by Robert Adams
"Go fuck yourself, Collier," snarled Foster. "You want a doctor, go to one of these you call 'quacks'; as full of shit as you've become, a purge would do you good."
He had spun on his heel and started out of the chamber when Collier struck a small gong and shouted, "Guards! Guards, to me!"
A dozen Sussex Legionnaires poured into the chamber, blocking Foster's exit, led by the Legionary captain, his long sword bared.
"Seize Captain Foster! Take him outside and flog him, thirty . . . no, fifty lashes. Put a blunt brass pin through his tongue. Let—"
"Nowl you jest hoi' on there, Perfesser," put in Webster. "I don't give a gol'-plated fuck if you play-ack big dog all you wants to, but when you gets to where you gonna whip folks and stick pins in 'em 'cause they won' do crazy things 'long with you, this ole boy's done had hisself enough."
"Stay out of this affair, Webster," warned Collier, smiling cruelly. "This is between Foster and me. You already know your place; he must learn his own."
Webster said no more; he acted, instead. His long, powerful arm shot out and the huge hand closed with the fingers under the back-plate of the soldier who held Foster's right arm. He jerked the man off his feet and flung him full into the Sussex captain; both men went down in a heap.
"Help! Guards! Mutiny! Murder!" Collier had time to scream but the four words before the soldier who had had Foster's left arm came flying, to crash onto the tabletop and skid full into his master, his helmeted head taking the Earl in the pit of the stomach, both crashing back onto the overturned chair.
Shaking with laughter, the captain of the King's Own, who had accompanied them and heard everything, partially unwrapped the bundle of weapons and extended them toward Foster. "You can keep your hands off me, Captain Webster; I've no part in this sorry affair. I shall say as much at your trial, but if you're to live to have one, you'd best take these swords and defend yourselves ere the damned Sussex pigs chop you into gobbets."
But it was not to be. With Foster and Webster backed against the wall, their blue-shimmering Irish swords and daggers confronting a triple rank of Collier's guardmen, the chamber was suddenly filled with royal-liveried infantry, their knife-bladed pikes threatening every man in the tent. Then Arthur, himself, strode in, flanked by Reichsherzog Wolfgang and Harold, Archbishop of York.
When the King had heard Captain Cromwell's terse report, dismissed the Sussexers, and had his pikemen right the overturned chair and place the wheezing, gasping, red-faced Earl of Sussex into it, he spoke to him sternly.
"Uncle William, you have overstepped your authority. These brave officers are but just come in from half a month of riding and fighting in this bitter weather, and right was with them to refuse your unreasonable commands. And our own physicians' pills and nostrums are enough; you need not send north for more."
"All the camp knows that bad blood runs twixt you and Squire Forster here, as all know that you've not the stomach to meet him, man to man, at sword points, as gentlemen should, to settle their differences. You'll not abuse the position we gave you to torture a fine Captain into humility. Do you ken us, Uncle?"
He turned to Foster and Webster. "Those blades are Tara? How came you by them?"
But Collier refused to let things ride. His speech slurred due to a bitten tongue, he rose to lean against the head of the table, needing the support.
"Your Majethy should not have humiliated me before theeth lowborn pigth." He waved a hand toward Foster and Webster. "I have given you power and victorieth, Arthur; perhapth my geniuth had been better uthed by Holy Mother the Church."
Growling guttural German curses, his big, hairy hand grasping the hilt of a cinquedea dagger—its two-foot blade so wide as to be reminiscent of a Roman short sword—the Reichsherzog started forward, but Arthur's arm barred his path.
"No, Cousin Wolf." Then, to Collier, "Do our ears deceive us, or did you threaten us with desertion to our enemies, Earl William? For, if you did so, why, we shall be most happy to speed you on your way. There be at least a hundred spies and agents of the Usurper in this camp. We know them all. Several are on your staff or among your guards, and we are certain that they would be easily enticed to help you to journey to London, where some very inventive torturers and, in time, a stake await you. The Church does not forgive, nor do Her servants trust turncoat traitors."
Suddenly realizing what his precipitate words had wrought, Collier had paled, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard that his big knuckles stood out stark white against its dark wood. "But . . . but, I gave Your Majethty victorieth. It wath I who ethtablithed the powder manufactory at Whyffler Hall. I gave dithipline to your army and formed it into ordered, uniform unith and brought thanity to your thythtem of military rankth. I—"
The King left the chamber, trailed by the Archbishop and the Reichsherzog, the pikemen politely escorting Foster and Webster in the King's wake.
CHAPTER 5
The snow lay deep on ancient Eboracum as the long, well-guarded column of wagons and wains, heavy-laden with the component parts and the raw materials of Pete Fanley's gunpowder-manufacturing operation, neared. With William Collier across the border to Scotland and Whyffler Hall situated but a few miles from that same border, a hastily called conference—King Arthur, Archbishop Harold, Reichsherzog Wolfgang, Sir Francis Whyffler, and Foster—had agreed that the vital operation would be safer and more centrally located in eastern Yorkshire.
As the ice-sheathed spires of York topped the horizon before him, Foster reflected that he would not care to be beginning rather than ending this hellish trek. He now knew exactly why folk of this kingdom seldom tried to travel far in winter and why their various armies almost never fought then.
The distance was not great, less than seventy-five miles, measured on the map in his atlas. But such few roads, he soon discovered, as existed were hardly worthy of being called such at even the best of times, which this time decidedly was not. Where the deep-rutted, potholed tracks did lie, they wandered up hill and down dale, curved back upon themselves, and ran every way but straight, so that his huge, ungainly "command" averaged no more than three miles progress on good days. In the foothills of the Pennines, that figure was halved.
Tight security had had to be constantly maintained, as well, whether on the march or encamped, for survivors of the French-led Crusaders smashed last summer were wandering, starving, about the countryside they needs must traverse, huge aggregations of well-armed robbers prowled by day and by night; and Scot reavers were not left behind until the column had crossed the Tees and were into Swaledale itself.
Too, the weather had been bitter—there had been three- and four-day stretches of time when they could move not at all and had sat, shivering and cursing, within the ring of their transport while knife-sharp winds howled, and driven snow reduced visibility to mere inches.
Tempers frayed and flared, axles split and broke, and the beds had to be emptied and jacked up so that axles or wheels could be replaced. Horses stepped into snow-concealed ruts or holes and broke legs. The delicate beasts died of cold and exposure or slipped on icy rocks and fell, killing themselves and sometimes their riders, as well. Supplies brought from the north were expended and the column needs must camp for an entire week, while dragoons roved the surrounding countryside, foraging—buying from those few who would sell, seizing at sword points from those who would not.
He knew that he could not possibly have accomplished the Herculean task alone. Had he not been blessed with the inventive and innovative talents of Pete Fairley and Carey Carr, the stolid strength of Buddy Webster, and the cool, calm rationality of Krystal Kent, he would have become a raving lunatic before the journey had hardly commenced. And Collier had banked on the fact that a winter transfer of the powder industry from north to south was a physical impossibility; he had told Foster as much just before his departure.
The weather having turned entirely too foul for any attempt at large-scale raiding, much less campaigning, King Arthur's army had
gone into winter bivouac, in and around Manchester. Harold, Archbishop of York, had retired to his seat for the winter, and Arthur, himself, would have preferred the more familiar comforts of that staunchly loyal city. But the marshaling of his troops had sorely tried the supply capabilities of all the North and East Ridings, nor had the situation been in any manner helped by the incursion of the Crusader army from France.
Foster and Buddy Webster had ridden north with Sir Francis and the survivors of their original armed band to celebrate Christmas and see in the New Year at Whyffler Hall. It was a long ride, in the face of bitter winds howling down off the distant highlands of Scotland, cold as a hound's tooth and sharp as the edge of a dirk. For all that the journey was accomplished in slow, easy stages, both men and animals suffered, so much so that the sight of Heron Hall was a welcome one indeed.
For all his mixed and ambiguous loyalties, Squire John Heron was as jolly and hospitable as ever, though Foster's war-sharpened eye noted that his host had added several medium-sized cannon—sakers and small minions, they looked to be—and a dozen or more swivel-guns to his defenses, while a dry ditch, six feet deep and ten or more wide, now circuited the walls of his bailey. He had added to his garrison, too, but for all that he still entertained them royally, setting before them the best meal Foster had downed since last he had sat to table under the roof of Heron Hall. It was all that he could do, however, to keep his heavy-lidded eyes open and maintain his place in the armchair, for the warmth and the tasty, hot food had the effect of a powerful soporific on his body, so long now accustomed to endless cold and ill-prepared, tasteless camp fare.
He allowed Sir Francis and Squire Heron to carry the conversation, and as soon as courtesy permitted he sought his bed. He slept the most of the next day, as well, a fierce storm having blown down from the north overnight, and Sir Francis, for all his eagerness to be again at his seat—now so tantalizingly near—was unwilling to put tired horses and men on the march in such weather.
John Heron's larder seemed to be bottomless, for if anything the second night's repast—which commenced in late afternoon and continued unabated until the host finally arose to weave his staggering way up to his bedchamber, leaving many a guest and retainer snoring in drunken stupor under the trestle-tables or on the benches—was several cuts above that of the first night. Pork there was, both wild and domestic, and venison, for such of the King's foresters as were not with the royal army were understandably loath to ride against a nobleman who kept so large and well armed a band. There was goose and duck and chicken and pigeon and even a swan, roasted whole and stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, mashed apples, herbs, pepper, and tiny sausages.
Foster found the swan's flesh tough and unpleasantly fishy-tasting, but Squire Heron seemed so proud to serve the dish, and Sir Francis made so much of being served it, that he forced himself to give the appearance of enjoying the portion allotted to him, although when he saw his chance he surreptitiously slipped most of it under the table to the waiting boarhounds. But he did yeoman work on the well-larded venison, rich goose, and highly spiced pasties of chicken, veal, and mutton, washing them down with long drafts of Rhenish wine and Heron's fine brown ale.
The meal finally done, Squire John courteously but firmly pressed Webster and Foster for their accounts of the recent campaigns. True, he had had Sir Francis' recountal on the previous evening, but never a Borderer born, English or Scots, who was not warrior bred, and Foster noted that even the ladies at the high table and the women at the low seemed to both understand and relish the necessarily sanguineous recitals of crashing charges and merciless pursuits.
Once the three ladies—Heron's second wife, Emma (at least thirty years younger than her lord, Foster figured, but seemingly quite happy, nonetheless), her unmarried younger sister, Anne Taylor, and the girls' widowed aunt, Mary Noble—had bade their goodnights and retired above-stairs, the women and common servants quickly departed to their straw-tick beds or their night duties, leaving the gentlemen and the soldiers to get down to the serious drinking.
Although their host and Sir Francis commenced to pour down quantities of brandies and raw Scots spirits, Webster continued on ale only and Foster confined himself to the pale wine. He had never really cared much for brandy and had, during the past months, made the sad discovery that the only thing the Scots uisgebeatha shared in common with the smooth Scotch whiskies of his own world was their place of origin. But he did as well by the wine as he had by the food, putting down at least three pints of it before Dan Smith rose to sing.
A great bear of a man, big as Buddy Webster, which made him huge indeed as compared to the average man of this time, Smith was the master smith of Heron Hall, and blessed with a fine, deep bass singing voice, plus a good memory and the gift to improvisation.
His first few selections were ballads dealing with incidents of the bloody warfare that had seesawed back and forth across the English-Scots border for centuries. Foster knew the antiquity of some of them, as he had heard troopers sing them many times. Then, with a twinkle in his brown eyes, the smith sang a ditty that had most of his listeners alternately grinning broadly or gasping with laughter. It was a Scots song delivered in a broad brogue and interspersed with much Gaelic as well as idioms with which Foster was not familiar, but what little he did comprehend was of a degree of bawdiness to toast the ears of a camp whore.
When the song was done and the listeners had given over pounding the tables and gasping with laughter, the smith made a suggestion, whereupon the men-at-arms commenced to bellow for some songs from the high table. John Heron arose to oblige them and, standing at his place and tapping out his rhythm on the table with the hilt of his knife, sang the tale of a young girl who wed the richest man in the town to find only too late that he totally lacked some essential physiological appendages.
Sir Francis followed with the first vaguely familiar song Foster had heard in this time. In that clear tenor that had risen above the din of so many battles, the white-haired knight sang some twenty verses:
Then Bob, he were ca'ed tae answer the Session,An' they a-cried, Mon, ye maun mek a confession. But braw Bob ne'er said him a word ava', Save, The win' blew the lassie's plaidie awa'. And then all the men bawled out the chorus: Her plaidie's awa', tis awa' wi' the win',Her plaidie's awa' an' it cannae be foun'. Och, wha' wi' the auld uns say ava' She cannae say the win' blew her plaidie awa'.
As Sir Francis resumed his seat, Heron turned to Foster. "An' noo, Squire Forster, wi' ye oblige us a' wi' a ditty?"
Foster did not think he could expect his audience to understand "The Fighter Pilot's Lament," so he launched into what he could remember of the infamous "Ball of Kerriemuir" and soon had loud assistance on the chorus: "Wha' screw ye las' nicht, wha' screw ye noo? The mon wha' screw ye last nicht, he cannae screw ye noo."
When he had exhausted his store of verses, Webster stood to contribute several more and followed the contribution with an indescribably filthy Marine Corps song, couched in an English so basic that there was no one but could understand it.
Thereafter, things became livelier. Dan Smith cheerfully wrestled three of the bigger men-at-arms, before Webster shucked jerkin, shirt, and boots and jumped from off the dais to confront the metalworker in the wide, shallow U formed by the lower tables. Webster at length was declared winner, but it was not a quick or easy victory for all his knowledge of oriental martial skills. Next two pairs of tipsy men fought with quarter-staves, and two more pairs with blunted, edgeless, and padded swords, while the drinking went on . . . and on and on.
The next day proved clear, though cold as a whore's heart, and they were a-horse for Whyffler Hall, hangovers be damned. The horses, if not fully recovered of their ordeal, at least seemed refreshed, for all that many of the riders swayed in their saddles, looking to be at death's door, with drawn faces and red, bleary eyes.
For all their own imbibing, however, neither Sir Francis nor Squire John showed more than traces of overindulgence. Webster did, tho
ugh. He, at the insistence of his new friend, Dan Smith, had switched in the latter part of the evening to bastard concoctions of brandy, hard cider, and burned—distilled, that is—ale. It had taken the brute strength of five men to help him onto his horse, and Foster thought he looked as if he should have been buried days ago.
Sir Francis drained off the stirrup cup and reached across the black stallion's withers to take Heron's hand. "Johnny, ye be nae Pope's man, an' ye ken it. Wha' wi' it tek tae see ye declare for young King Arthur, God keep him?"
Heron's lips set in a grim line. "Ane thrice-domnt Scot 'pon me lands, that be wha, Fran Whyffler! Noo, I've been given assurances, boot I've scant faith in them, for a'. Sae dinnae be surprised tae spy me an' me braw launces come a-clatterin' intae y'r camp, ane day."
Sir Francis looked deep into the eyes of his old friend and spoke solemnly. "Ye be a stark fighter, Johnny Heron. Come tae me soon. Our King needs a' sich he can find. God keep ye."
They had been told that the Rede was frozen, and this proved accurate, allowing them to take a more direct route and shorten their journey by the miles the track meandered to the ford; even so, the distance they had ridden in a bare fifteen hours last summer took the best part of two days to complete in the dead of winter. The only good thing any of them could say about the weather was that, such was its severity, it had driven even the brigands to den up.
Three days after the first day of the New Year of 1640 (Foster had finally been able to get the anno domini date from the Archbishop of York), Foster was entertaining in the den of his tri-level. Carey Carr and Pete Fairley sat in rapt attendance to Buddy Webster's enthusiastic account of his troop's role in the three days' butchery of the Irish Crusaders. A log fire crackled on the hearth and the howling winds had driven the past week's snowfall into eaves-high drifts on the north and west sides of the house. Pete had been ready to get a levy to clear the house, but Foster dissuaded him, for the power still—and inexplicably!—was working, so they did not need the light from the covered windows, and the snow served as excellent insulation from the cold and the winds.
