The Mer- Lion by Lee Arthur Page A

street leading up to the ridge was both narrow and steep but cleaner than most city streets, however, for it was lined with the city houses or "lands" of Scottish lords, and their slops were thrown into wells built for the purpose, not out of the windows onto the street. This early in the morning, the street was practically deserted. The few men Seaforth saw were quick to tug forelocks, doff hats and bow as due his rank; the women curtsied and bade him a smiling good-morning.
    People looked at him, of course, but not with cloying sympathy, nor the curiosity reserved for a freak. Instead, the looks were what any rich lord or handsome male would expect. Reassured but somehow disappointed that what he had dreaded had not occurred, he made his way slowly up the wynd. It seemed more gray and sombre than usual. Then, he realized why. The noble banners denoting their owner in residence no longer flew from the houses lining St. Mary's Wynd. He suppressed a shudder. Had all of these nobles fallen that day at Flodden Field? He and his wife had not discussed the subject, carefully avoiding all mention of it except for once, early on, when he'd asked her who had won. And of the king, her father. Her one-word answers had closed the matter until now.
    At the top of St. Mary's, he turned left on High Street toward the castle perched like a bird of prey on the hill above the town. At the base of that hill was Old Town, his destination. As the horse moved forward into the street, it was surrounded by beggars. Those on his right, sighting his empty sleeve, fell back, but not those on the left. They pressed closer. Grabbing at his feet, his stirrup, his jacket, they brandished crutches, waved aged bloodied bandages, pulled back eye patches to show empty sockets as they entreated him to remember Flodden.
    The beggars weren't to be ignored: Some no doubt were professional cripples. But just as many, he feared, were fellow victims. Not often did he or any other nobleman feel any kinship with the masses, but this was one of those rare occasions. He would have scattered some coins among them; but with one hand, he couldn't both control his horse and reach for his purse. Frustrated, he stared straight ahead and spurred his horse onward. His manner angered the beggars, who redoubled their protests. At the combination of his own frustration and their persistence, he grew angry. With a wrench of his right shoulder, he pulled his own empty sleeve out of his belt and flaunted it as best he could in the faces of the crowd, mockingly repeating their own words: "Ha' pity on me, a simple victim of Flodden." Sullenly the cripples pulled back, and he forged ahead, his sleeve waving grimly in the breeze.
    Within a few minutes, it was Seamus's turn to try to forge his way through the crowd, not so easily put off, now that one victim had gotten away without a donation. Now Seaforth gained a sizable lead, passing swiftly and without opposition through the portal to the Old Tolbooth with its miscreants chained to the jougs outside and its jailors lounging on the high stairs above. Just before he reached St. Giles Cathedral, Seaforth came upon the Luckenbooths squeezed in between the cathedral and High Street. Turning in, he searched out a ramshackled stall built onto the row like some haphazard afterthought. After two or three hallos, the owner finally came out.
    "I need soldiers carved, for a boy—" Seaforth began, but from the blank look on the old man's face, he could tell not a word said had been heard. Twice more he spoke, each time louder, but to no avail. Seaforth had come too far to accept defeat now. Not happily, he realized he must dismount so as to shout in the man's ear.
    Wrapping the reins about his hand, he gripped the pommel with all his strength, then stood up in the stirrups. Keeping his weight on the left foot, he threw the other leg over. It took all his concentration to keep his balance. Bending his knees slightly, he lay down with his stomach