Too, the weather had been bitter—there had been three-and four-day stretches of tune 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 swordpoints 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 Whyffier 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 tan-talizingly 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 trestletables 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.