Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

“I’m frankly tired of hearing I’m too fine!” she flared. At once she grinned. “Though true it is, thou’st ground me down between the millstones of thy duty and thy conscience. When we are wed—Oh, grant me this last flight, for afterward the blueness of new seas for me will only lie in children’s eyes, and melodies from Faerie in their mirth, and high adventure in their growing tall—When we are wed, the foremost task for me will be to tease thy moodiness from thee.”

He hugged her to him. His voice trembled. “Thou’rt far too good for me. But so’s the sun. God gives with spendthrift hand. His will be done.”

The boat flew on through moonlight.

Grass was almost as dark as trees, under clouds blown off a rapidly nearing storm-wall. Wind droned, the first-flung raindrops stung, like cold hornets. Stars had been swallowed, but a last few lunar beams touched the boat. It staggered down from the sky, thumped, and lay. The sail flapped wild.

Rupert’s call tore across that noise: “Art thou hurt, Jennifer?”

“Nay, save… save for rattled teeth,” she answered shakily.

“I had to land fast.” He groped to help her out; the gloom thickened each second. “Else we’d been trapped above the overcast, and the moon that bears us is going down.”

“Where be we?” came Will’s voice.

“South of Glastonbury,” Rupert told him. “I can’t say closer.”

“Who can, in this weather? Blacker’n tha Devil’s gut—there went tha moon—heare comes tha rain.

Welcome hoame to England.”

“Can we find shelter?” asked the girl as sluices opened above her.

“Not by stumbling blind,” Rupert replied through a wet roar. They could barely see the shadow-form of him point. “Yonder’s north, our direction. We’ll walk cross-country till we strike a road bound the same way.

There ought to be houses near it, though we’d better take care who’s inside.”

“Friends to us, if I know my Somerset folk,” Will assured him.

“Aye, but have the victors begun quartering troops on them? Come, march.”

“Thou’rt riaght, as always. Damnable bad habit o’ thiane, Rupert, bein’ riaght. For how I wish I could zee tha farmer hereawa, when’a fiands a zailboat in his pasture!”

The storm had ended soon after sunrise. Wind kept on, sharp and shrill from the north, driving a smoke of scud beneath a low iron-hued heaven. Rupert, Jennifer, and Will leaned into it, heads down, hands mottled blue, as they tramped along the mud. Water from their garments fell into ruffled puddles. On either side of them ran a hedge, and fields beyond it flat, brown or gray with autumn, the occasional trees begun to go sere and let leaves be whipped off their boughs. A flight of rooks went by, grating forth lamentations.

“A bitter, early zeason,” Will said at last. His nose was the sole spot of brightness in the landscape, save for the drip from it. “I doan’t recall no worse.”

“Was ever year more weird than this?” Jennifer replied. She attempted a smile. “See, here’s Prospero’s wand my walking staff.”

“An’ his book weights down tha bottom o’ my scrip, underneath food from his island.” Will touched a bag slung around his shoulder. “Anybody caere for a bite? Nay? Well, I too’ud swap theeazam pears an’ pomp-granites for a zingle bowl o’ hot oatmeal topped wi’ cream an’ honey; an’ this zaber o miane’ud liefer carve a Cheddar cheese than a trail to glory.”

“Or the freedom and safety of thy household?” Rupert rapped.

Will’s lips drew thin. “Pray doan’t bespeak thic, zir. It be hard enough for me aloane to keep myzelf from frettin’ thus.’Fear not,’ I tell me, though it doan’t do no good for long; fear not for wife an’ kids,’ I zays,’only for thine own hiade, an’ for whatever Roundhead regiment might anger Nell.’ She’s a big woman, zir; when she milks, the whoale cow shaekes; an’ as for temper, why, if instead o’ his wretched powder kegs, Guy Fawkes had had my Nell—”

“Hold!” Rupert lifted a hand. “Around yon bend ahead of us—horsemen—Enemy!” His sword flew from its sheath.

They were five who came. One was a fat, middle-aged peasant in long brown coat, baggy trousers, mucky shoes, greasy hat, mounted on an ambling cob. The rest were unmistakable Ironsides. When they saw Rupert’s party, their yells blew down the wind: “Stray Cavaliers—a Puritan boy their captive—Save him! At them!”

“Get backs against this hedge,” Rupert ordered. “Stand fast. Behind me, Jennifer.”

Earth boomed, mud-water splashed, hoofs broke into gallop. Will did not draw steel. Instead, he removed his loaded scrip and whirled it by the strap. Rupert gave him a puzzled look but had no time to say more.

The leading Roundhead was on him.

“Yield thee or be cut down!” the man bawled.

Rupert stood firm. The horse reared to a halt. A blade whined from above. Rupert’s met it in mid-stroke.

Metal screamed, sparks spurted. Sheer violence tore the rider’s weapon loose, sent it spinning free. Before he could skitter off, Rupert’s left hand had him around the jackboot. A heave, and he was out of his seat, entangled in one stirrup. His charger whinnied and bolted, dragging him through the mire.

Will had let fly the bag. It struck the second cavalryman in his jerkin. He whoofed out air and slumped across his saddlebow. Now Will unscabbarded sword.

He and Rupert came in on either side of the third trooper. The fourth tugged pistol from belt. Jennifer sped his way. “Aye, to me, good lad!” he encouraged her.

“Indeed to thee,” she said. “Accept my staff.” She gave it to him across his wrist. He yelped and dropped his firearm. She whacked him in the nose. He bellowed and clutched at red ruin.

Rupert and Will got their quarry disarmed and dismounted. The prince soared into the saddle. He went after the first horse, which had slowed, caught its bridle, released its erstwhile master, and led the animal back for his friend. Together they rode at the remaining two. Dazed, Jennifer’s victim offered no resistance when Rupert relieved him of weapons and commanded him to earth. The man of the book recovered sufficiently to spur his own beast into headlong southward flight. No one bothered to pursue.

“O Jennifer!” Rupert cried. While he rode about rounding up prisoners, he kept blowing her kisses. She clutched Prospero’s emblem and glowed.

“One escaeped but three captured,” Will said, “Not a bad bag.”

The peasant had sat open-mouthed. Will cantered to him, reined in, and exclaimed: “Why, it be my neighbor, Robin Sledge!”

The other must swallow several times before he got out: “Will Fairweather… back from tha dead?”

“Not yet. However, quick ere I bogie thee, how’s my house?”

“Tha last I heard or zaw, unharmed. Ye be lucky, dwellin’ offzide as ye do.”

Will wiped his forehead, albeit he said merely, “Foarezighted, Robin, foarezighted. When I war after a croft to rent, an’ zaw how thic un zits vizzy-vizz tha coney runs—Well. How’d’st thou fall in’mongst theeazam bad companions?” He jerked a thumb at the muddy, bloody, and disconsolate Parliamentary soldiers.

“Scouts, wantin’ of a guide; not that there be aught left for Croom’ll to fear, or war till you three caeme.”

“Thou’d’st help them cantin’ rebels, Robin? Thou?”

“I’d scant choice when asked,” Sledge said bitterly. “Two zons o’ miane, Tom an’ Ned, be’listed under tha King. I’d better do what I can to win mercy for’em, do tha’ live.”

Rupert had trotted up, stopped, and listened. “How goes the war?” he inquired.