by Lee Arthur
"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.
"I need soldiers carved, for a boy—" Seaforth began, but from the blank look on the old man's face, he could tell not a word said had been heard. Twice more he spoke, each time louder, but to no avail. Seaforth had come too far to accept defeat now. Not happily, he realized he must dismount so as to shout in the man's ear.
Wrapping the reins about his hand, he gripped the pommel with all his strength, then stood up in the stirrups. Keeping his weight on the left foot, he threw the other leg over. It took all his concentration to keep his balance. Bending his knees slightly, he lay down with his stomach across the saddle, kicked his left foot free, and slid ineptly to the ground. He caught his breath after the unexpected exertion and started to shout his errand all over again, but the old man raised a hand in protest.
"Don't shout, I can hear you fine, if n you only talk slow."
Slowly, very slowly, the earl described what he wanted, one carefully enunciated word after another: "Item one, a footman, one hand high, dressed in boiled leather armor, his bow slung over his shoulder. Give him, too, a modern arquebusier with a flask of regular coarse gunpowder and a touch box with priming powder."
The carver nodded his understanding.
"Item two: an esquire, on a rounsey, but let the horse be better bred than most. The esquire of unusual size... wearing mail, his horse lightly armored, and have the left arm extended so that he may carry a banner or lead the knight's destrier on the right.",
The carver nodded.
"As to the knight, the third figure. Mount him on a tall horse, a gray. Let horse and man wear full tourney armor. The horse cap-a-pie with plate armor white and plain, his neck covered with a crinet, a peytrel for his chest and flanchard for his thigh, and beneath caparisoned in white velvet ornamented with silver bells. Let the knight's face not show, but dress him in Maximilian armor with its grouped channels and flutings. Arm him with long sword and shield. As to the latter, I prefer neither heater nor kite-shaped, but a near rectangle with rounded corners and a notch in the upper right-hand comer for a lance. And let it be not curved around the body but concave, so it will best slip an opponent's lance. And upon it paint, per fess argent and sable, a bend charged with three annulets, all countercharged. And upon the helmet put you a Mer-Lion, mounted. Any questions?"
The carver nodded. "One arm or two, my lord?"
Seaforth's lips tightened. I
t was all he could do to keep from smiting the man, but he realized the carver spoke not in malice but in an honest desire to please.
"Two," he replied, then thought better of it. "No, make it one." As Seaforth abruptly turned on his heel, the sleeve restlessly flapped. Awkwardly he tucked it back under his wide belt.
"Flodden, my lord?" It was Seaforth's turn to nod.
"I lost my only son and my grandson too. They were all that I had," the old man said. "Was it in a good cause, my lord?"
Seaforth had no answer. How does one equate a turquoise ring sent by a queen from a foreign land... or, for that matter, an arm lost from below the elbow... with the loss of the next generation and two? He shrugged his shoulders, pulling the sleeve loose again. Let the carver interpret that as he chose.
The carver didn't press him. With fatalistic tolerance he returned to his lean-to. Outside, Seaforth gathered up his reins and faced a new problem—mounting his horse. The old man would be of no help... and there was no lady's mounting block about. A vault into the saddle? Out of the question, Seaforth realized. He was too weak even to walk home. Grudgingly, he faced and accepted the reality of his situation.
Retying his horse, he made his way into the stall and found a place to sit down and wait until his men found him, as he knew they eventually would. The carver hospitably offered the lord a glass of home brew. Though thin and sour, it was wet and potent, and Seaforth drained his wooden goblet and did not turn down a refill. The lean-to was small and cramped, strewn with unfinished pieces and untouched chunks of wood. It smelled clean and fresh... of sap and shavings... the scrape of knife on wood... the slow, steady rhythm both hypnotic and relaxing...
He slept until awakened by the stomping of a horse as Seamus charged into the stall, ready to do harm to the carver if aught had befallen his lord. A glance and a word sufficed to reassure. Seaforth found himself effortlessly boosted up into the saddle again by his giant of a squire.
As they prepared to ride off, Seaforth called a halt, turned back in his saddle and shouted to the old man, "Grandfather, to answer your question: Yes, it was worth it." He never knew whether he'd spoken loudly and slowly enough for the carver to understand, but he hoped the lie would in some small way thank the old man for his hospitality.
Seamus chose to return to St. Mary's Wynd by a different route, skirting the base of castle hill and totally avoiding St. Giles's Cathedral. He had not yet returned to retrieve the arm sharing St. Giles's reliquary. Coming out of Advocate's Close, Seaforth halted his horse. Here at last was one explanation for the dearth of able-bodied men in town. Fathers and husbands, children and women were rebuilding a wall that had been in ruins six weeks before.
Noting the earl's curiosity, Seamus said, "They began it, lord, when word came of the British victory at Flodden. The brave nobles"—his voice reeked ofsarcasm—"fled to their castle keeps in the Grampians and Highlands. But few of the people followed after. Most of these Scots are of sterner stuff and would no' have it. Especially the women. They, I am told, made life so difficult for those who did no' go off to war as well as those who came back whole—" Seamus paused uncertainly, aware of his gaffe.
Seaforth seemed not to notice. "Go on, what did they do?"
"They stopped cooking and laundering, changing nappies and sleeping in the family bed, until their men agreed to build this wall they call the Flodden Wall. It surrounds the city from the base of the castle all the way round to Catlin's Hill and Arthur's Seat. Bless me, our only chance is to run out of stone soon—small chance that, damn it. Women like old Bess there—she with the broad beam and arms akimbo, who acts as if she built the wall herself—she'll have us building on and on and around Nor Loch. Oh, God, Bess's noticed us. Lord, she's a widowed lady who fancies me. Ride on, please, my lord, or I'm in for a hard time."
Seaforth touched spur to flank and Seamus fell in close behind. When they finally turned into {he courtyard, Lady Islean came charging down the steps before he could dismount, to berate him for leaving the house alone so soon after rising from his sickbed.
Meekly he sat on his gelding, towering over her, allowing himself to be browbeaten like some errant little boy while he looked at his wife with fresh eyes, finding himself glad indeed to be alive. She was young enough to be his daughter, near twenty years his junior, and looked more Irish than Scots. A tendril of hair escaping her caul was so dark that it appeared ebony although he knew it was brown. Her eyes, wide set and thickly lashed, were of that blue that varies with the owner's mood. Right now, they flashed darkly of anger. Her cheeks, always at least slightly flushed with color due to her fair and thin skin, now glowed a becoming red.
Ignoring her words, Seaforth smiled. A long, slow smile that transformed his usually serious face and made it much younger. The Lady-Islean, unprepared for smiles, stammered a bit with bewilderment. Pretending nonchalance—after all he had done it before— Seaforth dismounted by himself. By the time he had both feet on the
ground, the Lady Islean had gathered her wits about her..She would have continued on, but he put finger to her mouth.
"I was not alone. Good Seamus watched over me. Now hush, lady. Stop sounding like a good Scotswoman.". Draping his one arm about her shoulders, he led her toward the house. He laughed a little ruefully, "I don't know how good I am at one-armed push-ups, my dear, but if you'll bear with me, tonight I would give being a husband a try."
Not at all reluctantly, her own right arm encircled his waist. Her tone was demure enough, but the look in her eyes was wicked. "My lord, I think you've done enough riding for one day. Allow me."
CHAPTER 4
From the rear, bending over her cooking, Nelly didn't look due to pop out a babe any day now. Every now and again, however, she would arch her aching back and rub the small of it a bit. Stirring the large copper caldron in which she made her specialty, garbage, for the staffs evening meal was hard work. Seamus, coming up behind her, sniffed appreciatively. Nelly worked miracles with the giblets of fowl, the entrails of mutton, plus a thickening of bread and a handful of spices.
Seamus realized he hadn't eaten in hours, but the conversation he had overheard between Seaforth and his lady had stimulated an appetite other than that of his stomach, though the thought of them together still bothered him. Slipping his arms about Nelly, he cupped her full, straining breasts in his enormous hands. Gratefully, she leaned back against his strength, letting him support her weight as he nuzzled her neck.
"You've been on your feet enough for one day, love," he said. "Let someone else do the stirring. You come with me, and I'll rub your back. Your front too, if you like. What do you say, Nelly, me gal?"
She was tired. Hot too, but not for his body. Her hair was damp and curly with sweat, while under her kirtle, she could feel the droplets running down between her breasts, pooling in the crease of her swollen belly. It would be good to lie down, she thought. "Nanny Goodall says my time is almost upon me," she remarked,
resting her head on the comfort of his broad chest. "She says your pestering me could bring on the babe."
"Me, pester you?" He rubbed her nipples slowly and felt them grow hard under his hands. "What I have in mind will just relax you. Besides, are you no' ready to be rid of your burden?"
That she was, she thought. Whether he relaxed her or not, the slow, caressing movements of his hands were excellent persuaders.
Calling to Effie, a scrawny slip of a girl not yet in her teens, Nelly surrendered her spoon and let Seamus lead her away. She had gone no more than ten paces before she stopped. "Effie, mind you stir deep lest the stew crust v.-i the bottom. And no tasting. And no more sugar, either. You've much too sweet a taste to be able to season garbage properly."
She would have said more, but Seamus's hand on her elbow was urging her toward the stone steps leading up to the courtyard. She looked surprised. "Not my room?" He shook his head, and led her upward, out into the courtyard, then beyond to the mews. As captain of the guard he was privileged to have a room to him
self above the horse stalls. "We'll be more private there, this time of evening," he said.
The stairs were steep and Nelly out of breath by the time they reached his room. It was neat and orderly, like Seamus himself, its walls bare of adornment other than a crucifix, its furnishings crude and functional. But the bed Seamus had built to his own measure: extra long and extra wide.
Nelly sank back against the pillows and breathed in the good clean smells of horses and hay and leather, the smells she associated with Seamus. God, how she loved him. She knew, of course, about his other women, but in her deep love of him, she could even accept that. Especially since he was faithful to her whenever he was in residence at Seaforth or when the whole household traveled to Edinburgh. What he did at Rangeley, the Seaforths' estate in the moors... or at Alva, the lady's manor with its famous silver mines near Stirling... to this she resolutely closed her eyes and her ears and her mind. Of course, she couldn't ignore the fact that her rivals at Alva and at Rangely had within the year, in that order, brought forth men-children.
Nelly chuckled to herself, and fondly tousled the straw-colored hair of the man bending over her. How did he, she wondered, take the news that his firstborn was black-haired... and his second a redhead? Did he wonder if a fox had gotten into his chicken coop? Hers, she vowed, would have his father's hair. Not for a moment did she doubt this; nor that she would have a boy; Nanny Goodall had told her carrying high always meant a boy.
But now her mind was brought back to more immediate things. Seamus had unlaced her kirtle at both sides, and again at the front, and pulled it down off her shoulders. Nelly marveled that a gown made especially to cater to the needs of a woman large with child should lend itself so readily to removal by an amorous man. Half the time with her other kirtles, Seamus hadn't bothered to tug them off, but had simply pulled them up about her waist—her shift too— and had taken his pleasure that way.
Not today. With the kirtle off, he unlaced her shift and drew that down off her body. Big and bloated and as grotesquely out of shape' as she was, Seamus seemed to delight more in looking at her body now than when she was flat-stomached and small-breasted. Men, she thought. Who'd ever understand them? Today, however, she was glad for this strange aberration of his; the cool evening air felt good on her bare skin. When Seamus, his clothes shucked off quickly, gently turned her over on her side and lay down behind her, she found the cool air before and the heat of his body behind strangely - refreshing.
