While reheating his own ale, Foster asked, “Is that the chap Arthur had tortured to death early in the war and then sent the corpse back to London in a pipe of brandy?”
His old eyes sparkling, the Archbishop rasped a dry chuckle. “A bit of psychological warfare that succeeded too well, that, Bass. A few weeks after poor Arthur learned of the murders of his wife and children, the Duque was captured during a cavalry action, but he was seriously wounded and died just as he reached the King’s camp. Arthur had the still-warm body stripped, flogged, burned, racked ferociously, and terribly mutilated. When the corpse gave every indication of having succumbed not to wounds of battle but to protracted torture, he had the thing immersed in brandy and sent it back to Angela along with a letter in which he assured her that he had now proof of his charges of adultery and bastardy.
“The farce was intended only to intimidate the so-called Regent and her folk, but now most of the army and nation believe it and Arthur is fancied a cold, vengeful, implacable man, one not to be trifled with.”
Foster suddenly found his throat tight, but asked the question anyway. “Hal, your . . . your friend, Emmett, how old would he look, by now?”
The old man shrugged. “No older than he did when last we parted, late-twentyish . . . unless he lost his capsules, again.”
“And if he did lose them?” probed Foster. “Younger than do I, by far,” smiled the Archbishop. “Possibly his appearance would be about your age. But why ask you?”
Foster thrust a hand into his pouch and closed his fingers about the ring he had prized from the clammy hand of the dead Irishman. “You’ll see why soon enough, Hal. But, please tell me. What college did Emmett graduate from, and what year? Can you recall?”
The older man frowned in concentration. “M.I.T., I recall that, but the year, hmmm . . . Ninety-seven, or was it ninety-six? No, I think it was ninety-eight, Bass. Yes, that was it, nineteen-ninety-eight.”
Slowly, Foster drew the worn, golden ring from his pouch, cupped the bauble in his palm, and extended the hand to his companion. “Could . . . then . . . this be … be your friend’s ring, Hal?”
CHAPTER 12
The winter had been long and harsh, but at length it ended. The hills round about Whyffler Hail traded their coats of glistening white for verdant mantles of bright-green grass with splashes of bold colors where early-blooming flowerlets burst out among the protrusions of weathered rock. Feathered clouds of birds descended from skies of blue and fleecy-white to perch upon the budding branches of the ancient, huge-boled trees, chirping and trilling avian tales of their long, winter sojourns in Languedoc, Andalusia and Africa, The season of growth had commenced . . . and the season of death.
With the melting of the snows, Foster sent out gallopers, and soon knots of well-armed riders were converging upon the hall, all prepared and provisioned for yet another season of war. But this year they came from both sides of the ill-defined border, those from the north of it completely uninvited and none too welcome by their English cousins … at first.
A council among the Archbishop of York, Duke Parian, Foster, and the leader of the Scots volunteers, Andrew, Laird of Elliot—a scar-faced, broken-nosed man of apparent middle years, whose bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows overhung deep-blue, predatory eyes; despite a noticeable limp, the tall, lithe Scot moved with the grace of a panther and he sat his fully trained stallion like a centaur, controlling the iron-gray beast solely with knee pressure and voice, since his left arm ended in a brass cap and hook—settled the matter and then Foster met with his officers.
When all the English officers had taken places about the chamber, Captain of Dragoons Squire Guy Dodd posed the question that was on the minds of all his comrades: “M’lord Forster, Bass, when dVe get tae chivvy them black-hairted bastids back tae their kennels?”
“You don’t!” Foster snapped. “They’re damned good fighters—as you all well know. And when has His Majesty’s Army ever had enough horse, eh?”
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