Loud and wild was the rejoicing of Squire John and his folk at the news of the death of Sir David and the unqualified rout of his reavers. Before they went into the hall to dine, Sir Francis gifted their host several casks of the gunpowder captured from the Scots, but none of the fertilizer powder. And his brief introductions of Foster, Collier and Webster noted only that they were King’s men who had fought in the defense of Whyffler Hall.
Squire John welcomed them all and fed them the best meal Foster had enjoyed since his arrival. Heron’s lands had not been ravaged, and, though his hall was neither so large nor so fine as Whyffler Hall, he set a fine table—pork, veal, mutton, pigeon, goose, and chicken, fish of several kinds, and eels, a hare pastry, and a whole, roasted badger, cabbage, lambs-quarters, and three kinds of beans, everything well seasoned with onions, garlic, and assorted herbs. There were pitchers of the inevitable ale, but also wines and some fiery cordials. And all the while they sat gorging themselves, their host profusely apologized for the plainness and paucity of the fare, blaming the chaotic conditions of countryside and roads, about which armed bands of every stripe and persuasion rode or marched hither and yon, commanding stores and impressing likely men and boys where they did not burn, rob, rape and kill.
Then Foster had all he could do to not spew up that fine dinner when, as a special fillip, Sir Francis had the pickle cask brought in, the top hoop sprung, and did himself reach into the strong vinegar to haul forth—ghastly, fishbelly-white, and dripping—the head of Sir David the Scot, much to the expressed delight of the assembled company.
With the first cockcrow, they were back in the saddle, and on their way with the earliest light. But not until John Heron’s hall was well behind them did Sir Francis sign Foster, Collier, and Webster to leave their places in the column of twos and ride beside him.
Foster thought that, if anything, the nearly twelve hours of extreme exertion the day before had improved the old nobleman’s appearance. His face was sun-darkened and the high-bridged nose was peeling a little, but there was immense vitality in his every movement and his sea-green eyes sparkled under their yellowish-white brows.
“I’d not be having ye think that I mistrust my old comrade, Squire John,” he began. “Ye all ken that I gi’e him nane of the new powder, nor telled aught of the miracles as brought ye here in the time of the King’s need. But I know ye that I would willingly trust Squire John wi’ all I hold dear, eek my ain honor.
“We two soldiered together years agone, in France under the young King’s grandsire and during the Crusade agin the Empire, near twenty year agone, and agin the domned Scots near a’ our lives. He be a forthright and honorable gentleman, but, much as he’d like tae, he canna speak for a’ his folk. His wife be ten years dead, but her uncle lives yet and he be the Bishop o’ Preston. And the less the bludey Kirk knows o’ ye and a’ ye’ve wrought, ere we reach the King, the better, I be thinking.”
That was all he said at the time, but he ruined the appe-,tites of both Foster and Collier, during the late-morning dinner halt. “Whate’er transpires, gentlemen, dinna allow y’r living bodies tae be delivered up tae the Kirk. When the Empire Crusade was won, those as had made unhallowed powder—mostly alchemists and renegade clerics—first were tortured for weeks by the Holy Office, then their broken bodies were carted or dragged, for nane could walk or e’en crawl by that time, tae the place o’ their doom. The/e, before the princes o’ the domned Kirk and a’ o’ us Cmsaders as hadna gane hame, they gelded the poor bastards, gutted them and rammed them fu’ o’ their ane powder, then burnt them at stakes, an’ wi’ the domned fires slow, so it was lang ere they were blown intae gobbets.”
Their second night on the journey was wakeful and wary, in a well-concealed, cold camp on the north bank of the Tyne, just upstream from Overwarden Town. The campfires of a sizable force flickered on the south bank, and the travelers were glad to have heeded Sir Francis’ warnings to keep low and silent through the night, when with the gray false-dawn came the sound of chanting, and the first rays of the sun revealed some four thousand foot and at least half a thousand horse, all bearing Church pennons or wearing the white surcoat of Crusaders.