Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

Cromwell touched the Bible among his papers. Otherwise he stayed imperturbable. “Go on,” he repeated.

“We’ll further relate how I caught my deluded niece with the wicked sign on her finger; how we extracted confession from her; how we sent her south under the clergyman’s guidance, accompanied by soldiers, in the hope of intercepting Rupert; how she in her turn enchanted one unfortunate young lamb to helplessness, escaped, and has doubtless rejoined her diabolic paramour.’Tis a long tale, and time is at our heels—yours also, General.

Will you take this for a promissory note, and credit what I really wish to say?”

“I’ll hear you out.”

“This news has but lately reached me, when the woman’s warders returned and mine agents brought posthaste word from Africa. Meanwhile, freed of Rupert’s cursed presence, our armies have gone from victory to victory over the forces of Satan—”

“Speak not thus,” Cromwell rapped. “Charles remains my King.”

Shelgrave was taken aback. “But… forgive me, General… was Charles Stuart not himself in command of the host which this day you met and broke? Hasn’t he withdrawn behind those walls, and don’t you propose to storm them on the morrow?”

Cromwell’s fist lay heavy on a map. “His evil geniuses are one thing,” he said. “The King’s own person—”

After a second: “Parliament must decide that. As for my immediate task, here’s the last Royalist muster of any consequence. And it was mostly patched together from such rags as blew in on every wind, from every other battle lost. A final onslaught, and England will have peace.” Prophecy flickered out of him. “Say on, Sir Malachi.”

“Does it not strike you strange, General, that they should come to this precise country for their last stand? ’Tis flat, save for the Tor and a few lower hills; open; hard to defend. Why not the Mendip range—or, better, Wales?”

“We’ve questioned captured officers. They wonder too.’Twas the King’s express wish, they relate.”

Cromwell rubbed his massive jaw. “I’ve thought he thought, being no military expert, here’s a famous old town in the midst of strongly Royalist countryside, with communications southward. Faulty reasoning, of course.”

“I wonder too what put that thought in him.” Shelgrave spoke low. “Glastonbury… the heart of ancient Britain… where Christendom first came unto this isle, say High Church legends, though in eldritch guise, when Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail and thornwood staff which flowers yet each Christmas… its abbey ruins where folk swear they see, of moonlit nights, the phantom monks hold Mass… Glastonbury, which was Druid ere’twas Christian, and Celtic Christian ere’twas even Roman, and which some say was Arthur’s Avalon… its hinterland aflit with Faerie folk, who still are given secret offerings… Is it not strange the King’s last stand is here, two days before the night of equinox?”

Cromwell scowled. “Make plain your meaning.”

“I am trying, sir.” Shelgrave’s reply was as harsh. “I tell you from experience, Prince Rupert is Lucifer’s own agent, sent by him to halt us in our scouring from this land idolatry and mystery and hell. Now I have learned that he’s alive, at large. What darkling legions is he leading hither?” He seized Cromwell’s shirtcuff. “This is the word I came to give you: Strike! Send forth Jehovah’s lightnings from your guns; smash, scatter, and ride down Philistia; leave in this place of trolls no King, no priest, no soldier, wizard, witch, or stone on stone to greet Hell-Rupert and afford him aid! Then must he skulk back to his smoky den”—Shelgrave’s voice broke, his face writhed—“he and his bitch who was mine own pure maid—” Controlled again: “And England will be safe. But don’t delay.”

Cromwell stayed unshaken. “That’s not my wont. Nor is it to stampede.’Twas a stiff battle, and my men need rest. Tomorrow, aye, we move upon the town. And as for fiends and sorcerers, what reck their bolts men armored well in righteousness?”

The vision ended.

Will Fairweather cackled laughter. “Our darklin’ legions, hey?” he cried. “Liake Caliban? Nay,’a an’ Ariel’ull stay behiand. I doubt my measter’s magic has tha strength to lift them from this plaece where tha’ belong. Zo lead thy hoast to victory, my loard: one row-foot hoa’seman, lackin’ but a hoa’se; one wench clad liake an out-at-elbows boy!”

“No talk,” said Rupert, who had stood as if cast in metal. “We have one seeing more to come.” The staff rose like a wan beacon above the sinking red fire, toward stars, white-rimmed cloud wrack, moon in frantic flight. “Show me my King. My final fiat. Gimel. “

As if with their last might, the flames formed the ring. It enclosed an upstairs room, well-furnished, not too brightly lamplit for an open window to reveal, across roofs, a view of Glastonbury Tor. Several men sat around a table, some in faded finery, some in soiled soldier’s garb, all drained by weariness.

Rupert started at sight of the largest. “My brother… ach, Maurice!” he whispered. Then toward the smallest: “His Majesty.” For Charles was a tiny man, though he bore himself so erect, even now his dark handsomeness was so neatly groomed, that the fact did not stand forth. Rupert recognized others. Goring the villain, Digby the conniver, he thought flashingly, Eythin the greedy: what fine Cavaliers. I’d liefer have a bluff and honest Cromwell. No matter what one’s side in any strife, some allies would make better enemies… Well, there are dear Maurice and good Will Legge and my beloved ever-kindly kinsman —

“Is that thy brother?” Jennifer asked. “He looks fine indeed.”

He silenced her with a gesture which was the sole gentle thing about him. Voices rolled.

“Make never doubt, tomorrow they’ll attack,” Maurice was saying dully. “They’ll batter down our pitiful defense, as they have done to city after city. Thus Glastonbury will soon be sunk in fire, like any ship that flies the Stuart flag when pounced on by the Navy that was yours. They’ve cannon for’t—including most of ours.”

“ Why did your Majesty insist we meet and rally hereabouts, upon a plain as flat as we’ve been beaten?” lamented Eythin.

Charles overlooked the insolence; it was born of desperation. “I know not,” he answered.

They stared at him. He gave them the least of smiles. “I had a thought… a dream… a sense… a murmur… a feeling here was right, and our last hope,” he said.

“A witch did brew that dream, your Majesty,” Digby mumbled.

Charles shook his head. “Nay, Puritans abhor the mildest magic, and any magic flees away from them, who will not own God also made the elves. Was it a sprite who sang within my sleep? I venture not to think it was a saint.”

“Whate’er it was, it lured us to our doom,” said Goring.

“Now, wait, that is not fair,” objected Legge. “Remember, sirs, we did hold council more than once between us, agreeing Somerset might not be best, but any other place was nigh as bad, so sorely are we hurt since Marston Moor. What have we truly lost by coming here?”

“The war,” snapped Eythin.

Goring formed a gallows laugh. “ ’Twas lost already. We are spooks hallooing’round awhile before the dawn—the winter dawn, our graves more snug than it.”

“What shall we do?” King Charles asked. “I hate to yield my sword, but more would hate to see this fine old town bombarded, fired, and plundered, uselessly.”

“Worse would be yielding up your royal person,” Maurice said.

The King winced. “How much more anguish is this carcass worth?”

“Whilst you’re alive and free, the cause is too,” Maurice declared. “How well I know, whose mother is your sister!”