Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

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.”

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 marshlight 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.

No land was in sight. The jollyboat bounded on long quicksilver 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.

The 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 protest.”

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.