“As for Egon, if veil enough he iss ven I ride south, mit me he vill come . . . und the scharming Mistress Arabella, as veil.” His big yellow teeth flashed. “If not, he vill a fine leut-nant to Sir Francis make. Conduct of a siege goot seasoning for the boy vill be. Nicht wahr.
Foster left the bulk of his furniture behind, some in Whyffler Hall, some in his house. He had given up trying to reason out the whys and hows of the myriad impossibilities which confronted him whenever he considered that not only were all his electrical appliances and devices still functioning normally—heat, lights, air conditioning, refrigerator/freezer, washer/dryer, power tools, everything—but the taps still poured forth unlimited quantites of clear, fresh, chlorinated water.
Sir Francis and the Reichsherzog, however, did not question the source of the tap flow. ” Tis but God’s mysterious will, Bass, wha’ ither? Aye, glad be I tae hae sich, I trow, for ne’er did ony fort or castle or burgh hae tae much potable water. An’ this be ane soorce the thrice-domned Scots cannae sully or stop.”
“Ach, ja,” the hulking German had nodded vigorous assent. “Vhen gone iss the food, rats roasted can be and boots boiled, but when wasser gone iss, surrender or die vun must.”
Jack-of-all-trades Pete Fairley had taken apart the two truck trailers and worked the thin, light, strong sheet metal into six watertight, capacious, and relatively comfortable wagon bodies. He had then had three dozen sets of running gear reduced to component parts, had had a pair of master wagonmakers scrutinize and test every wheelrim spoke, axletree, singletree, doubletree, bolster, pole, and hub. The six sets of running gear assembled from these parts were the best that the hand of man could fashion, and the leather springs
on which the bodies were mounted were a wonder to all who beheld them.
One of these masterpieces was packed with the clothing and other possessions Foster was taking to York, one each was assigned as a trekhome to Foster and Krystal, Dave and Webster, Pete and the lusty young wench with whom he had been living for some months, Carey Carr and Susan.
Foster had first thought of taking Arbor Collier along, but Krystal had demurred, saying, “No, Bass, she’d never survive the trip. She’s a very sick woman and has shown little improvement in response to anything I’ve tried to do for her. I think she hasn’t got long to live, even here, but the kind of trip you say this is going to be would kill her in less than a week.”
The trek started well—clear, if bitingly cold. During the first night out, the temperature rose amazingly, and though the dawn brought a fine, misty drizzle, all the men and women felt the unexpected warmth to be worth a little wetness. But as the day wore on, the rain became heavier, and soon feet and hooves and wheels were squishing into and dragging out of deep mud. The rain still poured as the soaked and bedraggled party went into the second night’s camp, and in that night the temperature dropped, plunged at least—Foster figured—thirty-odd degrees. By morning, the rain had become pelting sleet and the wheels of heavy-laden wagons and wains were fast-frozen into the rock-hard earth the mud was become. Many had to be completely unloaded before straining teams could drag them free. It was almost noon before they were moving again.
And it got progressively worse . . . but arrive at their destination they did, most of them.
CHAPTER 6
Harold of York leaned both elbows on the gaming table as he studied the chessboard separating him from Foster; suddenly, the strong, slender fingers of his right hand swooped down to bring a tall, beautifully carved knight into position.
“Check,” he smiled triumphantly.
After a brief moment, Foster’s queen was moved out and the ivory knight joined the small host of captures, leaving the Archbishop only two pawns and a rook with which to defend the beleaguered king. Shortly, that king was boxed into an inescapable cul-de-sac. With a gusty sign, Harold tipped the six-inch-high, gold-crowned sovereignty onto its side. “Le roi est mort.” At a wave of his hand, a silent, catfooted servant stepped up to refill the goblets of his master and guest, then just as silently returned to his place near the door.
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