A Midsummer Tempest

XIV

Sky and water reached in the same iron hue. Beneath the overcast went blue-black clouds swollen with rain. Chill, misty, shrill in movement, the air soon blurred out eyesight; there was no horizon. The boat rolled and pitched to the chop of white-caps. It smelled of tar and old catches. A man stood at the tiller, another at the rail beside Will and near Rupert, who sat on a bench at the cabin entrance. Each one wore a shabby woolen pull-over, the prince’s badly strained across chest and shoulders; but the cavalrymen kept their own hose and boots instead of the sailors’ patched wadmal and bare feet thrust into wooden shoes.

Tacking, the boat came about in a creak and thump of boom, a rattle of faded-red canvas. Will lurched, nearly fell, caught a stay, and swore. “God founder thee, thou spavined, knock-kneed jaede! Dwouldst cast me off?”

“Speak not thus,” Rupert reproved. “Or dost thou not know’founder’ has a different meaning at sea?”

“Tha less I know o’ the zea, tha happier I. Dwould’twarn’t zo eager for to make my quaintance. It comes leapin’ o’er tha zide to lick me like a lollopin’ zalty dog.”

The hard-bitten, gingery-haired little man with them grinned. “Pe glad you’re not seasick, Sergeant. Not that anybody e’er died o’t; no, none ha’ peen that lucky.”

“Oh, but I be zick o’ tha zea indeed, Captain Price.”

“Ap Rhys, if you please. Owen ap Rhys.”

“Beg pardon. I forget zometimes how Welsh you Welshmen be. Pray keep your leeks out o’ this hull whilst I be aboard. How long’ll that last, think ye?”

“Hwell, since we’ve lately passed the Scilly Isles—”

“Silly for sure, waterlogged’s tha’ must be.”

“—and the hwind is foul, hwithout sign of pettering soon, and we’ve the Channel to run and then the narrow sea till we reach Holland, it could pe days.”

Rupert frowned. “Meanwhile a Navy vessel might come on us,” he said, “and the Navy’s Roundhead.”

“Have no fears o’ that, your Highness,” ap Rhys assured him. “My folk have been smuccling since Noah came to harbor. Can we not slip free, the hwell has a false bottom, room peneath for you and your man if maybe a touch crowded.”

“To lie liake herrin’s in a crock,” Will grumbled, “an’ smell liake’em a foartnight after.”

Rupert ignored him. “I’d fain tell thee once more, skipper,” he said, “how thankful I am that thou and thy son do hazard this—despite my warning thee that exiled royalty is longer in pedigree than purse.”

’’Tis for the King, sir; though to pe sure, when he’s pack on the throne, if your Highness might say him a hword on pehalf of honest fishermen who must needs eke out their meaccer living py foreign trade—”

“Indeed I shall. Thou’d wish the duties lowered or abolished, eh?”

Ap Rhys stood appalled before answering: “St. David preserve us, nay, sir, nay! What hwould that do to the trade? Nay, higher tariffs if ye hwill, heaven-high, put… fewer cutters—?”

“Ship ho!” cried the helmsman.

The three others scrambled to peer ahead. The shadowy shape grew swiftly solid before their eyes. It was a smallish three-master carrying two courses of square sails, including on the bowsprit though not on the mizzen, where the lower one was lateen. The hull was sleek, inward-sloping, ornamented with gilt figures upon red and black timbers. At the flat-countered and rather low stern fluttered a gaudy banner.

“Not Navy,” said ap Rhys. “A douple-decked pinnace. Foreign.”

Rupert nodded. “Argent, a lion rampant azure between four crosses potent or,” he said. “ ’Tis the flag of Tunis.”

Will gasped. His arm snapped from the stay, to point at his lord’s left hand. The boat pitched and he tumbled. Sprawling, he still pointed and yelled, through wind and Welsh exclamations: “Thy ring, Rupert!

Ab-b-b-blaeze!”

“Lieve kernel,” the prince whispered into that surging rainbow. “Yon must be… well-wishers to our cause… straight-bound for the waters we seek—Turn!” he bellowed. “Intercept them!”

“Arcue not hwith the Flying Dutchman,” ap Rhys called in terror. “Opey!”

His son swung the tiller. The boat came about once more in a sharp heeling. Will clattered across its beam, into the scuppers opposite. A wave came through and over him. “Be thic our luck?” he wailed. “To fare tha whoale damned way by zea?”

Rupert swung himself up a Jacob’s ladder and leaped the rail. Will clambered slowly behind, burdened by his rusty armor, declaiming oaths. The smack fell away, caught wind, started off northwest-ward. Rupert paused to wave and shout: “Farewell, dear loyal friends! Good voyage home! When I return, I’ll bring you back your King!”

Thereafter he drew his attention inboard. Sailors stared from their work and muttered in their native tongue. They were swarthy, full-bearded men whose loose-flowing gowns were girded to the knees, caught by sashes which also held curved knives.

The officers were European, clad accordingly, though in Southern wise, their hair long, their own beards and mustachios trimmed to points, crucifixes hung around the necks of most; and a black-robed Roman priest was among them.

Rupert bowed to the couple who stood immediately before him, braced against the roll of the deck. “Your Graces greet me graciously indeed,” he said, “in granting me this passage to your land.”

“We could not well do less than that, nor would, since the first joyful startlement we felt on recognition of your Highness’ self,” replied the woman, low in her throat and smiling. Though she was young, the cloak wrapped around her did not hide fullness of figure or gay elegance of garb. Jeweled pins secured a mantilla on high-piled ebony hair. Her eyes were nearly as black and more lustrous, in a curve-nosed, heavy-mouthed, olive-skinned face. The girl who stood behind her was pretty, but scarcely noticeable in her nearness.

The man on her left also suffered by contrast, despite the rich dark fabrics which draped him: being short, grizzled, spindle-shanked, beak-featured, and green from seasickness. “Eet was a large surprise,” he quavered in English more accented than hers.

Rupert glanced down at himself and remarked ruefully, “In truth, your Grace, I was less well transported and accoutered than when we knew each other erst in Oxford.”

“You’ll soon have garments fitting to your size and dignity,” the woman promised. She indicated the girl.

“My serving-maiden Nina plies a deft needle—/Santa Maria! Que?”

Rupert saw his companion crawl over the rail. He laughed. “Will Fairweather, a centaur but no merman.”

Seriously: “He was the foremost’mong my rescuers and never flinched through our adversities.”

“Until we struck this craedle o’ tha deep what bears zo wet a baebe,” growled the dragoon. Seeing that he confronted people of quality, he removed helmet and tugged forelock. “Forgive your zarvint.”

“Know we are fortunate—” Rupert stole a look at his ring, but it had reverted to a normal luster. “This ship bears home the ambassador of his Majesty of Tunis: the noble Duke of Carthage, Don Hernan Ferdinando Juan Sebastian del Monte de Gavilanes y Palomas.”

“Whoof!” said Will.

“Therewith his gracious lady, Dona Belinda,” Rupert finished.

“Our captain, Highness, Don Alonso Mena,” said the duchess, indicating a burly man who gave Rupert a nautical salute.

The duke, who had been swallowing ever harder and more frequently, brought a hand to his mouth.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, “beezness, urgent beeznees, si,” and went as fast as he could stagger through a door under the poop that must lead to his stateroom.

Belinda sighed. “Poor man, he’s less a sailor than is yours,” she confessed.

“Why have you left in such bad weather, then?” Rupert wondered.

She arched her brows. “Is weather ever good in Northern parts?” Her playfulness faded. “The fact is, we do have some need of haste. My lord foresaw it, wrote his ministry to ask a ship be sent to lie in dock at his disposal. It is well he did.” She shrugged. “Oh, I say not our lives were e’er endangered. But since the rebels drove King Charles from Oxford and hunt his scattered army o’er the land, an embassy of a most distant realm, and Catholic, has lowly place or none among sour heretics. Best we depart and speedily report what’s happened—Oh!” She saw Rupert’s consternation, seized both his hands and inquired anxiously: “What is it, Highness? You look ill.”

“I am,” he grated. “My King… in full retreat… already now?”

“You knew not?”

“I was captive until lately,” he reminded her, “and since in flight through wild and newsless shires.”

“I think that is the underlying reason.” Her tone grew ardent. “Sans Rupert’s leadership, the Royal cause is in an evil case… Shall we turn back? We can restore you—”

He shook his head. “Nay, I thank you, lady, but I’ve a mission maybe less forlorn down in those waters whither you are bound.”

The duchess glowed. “Then welcome, Rupert!” Softer: “May I call you Rupert, and may I be Belinda on your lips?”

Courtliness had never come naturally to him. Hot-faced, he answered, “You are too kind. I am most fortunate.”

“Nay, I am, since our mother sea has brought the gift of this companionship to me on what would else be but a dreary trip. Know you not how we ladies at the court were dazzled into dreaming by your prowess and envied Mary Villiers, whom you favored—and favored chastely, la!” She tapped his arm in reproof, while smiling and fluttering her lashes, before she took it and urged him into motion. “And now you’re mine throughout the voyage. Come, let’s go within. We’ll see about your quarters and your comfort. And later—oh, we’ve much to tell each other!”

Dazedly, he accompanied her. The maidservant started to follow. Dona Belinda threw her the tiniest frown and headshake. The girl returned a similar nod, went to the rail and stood looking across the waters.

Will Fairweather sidled to join her. Meanwhile the captain barked commands at officers and crew, who dispersed on their duties.

Will cleared his throat. “Ahem!” he said. “Sine we’d boath better flush this confounded frash air through our lungs awhiale, an’ got a longer whiale at zea befoare us—” His gaze admired her. In demure gown and cloak, she was nonetheless a pleasant, plump little brown partridge of a woman. “Mesim I might yet taeke back what hard words I’ve spoake about tha waters; for ne’er did I await a curve-carved figurehead’ud come walk’round on deck. My naeme—”

“I’eard, sir,” she said. “Ow you air a soldier weeth the brave preence.”

“You’ve heard no moare than tha beginnin’… ah—?”

“Nina Valdes, attendant to’er Grace.” They swapped sidelong glances and simpers.

“Spanish, hey? Well, I ben’t prejudiced. A man be what’e be, zays I, an’ a woman be what she be, an’ thank tha good God for thic.”

“Oh no, sir. Not Spanish. Tunisian.”

Will, who had left off his helmet, ran fingers through his sandy locks. “I’zooth? Aye, I do miand me, Rupert—I call him Rupert’tween us, we bein’ liake brothers e’er zince a day I’ll tell you of if you list—’a did bespeak yonder flag by zome zuch word. But ha’n’t I heard Tunis be Moorish? An’, comin’ to think on’t, doan’t moast o’ yon men have an unchristian look about’em?”

“A lifetime ago, sir, Don Juan of Austria deed conquair Tunis and es-stab-leeshed a keengdom. Most of the subjects air paynim steell, but the rulers air Chreestians of Spanish descent. Eet ees no beeg realm, w’erefore you’ave not’eard more of eet—although our Queen Claribel ees daughtair to the royal’ouse of Napoli—Naples, you say.”

“What you do not zay is’zir’ to me.” Because her hand rested chubby on the rail, he laid his over it. “Plain Will’s planty good, Nina, uh, Nina.”

The boatswain came to nudge him. “We’ve found a place for thee in the foc’s’le,” he said; doubtless he had once had a berth on an English vessel.

“Tha what?” Will sputtered. “Have a caere o’ thy language, fellow. Heare be a gently reared maiden.”

“Come see thy hammock,” said the boatswain impatiently, “and settle which mess thou’lt be in.”

Will folded himself in a bow at Nina. “Mesim’a wants to feed me,” he said, “and I be hungry for sure, even if hamhocks on this queasy riade do indeed zound like a mess—yet not one half zo hungry as I’ll be to rejine thee.”

“Oo-oo-ooh!” she tittered, and watched him till he had gone below.