The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  "Where is everyone? Is this place under a spell?" shouted the irate king.

  The chamberlain had never seen an enraged king, and he feared for his life, especially as Campbell's face, too, was bright red.

  His eyes bulging, his heart pounding, his voice a mere squeak in his throat, the chamberlain stood there a moment trembling. Then he dropped his staff and ran for the shelter of the kitchen.

  The king, without thinking, urged his horse forward to follow. Down the stone stairs bolted the frightened servant; behind, half sliding on his haunches as if going down a riverbank, came the king's horse. Straight into the kitchen he rode, followed by a torrent of men—some mounted, some not—to find a flushed Lady Ann standing hand in hand with de Wynter. And to one side, the others who also had been so ill disposed a short while before.

  The Lady Margaret—just a wee bit tipsy—acted as if naught were amiss and came forward to grasp de Wynter's other hand. "James, get down from that horse and take you a partner. De Wynter is teaching us the steps to a new French dance, a pavane." Without waiting for a reply, she motioned to the bagpipers to resume their music.

  When she used that tone of voice, James reacted like a little boy instead of a king; he did what he was told. Dismounting he took the hand of Lady Ann, and followed his mother meekly into the center of the kitchen. There, to the woeful wail of three improvising pipers, the King of Scotland was introduced to the newest dance from the courts of Europe. His court, taking his lead and not to be outdone, quickly joined in. The meat the king had been so anxious to display was left lying helter-skelter about the Great Hall and entrance way above.

  That dance over, James would have withdrawn. But before he could do so, his mother brought him a tankard of potent usquebaugh. "Drink, my dear. Hunting and dancing are thirsty work." She was right, James decided, gulping the fiery liquor. The chamberlain, still most fearful and dubious of the king's actions, refilled the tankard with trembling hand. Part of that had gone the way of the first, when the Lady Islean claimed her half brother for the next dance.

  Seeing the cold meats, the leftover pastries, the fresh-baked breads for the morrow's breakfast, more than one hunter chose to make himself a meal. The servants, although fully aware that tonight's depredations on their prepared food meant they must arise early on the morrow to replace the damage, did not dare protest. Instead, they drifted away to make themselves an early bedding.

  Left to themselves, the courtiers explored the cellars, led by Campbell, who was well into his cups or otherwise would have objected. They found casks and tumbrels, beer and wine and ale and Scotch whiskey. These were trundled up from the cellar and casually broached, in many cases so awkwardly that half the contents drained out onto the floor.

  James of Scotland's court was partying. When they did, they had no rivals in all the world, except maybe the wild Irish. They drank deeply, ate heartily, kissed frequently. As the king was trying to decide which female to bed that night—he had the Lady Ann on one arm, the Countess of Mar on the other, and neither was a truly smart choice tactically, considering one's husband was his host, the other's his chancellor—he suddenly remembered his challenge to de Wynter. Dragging the two equally tipsy women along with him, he staggered over to where the young man stood.

  "Two stags I struck and a fallow deer, de Wynter. What do I win in return?" James leered. He knew what he would have done with the castle to himself and five women available—no, make that four, one was his mother. Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he swayed a bit from side to side. De Wynter had been drinking for far longer mas the king, but appeared none the worse. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the youthful monarch before him. Today was the first time he'd met his cousin. The stories bruited about Europe made him out to be uncouth, rough, and impetuous, but saved by a sense of humor. Tonight, de Wynter decided, was not the time to provoke him. Instead, he must appeal to that sense of humor.

  "Do you like riddles, sire? Good. Then, I shall answer you one, but first answer me two:

  A vessel I have

  That is round like a pear,

  Moist in the middle

  Surrounded with hair,

  And often it happens,

  That water flows there.

  James's mind was befuddled. What had this to do with his challenge? Before he could answer, de Wynter came back with another "And the second: 'Qu'est-ce que plus on quiert et moins on le troube?' Now for the third: 'What was given me I gave to another, the first I shan't name, the second my mother!' Answer me the first two, I'll answer the third.''

  James could not think clearly. "I'll have to study on that," he finally managed to mutter. Then giving himself willingly into the hands of his two fair but equally drunken keepers, he staggered off toward the cask of Madeira.

  Lady Margaret, in that brief span of lucidity some alcoholics experience before they black out, watched her son go. "Essentially good, but not tough enough to rule." De Wynter, at her side, said nothing. Then, the drunken haze descended upon her again.

  "And what of you, James Mackenzie? Call yourself Seaforth or de Wynter, what of you? Are you a tough man?"

  "I, madam? Nay, I am a Frenchman returned for a brief visit to his Scottish homeland. That is all."

  Lady Islean, who had deliberately stayed close to her son all evening, overheard and her viscera quivered at his words. The Queen Mother was too drunk to be subtle. "How brief? Do you leave tonight or sleep here?"

  "I sleep here. Unfortunately, lady, I know not where."

  "That's no problem. I know where mere's a bed big enough for two. Follow me." And the Lady Margaret, misstepping just a bit, set off for the upper chambers. De Wynter hesitated only a moment, then followed after.

  CHAPTER 8

  It was more whistle than snore: high-pitched, thin, unexpectedly reedy coming from such a robust frame. The many-layered bedclothes heaved with each long-drawn breath. Such was the noise the sleeper made that it drowned out the call of the watcher on the turret who sounded the first cockcrow at sunrise.

  A strange scraping sound, ending in a hollow snap, finally awakened her. Not coming fully awake at once, Margaret reached out to confirm the presence of her bed partner. But though the sheets were warm to her touch, the other half of the bed was empty.

  Now, fully awake, she sat upright and looked wildly about. The pillow was indented, the coverlets thrown back although the bed curtains remained closed. She had not imagined it. De Wynter, or someone—she wasn't sure who—had spent the night with her. Her abrupt actions started her head to throbbing, and with a gasp of relief she fell back against the pillows. Who was he? she wondered. And where was he? But what happened last night? That concerned her more. She reached down between her legs and felt for an unexplained moisture. Nothing. Bringing her finger to her nose, she sniffed. It smelled like herself. Then, she tasted it. Was it her imagination or was it more salty than usual?

  Desperately, she searched her memory. But everything was blank after they left the kitchen. The last thing she remembered was setting de Wynter to stand guard while she relieved herself in the jakes. Then, all was black.

  Again, that strange noise. Cautiously, she parted the heavy bed curtains and peeked out. There, not fifteen feet from her, with his back to her, stood a naked man busily shaving himself as his manservant held the glass. It must have been the stropping of the razor that she'd heard. Once she identified him by the hoar-frosted hair of his head, she made no move to shrink back behind her curtains. Instead, she boldly took inventory of the man before her. As he scraped his cheeks, the movement made the muscles in his back ripple. They were smooth and sleek, like those of a swimmer or fencer, not all knotty bunches like so many jousters'. His shoulders were wider than she remembered, or perhaps it was that his waist was more narrow. His buttocks were compact, his legs long and better-looking in the flesh than in his knitted hose. She wished he'd turn around. Could a man that good-looking behind, be less so from the front? From where she lay, she could see hi
s partial image in the glass. At first she thought he was making faces at her, then she realized he was simply contorting his face so as to reach every curve of it with the straight edge of his shaver. Suddenly, he smiled and looked at her out of the glass. "Good morning, did you sleep well?"

  Instinctively, like a little girl caught spying, she ducked back behind the protection of the bed hangings. She was lying there, trying to decide whether to get up, when the curtains parted and de Wynter sat down on the side of the bed. He hadn't bothered to dress. And there, not a foot from her hand, was the object of her imaginings of just a few minutes ago. Of course, in its relaxed state, it was hard to judge its full potential. But Margaret had seen many a man's staff in her time, and if she were any judge, this one would please her well and fit her nicely.

  As if he could read her mind, he laughed. "Wait until tonight. In the meantime, I have sent for some ale and a crust of bread. You'll probably want to break your fast before we ride out."

  "Ride out?" She couldn't think, not with him so close to her. "Ride out?"

  "The hunt, madam, did you forget? The king, your son, hunts Reynard today." Taking her hand in his, he raised it to his lips. She could feel the warm breath on the back of her hand. As he murmured, "Come, let us mount," he kissed her fingers one by

  one, then turned her hand over and kissed its palm, "our horses and ride awhile in that fashion."

  Then he was gone. Damn him, why didn't he come right out and say whether he'd had her or not? It made all the difference in how she'd act this day. If he hadn't she'd be coquettish, teasing him with the delight to come. If he had, she'd be possessive, promising him even greater excitement. What to do? Which to be? She bit her lip with peevishness.

  She lay there for long minutes, listening to the rich, low murmur of masculine voices. Then the bed curtains parted again, and de Wynter poked in his bonneted head. "Madame, your breakfast has arrived, and your chaplain to bless you so you need not hear Mass; and your ladies await with a choice of three riding costumes. I mink I've thought of everything. And I do think the green would do the most for your glorious coloring." He tipped his bonnet and withdrew. As soon as she was sure he'd left the room, she threw back the curtains to find all as he'd said.

  Thanks to his planning, the Queen Dowager was just the slightest bit late arriving in the courtyard. When she did, de Wynter came forward with her horse as if he'd done this all his life. "I was right. Green is your color," he said.

  Effortlessly he gave her a hand up into the saddle, gathered the reins, and placed them in her gloved hands. When her son rode up to her side, he looked terrible.

  "Well, madam, if you're ready," he said in a voice heavy with sarcasm. Without waiting for her reply, he gave the signal to ride out. Amid the clatter of hooves on cobblestone and full forty hounds baying and straining at their couplings, the hunters gave rein to their mounts and headed out over the moat and down toward the river's edge. Fording at the shallowest spot, they set their horses at full gallop to the forest edge.

  Within the trees, the hounds were loosed, scattering in all directions with their noses to the ground. The riders tried to stay close, waiting for the hounds to pick up the scent. Now a smallish hound cried the scent, and the senior huntsman bugled the rest of the hounds to the spot, giving them the correct track and signaling them to be off.

  De Wynter stayed near the front of the riders, but not at the very

  fore. He had long ago learned that the first few horsemen tend to override the track when the sly fox doubles back. He picked out one or two of what he believed were the more reliable hounds and closely watched their every move, letting his horse pick its footing and direction.

  Soon the fox was in full sight, the hounds going wild and switching instinctively from scent to sight. When Reynard broke at right angles, the baying horde would cut across and take the shorter distance, gaining rapidly on their prey with every stride. The fox headed straight for more difficult terrain, knowing he could slow both dogs and riders in rocky footing and heavy bush. First within sight and then out of it, he drove the hounds crazy while, horses and riders straggled.

  The chase was well into an hour long when de Wynter sensed that the dogs were confused and had even possibly lost the quarry. For the past week, he had made close acquaintance with this terrain. Surveying the landscape around him, he reined sharply right along a hedgerow and kicked his mount into full gallop. But quick as he had been, Reynard was quicker. A full ten leaps in front of de Wynter he emerged from the hedge going cross-country away from the hounds as fast as his short legs would take him.

  De Wynter gave out the yell: "There he runs, ahoooooo!" An alert bugler picked up the cry and signaled the rallying call in the new direction. Dogs soon were driving past de Wynter's mount, albeit in full gallop, and the hunt slowly organized anew. Again de Wynter dropped back and let others, including the king and his mother and their flank of crack huntsmen, lead the way. They seemed not as sure as de Wynter that the hunt would settle down to a long chase, with the sly red prey wheeling and dancing and doubling back.

  Well after midday de Wynter thought he saw what he had patiently awaited all morning. The riders were now closely bunched on the -heels of the baying hounds, still on the scent and an occasional sighting. He wheeled his mount sharply left around a small hillock, drove hard down a natural draw, and made his stand directly in the face of the oncoming horde. He had only to guess correctly at what point the fox would break from the thicket and thrust his sword point

  into his chest before the surprised animal could wheel and be off in another direction.

  ' In an instant his eyes picked out a hole in the thicket rounded by the regular passage of fox or rabbit. And in another instant he was dismounted, his feet planted firmly, with sword in hand. Reynard never knew, how his strategy failed him. He knew only sudden fear as he leaped from the thicket and directly onto de Wynter's sword. . Quickly he snatched the red beast by the tail and held it aloft just as the first of the hounds came bounding up. With one foot he fended off those who jumped the highest, all the while swinging the carcass to keep it just out of reach.

  The king and a handful of other horsemen burst through the thicket and reined their mounts into a circle around the melee. Those who had horns blew them insistently, those who didn't added to the din with lusty "halloooooos." When all were gathered, they dismounted, patted each dog on the head as they could get near them, and generally kept up the cacophony to make the thrill of the catch last as long as possible.

  To the victor went the honor of skinning the prey. While two eager hunters spread-eagled the red beast by grasping all four legs, de Wynter took his "mercy" from his belt and slit him stem to stem. The hounds were now in a frenzy, knowing that the reward for their hard work was at hand. De Wynter quickly and neatly, despite the best efforts of the dogs, made incisions down the hind quarters and the forelegs, connecting these with the slit down the belly. Then, breaking the tailbone and adding a few deft slices around the base of the long, red tail, he sheathed his knife and grasped the tail. While the hunters holding the hind legs braced themselves, and were held around their waists for extra support, de Wynter gave a tremendous tug, skinning the carcass from tail to nose. As he held the pelt aloft amid wild cheering and horn blowing, the holders heaved the carcass to one side, where the hounds fell on it, fighting for pieces until the last bit of meat was consumed, the last bone carried off, and the last drop of blood licked from the well-trampled ground.

  The congratulations extended to de Wynter were many and sincere. He wondered, as he had in the past, whether or not the back thumpings and rib pokings were worth it. Almost, he'd rather let the

  fox go to hunt it again another day. James was not among the well-wishers, he having stayed mounted through the entire melee.

  Mentally, de Wynter shrugged the whole thing off as the king's prerogative. He had no time to think of the male member of the royal family. The distaff red-haired version had arrived, taken i
n the situation at one glance, and staked her claim. De Wynter's mount in tow, she urged her horse forward into the midst of the throng. He looked up at her, the pelt in his bloody hands, and smiled that smile that sent shivers of excitement down her back.

  "The lady in green needs a touch of red on her costume," de Wynter said. Holding the pelt up, he added, "Perhaps a muff of _ fox?"

  She pretended female dislike of the bloody pelt, but leaned over and whispered. "I already have a muff of red hair."

  "I know," he said and winked. Then, slinging the red pelt over his pommel, he vaulted into the saddle. And with the Lady Margaret at his side, he led the hearty band back to Castle Dolour, alternating between a slow trot and walking, the horses being well lathered from the chase. But whenever the horses moved slowly, the Lady Margaret took the opportunity to brush her leg against his, or to lean over and allow her hand to rest possessively on gloved hand or broad shoulder or muscular thigh. No one could fail to notice. Not king, nor court, nor the Lady Islean. What de Wynter's mother thought of his so disporting himself with a woman her own age, no one could tell. However, if Seamus had been there, he would have taken one look at her eyes and warned his fellow servants to stay clear of the Lady Islean. Evidently de Wynter got the message on his own, for he made no effort to approach her now or later that day. Quite the contrary. He seemed to avoid her.

  The hunt the day before, followed by the carousing in the kitchen and then today's lengthy exercise, left the court somewhat subdued. Most were happy to eat a light supper of venison, and, with a cup at hand, sit and talk about hunts of the past. De Wynter, lounging in the chair at Margaret's side, played with his glass and wondered if the evening would ever come to an end. Margaret thought much the same thing but for a different reason. The Lady Islean wondered if she'd ever get her private talk with James. Lord Campbell, off to one side, was making a hearty meal. The cold meats his wife had packed for him on the hunt were not enough for a man of his huge appetite. The Lady Ann, seated at the king's left, was too young to recognize honest fatigue as contentment. Instead, she thought her guests bored and racked her brain for some amusement. The pipers had left this morning, so there could be no dancing: Gaming was out if she had her way; Campbell was a bad loser, but a large wagerer. She'd go without new clothes next season if he lost heavily. Then she remembered the one lute the castle possessed and had the instrument delivered to de Wynter.