Laird of the Wind (28 page)

"What happened, Jamie?" she asked quietly.

He stared out over the misty forest, and sighed. With a knuckle, he gently stroked Gawain's breast feathers and murmured to the bird.

Isobel waited patiently. She knew he had heard her question, and thought about his answer. But she wondered if he would choose to tell her.

"Astolat and I used to come up here and watch," he finally said. "I would watch for Southrons, and she would watch for grouse, for larks, for partridge. If I released her to fly at quarry up here, she would bring it back to me each time. If I did not set her to flight, she would perch calmly, even if a tempting bit of bird went past."

"She was a remarkable hawk, you said."

"Aye," he said. He looked around, his eyes narrowed as they scanned the forest. The wind lifted his hair from his shoulders. "From up here, I could always see who went through the forest to Wildshaw. I was already spending most of my time here with Wallace and others, though my brother held Wildshaw. But that day, 'twas shortly after Falkirk. My brother had been killed there, with two of my cousins—Alice's sons. I had gone home to Wildshaw, then spent a day or so with Alice. After leaving her house, I came up to the Craig to tend to... some matters of rebellion. I had not been home for days.

"That morning," he continued, "I saw Southrons riding through the forest, a large group, fitted for war. I went down with a patrol. We split up to scout the situation, and realized that they were headed for Wildshaw. Astolat was with me."

The goshawk shifted restively on his fist, flapping his wings. James paused to whisper to him, and Isobel noticed that his patience and soft tone prevented a bate. She waited for him to speak again.

"Astolat saw my attacker before I did," he said. "She raised her wings as she sat on my fist, and took the arrow that had been aimed at me." He paused. "Straight into her breast."

Isobel caught her breath in sympathy. "Did she act apurpose?" she asked, amazed.

"I doubt it. Hawks are too wild for that. But she was always different, that gos. Later, my men were convinced that she sacrificed herself to protect my life."

"A hard loss to bear," she said. "You loved her."

He drew his brows together. "I did, in a way. She was more strong-willed and loyal than many people I have known. But for one man," he murmured, "and one lass, long ago."

She was certain that he spoke of William Wallace, but she wondered about the girl. His quiet voice gentled when he mentioned her. An empty ache bloomed inside Isobel, and she realized with mild surprise that she felt jealousy—toward the hawk he had loved so well, and toward the unknown girl.

"Loyalty is important to you," she murmured.

"'Tis essential to me," he said bluntly.

She nodded, taking that in. "Did you love the lass?"

"I did," he said. "In a way. We were both young, and did not know much of love, or of each other. But I was fond of her. I admired her kind nature. And she had a fine laugh." He smiled, rueful and fleeting. "We were betrothed, and had been for years on my father's wish. When I gave up the seminary, he decided that I needed marriage to settle me. But the wars, and my commitment to Wallace, delayed the marriage."

Silence lengthened between them. The goshawk chittered. "Elizabeth was as loyal as Astolat," he said. "Sweet lass, she died unfairly, shortly after Astolat was killed." He spoke with a new edge to his voice. The air between them seemed heavier somehow, as if weighted with regret or sorrow. Beyond the stern beauty of his profile, Isobel saw the glimmer of deep hurt in his eyes. "She was at Wildshaw with her old nurse. Elizabeth sometimes acted as chatelaine, since my mother and father were dead, and my brother and I were often absent."

"She was there when Wildshaw was taken?" Isobel asked in a stunned whisper.

"Aye." He stared out over the forest, his chin high, his face set hard. "An English arrow took Astolat in the morning. By afternoon, Elizabeth was gone as well, in a fire set by the English with flaming arrows. They marched through the burning gates of Wildshaw Castle, and killed those they did not take prisoner. One man survived to escape. He found us, and told me how Elizabeth had died." He closed his eyes, turned his head.

"Jamie, dear God." The truth of what he had endured that day slammed through her gut. "You witnessed the fire?" She gazed at him in horror and sympathy.

"Aye, and heard the screams within. But we did not sit idly by," he said. "We took as many Southron lives as we could, though there were close to two hundred armed and horsed men against fifteen on foot. We had just suffered a great loss to the English at Falkirk. We lacked the spirit to win."

"Do you know who was responsible for the attack?"

"Only in part," he said. "But I know that Ralph Leslie was with the English commander."

"I did not think he was a Southron sympathizer then."

"He has changed allegiance often. I am sure he was there. He was with the party that captured Margaret and I last March, and I recognized him from Wildshaw. Some of the faces from that day, years ago, are seared into my memory," he said huskily.

"You have a bitter quarrel against the English," she said. "Against Ralph."

"I do," he agreed. He closed his eyes. "I tried to get through the gate to save her. I would have walked through fire for her—for any one of them in that castle—I swear it," he said fiercely. "But I was wounded, and dragged back by my men."

Isobel gasped. "'Tis what Ralph told Alice he did for me, at Aberlady! Jamie—he must have been there, at Wildshaw. He must have seen you do that, to think up such a deed for himself!" "Aye," he ground out.

She heard the anger and the pain in his voice. "Ralph lied, but you had the true courage to try to save your love that day."

He stared out over the forest and did not speak. She saw a muscle twitch in the angle of his jaw, saw a flush spread in his cheek. Sympathy washed through her, and she stepped closer, pressing her hand on his hard-wrought forearm.

"James," she said. "What happened at Wildshaw was inevitable. You could not have saved her. You would have died too." She rubbed her fingers over his arm. "I am sorry that it happened. But I... I am glad that you did not die that day."

Something flickered across his features. He glanced at her swiftly, and away. "I avenged her death," he said fiercely. "Without mercy. For weeks afterward. For months." He drew a long breath. "I may still be avenging it, even now. But those bloody deeds did naught to appease what I felt. Every Southron I killed only added to the—to the hollowness I felt inside."

Isobel slipped her hand down to touch his. He grabbed her fingers swiftly, almost desperately, and squeezed them. "Jamie, such suffering must be impossible to ease," she said. "Revenge cannot quench so much hurt and anger."

"Neither can prayer," he said bitterly. His fingers gripped hers. "Naught mends that sort of rip in the soul. I may never find peace. But I did not wallow in the hurt. I grew stronger. I grew cold inside, and went after Southrons with a ferocity I did not have before. The Border Hawk became a name that every English soldier knew, and feared. They vowed to capture me, and could not, for years."

She rubbed her thumb over his. "And they want you still."

"They had me once," he said. His voice was so near a growl that she glanced up at him. "And they nearly took my soul. But I will make up for that."

"What do you mean?" she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head and let go of her hand, and lifted a finger to stroke the goshawk's feet. "I swore that I would never keep another hawk," he murmured. "I thought a hawk would only remind me of what I had lost."

"But that silly, wee hawk needs you," Isobel said.

He smiled, flat and rueful. Isobel watched him silently, glad that he had opened up some of his life to her. But he kept the innermost doors closed, hiding what she feared was the darkest part of his life—that time from the moment he had been taken by the English until now.

She knew, from his mood, that he would answer no questions related to the events that had caused him to be named a traitor. But the more she learned about this kind, caring man, the deeper her compassion for him became. He would never be able to convince her that he was a true traitor.

"So after Wildshaw was taken, you stayed on the Craig, and ran with Wallace?" she asked.

He nodded. "Men came to join me in the forest, Wildshaw's tenants and others, made homeless by Southron attacks. We ran with Wallace, but we also acted on our own. Will and I would meet to discuss plans. Ours was an unsophisticated band—most of the men had naught but the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands. We lacked the might of the Southrons, but we had cleverness. We struck as they went through the forest, but there were always more to replace the soldiers we eliminated."

Isobel looked out over the wide vista of forest and hills as she listened. A movement caught her eye—a hawk, circling over the trees, rising higher, riding the wind with an easy grace. As she watched, it swooped down, disappearing into the forest, intent on quarry.

"One day you will be able to gain back your home, and all that belongs to you," she murmured.

"I hope that is not a prophecy."

She frowned. "Why do you say that?"

"If I regained Wildshaw, I would have to destroy it."

She stared at him. "Are you so bitter, Jamie Lindsay?"

"Hardened of heart," he said. "Just that. Scotland lacks the armies and the supplies needed to keep her castles garrisoned against English attack. We can defend only the most important strongholds—those that are called the strengths of Scotland. So we must render the rest useless to the enemy. Aberlady was not a major castle, and neither is Wildshaw."

"But both were homes," she said. "Homes to their lairds. And Wildshaw could be that again."

"Of what am I laird?" James made a wide sweep with his free hand, encompassing the forest, the hills, the sky. "Of a castle that I have not set foot inside for years? Of a forest filled with Scottish deer that an English king claims for his own? Of tenants who have been cast out of their homes?" He let out a blasting sigh. "I am laird of naught, lass. I am a brigand, an outlaw, a broken man."

"You are far more than that," she said. "You have made a name for yourself here. You are a legend in this forest."

He shook his head. "I have lost all claim to that. I am laird of naught but a mistrusted name and a fading cause. Naught that can be kept, or measured, or protected. Like the wind." He waved his hand impatiently. "Impossible to hold."

She looked at him, startled. "Laird of the wind."

A frown creased his brow. "What?"

"Laird of the wind." She gestured around the crag, an echo of his sweep. "You have dominion over this high, windy place," she said. "And more, you command your own freedom. The Southrons cannot get to you here, and cannot force you to surrender or to say a false oath. You have a freedom that they can never possess. They are weighted down by armor and weapons, by castles and greed, by the anger of their king. You fight for liberty, and you have given up much for that, but you have gained freedom for yourself, and made progress toward gaining it for others."

He stared at her. "Laird of the wind. Your prophecy."

She nodded. "Aye. I just realized what it means. The hawk of the forest, the laird of the wind—a free man, a man who will not bow down, who rises above the rest—like that hawk you hold, or like that other hawk there, flying above the forest."

She saw his eyes crinkle, his cheek pulse with tension, as if he thought deeply, and held back his secrets. "So 'tis me in your prophecy, after all."

"I think so. But if I named you a traitor, I was wrong. I know you now. You are a man of honor."

He regarded her steadily, intently. "Nay, lass. You think of me as a hero, a champion who saves maidens, who saves the liberty of Scotland, who... kisses the blindness from your eyes."

"You are," she insisted. "Those who say you are a traitor do not know you. You are noble in the heart, where honor dwells."

He frowned. "Nay. I am the man you called a wretched traitor. I am the man who took you from your castle, who made you a hostage, and who now asks you to deceive your betrothed in a scheme of ransom."

You are the man who took my heart,
she thought impulsively, but bit back the words before she was foolish enough to say them. "Aye," she said. "You are that man. And I think you are honorable." She lifted her chin stubbornly.

"Are you so certain, Black Isobel?" His quiet voice, low and soft, was powerful enough to be heard over the wind that rushed past them.

"I am," she said. "I stayed with you because I believe that you did not commit treachery. Because I have faith in you."

He glanced at her, his eyes a dark, penetrating blue. "You have faith in me," he repeated slowly, as if he tried to understand the words. The wind whipped at him, but he stood still. The hawk chirred and blinked at both of them, but James did not take his gaze from hers.

"Aye." She leaned toward him. "I do have faith in you," she said, as fiercely as she could muster. "Alice does. Your men do. Are you so blind to your own honor that you cannot see that? There is not one of us who believes you a traitor. Not one, though you insist we should."