The Island of Jersey

Charles walked briskly across the cliff tops of Jersey, heading towards a hill a mile or two distant, glad not only to get away from the depressive company of his minders but to get the chance to speak alone with the person he strode to meet. Far below the sea pounded; about him grasses and flowers nodded in the hot summer sun. It might have been a beautiful day save for the anger and worry in his heart. Charles was dressed only in heavy linen breeches, such as a tradesman might wear, knee-high boots, and a snowy white linen shirt that was patched at both elbow and collar. His long, curling black hair was tied loosely with a leather thong at the nape of his neck.

He looked like a nondescript tradesman and, by God, he felt like one. Prince of the realm, indeed! He and his mother had spent but a few weeks in the Scilly Isles before warning reached them of the approach of Parliament’s fleet. They’d fled once more, Henrietta Maria to her native France and Charles to Jersey (it being felt that the heir to the English throne should, perhaps, keep his feet on English soil for as long as possible) where, for the moment, he was safe.

Safe. The concept was anathema to him. All Charles wanted was to get England back, to return to London, to grab that crown that was slowly toppling from his father’s head, and to find Cornelia-reborn and, somehow, somehow, protect her from Asterion’s malevolence.

But Charles could do none of those things. If he stepped so much as a toe inside mainland England he would be seized and face the same fate as his father likely would: death. He would certainly be thrown in prison.

“I need an army!” Charles seethed to himself as he continued his walk. But there was no army. Royalist supporters were scattered far and wide: the people of England had been too seduced by wicked whispers to support anyone that Parliament openly despised, and the only retinue that Charles had about him here in Jersey was a ragtag court comprising varied servants, a few members of his father’s council and some fiercely loyal, but ultimately helpless, noblemen. Charles had taken refuge in Elizabeth Castle, the domain of the island’s governor Sir George Carteret, where he had done all he could to ensure that he and his retinue would not cause undue strain on the thin resources of the island and its inhabitants.

Five weeks ago Charles had celebrated his sixteenth birthday. The islanders had done their best to mark the occasion, but their well-meaning efforts had served only to deepen Charles’ despair.

He should be in England…he should be in London.

What was happening to Cornelia-reborn? Where was she? How was she?

These questions, he hoped, would be answered within the hour.

He continued to stride through the grasses, wishing he’d been able to bring a horse, but the only way he had managed to escape the castle unnoticed was via its orchard—the stables were on the other side of the castle complex, and the mere fact of the prince asking for a horse to be readied would have brought numerous murmured concerns about where he was going, and offers to accompany him.

So he had to make do with his feet and legs and, to be honest, Charles appreciated the release of tension that walking afforded him.

He stopped abruptly, and stared. Ahead rose the hill that was his destination, and on that hill he could see a riderless saddled horse, its head bent down to the grass. It shifted slightly, and a figure came into view behind it.

Tall and graceful, fair hair blowing in the wind.

“Marguerite,” Charles muttered, and started forward at a jog.

By the time he topped the hill he was breathing hard, and Marguerite Carteret, twenty-year-old daughter of the governor, laughed at him as she held out her hands.

“Oh, would-be-king-of-England, if only your subjects could see you now, all red-faced and sweaty!”

He took her hands, then kissed her on the cheek. “Mother Ecub,” he said. “I had never thought you ever to be young, and delicious.”

Marguerite’s light brown eyes snapped with humour. “You only ever knew me as an old woman. Even then, I had been young, once.” Her mouth curved a little. “But, my, look at you. So dark and handsome, so vital. I imagine every girl in England mourns your loss.”

He let her hands drop. “What do you know?”

“What do I know? Why, that the sun shines, and that the wind is gentle, and that the lord my prince has managed to escape his minders so that—”

“Damn you! What do you know?”

“That you are too impatient a young man, and that this exile shall doubtless encourage the growth of patience and circumspection without which you shall never regain England,” she snapped back at him.

He drew a deep breath, and Marguerite felt instantly contrite when she saw how it caught in his throat.

“What do I know?” she said softly. “That we are all back, and that many of us, this time, are exiled. But I know also that we shall return, and that you are the one about whom we shall coalesce.”

He nodded, accepting that statement as if his right. “And Cornelia?” he said. “Where is she?”

“In England. Not in London. Safe, for the moment.”

“For the moment.” Charles turned away. “I should be there for her. Damn it, Marguerite, I love her.”

“What can a sixteen-year-old boy do for her, Charles?”

Now he swung back to her. “I am far more than a sixteen-year-old boy!”

“And where has that ‘far more’ got you in this life thus far?”

Charles gave no answer to that. He stared beyond Marguerite to where the sea foamed, then he suddenly reached into the pocket of his breeches, and pulled forth a dried piece of dirt and turf.

Marguerite drew in a sharp breath. “What is that?”

He said nothing, but held it out to her in his open hand.

She reached out, and touched it briefly. “It is land.”

“Asterion shall not have me exiled entirely.” He pocketed the piece of turf, Marguerite’s eyes following it hungrily, knowing that some day, somehow, that piece of turf would be very important to them. “Asterion is stronger than ever,” Charles said.

“Aye, I can feel him, even from here. Whispering evil into the hearts and minds of Englishmen.”

“Cornelia—”

“Cornelia shall have to shift for herself. She is not so weak and helpless that you must spend every waking moment fretting for her. She has strength, too.”

“To face what confronts her?”

“Aye,” said Marguerite. “To face even Asterion. She can do it.”

Charles sighed again, this time easier. “Aye. She can do it, but she will need aid.”

“Thus I, here and now. All of Eaving’s Sisters will gather to you, Charles. The more of us with you, the greater your power.” She studied him, a slight frown lining her forehead. “You have greater power than ever before, Charles.” Again her mouth curved. “Very heady indeed. I can see that I shall enjoy your company.”

They stood for a long moment, staring at each other, thinking of all that had gone before, of all the opportunities that had been lost, and all the mistakes that had been made.

And of all that could be accomplished, if they could manage to wield their powers.

“All of us will gather to you, Charles,” Marguerite said again. Her hands slipped behind the back of her gown, and Charles realised she was loosening the laces that bound her bodice. “Somehow we will find a way to aid Cornelia-reborn. Until then, there is but you and I, and all we can do is to wait, and to comfort each other.”

A thrill went down his spine at her words, but still Charles held back from her. “Everything I do is noted. We must be circumspect.”

“To a point.” The gown slid free of her shoulders, and Charles saw that the fair skin over her shoulders and the rise of her breasts was dusted with soft freckles. “Asterion will expect nothing less of you. Brutus has ever gathered women to him. Charles, if you worry that…well, Cornelia will not mind.”

“I know that.” The gown was about her waist, now catching about her hips before she shook herself free of it.

She wore no chemise or underskirt. “I am the first of Eaving’s Sisters to come to you. Will you accept me, Charles?”

He stared at her, hardly able to reconcile the Ecub he had known in his two previous lives with this beautiful, sexual creature.

“For the love of England, man, how long are you going to stand there and think about it?”

He laughed. “Ah, there speaks Ecub!” He put his hands gently about her waist, pulling her towards him, and this time when he kissed her, it was no chaste peck on the cheek. His hands slid upwards to her breasts, and Ecub tipped back her head so he could run his mouth down her neck.

“Cornelia once told me,” Marguerite said, laughing a little breathlessly now as he lowered his face to one of her breasts, “how good a lover you were.”

He laughed, then let her go and stood back a little as he stripped away his clothes. “Now you can judge her truthfulness for yourself, Ecub.”

She leaned forward, putting the palm of her hand flat against his mouth. “My name is Marguerite. We need to be careful.”

Naked now, he pushed away her hand and pulled her back to him. “Not this afternoon,” he said. “Not here.”