The Royal Army was two days in reorganizing, then immediately took up the pursuit of the shattered Scottish host, this time unencumbered by wagons or by any but the lightest of field guns, the necessities on pack animals, and the trains and the wounded well on the way to Durham. Arthur and Wolfgang pressed them hard, marching from before dawn until well after dusk.
Arthur’s beloved cousin, the Duke of Northumbria, had fought at the King’s side throughout the long battle, and only when the battle was done and won did he suddenly turn purple in the face and fall, clawing feebly at his breastplate. He was dead before many noticed he was down. He had been Lord Commander of the Royal Horse—overall commander of cavalry. Before the pursuit had commenced, Wolfgang, conferring with Arthur, had recommended Foster to fill, for the nonce, the vacant post.
The King slanted his head to one side, wrinkling his brows. “Squire Forster be a valiant man, a doughty sojer and all, Brother Wolf, but he cannot become Lord Commander. He be not a lord . . . and I be not even certain of his patents of nobility. No other Forsters seem to have heard of him ere now, and such a man as he be would surely have been renowned in his youth.”
“Pah! Brother King, a trifle, that be.”
Foster had been readying what was left of his squadron for the road, selecting remounts from captured chargers and from the herd driven up from Durham, when the blank-faced pikemen of the King’s Foot Guards found him and hustled him away.
Arthur sat in his canopied armchair at the head of the council table. Several of his noble military commanders sat grouped about the table, and Reichsherzog Wolfgang stood before it, the shimmering Tara-steel broadsword in his hand.
Foster could see no softness or humor on any face in the pavilion, they all looked deadly serious. When he had been maneuvered to a place directly before the big German, Wolfgang spoke but one word.
“Kneel!”
His head spinning, his mind a chaotic jumble of thoughts, Foster just stood, looking from one grim face to another, until two pikemen grabbed his shoulders and forced him to his knees on the carpet, then jerked off his helmet.
The Reichsherzog advanced a single pace, raised his bared blade, and slapped the two shoulders of Foster’s well-worn buffcoat with the flat of the steel. Then he sheathed his weapon, bent, and took Foster’s hands and clasped them, palm to palm, between his own, all the while intoning what sounded to be a formula in German. Finally, he spoke directly to Foster.
“Sir Bass, ven the speaking I each time stop und mein head I nod, answer you must, ‘Ich vill es tun, mein Herr.’ Understood? Ja, so.”
When at last, the long business was completed, Wolfgang, his eyes now twinkling merrily, grasped Foster’s shoulders and set him upon his feet, then embraced him and slapped his back soundly before kissing him on his cheek. Threading his arm through Foster’s, he turned and addressed the King.
“So, Brother Arthur, months haf I vanted this jewel of a soldat for the Empire, und now he ours iss. Royal Sir, schentlemen, my great pleasure it now iss to present to your graces, mein vassal, Freiherr Hauptmann Sebastianus Forster, Margraf von Velegrad, ja! Your tchance you lost haf, Brother Arthur, now the Empire’s he iss!”
The King smiled, shrugging languidly. “Perhaps, Brother Wolf, but mayhap not. Nevertheless, His Lordship now is in all ways qualified for the vacant post. Our thanks to you for that. There can be no questioning the patents of a Marquis of the Holy Roman Empire.”
CHAPTER 7
King Alexander rode north in cold fury. Retirement from the blood-soaked peat of Hexham had not been in any part his doing or desire. Had it been up to him, he would have willed that the army fight until either victory was won or not one man of any class stood on his two feet Cooler and wiser heads had, however, prevailed, most notable among them: Andrew, Earl of Moray; the King’s brother, James, Lord Marshal of the Army of Scotland; and the Papal Legate, Ramon de Mandojana.