“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 girclass="underline" “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.
IX
Riding 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 down-wind 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.”