A Midsummer Tempest

VIII

It was unadorned red brick, floor sloping to a gutter which drained into the moat. Above an open hearth with a flue reached a swivel-mounted hook for the great kettle wherein water was heated. Firewood lay stacked beside. Nearby stood a raised counter and sink. Elsewhere buckets, tubs, tools, utensils crowded shelves or hung on walls. The gleam of copper, the deep tints of crockery made this the cheeriest room in the house.

Late at night it had grown cold, though. Sir Malachi Shelgrave’s breath puffed white. The clatter of his shoesoles stopped when he did, but got answered by the creak of the door to outside. Shadows swung monstrous as he raised his lantern.

Jennifer came through. Seeing him, she caught one tattered breath and swayed backward.

“Hold, slut!” he belled. “Stand where thou art or be run down.”

She could not completely obey. She crumpled. Legs sprawled across the floor showed slim through rents in a stained and dripping skirt. Stiff-elbowed on hands, head fallen between hunched shoulders, locks tumbled around cheeks, she let dry sobs quake through her.

Shelgrave loomed above. “I see why God kept me awake this night,” he said deep in his throat, “that from my towertop I might espy thee come slinking o’er the bridge tow’rd this back entrance thou must have left unlatched—how many hours?” Violently: “Speak, harlot!”

Still she fought for strength and air. He set lantern on counter. Stooping through the glooms, he seized a fistful of hair and yanked her head back upward. His other palm cracked her cheeks, right, left, right, left.

Her neck rocked beneath the blows.

“What foul swineherd hast thou sought,” he panted, “to wallow with him in what mucky sty? Ungrateful Jezebel, thou’lt get no peace till I have squeezed the pus of truth from thee.”

“I did no wrong,” she got out, gasp by gasp through the punishment. “I… swear to God—”

He released her and straightened, spraddle-legged, knuckles on hips. The tall hat cast a mask across his face, through which glistened eyeballs. “What, then?”

“I too tossed sleepless,” coughed from her, “thought a walk might help… unthinking wandered far, and…

. lost my way—”

“A maid alone, out after dark? Go to!”

She lifted her arms. “I pray thee, uncle, by the bonds between us—”

Light flashed off the third finger of her left hand. Shelgrave pounced on that wrist. He gripped it abundantly hard to draw a wail of pain. For a minute he stared, before he snatched it off. She nursed the hurt against her mouth. The finger was red where he had skinned it in his haste. Her eyes upon him were those of a trapped doe.

“Who gave thee this?” he whispered at last. Over and over he turned it. The stone sparkled like any costly gem. A yell: “I’ll have no further lies!”

She huddled mute. He raised a foot as if to stamp her teeth. She braced herself against the wall, arms and knees drawn up for shield, and waited.

He lowered the foot. “A royal thing,” he mumbled “Is’t from the Prince of Lies—?” Shock made him lurch.

“The prince. Prince Rupert—” He whirled and roared: “Nafferton, awake! What butler art thou, snoring in the bed while hell walks loose? Ho, Nafferton, to me!” Echoes flew hollow around. Faintly came the barking of the aroused watchdogs.

Nightshirted, his butler fumbled from unlit corridor and kitchen into the scullery. “Go to the guards outside Prince Rupert’s room,” Shelgrave ordered. “Find out if he is there. Be quick, thou whelp!”

“Aye, sir.” The man’s jaws clattered. “Let me but light a candle at your lantern.’Tis deathly dark.”

“Make haste, or learn of death.” Shelgrave snatched a carving knife off a rack.

Gaze averted from Jennifer, Nafferton got a taper kindled and fled.

Shelgrave stared at the girl. She watched him test the knife edge on a thumb, over and over. A smile of sorts stretched his mouth. “What else might send thee forth at midnight, eh?” he said.’’Twas plain as filth that thou’d grown overfond of him, that royal devil. This day past, against mine own command, thou sought’st him out.”

“There was no secret in it, uncle, none.” Her tongue tried to moisten lips but her voice remained parched and uneven, scarcely to be heard. “How could there be? I knew that thou wouldst learn. I frankly told the guards how I had lost a keepsake from my mother I had shown him and thought might lie forgotten in his room. They let me in. We spoke in their full view, he helped me search around a little while, we found it not… whereon I said farewell.”

“And at the farther side of that apartment, when curtains of his bed or his broad back screened off the soldiers’ glance for just a heartbeat—did he then slip this ring between thy paps?” Shelgrave tapped it with the knife. A clear little chime went under the hysteria of dogs, the thick hush everywhere else in these shadows.

Jennifer climbed stiffly to her feet. She must lean on a wall to stay upright, and the breath whined in and out of her. But she lifted her head and answered with more steadiness than before.

“Thou’st guessed aright. A token of… his love. I meant to keep it hidden till the peace… but this night I could not forbear—”

“Well, traitress,” he interrupted savoringly, “befouler of the house that sheltered thee, what say we cut the nipples from those dugs lest thou shouldst nurse a devil-brat of his, or make thee noseless like so many whores?”

“No, no, God help me!” She choked off the scream, filled her lungs, squared shoulders; and the eyes which met his were now lynx-green. “I have rights in law,” she snapped. “Hale me before a jury if thou wilt. What else thou pratest of would outlaw thee.”

He cast the knife down so it rattled across the bricks. “I have a guardian’s right, at least, thou wanton, to strip thee bare and flog thy back and butt till such foresmack of hell has chastened thee.”

An approaching uproar swung their attention to the kitchen entrance. Out of it burst a halberdier. The cresset he had snatched from a bracket in the tower streamed red gleams across helmet, cuirass, and a face whose strictness had well-nigh dissolved in terror. Behind him came Nafferton, and other servants wakened by the noise. They dared not venture into the scullery; they crowded the arch-way instead. “Sir Malachi, your prisoner is gone!” the soldier bawled. Coldness descended upon Shelgrave. “Thou’rt sure?” he asked.

“We ransacked every inch at once when your word came to look inside for him.” The man groaned aloud.

“The rest still search—there is no trace to see—How might he have escaped? We heard no sound. It must be true he is a black magician.

What bat-wings bore him off?”

“Cease whimpering,” Shelgrave said. “No fiend has power over godliness.”

“But I… I am a sinner.”

“Thou’rt a man. Go bid thy squad make ready to pursue, likewise the day watch and my kennel-master.

We’ll ride within the hour.”

“Into the dark?”

“The dawn’s not far. And every moment’s priceless for picking up a scent ere it grow cold.” Shelgrave leaned toward Jennifer and whispered, “Thy stench at first… or Rupert’s if they’re mingled. We’ve articles aplenty ye’ve both used.” Louder: “Get busy, there! Light up the house, pack food, prepare as for the chasing of a wolf. Thou, Nafferton, send Prudence Whitcomb hither”—he paused briefly for thought—“and Sim the undergroom.” A babble and surging had started. He raised arms to quiet it, glowered, and said, each word a hammerblow: “Have care, ye folk. Ye’ve kept the secret well that he was here, the Devil’s dragon pet. I charge you now, on pains more dire, keep still that he is gone. It would encourage the iniquitous. Nay, wait till he is safely off in chains to London. Then make known what trust was ours.” He chopped a hand in signal. They dispersed. Though the sound of their runnings and callings grew greater, and light seeped in ever more bright as flames were brought to life, Shelgrave and Jennifer had a while alone. He said to her almost sadly: “Do not insult the wounds thou’st given me by claiming thou hadst naught to do with this.”

She answered in the same quiet tone. “Nay, it is true. I’d planned a ruse of war. By hiding of my ring and new-made rags, I hoped discovery would be belated and nowise linked to me. Did not Our Lord command that man and wife forsake all others?”

He started. “What went between you?”

“Less than I would wish,” she sighed.

“How didst thou aid him? Unforgivably?”

“A rope let fall from underneath my skirt, a note which said that I would soothe the dogs and guide him to the hiding woods. Naught else.”

“This ring gives thee the lie, I think. There’s more. But if thou wilt deny on Bible oath—”

She shook her head.

“Nay? Then I must presume a deeper thing than fancies of a brach in heat: like withcraft. This serpent ring could be the sign of Satan, and Rupert freed by wizardry, not wiles.” He brought fingers near her throat.

“If thou hast strayed that far tow’rd hell, recall what Scripture plainly bids:’Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’ “

She closed eyes and fists, opened both, and said, “I swear to thee by Christ I am not such. Now I will speak no further.”

“Thou’lt change thy mind.” Shelgrave looked about. A man, ugly, unkempt, and smelling of manure, slouched in the outer doorway.

“You wanted me?” he asked.

“Aye, Sim,” Shelgrave replied. “I’ve seen thee curbing stubbornness in beasts.’Tis work that thou enjoyest.

Bide a bit.”

The wait was short until Prudence arrived. It might have been shorter had her proprieties not demanded a hasty gowning. She had overlooked her hair, which flew in gray frizzles. “What is’t, Sir Malachi?” she asked from the arch: then, spying Jennifer, hurried toward her, arms outstretched. “Oh, poor dear lamb! Where hast thou been? And bruises on thy cheeks—”

“Have done.” Shelgrave’s tone checked her. “She is no lamb, this swart she-goat that slipped the wolf we kept loose from his cage.”

Prudence clapped hands to mouth, pop-eyed. Sim tittered. Jennifer confronted them.

“I’m on my way for his recapturing,” Shelgrave said. “Meanwhile, ye two take her into your charge. Abuse her not, but keep her close confined in her own chamber, seeing no one else. She may have food but never, never sleep.”

“I can’t do that, though she be sold to hell,” Prudence protested.

“I can,” Sim declared avidly.

“I tell ye, harm her not… as yet,” Shelgrave instructed. “However, when she starts to drowse, then shake, or shout, or pinch, pour water on her head—” To the girl: “It is the mildest ordeal that I know. I wonder if thou’lt dare to thank the God Whom thou’st betrayed, that I am merciful.” Curtly to the others: “Be off with her. I’m off upon my hunt.”

Above solid blacknesses of trees, stars wheeled silently toward dawn. Though soaked with dew, the grass showed dim gray, the standing stone mottled leaden. Mists drifted ghost-pale.

Racket ripped their quiet. Dogs bayed, men shouted, horns clamored. In trampling of hoofs and crashing of brush, the pursuers broke through.

“Holla, halt!” Shelgrave shouted. He had lost his hat in the woods; the dome of his head gleamed tombstone white. “The hounds’re going wild!”

They were in truth ramping and roaring about the open ground. The kennelmaster sprang from his saddle, flailed his whip among them. “Heel, heel!” he called into their chaos. Shelgrave’s steed, skittish as the rest of the half score, drew close. The keeper raised glance from pack to leader and cried, “They’ve caught some scent’round here that maddens them.”

“A fiend,” wavered a voice from the stormy shadow-mass of the troop. “May heaven pity us this night.”

“Hell gulp that fiend!” Shelgrave rapped. “ ’Tis Rupert’s slot we want.” His horse screamed and reared. He leaned into stirrups and reins, slugged the animal to a halt.

Likewise did the kennelmaster beat order back into his charges. They were a dozen, mostly blood-hounds, three tall staghounds among them, disciplined and not long to be daunted. Akin in that much, the Roundhead riders brought their mounts under control. The one which had no man upon it still stamped and whinnied, but a gauntleted hand clamped firm on its bridle.

Armor sheened fitfully; otherwise the band were murky blurs. “Sir Malachi,” a man ventured, “this was exhausting work, to grope through lightlessness—”

“We had a path,” Shelgrave retorted.

“Most of the way. But nonetheless, we’re worn. Were it not wiser to await the sun?”

“Our quarry hasn’t.” Shelgrave stiffened. “What’s that sound I hear?”

A wicked snickering raced around the glade. The mists swirled thicker, into nasty shapes. Hounds growled and huddled close together. Horses grew restless anew. The rank smell of their sweat blent with the sourness of man’s.

“We’ve fumbled to forbidden ground, I fear,” the kennelmaster whispered. “Look yonder.” He pointed.

Everywhere among the trees, whose twigs bent over the Milky Way like claws, wavered dull-blue lights.

“Corposants, those lures of death.” The stillness seemed to deepen beneath stridencies. “Owls hoot and ravens croak too hungrily.”

“Sir Malachi, let’s home,” implored a soldier, “if yet we may.”

Shelgrave drew his sword. “Who does forbid this place?” he said. “At worst, some spooks. What do you fear the more, their puny spite or wrath of God for scuttling from your duty? Whip on those curs! A trail must lead from here.”

A horn sounded, far off but rapidly nearing. Though no breath of the dank air moved, there went a noise of great winds and of hoofbeats in the sky.

With spurs and crop, Shelgrave made his horse carry him around the rim of the glade. He slashed at the brush and branches. “Take that in your uncleanness, that, and that!” he yelled above the chopping. “If ye have power, here I am for target.”

The dogs plucked boldness from his example. The kennelmaster held two by their collars and let them cast about. Meanwhile he, like his companions, kept peering uneasily aloft.

The din overhead became a storm. Skulls rang to that unseen gale, thunder of gallop and howl of wolves.

Huge over the tree tops passed a rider. They could just see the antlers on his head, raking across stars gone alien. His horn-blast tore through their guts.

“Herne the Wild Hunter!” shrieked a man. He hauled on reins, wheeled his plunging horse, and made for home.

Shelgrave was near. He spurred his own beast, came alongside, gripped shoulder, and heaved. The Roundhead fell from the saddle, struck ground, rolled over, and sat dazedly up.

Meanwhile the heaven-rider had vanished. They heard his noise dwindle until Shelgrave’s scorn clanged more loud: “Aye, maybe’twas him—that old wive’s yatter, bogle fit for babies, whom fat Jack Falstaff wore the aspect of. It brought him the mistreatment he deserved… at human hands. D’ye hear me? Human, human! No doubt’tis true that Rupert is in league with hell, whose minions now would seek to thwart us. But since we broke his cause on Marston Moor and sent his shattered bandits scattering—behold how impotent hell really is! These heathen spirits of the wilderness are sapless, if they only can send visions. Ignore them, or else curse them if ye think they’re worth the trouble; never stop to fear them.” He reared his horse. His blade flared on high. “The hounds are baying. Ironsides, away! We’ll have the sun erelong to see our prey.”

They lifted a cheer, ragged at first, swelling as the sounds around them ceased. The dogs found scent and settled into a lope along a deer path. The kennelmaster and the toppled guardsman resumed their saddles and fell in. Shelgrave commenced a hymn of war. Soon the deep voices behind him had joined.