Laird of the Wind (13 page)

The bird's jesses—two straps, each several inches long and knotted to slitted leather anklets looped around the legs—had tangled around a branch, probably snagging when the bird perched. James noted with surprise that the hawk wore no bells on its legs. Perhaps the falconer had removed the customary bells in order to fly the bird silently after waterfowl, and the bird had flown off then. Had the bells been attached, the owner might have found his lost bird already.

As he drew closer, the goshawk bated, violently flinging itself backward off the branch to hang upside down, wings thrashing. Helplessly caught by its jesses, the bird could damage its feathers, injure itself, even die.

James straddled a thick tree limb and took off his waist and sword belts, dropping them to the ground. Then he unlaced his padded leather tunic, stripped it off, and removed his woolen tunic after that, letting them fall as well.

He was careful to make each movement slow while he slipped off his linen shirt and draped it over his bare shoulder. He did not want to approach the bird bare-skinned, for the talons could be vicious, but his shirt would serve as a trap.

Clad in breeches, hose and boots, he rose higher in the tree, murmuring softly and soothingly. Years of raising hawks like this one had taught him to speak in a soft, patient tone that was typical to falconers, and he had developed a relaxed, alert way of moving, a necessary skill for falconry as well as for forest rogues. When he came close enough, he cautiously extended his hand toward the goshawk.

The quickest way to retrieve a bird from a tree, he knew, was to distract and dazzle it with a bright lantern light. Lacking that, a slow approach would have to do. The bird was trapped, and could not fly away, but James knew he could scare it literally to death.

As he drew nearer, the goshawk squawked, helpless where it hung, and beat its wings furiously. Green leaves spit down to the ground, and the treetop shook. James paused and waited for the bird to exhaust itself. He had seen such outbursts in many trained birds, and knew it would not last long.

He narrowed his eyes to examine the bird while it spent its frenzy. One wing moved unevenly; James hoped that indicated a sprain rather than a more serious injury, or one of a variety of illnesses that affected hawks.

"Easy, you bird," he said, when the flurrying wings quieted. "Hush, you bonny gos." He slid closer.

Quick and sure, he slipped his hand behind the bird, scooping under the tail to grasp the body firmly between the legs. The surprise of contact sent the goshawk into a limp state of shock, as James expected.

Goshawks taken in the wild had a nervous tendency to fall into a faint when grabbed by a human. Trained birds, who no longer feared humans, did not fall over so readily. But this bird had been free long enough to revert to wildness.

He slipped his dagger from his belt and cut the jesses. The leather was dry, cracked, and filthy; the goshawk must have flown away from its owner weeks ago, he thought. And the goshawk had fallen into shock immediately, another clue that it had been free for at least a few days, and probably longer.

He gently righted the bird's head, ready to restrain the goshawk quickly, for he did not want to contend with an awake, angry, powerful bird. He held the limp goshawk in one hand and tugged a shirtsleeve over the finely shaped head, deftly trapping the wings and compact body inside. He wound the rest of the shirt around the body and padded the talons as best he could. With the goshawk cradled in one arm, he looked down. Isobel stood at the base of the tree, staring up at him with her mouth open. She held his tunic in one hand.

"What are you doing?" she called.

"Rescuing a hawk," he answered. He began to make his way down the tree carefully, using the strength of his free arm. In the midst of his descent, the bird stirred, squealed, and began an awkward struggle.

James leaned his weight against a sturdy branch and murmured soothing nonsense, stroking the bird's head and breast as if he held a babe in his arms. All the while, he avoided the vicious, powerful feet. When the exhausted bird quieted, James climbed down, dropped to the ground and straightened.

Isobel clutched his tunic to her chest, her eyes wide as she stared first at James, and then at the curious bundle he held. He could not help but notice that her eyes were as fine a blue as the clear morning sky.

"You found a hawk?" She blinked at it in disbelief.

"A goshawk. Its jesses were tangled in the tree," he said. She nodded and bent to retrieve his leather hauberk, wincing when she jarred her injured arm, which was still bound to her side. James took the leather garment from her, and his belts. "How is your wound?" he asked.

"It hurts some," she answered, looking down.

"Then it must hurt a good deal, for you to admit that much," he said. "We should change the bandaging before we travel on."

"'Tis fine," she said.

He shot her a doubtful glance and walked toward the glade.

"What will you do with the hawk?" she asked, following him.

"I do not know," he said. "But I could not leave him there to die." He dropped the garments he carried, and sat on a fallen tree trunk, his feet deep in ferns. He held the squawking, trembling hawk in his lap and studied it.

Isobel sat on the trunk with him and leaned toward the bird curiously. "My father had goshawks in his mews. They were gray like that, with the white band over the eye, but much larger."

"Then they were females," he said.

"We released them early in the siege," she said. "Eustace was for eating them, but I asked him to let them go."

James glanced at her. "Was there a male gos in your father's mews? If so, this could be one of Aberlady's birds."

She shook her head. "I do not remember a smaller goshawk."

"Well, he came from someone's mews," James said. "Settle down, you bird. Let's look at you." Wary of the talons, he began to probe the body gently. "His crop is full enough—his breastbone is well padded—so he's had good hunting while he's been free."

"You are sure it's male? I know little about hawks, though my father kept them. I did not go in the mews often, and I have never been hunting." She leaned closer.

"Watch the talons," he warned. She pulled back. "Size is the best way to tell a male from a female," he explained. "This bird is much smaller than a female goshawk would be at this age. So the males are called tiercels, a third smaller." He stroked the delicate feathering over the head, the only exposed part of the bird. "His feathers have begun to change from the brown of an immature bird to gray, but he's not a full adult yet."

"He's beautiful," she murmured. "And his eyes are as bright as red gold. Can you unwrap him?"

"Not yet. The swaddling helps calm him," James answered. "That orange-gold color in his eyes means he's under two years old. Next spring those irises will be colored red as blood." He held the hawk upright, and the tiercel squawked at him. "Och, lad. He has a stubborn spirit," James added with a chuckle. "He does not like being tucked in my shirt."

"Will you keep him, or will you release him?"

"I cannot let him go just yet. His left wing moves awkwardly, and it feels swollen at the joint. I hope 'tis but a sprain. When he can fly well, I may let him go." He tipped his head and looked at the bird. "Then again, I may keep him. Goshawks are fine hunting birds."

"But he belongs to someone," Isobel said.

He shrugged. "He could have flown a very long way. I think he's been free for a while. His owner will have given him up for dead or lost."

"'Tis against the law to keep a found trained hawk or falcon," she said, frowning. "Men have been hanged for that."

He met her gaze evenly. "If I am caught, my girl, they will hang me for more than this hawk, and you know it."

Isobel lowered her eyelids silently.

James stroked the bird's breast, watching her. "Besides, that is an English hawking law. Scotland does not have such a rule. Think you that English law should prevail in Scotland?"

he asked smoothly. She shook her head, an unconsciously graceful motion. He wished he could believe that she meant it.

James rose and walked over to lay the bird breast down on the rumpled nest of his cloak. "Well, it hardly matters if I keep him," he said, squatting on his haunches beside the bird, scratching its head while it chittered unhappily at him. "We'll never find the owner. And I do not intend to look. I have other matters on my mind."

He picked up his bow as he spoke, and carried it to the middle of the glade. Kneeling, he bent the bow in an arch and thrust the ends into the earth.

"What are you doing?" Isobel asked.

"Making him a perch. I cannot leave the poor thing cast like that for long. He does not like me overmuch as 'tis." He went back to the bird, who rocked and struggled on the cloak. "Isobel, help me, if you will," James said as he knelt down.

"Aye." She knelt beside him, reaching out her left hand to touch the bird's trembling back, her right arm held snug against her body. "What should I do?"

"Can you keep the hawk still, with just the one hand?"

"I think so." She held the bird down.

James reached down to his own ankle and began to unwind one of the leather thongs that bound his thick woolen hose to his leg. When he had freed one long strap and readjusted the stocking, he cut the thong with his dagger, producing two pieces, each less than a foot long.

"Hold him fast," he said. "I'll tie these on as new jesses, and then take him out of the shirt."

She kept her hand on the goshawk's back while James tied the thongs to the bird's leather anklets. He snatched his fingers away a few times to avoid the clenching talons.

"Be careful," he told her as he worked. "He'll foot you quick. And he could crack your fingers with hardly an effort."

Isobel eyed the bird nervously, but did not move her hand. James noted her courage with silent approval. He unwound the linen shirt, then took her slender hand in his to guide it beneath the cloth.

"Hold him here, behind the shoulders. Firmly, now."

While she did, he unlaced the thick leather guard that he wore over his forearm for protection while shooting his bow, and shifted it to cover the back of his hand. Then he picked up one of his discarded belts and wrapped it around his hand to protect his thumb and fingers.

"Lacking a leather gauntlet," he remarked, "'tis the best I can do. Let go, lass. We'll see if he remembers how to come to the fist."

He wound the makeshift jesses around his fingers. Then he slipped the shirt off the bird.

Isobel leaped back. The goshawk, freed from the restraining cloth, flapped its wings and rose upward, shrieking furiously.

Chapter 9

"The first rule of hawking," James said, "is to hold fast."

He extended his arm, feeling the tension in his shoulder and chest muscles as he resisted the bird's considerable upward force. The goshawk thrashed and flapped at the limit of the tightened jesses.

James tilted his head to avoid another fierce pass of a wingtip. "Isobel, there is some cooked meat in my pouch over there. Can you get it, and tear it into bits?"

She did so, and came forward cautiously, glancing up at the furious, struggling hawk. She handed the meat to James, who took it in his free hand while Isobel stepped away quickly.

Her gaze, like his, centered on the frenzied bird and its wide, sweeping wings, its flexing talons. James held his arm out patiently, though his muscles ached from the effort of resisting the hawk's strength.

With the other hand he held the food. He would not exert force over the bird. He knew the tiercel was hungry and tired, and he hoped that the appeal of easy food, and the discipline of previous training, would assert itself.

Finally the goshawk raked its wings more slowly and settled on James's offered fist with a decisive flapping. The bird cocked a resentful golden eye toward him.

"Ah," James said, smiling approval. "Here, you stubborn, bonny bird." He transferred the meat to his leather-covered hand. The bird tore at the food immediately. "'Tis cooked, but 'tis all there is. Take it, aye, and the rest." He watched the bird eat. "Ah, look at him, Isobel," he said impulsively, grinning at her. "He's on the fist faster than I thought."