A Midsummer Tempest

XXI

A gibbous moon hung above its cliff, turning hoar the treetops. Otherwise they stood black against a sky of hurried thin clouds and flickering stars. The earth below was a well of night, save where a fire burned at the cave mouth. Wind rushed cold and noisy. Sometimes an owl hooted.

The flames leaped, streamed, whirled off in red and yellow rags. Whenever a dry stick popped, sparks torrented. That light picked five uneasily out of shadow. Rupert stood sword at hip, holding the book; furrows gouged his mouth and brows. Beside him Jennifer held a staff taller than she was, its broken halves spliced together by withes tied in an intricate knot. Phosphorescence from the capital, which was carved into a lotus, fell across her widened eyes, half-parted lips, the teeth behind and the pallor around. Ariel poised on a boulder, fingers dug into its moss, wings folded but fluttered at the edges by the wind. Caliban hunkered, a lump; Will Fairweather reared above him, a scaffold; neither could down every sign of dread.

Rupert spoke slowly: “Now we have said our prayers, to ask that God bestow His blessing on the deeds we do and keep our usage lawful of these powers that we have gained from reading gramarie.”

“An’ please doan’t let’em run away from us,” Will added. To his chieftain: “Prince, art thou altogether sure’tis wiase? Thou’st oanly had zome days, a week or two, however long’tis been, to zearch them words.

Oald taeles agree that magic’s liake a stallion,’twill throw his riader, be’a ne’er zo pious, unless’a know just what tha hell’a’s doin’.”

“Hell,” Caliban shuddered, “hu, hu, what’s chillier than hell?”

Rupert frowned at his man. “How often must I tell thee, I well know how little I have learned in this short while of poring over text arcane, complex, beset with ancient words and secret signs? By that same token, I cannot do much in those few spells deciphered—raise clairvoyance, call forth the simple spirits of a land, transport us quickly—that is all I know, if I know even that. Well, who can guess if he has read aright, unless he try? Tonight’s our first attempt, a minor one which, if done wrongly, should at least prove harmless. Ask Ariel. He’s helped me in my work, whilst Jennifer sustained me, and thou boused.”

“He’s right,” said the elf. “But hurry. We must have the moonlight.”

Rupert opened the book. Jennifer shivered. “My darling, art thou frightened?” he asked.

She raised her chin. “Not near thee.”

“Then hold the staff aloft while I read forth, and give it to me when I reach for it.”

Rupert began chanting: “Ye beings quick and unseen, yet as bright as this our fire of oak and ash and thorn, by smoke of herbs and mushrumps rising thence, wherein ye do delight, be drawn to me, and by these words inscribed in pentacle upon the dust from which my flesh has sprung, be bound to strict obedience, under God.” Jennifer passed him the staff. He wrote with its bronze ferrule while voicing: “Adam Te Dageram, Amrtet Algar Algastna—”

The conjuration took a few minutes. At their end, Rupert closed the book, gave it to Jennifer, and called: “This is the task I lay on you: three visions, clear to our sight and hearing, as commanded. First show us in an overview that field in England, from which Ariel lately came to say a battle had begun there. Aleph.”

The fire roared and lifted, became a tree-tall column, split into a ring wildly spinning through lurid reds and blues. Within its vast circle, as if through a window, appeared a scene.

It was the same night, beneath the same moon; perhaps even the wind was the same which drove clouds and whistled over acres. Water gleamed across the darkness of the land, canals, ponds, a river that lapped three sides of a conical height, tiered and skewed by nature, crowned by man with a tower now ruined, which rose sharply above neighbor hills and the flats beyond. Nearby bulked walls, roofs, steeples of a minor town. A few windows still glowed lonely.

Brighter were the camp-fires of an army, two or three miles outside. There guns could be seen, wagons, animals, tents of officers, gleams which must be off the pikes and armor of sentries.

“Oh, Glastonbury!” Will cried. “Oh, naught but Glastonbury! Aye, look: tha elven-haunted Tor—tha abbey—Wearyall Hill, where grows tha thorn o’ Joseph—Mine own hoame lies off yonderwards—my Nell—My Nell an’ every kid of ours, my loves, has war come by, an’ me not there for help?” He sank to his knees, buried face in knobbly hands, and wept like a barking seal.

The view swept nearer, as if the watchers swooped. Over ravaged leagues the revelation flew. Now it drew close to linger a moment, now fled from what it found.

Jennifer bit her fist, not to whimper with the agony of those sights, and huddled inside Rupert’s free arm.

Caliban squatted slack-jawed, sometimes lifting a paw as if to poke, never quite venturing it. Ariel escaped aloft and fluttered bat-fashion in the blast.

A heap of dead stiffened ashen under the moon. A drummer boy lay by himself in his own tangled entrails; the wind ruffled his fair locks, while ants marched over his eyeballs to his tongue. A horse kept screaming, the remnant of a man kept begging for water that there was none to give; neither could die. A cannon yawned uselessly, spiked; among the balls it had never fired was a shorn-off human head. Someone’s Bible lay in the mud, open but covered with blood and vomit. A cripple crawled along, trailing a shattered leg he had rudely bound up; the cold had gotten to him, his teeth clapped and frost was in his beard. The wind and the wounded sang Miserere.

“What has man done,” Ariel asked heaven, “that he deserves himself?”

“ ’Tis war, thus cruel,” Rupert told Jennifer, “though one can die worse, or live worse yet, a slave—Hold on! What’s here? The image closes on an army, camped—”

Several men sat around a fire, perhaps on call, perhaps too exhausted for sleep. Grimy, unshaven, a couple of them bandaged, they held palms toward coals and exchanged low words. They were outfitted in buff coats and heads were close-cropped. “They’re Parliament,” Rupert said starkly. “Our foe then holds the field.”

The ring contracted to a pillar, which sank to a common blaze. Jennifer uttered a cry, Caliban grunted in surprise, Will lifted his wet countenance, Ariel flew downward.

Rupert had stayed moveless. “So ends the vision, murky as our hopes,” he stated. “Well, we have two to go. Let’s on with it.”

The hovering sprite regarded him through red glow and shifty shadows. “Thou hast a hardy soul,” Ariel declared at length. “I am a soldier.” Rupert raised the staff. “Next show our chiefest enemies in council,” he ordered, “most recently, if not this instant. Beth.”

Again they looked into a fiery circle. The Puritan camp appeared—evidently earlier in time, for some embers of sunset smoldered and the moon hunched low. Sight rushed past guards to a pavilion, and through its canvas. There it steadied.

Two men sat by lamplight, in conversation over a small table strewn with maps, dispatches, notes. One was a Roundhead officer, to judge from his bearing and russet coat: a strong-built person whose homely features grew mustache, chin-tuft, and warts. The other wore civil black, tall hat on knees, and appeared older though remaining trim. His skull was domed and bald; grayish eyes blinked in the sharp face.

Jennifer cried out again. “Mine uncle—guardian—”

“Shelgrave!” Rupert snarled. He recovered himself. “Fear him not. He’s far away; and thou’rt no more his care but mine, forever after.” He waved his companions to silence. “Hush. They speak.”

The officer—he looked like such an ordinary squire—said: “Of course you’re welcome, Sir Malachi. The service your manufacturies and railroads have done our cause do more than overbalance the escape of that prisoner.” He made a stern smile. “Anyhow, naught having happened yet about him, I suspect Hot Rupert lies long since cooled in a ditch, his throat cut by some fellow rogue—which, to be frank, spares us considerable trouble… Well, what brings you here, this far west and south, and on the day of battle?”

Shelgrave must have rehearsed his speech, for he got it out crisply. “What I have to say, General Cromwell, may sound feverish, yea, verging on heresy. Nonetheless, I beg you, remember from when we both sat in Parliament.” He leaned forward. “I’ll freely explain everything in fullest particulars, and confirm it by a clergyman of unquestionable reputation, who was directly concerned himself. He accompanied me hither, though at present he’s unfortunately carriage-sick. Together we’ll testify what witchcraft is Rupert’s. You know he was called a wizard, who kept familiars and—Well,’tis true, and more than true.”

“Go on,” said Cromwell quietly when he paused. “We’ll give you circumstantial accounts, General, of how Rupert ensorcelled my niece, my ward, into setting him free; how they received hex-rings from woodland demons; how Rupert and a confederate crossed this island, eluded hounds, and vanished; how they reappeared in Tunis, the guests of Papist nobles; and how again they’ve left, after commissioning equipment of unknown purpose but ill foreboding.”

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!”

“You are no walking rack to hang a crown on,” Legge added, “but the embodiment of countless hopes.”

Maurice glanced around the table. “If we’ve lost England, we’ve not lost the world,” he said. “We may yet get our King across the Channel. For that, we can’t stay in this rat-trap burgh. Let’s move, before the enemy can act”—he pointed at night and height—“to yonder hill. Dug in upon its crest, we can cast back a hundredfold assault.”

“Then lie besieged,” snorted Eythin. “They’ll thirst and starve us out.”

Maurice nodded. “Aye. But we will have bought those days, you know—mayhap to smuggle him away disguised; mayhap to raise the peasants in our aid and cut a seaward road like Xenophon; mayhap—I cannot tell. We’ll likely fail. But surely we will fail, attempting naught.”

Their eyes went to the King. For a space he stared at his fingers locked on the table before him. At last he sighed: “The prince has right. Ridiculous it is. Yet for the sake of folk who’ve trusted us, if God allow, we’ll raise our exile banner, that they may dream defeat will have an end.”

He rose, went to the window, stood gazing out with hands clasped behind his back. Most softly he spoke.

“There will be other times, my comrades. There will be a day of trumpets. This we must believe. Now when all flags guide corpses to the sea, and ships lie hollow on a smoking shore, broken of bone, and windy shadows weave a dark about tall widows turning whore to feed gashed children, I must say that more days shall remain than hobnailed victors thieve. And if our iron’s broken, there’s still ore—stones of our sharded cities lying free to sharpen it—and if you should perceive rust and the dimness in us, do it silently.”

The vision guttered out, and the fire beneath.

Rupert shouted into night: “We must away to England ere too late!”

“Too late for what?” fluted Ariel.

“To help, or die for him.”