Mary Gentle by A Sundial in a Grave: 1610

Author:A Sundial in a Grave: 1610 [Grave-1610, A Sundial in a]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-05-31T14:30:08+00:00

Rochefort, Memoirs

26

T he scent of lathered horse haunted the air, together with the smell of the blacksmith’s tent, where a giant of a yeoman had set up an anvil to mend and shoe. The smell of his burning coals drifted across the grass, with the smell of horse-hoof also burning where the hot shoes went on.

Fortunately, I was not missed, or not in any way that might draw suspicion to me. I seated myself on an oak chest, not far from the Prince’s pavilion. It would take some time before the first formal ceremonies were over and done with. Too many local dignitaries wanted to be introduced to their Prince—and having to ride in from Wells and the surrounding estates didn’t prevent them.

The town of tents about Wookey grew considerably with Henry’s arrival: great royal pavilions in his colours, and a court-full of brave younger sons of the nobility, all tagging on to the Prince’s faction.

My attention snagged on one white beard as the man passed me.

Hariot.

Here as the deputy of Fludd, I thought, watching the weather-worn, middle-aged man walk away. Evidently the Doctor-Astrologer does plan to keep his promise, and not approach the vicinity until all’s done and James dead.

I sat for some considerable time, soothed by the cool of the evening, setting in order in my mind what plans I might utilise to ensure Fludd’s arrival.

It is her right to kill him, one supposes. But—I wish it were mine.

Summoned in, I uncovered and stood waiting. Prince Henry’s tent had a great deal of black-and gold-chased armour leaning about in it, among padded joint-stools, cushions, hawk-furniture, and weapon-racks. The armour I thought somewhat out of date, by at least a generation. His swords—all three, hooked up on one of the pillars of the pavilion—were variations on English and Italian styles.

“Have you read Master Silver?” the amber-haired young man asked, entering from the curtained-off section of the pavilion and finding me examining the weapons. “Silver swears an Englishman with a plain broadsword is the equivalent of any three other men with bird-spit Italian rapiers.”

I would have bet money that, in this Master Silver’s book, the “three men” were French—or Spanish, according to his political sympathies.

“Very much of the wielding of any blade is luck, my Prince,” I observed. Even at sixteen, I thought he might take my hint—especially a blade aimed at your royal father!—but no flicker of expression made me suppose he did.

Now I saw him close, Prince Henry Stuart had little enough of his father in his face. He was handsome, very white in his skin, and with a dark foxy colour to his hair. I thought him well-knit and of good frame for a sixteen-year-old; athletic, outspoken; I saw at once why he was so popular with his father’s subjects.

“My Prince,” I said, with a look at Hariot as the older man slipped into the tent. “Can it be that Doctor Fludd has not fully informed you what is to happen here? This is not a kidnap,

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