The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

The first genuine smile yet transformed de Wynter's face. Islean caught her breath. He was almost too beautiful, this son of hers, but the slight crookedness of the smile saved him from that. At the pain in her chest she remembered to take another breath. Even as she did, she made note that the child was the father's weak spot.

  "You have spied out my other present." He left her with unhurried steps that seemed to eat up the ground, and reaching up, lifted the child down from the horse. Hand in hand, the one so tall, the other so small, they adjusted their gaits automatically to each other and returned to where she stood.

  "Madame, may I present your grandson. Jamie, votre grand-mere. He speaks only French. You'll have to teach him Scots."

  She wasn't listening. Eight years of frustrated motherhood surged to the fore, she dropped to her knees. "Poor child. He's exhausted. You've dragged him across this countryside without adequate rest No, don't contradict. Allons, Jamie." she reached for his hand.

  Although the child couldn't understand one word in ten that she said, trustingly he loosed his father's hand and took hers. "You and I will go inside and find us some milk and pottage—or maybe you've been brought up the French way to prefer watered wine. Well, no matter. I'm sure we'll find something. Perhaps a marchpane rabbit being made for James V that the king will never miss. And I think I know where there might be a toy or two that would interest you: a knight on his charger and two of his men.

  "Now, don't worry about your father. He'll have his hands full figuring out how to undo the mischief he's made." With her free hand, she gestured back at the baggage train, but looked nowhere except at the child staring fascinated back at her. "Although if he wounded any of those Campbells, I'm not sure just what we'll do. But that's a problem for men—right, Jamie?—not grandmothers and grandsons." With that, she and the child disappeared within the door of the manor, leaving the group of men to stare at one another. ,

  Having let his guard down a bit, de Wynter let it down further. Shaking his head in disbelief, he asked Seamus, "She hasn't changed, has she?"

  "Not so you can tell, but she's a brave one. Not quick to show how she really feels. Take the death of your father—"

  At the sudden change in de Wynter, Seamus broke off.

  "Now, then good Seamus," de Wynter began, changing the subject handily, "can we allow our lady to be more gallant than we? If she has decided to strip our manor bare for the sake of the Campbells, can we do less than rescue the baggage train from the rascals who took it from them.. .and deliver the train to Castle Dolour's door. Besides, I should like to ask the lovely, young child-bride if I might be of assistance."

  Though Simon might be lazy, there was nothing wrong with his hearing. Standing up, he yelled back up the line, "Turn 'em around, we're going back again."

  With the cracking of whips and the protesting of brakes, the train began to reverse itself with much cursing and yelling as the teams and wagons turned in the narrow lane. At the last minute, de Wynter rode back up to the manor steps where a footman stood with others of the household staff, watching in merriment. A word, and the man disappeared to return immediately, a cloth-wrapped staff in his hands.

  "Seamus, this time we go announced. Here." A snap of his wrist shook the banner out. "Delegate one of those three miniature imitations of yourself to carry this thing."

  Gruffly, to hide his pride, Seamus ordered Fionn to go forward and take the banner. "But mind you," he whispered in a voice that could be heard in the next county, "don't drop it or I'll blister your backside so bad you'll sleep standing up."

  De Wynter gravely handed the six-foot-long banner with its snarling Mer-Lion to the eager young man who rested it on the toe of his boot, wheeled his horse smartly, and started off to the front of the train. Falling in behind the young man, who was easily his father's equal in height, if not in weight, de Wynter's shoulders shook with silent merriment at the thought of this man slung over his father's knee.

  It was almost daybreak when they finally rode back into the manor's courtyard with its cold and sputtering torches. The lovely child bride at Castle Dolour had been so thankful, so appreciative of the kindnesses of both the Lady Seaforth and her very gallant son, so insistent that the troop rest after its long ride. "You fought all those bandits off all by yourselves—just the few of you? Why, my captain told me there were an army of them. Borderers, he thought. Desperate men, absolutely bloodthirsty. Would have cut their throats as soon as look at them."

  "Under the circumstances," Seamus tried to explain to the Lady Islean later that day, "it would have been bad manners to refuse."

  lb which, the lady's first reply was a snort. "One drink or two doesn't take a whole day."

  "Nay, lady, it doesn't," he was forced to agree.

  "Nor does it get your jacket ripped!"

  Seeing how the wind was blowing, Seamus didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he held his tongue.

  Seeing that she would get no more of him, she dismissed him after giving instructions that he hand over the jacket to one of her ladies-in-waiting. "That is, if the girl you are currently bedding isn't handy with a needle."

  Mary Nairn, one of her ladies-in-waiting, a child of fourteen, teamed more by questioning Florin, however. "Of course, he isn't privy to what went on in the hall, having been sent to the guardroom to keep company with the Campbell men-at-arms. But, according to the butler, Lady Ann had a bottle of her husband's best Madeira broached for the two of them. And later sent for another. One of the servers who brought the men ale claimed a lute was sent for, too. And the devil of a time they had finding one because nobody plays at the castle except the harper, and he's away with Campbell.

  "Fionn also said that two times his father sent a message to the Great Hall asking word with his young master, and neither time did he get a reply. Finally, he took matters into his own hands."

  The Lady Islean had visions of Seamus striding into the Great Hall, grabbing her son by the nape of his neck and hauling him out of the keep. Delicious. Served the whelp right. She hung on every word the girl said. "Go, tell me, what did Seamus do?"

  Very seriously, Mary Nairn confided, "He started a fight."

  Taken aback, the Lady Islean said, "With Jamie?"

  "Oh, no, not with the young lord."

  "Who then? Oh, my God, not with a Campbell. That would ruin everything."

  "Not with a Campbell either. With Fionn! It was all pretend, but they rolled and struggled all over the floor, upset the furniture, broke benches. Made a terrible mess of the place according to Fionn. And so big is he and his father that the Campbell captain was afraid to try to separate them. One of his men tried. Got a fist in the eye for his trouble. Finally, the captain sent for the master, who came running. Once he had separated them, he had no choice but to take his two fighters home. And what a tongue-lashing he gave them. Fionn said he always thought mat his father could curse with the best, but the young master did even better. Fionn tells me he learned all sorts of new words"—she dimpled--''but wouldn't tell me what they were."

  Armed with these tidbits of information, the Lady Islean decided to heard her son in his bed; She had a breakfast tray made up and as insurance brought her grandson with her. He wouldn't, she was sure, understand what was said. - First she knocked... then Jamie called... then the lackey pounded. But no answer. Indignation gave way to anger and then concern. While she and her grandson kept vigil in the hall, the lackey went for Seamus. "Break the door down," she ordered.

  Seamus had been in the family long enough to occasionally question an order. "Why?"

  "He must have been hurt in your brawl yesterday, he doesn't answer the door."

  "But he's not here." Seamus calmly pulled the latch string, opening the door to reveal the bed hangings spread wide, the bedclothes roughly pushed aside.

  Never one to be discomfited by anything she herself had done, the Lady Islean ignored her part in the whole embarrassing scene. "Where did he go? Not back to Castle Dolour?"

  "After last nigh
t, he doesn't particularly care to confide in me." He hesitated a moment, then out of love for his lady added with pride in his voice, "The grooms tell me he insisted on selecting his own mount: a short-necked, deep-chested, short-coupled mare with little hooves, light bone, and a roman nose."

  "He could have selected Dunstan, for all I care."

  "Oh, well, I thought you wanted to know where he was going."

  "Seamus, if you know and haven't told me!" Islean was losing her temper, he was happy to see. It was his way of getting revenge for her comment about his bed partner. He knew she knew that at Alva it was always Dugan's mother.

  "Well, I don't know for sure, except—"

  "Except what?" She stomped her foot. "You big oaf, don't you Cease me. Speak up."

  At the look on her face, he repented. "Except that only a horseman would have chosen her. And he for only one thing and not

  her looks: she's the ugliest dun you ever saw and the best cross-countrier. And they tell me he was wearing hunting leathers, not courting clothes."

  She was too proud to show her relief. "How do you know? Maybe it's all the fashion in France to ride ugly mares and wear hunting clothes when courting?" Taking her grandson by the hand, she swept down the stairs, her head high, the subject closed.

  Again de Wynter rode in late after the household was abed.

  This time, the lady had a page waiting for him with word to awaken her when he returned. However, by the time the page had wakened one of her ladies, the lady-in-waiting had awakened her, and she'd put on a robe de chambre and lit a candle to make her way down the hall of the transept, the door to his chamber was closed. Although she whispered his name in a voice loud enough to wake the household, and worked the latch string; she received no response. Nor did the door budge an inch when she tried it.

  However, when he came downstairs at the crack of dawn, again dressed in riding clothes, she was in the Great Hall waiting for him.

  "Good morning," she called, crossing the hall to the sideboard. "Come breakfast with me."

  She lifted a lid on a pot, and the most delectable aroma escaped. His stomach reminded him that since his return to Scotland Wednesday night last, he'd eaten nothing but cold meats and stale ale. "I can offer you a pottage of eggs and fried onions." She replaced that lid and raised another, "Or pumpes." His mouth watered. He hadn't had pumpes since he'd left Scotland eight years before. At that moment a serving woman entered bearing a load of fresh-baked bread.

  He knew he should be on his way, but a warm breakfast would not take long. Hooking a stool with his toe, he drew it up to the table. His mother, satisfied she'd have her long talk at last, was willing to bide her time. She ladled a large dipperful of pumpes into a bowl and handed it to him. "I think you'll like these. I made them myself, just the way you like them. With cloves and raisins—no mace, I remembered, and smoked pork."

  She drew up her chair to the table across from him. "There's almond milk and rice sauce in the pitcher by your elbow." She watched him pour the thick sauce over the meat balls. "The sauce is already sweetened, but you, if I remember right," she said, passing him another bowl, "like your pumpes really sweet."

  Not until he'd spooned more of the dark brown sugar all over the dish and taken his first bite, did she speak. "The king arrived yesterday." His mouth was so full he couldn't answer, but he thought, she's gone mad. These things were so tough he could barely chew them. She must have used only gristle and tough old smoked meat. His teeth were stuck shut. "Tonight is the banquet. I worked too hard to get us invited to not attend. You do intend to go, don't you?"

  He could only nod. There was method to her madness. The pumpes were the best homemade gag he'd ever encountered. The most flavorsome, too, he had to admit.

  "It is time that we talk, you and I, about several things. Your son, for example." Unable to speak, he glowered in reply, and Islean retreated. "Your father's death for another." Her voice grew gentle, her manner introspective. "The attack wasn't unexpected, you know. There had been at least three attempts before that I know of. I keep reminding myself that he was not a young man, but it's hard. He didn't act like a man turned sixty. But he'd had a good life, one arm and all. He did what he thought was best for you and me, though I didn't always agree. Not then, not now. But I have to know. Jamie, do you want to be king?"

  De Wynter choked, whereupon she rose and slammed him in the center of his back with the flat of her hand until he held up a hand for mercy. Swallowing finally, he managed to gasp out, "Desist, desist, I beg you. I'll be black and blue and afraid to show my naked back to a soul."

  "Good." Resuming her place, she returned to the subject "You didn't answer my question."

  He played with his horn spoon, turning it over and over between his long agile fingers. "Doesn't everyone want to be king?" he began sardonically, then thought better of that. For a moment she thought he was about to open up and confide in her. Then, he arose.

  "Madame, you were right. The pumpes were excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

  "Answer my question!" she ordered.

  There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "Does what I want make any difference? Did it eight years ago?" He turned to go. "I have to know. I don't want to kill the king in vain." "My God, you can't be serious."

  She drew herself up to her full height and stared him in the eye. "I am. I have planned it well. Tonight my men will serve my food, on my dishes. It will not be easy, but it can be done. I am determined to resolve this matter that took my son from me eight years ago and that cost me my beloved husband. If this is the only way, then let it be so. And if the food fails, there's always my poniard." This was no weepy, hysterical woman, but a fully determined, vindictive mother fighting like a she-wolf to protect her own. Long minutes passed while the two took mental measure of each other.

  Satisfied her words were not an idle threat, he finally spoke, choosing his words carefully. "No, I don't want to be king. Albany schooled me too well." He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting. "Do not mistake me. He upheld his part of the bargain." Again that note of bitterness crept into his voice. "He taught me how to rule, or, better yet, how not to rule. But there is in me one thing no good king can have—"

  "Go on."

  "A sense of humor." "You're mad."

  "Not at all. I can laugh at myself, and no king can do that without questioning his supposed God-given right to rule. So I beg you, spare your king. Good or bad, he is the only one Scotland will have if I have my choice."

  "But what of your son?"

  "Ah, yes, we mustn't forget Jamie, the latest in the line of illegitimate heirs. Albany tried to make me a Frenchman, and in many ways he succeeded; but I am still a good enough Scot to know the last thing this country needs is another child king. Look at our history. What good a king accomplishes he undoes by leaving as his heir an infant. It would seem to be Scotland's curse—to be ruled by regents. And I prefer my child to grow up, God and you willing, at Seaforth, not as a prisoner at Edinburgh or another of the royal castles. No, madame, solve your problem another way, but spare James."

  "Then"—she took a deep breath, for. what she asked of him was to deny his birthright—"renounce your claim. Tonight. Before the king and the court."

  "Is that all it takes to save a king's life? Then, I do it gladly." He pulled on his gloves. "Now, if you'll excuse me, madame, I still have a great deal more work to do if the copse around Castle Dolour is going to yield up the magnificent hunting claimed for it by some gossip-monger."

  He bowed and left, and she sat back in her chair. It had been almost too easy. Now all she had to do was get through this evening. Idly, she wondered if she could, indeed, have killed the king. She didn't know why not. She always contended a fast-acting poison not only didn't taste good but also wasn't in good taste. Besides being easily detected by the deaths of the royal tasters, it ruined a perfectly good banquet into which a lot of time and effort had gone. No, the poison she'd had in mind took its time about wo
rking. She'd just save the recipe for when Seaforth's murderers were found out. But enough of that.

  Today, instead of concocting Nanny Goodall's never-fail recipe for sick dogs and cats—they ran away and died in the bushes—she could make sure her gown was ready for tonight. The pattern had come from Spain, the fabric from Byzantium via Venice, the silver thread spun from the ore of her very own mines here at Alva. The dress had been made at Seaforth; the embroidery done by Dugan's mother, a fine, robust woman who may well indeed have been the finest needle-woman in Scotland. What a shame to keep her at Alva. But now her work would be seen, for the court of King James had come to Alva. Here was Lady Campbell dying a thousand deaths over her state banquet and royal guests; Jamie spending his days out herding game toward a notoriously bad section for hunting; a whole court packing up and traveling miles upon miles; a lord known for his stinginess being forced to support for at least two weeks a most profligate court. Everyone was being discommoded so that the Lady Islean could have her dress stitched by the woman of her choice. It struck her funny bone! Would that a dress had been the only reason she had connived and engineered the banquet and that a hunted beast's life were the only life at stake.

  "Grand-mere grand-mere, c'est moi! It is me!" called a small voice in bad Scots. Leaning over the rail that lined the musician's gallery above the Great Hall was a dark-haired charmer. Looking up at him, she decided life had its compensations. Here in this child was her immortality. That tonight she would aid his father in renouncing his birthright bothered her not a bit... well, a little, but she vowed she'd make it up to him some other way.

  Already she was beginning to review what boys of good birth she could entice to Seaforth to be companions to her grandson. "Come down, my love, I have a treat for you—pumpes." She signaled for the butler to take away the bowl from which she'd served the lad's father. "But not these my sweet. They were perfect for your father. But for you, we'll get fresh. Fresh, tender, chewable ones. And then you must tell me again all you remember of your mother."