Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

As Sir Francis resumed his seat, Heron turned to Foster. “An’ noo, Squire Forster, wi’ ye oblige us a’ wi’ a ditty?”

Foster did not think he could expect his audience to understand ‘The Fighter Pilot’s Lament,” so he launched into what he could remember of the infamous “Ball of Kerriemuir” and soon had loud assistance on the chorus: “Wha’ screw ye las’ nicht, wha’ screw ye noo? The mon wha’ screw ye last nicht, he cannae screw ye noo.”

When he had exhausted his store of verses, Webster stood to contribute several more and followed the contribution with an indescribably filthy Marine Corps song, couched in an English so basic that there was no one but could understand it.

Thereafter, things became livelier. Dan Smith cheerfully wrestled three of the bigger men-at-arms, before Webster shucked jerkin, shirt, and boots and jumped from off the dais to confront the metalworker in the wide, shallow U formed by the lower tables. Webster at length was declared winner, but it was not a quick or easy victory for all his knowledge of oriental martial skills. Next two pairs of tipsy men fought with quarter-staves, and two more pairs with blunted, edge-less, and padded swords, while the drinking went on … and on and on.

The next day proved clear, though cold as a whore’s heart, and they were a-horse for Whyffler Hall, hangovers be damned. The horses, if not fully recovered of their ordeal, at least seemed refreshed, for all that many of the riders swayed in their saddles, looking to be at death’s door, with drawn faces and red, bleary eyes.

For all their own imbiding, however, neither Sir Francis nor Squire John showed more than traces of overindulgence. Webster did, though. He, at the insistence of his new friend, Dan Smith, had switched in the latter part of the evening to bastard concoctions of brandy, hard cider, and burned—distilled, that is—ale. It had taken the brute strength of five men to help him onto his horse, and Foster thought be looked as if he should have been buried days ago.

Sir Francis drained off the stirrup cup and reached across the black stallion’s withers to take Heron’s hand. “Johnny, ye be nae Pope’s man, an’ ye ken it. Wha’ wi’ it tek tae see ye declare for young King Arthur, God keep him?”

Heron’s lips set in a grim line. “Ane thrice-domnt Scot ‘pon me lands, that be wha, Fran Whyffler! Noo, I’ve been given assurances, boot I’ve scant faith in them, for a’. Sae dinnae be surprised tae spy me an’ me braw launces come a-clatterin’. intae y’r camp, ane day.”

Sir Francis looked deep into the eyes of his old friend and spoke solemnly. “Ye be a stark fighter, Johnny Heron. Come tae me soon. Our King needs a’ sich he can find. God keep ye.”

They had been told that the Rede was frozen, and this proved accurate, allowing them to take a more direct route and shorten their journey by the miles the track meandered to the ford; even so, the distance they had ridden in a bare fifteen hours last summer took the best part of two days to complete in the dead of winter. The only good thing any of them could say about the weather was that, such was its severity, it had driven even the brigands to den up.

Three days after the first day of the New Year of 1640 (Foster had finally been able to get the anno domini date from the Archbishop of York), Foster was entertaining in the den of his trilevel. Carey Carr and Pete Fairley sat in rapt attendance to Buddy Webster’s enthusiastic account of his troop’s role in the three days’ butchery of the Irish Crusaders. A log fire crackled on the hearth and the howling winds had driven the past week’s snowfall into eaves-high drifts on the north and west sides of the house. Pete had been ready to get a levy to clear the house, but Foster dissuaded him, for the power still—and inexplicably!—was working, so they did not need the light from the covered windows, and the snow served as excellent insulation from the cold and the winds.