I daere not lie. Zee you, mis’ess, ’tain’t enough that you slip him the means to slide down, nor stand below an’ accompany him over tha bridge for to keep them hounds mute. ’A doan’t know tha country, an’ I dast not come nearer tha house than this. You must needs guide him to a zartin place in tha wildwood. There I’ll wait with what weapons I took from Marston
Moor, an’ a couple o’ requisitioned hoa’ses. An’ … our friends, miane, Rupert’s, yours if you’ll let ’em be … you’ll meet them too. Further than thic I mayn’t speak heare, zave to swear that inzofar as lies in their power an’ miane, you’ll steal home to your bed unharmed in any way.”

She wrenched her glance from side to side and answered wretchedly. “Save in mine honor.”