"It is indeed the king," said the girl, also rising to her feet.
"No," I made shift to say. "I am but poor Will Jones," and I wondered where I had let fall my axe. "Will Jones, a woodcutter."
"Yours to command, Will Jones," mocked the grizzled man. "My name is Valois Pembru, erst a schoolmaster. My daughter Regan," and he flourished one of his talons at the wench. "Diccon, our kinsman and servitor, you know already, well enough to heal him. For our profession, we are—are—"
HE SEEMED to have said too much, and his daughter came to his rescue. "We are liers in wait," she said.
"True, liers in wait," repeated Pembru, glad of the words. "Quiet we bide our time, against what good things comes our
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way. As yourself, Will Jones. Would you sit in soouh upon the throne of England? For that question we brought you hither."
I did not like his lofty air, like a man cozening puppies. "I came myself, of mine own good will," I told him. "It rains outside."
"True," muttered Diccon, his eyes on me. "All over Spring Coppice falls the rain, and not elsewhere. Not one, but eight charms in yonder book can bring rain— 'twas to drive your honor to us, that you might heal—"
"Silence," barked Valois Pembru at him. And to me: "Young sir, we read and prayed and burnt," and he glanced at the dark-orange flames of the fire. "In that way we guided your footsteps to the Coppice, and the rain then made you see this shelter. 'Twas all planned, even before Noll Cromwell scotched you at Worcester—"
"Worcester!" T roared at him so loudly that he stepped back. "What know you of Worcester fight?"
He recovered, and said in his erst lofty fashion: "Worcester was our doing, too. We gave the victory to Noll Cromwell. At a price—from the book."
He pointed to the hairy tome in the hands of Regan, his daughter. "The flames showed us your pictured hosts and his, and what befell. You might have stood against him, even prevailed, but for the horsemen who would not right."
I remembered that bitter amazement over how Leslie's Scots had bode like statues. "You dare say you wrought that?"
Pembru nodded at Mistress Regan, who turned pages. "I will read it without the words of power," quoth she. "Thus: Tn meekness I begin my work. Stop rider! Stop footman! Three black flowers bloom, and under them ye must stand still as long as I will, not through me but through the name of—"
She broke off, staring at me with her
slant blue eyes. I remembered all the tales of my grandfather James, who had fought and written against witchcraft. "Well, then, you have given the victory to Cromwell. You will give me to him also?"
Two of the three laughed—Diccon was still too mazed with his new health—and Pembru shook his grizzled head. "Not so, woodcutter. Cromwell asked not the favor from us—'twas one of his men, who paid well. We swore that old Noll should prevail from the moment of battle. But," and his eyes were like gimlets in mine, "we swore by the oaths set us—the names Cromwell's men worship, not the names we worship. We will keep the promise as long as we will, and no longer."
"When it pleases us we make," contributed Regan. "When it pleases us we break."
Now 'tis true that Cromwell perished on third September, 1658, seven year to the day from Worcester fight. But I half-believed Pembru even as he spoke, and so would you have done. He seemed to be what he called himself—a lier in wait, a bider for prey, myself or others. The rank smoke of the fire made my head throb, and I was weary of being played with. "Let be," I said. "I am no mouse to be played with, you gibbed cats. What is your will?"
"An," sighed Pembru silkily, as though he had waited for me to ask, "what but that our sovereign should find his fortune again, scatter the Ironsides of the Parliament in another battle and come to his throne at Whitehall?"
"It can be done," "Regan assured me. "Shall I find the words in the book, that when spoken will gather and make resolute your scattered, running friends?"
I put up a hand. "Read nothing. Tell me rather what you would gain thereby, since you seem to be governed by gains alone."
"Charles Second shall reign," breathed Pembru. "Wisely and well, with thoughtful distinction. He will thank his good
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councillor the Earl—no, the Duke—of Pembru. He will be served well by Sir Diccon, his squire of the body."
"Served well, I swear," promised Diccon, with no mockery to his words.
"And," cooed Regan, "are there not ladies of the court? Will it not be said that Lady Regan Pembru is fairest and—most pleasing to the king's grace?"
Then they were all silent, waiting for me to speak. God pardon me my many sins! But among them has not been silence when words are needed. I laughed fiercely.
"You are three saucy lackeys, ripe to be flogged at the cart's tail," I told them. "By tricks you learned of my ill fortune, arid seek to fatten thereon." I turned toward the door. "I sicken in your company, and I leave. Let him hinder me who dare."
"Diccon!" called Pembru, and moved as if to cross my path. Diccon obediently ranged alongside. I stepped up to them.
"If you dread me not as your ruler, dread me as a big man and a strong," I said. "Step from my way, or I will smash your shallow skulls together."
Then it was Regan, standing across the door.
"Would the king strike a woman?" she challenged. "Wait for two words to be spoken. Suppose we have the powers we claim?"
"Your talk is empty, without proof," I replied. "No. mistress, bar me not. I am going."
"Proof you shall have," she assured me hastily. "Diccon, scir the fire."
HE DID so. Watching, I saw that in sooth he was but a lad—his disease, now banished by my touch, had put a false seeming of age upon him. Flames leaped up, and upon them Pembru cast a handful of herbs whose sort I did not know. The color of the fire changed as I gazed, white, then rosy red, then blue, then again white. The wench Regan was
babbling words from the hair-bound book; but, though I had. learned most tongues in my youth, I could not guess what language she read.
"Ah, now," said Pembru. "Look, your gracious majesty. Have you wondered of your beaten followers?"
In the deep of the fire, like a picture that forebore burning and moved with life, I saw tiny figures—horsemen in a huddled knot riding in dejected wise. Though it was as if they rode at a distance, I fancied that I recognized young Straike— a cornet of Leslie's. I scowled, and the vision vanished.
"You have prepared puppets, or a shadow-show," I accused. "I am no country hodge to be tricked thus."
"Ask of the fire what it will mirror to you," bade Pembru, and I looked on him with disdain.
"What of Noll Cromwell?" I demanded, and on the trice he was there. I had seen the fellow once, years agone. He looked more gray and bloated and fierce now, but it was he—Cromwell, the king rebel, in back and breast of steel with buff sleeves. He stood with wide-planted feet and a hand on his sword. I took it that he was on a porch or platform, about to speak to a throng dimly seen.
"You knew that I would call for Cromwell," I charged Pembru, and the second image, too, winked out.
He smiled, as if my stubbornness was what he loved best on earth. "Who else, then? Name one I cannot have prepared for."
"Wilmot," I said, and quick anon I saw him. Poor nobleman! He was not young enough to tramp the byways in masquerade, like me. He rode a horse, and that a sorry one, with his pale face cast down. He mourned, perhaps for me. I feit like smiling at this image of my friend, and like weeping, too.
"Others? Your gentlemen?" suggested
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Pembru, and witliuut my naming they sprang into view one after another, each in a breath's space. Their faces flashed among the shreds of flame—Buckingham, elegant and furtive; Lauderdale, drinking from a leather cup; Colonel Carlis, whom we called "Careless," though he was never that; the brothers Penderel, by a fireside with an old dame who may have been their mother; suddenly, as a finish to the show, Cromwell
again, seen near with a bible in his hand.
The fire died, like a blown candle. The room was dim and gray, with a whisp of ;rnoke across the hide-spread window.
"Well, sire? You believe?" said Pembru. He smiled now, and I saw teeth as lean and white as a hunting dog's.
"Faith, only a fool would refuse to believe," I said in all honesty.
He stepped near. "Then you accept us?" he questioned hoarsely. On my other hand tiptoed the fair lass Regan.
"Charles!" she whispered. "Charles, my comely king!" and pushed herself close against me, like a cat seeking caresses.
"Your choice is wise," Pembroke said on. "Spells bemused and scattered your army—spells will bring it back afresh. You shall triumph, and salt England with the bones of the rebels. Noll Cromwell shall swing from a gallows, that all like rogues may take warning. And you, brought
by our powers to your proper throne "
"Hold," I said, and they looked upon me silently.
"I said only that I believe in your sorcery," I told them, "but I will have none of it."
You would have thought those words plain and round enough. But my three neighbors in that ill house stared mutely, as if I spoke strangely and foolishly. Finally: "Oh, brave and gay! Let me perish else!" quoth Pembru, and laughed.
My temper went, and with it my be-musement. "Perish you shall, dog, for
your saucy ways," I promised. "What, you stare and grin? Am I your sovereign lord, or am I a penny show? I have humored you too long. Good-bye."
I made a step to leave, and Pembru slid across my path. His daughter Regan was opening the book and reciting hurriedly, but I minded her not a penny. Instead, I smote Pembru with my fist, hard and fair in the middle of his mocking face. And down he went, full-sprawl, rosy blood fountiining over mouth and chin.
"Cross me again," quoth I, 'and I'll drive you into your native dirt like a tether-peg." With that, I stepped across his body where it quivered like a wounded snake, and put forth my hand to open the door.
There was no door. Not anywhere in the room.
I turned back, the while Regan finished reading and closed the book upon her slim finger.
"You see, Charles Stuart," she smiled, "you must bide here in despite of yourself."
"Sir, sir," pleaded Diccon, half-crouching like a cricket, "will you not mend your opinion of us?"
"I will mend naught," I said, "save the lack of a door." And I gave the wall a kick that shook the stout wattlings and brought down flakes of clay. My blistered foot quivered with pain, but another kick made some of the poles spring from their fastenings. In a moment I would open a way outward, would go forth.
REGAN shouted new words from the book. I remember a few, like uncouth names—Sator, Arepos, Janna. I have heard since that these are powerful matters with the Gnostics. In the midst of her outcry, I thought smoke drifted before me —smoke |hat stank like dead flesh, and thickened into globes and curves, as if it
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61
would make a form. Two long streamers of k drifted out like snakes, to touch or seize me, I gave baric, and Regan stood at my side.
"Would you choose those arms," asked she. "and not these?" She held out her own, fair and round and white. "Charles, I charmed away the door. I charmed that spirit to hold you. I will still do you good in despite of your will-—you shall reign in England, and I—and I "
Weariness was drowning me. I felt like a child, drowsy and drooping. "And you?" I said.
"You shall tell me," she whispered. "Charles."
She shimmered in my sight, and bells sang as if to signal her victory. I swear it was not I who spoke then stupidly—cun-sult Jack Wilmot's doggerel to see if I am wont to be stupid. But the voice came from my mouth: "I shall be king in Whitehall."
She prompted me softly: "I shall be duchess, and next friend—-"
"Duchess and next friend," I repeated.
"Of the king's self!" she finished, and I opened my mouth to say that, too. Valois Pembru, recovering from my buffet, sat up and listened.
But
"STOP!" roared Diccon.
WE all looked—Regan and I and Valois Pembru. Diccon rose from where he crouched. In liis slim, strong hands was the foul hairy book that Regan had laid aside. His finger marked a place on the open page.
"The spells are mine, and I undo what they have wrought!" he thundered in his great new voice. "Stop and silence! Look upon me, ye sorcerers and arch-sorcerers! You who attack Charles Stuart, let that witchcraft recede from him into your marrow and bone, in this instant and hour—"
He read more, but I could not hear for
the horrid cries of Pembru and his daughter.
The rawhide at the window split, like a drum-head made too hot. And cold air rushed in. The fire that had vanished leaped up, its flames bright red and natural now. Its flames scaled the roof-peak, caught there. Smoke, rank and foul, crammed the place. Through it rang more screams, and I heard Regan, pantingly:
"Hands—from—my—throat !"
Whatever had seized her, it was not Diccon, for he was at my side, hand on my sleeve.
"Come, sire! This way!"
Whither the door had gone, thither it now came back. Wc found it open before us, scrambled through and into the open.
THE hut burnt behind us like a hayrick, and I heard no more cries therefrom. "Pembru!" I cried. "Regan! Are they slain?"
"Slain or no, it does, not signify," replied Dkcon. "Their ill magic retorted upon them. They are gone with it from earth—forever." He hurled the hairy book into die midst of the flame. "Now, away."
We left the clearing, and walked the lane. There was no more rainfall, no more mist. Warm light came through the leaves as through clear green water.
"Sire," said Diccon, "I part from you. God bless your kind and gracious majesty! Bring you safe to your own place, and your people to their proper senses."
He caught my hand and kissed it, and would have knelt. But I held him on his feet.
"Dkcon," I said, "I took you for one of those liers in wait. But you have been my friend this day, and I stand in your debt as long as I live."
"No, sire, no. Your touch drove frpm me the pain of the king's evil, which had
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smitten mc since childhood, and which those God-forgotten could not heal with all their charms. And, too, you refused witch-help against Cromwell."
I met his round, true eye. "Sooth to say, Cromwell and I make war on each other," I replied, "but "
"But 'tis human war," he said for me. "Each in his way hates hell. 'Twas bravely done, sire. Remember that Cromwell's course is run in seven years. Be content until then. Now—Godspeed!"
He turned suddenly and made off amid the leafage. I walked on alone, toward where the brothers Penderel would rejoin me with news of where next we would seek safety.
MANY things churned in my silly head, things that have not sorted themselves in all the years since; but this came to the top of the churn like fair butter.
The war in England was sad and sorry and bloody, as all wars. Each party called the other God-forsaken, devilish. Each was
wrong. We were but human folk, doing what we thought well, and doing it ill. Worse than any human foe was sorcery and appeal to the devil's host.
I promise myself then, and have not since departed from it, that when I ruled, no honest religion would be driven out. All and any such, I said in my heart, was so good that it bettered the worship of evil. Beyond that, I wished only for peace and security, and the chance to take off my blistering shoes.
"Lord," I prayed, "if thou art pleased to restore me to the throne of my ancestors, grant me a heart constant in the exercise and protection of true worship. Never :ek the oppression of those who, out of tenderness of their consciences, are not free to conform to outward and indifferent ceremonies."
And now judge between me and Jack Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. There is at least one promise I have kept, and at least one wise deed I h
ave done. Put that on my grave.
Some unseen force hurled Sis body squarely into the core o£ this purpls flame!
Let us travel forward into the Future, to 2007 a. d. . . . and there, only sixty-jive years hence, fight alongside the scientists of that age — as they battle to ward off the menace which threatens to destroy the earth!
G
ore of the Purple Flame
By ROBERT H. LETTERED
WHEN the young scientist Aaron Carruthers finished computing the intricate problem before him on his desk, he closed his eyes as if to visualize the chaos these symbols denoted.
Thin beads of sweat formed on his high, intelligent forehead. Three times had he re-checked the problem to make certain there had been no error. He had even sent word to a colleague, George Vignot,
to come to the laboratory and work out the problem in his own way just to make certain that there had been no mistake.
In a few minutes the big, bearded chemist, Vignot, would arrive. No chance that both would make the same mistake. And if Vignot's conclusions matched his own— well, ihc- astounding and fearsome news would have to be sent out to the world on the Continental Television News panels.
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Carruthers wiped his forehead. It was entirely possible that he was wrong. After all, he wasn't infallible. He tried to remember errors in calculations he had made in the past. But they were surprisingly few and were errors of haste rather than method. And there was no consolation in them.
Tiredness was upon him. He allowed his body to slump forward until his damp forehead rested in the crook of his arm. But he couldn't thrust the horror of the future from his mind. And while he tried to forget momentarily what he, alone in all the world knew, time kept ticking off its inexorable seconds and minutes. There was no stopping its remorseless march onward.
The year of time was 2007 as reckoned by the earth's new calendar, and was still the same world with its familiar continents and oceans as recorded by the historians of the twentieth century.
Weird Tales volume 36 number 02 Page 10
