A Midsummer Tempest (22 page)

Neither could tell who started the kiss.

“I thought the siege I laid would never end,” she said finally, rapturously.

His answer was thick: “Old Adam plays me false—”

“No conscience pangs,” she scolded in tenderness, touching his lips. “If thou must imitate a Puritan, why, think of earning goodwill for thy cause.”

“I’d liefer think of lovely thee. And … well, why should a heathen rite keep me fast bound against the need my King is in for help? It could be but a marsh-light that I bear—”

She nuzzled him. “Enough of babblement. Let’s to thy room. The pagan who has conquered thee is Cupid.” Fresh laughter. “He says to render up thy sword to me.”

Like a blind man, he followed her below.

THE LION GULF.

No land was in sight. The jollyboat bounded on long quick-silver seas, beneath a moon which had passed its height and begun to sink. Jennifer’s beacon made a Joseph’s coat of its canvas. Not sleepy, though a little cold, she kept the helm and sang:

Her ditty broke in a scream. The serpent stone had gone out. A moment later, the draught lost steadiness, veered around and around, faded toward dead calm. Helpless, a sliver in the middle of wet nothing, the boat drifted.

A LIBRARY.

T
HE
room was Moorish, ogive windows full of night, gilt arabesque friezes dimly picked out of shadow by the flames in a single candelabrum. Everywhere loomed shelves piled high with scrolls and codices. Dust was upon them, cobwebs joined them, rats went scuttering behind. The robe and white beard of the caretaker who dozed on a stool in a corner seemed nearly as overlaid by time’s grime.

The light came from a table where Rupert sat. Works lay stacked and strewn across it. He wore slippers, hose, a shirt with sleeves rolled up and open halfway down his chest because of the heat. Sweat muddied the scholarly dirt which had rubbed off on him; he reeked of it. Unshaven, uncombed, eyes red and sunken, he skimmed book after musty book, shoved one aside and started the next. An occasional line arrested him; he would trace each word, mutter the sentences, most often shake his head and swear.

Will Fairweather shuffled in. His lankiness was also skimpily clad in European style, save for cavalry boots and saber. He bore a tray of meat, soft flat bread, carafes of wine and water, two goblets. “General,” he said. “General, it be me.”

Rupert remained unaware till the man’s great nose virtually thrust itself between him and his text. At that he blinked, leaned back, and said in a vague tone, “Oh. Will. What’s this?”

“This,” was the firm reply as the tray came down on Ovid’s
Metamorphoses,
“be food. In case tha general ha’ forgotten, food be good to eat. Tha’ zay it be a meal in itzelf. Eat, zir, an’ drink. Thic be an order.”

Rupert shook his head. “I have no hunger.” He bridled. “And who’rt thou to give me orders?”

Will folded himself into a chair across the table, laid shank over thigh, and flapped an expansive gesture. “Zir, God an’ tha laws o’ war ha’ commanded zartin rights an’ zartin duties for overloard an’ underlin’ boath. I knows my plaece. It be not for me to speak o’ strategy—nor tactics, though o’ coua’se, in carryin’ out of a command, a plain man-at-arms may fiand it wisest if ’a doan’t bespeak small changes made for, hm, practical reasons what wouldn’t interest a general. Zo, if my measter will stay buried in this heare li-berry o’ tha duke’s, bloody-be-damn ever zince we landed this mornin’, an’ snarl at tha duchess when she come bid him taeke zome rest, till she went off in tears … why, ’a could court-martial me did I
pro
-test.”

He launched into his peroration. “But grub, now, grub, zir, thic’s by God’s grant tha common zoldier’s lawful conzern; nor man nor angel may zircumspect his riaght of free speech where’t regards his belly; I make no doubt Joshua’s troops entered tha Promised Land complainin’ o’ tha bad milk an’ worse honey what war issued them. Thus, I can zay what I liake on feedin’, an’ what I zay be that if tha general doan’t taeke this heare charge an’ ram it down his muzzle, ’a’s false to them what ha’ need o’ his fiere.”

A reluctant smile twitched Rupert’s lips. “’Tis late indeed.”

“Past midnight. Should’a heard tha butler when I kicked him out o’ bed! Not that I followed his speech, but ’a opened tha spigot for sure. I ’splained what I wanted in zign language, includin’ tha flat o’ my blaede ’cross his hindquarters, an’ … here it be, measter. For everybody’s zake, eat,” Will pleaded.

Rupert rubbed his eyes. “A sound idea, no doubt. Lord knows thou makest abundant sound about it.”

“An’ afterward go to sleep.”

“Nay. Although my search is proving so barren I might almost as well.”

“What dost thou zeek?” Will filled a goblet with wine and water and thrust it into Rupert’s grasp.

The prince drank, scarcely noticing. “Our goal: since in my folly I cast away the compass given by a hand which trusted me.” His voice was rough and stiff.

Will nodded at the ring and its ordinary-looking jewel. “I thought as much. Last night—tha duchess, ha?—aye, tha zigns war plain on her today. An’ what’s wrong in thic, pray tell?”

Rupert stared into darkness. “I told myself at the time,” rattled from him, “insofar’s I thought in any wise through that sudden torrent of lust … I told myself my pledge of faith to Jennifer Alayne was meaningless, no proper betrothal, no Christian oath; rather, the whole thing could be a snare of hell, and I skirting damnation. But when at last, near dawn, Belinda slunk from me, back to my befriender I’d cuckolded—” He covered his face. “I saw this darkness in the stone, and my soul had become a stone as dead.”

“Oh, General! Talk zense, I beg thee!” Will leaned over the table to clasp a bowed shoulder. “Maybe thou didst maeke a mistaeke. Well, art thou zo unchristianly proud as to think human stumbles o’ thine be few an’ terrible enough that heaven quaekes? Bezides, ’twould not surprise me if tha duchess used a love potion to o’ercome thee in the end; I’ve heard o’ zuch things in theezam parts. Though as for parts … why, thou’rt young an’ full-blooded. Thou’d’st been a monk for I know not how long ere we zet north, whereafter thou wert zoon an’ always kept aware o’ mine own artillery at work, click o’ tha cockin’, snap o’ tha hammerfall, thump an’ bang o’ tha flyin’ balls. No moare magic than this miaght’ve been needful, an’ small wonder if at last thou didst fall; though’t might be better I bespeak a girt wonder which did ariase. Liake I heard a learned man zay once, abstinence maekes tha font grow harder.”

“Spare me,” Rupert said. “Leave me alone to do what little I can toward repairing the disaster.”

“If
thou’lt stoake thyzelf.”

Rupert nodded, rolled bread around a slab of meat, and chewed. “Thic’s better,” Will said. “Uh, if we’ve lost use of our guide, can we carry on?”

Rupert winced. “I can try … to seek my goal—Prospero’s isle—by mortal means. The odds are less than poor for finding it and, should I find it, gaining aught thereby. Yet what else can I do?”

“We, my loard.”

“Thanks for fidelity too deep to need thanks.”

Whether because of nourishment or encouragement, the prince’s manner regained some of its iron: “My reasoning goes thus. Six decades ago, Duke Prospero of Milan and his infant daughter were made captive by his usurping brother. He had them taken secretly to sea—
‘some leagues,’
says the Historian—and there put into a derelict,
‘a rotten carcass of a butt, not rigged, nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats instinctively have quit it.’
Now this must have been a ship, not large, but not a boat either. We have the description, as well’s the fact there was stowage for the arcane books and other goods which kindly Gonzalo managed to give the duke along. Nonetheless, it must have drifted at mercy of wind and wave, slowly sinking. What minor magics Prospero could wield at that time no doubt aided him to strand safely. However, considering the starting point and the condition of the vessel, the island he found must lie somewhere between Italy and Spain.”

“H’m.” Will rubbed his bristles, which made a scratchy noise across the snores of the old librarian. “Thou’st skimped talk o’ this to me. But than, we’d thin time for talk till we boarded for our own v’yage; an’ thic—Ne’ miand. What happened laeter?”

“Oh, Prospero and Miranda dwelt there till he had by his studies become a mighty wizard and she was a young lady. At last his false brother chanced nigh. He’d been with the party which married Claribel, the daughter of his overlord the King of Naples, to the King of Tunis—she who’s dowager queen here. By his arts and the aid of a servant spirit, Prospero caused the ship to be driven to his shore, and played such tricks as taught repentance. Finally, when all could be forgiven, he returned to rule again in Milan, while his daughter married the crown prince of Naples—aye, they’re the same King Ferdinand and Queen Miranda who reign there still. Prospero practiced no more sorceries for the rest of his life, being mainly concerned with preparing himself for the next one. In fact, he’d abandoned his magical articles on the island.” Rupert paused before finishing: “Oberon’s thought was that we might recover and use them.”

Will shivered despite the heat. “An uncanny quest forzooth. Well, I’ve aye found All Hallows Eve good for rangin’, sine gaemekeepers stay indoors throughout thic night. Know’st thou where this plaece may be?”

“Hardly closer than I’ve said. Islands are not plentiful in the western Mediterranean Sea. However, Oberon’s people failed to find it. Therefore I think it has a magic of its own, including a girdle of invisibility. Mariners espy naught save empty waves, unless by sheer chance they come within a certain close distance. That may well have happened from time to time, men may actually have made landings, though they could never quite find it again, given their primitive navigation in earlier ages. I wonder if it may once have been Calypso’s isle, or Circe’s—” Rupert’s words trailed off.

“An’ thou’rt ranzackin’ tha records for mentions what might pw’int tow’rd it?” Will asked. (Rupert nodded.) “Winnin’ scant booty, zeems liake. How much longer’ll thou taeke?”

“A week should exhaust this library.”

“An’ thee, ’speci’lly if thou’lt not eat. Chomp, measter! What’s thy scheame afterward?”

“I’ll buy a boat.” Rupert’s fingernails whitened where he clutched the table edge. “Belinda’s money; my penance.” Decisive again: “A small craft, which two can man. We’ll need no more, in this sea and season. Why add risk of betrayal, when word of my coming here must soon reach agents of our enemies? We’ll crisscross the area of possibility, starting at the likeliest parts, until—” He bit savagely into the food.

“Till tha year grows too oald; or King Charles be beaten; or zomething drags us under,” Will said. “An’ liake thou toald, our odds be none I caere to waeger a clipped farthin’ on. Well, Oberon an’ Titania loaded tha dice in our faevor, last time. Maybe now tha’ can hit on a way for shufflin’ that spots around. If not—” He shrugged. “There be no other gaeme, hey?”

THE JOLLYBOAT.

It rocked to a slow swell beneath a cloudless sky. Apart from that motion, the water might have been green and blue glass. Westward heaven stood gray-violet around a sinking moon, eastward whitened by a sun not yet risen. The air was cool, but barely gave steerage way; the sail hung more slack than taut, often flapping as the yard slatted about.

Jennifer half sat, half sprawled in the sternsheets. Her hands were raw on tiller and cordage, the lips in her burnt face had cracked open to the dry blood, eyes smoldered emptily beneath swollen lids.

A night at sea, a day, another night,
she thought,
and here’s another dawn. Will I see dusk? How long till thirst will free me from itself?
Her neck let go. As chin struck chest she gasped back to consciousness.
I must not sleep! Impossible at best to tack along that course the ring once pointed
…
through shifty winds or none, and unknown currents, by sun, moon, stars unlike the stars of home, observed through haze of weariness and scorch
…
impossible surely if I fall asleep.

She cleated the line she held and scratched in salt-stiffened hair.
My skull’s quite hollow
—
Nay, there is much sand within the shriveled kernel of my brain. Have I gone mad? Am I indeed possessed? This scow’s not even very good at tacking. I know no longer where I am, or why. I ought to make for shore, where’er ’tis nearest
—
whichever way that is, unless too late
—
not plod eternally to seek a Dutchman whose own witch-pilot somehow must have died.

She raised her head, though it went slowly.
Why, there’s my reason! How could I forget for e’en a minute? If the spell has failed, he too may be bewildered and beset. With God all things are possible, they say, although, of course, the most of them unlikely; thus it may be I’ll find him
—
help him
—
find him
—
If not, I died in trying, like a soldier.

She turned the helm a trifle, seeking the most use out of what breeze she had.

A swirl in the water drew her look.
Why, ’tis a dolphin,
she realized. Aloud, a croak forced from leathery
mouth and tongue: “Greeting, Master Dolphin! Good morrow to thee. Come, I bid thee welcome. The antics of thy kind beside this hull, the liquid lightning beauty of their pace, have helped me keep my reason and my life. God loves the world; He gave it dolphins—Oh!”