“Then archery it is,” Ramsey said with a wave of his hand. “You have seven days. And Lyall….”
“Aye, my lord?”
“This week I do not want to see your face for even a single morn when I open my bedchamber door.”
“You shall not, my lord. I swear,” Lyall said, unable to hide the smile splitting his face and adding wickedly, “For there is no longer the need.”
And laughter erupted from the great hall at Castle Rossie, and Donnald Ramsey’s was the loudest. Lyall picked up the laver, and all but ran from the hall he was so excited.
Lyall wincedas he slowly and carefully unwrapped the strip of linen he had wrapped on his left wrist early that morning. After six days of the constant, repetitive swipe of the bowstring, his wound was deep, the skin rubbed completely raw, and blood had dried on it so the cloth was stuck to his scabbed skin. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and jerked the cloth free, a loud cry escaped his lips, tears filled his eyes, and he swore under his breath, something inventive he’d heard one ofthe knights shout and for which he would need to confess and do penance.
Fresh blood came from the wound and he tried to stop the flow with the wadded up cloth, gave up and crossed to the laver and stuck his hand in the water, something he should have done before he tore off the cloth.
Someone knocked on the door of his small chamber, and the door cracked open. “Lyall?” His sister stuck her head inside.
“Come in, Mairi.”
She was carrying a food tray and she kicked the door closed with her foot.
His pride made him glad she had not been there a moment before. He looked down at his wrist in the water bowl; it was still bleeding and turning the water red. His shoulder ached, his whole body ached and he was exhausted.
“What have you done?” She asked him, worried and setting a tray of food on his bed. “You have injured yourself the night before your trial?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said tightly, not wanting to be reminder of the test that awaited him in the morning.
She held out her hands. “Come here. Let me see.”
“ ’Tis nothing. Leave it be.”
“I’ll tell mama.”
“Brat.”
“Oaf.”
“Pest.”
“Turnipbrain.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “I shall not leave until you show me.”
He gave up and pulled his hand from the bowl, blotted it dry and stuck out his arm. “There. See?” He craned his neck to try to see the food. The smell was making his belly rumble like thunder. “What’s on the tray. I’m starved.”
“You wouldn’t be if you would stop practicing long enough to eat something. Mama bade me to bring this to you. Should I get her for your hand? She has some salve that will help.”
Lyall held up a squat brown earthenware crock.
“ ‘Tis mama’s salve jar!”
“Aye,” Lyall said, applying the thick grease to his bloody wrist. “I helped myself.”
She flopped down on the bed. “More like you didn’t want her fussing over you.”
“That too.”
She lifted a cloth that covered the food tray. “Look here. There is mutton stew and a fresh trencher. Cider and some goat cheese. A piece of apple tart and strawberries,” she said, popping one in her bow-shaped mouth, the juice turning the edges of her lips a deep red.
Lyall filled his mouth with warm stew and tore off a piece of bread and pointed at her with it. “If you do not wipe your mouth, Mama will box your ears for stealing my supper, especially those berries, which I’ll wager you already gorged yourself on at the table.”
Beitris had planted a large garden as she had at Dunkelden only at Rossie she dug it near the granary where the sun shone most of the day, and the small, sweet red strawberries were her first crop. She doled them out as if they were gold coin.
