“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 said.
“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 fizzles. “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.”
THE FOREST GLADE.
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 bloodhounds, 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 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 treetops 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 wives’ 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.
A RIDGE ABOVE A VALLEY.
R
IDING
along its crest, Rupert and Will had sunrise and the descent on their left. Brilliance, shadows, and morning fog blurred the bottomland; a thin iron gleam could just be glimpsed. Elsewhere stretched intensely green pasture, speckled by white lady-smocks and golden cuckoo-buds under a sky the hue of harebell. Two cottages were in sight, miles off amidst clumps of trees; closer, a shepherd boy leaned on his crook and gaped at these strangers.
Behind them, to north, the horizon-hidden mills of the new age were beginning to smear heaven.
Rupert thumped heels into the ribs of his horse. “Get on, thou ambling crowbait,” he said to no noticeable effect.
“I’d not condoane mutiny,” Will remarked, “but while my head an’ heart wring their hands at this floutin’ o’ your Highness, my backzide rejoices. My kingdom for a zaddle!”
Rupert eased. “Well,” he laughed, “if thy rear guard wants to preach sedition, let it be downwind of me. What’s this kingdom thou offerest?”
“Why, tha one I’d ride forth for to conquer, as might be in America, did I have a zaddle. Meanwhile, my loard, let’s be content to rock along slow, hearin’ tha larks an’ dumbledores, snuffin’ cool sweetness—though for thic I be better gunned than you, zir, by no few calibers—an’ drawin’ as little heed as we can till we’ve zafely lost ourzelves in countryzide. Than’ll be time for to think o’ luncheon. For now, would tha general caere to break his fast?” Will opened a greasy leather pouch at his belt and fumbled after the bread and cheese within.
Rupert nodded absently, his mind already gone in calculation. “Let me conjure up a map before me,” he
muttered. “Straight overland to Chester, perhaps a hundred miles or somewhat less. We may hope it remains in friendly possession. If not, ’tis at the gateway of North Wales, where the folk are stoutly loyal—”
“My loard!” Will exclaimed. “’Ware!”
Rupert twisted about, clapping fingers to sword. “What?”
Will pushed scraggly straw-colored hair aside to cup an ear. “Rearward. Hounds. D’you hear tham?”
Faintly beneath the rustle of grass around fetlocks, heavy clump of hoofs, carol high overhead, sounded that living music. “Some squire might be after fox,” Rupert said. There was no lilt in his voice. It roughened: “Or deer, today when any clown may rob the King.”
“Maybe,” Will answered skeptically. “Tha’ be nearin’ quick-like.” He slapped his mount’s neck with the rude reins he had fashioned. “Best we pick a hidin’ place. Yonder spinney?”
“That won’t screen us from dogs,” Rupert reminded. “At most, it may help us make a stand. Hoy!” He and his companion beat their animals into a trot.
Presently the huntsmen came up onto the ridge, entering distant view. Sparks glinted eye-hurtingly among them. “That’s sun off armor,” Rupert said.
Will smote palms together. His stubbly features twisted. “Oh, God, General! Tha’ warn’t zuppoased to miss you at tha house for hours yet.”
“It seems they have, though. I can guess how.” Rupert’s own lips bent in anguish. “Poor Jennifer.”
After a moment he shook himself and said to the wind, “Nay. I think I dare hope better. I’ve seen how fondly her uncle’s gaze follows her about—one touch in him not sanctimonious or mechanic, that may make some angel smile—If he punishes her, he’ll not be too severe, surely.”
“Tha’ll be with us,” Will declared. “What’s your counsel, zir?”
The warrior filled Rupert. “Keep moving,” he said. “Find a strong point where we can’t be taken alive, and can make them pay for us—”
“Through my noase.”
“—unless, by happy chance—” Rupert leaned over,
shaded eyes from sun and strained them at the valley floor. The mists were breaking, to show more clearly the railway line and semaphores. “I chose this course ’gainst your advice, Will, because of what’s there, thinking perhaps—Let’s seek downward. More cover, if naught else.” He sent his nag on a slant along the slope.
This concealed the followers for a while. When they again became visible, they were close enough for sharp sight to make out details: eight men in helm and cuirass, one in Puritan civil black, one in a red coat who shouted thinly-heard orders to the pack of hounds. Seeing the two ahead, he winded a bugle.
“Aye, Shelgrave in truth,” Rupert snarled. “He’ll overtake in minutes. Gee-up!
’Raus mit dich!”
Drawing sword, he pricked a bony haunch till its owner lumbered into a gallop. It took horseman’s skill to stay on, bareback. Will lay behind, gripping mane, flailing with flat of blade. The hillside leveled out, the rails drew near. Likewise did the Roundheads, their halloos, and the savage song of their hounds.
A hoot responded. Around a shoulder of the ridge, some two miles north but headed south, came a train.
Rupert’s ring flared in glory. He didn’t notice.
The locomotive puffed, boomed, spouted smoke and sparks, a black monstrosity in that serene landscape; he had rarely seen a sight more beautiful. After it, clacked its tender and half a dozen open, empty cars. It must be bound for a colliery, that the mills be kept fed.
Rupert’s horse snorted and shied. “So-so, my bully,” he soothed. Through knees and hands he let confidence flow. “Ah, good, brave fellow, stout fellow,
echter Knecht
—” Glancing over a shoulder, he saw the mettlesome animals of his pursuers buck, rear, and bolt. Gleefully he cried to Will, “Thanks, man, for choosing stolidness like this!”
Onward. He gauged speeds and distances, made himself into a centaur, reached the rails a few yards and seconds ahead of the engine. Roadbed stones grated beneath hoofs. The driver shouted something indignant, unheard through grunting and clangor. He hauled on a cord; his whistle blasted forth shrillness. Then Rupert’s horse stampeded. But then the prince had come alongside.
Heat, vapor, greasy fumes torrented over him. He grabbed a handrail and swung himself onto the platform.
The driver’s grime-black face opened in terror; his tongue was incredibly pink. The stoker, more bold, whacked with his shovel. Rupert caught the handle in his left hand. He overtopped either of them by nearly a foot. His sword gleamed free. He poked air, gestured a command. The crewmen scrambled onto the fuel heap in their tender. Crouched, gibbering, they saw him work the levers which vented pressure and put on brakes.
The train rocked to a slowdown. Will Fairweather had lost his seat, tumbled stern over bow in the grass. As he crawled up, the staghounds rushed him. He drew saber—
snick, snick, snick,
blood fountained scarlet under the sun, the dogs flopped right and left, the rest of the pack milled in yelping confusion. Meanwhile the Roundheads struggled to keep their saddles.
“Hurry, Will!” Rupert called.
The dragoon pumped his legs. Astoundingly fast for such awkwardness, he reached the locomotive. Rupert jerked a thumb at driver and stoker. They caught his intent and leaped off. Rupert snatched Will’s hand and hauled him aboard. “There’s the firebox,” the prince said. “Shovel those coals like a devil assigned to a Covenanter, if ever thou’dst shovel manure again.”
He made whistle shriek and bell clang to frighten the horses further. Beneath his grip, wheels gathered speed afresh. Will took an instant to bite his thumb at the riders before he started work.
The train was gone when Shelgrave’s party had restored order. They sat for a while staring at each other in a silence broken by the gasps of their mounts. Foam dripped from bits, sweat-smell boiled off lathered flanks. The dogs lay nearly as worn.
“Well, Sir Malachi,” said the kennelmaster at last, “what’s to be done?”
Shelgrave straightened. For all his pallor and blinking eyes, he seemed in that moment more Ironside than any of them. “We signal ahead, of course,” he snapped. “If that fails … I’ll consider what next.” He spurred his animal. It was only capable of a stumbling walk.