But he finally accepted the weapon, thanking Foster humbly. And Foster, seeing tears in the old man’s eyes, swallowed hard through a suddenly tight throat, unable to just then sort out or name the emotions he was feeling.
He came back from hobbling Prideful with the other officers’ horses, in a sheltered spot thick with rank dune-grass, leading a richly caparisoned stallion.
Sir Francis, who had been speaking to the captains while absently fondling his precious new sword, suddenly fell silent, his mouth agape.
“Someone,” grinned Foster, “forgot to hobble his mount, and this is too fine an animal to chance losing.” He chuckled “Bastard tried to bite me, before we came to an agreement.” Captain Sir Herbert Little took a couple of paces toward Foster, his beady black eyes scrutinizing the stallion and his equipage. “Saints of Heaven!” he exclaimed. “It canna be nought but a Bhreac Mhoir Ech, by a’ what’s holy!”
“It couldnae be,” stated Sir Francis flatly. “Sich be unheard o’, Miser on a reavin’, fagh”
“What in hell is a … a whatchicallit? What’s so special about the bruiser here, aside from the facts that he’s damned big and he tries to take chunks out of people he doesn’t know?” To Foster, the phrase Sir Herbert had first used to describe the stallion had sounded less like any language than like the clearing of a congested throat.
As always, Sir Francis’ perception was keen. “Bhreac Mhoir Ech? That be wha’ the domned Irishers call horses of the strain o’ yon beastie, Bass. First, Tara steel blades, an’ noo a spackley stallion. Och, aye, nae doot but it were ane o’ the Seven Cantin’ Kinglets on this reavin’, mayhap, e’en ane o’ oors. He was left ahint o’ the domned Irishers, an’ nae mistake.”
As he trotted back down the beach toward where he had left the survivors of his troop, Foster found Bruiser responsive, tractable, and easy-gaited, and he thought it just as well for his hide, for, powerful as the uncut animal was, he could have been deadly, if unruly.
He had tried to present one of the Tara swords to Buddy Webster, but the huge man had declined, even when apprised of the worth of the weapon. “Naw, Bass, thanks enyhow, but thet lil ole thing’s just too light for me; sides, the handle’s too lil-bit for my hand. I’ll stick to what I got, she done done me right, so far.”
What he had and preferred was an ancient bastard-sword dug out of the armory of Whyffler Hall, fitted out with a basket guard by the hall smith. It was longer, wider, thicker, and far heavier than a broadsword and, combined with Webster’s massive thews and overlong arms, made the trucker-cum-cavalryman a truly fearsome opponent. He and it had become a veritable legend in the army.
The other three captains, however, had eagerly traded their broadswords for the beautiful treasures, and even Webster had accepted one of the fine daggers. Sir Francis took also two of the last three sets.
“Twere best, Bass, that these twain gae tae the King an’ Earl William, methinks. Alsae, the sooner ye get that golden hilt o’ yer ane hid under honest leather, the better for ye.”
Certain privately spoken words to Sir Francis brought the old nobleman and three trusted retainers along with him as far as that spot whereon the Irish royal guardsmen had made their last stand. While the troopers lashed the two small, heavy caskets onto a powder mule’s empty packsaddle, draping the bloodstained woolen cloak of one of the Irishmen over them, the commander paced over to Foster. He jumped back barely in time to avoid the teeth of the stallion.
But, to Foster’s surprise, he smiled. “Ye’ve a gude mount there, lad. He be fu’ war-trained an’ not tae mony are, these days. But he be a true, auld-fashion destrier, an’ hell sairve ye weel, but keep ye a tight reain tae him, till he lairas the smell o’ yer retainers.
“As tae this matter”—he jerked a thumb back over his steel-clad shoulder—”breathe ye nae world o’ it tae any mon, for some would allow it be the King’s, by rights. Ne’er ye fear, I’ll be gie’in’ ye a proper accountin’, ere I send it oot o’ camp for safekeepin’.
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