A Midsummer Tempest

XVIII

The moon had lately cleared steep eastern hills. It tinged roofs, towers of forts and churches, masts of ships; westward the bay had begun to sparkle above darkness; the sky was more purple than black, stars few and small. Shadows reached thick from buildings along the docks. A breeze slid out of the north, stirring up odors of tar and fish; hawsers creaked, wavelets clucked on hulls.

A squad of the watch tramped from around one side of a warehouse. Lantern light bobbed before them, shimmered off pikes and armor. It touched a slight figure in somber, ill-fitting garments that had just turned the opposite corner.

“Halte-ld!” barked the leader. The person froze. Dark-blond hair, white countenance and collar, made a blur in gloom. The guardsmen quick-stepped ahead. “Qui va Id?”

“Un anglais,” said a high, faltering voice, “du groupe qui a hue aujourd’hui ce bateau Id.” An arm pointed to a chebeck which lay some ways off, a lamp betokening sailors left on board against thieves.

’’Ah, out.” The leader gestured his men to slow down. “Jemensouviens. Lesparpaillots.” Contempt tinged his indifference: “Qa va, passe, gargon!”

Jennifer proceeded openly to cast loose the jollyboat’s painter and climb down into its hull. The patrol had no reason to suppose she had any other errand than some business on the vessel to which it belonged. They soon tramped out of sight. Meanwhile, most softly, she rowed from the wharf. When well away, she stopped and peeked in her wallet. Lurninousness cascaded forth. The ring is shining yet, she gloried.’Tis as I guessed. This boat’s my luck… aye, see, an unstepped mast, and wind to bear me southward where I’d seek. Where Rupert is! This night is day for me.

Having hidden the sigil again, she got to work, deftly fitting rudder in brackets, lowering leeboard, raising and staying mast, unfurling lugsail and hoisting it on its yard. That was not an unduly hard task; the craft was quite small. Her thoughts ran on: Poor trusting Sword-of-the-Lord, I’m truly sorry I left thee here behind to bear the brunt, and halfway lied to thee about my plan. But thou wouldst ne’er have let me put to sea, and least of all to steer in search of him… My Rupert… I can’t help that I am glad.

The sail flapped, filled, and bellied out. The boat swished forward. Jennifer settled herself at the tiller. No food aboard nor water—and no fear, she thought. The ring will not betray me to my death. I may well suffer somewhat on the trip. What matter? I’m no longer starved for freedom, and I will drink me drunk upon salt air.

She sobbed in her joy. Presently she felt it safe to place the circlet back on her finger. It has not quieted its radiance. If anything,’tis burning brighter yet, to show, I’m sure, that I have now begun a voyage leading me unto my love, and even to the triumph of the cause as dear to me as him because of him.

Then be my compass, old enchanted ring. She cocked her head and smiled into its light. I wonder, wouldst thou care to hear me sing?

The ship rode at anchor. To starboard was land, hills and city a-dream, minarets and moonlight making the sight into something akin to a winter forest hung with many-shaped icicles. But the air was warm, still, spiced by fragrances. To port sheened ebony sea, across which the moon cast a shivering bridge. Although high aloft, that disc seemed big, drowned most stars, flooded the deck, turned wan the lanterns hung overside.

Rupert stood by the landward rail. A racked lifeboat screened him from view of lookouts who, in this safe resting place, were probably dozing anyway. He stared before him, shoulders hunched, knuckles on hips.

And so tonight we’ve come to Tunis town, he thought. We only wait for morn to harbor there. Then what? Why did the oracle I’ve worn commence to burn so brightly as we neared, I thought’twould best lie hidden in my purse: if not to tell me here I’ll find my hope? But in what shape? A borrowed ducal ship whereon to seek the isle, with this for guide? I might have trouble in arranging that. The superstitions of their paynim subjects have made these Spaniards strictest Catholics. If I, a Protestant, play sorcerer—

A suggestive silken rustle brought his attention around. Belinda came to his side. She had cast her shawl back off a gown cut outrageously low. From her hair and skin lifted an aroma of roses and—something else, disturbing, arousing—or was it simply an older moon-magic than rested in Rupert’s wallet which had made her not patrician any more, but elven?

“Why… greeting,” he said, his voice pitched to the silence. “I… I thought thee long abed. And here thou’rt festive clad.”

“To celebrate our journey’s end? Well, in a certain way.” Her eyes searched his. “I must pretend to gaiety at that—aye, to myself I must—that we’ve come home and I shall be no more a traveler but once again a very proper duchess.”

“I may not yet proclaim myself a prince.” He shrugged. “But then, I’ve not been one in aught than name since infancy.”

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.