Castaways in Time Page 4

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  Dave and Susan still lay side by side on the floor before the stereo, the headphones still clamped over their ears, only the steady movement of their chests showing them to be not dead. Arbor Collier still lay asleep in the guest bedroom, snoring with the sound and volume of an unmuffled lawnmower engine. Foster had been gone for something over two hours.

  Professor Collier sat in the chair his wife had previously occupied, a long sword lying across his knees and a huge muzzle-loading pistol in his hands. Krystal Kent was curled up in the chair that had been Foster's, watching the two newcomers on the couch pour beer down their throats almost as fast as they could pop the tops of the cans.

  She watched the prominent Adam's apple of the smaller and younger of the two, Carey Carr, bob jerkily as he chugged down his fifth or sixth brew, and thought that the black-haired, sharp-featured little man seemed to be teetering on the edge of hysteria.

  The other man was big, bigger even than Foster, broad at both shoulder and hip, thick-bodied with the hint of a beer gut. His bare arms were both heavily tattooed and bulging with round, rolling muscles, ending in hands like hams. The light-brown hair on his head was cropped so short that Krystal could see the scalp, his eyes were a bright blue and set well apart over wide cheekbones. He had given the name of Buddy Webster and he smiled often. Also, he had done almost all the talking since they had arrived.

  Krystal could see that he was as mystified and excited as the other man, but his almost bovine placidity of nature acted as a shock absorber, protecting him from emotional extreme.

  "We was driving," he had begun, "down Innastate eighty-three, fum Harrisburg, headin' for Richmond, V'ginya, me 'n' Pete Fairley, in ouwuh rig, an' good buddy Carey, heanh, an' Harry Kail in, ovuh my shoulduh, in theirn. We all knowed it'uz a hurr'cain perdicted, but hell, I done drove in all kinda weather. But long about the four-oh-one turnoff to Butluh, Merluhn, it'd got so gadhawful bad awn the road you couldn' see more'n ten foot ahead an' the wipers won't no good at-tall."

  "So I got awn the See-Bee an' tol' olf Harry—he'uz a-drivin' t'othuh rig—he 'n' Carey could do everythin' they wawnted, but iffen it didn't git no better time we come to Cockeysville, I'uz gone turn off 'n' lay ovuh till it did."

  He had then grinned, slugged down a can of beer and continued. "Well, when I told him bout this lil ol' gal I knows is a waitress at thishere big ol' motel in Cockeysville, he allowed he'd lay ovuh, too."

  "Well, enyhow, we'uz almost to Cockeysville an' the rain was a-comin' down fit to bust an' jest as my front wheels lit ontuh thishere ovuhpass, it . . . it jest felt like the road wuz movin' like, you know. So I slowed down—couldna been doing moren thirty, thirty-five to start out, but I geared 'er down. An' then I felt like I's in a elevatuh goin' down, an' I figgered the foundashuns of thet ol' ovuhpass had done washed out an' the ovuhpass had done caved in an' I knowed this ol' boy wuz dead meat. So I closed my eyes an' said, Sweet Jesus, I loves You, tek me home."

  "An' then they was this bad bump, an' then anothera, and ol' Pete starts accusin' me from in the sleepuh. An' I opened my eyes, an' they won't no road nowhere in sight! The rig uz jest rolling along, real slow, in the middle of this here great big pretty pasture-like. An' I looked in the mirrer an' ol' Harry 'uz still ovuh my shouluh."

  Another grin, another can of beer. Krystal nibbed her arms hard, then, to lay the gooseflesh, recalling with terrifying clarity the hideous indescribable agony as the berserk patient's improvised knife tore through her tender breast and remembered the horrible awareness of inches of icy, razor-edged steel slicing the throbbing heart deep in her chest. As she now recollected, she, too, had closed her eyes, had felt a thump which she had then assumed was that of her body falling to the floor of the psychiatric ward. Every bit as frightening was the memory of what she first had seen when again she had opened her eyes—a stark, gray stone tower; battlemented, and rising above the roofline of Bass Foster's house!

  Long and strict self-discipline had imparted to her the ability to quickly will a return of composure, and she now exercised it and glanced at the Professor in time to glimpse a hint of remembered horror in his eyes, too. Then the truck recommenced his narrative.

  "Well, enyhow, I braked up hard an' fas', an' Harry di too. An' Pete come a-rollin' out an yellin' an' cussin' an don' know whatall, an' I'uz a-tryin' to tell him what doi gone down, when thesehere two fellers come a-ridin' hosses ovuh thishere lil' hill an' intuh thishere pasture where we wuz. They wuz all dolled up like thet feller in thet movie this of gal took me to oncet, thet feller Don Kwixoat, 'cept thef didn' have them no shields, jest spears an' steel hardhats-like an' thesehere swords an' all."

  "Well, enyhow, we hadn't got moren twenny yards from thet rig, when them bastards come a-ridin' straight for us. C'n you blieve thet? Then they split up, thet's awl whut saved this ol' boy, I tell you. Pete had done got down from the truck an' one of them maniacs headed for him an' the othern kep awn at me an ol' Harry, an' thet bastard got to us afore his pal got to where Pete was, natcherly, 'cause we wuz closer to where they started from."

  "Well, enyhow, thet sonuvabitch—pard'n me, ma'am, I'm sorry." The big man flushed and dropped his eyes in embarrassment. "But, enyhow, thet feller took his spear an' stuck it clear through pore ol' Harry! I mean it, clear through 'im!"

  "Well, I'm a peaceable ol' boy, but when I seed what been done to ol' Harry, I'uz scared, damn raht, but I come to git so mad I couldn' see straight, hardly. I jes' jumped ovuh an' grabbed me thet ol' spear whut thet bastard had jest done pullted outen ol' Harry, an' I jerkted it an' he hung awnta it and I pulled him raht awfen his boss an' his hardhat come awf when he hit the groun' an' he let go thet ol' spear too an' I took an' bashted his damn haid with it so dang hard it busted, but"—he grinned again—"it busted his haid too, caved 'er raht awn in, it did."

  Another beer followed the grin, then, "Well, enyhow, when ol' Pete seed whut the feller I kilt done to ol' Harry, he 'uz back awn an' back in the rig fore you could say 'Jack Chris-fifitufuh.' He'd afluz carr'ed him a ol' thutty-eight pistol in the sleepuh an' I done razzed him moren one time bout it, but I shorelawd won't no more."

  "Well, enyhow, he took thet ol' pistol an' shot thet othuh murderin' bastard raht awfen his dang boss! An' it served him raht, too, cause we hadn't done nuthin' to neithuh one of 'em, an' jest drivin' crosst a feller's pasture ain't no call to kill 'em, is it?"

  "It may well be, here," commented Collier.

  "Well, where's 'here,' enyhow?" pled the big, square-faced man.

  Collier sighed. "I sincerely wish I could tell you, sir. My wife and I arrived here quite as suddenly, if, thank God, less violently, as did you and your friends. I believe that all the others now here, as well as Mr. Foster, who is presently absent, found themselves here every bit as suddenly and inexplicably."

  "But come, tell us the remainder of the tale."

  As there had been but the two horses, it had been decided that Pete, who had never in his life been astride a horse, would remain with the trucks and Harry's body, while Carey and Buddy rode to find a telephone, a law officer, or both. For, strangely enough, they could raise not a living soul on either of the CBs. Before the two men had ridden off, they had both received a crash course in the basics of charging and firing the huge horse pistols—a pair of which were bolstered on the pommel of each saddle—from Pete, who once had belonged to a muzzle-loading club. He had persuaded them to take along the swords and big knives, as well, retaining his revolver for his own protection.

  CHAPTER 2

  Immediately after Sir Francis Whyffler was mounted, he called for the stirrup cup and, before drinking, raised the ancient, silver-mounted horn in a health to the King. When he had downed the horn of ale, he drew his broadsword, brought his prancing stallion into a sustained rear, and flourished an elaborate salute to the ladies—his widowed sister, Mary, his daughter, Arabella, Dr. Krystal Kent, Arbor Collier, and Catherine Musgrave, widowed daughter-in-law of
the steward—then brought the animal back down, sheathed his blade, and kneed the mount over to have a few last words with Geoffrey Musgrave and the newly appointed chamberlain, Henry Turnbull.

  Keeping his fettlesome bay gelding in check with some difficulty, Foster was frankly amazed at the miraculous recuperative powers of the elderly nobleman. Even granting the excellent care of Krystal and the administration of massive dosages of the penicillin tablets from Foster's medicine cabinet, it still seemed astounding that a man who had, when Foster first had seen him two weeks ago, been on his virtual deathbed, should be today not only up and in the saddle in three-quarter armor but preparing to take to the road and lead his party the leagues of hard riding to York, whereat the King was most recently reported.

  Glancing to right and left, Foster thought that both Professor Collier and Buddy Webster could easily pass a casual inspection as born residents of this time and place, albeit somewhat larger than the average of their peers. As for himself, though he had been fitted out in lobster-tail helmet, leather buff-coat and steel cuirass, vambraces, cuishes and gauntlets, and had a broadsword—somewhat altered—depending from a wide leather baldric, the clothing beneath was anachronistic—his old GI coveralls and a handsome pair of hand-tooled Western boots.

  At fast walk, the little column headed down the dusty track toward the main gate, Sir Francis in the lead, sitting erect, head high, shoulders squared, smiling and nodding acknowledgment of the cheers of the crowd which had gathered to render their homage and wish their loved lord Godspeed. As soon as it had been bruited about that Sir Francis again had powder, that his forces had broken the siege of Whyffler Hall, and that Sir David the Scot had been slain—he being one of the two men who had so savagely attacked the truckers—refugees from about the ravaged countryside, King's men and friends and supporters of Sir Francis and of his house had flocked to his side. Indeed, so many had come that food was running low and many had had to be lodged in tents and makeshift lean-tos, but the walls were fully manned by determined men.

  Nor were the restrengthened defenses lacking firearms and artillery wherein to use the new plentitude of gunpowder, for immediately old Geoffrey Musgrave found himself in command of a score of experienced fighters rather than the scratch force of servants and farmhands with which he had so stoutly defended the wing of the hall, he had ridden forth with Sir David's head impaled on his lance point, gathering more fighters as he rode. His raiders, by purest chance, came upon the baggage-and-booty train of the late Sir David, ambushed it, coldly butchered the guards and drivers, and brought it in triumph back to Whyffler Hall.

  As for the unlamented Sir David's main force of nearly two thousand border Scots, other foreigners, and assorted outlaws and broken men from both sides of the border, Foster still laughed when he thought of that rout. A night attack, led by the Jeep pickup—its muffler removed, its lights glaring, and its horn-button taped down—expertly driven by Carey Carr with Foster literally "riding shotgun," the jouncing bed containing Bill Collier, Buddy Webster, Pete Fairley, Dave Atkins, and Henry Turnbull and his eldest son (these being the only two contemporary men other than Geoff Musgrave, who was needed to lead the main force, with the courage to undertake a ride in this devilish contrivance) and every firearm in Foster's modest collection.

  Terror-stricken, the highly superstitious marauders had fled the roaring, blaring, fire-spitting demon without any hint of a stand. Only the rare foeman remained long enough to snatch up more than his filthy breacan-feile—the "belted tartan" which was dress during the day and blanket at night—and fewer still stopped by the picket line. Most left barefoot and unarmed, and headed north for the border, as fast as their hairy shanks would carry them. Hundreds were ridden down to be lanced, shot, hacked, or simply trampled before Musgrave could recall his small troop and point out to them the dangers of a night pursuit. He had not needed to add that, afoot and weaponless, few would make it back to Scotland, not through the countryside they themselves had ravaged so short a time agone.

  Just outside the gate stood the emptied trailer trucks. After the superhuman labor of getting them to Whyffler Hall, it had been discovered that they were too high to pass through the gate, so they had been emptied, stripped of everything that looked usable, and were presently being used to house some of the villager refugees.

  It was the load of one of the trucks that had impelled Sir Francis to ride and seek the sovereign. Careful experiments on the parts of Professor Collier, Foster, Pete Fairley, and Musgrave had determined that a superior gunpowder could be fabricated through substitution of the chemical fertilizer the truck had borne for raw niter. Now several tons of this powder reposed in a newly dug powderhouse, but supplies of charcoal and sulfur had been expended, while nearly eighty tons of fertilizer remained.

  Too, there was the immense horse herd that their military actions had amassed. There was little enough grain to feed the folk, much less several hundred animals. The canny Musgrave had chosen the best of the unclaimed stock to add to Sir Francis' stable and to mount the troop of lances he was recruiting, but the large remainder could only be turned out to find their own forage in park and lea.

  Sir Francis set a fast pace, cross-country, but straight as an arrow was his route. Shortly before dusk, they forded the Rede and, just as the moon was arising, reined up at the challenge of a knot of well-armed riders. When Sir Francis answered in a clear, ringing voice, a squat, broad man on a tall, powerful destrier separated from the group and kneed his mount forward.

  "Be it truly ye, Francis? We'd heard the thrice-domned Scots had slain ye an' young Cuthbert an' razed y'r hall. Ye got away, did ye, then?"

  Chuckling, Sir Francis signaled Foster and Collier to follow and rode to meet the speaker, saying, "Better than that, Johnny, far better than that. We'll tell an' that, soon. But we've rode hard, this day, we're drier nor Satan's backside and of a hunger to boil up our boots. Where be y'r famous hospitality, John Heron?"

  Loud and wild was the rejoicing of Squire John and his folk at the news of the death of Sir David and the unqualified rout of his reavers. Before they went into the hall to dine, Sir Francis gifted their host several casks of the gunpowder captured from the Scots, but none of the fertilizer powder. And his brief introductions of Foster, Collier and Webster noted only that they were King's men who had fought in the defense of Whyffler Hall.

  Squire John welcomed them all and fed them the best meal Foster had enjoyed since his arrival. Heron's lands had not been ravaged, and, though his hall was neither so large nor so fine as Whyffler Hall, he set a fine table—pork, veal, mutton, pigeon, goose, and chicken, fish of several kinds, and eels, a hare pastry, and a whole, roasted badger, cabbage, lambs-quarters, and three kinds of beans, everything well seasoned with onions, garlic, and assorted herbs. There were pitchers of the inevitable ale, but also wines and some fiery cordials. And all the while they sat gorging themselves, their host profusely apologized for the plainness and paucity of the fare, blaming the chaotic conditions of countryside and roads, about which armed bands of every stripe and persuasion rode or marched hither and yon, commanding stores and impressing likely men and boys where they did not burn, rob, rape and kill.

  Then Foster had all he could do to not spew up that fine dinner when, as a special fillip, Sir Francis had the pickle cask brought in, the top hoop sprung, and did himself reach into the strong vinegar to haul forth—ghastly, fish-belly-white, and dripping—the head of Sir David the Scot, much to the expressed delight of the assembled company.

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  With the first cockcrow, they were back in the saddle, and on their way with the earliest light. But not until John Heron's hall was well behind them did Sir Francis sign Foster, Collier, and Webster to leave their places in the column of twos and ride beside him.

  Foster thought that, if anything, the nearly twelve hours of extreme exertion the day before had improved the old nobleman's appearance. His face was sun-darkened and the high-bridged
nose was peeling a little, but there was immense vitality in his every movement and his sea-green eyes sparkled under their yellowish-white brows.

  "I'd not be having ye think that I mistrust my old comrade, Squire John," he began. "Ye all ken that I gi'e him nane of the new powder, nor telled aught of the miracles as brought ye here in the time of the King's need. But I know ye that I would willingly trust Squire John wi' all I hold dear, eek my ain honor."

  "We two soldiered together years agone, in France under the young King's grandsire and during the Crusade agin the Empire, near twenty year agone, and agin the domned Scots near a' our lives. He be a forthright and honorable gentleman, but, much as he'd like tae, he canna speak for a' his folk. His wife be ten years dead, but her uncle lives yet and he be the Bishop o' Preston. And the less the bludey Kirk knows o' ye and a' ye've wrought, ere we reach the King, the better, I be thinking."

  That was all he said at the time, but he ruined the appetites of both Foster and Collier, during the late-morning dinner halt. "Whate'er transpires, gentlemen, dinna allow y'r living bodies tae be delivered up tae the Kirk. When the Empire Crusade was won, those as had made unhallowed powder—mostly alchemists and renegade clerics—first were tortured for weeks by the Holy Office, then their broken bodies were carted or dragged, for nane could walk or e'en crawl by that time, tae the place o' their doom. There, before the princes o' the domned Kirk and a' o' us Crusaders as hadna gane hame, they gelded the poor bastards, gutted them and rammed them fu' o' their ane powder, then burnt them at stakes, an' wi' the domned fires slow, so it was lang ere they were blown intae gobbets."

  Their second night on the journey was wakeful and wary, in a well-concealed, cold camp on the north bank of the Tyne, just upstream from Overwarden Town. The campfires of a sizable force flickered on the south bank, and the travelers were glad to have heeded Sir Francis' warnings to keep low and silent through the night, when with the gray false-dawn came the sound of chanting, and the first rays of the sun revealed some four thousand foot and at least half a thousand horse, all bearing Church pennons or wearing the white surcoat of Crusaders.