From the day he walked up to Castle Rossie frightened at the sight of that great stone edifice, so imposing compared to a timber fortress like Dunkelden, and secretly frightened, too, at what would happen once those inside saw the bedraggled family of the traitor Ewane Robertson standing at the gates. Rossie was intimidating in its size and strength, even its position, sproutingup like a stone giant, defensive and guarding a massive gorge with a long river cutting through it.
Castle Rossie was a good five times larger than Dunkelden; it assured all who looked at it of the wealth and strength and power of the man who had built it. Ramsey land ran for leagues around it, for all of Rossie, almost to the sea, for surely for as far as the eye could see one man’s lands filled the horizon.
With his poor burned mother at his side and his little sister’s hand in his own, Lyall hid his fear behind a façade of bravery far beyond his ten years and walked evenly and straight up to the gates. He had one goal.
Baron Montrose, Donnald Ramsey, was a long time friend of Sir Ewane Robertson, who had been cousin to Ramsey’s dead wife. To Lyall’s relief and surprise, there had been no question from the moment he rang the gate bell. Donnald Ramsey immediately took them in, gave his mother Beitris and sister Mairi chambers and told them with sincerity they were to think of Rossie as home.
The Lord Ramsey was to have fostered Malcolm, so within moments Lyall faced him and insisted the baron take him in Malcolm’s place. But Ramsey refused, the look in his eyes kinder and more pitying than Lyall with all his wounded pride wanted to see at the time. He wanted to see belief in Montrose’s eyes, belief their father was innocent and belief his only living son could be worth training.
“You are too young lad, too small yet.” Ramsey said. “Perhaps in time, after you’ve grown some, we can find a place for you with the squires, for now, you can take your place with the castle pages.” And he was dismissed.
A place for him… not the fostering Lyall wanted. He had heard his father’s words often enough to understand there was honor among men, and Lyall knew because he was the son of the traitor Sir Ewane Robertson, few would agree to foster him. Most believed strongly in the tenet that bad blood begat bad blood. Ramsey was his only chance to learn the skills he would need to earn respect beyond the name he carried.
Every morn he was up with the sun and the crow of the cocks, seeking out Ramsey first thing, waiting outside his chamber door dressed in his azure page’s tunic and with gold piping. He hounded the baron, asking him repeatedly to grant him the right to train despite his age, and every morn the baron said he was too small, or too young. Every negotiation Lyall tried failed. But he was unrelenting.
Almost as if he willed the very hand of God, Lyall grew taller and longer of leg over the next months, until he was nearly as tall as Malcolm had been. Still, he pleaded with the baron but the answer was always the same.
His mother had begged him to cease, lest Ramsey send them away because of all his pestering, and though many throughout the castle began to jest and laugh at him. “Lyall does not know his place,” some said with malice, and Ramsey’s knights and squires made him the brunt of their jests and tricks, teasing him incessantly. Sending him on fool’s tasks and poking fun at him for doing what he was told, even taunting him into walking the wall when one of them found out he was not comfortable high above the ground. He did not let them know how frightened he had been, and once he was away from them raced away before they saw his fear revealed in the damp spot he felt shamefully spreading in his hose. Lyall did not care what jests they played on him. He cared only that he succeeded in getting what he wanted.
And while all at Rossie thought him foolish, rash, and harebrained, his sister Mairi did not.
‘Twas the Easter season,Maundy Thursday to be exact, and dusk had fallen at the Castle Rossie, where the servants had earlier hurried to light the torches in the great hall and replacethe dark evergreenery, the purple foxglove, fragrant rosemary, and colorful primroses left from the celebration of the sennight before. Most inside the hall were in a gay mood with that night’s coming feast and celebration and anticipation of the addition of Morris dancers and an egg pacing. The past week had been all rain and mud and gloom, so the whole of the castle sorely needed some entertainment.
In the center of the longest trestle table set with bread trenchers and silver spoons stood a huge bowl filled to the brim with pace eggs--made by the women of the castle--each one different and decorated with flower and vegetable paints, with bits of cloth and ribbon fixed upon them and rows of small, sparkling disks of metal to match those in the hall. Hanging from an iron post high on the tallest wall was the Easter tradition: a huge golden disk to symbolize the sun, and on the opposite wall, near the stairs leading to the solar above, hung an equally bright silver moon. Plenty of wine and ale and cider made the rounds of the tables, along with large platters of roast lamb, tansy cake and honeyed fruits, and sugary dates from the east. As the meal wound down and all the pages came into the hall armed with lavers of warm, scented water and towels for washing, a musician strolled into the hall, trumpet to his lips, and he blew a long, heralding set of notes.
To the sudden sound stamping steps and jingling bells came twelve dancers in wooden clogs, dancing in a line into the hall, holly wreaths on their heads and ankle bands laden with tiny bells on their feet. They carried long straight canes hung with flowing scarves of every color. The room erupted with laughter and cheering, clapping and song.
Tabor drums, pipes, and cymbals followed the dancers with a raucous and lively tune. The dancers formed patterns to reflect the sun's path across the sky, their feet pounding out elaborate steps that, long ago, were said to awaken the slumbering gods of the field. As the music grew louder, some dancers jumped high inthe air so the grain would grow high and the flocks would multiply.
There was almost as much pounding at the trestle tables, fists on the table tops and feet on the floor in time to the drumbeats. Some knights broke into loud singing, songs of Noah’s flood. As the wine overflowed, bawdy and bawdier versions of maids and ploughs and eventually the love songs made known to all and sundry by traveling bards and minstrels.
Lyall stood before Ramsey, laver in his hands as the baron washed and then used the towel draped over Lyall’s arm. “Tomorrow I will be ten and one,” he told the baron before he was finished wiping his hands. “I want to train as one of your body squires.”
“What is this? You do not merely desire to be a squire any longer, lad? Now ‘tis to be an even higher position as my body squire?” Ramsey laughed and shook his head. "You reach for the stars, lad." He leaned back in the great throne of a chair at the center of the table, the rich fur neck of his deep velvet robes surrounding his throat and wide shoulders as if he had a pet marten sleeping there. The look he gave Lyall was different than the kind one he usually wore and this one was not unkind, if one desired a mere pat upon the head.
The baron studied him for a seemingly unending moment, his hand rubbing his dark beard thoughtfully. “‘Tis a courageous thing you desire, Lyall Robertson. To train to become a knight is a difficult task, and the trust of a body squire is a heavy load for a lad of even five and ten, which is why I tell you again and again that you are too young. Such a position takes a man with a brave heart to go through the trials of the difficult arts of war, to learn the skills and strength and quick mind of a knight. I know you have seen the skills and trials of which I speak. My men tell me when you are not following and pestering me, or attending your duties, you are out in the sidelines of the field, watching keenly.”
“ ‘Tis true,” Lyall said without a lick of remorse in his voice.
“What makes you think you, barely a lad of ten and one, hasthe strength of mind, the strength of heart, and are brave enough to become a knight?” Ramsey asked with an edge to his voice.
Lyall’s belly turned and he wanted to vomit up his supper. He had crossed the line for a traitor’s son. And finally he had pushed the man too far. There before all, Baron Montrose was questioning his honor, he, the last son of the great traitor, Ewane Robertson, a man who was Ramsey’s friend as well as the friend of the king.
“I shall tell you, my lord,” came a familiar voice.
Lyall was startled and looked down to see that Mairi was standing by his side, not shy but firmly looking Ramsey, their benefactor, in the eyes.
“I know of no one who is more brave than my brother, my lord. I say to you this. Was he too young at ten to save my mother from the burning stables in Dunkelden? He did so without thought. Was he too young when he brought us here, my mother, her face and hand badly burned, and me so frightened, brought us all that way on foot from Dunkelden, walking for days and nights, his faith and kindness to us unflagging? “
Lyall was speechless, watching his sister so proudly defend him.
Mairi took a step closer to Ramsey and the whole hall had become silent. “Was he too young when he fed us with fish he caught and cooked himself, and when he found us shelter every night, sometimes in the woods where the wolves oft times circled our fire? Was Lyall too young when he bartered his own hard labor for the mule to carry mother when her legs gave out and exhaustion over took her, and for the bread and cheese that helped us survive?”
She glanced around the room. “To all of you, she said. “ ‘Twas he not old and wise and strong enough, my dearest brother who all here laugh about and think is a fool--he who is called too young and too weak--yet who more times than not carried me on his back because I was the one who was too weak and too tiredwalk any farther. How he went about all of this when I know he was as exhausted and hurt and lost as we were, I do not know. “
There were tears in her voice when she said, “‘Twas Lyall who dragged my dead brother from the stables and buried him next our father. ‘Twas he who sacrificed his hound to the wolves in the forest one night when the choice was the dog or me. I know no one, my lord,” she said fervently, her hands in fists. “No one as brave as my brother. All this he did when he was too young, not at ten and one, but at only ten. My brother is no green lad. He lives far beyond his years and he is the most brave person I have ever known…and you, my lord, would be a fool not to make him one of your squires.”
“Mairi!” Their mother cried out, standing. “You go too far, girl. Sit down and be quiet. You do not speak in such a way to your cousin, the baron, who supports and shelters you.”
