The Mer- Lion (16 page)

"Well, if they will no' come to us, we'll go to them. Who is with - me? That is if there are any but bairns among you. Or is mat why the mermaids leave you alone? Do they know something I don't? Maybe those codpieces are empty. Or ha' you all been gelded? Who'll go? Or do I have to kick some buns first?

"Florin, Dugan, Deny, get the boat ready to launch. Who else is man enough to row out and bring back a wife, or at least a jewel or two?"

Greed fought with fear, and greed won. John the Small stepped forward first. He was joined by one, then another of his coterie. Then by twos and threes and fours, they volunteered until Seamus had the entire troop from which to choose. Other than John the Small, whom he couldn't very well pass over, Seamus chose the least imaginative among them. Stalwart, steady types—ones you might call slow—and his own sons.

Dugan, as oldest and steadiest, he put in the bow. His other two sons he assigned to the prow with him. The three of them launched the boat with such great force that it sent waves out to meet the breakers head-on. At this, the lights retreated, moving, as the legend had it, temptingly out to sea. Seamus, who had in his time gentled many a nervous colt and wooed as many sensitive lasses, knew what to do. His voice like thick honey-syrup, he kept up a steady chatter as much to calm the rowers as to tempt any mermaids closer

"Steady now, lads
...
gently does it. Pretend the ocean's a woman; keep your stroke long and slow, just the way she likes it. That's it. That's the way to do it. Nice and easy."

He let his voice die down until there was silence except for the protesting of oarlocks and the soft splash and drip of water as eight blades slipped into the water in unison. The lights kept their distance, but seemed to grow brighter.

Fionn took advantage of the pause to lean over and whisper, "Da', how do you do it?"

"Do what?"

Fionn was very serious. "Make love to a mermaid!"

"From the rear, I should think. Let me know if you find out."

"God, she's-got my oar!" John the Small flung his oar from him and leaped to his feet. Oars crashed into each other, whipped about as rowers let go; the boat rocked crazily and the lights went out.

Suddenly, it was pitch black about them, the only sound the deep rasping breathing of frightened men.

Seamus's voice was soothing. "If there's a mermaid out there waiting to be ravished, we're willing, aren't we men? Lucky lassie, with a whole boat of Scotland's best to choose from. But let's not rush the lassie. Let's just sit here and let her look us over."

Gradually, the sounds of harsh breathing leveled out until all was silence except for the lapping of waves against the boat's sides. Then, like camp fires being lit in the midst of an army encampment, the lights came on again, one after another, even brighter than before.

"Okay, lads, let's try it again. Steady now, all together. That's it. See? The jewels are almost as good as won. Just a little further now." Seamus realized he was shouting against the roar of the waves as they grew higher and hit with more force, the closer they got to the reef. He signaled the men before him to weigh oars and pass the word. Anchors dropped fore and aft, and the boat swung between like a cocoon dangling between twigs being buffeted by the wind.

The mermaids kept their distance from the boat, at least at first. But gradually, when the boat didn't approach them, they came to it. Soon, the whole area about them was filled with diamonds of the deep that made the stars up above seem dim by comparison. Still, with hand signals, Seamus cautioned his men not to move, to keep silence. Their patience was rewarded. The lights came still closer, until they were treated to a show of beckoning jewels real enough to drive a man mad.

As the others watched, mesmerized by the flashing of jewels hither and yon, Seamus found his attention drawn to John the Small. He was leaning over the side, dangling something from a cord just inches above the water. As it swung back and forth twisting and turning, Seamus squinted and shielded his eyes from the spray misting his face. John the Small was using the Mer-Lion crest from his jerkin as bait.

Seamus roared with outrage. Men jumped, the boat rocked, and .John the Small dived for his mermaid's jewels. He came up triumphant, the jewel held high in his upstretched hand.

"I've got it," he mouthed, his words lost in the surf.

Suddenly, as the men watched, envying their fellow, the lights blinked out, and John's jewel went dull. Then, John the Small flung the thing from him, his scream so piercing, the men could make it out in spite of the waves. He had expected a handful of hard, crystalline jewels and instead had closed his hand on a cluster of jellied slime, the parasites that grew upon the coral. When his mates pulled him back into the boat, his teeth were chattering. No one could make out what it was he tried to tell them. And later, he refused to talk about it.

As the men were attempting to dry him off, Dugan looked out to sea. "A signal, Da'," he shouted, "out there to our right." Sure enough, a light flashed again in the void. Seamus swore. In his desire to solve the problem of the mermaids, he'd forgotten then-own signal lantern back on shore. He could not flash a light in return.

"Back to shore, and don't spare your guts, men," he shouted. The men jumped to it as he got anchors weighed, and the oars moved in earnest, rushing the boat headlong back to shore. Once there and getting confirmation from the watchers there that they too had seen the signal, Seamus struck spark with flint and lit his own signal lantern. Carefully covering it with an oiled cloth, he held it in his lap as he was rowed back out to the break in the reef. The absence of lights from the deep was a pleasant relief.

Once. Twice. His signal light flared. Then was hooded. And all waited.

From the black velvet void beyond the reef, there came an echo, a speck of light that repeated itself. Seamus, if he hadn't known what a sudden violent move could do to a boat, would have jumped for joy. Instead, he muttered what words of thanks were due, then set about rigging up the special oiled cloth shield he and his men had brought with them, to protect the lantern on three sides against watchful enemies eager to interrupt the ship, and later its longboat, now being guided by its light to the only known break in the reef.

Now, there was nothing else to do but wait. He wished he were back at the Seaforth Castle or Rangeley, or the Lady Islean's keep at Alva, or even the cave. His childhood trip from Ireland had soured him on the seagoing life forever.

Here, at the opening in the reef—the only passage through—all hands must man the oars to keep the sea from rejecting the boat and vomiting it back to shore like flotsam. Sleep being out of the question, and conversation virtually impossible over the roar of the surf, each man was left to his own thoughts. Seamus's began with the man whom he awaited tonight, the one he loved as a son; then as thoughts have a way of doing, they ranged further afield and deeper into time until he was back in Ireland and reliving the pain of his parting from his mother. Her face remained clear in his memory, but those of his brothers were a blur as was that of his father. Not for the first time, nor for the last probably, he wondered if that had been his father's voice he'd heard as the ship left.

Rough hands shook Seamus out of the past, the events of all that had happened twenty-nine years ago in 1503. Tonight was the last of May 1532, and he had his duty to do.

"The longboat comes, Captain," came the shout over the roar of surf on the reef.

For a long moment, Seamus saw nothing; his eyes were too befuddled with memories. Then came a glint. And another. The splash of oar in water. The boat was almost upon them. "Up anchor. Pull for your lives 'lest they breech us." Urged on by the lash of Seamus's cursing, his own boat barely cleared the opening in time to allow the French longboat through. Strain his eyes and squint as he might, he could not discern within the other boat the hoped-for passenger. Seamus knew better than to attempt to make himself heard across the water, so he simply signaled the Frenchmen with his light to follow toward shore.

As first one boat, then the other scraped upon the shore, eight long years of separation should be over. Seamus sat where he was. He couldn't force himself to move. Suppose Jamie hadn't come. Suppose he had changed. Suppose— Even as his mind made him miserable with speculation, through the babel of voices issuing from the other longboat one drew his attention. It was low-keyed but authoritative, rich but decisive. Seamus's French was frayed, so the words he heard had little meaning, but he recognized the voice. He'd obeyed its commands many times before. He rose to go to that voice, then realized it had come to him, its resonance muffled by a heavy cloak, its owner's face concealed by a hood.

"Is it you?"

The newcomer chuckled. "It is I."

"You've grown."

Although the man didn't approach Seamus's height, he was taller by a hand than many. "I should hope so." "Is it really you?"

Seamus read amusement in the glint of teeth that he glimpsed within the depths of the hood. "Do you need proof?" Two slender aristocratic hands, bare of rings, drew back the hood. In the moonlight, the man's hair shimmered in shades of metallic gray white. Seamus was dumbfounded.

"Had you forgotten, good Seamus? The hair is part of my Seaforth legacy."

When Seamus had come to Seaforth as a child twenty-nine years before, both the old earl and the young had been white-haired, but both were beyond middle age. Yet he had heard even then of the early graying that distinguished Seaforth men.

Satisfied that Seamus had seen enough, the man drew the hood back in place. And just in time. For an unctuous voice interrupted them, "My lord de Wynter? Your baggage is ashore. You understand I cannot tarry. I must leave now if we are to get back to the ship while still dark." Seamus heard the clink of coins as money changed hands. Then, the Frenchman, all effusive thanks, took his leave.

"You... are
the
de Wynter?"

"Ah, my fame has preceded me."

Indeed, it had! Such deliciously wicked gossip could not be contained within any one country's borders. The de Wynter was reported to have been both delicious and wicked, in and out of as many scrapes as he'd been in and out of beds. Men used a gruff tone of voice in disparaging him that clearly reflected envy. Women were more honest and less discreet. "I thought de Wynter was an Italian."

"With that name?" The voice switched to another language that could have been Latin.

When Seamus didn't respond, the voice resumed in Scots. "I did, indeed, spend some time in Italy. The winter we left, I accompanied Albany and 10,999 others on a campaign to conquer Naples. It was a fool's errand. In the year we were there, I learned much besides the language. Eventually, Madame Louise, the Queen Mother, paid to have us evacuated." There was no emotion in Jamie's voice. He was all matter of fact.

Seamus was disconcerted, and protested this calmness in his own way. "Well, that's all behind you now, Jamie. Now you'll be Seaforth."

"Seaforth? Maybe. But not Jamie. There is another Jamie. Seamus, in your old age, your eyes are going bad. You have not noticed my little companion." He pushed a child out into the dim flickering light. Seamus thought for a moment he was seeing a ghost. Here was the Jamie of twenty years before.

"Who?"

"I told you. My son."

The child stared up at the giant of a man. At the look of bewilderment in those deep blue eyes, something inside Seamus was touched.

"Your son? You're married?"

"Do no' be putting words in my mouth."

"But his mother... who, we didn't hear—" He was cut short.

"Are you planning to spend the rest of the night in that boat, or are we going to be on our way? The message I received implied urgency. Or am I mistaken? Besides, I see three giants whose acquaintance I need to renew. But is there no fair young maiden with them? Did those three boys finally manage to lose their sister? No, don't tell me, I've got it. They married her off!"

Seamus suddenly found himself just as eager to be under way as de Wynter had been moments before. Somehow, he did not like the turn this conversation was taking. Devorguilla and Jamie, as a combination, was one thing. Devorguilla and the de Wynter—that thought bothered him. It made him curt. "No, Devorguilla's back at Seaforth." He turned on his heel. "Come, you're right. We should be on our way."

CHAPTER 6

The outrider wheeled his horse and came galloping back, pulling it showily but cruelly to a halt before Seamus. "Campbells, Captain!"

"No mistake?"

"With that red hair and those piggy faces?" The rider laughed, tossing his spyglass from hand to hand, then to his captain. "Come, see for yourself. They wear the wild myrtle, the old man's badge."

"Pudding pricks!" Would nothing go right on this journey? Seamus wondered. It had been two days since they had left the cave secreted behind Spindle Rock. Leaving the baggage to follow under - guard, they had traveled light. With the child alternating riding before him or de Wynter—Seamus wondered if he'd ever grow accustomed to using that name—they had ridden cross-country, avoiding the lone castle or armed manor, keeping their distance.

Not even at Diimferrnline, famous for its good fare and warm comfort, had they stopped, but had made a wide detour, round the Tower Burn. Cold meat and lukewarm ale had been their supper. Then, in concession to the child, they had had a few hours sleep, and had more cold meat and even flatter ale for their breakfast. Fortunately, the child seemed used to sleeping in the saddle and did not complain, although now and then Seamus heard him speak rather querulously in French to his father.