“Oh, nay, I don’t. That is acceptable. It has indeed been known since ancient times. Why, even in a dim and pagan Britain, before the Romans came, the fact stood forth.”
Rupert’s resentment drowned in interest. “How so?”
“Did not the anguished Lear cry out,’Strike flat the thick rotundity o the world!’? I dare not claim the great Historian divinely was inspired; but with most scholars, I do believe he rendered truth exactly.”
“I’ve often wondered,” said Rupert in some excitement. “On the Continent so many records flamed away with Rome that he’s well-nigh the only source we have… for an existence back in Grecian times of a first Kingdom of Bohemia, which had a seacoast, or a prior Russia. But did he draw on fact or on mere legend?
How can tradition keep inviolate the virgin truth down tempting centuries?”
“When it is borne by God’s own chosen people,” Shelgrave answered solemnly. “They are the English, he their chronicler.”
The ghost of a grin flickered on Rupert’s mouth. “Well, I am half an Englishman. Say on.”
Shelgrave paced back and forth, hands gripped beneath his coattails, talking rapidly. “How else will you account for English folk—and such they are, in character and speech, both elevated nobles and low commons—before the walls of Troy, in Theseus’ Athens, in Rome and later Italy, in Denmark—save that the English race has spread out north from some old southern land which they must leave? And when we study well our English Bible,’tis plain to see who our ancestors were: none but the ten lost tribes of Israel!
Descendants who did settle by the way have melted into those localities and thus have mostly lost their pristine nature. But in far Britain they have stayed themselves, no matter Roman, Saxon, Dane, or Norman—who’re after all related in the blood. And though they were beguiled by many lies, like Israelites since days of Abraham, they always kept a seed of truth alive, which flowered in the great Historian.”
Rupert tugged his chin. “It may be so.… I slept once in his house.”
Shelgrave halted. “You did?”
“A year ago upon this month. The Queen had lately made return to England with troops and money. I escorted her to Oxford where her royal husband was. It happened that we spent a night in Stratford. His own granddaughter and her man inhabit the selfsame dwelling, and they made us welcome. Next day I said a prayer at his grave.”
Rupert leaned again on the battlements. Before his eyes lay the gracious remnants of the abbey. He half pointed. “If you are deep into antiquity,” he asked, “why do you seek to blot its glories out?”
Shelgrave joined him. The Puritan’s voice harsh-ened. “We will restore the true antiquity—Jehovah of the Thunders—and His Son who scourged the money changers from the temple—alone in heaven and in the soul of man. My lord, I thought you were a Protestant.”
“I am a Christian first,” Rupert replied, still soft-spoken. “In spite of errors, yon walls have been a fortress of the truth.”
“When once this man-consuming war is past, I’ll have them razed, plow up their very dead, and house mine iron engine on the site.”
“Barbaric! Why?”
“To keep away the spooks that still are seen ofttimes by trusty men to haunt those ruins and the wildwood there.” Shelgrave gestured across his land. “ ’Tis true the Roman Church at first was pure, when good Augustine preached unto the Saxons. But in the Serpent crept with heresies and paganisms—worst in Western realms, where Celtic so-called Christians held their rites in Ireland, Wales, and Glastonbury itself—”
“They say that Glastonbury was Avalon.”
“If so, it grew corrupted after Arthur. And likewise hereabouts, the Catholics soon made their peace with diehard heathen ways. A saint and not a god went forth in spring to bless the fields—what was the difference? The May and Morris dances were obscene, and Christmas nothing but a solstice feast. The folk continued to make offering of corn and milk and rites unto the elves, the while their priests did wink at it—aye, claimed that Puck himself became a Christian sprite!”
Shelgrave plucked Rupert’s sleeve. “Make no mistake,” he hissed, “they do exist, those things, as witches do, and fiends, and Lucifer, to mock the Lord and spring the traps of hell. I have a German book that you should read, Malleus Maleficarum, which explains it, and tells what tortures will call forth the truth, that fire and water then may cleanse out evil or rope and bolster smother it.”
Rupert considered him for a while, under moon and stars, before he said: “And yet you are a student of astronomy! I think I’d best go downstairs to my cell.”
IV
Beyond its walls hung gray weather, sun hidden behind overcast and occasional drizzle. Cattle, grazing in a nearby paddock, were a fantastic red upon deep green. Through an open window rawness invaded, against which popped the musketry of a hearthfire.
Rupert had been figurative in describing his quarters. The chamber was broad, comfortably furnished, its brick padded by rugs and tapestries. But he had shoved most things aside to make space for a worktable.
There he stood driving a burin across the wax on a copper plate. From time to time he took a bite of bread and meat or a swig from an ale cup.
A rap resounded on the door, barely to be heard through oak and iron massiveness. Rupert grunted annoyance. It evaporated when Jennifer appeared. One of the sentries on the staircase posted himself in the entrance.
“Why, welcome, lady. What a fine surprise.” The prince bowed. Though he wore stained smock, breeches, and slippers, while her garb was costly if plain and dark, his was the courtliness. She flushed, twisted fingers together and dropped her gaze.
Rupert stretched cramped muscles. “What should I thank for this?” he asked. With a grin: “And where’s your keeper?”
“I… slipped from her,” the girl whispered. “She never would have come.”
“Aye, rustle in her starch and sanctity into my den of brimstone? Hardly Prudence!” Rupert laughed aloud.
“But why’ve you come to visit this first time in these four sennights I’ve been counting here?” His merriment faded. Advancing to loom over her, he said carefully, “Your uncle doesn’t like it very well, in spite of saying naught—I know the signs—he doesn’t like that we are much together in walking, talking, playing chess or draughts, you singing to the pipe of my recorder… and that’s in public view—” He remembered the Round-head in the doorway and gave him a wry look, repaid in acid. “Ah, well, you have a chaperone of sorts.”
“There is no need.” She spoke toward her clasped hands. “Your Highness is an honorable man. I came… because you’ve long been shut away.… I feared you might be sick.” The green eyes lifted in search. “But you look hale.”
“I am.”
“Thank God.” It was no command—a prayer. “ ’Twas sweet of you to fret. Since we’ve been having such a rainy spell that naught’s to do outdoors, my restlessness has turned itself to art, as erst in Linz, and soon I was too captured by the work to wish to leave it, and sent out for food.” Rupert studied the girl. “Now instantly I know how I have missed you.”
“Oh—” She swallowed. “May I see what you are doing, Highness?”
“An etching of St. George against the dragon, not yet triumphant but still locked in strife.” She accompanied him to the table. Untrained, her look was mainly to the drawing from which he worked. “How marvelously real,” she breathed. “And suitable to this our age,” he said, turning grim. “Well, thank you, Jennifer.” He tried to shake the mood off. “Will you not seat yourself awhile and chat?”