He spoke. “I am Sebastian Foster, sir.”
The oldster’s eyes snapped back to him. “Forster, be y’?” He ran a finger under his wide lace collar and moved his lips in the hint of a smile. “An’ come t’ help Sir Francis, en? Belike, y’ll only die w’ us a’, but f r a’, y’re well come.” Standing, he extended his hand and, automatically, Foster took and gripped it “I be Geoffrey Musgrave, Squire Forster, steward o’ a’ Sir Francis’ lands. But set ‘doon.”
Foster felt a chair being pressed against the backs of his legs and sank onto it as Musgrave picked up a big leather pitcher and poured measures of a pale-yellow liquid into leather mugs, then pushed one across the table and seated himself with the others. But when Foster picked up his mug, the old man rose again, holding his cup aloft saying, “Squire Forster, let us drink the health of our King, God bless him, and damnation t’ a’ rebels.”
A sip. The stuff was sour and watery, with an aftertaste that hinted of herbs, but Foster found its thirst-quenching properties sovereign, so took several long drafts before setting the mug down. Thank you very much, Mr. Musgrave. It’s delicious, but what is it?”
The old man looked at him oddly and raised one eyebrow. “Why it be Sir Francis’ famous ale, o’ course. Ye looked f need a stoup, Squire Forster, an’ the best be ne’er too good for a mon as would fight his way in t’ die w’ us.”
Foster had no intention of dying, with these people or without, not if he could do anything about it There had been a time—was it only a’couple of days ago? It now seemed like far longer than that—as he had sat, watching the raging Potomac lap further and further beyond its highest previous floodpoint, when he had felt very close to Carol, when he had been ready to leave a world that had become all but unbearable since her untimely death. He had deliberately drunk himself into a stupor, expecting never to waken again, but the events of the past hours, the mysteries presented for unraveling, and especially the short, vicious little gunfight down in the courtyard had brought about a fierce resurgence of his will to live.
He took another swallow of the ale. “How many men have you here, Mr. Musgrave?”
The oldster sighed gustily. “Only seven and twenty be left, alas. Mony died on the walls when first yon host come on us, more fell when young Sir Cuthbert led that braw sallyforth wha’ gie him his death’s-wound, God harbor safely his gallant soul. These lads still wi’ us be braw an’ bonny a lot, but nae sojers, ye ken, for a’ that their sires an’ grandsires were reavers a’. Still they love Sir Francis—as do mesel’ an’ ye, eh?—an’ they an’ the sairvin’ gels an’ me an’ ye, Squire Forster, an’ the Lady Arabella, well cost the whoresons dear, ere Whyffler Ha’ fa’s!
“When Sir Francis took to his bed—an’ would ye see him, y’ maun see him soon, for I dinna think he’s lang tae live, more’s the pity—an’ command fell tae meself, I drew a’ intae the north wing, here, sealed us off frae the bulk o’ the hoose. We’ll hold here sae lang as we can, then tae the Towerkeep.”
“But,” said Foster, “if you’ve got twenty-seven men, why in hell don’t you go out and drive those few bastards out of the outbuildings? I don’t think there were more than twenty-five, to start out, and I sh6t six of those.”
“I could nae take a’ the lads oot agin yon poodle-fakers; besides, they hae gonnes an’ a braw plenitood a’ poudre.”
“Don’t you have guns?” demanded Foster. “You’ve got one, anyhow—I saw it in the other room there.”
“Och, aye, Squire Forster, gonnes in plenty, but almost nae poudre, nor ane left as can mix it. An’ I wot Sir David—for-. sworn rebel, he be bot a canny sojer, for a’ that—spiered oot our lack an’ so stationed only Redhand Ramsay an’ thirty launces tae hold us here until he an’ his rebel reavers maun fetch back a great gonne, for he wot he cannae tek the auld tower wi’oot ane. That ane he drug here wi’ him burst a’ the secon’ firin’.” The old man showed every remaining yellow tooth in a wolfish grin. “Aye, Squire Forster, that were suthin tae see, it were! Blew the great gonne tae flinders, it did, sent a’ the gonners tae meet Auld Clootie, fired a’ the timbers alang wi’ fu’ mickle caskets a’ poudre!”