Ramsey bent his knees and tossed the apple high into the air. His arrow shot true. The apple shattered, pieces of it flying about, and the crowd roared again. His sister was waving and shouting and jumping up and down, until his mother leaned down and said something and Mairi stilled, her eyes wide as she exchanged a worried look with Lyall. Lyall frowned. What had his mother said?
“And now you shall try an even smaller target, although this one shall be stationary.” The baron held up a strawberry between his fingers. A hum of murmuring came from the crowd with some words clear like ‘impossible’ and ‘his fingers’ and ‘never’ and ‘the poor boy…’.
“Wait!” Lyall’s mother stepped forward. “ ‘Tis my strawberry, my lord. I will hold it,” she said firmly.
“Beitris, no,” Ramsey said quickly, his voice protective.
“I have complete faith in my son’s skills.” She walked across the practice field with her head proudly in the air.
“You understand, Beitris, that if he misses, he takes your finger,” Ramsey said while his expression tried to warn her when he added, “Let me do this.”
“Why?” She looked at him and laughed as if to say what is another loss? She reached up and threw back her hood, her face completely uncovered, ignoring the murmurs in the crowd that quieted swiftly with a single harsh look from Ramsey.
His mother took the berry and faced the crowd. ”What you do not understand, Donnald, is that my Lyall will not miss.”
Lyall closed his eyes and felt his hands grow clammy and damp. He felt even more tension wrack his body. He dared not miss. He dared not….
His mother stood sideways as she held up the small red strawberry between her fingers, her head high, scarring exposed, her eyes staring straight ahead and her expression emotionless.
But Lyall knew she was far from unfeeling at that moment. She was a putting on a fine show.
He could not, would not fail her. He notched an arrow, took two shallow breaths and his sharpest aim, eyeing the red strawberry, his eyes seeing nothing else, and then he released the bowstring with a snap!
There was a heartbeat of utter silence, then the thud of the arrow hitting and reverberating in the wooden fencing, the berry nothing more than red circle on the arrow tip.
Between the delicate fingers of Lady Beitris was no berry, only a small empty space and smudges of red berry juice.
The noise level became so loud that it sounded like that of a great tourney, but Lyall held up his hand and shouted,” Wait! Wait! Stand back, mother, and count to ten.” She did as he askedand did not look at him, did not question. She counted, “One…two…three…four…”
Gasps came loudly with each number. Faster than anyone had ever seen and in a way that would have seemed and sounded impossible, Lyall pulled, notched, and shot arrows from quiver to his bow so swiftly one could barely see each action. By the time his mother said “Ten,” he had shot six arrows, one at a time, each one straight into and splitting the shaft of the one previous. It was a display of skill the likes of which no one had ever seen.
“These trials are over,” Ramsey said clearly and with something Lyall thought might have been pride, but if not, surely it was honest respect he heard in the baron’s voice.
The shouts and whistles and noise for all who were watching was unbelievably raucous and went on for a long, long while and even Lyall could not longer keep back his happiness. A huge, proud smile split his face. His mother joined him and he took her hand, knelt on one knee before her and kissed her hand gallantly.
Because of his sister and his mother, because of their faith in him, he was now guaranteed to be one step closer to winning his spurs…one step closer to giving respect to the name of Robertson. His battle was not done, but his side was winning.
When Lyall rose his mother hugged him with fervor, laughing and proud and he felt as though he held the world in the palm of his blistered hand. Ramsey raised his arm again to silence all.
He placed his hands on Lyall’s shoulders and turned him to face the crowd. “This is Lyall Robertson, son of my friend, Sir Ewane, and as he has proved on this day, the finest archer I or any of you have ever seen. I present to you my newest body squire.”
Thus began the learning years for Lyall at Castle Rossie. From the men at arms and knights, he learned hand to hand combat, to be quick and lithe on his feet, to feint, and to dodge to avoid his opponent’s blade. Under the tutelage of great men ofwar came lessons in ability to ride like a warrior—to become one with his horse, to guide his mount with the pressure of his knees, so his hands were free to handle his weapons; in time, to wield his battle axe, war hammer, and heavy broadsword as if he were wielding his right arm, both on horseback and on foot. He learned to tilt, to charge with his war lance and unseat his opponent with unfailing speed and precision. He learned all a knight needed to learn, and true to form, he learned it swiftly, earning his spurs at ten and five. The only thing Lyall did not learn was how to forget.
8
The western coast of Scotland
Glenna stepped out onto the top deck of the ship and stretched her arms high in the cool morning air, yawning. All around her was the Minch, looking calm and like an unbelievably peaceful firth. The blue water was glistening like new coins in the high sunlight, as if the whole of frightening events of yesterday and the night before had been only a terrible dream.
She flexed her numb fingers. Sleep escaped her more most of the night. When she had finally slept, she felt as if she had been imprisoned in the hold forever, sitting there and hanging onto Montrose, wondering with each diving pitch of the storm when the ship would crack in half and they would all perish into the black depths of the sea.
She took a deep breath and rubbed her arms, which were marked with the thin red pattern of the rush mat used for sleeping pallets. Above her, the sails flapped unevenly with the wind now coming in soft sweet gusts, and she heard the splash of the oar wake, and the rocking, almost songlike rhythm of the oarsman’s chant as the boat moved close to land and parallel tothe coast. Against the eastern horizon the mainland was large, its shadowy grey-green hills now sharp enough to see the ragged tops of the trees, while the land’s edges were still thinly shrouded by white morning mist floating just out of reach and ghostlike upon the water.
Montrose stood near the prow of the ship, his booted foot resting on a barrel tied to the ship’s bow and he was holding a halyard with one hand. His hair blew back away in the sea breeze and his eyes were only for the skies and land ahead. He wore his sword belt and a pale blue tunic she thought looked the same color as his eyes. Dark blue woolen hose covered his long legs, and the silver hilt of a dagger showed from the top of his boot. She watched him with hungry eyes, his profile so hawk-like, strong--almost stubbornly so.
Standing there as he was, he looked as if he were defying the laws of nature, daring them to try to make him someone other exactly who he wanted to be. She’d seen his jaw grow tight and ridged when he was angry, and now unshaven, his beard had grown in dark, like his brows, looking like storm shadows on his jaw and neck. Her first impression of him had been so very different from the man she’d seen since.
Who was the golden one who so easily and carelessly dove through the waves in the sea?
