Laird of the Wind (10 page)

He nodded. "Sometimes. It just comes to me, like a knowing. I think you could do that easily, for your gift is great, and mine but a wee talent beside it. I have had visions, too, a few. I've seen death for those I love," he said, looking down, brushing dried leaves from his plaid. "And I do not want to ever see that again."

Isobel sighed. "I've seen death, too," she said quietly. "I usually forget what I see, though. Do you remember?"

"Always," Quentin said grimly. "What would you want to see, if you could, Isobel Seton?"

She broke off a piece of the oatcake to nibble on it. "If I could," she said, swallowing, "I would use my Sight to learn why James Lindsay came to Aberlady to find me, and why he is so discontent with me now." She slid him a wry glance. "I trust you, Quentin Fraser, or I would not tell you that."

He smiled wanly. "Ah, well, I cannot tell you why myself. Jamie has a burden to carry, and he has good reason for whatever he does. But he keeps his thoughts close. No seer could penetrate them. To be truthful, he hasna told any of us why he came to find you. But he was furious that the English would besiege a castle held by a woman, and I know he meant to get you out of there. If there is another reason, I do not know it." He shrugged. "When he is ready to speak his mind, he will do it."

Isobel watched his fine-cut, youthful profile while she savored the nutty taste of the thick, warm cake. "You follow him when so many have left him," she said after a while.

"I do." Quentin nodded firmly. "I will never believe that he betrayed Wallace. He's a changed man since he returned from English captivity. But he will always have my faith."

"Does your Sight tell you aught about his betrayal?"

He shook his head. "I believe he did not do it. Jamie would trade his own life for a friend. He did that for me, once, and so I owe him loyalty, no matter what is said of him." He rose to his feet. "Another cake, Isobel Seton?"

She refused with soft thanks. Quentin gave her another appealing smile and walked away, stepping between the trees to leave her alone in the little clearing. She watched him go, glad to have found a friend among the outlaws; his smile and easy manner had left a warm glow inside of her.

She sighed, looking toward the fire crackling inside a circle of stones, and she thought about James Lindsay, and what Quentin had said. Geordie, too, had stubbornly insisted on his hero's innocence, but she had attributed that to his youth. Now the Highlander, a man of about her own age, shared the opinion.

But surely the few followers of the Border Hawk all believed him innocent of treachery. Outside that circle, disturbing tales persisted about him. She had heard the rumors from Father Hugh, a Scotsman and a priest, who would not spread lies.

Unable to make sense of the matter and too exhausted to try, she settled her back against the tree, eased her hand over her aching shoulder, and closed her eyes to rest.

* * *

The tantalizing smell of roasting fowl stirred her out of her doze, and she opened her eyes. A few feet away from her, she saw James Lindsay's broad back as he sat by the fire, clothed in the leather hauberk and green tunic. He listened to Henry Rose, and laughed softly at something the man said.

James turned to glance over his shoulder, and saw that she was awake. He nodded briefly to her, then leaned forward to slice off a portion of meat. This he placed on a bit of bark and handed to the outlaw Patrick, who sat at his other side.

Patrick came toward her. "Here, my lady," he said in a deep, graveled voice, kneeling to offer the steaming white meat. "Jamie said you would be hungry."

"Thank you," she said, glancing at Lindsay's back. He did not turn. Patrick returned to his place by the fire, and Isobel ate hungrily. The meat was charred outside, but inside was moist and delicious. When she finished and licked her fingers, Patrick glanced at her, and quickly brought her another portion of meat.

"My thanks," she said. "I have only eaten berries and an oatcake until now. I did not realize I was so hungry."

He nodded. "Your belly was not ready earlier for heavy food, lass. But now that your hunger has returned, we know you'll recover well."

"We?" She glanced at him while she ate.

"Jamie and us," he answered. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his grimy sleeve. "Jamie watches over you like a hawk watches its fledgling. He says you have not eaten much on this journey."

"He does not seem to care," she muttered doubtfully, pulling off a bit of steaming flesh. "He lets you and the others do the caring. And I thank you for it," she added.

Patrick leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Och, he will not admit he watches out for your welfare. He was not pleased wi' you, since you are the prophetess and all."

Isobel cast him a quick frown. He did not see, but pulled off his helmet to scratch his head, his fingers digging into his unkempt brown hair. He spit into the helmet and buffed it with his sleeve. "I know ladies like fine courtesy," he said. "So I'll fetch you some water in a clean helmet, see." He held it out to show her.

"My thanks, Patrick," Isobel said. "But I think I will go to the burn myself, to wash in privacy."

"I'll show you the way," Patrick said. He helped her to her feet and supported her with a huge hand at her waist as she limped forward.

Isobel saw James look up as they passed. Quentin glanced up too, and gave her a dazzling smile, lifting his eyebrows jauntily. James saw him and frowned sharply.

Isobel smiled at Quentin, smiled at Patrick, and slid a scowl toward James. He glanced away as if he had not seen her, and rubbed his fingers over his whiskered jaw in silence.

* * *

Later in the day, as she rode the white stallion in front of Geordie, Isobel felt so tired, so filled with aches and plagued by dizziness, that she sometimes thought she could not go on. Yet she said nothing to Geordie of her discomfort, nor did she mention it to anyone else who asked after her welfare.

She had found a moment to tell Eustace that she wanted to part company with the outlaws when they neared Stobo, where Father Hugh had a parish church. Sir Eustace had agreed reluctantly. Isobel decided that he liked the freedom of running with outlaws after weeks trapped in a besieged castle. Isobel, however, wanted rest and peace.

But some part of her wanted to stay with the Border Hawk in the forest, too. However foolishly, she wanted to be with the compassionate man he had been while tending her wounds—but that man had disappeared from her life.

If she had possessed greater strength, clearer thoughts, and better boldness, she would have challenged him to tell her what his intent was concerning her, and why he had grown so cool toward her. But, exhausted and drained, she said nothing to him, and let the stallion carry her deeper into the forest.

She remembered Lindsay's ominous statement that he had come to Aberlady to find her, as if he had some business with her. She felt his intentions hovering over her like storm clouds. The prophetess could not tell if he was her champion or her enemy. She did not have Quentin's gift for just "knowing" something, and dearly wished she did.

Devastated by her ordeal at Aberlady, and scattered in her thoughts without rest, she could answer none of the questions that plagued her. All she truly wanted was a place to lie down and sleep.

The dense forest canopy admitted only a little light, so that the forest path was dim and green. Isobel heard the steady footfalls of the horses, the trills of birds overhead, and the wind soughing through the branches. The sounds were so peaceful, soft, and monotonous that she nearly fell asleep as she rode.

She stirred herself as she leaned against Geordie, and looked around. A long wooded slope rose to one side of the path, covered with trees. Over her shoulder, she saw a bright, silvery flash among the trunks. Dazed and tired, her reactions slow, she did not realize until too late that she had seen the gleam of metal armor.

An instant later, she heard the rapid whoosh of an arrow, and felt its hard thud as it struck Geordie. He jerked against her, cried out, and fell, suddenly, and heavily, to the ground.

Isobel screamed and turned, instinctively reaching out, but Geordie was gone, fallen beneath the hooves of the horse. So fast that she hardly knew what was happening, the men around her began to shout and turn their mounts. She saw Eustace's grim face as he flashed by, saw Henry Rose draw his great bow, saw James turn and ride back, his face furious, his hand reaching behind him for the broadsword at his back.

Another arrow sped through the trees and nicked her horse in its flank. Isobel tried to grab the reins and turn him, but he whinnied and reared up, nearly dumping her to the ground. She clung desperately to the mane with both hands as the horse landed hard, jarring her.

With a surge of muscle and power, the warhorse bolted ahead.

Chapter 7

Fierce shouts, the thwack of arrows finding targets, and the ringing clash of steel echoed behind her through the trees. Isobel found the reins with her left hand and yanked desperately. The horse ignored the command and galloped along the track, carrying her toward another part of the forest. Isobel curled forward to shield herself from whipping branches as the stallion swerved left and propelled through the trees.

Finally the horse slowed and came to a halt among leafy oak trees. His fetlocks were immersed in green ferns, his sides heaving and slick. Isobel leaned against his neck, shaking all over, her heart slamming in her chest. Her wounded arm hurt savagely as she tried to turn the horse, pulling hard. The stallion refused to move, though she tugged, cajoled, pressed with her knees, and even begged tearfully.

She bowed wearily over his neck in sheer frustration. In the stillness, she heard the wind shove through the trees and birds chitter. But she heard no sounds of a skirmish.

Lost and in pain, she sat uncertainly on a horse who possessed a stronger will than she did. Unable to command him, she felt too weak to dismount and tend to him properly.

She patted the horse's broad neck, spoke calmly to him, and attempted to turn him again. The stallion moved in a stubborn circle and began to crop a patch of grass beneath a tree.

Isobel sighed and looked around. They were on a long slope thick with trees and bracken, the forest track was out of sight somewhere, and the light had begun to fail. Increasingly alarmed, Isobel tugged on the reins again. The horse whickered, bowed his head, and simply would not move. She yanked at the reins, rocked on his back, and grew close to losing her temper as she strained to turn him.

"Och, now, lass." She heard a deep, quiet voice, so familiar that she felt a surge of relief. "He's as tired as you are. Give him time, and he'll do what you wish."

She whipped around and saw James Lindsay leaning against a tree, watching her, a bemused look on his face. In the thickening shadows, he seemed to blend into the forest that surrounded him, a long, lean figure in leather and muted green, strong and straight as an oak.

"James! Oh, James!" she burst out. She was so relieved to see him here, and unharmed, that tears welled in her eyes. She dashed her hand over her face as he strode forward. "Where are the others?" she asked. "What happened? Did English attack us?"

"Aye. Our men fought well and chased them off." He reached up to pat the horse's neck, murmuring to him. Then he walked back to examine the horse's flank, where the small cut from the arrow tip bled slightly. "Are you hurt?" he asked her.

"Nay. The horse ran off. I could not stop him, and then I could not find the path. I thought I was well and truly lost."

"You're safe now." He went back to the horse's head and patted its wide nose gently, murmuring low.

"How is Geordie?" she asked.

He paused. "He's badly hurt. The arrow went into his back. Eustace offered to take him to Stobo—he says the priest there will help the lad. Henry Rose went with them."

She nodded. "Good. Where are the others?"

"Patrick and Quentin followed the Southrons to learn which patrol they were. I do not think they were Clifford's men, come from Aberlady, but 'tis possible. Most of your men went with them." He came closer, resting a hand on the horse's neck.

"Isobel," he murmured. "Two of Aberlady's garrison were killed. I am sorry. Eustace said they were his cousins."