Laird of the Wind (16 page)

She knew that James held the gos on his leather-wrapped fist, for she could hear the creak of the leather and the scritch-scratch of the bird's talons. She heard James murmur often to the bird. His deep, soft voice had a comfortable texture, like warm wool on a cold night.

And she knew that he held the reins of her horse firmly, for she could feel the tension in the strap. His leg occasionally brushed hers as they rode, sending quick leaps of pleasurable sensation through her.

James had ridden close beside her along the way, speaking kindly, telling her what he knew about the Ettrick Forest. He told her that he had lived in caves in the Ettrick for almost ten years, and she sensed his respect and love for his adopted home. He was a natural storyteller, spinning entertaining, exciting tales about his life as an outlaw and a Scottish rebel.

He described years spent running with Wallace and his men, engaging in skirmishes and trickery, weighing strategies and risks. He told of acts of cruelty, and courage, and cleverness. With deft words and the mellow tones of his voice, he painted images of intelligent, spirited men who believed that freedom should exist in Scotland, and sacrificed much for that end.

But he told her nothing of how he had come to this life, and she did not ask. She listened, and was glad that the earlier conflicts between them seemed to have entered a truce.

"My uncle was partly blind," James said, after a while. "He was like that when I fostered with him as a lad."

She tilted her head in interest. "Your uncle the falconer?"

"Aye. He was blinded in the left eye by a trained eagle."

"An eagle! I did not know they could be trained."

"If the falconer is skillful enough, they can. Year ago, Uncle Nigel caught one in the mountains, an eyas straight from the nest, and raised it and trained it. A magnificent bird, though nearly impossible to manage. The bird was feeding on Nigel's fist one day. Birds of prey have a habit of swiping their beaks to clean them, and the eagle swiped against Nigel's head, taking the eye."

"God in heaven! And he trained birds after that?"

"Aye, he continued as royal falconer for years afterward," James said. She heard a note of pride, and a little amusement, in his voice. "He wore his eye patch like a crown. A falconer missing his left eye is most likely to have trained an eagle," he explained. "He had the respect of others just for trying it."

"Does he still keep birds?"

"He died a few years ago," James said quietly. "After King Alexander died, he went into retirement in Dunfermline, and made hawking equipment. He kept one old peregrine that had belonged to King Alexander. That bird was over thirty years old when she died."

"'Tis ancient," Isobel said impulsively. She heard James's soft snort of laughter. "For a falcon or a hawk, I mean."

"Aye, well, I'm more ancient than that," he said wryly. "Though I suppose you are scarce twenty."

She lifted her head. "I will be twenty-six come winter." Most women of my age would be wed, with bairns of their own."

"And you have not done that. Why?"

She shrugged. "I am a poor bargain. Few men would want a blind prophetess for a wife."

He was silent for so long that she tilted her head toward him as if to seek his reply.

"I think you would be a fine bargain," he murmured finally.

"Aye, to win you back what you want," she said sourly. He wanted a certain woman; she marveled at how strong his love must be. A ripple of jealousy went through her.

"The man who gains such a bargain will be fortunate," he said. Her insides swirled, and she felt her cheeks grow hot with a furious blush. His voice, a rich blend of soft and rough, felt as intimate as if he touched her bare skin.

"Sir Ralph is my father's choice for me," she said.

"He is not your choice?"

"He has little interest in me, but great interest in what I possess."

"Aberlady?"

"Prophecy." She tilted her head toward him, though she could not give him the direct stare she wished.

"Ah," he said. "Is that the way of it."

She waited for him to explain his dry comment, but he was silent. Riding beside him, she listened to the muted rhythm of the horses' hooves, the tiercel's faint squawks, and the steady murmur of the forest—rustling leaves, wind, and birdsong.

After a while, she wanted to hear his voice again, as if the tapestry of sounds around her lacked a centerpiece, a focus.

"You said you fostered in Dunfermline, with your uncle."

"Aye, from the time I was ten until I was fifteen," he said easily, as if it pleased him to talk with her.

"I know the place. 'Tis where Saint Margaret is buried, and other Scottish royalty," Isobel said. "I have not been to the abbey myself, but I have heard 'tis beautiful."

"'Tis a great abbey, a holy place. The pilgrimage route goes through there," James said. "But King Edward declared it a den of robbers, since Scottish nobles met there to make plans against the English. So he burned the place down last year. An atrocious deed. His own sister was buried there."

Isobel gasped. "Was the abbey ruined?"

"The church was spared, by grace of God. I have a friend among the monks there. Most of the monks, last year, had no quarters after the great fire."

"And your uncle's house? Was it safe?"

"It burned," he said. "He and his wife retired to a small house in the forest. She lives there now, since his death."

"Your aunt Alice?"

"Aye. Ho, lass, lean left. There's a low branch." James tugged at her arm, and she ducked as branches swept over her.

"I am causing you a good deal of bother. I am sorry."

"I do not mind." His tone was gentle, the same one he used with the hawk.

When the horses began to descend a slope, Isobel leaned back, gripping her mount's mane, until the ground leveled again. She felt the wind blow through her hair, felt the heat of the sun on her face, and heard fainter, higher birdsong.

"We've left the forest," she said.

"Only to cross a moor. We'll enter cover again, and follow another forest track soon. The Ettrick Forest is made up of a good deal more than forestland—there are moors, hills, lochs and burns within its boundaries as well."

The hawk kakked loudly then, and Isobel heard the wild thrashing of wings. "What is it?" she asked.

"Just a bate," James said. Isobel felt the horses stop, while the frenzied whirr of the goshawk's wings continued, slowed, and ceased. "Calm down, lad," James soothed. "Back to the fist, then." After a few moments, the horses stepped forward. "He saw a pair of deer run past. They startled him." Isobel nodded, and they rode on.

"Your hawk needs a name," she said. "Are there rules for naming a hunting bird?"

"Nay, though I have always called my hawks and horses after heroes and ladies from the tales of King Arthur."

She tipped her head curiously. "Why so?"

"When I was a lad, my parents gave me a painted manuscript in French containing many of the Arthur tales. I read them again and again. I suppose the names stayed in my mind."

"I read them, too, and loved them. My mother owned a copy in English, with beautiful pictures. You called your other hawk after Elaine, Lady of Astolat, who died for love of Lancelot?"

"Aye. 'Twas a prophetic name." His grim tone reminded her of his earlier remark: the bird had been killed by an English arrow. She waited in the darkness that surrounded her, and wondered if he would tell her more, for it clearly sorrowed him. But he said nothing.

She heard leaves rustle, smelled the tang of greenery, and felt the cool and the quiet in the air as they entered the forest again. The pace of the horses slowed. The hawk kakked.

"He does need a name," James said. "What shall it be?"

"Arthurian, you said. Hmm." She frowned. "Arthur, Ector, Gawain, and Tristan all kept hawks or went hunting... ah!" She smiled. "Gawain!"

"Gawain the goshawk?" He sounded doubtful.

"It means hawk of May, or hawk of the plain, in the Welsh tongue. Ho, Gawain," she said, speaking toward the hawk. She heard the soft stir of his wings. "It suits him well, I think." James chuckled. "Better than you know. My Aunt Alice keeps a female red-tailed hawk called Ragnell."

Isobel laughed. "Gawain and Ragnell were paired in one of the legends."

"Aye. The prophetess chose that name, I think." She heard amusement in his voice, and imagined a sparkle in his blue eyes.

She smiled toward James. "Sir Gawain promised to wed Lady Ragnell, though she was a hideous old hag," she said. "How can that name suit a beautiful hawk?"

"Believe me, it suits her," James said with wry certainty.

"She wants all her will, like the woman in the story. And she is—an unusual looking bird."

Isobel smiled. "She sounds like an interesting bird. I am eager to meet her."

"Oh, you will meet her."

Isobel sobered instantly. She admonished herself for laughing so freely with him. Regardless of his kind assistance and his patience now, the outlaw had taken her captive.

Of course she would meet the female hawk, she reminded herself sourly. He meant to take her to his aunt's house and secure her there as his prisoner.

She sighed, and stared into the frustrating blackness that enveloped her, and rode forward into an uncertain future.

Chapter 11

Sunlight streamed down over the forest path. Isobel felt the warmth as the horses stepped into sunny pools and back into cool shadow. She arched her lower back wearily and pushed a hand through her bedraggled hair. Her woolen gown and surcoat had become uncomfortably warm, and she was growing more irritable due to pain, hunger, and fatigue.

And the darkness in her eyes lingered, making her feel as if she balanced precariously on a razored edge, hovering between fear and faith, waiting for her sight to return.

She heard the tiercel bate again, another of several bates during the journey. The horses stopped, and Isobel heard James speak soothingly to the bird. She was sure that the outlaw was as tired and irritable as she was, for lately he had scarcely spoken to her, though he rode close beside her.

Finally the goshawk quieted, and they continued on. Each time she heard the rustle of his wings, Isobel expected to hear the tiresome fury of another bate.

"Do you regret taking on the hawk?" she asked. "He's a difficult bird."

"I could not leave him where he was," James said. "He needed help. And he cannot fly well, as yet."

"Do you regret taking me?" she asked after a moment. "I cannot fend for myself just now, either."

"Well," he drawled, "at least you do not throw tantrums."

She laughed softly, and let the horse carry her onward. "Is your aunt's house close now?" she asked after a while.

"Aye," he said. "We'll walk around the base of a slope, and the house is just past that."

Soon James led them off the earthen track to ride between the trees. Isobel cried out in alarm as a branch knocked into her. She put up an arm to shield herself.

She felt the touch of his hand, firm and strong, on her knee. "I'll go ahead to bend the branches out of your way," he said, and moved forward, Isobel's stallion following.

When the horses halted again, Isobel turned toward James. "Are we there?" she asked.

"Just at the edge of the clearing," he answered. "I always stop here at this place and look. 'Tis a welcome sight, this."

"Oh." Disappointment plunged through her, for she could not see what he saw. "It must be lovely."

"Aye." He leaned toward her. She felt the solid press of his shoulder, felt the warmth of his face near hers, heard his soft breathing. "The clearing is just ahead of us," he said. His quiet voice had a rich, sultry depth. "The forest opens suddenly, like a green frame around a painting. The clearing beyond is filled with golden sunlight. The grass is sprinkled with dandelions, and a small stone house sits at the center."

She tipped her head and listened, entranced, easily able to create the picture over the solid darkness in her mind.