Laird of the Wind (3 page)

He drew his cloak closer over his wide shoulders and dipped his fingers in holy water, crossing himself with a swift, practiced gesture. Cautiously he moved along the right aisle through shadows toward the nave. He was hunted daily now by English and Scots alike, but the summons of a friend brought him here to Dunfermline Abbey, out of the sanctuary of the forest. If he was discovered, his capture—or his escape—would disturb the hard-won peace of the abbey.

Last year, the English king had stayed here, summoning Scots nobles to pay him submission, and dispensing what he called justice. As he departed, King Edward had ordered the place burned, even though his own sister was buried beneath the abbey stones. The blackened ruins of the refectory and dormitory were a stone's throw from the church, which had survived.

He genuflected by the altar and moved past. In several years as a fugitive, he had never submitted to King Edward, unlike most Scottish nobles by now. He had taken a pledge of freedom for himself and for Scotland.

Months ago, he had been wounded in battle, captured with two of his cousins, thrown in an English dungeon. One cousin had died beside him and the other—a young woman—had been taken away. And still James had refused to promise fealty to King Edward.

What he had promised, ultimately, had been far worse.

As he walked, his tall warrior's build and gait naturally attracted glances, but he bowed his head and moved on. The scallop shell and brass saint's badge pinned to his cloak identified him as a penitent man. Dunfermline Abbey was a frequent stop along the pilgrimage route, so the disguise served him well.

He looked about for the one he was to meet after vespers. A few worshippers knelt or sat on benches, absorbed in prayer. The smell of incense lingered, and plainsong swelled in the church. He knew the melody—a kyrie he had sung countless times in what seemed another life.

Now his soul had rough edges. He had changed much.

He entered the chapel of Saint Margaret at the east end of the church, and moved toward the massive carved marble tomb of the long-ago Scottish queen. Kneeling in candlelight beside the plinth, he lit a new candle in homage to Margaret, a holy friend to pilgrims and those in need. He folded his hands and waited.

Footsteps, then a monk wearing the black robe of the Benedictine order entered the chapel and knelt beside him. The monk whispered a prayer, than glanced at James. He had a tonsure, brown hair, a long and familiar face.

"Brother, I have traveled far on a poor day, and hope for good news," James said.

"And I wish I had that for you, Jamie."

James glanced sharply at his friend, heart sinking. "He is dead?"

"Wallace is gone," the monk whispered.

James nodded, steeling himself against grief and anger.

"William Wallace was taken by foul treachery, Christ have mercy on his soul." The Benedictine shook his head. "We heard just days ago. Captured by treachery, brought to trial in London, found guilty of treason... and executed."

"Treason! He never declared fealty to King Edward," James murmured. "He was not an English subject. He was condemned on false grounds."

"Aye. They accused him of deeds he never committed—well, some he did, but naught to merit his fate. He was dragged to the gallows, hung until he scarcely lived. They took him down and—" Blair stopped. "I cannot say the rest, not here in this holy place."

"Tell me," James growled.

Blair murmured low, detailing cruelty and courage, while James listened in silence. His blood surged with sorrow and rage. A single arrow could have saved his friend untold suffering, had he only had the courage to—he clenched his hands, felt his spirit harden within him, as if the last tender feeling turned to stone.

"Martyr," John was saying. "His death will spark the Scottish cause to more fire, just when King Edward thought to extinguish it forever."

"True. John, join us again in the Ettrick Forest."

"An outlaw's life does not suit me now. I came here for peace, and to write an account of a great man's life. The truth of Wallace's deeds must be known. You belong in the forest, James, not I. You left our holy order years ago to join a cause you believed in. You were knighted on a bloody Scottish field, while I remained behind and took priestly vows."

"Yet we both ended up forest rogues. We need your weapon hand and your good sense once again. There are only a few who support me now. You must have heard the rumors."

"I know that you are hunted. I know Wallace was betrayed by Scotsmen—the lord of Menteith, for one. I hear he fled into England to be rewarded by Edward."

"Another rumor is that Wallace was betrayed by Sir James Lindsay of Wildshaw."

"Jesu! That I had not heard."

"So those who once gave me their support now turn their backs on me."

"You would never betray Will."

For a moment James wanted to confess what he had done while in English captivity, and the tragedy that had been the result. But he could not say it aloud. First he had something to do.

"I mean to find the man who arranged Wallace's capture," was all he said.

"Menteith?"

"He is one of them. I seek another. Ralph Leslie. He caused the death of one of my cousins, and has my cousin Margaret in his keeping. He commands a garrisoned castle, but I cannot get to him, or free her, with only four men at my back."

"There were once fifty and more following your command."

"Most have lost faith in me."

"I have faith in your purpose—but that is not enough men for the task. Where is Leslie?"

"King Edward made him constable of Wildshaw Castle."

"Ah. So you do have a quarrel with the man."

"Aye," James ground out. "He has my castle—and my cousin Margaret in his custody. I mean to offer a trade for her."

"What would he want so badly?"

"The prophetess of Aberlady," James said.

"You have her?" John asked in surprise. "Black Isobel of Aberlady?"

"I mean to get her," James answered smoothly.

"The English king will be furious if she is harmed. He values her."

"I will not harm her, just take her. Edward hates me already. I do not fear him."

"He wants her brought to him, so that she can divine for the English."

"Exactly. A valuable hostage. She predicts good tidings for the English, and bad fortune for the Scots. And she set a noose round my neck with her pretty tunes. But Leslie will trade Margaret for this so-called prophetess."

"Why would he want her?"

"She is his betrothed."

"A risky scheme, even foolhardy. Let your head rule, not your anger."

"I am a pilgrim and I seek wisdom from the prophetess of Aberlady. I doubt she speaks the truth, since she is paid for her words by the English, so they say."

John Blair frowned. "I heard that her father—Sir John Seton, a rebel knight—is in English custody now. Be careful—there could be English guards with her."

"I am in need of her counsel," James drawled. "And I want a hostage."

"If you keep her half so well as the hawks you train, she will be safe."

"I have learned much from hawking. Patience achieves goals."

"Honor and revenge are at cross purposes."

James stood. "Black Isobel condemned me along with Wallace with her rantings about hawks and eagles. She is a Scotswoman, but her false prophecies favor the English."

"Jamie—what if she is a true seeress?"

"Then she had better divine what I need to know. Farewell, John."

He left the chapel, pulling his hood up against the rain, walking quickly away from the abbey. The prophetess had caused him much trouble with that cursed hawk prediction, which many had heard of by now. He would like the truth behind that—but the damage was done.

Passing the hawthorn tree near the cemetery, he paused. Wallace's mother's remains lay beneath that tree; he remembered the morning that he and John Blair and Wallace had buried her there in a private, unmarked grave. Will had wanted it that way, had asked James to keep the secret forever. It was the least he could do for a friend.

He took a footpath down into the greenwood below the abbey hill, and within moments, ran into the forest.

Chapter 2

The sandstone walls of Aberlady Castle glowed in the sunset as Isobel Seton climbed the steps to the battlement. She walked resolutely, head high and proud, her gaze trained on the crenellated wall ahead. Reaching up, she pulled off her white silk veil and undid her black braid, still walking forward steadily. But beneath her gray gown and surcoat, her knees trembled.

Hunger weakened her, she told herself firmly. Not fear. She would not show that. Every day at set of sun through ten weeks of besiegement, she had come up here to show the English that she was still here, still defiant.

The breeze lifted her hair as she went toward the crenellations above the foregate. She looked down through an embrasure. Sunset light poured over the incline that led up to the castle: a rocky slope pitted with ditches. Below, a hundred English soldiers gathered near cookfires and tents near wooden palisades set up for protection. Their weapons would be close at hand, she knew, although the day's fighting had quieted.

Her father's men—hers now, she reminded herself, for Sir John Seton had been captured by the English months ago—watched from positions along the wall-walk. Eleven Scotsmen remained of Aberlady's garrison; sixty had manned the battlements ten weeks past.

She glanced behind her. The bailey, with its massive stone keep in the center, was deserted, its thatched-roof outbuildings empty of workers, supplies, and animals. They had let the horses go during the one truce day they had been allowed. A few of the hawks had been released; the rest had been eaten by now.

And one corner of the bailey had become a graveyard for those who had died from injury, illness, or starvation. Soon they might all be buried in that bleak corner.

Her men nodded as she passed, their bows held ready. They did not object to their mistress walking the battlements, knowing she was safe from the English camped below. The Southron enemies did not dare harm Black Isobel, the prophetess of Aberlady. Her value protected her. Now and then, the English would shout up to her that King Edward wanted her brought to him, whole and unharmed.

The English king approved of Black Isobel's predictions of the defeat of the Scots at Falkirk, the recent fall of Stirling Castle to the English, and the capture and execution of the freedom fighter William Wallace. King Edward was eager to hear the Scottish prophetess foretell more triumphs for the English. He wanted her to do that in his presence.

She had tried to prevent Wallace's death by sending a warning, so the news of his execution had made her feel ill. She had stood on the battlements and listened as the siege commander had shouted that she would be well rewarded for helping the English king.

But she had wrapped her note of refusal around an arrow shaft. One of her men had delivered by shooting it quite accurately into the commander's thigh while he sat his horse. After that, the siege had tightened. The English had brought in engines to batter the outer gate, and their archers had sent flaming arrows over the walls of Aberlady.

Now a cool breeze stirred past as she stood on the high battlement, spreading her hair like a glossy black banner. She welcomed the effect, raising her chin, standing proudly. In the encampment below, English soldiers gazed up at her, while others practiced with weapons or packed the ditches leading to the castle gates with rubble and branches. A few men repaired the wooden framework of one of the two siege engines used to batter the thick walls.

The delicious smell of meats roasting over English fires made her stomach rumble miserably. Chain mail glimmered in the sunset as the English ate and talked and settled for the night. In the morning they would begin another battle, she knew. But Aberlady's few defenders were weak from hunger and could not withstand another onslaught.

Isobel looked around. The castle rested upon a high dark crag with cliffs on three sides, set on a vast moor, the place was said to be impenetrable, unbreachable. But they were not impervious to starvation.