by Robert Adams
"Shut up and go along with this, my friend. I'll tell you why after it's over. It's necessary—leave it at that, for now."
A few days later, he had said, "Look, Rupen, rank and birth are of much more importance to all classes of people in this world than they were in your world and time. I think that you, the man you are, could be quite useful to me in a great many respects and areas. But in order to serve most of my ends, you must be either a gentleman, a churchman, or a noble. Now, no one but the King can make you a noble, and I doubted that you cared much for holy orders, so the only thing for it was to make you a gentleman—a knight, as it turned out."
"That business of the earl was just too good an opportunity to let slip. Yes, I could've had someone of the local nobility knight you, but it wouldn't've had been the same as having Earl Howell do it. You see, that old man—old, hell, he's not as old as he looks, maybe two or three years your senior is all—he was King's Champion of both Arthur II and Richard IV Tudor, the present king's elder brother. He pled age and left court during the early days of the Regency, unable to stomach what was going on there, under Angela."
"Then when Arthur III Tudor raised his standard against the regent and Rome, Earl Howell raised and armed and mounted a squadron of heavy horse and led them to the King, putting them and himself at the lawfully coronated monarch's disposal. Interdiction and excommunication be damned, he said then, England and Wales were Arthur's rightful realm and he would be Arthur's man so long as a single drop of blood lodged in his body."
"Since that day, he has taken part in almost every battle or fight or skirmish in which Arthur's army has engaged. He it was who made the plans and commanded the famous ambuscade which virtually wiped out the regent's fierce and fearsome mounted raiders, Monteleone's Horse. Even better, he and his men that day slew Angela's lover himself, Captain Monteleone, in combat, then so thoroughly abused and maimed his still-warm corpse that it had the appearance of having died under torture. After they had reclothed it, they had it delivered to the Tower by a party of friars, along with a letter stating that when questioned, Monteleone had admitted to being the real sire of Angela's son that she still claimed was gotten upon her by her royal spouse, Richard IV."
"I'll bet that that created a merry old shit storm." commented Rupen. "Or was she smart enough to just stonewall it all, Hal?"
"She tried to, of course," the old man replied, "between crying jags and screaming fits, but still that little bit of seventeenth-century propaganda cost her and her son quite a good deal of support, especially among the common people, the yeomanry, and the lesser gentry. Such folk continued to trickle in to fill out the army's shattered ranks, even though they all knew that by so doing they were leaving their lands and families unprotected, that they were losing all hope of salvation by fighting for an excommunicant, that the army of Arthur had little gunpowder and no way to obtain more save by capture, and that a Crusade had been preached against them and hordes of Crusaders were already beginning to gather on the borders and in nearby oversea ports, awaiting but the necessary transport to descend upon the troubled land like some pitiless swarm of armored locusts."
"Early in the fifth year of the civil war—for that is what it all amounted to, with noble and common families split, likewise the small standing army, the few ships owned outright by the Crown either burned or scuttled to prevent their falling into Arthur's hands, some royal garrisons holding out for either Arthur or Angela and a few of them fence-sitting, refusing to commit themselves until they were certain just who stood the best chance of winning the ruinous conflict—a raid-in-force, launched to capture a large store of gunpowder, of which King Arthur's force just then had almost none, developed into a full battle as both sides threw in additional units and ended in a pyrrhic victory for our arms in that while Angela's forces then available within the kingdom were routed, with all of their cannon and their entire baggage train captured, not only were the losses of men and horses bitterly heavy in Arthur's force, such gunpowder as was captured only barely replaced that which had been expended in obtaining it."
"You've of course seen the great camp, or what's now left of it, out there to the southwest of York? Yes, well, that is where King Arthur and his army were encamped, he and his staff—who understood better than the bulk of the army just how little chance they and their much-reduced numbers had of winning against any of the four looming hosts of foreign Crusaders with little or no gunpowder—in the depths of despair."
"Then, of a day of blessed memory, a small party of horsemen came riding down the borderlands, led by an elderly but still vital knight of ancient lineage and famous personal achievements, Sir Francis Whyffler—he now is Duke of Northumberland, father-in-law of Emperor Egon and Royal Ambassador to that monarch's court. In Sir Francis's party were included Bass Foster, William Collier, and Bud Webster. They brought a brine-filled pickle cask containing the head of Sir David Scot, an infamous border never, in earnest of their tale of having routed his force of above two thousand Lowland Scots, but even more important, they brought a pack train loaded with gunpowder—a commodity just then and there more precious than gold dust."
"After some initial difficulties with some larcenous members of the royal staff Sir Francis was at last able to meet with Earl Howell, who, after hearing his tale and testing the powder, conducted him directly to King Arthur."
"Now, as you no doubt know by now, Rupen, for the last five hundred years, in this world and time, the Church has held and savagely maintained a monopoly on the manufacture and sale of gunpowder, trying to keep the formulas for it secret and wreaking terrible vengeance upon any person or group of persons rash enough to formulate it on their own, without Church sanction. With this monopoly in full force, the Church not only made unbelievable amounts of profit from the sale of it, but also was able to control and manipulate rulers and states to a degree that the Mediaeval and Renaissance Church of our world never even dreamed of, and they had thus been able to keep most of the regions in their sphere of influence from effectively uniting into nations of any real size or strength, cynically preaching peace and brotherly love while fomenting an endless round of small wars and selling the wherewithal to conduct them."
"Those few brave or simply desperate souls who had in the past made gunpowder from scratch had not, up until then, been able to turn out an 'unhallowed powder' as good as that of the Church, simply because the Church had developed a secret way of refining niter, and use of this in the mixture could, depending upon the proportions, of course, produce a more powerful powder than a more primitive niter."
"Now William Collier was, before he lost his reason, a multitalented and highly intelligent man, innovative, well read in many fields, and holding university degrees which included a doctorate or two in chemistry, in which field he also had done certain amounts of research for his government, involving propellants. Additionally, he was an avid amateur student of military history with an in-depth knowledge in a good many related subjects, and his sagacious counsel helped to revolutionize the then-existent army, making it far more effective and easily controlled a fighting force, with units of set sizes and consistent titles of military rank."
"Two tandem cargo trucks, with their crews and cargos, had been projected at the same time as Bass, his house, and the other people. The cargo of one of those trucks consisted of some eighty tons of a powdered nitrate used in your world and time for fertilizer, and using this as a base chemical, William Collier and Pete Fairley had manufactured a variety of gunpowder far more powerful than the very best of the product of the Church's powder mills; experiments showed that less than half of this gunpowder was required to give results at least equal to a charge of hallowed gunpowder."
"Collier?" asked Rupen. "Isn't he the one who deserted Arthur and the army over some slight and went to Scotland, Hal? I seem to recall hearing something spoken of him when we all—you, me, Duke Bass, and some others—were up at Whyffler Hall. Didn't he eventually go mad, too, like the Lady Krystal? I
t's too bad, for as I now recall, the Duke said that his contributions were really crucial in giving Arthur and the army victories, that Collier had been the real hero of it all."
Harold of York shook his head. "Bass Foster is modest and self-effacing to a very fault, Rupen. You see, Collier was not a man of action, save with regard to experimental chemistry, but of ideas, theories. Even with regard to the powder mill at Whyffler Hall, it was Pete Fairley, Carey Carr, and Dave Atkins who did the actual work, lived through the always-deadly danger of mixing the powder. As for the reorganization of the army, yes, Collier came up with the ideas, but it was Bass Foster and Bud Webster put them into practice, drilling hundreds of officers so that they might go back to their units and pass on the newfangled methods of drill to their men."
"Arthur took a quick liking to Collier, and the man was duly given a reward, being made Earl of Essex by the king. But he began to lose Arthur's and many another's regard and favor when he proved himself to be first a coward, then a bully. At length, in a pique, he went so far as to actually threaten to leave His Majesty, to take his learning and knowledge to the Church forces."
"Much to his surprise and shock, I would imagine, Arthur not only gave him leave to go, but even provided him with a neutral escort—commanded, incidentally, by the man who now is Holy Roman Emperor—to the court of the King of Scotland at Edinburgh. On the journey through the Lowlands of Scotland, however, the party was attacked by a savage clan of border ruffians. Most of them were killed, but some were taken for ransom. Leutnant Egon somehow escaped and fought his way out of Scotland, but by the time the Scottish Crown heard of it all and was able to force the lawless clan to release Collier, the man had lost his reason through torture and privation. For long, he was confined to the monastery of an order of nursing brothers somewhat southeast of Edinburgh, but I have been in receipt of recent news that he escaped twice last year; he was recaptured after slaying several peasants, but whilst he was being transported to the parent house of that order in far-western Scotland, he slew an abbot and again escaped and naught has since been seen or heard of him."
Around and about that ancient pile known to men as Whyffler Hall, the trenches and earthen ramparts of cannon emplacements that marked the onetime Royal Artillery defenses of the hall and the powder mill that then had been there established were slowly being filled in or leveled. In the park outside the bailey walls, new trees and shrubs had been planted to replace those cut down by the huge Scottish army that had twice surrounded and launched futile attacks at the well-defended hall during the ill-omened invasion of the Scottish crusaders.
Kings, princes, and every descending grade of nobility or gentility had enjoyed the hospitality of Whyffler Hall in times past, and a duke and the wife of an emperor had both been born there, but just now the sole gentleman resident on a permanent basis was Sir Geoffrey Musgrave, the bailiff of the hall and the surrounding Barony of Strathtyne, and even he was not always in residence, as the duties of his office often sent him clattering over hill and dale at the head of his troop of lancers. He and they also regularly patrolled the familiar though unmarked border between the barony and the Scottish lands beyond; for all that Sir Geoffrey and Laird Sir Michael Scott whose lands lay just to the north of the barony were bosom friends and drinking companions, too, on occasion. Sir Michael still was both a Scot and a Scott—full brother to the onetime, now fortunately deceased, Sir David Scott—and therefore Sir Geoffrey could not bring himself to fully trust his friend and near neighbor, much less his provenly deceitful and ever larcenous clansmen."
So it was no surprise to Sir Geoffrey, as he and his column rode back to Whyffler Hall after a swing through portions of the barony, to find Sir Michael Scott and a contingent of his own horsemen camped in the outer park among the young trees. At sight of him, Scott tightened his saddle girths, mounted, and rode to meet the bailiff at a fast amble.
In mock wrath, from a smiling face, he proclaimed, "Domned puir hospitality you extend y'r friends, Geoff Musgrave! Yon gunmen would nae e'en gape the gates enough tae bespeak me, just blew on their slowmatches and shouted me tae withdraw intae the park until y' come back."
In the same mock-serious tones, Musgrave said, nodding, "A far warmer reception y'd of got had they not known y'r face and horse, Michael Scott. My garrison, they all hae their orders and they obey: Nae armed Scots are to be let w'in the bailey at any time whilst me and my launces be awa'."
As the two aging knights rode along the road, knee to knee. Scott remarked, "Mayhap 'tis time and muir for me tae speak to the lairds of Elliott and Kerr and even Armstrang, for to march doon and level the unseemly pride of a sartain carpet-knicht of a bailiff, storm the ha', and distribute its wealth amangst the needy poor . . . north o' the border, of course?''
Musgrave snorted a laugh. "Then best mark y'r wills ere y' a' do so, Sir Michael, my friend, and recall the end of y'r unlamented brother, not too lang since. Not a' the gonne-works King Arthur had put here has been took doon, nor a' the great gonnes ta'en awa frae Whyffler Ha'. I keep a very plentitude o' poudre aboot, too, an' muir nor enough bonny lads tae put paid to a parcel o' border ruffians o' the likes o' y' and y'rn. An' it still be room enough and tae spare in that meadow where we buried a' that were left o' the last rievers as rid doon here ahint Sir David Scott; the grass graes thick on that lea, and ever Scot under it by noo owns a cowflop caim tae mark oot his place."
Scott shook his head and chuckled merrily. "An' y'd do it a', too, Sir Geoff, y'd blaw awa' y'r own friend's head wi' a caliver ba' an' think nae muir o' it. His Grace o' Norfolk has a guid mon in y', my friend. He, too, be a guid mon, so I pray a' o' his sairve him sae well. It's right mony the Scott wha' will hae food and fuel through a' the winter out'n the siller he paid for a' that clay, and I think me it would be mickle hard tae raise rievers out'n Scott lands, this year, did they ken that 'twas Whyffler Ha' or aught elst of this barony they was meant tae prey on."
"Be it a hard winter, it might be Kerrs or Armstrangs oot a-rieving, but y'll be seeing nae Scotts other than in peace. Nor even a Elliot riever, either, y' ken, for Sir Andrew bears great love and respect for His Grace and the most o' his gillies gae in stark fear that it might be some o' His Grace's wild galloglaiches abiding at Whyffler Ha' yet."
Musgrave nodded. "What o' the Lindsays an' the Hays, d' y' think, Michael Scott?"
Sir Michael shrugged. "As to the Hays, I canna say one way or t'other, what wi' the auld laird dead an' the new still in Edinburgh, some hotheaded toiseach might tek it intae his mind tae ride doon on a rieving, but I'd think not, not sae harsh as the new king has been on rievers sich as Clan Johnston, of late times. An' the Laird o' Lindsay is one o' the chiefest supporters of King James, so y'll be seeing nane o' his ilk ride acrost the border save on the high road tae York or London."
At sight of Sir Geoffrey, the bailey-wall gates were gapped wide and the bridge over the ditch came rumbling down, and he, Sir Michael, and the Whyffler Hall Lancers clattered across it, followed shortly by Scott's remounted party of servants and retainers.
As most of the lancers and Scot troopers peeled off the cavalcade to make for the stables and see to their mounts, while the gentry, officers, and servants followed their betters up to the hall itself, one-armed Oily Shaftoe, the groundskeeper, could be seen to render Sir Geoffrey a military hand salute, where he stood watching the labors of his men. Solemnly, Sir Geoffrey returned the salute of the former cavalryman, one of the few survivors of the troop that Sir Francis Whyffler had taken to the king's service, the same troop that had been commanded also by Bass Foster when he still was only a gentleman-captain under command of Sir Francis.
Most of Shaftoe's busy workers paused from their toil long enough to raise an impromptu cheer for Sir Geoffrey; only one old man, his thinning white hair showing clearly the jagged scars furrowing his scalp, his face all but hidden in a dense white beard, failed to make a sound, but he looked up and smiled to display a less than full complement of broken, rotting teeth
and fingered the place where once there had been a forelock of hair.
Sir Geoffrey reined up beside the aged worker and spoke down from his saddle. "Hoo be y', Will? Be the work too hard for y'?"
His only answers were a wider smile to the first question and a shake of the head to the second.
Oily Shaftoe, when he came striding over, was asked, "Oily, cannae y' find Auld Will a pair o' breeks o' some kind? Auld bones ache muir nor y' youngsters' in oor cauld dews o' mornings."
"An' it please y', Sir Geoffrey, sir," replied Shaftoe, "Will hae been given two breeks, but he maun allus wear his kilt, a shairt and sometimes brogan-shoon. Cauld does nae seem tae plague him."
Musgrave nodded. "Weel, let him bide as he will, then. But be y' sartain sure that he owns an overthick mattress tick and a blanket o' nichts. An' a pot o' brown ale for him that nicht, Oily."
A gentle slap of the reins set his horse back in motion, and they proceeded on up toward the hall.
"Who be that auld Highlander, Geoff?" asked Sir Michael. "Cannae he speak?"
Musgrave shook his head. "He come tae the ha' a-begging, not tae lang after His Grace last left, whilst His Grace of York and Master Rupen, his servant, still abided here. He were naught save skin an' bones, then. An' nae, he cannae speak even ane word."
"So, being the mon y' be, y' took him in." said Scott. "Who give him the name Will? Y'self?"
Again Musgrave shook his head. "Not so, Michael. He cannae speak, but he can write . . . well, his name, anyhow, 'twould seem. Tae do sich, for sartain sure he once were muir than a mere gillie. But how knew y' he be a Highlander? The kilt, ainly? Yet Lowlanders wear it, too, some o' them."
This time, Scott's head shook. "Not the kilt, Geoff, but the sett. Auld an' wore doon an' faded oot as be that tartan, I cannae be sartain o' the sett, but I ken it be either Mac Ghille Eoin or Mac Neacail, both o' them clans o' the West Highlands an' the isles. Be Will the ainly name he writ?"
