Laird of the Wind (43 page)

She withdrew it, reaching over to stroke the bird's breast. "Aye, he told me. And I will not do it."

She saw Ralph exchange a quick look with the priest. For a moment, the two men looked like brothers, she thought; twins in shape, coloring, and especially in their dark determination to control her even more closely than they had before. She would not let this happen; she could not. Those days were ended.

She thought of James in the dungeon, and felt as if her heart twisted inside. She would do whatever she could to free him, and the others, from the schemes these men had planned.

"Isobel," Father Hugh said, "for years I have carefully recorded and interpreted your visions. Over the last two years, I realized that they were too significant to keep to ourselves. I began announcing them from my pulpit—this you knew about." She nodded, listening. "And I sent copies of the predictions to the Guardians of the Realm, and to other Scottish nobles."

"But why?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"I believe they are truly extraordinary, the work of God.

You could speak for kings, Isobel, and so you will. I have been preparing a volume of what I have recorded and notated so far. I mean to send it to the Pope himself. A few months ago, I sent a collection of your words, bound in fine leather, to King Edward."

She stared at him, incredulous. "You did this without my knowing? Those are my words, Father. I endured blindness and—and the rigors of your safekeeping to say them."

"We did not need to consult you, lass," he said, not unkindly. "You would have asked us not to do it, in seemly modesty."

"Then you were the one who brought King Edward's attention to me," she said. "And Aberlady was besieged because of it!"

"I did not know the king would react that way. But your father favored keeping your words private, sharing the prophecies with a select few," the priest said. "Sir Ralph and I decided to go to King Edward. We thought it best." He beamed at her. "And now the king of England wants you for his own prophetess. We could not be more fortunate in our patron."

"Patron!" She stood. "You intend to gain money for my prophecies?"

Ralph stood and took her arm. "I will be honored and proud to see my wife so favored."

"To see yourself so favored," she said bitterly.

"The prophecies are what matter," Father Hugh said. "They are remarkable for one of such youth, with meanings we can only guess at now. I will ask the king to finance my study of them."

"I will never take part in such a plan," she said.

"You need us, Isobel," Ralph said. "You understand so little of the power you possess. You are like ink for a pen, clay for a hand. Someone must control your potential." He looked at the priest. "Father, she prophesied for the outlaw, and refuses to tell me what she said. I asked her to summon the visions for me here—but she refused that too. We must be certain that she tells us all she has seen. I have a way to convince her to begin, I think."

"Aye, then," Father Hugh said. "Sit, lass."

She backed away, edging toward the door.

"Come here, and give me that damned hawk," Ralph said. He paused to rummage through her hawking pouch, pulled out the small leather hood, and strode toward her.

"He'll foot you," she warned, as he came nearer.

"Let him try," he said, grabbing her arm to pull her to him. She thought about flinging the hawk in his face and running, but he managed to hood the hawk in one swift, forceful movement.

The hawk squawked and struggled for a moment, and stilled on her fist. Ralph pulled Isobel toward him, his gaze locked to hers. She resisted but lacked the strength to counter his power. He pulled out a dark piece of cloth, which he had tucked in his belt, whipped it over her head, and tied it firmly behind her.

Darkness descended over her suddenly and completely. She gasped and pulled at the blindfold, but Ralph grabbed her free hand and held it behind her as he shoved her, step by unwilling step, across the room.

"I found the cloth in the chest," he said. "And I thought, what if the blindness was forced upon you? You just might prophesy more readily. What do you think, Father?"

"An intriguing idea, my son," the priest said. "Do not hurt the lass, now. She is valuable to us. Sit her there easily, aye. Here, Isobel, set the hawk on this perch."

She felt the goshawk taken from her, heard him chitter, but knew he would be calm with the hood on his head. Ralph took her hands—she knew it was him, for his fingers were roughened, the strong, direct touch of a man who worked with weapons and gear and horses—and tied them behind her.

"Why do you do this to me?" she asked. "Father Hugh, why do you join in treacheries with Sir Ralph? I trusted you. My father thought you a worthy priest."

"John Seton has always looked after the welfare of his only child," he said. "And so I have cared for the welfare of mine."

"Your—child?" She tilted her head, frowning. Then the meaning of his words stunned her. "Ralph is your—son?"

"Aye. My son," the priest said. "I watched him fight in his childhood, wanting to be equal to other lads, though he was the bastard of a priest, and of a Scottish heiress who died at his birth," he said. "I found a noble household to foster him, and I instilled him with pride and ambition. 'Twas all I could give him to protect himself in this temporal world. Now, Isobel," he said quietly, "the darkness is upon you. That should produce prophecies in you."

"Nay," she cried, turning her head, trying to shake off the blindfold, and shake off the fear. "I will not do this for you."

Ralph's hand, heavy on her shoulder. "You will, lass," he said. "Our talk of freedom and wildness, and that accursed gos over there, has shown me the perfect way to tame you."

"Tame me?" she asked, her heart pounding.

He bent close. She could smell his breath, feel its heat. "I will keep you awake for as many days and nights as it takes," he said. "Without food, without sleep, listening only to me." He caressed her shoulder as if she were a bird, and he spoke in a hushed, patient whisper. But she heard a cold element in his voice, like ice entering her veins.

"When you are ready to obey me"—his hand trailed over her shoulder, grazed over the top of her breast, lifted away—"as your husband and your master, then we will have prophecies of you great enough to please a king."

"Nay," she whispered, bowing her head.

He laughed softly.

Chapter 28

James faced the stone wall and reached up to grip the chains. With the strength of his arms and shoulders, he raised his body until his feet cleared the floor, then lowered himself and pulled up again. He repeated it until his muscles ached for release, until the sweat rolled off of his brow and dampened his back and chest.

"You'll exhaust yourself," John Seton observed.

"What else have I got to do?" James muttered. He wrapped his hands around the chains, placed the soles of his feet against the wall, and extended his legs. He folded inward and shoved out again. "I have lost strength over the past few days from the head wound, and from the fine feasts they serve us here."

John Seton grunted. "I did that, too, in the beginning. Now I just want to survive. A small bowl of porridge each morn, and a little watered ale through the day, does not make much brawn or will in a man."

"Well," James said, looking up at the ceiling. "There's always the supper hour."

The wooden planks that formed the flat ceiling were the same boards that formed part of the floor in the chamber overhead. The upper room was used by garrison soldiers as a dining hall. Whenever the men gathered for supper, talking and stomping across the floor, small scraps of food would trickle down between the planks and fall to the dungeon floor. John showed James how he harvested the best bits quickly, crawling on hands and knees, before the mice scurried in and took the rest.

"Aye," John said, looking up. "'Tis usually bread crumbs or cooked barley, but I have a fierce taste for some meat."

"They might kick some chicken bones through the floor cracks for you," James remarked. He lowered his feet and turned to sit, wiping sweat from his brow, licking his hand to conserve the salty moisture his body lost.

John Seton watched him. "Your eye looks better. The swelling is less and the bruises are fading. Can you see?"

James looked around, squinting. "'Tis improved."

"Do you see an old fool?"

James looked at him, frowning. "Nay," he said slowly.

"Aye, you do. I was wrong about you, lad."

"I would not expect you to favor the outlaw who wooed your daughter and lost her," James said softly.

"Ah, you have not lost her," Seton said. He half smiled, and shook his head. "She loves you well. I saw it in her eyes. But I have lost her. I took her words to heart," he said, rubbing his gnarled fingers over his brow. "And I have been thinking. Isobel is right. I treated her unfairly these last few years. Now she has rebelled against me. I always thought she was a timid, gentle lass, but she's changed."

"Timid? Nay," James said, pinching back a smile. "But she is gentle and ever will be—though like a breeze, or a stream of water. There is great endurance beneath that soft nature."

"Aye. She is stronger than I thought."

James nodded. "She is. But I will not lose my strength, because I intend to get out of here, and get to her, somehow."

Seton smiled, rueful and wise. "I was wrong about you, too, and I ask your pardon. You have been here for—four days? Five? I do not see a traitor. I see a rebel, and a man I admire. I see honor and determination in you, and strong love for my daughter."

He looked at him soberly. "Do you have a plan for escaping?"

"I have thought over the possibilities," James said in a hushed tone. "If Margaret comes back, she might be able to get a key. Failing that, Ralph Leslie may return. And I will be waiting. He came near me once, but I did not hit him hard enough. Let him come near me again," he said, drawing out the chain between his hands, a cold slither of steel. "If I threaten to break his neck, he will have to order us free, with weapons put in our hands. That, at least, would give us a chance."

"There are a hundred soldiers in this place," Seton said.

"And one guard who seems to favor us. There may be more. With but a few soldiers on our side, we can win our freedom."

He saw Seton's doubtful expression, and sighed. "What other hope do we have, John?" he asked grimly. The man nodded.

James turned and placed his feet against the wall. He sat up, went down, curled up, went down. He felt his muscles tighten and stretch, and felt power surge through him.

He would be ready, he thought. The time would soon come when he would use the strength he garnered now.

* * *

She wanted a bath. Isobel turned and walked the length of the room again, counting the steps, reaching the bed on the eleventh step, turning to walk back to the bird's perch. She shifted her arms, her hands tied behind her back, and twitched her loosened hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head.

She wanted a hot bath, clean hair, a fresh gown, a meal in her belly. Most of all, she wanted the strength and warmth of Jamie's arms around her. If he were here, his love would wrap around her like a cloak, and she would sleep soundly at last.

Tears pricked her eyes behind the blindfold. That would not do; she had discovered how much dried tears itched. She sucked in a breath and dispelled them. Ten steps, eleven.

Her toe touched the base of the perch. Gawain chirred, and she stood beside him and sang the
kyrie
softly, its haunting strain calming both her and the bird.

Turning, she walked through darkness. The sound of larks, and the newborn coolness in the air wafting through the window, told her that morning had come. Soon Ralph would return.

Her knees were wobbly with exhaustion, but she stayed on her feet. If Ralph came in—as he had done without warning—and found her sleeping, he would pull her up, not roughly, but wholly unforgiving. His determination to treat her like a hawk to be broken was deeply frightening.

Because of his constant attention, she had not slept for more than an hour or two since he had tied and blindfolded her. She had scarcely eaten, and all she had seen was the gritty darkness of the blindfold.