by Lee Arthur
The man and the boy looked long into each other's eyes. "Agreed," the small voice quavered and then without warning he launched himself at his father, throwing both arms about the man's neck and burying his face in Seaforth's shoulder. Seaforth's long battle training stood him in good stead, for instinctively bracing himself, he held firm through his son's assault and hugged him back lovingly, albeit single-handedly and a trifle awkwardly.
Seamus, looking down on the two of them, renewed his own promise to the Seaforths... not only to mother, but father and now son as well. He would serve as faithfully as Dunstan, for he knew that were he deprived of the right to serve this family, something good and noble would wither and die within him. Dunstan too must have sensed something had happened, for he left off mouthing the earl's hair and with a snort, nuzzled the head of the child.
When the two left the stable, Seamus trailed behind, but close on their heels. Seaforth had begun his heir's training and Seamus was committing it to memory. They began with a subject of primary interest: the care of Dunstan.
As Seaforth talked, he discovered he enjoyed his role as savant and teacher. That there was a sense of achievement and even satisfaction in feeding eager minds, regardless of the fact that one was that of a mere child, the other that of a servant.
Soon Seamus discovered his newfound position as pupil was not confined to the stable. That night after supper, he joined the family for vespers, conducted by another Dominican priest nastily summoned to temporarily replace the good father Cariolinus. Afterward, he was told to join the family in the solarium where he found himself cross-questioned on the care of Dunstan, the Lady Islean looking on with interest. Jamie too underwent scrutiny. So eager was Seamus to learn, to understand, to forget nothing, that he forgot that the Lady Islean listened and that his fellow student was so much younger than he.
Afterward, Seaforth, no longer seeking solace in a cup, had the two stand near as he brought out a book—a primer, beautifully illustrated with large initial gold letters on every page. For a quarter of the hour or so, the two boys—one a diminutive person of four, the other an overgrown giant of nineteen—learned their letters, the one reciting away in an eager soprano, the other more selfconsciously in a basso profundo. Instinctively, like a good teacher, Seaforth demanded little this first night, moving soon from primer to lighter works.
So began the routine that would take them through the weeks ahead. First the meat, then the sweet. The works of those Scots,
Douglas, Kennedy, and Dunbar. Seaforth in his new mood would have avoided Dunbar, a man of morbid bent. But Jamie had seized upon one poem with delight and would pester his father to read it so that he might joyously join the chorus:
Seaforth: Our pleasure here is all vain glory
This false world is but transitory,
The flesh is broken, the Field is sly,
Father and son: Timor mortis conturbat me.
Seaforth: The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sary,
Now dancing merry, now like to dee
Both: Timor mortis conturbat me.
Although neither Seamus nor the Lady Islean joined in, they could not help but share looks with one another, knowing full well that such a poem well described the Seaforth of but a week ago... and the country as it was today.
Soon Seaforth had read aloud all the books in his library and must send in to Edinburgh for more. These few in turn were swiftly devoured, and agents to buy were alerted in France... and Rome... and even, via Brussels and Amsterdam, in England. But nothing would he touch on theology except it be Bible or Apocrypha or psalter. As for law, he ignored the modern ones, instead seeking out the works of the basic lawmakers, Plato and Socrates.
No man with a book or a manuscript or scroll or even a shard would be refused admission to the house on St. Mary's Wynd, most leaving with full purse and empty hand.
Soon, the ranks of scholars at St. Andrews University were regularly raided to teach the family Seaforth. Jamie thrived on his diet of ink and parchment and illuminated letters. Seamus, who had responsibilities in the stables for most of the day, remained, in comparison, unlettered. But he felt it no great loss. None of his fellows could read as much as their names, while he was able to read and write Scots and could cipher beyond a thousand.
At first, understandably enough, Seaforth emphasized mind over body. One day, however, Seaforth happened upon Seamus, down on his knees, attempting to teach the rudiments of swordsmanship to the child who was not much taller than his own sword. Seaforth said nothing, standing there and watching two totally inept swordsmen hack away at each other. But something must have been said between the two parents, for preparations commenced the next day for their departure to Rangely on Rannock Moor, although Seaforth let it be known that they would soon go from there to the castle on Dun Dearduil. Downstairs in the kitchen, the servants were pleased with the news. The Seaforths had stayed long in their town house, and their lackeys would gleefully see them go. As for the child, the solution, according to those below stairs, was fosterage, the usual answer to the training of young lordlings in arms as well as household manners. But, Seamus countered, what noble house worthy of the fourth in line to the throne, would accept a son whose father was crippled and thus unable to properly train another's son as fosterling in return? The servants had no answer to this, but the earl did.
Their stay at Rangely was not long, but long enough for Seamus to go to the clan Cameron to bring back the youngest of four orphan brothers, George by name. Tall and thin, with legs like a spider. He was self-contained, excelling in what he liked, and managing to ignore or avoid what he didn't. He was destined to be the bane of the schoolmaster's existence, since his hand was so poor none could decipher it. But among the serving wenches, he did much better— and at the age of twelve, George Cameron could boast of being first to add an offshoot of his clan to the inbred population of the Mackenzies of Seaforth.
Soon after George arrived, Seamus returned to Rangely with another boy orphaned as a result of Flodden—Kenneth Menzies, trim, soldierly and looking as athletic as his prowess over the next nine years would prove him to be. Grumbler, grouser, complainer—no job assigned did he like, yet each was done perfectly, to the last detail.
Seamus brought back two boys from another trip, an Ogilvy and an Angus, who instantly, apparently, hated each other. Nothing one did pleased the other, yet each of these black-haired look-alikes was lost if his fellow were sick abed or put to a different task.
Among the last to join the group was the bastard son of a local girl, Henry Gilliver—a quiet, shy boy whom his fellows quickly learned to shelter. He was a natural candidate for the church as Father Cariolinus's Dominican replacement soon discovered. But though Gilliver was agreeable to his joining a religious order, his mother was not. He was to be her support, her mainstay in life.
The last arrival soon- ranked close to Seamus in the affections of the earl and countess, which would have surprised the red-haired John Drummond who considered himself in a typically deprecating manner as the "not as" boy. He was, he once said, not as strong as Angus, not as shrewd as Ogilvy. He was responsible, yes, but not as detail-minded as Menzies. He was growing mature, but if he lived to be a hundred, he'd ne'er be as sophisticated as Cameron. He never realized that although he had less of the good points of the others, he lacked altogether the bad points of each. Jamie's natural preference for this boy was encouraged by the adults about him. They appreciated mat such a friendship could be good for both the leader and the led, the rich boy and the poor, the privileged and the responsible.
The addition of Drummond made the group complete: six plus Jamie, all with some degree of breeding and wits, too. It took time and a fight or two to establish the pecking order with Jamie on top by virtue of his mind and muscle as well as his position. Soon after, with the household belongings loaded onto twenty carts, they were off to Seaforth on Dun Dearduil over the bleakness of Rannock Mo
or.
For most of the boys this was the first extended trip in saddle... and the first saddle sores. Seaforth was not sympathetic. Seamus unguented the boys that night... and put them back up into saddle the next mom. Fortunately, a six-day trip rarely did permanent damage.
Within a month, a stranger—the first of many—disembarked at the Loch Linnhe and made his way to Ben Nevis and the Castle Seaforth. With his arrival, the children's vacation ended and their education began. He was an expert with the falchion, a short sword, about one and one half inches wide at the handle and four inches wide at the bottom—a handy thing and easy for a youth to wield as compared to the bigger two-handed sword. After the falchion, they must learn the ways of the flamberge, a sword with a wavy edge, requiring a different two-handed stroke. Once these two weapons were mastered, the swordsman left, soon to be replaced by another weapon master.
Seamus, whenever able, attended the lesson, volunteering to be the practice piece of the tutor. Although he took many a buffeting and to begin with showed much clumsiness in addition to great strength, he learned. Jamie, who loved him like an older brother, never laughed, nor did Drummond, who followed Jamie's lead, nor Gilliver, who knew better of his own conscience. Nor did Angus and Ogilyy, who, except for their own eternal internal feudings, were basically taciturn.
Only Cameron and Menzies—a natural pairing—made fun of the good-natured giant. But more than once Jamie and Dnimmond took on the pair—Gilliver not joining in, three against two not being fair—find pummelled them well. That stopped them.
Seamus took his own revenge when the boys came to learn horse care under his command. The horses whose stalls Menzies and Cameron must tend were not of the neat, cleanly kind who soiled in only one corner of their stall. Instead, they wallowed in their own droppings. The mucking out was a long onerous chore for the boys.
Over the next ten years, their education continued in schoolroom, in the castle courts, in the hills and country beyond.
They learned to ride the most infractious of horses—Seamus attending horse fairs to seek them out. Later, they were charged with the actual buying of mounts. The horse-dealers put clever tricks upon them—with Seamus's blessing—pulling a colt's teeth to make it appear older, making a dull jade kick and curvet as if he had spirit by placing a burr under the saddle, attempting to foist off a dumb horse, or a deaf one, or a night-blind one as perfect specimens. The boys learned by these tricks, and then were set to selling back their bad purchases at other fairs. Menzies, with frank and honest air and boyish innocent looks, was best at such chicanery.
A knowledge of all weapons must be acquired, including those used in the tourney, both traditional and modern ones: to run fair at the tilt or to skewer the ring; to draw the bow—sighting below the target for distances up to sixty yards, and above it for longer shots. Angus was the best longbow man, loosing a dozen arrows in a minute at a man-sized target 240 yards away and hitting the mark with all twelve. Ogilvy was easily his match with crossbow, especially the prodd bow, which was light enough to set by hand and fired clay pellets. No moving target, not even the smallest bird that came within 120 yards, was safe from him.
Purely physical pursuits were encouraged, too: vaulting, running, leaping, wrestling, and swimming. Here, Cameron with his extremely long legs had the definite edge. Surprisingly enough, when it came to dancing—which every courtier must learn from almost the time he can walk—Cameron was the least adept and not at all graceful. Whether he was called upon to dance the allemande, the quick courante, the slow sarabande or the lively gigue, he simply had no music sense.
The making of music took up much of their time, all having to learn to sing—a delight before and after their voices changed, a mockery while puberty intervened. Yet the Lady Islean insisted her all-male chorus continue. And soon, she demanded that they learn to accompany themselves as well—on lyre and lute and cittern, a similar instrument but wire-strung and higher pitched.. .the harpsichord family including virginals and clavichord... the sackbut and trumpet and bombard. And each had his own flute, choosing either bass treble descant or soprano. Gilliver seemed to have the most musical bent except in one area: Cameron found his only kindred musical spirit when first he attacked the Scottish bagpipe.
Not just of wars and music did they learn, but sport as well. At hawking, Drummond, with his quiet, reasoned nature, struck a response in the fierce-tempered imperious birds of prey. Let him and any other cast the lure, and the bird—whether gerfalcon, merlin or kestrel—was sure to choose Drummond's. Tricking the birds by having Drummond scent another's lure never fooled the long wings. And the shortwings—eagles, sparrowhawks or buzzards—always returned to his outstretched fist, sometimes even screaming and refusing to land until he proffered his gloved wrists. Even Jamie's peregrine, a slate gray and white beauty raised from a fledgling, went as willingly to Drummond as to her master.
To play at tennis and to bowl on the lawn was demanded of them and to hunt not just for sport but for food on the table, using one day spear, another lance, a third bow or arquebus. And when the weather was inclement, they amused themselves learning all manner of cards and dice—from Trump and Primero to Hazard and Treygobet.
They learned to play clean, and to figure the odds. And one day, they were introduced to the scurriest rascal Seaforth could find, who taught them how to shave the six the so as to bar treys or cinques and to load the to make a high fullam so as to cast cinques or sixes.
At cards, they were taught how to cut, misshuffle, mark, or misdeal—to cheat as thoroughly as they had been taught how to play by the rules. Gambling, the Lady Islean gave them to know, was foolhardy unless one knew all the odds, including the black ones.
Beyond all this, the boys learned table manners, including the serving of their elders at table as pages do in a royal household. The art of conversation—both empty and enlightened—was not neglected. And although Seaforth Castle lacked for young maidens of the same breeding and age as the boys, Lady Islean's ladies-in-waiting were not at all loath to polish the charms of these young men. Older women can teach young males much, and at Seaforth they did. Between these ladies and the serving women, all of the boys were properly bedded early in their young lives and quite frequently after that.
But not Seamus. His Nelly saw to that. His was the task of fending off females. For all the freedom Nelly allowed him, they might as well be married. Then, within the year after Fionn was born, Nelly gave birth to another child, a girl whom the Lady Islean named Devorguilla after the patroness of scholars who founded the Scots college at Oxford in the thirteenth century and whose beauty was such that 250 years later, girls were still being compared to her.
Devorguilla lived up to her famous name. A fair-haired, green-eyed, oval-faced beauty, she won the hearts of the whole of Castle Seaforth, especially that of the Lady Islean, who found the little girl an antidote to the masculine features of the military camp that her husband was fashioning for his heir. When the boys sought out the countess, they were just as apt to find a young blond-haired head bent over the embroidery frame as an older dark-haired one. The boys, fierce warriors that they were becoming, made much of this winsome lass, and she became their mascot. She cheerily ran errands for them, interceded, in their behalf when they'd offended the Lady Islean, acted as foil for their pranks and jokes.
Because she showed no favorites, loving them all equally, they made her one of them, accepting her presence wherever they were and including her in their games, explaining to her their jokes, and even confiding in her their dreams.
When she was tall enough to learn to ride, they combed the horse fairs for the perfect pony for her, gentled and schooled it just so, made its tack themselves, including a smaller version of their own workmanlike saddles, and men fought with one another for the dubious privilege of holding its bridle and leading the pony round and round the dusty tiltyard.
Once she had mastered the basics of riding, however, they made no excuses for her being a girl a
nd insisted if she wished to ride with them, she must ride like a man and keep up with them. She did, and mastered the bow too, learning to falcon with the best of them. No delicate little thing, Devorguilla was growing up to be a long-limbed, statuesque beauty equally at home with the pursuits of the out-of-doors and with women's tasks indoors.
It was only natural that when the Lady Islean undertook to teach her seven male charges the art of writing love letters, all seven of their efforts were addressed to the beautiful Devorguilla. Only in the classroom was she left behind, and that because of the age difference. However, the Lady Islean undertook to teach the child herself. Her only rule: she must not let the boys do the lessons for her.
Although much of the emphasis at Castle Seaforth was on warfare and weaponry, the countess was adamant that the boys' minds not be neglected, and the earl seconded this. Everyone, including Seamus, learned that turning a good rhyme was as much required of them as was reading and writing in at least three languages: Scots, French—the language of courtiers—and Latin, the language of the Church* and literature.
Those with any gift for foreign tongues were encouraged to master more: English, Italian, Spanish, even Greek. The courts of Europe being so inbred, a knowledge of languages was more than an asset, it was an absolute necessity for the up-and-coming young man. Seaforth and his lady never forgot that six of these young men had their fortunes to make.
As life would have it, the boy whose future was best assured, who needed to excel at this training the least, did the best. Perhaps because his parents expected no less of him. The others at first excused their own lack of success by claiming that the tutors gave more than a fair share of instruction to the son of the lord; eventually they had to admit that James Mackenzie succeeded because he willed himself to, working twice as hard as the rest. He was a natural athlete, one who never went through the gangly, awkward stage, having been born with the natural grace of a cat, and he was the masculine embodiment of his mother's dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty. Introspective, he had inherited a certain sternness and reticence from his father, which could dissolve readily enough, if the situation presented itself, into infectious merriment.
