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Chapter the 17th

True Thomas 
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.

Anon.

 

 

 

Lieutenant Thomas Melville waited in the Royal Glen. It was a kind of park beneath the trees where the royalty had their flets. He was seated on a patch of moss, with his back against the broad brown bole of an immense tree. There were no medium sized trees here, nor small trees. Just ancient forest giants arching far overhead, and moss and ferns below.

It was hard to relax after the activities of the previous day. He'd come with Ulrich and a few marines, all of them armed, in case Aunt Madelia decided to come back for a second helping. The invitation that Princess Glaive sent him got him into the park, but Ulrich and his guards had to wait outside with the Royal Sylvan Guards. So he was alone, if you didn't count his monkey and his .45, both of which felt comforting.

He contemplated the worth of his many victories. Analyzing the cost. The scars. The deaths. The loss of innocence.

What a price he had paid. Mostly lonely, seldom alone. Always alert, ever vigilant. Because if he wasn't vigilant, if he wasn't ready, then his Ship, his men, all that he loved, could die in an instant.

He had traveled far since that landing on Broadax's World. So very far. War changes people. Sometimes it changes them into dead people. For those who live, war can fill the holes in men's hearts. Sometimes the pieces were good, sometimes bad. One way or another, some of the gaps in his soul were filled. But he knew the puzzle was yet to be completed. He lacked the final piece. Was she the piece that would fill the void in his soul? He was cynical, suspicious. Above all, he would not be manipulated.

He waited for a princess, but was she his princess? He surveyed his outer perimeter. How had she entered? Smiles and warmth. Not with me you don't. He had no patience with triviality.

He heard her coming. First a breath, then a whisper. Tinkling. No, chiming. A mellifluous ringing of many, tiny, perfect bells.

Then she came into view, riding down the forest trail. Princess Glaive.

She was riding sidesaddle atop her horse, a great hairy creature bedecked with bells that called to the forest like a chorus of angels. Her strawberry blond hair, strands of copper and gold, flashed in a brief flicker of sunlight. She was garbed in her traditional green, with black velvet trim and a yellow sash.

 

Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; 
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane, 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.  

 

The forest was a verdant cathedral overhead. Lit like emerald stained glass, with speckles of sky blue and vivid rainbow flecks where birds fluttered. Their throats echoed the call of her horse's bells.

No. Not a horse. As she grew near, close inspection revealed that she was mounted atop a dog. A great, hairy, lap-tongued beast that proceeded to stride up and baptize Melville into the universal church of the happy dog.

"Eemph?" said his monkey as the dog dedicated the full attentions of its vast, pink, sopping salute to the monkey. The little creature would have been lifted from Melville's back except that it gripped tight to his wool uniform jacket with all eight hands.

Melville stood, shoving aside the dog's massive head, looking up at the princess.

Eyes aglow, she looked down at him. So diminutive, yet she knew no fear.

Their eyes locked. He raised the alarm. Defenses manned.

She stormed his defenses like the hosts of heaven. As a smitten man is wont to do, it seemed to him that she was sent from above.

He dropped to his knee with a self mocking smile and reached up to take her hand. "My lady, you are surely heaven sent."

 

True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap, 
And louted low down on his knee: 
"Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven! 
For thy peer on earth could never be."  

 

But was he truly in love? Or was he being beguiled, manipulated?

"Nay, True Thomas. I am but a Sylvan princess, come as my grandfather's herald."

There was a thrill of eldritch wonder when he heard her call him "True Thomas." Wait a minute, he asked himself. How'd she get inside my poem?  

 

"O no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
"That name does not belang to me; 
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland, 
That am hither come to visit thee."  

 

His poetry had always provided him with a frame of reference. For some people there was background music or a theme song playing in their minds. For him it was poetry that provided his theme. Now it seemed as though she'd joined him in "his" poem. As if she'd tuned in to his mind and started speaking to him at that level. Was it empathy or was he being manipulated?

It was as though a lonely man played solitaire in an empty room for his entire life, then suddenly someone sat down and played the game against him. Against him? Or with him? A partner, or an opponent? That was the question.

"What word from the king, fair herald?" he asked, standing up shakily, still holding her hand.

"Lift me down from my steed, Thomas, and I shall apprise thee of deeds done and offers made." Then she slid down to dismount. He reached up and caught her by the hips, setting her down on the ground, light as the frothy swirl of silk that enveloped her.

Her mount turned its head to her and she pushed it away. "Be off with ye, Daisy."

"Daisy?"

"Aye," she said, watching fondly as the dog circled twice and lay down, scratching behind one huge, floppy ear, "she is a great hairy beaste, but I do love her. And now," she continued, looking up into Melville's face as she stood before him, "Thou must know that the Westerness ambassador encountered an accident on his way home last night. A distinctly Sylvan style of accident. Alas, he died of terminal stupidity. 'Tis the only universal capital crime. As always, the judgment was immediate, and final. There was no appeal."

Melville was suddenly gripped with amazement and horror. She looked so beautiful and innocent standing here in the peaceful forest. It was disconcerting to hear this seemingly gentle creature tell him so lightly, so blithely, of the diplomatic dispatch of an ambassador.

" 'Tis truly fortunate that the sad little man refused to allow his guards to be armed. It would have been a shame to have to kill them. They tried manfully to defend him, even though they despised him. What magnificent warriors you do craft in that vast star kingdom of yours, my Thomas."

He could read between the lines. Incessant could well have tried to confront the Sylvan king. In his madness and self-righteous indignation the little mouse might have tried to beard the lion. And he'd been crushed without hesitation. Truly these were alien peoples. He reaffirmed his determination to maintain his distance, to resist her wiles, as she continued.

"O Thomas," she said as she reached out and took his hand. Perhaps she understood some of what was going on in his mind. "My grandfather would not have had it happen thus. But the ambassador's manner was intolerable! In their anger, I fear that some of the King's Own Bodyguards took offense and killed him out of hand. Needless to say, their lives will be forfeit should Westerness demand it."

"Aye," he replied, for what more could you say. The Sylvan king killed the Westerness ambassador, and now he offers the lives of his bodyguards as repayment. Well, no one would miss Sir Percival Incessant, who, in the end, didn't live up to his name. And sometimes there was something to be said for the Sylvans' straightforward approach to life. "I'd guess that Westerness response depends on who writes the reports."

"Aye, indeed, Thomas," she said, nodding her pretty head soberly as she stood looking up at him, now pressing his hand with both of hers. "The ambassador's report had not yet been written. Thou art the senior naval officer, and as the military attaché Colonel Hayl is the senior member of the embassy. 'Tis thy report, and his report that shall be sent to Westerness. However, Sir Percival did write orders dispatching you to duty on the far side of the Westerness star kingdom. The fool. The only Westerness Navy Ship on this side of the Grey Rift, and he would send thee to the far side of the galaxy for ignominious duty. But, Thomas, 'twas written, 'twas seen and known by all, and it cannot be changed. Colonel Hayl believes that to change the order would be to exceed his current mandate and he cannot help us there. He says that if thou art to remain under Westerness authority, thou must go."

If I remain under authority. Is that where this is headed? Maybe Hayl can't change it, but maybe the king wants it to stay that way so that I'm faced with this dilemma and will rebel. Will I? 

"Aye, my lady. Thus were deeds done, and they cannot be undone. You spoke also of offers made?"

"Sit next to me upon yon mossy bower, and I shall tell thee, Thomas."

He unbuttoned his jacket and spread it across the moss for her to sit upon. She watched with her head canted quizzically, and then laughed a clear, ringing laugh as she sat upon it. "Dear Thomas, we wear green to be one with our forest, to recline and repose without care. Now thou wouldst interpose thy jacket betwixt the Sylvan princess and her forest. Thou art truly dear and charming."

Then she took his hand and continued. "Now, Thomas, the first part of the offer is from me, not my grandfather. I offer thee my kiss. For if thou wouldst kiss me, I know that thou shalt be mine. I will not require it of ye, thou shalt not be bound, but I know that thou shalt desire to be mine."

Melville looked at her with wordless confusion.

She smiled and stroked his hair. "Thou knowest not our ways, my Thomas, so I shall spell it out. First ye must know that we are sorry for what my Aunt Madelia did last night. She is an eccentric woman."

Eccentric! he thought, So that's what they call it. 

"She is twisted and alien even to us, and she must seem powerful strange to thee. We were beginning to fear her. Her minions were fell and skillful, but thou hast well and truly pulled her teeth."

Aye, we killed her teeth, but I fear that we didn't get them all. 

"Enough of her. Just know that she is an aberration. Know also that in our lands, Thomas, when a lady gives a man her kiss, she is offering a challenge. She is wagering that she shall beguile the man. 'Tis a weird to us. Perhaps 'tis magic, perhaps 'tis pheromones, perhaps 'tis true love. A high-tech world would dissect it, and they would kill it in their effort to find out what it is. Whate'er it is, I offer thee this challenge. Kiss me, Thomas. After thou hast tasted, thou shalt be mine."

 

"Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; 
"Harp and carp along wi' me; 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 
Sure of your bodie I will be."  

 

Alien. Unexpected, unheralded, yet consistently and inevitably, the reminders come. They are alien.

No, this is no creature of heaven. What she desires is to be kissed, worshipped, and adored . . . on earth. But what man of mettle could turn down such a challenge and still respect himself?

"What if I am undaunted? What if I accept this challenge from a charming lady, as any gallant gentleman would? What, O Princess, if I choose to taste the fruit of your lips and am not bewitched? If I'm not beguiled, what then?"

She reached out and stroked his face again, tenderly, with the tips of her fingers, with a tear in her eye as she replied, "Then ye wouldst gain even more honor amongst us, for few can summon the willpower, the resolve to do so. And I should still be, and ever shall be, a true friend to ye. My love is mine to give to whom I will. But if love is offered and rejected, 'tis still love. Otherwise 'twould be some selfish, twisted thing that surely is not love."

"Then for good or ill, for well or woe, I accept your challenge, and 'your weird' shall not daunt me."

* * *

"Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
That weird shall never daunten me," 
Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon Tree.  

 

Melville took his monkey from off his shoulder, and gently placed it upon Daisy's head where it scampered about, delightedly probing and exploring the huge, patient beaste. Then he wrapped his arms around his princess, and leaned her back onto his jacket, spread across the deep, soft moss.

The monkey had a very good time. . . .

 

"Now I am thine," she said, "and thou art mine. Ever and always mine. . . ."

 

"Now ye must go wi' me," she said, 
"True Thomas, ye must go wi' me; 
And ye must serve me seven years, 
Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be."  

 

"Now rest thy head, and I will tell thee what it is that I offer to thee, my True Thomas. . . ."

 

"Light down, light down now, true Thomas, 
And lean your head upon my knee; 
Abide ye there a little space, 
And I will show you ferlies three."  

 

"On the one hand, thou canst follow the path of duty to thy Queen and Kingdom . . ."

 

"O see ye not yon narrow road, 
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers? 
That is the Path of Righteousness, 
Though after it but few inquires."  

 

"Ah! 'The road less traveled,' " he said with a smile. "That's the one for me."

"Nay, Thomas," she said, placing a finger on his lips, "hear me out, I pray thee. For on the other hand thou canst go the way of the world, and chose selfishness, and greed."

 

"And see ye not yon broad, broad road, 
That lies across the lily leven? 
That is the Path of Wickedness, 
Though some call it the Road to Heaven."  

 

"Or, on the gripping hand, ye can chose fealty to my grandfather. That is my grandfather's offer. And dost thou see, Thomas, that is thy duty! Wouldst thou take that magnificent Ship and crew so far away when righteous battle calls? Nay! This is thy duty, thy destiny! I have studied thy history. 'Tis an honorable choice. Thou wouldst be like Chenault and his Flying Tigers in China. Like the American fliers who served the RAF early in Earth's World War Two! And thou wouldst receive wealth, appreciation, and honor."

 

"And see ye not yon bonny road 
That winds about the fernie brae? 
That is the Road to fair Elfland, 
Where thou and I this night must gae."  

 

Aye, though Melville, looking at her wonderingly, she's not from Heaven or from Hell. She's not the least concerned with wickedness or righteousness. She's interested only in the road that leads to the country where she is queen. Conquest in the country of men's hearts. Of my heart. That's what is most important to her. And yet it was all so beautiful, so pure. There was no pretense. No deception. She had made her bid, offered her challenge, thrown down her gauntlet. She had given it her best shot, her best kiss. And what a kiss it was . . . Now the choice was his, to be enchanted and beguiled . . . or not.

Still, he didn't fully understand. "Why do you want me? What makes me worthy to be wooed by a princess?"

"O Thomas. 'Tis thee that I love. Were thee but a lowly foot soldier I think that I shouldst love thee still. But as a princess royal I may not give myself and my love to just anyone. But thou! Thou, my Thomas, hast earned it. 'Tis thy martial glories that make thee respected and revered. Our men would follow thee." She smiled wickedly and added, "And thou hast neatly depleted Auntie's carefully chosen household retainers. The survivors are scared to death of thee." Then she added with a slight shudder, "And it takes a lot to frighten them. So Aunt Madelia cannot stand in thy way. Great Aunt Ondelesa has been quite distressed by how the whole matter turned out. She will not stand in thy way. At every turn thou hast earned thy way into our family and our navy by right of battle and blood!"

 

It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, 
They waded thro' red blude to the knee; 
For a' the blude that's shed on the earth 
Runs through the springs o' that countrie.  

 

Aye, a trail of blood brought him here, and made him desired by kings and princesses. A river of blood. How much blood ran upon the decks of his Ship? Other Ships? Frozen in space? Soaked into the soil of Broadax's World? How much blood?

"Blood," he said, thoughtfully. "It's always about blood and battle. Even you, my princess, are named after a sword. That's what 'Glaive' means in our tongue. Did you know that?"

"Aye, as 'Bilbo' in thy mythos is named after an obscure word meaning a sword, a well-tempered blade. We chose the English translations of our names very carefully. Your language is so powerful, so beautiful. Like your literature, it has conquered us."

Melville smiled. "Churchill called it, 'the all-conquering English language.' By the end of the twentieth century it was the common language spoken by every pilot coming into every international airport in the world, and over ninety percent of everything on the old Internet was in English. By the end of the twenty-first century it was the first or second language of almost every person on Earth, and all the other languages were well on their way to virtually disappearing. Even in Churchill's time it was evident that English would conquer the Earth, but I wonder what he would have made of this."

Melville was determined not to be distracted, so he brought the subject around to its original intent, to understand about her. "Princess Glaive Newra. That has subtle meaning to us. I understand the Newra part, but why Glaive, why a sword?"

"My father said that only two women had ev'r been faithful and true in his hour of need. His wife—mine mother—and his sword. When I was born he named me after his blade, and bade me to be straight and true."

"Aye, he has named you well. And straight and true you have cut to my soul and pierced my heart. You are my glaive, and I am your warrior. But I cannot grant your request, I cannot obey your command. Not now, much as I may desire it."

She looked bewildered as he continued. As if she couldn't believe that he was denying her.

"I cannot explain it, but only the concept of duty, the fulfillment of my oath to Constitution and Queen, only they can make all the blood right. If I'm not under authority, then I'm just another criminal, and the vilest of mass murderers at that. But I follow an oath. Would you really want a man who could lightly set aside his oath? Would your father really want such a man? I would not."

"Oh, Thomas," she said, tears beginning to well up in her eyes, "our nation is at war and we need thee. Just pledge thy sword! Pledge thy sword, and pledge that silver tongue of thine. Pledge it to my grandfather. And . . . to me," she added coyly through her tears. "And we shall take thee away from a lifetime of tramping across the galaxy, buying and selling, and give thee pride of place in a nation that honors its mighty warriors."

He held her hand tightly and felt his traitor voice quaver, as he took a deep breath and said, "Send my love and my friendship to your grandfather, and you have my love and my heart. But my tongue is my own, and my sword is pledged to my Queen. Your grandfather couldn't truly respect me if I broke my oath. I wouldn't be the man you want, I wouldn't be the man you love, if I were to do as you ask."

 

"My toungue is my ain," true Thomas he said; 
"A goodly gift ye would give to me!" 
"Now hold thy peace, Thomas," she said, 
"For as I say, so must it be."  

 

She smiled softly. O such a smile. It made his heart melt. "It is not over, dear Thomas. Thou shalt remember me, and thou shalt come back to me. I will call thee from across the galaxy, and thou shalt come. I have woven mine magic, the simple magic of a sincere woman's true love, and now thou art mine. For as I say, so must it be."

"Aye," he said, and now it was his turn to reach out and stroke her face, striving to echo her gentleness with his rough hands, so calloused by sword, pistol and his Ship's rigging. "If it is within my power, I shall return. I'm not sure of the ending, but it will never be boring. I promise."

 

 

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