The ring contracted to a pillar, which sank to a common blaze. Jennifer uttered a cry, Caliban grunted in surprise, Will lifted his wet countenance, Ariel flew downward.
Rupert had stayed moveless. “So ends the vision, murky as our hopes,” he stated. “Well, we have two to go. Let’s on with it.”
The hovering sprite regarded him through red glow and shifty shadows. “Thou hast a hardy soul,” Ariel declared at length. “I am a soldier.” Rupert raised the staff. “Next show our chiefest enemies in council,” he ordered, “most recently, if not this instant. Beth.”
Again they looked into a fiery circle. The Puritan camp appeared—evidently earlier in time, for some embers of sunset smoldered and the moon hunched low. Sight rushed past guards to a pavilion, and through its canvas. There it steadied.
Two men sat by lamplight, in conversation over a small table strewn with maps, dispatches, notes. One was a Roundhead officer, to judge from his bearing and russet coat: a strong-built person whose homely features grew mustache, chin-tuft, and warts. The other wore civil black, tall hat on knees, and appeared older though remaining trim. His skull was domed and bald; grayish eyes blinked in the sharp face.
Jennifer cried out again. “Mine uncle—guardian—”
“Shelgrave!” Rupert snarled. He recovered himself. “Fear him not. He’s far away; and thou’rt no more his care but mine, forever after.” He waved his companions to silence. “Hush. They speak.”
The officer—he looked like such an ordinary squire—said: “Of course you’re welcome, Sir Malachi. The service your manufacturies and railroads have done our cause do more than overbalance the escape of that prisoner.” He made a stern smile. “Anyhow, naught having happened yet about him, I suspect Hot Rupert lies long since cooled in a ditch, his throat cut by some fellow rogue—which, to be frank, spares us considerable trouble… Well, what brings you here, this far west and south, and on the day of battle?”
Shelgrave must have rehearsed his speech, for he got it out crisply. “What I have to say, General Cromwell, may sound feverish, yea, verging on heresy. Nonetheless, I beg you, remember from when we both sat in Parliament.” He leaned forward. “I’ll freely explain everything in fullest particulars, and confirm it by a clergyman of unquestionable reputation, who was directly concerned himself. He accompanied me hither, though at present he’s unfortunately carriage-sick. Together we’ll testify what witchcraft is Rupert’s. You know he was called a wizard, who kept familiars and—Well,’tis true, and more than true.”
“Go on,” said Cromwell quietly when he paused. “We’ll give you circumstantial accounts, General, of how Rupert ensorcelled my niece, my ward, into setting him free; how they received hex-rings from woodland demons; how Rupert and a confederate crossed this island, eluded hounds, and vanished; how they reappeared in Tunis, the guests of Papist nobles; and how again they’ve left, after commissioning equipment of unknown purpose but ill foreboding.”
Cromwell touched the Bible among his papers. Otherwise he stayed imperturbable. “Go on,” he repeated.
“We’ll further relate how I caught my deluded niece with the wicked sign on her finger; how we extracted confession from her; how we sent her south under the clergyman’s guidance, accompanied by soldiers, in the hope of intercepting Rupert; how she in her turn enchanted one unfortunate young lamb to helplessness, escaped, and has doubtless rejoined her diabolic paramour.’Tis a long tale, and time is at our heels—yours also, General.
Will you take this for a promissory note, and credit what I really wish to say?”
“I’ll hear you out.”
“This news has but lately reached me, when the woman’s warders returned and mine agents brought posthaste word from Africa. Meanwhile, freed of Rupert’s cursed presence, our armies have gone from victory to victory over the forces of Satan—”
“Speak not thus,” Cromwell rapped. “Charles remains my King.”
Shelgrave was taken aback. “But… forgive me, General… was Charles Stuart not himself in command of the host which this day you met and broke? Hasn’t he withdrawn behind those walls, and don’t you propose to storm them on the morrow?”
Cromwell’s fist lay heavy on a map. “His evil geniuses are one thing,” he said. “The King’s own person—”
After a second: “Parliament must decide that. As for my immediate task, here’s the last Royalist muster of any consequence. And it was mostly patched together from such rags as blew in on every wind, from every other battle lost. A final onslaught, and England will have peace.” Prophecy flickered out of him. “Say on, Sir Malachi.”
“Does it not strike you strange, General, that they should come to this precise country for their last stand? ’Tis flat, save for the Tor and a few lower hills; open; hard to defend. Why not the Mendip range—or, better, Wales?”
“We’ve questioned captured officers. They wonder too.’Twas the King’s express wish, they relate.”
Cromwell rubbed his massive jaw. “I’ve thought he thought, being no military expert, here’s a famous old town in the midst of strongly Royalist countryside, with communications southward. Faulty reasoning, of course.”
“I wonder too what put that thought in him.” Shelgrave spoke low. “Glastonbury… the heart of ancient Britain… where Christendom first came unto this isle, say High Church legends, though in eldritch guise, when Joseph of Arimathea brought the Grail and thornwood staff which flowers yet each Christmas… its abbey ruins where folk swear they see, of moonlit nights, the phantom monks hold Mass… Glastonbury, which was Druid ere’twas Christian, and Celtic Christian ere’twas even Roman, and which some say was Arthur’s Avalon… its hinterland aflit with Faerie folk, who still are given secret offerings… Is it not strange the King’s last stand is here, two days before the night of equinox?”
Cromwell scowled. “Make plain your meaning.”
“I am trying, sir.” Shelgrave’s reply was as harsh. “I tell you from experience, Prince Rupert is Lucifer’s own agent, sent by him to halt us in our scouring from this land idolatry and mystery and hell. Now I have learned that he’s alive, at large. What darkling legions is he leading hither?” He seized Cromwell’s shirtcuff. “This is the word I came to give you: Strike! Send forth Jehovah’s lightnings from your guns; smash, scatter, and ride down Philistia; leave in this place of trolls no King, no priest, no soldier, wizard, witch, or stone on stone to greet Hell-Rupert and afford him aid! Then must he skulk back to his smoky den”—Shelgrave’s voice broke, his face writhed—“he and his bitch who was mine own pure maid—” Controlled again: “And England will be safe. But don’t delay.”
Cromwell stayed unshaken. “That’s not my wont. Nor is it to stampede.’Twas a stiff battle, and my men need rest. Tomorrow, aye, we move upon the town. And as for fiends and sorcerers, what reck their bolts men armored well in righteousness?”
The vision ended.
Will Fairweather cackled laughter. “Our darklin’ legions, hey?” he cried. “Liake Caliban? Nay,’a an’ Ariel’ull stay behiand. I doubt my measter’s magic has tha strength to lift them from this plaece where tha’ belong. Zo lead thy hoast to victory, my loard: one row-foot hoa’seman, lackin’ but a hoa’se; one wench clad liake an out-at-elbows boy!”
“No talk,” said Rupert, who had stood as if cast in metal. “We have one seeing more to come.” The staff rose like a wan beacon above the sinking red fire, toward stars, white-rimmed cloud wrack, moon in frantic flight. “Show me my King. My final fiat. Gimel. “
As if with their last might, the flames formed the ring. It enclosed an upstairs room, well-furnished, not too brightly lamplit for an open window to reveal, across roofs, a view of Glastonbury Tor. Several men sat around a table, some in faded finery, some in soiled soldier’s garb, all drained by weariness.