“A fu’ Spanish onza o’ gold.” Sir Francis shook his white head in weary resignation. “More hard money than mony see in a’ the year. And a’ I brocht be siller.”
Foster fumbled for a moment in the nylon money belt, then handed the old nobleman a South African krugerrand. “Will that do it?”
CHAPTER 3
Dear Krystal,
I am sending this letter by way of the trooper who was my orderly, Oily Shaftoe. The poor fellow lost his forearm and hand when an arquebus ball took him just at the elbow and so ended his soldiering days. The miracle is that he failed to bleed to death or die of infection. He’s a bright fellow and learns quickly, so tell Pete to find a job for him.
Bill Collier is also sending a letter to his wife, and Sir Francis one to his daughter, a second to his sister, and two shorter ones to Geoff Musgrave and Henry Turnbull.
Buddy Webster and I are well, if overworked and somewhat underfed all too often, and not because we cannot buy food—I still have quite a bit of the coin collection I brought along—but because there is damn-all food to buy hereabouts. We did eat pretty well for a couple of weeks after the battle near Haltwhistle, where we virtually annihilated about five thousand of these so-called Crusaders, most of them from France and Belgium. My troop—I bought commissions for Buddy and myself, early on; you simply would not believe the purchasing power of gold and silver coin, Krystal—was in the thick of things. We were part of that squadron (commanded by Sir Francis, who else) that rolled up their left flank.
We see very little of Bill anymore. He made a deep impression on the King at first meeting, quickly was appointed to His Majesty’s personal retinue, and is, we understand, planning most of the royal strategy now.
We break camp in the morning to march south. There is a larger French force advancing from the east along the Wei-land valley, but we’ll probably have to fight the Irish, first, as they are encamped near Manchester. Granting we overcome both the Irish and the French, there still is an even larger Spanish-Portuguese-Italian force to the far south, last reported somewhere west of Chichester. And we can only hope and pray that King Alexander’s internal problems not only continue but multiply, else we’ll have his Scots on our backs before we can drive off the other three armies.
Re the letter you sent me with the last powder train: No, stay where you are! The only women with the army, “ladies” and commoners alike, are out-and-out whores. True, they do aid the surgeons in caring for the sick and wounded, but their status is definitely inferior. They share all the filth and hardships of camp life, so they are mostly in poor health and their death rate is high.
With autumn coming in, it is beginning to get downright cold; therefore, I’d appreciate it if you could send me a few things with the next powder train. In the attic of my house you’ll find an old footlocker with my name stenciled on the lid; it’s heavy as lead, but damned strong. Put the biggest padlock you can find in my shop on it and give the key to Pete; tell him to pack it in with a box of five hundred twelve-gauge shells (all slugs) for Webster and me.
Put the following in the footlocker: my other two coveralls, all the wool sox you can find, the two sets of insulated underwear, all my undershorts and T-shirts, the two replacement liners for my sleeping bag, the large can of foot powder, the big pasteboard box labeled “motel soap,” all the razorblades you can locate, the green parka, any bottles of aftershave you can find, and the prescription bottle of Lomo-til (also in the medicine cabinet).
I don’t ask for food because I know how short you are of it there; however, a couple of fifths would be nice (if you have room for them and if Arbor hasn’t guzzled them all by now), also some vitamin tabs and perhaps a few bouillon cubes. There are a couple of chapsticks around the house somewhere, and I can certainly use them, along with the big jar of petroleum jelly and one of the hundred tab bottles of aspirin.