The Mer- Lion by Lee Arthur

exertion, but he was also taken aback by the look in his son's eyes. He did not, however, intend to be put on the defensive by one so young, so he quickly took up a theme he had preached before.
    "Why do you play with toy soldiers? Why are you not practicing with real weapons? At your age, I could set a lance and run a course and wield a 'mercy'* with either hand. Hear that? With either—" His voice broke; he grew maudlin, "I'll never joust again ... or ride to the hunt ... or show myself at court again." With the mercurial change of mood drink can cause, he grew angered. "Hear me? I'm crippled, and you play with toys!" With that, the earl kicked the two remaining soldiers in the direction of the flames. The miniature squire had fought his last battle, but the wooden knight was rescued by the great andiron on the near side of the fireplace.
    *The misencorde, a straight, thin-bladed dagger used to give the coup de grace to a fallen foe.
    Jamie didn't wait to watch the second of his beloved soldiers turn to ashes. Instead, he lunged for his one remaining treasure and ran from the room without another word, the tiny nobleman squeezed tight in his hand.
    "Come back here!" the father roared. "Do you hear me? Come back here before I take a belt to your bottom."
    "Enough!" came the sharp retort from the corner of the room. Seaforth turned to see his wife descending on him, her skirts flouncing and fire in her eyes.
    "Enough is enough! And you have just convinced me. Tomorrow I leave for my lands at Alva. Jamie goes with me," the Lady Islean snapped. "If you ever want to see either of us again, you had best forget what's gone for good and remember the living.
    "Your arm is gone. Drink won't grow you another," she continued, stamping her small foot on the slate. "You are still young. You have your life before you. But if a missing arm is more important to you than your own son, so be it. Wallow in your own pity. Drink yourself into an early grave. At the rate you are going, there will be no one here to grieve for you."
    With that, she turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room. Seaforth started to shout some still-unformed thought after her. But her angry words had pierced his drink-befuddled mind, and he wound up muttering a weak and illogical rebuttal to himself.
    Not another drink passed his lips that evening as he sat for long hours deep in thought. When he finally made his way to his lonely bed, be refused to allow Seamus to help him undress. Instead, dismissing the man, he lay across the bed in his day clothes. Eventually, he slept, but only fitfully, waking at the first lightening in the east.
    Without sending for Seamus, -the earl exchanged slippers for boots, shrugged on a hunting jacket, tucking its empty sleeve into his belt. His riding boots felt good after his being so long without them. Skipping breakfast, he headed straight for the mews.
    The first servant he spied he curdy ordered, "Saddle me that new bay mare, Excitress." The man started with surprise, then hurried off to do the earl's bidding. Seamus questioned the footman's orders at first but took no chances. However, in place of the fractious mare, he ordered the saddling of an aged gelding. It was no lady's jennet, yet no challenge to a crippled rider, either. When Seaforth saw which horse was led out, he opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. The groom, coached by Seamiis moments before, offered his cupped hands to assist the earl to mount, and Seaforth even silently accepted that. He settled in the saddle as if in the lap of a long-lost friend. It felt good to be a man again. The reins held firmly in his left hand, he urged the horse to curvet a bit. Then, refusing the groom's offer to go with him, he put the horse through the high, narrow arch leading out into St. Mary's Wynd. Seamus, having sent word of Seaforth's doings to the Lady Islean, followed not long after on a heavy-built cob capable of carrying his substantial weight.
    The