Free The Mer- Lion by Lee Arthur Page B

leadership. And when the king's queen was delivered of a dead son, Seaforth professed himself glad, though his malediction sounded hollow. His little son Jamie alone was spared a fair share of curses, but only on good days. On bad days, when the missing arm ached unbearably, Jamie, like everyone else, suffered.
    Eventually the entire household learned to avoid the sickroom as
    much as possible on those days when anger gave way to depression; at those times a deep all-pervasive self-pity wrenched at the hearts of those who loved him, making them wish that the fury would return. He sat for hours luxuriating in his misfortune. A new book arrived? Too heavy to hold in one hand. Would he write instructions for the seneschal at Seaforth? The quill needed sharpening, a task for two hands. A little music perhaps? Impossible to tune a lute one-handed.
    The one thing that presented him with no difficulty was filling and refilling his cup. In the morning he began with their best home brew. By midday the ale was replaced with canary or madeira. At nightfall, usquebaugh was his choice ... smoky, tawny, heady ... a potent distillate that could and did lay the strongest man low.
    On a night no different from others, Seamus sat quietly in a corner. The earl was well into his fourth or fifth usquebaugh, though it was not dampening the fire of anger that raged through his nerve fibres. Occasionally he shouted a command for another flagon of brew, or a silk cloth to wipe his perspiring brow, just to see a serving man jump at his command.
    The Lady Islean quietly worked at her tapestry frame in one corner of the huge room. When her husband bellowed, her hand would still for long minutes at a time. Eyes averted from the drunkard, she stared at the flames in the large stone fireplace or at * the one joy in this new existence: young Jamie, playing with toy soldiers while sprawled on the fur before the fire. He took the part of first one, then another of the miniature wooden soldiers, long in need of fresh paint but beautifully carved and detailed.
    The soldiers had belonged once to the Lady Islean's full brother, James Stewart, the bastard Earl of Moray, and many other royal tykes before him. Many a battle these soldiers had fought and won or lost. The armored knight rode a charger trapped with chain mail. The mounted esquire carried a spear with a knightly banner. The third, who wore no mail but went on foot and carried a long bow, was the five-year-old's favorite. Even though his armor was leather and his uniform was drab, he could go where horses could not and so often won the day with spear, sword, or bow.
    "Scout, I, your king, command you to ride forth and locate the enemy," Jamie said, picking up the foot soldier.
    "By your command, sire," he answered himself in a small quiet voice. He had learned long since not to disturb his father when he was drinking.
    ~~ Jamie's tiny hand slowly slid the lowly sergeant across the rug and out onto the broad plain of the slate floor.
    "Master Meredith, set up camp at the base of that hill yonder."
    "Right away, sire," the esquire replied through his third-party voice. And Jamie moved him smartly over by the wolfs head at one end of the rug.
    "As for you, Lord Lachlan," he said, reaching for the knight, "deploy your—"
    An anguished howl and then a curse cut him short. The earl had lurched from his huge chair, and in three unsteady steps had managed to plop his stockinged foot down on the bowman. Surprised and in pain, he howled with rage and savagely kicked the tiny soldier into the fireplace.
    Jamie rushed to rescue his man, but not fast enough. His humble soldier caught fire like kindling and the flames drove back the daring hand that would have saved him.
    "Why did you do that?" the boy cried, tears blackening his blue eyes. "He didn't hurt you deliberately."
    Seaforth desperately held onto the mantel with his only hand, in real need to steady himself, for not only did his head spin from the sudden