“Indeed.” She nods. She is uncoifed, and candlelight slides along the coiled auburn hair. “I shall also remember that the pigs don’t require that new grain we give the other animals.”
“Most important! And be certain to stock this stronghold well. Those of our folk who have eaten native food are still in health, so you can requisition from Wersgor granaries.”
Silence thickens about them.
“Well,” he says, “I must begone.”
“God be with you, my lord.”
He stands a moment, studying each smallest tone in her voice. “Catherine—”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I’ve wronged you,” he forces out. “And I’ve neglected you, what’s worse.”
Her hands reach out, as if of their own accord. His coarse palms close about them.
“Any man could be mistaken, now and then,” she breathes.
He dares look into the blue eyes. “Will you give me a token?” he asks.
“For your safe return—”
He drops hands to her waist, draws her close and cries joyous: “And my final victory! Give me your token, and I’ll lay this empire at your feet!”
She pulls herself free. Horror bestrides her lips. “When are you going to start looking for our Earth?”
“What honor is there in slinking home, when we leave the very stars our enemies?” Pride clashes in his words.
“God help me,” she whispers, and flees him. He stands a long while, until the sound of her feet has vanished down the cold corridors. Then he turns and walks out to his men.
We could have crowded into one of the big ships but thought it best to disperse ourselves in a score. These had been repainted, using Wersgor supplies, by a lad who possessed some heraldic skill. Now they were scarlet and gold and purple, with the de Tournevile arms and the English leopards emblazoned on the flagship.
Tharixan fell behind us. We went into that strange condition, ducking in and out of more dimensions than Euclid’s orderly three, which the Wersgorix called “super-light drive.” Again the stars flamed on every hand, and we amused ourselves with naming the new constellations — the Knight, the Plowman, the Arbalest, and more, including some which are not fit to put in this record.
The voyage was not long: a few Earth-days only, as near as we could estimate from the clocks. It rested us, and we were keen as hounds when we coursed into the planetary system of Bodavant.
By now we understood that there are many colors and sizes of suns, all intermingled. The Wersgorix, like humans, favored small yellow ones. Bodavant was redder and cooler. Only one of its planets was habitable (the usual case); and while this Both could have been settled by men or Wersgorix, they would find it dim and chilly. Thus our enemies had not troubled to conquer the native Jairs but merely prevented them from acquiring more colonies than they had when discovered, and forced them into grossly unfavorable trade agreements.
The planet hung like a huge shield, mottled and rusty, against the stars, when the native warships hailed us. We brought our flotilla to an obedient halt. Rather, we ceased to accelerate, and simply plunged through space in a hyperbolic sub-light orbit which the Jair craft matched. But these problems of heavenly navigation make my poor head ache; I am content to leave them to the astrologers and the angels.
Sir Roger invited the Jair admiral aboard our flag ship. We used the Wersgor language, of course, with myself as interpreter. But I shall only render the gist of the conversation, not the tedious byplay which actually took place.
A reception had been prepared, with an eye to impressing the visitors. The corridor from the portal to the refectory was lined with warriors. The longbowmen had patched their green doublets and hose, made their caps gay with feathers, and rested their dreadful weapons before them. The common men-at-arms had polished what mail and flat helmets they owned, and formed an arch of pikes. Beyond, where the passage grew high and broad enough to allow, twenty cavalrymen gleamed in full armor of plate, banner and scutcheon, plume and lance, astride our biggest chargers. At the final door, Sir Roger s huntmaster stood with hawk on wrist and a pack of mastiffs at his feet. Trumpets blared, drums rolled, horses reared, dogs gave tongue, and as one we made the ship roar with the deep-throated cry: “God and St. George for merry England! Haro!”
The Jairs looked rather daunted but continued to the refectory. It was hung with the most gorgeous of our looted fabrics. At the end of the long table, Sir Roger, in broidered garments, surrounded by halberdiers and crossbowmen, sat on a throne hastily knocked together by our carpenters. As the Jairs entered, he raised a golden Wersgor beaker and drank their health in English ale. He had wanted to use wine, but Father Simon had decided to reserve it for Holy Communion, pointing out that foreign devils wouldn’t know the difference.
“Waes hâeil!” declaimed Sir Roger, an English phrase he loved even when speaking his more usual French.
The Jairs hesitated until page boys showed them to their places with as much ceremony as the royal court. Thereafter I said a rosary and asked a blessing upon our conference. This was not, I confess, done for purely religious reasons. We had already gathered that the Jairs employed certain verbal formulas to invoke hidden powers of body and brain. If they were benighted enough to take my sonorous Latin for a still more impressive version of the same thing, the sin was not ours, was it?
“Welcome, my lord,” said Sir Roger. He, too, looked much rested. There was even a sparkle of devilty about him. Only those who knew him well could have guessed what emptiness housed within. “I pray pardon for my unceremonious entrance into your domain, but the news I bear will scarcely wait.”
The Jair admiral leaned tensely forward. He was a little taller than a man, though more slender and graceful, with soft gray fur over his body and a white ruff around his head. The face was cat-whiskered and had enormous purple eyes, but otherwise looked human. That is to say, it looked as human as the faces in a triptych painted by a not very skillful artist. He wore close-fitting garments of brown stuff, with insignia of rank. But drab indeed they looked, he and his eight associates, next to the splendor we had scraped up. His name, we found later, was Beijad sor Van. Our expectation that the one in charge of interplanetary defenses would stand high in the government proved well founded.
“We had no idea the Wersgorix would trust any other folk enough to arm them as allies,” he said.
Sir Roger laughed. “Hardly, gentle sir! I am come from Tharixan, which I’ve just taken over. We’re using captured Wersgor ships to eke out our own.”
Beijad sat bolt upright. His fur bristled with excitement. “Are you another star-traveling race, then?” he cried.
“We fight Englishmen,” Sir Roger evaded. He did not wish to lie to potential allies more than he must, for their indignation on discovering it might prove troublesome. “Our lords have extensive foreign possessions, such as Ulster, Leinster, Normandy — but I’ll not weary you with a catalogue of planets.” I alone noticed he had not actually said those counties and duchies were planets. “To put it briefly, ours is a very old civilization. Our records go back for more than five thousand years.” He used the Wersgor equivalent, as nearly as possible. And who shall deny that Holy Writ runs with absolute accuracy from the time of Adam?
Beijad was less impressed than we had expected. “The Wersgorix boast a mere two thousand years of clearly established history, since their civilization rebuilt itself after its final internecine war,” he said. “But we Jairs possess a reliable chronology for the past eight millennia.”