“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? It’s too bad, for as I now recall, the Duke said that his contributions were really trivial 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 hismelf 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 emplacments 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 gummen would nae e’en gape the gates enough tae bespeak me, just blew on their slow matches 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 eke 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.