“I’eard, sir,” she said. “Ow you air a soldier weeth the brave preence.”
“You’ve heard no moare than tha beginnin’… ah—?”
“Nina Valdes, attendant to’er Grace.” They swapped sidelong glances and simpers.
“Spanish, hey? Well, I ben’t prejudiced. A man be what’e be, zays I, an’ a woman be what she be, an’ thank tha good God for thic.”
“Oh no, sir. Not Spanish. Tunisian.”
Will, who had left off his helmet, ran fingers through his sandy locks. “I’zooth? Aye, I do miand me, Rupert—I call him Rupert’tween us, we bein’ liake brothers e’er zince a day I’ll tell you of if you list—’a did bespeak yonder flag by zome zuch word. But ha’n’t I heard Tunis be Moorish? An’, comin’ to think on’t, doan’t moast o’ yon men have an unchristian look about’em?”
“A lifetime ago, sir, Don Juan of Austria deed conquair Tunis and es-stab-leeshed a keengdom. Most of the subjects air paynim steell, but the rulers air Chreestians of Spanish descent. Eet ees no beeg realm, w’erefore you’ave not’eard more of eet—although our Queen Claribel ees daughtair to the royal’ouse of Napoli—Naples, you say.”
“What you do not zay is’zir’ to me.” Because her hand rested chubby on the rail, he laid his over it. “Plain Will’s planty good, Nina, uh, Nina.”
The boatswain came to nudge him. “We’ve found a place for thee in the foc’s’le,” he said; doubtless he had once had a berth on an English vessel.
“Tha what?” Will sputtered. “Have a caere o’ thy language, fellow. Heare be a gently reared maiden.”
“Come see thy hammock,” said the boatswain impatiently, “and settle which mess thou’lt be in.”
Will folded himself in a bow at Nina. “Mesim’a wants to feed me,” he said, “and I be hungry for sure, even if hamhocks on this queasy riade do indeed zound like a mess—yet not one half zo hungry as I’ll be to rejine thee.”
“Oo-oo-ooh!” she tittered, and watched him till he had gone below.
XV
This was a broad-beamed craft with high, ugly superstructure and stubby masts. Its sails were furled; paddlewheels churned on either side, engine puffed and clanked, hull shivered, stack vomited smoke.
Elsewhere sunlight fell extravagant over wings of gulls cruising and mewing through blueness, greens and purples and snow-whites of water, other vessels dancing past, chalk cliffs receding astern, castle-crowned above clustered red roofs. Wind frolicked.
Jennifer stood at the rail, looking aft. Beneath the hood of a gray traveling cloak, her face showed pale, though she had regained weight and some life in her eyes. Nearby, in Puritan civil garb, her eight warders poised, paced, or sat on a bench. The area was partly walled off by a cabin and bales of deck cargo.
And now good-by to thee as well, dear Dover, she thought: dear even if I hardly glimpsed thee more than from a coach or window of my room within our hostel—for I scented salt, spied stocking caps on heads of fishermen, heard honest clogs resound on cobblestones, and English voices, English heartiness; and Cornwall came back to me in a wave. O Rupert, when thou first wast here, a youth, was it but countryside and brilliant court which made thee fall so hard in love with England, or did the English people speak to thee?
Shy words came as if prompted: “My lady, can’t this brightness touch your grief?”
Turning, she saw the young man—hardly more than a boy, nor much taller than she—who had ventured out from among her keepers. “What’s that to thee, Sword-of-the-Lord, thou Gerson?” she flung.
He flushed, beneath cropped fair hair, like any scolded child. “ ’Tis… pain, my lady… caged and useless here,” he stammered, laying a fist above his heart, “e’en as’twas joy to watch your health return.”
“From what thy brother Righteous did to me.” She showed him her back again.
“I pray you… he means well… though I would never—”
“And having naught to do but sleep and eat while they arranged to bring me captive southward, why should I not grow flesh back on these bones? The restlessness and hunger were inside them.”
“My lady, think!” he implored. “You go to expiate—no sin, I swear, no stain on purity—a mere mistake to which a wily fiend lured innocence—You’ll win full freedom soon. And meanwhile, here is France ahead of us, a lovely land, they say, and new to see. I’ve heard how you yourself have blood of France—”
“Ha’ done!” snapped his older brother. “Thou’rt here to guard, not mooncalf mope.”
“For once, I welcome words of Righteous Gerson,” said Jennifer frigidly.
Sword-of-the-Lord slunk aside, under the grins or sniffs of his comrades, sat down on the deck behind a bollard with his own back to everyone else, and hugged knees to chin.
Nobah Barker appeared around the cabinside, in company with another man. The latter might almost have passed for a Cavalier, in long hair, beard and mustachios trimmed to points as exact as that upon his sword, plumed hat held in be jeweled hand: save that his clothes were gaudier yet, and his birthplace was obviously the Midi. In an energetic countenance, politeness fought with boredom.
“Aye, Mounseer d’Artagnan,” Barker droned, mangling the name too, “what you have seen of England on your mission for King Lewis, will seem the merest seed in few more years, when we have built the new Jerusalem. Then your own folk, ignited by example, will soak the truth of Puritanism up; and soon, in Christian love, our two great realms will go unscrew the captive Holy Land and scrub it clean in Turkish blood.”
“Per’aps,” said d’Artagnan skeptically. He became more cheery when his glance fell on Jennifer, who having noticed him in turn could not altogether suppress curiosity. She reddened a little, brushed an amber lock off her brow, and grew interested in the wake of the nearer wheel.
“ ’Ow far d’you plan to travel on t’rough France?” he asked.
“To Marsales,” Barker replied. Quickly: “All our papers are in order.”
“You stop off in Paris? I could find time”—d’Artagnan made a motion toward the girl which was not precisely a bow, since she wasn’t observing, but had the effect of one—“to show your… daughter?… somezing of ze sights.”
“Ah, nay—”
“R-r-respectably, wiz chaperone.”
“She’s not my daughter! Do I look so old?” (D’Artagnan cocked a brow.) “She is—well, sith’tis in our documents—” Barker bent close to speak low and confidentially. (D’Artagnan averted his nose as much as possible.) “Her uncle is my friend, a mighty man. Alas, she’s lately suffered fits of madness. Close watch is needed lest she harm herself, for while she is most times quite rational, she suddenly may try to flee or fight, accuse the ones who love her best—D’you know? On medical advice, we take her south, in hopes a softer climate may bring cure, or cruises on the pleasant inland sea.”
The Frenchman crossed himself. “Mon Dieu!” Pity welled in his tone: “So young and fair. Zat twists ze’eart, e’en in an officer of musketeers… Adieu, monsieur. Be sure I’ll pray for’er.”
He went rapidly off around the cabin. Barker glowered. “Think’st thou thy Papist chants are aught but noise?” he said under his breath. “Would God that I could shun thy Nineveh!” He squared his shoulders.
“Yet I will steel myself, will be a Jonah.”
Proceeding to where Jennifer stood, he told her, “That was a most important frog I met.”