“You only said I must be proficient in a single sennight at the weapon I choose. You did not give me a choice of weapons from which I must choose.”
Already Ramsey was shaking his head and chuckling, making it clear he knew he had been played. “You are sharp beyond your years, lad.”
“Nay, but I am confident I can shoot an arrow most accurately seven days from now,” he said without one bit of humility.
“Then archery it is,” Ramsey said with a wave of his hand. “You have seven days. And Lyall….”
“Aye, my lord?”
“This week I do not want to see your face for even a single morn when I open my bedchamber door.”
“You shall not, my lord. I swear,” Lyall said, unable to hide the smile splitting his face and adding wickedly, “For there is no longer the need.”
And laughter erupted from the great hall at Castle Rossie, and Donnald Ramsey’s was the loudest. Lyall picked up the laver, and all but ran from the hall he was so excited.
* * *
Lyall winced as he slowly and carefully unwrapped the strip of linen he had wrapped on his left wrist early that morning. After six days of the constant, repetitive swipe of the bowstring, his wound was deep, the skin rubbed completely raw, and blood had dried on it so the cloth was stuck to his scabbed skin. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and jerked the cloth free, a loud cry escaped his lips, tears filled his eyes, and he swore under his breath, something inventive he’d heard one of the knights shout and for which he would need to confess and do penance.
Fresh blood came from the wound and he tried to stop the flow with the wadded up cloth, gave up and crossed to the laver and stuck his hand in the water, something he should have done before he tore off the cloth.
Someone knocked on the door of his small chamber, and the door cracked open. “Lyall?” His sister stuck her head inside.
“Come in, Mairi.”
She was carrying a food tray and she kicked the door closed with her foot.
His pride made him glad she had not been there a moment before. He looked down at his wrist in the water bowl; it was still bleeding and turning the water red. His shoulder ached, his whole body ached and he was exhausted.
“What have you done?” She asked him, worried and setting a tray of food on his bed. “You have injured yourself the night before your trial?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said tightly, not wanting to be reminder of the test that awaited him in the morning.
She held out her hands. “Come here. Let me see.”
“ ’Tis nothing. Leave it be.”
“I’ll tell mama.”
“Brat.”
“Oaf.”
“Pest.”
“Turnipbrain.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “I shall not leave until you show me.”
He gave up and pulled his hand from the bowl, blotted it dry and stuck out his arm. “There. See?” He craned his neck to try to see the food. The smell was making his belly rumble like thunder. “What’s on the tray. I’m starved.”
“You wouldn’t be if you would stop practicing long enough to eat something. Mama bade me to bring this to you. Should I get her for your hand? She has some salve that will help.”
Lyall held up a squat brown earthenware crock.
“ ‘Tis mama’s salve jar!”
“Aye,” Lyall said, applying the thick grease to his bloody wrist. “I helped myself.”
She flopped down on the bed. “More like you didn’t want her fussing over you.”
“That too.”
She lifted a cloth that covered the food tray. “Look here. There is mutton stew and a fresh trencher. Cider and some goat cheese. A piece of apple tart and strawberries,” she said, popping one in her bow-shaped mouth, the juice turning the edges of her lips a deep red.
Lyall filled his mouth with warm stew and tore off a piece of bread and pointed at her with it. “If you do not wipe your mouth, Mama will box your ears for stealing my supper, especially those berries, which I’ll wager you already gorged yourself on at the table.”
Beitris had planted a large garden as she had at Dunkelden only at Rossie she dug it near the granary where the sun shone most of the day, and the small, sweet red strawberries were her first crop. She doled them out as if they were gold coin.
His sister’s eyes grew big and she wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand, then she stole another, making him laugh.
“Are you frightened, Lyall?”
“About tomorrow?” He shook his head. “Nay,” he said with a laughing tone, one filled with bluster.
“Not even a small bit?”
He smiled at her. “Well…perhaps just a small wee tad.”
She laughed.
“The truth is, I’m restless and on edge, but not because I am afraid I cannot do this, or of the outcome.”
“I shall be there to cheer for you. She took out a small bit of blue cloth left from the bolt of her favorite gown and pressed it into his hand. “This is my favor for you, to bring you good fortune. “ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I am so glad you are my brother, Lyall.”
“And I you, sprite,” he said with emotion. “I will wear this so all can see. I would not have this chance were it not for you.”
She shook her head. “That's not true. The baron would have given in. You were wearing him down. But when it sounded as if he were questioning your courage, then I could no longer keep quiet.”
She jumped up as quickly as she had flopped down. “I am off to the solar, where I must listen to chatter and sew a new fur collar on my cloak. I was to have finished it yesterday.“ She ran to the door, then stopped. “You will do well tomorrow. Lyall. I know you will.” Then she was gone, off like the water sprite he lovingly called her.
Lyall lay down on his bed, finishing another chunk of bread. His arms were so sore he could not cross them behind his head as he usually did. He lay there limply. There was not a part of him that did not ache, he thought, closing his eyes and he was soon sound asleep.
The call the cock crowing the next morn came all too quickly. Lyall had eaten the boiled egg his mother brought him, and they had talked for a few minutes, during which she tried to prepare him because of her worry. As he followed her out of his chamber, he wondered if she was really as comfortable here at Rossie as she seemed. She always wore a hood or a thick veil that covered the side of her scarred face, but still she knew it was unpleasant for others to look at and she often kept to the solar or her garden and most days did not eat her meals in the main hall for the looks of pity and curious stares. Her great beauty had been the talk of men and the song of troubadours. But more than vanity, her scars ran deeper than the skin, wounds of loss, of Ewane and Malcolm.
He kissed her on both cheeks because he had always kissed her so and refused to stop, even when she told him not to kiss her scarred and puckered skin. Today, as most days, he lifted her veil and placed a kiss upon her rippled cheek, before he came down to the practice field, just as the sun was just bringing on day.
Five times he had gone through his quiver of arrows at the quintain target before the house knights began to fill the area, curious, followed by the squires and his fellow pages, and soon it seemed the whole of the castle was there. On the left shoulder of his page’s tunic he had pinned Mairi’s favor and he wore his velvet cap to the side so the ribbons cascaded to one side and would not impede his aim, and he stood in the large dirt arena, awaiting Ramsey, refusing to show an inkling of his fear and nervousness.
“Lyall!” His sister stood with his mother, waving to him. His mother looked pale and he realized then he had not thought about what this trial had done to her.
Ramsey crossed the distance to stand by him. “You look ready.”
“I am, my lord.”
“I have created a series of trials for you, Lyall Robertson,” Ramsey said to him in a loud voice so all could hear. “My men tell me that every day you have practiced on tree targets and the
tilting dummy. The true test of war and weaponry is your strength or accuracy against an enemy, more often than not, your enemy will be a moving target.”
Ramsey signaled to a pair of squires standing near the quintain. One carried a familiar pig bladder filled with sand, usually used for training the nimbleness and agility of the feet by requiring the squire to dash in, about, and around it. “The first of your trials shall be a moving target. Aonghas and Dughal will toss the bladder ball between them. You must hit it as it moves through the air.” Ramsey raised his hand. “Ready yourself.”
The crowd was still and quiet.
Lyall took his position, feet planted apart. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it.
Ramsey lowered his hand, and the squires began tossing the bladder back and forth, arcing through the air and hitting their outstretched hand with a slap.
Before it had exchanged hands twice over, Lyall took swift aim….and shot.
The ball flew back and away and fell hard to the ground with a thud, the arrow true and protruding out and upwards from the ball.
The crowd shouted and clapped, and Lyall took his first real breath.
“Good, lad,” Ramsey said and clapped him on his shoulder. Pain shot through his body and sliced down his bow arm. His muscles were filled with ague from over practice, and his shoulder was especially weak and sore from drawing back the bowstring constantly for so many days. He winced, slightly, but stood there steely and straight as a finely-honed sword,.
I dare not show a single sign of weakness.
Ramsey pulled an apple from the leather sache hanging his elaborately gilded belt and held it up for all to see. “We shall now test your accuracy on a smaller target.”
Lyall readied himself, his eye on the center of the red fruit, the bowstring pulled back so taut it would have sliced off his ear were he were not careful.
Ramsey bent his knees and tossed the apple high into the air. His arrow shot true. The apple shattered, pieces of it flying about, and the crowd roared again. His sister was waving and shouting and jumping up and down, until his mother leaned down and said something and Mairi stilled, her eyes wide as she exchanged a worried look with Lyall. Lyall frowned. What had his mother said?
“And now you shall try an even smaller target, although this one shall be stationary.” The baron held up a strawberry between his fingers. A hum of murmuring came from the crowd with some words clear like ‘impossible’ and ‘his fingers’ and ‘never’ and ‘the poor boy…’.
“Wait!” Lyall’s mother stepped forward. “ ‘Tis my strawberry, my lord. I will hold it,” she said firmly.
“Beitris, no,” Ramsey said quickly, his voice protective.
“I have complete faith in my son’s skills.” She walked across the practice field with her head proudly in the air.
“You understand, Beitris, that if he misses, he takes your finger,” Ramsey said while his expression tried to warn her when he added, “Let me do this.”
“Why?” She looked at him and laughed as if to say what is another loss? She reached up and threw back her hood, her face completely uncovered, ignoring the murmurs in the crowd that quieted swiftly with a single harsh look from Ramsey.
His mother took the berry and faced the crowd. ”What you do not understand, Donnald, is that my Lyall will not miss.”
Lyall closed his eyes and felt his hands grow clammy and damp. He felt even more tension wrack his body. He dared not miss. He dared not….
His mother stood sideways as she held up the small red strawberry between her fingers, her head high, scarring exposed, her eyes staring straight ahead and her expression emotionless.
But Lyall knew she was far from unfeeling at that moment. She was a putting on a fine show.
He could not, would not fail her. He notched an arrow, took two shallow breaths and his sharpest aim, eyeing the red strawberry, his eyes seeing nothing else, and then he released the bowstring with a snap!
There was a heartbeat of utter silence, then the thud of the arrow hitting and reverberating in the wooden fencing, the berry nothing more than red circle on the arrow tip.
Between the delicate fingers of Lady Beitris was no berry, only a small empty space and smudges of red berry juice.
The noise level became so loud that it sounded like that of a great tourney, but Lyall held up his hand and shouted,” Wait! Wait! Stand back, mother, and count to ten.” She did as he asked and did not look at him, did not question. She counted, “One…two…three…four…”
Gasps came loudly with each number. Faster than anyone had ever seen and in a way that would have seemed and sounded impossible, Lyall pulled, notched, and shot arrows from quiver to his bow so swiftly one could barely see each action. By the time his mother said “Ten,” he had shot six arrows, one at a time, each one straight into and splitting the shaft of the one previous. It was a display of skill the likes of which no one had ever seen.
“These trials are over,” Ramsey said clearly and with something Lyall thought might have been pride, but if not, surely it was honest respect he heard in the baron’s voice.
The shouts and whistles and noise for all who were watching was unbelievably raucous and went on for a long, long while and even Lyall could not longer keep back his happiness. A huge, proud smile split his face. His mother joined him and he took her hand, knelt on one knee before her and kissed her hand gallantly.
Because of his sister and his mother, because of their faith in him, he was now guaranteed to be one step closer to winning his spurs…one step closer to giving respect to the name of Robertson. His battle was not done, but his side was winning.
When Lyall rose his mother hugged him with fervor, laughing and proud and he felt as though he held the world in the palm of his blistered hand. Ramsey raised his arm again to silence all.
He placed his hands on Lyall’s shoulders and turned him to face the crowd. “This is Lyall Robertson, son of my friend, Sir Ewane, and as he has proved on this day, the finest archer I or any of you have ever seen. I present to you my newest body squire.”
Thus began the learning years for Lyall at Castle Rossie. From the men at arms and knights, he learned hand to hand combat, to be quick and lithe on his feet, to feint, and to dodge to avoid his opponent’s blade. Under the tutelage of great men of war came lessons in ability to ride like a warrior—to become one with his horse, to guide his mount with the pressure of his knees, so his hands were free to handle his weapons; in time, to wield his battle axe, war hammer, and heavy broadsword as if he were wielding his right arm, both on horseback and on foot. He learned to tilt, to charge with his war lance and unseat his opponent with unfailing speed and precision. He learned all a knight needed to learn, and true to form, he learned it swiftly, earning his spurs at ten and five. The only thing Lyall did not learn was how to forget.
8
The western coast of Scotland
Glenna stepped out onto the top deck of the ship and stretched her arms high in the cool morning air, yawning. All around her was the Minch, looking calm and like an unbelievably peaceful firth. The blue water was glistening like new coins in the high sunlight, as if the whole of frightening events of yesterday and the night before had been only a terrible dream.
She flexed her numb fingers. Sleep escaped her more most of the night. When she had finally slept, she felt as if she had been imprisoned in the hold forever, sitting there and hanging onto Montrose, wondering with each diving pitch of the storm when the ship would crack in half and they would all perish into the black depths of the sea.
She took a deep breath and rubbed her arms, which were marked with the thin red pattern of the rush mat used for sleeping pallets. Above her, the sails flapped unevenly with the wind now coming in soft sweet gusts, and she heard the splash of the oar wake, and the rocking, almost songlike rhythm of the oarsman’s chant as the boat moved close to land and parallel to the coast. Against the eastern horizon the mainland was large, its shadowy grey-green hills
now sharp enough to see the ragged tops of the trees, while the land’s edges were still thinly shrouded by white morning mist floating just out of reach and ghostlike upon the water.
Montrose stood near the prow of the ship, his booted foot resting on a barrel tied to the ship’s bow and he was holding a halyard with one hand. His hair blew back away in the sea breeze and his eyes were only for the skies and land ahead. He wore his sword belt and a pale blue tunic she thought looked the same color as his eyes. Dark blue woolen hose covered his long legs, and the silver hilt of a dagger showed from the top of his boot. She watched him with hungry eyes, his profile so hawk-like, strong--almost stubbornly so.
Standing there as he was, he looked as if he were defying the laws of nature, daring them to try to make him someone other exactly who he wanted to be. She’d seen his jaw grow tight and ridged when he was angry, and now unshaven, his beard had grown in dark, like his brows, looking like storm shadows on his jaw and neck. Her first impression of him had been so very different from the man she’d seen since.
Who was the golden one who so easily and carelessly dove through the waves in the sea?
The breadth of his shoulders, the thick, lean sinew of his thighs held her captive, led her mind to places where only dreams were made. That he was an impressive man was undeniable, and, were she in the market for one, he might have been a decent choice.
Clinging to him the night before made her feel safe, something she had thought she’d lost. She looked away, disliking the direction of her thoughts. Survival was what she needed to concentrate upon…not standing there ogling him like she would a honeyed comfit. She was wasting time, time she needed to be plotting how to get as far away from the man as possible. She turned swiftly, moving toward the stern, running away from him and her foolhardy thoughts.
However one thought led to another, and a few moments later she was almost brought to her knees by a new revelation. She reached out blindly and sat down hard on a ballast stone, white-knuckled and suddenly feeling pale.
My Something Wonderful (Book One, The Sisters of Scotland) Page 11