Laird of the Wind (47 page)

"Do not go anywhere just yet," he said, "I have a few questions for you." He shoved him backward until Ralph stumbled against a tree. James jammed the long side of his bow under the shorter man's chin, pinning him high against the trunk, almost pulling him off his feet. Ralph grasped at the bow with both hands. "Did you touch her?" James asked, towering over him.

"She is my wife," Ralph said. "'Tis not your concern."

"Did—you—touch—her?" James enunciated in a deep growl.

Ralph blinked rapidly and did not answer. James tightened the press of the bow on his throat.

Isobel murmured to her father, and he turned to help her dismount from the horse. With the hawk on her fist, she lifted the hem of her blue silk gown and crossed the path. Quentin and Patrick followed, aiming half-drawn arrows at Ralph.

"James," she said. "Stop. He did not touch me."

"Is it true?" James asked Ralph, who nodded, his face red.

"Isobel, get back," James snapped, without looking at her. "Now tell me this," he said to Ralph. "Why did you betray William Wallace? Were you part of a conspiracy?"

"Menteith brought the others," Ralph gasped. "I did not learn their names. Wallace stepped beyond his place," he went on. "His rebellion interfered with Scottish nobles who sought peace with England. 'Twas—'twas decided that he should be—prevented from acting further. We wanted peace with England."

James made a sound of loathing. "You wanted land and wealth. So you helped destroy the greatest voice for freedom in this land! And then you went after me, starting the rumor that I was a traitor, and helping to hunt me down. All that," he said, pressing the bow close, "to ensure your claim to Wildshaw."

Isobel gasped and placed her hand over her mouth in shock. On her fist, the hawk beat his wings and squawked.

"Aye." Ralph narrowed his eyes. "And now the woman you want is mine, and lady of Wildshaw. That pleases me well," he rasped out, nearly choking, thought his eyes glittered.

James stared at him, his breath heaving. Isobel smothered a gasp as she sensed the tension in him rise to a frightening level. James stepped back suddenly, pulled the bow away, and landed a violent blow to Ralph's belly that dropped the man to his knees with a retching groan.

James turned away, his face dark with anger. "Quentin," he growled, "make her a widow if you want. I will not sully my hands with that foul bastard any further."

Ralph uttered a roar and leaped after James, dragging on his legs, pulling both men to the ground. Isobel saw the flash of a dagger as it plunged toward James's back.

She screamed, and the hawk bated furiously, pulling upward with such strength that he threw her off balance. She fell hard, in a tangle of blue silk, her gloved hand opening when she hit it against the ground.

The goshawk tore away from her fist in a flurry of wings. He veered and rose into the air, shrieking. Isobel stumbled to her feet and looked up at the vanishing hawk, then down, gasping with fright and panic, as James and Ralph wrestled with the dagger. The others gathered to watch, while Quentin, Patrick, and Margaret stood with their bows ready. But she knew none of them could shoot for fear of striking James unintentionally.

Ralph held the blade at James's throat, but James had a deadly grip on his wrist. They twisted and turned again, until James reared back and slammed his head against Ralph's brow viciously. Ralph fell back, the knife tumbling from his hand.

James lay panting, then rose to his knees. He stood and turned away slowly, wiping his face. Isobel stepped toward him, then screamed as Ralph rolled, snatched the dagger, and threw it blade first at James's back.

James whirled to avoid the blade, then leaped forward. But Ralph sank with a horrible cry as an arrow slammed into his chest. James dropped to his knees and bent over him.

After a moment, he looked up. "He is dead," he said flatly.

Isobel covered her face for a moment, overwhelmed, feeling suddenly ill in the aftermath of panic. She drew a shaking breath, and then looked up to see the others begin to gather around the body. Her father walked toward them, leading Father Hugh, who looked gray and stricken. A few guards stepped forward hesitantly, and Sir Gawain turned to speak with them.

James stood and strode toward Isobel. She rushed the few steps toward him, wrapping her arms around him. The warm bliss of his embrace surrounded her, and his lips touched her hair.

"Oh God, are you hurt?" she gasped.

"Nay," he said. She sank against him and sobbed out as deep relief and anguish both washed through her. "Soft, you," James murmured, holding her. "Soft, now."

"The hawk—" she said.

"I know," he whispered, cradling her head. "I know."

"James," she said after a moment. "Who shot Ralph?"

James was silent. She felt him lift his head and watch the circle of people. She looked up with him.

Margaret dropped to her knees beside Ralph's body, her bow still clutched in her hand, the nocked arrow gone. She covered her face with one hand and bent as if she sobbed.

Patrick knelt beside her and pulled her into his arms. He held her tenderly, his big, rough fingers gentling over her hair.

"Dear God," Isobel said.

"Meg saved my life," James said. "I owe her much."

"We both owe her much," Isobel said, touching a trembling hand to his sweaty, beard-rasped cheek.

Then, overhead, she heard a cry. Looking up, she saw a streak of gray and cream. "Gawain!" she breathed out. "Look!"

The goshawk sailed overhead like an angel, the underside of his wings pale, his legs golden. He canted sideways and sliced between some birches, calling as he went.

"We'll have to call him back to us," James said. "He's jessed and could get caught in a tree." Isobel nodded and stepped away from his arms. Her glove was still on her hand, and she tugged it on more firmly as she took off after the hawk. The bird cut between the trees, vanishing into the forest. Isobel ran after him, holding her skirts high on her legs as she sprinted. James came behind her, running left to take different angle into the forest.

The hawk sailed through the treetops, darting in and out, looking like a shining prince when the sunlight, burning off the mist, caught the tips of his wings.

Isobel watched him row the air, then glide, row and then glide, rising high and skimming low, effortless and masterful. She called out after him, holding out her arm. He dipped and wheeled in a circle, and she followed.

She heard James among the trees, calling and whistling as he ran. She saw him, dashing between the trees with loping strides, his hair winging out behind him. By then she had lost the bird, and stood still, breath heaving, to watch and wait.

Then she lifted her head and began to sing the kyrie. Her voice rose and fell with the natural rhythms of the chant. Moments later, hearing
kee-kee-kee-keer,
she ran toward it.

"
Ky-ri-e e-le-i-son."
To the left, the melody rose again as James took up the chant. Sung in his mellow voice, the plainsong rose and dipped, flowing like a tranquil current, easy as a hawk in flight. His voice created a serene veil of sound that drew Isobel toward him.

She ran to him, and glanced up to see the goshawk wheeling, gliding, landing in a high treetop. As she skimmed over the forest floor, skirts billowing, hair flying, she felt an exquisite sense of freedom that matched his glorious flight.

James waited. She slowed, her footfalls gentling on the ground as she went toward him. He pointed, and she looked up.

The goshawk sat on the pinnacle of a tall tree, the early sun striking silver off his wings and head.

James drew breath and began the chant again. The beautiful melody rose in a gentle arc, undulated and floated out. Isobel felt entranced as she listened. The hawk fluttered, dipped his head, and began to preen himself.

"Mayhap he will not come down, this time," she said softly. "He may have decided that he wants to be free."

James looked up. "I cannot blame the lad for that," he said, "but he's still jessed. If he wants to go free, we'll have to get him back long enough to remove the bands. Hold up your fist, Isobel."

She held up her arm and waited. The goshawk stared down at them, and lifted his head to the sun. Isobel began the kyrie, but the bird ignored her pointedly, turning away on his branch.

Then James took her hand in his, and began to sing with her. Their voices, deep and delicate together, wove and twined around each other, forming a perfect harmony. The chant swelled and grew, and filled the forest with tranquility.

The hawk raised his wings and streamed downward, angling toward them. He called as he came, as if joining in their song, and fluttered onto the outstretched glove. Isobel laughed softly, tears springing to her eyes as she looked up at James.

"He came back," she said. She smiled at him through the shining pearls of her tears. "He saw us as one master."

He wrapped the jesses securely around her fingers, then reached into the leather pouch at her waist to fetch a bit of food for the bird. While the goshawk bit at his reward, James looked down at her.

"He saw two masters, I think," he said, leaning close, "with one heart between them."

He lowered his head to give her a lingering kiss. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to nestle her against his body, while the hawk perched on her fist and blinked at them, chirring softly. James slanted his mouth deeply over hers. After a while, he drew back to look at her, sifting back a lock of her hair.

"Keep a good hold of that hawk for now," he said.

"Oh, I will," she answered, smiling.

He chuckled. "I meant that the wind is gentle today. Never let a hawk go on a soft downwind. 'Tis a sure way to lose a valuable bird."

"You never told me that before," she said.

"Ah, well," he said, drawing her close under his arm to walk with her. "There is much left to teach you, my lass."

She smiled. "I think I've learned a great deal about hawks already."

"Aye, you have. We both have," he murmured. "And there is more, my love—so much more."

Epilogue

James stripped out of his breeches and dove into the water, cleaving the still surface with a soft splash. The chill hit him like a shock, and he rose, gasped for air, and dipped again, gliding through the water, warming his muscles as he went, his powerful strokes creating wavelets of foam.

He swirled at the far end, kicked out and turned back, sensing the warmer water at that end, heated by the pile of hot stones that he had left in the shallow end. He surged upward in the center of the pool and stood chest high, sluicing back his hair and opening his eyes.

Isobel stood at the side of the pool, watching him. The firelight from a single torch flooded an amber glow over her tall, slender figure, clad in a simple silk chemise. She smiled.

"They have all gone to their beds," she said. "Quentin, Patrick, Margaret, Gawain—and Gawain the gos, too. We talked so long after you left us that I thought you would not wait for me."

He swirled the water with his hand and smiled. "I would wait for you forever, lass," he murmured, laying back in the water, floating a little, watching her. "Come in."

She tipped her head and smiled. "I was hoping that we would not have visitors to our high crag so soon after our marriage, husband," she murmured.

"We've been wed a month," he said, smiling. "And I have matters to attend to in the forest, and at Dunfermline. Quentin and Patrick, and Gawain of Avenel—who is proving a fine ally—brought some interesting reports to me."

"I know." She looked down and trailed a toe in the water.

"I wanted to hear the news everyone had, too. Margaret said that Alice and Eustace are getting on quite well. They walk in the woods and giggle like bairns. Margaret thinks it wonderful. Even Ragnell likes Eustace."

He grinned. "Now that is a good sign. Alice has been lonesome a long while. What of your father?"

"He and Henry Rose and Geordie have gone to Aberlady to look over the damage. My father wants to rebuild soon, but he wants to consult with the Guardians of the Realm on whether he should. If they ask him to wait for fear of another English attack, then he means to join your band of rogues."