The Mer- Lion (8 page)

Only as they were about to leave the mews did the little boy venture a question. "Will he live, do you think, Master Seamus?" Try as he might, the boy couldn't keep the catch out of his voice.

"He's a good man, a godly man, a clean-living man," Seamus
temporized.                  "

Jamie ignored the obvious, and seized upon the essential. "Is clean living important, then?"

"Oh, very."

"More than praying?"

Seamus fell back upon his area of expertise. "I don't know. But the horse with good habits, who eats temperately, getting neither thick nor thin, seems to live the longest and
heal
the fastest."

"My father never gets thick nor thin."

"No, he always stays just right."

"So he should heal fast. But just the same, I'll pray for him. Will you pray for him, too, Seamus?"

"With all my heart, my lord, and for your good mother as well." There was a long pause. "Pray for me too, Seamus." "For you too, my lord."

Content that the conversation had gone the way he wished, the child said no more, but left Seamus and started across the courtyard toward the outside stair that led up to the family's apartments. Seamus watched him for a moment, then turned about, to go to the comfort of his bed and Nelly's arms. Abruptly, he was grabbed about the legs by two very determined arms.

"Thank you, Seamus. I love you, Seamus. Good night, Seamus."

Before Seamus could say a word, he was released and sturdy legs propelled their owner back to the stairway. And as suddenly as had come that declaration from a child he'd ignored until now, so suddenly did Seamus transfer to her son much of the unrequited, useless love he'd lavished on his lady.

CHAPTER 3

The earl lived, a tribute more to his constitution than to his physicking. His mind healed less quickly. At first, he refused to believe his arm was gone, claiming it itched or the sheets felt cool to it. Only after he had reached out finitely with an invisible arm was he forced to acknowledge its loss. He found refuge in anger, but such rage could not be contained, spilling over to include all about him.

Since Seamus's strength was needed daily in the sickroom, his presence was tolerated, but he was reviled for his clumsiness and for . having the audacity to rescue the earl from a good death on the battlefield. Boorde, whether present or not, was ignored, casually dismissed as a butcher in physician's robes. Seaforth refused to see or be seen by the Lady Islean whom he loudly and profanely blamed for his maiming. Though she covered her ears, still she heard and often fled the room in tears.

But it was a dead man who was the special target of the earl's hatred. Ten times a day or more, Seaforth consigned James IV to purgatory for his benighted leadership. And when the king's queen was delivered of a dead son, Seaforth professed himself glad, though his malediction sounded hollow. His little son Jamie alone was spared a fair share of curses, but only on good days. On bad days, when the missing arm ached unbearably, Jamie, like everyone else, suffered.

Eventually the entire household learned to avoid the sickroom as

much as possible on those days when anger gave way to depression; at those times a deep all-pervasive self-pity wrenched at the hearts of those who loved him, making them wish that the fury would return. He sat for hours luxuriating in his misfortune. A new book arrived? Too heavy to hold in one hand. Would he write instructions for the seneschal at Seaforth? The quill needed sharpening, a task for two hands. A little music perhaps? Impossible to tune a lute one-handed.

The one thing that presented him with no difficulty was filling and refilling his cup. In the morning he began with their best home brew. By midday the ale was replaced with canary or madeira. At nightfall, usquebaugh was his choice
...
smoky, tawny, heady
...
a potent distillate that could and did lay the strongest man low.

On a night no different from others, Seamus sat quietly in a corner. The earl was well into his fourth or fifth usquebaugh, though it was not dampening the fire of anger that raged through his nerve fibres. Occasionally he shouted a command for another flagon of brew, or a silk cloth to wipe his perspiring brow, just to see a serving man jump at his command.

The Lady Islean quietly worked at her tapestry frame in one corner of the huge room. When her husband bellowed, her hand would still for long minutes at a time. Eyes averted from the drunkard, she stared at the flames in the large stone fireplace or at * the one joy in this new existence: young Jamie, playing with toy soldiers while sprawled on the fur before the fire. He took the part of first one, then another of the miniature wooden soldiers, long in need of fresh paint but beautifully carved and detailed.

The soldiers had belonged once to the Lady Islean's full brother, James Stewart, the bastard Earl of Moray, and many other royal tykes before him. Many a battle these soldiers had fought and won or lost. The armored knight rode a charger trapped with chain mail. The mounted esquire carried a spear with a knightly banner. The third, who wore no mail but went on foot and carried a long bow, was the five-year-old's favorite. Even though his armor was leather and his uniform was drab, he could go where horses could not and so often won the day with spear, sword, or bow.

"Scout, I, your king, command you to ride forth and locate the enemy," Jamie said, picking up the foot soldier.

"By your command, sire," he answered himself in a small quiet voice. He had learned long since not to disturb his father when he was drinking.

~~ Jamie's tiny hand slowly slid the lowly sergeant across the rug and out onto the broad plain of the slate floor.

"Master Meredith, set up camp at the base of that hill yonder."

"Right away, sire," the esquire replied through his third-party voice. And Jamie moved him smartly over by the wolfs head at one end of the rug.

"As for you, Lord Lachlan," he said, reaching for the knight, "deploy your—"

An anguished howl and then a curse cut him short. The earl had lurched from his huge chair, and in three unsteady steps had managed to plop his stockinged foot down on the bowman. Surprised and in pain, he howled with rage and savagely kicked the tiny soldier into the fireplace.

Jamie rushed to rescue his man, but not fast enough. His humble soldier caught fire like kindling and the flames drove back the daring hand that would have saved him.

"Why did you do that?" the boy cried, tears blackening his blue eyes. "He didn't hurt you deliberately."

Seaforth desperately held onto the mantel with his only hand, in real need to steady himself, for not only did his head spin from the sudden exertion, but he was also taken aback by the look in his son's eyes. He did not, however, intend to be put on the defensive by one so young, so he quickly took up a theme he had preached before.

"Why do you play with toy soldiers? Why are you not practicing with real weapons? At your age, I could set a lance and run a course and wield a 'mercy'* with either hand. Hear that? With either—" His voice broke; he grew maudlin, "I'll never joust again
...
or ride to the hunt
...
or show myself at court again." With the mercurial change of mood drink can cause, he grew angered. "Hear me? I'm crippled, and you play with toys!" With that, the earl kicked the two remaining soldiers in the direction of the flames. The miniature squire had fought his last battle, but the wooden knight was rescued by the great andiron on the near side of the fireplace.

*The misencorde, a straight, thin-bladed dagger used to give the coup de grace to a fallen foe.

Jamie didn't wait to watch the second of his beloved soldiers turn to ashes. Instead, he lunged for his one remaining treasure and ran from the room without another word, the tiny nobleman squeezed tight in his hand.

"Come back here!" the father roared. "Do you hear me? Come back here before I take a belt to your bottom."

"Enough!" came the sharp retort from the corner of the room. Seaforth turned to see his wife descending on him, her skirts flouncing and fire in her eyes.

"Enough is enough! And you have just convinced me. Tomorrow I leave for my lands at Alva. Jamie goes with me," the Lady Islean snapped. "If you ever want to see either of us again, you had best forget what's gone for good and remember the living.

"Your arm is gone. Drink won't grow you another," she continued, stamping her small foot on the slate. "You are still young. You have your life before you. But if a missing arm is more important to you than your own son, so be it. Wallow in your own pity. Drink yourself into an early grave. At the rate you are going, there will be no one here to grieve for you."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room. Seaforth started to shout some still-unformed thought after her. But her angry words had pierced his drink-befuddled mind, and he wound up muttering a weak and illogical rebuttal to himself.

Not another drink passed his lips that evening as he sat for long hours deep in thought. When he finally made his way to his lonely bed, be refused to allow Seamus to help him undress. Instead, dismissing the man, he lay across the bed in his day clothes. Eventually, he slept, but only fitfully, waking at the first lightening in the east.

Without sending for Seamus, -the earl exchanged slippers for boots, shrugged on a hunting jacket, tucking its empty sleeve into his belt. His riding boots felt good after his being so long without them. Skipping breakfast, he headed straight for the mews.

The first servant he spied he curdy ordered, "Saddle me that new bay mare, Excitress." The man started with surprise, then hurried off to do the earl's bidding. Seamus questioned the footman's orders at first but took no chances. However, in place of the fractious mare, he ordered the saddling of an aged gelding. It was no lady's jennet, yet no challenge to a crippled rider, either. When Seaforth saw which horse was led out, he opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. The groom, coached by Seamiis moments before, offered his cupped hands to assist the earl to mount, and Seaforth even silently accepted that. He settled in the saddle as if in the lap of a long-lost friend. It felt good to be a man again. The reins held firmly in his left hand, he urged the horse to curvet a bit. Then, refusing the groom's offer to go with him, he put the horse through the high, narrow arch leading out into St. Mary's Wynd. Seamus, having sent word of Seaforth's doings to the Lady Islean, followed not long after on a heavy-built cob capable of carrying his substantial weight.

The street leading up to the ridge was both narrow and steep but cleaner than most city streets, however, for it was lined with the city houses or "lands" of Scottish lords, and their slops were thrown into wells built for the purpose, not out of the windows onto the street. This early in the morning, the street was practically deserted. The few men Seaforth saw were quick to tug forelocks, doff hats and bow as due his rank; the women curtsied and bade him a smiling good-morning.

People looked at him, of course, but not with cloying sympathy, nor the curiosity reserved for a freak. Instead, the looks were what any rich lord or handsome male would expect. Reassured but somehow disappointed that what he had dreaded had not occurred, he made his way slowly up the wynd. It seemed more gray and sombre than usual. Then, he realized why. The noble banners denoting their owner in residence no longer flew from the houses lining St. Mary's Wynd. He suppressed a shudder. Had all of these nobles fallen that day at Flodden Field? He and his wife had not discussed the subject, carefully avoiding all mention of it except for once, early on, when he'd asked her who had won. And of the king, her father. Her one-word answers had closed the matter until now.

At the top of St. Mary's, he turned left on High Street toward the castle perched like a bird of prey on the hill above the town. At the base of that hill was Old Town, his destination. As the horse moved forward into the street, it was surrounded by beggars. Those on his right, sighting his empty sleeve, fell back, but not those on the left. They pressed closer. Grabbing at his feet, his stirrup, his jacket, they brandished crutches, waved aged bloodied bandages, pulled back eye patches to show empty sockets as they entreated him to remember Flodden.

The beggars weren't to be ignored: Some no doubt were professional cripples. But just as many, he feared, were fellow victims. Not often did he or any other nobleman feel any kinship with the masses, but this was one of those rare occasions. He would have scattered some coins among them; but with one hand, he couldn't both control his horse and reach for his purse. Frustrated, he stared straight ahead and spurred his horse onward. His manner angered the beggars, who redoubled their protests. At the combination of his own frustration and their persistence, he grew angry. With a wrench of his right shoulder, he pulled his own empty sleeve out of his belt and flaunted it as best he could in the faces of the crowd, mockingly repeating their own words: "Ha' pity on me, a simple victim of Flodden." Sullenly the cripples pulled back, and he forged ahead, his sleeve waving grimly in the breeze.

Within a few minutes, it was Seamus's turn to try to forge his way through the crowd, not so easily put off, now that one victim had gotten away without a donation. Now Seaforth gained a sizable lead, passing swiftly and without opposition through the portal to the Old Tolbooth with its miscreants chained to the jougs outside and its jailors lounging on the high stairs above. Just before he reached St. Giles Cathedral, Seaforth came upon the Luckenbooths squeezed in between the cathedral and High Street. Turning in, he searched out a ramshackled stall built onto the row like some haphazard afterthought. After two or three hallos, the owner finally came out.