Castaways in Time by Adams Robert

When the newcomers had had their fill of the jerked beef, campaign biscuit, and ale—and Foster had never before seen one man eat so much of the tasteless fare at one sitting—Dan Smith launched into the promised tale of the fall of Heron Hall. He told of the completely unexpected attack by the screaming horde of savage, Highland irregulars composing part of King Alexander’s Scottish army; told of how the folk of the hall had manned the inadequate walls and fired the cannon and swivels until the Scots were upon the walls and into the courtyard at their backs; told of how the hard-pressed men upon the walls had even then managed to turn some of the guns and pour hot death into the blood-mad mob of Highlanders attacking the hall itself.

Picking his teeth with a broken and dirty fingernail, the smith said, “Wha’ chanceted then, Lud Forster, I canna say. Fd but turned tae throw a doomed Scot frae the wa’, when the demiculv’rin blowed up and knockdted down part o’ t’ wa’, an’ Dan Smith under it all. Belike t’ thrice-domned Scots bastids were o’ a mind that not e’en a Dan Smith could live wi’ a wa’ an’ cannon an’ a’ on him. But live, I did! But when I crawlted oot frae unner it a’, the Scots were a’ lang awa’, the hall were sackted an’ burnt oot an’ nane save Dan Smith an’ ain old tomcat were left alive.”

Foster wrinkled his brow. “I was here, last autumn. Smith, on my way north to Whyffler Hall, yet I saw nothing of you.”

The lips twisted again. “Belike I were oot arter food, m’lud; far an’ awa I’ve had tae range fer sommat tae fill oor bellies.”

The other man spoke in good, if accented, English. “Yes, Lord Forster, I do recall a visit by a troop of horse last autumn, but of course I had no way of knowing who you were or what your intentions, so I remained in hiding until your departure.”

“As to that matter,” inquired Foster, “just how did an Arabian knight come to be wandering alone about the wilds of Northumberland?”

Sir AH ibn Hossain smiled languidly. “Lord Foster, like many a younger son, my life has been one of eking out a small, yearly stipend by competing in tournaments and on occasion selling my sword. Early last year, fortune found me in Rome and I hired on as a noble bodyguard in the entourage of Cardinal Mandojana, sailed with him to Edinburgh, and then marched south with that abomination that the Scots called an army.

“I had the misfortune to be wounded in the great battle to the south, and on the retreat I was loaded onto a wagon along with many another wounded gentlemen. The driver of that damned wagon should have been strangled at birth! He managed to hit every bump, boulder, and hole from the battlefield to the place at which he allowed the wagon to slip off a ford and into a stream. Most of the wounded drowned. That I did not can be attributed the Will of God; nor was even a cursory search made for any survivors, and I had died of loss of blood, exposure or both together, had not the good Master Smith here found me and cared for me.

“I can provide you no ransom, Lord Forster. My good horse was slain in battle and all that I now own mine own are my sword, a dirk, these boots, and some bits of poor clothing. Mayhap the Lord Cardinal would ransom me, but I’d not count on his mercy.”

Foster shook his head. “Cardinal Mandojana was murdered by the Scots on the same night that they murdered King Alexander. Alexander’s brother, James, now is King of Scotland, and his ministers are at this very moment finalizing a treaty of alliance with King Arthur’s mediators. Be that as it may, Sir Ali, I have no desire for or need of your ransom, for my part, you are a free man. But how win you get back to Arabia, or wherever?”

Again the young Arab smiled. ‘There always are lords and captains in need of seasoned fighters, Lord Forster, in any land, at any time.”