Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

“It rocks tow’rd an end, zir,” Sledge sighed. “Tha last o’ tha loyal pulled out o’ Glastonbury an’ onto tha Tor.

Thic should’a been better to defend; but him Croom’ll—rebel commander—Well, I zoldiered a bit whan I war yound, an’ zince ha’ downed many a pint along o’ veterans what ben’t all witless bags o’ brag; but never have I zeen or heard o’ one liake Croom’ll.’A must be wiald to catch tha King; for’a’s drawn in everything’a got, ne’ miand hoaldin’ tha countryzide peaceful;’a’s laid’em’round tha hill tighter’n Jack Ketch’s noose; an’ his guns only stop hammerin’ whan they crunch cloaser inward. From what I zeen, zir, I doan’t give tha King three days, nor no chance to slip free.”

Rupert and Will exchanged a look more bleak than the wind.

Abruptly the prince said, “Thanks for thy word, goodman. Thou might’st as well play safe by conducting these fellows further, after I’ve interrogated them about dispositions and so forth.’Tis not thy fault they were overpowered.” He laughed, not blithely. “True, they’ll have to fare afoot. We’ve need of three horses, also of buff coats and the rest. Well, let them walk, and in their natural buff. They’ll doubtless be grateful for such help in mortifying the flesh and bringing down sinful pride.”

He turned back toward Jennifer.

Sledge stared after him. “Who be thic wight?”

“An acrobat,” Will said.

“A what?”

“One what treads a tightroape’bove hell. Come, let’s away an’ talk as long’s we can.”

Cromwell’s army had started well up the staggered flanks of it. Few men were readily seen on either side.

Taking what lee they could in dug trenches or behind trees, bushes, boulders, bluffs, they lay waiting for their officers’ call to make the next advance or the next resistance. Musket fire crackled only irregularly.

This was the hour of the cannon.

Those roared steadily, in masses, from the Round-head stations. Muzzles flashed, missiles rumbled through air, solid shot hammered down and canister burst in shrieking thousandfold, over and over and over. Smoke hung in a bitter blue haze. For the wind had died with afternoon. A pallid sun glimmered, vanished, struck through again, out of slowly dissipating chill gray. Given such calm, the attackers employed a lately invented device: two hot-air balloons they had brought, tethered to float higher than the hilltop, observers in the baskets using telescopes and surveyors’ instruments to spot for the artillery to which they wigwagged down their signals—grotesqueries hanging above town and land like the future itself.

The Royal positions made slight reply. Riding, Rupert said to Will and Jennifer: “The guns are plainly few which our people could drag to the top of this mount. No doubt they’re equally poor in ammunition. They’d’ve been overrun erenow, were it not such labor hauling ordnance uphill against fire.”

“It costs, thic,” said Will. (A dead man sprawled in withered grass. ) “Why not just lay ziege?”

“We are the reason.” Rupert’s grin writhed. “Inadequate; quite likely soon refuted.”

“Too laete, I think we should’a cut our hair short, thee an’ me.”

“With Occam’s razor? Nay, not every Parliamentarian goes polled, the more so after weeks of dispute. I think best I be quickly recognizable at need. Meanwhile, wear thine Ironside outfit as if it belonged to thee.”

“Thine plainly does not,” Jennifer murmured.

“Well, I hate seeing a soldier sloppy-unlaced as myself,” Rupert admitted. “However, we mustn’t act apologetic, or timid, or unsure in any way. That’s death—or capture, which could be worse.

Behave as if we own the place.” His neck stiffened. “We do.”

Jennifer’s fingers tightened on Prospero’s staff. “ ’Twould be too cruel if thou… any of us got killed by a loyal sharpshooter.”

“Aye, we’ve a gap to win across, and must build our bridge with whatever wreckage we find;—Hold!”

Rupert drew rein. “I spy… Follow my lead, say naught, obey any command on the instant.”

A trio of fieldpieces—one sacar, two lighter falconets—had appeared as the riders passed a thicket. Shot and bags of powder lay heaped around; wagons and horses must have gone on elsewhere, for none but the crews were in view. Two men to a weapon, they swabbed, loaded, corrected aim, touched match to fuse, swabbed, loaded… An ensign squinted through his glass at the balloon which was visible from here, notepad held ready for a calculation of how best to lay the next barrage.

Rupert cantered toward them. Discharge crashed; his ears hurt, smoke rankled in his nostrils, echoes tolled.

Despite the weather, some soldiers had stripped to the waist. Sweat shone through the dirt on them. These men who man this post of guns court deafness, he thought. How bloodshot glare their eyes from powder soot; how weary must they be from hour on hour, unknowing when they may be blown apart—yet still bombard their King in honest effort, methodical, indomitable, English.

“Halt!” challenged the ensign. “Who comes hither? To your muskets, boys!”

“Why,’a’s no ancient,” Will muttered; “hear his voice go squeak.”

Rupert stopped. No matter his disarray, in the saddle he towered overwhelmingly above them. “Three scouts sent forth to probe the area,” he announced. “The aerostats have spied what well may be the founding of an enemy emplacement. Cease firing whilst we dash on high to look; stand ready, though, to cover our retreat.”

“Aye, sir.” The youth saluted. “You’re valiant, risking—”

Jennifer. Rupert smote fist in palm. “I’ll take the lead, and Will the rear,” he said. “Ride on!”

He spurred his animal.

Up over the rough ground he went, a jarring gallop where sparks flew from stones and the breath of the beast came hoarse through boom of more distant cannon. Ahead loomed a wall of brush and scrub woods.

Who loured behind? Dear God, he prayed, if Royal lead must bring me down, let it be me indeed, not her, not her!… I know, I hope our friends will hold their fire, astonished, curious, at this lonesome three… Well, if they don’t — O Jesus, keep her safe.

“Shoot not at us, King Charles’s men!” he shouted out of full lungs. “Stand by! It is Prince Rupert of the Rhine come back!”

He unbuckled the morion which sat so badly on his too-big head and cast it aside. Cut from a shirt and tied underneath was a white cockade, his olden sign. Down spilled the black locks, around that face which many should remember.

A bullet buzzed near. The artillerymen had realized something was amiss. But at extreme range, and they not trained musketeers—He crashed through leafage. Withes whipped horse and rider, drawing blood.

Then suddenly men surrounded him, no different from their enemies to see, but crying aloud: “It is Prince Rupert! Rupert has returned! Protect him with your bodies, him and these! Bring him at once, the prince before the King!”

Nothing else remained of the Chapel of St. Michael on the Tor. Its roof was gone and holes were more broad than empty windows, where shots had battered through. Cloud-shuttered sunlight entered more weakly than did the gun-grumble. Yet those olden walls were the sole shield there was for the sovereign of Britain.

He stood like a miniature, or like a much larger man seen through the wrong end of a telescope, in front of his captains and councilors. They were grim and begrimed, their backbones slumped, the rags which clung to them soured by the sweat of days. Charles was no less gaunt and sunken-eyed. But his little body kept erect; dust seemed almost an ornament upon combed hair, trim beard, lace and plum velvet of Cavalier garb; and the bandage across his brow might well have been a crown.