Castaways in Time

by Robert Adams

  Among the pile of dead men, he found two almost-full waterbottles. Jerking out the cork, he raised one of the bottles and greedily gulped down about half of it. The cold water was liberally laced with strong whiskey, and soon the warmth in his belly was spreading out into his chilled limbs, soothing his multitudinous pains, replacing his almost-sapped stores of energy, dispelling a measure of his mental fogginess.

  Thus refreshed, he expanded his searching, hauling aside a couple of the stiff, cold foemen. When at last he led Prideful on toward the sound of the horn, he had added to the gelding's load three full water bottles, a half-dozen powder flasks of varying degrees of fullness, and three pairs of big wheel-lock pistols—valuable, because many horsemen of King Arthur's army still were armed with matchlock weapons—and his new jackboots were stuffed with cased broadswords and daggers, none of them so ornate as the set he had appropriated, but all of the same superb steel and balance.

  And under his stinking, soaked clothing, the money belt about his waist sagged, bulging with an assortment of golden coins. Tightly buttoned into his shirt pockets under his corselet were two little doeskin bags filled with scintillating gemstones. He recognized that the treasure was most probably loot, but rationalized that the original owners were likely dead.

  Several of the squadron's captains were already gathered under the tattered, sodden banner bearing the Whyffler arms, all looking wrung-out, spent, haggard. Buddy Webster sat propped against a dead horse with the hornblower beside him; the massive man's chin was sunk onto his chest and his snores rivaled the intermittent bellows of the horn.

  Sir Francis, at least ten years the senior of the eldest of his captains, was the freshest-looking of the lot, though his armor and clothing showed that he had been in the thick of more than one engagement. His face was as clean as cold sea water could make it, his cheeks were shaven, and his beard trimmed.

  He strode briskly through the deep sand, threw his arms about Foster, and hugged him with fierce affection. "Ah, Bash, Bash . . . fagh!" He spat out the pebble he had been rolling on his tongue to dampen his mouth.

  "Bass, lad, I'd afeered ye slain, for a' I ken ye Forsters be a mickle hard lot tae put paid tae."

  Long ago, Foster had given up trying to convince Sir Francis that he was not a member of that famous and ferocious borderer house, and, in consequence, he was now Captain Squire Forster to all the army, save only Collier and Webster.

  Stepping back, the old man noticed the laden horse, and the skin at the corners of his bright eyes crinkled. "Ha' ye been a-looting, have ye? The mark o' the old sojer, that be. Did ye chance on a stoup o' water, lad?"

  When Foster had led Prideful—looking fitter and more mettlesome after the long, slow walk and a helmetful of whiskey-and-water—over to the group of officers, he first passed around the three canteens, then shared enough of his looted gunpowder for each man to recharge his weapons, just then, noting the empty scabbard still buckled to the squadron commander's baldric, he pulled the best-looking sword from the bundle of captured weapons and presented it.

  Sir Francis drew the long blade and, shedding his gauntlet, tested edge and point, then flexed and weighed it, ending with a look of reverent awe on his well-bred features. But then he sheathed the blade slowly and shaking his head said, "Och, nae, Bass, lad. 'Twas a noble gesture an' a', an' I'll e'er remember ye for 't. But yon blade's a rich trophy, nae doot ata' but yell get twenty pound or more, an' ye be fool enough tae sell it. It be o' the renewed Tara steel, sich as the High King's royal smith alane can fashion. They be rare e'en in Ireland, rarer still here. They ne'er break, ne'er rust, an' ne'er lose edge. 'Tis ever sojer's dream tae e'n touch ane."

  But Foster insistently pushed the weapon back into his leader's hands. "No, Sir Francis; this fight may not be over, and you need a sword, I didn't know these blades to be anything special when I gathered them, and I'd intended them for such of my men as had lost or broken their own. So take it, sir. Please do. Why not consider the sword payment for Prideful, here?"

  "Would ye sae shame me then, Bass? The geldin' were 't' puir, partial payment tae ye for a' ye done in service tae the Hoose o' Whyffler. An' for a' he be the get of a fine eich what I lifted outen the Merse, back in me reavin' days, yet this fine blade will easy buy four o' his like."

  But he finally accepted the weapon, thanking Foster humbly. And Foster, seeing tears in the old man's eyes, swallowed hard through a suddenly tight throat, unable to just then sort out or name the emotions he was feeling.

  He came back from hobbling Prideful with the other officers' horses, in a sheltered spot thick with rank dune-grass, leading a richly caparisoned stallion.

  Sir Francis, who had been speaking to the captains while absently fondling his precious new sword, suddenly fell silent, his mouth agape.

  "Someone," grinned Foster, "forgot to hobble his mount, and this is too fine an animal to chance losing." He chuckled "Bastard tried to bite me, before we came to an agreement." Captain Sir Herbert Little took a couple of paces toward Foster, his beady black eyes scrutinizing the stallion and his equipage. "Saints of Heaven!" he exclaimed. "It canna be nought but a Bhreac Mhoir Ech, by a' what's holy!"

  "It couldnae be," stated Sir Francis flatly. "Sich be unheard o', Miser on a reavin', fagh!"

  "What in hell is a . . . a whatchicallit? What's so special about the bruiser here, aside from the facts that he's damned big and he tries to take chunks out of people he doesn't know?" To Foster, the phrase Sir Herbert had first used to describe the stallion had sounded less like any language than like the clearing of a congested throat.

  As always, Sir Francis' perception was keen. "Bhreac Mhoir Ech? That be wha' the domned Irishers call horses of the strain o' yon beastie, Bass. First, Tara steel blades, an' noo a spackley stallion. Och, aye, nae doot but it were ane o' the Seven Cantin' Kinglets on this reavin', mayhap, e'en ane o' oors. He was left ahint o' the domned Irishers, an' nae mistake."

  As he trotted back down the beach toward where he had left the survivors of his troop, Foster found Bruiser responsive, tractable, and easy-gaited, and he thought it just as well for his hide, for, powerful as the uncut animal was, he could have been deadly, if unruly.

  He had tried to present one of the Tara swords to Buddy Webster, but the huge man had declined, even when apprised of the worth of the weapon. "Naw, Bass, thanks enyhow, but thet lil' ole thing's just too light for me; sides, the handle's too lil-bit for my hand. I'll stick to what I got, she done done me right, so far."

  What he had and preferred was an ancient bastard-sword dug out of the armory of Whyffler Hall, fitted out with a basket guard by the hall smith. It was longer, wider, thicker, and far heavier than a broadsword and, combined with Webster's massive thews and overlong arms, made the trucker-cum-cavalryman a truly fearsome opponent. He and it had become a veritable legend in the army.

  The other three captains, however, had eagerly traded their broadswords for the beautiful treasures, and even Webster had accepted one of the fine daggers. Sir Francis took also two of the last three sets.

  "'Twere best, Bass, that these twain gae tae the King an' Earl William, methinks. Alsae, the sooner ye get that golden hilt o' yer ane hid under honest leather, the better for ye."

  Certain privately spoken words to Sir Francis brought the old nobleman and three trusted retainers along with him as far as that spot whereon the Irish royal guardsmen had made their last stand. While the troopers lashed the two small, heavy caskets onto a powder mule's empty packsaddle, draping the bloodstained woolen cloak of one of the Irishmen over them, the commander paced over to Foster. He jumped back barely in time to avoid the teeth of the stallion.

  But, to Foster's surprise, he smiled. "Ye've a gude mount there, lad. He be fu' war-trained an' not tae mony are, these days. But he be a true, auld-fashion destrier, an' he'll sairve ye weel, but keep ye a tight reain tae him, till he lairas the smell o' yer retainers."

  "As tae this matter"—he jerked a thumb back over his steel-clad s
houlder—"breathe ye nae world o' it tae any mon, for some would allow it be the King's, by rights. Ne'er ye fear, I'll be gie'in' ye a proper accountin', ere I send it oot o' camp for safekeepin'."

  "Noo, y know wha' maun be done, Bass. Rally a' ye can find and coom back."

  Guy Dodd, ably assisted by a tall, blond, hawk-nosed young ensign of the Totenkoph Schwadron, had assembled some two-score troopers, few of them seriously hurt, but all of them thirsty, hungry, worn-out, and grumbling.

  With a click of boot heels and a stiff, formal bow, the strange officer introduced himself. "Herr Hauptmann, ich bin Egon von Hirschburg, Fahnrich zu dem Schwadron Totenkopf.

  "The lad doesnae speak verra mooch English, Bass," Guy said, "but he do talk the tongue o' them slit-eyed de'ils o' his'n." He waved at a quartet of short, squat, bandy-legged orientals who had laid aside their crossbows and were rubbing down their smallish, big-headed horses with handfuls of dead grass.

  Foster had never seen them fight but, he thought, if they were as mean as they looked, he was glad they were on his side. They had shed their chain-mail hauberks and quilted gambesons, and even their shirts—bare to the waist and seemingly immune to the cold drizzle and icy winds. They grinned and chattered constantly in a language at once singsong and guttural.

  Two more of the orientals squatted close by, on either side a heap of broken pike and lance shafts. With flashing knives and nimble yellow-brown fingers, they were transforming the battle debris into quarrel-sized dowels for the waiting crossbows. Foster reflected that there were some plus points for the more primitive weapons.

  Aside from a few brushes with isolated stragglers of the Irish force, the squadron regained the camp nearby the original field of battle in slow, easy stages, and only nine days after they had left it; since many troopers and even a few officers were afoot, this was fast indeed.

  When all of his troopers were fed and bedded down, with those of their comrades who had come back to camp a few days earlier seeing to the surviving horses, when he had personally seen the men of other units who had made the long march back with him delivered over to their respective commanders along with compliments on their bravery, training and discipline; only then did Foster seek his tent, his arrival simultaneous with that of Buddy Webster and Sir Francis, along with an arrogant young officer of the Sussex Legion, William Collier's personal troops. Save for a modicum of camp mud along soles and heels, his jackboots were as shiny as his polished cuirass and helmet, his rich clothing clean and whole, and he made no attempt to mask his distaste at the filthy, rusty, tatterdemalion aspects of the three other officers.

  Sketching the very briefest bow and salute that courtesy would permit, he snapped in a high-pitched, nasal voice, "The Lord William, Earl of Sussex and Grand Marshal of the Armies of His Majesty, Arthur, King of England and Wales, commands that Captain of Dragoons Sebastian Forster and Captain of Dragoons Buddy Webster immediately report to his pavilion."

  This said, he sniffed haughtily and added, "However, I am certain that my lord did not know just how disreputable would be your appearances. You will don clean clothing, wash, and shave before you accompany me to my lord."

  Foster's eyes flashed fire, everything about the supercilious young noncombatant grating on his sensibilities. Sir Francis noticed and tried vainly to catch his eye, but he was too late.

  "So," he growled from between clenched teeth, "Bill Collier commands that I report to him, does he? And you, you arrogant young puppy, command me to wash and shave and change clothing, do you? Well, boyo, Bill Collier will see me as I stand this minute or not at all! As for you, were I not so damned tired. I'd have your ants for garters, here and now: however, my late father used to say that dogs and damn fools deserved one free mistake. You've now had yours, remember that, in future!"

  In a few moments inside his tent, however, he removed his weighty, bulging money belt, entrusting it to Sir Francis, along with the little gold-chased wheel-lock pistols, his silver-buckled dagger-belt, and his rich new sword, taking Sir Francis' plainer one in exchange. He then slipped a full magazine into his Colt and another into his pocket. He no longer liked Collier or trusted him in any regard. On inexplicable impulse, he took the worn finger ring from the money-belt and slipped it over his middle finger—the only one it would fit snugly, at the dead Irishman had had larger hands.

  Because neither Foster nor Webster would consider riding their tired horses, Collier's errand boy had no choice but to walk as well; the three officers trailed by a trooper leading the sleek, shiny, high-stepping horse, and by a second carrying the two sets of Tara-steel cutlery intended for the King and his marshal. In tacit agreement, Foster and Webster maneuvered the flashy young officer between them and deliberately made their way through the wettest and foulest quagmires of the camp streets. Twice, Webster's long sword "accidentally" found its way between the now mud-coated legs of the once dapper Sussexer. The first time, he sat down forcefully and with a mighty splash; the second, his arms flailing futilely, he measured his length, face-first, in a soft ooze of fecal-smelling muck.

  The pavilion proved to be quite near to the royal complex. Arrived, the muddy and foul-odored Sussexer turned Foster and Webster over to a dried-up wisp of a little man who led them into a lamp-lit anteroom, instructed a pair of servitors to sponge the worst of the soil from their boots, then danced about them, chattering while his orders were performed.

  "Goodness me, young Edwin takes orders too literally, yes he does. His Grace said immediately, but you gentlemen should have been allowed time to array yourself decently, indeed yes."

  "And young Edwin, himself, tchtch, haste makes waste, oh yes; the lad looks as if he'd ottered here on his belly, goodness gracious, but he does."

  When their footwear met the oldster's critical taste, he ushered them through several more canvas-walled chambers, fetching up in a larger one which obviously was a guardroom. Two captains, one of the Sussex Legion and one of the King's Own Heavy Horse, sat on either side of a brazier, sipping ale and conversing in hushed tones. They arose when they spied the newcomers, and the King's Own officer strode over to them, spurs jingling, boots creaking.

  "These be the gentlemen-officers summoned by Earl William, Corwin?" At the oldster's nod, he bespoke Foster, "We twain ne'er have met, Squire Forster, but I know ye by repute, and all know of the mighty Captain Webster. Welcome, gentlemen. I fear I must request that you leave your swords in this room, your dirks as well, none save guardsmen are allowed to go armed beyond this point."

  When Foster set down the bundle, in order to remove his baldric, one of the Irish daggers clattered out.

  "What's this? What's this?" The Sussex captain half-drew his broadsword.

  "They're two broadswords and two daggers of Tara steel," said Foster. "I captured them on the beach and we have brought them to present to His Majesty and to Earl William. The cloak in which they're wrapped came off the corpse of an Irish nobleman."

  The first captain drew one of the trophies and fingered the blade, flexed it and returned it to its case. "A princely gift, sirs, a princely gift indeed, but you cannot bear them into His Grace's presence. I will do it, however."

  "God, you stink, Mr. Foster." Collier wrinkled his nose, waving a pomander of spices under it.

  Foster snapped coldly, "You would, too, had you spent the last two weeks in the saddle, Professor Collier. Now, what's so urgent? What d'you want with us? We're tired and hungry and thirsty and very dirty, as you just noted. Spit it out, man, I want a bath and a feed. You've got it too damned hot in here, too. And what the hell are you burning in those braziers? The place smells like a Hindu whorehouse."

  Thick layers of carpets lay underfoot in the tent chamber, and others hung in place to conceal the canvas walls. Collier sat behind a long, heavy table, and, for all the sweltering heat cast by three huge braziers of polished bronze, he was wrapped in a full length cassock of thick, rich samite, with a velvet cap on his head and a gairbhe or thick shawl of shepherd plaid across
his round shoulders. One gloved hand held the white linen cloth with which he intermittently dabbed at a dripping nose.

  "I am afflicted with a virus, Mr. Foster. I have been for ten days and I need medical attention. You are to ride up to Whyffler Hall and fetch back Miss . . . ah, Dr. Kent, along with any anti-congestants and antibiotics she has left."

  "You've got to be kidding." Foster shook his head slowly. "I just told you, we've spent the bulk of the last fortnight in the saddle; now you want me to undertake a round trip of better than a hundred and fifty miles, simply because you've got a cold? Doesn't King Arthur have a doctor or two about?"

  "They're all ignorant quacks," croaked Collier. "All they know is bleeding and purging and compounding foul, witch's-brew concoctions of unmentionable ingredients. I need a real doctor, some penicillin, some vitamins. I seem to recall you having a big jar of vitamins somewhere in the kitchen of your house? Well, I want them. I command you to bring them back to me. My continued health and well-being is of vast importance to the kingdom."

  "You don't just have a cold, Collier, you've come down with severe megalomania, d'you know that? You've gone nutty as a frigging fruitcake, and hell will freeze over solid before I saddle-pound my tired ass up to the Cheviots and back, just to pump your overinflated ego up a little more. Have you got that?"

  The armchair crashed over backward as Collier sprang to his feet, empurpled with outrage. "No one addresses the Earl of Sussex in that tone, Foster! The well-deserved loss of half your ear apparently taught you nothing. I think you need a bodkin through your insubordinate tongue. Perhaps a flogging would teach you how to speak to and behave in the presence of your betters. You'd best get started for Whyffler Hall, before I call my Legion and—"