As the fingers of the intruder’s hand fumbled at the knob, then began to pull at the ironing board, Esther Kent lunged, skewering the muscular, hirsute hand just behind the knuckles.
Harley screamed once more, jerked his blood-spouting paw back out of the door, and recommenced attacking the portal with his shoulder. With both hinges almost torn loose and the various cracks and bulges showing that the very fabric of the door was about to sunder, Esther began to scream as well.
Then, suddenly, the assault on the door ceased.
Harley had already downed three of his fraternity brothers and was doing damage to the remaining pair when the police arrived. He broke the arm of one officer, the jaw of a second, and the teeth of a third, before the other three and the two college boys could hold him down long enough to cuff him. Even chained, he fought his captors all the way to the second-floor landing. When, at that point, he smashed the bridge of one policeman’s nose with his butting forehead, the injured man’s partner released his grip on Harley’s arm and gave him a shove.
Harley, his hands fastened behind his back, tumbled the length of the flight of stairs to slam, face first, onto the marble floor of the foyer. After that, he proved much easier to manage.
Lying with her eyes almost closed, Krystal watched her husband through the open doors as he toweled himself dry, then began to dress. She shuddered with delight, recalling the last few moments they had been together.
“Bass Foster,” she thought, “is all man, no one could ever doubt that fact; but he’s gentle, not brutal, caring, not callous. No doubt he’s shot many men or killed them with that lovely, deadly Irish sword, but he did it only to live himself and he’s certainly not proud of having killed them. God, if you’re really there, somewhere, let our little Joe grow up to be the same, splendid kind of man as his father is.”
On the day before his departure, Sir Francis had closeted himself with Foster. “Bass, all mine own sons be mony years dead. Had the elder, Dick, nae been slain, he’d be aboot of an age wi’ y’. Forgive an auld mon’s folly, but I’ve come tae think of y’ ‘as a son, these last years, for y’r what a’ I’d hae a son o’mine tae be, ye ken?”
Foster had only been able to nod, so tight had been his throat. It then came into his conscious mind that he truly loved this bluff, kindly, unassuming old man as he had loved his own father.
“Nae mon can say what-a’ may pass on the lang rood tae London, an’ me folk maun hae ane o’erlord in these troubled times. Beside,” he grinned, “sich will gi’ y’ saltin’ for the lord-in’ of y’r ain demesne. There be little work ata’, lad, oor good Geoffrey sees tae a’ that, but wi’ a’ these imporrrtant guests, he’d be a mickle-mite uneasy wioot a lord tae make decisions or approve his ain.
“An’ so, Bass, wiy ease an auld monfs mind anf take this feoff an’ fealty tae me until I be back?”
And so, every morning since Sir Francis’ departure had found Foster leaving his own, snug home to trudge up to the draughty, chilly hall and there spend the day and early evening serving the functions of master to the servants and host to the guests. Nor was this day different Bundled in his thickest cloak, he floundered through knee-high snow, his boot-soles slipping on the ice beneath, as far as the broad, stone steps leading up from the formal garden.
Supervised by Oily Shaftoe, who stood just within the recessed doorway, stamping and blowing on the fingers of his single hand, a brace of men were shoveling and sweeping the steps and veranda clear of the night’s accumulation of snow. At Foster’s approach, both men smiled and bobbed respectful greeting, while Oily fingered his forelock in military fashion.
At the high-table in the dining hall sat Wolfgang, Harold of York, and the Scottish ambassador, Parian Stewart, Duke of Lennox, King James’ first cousin. The Archbishop and the Reichsregent were chatting amiably in German, while breaking their fast on hard bread, strong cheese and hot brandy punch. The Scot, on the other hand, looked to be near death, showed a greenish tinge whenever he caught a whiff of the cheese, and sat in silence, taking cautious sips from a jack of steaming, spiced Spanish chocoldt, said to be a sovereign remedy for a hangover.