“You have had word from the King, then, Hal?”
“No, Krystal, not concerning this matter, but there be no need. You see, I well know our Arthur. Why he allowed his brother-in-law to knight and enfeoff Bass with foreign lands, I cannot say that I comprehend, but you may rest in assurance that Arthur had, and has, a reason.” The old man smiled and, steepling his fingers—blotched and stained now with chemicals—gazed over them into the flame of a beeswax candle.
“Arthur is come of a devious stock. John of Gaunt was a conniver of Machiavellian talents, and most of his descendants have been at least his sly equal in that respect, these Tudors in particular. I recall his grandfather, Arthur II, used to say—”
Krystal felt the hairs rise on her nape. “You . . . yon knew the King’s grandfather?” She shuddered, suddenly feeling herself in the presence of something unnatural. “He reigned a very long time; you can’t be that old. Can you?” she whispered, fearfully.
The old man chuckled. “I suppose that now and here is a good time to tell you, especially you, since you seem the most rational of your lot. When were you born, Krystal—in what year anno domini?”
“Wh … what? When? In 1942. But what.. .?”
“Then,” he smiled cryptically, “you are actually older than am I, chronologically. I was not born until 1968.”
The May morn dawned bright and clear over Salisbury Plain, whereon stood the army of King Arthur, almost thirty thousand strong, in battle array. The battleline faced southeasterly, center and wings strong and deep even in extension, rear and flanks well-guarded by squadrons of horsemen. Well-protected batteries lay emplaced in positions from which they could inflict a deadly crossfire upon the ranks of an advancing enemy, while twos and threes of light cannon were interspersed among and between the tercios of pikemen and musketeers, all along the front.
The army of the Crusaders had come up the Avon from Bournemouth by barges and were forming a mfle distant across the undulating plain. Fifteen thousand Spaniards, beneath the banner of Principe Alberto, bastard half-brother of King Fernando VII. Eighteen thousand Italian troops— though half the horse and nine-tenths of the foot were Slavic and Swiss mercenaries, rather than sons of Italy—under the Papal banner,, but really commanded by Wenceslaus, Count Horeszko, a famous but aging condottiere. The Portuguese contingent was small—less than five thousand, all told—and were under the banner of Duque Henrique de Oporto. There were also a sprinkling of crusading nobles and knights from widely scattered areas . . . though less than half of what there had been before some of the paroled Crusaders who had survived the Scottish disaster had passed through Bournemouth ere they took ship for their various homelands to scrape up their ransoms.
With the permission of the Imperial Electors, Reichsregent Herzog Wolfgang had been allowed to remain with the English army, so long as he took no personal part in the fighting. This proviso chafed at the vital, active nobleman, but he had sworn a solemn vow to see his sister, nieces, and infant nephew avenged within the walls of London and forced himself to abide by the onerous condition in order to see the end of the war.
Foster, guided by local loyalists, had led a sweeping reconnaissance-raid into the very outskirts of Bournemouth, bringing back a score of prisoners, one a Portuguese noble, Melchoro Salazar, Bar6n de Sao. Gilberto. The plump, pink-cheeked, jolly little man had made it abundantly clear from the very outset of his capture that no one event could have more pleased him, and immediately upon ascertaining that his captor was indeed a nobleman also, he was quick to give his parole. And he swung his ornate broadsword to some definite effect during a brush with a large band of brigands—not surprising in itself, as such scum were a sore affliction to both armies, but an indication that, for all his effete appearance, the Bar6n was certainly no mere carpet-knight.
University-educated and extensively traveled, Melchoro possessed fluency in English, German, Italian, Greek, Arabic, French, and basic Slavic, not to mention Latin, Spanish, and his mother tongue. He had a fine tenor singing voice and a seemingly inexhaustible store of humorous and bawdy songs in several languages; his expert transliterations of lewd ditties had his erstwhile captors wheezing and gasping in their saddles many times during the long ride back to the royal camp.
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