Lyall Robertson had ceased to be the boy who wandered all over the forest and played at war with the tall trees of Dunkelden Wood, the boy who had out-fished his older brother, and believed that if you touched a tree trunk you could change fate. Charred images of the utter and complete destruction of his great home, of that cowardly yellow flag, and the bitter image of his dead brother were burned deeply into the darkest recesses of his young mind and nothing, not even the slow healing of time could fade his memories or touch the bleakness in him, where accusations lie unchanged: he was the son of a traitor. He dared not ever let himself remember for long the boy he had once been. The past was done; it was unchangeable.

From the day he walked up to Castle Rossie frightened at the sight of that great stone edifice, so imposing compared to a timber fortress like Dunkelden, and secretly frightened, too, at what would happen once those inside saw the bedraggled family of the traitor Ewane Robertson standing at the gates. Rossie was intimidating in its size and strength, even its position, sprouting up like a stone giant, defensive and guarding a massive gorge with a long river cutting through it.

Castle Rossie was a good five times larger than Dunkelden; it assured all who looked at it of the wealth and strength and power of the man who had built it. Ramsey land ran for leagues around it, for all of Rossie, almost to the sea, for surely for as far as the eye could see one man’s lands filled the horizon.

With his poor burned mother at his side and his little sister’s hand in his own, Lyall hid his fear behind a façade of bravery far beyond his ten years and walked evenly and straight up to the gates. He had one goal.

Baron Montrose, Donnald Ramsey, was a long time friend of Sir Ewane Robertson, who had been cousin to Ramsey’s dead wife. To Lyall’s relief and surprise, there had been no question from the moment he rang the gate bell. Donnald Ramsey immediately took them in, gave his mother Beitris and sister Mairi chambers and told them with sincerity they were to think of Rossie as home.

The Lord Ramsey was to have fostered Malcolm, so within moments Lyall faced him and insisted the baron take him in Malcolm’s place. But Ramsey refused, the look in his eyes kinder and more pitying than Lyall with all his wounded pride wanted to see at the time. He wanted to see belief in Montrose’s eyes, belief their father was innocent and belief his only living son could be worth training.

“You are too young lad, too small yet.” Ramsey said. “Perhaps in time, after you’ve grown some, we can find a place for you with the squires, for now, you can take your place with the castle pages.” And he was dismissed.

A place for him… not the fostering Lyall wanted. He had heard his father’s words often enough to understand there was honor among men, and Lyall knew because he was the son of the traitor Sir Ewane Robertson, few would agree to foster him. Most believed strongly in the tenet that bad blood begat bad blood. Ramsey was his only chance to learn the skills he would need to earn respect beyond the name he carried.

Every morn he was up with the sun and the crow of the cocks, seeking out Ramsey first thing, waiting outside his chamber door dressed in his azure page’s tunic and with gold piping. He hounded the baron, asking him repeatedly to grant him the right to train despite his age, and every morn the baron said he was too small, or too young. Every negotiation Lyall tried failed. But he was unrelenting.

Almost as if he willed the very hand of God, Lyall grew taller and longer of leg over the next months, until he was nearly as tall as Malcolm had been. Still, he pleaded with the baron but the answer was always the same.

His mother had begged him to cease, lest Ramsey send them away because of all his pestering, and though many throughout the castle began to jest and laugh at him. “Lyall does not know his place,” some said with malice, and Ramsey’s knights and squires made him the brunt of their jests and tricks, teasing him incessantly. Sending him on fool’s tasks and poking fun at him for doing what he was told, even taunting him into walking the wall when one of them found out he was not comfortable high above the ground. He did not let them know how frightened he had been, and once he was away from them raced away before they saw his fear revealed in the damp spot he felt shamefully spreading in his hose. Lyall did not care what jests they played on him. He cared only that he succeeded in getting what he wanted.

And while all at Rossie thought him foolish, rash, and harebrained, his sister Mairi did not.

* * *

‘Twas the Easter season, Maundy Thursday to be exact, and dusk had fallen at the Castle Rossie, where the servants had earlier hurried to light the torches in the great hall and replace the dark evergreenery, the purple foxglove, fragrant rosemary, and colorful primroses left from the celebration of the sennight before. Most inside the hall were in a gay mood with that night’s coming feast and celebration and anticipation of the addition of Morris dancers and an egg pacing. The past week had been all rain and mud and gloom, so the whole of the castle sorely needed some entertainment.

In the center of the longest trestle table set with bread trenchers and silver spoons stood a huge bowl filled to the brim with pace eggs--made by the women of the castle--each one different and decorated with flower and vegetable paints, with bits of cloth and ribbon fixed upon them and rows of small, sparkling disks of metal to match those in the hall. Hanging from an iron post high on the tallest wall was the Easter tradition: a huge golden disk to symbolize the sun, and on the opposite wall, near the stairs leading to the solar above, hung an equally bright silver moon. Plenty of wine and ale and cider made the rounds of the tables, along with large platters of roast lamb, tansy cake and honeyed fruits, and sugary dates from the east. As the meal wound down and all the pages came into the hall armed with lavers of warm, scented water and towels for washing, a musician strolled into the hall, trumpet to his lips, and he blew a long, heralding set of notes.

To the sudden sound stamping steps and jingling bells came twelve dancers in wooden clogs, dancing in a line into the hall, holly wreaths on their heads and ankle bands laden with tiny bells on their feet. They carried long straight canes hung with flowing scarves of every color. The room erupted with laughter and cheering, clapping and song.

Tabor drums, pipes, and cymbals followed the dancers with a raucous and lively tune. , The dancers formed patterns to reflect the sun's path across the sky, their feet pounding out elaborate steps that, long ago, were said to awaken the slumbering gods of the field. As the music grew louder, some dancers jumped high in the air so the grain would grow high and the flocks would multiply.

There was almost as much pounding at the trestle tables, fists on the table tops and feet on the floor in time to the drumbeats. Some knights broke into loud singing, songs of Noah’s flood. As the wine overflowed, bawdy and bawdier versions of maids and ploughs and eventually the love songs made known to all and sundry by traveling bards and minstrels.

Lyall stood before Ramsey, laver in his hands as the baron washed and then used the towel draped over Lyall’s arm. “Tomorrow I will be ten and one,” he told the baron before he was finished wiping his hands. “I want to train as one of your body squires.”

“What is this? You do not merely desire to be a squire any longer, lad? Now ‘tis to be an even higher position as my body squire?” Ramsey laughed and shook his head. "You reach for the stars, lad." He leaned back in the great throne of a chair at the center of the table, the rich fur neck of his deep velvet robes surrounding his throat and wide shoulders as if he had a pet marten sleeping there. The look he gave Lyall was different than the kind one he usually wore and this one was not unkind, if one desired a mere pat upon the head.

The baron studied him for a seemingly unending moment, his hand rubbing his dark beard thoughtfully. “‘Tis a courageous thing you desire, Lyall Robertson. To train to become a knight is a difficult task, and the trust of a body squire is a heavy load for a lad of even five and ten, which is why I tell you again and again that you are too young. Such a position takes a man with a brave heart to go through the trials of the difficult arts of war, to learn the skills and strength and quick mind of a knight. I know you have seen the skills and trials of which I speak. My men tell me when you are not following and pestering me, or attending your duties, you are out in the sidelines of the field, watching keenly.”

“ ‘Tis true,” Lyall said without a lick of remorse in his voice.

“What makes you think you, barely a lad of ten and one, has the strength of mind, the strength of heart, and are brave enough to become a knight?” Ramsey asked with an edge to his voice.

Lyall’s belly turned and he wanted to vomit up his supper. He had crossed the line for a traitor’s son. And finally he had pushed the man too far. There before all, Baron Montrose was questioning his honor, he, the last son of the great traitor, Ewane Robertson, a man who was Ramsey’s friend as well as the friend of the king.

“I shall tell you, my lord,” came a familiar voice.

Lyall was startled and looked down to see that Mairi was standing by his side, not shy but firmly looking Ramsey, their benefactor, in the eyes.

“I know of no one who is more brave than my brother, my lord. I say to you this. Was he too young at ten to save my mother from the burning stables in Dunkelden? He did so without thought. Was he too young when he brought us here, my mother, her face and hand badly burned, and me so frightened, brought us all that way on foot from Dunkelden, walking for days and nights, his faith and kindness to us unflagging? “

Lyall was speechless, watching his sister so proudly defend him.

Mairi took a step closer to Ramsey and the whole hall had become silent. “Was he too young when he fed us with fish he caught and cooked himself, and when he found us shelter every night, sometimes in the woods where the wolves oft times circled our fire? Was Lyall too young when he bartered his own hard labor for the mule to carry mother when her legs gave out and exhaustion over took her, and for the bread and cheese that helped us survive?”

She glanced around the room. “To all of you, she said. “ ‘Twas he not old and wise and strong enough, my dearest brother who all here laugh about and think is a fool--he who is called too young and too weak--yet who more times than not carried me on his back because I was the one who was too weak and too tired walk any farther. How he went about all of this when I know he was as exhausted and hurt and lost as we were, I do not know. “

There were tears in her voice when she said, “‘Twas Lyall who dragged my dead brother from the stables and buried him next our father. ‘Twas he who sacrificed his hound to the wolves in the forest one night when the choice was the dog or me. I know no one, my lord,” she said fervently, her hands in fists. “No one as brave as my brother. All this he did when he was too young, not at ten and one, but at only ten. My brother is no green lad. He lives far beyond his years and he is the most brave person I have ever known…and you, my lord, would be a fool not to make him one of your squires.”

“Mairi!” Their mother cried out, standing. “You go too far, girl. Sit down and be quiet. You do not speak in such a way to your cousin, the baron, who supports and shelters you.”

Mairi spun around, hands on her small hips and her chin jutting out. “If he did not support us, if he did not support me, then I know Lyall would! And my brother is not too young!” She stood there so fiercely, and she must have realized what she had done and said, that all were looking at her in horror. She covered her red face with her hands and suddenly broke down sobbing. “He is not too young… He is not!”

The utter silence continued in the hall, until it was pierced by the scraping sound of Ramsey’s chair legs on the stone floor. Lyall heard his mother gasp pitifully. Her eyes met his, so fearful for Mairi, for all knew his sister had gone too far in her defense of him.

A quiet swell of murmurs came from around the tables, and from the dancers and musicians who had been standing so quietly behind him. Lyall quickly put himself between the baron and his sister as protection, before he took a quick glance at his mother as if to assure her ‘I will not let anyone hurt Mairi.’

With his eyes and face he tried to say to her, I will take the blow. He stood taller than he felt inside, waiting for the baron to come closer and fully ready to be struck down before all and sundry. He told himself it was only a blow and the pain from a blow was swift and would go away.

Ramsey was a tall and powerful man, and his form blocked the flickering rush light and cast a dark shadow over Lyall.

He waited.

Then the baron was there before him, so close. Lyall looked up at him. “Stand aside, lad,” he said in a voice that told Lyall naught of what the man intended

“I will not.” Lyall stepped back, his arms keeping Mairi close to his back. “You can punish me, but not my sister.” He gave Ramsey a direct look. “Strike me, my lord.”

Ramsey frowned, and then studied him again. “Odd isn’t it that you never show me fear, lad, even when yours is the first annoyingly eager face I see every morn. You are my constant shadow and pester me worse than a fishwife, day in and day out you are there.” Ramsey drove his hand through his thick dark hair, looked at Mairi and then at Lyall again. “Perhaps I should strike you.”

Lyall did not move. “I would suggest that if you want to hit me, you do so on the practice field, my lord. Should you make me a squire, you will have the opportunity to beat me soundly every day.”

Lyall’s words registered and Ramsey burst out laughing, loud and hard, then he placed his hand on Lyall’s shoulder exactly the way his father always had. Lyall looked up at him surprised.

“Are you saying lad that if I make you squire you will learn the skills so poorly that I will be able to beat you every day?”

Lyall began to stammer.

“Cease! Cease before you ruin the moment. I was jesting.” Ramsey held up the towel in his other hand. “See this? I had no intention of hitting Mairi. She is a brave girl to stand up for you.”

He could feel Mairi’s head peek out from behind him.

Ramsey squatted down and handed her the towel. “Here, child. Dry your tears. You spoke well for your brother. What great loyalty you have shown this night. I did not know the whole of your story, nor of Lyall’s brave actions. I am suitably impressed…with both of you,” Ramsey said and he straightened and it was a long moment before he said, “Ewane would be proud.”

It was the first time Lyall had heard his father’s name from the baron. He closed his eyes, certain if he did not he would shame himself and ruin everything by crying.

“I will give you a sennight to learn to use a weapon proficiently. You will work every day, all day, until you are so skilled you will convince me that you are not too young to be my body squire.”

He had done it! He had done it! Lyall picked up Mairi and twirled her, planting a big kiss on her flushed cheek. “Thank you,” he told her.

“You are not too young, Lyall,” she said fiercely, hugging him back.

A murmur went through the hall. It was unheard of for anyone to be made a squire at ten and one, and Ramsey’s terms had sounded as if Lyall would be body squire, those who trained with and were closest to the baron.

Ramsey crossed his arms. “Tell me, lad, what weapon you choose.”

“The bow.” Lyall answered immediately.

Some knights laughed quietly among themselves, thinking he had just failed and showed himself as completely unqualified.

“Archery? What foolishness is this?” Ramsey frowned, looking angry for the first time. “Knights do not practice archery.”

“But my lord,” Lyall insisted. “That is all the more reason I should choose it. The Welsh use the bow with great success, oft times against us. When I am a squire, I will learn to use the sword and battle axe, to wrestle and fight hand to hand in combat, to ride and use the lance as well as my sword and other weapons. A bow and a quiver of arrows merely gives me one more weapon than most, perhaps the same weapon used by an future enemy. Have I made an error? Is there shame in using the bow?”

“Nay,” Ramsey said. “ ‘Twas not what I expected is all.”

“You only said I must be proficient in a single sennight at the weapon I choose. You did not give me a choice of weapons from which I must choose.”

Already Ramsey was shaking his head and chuckling, making it clear he knew he had been played. “You are sharp beyond your years, lad.”

“Nay, but I am confident I can shoot an arrow most accurately seven days from now,” he said without one bit of humility.

“Then archery it is,” Ramsey said with a wave of his hand. “You have seven days. And Lyall….”

“Aye, my lord?”

“This week I do not want to see your face for even a single morn when I open my bedchamber door.”

“You shall not, my lord. I swear,” Lyall said, unable to hide the smile splitting his face and adding wickedly, “For there is no longer the need.”

And laughter erupted from the great hall at Castle Rossie, and Donnald Ramsey’s was the loudest. Lyall picked up the laver, and all but ran from the hall he was so excited.

* * *

Lyall winced as he slowly and carefully unwrapped the strip of linen he had wrapped on his left wrist early that morning. After six days of the constant, repetitive swipe of the bowstring, his wound was deep, the skin rubbed completely raw, and blood had dried on it so the cloth was stuck to his scabbed skin. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and jerked the cloth free, a loud cry escaped his lips, tears filled his eyes, and he swore under his breath, something inventive he’d heard one of the knights shout and for which he would need to confess and do penance.

Fresh blood came from the wound and he tried to stop the flow with the wadded up cloth, gave up and crossed to the laver and stuck his hand in the water, something he should have done before he tore off the cloth.

Someone knocked on the door of his small chamber, and the door cracked open. “Lyall?” His sister stuck her head inside.

“Come in, Mairi.”

She was carrying a food tray and she kicked the door closed with her foot.

His pride made him glad she had not been there a moment before. He looked down at his wrist in the water bowl; it was still bleeding and turning the water red. His shoulder ached, his whole body ached and he was exhausted.

“What have you done?” She asked him, worried and setting a tray of food on his bed. “You have injured yourself the night before your trial?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said tightly, not wanting to be reminder of the test that awaited him in the morning.

She held out her hands. “Come here. Let me see.”

“ ’Tis nothing. Leave it be.”

“I’ll tell mama.”

“Brat.”

“Oaf.”

“Pest.”

“Turnipbrain.” She crossed her arms stubbornly. “I shall not leave until you show me.”

He gave up and pulled his hand from the bowl, blotted it dry and stuck out his arm. “There. See?” He craned his neck to try to see the food. The smell was making his belly rumble like thunder. “What’s on the tray. I’m starved.”

“You wouldn’t be if you would stop practicing long enough to eat something. Mama bade me to bring this to you. Should I get her for your hand? She has some salve that will help.”

Lyall held up a squat brown earthenware crock.

“ ‘Tis mama’s salve jar!”

“Aye,” Lyall said, applying the thick grease to his bloody wrist. “I helped myself.”

She flopped down on the bed. “More like you didn’t want her fussing over you.”

“That too.”

She lifted a cloth that covered the food tray. “Look here. There is mutton stew and a fresh trencher. Cider and some goat cheese. A piece of apple tart and strawberries,” she said, popping one in her bow-shaped mouth, the juice turning the edges of her lips a deep red.

Lyall filled his mouth with warm stew and tore off a piece of bread and pointed at her with it. “If you do not wipe your mouth, Mama will box your ears for stealing my supper, especially those berries, which I’ll wager you already gorged yourself on at the table.”

Beitris had planted a large garden as she had at Dunkelden only at Rossie she dug it near the granary where the sun shone most of the day, and the small, sweet red strawberries were her first crop. She doled them out as if they were gold coin.

His sister’s eyes grew big and she wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand, then she stole another, making him laugh.

“Are you frightened, Lyall?”

“About tomorrow?” He shook his head. “Nay,” he said with a laughing tone, one filled with bluster.

“Not even a small bit?”

He smiled at her. “Well…perhaps just a small wee tad.”

She laughed.

“The truth is, I’m restless and on edge, but not because I am afraid I cannot do this, or of the outcome.”

“I shall be there to cheer for you. She took out a small bit of blue cloth left from the bolt of her favorite gown and pressed it into his hand. “This is my favor for you, to bring you good fortune. “ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I am so glad you are my brother, Lyall.”

“And I you, sprite,” he said with emotion. “I will wear this so all can see. I would not have this chance were it not for you.”

She shook her head. “That's not true. The baron would have given in. You were wearing him down. But when it sounded as if he were questioning your courage, then I could no longer keep quiet.”

She jumped up as quickly as she had flopped down. “I am off to the solar, where I must listen to chatter and sew a new fur collar on my cloak. I was to have finished it yesterday.“ She ran to the door, then stopped. “You will do well tomorrow. Lyall. I know you will.” Then she was gone, off like the water sprite he lovingly called her.

Lyall lay down on his bed, finishing another chunk of bread. His arms were so sore he could not cross them behind his head as he usually did. He lay there limply. There was not a part of him that did not ache, he thought, closing his eyes and he was soon sound asleep.

The call the cock crowing the next morn came all too quickly. Lyall had eaten the boiled egg his mother brought him, and they had talked for a few minutes, during which she tried to prepare him because of her worry. As he followed her out of his chamber, he wondered if she was really as comfortable here at Rossie as she seemed. She always wore a hood or a thick veil that covered the side of her scarred face, but still she knew it was unpleasant for others to look at and she often kept to the solar or her garden and most days did not eat her meals in the main hall for the looks of pity and curious stares. Her great beauty had been the talk of men and the song of troubadours. But more than vanity, her scars ran deeper than the skin, wounds of loss, of Ewane and Malcolm.

He kissed her on both cheeks because he had always kissed her so and refused to stop, even when she told him not to kiss her scarred and puckered skin. Today, as most days, he lifted her veil and placed a kiss upon her rippled cheek, before he came down to the practice field, just as the sun was just bringing on day.

Five times he had gone through his quiver of arrows at the quintain target before the house knights began to fill the area, curious, followed by the squires and his fellow pages, and soon it seemed the whole of the castle was there. On the left shoulder of his page’s tunic he had pinned Mairi’s favor and he wore his velvet cap to the side so the ribbons cascaded to one side and would not impede his aim, and he stood in the large dirt arena, awaiting Ramsey, refusing to show an inkling of his fear and nervousness.

“Lyall!” His sister stood with his mother, waving to him. His mother looked pale and he realized then he had not thought about what this trial had done to her.

Ramsey crossed the distance to stand by him. “You look ready.”

“I am, my lord.”

“I have created a series of trials for you, Lyall Robertson,” Ramsey said to him in a loud voice so all could hear. “My men tell me that every day you have practiced on tree targets and the tilting dummy. The true test of war and weaponry is your strength or accuracy against an enemy, more often than not, your enemy will be a moving target.”

Ramsey signaled to a pair of squires standing near the quintain. One carried a familiar pig bladder filled with sand, usually used for training the nimbleness and agility of the feet by requiring the squire to dash in, about, and around it. “The first of your trials shall be a moving target. Aonghas and Dughal will toss the bladder ball between them. You must hit it as it moves through the air.” Ramsey raised his hand. “Ready yourself.”

The crowd was still and quiet.

Lyall took his position, feet planted apart. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it.

Ramsey lowered his hand, and the squires began tossing the bladder back and forth, arcing through the air and hitting their outstretched hand with a slap.

Before it had exchanged hands twice over, Lyall took swift aim….and shot.

The ball flew back and away and fell hard to the ground with a thud, the arrow true and protruding out and upwards from the ball.

The crowd shouted and clapped, and Lyall took his first real breath.

“Good, lad,” Ramsey said and clapped him on his shoulder. Pain shot through his body and sliced down his bow arm. His muscles were filled with ague from over practice, and his shoulder was especially weak and sore from drawing back the bowstring constantly for so many days. He winced, slightly, but stood there steely and straight as a finely-honed sword,.

I dare not show a single sign of weakness.

Ramsey pulled an apple from the leather sache hanging his elaborately gilded belt and held it up for all to see. “We shall now test your accuracy on a smaller target.”

Lyall readied himself, his eye on the center of the red fruit, the bowstring pulled back so taut it would have sliced off his ear were he were not careful.

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 asked and 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 of war 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.