Laird of the Wind (38 page)

"My safe arrival," she repeated. "What of the outlaws?"

"We were told they took you hostage, my lady. Our orders were to rescue you, and take prisoners for Leslie to deal with."

"I was not a hostage! Then he—they—might yet be alive? What happened back there?"

He shrugged. "I did not see. But I know that Sir Ralph demanded the leader be brought to him. Lady Isobel, look there. Your hawk is in that tree."

Isobel felt a surge of relief, both at the thought that James might be alive, and at the sight of the goshawk. He was still perched on the high, dead branch, his head and wings silvery in the new light. She lifted her gloved fist and sang out to him. The tiercel seemed to look at her, then turned his head as if to ignore her.

"Gawain," she called. "Here, gos, come to me!" She sang the haunting melody again.

The guard looked up with a doubtful expression. "A manned falcon would come to a call, but goshawks are stubborn birds, always wild, I think. But we'll try, if you must have your bird. Sir Ralph would not want to see a trained hawk lost."

Isobel nodded and continued to coax the bird and offer her hand as a perch. She reached into the pouch at her waist, remembering that she carried the hawk's food there. Withdrawing a piece of meat, she waved it, and sang.

"Not like that, my lady," the guard said. "Use it as a lure. Have you got a creance in the hawking pouch?" She nodded, grateful for his help, and fumbled in the leather pocket, withdrawing a twine leash. The guard took it from her and tied the meat to it. "Now we need a few feathers to disguise it."

She dipped into the pouch again and brought out the feather that James sometimes used to stroke the bird. The guard took it, broke it in two, and thrust it into the meat like wings. She understood what he did, for she had seen James use a lure—a false bit of prey made of feathers and meat—and tempt Gawain with it. He had eagerly pounced on it while on the creance.

The guard tossed the line and its lure out and began to spin it over his head. "Call him, my lady," he said.

She did, singing the kyrie, pleading, cajoling, whistling.

Gawain lifted his wings and soared away, banking out of sight. Isobel lowered her head, devastated. She had failed to keep Jamie's hawk.

The guard gathered the reins and rode on. A while later, he stopped again. "There," he said. "The goshawk is up in that high elm now. He almost seems to be following you. Call to him." He lifted the lure and spun it in a high circle. Isobel sang out, holding out her hand, and sang again and again, until her voice grew hoarse with the call.

Finally she saw the goshawk. He cut through the trees, streaming toward her like a torrent of wind. She held the glove out and did not flinch, though her heart raced, though the guard ducked his head and exclaimed.

Gawain plucked the lure out of mid-air with his talons, and dragged it with him to alight on her glove, as if he had done it a thousand times. Slanting a wild bronze glare at her, he dipped his head and began to tear at the meat. She grabbed his jesses with a trembling hand, and wrapped the leather straps securely around her smallest fingers.

"God in heaven," the guard said slowly. "He came right to you. I did not truly think he would. 'Tis a valuable hawk indeed does that. Come, Lady Isobel. Your betrothed wants you safe in his castle." He urged the horse onward.

"Bonny gos!" Isobel swallowed, her throat heavy with tears. "Oh, my bonny gos." She tightened her fist over the jesses as if she would never let go.

Chapter 25

A square tower and surrounding wall of gray stone emerged through the morning mist, set on the green crest of a hill above a valley. As Isobel and the guard rode closer, she glanced back. Father Hugh and two soldiers followed in the distance, now joined by a large party of men.

Ahead, a drawbridge spanned a rushing stream. The guard's horse pounded over the wooden planks, and the huge portcullis creaked just high enough for them to pass under the iron teeth.

Inside the bailey yard, Isobel looked around at a scene of early morning bustle, as soldiers and servants hurried around the yard on various errands. Dozens of Southron soldiers in chain mail and russet surcoats walked past, or stopped to mount saddled horses; lanky boys and barking dogs seemed to run in every direction; a servant guided a creaking, loaded cart, drawn by a small ox, across the yard. Smoke twined up from a slate-roofed, open-sided smithy, and from a smaller building, which Isobel guessed was a bakery from the tempting odors wafting toward her.

The teeming, chaotic yard was dominated by a massive tower keep of dull gray stone, which soared at the far end of the bailey. Sturdy wooden steps led up to the wide arched entrance on the second level. A man came rapidly down the steps, his chain mail glinting, his dark wine-red surcoat a rich burst of color in the gray mist.

Ralph Leslie lifted his hand in greeting as he came closer, his surcoat flapping about his steel-covered legs. He stopped beside her horse and fisted his hands on his hips, his expression stormy. He had always reminded her, in both build and temperament, of a surly dark bull. That impression had not faded in the months since she had seen him.

"Lady Isobel," he said. "Thank God you are safe."

She shot him a grim look and did not reply. The guard who had brought her swung down, helped her to dismount, and stood beside her. A boy ran forward and led the horse away.

"My thanks, Sir Gawain," Ralph said brusquely.

Isobel turned to look at the soldier. "Gawain?" she asked.

The young man's stern countenance warmed in a quick, appealing grin. "Your hawk and I share a name, my lady," he said, his dark eyes twinkling pleasantly. "And so of course I was happy to help you regain him. Good day, Lady Isobel. I hope you will be content at Wildshaw." He inclined his head and turned. Isobel watched him walk away, grateful to have at least one friend in this uncertain place. She turned back to Ralph.

He frowned and looked up at her, for Isobel stood half a head taller, and had since the age of fifteen. But in contrast to her slenderness, Ralph Leslie was broad as an oak, his face square and high-cheeked, his chest wide, his fisted hands tough and sure at his waist. His brown eyes smoldered beneath heavy brows and a thick shock of iron gray hair.

"Are you harmed?" he asked gruffly.

"Nay," she said. "Would it matter to you?"

He scowled, and looked pointedly at the goshawk on her fist. "I see you have brought my goshawk all the way from Aberlady. A nice gesture of good will, Isobel. My thanks."

"Your hawk?" she asked, her mouth open. "Your hawk?"

He nodded. "Aye. I left that tiercel in the care of your father's falconer. He is a stubborn, hot tempered bird, and I had no success in training him myself—though I am by nature the most patient of men," he added, smiling complacently. "How is it you got him to sit for you? I did not know you cared for hawks." She still blinked at him in astonishment. "I—we—Sir Eustace set the hawks and falcons free from Aberlady's mews but for the few we ate. We... we found this one in the forest later. I did not know he was yours."

"You
ate
valuable trained birds?" He glowered.

"We were starving," she retorted. "Starving, and besieged by Brian de Clifford's men! And no one came to our rescue who might have done so!" She looked pointedly at him.

"By that you mean me," he said. "I did not hear of the siege until too late. By the time I got there, 'twas burned. Isobel, I would have come to you had I known." He took her right hand between both of his. "You know how I care for you."

"Where is my father?" she asked, pulling her hand from his.

"Your father is here," he said slowly.

"Thank God. Where? Is he well?" She looked around eagerly, hoping to see him coming toward her through the crowded bailey.

"Isobel, he is... unwell," Ralph said.

She felt a wave of fear. "I must see him. Please. Now."

"Later," he said brusquely. "You and I must talk first. There is much I want explained, and much I must ask you. Your father is not ready for visitors yet."

"He will want to see me," she said. "I want to see him, regardless of his condition."

"You must rest first," Ralph said. "And I believe your father is not yet awake."

She frowned, puzzled that he would delay her meeting with her father. She sighed. "Then I trust you have a chamber prepared for me—since you went to the trouble of having me escorted here," she added through her teeth.

He turned and walked alongside of her. "Of course," he said. "I will have someone take you up there. Margaret! Come here, girl!" He gestured.

Isobel looked around in surprise. A tall young woman came toward them, her stride bold as a man's. Her russet gown molded to her large-boned and lush figure, and matched the thick crown of red hair that curled and waved beneath a simple white veil. She did not smile, but her round golden brown eyes, striking in her large, plain face, seemed warm and intelligent.

"This is Lady Isobel Seton," he said. "Take her up to the chamber in the keep that I ordered readied earlier today."

"Lady Isobel," she said. "Welcome to Wildshaw. My name is Margaret Crawford."

"Margaret!" Isobel said, extending her hand. "I am so glad to see you at last."

The girl looked confused as she grasped Isobel's hand. "Let me take you inside, my lady. You must be tired after your journey."

"Journey!" Isobel turned to stare at Ralph. "I was taken by force. My faith in you and in Father Hugh was totally betrayed." Margaret, standing beside her, gasped softly.

"Isobel." Ralph looked evenly at her. "You needed a rescue, I gave you one. Go inside. You seemed distressed, as well you should be by your ordeal these several weeks. We will discuss all of this later."

Isobel opened her mouth to reply, but a commotion at the gates attracted her attention. She turned, as did the others, to watch as the rest of the patrol, including Father Hugh, rode beneath the portcullis and into the bailey yard.

In their midst, a man was tied between two horses, his arms stretched wide, his long legs dragging in the dirt. A tangle of brown-gold hair hung over his bowed head, and hid his face.

Isobel's heart lurched. "Jamie!" she cried out, and started forward. Ralph grabbed her arm fiercely, holding her back, sending a shaft of pain through her right arm that she ignored. She looked at him. "Dear God, let him go!" she cried. "What will you do with him? He did not harm me, if that is what you think!"

"Do you care what happens to the brigand who took you?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "Margaret, escort her to her chamber."

But Margaret was already running across the yard. She fell to her knees in the dust and clasped her arms around James, supporting the sagging weight of his body. His head lolled, and Isobel saw that his face, so familiar, so beautiful to her, was half covered in darkened blood.

She gasped and strained forward, but Ralph would not release her. On her fist, Gawain launched into a fierce bate, beating his wings and squawking. She stretched out her arm to give him the necessary space for his fit.

"By hell, 'tis indeed my own damned hawk," Ralph muttered.

Isobel did not answer. Her gaze was fixed upon the injured man and the girl who held him.

"Guards!" Ralph called, looking around. "Get Margaret away from the prisoner, and take him to the dungeon—if he yet lives."

"He lives," one of the soldiers answered. "Though scarcely."

Isobel swallowed back the sob of relief that rose in her throat. She could not let Ralph know that she did indeed care for the outlaw. She bit her lower lip anxiously as she lifted the calmed hawk back to her fist.

Pulled back by the guards, Margaret made an angry remark that caused them to let go of her and glance at one another. She whirled and stomped toward Ralph with a look of fury on her face, then towered over him as she gestured toward James. "You know he is my cousin! Let him go, I beg you!"

"I cannot do that," Ralph said calmly.

"Last summer, when you held him in custody, you were ordered by the king to let him go," she said. "You must do so now."

"Those orders were for a special situation, and none of this is a concern of yours," Ralph snapped. "He has committed crimes and offenses against the crown of England—and against me." He turned, pulling Isobel with him. The goshawk shrieked, and Isobel hushed him.