The coach halted. The footman flung wide its door and extended a handful of hayballs. Barker seized them and made for the hedge as fast as he could waddle.
Jennifer followed, more stiffly than she was wont after this long, cramped ride. She almost gave the footman a word of sympathy; he might have been a statue in gritty plaster, save for his woeful sneezes and snuffles. But he was Rupert’s enemy. Standing in what shade the vehicle cast, she stretched herself, muscle by muscle, while she looked widely and wistfully outward. Boots scrunched hard-baked earth.
Sword-of-the-Lord Gerson had dismounted. Holding his steed by the reins, he approached to within a yard of her, stopped, shifted from foot to foot, made a timid salute when she noticed him. His downy cheeks were redder than even the summer day would warrant.
“How are you, Mistress Alayne?” (She could barely hear him.) “Can I help you in aught?”
“I am weary unto death,” she answered. “And… let me think… aye, thou canst do me a great kindness.”
“Anything, my lady.”
“Hold,” growled Righteous Gerson from his saddle. “The witch will have thee pledge a treachery.”
“Oh, nay,” said the girl. “This would be a boon not to me alone, but to our whole merry band of pilgrims.
Take Nobah Barker’s tongue and stuff it down his throat.”
Three Roundheads laughed. Another slapped his thigh and remarked, “A pretty notion; but, lack-a-day,’tis too long to fit and too waggly to seize.”
Righteous Gerson frowned. “Show respect,” he ordered. “He’s our minister. Who else would hold divine service for us in this land of Belial?”
Jennifer wandered to the roadside, sat down on her heels, and ran fingers among its wildflowers. “Good day, you blossoms blowing here in France,” she murmured. “I bring you greetings from your English cousins, and thank you for your messages to me—O poppies bold as freedom’s blood and banner, and bindweed white as Rupert’s lofty plume.”
Again she heard feet shuffle close, and rose to meet Sword-of-the-Lord. His head hung, he bit his lip and said miserably, “Can you… not name… a proper task for me? I’d give these eyes to see you happy, mistress.”
Her mouth softened. “Thou’rt kind,” she said low.
“Who could be else, to you?” He smote fist in gauntlet. “I know. Myself, I can’t believe that you’re possessed. The fiends may well fly mothlike tow’rd your soul, but char and shrivel in its radiance.” (She smiled at his wavering words, half touched, half amused.) “You’re lion-loyal, though it be misguided. Can I not find for you one lonely comfort? I’d cherish that beside me when I sleep.”
“I’ve marked how thou dost ever wish me well, despite the gall I ladle from the heart,” she replied slowly.”
’Tis time I give forgiveness—and ask it.” After a moment: “I’d like a drink of water from thy flask.”
“At once! If only’twere ambrosia!” He unslung the leather bottle at his belt, dropped it, picked it up, wiped it clean with shaky hands and his neckerchief, and nearly fell to the ground himself when he tried to bow as he passed it over. She swallowed thirstily. After she gave it back, he stared at it for a while, then, as if charging a rampart, raised it for a quick swallow of his own. When he lowered and stoppered it, a look was upon his face as if he had received communion.
Barker emerged from behind the hedge. Now he walked easily, rubbing his hands. “Well, brethren, shall we be upon our way?” he called. “Or shall we take a rest for half an hour? Methinks we should, that ye may likewise hear my discourse to our straying lamb.”
“O God,” Jennifer said skyward, “if Thou’st forsaken me, I understand.”
Sword-of-the-Lord breathed, aghast, “You’re being driven mad—to blasphemy?” He clapped free hand on weapon hilt and marched to stand before Barker. His led horse loomed behind him like a wall. “Ha’ done!” he cried. “Can you not see what harm you wreak?’Tis bad enough that she must be a captive and made the means of what she thinks betrayal. To hear you drone and rant and whine all day could make her feel that hell will be relief.”
His brother spurred close, shouting, “Thou whelp, leave off thine insolence!”
Sword-of-the-Lord held his ground and said in desperate stubbornness: “ ’Tis not. Hark. There are… there are ways and ways to preach. Theology will scare the savage off who’d gladly hear Christ’s simple words of love, while Joshua’s more fitting for a soldier, and—Well, this lady’s altogether steadfast; to batter her with God won’t break that down; it will but force her to repel the Name.”
“What eloquence,” Righteous fleered. “Art thou in holy orders?”
Jennifer came to take the boy’s arm. “Nay, he is merely showing common sense,” she told them. “Is it too rare for ye to recognize? Why blame him if he look on me as human instead of as an object? From such lips I might hear words that did not seal mine ears.”
Barker swelled with indignation. “Thou darest, shameless hussy—” he began, spraying the neighborhood.
“Hold, good sir,” broke in Righteous. “I know my brother… and her somewhat, too. Maybe—Let’s talk o’ this in confidence.”
He vaulted from his stirrups and drew Barker aside. They whispered together. The remaining Roundheads stared in their various fashions at youth and maiden. Sword-of-the-Lord shrank into himself, overwhelmed by what he had done. Jennifer breathed something which caused him to straighten, fiery-visaged, dry-mouthed, and resolute as a Maccabee.
Nobah Barker and Righteous Gerson returned. The minister cleared his throat. “We will essay it, then, in these next days,” he said, “until we come to Marsales and our work. If this our charge is cursed with such poor taste a homily grits her teeth, and can’t digest it, then we must give her soul a coarser fare and hope that that may prove her heavenly fodder.” To Sword-of-the-Lord: “My boy, we’ll let thee try to be her mentor. She favors thee, as nearest to her age. We’ll even let her ride a horse by thee, a ways apart from us. Descant thy best. We’ll see if mildness of this kind may melt the ice of her, that logic failed to break. If thou shouldst bring her to repentance, lad, I’d say that God has called thee to the Church, and I myself will teach thee how to preach. But if thou fail’st—”
“Why, matters won’t be worse,” Jennifer said. “O God”—through tears—“Thy pardon! Thou dost not forsake.” Laughter burst forth. She skipped on the road and caroled:
“Has this released thy madness, ravening?” sputtered Barker. “Stop or be bound!”
She obeyed instantly. “I’m very sorry, sir,” she said, folding hands and casting eyes downward. “Hereafter I will strive to mend my ways.”
“It woo-woo-works,” marveled Sword-of-the-Lord. “The cure’s begun… already.”
“We’ll see as we continue on our road.” Barker sounded less than ecstatic. “Each man of you will lend his horse in turn and join me in the coach”—he brightened—“and we will talk. Wilt thou be first, good Sergeant Righteous Gerson? Thou canst then hear me practice my next sermon.”
Jennifer and Sword-of-the-Lord didn’t notice. They were looking too deeply at each other.
Cannon were drawn back and lashed down behind their ports. Likewise shut was a door in a forward bulkhead. A screen erected aft marked where the junior officers’ quarters began. The time was sunset, but light still came down through ventilation gratings to tinge deck planks violet and make brazen snouts sheen amidst shadows. There was no real wind; the ship ghosted along with barely a sound or surge.