Despite the weather, some soldiers had stripped to the waist. Sweat shone through the dirt on them. These men who man this post of guns court deafness, he thought. How bloodshot glare their eyes from powder soot; how weary must they be from hour on hour, unknowing when they may be blown apart—yet still bombard their King in honest effort, methodical, indomitable, English.
“Halt!” challenged the ensign. “Who comes hither? To your muskets, boys!”
“Why,’a’s no ancient,” Will muttered; “hear his voice go squeak.”
Rupert stopped. No matter his disarray, in the saddle he towered overwhelmingly above them. “Three scouts sent forth to probe the area,” he announced. “The aerostats have spied what well may be the founding of an enemy emplacement. Cease firing whilst we dash on high to look; stand ready, though, to cover our retreat.”
“Aye, sir.” The youth saluted. “You’re valiant, risking—”
Jennifer. Rupert smote fist in palm. “I’ll take the lead, and Will the rear,” he said. “Ride on!”
He spurred his animal.
Up over the rough ground he went, a jarring gallop where sparks flew from stones and the breath of the beast came hoarse through boom of more distant cannon. Ahead loomed a wall of brush and scrub woods.
Who loured behind? Dear God, he prayed, if Royal lead must bring me down, let it be me indeed, not her, not her!… I know, I hope our friends will hold their fire, astonished, curious, at this lonesome three… Well, if they don’t—O Jesus, keep her safe.
“Shoot not at us, King Charles’s men!” he shouted out of full lungs. “Stand by! It is Prince Rupert of the Rhine come back!”
He unbuckled the morion which sat so badly on his too-big head and cast it aside. Cut from a shirt and tied underneath was a white cockade, his olden sign. Down spilled the black locks, around that face which many should remember.
A bullet buzzed near. The artillerymen had realized something was amiss. But at extreme range, and they not trained musketeers—He crashed through leafage. Withes whipped horse and rider, drawing blood.
Then suddenly men surrounded him, no different from their enemies to see, but crying aloud: “It is Prince Rupert! Rupert has returned! Protect him with your bodies, him and these! Bring him at once, the prince before the King!”
Nothing else remained of the Chapel of St. Michael on the Tor. Its roof was gone and holes were more broad than empty windows, where shots had battered through. Cloud-shuttered sunlight entered more weakly than did the gun-grumble. Yet those olden walls were the sole shield there was for the sovereign of Britain.
He stood like a miniature, or like a much larger man seen through the wrong end of a telescope, in front of his captains and councilors. They were grim and begrimed, their backbones slumped, the rags which clung to them soured by the sweat of days. Charles was no less gaunt and sunken-eyed. But his little body kept erect; dust seemed almost an ornament upon combed hair, trim beard, lace and plum velvet of Cavalier garb; and the bandage across his brow might well have been a crown.
Guards at the doorway stamped pike butts on floorstones. Rupert entered, Jennifer and Will shyly behind, among a tumult of men who shouted their tidings. Down on one knee before his uncle, the warrior still was close to overtopping him.
“Your Majesty, I am come home to serve you,” he said.
Charles’s tranquility broke asunder. He shook as he embraced the other. “Be welcome, welcome, triply welcome, Rupert! Arise. Thou spokest truth. Here is thy home.” To those around: “Make free, his friends!
Rejoice while still ye can.”
Some held back, stating formalities. Even today, when nothing seemed left for their losing, they had no love for the meteor which had shaken their military firmament. Lord Eythin bustled to the doorway, rattling: “Out, out, ye rabble! Cram not in. Go back where ye belong, upon the firing line,” and got several sergeants to help him enforce this. Meanwhile, the rest swarmed around Rupert. Maurice cast himself into his brother’s arms. They pounded backs, swore sulfurous Dutch, German, French, Bohemian oaths, and scarcely heard William Legge say, “We thought thee dead. If heaven has kept stored the prayers for thee, already thou’rt a saint.”
“You’re prating like a Papist, Legge,” Eythin growled. He windmilled his arms at Rupert’s companions.
“Forth! Out!”
“Not those, my two beloved followers.” Rupert elbowed aside the Scot, who stood speechless in his indignation. Turning to King Charles, Rupert went on, above diminishing voices and confusion: “Your Majesty, without the pair of them, I’d lie in chains or head-foreshortened coffin. Not only did they pluck me freedom’s flower as a free gift of love and loyalty, but fearlessly fared far and far away to stare down strangeness in its inmost lair. The weapons they’ve brought back to fight for you belike have scanty power in this world; but in your heart, my lord, the Royal standard will fly eternally victorious through knowing you have subjects such as these.”
Jennifer clung to his arm. “Oh, Rupert, nay,” she whispered. “We were two sparks at most, struck from thy flint and steel.”
Will shuffled his feet. “Doan’t puff us up,” he added. “We’d bust liake bladders flailed against a zword.”
Maurice scratched his head. “What cookery of metaphors is this?”
Silence fell over the gathered noblemen and soldiers. The bombardment sounded unreal. Charles held out his hand. “If such they be,” he told his nephew, “I crave of thee the honor of learning what their names and stations are.”
His courtly reserve cracked again when the smaller one curtsied. Rupert had to smile. “This is no lad you see before you, sir,” the prince explained. “She is a maid hight Jennifer Alayne, and she will be my bride if God allows that we outlive this war.” Defiantly: “A commoner,’tis true, but worthy to be made a princess.
Likewise Will Fair-weather, a humble crofter, could supply heart”—his gaze raked his rivals—“to fifty thousand dukes.”
Charles stood thoughtful a moment before he also smiled, in grave wise, and addressed the two: “If this be so—and Rupert’s ever truthful; as starkly truthful as a battle-ax—why, then, you’re welcome, less to these poor quarters than to the throne-room of my regnant soul.” He kissed the girl’s hand. “My lady, if thou hast no near male kin, may I bestow thee on the wedding day?” (She burned in bewilderment and glory. ) To the man: “And thou… art William called Fairweather, right? This is no time to speak of peerages, estates, or any other mortal gift. But if thou wilt swear service to the Crown—’tis but a form, I’m sure thou’lt understand—”
No less confused than Jennifer, Will blurted,”’Foare God an’ Christ, I’ll ever zarve my King.”
“Then kneel.” Will obeyed? Charles drew blade to touch him on shoulders and head. “For our own honor more than thine, here in this hallowed place we make thee knight. Arise and be Sir William Fairweather.”
The man reeled to his feet and stood trembling. “Me? Kniaght? Liake thic there Lancelot? Can’t be!” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What’ll Nell zay whan she do hear o’ this? Oh, zir, thou’st maede me blubber liake a baebe.”
Rupert, Maurice, Legge, and some others pressed in to congratulate him. They could not take long about it.
Jennifer drew him aside and held him as a sister might, while Rupert stood before King and court.
“Lord, I have weeks to tell you of in minutes,” the prince said. “I’d fain discuss them privily with you and certain councilors who’ll stay discreet—Nay, best we two alone; no jealousies. I’ll hope that you’ll believe, and not recoil, and reach a calm decision what to do.