This couldn’t be happening. Wink couldn’t be dying. ‘Twas unthinkable. Only a moment ago, Rose was smoothing the feathers over her dear falcon’s warm breast. Only a moment ago, her beloved bird soared high over the treetops.
She peered again at her wounded friend, and this time she swore the falcon looked back at her. She felt the burden of Wink’s stare like a weight pressing upon her chest. And suddenly she realized the truth.
“‘Tis my fault,” she whispered bleakly. “If only I hadn’t let her go. If only I’d waited till we were safely out o’ the wood…”
“‘Twasn’t your doin’,” Blade said firmly. But she ignored him.
“I should never have brought her on pilgrimage. I should never have taken her from Averlaigh. What does she know o’ the wild?” Her brow crumpled. “Ah, God, ‘tis all my fault.”
“Nae,” he insisted, “‘tis no one’s fault.”
But she clung to her self-reproach, for it served to suffocate her mourning. “If only I’d kept her jesses tied. If only I hadn’t let her fly free. ‘Twas my hand that wounded her, as surely as if I stuffed her between that wolf’s…” She broke off with a sob.
Blade felt her words like a dagger dragged across his soul. Of course, she couldn’t know how they affected him. Nor how often he’d formed that same thought in the dark corners of his mind. Her lament dredged up his past, bringing it to the surface, filling him with the same regret she suffered.
Not a day went by when guilt didn’t peck at him, when he didn’t hear the endless echo of that other woman’s scream, when he didn’t imagine her blood staining his hands.
He knew how Rose felt. He knew
precisely
how she felt. He’d battled the same demons for two years.
“Listen to me,” he said raggedly. “There’s nothin’ ye could have done to prevent this. Her fate was never in your hands.”
How many times had he told himself the same thing? Yet he never heeded his own advice. Still he blamed himself for the deed. Still he didn’t have the strength to face his past without smothering beneath a pall of remorse.
Guilt deafened her to his counsel as well. “I should have left her in the mews at Fernie. I should have—”
“Hist!” he said, his hand gripping her chin. “Ye bear no blame for this.”
“But—”
“Did ye not feed her?”
“Aye.”
“And keep her warm and dry?”
“Aye.”
“And fly her when she needed to stretch her wings?”
She nodded miserably. “I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“Lass, ye cannot keep a bird from the skies. Ye saved the poor blind wretch when another falconer would have killed her ere she moulted her first feathers.”
Her bronze eyes brimmed with a lake of tears as his words finally crumbled the last rampart guarding the keep of her grief. She began to cry softly, burrowing her face in her hands.
For Blade, empathy was as instinctive as chivalry. ‘Twas unconscionable for him to stand by and do nothing while she suffered. He had to do something,
needed
to do something—anything—to ease her pain. No matter how impossible the task.
Wiping his free hand across his brow, he glanced down again at the falcon. Incredibly, its eye was still bright with life. But its mangled body reminded him of that other battered victim in his past, the victim he’d not been able to save. What if he failed again? What if he made another deadly mistake? What if he couldn’t save the creature?
He bit at the inside of one cheek. What if he didn’t try?
His heart pumping with renewed purpose, he turned toward the palmer, who had already recovered and was gathering his chips of dead wood. Blade scowled, for the knave doubtless intended to sell his harvest as relics, Splinters of the True Cross, in the next village.
“Simon!” he barked. “Bring me those sticks.”
The palmer looked as though he might refuse, but Blade’s stern glare convinced him to oblige. With a disgruntled frown, the man approached and deposited the sticks before him.
Blade set the falcon tenderly upon the grass, then sorted through the pieces, finding one of a suitable size for a splint.
“’T’won’t work, ye know,” Simon announced smugly.
Blade ignored him.
“A bird’s wing can’t be mended,” Simon informed him, crouching nearby.
Blade tugged up the linen shirt he wore beneath his doublet and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom.
“The wretched creature can’t possibly survive with a missin’ eye
and
a broken wing,” Simon decreed.
Blade snagged the palmer by the throat of his pilgrim’s cloak. “This wretched creature saved your thankless life,” he snarled. Then he shoved the man backward onto his bony backside, not because he disagreed with the man’s predictions, but because the palmer’s damning words distressed Rose.
Her eyes were wild and wide and anxious, and her bloodless knuckles clenched tightly at her skirts.
Simon, muttering under his breath, salvaged a few nearby splinters before he scurried off.
“‘Tisn’t true, is it?” Rose asked, her voice hoarse, her eyes demanding. “She’ll live. She
has
to live. We’re survivors, Wink and I.” She tried to smile. “Stubborn lasses to the core.” Then she bit her lip to still its trembling. “Ye won’t let her die, will ye?”
Blade steeled his jaw against her piercing regard. What could he tell her? That Simon was probably right? That the bird was too badly hurt to recover? That a half-blind, lame bird wasn’t worth saving? That he knew little to nothing of mending falcon’s wings? That the last wounded creature he’d tried to save he’d killed?
“I won’t let her die,” he promised.
She seemed to draw strength from his words. Wiping the tears from her face, she crept forward to lend assistance.
“‘Tis all right, Wink,” she whispered. “The brave knight is goin’ to help ye. Lie still.”
Blade winced at her choice of words. He felt anything but brave. If he were brave, he’d tell her the truth—that her bird was doomed. If he were brave, he’d put the poor creature out of its misery with a twist of its neck.
Instead, he knelt in cowardice before the injured falcon and put his limited surgeon’s skills to use. Gently, he positioned the broken bone of the bird’s wing until ‘twas straight. Then, while Rose held the wing in place, he wrapped it against the splint, weaving the cloth through the tattered feathers with painstaking care. All the while, the bird lay quiet, as if it understood that he meant it no harm.
The bird mustn’t be allowed to try to fly, and so, once splinted, Blade folded the wing flat against the falcon’s side. While Rose secured the bird, he loosely wrapped the remaining linen around its body to fix the wing in place. Still, though its eye was bright and its senses lively, the falcon made no protest, lying remarkably motionless in its mistress’s hands.
‘Twould be fortunate if it lived through the night, Blade knew. The palmer was right. For a healthy bird to recover from such injuries would take a miracle. For one already crippled…
Maybe he should tell Rose the truth. Maybe ‘twas best not to give her false hope. Surely death’s sting would be less if ‘tweren’t compounded by the ache of betrayal.
But Rose’s tender words to the falcon melted something inside of him, and he lost all will to burst the bubble of her faith.
“Don’t worry, Wink,” she murmured. “Blade will take care o’ ye. Despite his felon’s chains and his dark looks, he’s a good man, a gentle man.” She traced a finger softly over the falcon’s head. “Ye’ll see. Your wounds will heal, and soon ye’ll be wingin’ across the skies again. Ye have my promise and a noble knight’s word o’ honor.”
Blade nearly choked at that. His honor was questionable at best. But then she lifted her gaze to him, and the trust shining in her eyes—as clear and pure as a mountain stream—swelled his spirit. He didn’t have the heart to withdraw his foolish promise.
Rose cradled the falcon in the crook of one arm, then reached out to clasp Blade’s hand. Her fingers looked delicate against his scarred fist, but her grip was firm, as if ‘twere now her task to lend
him
reassurance.
“She’ll live.” She seemed to speak to convince herself as well as him. “I know she will. We’ve weathered much, Wink and I. We both have wills of iron.” The adoring gaze she cast upon the maimed creature wrested at his heart. “She’ll survive. She
has
to survive.”
Blade’s throat thickened with emotion. He couldn’t look at her anymore, lest his eyes betray his doubt. Instead, he withdrew his hand and rose to his feet, clapping the grass from his clothing.
She stood with his aid—the bird still nestled on her arm—holding to his hand longer than was necessary.
“I’ll never forget your kindness,” she whispered gravely, “no matter what happens.”
He glanced sharply at her, but her gaze had already strayed to the forest beyond. She
did
understand then. She
did
realize her falcon might not survive. ‘Twas not naivete after all that fed her optimism, but sheer determination. She simply refused to surrender.
A newfound respect was forged within him for this lass with a flower’s name. She was no blushing pink rose whose frail petals wilted beneath the touch of the sun, but a rose of uncommon rich red, with a straight stem and a strong velvet blossom, and aye—he thought as they made their way back to the company of pilgrims—even a few prickly thorns.
Rose clasped her hands under the table so tightly she thought her knuckles would crack. Why she’d let Tildy talk her into attending supper this evening, she didn’t know, for her thoughts were centered solely on Wink, who rested all by herself in the abandoned mews of Hawkhame in Kirkcaldy.
Ironically, despite their lodgings’ name, for the last several years, the Lady of Hawkhame would allow no small animals in her demesne, for her daughter was deathly afraid of them. Thus, Rose was forbidden to bring Wink within the hall. And every moment spent away from her beloved pet added to Rose’s anxiety.
As if Wink’s absence weren’t difficult enough to bear, Rose was forced to endure the well-intentioned pilgrims who made inept attempts to ease her worries. Indeed, the only relief she’d found tonight was in choosing a seat beside Blade at the table, who neither pried into her feelings nor gave her unwelcome advice. Unfortunately, he’d deserted her several moments ago, excusing himself to do God-knew-what.
Then, as an added insult, as if Wink’s condition alone weren’t enough to diminish Rose’s appetite, the lady of the manor chanced to serve roast capon for supper. Rose, of course, had no stomach for the fowl, even less for the pointed tales this eve. Already, she’d endured Tildy’s story of a magical healing bird lost by a greedy knight. Now Simon related a parable, and Rose swore if he breathed one more thinly disguised word about anyone’s life or death being God’s will, she’d strangle the palmer in his own sackcloth.
“…for who are we to ponder the mystery o’ the Lord’s ways…”
Rose clenched her teeth against a scream as Simon’s patronizing tone grated on her ears and the nuns softly added their agreement. By the Saints, did they honestly believe that God might
mean
for her innocent pet to die? Did all religious zealots so blindly and helplessly rest fate in the Lord’s hands? And if so, how would Rose ever endure being closeted with a bevy of spineless nuns for the rest of her life?
Wink’s destiny did
not
rely solely upon the will of God, but the falcon’s
own
will. Rose was sure of it. God had no reason to curse such a harmless creature, any more than He had caused Wink to swoop down upon the wolves. Nae, Rose was certain the animal had made a deliberate decision to risk her own life. Wink had been willing to sacrifice herself to protect her mistress.
Just as Rose had made the deliberate decision to take the veil. ‘Twas not the will of God that she become a nun. ‘Twas the will of Rose. Though ‘twas a difficult, desperate sacrifice she made, ‘twas hers and hers alone. Damn the nun’s sermonizing,
‘twas
.
“…never questionin’ God’s will…”
Rose ground her teeth.
Suddenly a cool, steadying hand closed over her knotted fingers. She stiffened, shooting a furtive sidelong glance toward Blade, who had just returned. His face carefully betrayed nothing, but his hand remained secretly upon hers, dispelling her rage, his grip solid and reassuring. And quite possessive.
Her breath caught. Did the pilgrims notice his trespass? Her heart raced at his boldness. Yet she had no desire to withdraw her hand. She quickly scanned the faces around her. To her relief, even Tildy smiled obliviously on. Apparently, the linen draping the table concealed their perfidy. And so Rose, too, pretended nonchalance as she feigned to listen attentively to the storyteller.
She might as well have been deaf.
Blade’s hand was a welcome comfort. Without breathing a word, he soothed her, the same way Rose was able to soothe Wink by smoothing her rumpled feathers. Beneath his callused palm, her fingers unclenched, her burden seemed to lighten, her distress calmed.
“I’ve checked on your falcon,” he breathed.
She swallowed, waiting for his news.
“As well as may be expected,” he answered to her unasked question.
She nodded, letting out a shallow sigh. Amongst all these pilgrims, she realized, only the dark felon seemed to truly understand her.
Of course, everyone had shown her sympathy. Simon the palmer had relented to praise the bird’s loyalty. The nuns had assured her that should her falcon die, the saintly bird would wing its way to heaven. The scholars had even offered to pool their coin to purchase her a new peregrine when they arrived in St. Andrews.
Yet no one but Blade grasped her desperate faith. No one but Blade made her believe there was hope.
And Rose needed to believe that, for deep within her, she knew ‘twas more than her falcon’s life at stake.
Wink was everything that Rose admired—freedom, bravery, independence, strength. The two of them had long shared a love of adventure and an affinity for the open sky. Rose had always felt that a part of her flew with the falcon, defying the envious pull of the earth, spreading her wings wide to encompass forest and glen and hill, soaring dauntlessly into the domain of angels.