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sorrowfully.
    'Come on Robert.' I breathed. 'Try again. Don't let that Yorling beat you so easily.' Yet even as I said that I could not help but thrill at the skill with which the Yorling turned his horse, dismounted one of our men by casually cutting away one of his stirrups and tipping him out of the saddle, and readying himself to meet Robert's next charge.
    'Go on Robert,' I spoke louder, knowing that Mother was also watching, judging my man by his prowess against this vibrant intruder. The rest of the battle mattered nought to me. My entire attention had coalesced to that single encounter between my Robert, broad of shoulder, slow of speech, and the lithe, elegant black haired Yorling with the bright yellow jack and the long sword that he carried with such grace and used with such skill.
    'Go on Robert!' I shouted the words loudly enough for them to be heard above the noise of the battle so that both participants in my own little duel heard and both glanced up to the head of the tower. I caught Robert's eye and gave him a wave of encouragement, just as the Yorling kicked in his spurs.
    'Robert!' I yelled.
    He waved and met the Yorling's attack with a wicked swing of his sword that, if it had connected, would have taken that man's head clean off his shoulders. Instead, the Yorling lifted his sword to parry. I heard the clatter of steel quite distinctly from where I stood and saw the Yorling swerve his horse to the side and slice through Robert's stirrups, as he had done to that anonymous Tweedie a few moments before. Robert swayed in the saddle and tried to maintain his balance, until the Yorling closed, put one foot underneath his and tipped him out.
    'Robert!' I screamed.
    As Robert sprawled face forward, the Yorling lifted his sword and delivered a resounding whack across his rump with the flat of his sword. I heard my mother grunt with either satisfaction or malice or a combination of both, and then the Yorling was raising his sword high in the air as his horse danced on its back hooves.
    'For you, my fair Lady of Lethan,' he said, kissed the blade of his sword and saluted us. Or rather, he saluted me for his gaze fixed on me before he gave the most charming of smiles and, shouting to his men, galloped away.
    I watched him go, marvelling at his horsemanship as he darted between Father and Archie of Whitecleuch and headed straight up the hillside with his men following, whooping and yelling as if they were demons from the deepest pits of hell that the Reverend Romanes so loves to gabble on about. That man was so thrilling that I watched him long after he disappeared into the dark. I wondered who he was and why he was here and where he was going. I wondered other things as well, but they are for my own private thoughts and should not be allowed out to graze, lest you think more ill of me than you probably already do. I knew that my Mother thought ill of me that September day.
    'Well,' Mother broke my thoughts with her usual stern rebuke. 'Are you not going to see if he is injured?' She was watching me, her head to one side and her eyes narrow, wise and all-seeing.
    'He is all right,' I stared into the night.
    'He is lying there groaning on the ground.' Mother nodded to where Robert lay.
    'Oh!' I recollected myself. 'Oh Robert!' And I nearly ran down the stairs in my sudden anxiety to redeem myself. And to ensure that Robert was all right, of course.

Chapter Three
    LETHAN VALLEY
SEPTEMBER 1585
    'Robert!'
    He lay on his face, groaning softly. I put my hands under him and helped haul him upright, with his face twisted in pain and one hand on his haunches. 'Are you badly hurt?'
    'Not too bad,' he said, trying to be brave. 'That devil in the yellow jack unhorsed me and landed a foul stroke.'
    'I was watching,' I said. 'Luck was not with you.'
    I saw Mother embracing Father, both of them chatting noisily, as if they were young people in love and not grey-haired oldsters who should have known better and behaved with more