The Mer- Lion by Lee Arthur Page B

across the saddle, kicked his left foot free, and slid ineptly to the ground. He caught his breath after the unexpected exertion and started to shout his errand all over again, but the old man raised a hand in protest.
    "Don't shout, I can hear you fine, if n you only talk slow."
    Slowly, very slowly, the earl described what he wanted, one carefully enunciated word after another: "Item one, a footman, one hand high, dressed in boiled leather armor, his bow slung over his shoulder. Give him, too, a modern arquebusier with a flask of regular coarse gunpowder and a touch box with priming powder."
    The carver nodded his understanding.
    "Item two: an esquire, on a rounsey, but let the horse be better bred than most. The esquire of unusual size ... wearing mail, his horse lightly armored, and have the left arm extended so that he may carry a banner or lead the knight's destrier on the right.",
    The carver nodded.
    "As to the knight, the third figure. Mount him on a tall horse, a gray. Let horse and man wear full tourney armor. The horse cap-a-pie with plate armor white and plain, his neck covered with a crinet, a peytrel for his chest and flanchard for his thigh, and beneath caparisoned in white velvet ornamented with silver bells. Let the knight's face not show, but dress him in Maximilian armor with its grouped channels and flutings. Arm him with long sword and shield. As to the latter, I prefer neither heater nor kite-shaped, but a near rectangle with rounded corners and a notch in the upper right-hand comer for a lance. And let it be not curved around the body but concave, so it will best slip an opponent's lance. And upon it paint, per fess argent and sable, a bend charged with three annulets, all countercharged. And upon the helmet put you a Mer-Lion, mounted. Any questions?"
    The carver nodded. "One arm or two, my lord?"
    Seaforth's lips tightened. It was all he could do to keep from smiting the man, but he realized the carver spoke not in malice but in an honest desire to please.
    "Two," he replied, then thought better of it. "No, make it one." As Seaforth abruptly turned on his heel, the sleeve restlessly flapped. Awkwardly he tucked it back under his wide belt.
    "Flodden, my lord?" It was Seaforth's turn to nod.
    "I lost my only son and my grandson too. They were all that I had," the old man said. "Was it in a good cause, my lord?"
    Seaforth had no answer. How does one equate a turquoise ring sent by a queen from a foreign land ... or, for that matter, an arm lost from below the elbow ... with the loss of the next generation and two? He shrugged his shoulders, pulling the sleeve loose again. Let the carver interpret that as he chose.
    The carver didn't press him. With fatalistic tolerance he returned to his lean-to. Outside, Seaforth gathered up his reins and faced a new problem—mounting his horse. The old man would be of no help ... and there was no lady's mounting block about. A vault into the saddle? Out of the question, Seaforth realized. He was too weak even to walk home. Grudgingly, he faced and accepted the reality of his situation.
    Retying his horse, he made his way into the stall and found a place to sit down and wait until his men found him, as he knew they eventually would. The carver hospitably offered the lord a glass of home brew. Though thin and sour, it was wet and potent, and Seaforth drained his wooden goblet and did not turn down a refill. The lean-to was small and cramped, strewn with unfinished pieces and untouched chunks of wood. It smelled clean and fresh ... of sap and shavings ... the scrape of knife on wood ... the slow, steady rhythm both hypnotic and relaxing ...
    He slept until awakened by the stomping of a horse as Seamus charged into the stall, ready to do harm to the carver if aught had befallen his lord. A glance and a word sufficed to reassure. Seaforth found himself effortlessly boosted up into the saddle again by his giant of a squire.
    As they prepared to ride off, Seaforth called a